VANCE MOORE                      VANCE MOORE
                       "ODYSSEY"
      
      (Magic: the Gathering. Odyssey cycle. Book I.)
 
 
    The detonation rocked Kamahl back. The light was bright 
enough that he could see through his eyelids as the edge of the 
energy brushed him. The crowd was stunned into silence. The magic 
ignited the spore cloud and the explosion sped back to the mole, 
devouring it as the molds detonated in sympathy with Kamahl's 
attack. The dementia caster rolled on the ground, unable to 
stand. She had been flung back several yards, and the sand 
stripped most of her clothes off as well as much of her skin. Her 
teeth bared and bloody, she stood, gathering herself to summon 
more monstrosities.
    
                       CHAPTER 1
 
    The sun lay sullen to the west. Hovering on the horizon, its 
rays cast the hills in shadows. The pits lay ahead. Finally he 
was drawing near after months of travel. Kamahl looked at the 
heart of the games and saw only a gaping hole of darkness. The 
twilight prevented him from seeing the city that lay in the 
hollow. Even as he watched, torches were lit, the dull red light 
illuminating the site of Kamahl's future triumphs. From mountain 
obscurity he traveled toward his destiny.
    Cabal City was the largest in the continent's interior, but 
only a few signs of its size were visible from Kamahl's vantage 
point. He could see just the roofs of a few buildings and the 
residential quarters' laundry hanging in the still air. The city 
was held in a huge rocky crater, its sides uneven but highest on 
the western outskirts. The glow of torches and the streetlights 
near the great dome of the arena began to color the walls of the 
buildings as Kamahl moved closer. The flare of both ordinary fire 
and magic lit the streets, but the dark shadow cast by the crater 
walls shrouded most of the city in darkness.
    The barbarian started down the shallow incline at a slow run. 
He breathed easily, even with the armor in his pack and the great 
sword strapped to his back. Skin the color of brass showed no 
flush of exertion. His smooth beardless features were calm. No 
sweat dampened his inky hair, and his violet eyes were clear. 
Living in the mountains had given him good night vision, and he 
looked through the increasingly dim light to the town's gate. The 
road began to rise, and he breathed harder as he neared the city 
limits. The crater walls were notched, and the entrance reminded 
the barbarian of a pass through mountains, though far smaller in 
scale than the peaks of his childhood home. Drovers hurried a 
string of camels into the city, their whips snapping as they 
moved the animals through the high gate. Merchants from across 
the continent come to satisfy the tourney crowds, the warrior 
thought.
    Kamahl breathed deeply, the prospect of the games exciting 
his blood more than the run. Years mastering the fighting arts 
lay behind him, and now he rushed to show his skills before the 
wider world. Veteran of many a duel in his home mountains, he 
wanted more than the championship of an alpine valley. The best 
fighters on the continent converged on this tourney, and he 
belonged here.
    His stride lengthened as he left the hills, his boots 
pounding into the road's surface. The guards waved the merchants 
through, uttering only a few threats to increase the bribes 
offered. They turned their attention on the jogging figure. His 
light throwing axes softly rubbed against Kamahl's wallet. He had 
run for days approaching the contest and lost what little fat he 
might have had. The strict regime of exercise had refined him 
down to his essence. He pulled up to the gate without any sign of 
exertion except his deep breaths.
    "Another jack," muttered a guard as he took a firmer hold of 
his halberd and moved out from the gate, Kamahl frowned, for the 
soldier used the term for an arena fighter as if it were an 
insult. He was a champion, and only the obvious inferiority of 
the speaker prevented a demand for satisfaction. The man looked 
nervously at a stack of orders. The rest of the troops had 
withdrawn inside to the guardhouse. Two stout men-at-arms slowly 
lugged a crossbeam to brace the gate when it closed for the 
night. The road lead directly into town with only a portcullis to 
bar the way. The wall was only twelve feet high and the guards 
served more to collect tolls than defend the city.
    "Why have you come to the pits of the Cabal?" intoned a guard 
who drew away from the gate as if to duck behind the wall.
    "I have come into my own," Kamahl said absently, looking to 
the city beyond. The guard was confused and unconsciously gave 
way as the massive barbarian came closer. The fighter drew his 
attention to the minor servant before him. "I will compete in the 
tourney. Where would I find the Master of the Games?"
    The guard blinked at the bald statement but regarding the 
warrior seemed uncertain how to respond. Shouting broke out on 
the road behind him, and he turned from the barbarian to the 
commotion. There were several wagons backed up the causeway 
leading down to the pit. Kamahl could see soldiers gathered in a 
clump in front of the waiting vehicles.
    "As you can see, the road is backed up due to a wreck." The 
guard said, drawing a little confidence from the sight of his 
fellows so far away. "The elevator cable snapped and killed a 
mule." Kamahl just strode forward, ignoring the guard's 
outstretched arm.
    "No profit from crazy men anyway," the soldier muttered as he 
stepped away from the barbarian.
    The road's decline prevented horses hauling fully loaded 
wagons into the city. An elevator dropped cargo from the staging 
area just inside the guardhouse to the bottom of the depression. 
Once relieved of their loads, merchants could then safely take 
the horses down the slope. Traffic headed into the city rode the 
brakes all the way to the flat at the bottom, using the animals 
just to steer. The elevator had just broken, however, and the 
snapped cable had beheaded a mule, overturning a wagon and 
blocking the causeway.
    Kamahl drew a dagger, holding its blade against his arm. He 
used the hilt to prod people out of the way, ignoring angry 
words. The decapitated beast lay tangled in its traces, its blood 
pouring down the steep roadway. Kamahl gathered a whisper of 
power and wrapped it around the dagger's blade. He shoved aside 
the owner and guardsmen and skimmed his blade along the beast's 
side with a single stroke. Harness leather and chains parted like 
air before the blade, singing as tension released. Kamahl shoved 
the corpse hard with his boot. The barbarian's physical power 
became plain to the angry guardsmen. The donkey shot down the 
ramp lubricated by its own blood. The animal hit the railing, 
wood coming apart in a spray of rotten timbers. The remains of 
the beast and fence fell to the ground below with a heavy thud. 
Kamahl withdrew power from the blade and continued down the road, 
walking just along the bloodied skidway.
    "The Cabal pit masters bought that carcass!" bellowed 
someone. Kamahl's ears picked up the conversation even as he 
continued away.
    "Leave it alone," he heard someone else hiss. "Jacks are all 
crazy; just consider the meat tenderized."
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Fighters from throughout the continent moved in the streets. 
Kamahl saw races of all descriptions-faerie, human, dwarf, 
centaur, and others that he could not name. They came to the pits 
to compete for their own glory and the prizes offered. Everywhere 
in the land the contest between warriors played out every day, 
but it was in the pits that jacks of known mettle found opponents 
worth the sweat of battle. Kamahl came for worthy adversaries and 
to prove his mastery. Most of his opponents were there for more.
    The Cabal had opened up its vaults to supply the prizes. 
Booty from centuries of collecting and a thousand battlefields 
was available. Sages and historians were nearly as prevalent as 
fighters in the city. All converged to see the treasures drawn 
from the rock deep below the pits. With the fighters and the 
learned men, an influx of gamblers and enthusiasts filled the 
avenues. Moving among the throngs worked pickpockets, whores, and 
sellers of the forbidden. The barbarian sauntered over the 
cobblestones, seeing unfamiliar sights. Tents stood with ragged 
and dirty men calling for custom. Though from the sparsely 
settled mountains, Kamahl was completely civilized in his 
cynicism. False wonders filled the streets as the hopeful went 
from stall to stall, determined to find the lucky prize that 
surely must be hidden in all the chaff.
    Torches flared and some burned brightly with magic enhanced 
lights. Kamahl took a second to feel the warmth of the energy 
with his mystic senses. Stretching forth his mind and spirit he 
felt the beat of power and dissonance as contesting magics 
fractured against each other. It could only be the pits that 
called to him, and he hurried through the collected throngs to 
take his place.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    The crowd roared its approval as two men moved into the 
arena, the masses calling encouragement. Kamahl had bought 
entrance with a small nugget of gold from a mountain stream. He 
imagined the Master of the Games would be in the arena, and the 
barbarian was determined to find him. The building was huge, 
seating thousands. The walls leaned inward overhead, evoking the 
feeling of an underground cavern. Huge torches flared 
continuously behind reflectors, directing the magic light onto 
the floor of the stadium. Red and black sand covered the circular 
fighting area. Inside the wide ring were obstacles and a few 
obvious trap doors. Despite himself, Kamahl was impressed. For 
the first time he was in a building that made him feel closed in 
even though it was several spear-casts across.
    The two men on the sand moved together, and Kamahl shook his 
head. The opponents were hesitant, and the barbarian wondered how 
any could find such a match interesting. A young man standing 
close by noticed Kamahl's mild contempt and spoke.
    "Do not give up hope just yet, sir," he said, shuffling near.
    His clothing was dark and loose, the tailoring and richness 
of the fabric suggesting a person of means, yet he was young and 
had no attendants. Kamahl thought him likely to be a lord's 
servant though he saw no obvious crest or standard to announce 
his affiliation.
    "The name is Chainer," the man said, moving closer. The pair 
are partners against Lieutenant Kirtar, a champion from the 
Northern Order."
    "Kamahl," the barbarian said, glancing briefly at the youth 
and then to the stands, "here to win the tourney. Where do I 
announce myself?"
    Chainer's eyebrows raised slightly at the boast, and he 
smiled. Kamahl turned more of his attention to the young man.
    The youth still had a trace of innocence in his face, but 
already the fighter could see some of the hardness and cynicism 
that characterized city toughs. The boy's hair was in tight corn-
rolls that grew down over his eyes. His only visible weapon was a 
large, ornamental dagger that he wore at his side. As Kamahl 
considered him, Chainer's fingertips lightly brushed the hilt in 
an apparently unconscious gesture.
    "You'll want to speak to the Master of the Games then," 
Chainer said. He pointed across the enclosure to the box seats 
across the arena. "There's the master now, talking to the Mer 
ambassador."
    The other side of the building held a host of individual 
boxes, most of which were empty now, these being only the early 
elimination rounds. Kamahl could see separate floating pods 
hovering over the boxes, clustered around doors and a narrow 
platform high on the arena wall.
    "Those are only used by high officials and wealthy patrons of 
the games." Chainer said as he followed Kamahl's eyes. "Usually 
the Master of the Games oversees from there, but with so much 
work still to be done, he is holding court where messengers can 
easily be received and sent."
    At the mention of a court, Kamahl turned his eyes down and 
looked at the official's box. There sat the arena's ruler, rotund 
and covered in drapes of expensive looking cloth. However, it was 
his companions that fixed the barbarian's attention. Two figures 
stood out against the backdrop of aides, guards, and servants. 
Kamahl's teeth clenched as he considered the Mer seated at the 
right hand of the Cabal official.
    The ambassador looked remarkably human. Kamahl could see two 
small silver-capped horns against the blue skin. The different 
skin tone was barely worth mentioning. The barbarian had learned 
something of the greater world during his years in the mountains. 
Those born of and allied with the sea were well known for their 
monstrous and bizarre appearance. The only oddity except for the 
blue skin was the ambassador's clothes. The wraps of cloth lay 
plastered against his azure flesh. While Kamahl looked on, a 
servant slowly poured liquid over the limbs of his master. The 
ambassador absently presented a leg for additional treatment, 
never turning from his conversation.
    The massive figure off to the side fitted KamahPs idea of 
what a Mer citizen should look like. A sideboard piled high with 
food lay open to the box patrons, but only one person took 
advantage. The barbarian could think of two reasons for the 
single eater.
    First was the dangerous look of the diner. Kamahl was 
reminded of a giant frog. The hulking figure would have 
overtopped the barbarian by at least a foot, but until Kamahl 
compared him with the other patrons of the box, he thought the 
frog quite short. The amphibian was a mass of muscle, so wide 
that the mind made the creature shorter than it was. The 
creature's brilliant blue and yellow skin was dotted with short 
growths that reminded the barbarian of spikes on a mace. The 
mouth gaped wide as the frog swallowed an entire leg of lamb with 
a single gulp.
    The second reason that others might forego the repast was the 
thick slime dripping from the frog creature's webbed hands. The 
excretions covered the food as the amphibian grabbed up more to 
eat.
    "The ambassador's champion, Turg," Chainer offered, a hint of 
distaste in his voice. "He competes for the prizes and the 
ambassador's glory. It is said his race is one of complete 
savagery. The frog is a testament to the money and time the 
ambassador has spent training him."
    Kamahl looked to the arena floor where the two novices 
shifted uncertainly. If such as these can compete, he thought, 
then I should have no trouble. The city man saw his look of 
dismissal.
    "They may not look like much, but those willing to risk 
certain death are sometimes in short supply." He pointed toward 
the posted standards and gates. "Whether or not quarter may be 
offered is posted by where the standards hang and which gates the 
opponents use. Kirtar always passes through the gate of no 
quarter. The Master of the Games must be flexible in scheduling 
opponents for the lieutenant in the opening bouts. Experienced 
fighters are usually closer to the final round before they chose 
death matches. The arena also tries to save death matches for the 
final days of competition lest a capable fighter be killed off 
too early. You could find a death match easy enough, but to be 
considered a serious competitor you must be known or impress the 
officials with your power."
    The growing murmurs of the restive crowd drew Kamahl's and 
Chainer's attentions back to the arena floor. The team of 
mountain mages was looking more confident now as cries of 
"forfeit" began to rise from the stands. Their opponent still had 
not appeared, and Chainer snorted in disgust at the lack of a 
champion to oppose the pair. The chants stopped as a near naked 
figure moved onto the field.
    "He shows his contempt for the games," Chainer muttered as 
catcalls rose from the stands. "Trust a member of the Order to 
belittle the honor of the tourney."
    Kamahl was no worshipper of pageantry, so Kirtar's failure to 
obey the forms did not upset him, but the arrogance that the 
figure showed as he walked nonchalantly toward the opposing pair 
put his teeth on edge. An aspirant to the victory circle, Kamahl 
ached to show Kirtar that he should show respect for the other 
fighters if not the venue. As the barbarian took in the warrior's 
pale skin, he became more irritated. Kirtar was a bird warrior.
    Centuries before, a race of three peoples had fled from other 
planes to Dominaria. All were descended from ancestors who could 
fly, though most had lost their wings. The furthest from their 
winged forebears were the elen. These giant humanoids stood nine 
to ten feet tall with massive legs of near solid bone. Slow and 
ponderous, they provided the muscle for the society, though in 
war they served only as massed troops with little status.
    The raypen lay at the other end of the size spectrum. Dwarf-
sized creatures with withered legs ending in prehensile feet, 
they could still fly with their innate magic. Magical feathers 
covered their long distorted arms giving them, for short periods 
of time, the freedom their ancestors had known.
    Kirtar's milky skin and massive hands identified him as aven. 
The warrior caste of a militant people, they had joined the 
Northern Order en masse. Though not prolific, they rose to many 
positions of power in the north and many a party riding into the 
western mountains was led by bird warriors. Mountain societies 
respected strength, but that respect must be individually earned 
and honor conferred on the basis of personal achievement. The 
Order advocated the submission of all to the movement's leaders. 
Kamahl- by birth, training, and inclination-bowed only to those 
more powerful. His whole life was dedicated to proving that, now 
in his prime, no one could order him about with impunity. To give 
up your will to others, all of whom lacked the power to beat you 
or claim your respect with their own deeds, grated. Kamahl 
regarded the bird warrior narrowly as his possible opponent in 
the tourney walked into battle.
    The two mountain mages attacked simultaneously. They 
separated in a fast shuffle, their movements slowed as they 
called upon their magic. Neophytes, thought Kamahl.
    The one on the left appeared to be a shaman. Furs and small 
amulets fluttered as he scuttled to one side. The boy's dark skin 
contrasted with his blond hair. The spell that followed was slow 
to form. Eventually it congealed into reality as the universe 
created a creature in response to the youth's wishes. With a 
roar, a slavering troll stalked toward the bird warrior.
    The emaciated monster approached warily, showing a degree of 
cunning unusual in the breed. The head darted from side to side, 
pausing to take in great gulps of air. Seemingly satisfied that 
nothing threatened, it jumped at Kirtar. Kamahl realized the bird 
warrior had not even bothered to raise power until the monster 
actually leaped. Golden energy erupted from his skin, coating his 
head and upper torso. It solidified into armor even as the mouth 
of the troll opened wide, the teeth and jaws of the monster 
seeming to leap out of the massive mouth. The beast stooped down 
to devour the warrior, but the bird warrior's armor did not give 
at all. Vainly its jaws clenched, and its claws scratched. Like a 
dog worrying at a pole, the beast tried to throw Kirtar to the 
side or gnaw through.
    Now the other young caster entered the fray. Clad in 
piecemeal armor, he was shorter than his companion. As if he were 
his partner's negative, his dark hair contrasted with his pale 
skin. Spiral tattoos traced out magic sigils on his face and 
upper arms. He gripped a war hammer with both hands, but he did 
not use it to assail the bird warrior. Rather, he directed his 
summoned minions, who entered existence at a run. Dwarf warriors 
charged Kirtar and the troll.
    Pick-axes and hammers rose and then fell. Kirtar rolled to 
the side; one blow driving through the armor that now encased the 
warrior's lower legs. The troll howled in delight at the fresh 
blood, and Kamahl believed the aven would pay the ultimate price 
for his arrogance. The bird warrior did not freeze, and he 
reinforced the power of the magic encasing his limbs. Then the 
lieutenant struck with his bare hands.
    The huge fists were encased in energy, and Kamahl could hear 
the troll's jaws being pulverized. Teeth sprayed across the 
ground, digging furrows as they buried themselves. The beast 
screamed with pain, striking out blindly and falling upon a 
dwarf. The diminutive warrior's sturdy metal armor proved unequal 
to troll claws. Chunks of flesh and blood fell to the sand as the 
dwarf was eviscerated. The audience booed loudly as the shaman 
tried to redirect his beast.
    "The pair has lost the crowd," Chainer said, shaking his head 
sadly. "For allied creatures to fall upon each other is an 
unforgivable amateur mistake."
    Kirtar was on his feet, weaving from side to side as the rest 
of the dwarf troop tried to take advantage of his reduced 
mobility. At first, his movements seemed forced, almost stumbling 
as he retreated. Kamahl watched as the bird warrior grew 
stronger. The barbarian realized that what wounds the lieutenant 
received healed even as he fought. The aven's opponents could 
heal too, and the troll stood up, gore from his mistaken victim 
covering its face and chest, the dwarf's blood mingling with the 
flow of foulness from the beast's own wound. The wound diminished 
as the troll reentered the fray. The deformed jaws moved back 
into position, and Kamahl could see new teeth glinting in the 
torchlight.
    Kirtar attacked the surrounding dwarves, killing and maiming 
as the troll reached for him. The lieutenant's fists were swollen 
balloons of power as golden energy armored the bird warrior's 
flesh. Heads collapsed under the aven's blows. Shields and 
weapons shattered as the dwarves struggled to bring the bird 
warrior down. Kirtar leaped, whether flying or merely by enhanced 
muscles, Kamahl did not know. He soared through the air toward 
the dark-haired mountain mage. Kirtar's bent legs absorbed much 
of the energy of the landing, but the armored youth still fell-a 
bag of broken bones. The barbarian thought the mage might survive 
with proper care, then Kirtar batted the man's head with a slap. 
The new corpse was not decapitated, but the mage's head lolled 
off one shoulder, leaving no doubt of the man's death.
    The troll ran at Kirtar, a high cry of bestial rage sounding 
as the few remaining dwarves vanished at the death of their 
master. The shaman coaxed fire from the air, and a few small 
balls of flame hurtled toward the bird warrior. Most of the spell 
wasted itself upon the open ground of the arena. The aroma of 
cooking meat carried everywhere as the fallen mountain mage was 
devoured by the ill-aimed magic. Burning flesh and charred 
leather fought with the odors of the food vendors making their 
rounds of the stands.
    A flock of birds soared from the lieutenant's hands. The 
small castings were brilliant, and Kamahl forced himself to look 
at them directly. Slightly translucent they rose up into the air, 
drawing near the upper booths. Patrons fell silent as the small 
energy spirits turned. The flock dived toward the floor of the 
arena, converging on everything still alive. Like ghosts, they 
slipped into bodies as all stood still. Bursts of light shone 
forth from eyes and open mouths. The troll's rays cast a giant 
shadow of the bird warrior against the far wall of the arena. The 
last mountain mage was a fallen star, shafts of light erupting 
from his skin. All except Kirtar collapsed. There was a moment of 
silence, and then thunderous applause filled the arena.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    "So you think you can compete in the games, do you, my boy?" 
the Master of the Games said.
    Kamahl restrained his irritation with difficulty. The man was 
fat and festooned in bolts of garish cloth, like some monstrous 
jester taking his ease at a party instead of entertaining. All of 
the Cabal members that he had seen were subdued in color and 
outward demeanor, but the Master of the Games showed a 
flamboyance of color and style that assaulted the barbarian's 
eyes.
    "You might be powerful enough to compete in the games, but 
you will have to satisfy me." The official stood with some 
difficulty and walked toward a room off to the side of the box.
    Guards drew themselves to attention only to be patted 
familiarly by the figure strolling by. Kamahl followed, flanked 
by another set of guards. Kamahl appeared weaponless. His great 
sword and axes lay in the entry chamber "as a matter of 
security." Only his mild amusement at the guards thinking him 
disarmed prevented him from laying waste to the Cabal's servants. 
His amusement was passing, and the effrontery of the official 
made him rethink his participation in the tourney. To allow 
someone of such low character to stand in judgement of him was 
nigh unbearable. Kamahl came for the glory of combat against 
equals. How equal could his opponents be if one such as the 
official controlled their entry into the games? Kamahl became 
more and more convinced that he would withdraw beyond the city 
and challenge the winner of the tourney, that is if the barbarian 
did not return to the distant mountains instead.
    "Only one who is worthy should have a chance at these," the 
master said, slightly out of breath as he moved to the side of 
the doorway and gestured over the trove of treasures.
    Kamahl heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart for 
several seconds. A mound of gold, a few jewels, and numerous 
artifacts filled the center of the room. Mechanical limbs of 
ancient war machines lay next to charred books. Open scrolls 
showed letters that the educated barbarian could not even 
identify much less read. Leaking bags of coin lay against a 
massive breastplate worn by some forgotten giant. The room 
contained wealth, history, and shards of power from past wars, 
but it was a dull metal orb that locked Kamahl's gaze. It lay 
partially concealed by a fine sword blade, which Kamahl ached to 
throw away that he might better see this treasure. The rest of 
the room was filled with dross to the warrior's mind. The orb 
appeared to be no larger than his fist, yet he was mesmerized by 
it. His interest grew greater as he thought it responded to him. 
The light reflected by it seemed to grow brighter. The metal 
surface hinted at restrained power rather than the dull glint of 
common metal. Kamahl's line of sight was broken as the Master of 
the Games entered his field of vision.
    "Speechless, eh." The fat man chuckled. "A shy barbarian. An 
uncommon sight, but one which is still not special enough to have 
in the ranks of the tourney."
    Kamahl's jaws ached as he restrained himself. This corpulent 
fool was nothing, but now Kamahl burned to enter and win. The 
metal sphere called to him still. The barbarian thought briefly 
of just taking the item, but he was a warrior, not a common 
thief. The official drew breath for another taunt, but Kamahl had 
heard enough. His hand dipped into his pouch at his belt. He 
could feel the guards drawing closer. Chainer, who had stayed far 
back during the entire conversation, came forward. Out of the 
corner of his eye he could see the young man's concerned face 
drawing nearer, perhaps to defuse the situation.
    Kamahl drew out a single copper coin, worn thin with age and 
clipped by the truly desperate. The official's already florid 
face grew darker at the perceived insult of the pitiful bribe, 
but the barbarian had no intention of trying to buy his way into 
the tournament with any currency other than his own power. 
Kamahl's muscles relaxed as he channeled force to his hand. The 
copper brightened as the patina of age and wear sloughed away 
from the metal. The coin grew brighter as the guards moved in, 
their spear points poised to open up Kamahl's back. Like a 
tourist casting into a wishing well, the barbarian tossed the 
copper over his shoulder. The stone wall proved no barrier. Like 
a hot knife through butter, the red-hot coin melted its way 
through. Shouts of surprise sounded as it exited through the box 
wall as well. The sound of the cooling slug hitting the arena 
floor was lost in the confusion of the guards and the white face 
of the Master of the Games. Looking at the deflated official, the 
barbarian knew he would have no problems entering the tourney.
 
                       CHAPTER 2
 
    "I assure you, my lord, that no such displays of arrogance 
would be permitted in the palaces of the emperor. Such a boor 
would be summarily executed, especially one who lacked a suitable 
patron." The merman tried to sound sympathetic and outraged, but 
it was hard to feel much empathy for the fool who sat in front of 
him. The Master of the Games came to the fete in high dudgeon and 
had released a spew of bile, detailing the attack on his honor 
and dignity. Ambassador Laquatus thought such a pig had no 
dignity. Moreover, a man of true power either acted or waited to 
act. The pointless railing grated on the ambassador's nerves.
    The merman might be mistaken for human with the exception of 
his coloring and the small horns that lay half hidden by his 
hair. Of course, under the sea, his ancestry was much more 
obvious. At a mental command, his legs transmuted to a great 
fish's tail. The long couches he favored recalled the decadence 
of lost civilizations but also allowed him to recline when 
transformed. Long gilded nail extensions flashed in the subdued 
light as he spoke and gestured.
    "I assure you, Laquatus, that your sympathy and hospitality 
at the end of this difficult day will not be forgotten." The 
Cabal official almost gushed as he relaxed and turned to consider 
the temporary court that the ambassador had established. The 
merman offered only a nod before looking back upon the revel 
before him.
    The embassy to the Cabal had procured a house that butted up 
against the bluffs surrounding the city. A huge cavern had been 
dug out and expanded. In the middle of the excavation, a huge 
pool was filled with salt water and sea plants carefully 
transplanted. The ambassador could feel the waves of energy that 
moved through the water, warming it and sending gouts of mist 
into the air.
    The life in the pool relied on constant infusions of power 
from the ambassador's mages to live and even flourish. Brilliant 
coral and anemones lay in the waist deep water, their color and 
motion suggesting beds of flowers. The soporific compounds they 
released acted as invisible poisons to the minds of those not 
rendered immune, yet the revelers in the pool showed no signs of 
ill health.
    The large lagoon was full. Competitors moved in the water, 
dangerous but temporarily safe to all. Like carnivores after a 
full meal, they appeared logy. One fighter saluted his host as 
Laquatus's gazes swept over him. Burly and covered with scars, he 
waved a prosthetic arm in greeting. The metal arm ended in 
serrated pincers that rasped together softly as the athlete 
picked another goblet from the circling waiters. His companion 
for the evening only cooed appreciatively as the arm gathered her 
in. For the amount of money the ambassador paid for the escorts, 
he expected nothing less.
    The mechanical limb of the fighter was nothing unusual. 
Laquatus could see many other examples of grafted limbs and skin. 
Pit fighting was dangerous, and those lucky and powerful enough 
to survive often left the floor of the arena with less than they 
entered. Mechanical parts salvaged from ancient war machines were 
used along with limbs and hide from exotic beast and fallen 
warriors.
    A few Cabal sponsored fighters circulated as well. Laquatus 
curbed his pout of distaste. Many of the local champions sported 
limbs from zombies and the dead. The rotting stench was almost 
completely covered by the perfumes filling the air, but nothing 
could curb the disgust many of the guests showed. The Cabal 
fighters relied on a steady supply of shattered bodies and 
dismembered fighters to supply them with new parts as the ones 
they reclaimed eventually failed.
    The pit frog Turg lurked in the shadows, crouched behind a 
miniature reef with only his bulbous eyes showing above the 
water. The ambassador's champion had stuffed himself to the point 
of immobility, and Laquatus cursed his personal failure to curb 
the creature's insane appetite. It was so easy to be lost in 
Turg's simple pleasures of the flesh. The official noticed 
Laquatus's lack of attention and cleared his throat loudly.
    The merman's manners and style automatically equated him with 
the nobility in the eyes of his guests. His background in fact 
was not distinguished, and the human good looks were a strike 
against him in the Mer kingdom. The emperor and the empress 
resembled the octopus on their house flag. Their malleable bodies 
and eight limbs were the standard for the court, and he was far 
from the current definition of beauty. He was banished to the 
land like a malformed child hidden from sight. He felt the 
injustice of his exile and contempt for the land-locked with 
which he must interact.
    Laquatus speared a small fish that swam past. His long finger 
extensions were often filled with poison at the undersea court, 
and it amused him to use such deadly devices for harpooning 
snacks. The small blood slick lightened his mood, and he regarded 
the boor next to him.
    "How terrible you say," Laquatus drawled. "The barbarian 
destroyed the wall of the vault."
    He had of course already received a full report from his 
spies. Kamahl's casual display hinted that another powerful 
champion had entered the contest. Perhaps new alliances were in 
order.
    "I am terribly sorry, but I do see Caster Fulla over in the 
corner alone." He interrupted the official who had continued to 
drone on like an inconsequential insect. "I would be a poor host 
indeed if I did not look after all my guests. Why don't you join 
me in extending greetings?"
    "No, no," the official said hurriedly, rising and moving away 
quickly enough to leave a wake of disturbed water. "I have things 
that must be done," he tossed over his shoulder.
    Laquatus was not surprised at the swift withdrawal. He 
transformed back to his legged form, his fins absorbed back into 
his body, and his tail splitting to form the limbs he must use 
away from the sea. Small fish swirled around his submerged limbs 
as scales and destroyed flesh temporarily fouled the water. He 
rose with initial care and waded across the pool.
    Turg rose from concealment in response to a mental command 
and moved toward the ambassador's back. Dealing with dementia 
casters was often dangerous. Their grip on reality could become 
quite tenuous as they grew more powerful. Caster Fulla was very 
powerful indeed.
    "Hello, my dear," the ambassador exclaimed. "I am so glad 
that you accepted my invitation."
    The caster turned, and he waited for her eyes to focus back 
on the present.
    Caster Fulla "Braids" appeared a weathered thirty years. Her 
dark skin and clothing seemed in perpetual shadow, and Laquatus 
felt a faint increase in tension as she looked on him fully. Her 
right arm brushed the short sword at her side before extending 
toward the ambassador. Kissing a woman's hand was a ridiculous 
piece of theatre most of the time, and it was particularly 
ridiculous now. Fulla's right arm was misshapen with scars and 
chunks of missing flesh. Leather and iron bracing showed 
conspicuously as he lowered his head to the misshapen claw that 
she must call a hand. He brushed his lips against the tainted 
flesh and slowly straightened. For her profession, Fulla was 
really quite comely.
    Dementia casters, like many mages, called forth monsters to 
fight for them and serve their purposes, but even the dark magic 
of their Cabal brethren was twisted in bizarre ways. The trances 
that dementia casters fell into seemed to open the dark recesses 
of the mind, bringing forth hideous monsters. Many only existed 
in insane dreams before the power called them. Some used drugs to 
alter their thoughts and perceptions to bring forth ever greater 
horrors until they lost what remained of their sanity. Then 
instead of using drugs to free their minds, they engaged in a 
pharmacological war to retain some connection to reality. 
Laquatus hoped that such a fragile grip on existence would offer 
the handhold he needed to twist her into his service.
    "It was something to do," Fulla said in a dead tone. The 
beads woven into her hair clinked together softly as she moved. 
"But it is only the same party. I've been here a hundred times 
before and since." Boredom filled her voice, and her eyes were 
focusing back into her internal world to the ambassador's 
irritation.
    "Surely something must interest you." Laquatus hummed, a low 
thrum began to pick at his ears as the merman fed instructions to 
the magic plants and springs feeding the grotto.
    The corals released bursts of drugs into the water. The 
ambassador felt a curious mixture of energy and languor even 
though he and his personal servants regularly dosed themselves 
with antidotes. The party seemed to grow quiet as the guests 
succumbed to the chemicals in the water.
    "I think that we should work together." The ambassador said, 
crowding closer. "The bouts offer us a chance to realize 
tremendous profits if we could just cooperate." The merman put 
his hand on her maimed arm, controlling his expression at the 
touch of the gnarled flesh.
    "I hope we might become something more than partners."
    Laquatus breathed more heavily as he tried to suggest 
seduction. He had less than no interest in the women above the 
sea, but he had set this hook before. Fulla showed only 
irritation and broke his grip easily.
    "You're boring," she said flatly. "Everything is boring now. 
I am going back to the Casters' Quarter. At least it is never 
boring."
    Fulla started wading toward the steps leading into the pool. 
She moved surely and with purpose, showing no sign of being 
affected by the water. Laquatus realized that, as a dementia 
caster, she dealt with shifting reality often. The Casters' 
Quarter that she was headed for was notorious for the monsters 
and dark passions that gripped its inhabitants. Fulla's being was 
far too vicious a battlefield for the gentle persuasion of the 
grotto's waters. Turg, feeling his master's irritation, cut 
through the partygoers to grab Fulla's arm.
    Braids swung around, curling inside the pit frog's arm and 
breaking his grip. Her sword was in her hand, and Laquatus felt a 
burst of pain as her blade slapped along the frog's side. The 
ambassador could feel the bestial rage of his champion surging to 
dramatic levels, and he tried to force the beast to calm.
    Laquatus and the frog were tied together on many levels, 
feeding off of each other's emotions. The frog supplied a 
dramatic amount of muscle the ambassador used to cow his enemies, 
while the merman supplied the intelligence and drive to make Turg 
more than a savage animal. The pain and snub eroded his control 
and Turg acted to hold the caster.
    "At last!" Fulla exalted. "Something interesting in this 
sewer."
    Laquatus paused in his attempts to restrain his champion. A 
sewer! He was sick of insults from these land-bound simpletons. 
Turg attacked as the ambassador's pique weakened his hold. The 
frog skin grew mottled as the amphibian forced more foulness into 
the water. Turg leaped to the side, plowing into a crowd and 
sending a spray across the pool.
    The ambassador could feel the fresh chemical assault against 
his senses. Colors seemed to strobe as the mind-altering 
chemicals fought his will for control of his vision. Fulla's eyes 
seemed to gleam as she went into a trance. The screams of the 
other guests began to waver as well as Turg's indirect attack 
merged with the suggestive chemicals of the pool. Laquatus could 
see an escort flailing at hallucinations.
    "Close the doors!" he screamed to the servants at the gate.
    The guards slammed the decorative doors shut as one pit 
fighter ran for the exit. A huge minotaur, it lowered its head 
and charged. The expensive facade cracked over the armor beneath 
as the giant humanoid went down, blood flowing from its nose and 
ears. Other guests began to stumble out of the pool.
    Turg erupted from the water beside Fulla. His skin was 
silvery, and he was almost impossible to see. Like the octopus 
and cuttlefish of the ocean, the frog could blend against many 
backgrounds. Fulla was a veteran of the pits, and her skewed mind 
edited out the madness surrounding her. The frog's attack met a 
summoned creature that threw the combatants apart as if a bomb 
had exploded.
    The eel that wrapped itself around the frog showed bones and 
frayed flesh. Turg spun to throw it off, but its weeping skin 
seemed to glue the creature to the frog. The amphibian's wild 
gyrations threw gobs of rotting meat across the chamber, which 
rained down on the guests and struggling servants. The ambassador 
could see blackjacks plied freely by his mercenaries as they 
struggled to contain the growing riot. Only their fight with 
imaginary demons prevented a total bloodbath as pit fighters went 
down under the swinging sacks of lead shot. Laquatus felt Turg's 
pain as the eel struck again and again, pumping venom into the 
humanoid's frame. The frog tore off portions of its own hide but 
hurled the writhing eel away into a group of musicians the 
ambassador had hired for the evening.
    "Enough!" Laquatus snarled.
    A bolt of energy erupted from his hands, and a ribbon of 
power connected the merman to the eel. Flesh boiled under the 
attack, and the popping of exploding bones could be heard over 
the cacophony of screams and curses filling the chamber. The 
hired servants trembled, and their bones cracked as the overflow 
of energy created a circle of death. Laquatus ignored them as he 
destroyed the last of the eel. Their cooked bodies fell beneath 
the waters as the ambassador cut off the stream of power.
    Fulla gaily laughed from the side of the grotto, her knees 
drawn up like a little girl's. "A wonderful party!" she yelled as 
she toed a drifting corpse away. "You must invite me again." 
Laquatus heard his teeth grinding as he restrained himself and 
the amphibian warrior who crept behind her, his fists raised 
high.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    "I will send over a supply of the oysters you so enjoyed," 
Laquatus said, his eyes locked with the confused merchant's. "I 
am sure a regular shipment can be arranged within the month." The 
eyes slowly cleared, and the man looked down at himself. He was 
dressed in waves of sea silk, the draped cloth more appropriate 
on a young maiden than a stocky man of fifty.
    "Thank you for the loan," he mumbled. "I can't believe that I 
fell in the punchbowl and ruined my clothes. I promise to pay for 
any damage."
    His eyes were clearing, and he looked at the outside of the 
embassy gate. The ambassador could see him trying to remember 
what exactly he had done. The merman sent another tendril of 
deceit into the man's mind, reinforcing images of drunken 
debauchery.
    "Keep the cloth as my gift. I only regret that I ran out of 
clothes for the other guests." Laquatus forced out an indulgent 
chuckle. "A party without a little damage is hardly worth going 
to. I am sure everything will be shipshape by morning."
    His jaw clenched as he shook the man's hand and sent him on 
his way with an escort. His mind drifted back to the grotto. The 
decomposing eel had killed off the coral and filled the cavern 
with an indescribably foul odor. The dead were packed into sealed 
barrels which must be disposed of immediately. Worse, the entire 
cavern must be rebuilt into a completely new environment. 
Laquatus was sure the false memories he implanted in the 
survivors would withstand most reminders of the violent episode, 
but it made no sense to tempt fate. The expense would be 
tremendous, but he could afford no flashbacks by guests at future 
affairs. His face grew forbidding as the last guest left his 
sight.
    He started back to the cavern, but near the entrance he 
drifted off to the side. The pulse of energy he directed at the 
tapestry activated the quiescent spell, and he drifted through 
the wall. He could feel the defensive spells slamming back into 
place as he stepped into the small room.
    Laquatus was alone with his thoughts, his ties to Turg cut. 
The amphibian was sleeping off the exertions of the fight and the 
pain Laquatus had inflicted on him to prevent the amphibian from 
killing the dementia caster. Fulla had proved entirely resistant 
to the merman's attempt to change her memories. Only the full 
attention of the Cabal - should such a powerful figure die - had 
prevented Laquatus from ordering a full scale attack to kill her. 
She was completely insane, but she showed no agitation and seemed 
in good spirits when she left. However, she was a chink in 
Laquatus's armor of deceit and must be dealt with in the near 
future. Perhaps the pits would prove particularly dangerous in 
the next few weeks.
    The room was crudely mined and showed none of the fine 
workmanship that formed the rest of the embassy. Its construction 
had been long and laborious as Laquatus procured a stream of 
disposable workmen. He was forced to install the winch and thick 
trapdoor in the center of the room himself, with only Turg 
providing the muscle to ship the equipment. The merman cranked 
the heavy cover up, the rust falling like red snow. The remnants 
of some long destroyed fortress gate, its metal shielded the 
swirling pool of energy beneath. Without a double system of 
safeguards, magic users throughout the city might sense the power 
of the portal. It was vital that he keep his true strength hidden 
as long as possible. Laquatus removed his ambassadorial robes; 
glad to strip himself of the rags that landsmen expected him to 
wear. He dived into the pool.
    The shock of hitting the icy water surprised him as always, 
and his entire frame shivered for a few seconds before he could 
take stock of his new surroundings. The darkness of the 
environment glistened with the bioluminescence of various 
creatures. Many of them came from the depths of the ocean and had 
been transferred to the deepwater caves underlying much of the 
continent. The shimmering pool of light that he dived into was 
replicated as a glowing vertical portal. The magic bridged a gap 
of nearly a thousand feet. Here, unknown to the city above, an 
army gathered to sally forth in the name of the
    Mer Empire. Laquatus floated blissfully for a moment, 
relishing the fact that only the emperor carried more rank than 
the ambassador in these caves. Above he played the exiled noble, 
but here he was the state.
    "My lord," a quiet voice seemed to whisper behind him, the 
tones swirling through the water. "You were not expected for some 
time."
    Laquatus turned in the water, careful to show no surprise. A 
small humanoid moved from the darkness of an overhang. Long 
whiskers twitched, searching the waters for scent and movement. 
Its body was small and its limbs spindly. For a moment, it 
appeared harmless as it moved into the light. Then the ambassador 
again saw the cruel claws on its hands and feet. Their sheer size 
always startled him, but it was the head that was most 
disquieting. Huge and stuffed with glassy spearlike teeth, the 
mouth beckoned his gaze. There in the center danced a tongue, 
endlessly undulating and shifting color. Blank eyes without 
pupils looked blindly at him as the creature swam closer. 
Laquatus tore his eyes away and looked to the side. The tresias 
and its people were common in the underwater caves and formed a 
substantial portion of the ambassador's guard. Captain Satas was 
a loyal officer, perfect for command of the subterranean force, 
but his appearance was a constant source of revulsion to those 
who swam the sunlit seas.
    "Events on the surface may require action sooner than 
anticipated," the ambassador answered. "We will need more 
soldiers stationed for assault on command." The tresias's tongue 
shifted faster though there was no other sign of agitation.
    "My people are slow to trust and slower to travel; we will 
need soldiers from the empire." Satas signaled to an aide.
    The warrior who swam over resembled a giant octopus caught in 
the process of becoming a man. The tentacles and its great bag of 
a head floated and moved freely in the water, but signs of an 
underlying structure of bone and horn peaked through. "You will 
carry the ambassador's words to the emperor."
    The soldier left in a jet of water, his body sliding through 
a narrow crevice in the side of the cave. The ambassador hoped 
that more cephalids and other soft-body troops would be 
available. With malleable bodies, they could move easily through 
the caves and take the shortest routes. The advantages of such a 
heritage and its beauty made him jealous as he watched the 
trailing tentacles disappear. That the emperor should be blessed 
with such a form while the ambassador should look so ... human.
    "How have the tunneling crews fared?" he asked Satas, 
focusing on the unsightly captain to occupy his thoughts.
    The engineers of the empire were continually opening new 
routes in the natural caves that underlay the entire continent. 
Connecting the largest underground rivers would allow for the 
rapid movement of the large bodies of troops and the giant 
warriors from the open seas, but the secret ways were twisted and 
full of dead ends. The mapping and connection of suitable caverns 
was a meticulous and slow process.
    "Weeks before the way clears," Satas said, drifting back to 
the wall. "However, two more mages have mastered the door spell." 
The tresias moved suddenly, his whiskers whipping as he struck at 
a blind crayfish swimming out of a small crevice. "When more 
soldiers arrive we can open enough portals to flood the city with 
troops," he whispered and devoured the tender morsel alive.
 
                       CHAPTER 3
 
    "I will need the winnings before the matches end tonight." 
Kamahl said seriously, maneuvering through the crowds around the 
arena. Chainer crowded closer, raising his voice to be heard.
    "Why not tomorrow?" the young man asked, slapping a youth 
whose fingers reached for his purse. The gesture was casual, but 
the boy fell down under the feet of the crowd. Kamahl could hear 
slurred cursing growing fainter as they moved toward the 
preparation rooms.
    "The price of my lodging is due tonight and I dislike 
arguments about money," the barbarian responded.
    His massive metal gauntlet nudged a too eager fighter who 
tried to enter ahead of the pair. A cool stare by Kamahl forced 
the warrior back into the milling crowd as they entered the fetid 
air of the common preparation hall.
    The barbarian entered the city with enough money for normal 
times, but the tourney had inflated the prices of food and 
lodging far above what he expected. The last of the fighter's 
funds were totally expended in placing a bet on the matches 
today.
    "What will you do if you lose?" Chainer asked with concern. 
The young Cabal employee had warned Kamahl of the dire straits 
that the destitute could be forced into. The pits devoured a 
steady supply of the indigent to perform jobs too disgusting and 
dangerous for workers with any means. There were darker rumors 
that Kamahl heard hints of, but Chainer had not commented on 
them. "You are in a multiple party match. The other fighters 
could combine against you."
    "I never considered losing," Kamahl said. He smiled and 
motioned the Cabal employee to leave and place the bet they 
discussed. "I also failed to consider a Phyrexian invasion 
destroying the city."
    The barbarian chuckled slightly as he moved to prepare. 
Losing in the preliminaries, before the champions even entered 
the lists? He laughed at the implausibility of it as he moved 
toward the entrance of the arena.
    The screaming and cheering crowd was a continuous background 
noise, overridden as the last competitors staggered in and were 
carried from the field. One lizard man lay on a stretcher, laid 
open like a butchered animal. His hands grasped the wooden poles 
with desperate strength, and Kamahl could see the life ebbing 
from the grip in time with the pulses of blood. The fighter 
expired as he was ferried past.
    "A shame to die so badly," a deep voice commented. Kamahl 
turned and could see only a wall of fur.
    He stepped back, his eyes rising to look at the speaker's 
visage. A centaur looked down on him, smiling with his lips 
closed in apparent friendliness.
    He was huge, towering over the other competitors waiting for 
their matches. He stood at least half again as high as the 
barbarian. His features were simian with glimpses of fangs 
showing as he breathed through his mouth. The lower body was 
catlike though in sheer size it reminded Kamahl of a dray house. 
The fur over the body looked short and coarse. The barbarian 
could see the play of huge muscles under its hide as the creature 
shifted. The gigantic club in the centaur's hands was a mass of 
wood and banded iron. A small granite boulder capped the end, and 
the warrior lowered it to the floor as he offered a hand in 
greeting.
    "I am Seton, from the Krosan Forest."
    The barbarian gripped the massive hand, showing no hesitation 
or fear even as he felt the power in that grasp.
    "Kamahl is my name," he answered. The barbarian gestured to 
the dead competitor being carried out. "Death comes to all. The 
lizard man lost and defeat often exacts the ultimate price." The 
centaur squeezed hard but seeing no response released Kamahl's 
hand.
    "Defeat is often terrible, but the lizard man was the victor 
of the round."
    The centaur held his weapon tightly, twisting his hands as he 
watched Cabal servants clearing the arena of corpses and raking 
in fresh sand. The smell of old blood and rot wafted in through 
the lower entrances to the fighting area. Kamahl dropped his pack 
to a bench along the wall. Other fighters, some almost green with 
fear and dreadful anticipation, made room. The barbarian undid 
his cloak and put it in his pack. A massive armored belt went 
around his waist as he moved his purse and nonessential items 
into the pack.
    "A victory that leaves you dead is no victory," the barbarian 
opinioned, moving his massive sword from his back. The sword was 
a remnant of a massive artifact from the invasion. The fighter he 
had defeated swore it was part of Urza's staff, but Kamahl had 
his doubts. Still, the double-edged great sword channeled power 
exceptionally well. Its only flaw was the lack of a good stabbing 
point. "Better yet is to leave even your enemy alive to grant you 
homage and spread word of his defeat. Dead bodies feed only 
crows."
    "Dead bodies do much more in the hands of the Cabal." Seton 
spat to the side, the spittle running down the wall and across 
the Cabal symbols on this side of the doors. "Unless you have 
made special arrangements, the necromancers will raise your 
corpse or feed it to their monsters." "If you fall, I will make 
sure that you don't end up depending on their tender mercies," 
Kamahl answered, his confidence such that he felt compelled to 
relieve the other's mind. "Why do you care what happens to me?" 
the centaur demanded, anger displacing the worry in his tone. "Do 
you make some claim for me?"
    Kamahl was calm as he sealed his pack and kicked it under a 
bench. The Cabal servant overseeing the room caught the 
barbarian's eye, and he pointed to his gear with a forbidding 
expression. Power flowed from Kamahl's hand and danced over the 
wire interwoven with the cloth of the pack. The centaur was 
almost snarling as Kamahl finally turned his attention back to 
Seton.
    "I came to fight the best," Kamahl replied, checking the fit 
of his armor. "I want to beat the best. Victory
    would be less pure if my opponents worried about what would 
happen to them after they lost."
    The centaur swelled at the sheer arrogance and effrontery of 
the barbarian and then exploding in laughter.
    "You are confident, hero," Seton laughed. "If you fight one 
tenth as well as you boast you will walk away with every prize."
    Kamahl only smiled slightly then straightened. The gatekeeper 
posted three tiles. One of them was the crossed axe and sword 
that Kamahl was assigned upon entering the games. Another was the 
Cabal house tile, stating that the Cabal would have a 
representative in the fight. The last tile showed a branch 
gripped by a hand. The barbarian watched Seton move toward the 
arena and knew the forest warrior was now his opponent. The 
centaur pushed through the thin screen of fighters in front of 
the door.
    "Both against the Cabal fighter first, Kamahl," the centaur 
called to him. "After the undead are dispatched, you and I can 
discuss who should be the winner."
    Seton spun his massive club like a light baton, sending 
others scrambling away as the small boulder seemed to whistle 
through the air. The barbarian smiled and nodded, moving up to 
stand by the mighty forest dweller. He showed no concern as the 
club began to spin even more wildly as they were directed into 
the arena. The crowd noise heightened, and Seton put on a show 
for the crowd. Kamahl attracted little notice, as he preferred to 
save his energy for the fight. The Cabal opponent entered from 
the opposite side, heading for a platform. A dark and tattered 
pennant drooped limply from a metal flagstaff.
    The barbarian remembered Chainer's recitation of arena 
practice and how it echoed the ceremonial fighting practiced in 
the mountains. The Cabal fighter was fair game during combat, but 
the simple act of taking the flag would expel the house fighter 
from the match. The rule allowed overmatched house fighters to 
retreat and lose a flag rather than their lives. Several matches 
Kamahl saw earlier in the week involved the Cabal fighter losing 
to a stolen flag as they were overwhelmed and forced to protect 
themselves first and foremost. One novice Cabal fighter pulled 
the flag himself as he was overwhelmed. The fighter lived, but 
the shame of his cowardly act would undoubtedly make his life a 
living hell. The contestants not with the Cabal had no flag to 
lose. Only total defeat or humiliating surrender awaited them 
should a Cabal fighter prove superior. The barbarian heard many 
complain that the Cabal lost flags more often than lives, but he 
planned to win, so not having an alternate way to be defeated did 
not bother him.
    Kamahl ignored the Master of the Games' speech. The light 
from the flaring torches along the rim of the arena made it 
almost impossible to see the crowd. The viewing pods floated down 
from high above the wall as a few of the important game patrons 
watched the bout. Kamahl could see the ambassador from the Mer 
Empire and his champion taking their ease. The ambassador gave 
him a languid wave, and the barbarian gritted his teeth, feeling 
his color darken. The Order champion Kirtar was in the box as 
well and laughed at Kamahl's discomfiture. The lights brightened 
as Cabal mages fed more power to the torches, and the crowds and 
boxes were washed away in the flood of light. The barbarian 
focused, ignoring the sound of the crowds, blocking out 
superfluous noise until it seemed as quiet as the highlands of 
his youth.
    The Cabal fighter was a woman, her hair braided with beads 
and bones. She looked disinterested even as Seton bellowed a 
challenge, waiting for the fight to commence. Whatever the signal 
to commence the bout had been, Kamahl missed it in the charge of 
the centaur. His club spinning, the giant advanced in great 
bounds, hoping to close before the dementia caster could react, 
but his charge proved too slow as groups of fighters congealed in 
front of the Cabal fighter and her flag. Though humanoid, the 
creatures showed buglike qualities. Their dark exoskeletons 
rasped, and Kamahl could hear their pincers and mandibles working 
as he closed at a run.
    Seton arrived first, the club falling like an avalanche on an 
evoked fighter. The armor broke with a wet crunch that reminded 
Kamahl of a lobster he saw devoured at an inn. Seton was tearing 
through the defenders, his club squashing them like the bugs they 
resembled. More and more flickered into being even as their 
unnatural ichor discolored the sand.
    Kamahl arrived, and his massive sword cut out a great half-
circle among the defenders. The barbarian did not even call forth 
energy to feed the blade, husbanding his power until more worthy 
adversaries appeared.
    The Cabal magic user began to appear more interested, her 
eyes growing brighter as Kamahl and Seton approached, coming 
closer together as they neared the stand. The centaur swung his 
club less wildly, though the creatures still exploded at every 
strike. Kamahl cleared the caster's minions from his path with 
the same amount of energy and speed, his smooth swings showing no 
signs of slowing. The caster motioned, and the creatures tried to 
close on the pair of fighters from behind. Her tactics proved 
futile as the centaur roused himself and with great leaps and 
bounds prevented any from closing with him.
    The barbarian responded to the new attack with wider swings 
and footwork. His mind and spirit cleared, and he appeared almost 
to dance inside the lethal circle of steel. The creatures drew 
closer but died before they could close. The barbarian worried 
more about tripping over a smashed or dismembered corpse than one 
of the monsters breaking through his defense. Seton was proving 
faster as his great leaps took him around the fighters, who then 
closed on Kamahl. The centaur's breath could be seen as great 
gouts of vapor blew out through the giant's nostrils.
    Now the Cabal fighter smiled slightly, and new horrors issued 
from her mind. Kamahl could see a delicate and beautiful face 
coming into being. The eyes opened as the rest of the summoning 
took shape. The eyes were slit like a snake's, and from the torso 
down, that was what the monster appeared to be. As more of the 
creatures flickered into existence, the first attacked. The upper 
arms appeared normal, but from the elbows down, her arms were 
great blades of bone. The leader attacked, and Kamahl dodged one 
strike and blocked another. Though his sword cut through the 
insectile drones like a knife through butter, this new creature's 
arm rang like fine steel. The scrape of the edge along the bone 
made Kamahl's teeth ache. His return strike left only a small cut 
that began to ooze an oily liquid even as Seton joined the 
attack.
    The centaur seemed to swell beyond his already prodigious 
size, muscles writhing under his fur. The club whistled through 
the air, the head a blur as it struck at the monster in front of 
him. Bone cleavers, raised to intercept the blow, were amputated 
as the forest giant literally disarmed the summoning. Seton 
turned to another enemy, but the first was not yet done. Pulses 
of blood jetted out of the form, covering the centaur's chest and 
head. Seton's manic energy leaked out of him as he screamed in 
pain.
    The barbarian ran to intercept the caster's minions falling 
upon his temporary ally. His sword ran with power, the metal 
glowing as Kamahl fed it more energy. He struck at the creatures' 
backs, the enchanted blade once again shearing through his 
enemies. The limbs that fell did not release streams of corrosive 
blood, for the fire of his blade burned its way through the 
creatures' bodies. The corpses piled up; streams of fire burning 
through the skin as they raced through the veins and arteries.
    Seton slowly rose as the barbarian protected him. The scream 
that he gave was deep and filled with pain, but the centaur could 
move. The club rose and fell weakly, but it freed Kamahl to act 
more aggressively. He chopped his way through three of the demons 
and came back to protect Seton's flank.
    The centaur wove like a drunken horse, the fur on his chest 
slowly growing back through bloody strips of skin. But it took 
too much time, and Kamahl realized that centaur was a liability. 
The fight needed to end soon or the centaur might yet fall to the 
Cabal warrior. Kamahl looked to the platform. The flag flapped 
loosely as a new creature came into being.
    It was the smell that hit the barbarian first. His nostrils 
curled, and he breathed through his mouth. The creature was 
enormous, taller at the shoulder than the great buffalo that 
roamed the plains. In appearance, it reminded Kamahl of a great 
mole. Its sharp snout quested in the air even as it moved toward 
Seton and the barbarian. Kamahl ascribed the hesitation to its 
lack of eyes. Empty sockets set in rotted flesh and exposed bone 
left the monster without a means to see. Whether it had ever had 
fur Kamahl could not tell, but it had none now. Its skin seemed 
gone, leaving only rotting meat and a thick layer of mold. Each 
step of the creature left a mark of foulness.
    Seton performed his own summoning. The whine of insects could 
be dimly heard though cries of the crowd and the movement of the 
Cabal castings. A cloud formed, growing thick as insects came 
into being. One landed on the barbarian's arm, and he flicked it 
away before it could do any harm. The green locusts fell upon the 
dark minions. The barbarian absently killed the few creatures 
still in reach as he considered the centaur and the Cabal mage. 
The bodies of the fallen were covered in a moving carpet that 
flattened as the insects devoured the flesh. Bone peeked out 
briefly, but the enchanted mandibles of the insect swarm ground 
down even that.
    Seton raised his arms, his giant club held loosely in one 
hand. The cloud of locusts rose together, then fell upon the 
giant mole. The centaur moved toward the platform, ready to kill. 
Kamahl came as well, walking around the locusts that orbited the 
main mound.
    The attack on Seton was unexpected by the two allies. The 
insect-covered mole lurched into action, leaving a trail of 
twitching bugs. The creature humped itself up, its spine breaking 
through the layer of dead flesh and dying locusts. The huge 
animal left the ground in a prodigious leap that equaled anything 
Seton had shown so far. The shock of the bodies meeting sprayed 
the remains of the insect swarm across the arena. A thick cloud 
hung around the pair as the centaur tried to grapple. The claws 
of the mole carved hunks of flesh from the shoulders and flanks 
of the forest dweller. Showing unexpected flexibility, Seton 
ducked under the attack, scrambling clear. But only a few yards 
away he fell, his features slack with astonishment.
    The mole twitched, each shake spraying spores into the arena. 
The remaining locusts cascaded from the air with each gust of the 
agents of decay. The spores came from the thick ropes of purple 
on the mole's back. The locusts' attack had served only to unmask 
a more deadly response. The mole swung its head from side to side 
as it made for the fallen centaur.
    Kamahl stamped his foot loudly, sending an irregular rhythm 
into the sand. The monster paused, its head swinging and its feet 
shifting. The Cabal caster took her ease, and the barbarian could 
see her discounting the centaur and focusing on him. A smile lit 
her face as Kamahl drove his sword deep into the sand. The shock 
of the tip striking into the rock of the arena floor was a signal 
to the creature. It charged, each lunge releasing another cloud 
of death. It passed the platform as the barbarian stamped his 
feet. The Cabal fighter ignored the spores as her summoning 
closed. Kamahl's hands blurred as he moved-but not for the sword 
stuck into the ground.
    The barbarian plucked a throwing axe from his belt and cocked 
it back to his ear. Like a great sigh, power poured into the 
steel and leather-wrapped handle. The head flashed brilliantly, 
and then, as a comet, it flew toward the mole. The metal glanced 
off the massive skull, and Kamahl saw the Cabal warrior becoming 
still, summoning additional creatures. The barbarian closed his 
eyes as the axe reached the apex of its deflected flight.
    The detonation rocked Kamahl back. The light was bright 
enough that he could see through his eyelids as the edge of the 
energy brushed him. The crowd was stunned into silence. The magic 
ignited the spore cloud, and the explosion sped back to the mole, 
devouring it as the molds detonated in sympathy with Kamahl's 
attack. The dementia caster rolled on the ground, unable to 
stand. She had been flung back several yards, and the sand 
stripped most of her clothes off as well as much of her skin. Her 
teeth bared and bloody, she stood, gathering herself to summon 
more monstrosities. Kamahl did not take his newly gained 
advantage, though his other axe was in his hand. He pointed to 
the platform with the metal head. Scraps of the flag still 
fluttered to the ground, signaling the Cabal fighter's defeat.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    "You won more than five hundred!" Chainer said excitedly. The 
young man gripped the bag of coins tightly, proclaiming to all in 
sight that he held riches in his hand. Kamahl only smiled thinly 
as he waited with the other victorious fighters in the winners' 
box. The arena attendants seated those victors needing no medical 
attention. The winning fighters watched the remaining fights and 
were observed in turn by the crowd. A steady stream of visitors 
and dignitaries cycled in and out, some of them obviously trying 
to steal some of the fighters' glory. Chainer had come from the 
bet-monger with Kamahl's winnings. The barbarian held out his 
hand and was surprised by the weight of the purse. It felt much 
greater than the victory that had won it.
    "The bettors know you now," Chainer said. "You will get much 
lower odds now that you have won."
    A voice interrupted the pair.
    "That is because the servants of the Cabal mistake luck for 
skill," taunted Kirtar. The lieutenant strode arrogantly through 
the other fighters, pushing some out of the way. Kamahl noticed 
how the others took it and realized that the Order champion must 
be even more powerful than the barbarian thought. Perhaps the 
lieutenant's lop-sided victory had prevented Kamahl from seeing 
the bird warrior at his best.
    "Most of the fighters here don't realize how lucky they are 
to be competing with their better," Kirtar continued. His pale 
skin flushed as he drank more deeply from the goblet of wine in 
his hand.
    "I am surprised that you fight at all in these contests," 
Kamahl said slowly. "Surely you must realize how unequal you are 
to those who fight here."
    Kirtar nodded his head and then realizing that the comment 
was more easily read as an insult advanced angrily. A massive 
webbed hand deflected his path. Turg patted the champion on the 
back as he led him over to the food, the ambassador smiling at 
Kamahl and Chainer.
    "You must excuse our friend," Laquatus said. "He fights out 
of duty. The Order considers it their task to rid the world of 
the symbols of past evil. Many of the prizes that he wins will be 
destroyed at the Order's headquarters."
    "He is not my friend," Kamahl said flatly. Chainer nodded 
slightly, a grim look on his face. "And when he faces me in the 
arena, he will discover that I don't need luck to win."
    Laquatus, still smiling, bowed his head, but his eyes were 
serious, not merry. Kamahl turned as he felt a threat directed at 
him. Across the room Turg looked at him even as he shepherded 
Kirtar toward a bar. The amphibian's eyes held the same look of 
deadly concentration as the ambassador's.
 
                       CHAPTER 4
 
    "Hail the conquering hero!" Seton bellowed, ignoring the 
catcalls that quickly followed. Kamahl only nodded, as if 
accepting his due. The centaur snorted as he saw the shadow of a 
smile on the barbarian's face. The other patients in the hospital 
could not read the mountain fighter, and their catcalls 
continued.
    Seton had been taken to the hospital to recover from his 
wounds. Though the druids of the forest were known for their 
healing skills, the punishment they endured to access those 
energies reserved them for life-threatening injuries only. Though 
the poison mold laid the centaur low, Cabal servitors 
administered an antidote within minutes of the fight's end. Those 
who survived the games were taken to the healing halls behind the 
waiting chambers. Kamahl was told to return the next day.
    The centaur lay in a shallow pit, his side against a move-
able board that allowed him to lie as if on a hillside. Other 
than a tendency to turn one's head to match up with the patient's 
orientation, it allowed for ease of access for the nursing staff. 
It also made conversation more convenient.
    The barbarian's eyes swung over some of the patients, and his 
worries for his friend continued. Amputations were common and 
many fighters lay as if dead, their stumps leaking blood around 
the seams of their new limbs. Metal seemed the most common 
substitute, though mismatched furred limbs suggested other 
sources. Mold covered the wounds of some. Kamahl watched a 
caregiver spreading thick mud over the weeping sores of a dwarf 
whose eyes wandered with pain. The barbarian hoped the Cabal was 
trying to help instead of preparing a fresh round of victims for 
rumored rituals. He renewed his vow to avoid injury or at least 
care for himself.
    Seton looked well. His coat was clean, and the patchwork of 
new fur covered the worst of the stitches. The forest dweller 
still made few movements, and Kamahl realized the giant was in 
pain despite his apparent high spirits.
    "I am surprised that you have not already escaped," the 
barbarian quipped awkwardly. He wondered how the centaur stood 
the enclosed environment.
    "I will leave here as soon as her 'majesty' says that I may," 
the forest dweller said, rolling his eyes. The barbarian turned, 
seeing an approaching healer. She stood wrapped in armor, and her 
haughty stare curled his lip. She went past, her robe clinking 
softly with the sound of chain mail.
    "I am surprised to see a representative of the Order here," 
Kamahl said, turning his eyes away from the martial maid back to 
his acquaintance.
    "As healers, some of the Order's party feel compelled to 
offer their services here," the centaur replied. "Though we pay a 
stiff price for their services, being constrained to listen to 
them rail against the pit fights." The centaur spoke with some 
amusement, but Kamahl remembered the snubs offered by the 
lieutenant and now one of his retinue.
    "Rather self-serving to urge competitors of their champion to 
withdraw," the barbarian observed. "I am surprised that you do 
not tell them so." Kamahl came to win honor and respect. That 
other fighters would belittle the contests was extremely 
irritating.
    "We all come for our own reasons," the centaur said. He 
rolled further against the support board. He tripped a lever, and 
the clink of the mechanism sounded as he brought his side down. 
"The Order fights to destroy the prizes. I fight so I can meet 
the Masters of the Games." Seton lowered his voice.
    "I am not here on a lark," he said darkly. "What drives me is 
serious." Seton looked to see if any were listening.
    "The forests are violated and their inhabitants stolen to 
feed the pits." He said softly. "Creatures vanish from under the 
trees and nothing is done to stop them." The centaur shifted to 
bring his head closer to Kamahl.
    "The forest will not suffer these raids forever. I know that 
one day the pit system will have to change, or it will fall. The 
wild will not allow itself to be bled dry."
    "I respect your convictions," Kamahl said, keeping his voice 
even. "But I am not here to become part of your crusade. The pit 
provides the opponents I need to test myself." He turned and 
gestured to the crowds of injured.
    "I have no wish to be hurt, but it is a risk 1 take to win a 
place in this world." The barbarian lowered his hands and hooked 
his thumbs in his belt. His eyes looked inward as he paused. "The 
mountains became too small. Winning a duel meant that a village 
or a family gave you your due. Victory is sweet, but the portions 
were too small." Kamahl shook his head sadly as he thought of his 
many victories.
    "And you think the repast will be so much better in the 
pits?" Seton said crossly. "You think that the crowd will 
remember you for longer than your next fight?" The centaur's 
voice grew louder and other recuperating fighters looked toward 
the pair.
    "I think that it is better we each do as we think best," 
Kamahl said, his voice growing tight. He did not believe his 
victory meaningless.
    "I apologize, Kamahl," Seton answered. "I should not let my 
current injuries make me rude." The centaur waved his hand and 
only lightly groaned at the pain of the movement. "I have you to 
thank for the all this." He laughed. "But truly, I owe you my 
life," Seton said seriously. "I was paralyzed and sure I would 
die when you destroyed the mole. My debt to you is more than gold 
or words can pay."
    Kamahl nodded, accepting the gratitude with same equanimity 
he had accepted the crowd's adulation.
    "I fought for myself, but whatever debt you owe to me can be 
repaid by your friendship." The barbarian extended his hand, and 
the two gripped arms, united as they were in the arena.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    "Over here, Kamahl," Chainer called.
    The barbarian looked to the front of the champions' box. He 
had returned to the arena to see the Mer champion fight. There 
was no posted opponent, and the barbarian wondered who would 
battle the dangerous-looking amphibian.
    "The match hasn't started?" he asked, taking a seat next to 
the Cabal minion. Chainer was eating olives and cheese as he 
sipped from a cup. The barbarian nodded to a servant who supplied 
him with a small loaf of bread and a goblet of wine. Kamahl 
drank, noticing a sour taste and looking toward the servant. 
Chainer noticed his look.
    "Someone delivered lower-quality food to the kitchens 
stocking the boxes," the young man explained. "They're scrambling 
to find decent food for the important patrons." He snorted and 
gestured around as if to comment that the actual pit fighters 
were obviously low on the list of the powerful. Kamahl drank the 
wine without further comment, though deep inside the slight 
rankled.
    "It's all maneuvering to embarrass the current Master of the 
Games." Chainer said, sounding conspiratorial. "Someone is trying 
to displace him and his connections."
    The barbarian listened with little interest.
    The crowd stirred excitedly as the fighters' gate opened. 
Turg strode forth, the massive Mer champion glistening as if his 
skin had been freshly moistened. The placards naming the 
opponents were not posted, and Chainer straightened as the frog 
stalked the empty pit. A concealed gate opened, far from the 
crowd. With a wild bray, an ass ran into the pit, its hooves 
flying with wild kicks as it tore around the sides of the arena.
    The crowd exploded in laughter as Turg swelled up, his hands 
closed up in fists. The amphibian shook with rage as the audience 
continued to laugh. Many of the Cabal servants appeared stunned. 
The frog ran to intercept the donkey.
    "I can't believe someone would try to disrupt the games!" 
Chainer exclaimed as the Mer champion raced to his ridiculous 
opponent. "This prank will offend the ambassador and the Master 
of the Games."
    The frog reached the donkey, and it spun and let fly. The 
sharp hooves laid open the skin, and the laughter increased. 
Kamahl smiled slightly, though the other fighters' grins showed 
half-moons of teeth.
    Turg darted in and grabbed the ass's skull. He turned, 
throwing the donkey in a circle. The animal's neck snapped, its 
body falling limp to the ground. A light smattering of 
contemptuous applause greeted the amphibian. He kept his grip on 
the head, and his muscles bunched, rotating the skull and tearing 
it free. Blood poured onto the sand, splashing up against Turg's 
legs. He cocked back his arms and hurled his opponent's head up 
into the crowd. The spells that protected the seats flared, and 
the lights dimmed as power flowed to intercept the bloody 
projectile. The skull rotted away, diminished by the forces of 
accelerated decay until it fell over the seats in a spray of 
foulness. The sound of retching competed with nervous laughter. 
The ambassador was standing in his box, outrage visible on his 
aristocratic features. The Master of the Games gestured wildly to 
the gatekeepers down in the pit.
    "He's sending out another beast," Chainer said, settling back 
into the seat. "He'll try to write it off as a mistake, but the 
patriarch will have a head before the end of the day."
    A six-legged reptile rushed into the arena, soldiers driving 
it forth with jabs from tridents. Its legs churned, and it froze 
in the center, its head turning in quick jerks.
    "A Krosan dragonette," Chainer said, clucking his tongue. "A 
decent fighting animal but not one with stature enough to balance 
the insult of the ass."
    The dragonette saw the amphibian but did not charge. "They 
need to be driven to battle," Chainer said sadly as the Master of 
the Games went into a new spat of shouting and arm waving. The 
gates opened again, and more animals spilled into the arena. 
Great hounds milled, their foamy jaws hinting at madness as they 
bit at each other before the sight of the dragonette and the frog 
set them running.
    The six-legged beast tore into the pack as they came close. 
The reptile jaws snapped at the leg of a dog several times, 
leaving it a bloody mass. The rest of the pack piled on, but the 
beast thrashed. Howls of pain echoed in the arena as the 
dragonette's rough hide stripped fur and flesh away. The 
amphibian closed, and half the pack turned on him. There was a 
wave of magic, and the frog seemed to fade. Around each of the 
hounds the outline of the mer champion appeared, his legs 
dragging as if hamstrung. The pack fell on each other as the 
spell turned their instincts against them. A biting, dying circle 
spun between the frog and the reptile.
    The dragonette bled from multiple bites, the blood pulsing 
down its hide. Its long whip of a tail rose and then lashed into 
the dogs. A high yelp sounded as the reptile strruck again and 
again. Each strike left an animal with shattered bones. The 
cripples were killed in an instant as the other ensorcelled 
animals fell upon them. Soon only the dragonette, frog, and a 
single bleeding hound remained. Turg snapped into focus and 
struck the last dog, his heavy fist destroying the skull. The 
dragonette lashed its tail, but the amphibian leaped to the side, 
once more fading as multiple images moved away from its landing 
place. The dragonette roared in bestial fury, its cry echoing up 
over the arena walls. Its tongue flickering widely, it stalked 
one image exclusively, ignoring the others even as several 
versions of Turg made short rushes against it.
    The illusions faded as the mer warrior realized the beast's 
sense of smell made the illusions useless. Catcalls rose from the 
benches at the turn of events. The frog crouched, its arms spread 
wide. Power crackled along its arms, and small streamers of 
lightning trailed from the tips of the frog's claws. The two 
monsters leaped at each other, the crowd rising to its feet. The 
reptile caught the skin of Turg's thigh and lacerated it as hands 
closed over the beast's eyes. Both the frog and dragonette 
screamed now, but the cries of the ocean warrior's opponent were 
full of pain and despair. The calls grew shriller as the six-
legged beast tried to escape, its bellows becoming more plaintive 
and fearful.
    Kamahl's magical senses could detect Turg's power forming a 
circuit between the reptile and the amphibian's own flesh. The 
frog's own magic made its flesh shake, but the surge of energy 
increased as the frog cooked its enemy from the inside out. The 
Mer champion shouted its triumph as it fed off its own pain. The 
ambassador across the arena shook in sympathy as his champion 
bellowed in a self-inflicted orgy of pain.
    Some of the crowd threw down tokens of appreciation, the 
valuables reaching the sand floor as the Cabal servants curbed 
the defensive spells protecting the stands. Turg ripped a hunk of 
steaming flesh free and swallowed the meat, reaching for another 
handful as the applause slackened. The mutter of the crowd asking 
for the next fighter was heard as Cabal minions posted new 
placards. Then a cry was heard.
    Kamahl stood, and the bellow repeated. The echoing call was 
filled with rage and came over the arena wall. The sound beat 
against the barbarian's skull as it grew louder. He looked to 
Chainer, but the youth seemed as confused as any. The barbarian 
made his way for the exit, pushing his way through the other 
fighters, the cries continuing unabated. Kamahl slowed as he 
recognized the sounds. Though louder and far deeper, they were 
much like those Turg's dead opponent gave forth. Though the 
dragonette lay dismembered, a response to its dying cries filled 
the arena and perhaps the rest of the city.
 
                       CHAPTER 5
 
    "Something is breaking into the city!" screamed a voice in 
the ambassador's ear. Laquatus struggled from the depths of his 
trance, his senses assaulted by the troubled noises of the crowd. 
The merman shook his head, still confused. On the sands below, 
Turg bellowed and fell into a feeding frenzy, losing any sign of 
civilized restraint. Again a cry filled the air. The rage and 
despair in its tone gave the ambassador's spirit a little burst 
of joy. Something was in great pain, and Laquatus could always 
smile at the pain of others. The erstwhile town crier moved on 
and shouts continued down the line of boxes. "See what the noise 
is about," the ambassador said to a guard standing nearby. The 
mercenary nodded and left at a run. The merman stood, shaking the 
stiffness from his muscles. The amphibian continued to eat 
voraciously and Laquatus saw the difficulty in reining Turg in. 
Better to let the amphibian feed. Usually, the ambassador lost 
himself in the frog's sensations when the opportunity presented 
itself. However, the tumult outside continued as crowds drifted 
out of the pits.
    "See about getting the arena gates open," he directed a Cabal 
servant who came into the box, looking for a way to please the 
ambassador. "Tell the Master of the Games that while I blame him 
for nothing, I want my jack allowed to leave the field." Laquatus 
paused for a second.
    "Right now," he said emphatically as the servant stood there 
stupidly. The servant left at a run, his sandals loudly drumming 
on the stone floor.
    "I wonder if the fools think I will forgive the insults 
offered me?" Laquatus asked himself pensively. The assault on his 
dignity burned, lying like a bed of temporarily banked coals, 
ready to flare up at any moment. Whoever drove the ass out onto 
the field would pay a hideous price. As would the person that 
gave the order, their households, and any with close connections. 
Laquatus idly wondered if the city should be razed to assuage his 
honor?
    Perhaps not, after all he had plans for the Cabal and the 
pits. But the image of burning buildings and corpses seemed very 
attractive. Turg's savage appetite bled into his consciousness. 
Perhaps a minute passed before new events broke his reverie. 
Messengers returned with news, the one sent to the Master of the 
Games speaking first.
    "The official is gone, and all the Cabal servants are called 
away," he explained, bowing in humiliation. "There is no one with 
authority to order the gates opened on the arena floor." Laquatus 
smiled slightly and walked to the refreshments laid to the side. 
A variety of seafood imported at great expense lay cooling in 
shaved ice. Laquatus reached for metal tongs used to crack claws. 
He grabbed the man's hand and grasped a finger quickly. The 
muscles beneath his aristocratic facade showed themselves as he 
broke the finger like a twig. The servant went white as the 
ambassador stepped back to the table. Laquatus picked up a 
lobster claw and some bread to feed the echo of his jack's 
hunger.
    "I sent you to get Turg out," he said merrily, cracking the 
chitin to get to the meat. The servant turned even paler at the 
sound. "I have confidence that you will get my frog free before I 
run out of fingers." The man swayed, and Laqua-tus's personal 
retainer gave him a wide berth, waiting for him to go down.
    "Now, now, now," Laquatus clucked, lightly rapping the man's 
cheek with the metal tongs. "You don't want me breaking more 
bones to wake you up."
    The servant shook his head rapidly, bowing and backing away 
as he stumbled to the door. The ambassador smiled and motioned to 
the retainer. The man smiled as nastily as his master, his bald 
head flushed with excitement at the cruelty.
    "Follow along, and if he collapses make sure he receives 
medical attention." At the disappointed look Laquatus chuckled 
and waved the man away. How could he punish someone for failure 
if he died from shock? These landsmen were such unthinking 
brutes. They had no sense of style. He invited the other 
messenger forward with a wave of his hand.
    "And what is the commotion outside?" the merman asked. "A 
riot? A revolution? Come, come," he said, as the Cabal servant 
gathered his composure. "Use your tongue, or I'll have it out."
    "A monstrous beast has broken through the city wall and is 
making its way through the town," gushed the man. The ambassador 
briefly considered using the crushing tongs again, but business 
before pleasure.
    "Why the excitement?" Laquatus asked. "The arena teems with 
monsters every day. Surely one more should not provoke such 
disarray."
    "The beast, my lord," the servant said quickly, "is huge. It 
overtops buildings and can be clearly seen from outside the 
arena."
    The ambassador nodded, intrigued enough that he decided to 
see the monster for himself.
    The runner screwed up his will enough to speak once more 
before making for the exit. "It also resembles the beast your 
champion just killed." Then his nerve broke, and he left at a 
run.
    The guards made as if to block him, but the ambassador 
stopped them with a barely perceptible motion. The messenger was 
of no importance though his words were intriguing. He waved to a 
skybox, calling it down. The pilot promptly complied, and the 
merman soon stepped into the small floating craft with a single 
guard. He looked to the rest of his household. "Go back to the 
embassy," Laquatus said and dismissed them from his mind.
    The skybox was one of the smaller ones but any affording such 
luxury were rich and important. The seats were of the finest 
leather. Though it had no buffet, there was a collection of rare 
liquors stowed against the side. The mage directing the craft was 
clad in black regalia while the obvious patron of the box wore an 
understated tunic and trousers of deep purple and black.
    "I am so glad I could give aid," the owner said, moving to 
the side to grant the merman more room. "I am Toustos, an 
importer of animals for the games."
    "I thank you for your courtesy," Laquatus smiled back, 
wondering if he should send the two over the side. "I am the 
ambassador from the Mer Empire. In the excitement there seems to 
have been a mistake. My jack, Turg, has been abandoned on the 
field of victory." He shook his head sadly. "If you could direct 
this box to pick him up, I would be very appreciative." The 
importer nodded and, with a look, directed the box down.
    "There is a chance," he said, "that the protective field over 
the fighting area may be quiescent. If not, your fighter is 
trapped until the guards let him out." The ambassador nodded in 
agreement but thought that Turg could escape if he must. The box 
slowed suddenly as it neared the field.
    "Warning spell," said the importer unnecessarily. The merman 
could detect the roused energies waiting to destroy anything that 
trespassed their vigilant watch. The amphibian below tore more 
flesh from the dragonette, and some of the six limbs lay 
amputated. The frog had eaten itself nearly immobile, and 
Laquatus cursed the indulgence of appetite.
    "There's no way we can get through the stand defenses, Your 
Excellency. Is there some other service I might provide?"
    Laquatus curbed his temper. "There," he said, pointing to the 
open air above. "Lift us up that I might see this beast that 
draws the rabble so far from their posts." The box began to rise 
toward the opening. The curving galleries and conduits of power 
loomed over the field, and the conveyance drifted further to the 
side. The rate of ascent slowed as they neared the limits of the 
arena. Finally they peeked over the wall and saw the madness 
outside.
    The merman enhanced his senses, his suddenly sharp eyes and 
ears bringing the scene into crystal focus.
    "Krosan dragon," whispered the importer at the ambassador's 
side.
    Laquatus slapped the patron, his burning gaze demanding 
absolute silence.
    The dragon was Turg's opponent grown one hundredfold. The 
six-legged beast looked down on the buildings it passed. The city 
guardsmen ran screaming before it, breaking down doors to hide 
inside. Its head ducked, and the monster gulped down a flagging 
sergeant as a snack. The other guardsmen put on another burst of 
speed. They slowed immediately, exhausted from their crazed run 
from the city walls. Laquatus could see soldiers converging from 
other parts of the city, but he doubted that many would arrive in 
time. The dragon's huge tail lashed behind it. A steady rain of 
debris from tumbling walls filled the street as the beast came 
on.
    The area in front of the arena was bedlam as carriages and 
palanquins disbursed. Patrons rushed to waiting bearers, the 
servants trembling with fright and frustration. It said something 
for the brutality of the city elite that transport waited. But 
the outskirts of the crowd were fraying away; some chased by 
their screaming masters. A clump of officials rallied the Cabal 
arena guards and handlers into formation. It seemed a forlorn 
hope against the approaching juggernaut.
    Laquatus felt satisfaction at their impending doom. A 
terrible death by monster might salve away the wound to his 
dignity. He thought of Turg below, a slumbering fool in someone's 
scheme, and he hoped the entire Cabal would be slowly eaten 
alive.
    A dementia caster below opened reality to her madness, and a 
stream of undead stumbled up the street. They formed a parade and 
advanced laughing, their clothes trailing rags showing hints of 
past color. Rusty bells rattled, and a chorus of tinny horns 
sounded as more approached the dragon. Unholy mirth dragged 
sodden laughter from their rotting chests.
    One bellowing voice overrode the noise below, and the 
ambassador looked down to see Lieutenant Kirtar directing the 
action. The Order representative oversaw the retreat of those 
patrons still trapped back into the arena.
    "If necessary escape through the rear exits," Laquatus heard 
through his enhanced hearing. The officer waved pit fighters to 
join the city guards as noncombatants retreated inside. Down the 
avenue, the corpses' merriment reached its peak as the parade met 
the beast.
    The street opened into a square, and the zombies surrounded 
the dragon, throwing themselves at it. The monster's tail began 
to sweep in rapid strikes, each movement leaving a trailing 
bundle of rotting flesh. Some zombies seemed to explode as they 
thudded into thick building walls. Others disappeared inside weak 
facades, though the sound of collapsing walls suggested they were 
not spared destruction. Those undead that missed buildings 
entirely skidded along the cobblestones, shedding flesh and bones 
until the remains looked as tattered and strewn as the moldering 
grave-clothes. Some avoided the tail and reached the beast. 
    The giant body thrashed from side to side as a wave of 
guardsmen followed the undead and reached the great reptile. 
Spears leading, they charged in support of the merry corpses. 
They appeared to battle their way onto the monster's hide, and 
Laquatus for a second increased his sight a magnitude before it 
blurred back to simple enhancement.
    The green fur that seemed to cover the reptile was in fact a 
blanket of vines. Wrapping the huge beast in innumerable strands, 
the greenery protected it by a thick covering of long thorns. The 
figures Laquatus saw clinging to the animal's side were nailed 
there as solidly as any crucified slave. The zombies tried to 
crawl to the dragon's head and left a trail of their few 
remaining threads, then what remained of their skin. Still the 
summoned corpses laughed and trembled in crazed mirth.
    The lieutenant and his supporters advanced, power creeping 
along their limbs and armoring them against thorns. Axes and 
swords glowed as they were enhanced, golden flames running along 
the metal. Spears and javelins arced high in the air, then 
pierced the dragon's hide. Enchanted metal cut deep, and the 
monster paused.
    Its mouth gaping wide, it poured out a green mist, the 
emerald haze flowing down the street. The ambassador could still 
see, but the scene was blurred. Only the frog's ground-hugging 
nature and his high vantage point allowed him to view all the 
combatants. For those on the street, everything was lost in the 
attack. The head of the dragon swung skyward, and the ambassador 
realized that the monster could still see. It came forward as the 
lieutenant hurled forces into the air.
    Burly warriors threw small raypen, their spindly legs 
trailing as they spread their deformed arms wide. The magic 
flowed, and their arms doubled in length, feathers spurting from 
their skin as sorcery gave them the wings that their ancestors 
gave up millennia before. Four bird warriors climbed higher and 
began shouting reports to the lieutenant below. The ambassador 
swore as the Order forces moved forward. The destruction of his 
host's city would have pleased Laquatus greatly.
    Shouts of surprise sounded from the fog below. Like the 
tropical jungles of the south, ivy and kudzu spread over the 
buildings and streets. Wild growth exploded out of window boxes. 
Plants and vines unfamiliar to Laquatus curled around windows and 
doorways as thick grasses and brush tore through cobblestones. 
The street swiftly became impassable.
    Weapons once ready to battle a dragon tried to cut a path. 
The fallen zombies vanished as plants tore apart what remained of 
their bodies. The Krosan dragon forced its way through the 
street, its tons of armored flesh finding the plants only 
slightly less navigable than the fog that preceded them. Its 
tongue searched the air for traces of the now hidden troops.
    The raypen called out reports, and the Lieutenant responded 
from below. The bird warriors banked and swooped toward the 
dragon. Long darts fell as they pulled up, the projectiles 
slicing into the animal's head. The creature bled profusely, one 
of the attacks tearing open the scales near the eye. Weeping red 
tears, the giant blew forth a geyser of green mist. It swept 
through the sky, its concentrated green a verdant club that 
swatted at the flyers, hiding them from sight.
    The raypen climbed out of obscurity, wildly pumping for clear 
air. Then they screamed, their limbs flexing spasti-cally. Their 
cries choked off, and Laquatus could see them coughing up gouts 
of green as they went into seizures. Their magic failed, and they 
plummeted, diving into the tall grass covering the street and 
vanishing from view.
    The ambassador felt the lieutenant drawing more power as the 
Order warriors reacted to the deaths of the flyers. The figures 
blazed gold as they tried to protect against infestation, but 
soldiers collapsed as the green fought against them, the 
invisible seeds of destruction sown in the first moments of 
battle.
    The barbarian Kamahl advanced from the arena, his sword a 
long whip of flame that burned a path through the brush. Bursts 
of searing red light emanated from his body, wilting the plants 
nearby. Laquatus hoped for his death as the jack cut a channel 
through the fog. The sweeps of his weapon burned others free as 
he reached Kirtar's position and continued past, ignoring the 
bird warrior's shouted orders. He trailed supporters in his race 
up the street.
    The dragon's head dipped to devour the impudent barbarian, 
but the sword's long flame charred a line of flesh over its nose. 
Fresh gouts of the mystical growth hormone washed over the 
street, but a spreading cloud of flame burned out a circle of 
safety. The beast tried to maneuver, but fiery knives arced up 
and exploded on the dragon's side as it turned away. The fires 
swept away stretches of the thorny vines protecting the animal's 
hide. Cabal armsmen who had run to the roofs of surrounding 
buildings found their courage, and a few arrows and bolts sought 
the gaps in green armor. The huge tail brought down more 
structures, whipping in painful frenzy as rubble cascaded into 
the verdant growth. Clouds of dust set the combatants choking as 
they disappeared from view.
    There was a fresh bout of screams, and Laquatus watched the 
dragon's claws hooking a hapless fighter into the cloud. Unable 
to see into the green haze, he summoned a wind. It took precious 
seconds, but the mass of dust blew over the rooftops, completely 
blinding those archers and spearmen with the courage to be 
exposed. The merman ignored them as the cloud began to clear the 
street He saw the dragon whip its head, catapulting a screaming 
soldier through the air to intercept the barbarian as he came 
into view. Laquatus clapped with delight.
    "Good show," he called, ignoring the looks of the importer. 
The barbarian and his humanoid projectile sailed into a faceless 
building, which shot out more dust as internal walls collapsed. 
The roof pitched sharply, and refugees of the street battle 
screamed as they slid off and fell to the timbers and stone 
blocks below.
    The lieutenant ordered a retreat, driving the fighters and 
the few remaining observers at street level down other avenues.
    "We'll hamstring it as it tears into the arena," he shouted. 
Laquatus started as he saw the beast coming closer. The skybox 
began to drop, cutting off the view of the action.
    "Take us back up!" he ordered the importer, furious at the 
interruption. It was the merchant's servant who answered him.
    "The energy to the transports is being redirected to the 
defensive shields," the pilot explained, directing the craft to a 
cradle against the opposite wall. "They must be planning to drive 
the animal into the decay field to kill it." The ambassador could 
feel the deadly spells below growing more powerful.
    "Why would they think the beast headed here?" he asked. 
"Surely it will chase the cowards running away rather than attack 
an empty building."
    This time it was the importer who answered him.
    "It comes to answer the cry of distant kin," Toustos 
explained. The merchant was nervous, and the merman could tell 
the human tried to control his own fear by showing his superior 
knowledge. "It will break its way in and kill whoever it finds 
when it sees and smells the corpse of the dragonette."
    The ambassador looked to the sands below. Turg lay as if 
dead, stuffed to bursting on wild ass and the monster's caller. 
There was no way to raise him from his slumber, though Laquatus 
sent command after command to the amphibian's mind. His enhanced 
hearing could hear the slamming of bolts as every gate closed in 
an attempt to keep the beast inside after it broke through.
    "I am sure they will kill it before it can devour your 
champion or reach us," the importer said nervously. The 
ambassador grasped him by the throat and with a single motion 
threw him to the sands below. Maggot-ridden meat struck the 
floor, and the merman's guard did not even wait for the order, 
hurling the skybox attendant over the side of the conveyance. The 
mercenary retired back, trying not to catch his master's 
attention.
    "I will trust these incompetent animals to protect me?" 
Laquatus said to himself. "These dry, ungainly fools, unworthy of 
all responsibility!" he screamed as the guard tried to make 
himself smaller. "I spit on these air-breathing tube worms!"
    The ambassador sent his call forth again, compelling 
absolute, immediate compliance. But his demand did not split open 
the skull of the comatose pit frog. Instead the orders passed 
through the rock beneath the arena, resonating in the caverns 
below. Laquatus felt the surge of power as his waiting armies 
prepared to attack.
 
                       CHAPTER 6
 
    "Bloody hell," rasped Kamahl as he opened his eyes. The 
fighter ached over every portion of his being. His mind fuzzed, 
and he tried to remember where he was. It came back to him as he 
coughed up dust and smoke. The fight with the attacking monster, 
the concealing clouds of dust, and the impact of the thrown 
soldier. All of it surged into focus as he pushed his way to his 
feet. Plaster and lumber sloughed from his back as he looked to 
the gaping hole that his flight had left. The small fires started 
during his impact were growing and at his stern glance died down, 
the smoke whistling through every crack in the houses structure 
as his will compelled the flames.
    Kamahl looked for the soldier who had rammed him. A 
congealing pool of blood leaking from another pile of debris told 
the barbarian his likely fate. He shoveled away wreckage with his 
hand and exposed a dead face. A support beam nailed the corpse to 
the floor as firmly as a mountain. The mage could hear cries of 
the beast and stumbled outside, his steps becoming firmer with 
every second. His sword hung from the outside wall, the blade 
sunk deep in oak. Kamahl threw power into the steel and ripped it 
free in a hail of splinters. Armed and aware, he cut his way to 
the street.
    The grasses and bushes that blocked his way had grown only a 
little after his unexpected withdrawal. Rubble from newly 
demolished buildings covered a lush growth that continued to push 
its way toward the sun. The barbarian climbed carefully up a 
slope of debris, accepting the risk of a fall for a better view. 
The tail of the dragon lashed across the street, each beat 
bringing fresh destruction. Kamahl saw no sign of the other 
fighters and wondered if the beast had killed them all.
    The monster reared up against the wall of the arena, its 
front two legs digging at the stones. Thin panels of fine rock 
fell, revealing the brick that formed the walls. Kamahl knew the 
beast would claw its way through in minutes. Whether any yet 
remained inside was unknown, but they would surely die when the 
dragon pushed its way through the ramshackle structure. The 
barbarian sheathed his sword on his back and walked up the street 
toward the stadium, the grass and brush grasping at his legs.
    The mountain warrior stopped and concentrated, ignoring the 
caresses from the growing plants. Kamahl hurled a continuing 
barrage of knives drawn from his mind. The blades burst into red 
and orange flame, casting shadow as they spun before sinking into 
the waving tail of the monster. The dragon's reflexive movement 
from the pain batted aside some of the projectiles, imbedding 
them in buildings. The weapons started fires as they discharged 
into walls and new trees, the smoke promoting fresh cries of 
panic as those guardsmen hiding in rubble and out of sight found 
their sanctuaries set alight. Despite the secondary damage, the 
dragon's tail dropped limply to the ground as Kamahl's attack 
burned through bundles of nerves.
    The beast, maddened with pain, spun in the square before the 
arena. The monster's hips brushed against the exposed brick core 
of the pit walls. The masonry fragmented and stained the 
creature's upper legs a dark ochre, matching its dusty claws. The 
beast slowed as its dead, trailing tail robbed it of speed, 
dragging through the rubble and catching on exposed beams before 
the monster's power tore it free. Kamahl continued his assault, 
more magically forged knives spinning on their trajectories 
toward the dragon. City guard corpses were still impaled on the 
creature's thorny armor, and the barbarian's attack thudded into 
the cooling bodies. The monster's thorny armor and the dead began 
to burn as the mystic metal vanished in gouts of flame. Kamahl 
knew the impromptu funeral pyres were the only ceremony the 
guardsmen were likely to receive in Cabal City.
    The dragon recovered, finishing its turn and roaring at the 
barbarian, its teeth red with the blood of those already slain. 
Kamahl drew his sword, waiting for the beast's charge.
    A new flare of magic lit up the street, surprising beast and 
barbarian. The combatants froze in the glare, the monster blinded 
and the city guards diving for cover. Kamahl stretched out his 
mind, trying to trace the origin of the power rippling through 
the ground. He felt for the stability and strength that he knew 
from his home mountains, but from the depths an alien magic 
seemed to poison the very street he stood on.
    Pools of light expanded out of the ground, their blue 
radiance growing stronger and attacking Kamahl's eyes. Frothy 
ponds formed, stilled, and dimmed, and creatures erupted into the 
upper world.
    Giant crabs surged from the holes, spreading out in a red 
tide. Their massive frames broke through the welter of brush. 
Claws tore out the dragon growth by the roots, revealing the 
cobblestones that had vanished under the beast's attack. The 
snapping of small tree trunks sounded across the battlefield as 
the crustaceans cleared a beachhead, their pincers shredding 
those obstacles they could not simply uproot by sheer strength.
    The dragon blinked at the sudden activity, frozen in 
surprise. Then a building front, damaged by the battle, cascaded 
into the street and broke its trance. The monster breathed out a 
cloud of green mist, beginning a new bout of berserk growth. The 
potent breath swept up the street, settling over the scuttling 
crabs then reaching the barbarian. Kamahl closed his eyes and 
concentrated. Small flames leaped up from his clothes and gear, 
then grew until his entire body was encased in the pale flame. 
The sound of the fire was echoed in the hiss and crackle of new 
growth sprouting everywhere in the street. Cobblestones cracked 
as trees and bushes forced their way to the surface. The flames 
leaped from Kamahl's clothes to the ground and new tendrils of 
growth withered. The warrior started forward, the fire of his 
will burning a path through the resurgent vegetation. The flames 
lit the mist, and he moved as if in a fog.
    The barbarian used his sword now, his fiery armor thinning, 
leaving him more exposed to the mist. The energy clung to his 
sword and each swing of his weapon cast a scything whip of power 
ahead to clear his path. The blade opened the way to the crabs' 
clearing.
    The pools were still lighting the fading mist with their 
radiance. Kamahl felt immediate antipathy to the light. Its color 
pierced the eye, and his weapon's flame curled back behind him, 
expending his irrational hate into the vegetation at his back. 
The dragon was coming into view, and he could not afford 
distractions now.
    The sea walkers showed no reactions to the barbarian's 
emergence from the new jungle, continuing to cut back growth. The 
dragon breathed again, its concentrated wrath billowing over the 
clearing. Many of the crustaceans were covered with growing 
plants, but they continued working, their claws now trimming 
grass and bushes from their fellow workers as well as the 
clearing's edge. A new surge of mer forces began to crowd the 
clearing. The crabs moved on, their claws now raised and 
threatening.
    Kamahl cut his way along the perimeter of the encampment. The 
warrior surmounted a mound of rubble enabling him to look over 
the crab's clearing. New creatures dragged themselves from the 
pools, and the crustaceans charged the dragon. The giant reptile 
reared up, four legs waved in the air as it spun, its tail 
skimming through the crabs. The sea fighters were thrown up 
against a building front, their shells fracturing with a series 
of crackling sounds. The dragon's dead tail still had mass, and 
the reptile used it like a club, slamming it into the structure's 
facade. Rubble cascaded down over the broken shells.
    The giant monster moved into the arena's square, the street's 
buildings blocking the barbarian's view. Kamahl now had to skirt 
the new forces creeping out of the pools. Small humanoids with 
huge heads crawled out onto the surface gingerly, their whiskers 
trailing on the ground. The barbarian recognized the amphibians. 
The tresias were sometimes found in highland caves. The street 
was filling with these new arrivals, and Kamahl swore as they 
blocked the way. The blind creatures' great claws scraped over 
the rubble and slashed mounds of mown grass into mulch. The 
barbarian was nearing the square, and his lashing flame blade 
scythed away the undergrowth. The dragon screamed and came back 
into view. It stomped a crab into jelly, and pounds of meat 
squirted out between the animal's clawed toes. It began to move 
up the street.
    The amphibians' oversized heads rose up, orienting on the 
giant monster. A surreal and hypnotic radiance pulsed out toward 
the common enemy-faint in the sunlight and dust of battle but 
commanding all the same. Kamahl caught only a brief glimpse, and 
it mesmerized him. The battle faded away as his mind lost itself 
in a play of color. His training strained to break the silken 
mental bonds, to reassert his mastery. The barbarian's struggles 
cleared his mind, and as his sight came back, he found himself 
turned around, facing down the street, away from the dragon and 
toward the tresias. He shifted his eyes away, avoiding the 
hypnotic trap that tried to ensnare him once more. From the 
corner of his eye he could see more crabs coming forth, these 
falling upon the rubble and vegetation to expand the beachhead.
    As the hypnotic power of the tresias seemed to dim, a new 
wave of reinforcements crawled from the depths below. Kamahl 
shuffled to the side in atavistic reaction as the new marine 
fighters rolled and oozed over the landscape. The cephalid 
soldiers hauled themselves by their tentacles out of the pool. 
Bags of flesh, they left a trail of slime as they slithered over 
the cobblestones.
    Though they lay like dead jellyfish cast up on the beach by a 
storm, each grasped a weapon. Spear guns and tridents dug at the 
dirt as the invaders rested for a few precious seconds then 
resumed their drive on the still-bemused monster. The hypnotic 
tresias light vanished as each amphibian collapsed, hanging their 
heads and starting to crawl back on their fragile limbs toward 
the pools to the underworld. The cephalids and crabs parted as 
their blind compatriots returned, their manner showing the same 
disquiet with their allies that the barbarian felt.
    Kamahl scaled the side of a building, his bruised hands 
leaving a tacky film of blood as he swarmed up the side. The sea 
forces had cleared a path, but he would not trust their company. 
By the time he reached the third story, the dragon sounded again, 
fury in its voice as it overcame the amphibians' spell. The 
barbarian chinned himself to the rooftop and turned to run toward 
the giant monster, finally free of the undergrowth and mer 
warriors below.
    The cephalids attacked the dragon, propping their projectors 
on rubble and bodies from the battle. The shafts flew wildly, and 
Kamahl congratulated himself on seeking higher ground. 
Incompetence and inexperience could kill as quickly as malice. A 
few bolts from spear guns snapped into reptilian flesh though 
most landed on rubble and cobblestones. The projectiles 
discharged showers of sparks, and the barbarian detected the same 
energies that fed lightning storms. The mountain warrior conjured 
an axe of flame and threw it with all the force at his command. 
The conjured weapon spun through the air and slammed into the 
shoulder of the convulsing dragon. A charred circle expanded as 
the magic destroyed the thorny armor to show the hide beneath.
    "There's an aiming point!" Kamahl shouted to the forces 
below. The cephalids were silent, their tentacles locked around 
their projectors as they compacted springs and loaded new shafts 
for another volley. The barbarian forgot the clumsy fighters in 
the street below as he heard the battle cry of the Order.
    Lieutenant Kirtar maneuvered on the rooftops as well, ceding 
the ground to the invaders from the forests and seas. Kamahl 
could see city guardsmen coming up other streets from his four-
story vantage point. The dragon was clawing down brick and timber 
over the cephalids and the remaining crabs. The sea fighters 
scrabbled to get clear as the monster tried to bury them. Another 
barrage of bolts sputtered and arced, but the huge beast seemed 
to not notice the pain. It hopped from foot to foot, crushing the 
cabs.
    Kirtar was a fountain of energy as he crossed the roofs. The 
Order champion's attack slammed into the giant creature's hip, 
tunneling its way to the bone. With a crack audible throughout 
the street, a joint gave way, and the creature's rearmost leg 
spasmed and dragged. The giant tried to breathe more fog, but 
only a few wisps came out. It tried to back out into the square 
as everyone closed for the kill.
    Kamahl was accelerating as he jumped to the final roof and 
conjured another weapon in his free hand. He hurled the axe at 
the creature's side, aiming for the thickest remaining patch of 
the beast's thorny armor. He was in the air in a long leap when 
it exploded, devouring a broad swath of the deadly vegetation in 
a wave of flame. The barbarian's sword smashed into a mound of 
muscle as his jump landed him on the beast's side. His plunging 
sword burned a deep wound, and the dragon screamed again. The 
giant tried to scrape the mountain warrior off against a 
building, inflicting even more damage to itself in an instinctive 
response to the attack.
    Kamahl levered himself up and over the rise of the animal's 
spine, his sword and an axe acting as pitons. The rumble of 
cascading rubble drowned out the barbarian's angry cry as a 
barbed tendril of the creature's remaining armor sank its thorns 
into the fighter's thigh. One hand held his buried sword as the 
other tore the vine free. Below him, the beast heaved and pitched 
as the warrior cupped his hand and drew flame into the world. He 
clasped the summoned fire against the wound, hissing at the pain. 
A wave of cold swept his body as his flesh tried to shrug off the 
burn. As he lay panting, the mer forces attacked again.
    Soft-bodied sea warriors raised their spear guns, discharging 
magical projectiles to little effect. The dragon's head dipped, 
and its claws scrabbled, tearing apart some of its tormenters. 
The mer eeled their way into mounds of rubble, and others 
suctioned their way up the outsides of buildings. The forest 
creature took advantage of the ascending invaders and snapped 
them down from the buildings. Even as it devoured its foes, the 
crabs made a run for its flanks. Though most died under the 
dragon's heavy stomps, some scuttled under the massive frame, and 
now giant claws nipped at the injured leg and tail.
    The barbarian saw the crustacean warriors moving wildly 
below, their claws shearing at the huge tendons. The middle leg 
on the left collapsed, and Kamahl jumped for safety as the animal 
went down, rolling to crush the sea fighters. The mountain mage's 
sword lashed into a building wall, and the pull of gravity 
dragged the steel down. The power of the blade left a trail of 
smoking brick as Kamahl arrested his slide. As he slowed, he 
pulled the weapon free and fell the remaining distance to the 
street. His leg protested, but he ignored the shallow wounds. The 
back of the beast lay toward him, and he could see the street 
coming apart under its pounding mass. He closed with the downed 
beast.
    Lieutenant Kirtar called for all forces to finish the 
monster. A mer fighter finally showed some marksmanship and shot 
a charged spear beneath an armored eyelid. A shower of ocular 
fluid soaked the fallen grasses, pouring from the empty socket as 
it writhed. The few remaining crabs began to climb the body.
    The barbarian watched the cephalids retreat back to their 
pools, then he could see only the monster. It filled his vision 
as it tried to rise to its feet. Kamahl raised his sword and 
plunged it near the spine. The beast somehow got its legs under 
its bulk, and the barbarian was nearly catapulted free. Only his 
grip on his sword allowed him to stay with the monster. The 
dragon was stumbling away from the arena and up the street, 
headed for the sea fighters and their pools. The crabs tried to 
climb the slack tail, but they failed as the giant swayed from 
side to side. The beast was killing the warriors almost by 
accident as it crushed both hard-shelled and soft-bodied fighters 
from the sea against the broken bricks of Cabal City.
    Kirtar stood opposite Kamahl on a building roof, surefooted 
despite the slope of the crumbling structure. The barbarian saw a 
predatory grin as the aven unleashed another flight of his 
conjured birds. The mountain warrior swore and breathed out a 
cage of flame, concentrating even as his uncontrolled mount 
tottered beneath him. The golden sparrows swooped down and swept 
over the great reptile, their wings of light shaving away the 
remains of the dragon's thorny armor before rising to the sky. 
The spell wrought creatures threw themselves as living knives at 
the beast's head, vanishing in concussive bursts that carved away 
hide.
    Determined to get the kill, Kamahl forced power into the long 
blade of his sword. Inside the monster a scalpel of flame cut its 
way to the backbone. Massive vertebrae parted as the barbarian's 
will sought out the thick cable of armored nerves. New magic 
impacted on the dragon's flanks, but Kamahl was locked in 
directing his final attack. Bone and nerve sundered under 
Kamahl's lethal surgery, parting the spinal cord and killing the 
beast.
    The mountain warrior turned to jump clear, but he was crushed 
against the beast's back as a huge crab came from the rear in a 
wild rush. A crustacean had finally managed to climb the dragging 
tail, and now its vain attack only put the barbarian at risk. 
Kamahl was bowled over and barely avoided the huge claws, which 
clutched for something to hold on to.
    The dragon fell and the barbarian could hear Kirtar shrieking 
victory. New attacks impacted against the already dead flesh as 
additional surges of magic burrowed into the slowly collapsing 
corpse. Fighters left off their attacks, running for their lives 
as tons of flesh gave up life.
    The barbarian snarled, trapped under the crustacean. He 
forced his way through legs, the spindly limbs landing like clubs 
as the mer fighter panicked, and the pair began to fall free. The 
barbarian and crab were directly under the beast and both bolted 
for the closest bit of clear sky, trying to race under the beast 
as the wall of descending flesh loomed over them. But the 
panicked crab yanked the barbarian back, its claws gripping his 
armored belt as it tried to pull itself to safety. It only doomed 
them both. Pressure threatened to smash Kamahl like a bug, and 
his breath exploded out his mouth. Pain flared all over his body, 
and he fell into darkness, his senses fading as blackness 
smothered all.
 
                       CHAPTER 7
 
    The stench of burned flesh and destruction was sweet in 
Kirtar's nostrils. The aroma was nectar the bird warrior savored 
as he stood with his eyes closed. The crackle of fires soothed 
his hot blood, the destruction of the Cabal structures an 
unexpected benefit. The beast had torn a great wound in the 
city's fabric and like draining blood, the citizens flowed into 
the streets. The attack had caught him deep in the arena, and it 
had taken precious minutes to force his way through the crowds. 
The plaza had been a madhouse, bleeding guardsmen forming 
defenses to manage the crowds. With his warriors still lost in 
the clearing stands, the lieutenant took control, instilling 
order into the fleeing cowards, clearing the way for the coming 
battle. True, he was forced into a tactical retreat and the 
sudden arrival of the mer empire forces turned the contest. But 
it was his own blow that laid the beast low when all was finally 
done.
    The bleating of the wounded irritated him, and he directed 
those of his order with healing skills to ply their trade among 
the injured. He pointed to the mer forces to receive healing 
first. The monsters of the deep at least were brave fighters and 
far more worthy of aid than the corrupt gamblers of the city. The 
lieutenant moved down to the street level as he saw his orders 
being relayed. The few Cabal officers he saw looked thoroughly 
cowed, and none disputed his authority.
    "This is the natural order of things," he whispered to 
himself.
    The crabs dragged away the corpses of their dead, despite the 
Cabal servants' furtive attempts to secure the bodies for the 
city's use. The crustaceans sorted through the rubble, their 
immense strength allowing them to move all but the largest beams. 
The exposed corpses not from the mer realm were discarded on the 
rubble piles to be snared by guardsmen. Kirtar made a note to 
have his own forces collect their dead in Cabal territory.
    A centaur staggered to the street, the simian face visible 
over the high grass. He started toward the Order officer, 
carefully trying to find a clear path. Kirtar's mystic senses 
detected a change in magic. The arena defenses, still unbreached, 
were coming down. Servitors slowly walked toward the growth 
obstructing the streets holding staves. One took the lead and his 
staff of black wood and iron passed among the stalks. The plants 
withered into brittle husks as the lieutenant watched. The other 
Cabal reinforcements joined in.
    "Ware the street cleaners," the champion called out with 
derision. A few of the workers bristled but none chal-lenged his 
appraisal. Kirtar expected nothing more from such cravens.
    "Lieutenant," called the centaur, moving into the cleared 
street, barely avoiding a "mistaken" swing of a withering staff 
wielded by an angry guardsman. The centaur bared his fangs and 
shook the huge club that he used as a walking stick.
    Kirtar recognized him as the fighter allied with the bar-
barian. The injuries he had sustained appeared half-healed, and 
the officer assumed that was the reason the forest fighter had 
not joined in the battle. He confessed to himself that the 
warrior, Kamahl, had at least shown rash courage during the 
fight.
     "What is it?" he asked. Then trying to explain his short-
ness, he continued, "As you can see there is much to be done, and 
our hosts seem incapable of doing it." Kirtar ignored the efforts 
of the Cabal to clear the streets and the stream of carts 
arriving to haul away the rubble.
    "The beast was a Krosan dragon," the centaur said. "It is 
found only in the forests of the far northwest." At the signs of 
the bird warrior's exasperation with the lesson, Seton made his 
point. "It has absolutely no business being here. Something is 
wrong, and this attack could be only the sign of greater 
troubles."
    "I appreciate the information, sir," Kirtar said, speaking 
with excessive courtesy, "but what am I to do?" He waved to the 
destruction caused by the single beast. "How does the destruction 
of a pit like this concern the Order?"
    "For the dragon to appear this far east, the reverberations 
of whatever is disturbing the forest must cover leagues." Seton 
explained, his voice showing offense. "As an officer in the 
Order, sworn to protect the Northern Reaches and hoping to extend 
your authority south, I thought you would be grateful for the 
insight. Excuse me if I misunderstood your seriousness." With 
that the centaur moved away, the haft of his granite-capped club 
beating a tune of anger on the cobblestones.
    Shaking his head at the vagaries of forest warriors, Kirtar 
turned back to supervision. But there was little to do, as an 
army of Cabal workers fell to work in concert with the remaining 
crabs.
    "Of course they are ready now," the lieutenant mumbled to 
himself. More movement caught his eye, and he turned to see 
Laquatus, the mer ambassador, and Turg, his amphibian champion, 
coming from the arena. The frog moved slowly, and his eyes were 
glassy. Kirtar had not paid attention to the arena match and 
wondered if Turg was injured. The frog squatted on his heels, 
slowly rocking from side to side as the ambassador came forward.
    "Congratulations on your brilliant victory," the merman 
hailed. Laquatus gave a short bow that good manners demanded the 
lieutenant return. "The beast would have surely destroyed the 
city if not for your quick action." The ambassador looked pained 
as he said it, and Kirtar felt obligated to inquire.
    "Did you take injuries during the battle?" The lieutenant had 
seen nothing, but it must have been a madhouse inside.
    "No, no," replied the merman. "The spells protecting the 
arena sealed me and my champion away from combat. Turg was 
trapped on the arena floor, and a few others and I were locked in 
a skybox during the actual attack. I fear the excitement was too 
much for my companions. In a fit of desperation they tried to 
leap free and perished in the fields protecting the audience from 
the arena floor." Laquatus looked quite distressed, reining his 
voice in with difficulty. "It's desperately sad. One of the 
deceased was an importer with some knowledge of the attacking 
beast. He said it was a type of dragon that came in response to 
the beast my champion killed."
    Kirtar frowned.
    "A centaur told me that the beast never left the northwestern 
forests," the officer said. "He was quite convinced that such 
animals were never here. To come in response to a cry means 
either the animal was tracking the one killed or that it was in 
the general vicinity." Kirtar wondered if perhaps the centaur was 
on to something. There could be a continuing danger.
    Another bird warrior flew through the air. The four in 
Kirtar's party had been killed, so this golden-winged fighter 
must be a messenger from the north. The lieutenant waved his arms 
to signal his presence, but the sharp-eyed flyer was already 
swooping down to him. The raypen folded his wings and shook the 
still settling dust off his feathers.
    "Greeting to my First," intoned the raypen, its high tenor 
piping as it recited the message from memory. Messengers were 
specially trained to give messages word for word to prevent 
written orders from being intercepted. "There have been attacks 
of forest creatures all along the western borders of the high 
plains. You are to return north directly, collecting information 
and offering aid to those whom need it. The villages under the 
Order must be protected. If necessary you will stay and oversee 
the southern defense. We must find out what is happening. Pianna, 
Captain of the North."
    Kirtar cursed the bad timing. Fighters from across the 
continent were here for the contest, and representatives of the 
other continental powers had arrived as well. Here was a chance 
to forge new alliances, and the Captain had just ordered him back 
to the barely civilized plains to protect scores of nameless 
villages. His huge hands clenched in anger, but he relaxed them 
with a conscious effort. The captain was head of the Order, and 
he must believe that she knew what she was doing. After all, he 
thought to himself, he didn't want to stay in this pit of a city 
anyway. There would be other chances to make his presence known. 
News of his victory would help convince others that the Order's 
direction was necessary for the common good.
    "I am afraid I must leave directly," he said to the 
ambassador, waving the messenger toward the main camp. "I am 
sorry to miss the championship rounds, but I am sure Turg will 
triumph now that I will withdraw from the contests." He looked 
toward the amphibian, but he had vanished from sight. Looking for 
the frog brought the officer's gaze back to the sight of the mer 
forces diving into the pools, dragging their dead behind them.
    "I was very surprised to see your soldiers streaming from the 
ground," he stated, his eyes narrowing as he turned back to the 
ambassador.
    Laquatus seemed huge, his form giving off vibrations that 
seemed hypnotic. Kirtar could feel his pulse slowing as the 
violet eyes of the merman expanded to fill the world.
    "But of course you knew of the soldiers under the city," a 
velvet voice insinuated. "They attacked at your orders, being 
already under your command. Don't you remember?" Kirtar fell into 
darkness ringed in purple as the ambassador took hold of his 
shoulders.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    "I must therefore leave immediately for forest's edge." The 
words resounded in Kirtar's head, and he wondered who was saying 
them. It was with some surprise that he realized that he was the 
speaker. "This attack is but one of dozens that have issued from 
the west. The Order is the only force that can protect those 
villages without the walls and guardsmen of Cabal City," he said 
to the assembled city elders.
    Kirtar stood on a rough platform against the arena, looking 
over the square. The fall of rubble punctuated his speech as work 
crews tried to clear the streets. The dragon that he had slain 
filled the street, and blood from the great corpse slowly drained 
into the storm gutters, the smell issuing from the sewers under 
the arena. The crowd of henchmen and ordinary citizen ignored the 
odor. Kirtar knew them to be used to such odors in this pit. He 
gritted his teeth in anger.
    Why was he giving a speech to the Cabal, he wondered 
savagely. The city was contemptible. Only the grave breach in 
civil order had convinced him to fight the dragon attack. Cabal 
City was a sour taste in his mouth. Only the sight of the mer 
ambassador, his invaluable advisor, prevented him spitting in 
contempt onto the arena square. He ignored the growing mutters at 
his long silence to regard Laquatus, his closest ally. The merman 
was the first to see the importance of uniting the continent of 
Otaria, saving its fragmented history.
    The mer agreed it was long past time to impose order on the 
land. The underwater kingdom would lend arms to help the 
lieutenant pursue his dreams. The guards the ambassador put under 
his command proved invaluable in defeating the huge beast. It was 
the first and richest fruit of the inter-power alliance that the 
Order wished to form.
    How lucky the ambassador had ferried his personal guard to 
the catacombs under the arena. Kirtar wondered at the expense of 
shifting so many water breathers. It was fortunate that the 
drowned caves had been available. Even though the forces proved 
effective, he still chuckled at the naivete of the ambassador. It 
showed the merman's inexperience with the dry land that he would 
bring water breathers as guards against land-bound dangers. After 
all, how many flooded caves could there be? He nodded to the 
ambassador, grateful for his support and resolved to do his best 
in protecting Laquatus from his own foolishness and inexperience.
    The officials began clapping after long seconds, and the 
crowd belatedly joined in. The Master of the Games heaved his 
heavy bulk up to the podium beside the lieutenant. Kirtar dragged 
his attention back to the officials of the Cabal, despising them 
but determined to act politely for his ally's sake. The mer 
ambassador nodded approvingly, and the bird warrior felt a burst 
of pride at his own statesmanship.
    "We thank you for your leadership in combating the dragon in 
conjunction with Ambassador Laquatus's guard." The Cabal 
functionary sent an ill-favored glance toward the water dweller 
as he mentioned the valiant sea fighters. It was the base nature 
of the pits that made them so suspicious of such timely aid, the 
lieutenant said to himself. The speaker turned from the 
ambassador as if snubbing him and gestured broadly toward the 
Order officer and his guards behind him.
    "Hurry up, you bag of wind," the aven warrior muttered to 
himself.
    "In recognition of such bravery and valor in cause of the 
common good, we gladly offer the pick of the prizes to Lieutenant 
Kirtar."
    A polite clapping sounded as a representative of the Order 
went to select a prize from the mound of treasure pulled from the 
arena. The champion was unable to restrain showing at least some 
contempt for the proceeding, and he chose an elen to carry the 
prize. Though the giant bird warriors stood close to ten feet 
tall, the gray-skinned humanoids were of the serving class. The 
lieutenant doubted his hosts were intelligent enough to read the 
insult of the great robed figure going through the prizes like a 
ragpicker searching a garbage pile. The elen selected an object, 
the round sphere almost lost in its gigantic hands.
    The ambassador and his frog both looked to the prize, 
ignoring the rambling official. As Kirtar agreed to this farce 
only as a favor to his ally, he wondered what could be so 
important about a bauble plucked randomly from a pile. The elen 
walked slowly, appearing almost introspective as it came nearer 
the officer. The giant bird warriors were known for their lack of 
magical talent, and it appeared, outside everything Kirtar knew, 
that the huge servant tried to use magical senses to probe the 
metal surface. Intrigued by what would drive such a mystical 
incompetent to such efforts, the lieutenant stepped forward to 
intercept the prize bearer. The walker showed no awareness, 
continuing toward the baggage train where the bauble was to be 
stored with the other luggage. The officer plucked it out of the 
elen's grasp, seeing Turg step forward as if to admonish him. 
Then all thoughts of the frog, the Cabal, and anything else 
vanished from his mind.
    The sphere erupted in a shout of power. The dull metal 
surface seemed to burn away, blurring Kirtar's eyes with tears. 
The magic that called so softly now filled the world. As the 
flare of energy subsided, the lieutenant held a globe of perfect 
crystal. The clear depths called to him, drawing his spirit away 
from Cabal City. The aftermath of the battle and the stench of 
the street were gone. Purity and glory surrounded the bird 
warrior. The audience showed its essential stupidity in staring 
dumbly at him, ignoring the vistas that opened at every side.
    Kirtar saw himself striding through a field of enemies, each 
frozen and impotent against him, and his spells swept them away 
to oblivion. The banner of the Order flew over the field in 
victory. The aven's heart sang as he knew the triumph, the glory, 
that waited to be seized.
    The images dimmed until he saw once again the magnificent 
globe filling his hand. Kirtar heard the exclamations of the 
crowd but ignored them. They were not worthy to taste the future 
he had seen. This city was trash and could be ignored now that he 
held real power. His huge hand closed over the prize, gripping it 
as tightly as his mind gripped the visions it bestowed.
 
                       CHAPTER 8
 
    "Everything was going so well," thought the ambassador, 
stunned by the surge of magic. "How, by the stormy seas, have 
things gotten so out of control?" The ambassador was finally able 
to rouse Turg from his digestive slumber only at the end of the 
battle. He was required to lay actual hands on the amphibian 
before he could break the near coma. Seeing the pit fighter too 
stuffed for any use he forced the humanoid to expel much of what 
he had eaten. Thankfully, no one witnessed the thoroughly 
unpleasant scene, but Laquatus pledged the frog would not be 
allowed such behavior ever again.
    Even as Turg scraped his face clean, a soldier from the 
underground army had found the ambassador and reported on the 
battle. The cephalid shifted down the seats of the arena and 
collapsed as it fell from the high walls to the sands below. 
Laquatus thought the tedious importer would have looked very 
similar if he had not dissolved away under the then-active 
defenses.
    "My lord," the warrior had said in a muffled voice, nearly 
inaudible as it tried to speak out of water, "the beast is fallen 
and our forces clear away the debris. Captain Satas has sent 
those who cannot live long outside the water back through the 
portal. He has been forced to retire as well and waits further 
instruction."
    Laquatus cursed the poor timing that found so few warriors 
able to live long above ground. More amphibians would have to be 
found for further battles. The cephalid's tentacles were nearly 
white from exhaustion, and it needed to get back to the water. 
"Tell the good captain that there is no need for further 
operations on the surface at this time," the ambassador said 
carefully. "Sound the recall of all troops. It is not necessary 
for our fighters to act as servants to the inferiors inhabiting 
this land. I will meet with Satas later at the usual place." He 
paused, wondering just what the situation outside was.
    If worst came to worst, he could always find refuge in the 
deep caverns. It was unlikely that any would be able to invade 
the dark subterranean rivers. Whatever happened, he needed to do 
as much damage control as possible. The presence of a secret 
fighting force must be explained and assurances offered to the 
Cabal. Briefly Laquatus regretted the necessity of sending the 
army back below, but further action would undoubtedly create 
substantial casualties without any lasting gains. If only the 
cave digging crews had opened up more of the underwater cavern 
systems.
    He returned the cephalid's gesture of obedience and watched 
the soft-bodied soldier scale the wall. Captain Satas had 
responded promptly, and it sounded as if the quick action of the 
tresias had saved Turg and the ambas-sador from having to contend 
with the dragon. He resolved ro closet himself with the 
diminutive amphibian in the near future.
    The destruction of the city streets put him in a better 
humor. The rubble and still-visible bodies made him cheerfully 
overlook the insults he had suffered for the moment. Though 
whoever made him and his champion an object of tun would someday 
pay the price. He saw the last of the marine dead being dragged 
into the pools as he arrived to talk with the lieutenant. The 
self-important champion had succumbed easily to the ambassador's 
spells, and he dragged the officer into a gaping building as his 
mind overrode the aven's. It took only a few minutes of apparent 
conversation to set a cover story in place.
    Kirtar now believed that days before the ambassador had told 
the bird warrior of a secret guard foisted upon him by the 
emperor. Unwilling to insult the ability of his Cabal hosts, 
Laquatus had hidden them in the secret tunnels under the arena. 
Realizing that the lieutenant was the preeminent military power 
in the city, the ambassador offered his troops to the Order as an 
emergency reserve. The attack of the dragon revealed how 
incompetent the Cabal was in military matters, and only the 
lieutenant prevented a complete disaster.
    The decision of the emperor to send additional troops showed 
the wisdom of the underwater monarch. At the conclusion of the 
battle, the badly damaged marine formation retired back to the 
deep wells under the arena and the embassy. Laquatus created the 
fantasy of a temporary alliance that even now worked at the bird 
warrior's memory. When Kirtar went north, he would take with him 
the absolute conviction that a permanent alliance was the natural 
next step with the mer empire.
    "Lieutenant Kirtar, we have orders to escort you to a 
ceremony honoring your leadership." A gravely voice announced 
almost in the merman's ear. Laquatus broke off his mental 
manipulations suddenly, leaving the lieutenant to stumble and 
look about vaguely at the sudden release. A section of city 
guardsmen stood at ease, one holding a clean standard that 
contrasted with his torn and dusty uniform. It appeared that the 
city was wasting no time in honoring a hero. The ambassador 
smiled brightly.
    "A great honor indeed, Lieutenant," the merman said, gripping 
the bemused warrior's arm and starting off for the square. He 
ignored the guardsmen who had to step out of their way or be 
trampled. The Order's men had been unwilling to interrupt a 
private conversation, but the city soldiers seemed much too 
arrogant.
    "Perhaps an object lesson is in order," the ambassador said 
to himself.
    Turg was resting somewhere in the surrounding buildings, 
making himself scarce as Laquatus rearranged the lieutenant's 
reality. The merman could only make a simple request as he 
shepherded the aven to the ceremony called by the city. The 
aristocrat's usual close mental link with the amphibian was 
strained by the necessity of keeping Kirtar's mind quiescent. 
Laquatus had no idea what he was saying as he continued to 
impress Kirtar with images and ideas under the cover of the 
conversation. The ambassador received only a split second of 
warning as Turg acted on his spite.
    The wall from an upper story fell out, the heavy cornice and 
brick an irregular boulder that flattened an impudent guardsmen 
like a overripe fruit. The ornate carving was followed by a rain 
of other bricks that broke arms and heads and grew a bumper crop 
of pain among the escort.
    Laquatus shouted with loud dismay and pointed to the men, 
calling for aid. Even had anyone looked up it would have been 
difficult to spot the camouflaged Turg scampering away in manic 
glee. The ambassador knelt by the men as Kirtar called for a 
surgeon to treat the fresh bout of broken bones. The merman hoped 
to watch the men as their bones were set, but additional 
guardsmen came to escort them to the delayed ceremony. This time 
the interruption was much more polite, and Laquatus curbed his 
impulse for Turg to create another accident.
    "We thank you for your actions," the fat man said, as the 
Order leader stepped to the stage. "In the hour of our need ..." 
he droned and Kirtar stood in the background, still lost in the 
grip of the merman's spell. Laquatus dared not use his magic in 
the presence of so many. The official was looking askance at the 
ambassador as the subject of the mer forces came up. The 
aristocrat gathered himself to respond only to have Kirtar step 
forward.
    "The decision to use the forces was mine," he said, claiming 
the cover story that Laquatus had implanted. Victory was sweet in 
the ambassador's mouth as his new puppet played his part. The 
lieutenant told the assembly that the forces were under his 
command during the battle. The aristocrat looked on benignly as 
the farce played itself out on the stage.
    The selection of a prize was supremely unimportant to 
Laquatus, and it was only as the hooded elen brought back the 
diminutive dull-gray ball that the merman took notice. The pit 
frog had access to the ambassador's abilities, and he was first 
to feel the beat of power produced by the sphere. The ambassador 
started from his machinations and looked on it as well. Then both 
stared.
    The flare of power blinded Laquatus. The metal ball, so muted 
before, reflected the sun in a brilliant spray of light. The 
strength of emissions from the sphere blacked out his awareness 
of other spells, and it was only his grip on Turg's arm that 
maintained his control. The unbelievable mystic assault died 
down, and the ambassador tried to cast a spell of detection, just 
to convince himself that he had not imagined the event. His spell 
detected nothing but reverberations. It was only when he focused 
directly of the object in the lieutenant's hands that he sensed 
something unusual. Like a night animal staring into the noonday 
sun, all knowledge he might learn was washed away. The confluence 
of might was too much for even a mage of his ability.
    The Cabal officials appeared stunned, and many of the pit 
fighters competing in the games stood like dumb oxen as the 
lieutenant mumbled a few words and walked away. A Cabal 
official's incredulous look of disbelief turned to anger, and he 
spun on the Master of the Games. The tall, spare man jerked the 
fat fool back toward the arena, whispering furiously in his ear. 
The ambassador imagined that quite a few hard words would be said 
to someone who allowed such a treasure to be given away or 
offered to all comers. Laquatus smiled even as he quickly walked 
after the lieutenant. The Master of the Games's head would likely 
pay for the insults in the arena.
    Kirtar continued on, his aides and soldiers gathered around 
him, their instinct in times of uncertainty to protect their 
commander. The ambassador tried to close with the bird warrior, 
but the press of people prevented him.
    "Lieutenant, we need to talk," he shouted, but the officer 
was still lost in his contemplation of the object. Such power was 
fascinating, and Laquatus ached to peer within the orb for 
himself. Mastering such power will take time, he thought and 
waved to a servant.
    "Find out where the Order party is going," he instructed, 
looking to see whom else he could command. "Meet me at the 
embassy as soon as you have the information. Find one of your 
fellows to keep watch if there are any changes." Laquatus was 
almost at a run as he headed for the embassy. The sphere was a 
completely new factor in his plans, one that upset his 
machinations in the city. The challenge was exhilarating.
    By the time the servant returned with his report of the 
route, the embassy was a madhouse. Workers rushed about, closing 
up rooms while the permanent staff was locked over blueprints for 
new architectural wonders. If the ambassador left the city, he 
would take advantage of his absence and expand the residence. It 
was becoming too cramped for his ambitions. In a city of 
spectacle, his home must be the most impressive.
    "A system of waterfalls with a twisted channel of pools is 
the most interesting," the ambassador said to a harried 
chamberlain. "You will have to construct a spur to the aqueduct 
and bribe the Cabal to divert enough water."
    "Most impressive, your Excellency," the man said 
subserviently, "but where shall we procure the funds for such a 
great expansion?"
    Laquatus waved the concern away.
    "The coastal shipping fees are being collected by our agents 
for the quarterly shift to the treasury. Divert all you need from 
that source," the ambassador said, feeling expansive. When he 
gained control of the sphere he would need a dwelling to reflect 
his new status. And perhaps it was time to accelerate his plans 
for reentry into the undersea court. He looked over the drained 
grotto, the artificial reefs being broken by slaves with 
sledgehammers. He had been chief fish in a small pond for long 
enough. The horrified look on the chamberlain's face reminded him 
that he must still win his new status.
    "I assure you that it will be cleared with the emperor," 
Laquatus said and forgot everything as he noticed the servant 
sent to the Order camp. He walked with the man to the entrance of 
the grotto. Making sure that no one observed them for the moment, 
he pulled the man into the secret room. A crab filled the 
enclosure, a sentry reporting to the caves below. After the 
ambassador closed the door, the crustacean lifted the cover and 
vanished into the pool. Captain Satas dragged himself clear 
moments later. The tre-sias paused for a moment, then moved 
toward the ambassador and messenger, drawn by their nearly 
imperceptible movements and breathing. Laquatus shifted as 
quietly as possible, but the tresias adapted, altering his 
course. The merman was unimpressed with the tresias's performance 
during the battle, but it appeared the captain and his kind could 
adapt well to the land.
    "How may I serve, my lord," the small amphibian said in his 
quiet, dead tone. The ambassador waved the spy to speak, noting 
that his hand's passage in the air was tracked by the captain as 
well.
    "The Order will be traveling west to the forest's edge to 
catalog the reported predations of woodland creatures," the man 
said, opening a pouch and taking out a map. "I bought this off a 
Cabal servitor able to sneak into the main tent." He laid it on 
the floor and weighted it down with a dagger and a few coins. 
Then he looked at the blind amphibian, flustered how to use his 
acquisition. The ambassador also wondered how the tresias would 
know how far the cave system ran. To Laquatus's surprise, instead 
of calling for a sighted retainer, the cave dweller chuckled and 
drew a stone from his own pouch.
    "The sound of paper and mention of routes suggests it is a 
map lying on the floor," Satas stated, rubbing the dull gem 
between his hands. "I have always found such methods of little 
use and came prepared with a substitute."
    The short creature tossed the jewel to the ambassador who 
caught it. A spell whispered new knowledge to his mind. A variant 
of the false memory spell, it left him with a sensory map of the 
explored caves and cleared tunnels. The underside of the 
continent was suddenly more familiar to him than the memories of 
his childhood home. Captain Satas's skin broadcast his amusement, 
but entranced with the novel method of information transmission, 
the ambassador did not even feel anger. He did, however, 
experience irritation as he pulled his new memories and the map 
of the lieutenant's path together.
    Kirtar's route led west. The underground rivers did underlay 
the route, but they were unexplored and sure to be nearly 
impassable. Miners connecting the underworld to the sea would 
have to be moved farther inland. The lieutenant planned to swing 
north and an explored cave system lay nearby. Laquatus could 
catch up with the party and capture the newly revealed power 
source.
    "Captain Satas, the northern caves allow us to intercept the 
group of landsmen and crush them. It is absolutely necessary that 
an amphibious force be available for extended action out of the 
water. Find me soldiers and send them to the Cave of Knives." The 
memory of sharp stalactites and stalagmites in the north prompted 
the name.
    "I will send what forces I can, but we are very short on 
long-duration patrols," Satas said in a pun, the unintentional 
humor irritating the ambassador. "It may be necessary to find 
air-breathing slaves to meet you and supply bodies to soften up 
the adversary."
    Laquatus nodded reluctantly, regretting the lack of forces 
able to operate out of water. He dismissed the officer and 
thought of whom he could meet in the forests. Perhaps the Cabal 
could be of aid. He smiled and clasped the spy's hand. "Excellent 
work!" he cried and hugged the man in apparent fellowship. 
Laquatus raised power and cut into the other's psyche. 
Experiences withered, and memories grew confused. He worked at 
the servant's mind, creating a false shadow of drunkenness and 
nameless female companions. It was hard work, and the fellow 
proved fairly resistant. It took real effort, and Laquatus 
wondered if death wasn't a better solution. But as his talk with 
Satas proved, he lacked walking servants. He continued to 
mutilate memories, wishing he had the resources to just kill the 
fellow and swim away.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Kamahl breathed and was struck by deja vu. Buried twice in 
one battle.
    "I am no mole," he muttered.
    The warrior coughed and tried to turn over. He could not.
    Pressure prevented him from more than breathing. Even his 
head was locked in position, his cheek pressed against stone. The 
barbarian could remember the dragon falling and the crab getting 
in his way.
    "I despise seafood," he muttered. More sensations intruded, 
and he could feel multiple small points of pressure digging into 
his back. He remembered the crustacean's armor and realized that 
he must be trapped under it. He tried to move again, his muscles 
bunching in agony, but nothing shifted. He remembered the great 
dragon falling as well and with a shock understood that two great 
beasts lay atop him, their mass making a mockery of even his 
powerful muscles. It was a miracle that he was not pulped as 
well. The cobblestones underneath him seemed jumbled, and over 
the smell of the dragon and the crab he detected strong odors of 
mold. He could hear the dripping of water and the scuttle of a 
rat. The street must have collapsed under the weight and crushed 
a sewer. The stench of filth was the stench of life, and Kamahl 
laughed before coughing spasms ended his momentary merriment. To 
owe his life to a poorly constructed drain.
    The barbarian wondered if anyone would rescue him. He 
remembered the disregard of the lieutenant and the crabs and 
hoped he could count on the Cabal forces. At the very least, 
someone would have to take care of the giant corpse.
    "Perhaps they will enchant it and have it walk away." The 
crab might weigh over a thousand pounds, but he was sure that he 
could get out without the tons of flesh holding the shell in 
place. He imagined a giant undead monster crushing the crab and 
the life under it into oblivion as it tried to rise. Kamahl 
thought of his killing blow. He realized that with no intact 
spine, it was unlikely that even raised, the monster would be 
able to move. It seemed colder somehow.
    The tremendous ringing of magical energy made him believe 
that he was dying, and new planes of existence called to him. 
Then his senses located the source of the power. A locus of 
exultation, a shout of birth, it lay some distance away. His mind 
demanded he move, run to the source, but his body stayed relaxed, 
impotent under the great weight. His thoughts grew hazy as the 
energy retreated. He had sensed this before, though it wasn't as 
strong. The treasure room! He recalled the sphere behind the 
sword. Someone else must have seen its value and called forth its 
essence. His mind swirling, he tried to imagine what champion 
might hold it now. It was harder to think, the air thicker. He 
could not call power, the pressure on his body seeming to squeeze 
the magic out. Just a few more minutes of rest and them he would 
cut his way free. After all, a victory without being alive to 
enjoy it seemed pointless. Just a few minutes more. . . .
    The sound roused his attention at once. The rhythmic cuts of 
a sharp edge into flesh transmitted themselves through the 
corpse. He might have been gathering himself for a few minutes or 
for days, but he shouted loudly, pushing the sound out despite 
aching, compressed ribs. There was a pause in the beat and then 
it resumed, louder than before.
    The leathery scrape of scales signaled the shifting of the 
dragon's mass. Pressure spiked and eased as the giant corpse 
slumped to the side. Shy beams of light peaked under the crab's 
shell, and the crunch of metal in chitin showed the worker was 
near.
    "Have a care," shouted Kamahl trying to shift the beast above 
him. It gave a little, though it still seemed pinned down on one 
side. "The crab is right on top of me!"
    A great hand wormed its way under the shell and another 
joined it. The knuckles went white as the shell lifted a 
fraction. The barbarian forced his complaining body to lift as 
well, and the additional force flipped the crustacean to the 
side. Kamahl reeled at the release of weight, and the light left 
his eyes watering. Seton stood, his sides heaving, with a bloody 
axe beside him. As the barbarian moved out of the shallow 
depression, he could see Cabal servants advance on the crab, 
sledgehammers falling as they smashed armor and threw fragments 
into a nearby wagon. Other servants with huge cleavers attacked 
the dragon's corpse, a steady stream of bloody lumps of flesh 
falling to the street. The meat went to other carts, and some 
rumbled toward the arena.
    "Waste not, want not." Seton laughed as he came closer to 
Kamahl. The barbarian allowed himself to lean on the giant.
    "What happened?" the mountain fighter asked, speaking with 
difficulty from his chapped lips. He waved a water carrier over 
from his round of the Cabal workers.
    "What happened?" the centaur replied incredulously. "You are 
standing in the largest open-air butcher shop on the continent, 
and you ask what happened? As if you missed a few seconds of a 
play?" The simian face writhed with suppressed merriment.
    "I don't mean this," Kamahl said irritably, dismissing the 
battle, his triumph, and his near death with a wave. "What force 
cried out so loudly long after the dragon fell?" The centaur 
moved away from the other workers.
    "The Cabal presented a prize to Lieutenant Kirtar for killing 
the beast," he whispered. "When he held it in his hands, it 
released such power that all the city was stunned by it. He left 
for his camp and soon after went north. Word came of other 
attacks by forest creatures, and the Captain called him away." 
The centaur knelt, bringing his mouth closer to the barbarian's 
ear.
    "They say the Master of the Games has disappeared, punished 
for giving away such power. He has gone to feed the beasts I 
wager. I heard the ambassador's servants tell a Cabal officer 
that Laquatus would be leaving the city shortly for 
'consultations.' " Seton looked over the destruction and the 
blood running into the gutters. "What happened here is merely the 
beginning."
    Kamahl thought of the prize that he desired given to the 
Lieutenant.
    "They rewarded Kirtar for killing the dragon?" he said hotly. 
"They gave him what was rightfully mine, and he has run away 
north." He began to pace, his injuries momentarily forgotten. He 
ran to the pit where he had fallen, shouldering aside the 
workers. Kamahl went to his hands and knees, looking determinedly 
over the ground, ignoring the complaints from offended servitors. 
Seton followed and quelled the comments with a frown. Kamahl 
stood suddenly, his great sword in his hand. The long blade 
whipped through the air, the dragon blood burning away in a trail 
of smoke.
    "I will go reclaim my prize from Kirtar," the barbarian said, 
steel ringing in his voice. "1 will have my reward though the 
entire Order stands in my way."
 
                       CHAPTER 9
 
    The early morning dew made the grasslands a jeweled vista, 
the sun's rays glittering off the small droplets. The rider 
nudged the sides of her steed and set it through the tall grass.
    The woman looked alertly over the landscape, the slight fold 
of her eyes hiding some of the intensity of her observation. Her 
black hair trailed down her back, bound in a long rope by 
silvered ornaments. One arm rested on her saddle pommel, encased 
in leather and steel. The bracer's ancient power was temporarily 
quiescent. A tall asymmetric bow tilted forward in its case, the 
fine wood of the box repelling the morning moisture.
    The unicorn ran easily, its gait almost gentle but covering 
ground faster than a horse could run. Its horn glinted, the 
delicate spiral supported by steel laminated and magically bonded 
to its skull. The mount's saddle was a tangle of straps, and the 
rider's legs were half-enclosed by the stirrups.
    The need for such careful securing was obvious as the unicorn 
turned at an incredibly sharp angle, altering its run in response 
to a nudge from its rider's knee. Dirt showered as the steed 
accelerated, its enchanted hooves casting pebbles and dirt clods 
up into the air like slings.
    The loudest sound was the jingle of the woman's scale mail 
and the slap of the long cavalry sword against her back. A field 
of tall wild flowers lay in a depression, and she directed the 
steed toward them. The tension was obvious in her first strokes 
as she tried to loosen her muscles. The first cuts took great 
swathes of flowers as she struggled for precision. She turned the 
unicorn in a tight circle almost peeling her out of the saddle. 
Again she went through the flowers. Now the sword strokes took 
single blossoms, and she nodded in satisfaction at her skill.
    "If only the forest beasts were as easily understood and 
directed," Pianna, Captain of the Order, whispered to herself. 
For weeks, animals from the west appeared and acted 
unpredictably. Solitary beasts that naturally subsisted alone now 
roamed in large groups. Skittish herd animals became insanely 
aggressive. Beasts plowed through the fields and villages of man 
doing destruction but only sporadically, leaving some settlements 
completely alone while only a few miles away numberless herds 
destroyed everything. She sent messengers to druids and other 
holders of wisdom, but no answer issued from the forest, only 
more animals that pursued some unknown path or goal. The 
purposeless attacks were becoming the Order's crucible.
    For years she had extended the Order's message of new unity, 
and now it was being put to the test. Unfortunately, it was a 
test the organization was failing. The raids continued despite 
her best efforts. There seemed to be no plan or direction to the 
strikes. Animals and monstrous plants appeared at villages and 
struck out in frenzy. Sometime the attacks stopped before much 
was destroyed, even if a hamlet had no real defenses. Other times 
the assaults continued until all was destroyed and the 
inhabitants were dead.
    The Order-sponsored militias were swept away by the 
unrelenting aggression. For a second, Pianna regretted the lack 
of war machines imposed by the Strictures. In the past, 
mechanisms might have turned such assaults without casualties. 
Her losses were precious members of the Order.
    "But such machines breed more destruction and contempt for 
life because they are so easily replaced," she reminded herself. 
The legend of Urza provided a chilling lesson of the madness 
artifacts led to. Armies of unquestioning automatons fought wars 
for centuries, stripping the world down to a husk from which it 
was still recovering. Even after a century, there were still vast 
fields of machines being found, the rusted and crushed 
instruments of a world's destruction. Each one an opportunity for 
evil, to be rebuilt until an unquestioning army might march 
again. The Order might be beleaguered, but it was still a living 
expression of noble ideals.
    She fingered the sword at her side, her hands running over 
the pommel worn smooth by generations of commanders. It had 
belonged to one of the original members of the Order, a symbol of 
authority transferred from leader to leader, its steel in service 
for hundreds of years. But it acted on the choices of its 
wielder. It was an extension of her soul, not a free-ranging 
engine of destruction. Her skill was what controlled it, and 
before every fight she dedicated her life and ideals to the 
Order. If it could act on its own, such a servant would dilute 
her involvement in her soul's journey.
    In such a case, she would throw it in the crusher that very 
second.
    The crushers were devours of the past, great engines the size 
of a manor, their interiors filled with swinging hammers and 
blades. Their power derived solely from the great wheels turned 
by knights and squires. The engines were an extension of the 
individuals like a sword, or so the captain told herself. Pianna 
hoped that the machines were not corrupting the Order even as 
they tried to save the world. Those artifacts and instruments of 
the past, which had led the world so astray, were committed to 
the bowels of the device, ground between wheel until only small 
scraps remained. What was left was sold to blacksmiths and 
tinkers. What corrupted the world was devoured by the forge and 
rendered into simple blades and pots. Those items of unusual 
lethality were melted down and cast into ingots, the metal bars 
hidden in Order fortifications or dropped into the deep waters of 
the ocean. Better to rely on one's own humanity than sacrifice it 
for soulless fighters.
    The unicorn's hooves carried her far as she ruminated, and 
her shadow on the ground lengthened. On the horizon a line of 
trees was visible, stretching several miles across. The mount 
accelerated as the captain used her heels, her hands checking her 
equipment as they leaped forward. The wood lay in a section of 
the plain, exposed like an outrunner of the forest. The copse was 
only a few miles across, but the trees soared hundreds of feet 
into the air.
    Villages grew nearby, and races of all description tried to 
make a living through the forest's bounty. Those brave enough 
harvested the wood, depending on the isolated nature of the grove 
to prevent attacks from dangerous animals found in the forest 
proper. But Pianna had recently received disturbing reports of 
animal attacks and missing villagers. A small detachment of the 
Order followed behind her but farther west. The captain continued 
alone to question the heads of the villages about these recent 
occurrences.
    The forest was a wall, and she still saw no sign of the 
villagers. Where was the smoke from cooking fires or signs of 
timber wagons working the forest's edge? It had been years since 
she came this way, and perhaps her trail sense had misled her. 
The road might have shifted or the loggers moved to new ground. 
She doubted such rationalizations and drew her bow from her case. 
The laminated layers of wood, horn, and metal were smooth in her 
hands. She checked the tension of the string, and her pluck 
sounded almost lyrical as the various components vibrated and 
provided a rich tone. Her spirit settled, the single note calming 
her worries. Her quiver was full and her bow strung, her mastery 
practiced and ready. She moved laterally along the forest edge, 
the sure hooves of her steed laughing at fallen trees and 
gullies. Still no sign of life, and she nudged the unicorn to a 
faster pace.
    Howls seemed to rise from the ground as she rode around a 
green peninsula. The stumps in the clearing revealed a deep cut 
into the forest. Dozens of dire wolves ran from the forest, 
joining the giant pack that surrounded an isolated tree. In the 
branches of a giant pine, a group of loggers waved their 
distress. A grove of whisper trees sighed softly in the breeze, 
their branches swallowing the yells of the men and the screams of 
the horses.
    Whisper trees grew in small numbers, and somehow the movement 
of their branches muffled sounds. Such groves were notorious for 
traps, but a lively market in paneling that absorbed noise was in 
high demand in the larger cities. Men of wealth lined homes to 
cut off the bustle of the town, introducing pastoral quiet in the 
most densely packed markets. Plotters and conspirators paid a 
premium to line rooms where their councils might be kept from 
prying ears. Prisons were said to have rooms where the screams of 
starving and tortured souls were never heard.
    But now the loggers might pay the price of their craft. She 
knew that there would be guards to protect the loggers somewhere 
nearby. Harvesting trees from the forest was dangerous and often 
disturbed creatures that only well-armed fighters could 
discourage. Her own troops were across the forest, and Pianna 
doubted they would arrive in time. Only the vagaries of the 
afternoon air had allowed her to hear anything at all.
    There were still loggers scaling the lone tree, trying to get 
out of reach of canine teeth. Ropes swarmed with men as a circle 
of wolves around the trunk contracted. The rotten gaping wound on 
the tree's trunk explained why it had not been harvested. A lurch 
of the bare branches suggested that it could not bear its current 
crop of panicked men for long.
    Most of the wolves seemed little interested in the men, 
rooting through the wagon scattered and overturned in the 
clearing. Red jaws howled silently as the beasts rose from 
feasting on the draft animals still in their traces.
    Members of the pack leaped from the tumbled wagons, dragging 
away equipment as they worked furiously. Whatever the animals 
were looking for, Pianna could tell that they were not finding 
it. Now the mass of animals seemed to find new energy and 
converged on the few men still fighting on the ground. A few 
loggers swung their axes and heavy chains, giving their fellows 
time to ascend the ropes.
    The number of men on the ground shrank, but each successful 
retreat made the rearguard's job more difficult.
    Her arrow was laid and launched in a heartbeat, the shaft 
driving through the ribs of a wolf to drop it in its tracks. 
Others followed, her shoulder muscles rolling as she sent 
missiles flying. The wolves did not turn as she killed the rear 
animals. The whisper trees masked her attack, allowing her to 
slaughter at will. However, the wolves did not cease their 
attack, and she watched a logger get dragged down. The dire wolf 
was the size of a small pony, and the man came apart like a 
sickly rabbit as the canine head tossed his body. Pianna could 
hear no screams thanks to the surrounding trees.
    Power flowed through her veins and into the threads of metal 
in her bow. Her bracer glowed brightly as she let loose another 
arrow. This one flew to the head of the pack, and its discharge 
was blinding, the flash leaving wolves writhing as their eyes 
tried to adapt. The loggers were blind as well, and one went 
down, tripping over a rolling wolf. The animal did not attack, 
but the man's own axe laid his leg open. His enemy's lolling 
tongue lapped at the blood as everyone's vision cleared.
    Pianna drove the unicorn closer, more magic singing through 
her bow. Now the projectiles swelled until they seemed javelins, 
nailing the wolves to the ground. The animals still did not 
react, bizarrely intent on the men on and around the tree despite 
the ample carrion everywhere. The captain drove her steed into 
the rear of the pack. The unicorn's horn dipped and punctured 
sides as the pair tried to turn the attack from the loggers. 
Finally, her slaughter made the wolves react in self-
preservation. The beasts spun and tore at her, but the Order 
leader's magic rose as a shield.
    Golden light encased Pianna's legs and the unicorn's sides as 
she tried to draw the pack away.
    Her steed was a kicking and screaming demon, its hooves 
shattering skulls and ribs as the wolves tried to overwhelm them. 
The captain swore as she saw there were still loggers on the 
ground. She rose in the saddle and fired back toward the tree, 
killing a beast tearing off a logger's leg. Two wolves leaped as 
she provided covering fire to the final men. Power still flooding 
her bow, she swung it like a stave. It struck, destroying the 
animal's ribs. The other beast's jaw stopped inches away as the 
unicorn twisted its neck with a sinuous grace, stabbing its horn 
deep into the wolf's side and piercing the heart. The weight of 
the forest hunter nearly toppled her steed, and the equine weapon 
flared with power as it shook the corpse free.
    The pack was converging on her, and Pianna spun the unicorn 
on its rear legs to ride free. She killed an attacker as it tried 
to duck under her steed. Another wolf tried to hamstring her 
mount, but the invoked armor defeated its teeth. More converged, 
but the unicorn's acceleration stopped them from being buried by 
the pack. One beast nearly defeated the captain as it clambered 
on top of its fellows and leaped to snatch Pianna from the 
saddle. The unicorn reacted to the captain's sudden signal and 
turned again, flattening into an all-out run. The wolf's 
outstretched paws hooked her quiver and tore it open. It was only 
the strength of the unicorn and the semi-locking stirrups that 
prevented the leader of the Order from being dragged to the 
ground.
    The unicorn's pace took it out of danger, but Pianna hauled 
her steed about, looking to see if the pack still followed. The 
wolves were turning back to the men at the base of the tree. The 
branches looked overloaded, and desperate loggers cut the ropes 
to the ground, spilling a few straggling climbers. One person in 
the crown had a light crossbow and loosed a bolt. The projectile 
did nothing more than return the wolves' attention back to the 
encircled woodsmen. Pianna cursed the man's vain attempts even as 
she circled her steed and raised more power. She was not as 
strong as her lieutenant in the mystic arts, but bursts of power 
left her bow despite her lack of arrows.
    More of the canines dropped, the shafts of energy burning 
away limbs and exploding inside the animals. Many of the crippled 
animals were torn apart by their fellows as the beasts raged out 
of control. In a second, the circle around the tree was breached, 
and the men on the ground died, despite the captain's flurry of 
arrows and rain of impromptu weapons from the loggers above.
    The animals were insane killing machines, snapping at 
everything. Pianna turned her steed to ride out of danger now 
that the men on the ground were dead. A branch broke, and two men 
fell to their deaths. Each extracted a measure of vengeance as 
they crushed the wolves they landed on, but they died by the jaws 
of the others. The captain's arrows swept the successful killers 
away, but the pack did not turn. The animals threw themselves 
against the tree, which shuddered, revealing the rottenness at 
its core. Pianna saw the despair on the loggers' faces and sent 
the unicorn forward once more.
    The captain's bow shot shards of pure energy, but she paid a 
steep price for each shot. Pianna's skill as a archer created 
arrows that enhanced her power in concert with her spirit, bow, 
and bracer. Now the magic flowed like a river and drained away 
the mystic armor from her legs and steed.
    She was surrounded now, using her magnificent bow as a club 
until it was dragged away by foamy jaws. Her sword arced out and 
cut down the wolf that thought her helpless. Now bare steel 
carved into the pack as Pianna directed all her power into armor. 
The mesh of power over her and her steed grew as tattered as lace 
as her last reserves of strength drained away. The silence of the 
battle made it seem a dream as she readied herself for death.
    A shower of javelins and spears fell from the sky, promising 
life like spring's first rain. Pianna drove toward the tree, her 
sword cutting through the snarling wall as more weapons plummeted 
from above. At last she was through and turned her steed, backing 
into the rotting cavity of the trunk. The armor on the unicorn 
flanks evaporated. Now only a thin web of armor on the unicorn's 
neck and fore-quarters offered resistance to the dire wolves' 
teeth. But that thin protection was enough as an Order aerial 
unit came to the rescue.
    Griffins dived from the sky, their shrieks of rage lost in 
the whisper trees. Another flight of javelins stabbed into the 
wolves as the soldiers used the last of their throwing weapons 
and closed with the pack. Talons flashed. The fliers snatched up 
the maddened animals. Beaks and swords were red with blood, and 
the flying steeds and their riders pulled clear. Other griffins 
landed out in the clearing and advanced on the tattered edges of 
the pack.
    The elite soldiers swung long flails and maces. The wolves 
turned to overwhelm the reinforcements. Bones exploded as the 
enhanced weapons swatted the animals away. Some of the animals 
tried to run, but most closed with the fighters. The fresh mages 
were encased in magical power and nearly immune to the dire 
wolves. The detachment reaped the clearing free of their 
opponents, the furry bodies pinwheeling away. A few mounted 
archers overhead unleashed waves of mystic arrows, peppering the 
wolves in front of the tree that still tried to reach Pianna. The 
loggers overhead might have screamed with joy, but the captain 
could only guess, for the whisper trees smothered every sound. 
Pianna's magic faded away, but the battle was over, and the pack 
broke apart.
    A few remaining wolves fled deeper into the wood, the trees 
preventing aerial pursuit. Many of her command dismounted, but 
Pianna sent her tiring beast in front of her rescuers. Using 
battle sign, she directed them to help the wounded woodsmen. They 
obeyed, the power that armored them fading as they prepared to 
heal those still hanging onto life.
    She waved for the leader of the griffin riders to follow and 
took the unicorn away from the whisper trees, the sounds of the 
plains once more in her ears as she left their sphere of 
influence.
    "Sergeant Paige," Pianna said, her arms feeling the burn of 
her archery, "what of the villages nearby?" The griffin riders, 
due to their speed, were the premier scouts of the Order.
    "Captain," he replied, coughing up dust, "the villages have 
all been set upon by creatures of the wood. Bears and other 
monsters are common, and there are rumors of great beasts 
annihilating everything in their way. We escorted those willing 
to come to the fort before returning to check on you." The 
soldier showed the irritation that all sergeants had with too-
brave officers. "You were fortunate that we arrived to . . ." He 
paused, his lined face working as he considered her bland 
expression. "... support your charge, Captain. I am sure you were 
moments from victory." "In protecting those under my care, there 
is no choice, Paige," Pianna answered. "We need to get these 
people back to the fort if their village is evacuated." She 
considered the wagons rolling away now from the whisper trees. 
"But how many we can move away from danger, I just don't know."
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Despite its crude construction, the fort looked like heaven 
to Pianna. The walls were nothing more than upended logs, 
standing only fifteen feet high. Clumps of longer trunks provided 
cover for archers, but it was nothing compared to the mighty 
ramparts of other Order fortresses. The fort was on a broad rise, 
surrounded by a dry moat and the wooden wall. An artificial hill 
rose some seventy feet, and it was capped by a large tower 
providing the final refuge from assault. The tower was 
constructed of treated timbers, and the Order's sigil flew from 
the top of pole.
    Any cover would be welcome, for madness seemed to grip almost 
every animal of the forest. Large predators attacked, even though 
instinct should have sent them miles from such a large gathering. 
Groups of normally solitary hunters erupted from the grass and 
were fought off only when almost all were dead. The villagers' 
accompanying herds of livestock were ignored, their owners the 
targets of tooth and claw.
    The gates were open, and Pianna and her party rode into the 
fort. It became nearly impossible to move, the numbers of 
refugees filling the enclosure. Soldiers stood on scaffolding 
along the walls, runners moving on the elevated paths rather than 
daring the tangle of people. Many of those seeking shelter inside 
the walls were woodsmen and loggers. Their glassy faces showing 
the shock of being driven from their homes. Children ran and 
played among the tumult with the easy care that youth could 
bring, while their parents and guardians were too numb to rein 
them in. Traders and merchants of all descriptions sat with their 
goods piled high. Pianna resolved to cache such cargoes outside 
the walls. A group of hunters stood by, their clothing and manner 
marking them as Cabal minions. They laughed at the crowd, and 
each shocked face going by provoked a new burst of merriment.
    The keys and chains in their stack of gear told the captain 
they were pit hunters. The Cabal paid well for a fresh flow of 
creatures from around the continent. Pianna had, in scouting the 
forest edge, come across the leavings of such beast caravans. 
Starved and sick animals were abandoned without even the benefit 
of death. The predators trailing such columns lost their fear of 
people and associated them with food.
    The group noticed her regard and grew silent, then turned and 
looked in other directions until her attention was diverted. The 
Order was pledged to protect all peaceable people on the plains, 
and the Cabal was careful to obey the letter of the law.
    Orderlies made their way through the crowd, moving toward the 
wagons of wounded to conduct them to the healers. Pianna wondered 
bleakly how many had died on the way to the fort. Her warriors 
tried vainly to magically heal wounds when the bulk of their 
training was inflicting them. She was unable to have a healer 
flown out because of the current crush in the other Order holds.
    The captain dismounted, her hand pressing against her steed's 
side as the unicorn was finally led away. The stables were full 
of refugees, so the animals were being picketed outside. The 
griffins screamed, so all could hear their displeasure at being 
refused their own stalls.
    Pianna headed for the gatehouse. The officer in charge of the 
fort rose to his feet, giving her a salute that she returned 
absently. A sack of beer lay on the table, and she filled an 
empty flagon and washed down the dust of the road.
    "Sergeant Sumer," she said, her voice raspy from herding a 
column of refugees, "what news?" She wiped her eyes, clearing 
away dirt and wondering if the bathhouse was plugged with asylum 
seekers as well.
    "Not much of a change since this morning," the sergeant 
answered, a long scar down his face created the illusion of a 
leer. "The refugees are still coming in, and all reports confirm 
widespread attacks." He turned to the map behind the table, a 
cluster of pins showing attacks and sightings of animals. It 
appeared random, and the sergeant tapped the blank spaces 
representing the forest's interior.
    "These attacks might presage an attack by the western 
tribes," he opinioned. Pianna's snort of disbelief punctured the 
soldier's theory.
    "I see no benefit to the forest folk in arousing our defenses 
and clearing the villages of hostages against our behavior," she 
said, reining in the temper which the journey had roused. "The 
random nature of the attacks mean we are looking everywhere. 
Whatever is directing these attacks is doing so for no benefit 
other than destruction." She walked around the desk and 
considered the map more closely.
    "The only pattern these attacks have is that they radiate 
from the Krosan forest." Pianna thought of the patrols that 
scoured the edge of the woodlands. "Perhaps the focus of these 
troubles lies elsewhere." She looked to the southern reaches of 
the map.
    "Is there any word of Lieutenant Kirtar?" she asked, thinking 
how valuable he and the other aven would be.
    "There was a dragon attack which he defeated, and he says he 
will be back after sweeping the southern sectors." The sergeant's 
faint tone of distaste reminded Pianna that many considered 
Kirtar and his bird warriors to be arrogant and abrasive.
    "He is your superior officer, and he and his people have 
power we need." She regretted that most of the lieutenant's 
people were far to the northeast and insular except for those 
taking service in the Order. "He should be able to rally the 
south. I know that he hoped to impress the Cabal and Mer Empire 
in the pits, but we need him here. Once again she considered the 
map. The concentration of her forces along the forest was drying 
up her information sources.
    "Maybe Kirtar will discover something in the south," she said 
finally. "We need to know what is going on, but for now we must 
protect our own."
 
                       CHAPTER 10
 
    "I hate the forest," Laquatus snarled as he exited the 
transport pool. Days swimming through caves and river systems 
under the continent had left his eyes unprepared for the light 
and heat of the upper world. Turg came out of the pool behind 
him, his arms hurling sodden luggage. Crabs scuttled and set up a 
tent for shade as Captain Satas sat in the sun. The amphibian's 
blind eyes sought the orb's warmth even as his skin burned, 
exposed to light nature never meant for his people.
    "I trust you will be available should I need aid," the 
ambassador said as he walked to a chair parked under an awning 
and settled into it. The blind officer tracked his movements.
    "I serve your will, but I must travel slowly as we map out 
routes through the underwater caves," Satas announced, clicking 
his claws together as he gasped in the heat. "Until more warriors 
and miners arrive from the sea, you must depend on hirelings," 
Satas said, his skin beginning to peel away. His eyes were 
growing dim and sunken as he stayed in the hot, dry air.
    "Turg can handle any small difficulties, my good Captain."
    Laquatus sipped from the goblet left by the chair. How 
unfortunate that decent attendants must be left underwater. 
However, it was a willingness to make sacrifices that defined 
great leaders, he thought to himself. Besides, a trail of dying 
servants would have attracted far too much attention.
    "Stand ready to reopen the portal should the mercenaries 
prove unable to meet my needs. You are sure you can open the 
portal directly beneath me?" Laquatus asked as Turg slunk into 
the tent and settled in a sullen mass. The large amphibian's skin 
was already looking dry, and the frog would be difficult to 
control if the situation went badly.
    "The stone calls out to those who know it, Your Excellency," 
Satas replied, having given the merman a tresias stone. "Finding 
you will never be difficult while you bear it. It is reaching you 
that will be hard. Once you begin traveling, I cannot guarantee 
immediate support."
    The ambassador only nodded before remembering that Satas was 
blind and dismissed him and his men.
    Though he appeared at ease, in reality Laquatus seethed with 
anger and frustration. The lieutenant's path kept him from the 
explored system of caves and the underground rivers. Those that 
did exist were clogged with falls and tiny diverging passages. To 
truly develop the underwater roads would take decades of effort. 
So instead of leading an attack by mer forces, he was condemned 
to once more work with drylanders.
    The lands were hilly and dusty, a buffer between the plains 
and the forests to the west. No buildings or civilization as 
those above water considered it. Turg moved in the tent, and 
Laquatus heard breaking glass. The gurgle of pouring liquid told 
the ambassador the jack had found his cache of seawater. He 
considered disciplining the frog, but the heat of the day drained 
away all initiative. His hatred festered as he wondered how long 
it would take the mercenaries to arrive.
    The first scout into the camp surprised the ambassador, 
interrupting the merman's sulk in the heat. The man was small and 
covered in more warts than the aristocrat's jack. He dismounted 
and bowed. "Your Excellency-" he began.
    "Surely there is a spokesman less repellent than you," 
Laquatus interrupted, looking back the way the scout had come. "I 
paid for the best, not the worst." The merman watched teeth grind 
as the man reached for a sword. Actually, the discolored skin 
reminded the ambassador of certain breeds of fish, but he was 
bored and needed entertainment. "I will return with my captain," 
the red-faced mercenary ground out. Laquatus waved and watched 
the fellow jerk himself into the saddle and start up the trail. 
The ambassador went into the hot tent to rouse his protector. 
Turg lay somnolent, broken glass all around him. Laquatus found 
an unopened bottle of salt water and smashed it against the tent 
pole bracket, ignoring the shards that fell on his champion. The 
merman took a long draught and poured the rest over his body. 
Already the frigid waterways down below seemed a dream in this 
heat. He kicked Turg viciously in the ribs, driving him up and 
outside. Laquatus saw the broken glass slash the frog's feet. He 
followed, resigning himself to only petty cruelties until he 
could once more call upon mer warriors.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    The village was only a wide spot in the road, completely 
overwhelmed by the caravan camped around it. Laquatus hammered 
his heels into his steed and sent the long-suffering mare 
forward. The brisker pace cooled the ambassador down, his sodden 
garments losing heat as they dried. The mercenaries leading him 
watched sourly as he passed, water dripping down to the ground. 
The aristocrat had appropriated and emptied most of the column's 
canteens. The fighters' drinking water dribbled down the 
ambassador's back to the dirt as he passed. The mercenary leader 
was lost in a cloak, trying to seal off the heat. Laquatus could 
feel Turg closing from behind as he sprinted from a mud hollow to 
get to the camp. The hot breath of the amphibian seemed to fill 
the merman's lungs as he crowded against the column commander.
    "All the hunting parties bring their captures here," the man 
said pointing to the swathe of activity. The encampment was 
swollen with the cries of animals and people. Bears, cougars, and 
wolves were caged, as well as fauns and Krosan dragonettes. A 
huge elk, nearly the size of an elephant, was secured to a stake 
by a nose ring. Though the noise enveloped them, it was without 
the frenzy expected from wild animals. Many seemed docile, even 
lost as they lay within the enclosures of steel. The hum of 
controlling spells called to the ambassador. The merman felt his 
champion slowly entering the camp behind him and drifting toward 
the pens. Laquatus broke the spell, and Turg started at the surge 
of will. The amphibian ran to his master, goaded by the 
aristocrat's bad humor.
    "Sorry ambassador," called Laquatus's escort as the 
mercenaries peeled off for other duties, leaving him and the 
amphibian with only the company of their baggage. "It takes some 
effort to avoid the magic controlling the animals."
    Laquatus nodded in recognition. The Mer Empire special-ized 
in spells of control and illusion, and a profitable business was 
made in training and equipping the hunters who entered the 
forest.
    "Without the spells provided by the empire it would be 
impossible to manage these animals," the ambassador muttered, 
taking control of the giant elk. His mental bludgeoning sent it 
rampaging across the camp, its painful cries of no interest to 
the ambassador. Despite its matted hide and sores, it still had 
enough power to rip the stake out of the ground. He nodded at the 
ease with which he could hijack the spells.
    The leader of the caravan approached. At least Laquatus 
thought him a leader in his finery. The man was tall and slender, 
his clothes of sturdy leather dyed in subtle hues with fancy 
stitching. A sword with a jewel-encrusted handle hung at his 
side, and in his hand he carried a quirt made of bone or ivory 
wrapped with many shades of leather. The merman could feel the 
quiescent magic humming in the tool as the man came closer.
    "How may we serve your Excellency," he said, bowing and 
sweeping his hat low as if at court instead of a dusty camp. The 
mercenary knew Laquatus as the backer of the caravan, having been 
hired in Cabal City.
    "A valuable bauble has mistakenly come into the possession of 
the Order," the ambassador said carefully. "Lieutenant Kirtar 
received a prize that belongs to the Mer Empire. The officer was 
called west before I could retrieve it."
    "Indeed, the Order can be most troublesome about baubles," 
the man said and nodded to a group of wagons. Laquatus could see 
the loot of many a rediscovered battlefield. Such expeditions 
must be hidden lest the Order take offense. The Order routinely 
fed almost all recovered artifacts into great crushers. The 
ambassador feared that the prize might be destroyed in the name 
of such stupidity.
    "If you are as determined to reach Lieutenant Kirtar as your 
earlier communications indicated, you might find this of 
interest." The mercenary led the aristocrat to a wagon. Chained 
by the foot to a wheel and lying in the mud was a Knight of the 
Order. Burns and knife cuts recorded the camp's hospitality. An 
arm was torn off, the stump wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. He 
was feverish and mumbling in delirium.
    "He's perfect," breathed Laquatus, considering the miserable 
prisoner. Kirtar would welcome him anyway, but a present always 
made a guest more popular. This rescue would also diffuse some of 
the nastier rumors that the lieutenant's men might have heard 
during their time in the city. With a lot of coaching and an 
array of false memories, the fallen knight would make a splendid 
passport. The only question was whether the miserable tool could 
survive reaching Kirtar's forces.
    "How far is the good lieutenant?" asked the ambassador, 
irritated that he must be dependent on these mercenaries. "I 
would bring this pitiful wretch to his commander as soon as 
possible." The mercenary captain looked at Laquatus kneeling down 
and laying soothing hands on the captive. The merman saw a flash 
of pity on the mercenary's face as the ambassador opened the 
shirt and inspected the wounds. His wounds were nasty, but he 
might survive a hard ride in the saddle with proper incentive.
    "Kirtar is at least five days' ride west," the caravan leader 
said, turning to stare down the road. "In these conditions, I 
could not guess how long it would take you to reach the aven."
    "What do you mean?" said Laquatus, already impatient to 
continue.
    "The creatures of the forest lie in your path," the mercenary 
explained, gesturing to the ranks of animals captured in the 
camp.
    "Creatures are no threat," Laquatus said with a snort. "You 
capture the dumb animals wholesale."
    "But something disturbs them," the mercenary said worriedly. 
"We followed in the Order's wake, hoping to capture what 
remained, but the beasts circle ahead of us. Moving continually, 
they block the way and sweep across our path. My men and I have 
hunted for years, and never have I seen the beasts so disturbed 
save during a fire or sudden storm. The animal world is in 
upheaval, and I have no explanation. Something west drives the 
beasts to a frenzy."
    "Yet you control your camp," the ambassador said acidly, 
standing up. If this was an attempt to extract hazard pay, it 
would go hard for the mercenary. Turg raised his head from a 
supply wagon he was stealing from at the merman's pique and began 
to move closer, anticipating violence.
    "The spells of the empire close their minds," the captain 
said, fondling the carved ivory wand. "They move in a paradise 
that we control and mold. But out there, a continent is on the 
move, and no one knows who shapes events."
    "I need a small band of attendants to bring my knight with 
me," Laquatus said, nudging the wounded man with his foot.
    The ambassador let his silence at the mercenary's wild 
outpourings show his contempt. If the animals of the wood posed a 
danger, he would handle it. If only Satas had explored more of 
the western caves instead of forcing him to deal with these 
fearful idiots. The mercenary called to an aide and gave orders 
for a small group of riders to accompany Laquatus and the 
prisoner.
    "Does the Order know you are in this village?" the mer 
aristocrat asked, looking beyond the camp to the few houses.
    There were no signs of the inhabitants save for the smoke 
from the chimneys. The caravans had a bad reputation. The 
ambassador knew that on occasion his employees took slaves for 
use and sale to the pits.
    "Kirtar's scouts are oriented west. I doubt they know we are 
here," the mercenary captain said, looking toward the men 
selected rousted from eating and sleep.
    "This brave member of the Order will be useful in earning the 
organization's trust," Laquatus said, licking his thin lips. "But 
the risk of witnesses telling how he chanced into my hospitality 
... No, I think it best if this village and its inhabitants die 
now. Unknown and nameless."
    Turg leaped toward the houses. The amphibian pushed camp 
workers out of the way as he raced to the closest cottage.
    The stone-and-timber structure was covered in moss. It 
hunkered down in the plain, the heavy walls stubbornly resisting 
the elements and those who would attack. The windows were small, 
and heavy shutters shielded the inside from view.
    The door was seasoned wood, thick and hung with care-the 
builder's attempt to keep the dangers of the world outside. Turg 
summoned his power, drawing on the ambassador's magic. A thin 
stream of lightning flared, blinding those foolish enough to run 
after the amphibian. The jack closed his inner eyelids, cutting 
the glare as he looked through the thin shield of flesh. The lock 
and screws holding the door shut glowed as power arced over the 
door. An agonized scream sounded as someone in the house tried to 
brace the panel. Rock-hard boards sundered in quick succession, 
coming free in a series of concussions.
    Turg, impatient to get inside, smashed into the door, his 
hide smoking briefly as it touched the charred wood. Laquatus 
stood, lost in the rush of violence, savoring each death as the 
amphibian rampaged through the structure. The mercenary's 
distaste was plain, but he called to his men.
    "Clear them out!" he shouted, pointing to the remaining 
houses. He drew a short sword to lead squads in the unpleasant 
task. Animals started at the noise, and the ambassador felt the 
animal herdsmen increasing the strength of the spells calming and 
misleading the beasts. Death and deception played out in the 
caravan and the village, and Laquatus stood in appreciation as 
the jack and the mercenaries began to kill off anyone who might 
derail his scheme to lull the Order once again.
    An explosion shattered his contentment. What fool was 
employing such spells in a simple bout of murder?
    The merman looked to the perimeter. Bodies popped as flame 
burned its way free of fighters in his employ. As the mercenaries 
fell, Laquatus could see two riders charging. No, not riders, but 
instead a centaur and his mounted companion advanced on the camp. 
A glimpse of brass-colored skin placed the pair. Seton and the 
barbarian fell upon the caravan, killing without hesitation as 
the village was massacred.
    "Destroy them," the ambassador bellowed, dragging Turg away 
from the easy slaughter with a mental command. The guards left 
off their half-hearted killing to face the attackers entering the 
camp.
    "A rich reward to whoever brings me their heads!" the merman 
called. Greed and self-preservation sent warrior converging on 
the pair. The merman laughed, sure that murder would solve most 
of his problems.
 
                       CHAPTER 11
 
    Kamahl closed his eyes as the axe exploded in a ball of 
flame, the pulse of magic leaving an afterimage even through his 
eyelids. His horse shied, nearly toppling him despite his 
precautions in turning the mare's head away from the spell. Seton 
roared and sprang, his apelike features furious as he raised his 
mace and swung at a caravan guard. The man shattered under the 
force of the blow, blood spraying and spotting the centaur red as 
he moved toward a new target.
    The pair had tracked Kirtar and his forces west for days.
    The Order rode hard, and the barbarian and the forest warrior 
had closed slowly, if at all. Then the tracks were obscured by a 
caravan. Seton had sworn loudly as wagons and herds of animals 
obscured the trail. Casting along the road to see if Kirtar had 
left the western highway consumed even more time. It appeared 
that the caravan followed the lieutenant, and Kamahl stopped 
tracking and rode hard, gambling that Kirtar would not change his 
path until they passed the obscuring travelers. They had hit the 
outer perimeter, and Seton watched the frog, Turg, break into a 
building and other guards from the caravan advance on the 
villagers. Such evil would not go unpunished.
    Kamahl hurled flame. The magic congealed into dull red globes 
that sank into the bodies of the cowardly murderers. The caravan 
guards laughed at their apparent immunity to his attack. They 
came a few steps closer, then stopped and gasped as the 
barbarian's spell began to burn its way out. Kamahl felt a wave 
of weakness as the mercenaries charred to ash. His anger was 
drawing too much power into the spell, and he paused to control 
his rage. His horse shifted under him, and he jabbed his heels, 
sending the mount into the fight.
    Seton rampaged through the camp, his club spraying his 
opponent's brains each time it landed. The caravan guards tried 
in vain to corner him, but the centaur's prodigious leaps carried 
him free. Seton then turned to take mercenaries from behind. He 
pushed his way through the herd of captive animals to reach their 
tenders. The barbarian could see his club raising high, then 
falling again.
    Kamahl's horse froze, then began bucking under him. The beast 
that had stayed controlled through so much tumult went wild and 
spun. The barbarian could feel the horse dropping and beginning 
to roll. He threw himself from the saddle, drawing his sword in 
midair. He landed at a run, turning to see what creature attacked 
his mount. There was nothing tearing at the beast, though it 
screamed in rage and fear as it twisted in the dirt.
    A leather-clad mercenary charged toward him, an ivory baton 
raised in the air as he regarded Kamahl and his horse. The leader 
waved as if in introduction and turned toward the animals closest 
to the barbarian. A herd of simple cattle stopped chewing their 
cud as one.
    Kamahl knew that magic controlled the animals, for these cows 
were huge with heavy horns that stretched more than three feet 
from side to side. These were not dairy cows or animals being 
driven leisurely to the butcher but animals with fighting spirit. 
Whatever spell had kept them docile ceased, and he found their 
attention focused upon him. The cattle bellowed and charged, 
three bulls forcing their way to the front of the herd in their 
rush to close with him.
    Kamahl spun a pillar of flame around himself, but the 
maddened animals disregarded it. He threw himself to the side as 
a long horn hooked through his shield and scored his armored 
belt. He gasped, his air knocked out by the impact. The barbarian 
did not want to play the butcher to livestock, and he ran under a 
wagon as the rest of the herd closed. The cows collided with the 
freight wagon, and he hobbled farther into the camp, gaining new 
strength as he shook off the bull's blow. A mercenary considered 
him an easy target as he struck from the rear. Kamahl's sword 
sheared through the falling club and cut the man's arm free. The 
stricken guard could not even scream as Kamahl's return stroke 
set his head free as well. Guards closing with the barbarian 
slowed, waiting for others to converge on the mountain warrior.
    Seton broke into the ring of guardsman, trailing his own 
clump of pursuers. The centaur's club was covered in gore, and 
every swing sprayed blood wide. He moistened the club's head anew 
using Kamahl's opponents, smashing men down in three quick 
strokes before leaping. The barbarian could see the forest 
fighter's fangs clearly.
    "Too slow!" the centaur shouted, raising his club like a 
standard. Blood ran down it and drenched his arm. "Where are your 
nets and snares now, hunters?"
    He swung and knocked the wheel off a wagon, the oak and iron 
flying away in pieces. The centaur's arms fell again and wretched 
the other wheel free. Seton jumped to the side as the heavy 
freight bed tipped over and spilled a load of furs and hides over 
the ground. A heavy skin reminded the barbarian of the centaur's 
own hide.
    "Murderers!" The cry was bestial in its fury. The giant 
dropped his club and leaped upon a guard, grabbing him up in two 
hands. Seton tore the man apart, hurling limbs.
    Kamahl threw fiery knives into the stunned guards, reaping a 
deadly harvest before they turned to respond to this new attack. 
The outmatched mercenaries were caught between the barbarian and 
the crazed centaur, and Kamahl thought they stood no chance. Then 
they seemed to disappear, sidling into nonexistence. The mountain 
warrior shook his head violently and loosed a barrage of darts. 
Wails of pain sounded, and a guard faded back into existence, 
screaming as the projectile burned its way to his heart. Then 
silence fell again.
    Kamahl threw more darts as he dove for cover, scrabbling 
behind an overturned wagon as he considered what was happening. 
Malign magic pulsed in the encampment. A mage was clouding his 
senses, hiding his enemies from him.
    An opponent might be running to stab him from behind at this 
very moment. Kamahl hurled more darts behind him, but there were 
no screams. That meant nothing. Wild sprays of weaponry could not 
long protect the barbarian, and Kamahl focused, trying to see 
past the spell. He shoved his sword into the ground, taking 
strength from its solidity. He must see his enemy before he was 
struck down.
    His vision wavered, images fading in and out of focus like a 
mirage. For a moment, everything was clear, and he could see the 
mercenary in the fancy clothes stepping carefully over the 
corpses of his men. The ivory wand was raised, and Kamahl focused 
on that as he willed the magical tool to combust, to explode into 
flame. The barbarian reached into the center of his own innate 
magic and brought it forth. The mountain warrior had to prop 
himself up with his sword as the ivory began to char. The 
panicked captain threw it away, and it blossomed into flame as it 
left his hand. The force of the magic took the man's arm, the 
fancy leather shrinking under the fierce heat and closing off the 
amputated limb. A fire elemental rose from the wand's remains.
    The summoning grew greater; the inferno seemed to float a few 
feet off the ground, its colors pulsing. Shafts of ruby red flame 
danced in the heart of the creature. The center of the elemental 
was in constant motion, and a tendril of fire dipped down to the 
earth. The dirt fountained up as it burned, throwing off ash and 
clinkers. The soil had sand, and glass began to form. Obsidian 
began to solidify and merge with the debris orbiting the flame. 
The barbarian could feel his creature and its appetite. The 
elemental existed to burn, to devour substance. His hate, rage, 
and even fear had called with uncommon strength, and the fire 
creature crouched, ready to sweep away the enemy. Kamahl watched 
it drift, and a lick of flame reached out to a guard. Before he 
could make a sound, the elemental was on him. Flesh shrank away, 
and bones flared as the mountain warrior's summoning grew a 
little larger. Within seconds only ash remained to merge with the 
volcanic glass that hissed and popped as it fell away from the 
creature.
    The cattle that chased Kamahl still followed the caravan's 
leader commands, and they charged from the wagon they had reduced 
to splinters. The elemental jumped to the herd, and the smell of 
cooking beef filled the air. There was only the sound of searing 
fat as tendrils of the creation pierced the thick hides and 
destroyed internal organs in an instant. The elemental grew 
larger still as it rendered the animals down and sucked up their 
bones and horns. These danced inside the flame as hunger 
temporarily gave way to curiosity. The remains of the bulls 
dwindled away, shards of hoof and bone becoming encased in glass 
as the fire weakened, then strengthened in new hunger.
    "Such a marvel," Kamahl said and groaned in frustration. It 
was too strong! A creation to fight armies, and he had called 
this chaos. The barbarian looked around. Seton still bellowed, 
now some distance away, his club turning mercenaries into clumps 
of broken bones. The caravan animals were waking from their 
spells, and they voiced their confusion. A few houses in the 
village still appeared intact, but who knew how much longer that 
would be the case. His creature was hungry, and there were too 
few meals for its appetite. He caged it in its current place, 
ready to send it away. Regret at banishing so fine a creature 
filled his heart.
    Turg jumped from a crowd of animals, his fist drawn back as 
he swung at Kamahl's head. This time the barbarian was not mired 
in spell, and he dodged. The mountain warrior's sword swung as he 
dropped, and only the amphibian's wild contortions in the air 
kept the monster from spilling blood onto the ground. The jack 
seemed to vanish as it landed in a pack of wolves. The beasts 
circled uncertainly, giving confused cries. Throughout the camp 
animals vented their confusion, and Kamahl vaulted to the top of 
the freight wagon to see if perhaps Seton was responsible.
    There were few living guards anywhere nearby. Kamahl and the 
centaur had cut a bloody swathe, and no one seemed brave enough 
to close with the pair. Seton was standing amongst stacks of 
cages. The barbarian could see him ripping locks off to release 
the confused animals inside. He looked for signs of Turg, 
wondering where the treacherous frog lay hiding. As his eyes 
swung back to the village, he saw the ambassador and a group of 
mounted mercenaries.
    Laquatus smiled. The merman waved, and Kamahl looked around, 
trying to see whom he was signaling. Mounted next the ambassador 
was a knight of the Order. The figure swayed, and the barbarian 
could see the man was missing a limb. He wondered why Laquatus 
would include such a wounded man in his party.
    "I see you and your companion decided to join our little 
expedition," the aristocrat called mockingly, his horse shying as 
more and more of the captured animals vented their distress. "It 
appears the centaur has found one of his relatives," he called. 
Kamahl turned to see Seton back at the wagon reverently lifting 
the pelt of one of his people from the dirt.
    "You will die," yelled Seton, laying aside the hide and 
grabbing up his bloody club. The few mercenaries not with the 
ambassador were running from the camp, leaving everything behind 
to avoid the coming battle.
    "There are more important matters than you to attend to," the 
ambassador called back. "Besides, you will be far too busy taking 
care of all these animals to worry about me."
    The ambassador was casting a spell, and it echoed over the 
encampment, redoubling in strength as old commands combined into 
new purpose. Kamahl felt it coming and crouched into fighting 
position.
    The animals that had milled so uncertainly minutes before 
turned toward the barbarian and the centaur. Bears rhat Seton had 
freed from their cages snapped at the druid. Kamahl could see the 
surprise on the giant's face as beasts turned and saw him as an 
enemy.
    Animals screamed in the remaining cages as Seton moved away. 
The malign spell picked up intensity, and a giant elk charged the 
centaur from the side. Its sore-matted hide still covered 
impressive muscles, and it threw itself at the druid with horns 
lowered. The line trailing from a ring in its nose caught a wagon 
wheel, and the heavy oak circle skidded through the dirt as it 
came at Seton. The centaur threw himself sideways, his flanks 
heavy with effort after the fight and his grief.
    Kamahl threw spears of fire that formed a barrier against the 
approaching animals, covering the druid's escape. The barbarian 
looked to his penned elemental, the boundless hunger of the 
primal being perhaps the only answer to the carnivores that 
struggled from the cages and pens.
    Bears, cougars, and wolves moved together toward the pair. 
Two Krosan dragonettes struggle from their enclosure, the six-
legged reptiles ignoring the surrounding carrion as they closed.
    The mountain warrior eyed the ambassador. Perhaps killing the 
merman would end the unnatural animosity. But the aristocrat and 
his escort had already disappeared, lost behind some piece of 
landscape or illusion. He readied his sword and the elemental-the 
coming slaughter of spellbound beasts a foulness to his soul.
    "On my back," Seton commanded as he threaded through the 
flaming barriers Kamahl had formed to stop the animals. "If we 
stay, we only do the ambassador's will."
    The barbarian looked for his horse, but it was lost in the 
madness.
    "We can return once the spell has run its course, or I have 
turned it, but for now we must be away."
    Kamahl paused only to free the elemental from his call. 
"Another time you will feed," he promised the flame. The ruby 
shafts in the creature seemed to pulse in agreement, and then the 
glass and ash collapsed to the ground in a superheated pile of 
debris. The barbarian sheathed his sword and swung himself up on 
Seton's back. The centaur's muscular body was as wide as a draft 
horse, and Kamahl resolved to reclaim his mount as soon as 
possible.
    "We will meet again, Ambassador," he promised.
    The animals came around the flaming barriers.
    Seton left at a run.
 
                       CHAPTER 12
 
    There was a stillness to the air around the camp. Lieutenant 
Kirtar sat in his tent wondering if he dare look into the orb he 
had won in Cabal City. The globe brought visions, dreams of glory 
and control. He had imagined such possibilities throughout his 
life. He ached to smash the power of the Cabal, to finally order 
the restless mages of the Pardic Mountains to the southwest. 
Everything seemed possible if he just had time to investigate the 
orb, experiment with it. His huge hands clenched as he restrained 
himself from digging through his baggage for it. The visions 
became so compelling that he lost himself, and he could not 
afford the time-these meaningless patrols along the forest.
    Kirtar stood suddenly and went outside, breathing deeply to 
calm himself. A fragrant breeze brought him a whiff of the 
forest, and his face pinched at the smell. Give him the cold, 
clean air of the plains, he vowed. He moved to the camp 
perimeter, absently accepting hails from his soldiers. The forest 
had always been chaotic, unstructured. He regarded the line of 
trees with a deep ambivalence. The tribes and races of the forest 
interior cut themselves off from the rest of the world. Kirtar 
felt contempt for such behavior. The world cried out for a firm 
hand, he thought, and his knuckles cracked as his fists tightened 
once more.
    "Lieutenant," said a soldier bringing wood in from the trees. 
The fires for the night were being laid. Another day spent here.
    "I saw bison moving deeper in the trees," the soldier 
volunteered uncertainly, obviously new to the unit. Kirtar 
wondered that the sergeants had not beaten such hesitation from 
the new recruits. Let the lower ranks police themselves, he 
thought to himself.
    "Bison are no danger except when surprised or in breeding 
season," Kirtar reassured the soldier.
    The sentry still looked nervous, but the bird warrior ignored 
him and walked on. The anxiety in the lower ranks was quite 
disgusting, the aven thought. He must admit that the sheer number 
of attacks, sometimes from animals well known for their timidity, 
was unsettling, and the frequency seemed to be increasing. 
Nevertheless, it was no excuse to be a coward. Nature was 
chaotic, and it was only natural that it must, occasionally, be 
curbed.
    The rumble of thunder made him look to the darkening sky. No 
sign of rain clouds. The rumble became stronger and more 
continuous, never breaking. He turned to the forest. The soldier 
he left dropped the gathered wood and ran for his gear. The bison 
came out of the trees, a dumb relentless tide.
    "To arms!" Kirtar yelled, echoed by others throughout the 
camp. The Order tents and animals were atop a small rise, and the 
lieutenant could look down to the forest's edge. As far as he 
could see in the dimming light animals were coming out, not 
driven by the weather or any sign of fire.
    "Stand your ground," Kirtar bellowed, as he move to the line 
of men and bird warriors forming in the path of the bison. The 
beasts were coming up the rise, slowing but still advancing. Why, 
he wondered. A raypen launched himself into the sky, his wings 
spreading in the setting sun as he flew over the camp.
    The sergeants in the line began chanting, a song of the 
Order's glory. Magic flared as warriors united their will and 
cloaked themselves in power. The bison slowed but still came 
closer, the leaders not pushed by those behind but advancing on 
their own.
    "They are only dumb animals!" Kirtar cried as he strode to 
the head of the line. The mass of animals seemed a personal 
attack after his words to the sentry, and he responded as he 
would to any attack. The magic flowed to his hands and left them 
as golden birds. The power flew to the leading bison and struck 
like a catapult burst, killing the animals instantly. There was a 
moment of silence as others looked at him.
    "Attack!" Kirtar yelled, and other projectiles followed. 
Arrows and javelins arced into the air, but the dead were lost in 
the mass of new animals, and Kirtar howled in anger, determined 
to stop the assault. Perhaps if the ground were better, he might 
have succeeded, but the animals lapped around the growing bulwark 
of corpses.
    Kirtar's cries to his men were lost in the noise and 
confusion of battle. Bison circled through the camp, their humps 
more than eight feet off the ground. Calves bawled and tripped, 
finding their feet with difficulty as the torrent of animals 
ebbed and flowed like a river.
    Kirtar wondered how thousands of animals might remain unseen 
in the forest. They continued to leave the trees, all apparently 
aimed for him and his men. The beasts were disorganized and 
showed little of the frenzy of previous attacks, but the sheer 
number of bison made them dangerous.
    Ten-foot-tall elen stood with long pikes set, a steadily 
growing wall of corpses protecting the hooded bird warriors. The 
massive soldiers were proving useful, despite their lack of 
magic. Simple muscle might carry the day.
    The line of soldiers contracted as sergeants tried to form a 
perimeter. Now relentless pressure spilled bison into the lines. 
Trapped bulls gored the men who turned to oppose them. Kirtar 
watched a soldier fall to the ground, the sudden thrusts of the 
heavy horns splintering the man's chest. The lieutenant leaped 
forward, his fist encased by power, and broke the bull's spine. 
He called out in triumph as he stood over the beast he killed 
with a single blow. However, the victory was lost in the 
unrelenting tide of animals
    In the skies above, the raypen swooped and dove. Kirtar could 
see them exulting in their flight. The flyers swept down and 
plied their long maces and lances before rising again, untouched 
by the sprawling chaos below. The rumble of hooves made speech 
impossible as the animals milled, fresh reinforcements constantly 
coming to test the camp's defense. Aven were lost in the midst of 
the herd, occasionally appearing atop animals they killed, but 
soon disappearing back into the crush of bodies. Kirtar felt a 
thrill of pride at how the bird warriors succeeded while the 
other races vanished under the milling hooves.
    A group of bulls threw themselves up a pile of bodies and 
forced their way among the elen. Now long axes rose and fell, two 
feet of heavy-edged steel hewing its way through bone. The raypen 
congregated over their land-bound brethren, and darts showered 
down more heavily. The giant bird warriors rolled the bulls back 
down the pile of corpses surrounding their position.
    The lieutenant saw it all from his perch at the center of the 
camp. Poised on top of a light wagon, a steady stream of power 
flowed from his hands in the shape of golden sparrows. He 
directed the magic to support his fellow aven, a flock falling 
suddenly to create barriers of cooling flesh. The buffalo still 
flowed over the rest of the plain, their numbers seeming endless, 
as he was forced to direct more attention to protecting himself.
    Kirtar had been fighting and patrolling ever since leaving 
the Cabal. Most of the attacks were over in seconds, and the 
monsters that destroyed towns were rarely sighted. A series of 
pickets and militias pushed the incursions back, but these waves 
of buffalo were unprecedented. Now he received reports of vast 
herds washing over positions, their numbers absorbing all the 
power that the Order could bring to bear.
    Lines of small trees along the forest's border cracked and 
were trampled as more of the bison came out of the woods. The 
raypen swooped and trailed flails behind them. The iron bars rang 
against the bony skulls, but the stampeding animals came on 
regardless.
    "Use your magic," he cried, and a single bird of power flew 
to take down a small cow. The raypen wheeled in the air, their 
feathers dim as they exhausted most of their energy in enhancing 
their attacks.
    "We will bring back aid!" they cried and flew away east. 
Kirtar cursed them tiredly, though he knew they had spent 
themselves into impotence. At least the elephantine elen still 
fought, but he could tell by the turning of their hoods that they 
watched their brethren flying away.
    A fresh surge of beasts threw itself against the wagon, and 
it tumbled to kindling as the lieutenant fell. His magic now 
armored his flesh and his fists. He fought his way through the 
maelstrom to the piles of dead animals killed before they could 
reach the wagon. A bull took him to the ground, the heavy skull 
battering at his shield, threatening to crush him. Two strikes of 
his dagger marked the animal, and it was swept away.
    He threw himself between two huge corpses, wondering for a 
moment if he should just hunker down, wait out the attack and 
protect only himself. The snapping of tent poles changed his mind 
in seconds. He should have been unable to hear the sound of 
breaking ash staves, but some portion of his being had waited for 
the sound throughout the battle.
    The lieutenant's tent had been erected amongst a clump of 
boulders and by happenstance the silken walls withstood the tide 
of animals even as warrior mages fell. Now its respite ended, and 
the structure collapsed, shrouding the bull that had torn its way 
into the tent.
    Fresh strength thundered through the bird warrior's limbs as 
he thought of the sphere, the wondrous ball whose power inspired 
such visions. The Order's future-and his as Knight Champion-was 
in danger. He came out of hiding like a striking snake. A lance 
of golden power burgeoned from his fists, and the point parted 
bone as it stabbed relentlessly. Without the power of a steed 
behind it, the golden spindle still exploded through ribs, the 
showers of blood churning into the soil as still more buffalo 
swirled into the combat.
    He held the lance high, calling for his warriors to rally, 
but his brothers were trapped behind the walls of corpses. He was 
alone, and the herd still tore through the camp. As stubbornly as 
any bull, he forced his way closer to his former pavilion. The 
long lance slapped against the ribs of animals in the way, the 
enhanced spear breaking ribs as Kirtar beat his way closer to his 
objective.
    Then he saw it. His prize, his destiny was being kicked by 
the wrapped bull. Like some monstrous pillow, the bull inside the 
tent's fabric rebounded off the ring of boulders, its splayed 
hooves tearing at what remained of a knight's pavilion. More 
animals spilled into the ring of boulders, and Kirtar flew to a 
low stone. The metal sphere, which had glowed with such promise, 
was duller, its glory muted.
    "You've soiled it!" cried the lieutenant and threw his lance 
through the trapped bull and pinned it to another animal. He 
dived into the scramble, the sphere tucked behind his feet 
against a rock. The attack seemed to be dying down, and there was 
less noise, but he stood furious and with bare hands beat the 
animals trying to escape. His blows, which once shattered 
boulders, rebounded from simple bone and hide, but still his arms 
rose and fell. The ring of corpses trapped the animals. Kirtar's 
opponents soon dripped blood from their noses and ears. A cow 
tried to crush the bird warrior against the boulder, but he 
grappled still, his power healing broken bones even as he killed 
the animal with an especially frantic blow that shocked the heart 
into stillness.
    A figure blocked his vision, and he almost swung before 
recognizing the massive form of an elen. The robe enveloping it 
was torn, and the gray skin was bruised and swollen. The long axe 
cut the spines of wounded animals, the pain of their broken bones 
washed away by death. Cries for help sounded throughout the 
remains of the camp, a surprising number of soldiers still living 
despite the length of the assault. Kirtar stooped and tucked the 
sphere into his purse, taking a moment to regard it. It was less 
brilliant, but the echoes of his former visions lurked in the 
corner of his soul as he tried to will it to its previous glory.
    An aven bird warrior strode over the hills of dead flesh, 
coming to deliver the report on the survivors. "Sir, the mounts 
have returned. The outrider managed to save the string and 
brought them back."
    The company's steeds had been hobbled some distance from the 
camp, and a quick-thinking guard managed to herd them to safety 
as waves of buffalo swamped the camp. "The wagons and most of the 
equipment were destroyed though efforts to salvage what we can 
have begun. The wounded are stabilized and await the efforts of 
the more powerful mages."
    Kirtar laced up his purse and strode away toward the steeds. 
"We have no time to waste healing bruises," he stated to the 
officer, who gaped as the lieutenant raised his voice.
    "Men, we have triumphed over the forest in spite of its 
attempts to destroy us. We have lacked only the will to seize our 
victory."
    Most of the soldiers were stunned, but Kirtar could see the 
lingering battle madness in the faces of his bird warriors.
    "It is long past time that we took action against the beasts 
that disturb our dominions," he announced. "We must recognize our 
duty and destroy the forces that would overwhelm us!" He pointed 
toward the disappearing buffalo.
    "The herd could not sweep us aside and withdraws to renew 
itself in the hidden glens. Would you fight it again?" He swept 
his hand over the destroyed encampment. "Would you fight twice as 
many beasts when someday there are half as many of us?" The bird 
warrior drew himself up proudly.
    "Tired and exhausted as we are, I know that only by 
continuing the attack can we win this war." A feeble cheer went 
up, but it was magnified a thousandfold in Kirtar's visions.
    "Mount up and ride into the forest," he commanded. "We will 
kill until nothing remains to oppose us!"
    Ignoring frantic signs from the healers, he took those 
warriors who could move to the steeds and mounted. He led the 
charge against the retreating heard. A bestial sea flowed before 
him, and he vowed to empty it, one sword stroke at a time.
 
                       CHAPTER 13
 
    "It is like a picnic," Laquatus decided, as he shifted in the 
saddle, directing his mount around another clump of dead animals. 
"One is invariably bored and must create one's own amusement." 
The horse shied away at the scent of blood, and he sawed the 
toothed bit in the animal's mouth.
    The plains were thick with destruction as the Order and the 
forest's forays clashed. After a week of piled corpses and 
devastated towns, Laquatus ached for a change. The death of 
drylanders was always enjoyable, but even a favorite dish might 
loose its appeal if sampled too often.
    Turg felt the ambassador's lack of interest, and the 
amphibian did its best to enliven the journey. Forbidden from 
attacking the villagers along the way and banned from assaulting 
the mercenaries, it took a few days for the frog to act. Laquatus 
could feel his champion drawing on the merman's cunning though he 
lacked enough interest to interrogate his servant.
    A horse's scream made the ambassador look up, wondering if 
they had fallen into an ambush. One of the pack-horses fell and 
thrashed, a caltrop sunk deep into its hoof. Laquatus could see 
iridescent glitter on the metal and knew it to be a deadly 
poison. A mercenary ran to care for the beast, stooping to draw 
the iron from the leg. But Turg seemed to appear, blocking the 
way.
    "It appears to be poison," the ambassador called as the hired 
servant hesitated to force his way past the frog. "If you touch 
it, you will be too weak to walk within the hour. If you cut 
yourself, you might as well dig a grave." The frog nodded 
emphatically and turned to the downed horse. Borrowing a knife, 
he slit the beast's throat, moving slowly as if expressing grief. 
The ambassador would be ill at the mawkish sentiment if he were 
not sure that Turg had dropped the caltrop into a pouch.
    The mercenaries patted the frog awkwardly on the back. They 
expressed that night their gratitude for his quick thinking. They 
saved him the first cuts of the dinner. The merman sneered at 
their stupidity. They neglected to ask how an aristocrat from the 
depths of the sea might recognize a poison on sight, especially 
one volatile enough to be deposited for contact use. Did they 
think him a sage to know every toxin? He knew the deadliness of 
the concoction because he carried a good supply of it secured in 
the depths of his luggage. The frog was cheered at dinner, and 
the ambassador wondered what else might happen.
    A mental command reinforced his previous orders. He could not 
afford to lose any of the men, though the steeds were expendable 
as long as there was a surplus. Perhaps this game might keep his 
attention until they reached the lieutenant.
    The frog did not use poison again, and the ambassador was 
glad. It could be an indiscriminate tool, rather like the 
amphibian. Instead the jack amused himself and the merman by 
daring the mercenaries into dangerous lapses in judgment, 
primarily by example. The frog took to taunting the forest 
animals who were gripped by the strange com' pulsion. He seemed 
to turn his back on them with unconcern. Laquatus knew the 
champion's peripheral vision was extraordinary, especially in 
seeing movement. But to the ignorant, and there were few air 
breathers who were not, he appeared oblivious.
    The frog also took to helping with the horses, always quick 
to step in when a strap came undone or a stone was in a shoe. The 
animals shied away from the champion, showing better judgment 
than the fools riding them. However, even Laquatus was hard-
pressed to see the camouflaged frog sabotaging the packs and 
saddles. The merman wondered at the ingenuity of the amphibian. 
The race was known for its savagery, not playing petty tricks and 
doing small injuries. It could only be the mental link, the 
ambassador decided. With other things to control and plots to 
tend to at the Cabal pits, Laquatus was the overwhelming dominant 
partner. But now his aggression and deceit flowed in ever-
increasing amounts to the jack.
    It doesn't matter, he said to himself. Joining spirits was a 
difficult task, but surely his control would prevent things from 
getting out of hand. If only they could reach the lieutenant. He 
forced himself to look at their prisoner. The knight smiled 
absently, the stench from his wound strong enough that none cared 
to ride close. In camp the confused man was left alone.
    The knight was already broken, and it was the work of a few 
minutes to invade his mind, inserting new memories. Now he could 
only babble that the ambassador was his savior, his rescuer from 
forbidding odds. Occasionally he would lapse into spasms and 
blurt out the names of his supposed tormenters. Laquatus amused 
himself by inserting the names of fighters who had irritated him. 
Kamahl and his noxious partner Seton had prominent roles. But 
like a pie, the situation's humor grew more stale every day. 
Furthermore, he must force his temporary minions to care for the 
madman.
    The next morning the knight was still alive, though Laquatus 
doubted he would last the day. A perfectly good plan ruined by 
the lieutenant's stubborn insistence on staying hidden. There 
were villagers, but the ambassador wanted a performance for the 
Order. A preview was performed for the cheap crowds, but he moved 
on before the man could say more than "He rescued me," and name a 
few names.
    He stopped only one time at a village. The headman, seeing 
the poor condition of the knight, offered hospitality. The 
ambassador was forced to influence his mind and leave a cover 
story with the others.
    "The messenger," he explained, "suffers from an infection of 
the blood. Only healing magic might offer a chance."
    So they continued. The merman opened his kit of poisons and 
drugs. Some elixirs were deadly but in miniscule amounts could 
give temporary strength. The knight rallied, his eyes growing 
brighter. No longer did he lie strapped like a sack to the back 
of his mount, his arm tied to the bridle. He tried to sit up, to 
move with his steed. But it was a feverish energy that gripped 
him, and Laquatus knew they were running out of time.
    Turg was free of scrutiny as the ambassador worked on his 
project. The malice that the merman planted in the jack took full 
flower and blossomed as Laquatus mixed another stimulant for the 
knight.
    The mercenaries set up the midday camp, making a bed at 
Laquatus's orders for the knight. The dying man was cut from his 
saddle. The ropes parted to let him fall to the piled blankets.
    "We must continue," the wounded warrior insisted, trying to 
rise, only to fall back. He attempted to push himself up with his 
hands, forgetting somehow that he only had one. The stump bled 
once more, even through the heavy cushion of bandages.
    "Perhaps a sedative or a smaller dose of the stimulant," 
Laquatus muttered, boiling water to prepare an infusion. All that 
he carried was deadly, and he tired of trying to make poison give 
life rather than take it. Rarely had he worried his potions might 
be too effective. Laquatus tried to calm the knight's spirit even 
as he worked to rebuild the body. False memories and commands 
were increasingly useless as the captive's mind lost itself and 
could not remember the impulses he implanted. He mixed more 
powerful drugs, knowing that he was buying hours without 
sustained rest or magical healing.
    The merman needed time to mix the potions properly, and he 
went to the perimeter of the temporary camp. He concentrated, 
tying a spell to the line he traced around the tent and mounts. 
With each step Laquatus took, a subtle cry sounded from the 
ground. "Look elsewhere," it seemed to say. "There is nothing 
here," the magic whispered. The wards were based on misdirection 
and would keep beasts way from the camp. The ambassador had grown 
piqued at being unable to command the bizarre attacks of 
wildlife. He could no longer command the animals by his magic, 
but he could mislead them.
    Turg and two of the hunters made for the perimeter, watching 
for signs of danger. Laquatus mixed the poisons inside the tent. 
He wielded the mortar and pestle, selecting the herbs and sealing 
everything into a porous bag. Then he went to the fire; to the 
eyes of the ignorant he was brewing a healthy tea. He wondered 
how long they would survive if he invited them to share with the 
patient.
    His champion watched a swarm of insects pass, their buzzing 
creating background noise. Like a rolling cloud, the tiny 
warriors dipped and flew over the plain. Sometimes they moved 
with the wind and at other times against it. Barely aware of 
them, Laquatus measured out a cup of the tea.
    Screams sounded from the perimeter, drawing everyone's 
attention. One of the soldiers was outside the wards, twisting on 
the ground. A mercenary ran outside to help him, then swatted at 
the air. Stinging insects boiled from the ground, settling on the 
would-be rescuer and pumping venom into his body. The first man 
down convulsed. The rest of the soldiers took a few steps to help 
but stopped, unwilling to risk death for one already doomed. The 
warrior still standing turned and came back to the camp in a 
drunken stagger. The mercenary's face swelled until he was blind. 
He called for help, his bulging throat choking off the cry in 
mid-word. Turg grabbed a spear and put out the butt end. As the 
dying man came closer he pushed him, the jack's muscles sending 
his victim reeling head over heels backward. Unable to stand, the 
man crawled. He set off away from the camp, having lost his 
bearing in the fall. After only a few yards he collapsed and was 
still.
    "Stop!" commanded Laquatus as other mercenaries grabbed 
weapons, closing on the frog. He poured the tea down the knight's 
throat ignoring the sputters, sure his minions would hold until 
he finished the unpleasant chore. Swords whispered from 
scabbards, and he stood up, livid, seeing a few fools edging 
closer to the champion. Turg stood hunched over with arms spread 
wide. The ambassador could see the gloating on his face. The 
merman threw the filled teapot at the bravest fools, the hot 
metal burning a man, putting him down.
    "I said, stop!" Laquatus bellowed. He stalked to the edge of 
the wards, slapping armed men out of the way. "Leaving the camp 
is death!" he shouted. "The moment those two men stepped outside 
they were dead!"
    He stalked to the leader of the mercenaries and hissed into 
his face.
    "If your incompetent minion had crossed back into the wards, 
they would have fallen. We would all be kicking our last!" he 
said, inches from the warrior's face. "Now tell these fools to 
sit down and wait until the insects pass."
    Fear and loathing was in the other man's eyes, but he nodded 
curtly and stamped back to the fire, his hands holding an animal 
prod. Those still standing against the frog saw the hatred rising 
off the man and slunk away, not wishing to call attention to 
themselves.
    Laquatus moved back to his tent and put away his poisons. 
Once his equipment was packed he called Turg to him with a mental 
command. The moment the amphibian let the tent flap close the 
ambassador bludgeoned him immobile with a mental assault.
    "You have had quite enough fun for one trip," the merman 
whispered, looking into the frog's spirit. The flow between them 
had changed the jack. The amphibian's intelligence had soared, 
and mentally he bore little resemblance to the near animal he 
once was. Laquatus pondered the champion, wondering at the signs 
of familiarity the new creation showed.
    "Why, it's me," the ambassador said. His murderous impulses 
and controlling nature had bonded with the frog's savagery. Like 
a baby taking its first steps, the amphibian was manipulating the 
people around it. Like a proud parent, the ambassador admired how 
far his offspring had come in luring the mercenaries to their 
death. But sadly, like a child, the frog had no grasp of the 
larger plot. With a faint sigh of regret, Laquatus channeled 
power along their connection. Turg screamed, his body thrashing 
as a flood of energy scoured his mind.
    "Just stay out," the merman said to panicked questions from 
the mercenaries at the tent flap. "I am working with Turg on a 
question of discipline."
    The mental constructions giving the amphibian its 
independence and reasoning power melted under the assault, 
dissolving like sandcastles before an incoming tide. Laquatus 
scarred the frog's mind, crippling its ability to grow mentally. 
Even as he attacked the mind he could feel the frog vainly trying 
to repair its shattered spirit.
    "Strong, aren't you," the ambassador chuckled, bearing down a 
little harder. "We'll just have to make this a daily ritual 
then." He tore at the soul, pleased by the jack's agony.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    It was a somber expedition that moved through the plains. The 
casualties kept the mercenaries close to the ambassador, scared 
to leave the safety of his wards. Turg was as he used to be, a 
sullen mountain of muscle. The frog could barely restrain himself 
from attacking anything that moved. The ambassador devoted more 
attention to managing the jack, amazed at how much more work it 
required, but the extra effort engaged his attention. The boredom 
that plagued him vanished under the workload. The soldier was in 
a coma, drugged to near-death in the hopes that they might find a 
healer. Laquatus regretted the delay Turg had created , but he 
must have absolute control.
    The cries of battle sounded, and the ambassador stood in his 
stirrups. The forest was closer, but most of the land was open 
ground. The ground was dry, and the merman could see only the 
dust of the melee. He cursed the mercenaries' newfound timidity. 
If they were to be useful, his guards should be scouting ahead. 
The noise was dying down, and he feared the fight might end 
before he could join. The chance to finally receive accolades for 
rescuing the dying knight riding behind him was too great to 
resist.
    "Attack," he ordered with a great cry, unleashing his 
champion as he spoke. There was movement from ahead. Mounted 
figures becoming visible as a breeze began to clear the scene of 
dust. The mercenaries broke into a charge and echoed a battle 
cry. Turg was obvious as he ran toward the fighting, and the 
guards knew that if the amphibian left the ambassador's side then 
the wards protecting them from observation were gone. Laquatus 
waved the laggards forward, his frown driving them to overtake 
their fellow. Fear could create as bold a fighter as courage, the 
ambassador said to himself.
    It was an Order detachment, the ambassador realized with 
glee. The mounted knights maneuvered against reptilian beasts 
that gathered in a circle as the soldiers dressed their ranks. 
Laquatus's mercenaries drew near the formed ranks, but except for 
a few glances, the soldiers ignored the rough irregulars racing 
to join them. The merman kept back, wanting disposable minions 
between him and any dangers. Besides, he must tend his captive, 
who showed signs of life as he approached a detachment of his 
fellows. Laquatus's passport gave a feeble cheer before lapsing 
unconscious. Only the straps and webbing kept the man on his 
horse. The merman drove his horse and that of the sick man 
faster. All his hard work could not expire within sight of the 
finish line.
    The Order finished dressing its lines, and boots thudded into 
mounts' sides. The knights moved forward, lances dropping to ram 
home. Their opponents were great lizards, their sides heaving in 
the sun. Dust settled over their scaly bodies, making it 
difficult to count them despite their size. The knights shifted 
their angle of attack, their lances tearing at weaving heads and 
opening up necks.
    Laquatus's mercenaries arrived in a disordered mob, but their 
attack did more damage. Doubtless this was due to their 
experience in gathering animals for caravans, the ambassador said 
to himself as he slowed and tried to appear more solicitous of 
the wounded man.
    Familiar with the species, the mercenaries dodged strikes and 
unleashed blows to the joints and fragile bones at the back of 
the head. Despite their size, thousand-pound creatures fell as 
easily as cattle in the slaughterhouse. The Order forces swept 
back to attack again, but this time they cheered the irregulars 
as the last reptile fell. The ambassador led his passport 
forward, interrupting the victory cries as he struggled to get 
the Order's attention before the knight could inconveniently die.
    "I have a man in desperate need of healing!" he cried out, 
his face flushed in apparent fear for his prisoner's life. "He 
might die any minute!"
    A sergeant of the Order threw himself from his horse, rushing 
to the wounded man's side. He drew a dagger and cut away the 
restraining cords.
    "Bring blankets and erect a tent!" he ordered his men, easing 
the patient to the ground.
    "I prayed to find someone who could help," the merman said, 
trying to sound relieved. "I am Ambassador Laquatus of the Mer 
Empire. Can you do anything?"
    The sergeant ignored him, already falling into a trance. The 
energy rolling from his hands was almost invisible in the 
sunlight. Used to the rich golden color of healing, the 
ambassador wondered if he misunderstood the sergeant's 
intentions. But the one-armed man's breathing seemed to improve 
by a miniscule amount as more power soaked into the body. "The 
sergeant is exhausted," a soldier explained, coming from a 
packhorse with a bundle of wood to start a fire. "We've been 
marching for days, slaughtering anything we can find." He dropped 
the fuel and began cutting a circle of turf away for a fire pit. 
All the Order soldiers looked exhausted. Some stood with still 
bloody weapons, too tired to clean them.
    "I am Corporal Vale," the soldier continued as he stacked the 
wood, laying down the kindling, then the heavier pieces. The 
warrior was twisted as if a healing had gone wrong, but 
intelligence glinted from the slack face.
    "Why are you here so close to the forest?" Corporal or not, 
there was suspicion in his look.
    "Attacked," came a gurgling cry from behind them.
    The corporal spun, his dirt-covered knife ready to stab.
    "I was attacked," the wounded knight repeated, his eyes 
glassy as he looked toward the sky.
    The corporal crowded closer, his knife still ready but his 
attention on the wounded man.
    "Who attacked you?" Vale asked gently. The knight's face was 
flushed, and the corporal motioned for one of other soldiers to 
continue the fire building. "How were you injured?"
    The sergeant was deep in his trance, his face growing hollow 
as he poured more healing power into the wounded man. Laquatus 
watched with interest, for the stimulants and poisons he had 
poured down the knight's throat were nearly as deadly as the 
seeping wounds.
    "A metal-hued barbarian and a centaur," came the implanted 
answer. "They fell on us behind a wave of animals, killing 
everyone before I was rescued. A frog carried me away," he gasped 
and passed out.
    The ambassador restrained a wide grin, all the work had been 
worth it. He tried to look concerned.
    "He means my jack, Turg," he said, pointing to the 
battlefield where the amphibian tore away raw flesh and gulped it 
down. "I was coming after Lieutenant Kirtar when we happened upon 
the ambush. We were only able to save the one man before being 
forced to flee. We were lucky to make it to you alive."
    The corporal grunted, then knelt to catch the sergeant as he 
toppled. The healer looked as wasted as his patient, and Laquatus 
wondered if they would both die. Vale looked lost as he held his 
superior's head, already tucking blankets around the drained 
figure.
    "Kirtar is five miles farther in the forest," he said 
distractedly, "Follow the main path, and you will come upon his 
camp." He turned to the ambassador. "If you could leave a few men 
to help protect the wounded, it would be greatly appreciated."
    "Of course I can," Laquatus said expansively. He waved three 
mercenaries over. "I will leave these guards here with supplies 
and food if you could give me one man to lead me to Kirtar."
    Vale nodded, exhaustion catching up with him. Even three 
unknowns would be an infusion of strength to the weakened 
command.
    "Toltas," he called. A soldier stood up from the fire 
building. "Escort the ambassador and his men to the lieutenant. 
Tell him of the aid they provided."
    The soldier made no protest, looking like a sleepwalker. 
Laquatus accepted the guide, for the rest of the command looked 
like the walking dead.
    The detachment appeared asleep as the ambassador's men and 
their guide left for the lieutenant. As they proceeded, the 
ambassador looked for further signs of the forest's aggression. 
He kept a ward up to deter attacks from whatever they might meet. 
Scattered groups of animals lay piled, killed by the Order. The 
guide took them around the corpses, too tired to speak. Turg 
jumped to inspect each mound, but Laquatus kept firm control over 
the frog's appetite.
    They came to the main Order camp, nearly abandoned except for 
five guards. They did not even challenge the ambassador and his 
party, their faces dull as they ate. The distant sounds of battle 
could be heard, and Laquatus and his mercenaries drew weapons.
    "Where is the lieutenant?" the ambassador barked. A soldier 
eating beans gave only a vague wave toward the noise.
    Laquatus looked at his guide, who was glassy-eyed and swaying 
in his saddle. "Stay here. We can find Kirtar on our own."
    Too tired to argue, the soldier dismounted and slowly walked 
to the cook pot.
    "Come on men," Laquatus said loudly. "The lieutenant might 
need our help." He put his heels to his steed's side and moved 
out at a bone-jarring gait. Once they were out of sight of the 
camp, he slowed down. "Pull up, you fools," he said to the 
mercenaries. Caught up in the moment, half of his riders forgot 
he was no friend of the Order.
    "We will slowly scout out the situation, and if Kirtar truly 
is in trouble, we'll finish him off," Laquatus said coldly. "If 
he appears to be winning or there are flying messengers, we will 
act in support. But do nothing until I give the order."
    At a mental command,Turg faded from view. His camouflaging 
skin mimicked the small undergrowth on the border between the 
forest and the plains. Laquatus fed more energy to his wards. The 
mercenaries and the ambassador moved slowly ahead while the frog 
sent mental pictures back to the merman. Laquatus threw his reins 
to a mercenary and slumped in his saddle as his champion's 
visions filled his mind.
    There was a clearing in the brush, and inside it the Order 
laid siege to the herd of giant animals. They appeared reptilian, 
as large as dragons, though without wings or signs of magical 
ability. They sounded cries of distress like mighty elephants, as 
the lieutenant sent mounted squads against single animals.
    The knights lowered their lances, the wood and steel 
flickering as magic flowed through the weapons. The horses 
approached at a slow gallop, closing obliquely with the group. 
The hills of flesh shifted, trying to retreat farther into the 
herd, but there was no more room. The points cut into the belly 
of a huge reptile, tearing through the hide. Blood poured down, 
gallons soaking into soil. The final lance tore through the 
ligaments of a leg, sending the animal down. Turg was overwhelmed 
by the smell of hot blood, and Kirtar sent another squad after a 
different animal.
    The ambassador came out of his light trance, disappointed at 
Kirtar's strength. He must come in as an ally, he realized. He 
drew his personal weapon, a trident, and called softly, "We will 
support the lieutenant, men."
    They came out of the concealing brush nearly opposite the 
Order. Laquatus sent his steed around the perimeter of the 
clearing to link up with the lieutenant, seeing little point of 
charging into a battle before making sure the effort was 
appreciated.
    Over the bellow of the giants, the screams of griffins 
carried on the wind. A flight of Order soldiers came down, their 
weapons ready to be unleashed. However, instead of charging the 
herd, a woman dismounted. Kirtar saluted her, and Laquatus 
realized this must be Captain Pianna, head of the Order. He 
enhanced his senses and drifted back to the brush.
    "Captain, you are just in time to join us," Kirtar said, the 
bird warrior standing proud. In contrast to his men he seemed 
alert and eager.
    The captain drew off her helmet and handed it to a mounted 
subordinate. "I need to speak to you alone," she said, her voice 
flat.
    Kirtar looked to the animals, as if to mention the lack of 
time.
    "I am sure your butchery can wait." She walked away, her 
sword of command sheathed over her shoulder providing an easy way 
for Laquatus to track her movements through the detachment. 
Finally they were far enough away that she stopped and turned to 
Kirtar.
    "What, by all the stars in the sky, are you doing here 
Kirtar? What insanity drove you to attack into the forest? I 
directed you to scout and protect the western villages, not 
initiate a war." She looked over the slaughter and the dead 
animals.
    "The forest and its creatures are part of the natural order. 
Why would you order needless killing that goes against our basic 
ideals?" she asked passionately. Laquatus focused his attention 
on Kirtar hopeful that he could use the answer to good effect.
    "To protect the plains, the enemy must be destroyed," the 
aven replied, his tone growing hot. "These attacks are only a 
symptom of the chaos deep in the forest itself. It is long past 
time something was done to tame the west and its beasts! For now, 
only destruction can protect our land from the contagion here."
    Laquatus chuckled to himself as the captain stood stock 
still. "Rank hatred and insanity," the ambassador whispered 
lovingly. "I can make use of that."
    Pianna rallied and pointed to the lieutenant's men.
    "Setting aside your unique views of handling the current 
problems," the captain said carefully, "there is still no excuse 
for the condition of your men. I just came from your camp. After 
a flight of griffins landed, I was forced to wake your guards to 
find out where you were. Your men are completely spent, their 
magic dissipated in these pointless attacks." She pointed to the 
few remaining herd animals in the clearing. "You have dragged 
your pickets so far forward you are beyond support. You have 
nowhere to fall back to in an emergency. We should be back where 
the militias can act in concert, not driving for the depths of 
the forest!"
    The few remaining animals broke their instinctual response to 
band together for protection and started for the woods. The 
lieutenant's men moved to attack, sending their mounts in pursuit 
of the giants. Their lances dropped parallel to the ground. 
Pianna called out for the men to stand, but only a tired blood-
thirst remained in their minds, and they did not obey.
    Laquatus thought quickly, the captain might obey the Order 
Strictures and destroy the prize. He sent Turg to find the sphere 
in Kirtar's camp, burning the need to stay concealed into the 
frog's mind.
    He raised his trident and shouted, "Kill the animals!" The 
mercenaries followed.
    The ambassador sent his troop to head the beasts off. Only 
after the charge began did he realize the true size of his 
opposition. Just the whales and great sea beasts were larger, and 
he wondered if the mercenaries could do anything with their 
swords and spears. But these men hunted the forests, and they 
were ready for such foes. A few nets flew up, trailing long 
ropes, to land against the reptilian sides. They stuck, the throb 
of magic bonding them to their targets. The entangled beasts 
trailed long lines behind them as they bolted. The nets tore 
trees from the ground, but the lizards fell as they became 
tangled with massive rocks. The Order followed, and their lances 
pierced the unprotected bellies, letting out rivers of lifeblood.
    The ambassador swung his trident, power snapping among its 
tines. A lash of lightning danced along the lead beast's side, 
the current destroying nerves and locking muscles. Tons of flesh 
piled up as the Order and the mercenaries worked together in the 
slaughter. Laquatus turned toward the leadership, the lieutenant 
and the captain already mounted and closing. The griffins spread 
out in a half circle behind their leaders.
    "Always glad to be of service," the ambassador called out, 
enjoying the rage threatening to boil out from the captain's 
demeanor. "We met a detachment of your men after rescuing one of 
your knights. Arrived here just in time to help you deal with 
these animals."
    The captain visibly forced herself to be polite.
    "Thank you for your aid, Ambassador. We are thankful that you 
could come, but it would be best if we adjourned back to the base 
camp," Pianna said with a tight smile.
    The merman still had no response from Turg as to whether the 
prize was located. He needed to keep the leaders out in the 
field.
    "Surely the best thing is to continue killing your way into 
the forest," Laquatus said, swinging his trident to point west. 
"The business of the Order is to end the threat of attacks."
    "The business of the Order is what I say it is. Ambassador," 
Pianna said, interrupting any comments that Kirtar might have 
had. "We have lived with the forest for generations. It is 
foolish to risk everything when we do not even know why these 
attacks have begun or how we can stop them. We are not the Cabal 
to believe that death is the final answer and first response."
    She turned the horses and started back to camp, forcing the 
rest of her troops to follow. The merman could see the rebellion 
in Kirtar's face. He could race after her, but that lacked 
dignity. A spurt of animals showered from a cluster of brush.
    "Beware," Laquatus cried, and a bolt of energy arced from his 
trident to the bushes at the side of the trail. Soldiers drew 
weapons as small animals flowed out and up the legs of their 
mounts. They were stoats and shrews, and Laquatus cursed the 
fates that supplied him with such diminutive foes. He needed some 
great menace to impress the Order and help cement an alliance, 
but only vermin presented themselves.
    The Order steeds pawed the ground, starting in fright as the 
small animals tried to scramble up their legs. The lieutenant 
swung a long flail with gusto, the heavy ball tearing its way 
through the creatures as his soldiers and Laqua-tus's mercenaries 
maneuvered to give him room. Swords and lances swung, and 
creatures died, though their numbers seemed undiminished.
    The captain and her officers dashed the ambassador's hopes 
for any victory by. summoning their own creatures. Several of the 
griffin riders concentrated, letting their steeds snap up 
mouthfuls of the furry foes. Huge single- and double-horned 
beasts set the ground shuddering as they stamped their way into 
the flow of sharp-toothed vermin. Gray rhinos dipped their heads 
and swept the small animals away. Tiny teeth worked at their gray 
hides in vain as the Order-directed creatures shattered the flow 
of small beasts.
    Laquatus, however, was not willing to give up. He raised 
power, but the blasts that ripped from his trident barely stung 
the stoats. That was not where his power had gone. The merman's 
sly summoning drew greater beasts from the brush, attracting 
creatures that had fled Kirtar's murderous attacks.
    Great cats leaped at them from cover, throwing themselves on 
the rhinos. The horned beasts rolled and tried to scrape their 
feline attackers off as larger teeth worried at their hides. A 
few giant bulls thundered out, shoving panicked rhinos and goring 
the gray beasts' sides. Laquatus ceased his call, concerned that 
he might destroy himself in calling up more dangerous animals. 
Predators, large and small, attacked the Order, and the 
ambassador watched as his mercenaries aided the beleaguered 
knights.
    "Hold them for a few seconds," Pianna cried, a bow in her 
hands. The captain's arrows flew low to the ground. The missiles 
were for cutting harnesses and standards, but the curving blades 
instead dismembered the stoats and badgers. Then the razored 
half-moons lodged deep in the legs of the bulls coming from the 
forest.
    The small animals were so easily killed, the ambassador 
lamented, and not even poisonous. Laquatus threw arcs of energy 
that leaped from small animal to small animal, stunning them. He 
drove his horse among the unconscious creatures, cursing his 
horse as it failed to trample enough.
    The lieutenant and his men had dismounted, swords killing the 
last of the small creatures before they closed with those slyly 
summoned by the ambassador. The rhinos returned, finally free of 
the great cats. Huge horns sundered ribs, and the bulls died 
quickly. The Order knights killed off the last of their attackers 
and turned to help the mercenaries.
    A lion leaped at Laquatus, pulling down his horse and 
spilling him to the blood-soaked ground. His guards tried to 
spear it but missed, allowing the lion another chance to kill 
Laquatus. He laid his image over his horse, sacrificing the beast 
as he rolled away. The gaping jaws locked on the equine throat as 
the merman's steed did him a final service. The ambassador called 
for his champion, regretting that Captain Satas and his 
dependable minions were far to the east, still mapping their way 
to the Order's Citadel.
 
                       CHAPTER 14
 
    Kamahl and Seton drove themselves hard up the road, pursuing 
both Kirtar and Laquatus. It took days to finally flush 
themselves of the ambassador's animals. They had been 
relentlessly pursued, the beasts continuing long after the merman 
and his party departed. Only the combination of the barbarian's 
flaming barriers to impede pursuit and the druid's constant 
effort to break the spell finally won them through. Each time the 
druid erased the implanted commands, he turned the creatures back 
to the forest. The repetitious contact with the animals led Seton 
to suspect that something beyond the ambassador and his lackeys 
was affecting the creatures of the west. Riding in the wake of
    Kirtar's forces confirmed that something was wrong.
    They returned to the village where they had battled Laquatus 
and his minions, but the site was deserted. Kamahl found his 
horse grazing in a deserted field and moved to a narrower mount, 
much to the relief of his legs. They continued west, looking in 
vain for the ambassador and his minions. Whether by magic or good 
trailcraft on the part of Laquatus's mercenaries, they could not 
track the aristocrat and his murderous cronies.
    Soon enough they did find the trail of Lieutenant Kirtar. 
Dead animals and markers for fallen Order soldiers began to 
appear. Within a day of leaving the village they came upon a 
gravestone. The marker was nothing extraordinary, a simple 
boulder with the sigil of the Order and the troop name.
    "The warriors of Eiglin," Seton said, identifying the 
unofficial symbol of the lieutenant's command. The soldier was 
interred in frozen ground. The dirt was enchanted to be as 
resistant as iron, denying scavengers an easy meal. The resting 
place would be recorded for eventual reburial in the mausoleums 
of the Order or the graveyards of the soldier's people.
    Filled with hope that they would soon meet Kirtar and their 
search would be over, the two continued on. Instead they found 
more of the Order's passing slaughter.
    They followed long runs of animals hunted down by soldiers 
until there was nothing left alive. The barbarian and the centaur 
were forced to backtrack as the trails ended in piles of dead 
flesh. Soon they neared the edge on the plains and entered the 
realm usually ceded to the forest.
    The killing of animals continued even as the villages were 
left behind, angering the druid to greater and greater heights.
    "There is no sign that these animals threatened anyone. The 
Order destroys anything in its path. Perhaps," he said darkly, 
"the waves of animals are right to kill, with such enemies 
waiting to come within the trees."
    The barbarian rode with his axes loosely tied to his saddle, 
instantly ready at hand. Such destruction seemed pointless to the 
mountain mage. The Order had the right to protect itself from 
attack, but such indiscriminate slaughter must provoke a 
reaction. Seton assured him that the peoples of the forest were 
not behind the current attacks. The killing would not curb 
further animal incursions, for the beasts lacked the intelligence 
to react to such dangers. To kill every dangerous creature would 
be the work of decades. Even though the barbarian had spent his 
life in the mountains, he knew that one roused the forest at his 
own peril. The random attacks could change into a real campaign 
of destruction.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    The dust and the cries dragged the pair onward, both 
desperate to see at last the events whose aftermath had filled 
the land for days. Seton went forward, his face sick and angry at 
the slaughter. Kamahl followed hoping to finally catch up with 
Kirtar or the ambassador. A camp with exhausted Order soldier 
appeared as they rounded a corner of the road. The centaur 
charged through, drawn to the combat beyond. Kamahl followed, 
knowing that both of those he sought were more likely to be near 
the tumult of battle.
    The barbarian looked to the camp as he passed, seeing the 
line of wounded stretched out. His heart raced as he saw the face 
of the injured knight, the fighter he had seen with Laquatus. But 
the man was down in the dirt, a surgeon and orderly working on 
his wounds. The knight's shirt was cut away. Festering sores and 
weeping gashes lay open to the dusty air. Kamahl directed his 
steed forward more strongly, trying to regain the time lost due 
to his pause.
    Seton slowed unexpectedly ahead, allowing Kamahl to come 
closer. The big centaur crowded a man on a horse, fear and strain 
plain on the guard's features. The druid's club was in a carrier 
strapped to his body, and rather than waste time fumbling at the 
straps he used his hands, as he had back at the caravan.
    "Murderer." Kamahl heard him growl as he swept the mercenary 
off his horse and turn his head until the fellow could see behind 
him. The dead man's steed stood placidly, apparently accustomed 
to death in close proximity. "Take a centaur's hide and die!" 
Seton spat. Kamahl assumed that the centaur had found another 
member of the ambassador's party. The druid dropped the corpse in 
the road and reached back to draw his club. Kamahl looked, but no 
one else saw the killing, and the dead man faded into the 
background with the other corpses.
    "Such a criminal deserves death," the barbarian said as Seton 
breathed deeply. "But perhaps vengeance might wait when we find 
the others. Especially if they be in the company of the Order."
    The giant grimaced but nodded reluctantly. The pair advanced 
more slowly, the detail of the fighting beyond becoming clearer 
as they rounded a clump of trees.
    Animals of all sorts, both large and small, moved chaotically 
between riders and infantry. Seton turned his head, waving off a 
bobcat as it ran at him and tried to climb to higher ground on 
his back.
    "Sheer madness!" he exclaimed, and Kamahl agreed with him, 
turning his horse from a badger headed for the trees behind him.
    The druid moved tentatively into the confusion. The mountain 
warrior could feel energy hum as the druid neared a pack of 
wolves. The beasts snarled, and Seton snarled back, reinforcing 
the sound with a wave of the club. Kamahl stayed close to his 
friend as the druid tried to drive the animals away from the 
killing field.
    "Difficult," huffed the druid as a bull elk threatened him 
with its antlers.
    The centaur tried to nudge the animal on with his club, but 
the beast fenced the stone-tipped weapons with its velvety 
antlers. Kamahl whipped a fire lash into the ground at the 
animal's side, and it broke away. The centaur grunted and tried 
to control other animals as the barbarian raised a line of 
flickering flame that began to prod the animals to the side. 
Kamahl ached with the effort of controlling himself, but the 
druid wanted to stop the battle, not join it, and the barbarian 
felt constrained to honor his friend's wishes.
    The pair worked their way through the animal refugees, 
turning those outside the fighting back to the forest. Now they 
crowded the Order soldiers. Kamahl stayed the peacemaker, though 
more and more he ached to smash a profane soldier to the ground. 
This fighting was wrong, and they must stop it. The barbarian's 
frustration mounted higher, and it was with relief that he found 
another member of the ambassador's party.
    Turg announced himself by springing from ambush, as he had so 
often before. The faint flames Kamahl used to herd animals roared 
higher, drying the amphibian's skin as the creature came at him. 
The barbarian ducked as the frog's hind leg thudded into his 
mounts shoulder, his sword out of position. The jack threw 
himself onto the centaur. The frog was red with blood and gore 
from the battle. Kamahl wondered if the champion's fury was 
directed at him for following the ambassador or attempting to 
quell the slaughter. Regardless, the amphibian jumped to the 
druid's back and tried to rip his throat out.
    The centaur showed the flexibility of his kind, turning 
around at his humanoid waist to fight the frog face to face. 
Kamahl saw them gripping arms, and he waited for parts of the 
amphibian to fly over the battlefield. As massive as the frog's 
muscles appeared, they were dwarfed by the forest warrior's 
mighty shoulders. He turned to his own defense as he left the 
centaur to his.
    Without Seton's will, the animals swung back to fight. Two 
bears and dragonettes converged on Kamahl, and now the 
barbarian's fire lash burned away fur and scales. Other animals 
came closer, some fleeing battle, the others seeking it. The 
Knights of the Order came together, and a new summoning burned 
through the magical ether.
    New creatures shimmered into being. They seemed huge mounds 
of crystals, some over twenty feet high. For a moment, Kamahl 
wondered if the Order forces were trying to construct a fortress. 
Then the apparent masses of rock began to move. Ponderous legs 
swung into new positions as the creatures started across the 
field. Light began to glimmer inside the crystal, rotating wildly 
before leaping out to engulf animals. The magic congealed, slowly 
trapping its victims in glowing layers. Bison and great bears 
struggled as if in tar until the bands of golden light hardened 
and left the victims immobile. The monstrous creatures knew their 
allies and rhinos ran freely among the trapped creatures, 
trampling and goring the helpless animals.
    The megoliths moved their crystalline masses over their 
captives, both the living and the dead, and settled down for a 
moment. Then the legs raised the crystal bodies, and new bands of 
magic jumped forth to trap fresh prey. A cow kicked and thrashed 
as the energy tightened and locked it rigid, waiting for a 
rhino's killing thrust or a crushing death from the advancing 
giants. The megoliths had moved far enough that Kamahl could see 
the lane they left behind. Every drop of blood, morsel of flesh, 
or sprig of a plant was gone. A floor of corpses lay in front of 
them, and the crystal grew rosy as the mineral creatures helped 
the Order sweep the field clean.
    "The drive is broken," Seton croaked from behind Kamahl. The 
barbarian turned to the centaur. The druid's face was black with 
an oily liquid, and water wept copiously from his eyes. Of Turg, 
there was no sign.
    "The ambassador's jack vomited his bile into my eyes as we 
struggled," Seton said, peering myopically into Kamahl's face. "1 
wrenched his shoulder and would have pulled his arm off but for 
the burning of its juices."
    The centaur tried to wipe his eyes clear, and Kamahl pulled a 
canteen from his gear. The forest warrior tilted his head back 
and poured the water directly into his eyes.
    "I think the battle is done," he gasped and handed the nearly 
empty container back to the barbarian. Animals fleeing the 
conflict proved the centaur's word good. A bear lumbered by, 
giving only a glance in their direction before continuing on its 
way. However, there were other creatures on the field. A rhino 
stabbed its way through the flow of animal refugees and headed 
for Kamahl. His axe spun into its skull, dropping it into the 
bloody mud. Others converged on him, and he drove his horse 
forward, trying to get away from the approaching beasts. The 
megoliths reversed course, and energy folded over the barbarian 
despite his horse's efforts to outrun the spell. The mare's 
gallop suddenly stopped, and the horse tumbled to the ground. 
Kamahl threw himself free before he could be trapped beneath the 
body.
    He rolled, the sword flying free from his grip. He came to 
his feet with knives of fire in his hands. Seton swung his club, 
snapping a rhino's horn free as he struggled against the 
megoliths' magic. Kamahl ran to his aid, his power severing 
crystal as he turned to destroy the mineral giants. But the 
battlefield held only the victors and the dead. The creatures of 
the forest merged back into the trees as the rhinos and megoliths 
began to fade away.
    The barbarian hobbled to his horse, a deep gaping wound on 
her side telling him that a rhino had attacked while he scrambled 
to his feet. He knelt and laid his hand on her side.
    "Thank you," He whispered, then stripped the saddle and gear 
from the corpse.
    "My friend," Seton said tremulously, "I can't see you-" The 
centaur collapsed, rolling up against the other corpses in the 
field. Kamahl paused for a second and threw away everything, 
racing to find a healer.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Kamahl did not know how long he searched before he found 
someone willing to help his friend. He was sure that the 
exhausted sergeant came more because of the barbarian's sword 
than belief in his story. Once he checked to see if Seton was 
alive, the Order soldier fell into a healing trance.
    The mountain warrior struggled to clear the centaur's eyes, 
scouting for water among the fallen to wash away the poison and 
quench the druid's raging thirst. Kamahl waited, wondering if he 
should fetch others to help, but the cries of the wounded could 
be heard in the distance. The barbarian counted himself lucky to 
have found the sour sergeant.
    "I have done what I can," the Order soldier announced 
suddenly, standing up and moving away from the patient he had 
lavished so much care over.
    "I do not know how to repay you," Kamahl started to say.
    "Don't bother," came the gruff reply. The man stretched, his 
back crackling at the movement. "I saved the eyes. I don't know 
if he will be able to use them. Bring him to the main camp when 
he feels able to walk."
    "I will thank you as soon as I can guide him up the road," 
Kamahl said. "I will do it right before I speak with Lieutenant 
Kirtar."
    The sergeant laughed harshly. "I won't be seeing you then. 
Kirtar has been recalled. The captain was going to haul him back 
to the citadel to explain his conduct. If 1 know Captain Pianna, 
he was on griffin back within a minute of the battle's end."
    All that riding and he must have missed Kirtar by only 
minutes. The barbarian stood rigid, wondering how he would catch 
up with the lieutenant now.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Kamahl sat in his camp, eating a piece of travel bread. 
Despite the tons of meat lying in the field, he had gathered none 
of it. Besides being no scavenger, he could not afford the 
trouble a fire might bring.
    Seton recovered some, and the barbarian was able to lead the 
centaur to the Order camp perimeter, though he did not follow the 
druid to the healers. He left the giant and returned to his 
solitary tent.
    He waited for a day, eating dry travel food and ignoring the 
stench. The barbarian meditated, but the core of his anger made 
his attempts to find peace meaningless. On the second day, Seton 
returned.
    The druid's face was discolored, the apelike features 
splotched with what looked like blue-and-black dye. His eyes 
seeped a steady stream, and he advance slowly into the camp, 
watching where he stepped.
    "It looks worse than it really is," the forest warrior said. 
"The healers believe that with time my sight may improve." The 
giant tried to sound cheerful, but it was obviously difficult. 
The barbarian came closer, gripping his friend firmly by the 
lower arm.
    "I have not wasted my time in the Order's camp," Seton 
explained, lowering himself gingerly. "The lieutenant was called 
to the Citadel to explain his policy of slaughter.
    "The captain sent word that all forays into the forest would 
cease pending further information. There is talk that the bird 
warrior might be demoted or transferred far to the East." Seton 
paused, speaking more seriously. "The Mer Ambassador and his jack 
have also left for the Citadel, 'hoping to resolve the current 
difficulties,'" the druid repeated, the bitterness plain in his 
voice.
    "The quest must not end here," Seton urged. "Reclaiming the 
orb or foiling the ambassador's plans, your journey must 
continue." The druid stood and picked up Kamahl's gear.
    "This was not my first stop after the Order's healers 
released me," the woodland fighter said. "I was able to secure 
you another steed. Come and I will introduce you to him." The 
centaur picked up Kamahl's gear with a single hand and headed 
into the forest, not bothering to wait for a response.
    The druid walked through the trees, his huge strides 
tentative but still forcing the barbarian to step rapidly to keep 
up with him. They arrived at the foot of a tall cliff after a 
long walk, one that obviously taxed the giant's strength. The 
vertical rock face climbed hundreds of feet, the limbs of trees 
seeming to peek out over the top of the ridge.
    "Unless this steed can fly or is invisible, I do not see it." 
Kamahl quipped as he reached the centaur's side. The druid 
chuckled painfully as he dropped the barbarian's gear and looked 
blearily to the sky.
    "Emerald!" he called. "Your rider is here!" A head popped out 
over the top of the cliff, eyes swiveling separately to peer down 
on the two below. A lizard stepped onto the side of the sheer 
wall, standing vertically a moment before it started down.
    "Emerald volunteered last night to provide you with 
transportation. He fed this morning and should be ready for days 
of hard riding."
    The barbarian moved back, nervous to be under a creature of 
such size descending with no visible means of support.
    "Do not worry," said Seton. "Emerald's kind can walk on a 
ceiling as long as the surface can hold the weight."
    The lizard was at the bottom of the cliff and stepped to the 
ground. Its body stood as high as a horse, though it was much 
longer. Emerald's long tail beat against the rock.
    "Exactly how am I going to ride it?" Kamahl said as he 
approached the beast. The centaur said nothing, swinging the 
saddle onto the animal's back. A long tongue darted out of the 
gecko's mouth and worked along the underside of the saddle. When 
the druid settled it all the way down, it squelched and then 
locked solid.
    "That will hold you and your gear even if you are upside 
down," Seton said with satisfaction. "Though you might want to 
grip with something besides your knees. Now climb aboard, and 
tell me how it feels."
    Kamahl approached cautiously and, using the saddle horn, 
pulled himself up. The lizard was huge, but the barrel of its 
body was close to the same width as a horse's.
    "How do I care for it?" Kamahl said uncertainly.
    Seton laughed. "Emerald is as smart as you are, even if he 
can't talk," the centaur explained. "When you want to get the 
saddle off, just tell him and lift. That tongue will smear 
something on its back that will break the saddle's grip. When you 
want to start out again, just do as I did." The druid lifted the 
rest of Kamahl's gear to him and helped secure it. "Emerald knows 
the way to the Order and how to avoid trouble. Just trust him to 
know where he is going."
    The forest warrior stepped back and settled down to rest. 
Before Kamahl could say anything the gecko started with a jerk.
    "Good luck in your quest, Kamahl," Seton called.
    The barbarian could only wave, hoping the druid saw him as he 
concentrated on adapting to the lizard's gait.
 
                       CHAPTER 15
 
    "The air is no place for a merman," Laquatus muttered as he 
held tightly to the soldier's waist. The ground was distant, and 
he was reminded of long swims in tropical seas. The clear water 
revealed the ocean floor far below. However, the air would not 
support the ambassador as he drifted down. He felt his jack's 
fears and knew only his unbending will and orders kept the frog 
from panic. He wondered how bruised the amphibian's companion 
would be when they landed again. He had convinced the captain his 
contacts with the Cabal and other continental powers would help 
her in discovering the source of the disturbances. Laquatus hoped 
to get her alone and work his mind-altering magic, but she gave 
him no chance. The strain of controlling Turg and his own fear 
sapped his energy throughout the griffin ride. Now the final 
destination was in sight, and he could hardly wait for the feel 
of dry land beneath his feet.
    Laquatus regretted his diminished power. He had been forced 
to abandon the mercenaries. Pianna was barely willing to allow 
the ambassador and his champion to accompany her. The merman 
hoped the underwater explorers had finally reached the Citadel. 
The promise of sea warriors and competent minions made the loss 
of the mercenaries bearable.
    The Citadel was a massive conglomeration of stone. The castle 
itself was on top of a rocky hill, the only visible road to the 
gates exposed to attack from above for its entire length. Double 
walls of stone reinforced with dozens of towers enclosed the top 
of the mesa. The central keep was less martial, the fineness of 
the stone work contrasting with the crudely worked blocks of the 
outer walls. But however brilliant the white rock appeared, 
Laquatus still noticed bars on the windows.
    There was a town at the base of the hill, tucked between the 
living rock and a stream flowing down from the north. The slate 
roofs of the tall houses nearly hid the cobblestone streets. The 
avenues looked crowded, and the ambassador could see wagons and 
tents in the town squares. The griffins had often soared over 
long caravans of refugees headed for the Citadel. The merman 
wondered where the additional people could be placed. The 
courtyard that the griffins aimed for seemed clear of any but 
Order officials, and Laquatus tried to guess how much longer that 
would be the case.
    The landing was a blur as the ambassador closed his eyes. The 
skybox had felt rock solid in comparison to a living steed, and 
he wondered if his sudden fear of heights would be temporary. The 
griffin landed with a lurch as it stumbled to a halt. Laquatus 
turned and watched Turg's ride land. The moment the flier's claws 
touched the ground the frog was off, running his hands over the 
solidity of the cobbles. It took the merman several moments to 
dismount, his legs locked with cramps. Finally, he commanded his 
champion to aid him to the ground. The Order soldiers showed 
disgusting ease as they hurried to unload their steeds of cargo, 
saddles, and harnesses.
    The stablemen moved slowly, as if listening for news. They 
looked at the pit frog and the ambassador with wide eyes, and 
Laquatus wondered what wild rumors would be circulating by the 
day's end. The officers and their guests stepped to the main 
keep, the several-story building looming over the merman like a 
cliff.
    They moved into the darker room, Laquatus's eyes adapting 
easily to the dim light coming through the narrow windows. Food 
was laid out on trestles. It was an example of the journey's 
hardship that Turg did not immediately fall upon the buffet but 
squatted down at the ambassador's side. The hugeness of the hall 
seemed to siphon the noise of its few inhabitants away. The 
ambassador carefully enhanced his senses and ached at the sudden 
cacophony. He carefully reined in his energy, hoping that the 
casting of his spell was undetected. The journey had taken quite 
a toll on him as well.
    The officers were off at an isolated table, small portions of 
food set before them, though neither ate. The merman's enhanced 
vision could see the irritation on both of their faces. The rest 
of the griffin scouts gave them a wide berth, and the server left 
a flagon of wine at the table rather than standing ready to pour. 
The ambassador was assaulted by thunder, and Turg stood with a 
threatening gesture. A serving man stumbled back with a tray of 
bread and wine.
    "Give it here, and then leave me alone!" Laquatus grated out. 
The impertinence of the man to disturb him while he was 
concentrating. Only the importance of eavesdropping prevented him 
from calling for the servant's supervisor. He made a note of the 
man's face for punishment at a later date. His attention shifted 
back to the officers in mid-argument.
    "I did not return to stay behind these walls," Kirtar said 
with obvious exasperation. "The fight is to the west, against the 
creatures of the forest." The bird warrior looked at the captain 
as if the stupidity of the original question could not be 
believed.
    "I ordered you back to oversee the deployment of militias. 
Your fighting has changed nothing except to strew corpses amongst 
the trees." Pianna drank quickly, trying to gain breathing room, 
to the ambassador's eyes. "Ever since your entry in the Cabal 
tournament you have lost interest in the Order. Have you 
succumbed to the lure of wealth and prizes?"
    "Wealth is a tool we can use to build the Order," Kirtar 
said, hammering down a goblet with a peal that split Laquatus's 
ears. "As for the prizes, I procured one that was worth any 
number of villages that fell while I competed."
    The lieutenant ignored the captain's indignant gasp and 
opened his pouch. Pianna looked down into the pouch, her eyes 
locked on the sphere. The lieutenant's fingers cupped it and 
raised it before her. The room fell silent as Order mages 
detected the throb of contained power and looked to the officers. 
Laquatus felt a surge of envy as the lieutenant pushed the sphere 
back into his pouch. The ambassador was surprised by the sour 
expression of the officer's face and could barely hear him 
mutter, "It's dimmer still."
    "Impressive enough," the captain said agreeably. "And I can 
understand your fascination with it. But what have you done since 
you received it?" The silence seemed to echo in the merman's 
ears.
    "I see," continued Pianna as several seconds passed without 
response. "Your prize was not used nor provoked any response 
other than influencing you to ignore your recall and engage in 
indiscriminate slaughter." She shook her head sadly.
    "You are less than you were when you left," she stated 
emphatically. "You had plans, but once you held that power in 
your hands you could only use violence. It corrupted you without 
doing anything but offering you magic you had not earned." 
Bitterness and resolution filled her tone. "I have never seen a 
better example of an artifact curbing and shrinking a soul. You 
must give it up."
    "I will not!" replied the lieutenant hotly. "It is only that 
I don't know how to use it," he confessed, his pale skin flushing 
in the dim light. "It was bright with glory once, but every time 
I look at it, the visions grow fainter. I don't know what to do. 
I know only that this is valuable, and it represents the 
salvation of the Order."
    "It is a chain that is dragging you down. You speak of what 
you can do, what you know," she said gently. "You must give it 
up, even if it must be destroyed."
    The bird warrior started but with visible effort stifled his 
initial response and nodded.
    "The Order and the Strictures must come first," he said 
reluctantly. "Only give me time to examine it a little more. You 
are right that I have done nothing with it other than let dreams 
of glory lead me astray. Give me a chance to investigate it a 
little more before we give it up to those who use the crushers." 
The captain nodded doubtfully as Laquatus tasted his heart in his 
mouth. Give the orb to the fanatics who thought the past should 
be erased? Those who spurned objects of enchantment and condemned 
wonders to the grinding wheels of their one sanctioned machine? 
He would see the Citadel ground to dust before he allowed the orb 
to be damaged.
    Kirtar excused himself and left. It took a moment for the 
ambassador to break his trance and send his jack after him. 
Perhaps it would take an obvious intervention to take the sphere 
from these fools. He hoped the underground explorers would find a 
route soon.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Turg lurked behind a pile of heavy canvas, waiting for the 
lieutenant to speak. The frog had followed the officer and stayed 
at a distance. Laquatus soon begged off any further talks with 
the captain or her representatives, citing his exhaustion from 
the journey. Now the ambassador rode the frog's spirit, nudging 
him closer to hear the conspirators.
    At least that was merman's belief. The bird warrior left, but 
instead of retiring directly to his room he spoke to several 
knights before visiting the armory. Laquatus had a bad moment 
when he saw the shape of a great crusher filling a building's 
interior. Several squires pushed a capstan, driving the interior 
mechanisms. A robotic bird was thrown into the machine's gaping 
mouth, and a series of smashing collisions sounded, then died 
down as tiny pieces of the forbidden technology came out the 
other end. A pile of mechanical limbs and less definable work 
filled a basket that the presiding officer continued to empty.
    Laquatus very nearly sent his champion charging for the orb 
at that moment. Kirtar had shook himself and left the crusher 
with a look of fresh determination on his face. Once more he 
stopped to give a message, and this time Turg was able to hear.
    "The dungeon just after midnight."
    The frog spent hours waiting in sight of Kirtar's quarters, 
but the bird warrior did not come out again. Dinner came and 
went, and the frog's belly grumbled.
    In camouflage, he raided the remnants of the evening meal, 
then headed for the dungeon. Rather than the vast cavern that 
Laquatus expected, just several empty cells in a tower's base 
served as the Order's prison. Only the distinc-tive smell allowed 
the frog to find it without asking for directions. Laquatus was 
heartened that even the Order's ideals could not negate the need 
for small rooms reeking of despair and filth. The frog breathed 
the odor in deeply before hiding behind stores in the main room.
    Kirtar arrived first, inspecting the chamber carefully. 
Laquatus fed a minute portion of power to Turg, and the spell, 
combined with the champion's natural camouflage, prevented his 
discovery. Other knights arrived until five moved to a table. 
Laquatus noticed with little surprise that all were aven bird 
warriors. Kirtar spoke, and the others listened silently. The 
door was not whisperwood, so the lieutenant talked softly.
    "I and my fathers have served the Order loyally. You have all 
been warriors in the Order without any blemish on your service. 
None may say otherwise."
    Turg could hear the rustling of nods and crept out a bit 
beyond the bags to see the conspiracy.
    "But to be loyal to the Order means that sometimes the 
Strictures must be disobeyed, ill-conceived commands must be 
ignored."
    There were fewer signs of agreement, but there was an 
affirmative air about the group,
    "I won a great prize while competing in the tourney," Kirtar 
continued. "While defending the helpless, even in that evil city, 
I defeated a dragon."
    Another nod of assent and a bit of pride showed among the 
warriors at one of their own overcoming such a beast.
    "These are difficult times for the Order," the lieutenant 
said quietly. "The forest has risen and assaulted our lands as 
never before."
    "Aye," said a grizzled voice as one of the others 
interrupted. "So many refugees have arrived that they are filling 
up the town. The captain says that soon we will have to start 
bringing families within the Citadel walls."
    "Exactly," said the lieutenant, showing irritation at being 
interrupted. "The captain has a good heart and believes in the 
Strictures, but that is not enough in these difficult days. It 
will take boldness, and while Pianna is no coward, she is not 
bold. The best way to protect the refugees is to stop them from 
being displaced." A murmur of agreement filled the room. "We must 
take the fight to the forest."
    The dead silence through Turg's ears told Laquatus that this 
extreme step was not popular. The lieutenant seemed to know that 
and quickly continued.
    "The prize that the rumors speak of I have with me," he said, 
opening his pouch. The thrill of power shook everyone in the 
room. Turg's camouflage flickered, but such was the group's 
fascination that no one saw. "The captain saw its strength but in 
blind obedience to the Strictures wants it destroyed. She would 
not consider using it and never held it. Touch it now," Kirtar 
said and laid it on the center of the table.
    Each bird warrior stroked it, and one and all were lost in 
some interior vision. Turg tensed as Laquatus wondered about 
attacking the gathering while they were stunned. But they shook 
off their bemusement, all except the lieutenant, with reluctance. 
Kirtar looked dissatisfied.
    "Once it filled the heart with peals of glory, but now it is 
only a ghost of what it was." Disbelief showed on the other 
faces. "I know what the problem is. I have let my own reluctance 
to use this power destroy the potential that originally resided 
in this prize. I can afford to wait no longer. The magic must be 
used, and we must take the Order in a new direction." The officer 
looked each warrior in the eyes in turn.
    "Tomorrow I will take the captain's place, and you must all 
act to support me when I do."
    Turg retreated as the members of the coup left.
    "Treachery, always a popular choice with subordinates," 
Laquatus mused as he directed his jack away from the plotters. 
This betrayal might be just what he needed.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    "There is no reason for these attacks, your Excellency," the 
captain said to Laquatus. The ambassador had begged an audience 
with Pianna, hoping to find some other angle to grasp advantage. 
Besides the excellent news of a power struggle within the Order, 
Laquatus had felt a whisper from the tresias stone during the 
night. An explorer had finally proved a path to the Citadel 
through the underground rivers. Further reinforcements followed 
to give Laquatus enough power to take action against the Order.
    The ambassador sent Turg below with the stone, telling
    Satas all that occurred and that he must bring soldiers as 
quickly as possible. It might be possible to pluck the prize 
right from the Order's fingers without any of the knights being 
the wiser. While he waited for the frog's return, he sat in the 
captain's office offering his services to the Order.
    "The lieutenant's incursion into the forest seemed to provoke 
even more of a response," she said as she showed the merman her 
intelligence maps.
    "I always believed that he might be exceeding his authority," 
Laquatus said in a sweet tone. He waited for a response to his 
overtures, but Pianna was looking at the map. Then she grabbed a 
set of reports and began rifling through them, checking 
something.
    "Yes, yes, yes," she cried out, relief plain on her face. "I 
couldn't see it before because we never put down the dates of the 
attacks." She grabbed up a pen and put a series of broad arrows 
on the map. She ignored the rattle of pins falling to the floor. 
"We never saw a focus to the attacks because the center pulling 
the attacks shifted over time. Kirtar was what the forest reacted 
to."
    "The lieutenant?" Laquatus said nonplussed. "He can be 
irritating but surely not to an entire forest. Do not give him 
credit for being more than he is."
    "Not the lieutenant," Pianna said. "It's that damn prize of 
his. He was awarded it where we saw the strongest attack, and the 
rest of them seem to be moving in his direction when he rode to 
the southern plains. We need to destroy that orb immediately."
    "I knew that would be your thinking," Kirtar said as he moved 
into the room. Laquatus could see the bird warriors lining up in 
the room beyond. "Anything that violates the Strictures must be 
destroyed."
    "It has nothing to do with the Strictures, Lieutenant," 
Pianna replied, drawing herself upright as she heard his insolent 
tone. "I believe your prize is what provokes the forest. There 
will be additional attacks in this direction even as we speak. We 
must destroy it or dispose of it immediately."
    "Get rid of it?" laughed Kirtar. "Even if I believed you, why 
would I want to throw it away?" He put his hand in his pouch and 
drew the orb forth. Its power once more struck the ambassador.
    "Anything that can rouse the entire forest can be used to 
tame it," Kirtar stated. "That is what the Order is dedicated to, 
is it not? Curing the world of its wildness and chaos?"
    The captain moved around the table, her face calm. "But what 
about the villages destroyed and the refugees made homeless as 
you search for a way to use the orb?" Pianna walked slowly toward 
the door and Kirtar. "As a knight, you took an oath to protect 
them." She raised her hand as if to pluck the orb from his 
oversized fist. Energy flared and coated her, locking her in 
place. Laquatus could see her expression slowly starting to 
change from determination to astonishment only to stop halfway 
through the shift.
    "Unlike you, I know it is sometimes necessary to make a 
sacrifice," Kirtar said as he retrieved Pianna's sword, her 
symbol of Order authority.
    Power poured from the orb. A growing mass of purest crystal 
shimmered into being as Laquatus stood, feeling for his soldiers 
below. The throb of ocean magic reassured him as the lieutenant 
turned his attention toward him. The orb's magic seemed to light 
up the bird warrior's features, and the ambassador bowed slightly 
as if to acknowledge the aven's superiority.
    "I trust there will be no problems, Laquatus."
    The merman nodded, thinking how he could take advantage. The 
power continued to grow, and the ambassador wondered if the 
lieutenant was preparing to destroy him. But Kirtar's look of 
victory changed to one of confusion and then fear. The crystal 
around the captain pulsed and began to grow, inching across the 
floor as the bird warrior gripped the orb tightly, concentration 
freezing his face.
    He seemed to collapse inward, panting. Cries sounded beyond 
the room. "Mutiny" and "Save the captain" could be heard as the 
lieutenant once more tried to force his spell to stop. He fell, 
and his supporters rushed into the room.
    "I can't control it!" he gushed, stricken with fear. The bird 
warriors looked at Laquatus, threats in their eyes, and one 
started toward him, murder plain in his face.
    "There is no time," another soldier exclaimed. The crystal 
grew faster, and the ambassador unconsciously retreated.
    "Let the spell take him!" With that they plucked the 
lieutenant up and retreated through the door.
    Laquatus tried to follow, but the crystal was already too 
close to the wall. The stone began to sparkle, and then it too 
was engulfed in crystal. The merman was trapped with no way out, 
the spell expanding in irregular spurts. He tripped over a chair, 
holding the seat out as if to halt the effect. The wooden legs 
froze in place well above the floor.
    "Turg," he called to below, "Captain Satas! Open a portal! 
Immediately!" He backed up against the wall. Could he cut his way 
through the stone? He was trying to raise power when he felt the 
tickle of the portal forming at his back. He fell through the 
wall screaming, "Close it! Close it now!"
 
                       CHAPTER 16
 
    Once more Kamahl ran to a city, his legs pumping. But unlike 
the roads to city, Cabal people were everywhere, packing the 
trail to capacity. He threaded the crowds as he once threaded 
razor shards in the mountains during his training. The travelers 
were refugees from the western border's violence. Ever since he 
left the giant gecko, Emerald, he had run through despairing 
crowds. As he approached the Citadel, there were expressions of 
hope in the faces about him. However, the crush in front of the 
gates seemed to press out the travelers' optimism. The low wall 
surrounding the town was unguarded except for a frustrated 
soldier trying to direct the incoming traffic. He never saw the 
metal-hued barbarian with the great sword, his eyes nearly blind 
from staring at the constant flow of refugees.
    Running was impossible now, but Kamahl persevered. He shoved 
his way through the masses, aiming for the great castle on the 
hill. If there were guards in the city, they were lost in the 
crying crowds. It seemed the entire world tried to reach a place 
to eat or sleep. Large men with clubs stood before every inn.
    "There is no room, move on. Move on," they called to those 
trying to enter. The staves were not used except to prod the 
persistent away. Kamahl wondered how much longer that would be 
true.
    The road up the side of the hill was thick with people. A 
steady stream of Order uniforms came down to the town to help 
with the crowds. A few refugees struggled up the path, pressing 
on to the greater safety of the castle walls. Despite all their 
martial posturing, the Order compromised their defenses, so those 
on the road would not fail to find shelter.
    Kamahl continued through the multitudes, confident that he 
finally had his bearings in the narrow streets. He arrived at the 
bottom of the road and there tasted the ambassador's duplicity.
    "Hold!" a sentry cried. More guards converged on the mountain 
mage.
    "It is the barbarian!" yelled the corporal commanding the 
lower detachment. "Take no chances with him!"
    The people around Kamahl tried to retreat as the soldiers 
formed up, their spears still in the air as they jockeyed for 
room to maneuver. On the walls of the fortress above, the 
barbarian could see other soldiers drawing weapons. Should he try 
to lose himself in the crowd?
    He was sick of retreat, and if the prize were truly his, then 
he would fight for it. He threw his cloak back and revealed the 
armor and bracers on his wrists. Before he could give formal 
challenge, a guard raised a crossbow from behind the spear wall 
and discharged it.
    His hand threw out a line of fire, and he turned during the 
split second of the missile's flight. The flame ate through the 
bolt, withering the shaft and melting away the head. What was 
left of the cowardly attack shattered on his armored side. He 
looked at the detachment, his rage radiating in all directions. 
The refugees continued to retreat as far as they were able, the 
Order tensing for his response. He took gobs of wax from a pouch 
at his side and stuffed them in his ears. The cries of the crowd 
and whatever commands issued from the corporal were cut off.
    Knowing that false accusations might be made against him, 
Kamahl was prepared to batter his opponents into submission. Tiny 
black globes flew from his hands and began to detonate. The 
explosions occurred well in front of the spearmen, but the 
concussions spilled them back with each throw. The barbarian 
quickly glanced up the road. No reinforcements coming yet.
    Another bolt came at him, but his magic was fully energized, 
and it seemed to dissipate in midair. Kamahl threw more globes, 
and these exploded inside the enemy ranks. Soldiers tumbled to 
the sides, deafened by the noise. The crossbowman lay on the 
ground, his entire body bruised from the close detonation.
    Kamahl watched his back, but the tight press of refugees 
prevented guards from getting through. Signs of panic were 
everywhere as civilians tried to flee, and the mass of onlookers 
crippled the Order's response as surely as it manacled Kamahl's 
own actions. The barbarian started up the road.
    He jogged, his footfalls thudding in his ears as he passed 
people cowering on the road's surface. A man bellowed, and Kamahl 
thought he heard, "The forest, the forest," but he swept by 
before he could be sure. If the town believed there was an attack 
from the west, the mountain mage was in no hurry to correct them.
    Even through the wax he could hear cries, but none seemed to 
mention him. He slowed and twitched his trailing cloak back over 
his gear. The hilt of his sword peeking over his shoulder 
proclaimed to all that he was no helpless refugee, but perhaps 
the guards at the gate were as confused as those in the town. He 
spared a look behind him. A wave of people was coming up from the 
city. The jostling masses had no idea what was going on, and he 
realized they sought the safety of the castle.
    Even at his reduced pace he reached the gates well before the 
refugees from below. The passageway through the defenses was 
unbarred, and he carefully walked through. He dug the wax from 
one ear, the cries of the crowd behind him echoing off the stone 
walls. He moved farther into the Citadel, ready to wrap himself 
in flame, but there was no one. He turned a blind corner into the 
courtyard.
    There he found the Order. They fought among themselves. Bands 
of knights and men-at-arms squared off. A few bird warriors stood 
before the combatants, wrapped in magical armor. Glowing like the 
sun, they called for peace, but appeals for discipline were 
useless. The bands of soldiers met in hand-to-hand combat. Flesh 
and fists reinforced by mystic will assailed foes wearing a 
shared livery. Bones shattered, and the fallen were dragged free 
without regard for allegiance by the Order's healers.
    The combatants bludgeoned each other but abstained from 
plying their blades. Only their open hands were enhanced. The 
Citadel made war upon itself, but a brotherhood of centuries 
could not be overturned in a single day.
    Individual soldiers began to come at Kamahl. He drew his 
sword and slapped the fighters away. He advanced along the 
courtyard's edge, careful to use the flat of his blade. The roar 
of explosives would unite the fighters and would surely bring 
them against him. He circled, aiming for the central keep. He 
knew in his bones that Kirtar would be at the center of this 
struggle.
    Magic assaulted his senses. The spell should have been lost 
among the contesting mages, but Kamahl felt it, like a cold stone 
lodged in his gut. The power was muted, but it grew. What he felt 
was surely only the first stirrings. He knew not what magic 
pealed forth, but he knew that the orb must be involved. The 
purity and purpose of the spell lifted it far above the crude 
castings in the yard. He needed to reach Kirtar and the prize.
    Disdaining the low profile he had kept so far, he ran for the 
keep door, black pellets flying before him. The explosions wiped 
the guards away, leaving only the gate to oppose him. The great 
door had a smaller entry in one panel.
    His sword arced high and then cleaved its way into the iron-
reinforced wood, cutting through latches. Through his one clear 
ear he heard the cries of the crowds coming through the gates 
only to be confronted by a civil war within the walls. Another 
blow sliced the final latch, and he jumped through.
    The orb's spell grew louder and more strident in his mind. He 
looked for Kirtar, but the main hall was empty. His peripheral 
vision caught a shadow of movement, and he raised his arm. Claws 
shrieked on the iron bracer, and he half-spun at the impact. 
Another strike fell on his back, ripping through his cloak and 
scoring the studded leather over his shoulder. He swept his sword 
in a circle, slicing through the air. The scrabble of feet led 
his eyes to his foe.
    Turg crouched just out of reach. Kamahl lunged forward, his 
sword a ribbon of flame, but the frog jumped to the side, seeming 
to vanish as the blade curved to skewer him. The amphibian was 
gone, hidden, and Kamahl dug the other gob of wax from his ear. 
He listened but could hear nothing besides the noise of the crowd 
outside.
    A movement close by registered on his senses, and he darted 
toward the foe. But the signs faded away, and his boots suddenly 
lost traction. Feet flying from under him, he fetched up against 
a wall. Turg flickered into view right over him, the amphibian's 
hands reaching for his calf. Kamahl's dagger punched into the 
frog's thigh even as the claws started to shred his muscles. He 
tried to extend the thrust, aiming for arteries, but the 
amphibian vanished, a trail of blood leading to tables of food. A 
loaf vanished from sight, and the spatters stopped. The 
barbarian's own leg bled freely. He sent fingers of flame 
crawling over the gashes, sealing the injury as he screamed in 
pain.
    The hall was huge, and the frog might be anywhere inside it. 
Kamahl threw showers of flame into the upper reaches, burning 
brighter until the barbarian's eyes stung.
    A cluster of odd shadows appeared, and Kamahl knew where Turg 
was. The barbarian charged an axe and let it fly, trailing magic 
as it sank into the stone floor. It vanished in a globe of 
destruction. Turg leaped, an arc of lightning streaming toward 
the barbarian. The power grounded against the wall and charred an 
arc to the floor as Kamahl threw himself away. He rolled several 
times and came up with his sword ready. A crater showed where his 
axe had detonated. There was no sign of the frog.
    The mountain warrior looked for shadows, but the flares above 
the floor were dying out, his magic leaking power. A bank of 
clouds seemed to extinguish them, and Kamahl saw the illusion of 
rain sweeping across the hall. He tried to detect the frog's 
energy but the orb's spell still shrilled behind him. Fighting 
the mer champion was not his goal, and he moved into a corridor 
toward the source of the magic and Kirtar.
    A barrage of metal plates rang against the sides of the 
corridor. They skipped off the floor and glanced off his wounded 
leg. He sent fireballs arcing up the corridor in response.
    "Dinnerware," he snorted, the amusement breaking his 
concentration, as pain had not. More projectiles flew, and he 
knelt, holding his sword before him. Kamahl created an intense 
shield of flame to devour the iron plates that might be launched 
against him. Instead he smelled charred fish, and a stream of 
bodies vaporized in his protection. He looked to the side. A sea 
creature with long limbs flopped on the floor. The flying fish 
expired as the shield's heat dried it out.
    "Find Kirtar," Kamahl growled to himself. The shield broke 
into shards, and he sent them flowing up the corridor slowly, 
blocking the amphibian's advance. The barbarian hurried, 
remembering the orb and listening to the spell's strength. He 
reached a cross-corridor and at last spotted the lieutenant.
    Kirtar looked nearly dead, his pale skin somehow appearing 
transparent. The bird warrior was being carried by other aven, 
and his eyes swept over the barbarian without recognition. His 
hands cupped the prize. Kirtar, once so arrogant and proud, was 
dying before the barbarian's eyes.
    "It's still spreading!" called a soldier looking back the way 
they had come. "We need to get out the postern gate before it 
cuts us off!"
    The soldiers started forward again, carrying the warrior's 
destiny away.
    "Kirtar!" Kamahl bellowed. A door opened onto a stairway, and 
a gaggle of servants surged into the corridor. The leaders 
screamed as the barbarian thundered forward, forcing him to slow 
lest he crush the innocents in his rage. A circle of lightning 
flared, stopping him in his tracks.
    The servants stood frozen. In the corridor beyond, Turg 
flickered back into sight, the frog laughing at Kamahl through 
the screen of dead civilians. He vanished from sight as illusion 
surged over him, and the servants collapsed to the floor.
    "The frog must have raced past under the cover of the fish," 
Kamahl swore. He drew power, grounding it to his sword. The steel 
danced with flame, and he prepared to send it streaking up the 
corridor to flush the amphibian out.
    "Murderer!" came the cry from behind him. Members of the 
Order stood, fury evident as they looked at the barbarian and the 
circle of dead innocents. All were armored, and Kamahl could hear 
more soldiers crowding behind them. The front rank raised maces, 
their heads wrapped in deadly golden light.
    The barbarian threw an exploding pellet of flame, the 
concussion echoing off the walls and sending him tumbling back. 
The narrow corridor acted to concentrate the blast toward him. 
His ears ringing, he got to his feet. The explosion had spun him 
around, and he could see Turg bent over in amusement, his wide 
mouth a gigantic smile. A shaft of flame sped toward the 
amphibian only to shatter in mid-air. A wave of magic seeping 
through the wall had already cut off the corridor. It resonated 
with the orb's magical signature, and Kamahl knew he had found 
the source of the magical call swamping his senses.
    The frog blew him a kiss and vanished from sight. Shards of 
fire impacted uselessly against the magic as the mountain mage 
realized himself cut off from the amphibian and Lieutenant 
Kirtar. Trapped, he turned to the coming soldiers. They were not 
dazed by his concussions. Completely armored in light, they only 
shouted with derision at his explosions. He could not hear them, 
but he could see their faces and knew they were beyond reason.
    Pillars of fire rose up to char the plaster, cutting off his 
sight of the Order knights. He turned to the crystal wall, 
wondering if he might somehow tunnel through. A shoe had come off 
one of the dead servants, and he kicked it toward the barrier. It 
struck the border and stuck there, becoming frozen even as he 
watched.
    He could feel his spells dying, and he saw the enhanced 
swords and maces smashing through the curtain of fire. Contempt 
was in every figure stepping into the hall, and he acknowledged 
his defeat. He must kill and escape the Citadel before being 
slain by the massed opposition of the Order.
    Kamahl lifted his sword and once again the brilliant fire 
that could devour iron shimmered off the blade. But instead of 
attacking the knights, he sent the pulse of flame into the walls. 
Rock ran like water, and wood vanished in explosions of gas as 
fire gutted the Citadel's structure. Supporting walls were cut, 
and timbers burnt away leaving nothing to support the walls and 
ceiling over the men coming to kill Kamahl.
    Rubble cascaded over the soldiers, burying them in a sea of 
dust and stone. The barbarian held his cloak over his face, 
unable to retreat because of the crystal wall at his back. The 
dust started to clear, and Kamahl could see a sloping ramp of 
rock leading to the upper floors. He started forward only to be 
caught short as his cloak held him in place. The tattered train 
of his garment was already frozen in the crystal wall. He cut 
himself free with a knife, leaving the cloak to be preserved in 
the crystal. He scrambled up the ramp, the stones settling as he 
neared the upper floors. Suddenly reality quivered, and Kamahl 
froze. The orb, its echo familiar to the barbarian, was active, 
but its ambiance had changed. The new tone set his teeth on edge. 
The orb was different, and Kamahl started up the ramp again, 
determined to find out what had happened.
 
                       CHAPTER 17
 
    Laquatus fell screaming through the portal, the icy water 
ending his cry as his body shiv-ered through its transformation. 
Turg swam forward-due to the merman's subconscious demand or of 
his own free will, the ambas-sador had no idea. The shock of the 
water cleared his mind. He thought of the orb in Kirtar's hands. 
The lieutenant had been weak, barely able to stand. The Order 
fought among themselves, and the town was bursting with refugees. 
This was the moment of maximum chaos. Should he attack in force?
    A look at his soldiers revealed this to be an impossibility.
    The transport mage was present and a few tresias, but Captain 
Satas and his squads of fighters were nowhere. They must still be 
travelling the last few miles. There was no time! He must act 
before the prize was destroyed or transferred to a more powerful 
person.
    "Open the way to the surface," Laquatus ordered the transport 
mage. "Just inside the castle walls would be best." He began to 
concentrate, building on his link with Turg.
    "I cannot, your Excellency," came the reply behind him. The 
merman spun, his composure broken as he bore down on the mage.
    "Why not!" Laquatus grabbed the amphibian's whiskers, knowing 
them to transmit pain, and pulled them viciously. The mage hissed 
in agony until the ambassador loosened his grip.
    "The spell that you fled touched the portal and drained my 
power," the mage said, pulling its whiskers through the merman's 
fingers. "It will be some time before I may cast another spell."
    Laquatus wondered if the universe itself was against him.
    "There must be another way to the surface," the merman raged, 
twisting in the water wildly, trying to think of a way through 
the rock above him. He felt trapped, dependent as he was on 
another to cast the spell.
    "We created a permanent opening outside of the city," the 
mage said as its shivers of pain stopped. The blind cave dweller 
backed away as if to deny the ambassador further opportunity for 
violence. "Captain Satas ordered a permanent pool to be opened in 
the rough country to ease the placement of spies and travel of 
messengers."
    "Why didn't you say so earlier?" the merman said. He gathered 
his champion and what guards were available and left for the 
permanent pool. Perhaps there was still time. In short order they 
exited to the upper world, the ambassador racked with momentary 
disorientation as he transformed into a walker once more.
    Laquatus appeared at the foot of the citadel near the lower 
wall. Gullies and heavy brush backed the hill on which the castle 
sat. The thick growth made movement difficult but infiltration 
fairly easy. The ambassador was surprised that the Order had not 
placed traps or at least planted poisonous shrubs. However, he 
was willing to take advantage of the situation.
    There were no roads or paths around the hill to the castle 
gates. Knowing that time was of the essence, he sank into a 
trance, preparing to act once more through the jack. The 
camouflaged amphibian worked his way to the winding road, careful 
to be unobserved as he dropped from above. A surge of people 
ascended the path below him, and soldiers came down from above. 
The ambassador sent pulses of illusion and misdirection, 
reinforcing the jack's camouflage as he climbed to the main part 
of the Citadel.
    Explosions shook the air, and Laquatus sent the frog up at a 
run, tearing through the gates. He saw Kamahl force his way past 
the guard. Covering the intervening courtyard without becoming 
involved with the fighting was nearly impossible, but he did it. 
The jack threw himself rolling past the barbarian as the metal-
hued warrior turned back to look outside. The frog made quite a 
bit of noise, and he ran ahead lest he be caught in close 
quarters. But the barbarian gave no sign that he noticed the sea 
warrior through the web of deceit, and Laquatus resolved to 
attack.
    His attempt to ambush the mountain mage failed, and Kamahl 
forged ahead of the mer champion, blocking Turg's path to the 
lieutenant and the prize. Petulance at his opponent's poor timing 
sent the ambassador and his frog into a rage. He grabbed every 
thing he could from the tables to throw down the hall. Goblets, 
platters, and bones whistled through the air, only to be rendered 
harmless by the barbarian's defenses.
    Laquatus reigned his temper in. Kirtar had the real prize, 
and time wasted on Kamahl took true power farther away every 
minute. Besides, who knew how far the crystal wave might travel? 
The castle might be uninhabitable at any moment, and he was 
having a food fight.
    Realizing how trivial the barbarian really was, he unleashed 
a school of flying fish as a distraction, passing the barbarian 
in a cloud of deceit. The frog shied away from the white flame 
surrounding Kamahl, the heat drying his skin, making him 
dangerously lethargic.
    Once past, Turg wondered which way to go, confused for a 
moment as to where Kirtar might be. Seeing a stairway he moved 
into it. A barrel of water for washing the floor delayed Turg as 
he drank the filthy water down, his primitive instincts 
overriding Laquatus's sophistication.
    The ambassador reestablished control with a burst of will. He 
must find the prize. While he wondered where to go, clattering 
footsteps descended the stairs. He faded into the shadows. He 
glimpsed Kirtar, the object of his quest, carried past by three 
guards. He moved to follow, only to be blocked by a group of 
servants retreating from upstairs.
    "I will not be denied," thundered Laquatus in Turg's skull, 
and lighting arced from his fingers, slaying those in his way. He 
ran after the lieutenant, seeing the wave of crystal already 
coming through the wall.
    The jack moved silently, running after the warriors 
retreating from their master's disastrous spell. The aven stopped 
as the lieutenant called out.
    "I must try again," he insisted in a hollow voice, the words 
barely audible even to Turg's excellent ears. The bird warriors 
kept moving until he weakly swatted at their hands, the palest 
glow surrounding his fists. "I command the Order, now stop!" The 
three did so reluctantly.
    "Sir, you have tried so many times to turn the spell," one 
said, his eyes signaling that he wanted to run. "Why should you 
succeed this time."
    Kirtar folded himself around the orb.
    "Because I must," he said. The lieutenant's frame shivered 
violently, but he regained control. "The crystal devours me. Find 
out what is happening." The mage lost himself in a trance.
    The retainers separated, one going to check on the advancing 
spell, the other going ahead. Laquatus watched through the 
amphibian's eyes as the bird warrior looked back, hesitation 
plain in his face. Then he turned abruptly and walked away.
    Once the lieutenant has a single retainer, Turg ran down the 
corridor, a lance of lightning surging from his hands. The 
ambassador put everything into the link, the electrical arc 
growing until it was arm-thick. The stroke continued through the 
soldier's body, burning away the plaster on a wall ten feet away. 
The frog collapsed, his spells exhausted as the last barrier to 
the orb fell.
    Kirtar's eyes were clear, jolted out of his trance as the 
amphibian crawled closer. The leader of the Order lay slack, 
shock visible on his face. He began to tremble once more and 
pushed out his palm as if to command the world to halt. Turg 
glanced behind him. The wall of crystal was advancing faster. 
Laquatus knew it was time to claim the prize.
    The lieutenant cried out as Turg plucked the sphere from the 
aven's hand. The bird warrior faded even further as he lost touch 
with the sphere. The ambassador ignored everything as his 
champion gripped the prize. The bright mirror finish of the orb 
darkened, the reflected light from the spreading crystal lost as 
the prize changed. The ambassador forced the pit frog to retreat, 
lest it be entombed with the others. Rousing the will to move was 
as difficult a battle as any Laquatus had ever fought.
    Turg blindly stumbled away, still looking at the wonder 
cupped in his hands. The sphere was the color of the seas, 
constantly shifting and changing. The blue of the tropics gave 
way to the gray of the northern reaches. The ambassador looked 
through the frog's eyes as the prize continued to change. The 
sphere became a globe of water-endless tides sweeping across it 
unhindered by the land. A world that hinted at wonders hidden 
under its surface.
    Turg tripped and tumbled with none of his deadly grace. Only 
the terrified shout of Laquatus's spirit prevented the prize from 
spinning out of the pit frog's grasp. The globe still called to 
the ambassador's mind, but he resisted the urge. There would be 
plenty of time to plumb its depths after the amphibian was safely 
back in camp.
    A call came from below, the calm voice of Captain Satas 
speaking through the ether. "I have arrived with new mages. Do 
you wish to return to the underworld?"
    "Yes!" shouted the ambassador's spirit. Turg fell into a pool 
of swirling energy as the tresias, and his mages reacted to the 
apparent source of the call. The shock of passage pulled the 
ambassador's spirit back to his rightful body. He shook himself 
awake and looked around. He was out of the gully, his clothes 
torn and bleeding from abrasions. The travel mage held onto his 
arms and bruising covered the minion's face.
    "Why am I out here?" Laquatus demanded, slapping away the 
blind hands as he felt his minor pains.
    "You left the entrance at a run, lost in your trance. You 
would not stop or respond," the mage said wretchedly. "The others 
were afraid to restrain you physically, and my weight was too 
slight to stop you. 1 tried to ensnare you in an illusion, but 
you went right through them. You moved without direction, 
dragging me through brush and bouncing off trees. 1 don't know 
where we are." The amphibian wailed, lost in the world beyond his 
caves.
    Laquatus had driven Turg often enough to realize that his 
link with the jack was bleeding back to him. As the aristocrat's 
spirit concerned itself solely with directing the frog, his own 
body responded to echoes of those commands. He would have to 
exercise more care in the future. But even with blood dripping 
from his face, the ambassador was in a good mood. Who cared where 
he was. He had captured the prize.
    "Do not worry," the merman said. "I have succeeded in 
everything."
    The ambassador must have come hundreds of yards in his blind 
rush. Now a squad of griffins fell from the sky, their shrieks of 
anger reminding Laqautus that the Order considered itself 
attacked from without and within.
    "Satas," he called through his stone, "hide all signs of the 
portal and prepare to take me away." He waited precious seconds 
as the Order landed in a clearing only yards away.
    "I cannot," the tresias said sorrowfully. "Like his companion 
before, my transport mage is spent in pulling your champion away. 
We cannot rescue you at this time."
    The merman thought quickly, trapped with only his own 
resources.
    "Send Turg to me through the permanent portal now," he cried 
through the mental plane. "Keep the orb safe until I return."
    He commanded his champion to come. The frog resisted, still 
entranced by the sphere, but the ambassador owned his soul. With 
a despairing cry, the jack came through the portal, running 
toward the ambassador.
    "What incredible luck," Laqautus cried, stepping rapidly to 
greet the griffin riders as they came through the brush. "Now the 
traitors are doomed," he said confidently. Confusion replaced the 
hostility on the riders' faces.
    "What are you talking about?" a soldier snarled, rage burning 
through his bemusement. "The traitors are trapped in the Citadel. 
We came to question you," he added, driving his steed closer.
    "Monstrous!" the ambassador howled, as the sound of Turg 
breaking through the brush made the riders turn. "My champion has 
been chasing the brigands, trying to cut off the barbarian's 
allies." Turg was torn and bloody, his wounded thigh once again 
seeping.
    "We saw Kamahl meet with warriors dressed in hooded robes 
less than an hour ago. We then informed Lieutenant Kirtar of the 
notorious murderer and his confederates. He assured me that he 
would act to protect the Order," said the ambassador. At the 
news, a few soldiers sympathetic to Kirtar took it upon 
themselves to heal Turg.
    The detachment head appeared lost, uncertain of everything,
    The news of the mutiny must have been unbearable to most of 
the Order, the ambassador knew. The captain was very popular, and 
Kirtar was a fool not to kill her secretly. However, he knew any 
organization would accept outright lies to preserve the respect 
for its leaders.
    "Take me to Kirtar this instant," Laquatus demanded, betting 
on the bird warrior's death.
    He and his champion were mounted once more on griffins, and 
they flew toward the Citadel. The ambassador fought his fear of 
flying by dreaming up contingency lies. People streamed down the 
road from the castle, a few soldiers rushing from entrances. A 
hole was blown out the upper stories.
    "Damned barbarian," the sea mage heard his rider mutter.
    They landed, and Laquatus and Turg were rushed to the current 
leader of the Order, Pianna's sword in his hand.
    Laquatus stepped forward to spin his tale, confident his 
story would be confirmed.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Laquatus rode through the city gates, accepting the accolades 
with a dignified nod. The knights and soldiers of the Order were 
drawn up and saluted him and his champion as they started their 
brave ride for the sea.
    The new captain was very understanding of the ambassador's 
need to leave, not trusting anyone as he struggled for unity with 
soldiers still reeling from rumors of murder and mutiny.
    Officially, the barbarian Kamahl and unnamed conspirators 
infiltrated the fortress, and Kirtar had discovered it too late. 
The lieutenant took control, rushing to protect Captain Pianna 
who had already fallen to internal betrayers. Kamahl fought his 
way through the protective guards to join the murderers. Kirtar 
fell in personal battle with the barbarian. The mountain warrior 
cut his way out of the castle to the plains. There was no sign of 
Kamahl, and Laquatus doubted the new captain would waste time 
looking for the barbarian when he had traitors to root out. The 
ambassador wondered if the lie would hold. But what matter the 
fables of the plains? He had captured the orb, and the Order 
could believe what it wanted.
    After an hour they stopped, the merman anxious to leave his 
new retinue behind. Laquatus conducted a series of personal 
interviews, and the convoy continued on without him and his 
champion. The ride back to the portal was tortuous, the road 
seeming far longer. Turg moved in camouflage, while the merman 
rode in a borrowed cloak. Selective illusions took them past 
soldiers and regular travelers.
    At last they left the path and headed for the portal open 
outside the city. It was dark as they made their way through the 
brush and into the gully. The pool gave off a feeble glow, the 
light caught by the overhang above. He reentered the underground, 
sliding through the transformation with ease. Only a small squad 
awaited him, and he wondered where Captain Satas might be.
    "Where is the rest of my escort?" Laquatus called as Turg 
swam for a cache of supplies and fell to eating. A tresias 
approached and the ambassador noticed the heavy bruising that he 
himself had inflicted hours before.
    "Captain Satas has gone ahead to the emperor, carrying your 
captured prize," the blind amphibian said, keeping away from the 
merman. "He decided such an important artifact must be conducted 
to his Imperial Highness as rapidly as possible." The small 
creature swam backward and crowded against the wall, fearing an 
angry explosion.
    Laquatus did nothing. The captain led him by hours and with 
his smaller stature and better routes could not be intercepted 
before he reached the sea. The tresias formed the backbone of the 
officer core and messenger system that he used to communicate 
with his forces. There was no way to reach his personal 
retainers. Perhaps he could fly overland and beat Satas to the 
sea? But he did not know the Captain's route and access to the 
underground was under the bastard's control. He might be unable 
to even reenter the subterranean rivers.
    The prize had slipped beyond his fingers once more, and worst 
of all, it had fallen into the hands of the emperor, his master.
 
                       CHAPTER 18
 
    Aboshan, Emperor of the Seas, reclined in his palace 
listening to a courtier. The cephalid shifted his tentacles, 
sliding back into the throne. No mere chair, the pile of coral 
was covered with short growths endlessly moving over his skin. 
The organisms cleaned and feed small amounts of power to him 
drawn from the building's essence. He turned and let the 
multicolored polyps move over another area of his body. The 
brilliant azure of his skin competed against the array of color 
on the throne and walls. His eyes idly moved as he luxuriated in 
the comfortable embrace. Tentacles left vortices through the 
water as he turned and sent a magic call to the fish colonizing 
the palace walls. An animal darted around, and he caught it, 
appreciating its jewel-like colors before devouring it.
    The huge room was formed out of coral. The unique species 
excreted a dense mesh, becoming as tough and resilient as 
anything in the sea. Two large doors opened out to the ocean, and 
several gaps in the dome's roof allowed fresh currents of water 
to flow. The ceiling and walls glowed as tiny plants funneled 
light through the structure and spilled it out. When the sun 
disappeared from the upper air, other organisms would feed light 
through the palace. Aboshan wondered how those on dry land could 
bear to live in dead structures.
    The emperor dragged his attention back to the speaker. The 
brown fur of the courtier rippled as his body slowly rotated, the 
selkie using unusual restraint as he reported about the land. The 
seal could take on a human's appearance much as Aboshan could 
form legs. The emperor, of course, avoided such transformations 
as much as possible. He considered the land contemptible. The 
fact that the courtier by nature could move among the land bound 
with ease made him suspect in the cephalid's eyes. He breathed 
water down, reveling in another advantage. The selkie needed air, 
and only a special spell allowed the creature to remain at court 
without withdrawing every few minutes. "The Order is in 
disarray," the selkie continued, darting his head briefly toward 
a fish swimming close by. "The new leader is a warrior named 
Bretath. He conveys his respects and his gratitude for Ambassador 
Laquatus's aid in the recent troubles."
    "As if we took any notice of land-bound troubles," the 
emperor drawled, his boredom plain to all. "Surely you have some 
news of interest beside the business of savages and their 
meaningless tribes."
    The selkie somersaulted with agitation before settling down. 
The emperor yawned, used to the courtier's flighty nature. He 
firmly believed that air breathers should deal with air 
breathers, being already contaminated. Some sages believed seals, 
whales, and others needing air to be refugees from the land. 
Their ancestors were right to flee back to the sea, but Aboshan 
shuddered at the thought of such a lineage.
    "Of course, your Imperial Highness," the seal answered, his 
tone hesitant as he searched for a new topic, one likely to 
interest the monarch. "There are problems regarding the treasures 
gathered inside the continent."
    The emperor's attention focused on the selkie. The land might 
be filled with contemptible peoples, but it held the lion's share 
of past wars' spoils. The battlefields had only occasionally 
moved over the sea. Many of the prizes were lost in the ocean's 
abysmal depths where even the emperor's warrant had little 
weight. His beak snapped as he considered the dry kingdoms' 
salvage activities in retrieving ships lost at sea. It was only 
proper that his nation empty the land's treasure troves.
    "Our explorers and diggers locate and transport the reclaimed 
prizes easily enough," the selkie said. "Bringing them to the 
coast is not the problem. But now that we move more of the 
discoveries to the court, we are having difficulties."
    The seal spoke slower, for a thunderous expression grew on 
Aboshan's face. The emperor had instituted the policy of 
relocating the machines and objects of power from above the waves 
to below them. For decades, isolated stretches of coastline and 
caves on rocky islands had held the empire's loot recovered from 
ancient battlefields. The monarch had decided that such potential 
power must be brought under his direct physical control.
    "Many of the mechanisms are delicate, and we find them 
difficult to repair," the selkie continued. "Fetishes are 
composed of materials that break down in the water. Worst of all, 
we have few trained to repair them. Perhaps it would be simpler 
to trade with the Cabal who is positioned to use them."
    Aboshan swam free of the throne, his trident held in two 
tentacles as if to attack. The selkie froze as the guards became 
more alert. The trident was the symbol of the emperor's might, 
but now he used it as a simple weapon, laying the tines against 
the seal's neck.
    "We find your suggestion unacceptable," the cephalid said, 
his voice freezing the courtier, as previous signs of displeasure 
had not. "What we have recovered is for our use," he said, the 
trident's barbed points puncturing the courtier's fur. Blood 
clouded the water, and small cleaning fish from the walls swam to 
dispose of the perceived garbage. Aboshan's weapon pulled free of 
the seal's neck muscles. An electric shock surged into the 
school, sending the selkie into a series of convulsions as the 
fish died and floated toward the dome's roof. Hidden guardians 
appeared momentarily as they struck at the ascending food. The 
cephalid gripped the seal and pulled him closer, his suckers 
marking the hide as the frozen selkie quivered in fear.
    "The land dwellers have held the keys to the past for long 
enough. We shall gather hold of power and harness it to our own 
purposes." He moved his tentacles, and the fur began to tear free 
of the muscle beneath. "If you are unable to oversee the care of 
our treasure, then arrange with the Cabal Patriarch for workers 
to come here. Now go, and let it be done."
    The emperor swam back to his throne as the selkie floated, 
then talked excitably to an aide, which left.
    "Even air breathing swimmers are incompetent," Aboshan said 
to himself.
    He regretted asking for workers from the Cabal. However, the 
preservation of fetishes and totems were unknown in the undersea 
kingdom. Most objects of power were living organisms. The care of 
dead magic was a rare art.
    The doors against the wall opened suddenly, a wave of ink 
surging into the room. The current began to flow faster, pumping 
more of the darkness among the courtiers.
    "Guards, defend your emperor!" Aboshan ordered as he called 
up power. Huge cuttlefish moved through the doorway, their sides 
flashed colors so quickly that the eye was uncertain of their 
shade from one moment to the next. More ink gushed from them, 
moving into the crowd.
    The darkness coiled evilly through the water, its touch 
paralyzing those who could not evade it. The selkie swam for the 
upper openings only to contact a trailing cloud. It went into 
convulsions. Bubbles rose from its frame as it lost control of 
its body and the spell allowing it to breathe. The seal drowned 
in seconds, its lungs full of water and then poison.
    Sea warriors swarmed through the doors, their skin covered in 
a translucent gel protecting them from the ink. Their spears and 
tridents started to work at the crowd as the emperor readied 
himself for battle.
    The throne room's hidden guards responded, surging from the 
crevices and crannies that lined the walls. Octopi weighing 
hundreds of pounds jetted toward the cuttlefish.
    Their long arms wrapped over the animals' heads as the 
attackers tried to escape, their hides flaring with panic. Huge 
moray eels swam out, their jaws closing over the waists and limbs 
of the attacking mer. However, illusions swam into being, 
misleading the beasts' strikes as the invaders continued toward 
the emperor.
    A school of barracuda swept through the upper exits to the 
open ocean. Directed by exterior guards, they flew into the 
invaders before the cephalids could react. Limbs separated as the 
living knives carved apart the attackers and a few of the 
paralyzed victims. The fish flexed wildly, smashing into the 
walls in explosions of gore as the diluted ink destroyed their 
ability to control their direction.
    Aboshan gestured with his trident, and the current reversed. 
The water's speed intensified, and the ink flowed to the outside. 
The paralyzed courtiers and the bodies of the slain swirled out 
through the gates. The emperor stopped as he realized his spell 
prevented reinforcements from reaching the throne room. Two 
attackers had survived every counterattack and closed on the 
throne, their weapons raised for regicide.
    Aboshan swam toward one, his trident focusing his will. Water 
surged again but in a much narrower area. A thin liquid thread 
cut through the rebel's upraised weapon and the merman's torso. 
The jet dispersed blood and flesh in a huge cloud rolling toward 
the walls. The ruler turned, his weapon meeting his last 
attacker. They locked tines, the tridents contesting for 
supremacy.
    Aboshan forced the rebel down, rolling the cephalid and 
disorienting him. He grabbed the helpless throat, his magic 
crowding through the enemy's body, rendering him helpless. 
Reinforcements came through the gates and the upper works, unable 
to find any living enemies. A few guards began gathering up the 
paralyzed, hauling them away to the healers for care and 
antidotes.
    The emperor turned the rebel's head from side to side, 
studying it in hope of recognition, but he could not remember 
him. He shook the slack body violently, the eyes suddenly opening 
in shock and surprise. Aboshan laughed as the rush of surviving 
sent him into a manic mood.
    "Who sent you?" he cried into the still face. "Who is behind 
this treachery?"
    The monarch eased his magical grip on the merman's nerves, 
and his victim gasped and grimaced as he regained some control.
    "No one had to send us," he rasped, his voice husky from the 
abuse Aboshan inflicted on his throat. "You are everyone's enemy 
under the sea."
    The emperor dragged his trident down the rebel's flank, 
letting blood into the water.
    "You lie," said the monarch, sending the tines deeper into 
the trailing tentacles. "You came at the instigation of our wife, 
Llawan. Why did she send you to kill me?"
    "The ocean is marred by your armies and forts," whispered the 
rebel, lines of despair evident in his face. "None may trust the 
other for fear of informers in your pay." He breathed in polluted 
water and paused. "The denizens of the upper ocean must bow to 
your will or flee. The cetaceans suffer from your contempt and 
whale songs grow bitter. How can any not rise up and strike you 
down?" The fighter began to talk with more strength, the 
emperor's magical hold weakening as the offender further roused 
the imperial temper.
    "We are only the first lapping of a wave sweeping you aside," 
the captive said more boldly. "You dare not leave your palace 
unless escorted by schools of guards. You cannot hope to chain 
the seas with your decrees."
    Aboshan was bright red with rage, the muscles holding the 
trident quivering with anticipation.
    "You shall fall and Llawan, Empress of the Sea shall reign 
in-"
    The monarch cut the speech short, plunging the bronze barbs 
deep into the cephalid only to withdraw and stab him again. The 
emperor's skin pulsed a howl of rage as he executed the prisoner.
    "Bring me the captain of the guard," the monarch commanded, 
letting loose the rebel to drift with the current. The captain 
was a pale blue as he approached his sovereign.
    "I am trying to find out how the attackers infiltrated the 
palace, sire," he said in a trembling voice. The emperor jetted 
back and forth, his skin still pulsating in rage.
    "I know how the scum came into our presence," Aboshan said 
and came closer. "The question is merely one of your incompetence 
or active treachery."
    "I assure you that I live to serve only you, Majesty," the 
captain said excitedly. The monarch regarded him narrowly, the 
pulses of color slowing.
    "We think not. We think you serve the self-styled Queen of 
the Seas, Llawan." He swam closer to the officer. "We think you 
would see another on the throne, so take your seat!"
    Aboshan forced the captain onto the organisms that groomed 
the ruler, the soldier jarring against the under lying rock. His 
taste was not the emperor's, and the polyps turned upon the 
perceived usurper. Venom seared into the officer's scales, 
killing him as broad swathes of flesh swelled and burst. A look 
of unspeakable agony showed, and the face was washed away by the 
throne's caress.
    "Let him be cast into the abyss," Aboshan proclaimed. "There 
to be devoured by worms along with his brethren in treachery. Let 
others of the slain be displayed as proof of our justice and 
continued power."
    The captain's former command gathered up the dead and 
retreated to do the monarch's will.
    It was some time before the next guard commander dared report 
to the emperor. Finally, a sergeant stationed in the palace came 
to speak to the monarch in his private quarters. Aboshan had 
retired to regain his composure, though a clerk to conduct 
official business accompanied him. The imperial rooms were lit by 
light pumped from the upper world. Long kelp plants swayed in the 
currents, and small edible fish and crustaceans scurried over the 
floors. The emperor saw distrust in the sergeant's face as the 
soldier regarded the restful scene. Aboshan hoped fear of poisons 
and hidden guardians would give others pause when they plotted 
against him. The attendants who usually filled the rooms waited 
elsewhere until his temper subsided.
    "The attackers appeared in the palace through use of a 
transport pool," the commander began without preamble, anxious to 
discharge his duty and leave. "The cuttlefish filled the outer 
rooms with poisonous ink, and the rebels prevented the flow of 
reinforcements from inside the defenses. Most of the troops were 
unaware of any problems until the attack was over. All the 
invaders perished resisting capture or during the assault on your 
person. At this time we have no leads as to who might be 
responsible." The soldier dipped his head, the emperor and his 
servant half-hidden from sight by the room's growth. He left at 
Aboshan's nod.
    The monarch turned to his clerk. The privilege of serving as 
private secretary to the emperor rotated fairly often. The civil 
service assured him that it was awarded on the basis of 
performance. Aboshan wondered if the ministers overseeing the 
palace staff really thought him so dull witted. The secretary was 
a tall spindly crab holding a stylus and a sheet of wax, ready to 
take down his orders.
    "We charge the army to investigate all signs relating to the 
recent conspiracy to unseat us," the monarch dictated, plucking a 
tiny urchin from the floor and splitting it open, the pain from 
the quills spicing the coming meal. "All communications with the 
southern court of Queen Llawan are to be closely scrutinized and 
correspondents questioned rigorously as to their connections with 
our estranged spouse."
    The cephalid sucked the urchin's innards down and tore at the 
flesh with his beak as he considered further actions. His 
maleficent wife and her pawns had breached his palace. Yet to act 
against her would provoke a civil war that even in victory would 
leave the kingdom crip-pled. He needed uncontestable proof of her 
guilt. The emperor thought of her rumored alliances with the 
cetaceans and the monsters of the abyss. Perhaps he should 
increase efforts to infiltrate her court as she had so obviously 
violated his own.
    Aboshan thought of Laquatus, banished to play ambassador to 
the land because of his unfortunate ties to the queen. Perhaps 
his close experience with the land might promote sympathy for 
imperial plans. He thought of the arrogant and cruel merman 
doomed to scrape before air breathers and land walkers.
    "I recall our ambassador from the Cabal to serve our pleasure 
once more, his successor to be appointed after close consultation 
with our loyal friend, Laquatus," the emperor said. He waved the 
crab away to convey his orders to the palace ministers.
    Undoubtedly, Laquatus would serve Aboshan to regain favor. 
Most of the world waited for a ruler's firm hand. The monarch 
would establish a new dominion over sea and land. The emperor's 
mirth showed in a shower of colors flowing over his skin, and he 
rang for his maidens to attend him.
 
                       CHAPTER 19
 
    Laquatus looked at the capital as he swam through the water, 
enjoying the comparative warmth of the ocean after days in the 
caverns under the continent. Turg swam alongside, his clumsy 
strokes amusing the merman as the ambassador continued down. The 
light grew dimmer as the bottom gained definition. From the 
surface, the city could not be seen, but it filled a huge stretch 
of the continental shelf. The buildings below lived, straining 
nutrients from the water to repair themselves and repelling 
pests. Steady streams of mer people swam through and above the 
city. A pod of whales called to the ambassador as they herded a 
school of fish with sonic calls toward the capital. Once a sign 
of tribute to the emperor, the cries sounded of onerous duty to 
the merman's ears. But what did he care for the opinion of air 
breathers? He felt the flutter of his gills to prove his superior 
nature.
    The whales grew silent as mer warriors swam up to meet them, 
their lack of song more telling than any call. The soldiers' 
magic now herded the fish, their command lulling the school to an 
army encampment.
    Laquatus noticed many soldiers and a distinct lack of traffic 
other than warriors. Wondering if some great danger threatened 
the kingdom, he headed for the palace. Perhaps a great feeding 
spiral of sharks swept through the ocean. Laquatus remembered 
that the seas could be suddenly violent as well as tranquil.
    He neared the imperial residence and noticed a great dome 
inscribed with glowing characters. The huge gazebo-like structure 
was the exhibition site for traitors. The merman wondered who 
suffered there now?
    He swam below the roof, nodding to the guards who observed 
him as he neared the dead. Several corpses floated in anchored 
nets, their bodies in pieces as cleaner fish and crabs slowly 
snipped off small bits of rotting meat. Unidentifiable parts of 
several different species were in some nets.
    "Imperial justice, as swift and careful as always," he 
muttered as he swam to the wax placard inscribed with symbols. A 
guard, stationed to tell the illiterate what the sign said, 
relaxed as the ambassador looked over the words.
    "CONDEMNED BE ALL TRAITORS WHO WOULD KILL THE EMPEROR ON HIS 
THRONE. THOSE WHO WOULD SERVE OTHER MASTERS ARE ETERNALLY 
DEVOURED HERE AND IN THE ABYSMAL DEPTHS."
    "Guard," the aristocrat inquired in a bored tone. "What 
happened to bring these traitors here?"
    Laquatus had left the seacoast having heard just that a 
message had arrived for him. Fearing that the coastal mission 
might have orders to arrest him, he continued to the capital, 
hoping he still might intercept Captain Satas.
    He and his champion had swum through the caverns in pursuit, 
leaving all behind but a single guide for fear of the soldiers' 
loyalty to their captain. The ambassador wanted nothing to 
prevent the appropriate action, should they catch the tresias. 
They had swum without rest through the arteries of the continent. 
But Satas could travel the more direct paths, while Laquatus and 
especially the massive Turg made costly detours. They missed the 
good captain by days when they reached the coast.
    The frog kidnapped a servant whom the merman interrogated 
before releasing with false memories of what occurred. The 
ambassador knew that he was recalled, not the reason for it. He 
and his jack left immediately for the capital. Only the knowledge 
that doom might await him tempered Laqua-tus's joy to be free of 
dry land. Now he hoped to hear what news might influence his 
return.
    "These and other traitors appeared in the palace through a 
transport pool and reached the throne room," the guard related in 
a voice grown bored with repetition. "The emperor himself beat 
the attack off. The army still looks for traitors who may have 
escaped."
    Laquatus nodded in thanks and continued on his way. An 
assault on the emperor might provide opportunities to explain his 
actions. He could explain fear of enemies intercepting his 
reports led to his silence regarding the orb. The palace grew 
closer, and he noted the observers peering from houses along the 
way.
    The homes of nobles were closed up, few signs of the 
inhabitants visible. Years before the emperor and his wife had 
split, the cast-off empress had styled herself as queen in her 
own right. Many nobles, outraged by the emperor's arrogant and 
arbitrary manner, retired to the southern court. Aboshan became 
convinced that conspiracies must be in motion against him.
    Laquatus had connections in both courts, and while no 
evidence existed against him, his exile to dry land soon followed 
the rift. Though the ambassador had no affection for the emperor, 
he had even less for his estranged wife. Llawan had become a 
champion of the displaced in Aboshan's rise to power. Laquatus 
had little use for those without the will or wiles to preserve 
their position.
    His own exile he viewed as a purely temporary state. In 
addition, the queen opened dialogues with the air breathing races 
of the sea and the denizens of the deep ocean. Such species had 
their place, but it was subservient to the mer races and the 
upper ocean.
    The ambassador swam directly to the palace, confident that 
his reception would be good. He concealed his fear. Revelation of 
any doubt might doom him if reported to the emperor. The guard 
recognized him and ushered him through the gates immediately. 
Laquatus was escorted through the entry halls, amazed at the high 
number of guards. He reasoned it merely a reaction to the earlier 
attacks. The interior of the palace hummed as counterspells 
resonated with the building's very fabric.
    Laquatus was no longer as hopeful of his reception. He 
reminded himself that no mere amphibian could bring him down, 
Captain Satas be damned. The doorman failed to announce him, and 
briefly the ambassador wondered if an execution squad waited 
inside.
    The emperor reclined in the nearly empty room with only a few 
courtiers present. Turg picked up the ambassador's nervousness 
and began to glower. His master sent him reeling back under a 
mental barrage. Though the mer ruler appeared unprotected, the 
hidden guardians were well known to those familiar with the 
court.
    "Laquatus," Aboshan cried, rising and swimming closer. "How 
good to see you." The monarch had his trident in hand, and the 
ambassador decided boldness was in order.
    "I am pleased and grateful to be here," Laquatus said and 
tried to appear concerned. "I was relieved to hear that you 
survived the attack."
    "What do you know?" the emperor growled, raising the trident.
    The ambassador reminded himself of the hidden guardians and 
the ruler's known powers.
    "Only what I have heard on my way to the capital," Laquatus 
exclaimed, lowering his head in supplication. "I saw the bodies 
of the traitors and came immediately to see that you were well. I 
ask only how I may serve."
    "They invaded our court through those very gates," Aboshan 
said angrily, pointing his trident. The walls seemed to move 
slightly as guardians almost revealed themselves at the violent 
gesture. "We were alone, our guards laid low by poison."
    The ambassador nodded without fear, finding it unlikely that 
the monarch would kill his audience.
    "We directed the waters to sweep our enemies away," the ruler 
said, his eyes lost in a refined memory. "Our guards finally came 
in, but a half-dozen of the scum still swam for us. We killed 
them in close combat despite receiving grievous wounds. We 
questioned the only survivor, but he took his own life before we 
could force the queen's involvement from him."
    Laquatus nodded, sure that the enemies would become an even 
dozen before an official account of the event was set down. 
Perhaps they would be immortalized in a living mural on the 
palace walls.
    "That brings us to you," Aboshan said with a pointed smile. 
"You have relationships with the queen's court. You might provide 
us invaluable service in proving her complicity." He swam back 
toward the throne, the ambassador following.
    "I fear that my former acquaintances will not be forthcoming, 
sire," Laquatus said, careful to stay well away from the 
emperor's seat. "My banishment to the continent may have 
convinced them that 1 am no longer in your confidence or a 
position of power." A little of the bitterness at his exile 
leaked through despite the merman's best efforts to hide it.
    "Easily remedied," Aboshan assured him. "We will give very 
public signs of our favor, concurring upon you suitable awards 
and titles."
    "Then I fear those in the queen's court will question my 
motives," Laquatus replied, drifting in front of his sovereign 
with his head bent in humility.
    "Tell them that your long sojourn on land has made you more 
amenable to the southern court," Aboshan said as he reclined in 
the stinging tentacles. "We are confident in your abilities at 
deception."
    Laquatus could only humbly nod.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    The great windbag, the ambassador thought, looking back on 
the interview. The emperor recited hours of conspiracy theory, 
searching for enemies everywhere. He called in secret informers 
who gave the most banal reports, which Aboshan tried to turn into 
damning indictments. Only the emperor's precarious hold on 
reality prevented him from unleashing pogroms.
    The monarch acted at once to rebuild Laquatus's political 
stature, awarding him with a gold medallion and the appellation, 
Friend of the Emperor. The bauble was too heavy, and the 
friendship would last until Aboshan thought him conspiring with 
others or of no more use. Finally, the ambassador was able to 
reclaim his jack and pursue his true mission - locating Satas and 
the prize.
    It was with some surprise that he learned the good captain 
was gone. He left for the coast before the ambassador even 
arrived at the capital. Laquatus, using his new status, found the 
entry logs for the day in question. The guard who admitted Satas 
to the palace vaguely remembered the little amphibian. He 
recalled directing the tresias to the treasure room. The 
ambassador called Turg to him from where the frog lurked and swam 
to the lower portions of the palace to find the sphere.
    Laquatus stopped at the lowest entry way in shock. Instead of 
a valve or gate there was a soldier planted in front of a 
shimmering sphere. The guard had a humanoid torso, but instead of 
legs or a tail, the rest of his body was a long stalk. The lower 
portion of the column flared out and merged with an outcropping 
of the palace. The soldier swayed idly, his hands gripping a 
short spear. He saw the aristocrat and his jack and straightened, 
his lower body altering color as if drawing force from the 
structure surrounding him. Inside the sphere, or more properly 
hemisphere for it met the ground, was dry rock and a trapdoor.
    "Greetings, Your Excellency," the guard said, tilting his 
body down. "How may I be of service?"
    The ambassador still looked at the sight of dry land under 
the sea.
    "Yes, it is something of a surprise," the warrior said, "but 
it was necessary for the workers from the continent." His body 
bobbed as he looked at the merman.
    "What workers?" Laquatus asked, crowding closer.
    "Why the workers the Cabal sent in response to the emperor's 
order several days ago," the guard said in puzzlement. "The care 
of the treasure room needed specialized services that the 
caretaker could not provide. They became absolutely necessary 
when the previous holder died during the traitors' attack."
    "Drylanders, here?" Laquatus questioned, his tone alerting 
the guard to his displeasure.
    "Do not worry," the guard said. "I keep close watch, and none 
of them can breathe water. The captain of the guard inspected 
them for signs of the queen's magic, and they all were clean. 
They are as trapped as surely as a meal in a shark's belly."
    "I would inspect the treasure rooms. What should I do?" the 
ambassador said as Turg tried to slip around to the guard's back. 
His master warned him off, knowing that those serving in the 
palace would be inspected for signs of tampering. The waxboard 
showed Satas's sigil. The amphibian had arrived and left within a 
half-hour, days before.
    Laquatus chuckled at the quick exit. There was every chance 
that the captain never reported to the emperor or anyone except 
the caretaker. The merman made his mark and prepared to 
transform. Turg was already in the bubble and standing up, 
preparing to pull open the trapdoor. The guard returned his 
attention to the outside passage. At least Laquatus was spared 
the indignity of being observed as he grew legs.
    The ambassador emptied his lungs of water as the frog opened 
the trapdoor. Stairs led down the bowed timber from ships' hulk 
The floor was covered in muck and sand, and the smell of rotting 
seaweed rose through the door. Then the merman saw some of the 
workers inside and included rotting flesh as a source of the 
stench. The servants were, after all, from the Cabal.
    "Ambassador Laquatus," a voice hailed him. A woman separated 
herself from the crowd of living and dead workers and hurried 
over. The underground room extended for yards in every direction. 
Groups of zombies and black-clad Cabal servitors piled garbage 
into baskets and dug down to rock. More timber waited, and 
Laquatus realized that they were putting up shelves instead of 
the matrix of pigeonholes and sealed pillars that sea people 
usually employed.
    "I remember you from your marvelous party. I see you also 
brought my playmate." With a sinking heart he recognized Fulla, 
her braids plastered with mud against her head. "I would 
apologize for the mess, but I did not make it. Besides, I 
remember the condition of your embassy when I left."
    Why did it have to be the dementia caster? Any ordinary 
servant or mage could be manipulated by false memories, but a 
despairing Laquatus remembered her resistance to his spells.
    "Have I offended you somehow?" he heard her ask and brought 
himself back to reality.
    "Not at all, my dear," he gushed, trying to match her 
enthusiasm. "I was just thinking what chance brought you here," 
he finished through gritted teeth.
    "Well, I will be here for quite some time," she laughed 
gaily. She waved to the muck and mire. "1 and my staff are 
retained by your gracious emperor to catalog and repair the 
treasures. Wonders that are rescued, only to be buried here under 
your palace."
    A sucking roar developed as zombies pulled at a chest, 
uncovering an opening to levels below. Water and mud cascaded 
down.
    "Your previous caretaker placed items randomly in a series of 
chambers, of which this is only one," she explained as she walked 
to the hole, looking down into the water. Laquatus could feel a 
spell engaging, and the water slowly began to subside. More 
mounds of muck were revealed with a few gleaming pieces of metal. 
The debris glittered slightly in the light pumped from the palace 
above.
    "One of your ministers was bright enough to realize that we 
needed air to work. He also discovered that some of the pieces 
were damaged by water," Fulla said.
    Zombies splashed into the lower chambers and began filling 
baskets the servants handed to them.
    "He failed to realize that withdrawing the water would settle 
everything to the deeper rooms and bury them. To be honest, I do 
not approve of the former caregiver. There is an unholy lode of 
mud to be cleared away."
    The ambassador nodded dumbly, accepting that a servant of the 
Cabal would be the best judge of unholy. He realized with a 
sinking liver that tracking down the orb might still be a 
formidable task.
    "Are there no records of where materials were stored?" he 
asked hopefully. She shook her head in amusement.
    "No. Just a record of what the caretaker received," she said. 
"For example, the last entry is of a sphere that gave an 
impression of tremendous power."
    The ambassador nodded with excitement. The prize was here.
    "The logs show what came in and what went out, but the actual 
locations are a complete mystery. And that was before nearly 
everything sunk into different rooms when the water was forced 
out.
    "Surely the other workers have some idea?" he questioned her, 
hoping there might be someone else to interrogate.
    "What other workers?" Fulla replied with exasperation. "From 
the logs, almost everything was handled by the previous 
caretaker. I am informed that the servants who did work here 
cannot function in the open air." Baskets of gunk were thrown out 
of the entry hole to splat into the mud. "If you can call this 
open air."
    She retreated to a stack of shelves with wax boards and paper 
books open.
    "I and my colleagues are cataloging what we find and entering 
a reference to the original logs and a current position."
    She appeared busy, but Laquatus could not equate her new 
position as chief curator with her career as a jack in the pits.
    "How did you end up here?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. 
She glanced back, and her face filled with the demons that drove 
her.
    "By the same process that cast you to the Cabal's far shore," 
she replied. Her features calmed, and she spoke without 
intonation. "What truly brings you here ambassador? I doubt it 
was a quest for close friends."
    Laquatus considered his answer for several seconds. Just for 
variety he essayed the truth.
    "The final object received here," the merman said. "I want 
it. What will it cost for me to have it my possession, no 
questions asked?"
    The novelty of a straight answer seemed to disarm the 
dementia caster, and she fumbled for a response.
    "A great many pieces were damaged," she finally said, turning 
to the shelves. "Some of them beyond repair. But even ruined, 
they might be of interest the Cabal for research purposes." Her 
face turned sly, destroying any attempt at disguising her greed.
    "Done," Laquatus said simply. "Hold the piece for me when you 
find it. In return I will aid you in smuggling your loot back to 
the continent." He looked her deep in the eyes. "Cross me, and I 
will prick this bubble of air. Your bones can be catalogued by 
the next curator."
    She started running her hands over the pieces already 
gleaned, like a shopper handling fruit in the market. Laquatus 
turned and walked to the stairs, soiled at the crassness of the 
deal and having legs once again.
    He mounted the stair and dived through the bubble, 
transforming even as he swam away, ignoring the guard who 
recorded his exit. He surged up into the palace. He might have 
been within yards of the orb, but he could not detect its power. 
It was hidden from his magical senses. Rumor spoke of perhaps a 
dozen chambers under the palace, and who knew where the fool of a 
curator might have put it. The ambassador also worried about his 
monarch. Fulla was a wild card, who knew what she might say if 
questioned.
    Aboshan emptied troves cared for by the empire's mercenaries 
and selkies, dumping them to decay in his palace. Only the 
ruler's love of control and hunger for power had brought the 
relics to the palace. Now the distraction of a simple 
assassination attempt washed them from his mind.
    "Well," vowed Laquatus, "if it is conspiracies that truly 
engage him, then conspiracies he will have." The ambassador 
laughed in the bowels of the palace. He would bring new 
treacheries before Aboshan to conceal his own. Turg followed his 
masters, grinning as new plans spawned in the merman's mind.
 
                       CHAPTER 20
 
    Kamahl rode Emerald east, watching for signs of the 
ambassador's caravan. The gecko's sinuous gait lulled the 
barbarian as he remembered his escape from the town.
    The mountain mage had climbed the rubble ramp to the keep's 
upper stories looking for signs of another exit as the cries from 
Order reinforcements sounded below. Through the dust laid down by 
his destruction, he could see tracks that led him to the postern 
gate. The mountain warrior skirted the crystal effect, seeing its 
rate of advance slowing as it continued to fill the castle. The 
taste of the orb's magic faded as the growth slowed.
    The postern gate led down a hidden path outside the city 
walls. The tumult inside the town died down as Kamahl rejoined 
the flow of refugees. A golden coin secured him a spare great 
cloak from an elen bird warrior. The garment was sized for 
someone nine feet tall and even after a few alterations with a 
dagger, it was still all-enveloping. It was a measure of the 
people's unrest that he did not attract more notice. He moved 
into the old city, listening for news. But rumor ruled the 
crowded streets, not the Order. He headed for the Citadel road 
once more, hoping to find out what had occurred.
    Kamahl remembered the swell of power as he felt the orb 
change only minutes after he saw Turg following after the 
lieutenant. The mer must hold the prize by now. The barbarian 
wondered if Kirtar survived. Somehow he doubted it.
    His leg began to pulse with fresh pain from the wounds 
inflicted by the frog. He moved down an alley, ready for any 
attacker, but it was a dead end. Despite the city's overcrowding, 
a momentary break in the traffic gave him privacy and allowed him 
to seek shelter. He drew an axe and knife and jumped, his leg 
screaming in protest as he rose. As he started to fall back, he 
sank his tools into the wood racing of the building's corner. Rot 
and lack of care allowed his blades to bite deeply, sending 
sawdust to the alley below. He crawled up the structure's side, 
his arms burning as he finally reached the roof.
    This building was shorter than the others backing the alley. 
He crawled behind a storage shed and concealed himself from 
observation. Momentarily safe, he ate what food he had. Thirst 
led him to raid a rainwater cistern, and he gulped the cool water 
down. Weary, for even his endurance had its limits, he lay down 
to rest.
    He awoke that night. The city was quieter, the sun set some 
hours before. He wrapped the cloak tighter around him and drank 
more of the water. He had no more food. Kamahl squatted to test 
his leg. Finding himself fit he decided to brave the city once 
more.
    He dropped into the alley, his lower limbs hurting at the 
strain but healed enough for full use. There was still traffic on 
the street despite the hour but not like Cabal City, whose 
denizens never seemed to sleep. There was a different feel to 
these pedestrians. They were more afraid and more furtive, even 
as they stayed close to the lights. Kamahl remembered his friend 
Chainer who seemed to know most of his city's secrets. The 
barbarian decided the best source of information might be one of 
the night birds flitting through the streets.
    The first lone walkers proved almost useless. His cloaked 
form emerged from the darkness provoking two responses. They 
collapsed in panic or attacked with suicidal bravado. One man 
continued to fight even after Kamahl slapped his weapons aside 
several times with his bare hands. Finally he knocked the man out 
in disgust. Perhaps a more predatory type would be more amenable 
to conversation.
    A group of youths moved in concert through a street. The 
avenue was barely lit by damp wood burning in a metal basket. A 
copper hood reflected light to the ground.
    The boys split up, settling into positions outside the flow 
of traffic. Their actions reminding Kamahl of feral cats choosing 
their prey. The gang looked into the street and not toward each 
other. The barbarian picked a member off silently, covering the 
young man's mouth. They disappeared into the night, Kamahl's 
cloak wrapped around his catch.
    The boy was ragged and smelled, a rusty blade thrust through 
his belt. The dirty pallor of his skin and the color of his 
clothes hid him from those without Kamahl's night-sight. The 
barbarian watched him struggle to exude confidence as he stood an 
arm's length away.
    "My friends will come looking for me," the city dweller said, 
staring hard at Kamahl. The gang member's hand was on his blade, 
but the weapon was left undrawn.
    "Better for them if they do not," the barbarian said and 
stepped a little closer, forcing his captive against a wall. "All 
I desire from you is a little information. Do you know what 
happened in the castle today?"
    The impromptu informant relaxed slightly.
    "They say that western barbarian and a group of conspirators 
broke into the Citadel. They were the ones behind the animal 
attacks. The swine forced refugees into the city, so they could 
strike from the cover of the crowd." Kamahl wondered how good his 
information could be with these falsehoods cast as truth. "The 
traitors managed to kill the captain and the lieutenant despite 
all efforts to stop them. The entire Order might have been 
crippled if not for the mer ambassador's warnings."
    "Tell me about Laquatus and his jack, Turg," Kamahl ordered, 
wondering if he should waylay an Order patrol. Perhaps they might 
have more accurate information.
    "The merman and the pit frog were heroes," the young thug 
said excitedly. "They would have been feted for days if not 
called back to the ocean on urgent business." The city dweller 
paused. "How could you know nothing of what happened? The town 
has been abuzz for hours." He started forward, and Kamahl shoved 
him back.
    "Why should I believe you know anything at all about the 
ambassador?" the mountain warrior asked, showing his teeth. "All 
you seem to know is rumor and innuendo."
    "Because I watched them leave the city for the east!" came 
the hot reply, the injustice of being called a liar seeming to 
raise the boy's courage. Kamahl's snort of disbelief further 
inflamed the informant.
    "I saw them leave this afternoon," he insisted, drawing his 
knife. "I watched the ambassador ride out the eastern gate." He 
waited for an attack, but there was only silence as the barbarian 
melted away.
    Kamahl drifted through the streets, heading for the city 
walls. The thug's affronted pride convinced the barbarian that 
the boy had seen the ambassador withdrawing to the east. 
Moreover, if the orb fell to Laquatus, he would have set out for 
the sea. Kamahl knew that it might be a false trail, but whom 
could he question? The merman was as likely to lie to the 
powerful as mislead the masses. He would trust the word of a 
direct witness for now.
    The walls were low with ramps and ladders leading to the 
upper walkway. Like most defenses, the guards were more 
interested in keeping invaders out than townspeople in. He 
appropriated a coil of rope from a storeroom and wrapped it 
around a stone. In less than a minute he rapelled down. With a 
practiced twist he pulled the strand down, leaving no sign that 
any had left the city. He doubted his informant would share his 
description. The boy seemed one who avoided the guards whenever 
possible. Kamahl set off to see if Emerald still waited out in 
the plains.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Kamahl crept through the long grass, threading between the 
sentries. Avoiding contact felt strange. However, the barbarian 
imagined it as a challenge to see how close he could approach the 
Order camp without being detected. It took nearly a day to find 
Emerald, and knowing the Order believed him a bloody murderer, he 
kept his distance from the road and other travelers. Only the 
gecko's incredible endurance and speed allowed Kamahl to finally 
catch up to the ambassador's party despite the rough country and 
avoiding enemy patrols.
    The Order guards and mer hirelings flew the empire's 
standard. Kamahl's sharp eyes had caught sight of it as he 
paralleled them on the highway. He infiltrated the camp to see if 
Laquatus and Turg truly rode with the group. He had no time to 
waste on meaningless fights. If the orb was in camp, then he 
would declare himself and win the prize in honorable combat.
    Circumstances demanded he fight tonight if he would fight at 
all. Some distance ahead of the party an empire caravan camped at 
a crossroads against a set of bluffs. As night fell, he took 
Emerald on a run, covering the miles in minutes. A large 
procession of wagons had left deep ruts along the merging road. 
Dozens of captive animals sent up cries of distress as they moved 
in their cages and strained at their hobbles. These guards were 
more aware. Dogs as well as warriors patrolled the camp 
perimeter, preventing the barbarian from sneaking in. There were 
signs of nervousness, the mercenaries reacting to every rustle as 
an imminent attack.
    Kamahl heard the men talking. When would the next attack 
come? How bad would it be with such a long pause between them? 
The barbarian realized with surprise there were no fresh signs of 
rampaging forest animals or destruction along the road. True, 
they were much farther from the great trees and the animals that 
sheltered there. However, he understood the problem to be 
continent wide. Why had an uneasy peace fallen across the two 
traveling parties and, for all Kamahl knew, the rest of the 
plains?
    Such questions would have to wait until he first completed 
his quest. The ambassador, if he were traveling with the party, 
would find reinforcements on the morrow. The barbarian decided to 
confront the pair tonight.
    The tent below the standard was dark with no guards standing 
before it. Kamahl moved in. Wrapped in his cloak, he avoided the 
light of the campfires. He made sure that he could reach the 
weapons on his belt. His sword was secured to Emerald, its length 
difficult to conceal on the approach. He could detect no life 
within the tent, but he must be sure. He had watched the caravan 
settling for the night without any sign of the ambassador or his 
jack. If they were anywhere in the camp, they must be here. He 
opened the flap, the rustling canvas seeming very loud.
    No one was inside. He saw only a mound of baggage piled on 
the floor. There was no sign it had even been opened. Each piece 
was secured with wax, imprinted with the ambassador's sigil, 
binding the bags' draw-cords. However the merman traveled, Kamahl 
saw it was not with this detachment. However, the seals on the 
bags suggested he would eventually meet his luggage. The 
barbarian reached to his belt and pulled out the rope he used in 
his escape from the city. He was no thief, however stealthy he 
might be. The barbarian placed it on the baggage, returning it to 
the Order. The camp guards never saw him withdraw through their 
pickets on his way back to Emerald.
    "They were not there," he said in response to the gecko's 
quizzical look. "We will have to meet them at the coast." The 
lizard seemed sluggish as Kamahl secured his gear. The mountain 
warrior seethed at missing Laquatus and especially Turg. Though 
the night was chilly he removed the elen robe, letting the cold 
flow over his skin.
    "However they traveled 1 have lost them," the barbarian 
muttered as he hauled himself up into the saddle. Knowing that 
the cool air might slow his mount he sent a small surge of power 
to the gecko. The lizard blinked in surprise at the warm air but 
did seem sprightlier as he absorbed the magic. Kamahl directed 
Emerald down the road to the bluffs, planning to use the lizard's 
ability to handle any terrain. The steed would take them past the 
pickets over the bare rock faces, riding above the caravan 
guards' eyes.
    The lizard slowed as they neared the large camp, Kamahl 
vainly trying to direct the gecko's path. The lizard looked 
through the night at the stacks of cages and hobbled animals. Its 
body seemed to vibrate in sympathy with the miserable calls 
sounding from there. The barbarian realized he could not force 
Emerald to go anywhere.
    The gecko stared at the captured creatures intensely. There 
were no large predators in the gathering but rather numerous 
cages of small animals. The barbarian undid his sword from the 
gecko's side, shifting it up to his back. He looked once more 
back to the Order camp in the distance with the empty 
ambassador's tent.
    "We cannot spend too much time on this rescue," Kamahl said, 
pulling small axes from his baggage and slipping them into 
holsters hung from the saddle. The lizard's long tongue flickered 
back as if in agreement, then the beast set off for the camp.
    The caravan was set by the road, sentry fires out and burning 
in an attempt to cover the perimeter. Guards stood their posts 
nervously, talking to each other to reassure themselves. Kamahl 
wondered how the nightblind chattering fools planned to see 
anyone. The only danger seemed a pair of dogs that a guard 
escorted around the perimeter. The barbarian wondered what he 
would do if discovered but found himself unable to feel concern. 
The camp looked as deadly as a carnival and easier to move in and 
out of.
    The gecko followed Kamahl, the mount nearly silent, with only 
its tail sometimes touching the ground. The outer pickets saw 
nothing as the pair worked through the line, using the terrain. 
The lizard lowered itself nearly to the ground to decrease its 
height. The dogs made no alarm, and the barbarian wondered if 
Emerald somehow stifled their senses. The cages grew closer, the 
smell assaulting the barbarian as the guards had not. Moving into 
the circle of cages was challenging, but without the threat of 
the dog it was only a matter of timing. He crouched by the cages 
after a slow roll from the darkness. Emerald followed, and the 
barbarian could scarcely believe his mount had crept into the 
camp as well. Hunters walked slowly among the captive animals in 
the cages and pens, lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly the joke 
fell flat to the mountain warrior. Loosing the animals silently 
would take far too long, and he was not inclined to waste the 
time. Kamahl was tired of stealth.
    He drew his sword from a sheath on Emerald's saddle. He 
mounted, and a guard turned to behold him, a mounted intruder in 
the heart of the camp. The flat of his blade sent the mercenary 
crashing down unconscious. The first real warning the caravan had 
was the long whip of flame arcing down to blaze through locks and 
bars. The animals were maddened by the fire's closeness. The 
beasts battered at their prisons as they had done so often, but 
now the bars fell to the ground.
    Mercenaries closed from all points with shouts of alarm, but 
Kamahl's sword streamed flame over the other enclosures, melting 
away iron. He ignored the guards as beneath contempt as he 
shouted and roused the imprisoned beasts to escape. One caravan 
hunter came at the lizard's side only to be met by the long 
tongue. The muscle wrapped around his head and yanked him into 
crushing jaws. Kamahl's steed spat out the corpse as his rider 
freed more of the captured. A chain holding a group of satyrs 
parted as he swayed to the side, his sword severing several 
links.
    The humanoids rose on their goatlike legs and fell upon the 
guards coming to recapture them. Heads down, they charged, their 
horns impacting the guards' armor. The forest fighters caused no 
serious injury but knocked their oppressors down. Heavy nailed 
hands dug into throats and joints as the prisoners fell as groups 
on single guards.
    Freeing the captured is useless, Kamahl thought as he turned 
Emerald to attack, if they are caught again by these mercenaries. 
Now he used the sword's edge but with no passion. There was 
little honor in such easy slaughter, and he looked for another 
means of diversion.
    Wagons were parked opposite the animals, their contents 
hidden under secured tarps. There were no signs of live prizes. 
The guards protecting them still waited as the barbarian tore 
through the cage area. Such valuable cargo must be more important 
to the caravan than small woodland creatures, Kamahl thought and 
sent Emerald through the camp's heart.
    A creature rose up in the night, its nebulous form becoming a 
winged dragon. The gecko showed no hesitation, striding straight 
for the horned beast as it prepared to take to the air. The 
barbarian threw a charged axe that spun through the enemy. 
Emerald followed the projectile into the illusion. There was a 
mage of some power coming against him. The barbarian looked 
around in interest as his missile discharged into the ground in 
an explosion of flame.
    The gecko paused in its flight, its tongue flickering 
uncertainly as its eyes followed nothing. The mountain mage felt 
the hum of hostile magic and sent showers of sparks and embers 
over the tents to flush out the enemy. Fabric ignited, and the 
restraining spell on the lizard faltered as the other mage was 
surrounded by fire.
    The barbarian swung his sword, the steel birthing a circlet 
of flame that cut through the air and the enemy spell-caster's 
neck, decapitating Kamahl's only worthy opposition in the camp. 
The gecko started toward the wagons parked away from the cages. 
The guards massed to stop the barbarian. The mountain mage simply 
bypassed them, hurling two axes high over the crowd to detonate 
among the freight wagons. A twisting pyre of energy and flame lit 
the sky, secondary explosions spreading destruction through the 
cargo. The guards were blown down-those not blown up.
    The caravan had been transporting excavated treasures to the 
sea. There were numerous rumors of the Mer Empire acquiring 
relics and fetishes from past battlefields. Items of true power 
must have been concealed among the wagons. Fires grew, and most 
of those still alive in the camp closed to extinguish the 
conflagration. Kamahl withdrew, ignoring the calls of his 
enemies.
    The satyrs were gone, along with most of the animals. A few 
hunters looked through the wreckage, but the barbarian wasted no 
time on them. One stooped to peer into a cage, and a stream of 
weasels flowed over the man, biting everywhere. The mercenary 
tried to run as the animals swarmed up his legs and onto his 
head. His flight ended as the disoriented man plowed into another 
cage, falling down to die under the small teeth.
    Calls sounded from the perimeter. Golden globes soared into 
the sky illuminating what the fires did not. Guards from the 
false camp down the road had come to investigate the disturbance. 
These were worthy opponents but too serious for tonight's light 
diversion. The barbarian left the camp to the newcomers, Emerald 
running out of the light and into the darkness. Kamahl's mount 
surged up the rocky bluff as the more intelligent investigators 
from the other camp fanned out to catch the raider. The barbarian 
leaned forward as the gecko went vertical, pulling away from any 
possible pursuit. The mountain mage signaled the lizard to halt 
at the cliff top. He crouched down and peered over the hunters' 
wrecked bivouac.
    The fires began to die down, the knights of the Order using 
their magic against the flames. Magic flowed as a golden sheet 
over the burning wagons and tents, smothering the flames. The 
light died down as blazes were extinguished. The barbarian saw no 
signs of animals and hoped all of them were gone.
    "I hope that satisfies you," he said to Emerald who seemed to 
nod in agreement. His mount's bloody jowls smiled though Kamahl 
was unsure if the fighting or the rescue pleased the gecko most. 
Below, the flames were dead except for the campfires, but more 
bad luck struck the hunters' camp.
    Irritated at being forced to come investigate because of the 
mercenaries' obvious incompetence, the knights looked through the 
camp. The angry would-be rescuers tore into the last sealed 
wagons and suddenly treated the hapless hunters as criminals. The 
soldiers cut through leather and canvas to display the mounds of 
forbidden mechanisms. Mercenaries moved to reclaim what remained 
of their treasure. They were pushed away to sprawl on the ground. 
A few started angrily forward but stopped as golden maces lifted 
in warning.
    The knights struck at wagons carrying recovered booty. Wheels 
exploded in showers of splinters as the Order guaranteed through 
blows that the fetishes would not leave the camp. A mercenary 
waved documents before a knight only to be ignored.
    The mountain mage turned the gecko toward the sea and nudged 
it into motion. Perhaps the Order was right in their distrust of 
the debris of past battles. Kamahl knew his journey to reclaim 
the orb might be barely begun. Why did he chase after it? Merely 
for the power it held? Perhaps, but more importantly it was his 
by right. He would not let it be stolen away. Honor demanded he 
reclaim his lost prize.
 
                       CHAPTER 21
 
    The manor was some distance from the capital, its buildings 
in deeper water. In the world above, the sun was just rising, the 
beams starting to filter to the undersea world. Turg held onto a 
harpoon fish's fin as the attack force surged ahead. The fish 
weighed thousands of pounds, its lumpy flesh rock hard under the 
frog's hands. The mouth gaped open and a fish fleeing before the 
detachment swam too close to the monster. A long tongue darted 
forth, spearing through its target. The pinned morsel was pulled 
into the mouth as the predator accelerated. Turg felt a brief 
burning sensation as they moved through a cloud of digestive 
enzymes. The harpoon fish forced the caustic liquid into its prey 
whenever it attacked.
    The attack force closed on the target, the estate of a rich 
noble with ties to the air breathers of the ocean. Whales began 
to rise from structures on the seabed. Vast hemispheres of coral 
and stone held pockets of air, allowing the lord's allies to stay 
beneath indefinitely.
    The whales began to call, the sonic pulse of their cries 
beating against the amphibian's skull. The whales were pale blue 
and almost invisible in the water. Only their motion drew the 
eye. The animals were several times the size of the harpoon fish, 
but Turg felt only contempt for them. The air breathers rose over 
their ally's home, preparing to meet the surprise attack. The 
mammals vibrated with magic to the frog's mystic senses. Power 
was gathering among the attackers as they raced to slay the 
whales, driven by the ambassador's overseeing spirit.
    Magically summoned schools of barracuda surged away from the 
attack force. Like living projectiles, the school swept toward 
their warm-blooded targets. Defensive whale songs sounded, the 
waves of noise playing havoc among the predatory fish. Barracuda 
went in all directions, hopelessly confused by the air breathers' 
magic. Some of the toothy fish were in their death throes, their 
organs destroy by the powerful whale song.
    Now the singers' voices swept the leading edge of the 
imperial attackers. Multiple whales, converge on individual 
harpoon fish, the rocky attackers' nerves burning out in novas of 
pain. A few imperial soldier, accompanying the attack tried to 
lead the whales astray with illusions, to no avail.
    Turg let go of his fish as it finally reached an opponent.
    The barbed tongue snapped into the whale's body, swelling as 
a prodigious load of digestive fluid surged into its victim. The 
air breather cried out, its call soaring beyond hearing. Several 
cephalids swimming past blurred, their skin rupturing and blood 
streaming into the water. The feeding fish drew its tongue back 
and slammed it again into the smooth hide. The whale expired as 
water filled its lungs. The harpoon fish looked for something 
else to kill.
    The whales coalesced into groups, their cries sounding in all 
directions, unconcerned with killing their allies as long as the 
attack failed. On the outskirts of the fight, sharks began to 
appear, ripping apart the dead and the dying as the blood spoor 
drew them from miles around. The harpoon fish closed for the 
final battle with the air breathers, but Turg was surging ahead, 
leading a column of infantry now that the whales were engaged.
    The frog swam forward as the fighting moved over the estate. 
Tritons and mermen followed him down as crab forces sprinted 
across the sandy bottom for the house. The defenders were like 
mollusks, trying to withdraw into the protection of their shell. 
The valves of the living structure closed, the tough armor 
resisting the frog's blows. He called down harpoon fish, the 
monsters leaving their bloody feast. Tongues lanced into the 
door, gallons of digestive fluids pumping into the fabric of the 
manor. The valve ripped free as the fish pulled. They loosed it 
to drift away.
    Spears flew from the gap, sinking into imperial warriors who 
charged in too soon. The jack cast a spell, and eels swam down 
the hole. Their bodies were living batteries that discharged as 
they reached the defenders. Now Turg swam into the house. He 
ignored the twitching bodies of the slain. The crabs piling 
through the entrance began to corral the stunned. The house was 
dark, the defender's trying to use the lack of light to their 
advantage.
    The frog loosed streams of light-emitting plankton that 
carried in the currents still moving through the house. A triton 
was a hulking humanoid, its finned limbs sending it around the 
frog as they advanced. A spindly crab joined them, as they 
penetrated the house.
    The porpoises emerged suddenly, diving from the upper floor 
in ramming attacks. The frog's hands glowed, and he stabbed into 
his opponent. The triton's barbed fins sank into its foe, and 
malign energy poisoned its system. Mermen defenders thrust 
tridents at the engaged invaders only to be met by the crab. 
Though not tall, its claws snipped through weapons and amputated 
a hand as the crab closed. More porpoises came toward the frog, 
and Laquatus struck through his amphibious minion.
    The counterspell attacked the magic allowing the cetaceans to 
stay underwater. Tissues suddenly starved for oxygen. Muscles 
flooded the blood stream with toxins. The defenders started to 
race for the surface, knowing themselves doomed but helpless 
against their instincts. Soldiers ignored the retreating 
cetaceans to fall upon the remaining defenders.
    The frog and his companions moved ahead of the fighting, the 
inner rooms of the manor clearing as the manor guards rushed to 
the perimeter. A sigil spelled out in the living flesh of the 
wall told Turg they had reached the noble's private rooms. The 
crab scuttled forward, its claws making short work of the 
interior partition.
    The quarters were almost stark in their simplicity. Only the 
huge number of pigeonholes and storage pillars showed the noble's 
wealth. The frog swam over, a spell whispering against the valves 
closing off the writing supplies. The container irised open, and 
the jack leaned over. Turg spat the seals and rings he had 
carried in his mouth throughout the battle. The planted objects 
were issued by the southern court, the queen showing on the crest 
instead of the emperor. The frog's spell ceased, and the 
container snapped shut, barring itself to one not attuned to its 
nature.
    The crab scuttled over, several cruciform sheets of wax in 
its claws. Another spell provided by the ambassador's spirit 
whispered over the old letters, altering some of the strokes as 
the organic material responded to his will. The crab slipped them 
into the bottom of a storage column. Turg bled power as he 
touched the furniture. Growth accelerated, and he could taste the 
flow of byproducts as the living structure aged, sealing the 
damning letters under a layer of coral.
    The green triton gave a grunt of warning, sending the trio 
across the room. Living cases lay stacked against the corner, the 
containers holding eggs and plankton of exceptional quality. The 
crab cut them open like lightning as the frog and triton grabbed 
up and devoured fistfuls of the delicacy. When the titular head 
of the attack force arrived seconds later, he found the group 
busy enjoying their loot. A snarl of disgust showed, but he dared 
not discipline the ambassador's jack.
    The command staff arrived and began opening the sealed 
pigeonholes and chests in the room. A pair of soldiers came and 
searched through the food crates the trio had opened, their 
contempt plain as the triton growled and the crab clacked its 
claws.
    "Sir," called an orderly, opening up a pigeonhole. A major 
swam over and inspected the contents. He tensed in excitement, 
diving in to examine the rings and seals Turg had planted. The 
sound of a struggle was heard from the hallway. A huge crab eased 
his way through the door, pulling a tether. A merman came 
through, his flukes beating to escape as he was reeled in. 
Another line leading out slackened as a nearly identical 
crustacean followed, the aristocrat suspended between the two 
soldiers.
    "What is the meaning of this?" the prisoner roared, his 
muscles straining in vain against the pair of armored monsters. 
"You have no right to invade my home! I am a loyal servant to the 
emperor!" The leader swam over and struck him with one of the 
seals clenched in his fist, the metal edge tearing the noble's 
skin.
    "Traitors have no rights!" the officer snarled. He gestured 
to the writing implements and letters being impounded. "You are 
in service to the southern queen and will die for your treachery. 
Your alliance with the air breathers always inflamed suspicions. 
But for the actions documented here you shall die!"
    The noble went goggle-eyed with incredulity. "Lies!" he 
cried, surging against his tether. "It is all lies!" He looked to 
his luxuries stored in the back and recognized Turg. "Everything 
is a lie spread by his master! He planted these forgeries."
    The major looked at the frog whose face was smeared with 
stolen booty. The officer's laughter filled the room as the frog 
swam closer, his face showing no signs of intelligence.
    "His master is a beast and a bigot," the prisoner snarled. 
"So superior to those who breathe though he spent years on the 
land. Even his chief lackey is an amphibian." The merman twisted 
on the line attempting to smash the frog with his flukes.
    The jack dodged the blow, and electricity surged through the 
champion's hands into the tail. The attack reduced the noble to a 
glassy eyed wreck, small globes of blood drifting from an open 
mouth and breaking up in the water. The major looked at the 
amphibian in anger but remembered whose patronage the frog 
enjoyed.
    "We do not need his confession anyway," the attack leader 
groused. "We have enough to convince any that he conspired 
against the crown. The dungeons will soon drag the truth out of 
him."
    He called for the incriminating evidence to be sealed for 
immediate transport and left his orderlies searching through the 
rest of the archives. Turg swam back to his cronies and enjoyed 
the fruits of the noble's larder.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Laquatus came out of the trance pleased with all he had seen. 
Riding the jack during the attack allowed him to frame the 
moderate aristocrat. He laughed at how close the merman's raving 
came to the truth. The drive to find conspiracies was producing 
spectacular results. Every day brought new arrests and 
revelations of treachery. The ambassador admired the unrelenting 
torturers in their efforts to gain confessions. Perhaps they even 
extracted the truth from someone, but the aristocrat doubted it.
    The emperor, feeling more besieged than ever, granted 
Laquatus more and more authority to pursue his inquiries. Today's 
raid was the culmination of his attempts to stir up trouble, and 
he could not be happier with its success. Even the imperial 
officers started to believe the propaganda he spread. Laquatus 
had expected them to be much more cynical and jaded. The 
sprawling chaos was a work of joy.
    Sometimes, he even forgot it was only a cover for his 
thievery. Fulla had excavated five rooms without locating 
Kirtar's prize. Several loads of "damaged" goods had gone to the 
Cabal, and Laquatus was obliged to search all of them. He found 
no sign of the orb and wondered if perhaps she had no plans to 
betray him. Finding that conclusion highly unlikely, he was 
careful to document her thievery through exact manifests. Minus, 
of course, items of power interesting enough for him to steal.
    The dementia caster had no contact with the Cabal and was 
unlikely to complain of thefts from her own looting operation. 
The emperor engaged himself in touring the army and moving 
against signs of discontent. The real bonus from his violent 
flailing against conspiracy was his actions were undoubtedly 
creating real plots against him. The cycle of violence was 
increasing, and the ambassador swam at the center, still 
untouched. He readied himself for court, putting on his finest 
jewelry.
    He swam through the palace corridors, the building pumping 
light from above to the halls. Aboshan had called a meeting of 
nobles to go over the reports Laquatus gave him the day before. 
In the name of preserving theoretical contacts with the queen's 
court, he was spared from attending except occasionally. The door 
to the throne room was closed, but the emperor's shouting bled 
through in a wordless howl.
    The ambassador ignored it, waiting for the end of the 
audience. Aboshan's rants had become distressingly predictable, 
often ending with a wild accusation that took a noble away to be 
investigated. Only the identity of the prisoner changed, and 
Laquatus thought it best to be absent when the sacrificial lamb 
was selected. Danger could add spice, but maintaining a 
fictitious wave of conspiracies provided enough entertainment.
    While the ambassador waited, he saw another merman furtively 
hovering down the corridor. Thinking he recognized the courtier, 
Laquatus swam toward him. The merman remembered the other with a 
start. It was Petod, a lower noble who had withdrawn to the 
southern court years before. He was dressed in palace livery, but 
Laquatus was sure of his identity.
    The noble realized himself recognized and swam into a side 
room, gesturing for company. Laquatus cast a spell, sending an 
image of himself down the corridor to his quarters. He vanished 
into the other room as well, making sure that no one saw him. The 
door closed behind him as soon as he went through.
    "Thank goodness I found you," said Petod in a panicked voice. 
The merman nervously twisted rings on his finger as he swam to 
check the door. "I did not know who to turn to." He reached as if 
to pat the ambassador's shoulder only to stop at a forbidding 
gaze.
    "The court felt too dangerous for me to declare myself," 
Petod said wretchedly, seeming to collapse internally. Laquatus 
remembered him as weak willed. "I came as an unofficial 
representative from the queen. Her majesty is understandably 
upset at the attempt to kill her husband and wished to reassure 
him that she was not involved. I hope to serve as a private 
courier between the two monarchs."
    "Llawan sent you?" Laquatus asked in disbelief. Petod was a 
poor choice from his memory, given to rash judgements and poor 
decisions. Laquatus thought her a better leader than that.
    "Of course not," the self-selected emissary said. "The nobles 
who fled south would view such a move on her part as 
unacceptable. I took it upon myself to offer my services," he 
finished smugly.
    The ambassador nodded. Petod was a fool, but he could be 
quite congenial in social situations. Perhaps he was familiar in 
the southern court. Llawan would never use a back channel because 
her integrity would force her to inform her allies.
    "Why the disguise?" he asked.
    "If I declared myself, I feared being called a spy or 
assassin," Petod confessed. Laquatus said nothing though sneaking 
into the palace under false pretense made such a fate inevitable. 
"I hoped to find an ally that might help me meet secretly with 
the emperor. I heard of your return from exile and knew you could 
help."
    Two thoughts surged through the ambassador's mind. First, 
such an action was suicidal with the emperor in his current mood. 
Second, Aboshan's ridiculous pretense of clemency to a returned 
exile had indeed enabled him to contact a member of Llawan's 
court. He soon shook off the surprise. He could not afford any 
knowledge of the southern plans reaching the emperor. Already he 
had taken over the emperor's spies who reported from the south. 
The ambassador recast Llawan's actions to make her appear more 
hostile to the emperor. Petod must not meet Aboshan.
    "I am astounded at your actions, my lord," Laquatus said, his 
voice filled with warm regard. "Your close knowledge of Llawan's 
policies and private feelings could alter the history of the 
seas." The ambassador clapped the young noble on the back, a 
jeweled ring cutting into the flesh on the shoulder.
    "A thousand apologies, Petod," the merman said stripping the 
ring from his finger. "It is a new piece and far too clumsy on my 
hand. Allow me to present it to you as a token of my esteem. No, 
I insist." Laquatus put the ring on Petod's hand, ignoring the 
young mer's stumbling refusal. The ambassador exercised great 
caution as he placed and released the ring.
    The self-appointed emissary rubbed at the puncture high on 
his shoulder, trying to accept the gift graciously even as his 
flesh went numb. Laquatus was in full court regalia and that 
included poison for his jewelry. The southern noble gasped, water 
moving fitfully through his gills. He choked and gasped as he 
realized himself attacked.
    The ambassador decided his poison was not quite virulent 
enough. Too much time away from court had made his venom weak. He 
used his magic and called a stream of tiny jellyfish into being. 
The fragile cloud was hardly more substantial than the water in 
which it swam. He guided Petod to it, and his gills sucked the 
tiny bags of poison down. Toxins poured directly into his 
bloodstream, and Laquatus held him steady as his body locked. The 
torn flesh plugged the organs, and they ceased to supply oxygen. 
The ambassador banished the summoning as soon as he knew the 
courier was dead.
    He swam back to the throne room, towing his dead victim 
behind him. He put on a burst of speed wanting to arrive with 
maximum effect. The valve doors were open, the assembled nobles 
withdrawing as fast as they dared. The ambassador swam past them 
as gasps of shock echoed behind him. He swam to where the emperor 
reclined with a cluster of officers waiting around him. Aboshan 
looked exhausted, his rage having consumed him during the 
audience. Guards surged from the walls and stopped, uncertain 
what threat a corpse might pose.
    "Laquatus," the monarch said, looking at the dead Petod. 
"What is the meaning of your companion?" He waved a moray eel 
closer, and it snared the body hauling it away from the monarch.
    "An assassin from the southern court, your imperial majesty," 
Laquatus said boldly. "I spotted him outside your very throne 
room, and when I went to investigate he attacked me."
    "Look," the merman said dramatically, pointing to the corpse 
being pushed back by the moray ell. "Slain by the very ring he 
plotted to use on others in the palace. Dare I say, including 
your royal majesty." Aboshan gestured with a tentacle.
    "Show me the ring," he commanded. The eel was perhaps too 
literal, and his jaws snipped Petod's hand off and brought it 
near. The monarch regarded the offending appendage and threw it 
to the side.
    "Is there no end to this infamy? The rumors you reported are 
true! Raids on some of our greatest nobles have revealed links to 
our shark of a wife. Now an assassin outside our very throne 
room? Why do they plot against me?" he cried, no longer using the 
royal plural. He collapsed back into the throne, and the 
ambassador could feel energy pulsing back into the monarch from 
the palace.
    "Perhaps war is the only answer," a hesitant officer said, 
looking for support from his fellows. "The queen's forces are not 
so superior. Surely a surprise attack would put an end to these 
conspiracies."
    The emperor looked up wanly. Laquatus spoke quickly to squash 
the idea. Open warfare would bring the emperor's interest back to 
the martial devices buried beneath his palace.
    "My Emperor," he stated, striving for statesmanship, "the 
queen and her alliances make open warfare too dangerous for you 
both. Her air-breathing allies and the creatures of the deep 
would surely come to her aid. As deadly as these conspiracies 
are, they represent the limits of her reach. Her assassin was 
incompetent. Better security inside the palace is the answer. 
Llawan dares not attack openly and must strike through traitors 
and other toils." Laquatus wanted Aboshan consumed by internal 
problems.
    "Moreover," the ambassador continued, "open warfare would 
drag guards to the battle lines, weakening your security in the 
palace. We must root out conspiracies and make our own overtures 
to Llawan's allies. If we isolate her, then we can attack with 
impunity."
    "We are so very tired," the emperor muttered, lying back as 
more magic whispered into his frame. "Our wife will fall, but our 
wrath must wait. We shall strip her of allies here and abroad." 
His eyes focused on Laquatus, decision swimming weakly into his 
gaze.
    "You will consult with our officers on crushing those who 
plot against us," he stated. He rose and began to swim for his 
private quarters. "You have our warrant to do all that is 
necessary to guard our throne."
    The officers and ambassador lowered their heads as the 
monarch passed.
    Carte blanche! Laquatus exulted. Current and former rivals 
for power in the court would sink very soon, the ambassador 
promised himself. Still, perhaps he should begin reducing the 
perceived threat lest the emperor strike out in panic against his 
wife. War would reduce his ability to control the situation and 
give too much power to the generals.
    Laquatus looked at the attentive faces surrounding him and 
knew hatred and envy must fill their hearts. He had displaced 
many on his rise to power, and now his enemies grew daily in 
number. If only Fulla would find the orb. With such an item of 
power, he might stop serving others' will and fully satisfy his 
own desires. He drew the officers to him, wondering how much 
longer he must reign himself in.
 
                       CHAPTER 22
 
    Kamahl peered down at the sea. The wooded hillside overlooked 
the coastal town of Borben on the continent's edge. The town sat 
at the end of a major trade road, the last habitation before the 
open ocean. A long peninsula jogged out for the mainland creating 
a protected bay. Like a single finger of hills, it beckoned to 
ships searching for port. Waterfowl and a few seals sunning 
themselves populated the last spit of land.
    The barbarian walked to the hilltop along an overgrown trail, 
soaring above the main road. The joint caravans of the Cabal and 
the Mer Empire broke apart many miles behind him. The animals 
went south, and a few of the wagons continued on to Borben. 
Kamahl had parted ways with Emerald some days before, leaving the 
barbarian alone to walk into the town.
    A few small ships lay anchored in the bay, with only one pier 
stretching out into the water for the transfer of freight from 
small vessels. Out on the water, a single lighter accepted a net 
of cargo from a larger ship. Oars started to row the boat back to 
the docks and warehouses.
    Well back from town, nearly in the surrounding hills, sat a 
small arena. Nearly oval in shape, it was constructed out of 
wood, the large logs and rough-cut timbers whitewashed in the 
sun. It pressed against an outcropping of rock, the interior 
looking muddy from a distance. Sand was piled outside the 
fighting ring. The color told the barbarian it was hauled up from 
the shore.
    The arena stood deserted now, but the mountain mage knew it 
would be crowded during market days and festivals. The best 
source of information regarding the ambassador and his stolen 
prize would undoubtedly be the bars around the docks and the 
arena. He was no seaman, and he resolved to try the inns close to 
the fighting ring, knowing he could mix with the jacks.
    The town looked still now, but when the fishermen returned to 
port the docks would teem. He wondered when the bouts would start 
in the arena, so he could interact with familiar types of people. 
He considered his own appearance as he thought about poking 
around for information regarding the troubles in the east. The 
Order would distribute descriptions, and the ambassador might 
have left word of him as well.
    He wore a gray cloak now, the elen garment gradually 
shrinking to fit him as he plied needle and dagger. The metal-
hued races were uncommon but by no means unknown on the 
continent. Only two things were uniquely his own: his name and 
his sword. He drew the weapon, holding it in his open palms as he 
considered it. Long as he was tall, the massive blade showed 
little sign of wear. Rings rattled softly on the blade as he 
rotated it. Ever since procuring it during his quests as a young 
man, he had carried it. The steel and fire evoked from the mystic 
metal had cut many an enemy low. But in the mountains, the sword 
had gained its own reputation, as fulsome as Kamahl's, and was 
more unique in appearance. Regretfully, he decided that the 
weapon must rest here, above the town, to await his return.
    He walked to a tree, its roots wrapping around a boulder, as 
if holding it to the ground. He looked at his sword and called 
power. It flowed into the steel, the energy streaming fluidly 
throughout the weapon. He set the nearly flat point against the 
rock, the shallow edge still cutting the stone. His muscles ached 
as he pushed. Gradually the metal burrowed its way through the 
rock. Kamahl strained until the hilt began to disappear. He 
exhausted more of his strength as he picked up a stone and set it 
against the hilt. The weapon's advance continued as his hands 
held rock rather than the familiar leather wrapped hilt. Stone 
touched stone, and he closed the final inches. The smell of hot 
metal ceased as his granite pad disappeared into the rocky anvil.
    Kamahl walked to his gear. Looking at the pack and several 
bags, he realized he had grown too dependent on steeds. He 
separated out the essential from the merely convenient and laid 
out tarps to encase the saddle and gear too heavy to carry into 
town. He opened a bag he intended to cache by the boulder holding 
his sword. Arms picked up during his travels rattled as he 
searched. Near the bottom he withdrew a weapon found just days 
before.
    Roving bands of Order knights swept the roads looking for 
signs of Kamahl and the animals whose attacks had been so 
disruptive. The soldiers also inspected wagons for forbidden 
objects. News of the disastrous spell in the Citadel drove the 
knights to new heights in destroying past evils. The mercenaries 
driving caravans of excavated treasures lacked the will to fight 
the Order. During his trek here, the barbarian had come across a 
few of their abandoned wagons.
    He drew forth a massive hammer. The head was black iron. 
Magic reinforced the metal and the haft. The long handle was 
white ivory, perhaps from some fallen mammoth or other such 
beast. The dense grip and over-sized head made it a weapon for a 
giant rather than someone the size of a man. His muscles bunched 
as he hefted it. He remembered Emerald's look of momentary 
outrage when he loaded the hammer. He had found it lying in the 
open near another cache of weapons. Knowing it abandoned, he had 
still dropped most of his money in the resting place. Whoever 
came looking for it would be disappointed but surprised at the 
consideration of the person who rescued it from destruction by 
the Order. Perhaps the Cabal or a corrupt bird warrior had his 
money even now, but it would have felt wrong to take it without 
any attempt at compensation.
    He stuffed his sword scabbard in his bags and hid them and 
the saddle. He held the hammer in his hands and felt the weight. 
Only his constant practice with his own massive sword allowed him 
to swing it with assurance. He took one last look and started 
through the trees to the road.
    It took sometime to reach the highway, even with the 
barbarian's rapid pace and sure feet. It drew toward evening as 
Kamahl came into the town. The streets led down to the docks, but 
he took a switchback trail to the arena. On the bay, the last of 
the fishing vessels were coming in, the catch being transferred 
to the packinghouses. Lights came up around the arena as street 
musicians began to play. Reeds and strings dueled in melody, as 
fighters soon would inside. A local inn competed with men selling 
food on the street, and clusters of fisherman up from the docks 
drifted toward the bars. Kamahl shouldered patrons aside as he 
came into the inn.
    "What might I do for you?" a barman called, drawing drinks 
for the house. The light was dim and the room close and crowded. 
The smell of food cooking in the kitchen and the proprietor's 
face both seemed pleasant enough.
    "I need a room and meals for the next several days," Kamahl 
said, resting his hammer on the bar. The fighting weapon drew 
only a few glances. Perhaps they were used to jacks from the 
arena. The coins he threw down attracted substantially more 
attention. The barbarian recalled how much he spent at the inns 
at the tourney in Cabal City. From the respectful glances, the 
cost of room and board in Borben was substantially less.
    "We can accommodate you, sir," the bartender cried, grabbing 
up a set of keys. He came around the bar, ignoring the empty 
tankards waved in his direction. The proprietor's bald head 
sweated from exertion and the heat in the crowded room. He picked 
up the barbarian's saddlebags and tried to pick up the hammer as 
well. The unexpected weight left him standing still for a moment 
before Kamahl lifted the heavy weapon to his shoulder.
    "I want a room with a view of the harbor," the mountain mage 
said as he followed the owner up the stairs. The steps were 
narrow, and the light peeked over the solid barrister. A single 
lamp lit the hall. The keys rattled briefly as the innkeeper 
unlocked the door. The room was small and the window sealed off. 
Kamahl's guide dropped the bags and threw the shutters open, 
letting a salty breeze carry over the sash to the barbarian.
    "Best view in the house," the owner said. The makings for a 
fire were laid in a fireplace, and the linens looked clean. 
"There are chops and roast for dinner tonight and rabbits 
tomorrow. We always prepare food for the arena crowd. After that, 
the kitchen shuts down for the week unless a guest makes private 
arrangements. I'll send a girl with a coal to start a blaze and 
bring you whatever you want from the kitchen."
    Kamahl waved, and a glowing ember seemed to float through the 
air to land on the prepared wood. The logs burst into flames, 
instantly pouring out heat with no showers of sparks.
    "I will take my own meals tonight," the barbarian said, 
laying the hammer on the bed, which sagged. "I prefer my privacy 
and will have no trouble tending my own fire. If you would give 
me the key to this room and any spares."
    The owner hesitated as the mountain mage approached. He laid 
the brass in the jack's hand and bowed his way out, eyes 
flickering from the fire to the weapon on the bed.
    Kamahl closed the door and went to the window. The town folk 
flowed up from the sea's edge toward the entertainment offered 
behind him at the arena. A few heavy wagons were left on the 
pier, a luckless sentry standing guard as his friends climbed the 
hill. The wagons had the
    look of long-haul freight, and the barbarian resolved to make 
inquires about them tomorrow.
    The crowds in the street and bars drained away as he left the 
inn. The arena was small, and Kamahl was immediately conducted to 
a box seat with a small tray of refreshments as he entered. 
Someone from the inn had obviously informed the arena operators 
of his presence. This was not the reception the barbarian-now a 
known outlaw-expected.
    A porter waited to the side, ready to speak as the 
entertainment commenced. First was the light and easy comedy of 
blood sports. Two groups of men, fishermen from their gait, came 
into the arena. Kamahl looked for an emblem for the fight, and 
the porter swept forward.
    "Just two crews who had a disagreement over boundaries, sir," 
the servitor explained. "The winner of the bout fixes the new 
fishing boundaries over the disputed area."
    Kamahl turned to see if anyone else received such specialized 
service, but the layout of the boxes prevented him from observing 
others.
    A piercing whistle sounded, and the crews rushed each other. 
Men were clad in padded jerkins, and their clubs were wrapped in 
cloth. They fell to like madmen, flailing at heads and joints. 
The fishers only disengaged when armed guards dragged away the 
wounded. Within minutes only one staggering figure remained 
through most of the others appeared to be recovering off on the 
sidelines. The winner left with arms held high though attendants 
came out to guide him to the exit. The next acts were simple 
acrobats and tumblers, their antics entertaining the crowd as the 
next bill readied themselves.
    "Here we are too short of fighters and beasts to have more 
than a few matches during any night," the servant said nervously 
as he watched the barbarian eat.
    Kamahl cast only occasional glances toward the exhibition. 
Finally the signal was given, and the acrobats somersaulted free, 
leaving the floor clear.
    The servant left as two fighters emerged, each wearing colors 
of arena staff. One was tall and scarred, wearing a steel mask 
and leather armor. A short flail with two spiked heads swung 
slowly at his side.
    The other opponent leaned on a staff of black wood, a brazier 
producing smoke in different colors that swept over him. He was 
short and spindly, dressed only in tattered clothes that ruffled 
slightly as a gust of wind swept the arena. The servant glanced 
in from his rounds of the other boxes.
    "Does your staff fight or is it just the fishermen?" Kamahl 
asked, as hoots began to rise up from the audience.
    "We are very small compared to the inland arenas, my lord," 
the servitor said, projecting obsequiousness in the face of 
perceived disappointment. "The large gladiatorial companies avoid 
us, the crowds being too small and the gambling syndicates unable 
to handle serious betting. We must rely on house fighters for the 
majority of the bouts."
    The signal to begin the bout rang, and the waiting dementia 
caster dug his staff into the soil. The shaft cast a long shadow, 
though no bright light existed to throw such a pall. From the 
depths of the shadow came laughter. Then several twisted monsters 
exited the darkness. Their flesh appeared parched, their hands 
showing bone as they shuffled about in a gruesome dance.
    The masked fighter swung his flail as the tall mage called 
more creatures from his mind and raised the bones of the dead 
from the ground. The race of the corpses was impossible to 
determine because the flesh was in such poor condition.
    The dementia caster sawed his staff back and forth, the 
shadow racing over the ground. The black wave coated the flesh of 
the risen, drawing the moisture out. Their flesh shriveled as 
tendons and muscles grew too tenuous to keep the bodies together.
    The field cleared as laughing corpses fell on each other and 
dragged food back to the darkness from which they sprang. Some of 
the horrific creatures called forth from the dementia caster's 
mind ignored everything and staggered around the arena. Cries 
sounded from the gate guards as the dead beat on the barriers 
keeping them inside. Others turned on the masked fighter who 
began to fall back. The flail smashed bones, but the twisted dead 
continued snapping at his heels, their bodies coiling and 
rebuilding into even more twisted fragments of the short mage's 
imagination.
    A few of the creatures even turned on their creator, 
advancing on the staff. The shadow it cast began to sweep back 
and forth, the pall forming a cone in front of the mage. The 
rebelling monsters fell as their limbs spilled to the ground, 
their frames melting like frost on a skillet. The masked jack 
fought harder as more of the laughing closed on him.
    Acknowledging defeat the fighter knelt in submission, his 
mask dipping to the ground. The dementia caster withdrew his 
staff from the ground and knocked the brazier over. The summoned 
vanished like nightmares at dawn as the short victor bowed to the 
applause of the crowd.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    The crowd roared in the stands above as workers tried to 
reassemble the dead. The arena operator and two assistants laid 
out the bodies of the slain. Some had been dead a very long time, 
and the smell smashed against the barbarian. Kamahl had left his 
private box before the next bout to talk to the owners about 
fighting in their establishment. He found the master hard at work 
preparing for the next night.
    "Make sure you find as many body parts as you can," the 
promoter told the groundskeeper. The arena owner's pale skin 
contrasted with the dirt and leather smock he wore. Splotches of 
blood and caustic burns covered his apron and sections of 
revealed skin. "There are rumors sweeping the docks, and the 
sailors are asking for burial at sea again instead of in port." 
He shooed the servant away and regarded the jack.
    "So you wish to join our little family?" The pit boss asked, 
searching through a pile of limbs for an arm to complete a dead 
dwarf, preservative fluid dripping from the torn flesh. Kamahl 
shook his head.
    "I wish to compete in the arena against your fighters," he 
corrected. He looked at the dead being reconstructed for later 
battles. "Your family appears quite big enough," he said with 
distaste. The promoter ignored the tone.
    "You would be surprised how difficult it is to keep a large 
enough supply for Enoch and Apel, our necromancers," he said, 
surrendering in his quest and throwing a random arm in the 
dwarf's case. "We'll have to bury these tonight in the arena. 
Apel's zombies always cart off the dead despite how short we are. 
We used to get sailors, but my brother forgot to alter one's 
looks. Now it is almost impossible to get them after they die." 
He moved to the next casket whose contents the barbarian avoided 
looking at. "The crowds are growing very tired of the same old 
faces week after week.
    "I am offering something new," Kamahl said, stepping around 
to peer in the mild eyes. "Someone whom your clients have not 
seen before."
    The proprietor waved to his assistants and walked to the back 
with the barbarian following.
    "You understand that we rarely fight to the death here," the 
official said, hanging his splattered apron on a hook before 
stepping into an office. "Also, the deal is contingent on my 
brother's agreement when he comes back from meeting with the bet-
mongers."
    "I'll not put on a show," Kamahl said, his eyes growing hard. 
"When I fight, it will be for real. However, I need not kill if 
your fighters understand that they can surrender when they are 
overwhelmed."
    The owner waved the demand away.
    "A jack in a small arena has no use for a champion's airs," 
he said, drawing forth a piece of paper. "Now, I will need your 
name for the criers circulating tonight if you plan to fight 
tomorrow."
    The barbarian paused before answering. It would be easiest to 
give a false name, but an outright lie stuck in his throat.
    "Call me the Hammer," he said, sparking the proprietor's 
interest. "Only by defeating me will someone learn my true name."
    The fat man nodded, seeing the possibilities. "You will need 
to clean your armor, and we must design a suitable emblem ..." 
the owner continued as he led the barbarian away. A host of 
functionaries followed, all trying to mold Kamahl to their own 
idea of what a fighter should be. He was brusque in refusing 
their offers of advice on how to fight and the proper attire to 
wear. He did allow the armorer to work on his protective gear, 
which had suffered during his travels.
    It seemed only minutes, and he was standing in the center of 
the arena, the noise of the crowd merging into an unintelligible 
muttering. The gray cloak was thrown back, his iron shirt dark 
against his brass skin.
    Kamahl swung his hammer, stretching out the kinks in his 
muscles. His first opponent was Apel, a short dementia caster. 
Knowing the reputation of such mages, Kamahl wondered if the 
house fighter would follow the rules. The barbarian believed the 
short summoner would soon be surrendering, but he must be 
prepared for a battle to the death. The crowd began to chant as 
Apel strode into the arena and lowered his equipment to the 
ground.
    The dementia caster stood on the sand, a burning brazier at 
his side. Apel threw power onto the glowing coals and a heavy 
cloud of smoke rose, making his features waver and change. The 
dark mage dug his staff into the ground, and a thin shadow 
stretched out from the shaft, advancing toward the light behind 
Kamahl's head rather than away. The familiar shuffling figures of 
the mirthful dead began to appear, cackling perhaps at the joke 
of life itself. Kamahl wondered how predictable his opponent 
would be.
    The barbarian called forth his own magic, a field of 
possibility forming over the sand. He would experiment, use the 
arena to teach himself new methods of attack and defense. Several 
cougars surged out of nothingness onto the arena floor, their 
roars stilling the cries of the crowd. The zombies came on, their 
laughter continuing even as many were pulled down and savaged by 
the great cats. If any of the dead were reconstructed corpses, 
the mountain mage did not envy the morticians' tasks in repairing 
the bodies.
    The dementia caster seemed oblivious to the failure of his 
forces. Ignoring the feasting cats, Apel sent more undead onto 
the arena floor. A tattered wave threatening to overwhelm 
Kamahl's spell by choking his beasts under a wave of cold flesh. 
The barbarian concentrated again, the cloud of his summoning 
stretching wider as he played a little to the crowd.
    A flock of mountain sheep stormed onto the sand. They milled 
for a moment, their waist-high bodies losing themselves in a blur 
as the fierce rams fought for position. Kamahl nudged them into 
action with a mental command, and the beasts lowered their 
tightly curled horns and stormed forward. The rams struck hard, 
shattering bone and bringing the dead down. Clawed hands and 
fangs struck at Kamahl's creatures but could not penetrate the 
dense wool that defeated the cold wind of the mountains and the 
hot breath of timber wolves.
    Apel lifted his staff into the air, his face now agitated as 
his forces fell to mere sheep. In frustration he speared the oak 
into the sand. Power poured into the soil. Like cobras rising to 
strike, dark spears rose from the ground. The shadowy weapons 
bobbed and weaved before falling on the animals that ground up 
the dead. The wool that resisted the strength of zombies sundered 
as the beasts were transfixed. The few remaining cougars expired 
in yowling pain. The rams fell as mutton, the undead rising up as 
Apel poured new strength to their shattered bones. The bodies 
tottered toward the barbarian more twisted and cackling than 
before, but the upright spears of night were straight as they 
drifted toward the mountain mage.
    Kamahl stepped forward, his brow wrinkling as his will 
contested once more with the universe. Now hulking figures came 
onto the arena sands, their roars of displeasure shaking the 
crowd until the mighty monsters choked off their cries with dead 
flesh. Their white fur grew stained with blood and gore as they 
tore apart those coming too close to their master. The yetis 
discarded limbs as they worked their way back to the dementia 
caster. The enemy mage's black spears dived to spill life to the 
ground. But despite the humanoids' bulk, they dodged the dark 
weapons with ease, their agility honed by the mountain cliffs 
their kind regularly traveled. They wrung their way up the line 
of zombies, and Kamahl raised his hammer, waiting for the next 
attack.
    The crowd cried out as the yetis approached the enemy, their 
bloody hands reaching for the weedy mage. The dementia caster 
dropped, and his body heaved. Kamahl paused, holding his minions 
in case his opponent was surrendering, uncertain with all the 
particulars of this arena.
    A wave of corrupting flesh seemed to spew from the 
underworld. The zombies Apel called forth vanished, disappearing 
or devoured by his newest creation. The mass lunged for the 
approaching yetis, lifting itself into the air and spreading out 
in a great sheet of corruption. The mountain apes disappeared 
under the dark spell as the mound fell with a thunderous retort. 
The impact ruptured coffins buried in the dirt. Bodies lolled on 
the ground and were swallowed by the spreading wave.
    The crowd called for Kamahl's defeat, cheering for their 
favorite. The barbarian was done with calling monster and readied 
his hammer. The iron head fell as the first tendrils reached him. 
The maul struck the ground, a shattering concussion setting the 
sand rolling, flinging back the formless flesh. The jack took a 
step forward as his hammer thundered again. The magic concussion 
splattered the corruption back, the waves of power shaking the 
stands. The strength of his attack diminished as Kamahl 
controlled his power.
    He cleaved a path with reverberating blows, working his way 
across the arena until he stood before Apel. The power assaulted 
the mage's bones, and he leaned on his staff, too unsteady to 
remain upright without the support. The barbarian raised his 
hammer and paused to allow the dementia caster to forfeit. The 
necromancer bowed his head in defeat.
    Cheers sounded as Kamahl nodded magnanimously and offered his 
hand in a show of sportsmanship. The barbarian turned and bowed 
to the proprietors in their box and the crowd in the stands. The 
fighter started for the exit and the alehouse, anxious to wash 
the stench of the dead from his frame.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    The serving girl scooped meat onto the barbarian's trencher, 
and the gravy started to sink into the bread. Kamahl took a bite, 
and the juices tasted delicious as he washed the meal down with 
ale.
    The other customers regarded him warmly, despite his defeat 
of the local fighter. The novelty of a new opponent gave him a 
popularity he had not received in Cabal City. The hill tavern was 
full, as new patron came to view the stranger. His deliberate air 
of mystery was another draw. So far, Kamahl had given no name 
except that of his new weapon. The ivory and iron creation lay 
across the table as enthusiasts walked slowly by, caressing it 
with their eyes.
    The dementia caster's defeat and the adulation of the crowd 
pleased the barbarian. His battle had been the climax of the 
night. It had been a short bill with only the duel between an 
unknown and the local champion bringing any crowd. The enthusiasm 
and respect was heady, but Kamahl remembered this was only single 
step in his quest for the orb. A group crowded closer to his 
table, and he looked up. Three young men dressed in armor and 
carrying brand-new weapons coughed for his attention. None of 
their gear showed wear, and most appeared of indifferent quality.
    Two of them were dark, their skins rough from exposure to the 
weather. They were fit but were uncomfortable with their weapons. 
The middle boy was tall and thin, with muscle showing but lacking 
the calluses of his companions. He wore his clothes and elegant 
boots well enough. However, he seemed no more at ease with the 
sword at his hip than his companions.
    The barbarian wondered if they were working up the nerve to 
challenge him or pick a fight to show their own bravery. Many 
jacks reveled in such fights but not Kamahl. "You have a 
question?" he growled, his irritation deepening his voice. They 
jumped back, then two pushed the center of their trio forward.
    "If you please, sir," the blond said hesitantly, his hands 
falling to his belt, "we wondered if you might be available for 
students seeking instruction."
    Kamahl laughed shortly, the boys' faces reddening. His mirth 
was more at his own expense than the youngsters', but the 
adolescents were wound too tightly for any hint of humor. They 
started to withdraw, but the barbarian called them back.
    "Your pardon, sirs," Kamahl apologized. "I expected a 
different question. Please join me." The three drew up stools and 
sat down. The serving wench brought more tankards at the 
barbarian's wave.
    "I am Girter, son of a chandler," the blond boy said, giving 
a seated bow. "These are my friends Wasel and Birten. Their 
father owns two fishing boats. We hope to learn magic from you," 
he added bluntly
    "Why me?" the mountain mage asked. "Surely there are others 
willing to teach, fighters from the arena perhaps." He took a sip 
as he thought. To be a fighting master was a serious relationship 
in the mountains. He had spent years working with his mentor and 
could not see himself in such a role for now. But he remembered 
his own stumbling steps in search of magic. Perhaps he could help 
the boys.
    "We want you to teach us because there are few willing to 
teach. Apel and Enoch will both take students, but we feel uneasy 
with calling on the dead. Besides, you are the first in quite 
some time to beat either of them," Girter said, his friends 
nodding in agreement.
    "I do not know my own plans," Kamahl said, playing for time. 
"I will offer my opinions on the available teachers. I have 
skill, but you need a master rather than a fighter. I leave soon, 
in any case. It depends on what I learn about the trade 
caravans."
    "My father is completely familiar with them," Girter 
exclaimed, flushing with pleasure now, rather than rage.
    "Our father sometimes hauls out cargo from the caravans to 
the freight ships waiting in the bay," one of the brothers chimed 
in. "Though there isn't much call for his services anymore."
    "Yes," said Girter with a frown, reclaiming the conversation. 
"The number of wagons hauling cargo to the coast plummeted when 
the Order became more active. They stop caravans across the 
continent, searching for a stolen artifact."
    "They say that an agent for the Cabal stole a magic sword 
belonging to the head of the Order. She had her throat cut in her 
sleep." One of the dark-haired boys - the barbarian thought it 
Wasel - spoke with a certain amount of relish.
    "I heard an ambassador from the emperor's court and his 
fighting frog stole it during an animal attack on the captain," 
his brother Birten said, determined to speak at least once.
    "They even say a metal-skinned barbarian killed the captain 
and her lieutenant and stole away a great treasure," Girter 
confessed, glancing toward Kamahl. His friends looked nervously 
at the mountain fighter, who smiled back.
    "I never had the pleasure of meeting the captain.,"
    The three youths laughed uproariously as if Kamahl told a 
great jest.
    "I am, however, interested in occurrences inland. Perhaps I 
will return that way. I also might travel by ship, so I would 
appreciate any news of the empire. Please join me, and we will 
talk more."
    Kamahl watched them wave for the waitress and wondered how 
many rumors and false trails battled with the truth. Perhaps he 
would stay in Borben a while, finding news sources from the 
empire. One thing was certain-further travel was pointless 
without more information.
 
                       CHAPTER 23
 
    "Shall we come to order?" Laquatus called as the generals 
gathered around the table. The delicate murals on the throne room 
walls twinkled like submerged stars, the emperor's image looming 
over his councilors and servants. In the continent's dead 
buildings, the ambassador could take the image down or cover it. 
However, in the sea, the palace itself would bleed the image 
through any barrier. Besides, Laquatus could not decide the fate 
of the emperor's face, not just yet.
    Already he had turned the throne room into the command 
center. From here he directed the action against the supposed 
rebels and agents of the queen. Aboshan had retired to his rooms 
in disarray. There he spent his time in debauchery with 
occasional bouts when he planned paranoid purges. Increasingly, 
the court relied on Laquatus to deal with the day to day running 
of the palace. Many decisions, formerly the exclusive domain of 
the emperor, were decided by him. Best of all, he was able to 
blame the bolder and bloody moves on the now-isolated ruler.
    A general droned on, but the ambassador ignored him for now. 
Most members of the new ruling body were military, for Laquatus 
had taken over the government's civilian functions. Ministers who 
were former rivals or could impede his decisions were already 
cleared away. The obstacles were removed by denunciation. Some 
died, and others fled to the southern courts, proving their 
treachery or at least their taste for living.
    The valuable and respected ministers presented more of a 
problem. Too many traitors in the government's highest ranks 
might lead Aboshan to suspect Laquatus. Remembering the effect of 
his own exile in isolating him, the ambassador found compelling 
reasons for the highest officials to be sent abroad or to the 
empire's hinterlands. Embassies opened in dozens of cities, and 
the reluctant diplomats tried to remove the queen from her 
undersea allies.
    Many of those courtiers remaining in the palace found 
themselves elevated due to Laquatus's influence and transferred 
their loyalty to him. Having the whip hand over the civilian 
administration, the ambassador was considering his next target-
the army. It agitated constantly for additional funds, soldiers, 
and action. Even now, officers looked to him to implement their 
latest recommendations. He wondered what they were.
    "I will hear the next report and inform you of the emperor's 
decisions regarding your requests, General." He would glance at 
the wax-covered slate later. He might even secure a decision if 
he thought the outcome personally favorable.
    Another officer began to report, and Laquatus wondered how to 
gain ascendancy over the army. The problem was proving more 
resistant to his attempts to weed out leaders. The military had a 
higher sense of duty and loyalty to its own institutions. 
Moreover, he could not steer his own candidates to empty 
positions. Any openings were still filled at the pleasure of the 
commanding generals.
    What he needed was an eviscerating purge of the army's 
officer corps. Laquatus needed his own armed force to implement 
it in the emperor's name. A personal guard, he thought, and his 
eyes drifted to the rear of the throne room. Turg and his lackeys 
were gathered together, gambling quietly. The killers and 
scoundrels his jack recruited and led in the raids lacked the 
strict discipline demanded by the army. However, there were many 
castes and species in ocean society that could be played against 
each other. The lower orders had their place, and if a 
bloodthirsty few managed to improve their lot to the ambassador's 
benefit, he saw no harm. His jack could find more compatriots 
while he looked for an excuse for Aboshan to create another army.
    He thought of the emperor entombed in his rooms with Laquatus 
controlling access to the monarch. Expanding the current system 
of spies and thugs in a serious military force would not be too 
difficult. He could use subtle innuendo about the military's 
loyalty to the emperor. However, that course was risky. Aboshan 
might take personal command of the army leaving no forces loyal 
only to the ambassador. Perhaps it was time to find avenues to 
power beside manipulations in the throne room.
    "Thank you all for your time," Laquatus said suddenly, 
cutting another general off in mid-speech. "I believe these 
problems deserve an immediate response. I will go to our beloved 
ruler and urge him to act on these concerns as soon as possible."
    Many officers could not hide their irritation at the abrupt 
dismissal, but it was hard to complain of an advisor moving 
promptly to convey their problems to the sovereign.
    Turg, he commanded mentally, ready to leave for the vaults.
    The frog resisted, wanting to stay with his companions. The 
ambassador swam over, wondering what could be so engrossing. A 
huge glass cover from the imperial kitchens lay on a tabletop. 
The amphibian and a triton released fighting fish under the 
glass, sealing them in. The fish, at first, swelled until one 
appeared bigger than its opponent did. Laquatus thought of 
Aboshan's swollen ego as one tried to drive the other off. But 
the lesser was trapped and could not escape. Both fish attacked, 
forced to combat because one could not leave. The noble dragged 
his jack away, sick of resistance to his will. The other scum 
scattered at his show of wrath.
    Laquatus led the sullen champion to a waiting room. He could 
leave for the treasure rooms in a little while. He could afford a 
little time to adjust his servant's attitude. The frog's sounds 
of distress carried into the throne room as his master took pains 
to educate him.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    "My enemies decay in the depths," Aboshan, Emperor of the 
Seas, chuckled as he reviewed the execution lists. The wax showed 
his enemies' names, and he rubbed them out in glee, imagining 
himself rubbing them out of existence. He had erased them. No one 
mentioned their names for fear of contamination, and the state 
already held their property, appropriated in his name.
    The past weeks had been difficult. He constantly feared 
conspirators might break in despite the increased guards and 
secret police. He stopped allowing his atten-dants into his 
quarters because assassins might infiltrate them. He had been 
reduced to looking at the names of his dead enemies. Suddenly he 
was afraid, perhaps removing them from the death lists would 
bring them back to plague him.
    He rolled in the water several times, trying to shake off the 
black thoughts oppressing him. His forces were stripping the 
empire of criminals every day. Arrest and execution warrants 
traveled with the army and the police. He was growing safer, he 
reminded himself.
    The emperor needed to get out, to make sure something existed 
outside these rooms. But where could he go where his enemies 
might not find him. Aboshan suddenly remembered the vaults and 
the land walkers that he employed to service his treasures. 
Surely in the depths of the palace he would be safe. Yes, he 
would go and see what wonders had been reclaimed.
    "Guards!" he screamed, wanting to leave but afraid to unless 
surrounded. The waters frothed with predatory fish seeking 
attackers as mermen sped from their posts at the doors.
    "What is it, Your Majesty?" a guard asked, his fellows 
splitting to sweep the room for intruders.
    "We wish to inspect the treasure rooms under the palace," he 
commanded, his voice stronger than it had been in some time. 
"Have them cleared of undesirables for our tour."
    The guard stared slackly then retreated at Aboshan's angry 
expression.
    Servants streamed in as the announcement spread of the 
emperor leaving his rooms. They brought his jewelry and worked to 
make him presentable. The uneasiness made him wonder if he should 
stay. But it had been so long.
    He must not allow his subjects to think him cowering in a 
corner. He was in control, not the rebels or his wife. Not even 
his loyal servant Laquatus directed the path of the empire. The 
realm was his to use as he saw fit. Aboshan resolutely swept out 
into the halls. Guards raced down side passages to clear a path 
for the monarch, unable to cut in front of the emperor.
    The halls appeared deserted, the ruler knowing many feared to 
be in his presence while his moods were so unpredictable. They 
must learn to live with it, he decided. He would not be a pariah 
in his own house. The passage wound down to the sea floor. Light 
blazed from normally dark walls as the palace reacted to his 
presence.
    Aboshan reached the bedrock. A shimmering bubble stretched 
across the room to a partition. He could see a squad of tresias 
chivying someone behind the screen. At least he would not have to 
soil himself by looking on the land-bound. The sentry bowed to 
the ground, his stalk pivoting to bring his torso flat to the 
rock. The emperor ignored him as he swam closer to the bubble of 
air. The monarch remembered his ministers creating the spell. The 
problems with item preservation dictated that Aboshan, who 
despised all above the sea, have a pocket of air and dry land in 
his own house. Worse, he could not swim among his treasures but 
must walk on legs.
    "Avert your eyes as we inspect our treasures," the emperor 
told the guards. He swam closer, then passed into the bubble. He 
writhed with unexpected pain. He had buried his ability to form 
legs at least as deep as the treasures below. He lay on the 
floor, gasping for air as his tentacles combined and formed legs. 
He laboriously expelled water cleared from his new lungs. He 
tried to stand, but i his muscles protested. The best he could 
manage was a I crawl as he neared the trapdoor. He sat at the top 
of the stairs leading down, the air feeling as chill as the ocean 
depths. At last he slid down the wooden steps. He gripped the 
banister and laboriously pulled himself to his newly created 
feet.
    The room was lit by unpleasantly flaring lamps. Crystal 
globes captured traces of fire and threw their harsh rays from 
the chamber's corners. The shelves erected on the floor were 
taller than his head, his treasures laid upon them and cataloged. 
He tottered toward the first set, gripping the sides as his feet 
shuffled over the uneven floor. Some of the wooden planks groaned 
under their loads. The steel and glass heads of forgotten 
fighting machines stared at him as he worked his way down the 
aisle. Mechanical limbs threw threatening shadows. He passed a 
section of knives, their wavy edges promising death to who ever 
touched the blade, the wielder as well as the victim. A pile of 
jewels, separated by type, covered the wood at the end of the 
aisle.
    "Is this all?" he asked himself. Where were the magics to 
sweep away his enemies? He had no interest in baubles or small 
devices. He could draw on an empire to build his armies. These 
items were inconsequential compared to his might under the sea. 
Perhaps the greater wonders were deeper under the palace?
    Aboshan moved toward the hole leading down to the next room. 
His stride improved as he went down the ladder. He was no 
weakling to be overwhelmed by walking. The shelves seemed more of 
the same. A projector lay groaning on a set of tables. He could 
see the spears contained through gaps in the mechanism. The 
weapon might make a single warrior or machine nigh unstoppable 
but was of no use against the hordes a war must bring.
    He strained to topple the trestles. He snarled at his 
impotence as he tried to move weights unsupported by water for 
the first time. Dry land oppressed him. All but a tiny fraction 
of his forces could not leave the water at all. The continent's 
interior seemed remote as distant islands to the savages 
inhabiting the world of air.
    The real weapons must be hidden. He stretched out his senses, 
drifting between the shelves. He could smell the water and mud 
down in the lower levels. His eyes saw little sign of hidden 
cases or rooms as he worked his way back. It was only his 
meticulous attention to the walls that tipped him off.
    One section of rock changed slowly as the light brightened. 
The shift reminded him of the palace walls, but it appeared bare 
rock. He approached and let his senses wash over it. The surface 
was a fagade, and he felt the thrill of discovering a secret 
trove. His will grated against the surface, and the covering 
slowly sloughed away. Water poured out, murky and stinking of 
metal and rot. The cache must predate the Cabal's arrival, 
Aboshan realized. The former curator must have hidden the object 
before dying in the rebel attack.
    A leather sack lay on the floor. The emperor knelt down, 
nearly falling as he performed the maneuver. He opened the bag, 
the material tearing like paper. He held the world in his hands.
    The orb was brilliant blue, the globe's surface covered in 
places by chop, as waves and weather collided. The depths of the 
sphere called to him, speaking its name.
    "Mirari," the emperor whispered.
    He stared in wonder, his senses diving beneath the surface to 
explore the world he ruled. The abysmal depths called to him, and 
he raced to answer.
    The orb spun out of his hands as he toppled, the ball rolling 
away to fetch up against a shelf. The emperor's legs split into 
tentacles. He thrashed in panic as his lungs tried to turn back 
to gills. His mind convinced he swam in the ocean, his body had 
attempted to adapt to the new reality. Aboshan shuddered as his 
magic slowly halted the transformation and forced himself to 
revert to his land-bound form.
    He rolled upright, furious that his being could betray him 
so. He walked quickly to the orb, the sphere's glory feeling 
slightly less. He stooped to pick it up and rapped his head 
against the wood.
    "Everything conspires against us!" Aboshan swore, closing his 
eyes against the pain. "Forced to walk on legs like a common 
animal. How I despise them all!" The ruler put his tentacles to 
his head as if to press the anger back in. The land assaulted his 
mind. Even for the care of treasures like the orb he depended on 
the Cabal. He wondered what trick they had prepared for him?
    He held the Mirari before his eyes. The sphere's endless seas 
were swept by waves without land's interruption.
    "That is what I want. For my kingdom to stretch on forever." 
Perhaps his wife might come back to him if he were more powerful. 
But the continents seemed forever beyond his reach.
    "We will sweep you all away!" he said madly and thrust his 
magic into the sphere.
 
                       CHAPTER 24
 
    Laquatus swam down the corridor, his jack struggling to keep 
up with him. He had waited too long, and now everything might be 
at risk. He did not hear of the emperor's excursion until after 
he finished chastising Turg. Only after he started for the vaults 
did another courtier ask him if he was joining Aboshan's tour of 
the treasure rooms? "What do you mean?" Laquatus bellowed, as he 
crowded the noble back. His champion took hold of the 
aristocrat's limbs. Outrage filled the minister's face as the 
amphibian laid hands on him.
    "I demand you let me go," he hissed. The frog broke his 
prisoner's collarbones at his master's surge of irritation.
    "You might heal if you hurry to a doctor," the ambassador 
said intently, giving the broken bones a nudge with his hand. "Or 
you could suffer injuries leaving you with flippers instead of 
hands." Turg gave the noble a simple fracture in a lower arm. 
Guards and servants ignored the impromptu torture session. It was 
unhealthy of late to be interested in Laquatus's business.
    "He is clearing the treasure rooms of workers and will 
inspect the rooms in person. He left while you talked with this 
animal." Turg broke his other arm in passing as Laqua-tus rushed 
to the vaults in the depths of the palace.
    The way was clear, the servants keeping as much space as 
possible between themselves and their sovereign. The aristocrat 
passed guards and checkpoints, but they were never challenged. 
The ambassador was now the second most powerful person in the 
northern court, but he could be cast down at the emperor's whim.
    Laquatus passed the interior banquet rooms, ignoring the 
delicacies that eternally awaited a courtier's dining. The hall 
changed shape and direction as he passed chambers that had been 
sealed at the emperor's pleasure. Rumors abounded of disloyal 
subjects interred in the finest rooms, lacking nothing but an 
exit. The swim was taking too long, and the ambassador 
accelerated, cursing the grand airs of the marine rulers. He and 
Turg neared the lower passages, leading to the vaults. There were 
few doors here, most of the space devoted to the organs which 
allowed the palace to live. Laquatus passed members of the 
imperial guard, posted to protect the emperor as he toured the 
bowels of the palace. A giant squid jetted back and forth through 
the narrow corridor. The ambassador wanted to force it aside.
    However, he knew how aggressive the cephalopods were, so he 
slowed and gave it as wide a berth as possible. A huge eye looked 
him over as the ambassador continued on. It took seconds to pass 
the monster. The long whips stretched beyond the other tentacles. 
Laquatus dodged the long clubs with their oversized hooked 
suction cups.
    The squid was one of Aboshan's proudest achievements, 
recruited from the queen's allies in the abyss. The emperor 
proved at least in his own mind that he could compete with his 
wife. The pair neared the entrance to the vaults.
    The sessile warrior still floated on his stalk. He held a 
trident in his hands as he directed the guards in moving a 
partition. Laquatus was surprised to see Fulla and her companions 
penned in the bubble set over the trapdoor. The air was stretched 
until it resembled a loaf of bread. The spell seemed to be 
straining. The dementia caster poked her hand out through the 
water barrier, watching the boundary ripple with interest.
    "Guard," the ambassador said, drawing the stationary fighter 
to attention. The arms on the rooted figure crossed as he drew 
himself upright. "I would speak with the emperor."
    Laquatus wondered how he would deal with an outraged 
sovereign. He had no idea how obvious the Cabal's looting 
operation of the vaults was. Aboshan might have no idea anything 
untoward was happening.
    The flare of powerful magic seemed to fill the room. A 
massive spell's presence set the magical field to vibrating. The 
air bubble shook violently as the palace spells interacted with 
the new force. With a sinking heart Laquatus realized Aboshan 
must have found the orb.
    "I must see the emperor now," the aristocrat demanded, 
determined to find out what was happening. The guard twisted his 
stalk, the trident no longer at attention but lowered for use.
    "Absolutely not," the sessile warrior said flatly, coiling on 
his long stalk as if to lunge forward. "His imperial majesty did 
not wish to be disturbed, so none shall pass. The emperor allowed 
for no exceptions." The soldier waved for reinforcements from the 
corridor.
    These guards might move from where they were rooted only a 
few times in their lives. As a result, Laquatus believed, they 
were the most stubborn and unyielding guards in all existence. 
Rigid obedience to all orders was their trademark.
    Another pulse shook the ether, but this time the concussion 
was also physical. The ambassador felt the water surging in 
sympathy to some spell perpetuated by Aboshan. Laquatus 
remembered the disaster that had struck the Order. Aboshan had no 
interest in what happened to the Citadel, and Laquatus neglected 
to share the information for fear of drawing the emperor's 
attention to the orb. Even now a spell might be encasing the 
vaults in impenetrable crystal. The palace wall shivered as a new 
wave of energy blasted through the living tissue.
    "There is no time," Laquatus growled as his commands leaped 
from his mind to the palace walls. His authority unquestioned by 
any in the court, the building obeyed. The walls closed. Laquatus 
imagined the panic that must be filling the upper floors of the 
building for he did not limit his command. He wondered how many 
would die as the passage pinched shut, sealing the troops away 
from the emperor. The giant squid the ambassador had passed 
jetted down the corridor, it speed blinding as it tore into the 
vaults' antechamber, getting through the door before lattices of 
chitin and coral could crimp the passage shut.
    "Take it," the ambassador ordered Turg and moved against the 
rooted guard. The stubborn whelk directed a sudden current at the 
ambassador, threatening to batter the merman against the walls. 
Laquatus swam into the flow, showing off his body's power as he 
rarely did. He stilled the torrent and circled the guard, 
wondering how long it would take the poison on his rings to kill 
his opponent.
    In the background he could see the Cabal workers panicking-
under the ocean with only a thin bubble preventing them from 
drowning.
    The ambassador focused on his one fight. Who would think an 
immobile opponent would offer a challenge? He called for a shark 
to feast on the stationary target. But the fighter was tied 
directly into the palace, and his counter-spell disrupted the 
magical call. Laquatus tried to conjure other monsters. In spite 
of his vigorous attempts, the guard's magic was a stone bastion 
upon which he wasted all his strength.
    In the bubble, the Cabal workers struck at their amphibian 
watchers with magical attacks. The blind tre-sias's limbs 
withered, the muscle melting away under the workers' hands. The 
fighters shrank to miniscule proportions, their bones cracking 
and spearing through their skins. If only the aristocrat enjoyed 
some of that dark magic, but his spells were of the sea and his 
opponent opposed every summoning. At least the amphibians would 
not interfere with the ambassador's fight.
    Another wave of power welled up from below, and the 
ambassador lost focus as some effort from the emperor assaulted 
his sense. But Laquatus's sessile opponent suffered more. The 
surges of energy pulsed through the walls, and the guard was 
anchored to them. The warrior appeared confused and discharged 
magical blasts in all directions as the ambassador tried to close 
with him.
    "Turg," the noble called, hoping that together they might 
uproot the enemy, but the frog could not come.
    The giant squid jetted through the water faster than a bird. 
Only the amphibian's creative use of the air bubble on the floor 
allowed him to escape time after time. The jack threw himself 
through the crowded space, bowling whimpering Cabal technicians 
over as he vanished from view. The squid fished for his enemy, 
its two long tentacles slamming into the workers and snatching 
them into the other eight where it tore them apart.
    Fulla became involved as her safety was threatened. The Cabal 
workers reanimated their drowned brethren and set them swimming 
for squid. The deep-sea monster threaded by them with ease, their 
clumsy motions no match for its speed and agility.
    The rooted warrior directed more currents to sweep the 
chamber. The palace walls began to relax as the warrior countered 
the ambassador's command. If any of the elite survived beyond the 
door they would soon be attacking Laquatus.
    The static guard's power pushed to reopen the palace 
passages, and Laquatus tried to steal victory from the jaws of 
the defeat. He redoubled the guard's call as he dived through the 
top of the air bubble. The command forced open the passage over 
the vault entry as well as doors throughout the palace. He 
transformed into a humanoid even as he rolled down the steps with 
bone-jarring force. Turg followed, one of the squid's tentacles 
snatching away a layer of skin as the ambassador shut the living 
curtain. This time he directed a bolt of lightning and killed the 
door to prevent the rooted guard from opening it for 
reinforcements.
    There was no sign of the emperor. The ruler's spell still 
pulsed out, but the force was so great it obscured the exact 
position it flowed from. The vaults took up twelve large chambers 
in the living rock. The palace walls spread over every surface, 
but it was thin in comparison to the upper rooms of the 
structure. Laquatus looked to Turg for aid, but the frog was 
curled up, his skin pouring out a restorative slime over his 
wounds.
    Laquatus composed himself, sinking into a chair before a 
cluster of tables. The furniture must have been imported at great 
expense, but it was an ugly reminder of dry land to the 
ambassador. Intricate mechanisms rested on the table in the 
stages of restoration. A card on one matrix of crystal, copper, 
and gold identified it as an aid in clairvoyance-the art of 
distant sight.
    Laquatus threw out his senses, desperate to find the emperor 
before some catastrophe overwhelmed them all. Instead his view 
expanded exponentially, and information flooded in. He soared up 
from the ocean floor. Below him lay the palace. Then the capital. 
Finally he saw the continental shelf and the mainland.
    The ambassador's awareness swept the coastline, and he 
understood the purpose of the spell. Huge waves swept toward the 
helpless shore. He admired Aboshan's vision as he saw walls of 
water smashing into small villages. The impact tumbled boats far 
from the shore. The emperor poured more power to fuel the 
continuing destruction. But Laquatus could also see the power 
tearing at the capital's fabric. The surges of mystic energy 
disrupted the delicate web of spells the living constructions 
relied on to function.
    To his horror, he saw the palace lying in the eye of the 
storm of magic. Many dwellings were beginning to discor-porate, 
as spells they relied on flared and died.
    His spirit collapsed back to the palace, the chaotic waves of 
power playing havoc with the enhancement spell this close to the 
origin of the destruction. He grasped the organization of the 
vaults in a burst of vision-twelve caverns interconnected by a 
single passage and most of them packed tight with mud. People 
said the vaults were in the bowels of the palace, and bowels were 
not full of treasure. But there was one piece of perfection, the 
orb. He saw that the emperor was only one level below him.
    "Aboshan, you fool," the ambassador cried, headed for the pit 
leading down. Turg uncurled and followed slowly, still favoring 
his side. Water began to cascade down the stairs as the temporary 
hatch locking out the imperial guards began to fail under 
repeated blows from the other side.
    Laquatus flew down the steps, racing for the chamber's 
corner. There the emperor knelt entranced, his hands holding the 
sphere. Waves crawled over the miniature globe's surface as the 
monarch sent another burst of power through the orb, only to have 
it magnified a thousand-fold. The ruler was lost in his personal 
visions of a landless world.
    "I should have killed you months ago, you deluded idiot," the 
ambassador said as a tremor shook the room, sending artifacts 
crashing to the floor. Turg moved forward, savoring his first 
taste of regicide. Aboshan started awake, self-preservation 
overriding his blindness at the display of treachery and 
insolence.
    "Guards!" cried the emperor. Perhaps the palace was dying, 
but it struggled to obey its master's voice. The hatch above 
broke and water roared into the upper chamber, forming a cataract 
down the stairs.
    The long whips of the giant squid curled around the shelves 
below as it pulled itself down the stairs. It rushed to protect 
its emperor. Wooden planks bucked off their frames as the body 
slammed into the piled treasures. The hole leading down to the 
next room plugged up, and the water level began to rise. A few 
mermen slid down the stairs on their bellies, thrashing around in 
the water. However, unlike Laquatus and Aboshan, they were unable 
to form legs. They ducked their heads into the water, trying to 
breathe. The soldiers sent arc after arc of lightning flying 
toward the ambassador.
    The noble retreated, an image of charred flesh left behind in 
his place. However, the palace guard knew his reputation, and 
spears of power smashed through the illusion, searching for him. 
Seeing their bloodthirstiness and indiscriminate attacks, 
Laquatus sent his image racing among the guards. It ran as if 
insanely desperate to flee. Spears and gouts of power from the 
guards devoured their own ranks as the elite tried to kill the 
traitor.
    Where is my champion? the ambassador wondered as he sent a 
snake of lightening writhing among the prone guards.
    Turg fled before the giant squid. The long whips pulled down 
shelves as the cephalopod pulled itself after the frog. His 
camouflage failed him. The slab of skin pulled off by the guard's 
tentacle showed clearly, despite the amphibian's attempts to 
hide. The jack tried to cast a spell of blindness, but Laquatus 
was too involved to send much power through the link. Timber and 
a variety of maces fell on the amphibian as the squid pulled a 
rack of treasures down on him.
    In desperation, Laquatus tried to feed on the palace's 
remaining magic. The spell gained him little power. Turg, in 
turn, siphoned most of it through the pair's link. He needed 
every scrap as he fought to survive in his battle against the 
deadly guard. The ambassador felt spells failing as he sent a 
weak blast against the guards. The water was waist deep, and he 
thought of returning to his swimming form. A converging series of 
blasts sent him scrambling up a set of shelves, his hands 
bleeding as he gripped the tangled metal of a recovered artifact. 
A ground shock shook many of the items to the water below, some 
of the frames splashing as they collapsed as well.
    "You are destroying your kingdom!" Laquatus shouted to 
Aboshan. The ruler rocked in glee as he continued to call for the 
land's destruction. The mer warriors attacked the apparent source 
of the ambassador's voice. The two guards electrocuted each 
other, as the noble tricked them yet again.
    "Nothing is beyond our grasp," the emperor called, and 
another surge of magical force assailed the mainland. The ruler 
appeared oblivious to the ongoing destruction around him, lost in 
his vision of what his attacks accomplished.
    "Your are destroying your palace!" Laquatus bellowed, then 
staggered. A psychic wound cut through his mind and mastery of 
magic.
    Turg was caught in the squid's tentacles. His frame shud' 
dered as the monster's beak bit into his flesh. The cephalo-pod's 
short arms writhed, working at the prey in its grasp. The 
amphibian's flesh tore, and the ambassador fell, his teeth 
clenched. He felt through the link the champion's muscles and 
tendons tearing. The frog writhed in agony, energy flaring as the 
beak tore at its waist. Laquatus reeled as the legs separated, 
and the blood vacuumed from the frog's brain.
    A final surge leaped through the link. With only one hand 
showing beyond the tentacles, a long lash of power whipped from 
the jack and burrowed into the huge eye. Fluid spurted as the 
organ collapsed, the body shivering briefly as the charge raced 
up the optic nerve. It destroyed the brain and took Turg's killer 
with him into death. Laquatus collapsed, and only the remaining 
guard's fear of yet another trap prevented them from killing him.
    Aboshan wailed, and the ambassador wondered dumbly if his 
pain somehow carried to his sovereign. The guards closed around 
the ruler, trying to intercept the attack that made him cry out.
    "My palace! My city!" the monarch bellowed, his eyes wide as 
the side effects of his spell finally became known to him. 
Another ground shock hit, this one finally tearing free the 
blockage to the levels below. With a stuttering roar a whirlpool 
formed, dragging debris into the lower rooms. Turg and his killer 
slowly slid from sight as Laquatus gripped the shelving he 
fetched up against. The guards' flukes beat as they held the 
emperor against the current.
    "This is your fault," Aboshan cried out, searching for 
someone to blame. "None of this would have happened without your 
treachery."
    Laquatus ignored the lie, staying still as he tried to 
marshal his strength. Perhaps he could still escape. His body 
ached to transform to its tailed state, but any magic or movement 
might bring the guards down on him. The warriors stayed clustered 
around the sovereign. Another pulse of power fed into the 
emperor's spell despite Aboshan's efforts to stop it. Laquatus 
remembered Kirtar and doubted the ruler would survive his 
ambassador by more than a few minutes. A fresh wave of guards 
flowed down the staircase, the cephalids holding tridents. The 
aristocrat readied himself to meet his death but was unexpectedly 
reprieved.
    The guards retreated from the upper room in defeat. A giant 
newt moved to the head of the stairs. It was the size of a 
crocodile, but it showed no teeth. Its dark red flesh was covered 
with weeping sores. Its skin extruded a thick gel, especially on 
its hindquarters. The animal turned and whipped its tail, 
launching gobs of the muck at the retreating soldiers. They tried 
to dive beneath the water, but its level had fallen. A merman was 
hit on the back, and his skin blackened. It began to slough off. 
The creature leaped into the air and landed on another warrior. 
The others rushed away and threw darts that thudded into the 
animal's flesh with little effect. The corruption dissolved into 
the water, and despite the superiority of gills, the ambassador 
vowed to breathe air for as long as possible.
    The supply of water running down the stairs diminished, 
though now air began to bubble at the hole leading down to the 
next floor. The ground shocks must have opened other leaks. Soon 
more palace soldiers would be able to enter the treasure rooms.
    A figure leaped down the stairs, sending a wave of water up 
as she skidded into the pool. It was Fulla, and she grinned like 
a madwoman. Her sword swept aside a merman's trident strike, and 
her return cut laid a tentacle open. Laquatus could see the slash 
turning dark as infection deepened the wound in seconds. The 
soldier thrashed in the water and stopped as the toxins reached 
his heart. A soldier managed to summon a school of poisonous 
jellyfish, forcing the dementia caster to jump out of the water 
to high shelves. She crawled along the flame work as magic 
strikes darkened the wood around her. The guards closed as she 
neared the emperor.
    Aboshan was gasping, his body slowly transforming back and 
forth between free-swimmer and land-walker. His eyes pleaded for 
help, but he lay draped over a pile of rubble, unable to move.
    Laquatus slowly moved to greater cover, the guards too busy 
dealing with the Cabal fighterto waste time on him.
    Fulla splashed behind some fallen shelving, her sword ready, 
but it was her mind that attacked, calling up magic to slay her 
enemies.৴07115109928224772922*24909227042:24439:<902236 the 
dementia caster's mind. Their scummy plumage drifted to the water 
as they surrounded their mistress and waded out to the soldiers. 
Their long bills speared down to lift cephalids from the water 
avoiding the tridents with ease. The tentacles tried to pull the 
fighters free of the bills. Blood poured from their transfixed 
torsos as they struggled to escape. One bird was somewhat small 
and could not lift its target free of the water. Instead, the 
fowl stabbed multiple times, churning the water into a bloody 
froth.
    Blood gushed from the wounds, and those able to escape the 
birds' vicious stabbing after only a single blow did not last 
long. Their eyes and noses began to leak blood as the cranes' 
magic destroyed their ability to heal or prevent the rupture of 
delicate membranes. Blinded warriors spread panic as the birds 
played with their victims, pricking limbs and watching the 
warriors quickly bleed out from minor wounds.
    A merman panicked and attempted to flee. His tail beating 
wildly, he rushed the stairs and leaped like a salmon toward the 
next room. He smacked into loops of rotting vine. The plant 
filled the hole, choking off the last of the water flowing down 
to the steps. The warrior tried to pull free but could not move 
as more vegetation covered him. A crane Flapped its wings and 
jumped to the top of the stairs. There it plunged its beak into 
the warrior's heart.
    "Fulla, I am over here!" Laquatus cried, cursing his bad 
luck. A crane was headed his way, and he was within seconds of 
being punctured. The Cabal commander dismissed her birds back 
from whence they came.
    "Why, ambassador, did you have anything to do with this 
party?" Fulla asked sweetly, turning him over with the point of 
her sword. "I and my people were left out in the cold while you 
had all the fun for yourself," she gently chided him.
    "I do not see Turg, my favorite playmate," she said looking 
at the destruction of all her work. Artifacts once more were 
immersed, and some of the tags identifying pieces were already 
dissolving the water. "I had to kill my way through the guards to 
find the person who called for this outing." She walked to the 
emperor, stepping around the dead and other remnants of the 
fight.
    Aboshan could only blink, being too exhausted to move as the 
orb drained the last of his magic and his life.
    "As it appears that you no longer need my services I will 
take my leave of you," she said in an arch tone. "While the 
going-away party was amusing, it was unexpectedly early. I think 
it only fair that I receive severance pay." She reached down and 
carefully swept the orb from the emperor's hand.
 
                       CHAPTER 25
 
    Kamahl wondered if he should move down the coast. He had 
become a successful fighter though still not accepted by the 
arena staff. He was popular with the crowd, but his string of 
victories had become predictable. The lim-ited pool of opponents 
was drained of any challenge after the second week. Seeing the 
same faces day in and out was one of the reasons he left the 
mountains.
    But he would stay a little longer. One possible lead might 
yet yield fruit. Girter, one of the young men he was friendly 
with, knew of secret shipments between the empire and the 
fighting pits. A servant of the Cabal had come to Borben to 
discuss the gladiatorial companies that toured the continent.
    The chandler's son told Kamahl that the official had ties to 
the empire. He definitely dealt with the shipment of precious 
cargo to and from the mer. The barbarian left word at the 
traveler's inn that he wished to talk with the go-between. A 
substantial portion of his winnings over the past weeks was 
included to convince the man to come.
    He stepped outside the hillside tavern to look down to the 
town. Instead of staying near the arena, the official had taken 
dockside accommodations. The need to conduct business down by the 
water belied the official explanation for the man's journey. 
Perhaps he might learn something to direct his quest.
    The fishing fleet straggled back in, the docks beginning to 
bustle. Wagons hauled the catch away as a few freight wagons 
waited on the pier. The lighter ferrying cargo and special items 
to the ships was out in the bay. There were ships waiting at the 
anchorage that had been there for quite some time. Perhaps the 
goods were particularly important to the empire. He needed to get 
on board. Perhaps one of the fishermen's brothers could take him 
out.
    Kamahl felt reality pause, and a great noise filled the 
world. He dropped as a pulsing headache ripped through his head. 
Rage and bile seemed to wash him away, and he drew a knife to 
defend himself from attack. A spell of enormous power and damage 
was being worked, the disturbance seeming to fill the sky. Birds 
and farm animals yowled as the barbarian lost himself in the 
discordant chorus.
    How long he leaned against the building he did not know. A 
pitcher of beer in his face broke his fascination with the 
magical noise. He thanked the barmaid clearing the obstruction 
from the inn door. Kamahl shook himself and walked farther away 
from the building. He had never felt a spell of such strength. 
His prize must be close by, but there was no sign of anything 
strange. The town looked perfectly calm as the fisherman and 
wagon drivers went about their business. Then something dragged 
the barbarian's eyes back to the sea.
    The boats along the pier lowered as water flowed out of the 
inlet. The bay continued to drop, and soon boats were hung up. 
The catch of fish fell to the exposed mud below.
    Interested, people went toward the bay to see the unusual 
event. Here and there a few figures started running as hard as 
they could for the hills. More and more people fled, and he 
wondered why. A flicker of movement brought his eyes to the 
horizon. Something was coming toward all points of the coast. The 
line grew to a wave striking the beaches far in the distance. He 
realized the size of the disaster as he saw tall trees stripped 
away. He looked directly to the sea, the hilly peninsula 
shielding him from the closest view. A roar smothered screams as 
a wall of water carried over the hills and fell down the slope 
toward the town. Now everyone in sight ran for higher ground.
    The hatred and spite of the spell were nauseating as Kamahl 
started higher into the hills, not knowing how high the water 
might carry. The sound of smashing houses and shops tore the day 
apart. The barbarian wondered if anyone would survive the 
disaster. He stumbled as a new note of magic, just as strong as 
the first, stung his senses. The orb's magic was what drove the 
wave he guessed, but the bitter emotions drained away as the wave 
sped toward him. The magic was changed, and Kamahl knew the orb 
no longer belonged to the sea. Then a blast of air pushed him 
over, and the water came down.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Laquatus saw the orb lose its beauty, the blue ocean fading 
away until only gleaming metal remained. The imperial bastard, 
Aboshan, had cost him everything. The orb still radiated 
tremendous power as he looked at it, but it no longer resonated 
with his soul. His spirits sank lower as he realized he might be 
trapped here with Fulla. Who knew what insane spell she would 
cast now that she held the orb in her hands?
    The dementia caster held the orb absently as she kicked 
through the destruction, sending water high into the air. Another 
aftershock threw her off her feet, and Laquatus slowly sat up, 
hoping she would lose her grip on the orb. Instead she surfaced 
from the water spitting a stream of the filthy liquid into the 
air.
    I need a spell to distract her while she played likes a 
lunatic, he thought. If he could just capture the orb maybe he 
could recall its glory. But he could not grip any magic with his 
mind. The wound inflicted by Turg's death was crippling. The 
gaping hole of his bond allowed his magic to flow uncontrolled. 
If he were more prepared, he might have avoided it, but for now 
his spells pushed power to one no longer alive. An infinite void 
swallowed his effort, and he could not force the mental focus to 
end the drain.
    Fulla seated herself on the stairs, bored with her horseplay. 
She looked at the guard enveloped by her predatory plant. She 
began to throw debris at him. Laquatus stood up and started 
toward her. The body of his former sovereign floated past, and he 
shoved it aside, ignoring it like a forgotten toy. The room 
plunged into darkness as the palace light system failed. The 
merman tried to coax forth light, but the Cabal member called up 
a luminescent mold that coated the walls.
    Fulla glance absently at the orb but turned to the rising 
water. The air was becoming stuffy. She tucked the powerful item 
under her legs and looked at the ambassador. He hid his disbelief 
at her dismissive attitude toward the orb.
    Laquatus decided that her resistance to its attractions was 
related to her resilience to his own magical attacks on her mind. 
Dementia casters simply lived in a different world. Their 
perceptions of reality were so strange that perhaps the orb 
appeared mundane. Maybe it replicated some other effect they 
experienced often. Regardless, she showed little interest, and 
perhaps he could procure the sphere from her at a later date.
    "We must escape," he told her, sitting down close to her but 
out of sword's reach. "This air bubble will disperse sooner or 
later. Unless you wish to die, you must flee to the surface."
    "Why not swim away, little fish?" she asked, kicking the orb 
back and forth between her feet. "It is a big pond, and you are 
old enough to be on your own."
    Laquatus curbed his first answer.
    There was every chance some of the guards survived to report 
his treachery. At this very moment, his name might be added to 
the execution warrants that he signed this morning. The blanks 
concealed in his office with the emperor's seal already imprinted 
seemed a very bad idea now. The orb might be the only thing 
rescued from this debacle. If only he had brought his poison 
rings.
    "You saved me, and I owe you a debt I can never repay," he 
said, curbing his nausea at the sentiment. "Perhaps working 
together we can reach the surface." If she would just help him 
clear the way, she could drown. A corpse had no possessions.
    Another shock collapsed the stairs, and they fell into the 
water. The ambassador saw that she swam with difficulty though 
she still managed to find the orb. She struggled to one of the 
few shelves still standing.
    Next time she is in the water I'll pull her under, Laqua-tus 
promised himself.
 
                        * * * * *
 
    Fulla looked down at the merman who stood smiling like a 
shark. The bodies, the threat of death, and the danger of 
betrayal was comforting-just like home. If she returned to the 
Cabal it would be a disaster. Her mission to the sea had failed. 
Despite her manic outer denial, she could feel depression 
threatening to crush her. Returning as a failure was not an 
option.
    But perhaps she could return to the arena instead of being 
bundled off to distant postings. She weighed the orb in her hand. 
She found it mildly interesting, but others seemed to covet it 
beyond all reason. Even now the ambassador waited for his chance 
to steal it. Only the chance that he might become interesting 
kept him alive.
    It was dark and cold in the vault. Her ears started to hurt 
as the last remnants of the air supply spell failed. It was time 
to go home. Home, where a person could find a decent graveyard 
and strangers could disappear without awkward questions.
    Laquatus meant nothing to her. She needed no aid to escape 
from something as simple as a collapsing underwater building. The 
plant still held a pocket of air though the earthquake might rip 
it free any moment. She concentrated, calling into being a mount 
she had studied for a long time.
    The travel fish faded into being. Its flesh was transparent, 
and the dementia caster could see the bones and organs pulsing 
inside its monstrous body. It flopped and wallowed in the shallow 
water, the wave it created reinforcing its gigantic size. She 
watched the ambassador jump for safety as the fish smashed 
whatever was in its way.
    "Be still," she commanded, and it was. Laquatus was talking, 
but she ignored the words lost in her new creation. She stood 
before a blind eye, the monster unable to see except through her. 
The pressure was increasing, and she knew that the chamber must 
be moments away from catastrophic failure.
    The fish turned, and its mouth gaped open, the toothless jaws 
stretching wide, inviting her in. She laughed, waved to the 
merman, and leaped into the monster's throat. She slid down the 
tube to the stomach still able to see the outside. It reminded 
her of her childhood, and she wished she could go again but time 
was running out. She knelt in the monster's belly, the chamber 
draining of the water that accompanied her on her entrance. The 
travel fish transported its passengers inside, and the room 
expanded as she stood up, her gigantic steed responding to her 
will.
    She could see Laquatus hurling himself into the fish. She 
wondered if the monster should gulp him down in pieces, for the 
jaws were strong enough to shatter bone. No time for such rough 
horseplay she decided and turned her attention to the outside.
    Fulla dispelled her plant, the rotting vines vanishing.
    The cork holding the air pocket down ruptured. The corpses 
caught in its grip floated free as the travel fish wriggled 
through the hole to the first room and the trap door. The chamber 
was full of debris, but the fish blindly searched the murky water 
and surged out of the bedrock.
    The palace gaped open above them, a direct path to the ocean 
torn through the structure. The travel fish surged up, its motion 
jostling the dementia caster against the ambassador. She half-
drew her sword, hating his touch.
    "Wait, good caster," Laquatus cried, throwing himself back 
against the stomach wall. "Remember our agreement on shipping 
treasures back to the Cabal. I can still be of use."
    The travel fish shot out of the palace. Huge rents in the sea 
floor sent gas bubbling to the surface. There were few signs of 
other survivors. The Cabal operative imagined them swimming far 
away. The empire was decimated, and the noble who had overseen 
its fate sat beside her. She laughed and loosed the ball the 
fascinated Laquatus so.
    Fulla looked at the sphere as the fish swam up through the 
depths. The orb called to her, entreating her to commune, telling 
her its name-Mirari-but she ignored it. Most of her attention 
went to directing her steed. The glassy fish swam away from the 
destruction and violence that even now reduced the mer capital. 
Fulla turned the beast to avoid the currents rising from the sea 
floor.
    The dementia caster regarded her stolen prize. The Mirari had 
turned from liquid metal as she rescued it from the dead 
emperor's grasp. A ball of dirt lay in her hands, the black soil 
reminding her of a grave. She believed the change inconsequential 
as her senses often misled her. Still, something lay beneath the 
surface, and part of her ached to raise it up. Perhaps the orb 
really did promise power. She noticed Laquatus's trepidation as 
he regarded her in the dull light glowing from the fish's belly.
    Fulla chuckled and tossed the sphere into the air, laughing 
harder as the ambassador barely restrained himself from diving 
for it. She opened a pouch and dropped it in, closing the leather 
bag without hesitation.
    "It offers you what you want, not what you need," she crowed 
to Laquatus, thumping her purse. The call of the globe was lost 
and muted in the fractured horror of her mind, its visions 
overwhelmed by the dementia of her calling. Grim merriment filled 
the undead steed as she directed it to shore, leaving the corpse 
of a kingdom behind her.
