Winds of the Kae Huron

[Nephilim]

This forum loss is hella lame. I'm reposting my whole story so that newcomers won't be completely lost, as I have a new chapter to add anyway.

[Nephilim]

The scream that shook the mountains.

M'avina had been inside of Malah's infirmary, at the time.

She wasn't as bad off as many of the others. Many from before they had arrived, with grievous wounds they weren't expected to recover from. It had been an injury of folly that had landed M'avina here. She had been bringing up the rear of a war party with ranged support and hadn't seen the overseer clumsily climbing the rocks up towards her. It lashed its whip around her ankle and yanked her off her perch, breaking her leg and fracturing her shoulder in the fall. Now, she had to rest, and allow Malah's soothing medicines to do their work.

She had been asleep, and had shot awake at not just the sound, but the motion. The low, muffled scream reverberated through the very rocks of the mountain, and shook the foundation of Harrogath. She felt it more than heard it. And then, suddenly, a feeling came over her of peace, of harmony. A strange sensation of everything being right in the world.

The others had felt it, too, and they glanced at each other, to see if they were the only one. M'avina knew what had happened before most of the others. A tentative smile crept onto her face, and she put a hand to her mouth, to stifle the cries she wanted to shout out. Tears streamed openly down her visage.

Baal, Lord of Destruction and last of the Three, was defeated.

The others in the infirmary, Barbarians, for the most part, began to chuckle at first, and then burst into uproarious, celebratory laughter. It was over. Harrogath was free, and they would lose no more friends.

M'avina knew that the battle would have cost them dearly. No doubt, the Lord of Destruction had not gone without a fight, and likely many of the brave adventurers who went up there were not coming back. M'avina's partner, Vidala, could very well be among them. But still, she could help feeling so elated. They had finished what they'd started. M'avina had been there as Diablo had rotted away before them, and all that remained was his soulstone over a pile of ash-covered bone.

M'avina hadn't been there when they had shattered it, though, at Hellforge. The horrifyingly violent death of Athena at the hands of the smithing demon when they had first raided it to deal with Mephisto's Stone had left too black a mark upon M'avina's memory. Nonetheless, she had a stake in all this, and now that it had come to pass, she could hardly believe it.

All these months of chasing down the demons in Sanctuary, all the new friends she had made, and all the old friends she had lost . . . she never expected it to end. Even when they had killed Diablo, they still had that weight upon their shoulders. M'avina had felt like breaking down right there when Tyrael had told them that they weren't finished. She was just so tired.

And now, they were going to greet the returning heroes. M'avina shuddered at the thought of her imminent catharsis. Everything was going to come out once she say Vidala or Isenhart, or even the grumpy old Qual-Kehk, who had insisted on accompanying the expedition on their final journey to battle.

Malah helped M'avina and those other wounded who were still mobile out into the square, where they waited in anticipation, looking out the gates at the bloodied battlefields around Harrogath.

They saw him when he was still some distance off, descending the many levels of fortified stronghold through the mountain. But as he neared, they saw that there was no one else with him.

This troubled them to no end. Was Qual-Kehk the only survivor of the titanic battle? M'avina wanted to toss aside her crutch and drag herself to his feet, where she would scream her demand of where Vidala was. As he neared, they saw that he walked with a limp. Malah glanced apprehensively at Anya, who stared intently into the distance.

When he was twenty feet away from the gates, Anya nodded to the gatekeepers, and two husky Barbarian youths rolled back the chains and lifted the gate for him. He strode inside.

Qual-Kehk's featured were even more grizzled than usual. He was bleeding, and had various-coloured blood splattered across his once glorious armour, now dented and cracked in places. His white beard was covered in dirt, dust, and blood, and his sword, broken, was clenched firmly in one fist, and the blood on it was a deep, deep red. No steel blade could be seen, it was so thoroughly saturated. It had been a mighty battle indeed.

Despite his maimed appearance, Qual-Kehk stood strong and tall, his chest puffed out in pride, but his face grim and serious. He stopped shortly into the gate. M'avina wanted to urge him forward, but she knew it was not her place. He simple stood there, in silence, letting the assembled crowd take in every detail.

"Baal is no more," he said finally in his low, gruff voice.

They all drew a breath, ready to whoop for joy and jump up out of their cots, breaking all those bones all over again. But that energy remained pent up, for the stare of Qual-Kehk didn't merit celebration. He just stood there, the wind tossing his long hair gently about his face. M'avina was truly beginning to hate him. Malah was glancing at his various wounds, wondering if she should rush up and tend to him.

"Are . . ." Anya hesitated after a long silence, "are you the only . . . where is everyone else?"

"They are gone," said Qual-Kehk quietly. "When the Relic had been taken from Baal, Tyrael was once again allowed to enter the sacred mountain. He opened up a portal for all the champions who survived."

More portals, M'avina thought. Between the Infernal Gate, the portal to Nihlathak's foul mountain temple, and the one Tyrael had opened to Harrogath, M'avina had grown tired of traversing great distances with the mystical doors.

"Where did it lead?" asked M'avina.

Qual-Kehk shook his head. "I do not know, for he did not say. He only said that it would lead them to a peace that they much deserved."

M'avina's heart crumbled. She would never see Vidala again, she slowly realized. And then a new sensation dawned on her, a profound anger simmered within her, and she felt her face grow hot, even within the cold winds. Why wasn't she allowed this peace? She had almost died in the battle with the Black Council in Travincal, and had put her life on the line with every demon leader they fought. So why was she left behind, at the roof of the world, and now, without her mentor and friend to see her off of it?

So what was she to do now?

Her attention was drawn back to Qual-Kehk as Larzuk and Malah quickly approached him. The smith helped him out of his armour - parts of which were so dented that they were impossible to come off without hammering them off - and the healer examined his wound.

One of the younger Barbarians - Drus, the one who had lost his arm - spoke up. "Were there casualties in the battle?"

Larzuk paused for a moment, glancing at Drus, but then continued to manipulate the armour.

Qual-Kehk sighed heavily. "Yes. There are casualties in every battle."

Drus exchanged glances with the other Barbarians. He then chanced a quick look to M'avina. "Who were they?"

Qual-Kehk looked down, pushing Larzuk away for a moment. Malah stood back. There was a very long moment. M'avina's heart pounded and her temples ached. "That is not important. They all fought bravely, as did all of you, and all of them are now at peace, one way or another. You shall never see any of them again."

M'avina felt suddenly sick to her stomach. She looked at the rest of the crowd. There were others there, too, among them, who had come a great distance to be here, and now it was over, and they had nowhere to go. Arcanna, the young witch of the Zann Esu, had been told to remain in Harrogath, to try and strengthen the ward, by her superior, Regha, who had gone up Arreat. There was another sorceress, Kira, but she had been brutally wounded in a fight with succubi, and was still comatose in Malah's infirmary. They had met all three of the sorceresses in Lut Gholein. They had joined up with another, Eschuta, in Kurast, but she had died at the hands of Sarina.

Isenhart had been with the sorceresses in Lut Gholein, trying to get to Kurast to the rest of his contingent. When they had arrived, only three, Milabrega, Wilhelm, and Guillame, had survived the ravages of the Jungle. Guillame had died in the fight with Mephisto, Wilhelm had fallen to Izual, and Milabrega had given her life in the titanic battle with Diablo, along with many others. And now Isenhart, the last of them, had disappeared up the mountain.

Two of the three Rogues from the Monastery, Paige and Shikha, hadn't made it. And others, too many to name, were among the list of the dead. So now, all that remained of the war party that had entered Harrogath was M'avina, Arcanna, the spearman Haseen, the young Paladin, Kinemil, the Ironwolf, Jabari, and Ume, the relatively young Necromancer. There was also the Druid, Dimoak, who had been part of a small group of druids who had arrived in Harrogath shortly after M'avina's party. But Dimoak hadn't associated himself much with the rest of them, not unlike the other druids. Nevertheless, here he stood with them, perhaps realizing now that he was completely alone here.

Malah was beginning to usher her patients back into her home, and Qual-Kehk gruffly pushed Larzuk aside, making his way toward his house. Larzuk resigned himself to defeat and walked away.

M'avina quickly limped over to Qual-Kehk, leaning heavily on her crutch. She almost fell into him as she grabbed him by the shoulder. She immediately regretted it as he winced when he turned to her.

"What is it, child?" he asked impatiently.

M'avina stopped, not sure if it was appropriate to ask, but she had to know. "Why didn't you go with them?"

Qual-Kehk seemed surprised at the question, and M'avina was, for a moment, afraid that he would be angry with her. But he was not. He looked up, around the village, and squinted into the wind, before answering. "It was not my time for peace." His eyes looked distant again. "I am needed here. And soon, I expect, I shall have to journey to Sescheron, and speak with Halaberd, if he still lives. There is much work to be done here, and I cannot expect Anya to shoulder that responsibility without my aid. She is spirited and resilient, but she is still young and not accustomed to this station. She will need my help."

M'avina took her hand off his shoulder. She suddenly felt very small and petty, standing before him. "I . . ." she stuttered, "that's very noble of you."

He shrugged. "Nobility has little to do with it, child. I have duties." He turned to go back to his house. "Now, you should rest, Amazon. You may do so without worry, now."

He didn't say anything else to her.

M'avina stood in front of his house for several minutes, and then looked around at the square, and saw that she was the only one still standing out in the cold wind. M'avina sighed, and saw her breath turn to a white cloud before her. Then she turned, and hobbled her way back to Malah's.

[Nephilim]

Malah was a very talented woman. She would always swear up and down that her subtle manipulations of magical energies were terribly inadequate, but what she did know, she knew very, very well. M'avina was admittedly not very refined in the department of healing. She knew the basics, but she had no aptitude for how a bone was so easily mended with the right herbs and wraps from Malah's store of exotic plants she bought from the traveling merchants. With the state of crisis, though, no caravans had been able to make it to the Highlands, and so Malah's supplies had begun to run dangerously dry. Hopefully, though, they would no longer be in such demand.

It was only a week before M'avina was on her feet again with little more than a limp. When she tried to express how miraculous it seemed to her to Malah, though, she shrugged it off with: "Well, at my age, I've got to be good at something."

The infirmary was, thankfully, empty now, with those wounded having been treated at least to the point where they could remain in their own homes. Even Kira had regained herself, and was now being nursed back to health in Anya's home. The young Sorceress had politely declined the offer of hospitality, but Anya insisted. "There are too many empty rooms in that home," she had said sadly.

Kinemil, Dimoak, and Haseen had stayed in Nihlathak's home, who had, before Baal's coming, apparently shared it with other Elders, now all dead - sacrificed of their own volition to save Harrogath from the initial stages of the siege. Anya had given Ume a room there, as well, but the Necromancer had refused, albeit politely, saying that there were still spirits at unrest within that house. He had built himself a tent in the shadow of Larzuk's smithy and kept to himself.

Qual-Kehk had been right, there was much work to be done. Before he had left for Sescheron to see the damage for himself and report to King Halaberd what had transpired, the Senior Man-at-Arms had formed a system of search parties to go out and find any survivors among the ruins of the mountain stronghold. They had found very few, so far, and most of them were hiding within the ice caves. And even though many young Barbarians, having discovered their childhood friends dead on the mountainside, returned to Harrogath disheartened, there was still a heightened hope among the town. Without Baal's energies to sustain them in the mortal world, many demons, particularly the undead, had simply collapsed or shattered at his death. Those that remained either fled in terror or fought with a furious desperation that ended in a fatal misstep. None of the search parties had yet suffered more than minor wounds from such encounters. The Barbarians they brought home from their hiding places were relatively unharmed, but only because those who were more seriously wounded had not lasted long.

In spite of all the recurring images of death and sorrow among Harrogath, things were in relatively high spirits, M'avina thought. She realized that she was kidding herself, though. Just because spirits were higher than they had been did not merit the term "high spirits." Now that the major conflict wasn't there to distract people, they had begun to realize what had truly occurred. They noticed people were gone, and those crippled by the horrifying battle now had to consider what they could do with their lives now that their adventuring days were over. M'avina had considered that at the beginning of her stay at Malah's. She hated the idea of returning to Skovos to farm grain with her parents.

Her parents - she shuddered to think of it.

Having been farmers, they had primarily worshipped Hefaertus, and she had been raised in that respect, and in those beliefs. Even when she defied the wishes of her parents and went to train as a warrior, she still kept the teachings of the fire god close to her heart, and invoked the powers of him through much loyal prayer during her battles, above most other gods within the Amazonian pantheon. But there was one teaching of Hefaertus which always pierced her mind with doubt. It was that every woman of substance would at one time in their lives be reborn - they would meet an obstacle so grueling, so unimaginably complicated and seemingly impossible to triumph over, that overcoming it would require that she change who she is. She would be reborn, and arise from the ashes of her old self a new person.

M'avina had never really liked that philosophy. It made it seem like all attempts at developing herself as a person now would be fruitless, because she was eventually going to have the deciding factor in her life. All this fighting, all this conflict wasn't helping her grow at all. She had thought, as her quest began, that the coming battle, and her continued pursuit of Diablo across every land she had ever read about, would be her rebirth. But all in all, she was the same person. She still had the same passions and desires, and the same outlook on her life. Her rebirth would change all that. M'avina had, in the past week, feared that perhaps Tyrael's invitation had been her rebirth, and that she had missed it. According to Hefaertus, the rebirth was needed for any woman to be complete. But M'avina liked who she was, and she knew that this was a rare thing. She didn't think she was perfect, but she was proud of her accomplishments, and recognized her limitations. She wasn't too keen on the idea of becoming someone else.

It was very windy. She could hear the wind blowing through the thick stone wall.

M'avina bundled up her clothing, and some supplies. She and Vidala had shared a packhorse until it was mauled by sabre cats outside Lut Gholein. They had brought whatever supplies they could salvage onto Meshif's ship, but had left them there when they went through the Infernal Gate. She felt hot again just thinking of it. From the cool, dank dungeon of the Guardian Tower, it was like walking through a furnace, and then she suddenly emerged in the Pandemonium Fortress and everything was temperate once again, with air that seemed easier than usual to breathe.

But the point was that she had little left to herself, and it was a tremendously long journey back to Skovos, she knew. She and Vidala had had to live off of very meager funds for some time, as well. Though their journey had found very generous hospitality, money had been spent, if not to repair their armour or weapons, then to pay for food. Larzuk had offered to repair their goods free of charge, but Vidala had insisted, saying that once this crisis was over, if Larzuk had no stock and not a penny to his name, he'd be ruined.

"When will you be leaving?"

M'avina gasped in surprise, and felt more than a little embarrassed. Arcanna stood in the doorway, and smiled as M'avina blushed. "Sorry," the Amazon apologized. "I was just lost in my own head."

Arcanna chuckled. "I know the feeling." She paused. "So when will you be leaving?"

M'avina talked in a very casual tone. She didn't want to lose face in front of Arcanna. She had grown to respect the young Sorceress. "I was going to leave with Qual-Kehk when he goes to Sescheron, and from there I think I'll try to find caravans to escort me south. Either to Kingsport or Lut Gholein, and then I'll take a merchant vessel to Skovos. Hopefully I'll make it before the end of the year. But that depends on luck. Especially now. Kinemil was saying that he didn't expect to see many caravans on the roads for months. He said to wait until word gets out that Sescheron is secure, and the Rogue Pass is opened again." M'avina knew that she wouldn't make it before the end of the year. She just hoped that she was south enough to miss winter in Ensteig and Khanduras. She needed a ride to get out the Highlands, and then, she was more than willing to walk and swim to Skovos. "What about you?"

Arcanna sighed. "Malah tells me that the Zann Esu coven in Scosglen makes periodical merchant routes to Harrogath. I was considering just waiting for them. Either way, I need to wait for Kira to fully recover. She's still in no state to travel."

M'avina nodded, "And the others?"

Arcanna shrugged. "I can't say. You'll have to talk to them yourself." With that, the Sorceress gestured a farewell and walked down the hall.

Another gust of wind thundered past outside.

M'avina followed the winds until she came to be standing outside of Anya's home, in the furiously billowing snowstorm. It would pass, Malah had assured her. These things were common in the Highlands.

Mostly everyone had gone indoors. A Barbarian she didn't recognize was sitting on his doorstep, comforting his hunting dog. He saw her through the blizzard and nodded in acknowledgement. She waved weakly, and walked around the hut.

This was the first time she had been outside in Harrogath without her armour. She found it almost warmer. The metal was so quick to chill. She remembered when the overseer had broken her leg, she had thought she would die from the cold before the bleeding. Of course, it was only a few minutes before Vidala helped her up. By Athulua, how many times had Vidala saved her?

Vidala . . .

She would never save her again.

M'avina found a tear rolling down her cheek, and was about to roughly wipe it away before the wind blew it from her face. She looked up, as if to look for it, and she saw a man standing in the middle of the street, surveying the town. He remained eerily still. He didn't even put his head down in the screaming winds, though his long hair was whipped about wildly.

"Dimoak?" M'avina called, her voice muffled by the wind.

The Druid turned to look at her, his short beard speckled by snowflakes. "M'avina," he nodded. His voice didn't seem distorted by the wind. M'avina shivered, and walked up to him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm leaving," he replied promptly. "There is nothing left for me to do on Arreat." He sighed, and M'avina noticed strangely that his breath was not turned white by the frigid air. "The Uileloscadh Mór has ended, and now it is time for the land to heal. I must return to Túr Dúlra and report to my superiors what has passed here, though it's likely they know already."

"You don't want to wait and say goodbye?" it sounded like a childish question as she asked it.

Dimoak shook his head. "No," he said softly. "I was never one of these people."

"You fought alongside all of us," M'avina got to a different angle so that the snow wasn't blowing into her eyes. "That makes you greater than family."

Dimoak looked down at her and smiled. "That is very kind, Amazon, but I know my place. I am in my element amongst the beasts of the wild, not here, in the world of Men. These Barbarians offer me hospitality because they feel they owe it to me."

"They do," M'avina noted.

"That may be so, but I do not wish to thrive on others' debts to me. They distrust me. I do not blame them. Jalal was wary to come here. If it were less desperate times, his cautiousness might have been warranted, but the people of Harrogath had a greater enemy to concern themselves with."

"What you did here may heal the wounds that separate your two cultures, Dimoak. There is always time for change."

Dimoak pondered on that a count, but then shook his head. "No. Men are a warlike people. If we don't have the demons to battle, we will turn on each other. It's only a matter of time." He sighed hopelessly. "Everyone needs someone to hate."

"They don't hate you," M'avina protested quietly.

Dimoak smiled again, and then turned to look at the gates. "I will spare the awkward goodbyes, and leave on my own terms. I must bask in the shade of the Glór-an-Fháidha once more. I have been too long from beneath its branches."

Dimoak strode towards the gates of Harrogath, now opened. It occurred to M'avina that perhaps the Barbarians left them open at night, now, to revel in the fact that Baal wasn't an issue any longer.

M'avina followed for a few paces before stopping, and Dimoak picked up the pace as he rushed into the blizzard. She kept expecting him to turn around and bid her a final farewell, but he never did. He just dove into the wild, heedless of the furious winds.

Soon, he was nothing but a silhouette retreating deeper into the snow swept mountain. But his shadow became distorted as it moved, and hunched over into a lupine gait. M'avina watched the grey shadow move further into the landscape, until finally, she lost sight of him completely.

M'avina shivered, realizing just how cold she really was, and went back into Anya's home. She looked one more time out the open gate, and saw nothing but a screen of snow beating past her.

The Barbarian on the doorstep had gone inside, and the dog was burying itself in the snowbank. M'avina looked at the moon to see what time it was, but it was obscured. Besides, she couldn't really tell on this part of the world. She was usually off by an hour or so, either way. But no matter the placement of the moon, she knew it was late, and that she would need her rest. So she put her head down, and struggled against the wind until she was safely inside of Anya's home again.

[Nephilim]

It had been a remarkably long time before Dimoak was noticed missing, all things considered. The storm had died overnight, and it was the next evening, over a dinner of rabbit stew in the modest banquet hall, when Drus asked where he was as he went to make a vegetarian plate for him.

Kinemil had glanced around the table. "Dimoak?" he asked, worried. He stood.

"He left," M'avina answered quickly. She had considered waiting to see everyone's reaction, but in light of all that had happened around them, she knew it would be far too cruel. "Last night, he left."

"In the storm?" Drus asked worriedly, as he poured another bowl of stew.

M'avina shrugged.

"You let him go, alone?" Arcanna demanded harshly. "He'll kill himself!"

"He's a Druid," the usually quiet Ume noted plainly, "He's more at home in the wild than with the rest of us. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"But the demons . . ." Kinemil started.

"Are nearly eradicated in this part of the mountains," Ume reasoned with a shrug. "Dimoak knows his own abilities and is rational enough to steer clear of any danger he can't handle."

The Barbarians, M'avina knew, were not rational about their abilities. They jumped into impossible battles when they were sure they were to lose. M'avina had to admit that the Amazons could be like that, too. No warrior liked to be called a coward.

"He's right," Caden, the shortest Barbarian at the table, broke the silence as he swallowed a mouthful of stew. "The demons nearly have been driven from Mount Arreat. We can turn our attention back to other matters."

Drus sighed, sitting down with his own bowl. He was still having trouble adjusting to only one hand. "It seems like forever since before Baal came here. I feel like we've been fighting him for eternity."

Scyld, Drus' older sister, nodded in agreement. "What's left to do?"

Caden looked at her, almost exasperated. "Nulholla Peak?"

Everyone who wasn't a Barbarian glanced at each other, looking for an adequate explanation from a fellow outsider.

Scyld's eyes widened, and she looked away, "By the Immortal King . . . I'd forgotten completely."

What's Nulholla Peak? M'avina thought.

"What's Nulholla Peak?" Kinemil asked.

Scyld didn't speak for a moment. Her face was turning red. M'avina sensed that she was ashamed she had forgotten.

"It's one of the mountains of the Kae Huron. The tallest, next to Arreat and Cobralor," Scyld explained.

Arcanna's eyes shot back and forth between Scyld and Drus. "What's to do on Nulholla Peak?"

Drus looked around to make sure everyone was served, and then awkwardly sat down on the bench beside Caden. "Nulholla Peak is a treacherous mountain. None of our people have ever attempted to scale it. But it's the seat of something Bul-Kathos left for us."

"According to legend," Caden muttered.

Scyld looked at him darkly. "There's a passage in the prophecy of the Final Day which reads, 'But lo, there is but one place where even the Ancients may not tread. So great is its power and so mighty its secret. And this place is the Eye of the King - Nulholla Peak - where there lies a thing which shall test the children of the Eternal King. And if they prove worthy, Truth shall rain upon them, and they shall whoop in joy and song. And in the darkest hour, Truth shall be the only light within the lands of my people.'"

M'avina glanced back at her stew and saw a hair in it. More likely a piece of rabbit fur. She made sure that no one was looking before she daintily plucked it out.

"When Caldra first began to get her visions, Ord Rekar sent a group of warriors to Nulholla. He told them to tread until they could tread no more. They would either walk the summit of Nulholla Peak or walk amongst the Ancients," Caden explained, rather acidly. M'avina judged by his tone that he was not as faithful to these prophecies as his brethren. She was not unaware of such casual heretics in Skovos. She couldn't understand that. Hafaertus and Athulua were just a way of life. With them, the world made some semblance of sense. She could never understand going through life without them and her other gods.

"That was almost a month ago. Nulholla Peak is a week's march from here," Scyld continued. "We expected them back by now. Though scaling the mountain would be no easy task. Qual-Kehk was beginning to think about sending someone after them when we saw the smoke from Sescheron." She shuddered at the memory. M'avina could imagine how disconcerting that sight would have been to her, especially after the rumours of Caldra's mad prophecies of doom.

"Why would . . ." Kinemil coughed awkwardly. "What makes you think it's possible to scale the mountain at all?"

"It's in the Prophecies of the Final Day," Drus explained. "Nulholla Peak will grant our people salvation. Qual-Kehk believed that there was some sort of weapon left for us by Bul-Kathos."

"'Truth' doesn't strike me as the name of a weapon," said Arcanna, sipping some water from a wooden mug.

"The prophecy has many interpretations," Drus replied simply.

"We should send out a rescue party," Caden said firmly. "As soon as possible."

"You don't expect to find them alive, do you?" M'avina tried to catch herself even as she blurted it out. But before she could stop herself, she had already spoken. She looked around the table. Kinemil looked at her, exasperated. Arcanna lowered her gaze, and M'avina felt her cheeks grow hot. "I didn't mean that . . ."

"I don't know what to expect," Caden replied harshly, "but even if they didn't make it, freezing in the cold is no way to leave them for eternity."

The Barbarians at the table began to converse with themselves, almost excitedly, about Nulholla Peak, and the foreigners exchanged furtive glances.

What if they don't make it this time, either? M'avina thought.

"I hate to sound so negative," said Jabari with his distinctly Kehjistani accent, "but if they didn't return, what makes you think you will?"

M'avina was quietly disappointed that it had occurred to someone else, as well.

Aside from Ume, whose face remained creepily neutral, all the foreigners looked to Scyld and Caden. They had obviously been thinking the same thing. The other Barbarians stopped talking, too.

Scyld nodded. "For one thing, we will be allowed to take our time. It's likely that Theodoric - the warrior who led the band - was rushing because he feared for Harrogath. With Baal destroyed, the Highlands are safe, and time need not be a priority."

"And . . ." Drus said slowly and carefully. "We may have some assistance."

There was a silence on the table.

Who do they have to help them? M'avina thought. And then realization dawned on her. They were asking them for help. She felt a little embarrassed. It seemed that this occurred to all her fellows quite a bit quicker. Vidala would have picked it up immediately.

"We've been fighting for months, Drus," said Arcanna quietly. "I can't expect everyone to join you."

I can't. M'avina sighed. Arcanna had decided to go with them.

"I'll go," she found herself saying. What choice did she have? Trek alone across the Western Kingdoms? And then, what life was there for her on Skovos? Without Vidala, she had no mentor, and her training was nowhere near finished. She remembered how, during the battle with Diablo, Vidala had prayed to Athulua and summoned a Valkyrie - the famed spearmaiden Celestia. M'avina was nowhere near that kind of power.

But it was no matter. Her heart had already decided, and her head was merely catching up. She would stay in these wintry mountains because she had nowhere else to go. It made her profoundly sad. But she wouldn't cry in front of these people.

She looked up, and found everyone staring at her. She looked down again.

"We haven't even arranged anything," Scyld said quietly. "We may not even go. It depends on what Qual-Kehk and Anya say."

Ume chuckled. M'avina saw his age when he smiled. "Of course Qual-Kehk will approve and Anya will be anxious to save whoever she can." He took a swig of whatever he was drinking, and set down the goblet delicately. "A party shall go to Nulholla Peak. Be certain of that."

M'avina bit a piece of stale bread, looking at Ume with a neutral expression.

No one spoke for the rest of the dinner.

[Nephilim]

Kinemil was eternally shaken by the inspired clarity with which Ume saw the rest of the world. Enough to guess how people would act, and what they would do next.

For Qual-Kehk did concede, and Anya was enthusiastic to recover whatever lives she could.

Kinemil was a Paladin of the Zakarum. He had been trained not just to be a soldier, but a leader - to inspire the unenlightened rabble to do great deeds of valour in the name of the Que'Hegan and the Light. The fact that his institution had been turned into a lie by Mephisto rendered these truths no differently. Kinemil was a good, natural leader.

He would have done the same thing as Qual-Kehk. The initial euphoria of Baal's defeat had worn thin with surprising speed. Things were still better than they were, but the Barbarians were beginning to fully realize what all this meant - what Kinemil had seen in Kurast: their land had been slapped across the face, and the scar would not fade with time. But these people weren't as stoic as his, and it would distress them more than it would his. This new expedition to Nulholla Peak would give them that hope again. For a time. But living from moment to moment was all they could do. It was a wise decision on Qual-Kehk's part.

Kinemil sometimes felt that Anya was too young for her position, and that Qual-Kehk would make a far more suitable leader. But in this foreign land, it was not his place to say such things aloud.

Kinemil drew in a sharp, cold breath of the mountain air. He was astonished at how warm the Barbarians managed to keep their houses. He had expected to spend his time in Harrogath shivering in the cold, but these houses were as warm as his cabin in Kurast.

He slowly strode around the veranda and gazed at the city gates. A smile brightened his features.

The Barbarian villagers had gathered around the gate, and there was a low murmur of general babble about them. They were watching the Barbarians pack up their things. They could only spare one horse, and Kaelim was loading it with everything it could carry.

Kaelim - an excellent choice. Possibly one of the largest men (without the aid of enchantments) Kinemil had ever seen. And his fighting abilities backed up his appearance. Kaelim had been with the expedition since the Rogue Monastery, and despite the heroic stories Vidala and Isenhart told him, he saw firsthand the savage grace with which Kaelim wielded his mighty axe. The Zakarumites had learned to give him a wide berth. Only his near-fatal wounds from the battle with Diablo had kept him from journeying up that mountain with Isenhart and the others. But now he was fully recovered, and his confidence was bolstered by the new scars he could display. Perhaps it was his mere physical presence, but Kaelim also commanded respect from his fellows, and he knew the ways of battle as well as any good general. Qual-Kehk was wise to put Kaelim at the head of this group.

Caden and Scyld came out of Malah's infirmary carrying bundles of healing provisions, and they had to push their way through the crowd to get to the horse.

Beside Kaelim, Caden seemed like a child. He was short, for a Barbarian, but also had little meat on his bone. Kinemil had never seen him fight, but he thought that perhaps Caden's zeal would not be enough to protect him on the perilous journey ahead. The same went for Scyld, who had joined to offer her services as an alchemist. Kinemil didn't like talking to women who were taller than him, but he had come to respect the Barbarian woman. Nevertheless, an alchemist's place was in a laboratory, not the battlefield, the Paladin sternly believed.

Kinemil walked off of the veranda and stepped briskly towards the gathered peoples. Out of Anya's house plodded M'avina and Arcanna, weighed down by heavy backpacks and thick furs. Arcanna's eldritch staff was clasped firmly in both hands, and M'avina had her bow draped across her shoulder. They were both seasoned fighters, and Kinemil was glad they were there to help. But since her injury, M'avina had seemed strangely distant, and her quick offer to help had seemed almost reflexive. Something deeply troubled her, he could tell.

And then there was Ume. The Necromancer had saved Milabrega once, and for that, Kinemil was grateful, but still, the strange sorcerer sent a chill up his spine whenever he passed. Kinemil was uneasy whenever the dead walked amongst the living - no matter whose side they were on. He had never trusted him. None of the Paladins had, save for Isenhart. Milabrega was convinced, even after Ume saved her from the rabid clutches of a swarm of vile, hellish, flesh worms, that he and his kindred were connected to this evil. Even after Ume's companion, Sazabi, fell in the battle with Lord DeSeis, they were adamant of their claims. But Isenhart's word weighed more than their own.

"You suspect he is a wolf in sheep's clothing," Isenhart had said, backed by a black, lightless void which served as some mock sky in Hell, "but he has done nothing to vex the Light, and until he does, I will treat him as an ally, and a friend."

But those words seemed so far away, now. Isenhart was a true servant of the Zakarum, and Kinemil would have died to save him, but still, Isenhart was no longer there, and Kinemil, skilled though he was, was still not a commander of armies. Isenhart was. Had been. Should he be considered dead?

"Is that all you bring with you, holy knight?" Jabari was likely the only man for miles who spoke with such a thick, Kehjistani accent. "You might grow cold in that armour."

Kinemil turned and smiled. Jabari was likely wearing his breastplate, but it could not be seen under the layers of thick furs. Even the scabbard of his sword was covered in furs tied with rawhide. The buckler was tied to his back. Despite the fact that Jabari was not of the Faith, Kinemil still found that he liked the sorcerer. His actions flouted many decrees of the Zakarum, but his heart was in the right place. Perhaps Yaerius would look kindly upon him and grant him some leniency when the time of judgment came.

"No," Kinemil chuckled. "I have more in the house. But I see you're prepared."

"We should not expect to find any hospitable area for many weeks. Nowhere near as welcome as Harrogath," Jabari answered. "I didn't battle two Prime Evils to freeze to death in this mountains." With that, Jabari trudged past him, and from behind he could almost be mistaken for another Barbarian, he was so padded and laden with furs.

And this expedition would not be short of Barbarians. Out of all the foreigners, only one, Haseen, had declined an invitation. Kira was still unwell and Arcanna was wisely forbidding her to come along, but Haseen had done so of his own accord. He had said that he needed to report back to Greiz, and that the people of Lut Gholein would need to hear what he had seen. But there were at least a dozen Barbarians coming with them. Of them, only three, Hoku, Bohdan and Alaric, had traveled with Kaelim across Sanctuary. The rest were warriors who had endured through the siege. Kinemil didn't know the name of half of them. They had begun to coordinate around the packhorse, and the din from the crowd was getting more intense with every minute.

"Looks familiar, Paladin, does it not?"

Kinemil shivered, perhaps from the cold.

Or perhaps it was the aged, low voice of the Necromancer, Ume.

"I can't speak for you, of course," said Ume in his matter-of-fact manner, "but I find that it reminds me of the way the villagers of Kurast saw the Hand of Zakarum off on their way for another glorious conquest in the name of the light." He chuckled. Kinemil grimaced. "You're probably too young to remember - before the church became so corrupted, they were all throughout the jungles, and this was the kind of reception they received wherever they stepped." He sighed. "A shame how quickly petty men can undo a century's reputation. Now the Paladins are feared."

I am well aware of the state of my people, Kinemil's inner monologue spat at the Necromancer. Who was he to rub the young soldier's face in the fact? It was hardly as if the Necromancers had a vaunted reputation. Especially in these dark times, when family members forsook their funereal traditions and burned or mutilated their loved ones' bodies to keep them from rising again. Kinemil didn't know much about the ways of Rathma, and had no compunction to learn, but in his opinion, mimicking the power of evil, for whatever purpose, was still evil.

"Yes," Kinemil answered shortly, and remained still.

"Men like Isenhart . . . men like you shall undo the damage that Hatred inflicted upon you," said Ume, assuredly.

Kinemil persisted to be silent.

Ume sighed, and walked past him. "I know that, young Paladin. Do not lose hope for your people just yet."

The moment Ume had turned away, Kinemil turned and went back into Nihlithak's home. He had already gathered his things together, and had merely to take them with him. He wrapped himself in a fur cloak, and then hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders.

His sword, too, he picked up and strapped to his belt. It was a standard issue claymore. There were no enchantments upon it, and no glorious tales of conquest behind it. It was a mere sword, the same which had been given to every Paladin to leave training. Isenhart has his own suit of armour, specially crafted and enchanted for him. Milabrega, too. They both had high enough stations to merit such an undertaking. Isenhart had told Kinemil after Milabrega had died that if he were to ever fall in battle, he would bequeath his broadsword, the Lightbrand, to him. Kinemil had never felt so honoured in all his life. Even when Khalim himself ordained him, it had not seemed so profound. Isenhart, a respected general and leader in the Hand of Zakarum, respected Kinemil enough to give him his sword to continue his legacy.

But had Isenhart fallen? Either way, Kinemil would never have the Isenhart's Lightbrand. He felt some slight disappointment at that, and only hoped that Isenhart was still alive, enjoying the paradise Tyrael had apparently promised him.

Ah yes, the story of Tyrael and the magical portal.

Kinemil had doubted it the moment he heard it. He thought perhaps it was a morale tactic, to give people hope that their companions were still alive, somewhere. Perhaps Qual-Kehk was the only survivor. But one man could certainly not tame the Lord of Destruction alone. The fight with Diablo had been horrific enough.

With Milabrega distracting him from the front, Isenhart had climbed up the demon's back, and plunged his Lightbrand through his dark heart. Diablo had reared back in pain and let out a great cry. Milabrega had leapt forward and bashed Diablo with her scepter between the eyes. He had roared, and in one sweep of his mighty claws, took off her head.

Isenhart had cried out in fury, removed the sword, and impaled Diablo again through the other side of his back. He had reared back so violently that Isenhart flew from his back.

Then, Vidala and Haseen, their spears forward, had rushed forward and impaled the great demon. Kinemil had seen then that he was beginning to lose strength. Quickly, he had put his broken arm behind his back and hoisted the claymore with great effort and managed a hack Diablo's leg before the demon batted him to the ground.

"Move aside!" had come the heavy voice of Kaelim, charging through with the Blacktongue in one hand and a mighty war axe in the other. Haseen and Vidala had let go of their spears and back-stepped as Kaelim swung. Meanwhile, Kinemil had heard a strange, archaic language coming from Ume, who was on the ground, clutching an open wound on his abdomen.

The blade of Blacktongue had shattered against Diablo's thick hide, but the axe had struck true at the demon's chest, as a ghostly, skeletal apparition flew from Ume's fingers and began to strangle Diablo from behind.

Kinemil had pulled himself to his feet as the crimson Soulstone in Diablo's brow began to glow. The warriors backed away a step, not knowing if this was the end, or just the beginning of a second fight. Diablo had reared back, let out a mournful death knell, and then began to shrivel and tear as his body plummeted to the ground. When it collided with the strange stone floor, there was an explosion, and a burst of energy which had blasted all the surrounding warriors into the air to land in clanking heaps away from the demon.

When they arose, they saw nothing but a skeleton covered in ash and dust. Kinemil stayed on his hands and knees, and had crept so slowly towards the burning, crimson shard. He had reached out, and touched it.

Apparently, the battle had been similarly desperate with Andariel beneath the Rogue Monastery, and Duriel, in Tal Rasha's tomb. And Kinemil had been there for the equally brutal battle with Mephisto. Qual-Kehk could not have possibly taken on Baal alone, even if the demon was injured. No.

But still, Kinemil was having doubts about this mystical portal. Isenhart never would have gone. They had a society and a religion to rebuild. Isenhart couldn't expect Kinemil to shoulder all that alone. He wasn't even part of Isenhart's contingent.

Nevertheless, he would never suspect Qual-Kehk of any sort of foul play. He had too much respect for him, as a warrior, and as a leader.

Once more, Kinemil stepped out into the cold air. It looked as though he was the last to arrive, but it didn't seem like they were waiting for him. They were still bidding goodbye to family and friends. Arcanna was arguing with Kira, who was still insisting on coming even at this eleventh hour where she was likely certain there was no chance. Kinemil strode forward to join the party. The packhorse was already overburdened, so he kept everything on his own back.

He turned to lay his eyes on Deckard Cain, the respected, venerated, final remnant of a failed order. But the plight of the Horadrim was legend, and despite their failures, Cain, and his predecessors, deserved a high degree of respect and honour. Those were the only things which truly mattered, after all.

Kinemil smiled as he strode towards him. In the smooth, shining armour and with his mighty claymore at his right hand, the weakness of his religion was forgotten.

"You walk with great purpose, Master Paladin," Cain leaned heavily on his gnarled staff.

"I am the Hand of Zakarum, Deckard Cain," Kinemil replied gently, "my purpose is absolute, and eternal."

Cain chuckled. "You should feel very lucky, young Kinemil," he said, and his face grew stern. "For while you may already possess such purpose, it is the search for it which drives many on this expedition."

"I will aid them however I can," Kinemil replied confidently.

Cain, however, did not seem quite so convinced. "The mountains of the Kae Huron . . ." he stopped. "The wind here is the stuff of legend, Kinemil. Demons and foul beasts are not all the perils you shall face."

"I have climbed the face of Mount Arreat, Cain," Kinemil reminded, "I doubt that . . ."

"Do not ask me how or why, for I have spent my life with my nose in books and scrolls, and have yet to study the skies of the north, but Arreat, and Harrogath, are both pinnacles of calm within a sea of madness."

Kinemil's grin faded. "You speak not of just the weather, old man . . . do you."

"There is talk, my boy, of whispers amongst these mountains. Voices carried on the wind from ages forgotten. Be very sure you know what you hear and who you hear it from."

Kinemil smiled again. "These are tales, Cain, nothing more."

"Aye? As I recall, such was the Zakarum's attitude towards the Infernal Gate and the Gidbinn. And yet, my good Paladin, here we stand."

The young Paladin looked for any sign of jest in the aged face of Deckard Cain, and found none.

"I shall heed your warnings, Deckard Cain," he said with a nod.

"Be sure you do."

Kinemil put a hand lightly on Cain's shoulder and was about to speak.

"Kinemil."

They both turned.

Kinemil was certain that at one time, M'avina was a beautiful woman. The same had applied to Vidala. But now, with her face marred by dirt and scars, and her blonde hair chaotically thrashing about in the wind, she offered no attraction to him. The Priestesses of the Zakarum had always taken pride in their appearance, and worked to maintain it, but such values were lost upon M'avina, and though such a statement could apply to most Amazons - at least, the ones he had met - it was especially poignant in her. He felt sorry that her society had forced the burden of warrior upon someone who was once a beautiful girl.

"We're going to leave, soon. You are coming, right?"

Kinemil glanced at Cain.

"Good luck," the sage told him with a nod, and then turned to M'avina. "You too."

"Thank you," she returned the nod, and then looked back at Kinemil. Cain turned and trudged through the snow to where Malah and Qual-Kehk were standing.

"Yes," said Kinemil, "I'm coming."

M'avina nodded and made her way back to the caravan.

Qual-Kehk was standing on the steps of his home as they all gathered at the gate. "My friends, old and new, I am going to Sescheron at dawn, and so I will not see your glorious return. But I bid you good luck and fair tidings. When I tell King Halaberd what you are to do this day, he will very probably find hope in all the blood and malice we have endured."

If the Barbarian King still lives, Kinemil echoed the thoughts of the others around him. The reign of the king of the Barbarians was not as powerful as one might think. Because most of the tribes themselves were nomadic, Halaberd did little but settle disputes and ensure that the land was well protected. He had little sway over precisely what they did. War had never been declared by the Barbarian people; they had never left the Highlands. It was only invaders who needed to worry.

Sescheron, and Harrogath, to an extent, were rare only in that they were permanent Barbarian settlements. There were others throughout the Highlands, but they were few and far between. Until the existence of the Worldstone had been revealed to him, Kinemil had once wondered why such a vast, powerful army of warriors had stayed on the defensive for lo, these many years. But now, he saw that they had had something which was worth defending.

Qual-Kehk, meanwhile, had continued speaking. ". . . and whatever fate holds for our people, this will likely go down in the annals of our history. Many songs shall be sung for you."

Between Isenhart and the other warriors who had fought Baal, the defiled church of Zakarum, and the brutally decimated Rogues, there were far too many songs to sing.

Qual-Kehk said something that Kinemil couldn't hear, and the bystanders let out a whoop of joy and began to applaud. Even Drus was beaming as he slapped his thigh with his one remaining hand.

The gate opened, and Kaelim led the way, with the packhorse right behind him. And then the rest of the procession covered their heads to the wind and followed the pair.

Kinemil was at the end of the line, directly behind M'avina, who threw a cloak over her head and didn't look back once. But the paladin looked to Cain, who was the only one in the crowd not crying out in celebration. The last of the Horadrim nodded gravely to the young warrior, and he replied with a salute. Then he turned, and followed M'avina and the Barbarians into the stinging winds of the Kae Huron.

[Nephilim]

Barbarian dead were placed face-up.

This was one thing M'avina had learned in her long journey up Arreat, especially after Baal's defeat. They believed that only with their faces skyward could the spirits of the dead properly escape into the warrior heaven lorded over by Bul-Kathos - the Nephalem.

Demon lore must have covered this as well, because in an effort to humiliate and mock the Barbarian people further, the demons would usually turn the bodies of the Barbarians to face the ground. So, since they had no time or trouble to bring every single body back to Harrogath, the search parties who had scaled the mountain had placed the bodies of their brethren face up, with their eyes open. They had all been taken down from whatever cruel tools of torture they had been placed upon, and laid on the ground, face up.

When Scyld had told M'avina this back in Harrogath, it had seemed to her to be a righteous, hopeful thing to be doing, and she was happy.

However, the route they were taking went up Arreat for some time, and then took a pass through the cliffs to enter the rest of the range. So now, in the foothills of Arreat, M'avina found herself stepping lightly to avoid the body of hundreds of Barbarians in varying state of decay, their lifeless eyes staring up at her. And the stench made the embalming process of the people of Aranoch seem much, much less strange.

Amidst the scattered bodies of the Barbarians were half-burned piles of demon carcasses. All the different species of foul beasts had been collected and thrown onto huge piles and burned as best they could. But, perhaps from the winds or the snow, the fires never caught the bodies properly, and as a result, half-consumed death maulers and melted overseers were piled grossly on top of one another.

The battlefield was a wreck. Never before had M'avina seen such carnage. Even as she had gone through the barracks of slaughtered Rogues or the rotting city of Kurast, she had been occupied with keeping alive. Now, with no threat, M'avina could truly comprehend what this had gone. She felt so guilty for being jealous of Vidala. She knew she should be happy to be alive, to have survived this horrible plight. She simply wasn't.

The winds had died down and the snow had stopped, but Caden assured them that it was only temporary. But when the wind died, the rats came. M'avina's eyes fell on the decapitated head of a minotaur, and the rat that was picking at its tongue. She turned her gaze skyward and tried to think of other things. But even the demons seemed pitiful. The overseers' vile eyes looked sad and forlorn, peering up from a mess of a corpse that looked like it had drowned in its own girth. And the screaming faces of succubi, half seared off in the funereal fires, seemed more human than M'avina cared to admit.

"We should rest soon," Scyld quietly suggested to Kaelim. They were on the other side of the packhorse, now, and M'avina was quite certain that they thought she couldn't hear them.

"Not here," Kaelim insisted, equally quiet. "Not in all this."

Scyld nodded in agreement and said nothing more.

The caravan had seemed to grow very quiet as they entered the battlefield.

Ume was walking with his eyes closed, M'avina saw, but he never missed a step. With so much death, here, she reasoned he would feel right at home. She felt guilty for thinking that. Ume didn't revel in death, she realized now. He simply understood it better than she. She had come to know this as he saved her and Vidala, and all their friends, over and over again, sometimes at his own risk. She knew that many of the others mistrusted him, but she didn't want to give into that mentality.

He opened his eyes, and looked at her, and M'avina was quick to look away.

"The only solace I take in this," said Caden slowly, "was that we did not have to murder our own." He turned to look at M'avina. "I can't imagine what it was like for the Rogues to face their sisters in battle."

"It was terrible," M'avina replied quickly. She remembered the look on Shikha's face as she launched an arrow into the heart of a corrupted Rogue. She had seen her battle a herd of goatmen and not flinch for a moment, but there, she had been weeping openly. It had churned M'avina's stomach to watch her do it.

She sighed. "But they soon came to realize that it was not their sisters that they fought. Not anymore."

Kinemil made a bemused grunt.

M'avina didn't look, and continued. "But even knowing that, it was still terrible."

"A comforting illusion, but nothing more," Kinemil muttered.

"Excuse me?" M'avina raised her voice. "Those were proud, upright Sisters of the Sightless Eye. They were corrupted by Andariel - they had no control."

"No?" asked Kinemil acidly, "Then what of the Rogues who survived that atrocity? You think that the Maiden simply overlooked them?"

"You speak a great ill of the Dead, young Paladin," Ume warned.

"Unwarranted," Bohdan, a Barbarian at the back of the procession, assured them.

Kinemil ignored him. "Evil does not prey on the wicked, my friends. It has no need to." M'avina noticed that he glanced fleetingly at Ume, but neither she nor the Necromancer said anything of it. "It instead looks for the moments of weakness in good men and women. The Rogues committed crimes, and we cannot choose to forget them to console ourselves. Yes, the Demon Queen had a hand in it, but she was not alone. The Rogues who fell under her influence cannot be forgiven for their mayhem so easily."

"And what of the Paladins?" asked Jabari defensively. "The Zakarum who served Mephisto?"

"They are even more at fault," Kinemil insisted, "they had been trained to resist the taint of evil. Yet, they fell so far."

"Kinemil," Kaelim warned.

"But it was the compelling orb, Kinemil," said M'avina, "you smashed it yourself." As she said it, she realized she was mistaken. It had actually been Guillame. But Kinemil didn't correct her.

"Khalim managed to resist it," he pointed out, "the Zakarum we faced were weak hypocrites. They deserved what was given them."

"That's enough, Kinemil," Kaelim commanded forcefully. He didn't raise his voice, but there was still more authority in it than before. "We will not speak of this here."

M'avina turned away. Isenhart had never been so cold. But it seemed that Kinemil only learned the Paladin precepts of justice and vengeance, and not those of forgiveness and redemption. Perhaps that came with time or experience. But for all he had endured over the past months, Kinemil was still young. Maybe the corruption of his homeland had taken a more profound toll on him than she had originally surmised.

They didn't speak for some time, and M'avina found herself lost in the dead eyes of broken allies. When she looked up, it was even worse. She felt as though they still had their eyes on her.

Ume had closed his eyes again, and Kinemil had moved up to walk beside Kaelim, but the two didn't speak to each other. M'avina looked at Bohdan, who had his head down near the rear of the column. He had been one of Kaelim's partners in Khanduras, and M'avina had traveled with him across these many lands. It had never occurred to her until just now . . . Kinemil didn't know about Bohdan and Divo.

She wondered, for a moment, if she should tell him. She never did.

M'avina, unthinking, breathed through her nose for a moment. The heavy, overwhelming scent of death, rot, and failure filled her being, and she choked. She staggered, slipped on an organ of some sort, and fell backward into the mixture of bile, dirt, and blood which saturated the ground. She found herself staring into the face of a Barbarian. But he could barely be called that. He must have been fourteen years old. Maybe younger. What was left of his face had never sprouted a beard. His expression was neutral. He wasn't surprised, happy, sad . . . he just stared with broken eyes into the grey skies.

She wasn't sure how long she was lying there, taking in every detail of this carnage. He wasn't even proud. And his hands were not those of a warrior. Harrogath had used every able body it had to face the siege. And when she looked at his hands again, she couldn't tell what his true occupation had been. She only recognized a warrior's hands.

M'avina swallowed, and felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. She looked up. Everyone was staring at her. She could have been on the ground for a few seconds, or hours. She had lost all perspective. Bohdan was standing over her, extending a hand. She took it and hoisted herself to her feet. He looked down at the child on the ground.

"Did you know him?" she whispered.

"I'm not from Harrogath," he said with a shrug.

M'avina resisted the urge to look down at the boy again. Wordlessly, the group began walking again. Arcanna had stopped trying to navigate the gore, and was letting her boots become stained by bile and blood. Every time she moved, M'avina could hear and feel the dirt gritting between the plates of her greaves.

It was a few minutes before she did turn back to look at the boy, but she couldn't find him. They had been walking on a gentle slope, and so when she gazed back, she could see with all the more clarity all the dead on the battlefield. The walls of Harrogath were barely visible, obscured by a wall of snowy haze.

"Gods," she mumbled, "I didn't think there were so many people in the world."

Caden heard her, and followed her gaze. He stopped, was about to speak, but was silent, and fell into step behind the packhorse.

M'avina stepped on broken ground. It felt familiar. She looked up, and around.

This was where they had killed Shenk. Her knees ached.

Ahead of them were stairs carved into the mountain path, and thick, rope rails on either side. The search parties had removed the totems the demons had placed there, topped with severed heads.

The expedition, however, turned to the left, and was taking an obscured path flanked by sheer, smooth rocks. It looked as though a slice of the mountain had simply been cut out.

"This is Snowgarde Pass," Caden, who had stayed close to her, whispered the explanation. "It takes us off of Arreat and into the rest of the Kae Huron."

M'avina nodded. She would be glad to get off of this mountain. It had too many memories on the wind, and too many faces.

Vidala had once said, "Gods bless the grandchildren I'll never have."

M'avina didn't know what that meant.

[Nephilim]

The cliffs melted away, the winds died, and the skies parted. Blue. Skies were blue here. He wasn't wearing his thick furs, and when he breathed, he could smell the wet, summer scent of marshes, not the smell of snow. There was a flower by the tent. It was black. He had never seen a flower like that before. He had fewer scars, of all kinds.

Bohdan had met Divo when she broke Kashya's orders and followed Vidala, Kaelim, M'avina, and Bohdan himself into the monastery graveyard. He had saved her from Blood Raven's flaming arrows. They had battled a host of undead Rogues as Vidala and Kaelim took care of Blood Raven. When the former Rogue fell with a piercing scream, lightning had shot out from her writhing body and danced across the gravestones. Bohdan had dropped his halberd and fell on top of Divo, as he felt the hairs on his neck stand up. The undead fell to pieces around them. But after the electricity had fallen out of the air, they stayed on the ground together.

"I am Bohdan," he said quietly.

Divo was weeping, but whispered her name. A drop of blood fell on Bohdan's broad back, and he shivered. They were huddled beneath the gallows tree in the centre of the graveyard. That was why she wept.

They didn't stand until Vidala called out for him.

Kashya's joy at Blood Raven's death distracted her from Divo's mild insurgence, and she was not punished.

After that, Divo barely left Bohdan's side. She told him all about the Sisterhood, and about when the Citadel was taken. The joy went out of her voice so quickly it made Bohdan feel sick. But he listened, because that was what she truly needed. She insisted on accompanying them on their journey to retake the Monastery, along with a good deal of other Rogues, too. But Bohdan suspected that it wasn't just her loyalty to the Sisterhood that drove her to do it, but a loyalty to him, too.

He wasn't sure when they fell in love, but they did. He remembered that she was just a good friend when they slew Treehead Woodfist together and took the Scroll of Inifuss off that haunted Tree, but they were in love by the time Deckard Cain set foot in the Rogue camp.

"I would forsake my vows for you," she said, once.

He didn't know what those vows were, but it made him feel so much more than what he was.

Then came the day he battled Coldcrow.

Her skin was white, and her lips were black. She rode a grey horse with red eyes and a black mane. Bohdan was never sure if that horse was alive or not. Over her chest was the dead body of a raven, and raven feathers had been stuck into her arms and legs. Her teeth had become sharp, long, and numerous, and wrapped around one arm was the strange, root-like growth, sprouting horns at the elbow and shoulder, which marked the Rogues who had fallen under Andariel's malicious spell.

Her name had once been Blaise.

She came upon them in the forests by the swamp. Basanti had thought that it would be wiser to avoid the camps of fallen ones, for their Shamans dwelt there, and they made battling the fallen much more complicated than it needed to be. But Coldcrow and her cadre of archers were there waiting for them.

There was a disturbing fervor with which the corrupted Rogues murdered their former kinswomen. Some were farther gone than others. Those ones had lost their hair, and their eyes were more devious and furious. Their features were stretches and distorted, and they were covered in the rust-coloured vines of corruption with demonic horns sprouting from various joints. Coldcrow still had her hair, but she commanded them with a grim satisfaction that terrified Bohdan to the core of his soul.

Basanti was in the middle of saying something when five arrows suddenly grew out of her back.

Bohdan, Divo, and the other Rogues with them stared in amazement as Basanti fell silently forward into the underbrush.

There was a horrific moment of silence.

The corrupted Rogues had somehow found a way to mask themselves from the discipline that was taught to the Sisterhood. The Sightless Eye could not aid them against their own.

The demonic warcries of the turned Sisters filled the forest. Their voices sounded like there was a second one overlaid on top of it.

One burst from her hiding, and smashed a Rogue in the side of the face with a hatchet. She fell with little ceremony. Bohdan swung his halberd and sliced off two thirds of her head as the Rogues shot a dozen arrows into her chest. Bohdan was amazed that he wasn't hit. The mist-light of her soul left her body, blinding him for a moment.

Then they were upon them in full. Five corrupted Rogues wielding swords, clubs, and axes, and probably six of seven rising from their hiding places in the forest and loosing arrows from their bows.

Bohdan killed two of the melee Rogues, and heard one behind him die. Divo shouted something to another Rogue, and the sound of their bowstrings thrumming filled his ears. He pulled a knife from his boot and threw it at an archer. She dodged, and he felt an arrow from another one pierce his thigh. But he had entered battle, and felt no pain. Ignoring the offending Rogue, he instead focused on the one he had already chosen, and leapt over a log to bring his polearm down with both hands upon her. She tried to dodge, and he missed her head, but clove her chest in two. The strange light climbed out of her body and evaporated into the air.

He turned, and it was then that Coldcrow climbed the hill into view, upon her unholy steed, with an arrow on her bowstring, and a look in her eyes that held only hatred and malice. The arrow was on fire with blue flame.

She fired and stuck one Rogue through the neck, and Bohdan realized that there were still a number of other corrupted Rogues still alive. Coldcrow had no reins on her horse, but it moved, it seemed, in the direction she wished it to go.

"The Sightless Eye has blinked," she said in her strange, double-voice. "It cannot save you now."

Bohdan was beginning to feel the pain in his leg as he trudged through the thick foliage to get to Divo. Another Rogue got an arrow in her chest, but fired off her last arrow as she fell, and struck the corrupted Sister who had killed her in the stomach. She was still alive, but doubled over. Divo finished her off.

Divo fired an arrow at Coldcrow, but the horse suddenly started and caught it at the base of the neck. It flinched, but Bohdan still couldn't be certain it was alive. It occurred to him, as he crashed through a pile of sticks into the clearing, that Andariel could corrupt animals just as she did the Rogues. But had had no time to think of it. Divo and three other Rogues, two of whom were wounded, readied their arrows at Coldcrow, who kept her distance.

She was not at all alarmed at the four arrows pointed at her face, and that alarmed Bohdan to no end. He felt the pain throbbing in his thigh, but ignored it and made as threatening a stance as he could, knowing all the while that range had him at a disadvantage, and if a warrior of Coldcrow's skill truly wished, he would be dead long before he had the chance to lay a blow. Bohdan didn't chance a look around, but knew that the corrupted Rogues had all been slain.

Bohdan heard the choking gasps the Rogues behind him made. Divo had tears in her eyes. He knew that she and Blaise had been friends.

"This is not Blaise," he whispered.

She may not have heard him.

Coldcrow sat there on her horse for several minutes, staring at them with that same malevolence and revulsion. Her hair, and the feathers she had pervaded herself with, ruffled in the wind.

"Your old life is gone," she said, and that hollow echo made Bohdan shiver in spite of himself. She didn't even announce it. She said it all with a casual clarity that only the mad and cruel could understand. "The Monastery has fallen. Your Sisters are slain. Hope has escaped from this land, never to return. Whatever dreams you have of gloriously returning to your Citadel are only that. Dreams. Memories. Anguish has taken this land, and that is all it feels now."

The Rogues stood still. Bohdan could hear the tautness in their strings, and in his own muscles. He felt blood and sweat drip down his leg. The arrow was still there. When he tensed his leg, his tendons caught fire, but he kept them tense nonetheless.

Coldcrow sighed listlessly, and spat on the ground, then growled, showing her sharpened teeth. "Very well. Cling to a sinking superstition and die along with it. The earth will swallow you up just like the birds and the rats.

The horse turned and walked away.

None of the Rogues fired.

Bohdan felt a tear slide down his cheek, and clenched his teeth.

Coldcrow descended the hill into the forest.

The Rogues lowered their bows almost simultaneously. Wendy looked at the two Rogues who had been injured. "We need to get them back to the camp," she said, and helped one to her feet.

Divo knelt down. "Hold still," she warned quietly, and gently pulled the arrow from Bohdan's leg. It hurt very much, but he knew it could have hurt more.

She cleaned the wound with spit and a rag she had tied around her arm. It was a rag all Rogues had tied around their arms. She had never explained that.

She stood, and Bohdan stuck the end of his halberd in the dirt and leaned on it. She lifted his hand, put the rag in it, and closed his hand around it, holding it tightly. She leaned into him and kissed his sweating chest.

"I love you."

Bohdan smiled gently. "Thank you," he said sincerely. I love you too, he thought.

He turned. Wendy and the others were a fair piece ahead of them. He sighed, looked at Divo, and began to follow them.

He took eleven steps before he realized that she wasn't by his side. He turned around.

Divo was standing on the crest of the hill, a fair distance away. Maybe it was only his dream, but he could see her eyes as clear as if she was in his arms. He had never seen despair until he looked into her eyes. He looked down, at the rag in his hand, still covered in his blood and her spit. He clenched it tightly in his fist.

Divo sighed heavily, and then slowly trudged down the hill.

He killed Coldcrow at the edge of the Monastery gate. M'avina knocked her off the horse and he sliced her in half with his halberd.

The world turned a lighter shade of hopeless, and the smell of loss filled his nostrils. The trees turned to mountains, the blue turned to grey, and the green turned to white. He tasted ice on the wind.

"Wake up, Bohdan," said Kaelim. "We're moving on."

Bohdan got to his feet immediately, and followed him through the remainder of the Pass.

He never saw Divo again.

[Nephilim]

M'avina remembered the strange, hellish portals that Baal had summoned up from the earth to bring in reinforcements from the Burning Hells. Many of the Barbarians had thrown themselves into those portals to deal with the beasts within, but most of the original expedition decided against it. Once in Hell was enough. Even thinking about it brought back visceral faces of balrogs and hag demons.

Jalal, Dimoak, and Aldur - the three Druids who had journeyed from Scosglen, had held a strange séance whenever they encountered those portals. They had said no words and made no gestures. They just stood at opposite points several feet from the edges that disappeared into fire and shadow.

Then, the ground had shaken, and the hellish construct had staggered down into the pit below it, breaking in pieces as it went. The ground closed up, and the quakes ceased, and the Druids moved on as if nothing had happened. They were so remarkably strange. They took no pride in the powers they possessed. It was never showy. But those powers were magnificent. They wore animal pelts over their heads that had been cleaned, but never tanned. She could tell by the way the fur felt to the touch. But they never turned and decayed.

"We ask them not to," Jalal once explained with a shrug.

M'avina regretted that she had never spoken to any of them at great length.

Snowgarde Pass was aptly named. The way the opposing cliffs were situated kept the path only lightly dusted with snow. In the crevices, there were even strange flowers and fungi growing. M'avina did her best to avoid the plants, even though she knew that the horse would trample them anyway.

The Pass was surprisingly long. They rested once in the middle, where Scyld assured them it was the warmest. And when they emerged on the other side, staring at them like a bleeding, fiery eye, was one of those blasted portals in the distance.

M'avina blinked. Then she closed her eyes tight, and opened them again, but it was still there.

Snowgarde Pass opened into a high plateau on another mountain, which extended in a ridge which dropped away to a thin valley in the north and ascended into a snow-capped mountain to the south. Ahead, the ridge rose and fell, making veritable dunes of snow in their path. Beyond those, fog-enshrouded mountains broke the horizon.

And on one of those dunes was a red portal tearing a hole in reality, between two obsidian pillars decorated with demonic runes and statues.

M'avina had found that she had already put arrow to bow. No one had spoken, but they all had their weapons at the ready. The wind blew gently, and wisps of snow sinuously slithered through the air.

There were no tracks, though. Aside from the portal which stuck out of the mountain like a splinter, the snow was completely undisturbed. M'avina kept her arm relaxed, and never pulled the string back, but her senses were straining. They had been ambushed before.

A sudden gust of wind buffeted her hair about, and the sound of it pounding her ears was all she heard for a moment. When it stopped, Kaelim lowered his weapons.

"Stand down."

M'avina looked at him, saw his shoulders relax, before she put the bow back in her quiver, just to be sure it wasn't a trick of the wind. But even with weapons down, they just stared across the ivory abyss between them and the portal.

Ume was the first to move, and stepped forward, but Kaelim gently blocked him with his axe. "No," he muttered. "There's . . . something."

M'avina felt it too. Nothing physical, but there was . . . something. She could find no words to describe it. But there was an unease upon the wind that seemed warranted. If she was wrong, it was better to be embarrassed than dead.

"Bohdan, Oslaf," Kaelim called, "you two take point. M'avina," - she turned to look at him - "you and Arcanna circle out on the right. Ume, Scyld, and Jabari take flanking positions on either side of us. The rest of you," he readied his sword and axe, "follow me."

M'avina didn't look back as she trudged through the snow as Kaelim had directed. She had to walk at a healthy pace to keep up with Bohdan and Oslaf, who were armed with a halberd and spear, respectively. The main group, with Scyld and Jabari on one flank and Ume on the other, moved several paces behind the point.

M'avina took the same arrow from her quiver and pulled it back on her bow, but kept the point low. She heard Arcanna behind her, but didn't look back. She wanted to glance at the scenery to her right, but the burning doorway hanging between the two pillars demanded her full attention.

Unlike Jabari, Ume, and other spellcasters M'avina had met, the Zann Esu never said a word. When she was in the infirmary, she had overheard Malah speaking to the young sorceress when she had been in visiting Kira during her coma.

"It isn't exactly a matter of reciting ancient spells or incantations," Arcanna explained in a casual, patient tone. "It's a sort of mental focus that allows us to channel the natural elemental energies through our own being, spiritually and physically. While the Vizjerei or the Ammuit bend reality to their will, we simply use reality to its full potential."

"You must have a very intimate understanding of the world around you," Malah noted with a smile. She had always been interested in magic, and while the Barbarian society allowed equal opportunities for both genders, she was still a feminist at heart, and delighted that the Zann Esu had thrived despite the machinations of the male-dominated East working against them.

But Arcanna shook her head. "Not so much an understanding as a relationship," she corrected. "Our discipline makes nature our friend and it's spirits our allies."

"Almost like the Druids?" Malah suggested.

"Similarities, but key differences in philosophy and execution," Arcanna replied. "The Druids use their magic in a much more physical sense. We regard nature as an elemental entity in and of itself."

"How do the Zann Esu regard other magical practices?" asked Malah.

Arcanna shrugged. "Flawed, but necessary. Existence is made up of flaws, and life is about correcting them."

M'avina felt heat off the staff Arcanna held. She had said once that staves, when properly sanctified, could become a focal point for the energies they wielded, because, especially when using more powerful spells, those magics became dangerous to contain within the human body. By diverting it into the staff, an adept Sorceress could summon more powerful energies to aid her.

Bohdan and Oslaf stopped, two steps from the portal.

Kaelim held up his fist, and his group stopped.

M'avina stopped.

The world stopped.

M'avina pulled the arrow back and took aim at the portal, and locked her arm, ready to loose her arrow at anything that emerged. The wind pounded in her ear again, but she continued to stare at that blasted portal before her. Bohdan had his halberd high over his head, ready for a downward strike to cleave his foe in two. Beside him, Oslaf had his spear forward and ready. Jabari's sword glowed with electricity, and a faint, shadowy fog was streaming from Ume's luminescent eyes, which were a brilliant shade of incandescent blue. Everyone had their weapons out and at the ready, waiting for something to happen.

But nothing persisted to happen.

In a second, M'avina imagined the countless variations on how the demons would ambush them the moment the let their caution down. The Reanimated Horde suddenly bursting from the perfect snowdrifts, or a herd of minotaurs suddenly bursting from the portal in a frenzy of blood and death. Succubi descending upon them like a hale of ravenous eagles. The fleshy tendrils of death maulers rising from the ground and entangling the hapless party.

M'avina's shoulder ached. She guessed that she had never had to hold a bowstring taut for so long. In the battles she had faced during her quest across Sanctuary, there had never been time to hold the arrow on the bow. Always, it had barely touched the string before she had loosed it. The fights were furious and chaotic.

She felt her tensed muscles shudder. A drop of sweat dripped into her eye and stung.

"Athulua," she whispered a prayer, "give me strength." Though it didn't ease the pain in her shoulder, she felt better nonetheless.

"Stand down," Kaelim commanded.

Relief flooded her system like a comforting warmth as she lowered the bow and relaxed her arm. Arcanna exhaled loudly as the magic within her dispersed, and the heat from the staff faded. She walked past M'avina towards the portal, and M'avina followed.

She could heard the hum of the astral energies as she neared. It was smaller than the ones they had encountered before, less grand.

"Why did Baal summon the portals on Arreat?" Ume asked, though it sounded like he knew the answer.

"To bring in reinforcements to block our pursuit," Arcanna answered.

"Then, why, pray," Ume came to his point, "would he summon one outside of Arreat."

After a moment of thought, Alaric answered. "Perhaps they wished to surprise attack Harrogath from another angle?" he suggested.

"The druidic ward that Aust and the others summoned completely protected Harrogath," Scyld shook her head. "They would have as much luck from behind as they would from the front. Besides," she gestured to the mountainous terrain to the south, "they would have to traverse the mountains first. We would likely notice the activity."

"Can we be certain it leads to Hell?" asked Caden.

"Yes," Arcanna, Ume, and Jabari answered in unison.

M'avina reached out and touched the pillar nearest her. She felt the heat coming through the portal. It was that same, malignant heat she had felt before. It was pervasive and starving. She drew her hand back suddenly from the pillar.

"Who says Baal summoned it at all?" she asked, not looking at anything but the swirling, chaotic energies within the doorway.

Some were perplexed by the question. "Who else could have?" asked Kinemil, a little annoyed.

"A lesser demon, perhaps," Ume nodded his approval. "It's not impossible."

Arcanna shook her head. "It took all the three Prime Evils to open the Infernal Gate properly. Baal had Tal Rasha's arcane knowledge, as well as his fully functional Soulstone. It takes a great deal of power to breach the dimensional barriers like this."

"At least . . ." Kaelim began.

M'avina nodded in horrified understanding. "It did before the Worldstone was shattered." It was a whisper but everyone heard it.

They exchanged glances. Qual-Kehk had told them what Tyrael had told him. No one, not even the Archangel himself, knew what the implications of the Worldstone's destruction would mean.

M'avina had been endlessly disappointed that she hadn't been with them when they had seen Tyrael in the Worldstone chamber. There was something about being in his presence that reassured her. It was as if confidence and hope were something tangible that she could wrap herself around in. There were times, when they traveled through Hell, that she felt almost in withdrawal from that feeling. She would zealously agree with anyone who suggested they go back to the Pandemonium Fortress. But then, that was no wonder, for Hell was like the reverse of that. There was a sorrow on the very air. It had the scent of infinite sadness. If they hadn't been distracted by fighting demons from the doorstep of the Fortress to the Chaos Sanctuary, M'avina was certain that the innate misery of the empty sky and unforgiving ground would drive them mad.

Even now, she felt that same despair creeping into her heart, as if reaching out from the portal - recognizing something familiar within her, for it had tasted her spirit once before. M'avina shuddered and took a step back.

"We need to see what's in there," said Kaelim. "Oslaf, Alaric, you two enter the portal first. M'avina, Jabari, you follow."

M'avina felt her stomach tighten. She looked for a moment at Kaelim, and he looked as if he was about to correct himself, but she quickly nodded and stepped towards the portal. "As you command."

He looked like he regretted asking her. She felt somehow better about herself because of that. He sighed, and took her position behind the Barbarians. Oslaf was from Harrogath, but Alaric had been part of Kaelim's traveling party. However, after the battle with Mephisto, he had stayed in the Pandemonium Fortress under the care of Jamella. Oslaf had taken part in the raids throughout the wild, but neither had ever been deeply within Hell. Jabari had traveled with them a fair distance, but it was different for the Vizjerei - for most spellcasters. Their disciplines seemed to protect them from the pervasive nature of the blasted realm, unless they were simply better at not showing it.

Oslaf showed no signs of fear, and went forward with his weapon before him. M'avina did not know whether or not he had yet braved the burning realm, for she knew little who would so zealously return to it.

Jabari took his place behind Alaric, while she moved in to position behind Oslaf. She heard him gulp. Perhaps the sorcerer was not as resistant to Hell as she once thought. Oslaf and Alaric rushed into the portal, and she couldn't help but hesitate before she made her move. She breathed the thin, cold air of the mountains, closed her eyes, and jumped into the portal.

Heat enveloped her like a blanket as she exhaled the cold air into the dreadfully hot Hellish environment. It was accentuated by all the furs she wore. And then, again, it came over her, the fear and sadness pulling at her soul. But she fortified her spirit, drew an arrow, stood upright, and opened her eyes.

The portal they had just entered from was beneath a massive gate which fell a dark corridor of stone walls carved in the likeness of screaming humans and laughing demons. But on the other side, it opened up into a massive arena, littered with the corpses, both fresh and centuries old, of demons. The living rock had seemed to grow up to form a coliseum around them, rows of ringed seats, and at the far end, was a raised veranda adorned with three thrones made of still-moving human bodies. Beyond the high seats and the throne balcony was nothing. Just the black sky of nothing.

The rank stench of decay, a thousand times worse than the battlefields in the Highlands, overwhelmed her. She covered her mouth with the hand that held the arrow. The other three had done the same.

Alaric looked around at the seats and the battlefield. "What happened here?" he asked them.

Jabari shook his head. "Whatever it was, it's over now. We can do nothing here."

"Then let's return," M'avina said hastily. She moved back towards the portal, and glanced back at them. She desperately needed out of this place.

The second they began to follow her lead she jumped through the portal.

Traversing such dimensional barriers seemed far too easy. There was no feeling to it. You were simply there one moment, and here the next. Aside from the bright flash of light in the transition, it was no different than walking through a door.

She had never thought the freezing cold would be so refreshing, but with her multiple layers, it had been like being trapped in a stone oven. She was almost panting when she emerged. Oslaf, Alaric, and Jabari were all quick to follow.

Kaelim looked at her. "What happened?"

M'avina really didn't feel like talking, and was relieved when Alaric spoke up. "Nothing. It was a ruined battlefield, of demon on demon."

Arcanna sighed. "No doubt remains of the civil war that has raged in Hell since the Dark Exile," she surmised.

Jabari shook his head, uncertain. "It was different. It seemed too recent almost."

"Was there any threat?" asked Kinemil.

"Not that we could see," Oslaf replied. "There was no living demon in sight."

M'avina took a few steps from the portal.

Kaelim walked towards the portal, and put his hand up to it, but not through it. He shivered and drew back. Everyone else instinctively did the same.

"Can any of you close it?" asked Kaelim, turning to the congregation but speaking to the spellcasters.

Arcanna shook her head. "I wouldn't know where to begin. Ex nihilo deals with elemental energies. I barely understand Horadric portals, let alone something of this magnitude," she pointed at the shimmering portal.

Jabari nodded, "Likewise. I can only cast which specific spells I know, and this is not among them."

"What about you, Priest of Rathma?" asked Kinemil, raising an eyebrow and stepping toward Ume. "Your magics deal with the powers of Hell."

"Kinemil!" Scyld snapped. "That's a terrible thing to say!"

Ume smiled knowingly, and put a hand gently on her shoulder. "A common misconception, my child," he turned his gaze to Kinemil. "I deal in traversing the dimensional barriers between life and death, young Paladin. That is quite different than those between this world, and theirs," he nodded at the gateway.

Caden stepped through the crowd of soldiers. "There's no threat from the other side. Could we simply leave it?"

"I would sincerely rather not," Kaelim shook his head.

"Nor I," M'avina chimed in. The thought of that portal's other end send harrowing chills up her spine.

"Without a Worldstone, I certainly don't appreciate the idea of one of these portals being left open anywhere, let alone a stone's throw from Harrogath," Oslaf said, nodding back in the direction of his home town.

"There's not a lot we can do," Scyld reasoned. "I'm not anymore comfortable with it than you are, Oslaf, but our only alternative is to leave someone here to guard this portal. And if it was a force too vast for Harrogath to handle, what forces we can spare certainly wouldn't be able to stay them."

"And we cannot diverge from our quest," Kaelim shook his head.

They all glanced around. M'avina's spirit sank. She knew that there was no way they could do anything but leave the portal here. But she was not at all pleased with possibility of having that portal behind them.

Alaric sighed. "Scyld is right. Harrogath is capable of handling an assault. Though many came with us or went with Qual-Kehk to Sescheron, they still have a great many stalwart warriors to use in case of any assault."

Kaelim nodded thoughtfully. "Then it's decided: we shall press on. Perhaps we'll deal with this portal when we return."

Without waiting for a response, Kaelim strode past the portal and continued along the ridge. The party soon took their positions behind him. M'avina felt another knot tie in her stomach as she realized she was the rearguard. She fell into step, nevertheless, beside Bohdan, and looked down to avoid the wind.

Her eyes strayed behind her once again to the portal, behind them. It looked like an angry, fiery eye, judging her, and peering into her mind. She hated Hell. She knew that feelings like hate only strengthened the powers of the place, but she couldn't help it. Hell had taken so much from her world. Everything about it was a violation.

She bumped into Bohdan.

"Careful," he warned mirthlessly, but distracted. She saw him look back at the portal, too.

They kept walking, and got away from it with surprising speed. It was only minutes later, when M'avina looked back, that the portal was only a glimmering scorch in reality far below them.

A strong wind deafened her for a moment.

Bohdan tapped her shoulder. "Come, another storm's picking up. We should cross this summit before it breaks." He pointed to the other side of the valley beside them, where there was a great, snowy haze engulfing the mountains opposite them. M'avina nodded, and quickened her pace.

It wasn't long after that she turned back, but they had crested the hill, and she could no longer see it. She didn't like leaving it behind her.

She remembered when they left behind a den of yeti they'd been hunting in the Tamoe Mountains a few years ago.

When M'avina had spoken to Vidala about his discomfort, Vidala had laughed. "M'avina, the present needs your attention. Not what lies behind you. Everything happens to a woman, or a man, now. Not in the past, or the future, but now."

"You turn everything into philosophy," M'avina had chuckled.

Vidala had grinned, but said nothing more.

M'avina would give her bow for some philosophical wisdom from Vidala, now.

But instead she simply ducked behind Bohdan and descended down the other side of the hill.

[Nephilim]

And the voice of Bul-Kathos did not sound for some time, and he left Man to ponder what he had spoken of creation. But it would not be silent forever.

For the Ancients came to me in a dream, and spoke of how the world would end - when fate ran dry and no more would destiny dictate the doom of this world. For chaos is the will of those who would undo all that the Great and Ancient King had worked to protect.

And I was shown the end of the world.

There will be fire and shadow, and from that unholy union will spring forth three powerful Lords upon three pillars of smoke. I have seen these Lords.

Upon the pillar of white smoke is an aged man, with a Light upon his brow and a lie upon his tongue. In one hand he holds the will of Men, and in the other, he holds an urn filled with the ashes of many dead. From the white smoke spills the wailing of dread spirits, and they profess great Hatred for all who lived.

Upon the pillar of black smoke is a great man of stature, clothed in ruined silks and torn shawls. He has two faces made as one. One visage is a demon, who laughs at the folly of Man, and the other is a man of much wisdom, who is weeping. Clasped in his hands, with many fingers, is a great maul, under which is the rubble of many cities. His smoke is as silent as yesterday's battlefields.

The third pillar of smoke is red like blood. And at the top of this pillar is a child, standing with a spear in his hand atop the broken bodies of an old man and a great warrior. The child laughs at me, for in his other hand is my nightmare. The smoke is a face who shrieks with great terror: "Woe, woe, those warriors who wander, for ye shall be struck down in this hour and made as ruin."

The smoke of these Lords shall flood the earth and flow through the mouths of Men. The smoke shall rise and blot out the sun.

But a great Warrior who is Not a Man, shall hoist a sword of white fire and rally many Men behind him. He shall strike at the World with his sword, and from that blow will issue three fragments. One filled with storms and voices. One filled with gold and the sounds of battle. And one made of flesh, filled with blood and many whispers.

The Three Brothers will be struck apart, and the skies will rage, as the Warrior who is Not a Man leads the mortal world against their rivals, who desire nothing but their demise. Many will die, and the sun shall fall, but the Three Brothers shall be buried at three of the four corners of the World. And the Fourth Corner shall not be touched, for there the World is contained. And four Guardians will be made.

Wizards will guard Destruction in the South, and ensure that Black Smoke does not choke Man's peace.

Scholars will guard Terror in the West, and ensure that Red Smoke does not blind Man's reason.

Faith will guard Hatred in the East, and ensure that White Smoke does not suffocate Man's love.

And the Ancients of Bul-Kathos will guard the World in the North, and none shall pass the might of those ones.

But lo, there is but one place where even the Ancients may not tread. So great is its power and so mighty its secret. And this place is the Eye of the King - Nulholla Peak - where there lies a thing which shall test the children of the Eternal King. And if they prove worthy, Truth shall rain upon them, and they shall whoop in joy and song. And in the darkest hour, Truth shall be the only light within the lands of my people.

"Aid us!" the Nephalem shall cry, and the sons of the Eternal King shall answer. "We shall!" And a warrior shall rise from their ranks and clasp the Sacred Charge, which shall forever be a sign of their Chief.

The Warrior who is Not a Man shall throw down his sword into a great abyss, and then leave this world for ten thousand days. And the world will be a Sanctuary where mortals shall sleep peaceably, despite the petty wars of Men. And the eyes of children shall open to a new age. The sun will rise, with a golden halo about it.

And I beheld a man beneath the earth, with a crook the colour of blood, leading children to their death. Kings of man shall falter, and the might of strong steel will fall as nought. Brother shall smite brother, and a great voice shall tremble through the veins of the world. Many will hear, and many will come. A jagged star shall fall out of the sky and pierce the black heart of a wicked king. Men shall run from their strongholds, deaf and blind, crying: "Who has done this thing?"

And they shall converge upon the fallen temple. I saw many Men rush towards a burning fire, whose light seared their flesh. This is how it is to be - many sons and daughters of flesh shall cross a great chasm, but fall on the last step and be lost forever. But one blow shall strike true, and blood will flow as a river as the fire dies.

Man shall whoop with joy. "Evil is no more!" they will say. "Man need not fear sin any longer!" they will say, too.

And here I beheld a monstrous whore with hair of blood and a chalice full of many foul things. She rides atop the back of her brother, a great beast with many teeth. They are the siblings of agony, and delight in the tortures of man. At her feet are many women, prostrated as before the Immortal King, whose eyes have been taken from them; they have no eyes. And they despaired and wept with rage. A circle of tortures surround the brother and sister, and beyond them stand the fire reborn. Anguish shall consume the blind, and the Hero of the North, who arises once more, shall fall.

And a child will cradle Terror in his breast as the heart of man falls under the shadow. A Wanderer will pass through the ancient lands, trailing chaos in his wake. The Three Brothers will be reunited as the mortal world trembles before their might. And so it was foretold that the Three, once reunited, would be shattered again - And the last of them would set his sights on the holy mount. The warnings held that their defeat would be illusory - that the final gambit had yet to be played.

The white fire will be renewed, and my people will suffer as never before. Ruin shall come to many kingdoms, and the shadow shall linger under many kind moons. The Sacred Charge shall fall from the hands of the Chief of my people, for lo, your king is dead. But do not despair, for a warrior of your own shall climb the great plains and take up the Ancestral Guardian. New strength shall flow through him, and all my people. He shall be your Chief, and the sons of the Great and Ancient King shall be reunited firstly since the dawn of time.

This is what I have seen, and it is what shall be.

[Nephilim]

Sleeping in the mountains was hard. No one had ever pretended that it wasn't the case. Even the Barbarians, who were used to it. It took a good deal of mental energy for M'avina to ignore the howling wind and invasive cold. And even then, she found herself waking up repeatedly in the night. Tonight, they had been lucky enough to find a snow-covered hillock. Sleeping in its shadow blocked out some of the wind. But on some nights, they had simply dug alcoves in the snow and hoped for the best.

Mornings had been horrible, but they had kept warm enough to avoid any illness that persisted for over a half hour after they woke up. And it was hard to tell whether or not she was tired, for the temperature kept her from being anything but wide awake whenever they got on the move. But little blessings, like this Athulua-sent hillock, she did not take for granted.

She rarely slept. The climate didn't allow it. So instead, she entered a half-sleep, relaxing her body and allowing it to rest, while remaining on the verge of conscious. They had had similar issues with the weather in Aranoch, but then, a gulp of the violet rejuvenation potions had been enough to replenish her energy as if she had been through a full night's sleep. But that wasn't a luxury they had here. What potions they had they were not sing frequently. The wounded still in Harrogath had been a priority. Malah had offered practically her whole stock, but Kaelim had insisted they take only what she could spare.

At least on Skovos, the rains kept it from getting unbearably hot. But Aranoch had been an all-day furnace. Even after sundown, the sand was burning.

She remembered getting up one morning. They had made camp in the desert, despite Vidala's protests. "Fine," Rehga had said acidly, "you can go back to Lut Gholein, if you so wish, but Fangskin's trail is cold enough as it is. If you want to set out from Lut Gholein tomorrow morning, you might as well give up. I intend not to."

Rehga was a nice enough woman, but she and Vidala had never gotten along. Rehga was the leader of the three Sorceresses they had met in Lut Gholein, and while being affable, there was a presence about her that brooked no disagreement. Kaelim and Isenhart had never raised a voice against hers, and M'avina got the impression that Ume just always agreed with her. Vidala was another matter.

But, after that statement from Rehga, Vidala had merely shaken her head and returned to M'avina and their packhorse. And so had begun the one and only night they had ever spent in the deserts of Aranoch.

Jabari was on watch. She could see him standing some thirty feet away from the camp, casting a small fireball in his hands to keep them from going numb. Alaric was probably there, too, somewhere. Once they had gotten deeper into the mountains, Kaelim had paired everyone up. They were not to go anywhere without their partner. Even if they needed to relieve themselves, they were to collect their partner and take them with them, just to be safe.

He had said that the Kae Huron were deadly long before Baal had arrived. M'avina's partner was Arcanna, which she didn't mind. But she could imagine the disappointment when Bohdan had been paired with Kinemil. Kaelim tried to suit everyone, but those two had never gotten along. But, they were stuck with one another. Kaelim partnered himself with Ume, and M'avina suspected it was only because he didn't want to force anyone else to deal with the aura of discomfort which Ume seemed to inadvertently convey.

She felt Arcanna nudge her, and ignored it, thinking it was merely the Sorceress shifting in her sleep. When she did it again, though, M'avina sat up and turned to her. Arcanna had an apologetic half-grin on her face. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

M'avina sighed, but got to her feet and helped Arcanna to hers. Wordlessly, Arcanna led M'avina away from the camp, and they waved as they passed Jabari.

They walked down the hill, shielding their eyes from the wind, and M'avina stood guard as Arcanna dug herself a hole in the snow some yards away. The winds, laden with snow, caused a makeshift fog around them. They could barely see the top of the hill. This snow had been of a powdery kind with little traction. Their footsteps were swept away in minutes of their passing. In the distance, on a dune of snow, she saw shadows shift behind the wind. They looked like tall men carrying a bundle. She knew it was just tricks of the wind, though. No men lived in the Kae Huron.

She had managed to get to sleep in Aranoch despite the heat. And even if it wasn't the heat, it was the dryness. At night, sometimes the cold would return. Every now and then they got a chill wind that gave them shivers. But it lacked any sort of moisture. Nevertheless, if she smeared water over her lips before sleeping, she found she could get to sleep. But she had only spent one night in Aranoch.

She had awakened with a start in the middle of the night with a start when Vidala inadvertently poked her in the side with the end of her bow.

"Athulua," M'avina swore quietly. "I thought it was a sand maggot."

Vidala smiled, bemused. She was sitting cross-legged, waxing her bowstring. "Sorry," she muttered. And, turning back to her bow: "By Kethryes, these deserts dry out my string in an instant. How have you been faring?"

M'avina laid down again. "I haven't noticed."

Vidala shoved her playfully. "That's because you never wax your damn string. I'm telling you, M'avina, one of these days it'll snap and it'll be the end of you."

"I barely retain your words of wisdom when I'm fully awake, Vidala. Why would I remember them when I'm half asleep?"

Vidala chuckled as M'avina turned away from her. "Try not to poke me anymore?"

"What was that?" Vidala whispered harshly.

"I said try not to . . ."

"Shh!" Vidala had no humour in her voice. M'avina sat up. Vidala's hand had frozen on her string, and her eyes were wide and alert. "There's something out there."

"M'avina!" the trance-breaking shout had her reflexively putting an arrow to her bow, though she knew it was Jabari's voice.

"Jabari," M'avina chided, stepping towards him, "Arcanna needs her privacy!"

"Have you seen Alaric?" Jabari asked breathlessly.

"Jabari, get out of here," M'avina shook her head. But Arcanna had already finished, and was looking at the ground some distance away. "M'avina, take a look at this."

There were tracks in the snow. M'avina looked at Jabari a moment before trudging through the snow to Arcanna. "What's wrong."

"Hoofprints," Arcanna noted.

M'avina shook her head, moving her fur cloak up to block the wind. "No, look at how they're arranged," she pointed. "Those were made by only two legs. It's probably just Alaric making a wide patrol." Even as she said it, she came close enough to see the tracks. Arcanna was right. They were made by hooves. A biped with hooves. That meant only one thing . . . demons.

"Demons?" Arcanna's eyes went wide, "are you sure?"

M'avina hadn't realized she'd said it aloud. She squinted into the distance, and followed the line of tracks into the enveloping snowstorm. They led right to where she had seen the shadows. The shadows with the bundle.

"I saw something before," she said quietly.

"What?" Jabari shouted above the quickening winds.

"Demons! I saw them, they have Alaric!"

Jabari blanched. "No!"

"Can you be sure of what you saw?" Arcanna demanded.

Jabari turned. "We must go; arouse the others," he said.

"No!" M'avina stopped him. She felt her heartbeat quicken. After all these months, she should know better than to assume that shadows were only shadows. But the snowstorm was doing its work, and the tracks were vanishing before her eyes. "If we go back, we'll lose the trail."

"Then I'll get Kaelim, and you follow the tracks," Jabari suggested fervently.

"We don't know how many there are, Jabari," M'avina shouted. She looked at the ground again. "We don't have time for this! We all need to go - now!"

With that she turned and ran as fast as the deep snow would allow. He's going to turn around, she thought. Jabari will go back. But when she turned to look, Arcanna and Jabari were both a few yards behind her. She would have sighed, had she possessed a spare breath. Jabari had fought alongside the multitude of adventurers beneath Tristram. He had been a novice then, he had explained to her, and by the sound of it, a battle-eager youngblood. But the dreadful experience had nullified that sense of adventure and replaced it with a sense of duty. Only now, he was cautious, not only of himself, but of his comrades. Sometimes M'avina praised Hefaetrus for a companion with such qualities, but other times, she cursed him for being such a bother. Luckily enough, this time was the prior.

She felt strangely confident following the fading tracks with those two sorcerers behind her, and couldn't help but feel proud of herself for taking charge. It was really the first time she had ever needed to. Vidala had always been there before.

Though it had been at Rehga's insistence that they had stayed out that night, Vidala had taken charge the moment the attack had let up. One of Greiz's spearmen, who had agreed to accompany them, had been killed. M'avina couldn't remember his name. Their packhorse had been mauled, and was dying. M'avina had felt horrible for leaving him there with life still in his veins. He had served them well. But the sabre cats had taken Paige, one of the Rogues who had come with them from the mountains, and they had all seen enough blood shed. Paige was so young, affable, and eager to help them. No one wanted to see her come to harm. They had picked up their weapons and left the camp immediately.

Fangskin and his thieving vipers were forgotten. Now it was the catwoman, Bloodwitch, who was their target.

Vidala had never blamed Rehga, but they never spoke through that night. One good thing about the desert was that the lack of rain meant lack of clouds, and the illumination from the half-moon was glorious. Nevertheless, M'avina had stayed close to the group, with Vidala and Kaelim in the lead following the tracks. Looking at the rest, she had seen them doing the same, save Isenhart, who had been bringing up the rearguard several yards behind the main group. Even with the brilliant light, M'avina had known that sand maggots could burst from their hiding beneath the sands, and did not doubt that the claw vipers had similar tactics.

The wind had died completely, which was unusual, being so close to the sea, but it kept the impressions in the sand intact.

Vidala had quickened her pace, readying her longbow, "We're gaining on them. Paige may be putting up a fight and slowing them down."

Kaelim had hefted the Blacktongue sword in both hands and nodded in agreement. "They're likely over this next dune."

The whole party had sped up to gain on them and they were over the dune in seconds. And before them, sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of an empty plain, was the entrance to an underground tomb.

Haseen had gasped, and swore in a language M'avina didn't know, but then he said. "The Halls of the Dead."

With a name like that, she doubted it would grant them any solace.

But there had been nearly a dozen of them, then. And now, before the mouth of the great cave they had come upon, only three stood.

M'avina had taken a substantial lead over the spell-casters, and she waited for them to catch up, and catch their breath. The mouth of the cave was massive, and it disappeared into blackness rather quickly. Paige and Shikha had been essential every time they had come into a dark place. M'avina sighed, and lowered her gaze to the ground. The snow was a mess of hoofprints. She knelt down to get a closer look. The mountain protected the mouth of the cave from the wind, so the ground here had not been blown over.

"There's at least a dozen of them, I think," she muttered to the others. "Maybe more. They've been coming and going frequently."

Arcanna tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and when M'avina looked, the Sorceress pointed to the interior wall of the cave. There was an ax leaning against it. Jabari took some tentative steps towards the cave. Then, he held his shield forward, and uttered an incantation. The gem at the centre glowed white, and the face of the buckler illuminated like a lantern. The shadows retreated, and they could see the chamber rather clearly.

What was most interesting wasn't the unlit firepit, or the animal furs strewn about, or the multiple corridors which branched off from this main chamber, but it was the crude hieroglyphs carved into the walls. There was no one in this chamber.

M'avina and Arcanna followed the Sorcerer slowly into the cave entrance.

"Stop!" Shikha had said sharply, though quietly, holding her arm out to halt the rest of the party from continuing into the tomb. She had turned to Regha. "Your staff," she whispered quickly. Regha had handed it over, and Shikha had pressed the end down lightly on the sand-covered tile in front of her. She had to apply more force, and suddenly, a line of spikes had jolted upwards out of the floor. A collective start had gone through the party. Shikha had stood, and had handed Regha her staff.

"Be careful," the Rogue had warned, and then, stepping over the spikes and readying her bow, she had continued.

But this cave was not booby-trapped, thank Athulua. Without the eerily accurate intuition of the Rogues, they would have been at its mercy.

Jabari shone his light on the wall, and M'avina squinted to distinguish the strange markings. A sharp, fragmented script was written beneath some of the images. It barely looked like a language. There were pictures of human-like creatures, with horns, battling each other. Then, what looked like three broken stones, and then, the creatures who had been battling were standing side by side, and the final image was of a mass of these horned creatures running through a circle. M'avina couldn't completely understand.

From behind, they heard a rattling of stones. Jabari turned his light on the corridors, just as a tall, lean goatman emerged. The demon looked up at them, surprised, and before he could blink, M'avina had loosed an arrow into his throat. He fell immediately, trying to scream but unable to. The three humans watched him writhe for a moment before going limp.

"Goatmen," Arcanna murmured. She turned. "What are they doing here? I thought the clans were populating the Western Kingdoms."

Jabari looked back at the marks on the wall, and ran his hands over them. He came to the image of the goatmen fleeing into a circle. "The portal!" he exclaimed quietly. "Outside Snowgarde. They must have opened it and escaped into the Kae Huron."

"Goatmen are not well equipped, magically." Arcanna shook her head. "To say the least, they haven't been when I've ever encountered them, and the Vizjerei libraries concur."

Jabari nodded, but then raised an eyebrow. "You were allowed into the Vizjerei libraries?"

Arcanna glanced furtively at him. "Not exactly."

"But that means," M'avina continued Arcanna's train of thought, "that someone must have opened the portal for them."

They paused. M'avina shook her head, as if to clear a haze. "None of this matters," she said, "we need to find Alaric." She turned to the three corridors.

"Let's split up," said Arcanna.

"No," M'avina and Jabari said in unison. After exchanging a glance, M'avina continued. "This is their home. We don't know how many there might be. We'll have the best chance of getting Alaric out of here alive if we stick together. None of us would fare terribly well in single combat."

M'avina looked at the doorways before them. She didn't want to stress the importance of finding the right one. If they accidentally stumbled into a convocation of the demons, and no Alaric, then they would never be able to make it out in time with him.

The ground was stone, and told her nothing except that the ground was frequently trod upon. Each hallway was the same. Arcanna and Jabari had their spells at the ready in case another goatman inadvertently walked into the main chamber.

The middle hallway had snow still on the floor, which had yet to melt away. M'avina didn't like to rely on something so potentially circumstantial, but it was the best she had to go on.

"This way," she said, confidently enough, and, putting an arrow to string, she crept slowly into the hallway. Jabari dimmed the glow on his shield so as not to alert any of their approach.

As they continued, M'avina noticed a cold breeze coming through the hall. She told her companions. "This corridor must lead outdoors again."

They soon came to the end of the hall, and M'avina was right, it did open up. A fog-enshrouded courtyard, it seemed, was in the middle of this cavernous network. They heard the guttural laughter of the demons, and saw the glow of a fire through the thick, shifting fog.

"Bloodgutter!" they said, suddenly, in unison, and laughter ensued. M'avina halted and crouched at the cave door, and signaled for them to do the same.

"A toast to Bloodgutter!" said one individually. His words were hard to distinguish under his bestial accent. "Our leader to freedom!" More laughter.

And then another, lower voice hushed them, and he spoke with a much clearer voice than his brethren, despite a trace of goatish dialect. "My friends! We have slaved, we have fought, and for what? For the amusement of our masters? Fodder for man of Sanctuary? Bhaagh! Our masters are dead. And these mountains are free of those clever apes."

"Save one," a more feminine demon chuckled.

"The first," Bloodgutter replied, "And with hope, the last."

"Baaa!" another cursed. "Let them come! This one was easy enough to subdue, weren't you, primate!" There was laughter. M'avina's eyes widened. Alaric was there.

Bloodgutter said something M'avina could not distinguish. She figured it must be a curse, or perhaps the demon's name. "Braghkga! Fool!" there was a short scuffle. "You were not there, in Tristram. I managed to escape those tombs and return to Hell, but many of our brethren were not so lucky. These men, they are weak alone, but mighty in numbers. Our master was always right. They should be destroyed. If not for our other Lords, we may have been victorious, but their voices were greater than Baal's. If the campaign in Tristram had not been so subtle, we would have wiped them out. Instead, we lost three full clans beneath that blasted town, and if not for that other survivor, we would still be trapped in Hell, locked in battle with each other for the amusement of our lords. Forget whatever clan you came from! The hatreds must be put aside. Many clans are one clan. We are the Mountain Clan."

M'avina silently drew an arrow from her quiver and set it on her bow.

"A toast, then," said the female, "A toast to the Snowmaiden!"

"And," Bloodgutter reminded her, "to our mighty generals, who united us under one banner!"

There was an uproar of caprine cheering, and M'avina took the opportunity to turn to her fellows. "We need to use the fog to our advantage," she whispered quickly, "they won't know how many of us there are. I know how to make it seem like there are more warriors in the area, if you have any spells or talents with similar purpose, use them."

The clamour around the fire died, and M'avina motioned for silence from her comrades as they prepared their weapons.

"Yes," said the obscure voice, "This human shall be a good sacrifice to her memory."

M'avina drew the arrow back on her bow, aimed at the sound, and released. Even as she did, the two casters burst from their hiding place, and M'avina stood and rushed into the fog. The arrow struck true, and she heard the sound of confusion and surprise from the other goatmen.

"This is a human weapon!" the female demon cried out, and then bayed in their strange, caprine way, likely calling for help.

The fog lit up with lightning flashing to and fro, and various other magical missiles. And the familiar sound of Arcanna teleporting from one place to another told M'avina that they were heeding her advice. Had she not known better, she would assume that a slew of sorcerers were invading this camp.

M'avina followed the wall and climbed onto a small plateau, and tossed rocks in such a way as to mimic rushed footsteps in other areas. Vidala had been a professional at the art of decoys, and though she had taught M'avina well, the teacher far surpassed the pupil. Nevertheless, these demons sounded far too panicked to pay close attention. She followed the sound of a pair of hooves and fired another arrow, pleased at the caprine scream of dismay that replied.

A vortex within the fog cleared up some of the area as Arcanna threw a fireball at an offending goatman. It exploded before him and sent him flying back into the re-enveloping mist. M'avina's eyes darted to and fro. She couldn't find Alaric.

M'avina saw a goatman move in and out of the mist, and launched an arrow at him. He cried out in pain, and turned to find the source of his agony. M'avina used his moment of confusion to finish him off with a shaft between the eyes. She heard the light hoof-fall a moment too late. She turned her head to see a tall goatman standing behind her, a mace raised above her head. She quickly turned as the mace fell, and it struck her in the shoulder, sending her onto her back. M'avina bit the inside of her cheek to bear the pain, and kicked him away, then swiftly put arrow to bow and fired at his hand. At this range, the arrow didn't pierce very far, but it caused him to start and drop the mace.

M'avina quickly curled up her leg and kicked at his. When that did nothing, thanks to the backwards joint of his heel, she instead jammed her foot behind his hoof and pulled it forward.

Her shoulder forgotten, M'avina lunged forward, readying another arrow, but the demon grabbed her arrow and tore it away, then punched her in the face. M'avina coughed in surprise, dazed by the blow, but fought to regain herself.

"Foolish human!" the goatman cried, and grabbed her bow, wresting it from her grasp, and threw it away. He spoke with little caprine accent. This was the demon who had led the assembly. This was Bloodgutter. M'avina convinced herself not to panic, and put some distance between herself and the goatman, readying herself for a fistfight.

"I recognize the wizard you travel with," Bloodgutter noted. He didn't make any advance, but his muscles were tense, and his knees were coiled in anticipation. "He was there. He was below that accursed town. What a vengeful mistress providence is to deliver him from there to here. Do you know how many of my brothers died to the hands of him and those like him?"

"I don't care," M'avina spat reflexively. She wasn't really listening, she was thinking about what she could do. She had a small dagger in her boot. She used it primarily for skinning animals or preparing food. She felt either a drop of blood or sweat drip down her arm. It was probably sweat. There were also the loose rocks on the ground. Bashing in his skull seemed rather crude, but she wasn't very picky.

Bloodgutter's yellow eyes narrowed. "No, of course you don't. And yet, here you are, up here in the mountains with your warrior friend and two wizards. You and your band have the scent of Hell on you, and there would be no reason to come here from there unless you were servants of some new power in our mother realm; sent to punish us for finally escaping." He seemed rather pleased at coming to his conclusion. "Well, I pledged my life to one being only, the father of my people - Baal; killed by ones like you, I've heard."

The sounds of clamour in the courtyard below suddenly grew. M'avina heard Arcanna grunt, and heard steel strike steel, and heard lightning crackle through the air, and heard goatmen bleating in agony. But her mind remained focused on the form of Bloodgutter.

His muscular, bare chest was adorned only with a necklace made of human fingers, at different rates of decomposition. His torso was almost human, but his shoulders seemed too broad for his waist, and his hands a little too big for his forearms. Crimson liquid dripped from his shoulders down his chest, but she thought it was just dye made to look like blood and not the real thing. His face held more sentience than a goat, and his legs were thick and furry, down to his ebony hooves. The only piece of clothing he wore was a belt, obviously of human make, though there was a single, human palm - with no fingers - on the clasp, still fleshy and fed upon by still maggots. There was a sling on one side, likely for the mace he had dropped, and a small, patchy pouch on the other. She didn't know what was in it.

Of course, she absorbed all this in a moment.

He took a step forward. She took a step backward. "I am no servant of Hell," she said darkly, through clenched teeth. She had been fighting the Prime Evils for months. How dare he imply that she served their usurpers.

"You are a human of Sanctuary, an ambassador from a race that hates us, who has been through Hell, a realm which used and betrayed us. The only humans who leave Hell are those who barter their way out. Though I admit, they rarely remain in such a human form as your own." Bloodgutter explained all this to her rather slowly. "But whichever realm you do represent, it is no matter. I have come to this place to seek refuge from the tyranny of Hell and the vengeance of Sanctuary. You would have been wise to leave us to our peace."

"Peace?" M'avina laughed out loud at the idea. "You yourself say you're a child of Baal. You were made to desire nothing but destruction."

"And what is there to destroy in the desolate expanse of the Kae Huron?" Bloodgutter bellowed. He waved his arms to indicate his surroundings. M'avina drew back, fearing a strike. He didn't notice. "You humans may be quick to embrace your heritage, but we came to this place to escape ours." He averted his eyes to the courtyard for a moment. "Our time grows too long, and I have your friends to deal with as well," he noted rather casually.

He raised his hands, and charged. M'avina quickly lifted her foot and drew the hunting knife, then sidestepped and sloppily swept the knife as he passed. She felt it struck, and was pleased to see blood seep from a wound along his forearm. He stopped and turned. M'avina lunged, her knife overhead, and her caught her arm but she knocked him onto his back, with his head over the edge of the plateau. Bloodgutter held her arm up with one hand, struggling against her, and then clasped her neck in his other. M'avina felt his large hand tighten, and choked. She felt the blood from the arrow-wound on his hand against her neck.

M'avina groped around with her free hand under it fell upon a fair sized stone, and, picking it up, she swung it and struck him in the eye. Bloodgutter bleated pitifully, and reflexed, pushing her away, while releasing the hand. But as he drew away, the knife sliced through the tendon on his thumb. She had lessened her grip when she picked up the stone, and the knife was pulled from her hand. She put a second hand on the stone, and rushed towards Bloodgutter. He saw her with his remaining eye, and grabbed the edge of her armour, just as she brought the stone down with a resounding grunt of exertion upon his head. She heard something crack, and he screamed. He fell back, off the plateau, but his hand remained fixed around her armour, and she felt herself being pulled off with him. She fell for a moment, and then landed on her shoulder in a thin layer of snow. The pain of the wound in her shoulder exploded, and she cried out a moment, before rolling onto her back, ready for another round.

But Bloodgutter had landed nearer to the wall, face down, with his limbs settling in unnatural positions. The blood seeping from his face was not encouraging. Bloodgutter was dead, and the battle had died as they fought. M'avina righted herself onto her knees, and then peered forward as the mists before her parted. Parted like the darkness in that desert tomb.

She remembered that the lash across her face from Bloodwitch's whip had stung as she tread slowly down the hallway, the torch in her hand. M'avina had been leading, with Alaric beside her, and Shikha behind them. The rest had stayed back to marvel at the Horadric cube that Bloodwitch had been protecting. M'avina had, even then, had no idea what to expect down this hallway. She had been rather occupied with the wound on her face, and had secretly hoped that it wouldn't scar. Perhaps, she had thought, Fara could heal it, though even her magics did not remove scars. Atma knew some remedies. Lysander could always be a final option, but he always demanded money, and she had always had little to spare. Drognan was an alternative, but he . . .

Her thoughts had turned from the wound to the room before her, as the torchlight had frightened the darkness away only to a point, and she had no idea what horrors lurked beyond there. She had heard Alaric, beside her, ready his polearm. There had been no sound in the room. No sound but quick, furtive breaths.

The light had fallen upon the inverted face of Paige. Two pillars had been torn down and laid upright, crossing each other, to make a slanted X. Paige had been laid upside down, nailed into the pillars. She had been crucified, and a final nail had been jammed into her sternum. Blood had poured down to drip off the end of her neck. She had been trying very hard to lift up her head.

M'avina had been horrified, and had expected Shikha to break down into tears, but instead, she had moved swiftly towards her Sister and knelt down beside her. M'avina had noted, upon further, grisly inspection, that the nail in her left hand had been off-centre, and had taken off two of her fingers. Shikha had set her bow gently on the ground.

She had hushed Paige soothingly, wiping blood off her face with her glove. Paige had relaxed her neck, letting it drop down, and had managed a few more gasps of air before she had died.

Shikha had bowed her head, and M'avina and Alaric had stood together in silent reverence. Then Shikha had untied a rag Paige had around her arm. Every Rogue had one. Shikha had taken that strip of cloth, unfolded it, and wrapped it around Paige's head, as a blindfold.

"I take your sight," Shikha had whispered ceremoniously, as she tied the knit, "for sight is a lie. May the Sightless Eye guide you to peace." And with that, she had knelt down, and kissed Paige on the forehead. Then she had stood, and walked past M'avina and Alaric without saying a word. M'avina had wanted to ask Shikha if they should just leave her there, but had not wanted to be the first to speak. She took one look at Paige before following Shikha out of the room. The tombs of Aranoch had been the only solace from the heat in the desert.

And in the mountains of the Kae Huron, she felt hot again, sweat dripping from her brow. Her personal exertion was more fundamental than the creeping cold. As the fog cleared, M'avina let herself fall back to sit on her shins, as a wave of futility swept over her. She saw two feet, wrapped in leathers and fur, sway back and forth in the air, and there was a faint sound of a rope stretching. The fog retreated more, and she saw Alaric's full body, hanged upon a crude gallows, swaying from side to side in the gentle breeze. Then the fog swept in again, and covered him up, so that all that remained was the sound of the rope swaying back and forth.

The sun had been rising on the sea when they trudged back to their camp, which had since been disturbed by vultures and other desert creatures. M'avina had knelt at the body of their packhorse, and had felt the side of his neck. He was dead. More importantly, he had died alone. She had never forgiven herself for letting that happen.

[Nephilim]

They had set out from their camps in groups of four to find the four missing members of their party. Each was given a rune which Ume had enchanted. The winds were still furiously stamping out any trace of their passing, and the spirits Ume communed with would lead them back to the camp, which Oslaf and Hoku had remained behind to guard. They were in too much of a hurry to be uneasy with the fact that the spirits of Rathma probably meant ghosts of some sort. At least, that's how Bohdan figured.

Kurast was chaos. After the hordes of corrupted Rogues, Aranoch had seemed like a relief. That sense was diminished after the traumatically bloody battle with Duriel, but still, there was a conventional appeal to fighting in the open sands rather than the writhing shadows of the mountain forests and the convoluted monastery. The architects had apparently kept in mind, when designing the citadel, that its inhabitants would have an innate and accurate sense of direction (granted, of course, by the Sightless Eye), and as such, the caverns were repetitive and confusing. Bohdan was the first to admit he was not among the cleverest of men, and knew that he wouldn't have lasted long without a Rogue to guide him through that labyrinth.

But to go from the liberating space in Aranoch to the dense, overgrown jungle swarming with a thousand creatures ravenously bent on his demise was like fighting with weights on his shoulders - a tedious task he had done once in training and hoped to Bul-Kathos to never do again.

And Kurast was humid. Vidala had said that Kurast would be quite a blessing after the nigh-unbearable heat from Aranoch. She had said that the jungles were cool where she came from. But for one thing, the Amazon Isles were much farther south than Kurast. For another, they had the descending breezes from Mount Karcheus on Philios which kept all three islands' temperatures low, and finally, they were on the sea. Kurast had none of these luxuries, and so the dampness on the air was thick and choking, especially for one raised in the mountains such as he. The steppes may have been relatively low, compared to the other highlands, but the air was still thinner than it was in the southern lands of their massive kingdom. But in Kurast, it felt like the air he was breathing was too big to fit in his lungs. He found himself tiring out easier than usual during battles.

Alaric suffered similarily. Kaelim, on the other hand, seemed to barely notice.

Kaelim was from the Crane Tribe, too, but his mother had been from the Shadow Wolf Tribe, which perhaps accounted for his natural affinity for the axe and sword. Alaric was full-blooded Crane, and used a polearm like Bohdan. Hoku was from the Bear Tribe. Whereas Kaelim, Alaric, and Bohdan had set out together to go adventuring together, Hoku was a loner they met with the Rogues. But he had traveled with them since then, and battled at their side. Bohdan was proud to call him friend and brother.

Bohdan shook his head. He had been trying to remember something. He had been trying to remember a face. It was a face he had glimpsed for a moment in Travincal. Besides, thinking of Kehjistan made him feel warm despite the cold. He could see it as clear as day. Say what you would about his mental capacities, but Bohdan had a vivid memory.

"This is foolish!" Vidala would have shouted if she had felt comfortable raising her voice. But the trees of Kurast were filled with evils that they did not want to alert.

Isenhart sighed impatiently. "Look," he said, and unfolded the map of Kurast on the small box table in the centre of the raft, which Bohdan was staying close to purely out of fear of the water. It wasn't the water itself, per se. The Crane Tribe lived on the rivers, but the rivers of the lower Steppes weren't filled with all manner of carnivorous, and now, demonic creatures.

Isenhart looked over the city map, with small Kehjistani markers of important areas. "Milabrega is using most of the Paladins to carve a way through the jungle, but the armies of flayers are certainly no help. It could take her days to reach the city. Diablo and Baal are probably already there by now. And breaching the city won't exactly help - Mephisto has a substantial number of followers to protect him."

"I know all this," Vidala nodded, with equal impatience. "And let me explain this to you. We're wasting our time and risking our lives looking for trinkets which may not even assist us, when we should be lending our help to Milabrega and the Paladin army."

"Vidala, please listen to me," Isenhart pleaded. "Once Milabrega breaks through the city's defenses, it will be chaos. The Zakarumites will flood the streets, if Ashaera's accounts are at all accurate. We won't have time to go looking for things then. If we perform a hit and run operation like I'm suggesting, we can get in and out with the artifacts we need."

"Why don't we take care of this after we've routed the Zakarumites?" asked M'avina, eager to defend Vidala's viewpoint. They all paused momentarily to keep their footing as the raft turned a corner.

"The zealots may not be quite so easy to route, M'avina," Isenhart explained. "We may have the true Light on our side, but they have numbers on theirs. Milabrega's plan," he said, tracing a line on the map, "is to battle her way through the zealots and straight for the Guardian Tower. Now," he continued with a sigh, "if Cain is right, then the Compelling Orb being used to control the Zakarumites is there, under the protection of the High Council, and at least two Archbishops, according to our intelligence. So, if Milabrega raids the Guardian Tower and destroys the Orb, the Zakarum will fall out of Mephisto's control."

"But the Orb is an embodiment of hatred," Regha shook her head, listening from the bow of the raft. "It cannot be destroyed by an outright violent act. So unless you can come up with a way to smash it without damaging it, that will be no easy task."

"Cain thinks that if we attack it with the spirit of the one thing Mephisto was never able to touch, we can break it, and the spell," Isenhart explained.

"Khalim," said the dark-skinned Sorceress, Eschuta.

"No, Kaelim," Kaelim corrected her.

Regha rolled her eyes. "No, Khalim. The former Que-Hegan of the Zakarum. Senkekur and the other Archbishops fell under Mephisto's influence, but Khalim resisted. So the Archbishops killed Khalim and Senkekur usurped his position."

"Cain thinks the same," Isenhart nodded.

"But how?" asked Jabari, at the stern with a silent Kinemil, and handling the rudder. "According to the story, Khalim was dismembered and scattered through the jungle."

"Yes," Isenhart grinned, "which is why we need Lam Esen's tome."

"What?" Vidala was thoroughly confused. "Lam Esen, the Skastimi sage of legend? What does he have to do with any of this?"

"Lam Esen wrote a book, apparently very cryptic when read out of context, which was said to prophesy these very events we live through right now - the return of the Prime Evils. In retrospect, much of it foretold the corruption of the Faithful, as well. It may tell us what we need to know to break this spell."

"That's a big may," Vidala pointed out. Bohdan chuckled at that.

"We've got little else to go on," Isenhart protested. "Regha's right. Alone, no act of violence can harm a device of hatred. And as long as the Compelling Orb is intact, we cannot win this. I can say that with certainty. We're at the disadvantage because we're trying to get into an easily defended area, and also, they have us at the simple disadvantage of numbers. If each warrior in our service killed five of theirs, we'd still have half of their forces to contend with."

Vidala glanced at M'avina, and then sighed. "All right, well where's the Book?"

"The Black Book was the main religious text for the Skatsim," Isenhart explained. "During the initial stage of the Inquisition, such documents were rooted out and taken from public eyes, deemed evil propaganda. They were taken to the underground temples throughout Kurast and kept there."

"There are underground temples?" Vidala looked at him critically.

"Yes, beneath several altars throughout the city. They were used for private worship by the Faithful who had joined one of the orders. The general public wasn't aware of them."

"On the Isles," M'avina said smugly, "every temple is open to every person, despite their class." Isenhart gave her a sidelong glance but said nothing. Bohdan was a little surprised at M'avina. Isenhart's world had been proved to be a falsehood, and everything he believed in had been corrupted. It was unlike M'avina to rub his face in it.

"How many temples are there?" asked Eschuta.

"Six," Isenhart replied. "Two under the marketplace, two under Upper Kurast, and two adjunct to the Causeway. I suggest we make two teams. We raid one second of the city, strike at both temples at once, and then regroup and move on to the next one. I'll lead one team, and Vidala the other."

Bohdan had half-expected Regha to object. He couldn't see her from his angle, but he doubted that she was thrilled. "I'll take Eschuta, Bohdan, M'avina, and Jabari, and you take Kinemil, Regha, and Kaelim. Will that do?"

Vidala paused. "This seems like a waste of time. We should be with Milabrega and the others. Lam Esen's tome could just be another dead end."

"Don't underestimate the Old Religion," Eschuta warned Vidala. "The Gidbinn's usefulness to us should prove that it's teachings have merit."

Vidala nodded to her, and then turned to Isenhart. "Very well."

Eschuta's dialect and appearance told Bohdan that she was a native of Kehjistan, and she had been helping Milabrega when they had arrived from across the sea. Though they had never spoken to each other about their pasts, Bohdan suspected that she was a follower of the Old Religion.

Hratli had told him that Sorceresses were a vexing people in Kurast; that many male-dominated Mage Clans were not pleased with their existence, and it wasn't just sexism. The Zann Esu were the only clan who had never been a part of the Horadrim, and as such, had never been a part of the brutal Clan Wars. There seemed to be a jealously against those who had learned the secrets of magic without paying a price in blood. So being a Sorceress in Kurast did not mark a popular woman. A Skatsimi Sorceress, however, was just asking for trouble. Eschuta had few friends in the city. And yet, here she was, defending it. Bohdan respected her a great deal for that.

Aside from a quick debacle with a young tentacle beast, the trip down the river was uneventful.

Kinemil and Jabari moored the raft on one of the algae-covered stone staircases that served as permanent docks on the rim of the river. There was a small, hooded boat lashed to a tree and bumping into the docks at every ripple in the current. Bohdan caught sight of a long-dead arm hanging from the side. He cringed.

Everyone stepped carefully up the slippery stairs until they were on the swampy grass. Bohdan and his comrades looked out at Kurast.

The first thing that drew the eye was, of course, the Guardian Tower, which was visible even from his current vantage point. The taller buildings of Upper Kurast blocked the temple itself, which Bohdan had heard was quite impressive. And all around him were the low, crude buildings which served as the market, overgrown with the insidious jungle, saturated with the blood of thousands.

They had been forced out quickly, he had heard from the survivors at the docks. But he hadn't entirely conceived what that entailed. Bags of fruit had rotted. Stands were still erect with nuts and grains, and batches of bananas had turned back from lack of attention. And then there were the dead. Peering into any building revealed the piled up bodies of Kurast citizens, and some bodies hadn't even been cleaned up. They were scattered throughout the city, some more far-gone than others. They lay in the middle of the roads, propped up against walls or tree trunks, or thrown in the reservoirs. The city reeked of a dank and humid death.

"Even the mad spirits have left this place," Eschuta whispered. "We shall be granted no boons, here." She raised her orb and stepped forward.

Isenhart led them stealthily through the marketplace, avoiding patrols of Zakarumites. He noted wryly that evading them would not be so easy once they reached nearer to Travincal, where the zealots were likely to be accompanied by the magically-attuned priests.

They reached a broken-down temple, killed the few guards there, and Isenhart directed Vidala to activate the trick-staircase which lead down into the fane. He warned her to be cautious before leaving to find the second temple.

Isenhart slowed them behind a ruined smithy. "There," he said, pointing with his elegant Lightbrand.

A dozen Zakarumites, wielding swords, maces, and polearms, were milling about aimlessly at the foot of a two-story, windowless building surrounded by a narrow moat. A wide staircase ascended shortly to a landing, which continued to an entrance on the second story. The building's design seemed inefficient. It seemed like a lot of masonry for not much room. A hidden reliquary below made perfect sense.

Isenhart sighed grimly. "Now remember, this corruption has made them unreasonable, but passionate. They will not stop until they slay those they deem tainted, which is anyone not in league with them."

Divo's face had flashed into Bohdan's mind, then. He had shaken the image from his sight.

Eschuta gently pushed past Bohdan to get a better look. "We cannot let this become a brawl. There's too many of them," she noted expertly. She surveyed them with a thoughtful hum. "They have no ranged combatants. If I lay out some spells, I may be able to draw them into a more advantageous arena."

Close-quarter combat. And Bohdan with his halberd. Isenhart nodded his agreement, and Eschuta made to enter the fray.

"I'll go with her," Bohdan said quickly, and got up beside her.

Eschuta didn't look happy or vexed at the suggestion, but just moved forward. He followed, and in moments they were out from the cover of the smithy.

Without a word, Eschuta kissed the head of her orb, ducked her shield behind her back, and snapped it forward as if it were a whip. In the course of a nanosecond, a light traveled down her arm, through the shaft, and out the tip of her orb as a miniature flame streaking quickly through the air. One Zakarumite saw it before it landed, but made no action, and when it did land, a wall of flame suddenly burst up under the congregation of soldiers, lighting many robes on fire. They screamed out in a guttural, bastardized version of the Kehjistani language. One spotted Eschuta, and those who were not busily putting themselves out hoisted their weapons and charged.

Eschuta exchanged her stance for another, and then dramatically raised her arms and thrust her palms out towards the Zakarumites. A ripple in the air heralded a funnel of flame that burst from her hands and engulfed the first in the column. He dropped his weapon in a panic, and began to run around crazily. Eschuta gestured for Bohdan to fall back, and then followed him. The infuriated Zakarumites immediately gave chase, and were led into the alley behind the smithy. Between two of M'avina's arrows, a fire ball from Jabari, three swift blows from Isenhart, two swipes from Bohdan's polearm, and a chain of lightning dancing from one victim to the next from Eschuta, the Zakarum fell in half a minute.

Eschuta modestly stepped over her many victims and walked towards the temple. "Quickly," she urged, "the din may have raised alarm."

They stepped lightly into the temple.

At the back wall and in the centre of the rectangular room which seemed to make up the entire building, was a crescent of stairs ascending to a cruel altar. The altar, and the steps, were dark with blood, dried and fresh. The smell of blood was thick on the air.

But for all the mess on the stairs, the blood didn't pool at the base. Instead, it disappeared down a barely visible crack at the foot of the stairs. Isenhart hesitantly reached forward and lightly pressed one of the symbols on the altar. He hopped back as, with a series of clicks, the stone stairs inverted into an entryway to a dark corridor with flickering torchlight beckoning them in.

"Be very careful," Isenhart whispered. He had said the same to Vidala. He cautiously led the way, with Eschuta right behind him, Jabari in the middle, and Vidala and Bohdan bringing up the rear.

The ruined temple was painfully dark. What the sparse light did illuminate was generally splattered with blood. The corridor opened into a large chamber with a high ceiling, with small portholes that allowed pockets of light on the floor. At the far end was the apparent reliquary, all arranged very orderly. There were staves and robes and masks made of gold and adorned with feathers. Eschuta's eyes were darting from item to item. It seemed that each of them held some significance to her. In the centre of all these relics, and within a pool of light from the surface, was a lectern with a thick, old book upon it. And before the lectern, with her back to them, and primarily in shadow, was a woman. Likely a Zakarum priestess.

Isenhart took the other side of the doorway, and M'avina took his flank. He motioned silently to advance.

Distorted, feminine laughter filled the chamber. It was two voices speaking as one. Bohdan had heard that once before. He was the first to realize that she was a Rogue.

"You didn't really think that you could sneak up on me . . ." she turned, and walked into the light. Her hair had fallen out, and now twin horns thrust out of her skull. Her teeth were sharp and numerous, and gripped limply at her side was a long, straight sword, which she held a plain, scarred kite shield in the other. Her tall boots were worn and black, and she wore a loin cloth and bustier. Out from her arms sprouted symmetrical spikes, and the tendrils of corruption interwove throughout them and onto her chest.

Bohdan hefted his halberd. "What are you doing in Kurast?"

"What does it matter?" she asked with a shrug. "I know why you have come, and can safely tell you that what you seek is here, because you will not leave this place."

"There are others," Isenhart whispered. Bohdan had counted on this as well. The corrupted Rogues always traveled in groups. But he could not see them, and, the way his eyes were darting from one shadow to the next, Isenhart likely could not, either.

"Know, before you die, that I am the Battlemaid Sarina," she introduced herself in the unnerving double-voice, "and that this is my penance for the sin of pride."

She bowed, almost apologetically, and the Rogues were upon them.

The group scattered as the Rogues burst from the shadows of the chamber. Some were still recognizably human, others were disturbingly far-gone, their faces hidden by the insidious growths that told of their corruption. Bohdan immediately rushed away from his fellows so that he could use his halberd without worrying about them. In a graceful leap, he brought his halberd down, burying it in a Rogue's skull. He pushed her away as the strange, mystical light pulled her corpse upwards as it escaped, and then she fell in a heap on the floor. Bohdan decapitated one Rogue, and with the same momentum, sliced out one's knees from beneath her. She fell on her back, screaming insanely for a moment, before Bohdan delivered the fatal blow to her chest.

He had barely time to congratulate himself before a spearwoman charged him. He parried her lunge with the blunt end of his halberd, and then brought the other end around in an attempt to slice off the top of her head. But she avoided the blow, and in a moment, they had the staves locked together. He had never been so close to the face of a living Rogue who had fallen to Andariel's influence. A lattice of tumourous tendrils wrapped around her neck and the back of her head, where a line of short horns had grown. Her eyes were glassy, and her features stretched. Her mouth looked bigger than it should, distorted into a demonic grin. She frothed as she snarled up at him. "You shall know pain before you die."

For a woman of her stature, he was surprised and inwardly embarrassed that she could contest him. The advantage went back and forth several times, before he finally pushed her off of him. She took a step back, and then swung the spear like a pole-arm. Bohdan limberly ducked under the swipe, and then thrust the end of his halberd under her ribs. His awkward position made it only a superficial wound, but she stopped to examine it for a moment, and that was all the time he needed. He withdrew the weapon from her, and then delivered a quick blow to her side that struck her spine. She gurgled, hesitantly, almost, before the strange light left her body and she slid off the end of her blade.

He glanced around at the battle. Jabari had been wounded, but seemed to be doing all right. M'avina had moved to higher ground and was shooting any approaching Rogue. Isenhart was caught up in the fervor of battle, cutting a swath through the demon women, and Eschuta had just finished off an offending archer.

Bohdan looked for Sarina. His eyes went immediately to the dais, where he found the lectern empty, and our of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement in another hallway. Keeping close to the walls to avoid getting caught up in another fight, he made to follow her. Eschuta, having spotted her as well, beat him to the doorway, paying him no heed, and led him down the corridor.

It rounded a corner, and continued into another open room, smaller than the first, but with the same high ceiling and pooling light.

As Eschuta crossed the threshold, Sarina brought around her shield and bashed her in the face. The Sorceress cried out and fell back, partly from the blow and partly to flee. Bohdan moved his halberd to one hand to catch her. Her nose was covered in blood. Sarina rounded the corner. Bohdan moved Eschuta to the side and thrust his halberd forward, catching Sarina on the shield and forcing her back into the room. He could not battle her here.

She submitted and backed off, letting him enter the room. Her sword was at her side, in a non-committed grasp. There was a relaxed, intoxicated air to her gait. He wasn't sure if she was being cocky, or if she was trying to make him think she was cocky. She was incredibly hard to read.

"A shot from the dark like that?" Bohdan sneered. "Not exactly the most dignified battle tactic."

She smirked. "This is war, Northerner. I don't have time for dignity. My pride has cost me enough already."

Bohdan had his weapon ready, and though he made no move to attack, he advanced slowly. He didn't want her close to Eschuta. Not only for Eschuta's safety, but his own, in the case that she was taken hostage. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded. He noticed the book in the corner, on the ground.

"I thought I could flee my Mistress' grasp," she spat, dispersing the unperturbed stance. "I thought that if I left the Monastery to her, she would leave me be. I thought that mere geography could separate us." She frowned, and shook her head. "I was a fool."

She attempted to circle him, but he sidestepped. Neither had made a direct move at the other. "The hold she took on the Sightless Eye was too profound for physical space to defy. She had taken me already. I felt anguish and despair pull at my heart, and was proud enough to think I could deny it. That is why I fled, and that is why they" - she pointed to the hallway, where Eschuta was still regaining herself - "came with me. When I stepped off the ship and into the jungles, though, I knew that I had been defeated. And so I was sent here, to serve out my sentence, beyond the presence of the Maiden. I am without fulfillment, and shall be for eternity."

"Andariel is dead," Bohdan hoped to shock her with his naked statement of fact.

"Then I shall preserve her spirit," Sarina said, unphased. "I was appointed Battlemaid. I shall satisfy that duty in the service of her ally."

With amazing speed, she suddenly leapt forward. He quickly crossed his arms and made a wide sweep, hoping to block any blow she might attempt to land while making one of his own. But she managed to avoid it and smacked the halberd away with the flat of her blade before body-checking him to the side. He almost fell, but kept his footing, until she brought the kite shield up and smashed him in the face.

The brutal force behind he strike put him on his back. He felt blood on his lips. Sarina stood before him, her skin glistening with sweat, and her sword reflecting the dull light from the ceiling. She took a step towards him.

It suddenly got very cold.

Eschuta stood in the doorway, her face still covered in blood, and swirling winds were whirling around her hands. Sarina snarled and turned, and made to charge the Sorceress. Eschuta struck forward with her orb, and a shard of ice materialized and sped towards her foe. Sarina blocked with her shield, but where it struck, a field of frost swept across the shield, and Sarina cried out as it chilled her hand. Her hollow eyes turned to the Sorceress, and she swung her blade with a truly inhuman shriek. Eschuta blocked with her shield, and Sarina raked the blade across the surface, and then bashed it aside with the flat of her blade. Eschuta raised her orb to cast a spell, and Sarina slid plunged her sword into the base of Eschuta's abdomen. The energies dispersed, and Eschuta doubled over with a groan.

"No!" Bohdan cried out, lifting himself to his feet.

Sarina raised her sword to strike a fatal blow, but Bohdan jabbed her with the butt of his halberd. Winded, Sarina backed up to the wall, knocked the frost off her shield, and prepared herself. Bohdan put himself between her and Eschuta.

Sarina examined her hand, and shook the numbness from her fingers. As she did, she glanced at Bohdan, and smiled. "I can smell her on you, you know. No," she replied to Bohdan's apprehensive glance at the Sorceress, "not her. The Rogue."

Bohdan's mind exploded, but all he could do was stand there.

"You should feel privileged. Few Sisters give themselves to anyone but the Great Eye. You must have been very special to her. She's one of us now. I can tell you that with certainty."

"How do you know that?" Bohdan stomped forward a pace.

"Such is the nature of our taint," Sarina replied. She paused, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. "Divo."

He struck, jabbing forward with the halberd. Sarina caught it on the shield, and then made an overhead strike with her sword. Bohdan stepped back, and caught it on the shaft of the halberd. With a grunt, he pushed her away, bashed the shield out of the way with the butt of the polearm, and drove the blade into her chest. She winced, surprised at her defeat. Her sword dropped from her fingers.

Bohdan tugged the halberd out of her body, and she fell into the wall, smirking. She managed a painful chuckle. "You . . . you don't know where she is."

Bohdan clenched his teeth and advanced upon her. But before he could deliver another blow, the ethereal mist left her body, and the fell to the ground without ceremony.

A struggled voice came from behind him, "Bohdan . . ."

"Divo," he whispered.

But it was not Divo. He dropped his halberd and helped Eschuta to her feet. "Take me," she said, her voice wet with blood and death, "out to the reliquary."

He did.

The Rogues had all been slain, and Jabari and M'avina were throwing the bodies onto a pile in the corner. Isenhart was kneeling down, his head bowed, praying. Bohdan had Eschuta's arm over his shoulder, and was holding her up as she brokenly followed him into the room. She made no move to catch the attention of the others, and neither did he.

"Lay me down," she whispered.

Isenhart looked up.

Bohdan gently set Eschuta on the stone floor, doing his best to avoid any blood, which was no easy task. Eschuta pointed to the cluster of items on the dais. "The shroud. The black shroud."

Bohdan saw it, hanging on the wall. He nodded.

Her arm collapsed. "Take it to Ormus. Tell him I will see him again."

And then she died.

Isenhart emerged from the corridor with the book, and Bohdan's halberd. Bohdan hadn't realized that he had gone into it in the first place. Bohdan rearranged her arm. He felt like he should do more. Isenhart put a hand on his shoulder. "We should leave here."

"What about Eschuta."

"Leave her," said Jabari, "The Zakarumites will return. We don't have time to take her with us."

"They will leave her here," said Isenhart. "We cannot help her now."

She looked remarkably peaceful. Bohdan looked up at the wall, and took the black shroud from its place. He turned to Isenhart.

"You have the book?" he knew that he did.

The Paladin nodded. "I do. We should leave," he said again.

They climbed the stairs into the daylight, and they began to retrace their steps. Bohdan followed M'avina. They moved quicker than they had coming in. But as they passed in an alley, Bohdan glanced back, and saw a woman looking at him from a shop window. At this distance, he couldn't make her out, but she was staring directly at him. He stopped, and took a step towards her.

"Bohdan, c'mon," M'avina urged, still running.

He took two more steps.

"Bohdan!" she snapped.

He stopped, and glanced back at the Amazon, then at the market. The woman was gone. He heard the cries of the fallen Paladins, and sighed heavily. Then he turned and followed M'avina back to the raft. He wanted so badly to weep, but did not. He couldn't believe it anymore. He had to realize, he knew, that she was never coming back.

He stopped. The snowstorm fogged his vision at every angle, but he turned around. And there was a shadow, there, behind the veil of snow. A woman. But it faded, and became one with the snow. He sighed, and felt the cold air fill his lungs.

"She's never coming back," he whispered. He knew it. He just didn't believe it.

Ume led them to a tall cave that reeked like a farmyard and a slaughterhouse. Arcanna was there, nursing a wound that Jabari had received. Her eyes shot towards them as they entered the mouth.

"Arcanna," Kaelim said softly, "what . . ."

"Kinemil!" Arcanna cried. "You need to help him. I don't have any potions."

Kinemil sheathed his sword and jogged across the cave to the two spellcasters. Ume followed him.

"Where's M'avina and Alaric?" asked Kaelim.

"Goatmen," said Arcanna. "There were a clan of goatmen. They had Alaric, and . . ."

"Where are they?" asked Bohdan.

Arcanna pointed down the central corridor. Bohdan immediately ran down it. "They're in there," Arcanna called, "but . . ." anything further she said was lost to him.

Bohdan emerged into a mist-enshrouded courtyard that smelled of cold blood. As he slowly advanced, he saw the broken remains of the clan. The blood was steaming in the snow.

He saw M'avina's silhouette in the fog, and stepped forward. She had her back to him, and was staring at something before her. "M'avina," he called, but he said no more.

Like a ship on foggy seas, the gallows seemed to come out of the fog towards him, and the agonized body of Alaric, swaying on the end of a rope, staring at the ground, as if intently interested.

M'avina sighed, and turned to him. "The Rogues cover the eyes of their dead so that the Sightless Eye will guide them to their rest," she explained quietly, and then walked past him and out of the courtyard.

Bohdan began to cry. "Thank you," he said, but she didn't hear him.

[Nephilim]

M'avina had absolutely no desire to spend the night in that cave. She would have rather stayed in the cold than come inside and spend it here. She protested only once, saying that perhaps more goatmen were in the area and could come back in the night, but she didn't really believe that. But in that cave, there was nothing but despair, hopelessness, and futility.

They had taken down Alaric and buried him in the courtyard. The demons, they threw out into the snow.

But if Vidala had been there, Alaric would have been helping them dispose of the dead, and would not have been one of them.

M'avina stood at the very mouth of the cave, watching the wind blow the snow to cover up the disfigured corpses of the goatmen. Her breath misted into the air, and was swept away by the gale.

She realized that Caden had joined her several minutes after he did. He was a quiet walker, unlike most of his people. But even when she sensed his presence, she didn't speak.

"I'm sorry you lost one of your own," she told him quietly after some time.

Caden sighed. "He was more one of your own than mine. You battled against the Evils together for months. That makes you like brothers."

M'avina raised an eyebrow at him.

"Brother and sister," he corrected himself with a mirthless smile. He took a step forward so that he was standing beside her.

"I remember," M'avina said after a long pause, "once, in Lut Gholein," she chuckled, "we met this man in a pub. Big guy, taller than Kaelim. He loved Barbarians. I heard that he'd once been a warrior himself, and he admired the skills of your people to no end."

Caden smiled.

"Kaelim didn't usually pay much attention to him, and I don't even know if Bohdan ever met him. Hoku kept to himself all the time. But Alaric was the one who sat down with him and traded war stories. They stayed up once all night, talking. I mean, this guy wasn't taking the troubles too well, and had seen the bottom of one too many mugs, to say the least. But that night really meant something to him. Every time I ever had my doubts about Alaric, I thought about that man in the pub."

Caden nodded. "He was a good man. Scyld always thought so."

M'avina brushed a tear away from her eye before it trickled down her face.

For a minute, there was no sound but the howling wind sweeping past the mouth of the cave, then Caden took another step towards her, and reached up, putting a hand on her shoulder. "What happened here. You know it wasn't your fault."

She lied with a nod.

"Alaric came out here knowing it could be dangerous - we all did. You can't assume that . . ."

"I know, Caden," she interrupted him. "It's all right, I don't assume that everything is my fault. I'm not that much of a child." She felt like she was condemning her own feelings. "What about you," she asked, changing the subject, "why are you here? I know that you don't put any stock in all this prophecy."

Caden sighed, folding his arms. "That's true, despite Scyld's objections. But I came because I felt that they needed someone who didn't believe every word of scripture."

M'avina shook her head, "I could never see the world making sense without the Gods."

Caden shrugged. "I have more faith in Man than that, I guess. I feel that we can make our own destiny without any Gods."

M'avina chuckled, glad to be talking of something other than Alaric. "Man has the habit of not meriting faith."

Caden laughed with a nod, and then turned. "To each his own, I guess. Good night M'avina."

"Good night, Caden."

Despite her spiritual discomfort, it was the best sleep she had had since they left Harrogath. She did dream, and they were fitful dreams, but she did not remember them when she awoke the next morning.

The breakfast was small, but was nourishing. Arcanna melted enough snow to fill their canteens and skins, and they left the cave with little ceremony. After a comical chase, Hoku caught a pika and they kept it for later use. It gave them something light-hearted to talk about as they continued their journey.

M'avina was laughing along with several others at Bohdan's exaggerated reenactment when they crested a wide hill. She wiped a tear from her eye, and noted, as her voice subsided, that everyone else had grown silent.

Kaelim, at the front of the party, looked down into what lay before them. His face was grim and serious, as were all the Barbarians. The foreigners had apparently just followed the lead.

On either side of the canyon were hills that rose up into inhospitable precipices, topped with jagged ice and stone. But the valley itself was obscured by an unmoving fog that stretched for miles. It became one with the sky. The end of the valley was not visible.

Kaelim took a deep breath, sighed inevitably, and began to descend into the fog.

Scyld was quick to his side. "We can go around," she whispered hastily. But none of the party were speaking, and the sound of the clattering armour and cloth was not enough to drown out her words.

"It's too dangerous," Kaelim returned, shaking his head, "particularly for those who weren't raised in the mountains. Besides, it will take days to go around. This will do fine."

"We don't how dangerous the Valley might be," Scyld replied, quieter - but still not quiet enough.

"It is a chance we'll have to take," said Kaelim. "You know this."

Scyld spoke no more.

M'avina maneuvered herself beside Caden and Bohdan. "What's the big deal about this valley?"

Bohdan made to reply, but the shorter Barbarian spoke first. "It's about the legends of our people," he said, in a rather pretentious tone. He got that way whenever he talked about the Barbarian faith. "When you die, we believe that, if you have lead a just life, you join the Nephalem in Bul-Kathos's eternal kingdom. The Ancient Ones are those Nephalem who Bul-Kathos sends back to Sanctuary to perform certain tasks. But, there are some dead who remain in Sanctuary nonetheless without the leave of Bul-Kathos. Their deaths were under such circumstances as to drive them mad - extremely violent or tragic or involving hellish powers is usually the case. We call them the Mad Ancients."

M'avina certainly didn't like where this was going.

"The true Ancients," Bohdan continued the story, "are said to have once scoured the land for the Mad Ancients, and rounded them up. Bul-Kathos took pity on them, and rather than destroy them or send them to Hell, he had the Ancients imprison them in a mountain vale, enshrouded in thick mists so that they may never find their way out. It came to be known as the Valley of Whispers."

M'avina didn't need to be told that what lay before them was the legendary vale. Every time they encountered such an obstacle, she wondered if perhaps this was the fate of Theodoric's party. She voiced her concerns to Caden and Bohdan.

Caden rolled his eyes. "It's just legend, M'avina."

"Well, if it's more than that," said Bohdan, "it's still all right. The Mad Ancients are not outright hostile, per se. But their words are said to be rather poignant."

"What does that mean?" asked M'avina.

"They are said to drive the weak of heart equally mad," said Bohdan. "But Bul-Kathos knew that one day his people would need to cross it to reach Nulholla Peak, so he wouldn't have doomed his most loyal followers."

M'avina felt a little better.

"Not that any of that matters," Caden added.

Bohdan sighed. "How can you not believe even after the battle on the Summit?"

"I believe that there are forces in this world that we can't account for," Caden admitted. "But I think it's childish to believe stories our ancestors made up to try and explain them."

"Shhh!" said Kaelim from the front of the column. They were mere inches from the wall of fog before them. It was heavy and motionless. M'avina had the impression that if she moved her hand through it, it would leave a trail.

Kaelim turned around. "Everyone partner up again. Link arms, hold hands, or whatever you want. Just keep in physical contact for the duration. We won't be able to see an inch in front of our noses, and I don't want anyone getting lost in there."

Before M'avina had a chance to look for her, Arcanna took M'avina by the wrist. Bohdan begrudgingly sought out Kinemil and put a hand on his shoulder, and Caden latched on to the end of Scyld's leather jack. Since Alaric's death, Jabari had become part of Kaelim's group, with Ume. Both he and the Necromancer put a hand on Kaelim's shoulder.

Kaelim took a deep breath, "All right," he said, "don't go towards any strange lights or sounds. Just keep walking until we come out the other side."

M'avina glanced at Caden. "What the hell does that mean?"

He replied be shaking a bemused head. "Don't worry about anything, you'll do fine."

Arcanna shrugged. "Just don't let go of me, all right? If there is anything in there, we'll face it together."

Kinemil nodded, glancing at Bohdan. "They have the right idea, Barbarian." He turned back towards the valley. "Keep my in you sight always, the Light will guide my path. Simply step in my tracks." Bohdan rolled his eyes but said nothing.

M'avina chuckled to herself, noting that Bohdan's feet were exceptionally larger than Kinemil's. With the exception of Caden, all the Barbarians dwarfed every other man in the party.

Kaelim, Ume, and Jabari disappeared into the indifferent fog. M'avina clasped her hand in Arcanna's and, in spite of herself, closed her eyes as she stepped into the Valley of Whispers.

She was surprised at how little she felt the fog. It was only a light, cool mist on her face, not the choking, dense cloud that had enveloped her. The world became light-gray and featureless. She could hear the movement of those around her, and looking to the side, she could vaguely make out the shape of Arcanna's head, and her tall staff tied to her back.

No one was speaking. She could only hear the armour clinking with every step, and the furs brushing together. But soon, that simply became one with the noiselessness. M'avina felt almost like saying something just to break the silence, but then she realized that she didn't really mind the silence. M'avina didn't like walking blind. She always had the tendency to strafe to the right. She had found that out during a training session once on Skovos. After it had finished, Vidala had patted her on the back and said, "Well . . . let's just hope you don't ever go blind, all right?"

M'avina smiled at the fond memory.

Then she heard something.

She didn't stop. She waited first for a reaction from Arcanna. She looked to the side and could not even see the Sorceress, the fog was suddenly so thick. But she did hear something. It took her only a moment to know it was a voice. A soft, female voice, humming a tune M'avina did not know. She never even considered the possibility that it was one of their party. She knew immediately that she was hearing the whispers for which the valley was named.

"Arcanna . . ." M'avina whispered, noting suddenly that she couldn't hear the sounds of others around her.

"M'avina?"

M'avina snapped her hand away suddenly. It was not Arcanna's voice that spoke to her. She stared through the fog at the shadow before her, and Caden stared back.

"Where's Scyld?" Caden asked.

"I was holding onto Arcanna," M'avina replied quickly.

They would have probably continued to question the strange occurrence, if not for the voice that seemed much clearer, now. They saw a light before them. Without a word to one another, they took a few tentative steps forward. Caden placed a hand on one of his daggers, but M'avina never thought to remove her bow from across her back.

As of they had willed it so, the fog parted. Before them was a woman, sitting on a stool, rocking back and forth, gently crooning to a bundle in her arms. She was wearing a simply, plain dress, and her hair was short and frazzled. That, and her dirt-smudged face, marked her as a peasant. But despite her appearance, her skin shimmered, and the colours were brighter than M'avina thought possible. Except for the bundle in her arms. It was dull and worn, as colourless as the fog that surrounded them, watching intently. She was singing in a language that M'avina didn't know, but the woman didn't know half the words, and hummed over lines she could not recall.

Caden took a step forward, looking at M'avina for approval, but the Amazon's attention was fully on the ghost - for they both knew that is what she was - before them.

Caden cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said nervously.

The woman stopped humming and looked at them both for a moment. She put a finger to her lips. "Shh . . ." she said quietly. "He's . . ." her voice became broken by restrained grief, "he's asleep."

"What's his name?" asked M'avina softly. The woman looked at M'avina, and a bright tear streamed down her cheek, but she didn't answer.

Caden inched forward, his hand off of his dagger. The ghost did not respond, she just stroked the edge of her bundle. M'avina moved quietly to Caden's side.

"May I see him?" Caden gently requested.

The woman nodded, trying desperately to hold in her tears, and turned the bundle so that they could see his face. There was a baby in that bundle, which was more than M'avina expected. But he was a skeleton, long dead, grey and dusty from age. M'avina was no pathologist, but she would have put decades on that huddled figure wrapped in a ruined blanket.

M'avina felt a wave of pity sweep over her.

Caden looked up at the woman, who was staring at his face, her eyes glassy with tears. She shook her head slowly. "He's not waking up, is he?"

Caden looked down at the skeletal baby in her arms, then back at her. "No, ma'am, he isn't."

The woman nodded in understanding, gazing down at her child. With a sigh, she stood up, handed the baby to Caden, and walked between him and M'avina, a hand to her head.

"I should have known . . ." she muttered, and then she disappeared into the fog.

M'avina and Caden were alone. The stool was gone. Caden looked at the dead baby in his arms. He held him with care - the way a mother would. M'avina was glad that he respected the dead enough to handle him gently.

"What do I do with him?" asked Caden.

"Should we leave it for her?" asked M'avina.

Caden shook his head. "We can't just leave him here."

M'avina agreed, and felt a little embarrassed for the suggestion. "Let's keep walking," she suggested, "we can meet up with everyone outside the Valley." She started off, then paused, and turned back. "Keep me in your sight," she advised.

Caden nodded, and followed closely behind her. His shoulder kept on hitting hers. At first she found it annoying, but she figured that the continued reassurance that he was there was better than them getting lost again.

They heard more whispers now, from all over. Most were in the old language the woman had sung with. Sometimes, a piercing scream issued from the mists, and M'avina would stop abruptly, and feel Caden bump into her from behind. Then, they would communally hope that it was one of the ghosts, and not one of their own. Every now and then, though, she heard the whispers in languages she could understand.

"Get out of my house, you thief!" one stark voice came at her as if the source was at her very ear. But when she looked, of course, there was nothing.

"And why should I trust you?"

"Please! Come back! Don't leave me here!"

"Do you even know who I am? Do you even know what I've done?"

"Fools. I should be so lucky."

"I will never stop hurting you."

But they saw no ghosts for some time. M'avina realized that she had no idea just how long this valley was, and he had no way to tell if they were nearing the end of it. No one had told her anything. Apparently they had not expected to get separated.

They soon saw another blurry light ahead and to their left.

"Just keep walking," Caden suggested, "we'll go right past it."

M'avina nodded, and continued to walk. As they neared the ghost, though, they could make out a vague shape. M'avina glanced fleetingly at it, but paid it no specific heed, afraid she might be seized by some enchantment.

But Caden halted, and peered at the shape. M'avina stopped. "Caden, come on."

"By Bul-Kathos . . ." Caden whispered in awe. M'avina had never heard him use their god's name in such a way. She stopped and looked at the ghost, who they could both see clearly, now. He was an elderly man, pale, and robed in grey and brown furs. There was station to him, of that there was no doubt in M'avina's mind.

Caden took a step towards him. The ghost was not paying attention to them, and had not seen them, apparently. M'avina jerked when Caden moved, but she didn't stop him, out of curiosity more than anything else.

"Ord Rekar?" Caden asked.

The ghost turned to him. Watching the short, slight Barbarian and the tall, thin elder in contrast gave her a true appreciation of how vibrant the colours and lights of his shimmering image was. The ghost smiled. "Little Caden."

Caden rushed forward, before M'avina could stop him, and embraced Rekar with one arm, minding the dead child. The Elder, surprised, chuckled, and slapped Caden on the back. "Oh, it's so good to see you. All of you."

"You've seen the others?" asked M'avina, forgetting momentarily what she was talking to.

"Yes," Ord Rekar nodded as Caden took a step back. "Scyld, and Hollis, and many others. I don't know all of them. Most of them, like you, I don't know. Who are you?" he asked it with a smile.

She replied formally. His station seemed to merit it. "I am M'avina, daughter of Lysippe and Demetrus, of . . ."

"Lycander?" he peered at her intently. "No, Skovos. You must be from Skovos. Your accent is unmistakable." He looked at Caden. "Amazons? They don't get much farther south than that." His eyes turned back to M'avina. "I am very glad to know that your people were here to help us. I always admired them."

M'avina glanced from Rekar to Caden, and back again. "Do you know this man, Caden?"

"Yes," Caden was beaming. "He's Ord Rekar, one of Harrogath's Elders. He was my mentor in my youth. Only . . ." he stopped, glancing at the ghost, "I remember him less happy."

Ord Rekar laughed aloud. "Maybe, but what has one to feel sad about now? Baal is no more and our people are free. Haven't you heard, my boy?"

Caden nodded haltingly. "Y-yes, Rekar. I helped."

The elder laughed again. "Of course. Of course you did. We all did. That's why we were ever here, after all. That's why Bul-Kathos chose us to guard the mountain, isn't it?" he chuckled.

Caden's smile was fading. "You never believed. . ."

Rekar's grin subsided, as well. "And I know that such is what I taught you, Caden, but . . ." he sighed, and looked up at the sky, and in the mists, every angle brought the same grey cloud. "I realized, before my time came, what we meant. There is a purpose, Caden. To everything. I know that now. Even you."

Caden took a step back. M'avina moved towards him. "Caden, what's wrong?"

"Why are you in the Valley of Whispers?" asked Caden.

Rekar looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "I don't know, Caden. But there is a purpose to that, too. But you, my boy, you have so much potential. You are in line for great things. I had seen that in my life, too, but I didn't know what it meant."

Caden had a confused look on his face. "Do you now?"

Rekar stared at him. "If I did," he said slowly, at a whisper, "would you want to?"

Caden said nothing, but looked down at the dead baby in his arms. When he looked up, Rekar was already plodding into the fog.

Caden held up a hand, "Wait!" he called. But even his cry lacked force. M'avina wasn't sure if he really wanted him to stop. Rekar looked back, a half-smile on his face, but made no gesture and said no word as the fog swallowed him up once more.

Caden said what M'avina thought. "We should get moving." They held hands and began to walk again. M'avina hoped that they hadn't lost their bearings. She noted that Caden still held the child.

M'avina pondered what she had just witnessed, and realized that she was not entirely sure what had happened. They had lost direction, again, and M'avina had no concept of distance. She could be on the edge of a cliff, or next to a rock face.

But she continued on in the direction she was fairly certain they'd been traveling before. Caden was walking faster than before. Perhaps to distance himself from the familiar phantom.

Soon, Caden was leading M'avina, and she rushed to keep pace. Some time passed, with no word between them, and no sound from the fog, other than their footsteps falling on the soft, unbroken snow.

"Caden," she said finally, "what's wrong?"

Caden slowed, and turned to look at her. "I . . ."

And suddenly, they were out of the fog. It seemed to retreat behind them, with them barely moving. The light came from a single source - the sun - rather than the indirect luminescence surrounding them in the fog. And behind them, the slowly-undulating wall of mist stood. The canyon opened up into more welcoming paths to tread, but those paths had yet to be forged, for theirs were the only footsteps that broke the perfect, ivory dunes gleaming in the noonday sun.

Caden never finished his sentence.

"We'd best wait for them," said M'avina after they had stood in silence for a few minutes.

Caden nodded, and then walked to the rock face nearest them, right where the fog ended, and buried the dead baby in the snow.

And then, with little ceremony, the whispers faded into the wind.

[Nephilim]

Kinemil had lost track of their comrades almost the moment he entered the fog. He remained aware of everything.

"There are dark enchantments," the Archbishop Ismail had said, wrapping his hand in cloth as he spoke to the trainee Paladins before him, "that can cloud the senses. Should you ever battle a Viz-jaaq'tar, you will understand this fully. Should you let your attention slip, you will succumb to these spells, but stay focused, and they will be of no avail to you."

It was several minutes into the fog before Bohdan stopped abruptly. "Shh!"

"What is it?"

"Shh!" the Barbarian insisted, and then, after a few moments of strained silence. "I can't hear anyone."

Kinemil smiled inwardly at Bohdan's slow senses. The Barbarian was a little dim and was led by his passions, but he was peerlessly loyal and a fine warrior nonetheless.

"Yes," said Kinemil seriously, "I noticed that as well. We should press on, though."

They walked in silence for some time. Kinemil suspected that they were straying to the right, but dared not correct their course, afraid that any misstep would cause him to lose his bearings completely.

"Allow me to demonstrate," Ismail had wagged his finger, and taken a helm from a pedestal. It was a mask, rather feminine in form, and some of the young, would-be Paladins chuckled at the sight of the imposing, dignified teacher donning headgear obviously designed for a woman. It was a dull silver colour, the eye slits angry and the mouth grimacing. And stamped into the forehead were three runes.

"Now, I shall remind you," he said, as he fitted it onto his own head, "that these heathen magics are forbidden in the act of what we must do. I wield them now only to prepare you for what lies ahead."

He lowered the mask, covering his face, and put a hand to the side of it, and then waved the other before him. "Nadir!" he called, and suddenly, with a gasp that swept through the room, the vision blurred, twisted, and dimmed. Kinemil squinted, though he knew it would do no good. The enchanted helm had worked its magic.

"Calm yourselves!" Ismail had bellowed. "This spell is not permanent, nor invasive. It is an illusion, cast in your mind to blind your senses from the truth. Focus! My children. Focus! Do not listen to the lies this spell tells you."

If only Ismail had followed his own advice.

Bohdan was getting agitated. He would glance about furtively, as if he had seen something from the corner of his eye. Shadows in the fog, or shapes in the light. Kinemil decided not to press the matter. So long as Bohdan held onto his shoulder, he would lead the warrior from the Valley.

When the whispers began, Kinemil was unphased, though he knew that Bohdan was growing afraid with every step they took.

"Steel yourself, Bohdan," said Kinemil assuredly, "there is nothing in these hills that can do us harm." But even as he said it, he felt the claustrophobia of the fog seeping into him. The whispers became more fervent, though more intangible, and the shadows seemed more convincing. He couldn't be sure if he was losing focus, or if the powers within the valley were growing stronger. But he would not fear. For fear was a convention of the mind, and obeying it would make him no better than the beasts of the earth or sky.

There were spirits about in this place, he knew, but they were not physically manifest. If they were, they would be undead, and would fall before his blessed blade. Being undead was a mark of irredeemable damnation. They could never be saved.

"Divo!"

The shout surprised Kinemil, and he jumped in spite of himself. Bohdan had let him go, and was staring, wide-eyed into the fog.

Kinemil looked around. He saw nothing but shadows, and heard nothing but whispers. The Paladin grinned to himself. The primitive minds of the Barbarians must be easy to invade, if such things caused them alarm.

"They're nothing more than shadows, Bohdan," Kinemil said quietly. But Bohdan was motionless, his eyes unblinking. His chest heaved with every breath, as if it took extra effort to push the white clouds of air from his lips, in this place.

"Even shadows must remain true to their shade."

It was a woman. An older woman, but she sounded strangely displaced, as if three identical voices were speaking the same words in time.

Bohdan turned towards it, and disappeared into the fog in its direction.

"Bohdan! Wait!" Kinemil shouted. "Light curse that fool!" he muttered acidly as he trudged off into the suffocating fog after the Barbarian. He knew that he would lose him. Kaelim had warned them of this.

But he didn't lose him. The bulky frame of the Barbarian came into view, hazy and silhouetted in the mist, but soon he focused into view, and so did a never-ending rock face. They were at the wall of the Valley.

Carved out of the rock face was an alcove. Not very big, but rather deep, and seated on a boulder was a woman. Her facial structure betrayed her lineage. She was a Barbarian. Her hair was white, and her face was older than it looked. Her skin shimmered with a strange incandescence. Kinemil had seen it before, at the Battle of Arreat Summit. She was an Ancient One. She was clothed in finely-made skin smocks and a dress of wolf hide. And chained around her neck was a scroll that unraveled down the length of her body, and then end was still rolled up at her feet. On the scroll were druidic runes, which Kinemil recognized, but could not properly understand. Her hair fell carelessly but gracefully about her shoulders, and was a bright white, so bright that it was impossible to distinguish individual strands of her hair. And her face was old, but untainted by age. Kinemil wondered how he knew that she was so old. Maybe it was those grey eyes, that seemed to have a millennium of memories within their confines.

"Those are not shadows you call to, my child," the woman said, once more with the strange echo. "She is as much flesh and blood as you and I."

"So Divo is alive?" Bohdan demanded.

Kinemil looked at him. "Bohdan, who is this woman?"

"Forgive me," she said, "I am Kala, once Seeress of Sescheron, now a jealous reflection of the living. For while my kindred within these walls of water and air are content to be mad and oblivious to the world around them, my talents do not afford me that luxury. I wonder, at times, what heinous thing I did in life to incur so terrible a curse from Bul-Kathos. Though perhaps the intent was never a curse for me, but a blessing for another."

Bohdan was taken aback. "Kala?" he awkwardly set his halberd down and knelt before her. "My apologies, Seeress. I was not aware I was in the presence of such a legend."

"Do not bow to me, child," Kala shook her head, "you revere a living woman, but I am long dead."

"But you did so many things in life," Bohdan insisted, "you changed the course of history."

"I did, in life," Kala agreed, "but now, I am in death. I do nothing but look upon the world and mourn that I no longer am part of it. A cruel fate, of which I never believed I had earned, but the intentions of the Nephalem are lost, even to me. Perhaps some good will come of this, someday. We shall see."

The Light allowed Kinemil to sense undead presence around him, and he knew that this was no wraith he spoke to. This was something else. He wanted to take Bohdan away, but he did not feel that Kala presented any danger to them. With Cain's warning repeating itself at the back of his head, the Paladin hesitantly stepped forward.

"Perhaps you can help us," Kinemil said, removing his helm politely. "I am Kinemil, Paladin of the Zakarum - Religion of the Light. My companion is Bohdan of the Crane Tribe."

Kala examined him intently. "I have seen the rise and fall of your religion, Kinemil the Paladin. I am happy to find you not as disheartened as many of your brothers. Ask what you shall, and I will tell you what I know."

"We are following an expedition of Barbarians who came here some time ago from Harrogath. Do you know of them?"

Kala smiled. "Ah yes. Theodoric of the Tribe of Thunder was at the forefront of that group. We spoke at some length, he and I." She averted her eyes, longingly. "I have many memories of the Tribe of Thunder in the far west . . ."

So then they did not fall to the Mountain Clan, Kinemil surmised.

"I had never been so far from home when I first visited the western shores," Kala mumbled. "I had never seen a place so green and blue. If only I had been there for not so tragic a duty, I might have been drunk off the warmth of the very air. Visions can be only so vivid, and even the voice of the Immortal King may only tell so much."

"What does he tell you now?" asked Bohdan, still kneeling.

"His voice does not reach the ears of the dead, forsaken to spend an eternity amongst madmen and lost children. I have not heard his words for an age. Instead, I simply gaze out at the world of my own accord, and watch history unfold through a muddled lens."

Kinemil shook his head. "Self-pity is no sin for such a legendary woman to be indulging in," he scolded gently.

"Do not speak of it, Paladin," she replied with equal tenderness, "for you know nothing of the legends for which I am legendary, nor do you know the curse of the Valley. I gave up pride long ago, Kinemil of the Zakarum. Now I have nothing more to my name but my own lament."

Bohdan held up a hand to silence Kinemil. "Wait, but what were you saying about the shadow. That she is flesh and blood?"

Kala reached forward and touched Bohdan's face with her gleaming hand, "She is, but she is not the one you seek."

Bohdan closed his eyes. "And what of Divo?"

"Divo, the Rogue you knew, is no more, one way or the other," Kala answered.

"But is she dead?" Bohdan pleaded, a tear seeping from his eye.

Kala bowed her head. "Bohdan of the Crane Tribe, listen to my words and hear clarity. Divo perished that afternoon in the woods, with you. I cannot tell the fate of her body, for her body is no longer her own. She is a different person, whose name I cannot tell. But she could never have been saved from so complete a despair."

"But she didn't know," Bohdan, Kinemil could tell, was struggle to maintain his composure. "She didn't know I love her."

Kala shook her head, "Not even a weapon as powerful as love could have saved her."

Kinemil frowned. "Love is no weapon."

The Seeress looked at him with her limitless eyes. "Then why do the brokenhearted grieve so? If the wielder is right, and the victim as well, then anything may be a weapon. Wounds of the spirit leave scars that no healer can remedy."

Kinemil looked around, but aside from the rock, it was nothing but the ominously slow-moving fog. "We'd best move along, Bohdan."

But the Barbarian sat back on his shins and hunched over, crying into his hands. Kinemil wasn't sure how much he trusted Kala anymore, and he wanted to leave the Valley as soon as possible, but he needed Bohdan with him. Not only did he feel responsible for the Barbarian, but he felt that his defenses were failing, and he feared to brave the mists alone. Kala continued to stare at him intently.

"If you are truly a Seeress," said Kinemil, "then tell me how our quest will fare."

Kala sighed. "I know only the future that Bul-Kathos told me, and he tells me such no longer. Now I only see past and present, and I lose count of how many times the forests of the south have turned gold and withered only to erupt into green once again." She looked past them, deeper into the fog. She closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. "I cannot foresee where your quest shall take you, to doom or glory. But this shall be a test. For all of you. Some of you have already been tested. But I know only because of what has passed, and I cannot say what will come of these trials."

Kinemil put a hand on Bohdan's shoulder. "Come, Bohdan. We must quit this blasted fog."

"I can tell you this," Kala blurted out so suddenly that it startled Kinemil. "Make for the Watchtower of the North. You shall find solace there, in some form or another."

Bohdan stood, and Kinemil sighed. The Seeress was becoming strangely unnerving, and he did not want to tarry any longer than he had to. Kinemil took a step away.

"Wait," said Bohdan quietly. Kinemil paused. "If the shadows are flesh, but not Divo," the Barbarian said slowly. "Then who is it?"

Kala looked past him, and gestured into the fog. Bohdan turned, and so did Kinemil. The mists, Kinemil admitted to himself, did seem to make a human shape in the darkness. Bohdan saw it, too, and he stepped forward, and took it by the shoulders.

To Kinemil's surprise, his hand did not grasp a mere wisp of cloud, but landed on solid matter. He stepped back, and pulled the shadow out into the light.

From the fog came a metal face, a woman's face, dull silver, with three runes stamped on the forehead. The same mask Ismail had worn. Only the eyes were tilted back in sorrow, and the mouth was half open in a mournful wail. The figure was covered top to bottom in form-fitting armour, betraying that it was a woman. He knew her even before Bohdan lifted the visor and revealed her pale face and dark eyes.

"Jade." Kinemil would never be sure which of them said it.

A thousand different thoughts flooded into Kinemil's head as he fully realized who she was. An Assassin of the Viz'jaq-taar. The very Assassin who, along with two of her brethren, went with Isenhart, Vidala, and Qual-Kehk to the final battle with Baal. And Qual-Kehk had been all who had returned. Those who hadn't died had gone through the portal that Tyrael had lain open for them. Kinemil's eyes widened. Jade had seen the battle. Perhaps she, too, had gone into the portal with the others. She knew the fate of Isenhart.

"Jade," Bohdan said, again or for the first time, it didn't matter.

"Bohdan," she replied. Kinemil had forgotten what she had sounded like.

The two embraced.

"You've been following us for a while, haven't you?" Bohdan muttered.

Jade nodded. "You've seen my shadow many times, my friend." She looked at Kinemil, and smiled. He bowed his head in return.

"But why didn't you come out of the shadows and into the light?" asked Bohdan. "I thought I was going crazy."

"Wait," said Kinemil. "Jade. You were with Qual-Kehk and the others?"

The Assassin nodded. The visor clinked as she moved.

Kinemil took a deep breath, excited that he might finally have the answers he was looking for. "What happened?"

Jade sighed, and began.

[Nephilim]

Qual-Kehk motioned for silence, and climbed slowly up the stairs, soaked with the blood of the many demons who had fallen before him. Jade admired his focus. She didn't see so tranquil a warrior in many of his people, but Qual-Kehk took to the battlefield with a fervor born of duty, not of bloodlust.

Not like the other Barbarians. The animalistic fury that drove them into battle was now coupled with a hatred borne of vengeance. Perhaps, she thought, if her frame wasn't so delicate, she could be as brutally careless as they, but she remembered what her Sensei had told her. "To die in the line of duty is the fate of all our kind, and however noble that death may be, it should not be a fate so easily resigned to. The forces of evil will have more to fear from you if you still draw breath." And that was one of the many philosophies the Assassins had embraced - survival is not a mark of cowardice, but of efficiency.

Jade stood by Natalya, another Assassin, in a crowd of their fellows at the bottom of the staircase. At the forefront were Vidala, Isenhart, and Regha. Behind them were Sander, the oldest of the two Necromancers she had met, and Ragnar, the latest captain of Harrogath's Barbarians. Since, Jade, Natalya, and Iratha, a third in their party, had arrived in Harrogath, the captain (or "Slayer," as the Barbarians themselves called the position) had been replaced six times. Ragnar himself had been given the position in the field during the chaotic mess of a battle with the Ancient Ones, when his superior had fallen to one of Madawc's seemingly pristine axes found its way between his eyes, as most of Madawc's axes had the habit of doing.

Jalal and Aldur held the rearguard. They spoke only when spoken to, but were as reliable as any of the other warriors. Intermingled with these were the few, nameless Barbarians whom Jade had never truly paid much heed to. Barbarians had a drastically short life span in these frenzied times, and Jade knew, just as her Sensei taught her, that she could not afford emotional attachment to those whose deaths were all but certain. "Do not trivialize the lives of those we work to protect, young Shogakusha, lest you lose sight of why we do what we must do. But likewise, we must not let our hearts grow fond of our comrades too much, lest we despair at their absence in battle."

The shadow disciplines they had learned did not allow for a sliding focus. Even now, Jade's senses were attuned to everything. She could sense the burning energies seething though this mountain like mineral nodes. She had felt it before they had reached the summit. They all had. But she had never imagined what the mountain contained. She could almost see it cascading along the walls, and felt it tremble in the depths of the mountains hollow bowels.

Iratha returned from across the bridge. "I have laid many traps, Captain," she told Natalya, "We needn't fear any demons following us."

Natalya nodded. "Good. Lay a trap at the base of this staircase once everyone is through. Baal will likely draw all his strength to him. We'll have enough to worry about without having to watch our backs."

Jade tightened her grip around the handle of her katar as she climbed, beside a Barbarian she didn't know. When she emerged, they were near the source. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle, and heard the energy crackling through the very air around them.

"There are enemies near," Isenhart said quietly. "Stay together."

The druids came up, and finally Iratha. She nodded to Natalya.

The room had the same, archaic architecture, carved into the very mountain, a dull brown, but all about them was a sourceless crimson light that doused everything in a vague red tint. Even the light energy of the Worldstone permeated stone and flesh.

It was distracting. Jade saw it in Natalya and Iratha as well. They were more attuned to the many layers of reality than their companions, and the forces channeled through the mountain made concentrating on anything feel like trying to pick a single voice out of a maddened rabble.

A winged form suddenly descended from the ceiling so quickly that Jade barely had time to dodge the attack. But it impaled the Barbarian next to her on twin blades as it swooped down. The entire party whirled about in surprise. The Barbarian dropped to the ground, and the figure alighted.

At first, Jade thought that the creature had blades for hands, and that it was some demon she had never encountered before. But it was a succubus, with a pair of long blades latched to a brace that looped around her elbow as she held a second handle in each hand. She wore a corset, and a pair of leather boots and gloves, but little else. Bat-like wings stretched from her back, and she crouched into a defensive position, smiling playfully as she wove her weapons, glazed with a fresh coat of blood, expertly about her.

"If you've come this far, there's obviously no point in warning you to turn back," she reasoned. "So I shall save the formalities and simply state the fact. I am Moribande, first in the harem of Baal. Our purpose is about to be realized, and no amount of valour will save you now. But it matters not - you will fight, and you will die. The prior is written on your eyes, and the latter is written in the stars. History begins today." She straightened, spread her weapons submissively, and bowed. "And with that, my dears, I bid you goodbye. May death find you well." She crouched, and then jumped into the darkness, flapping her leathery wings twice until she was out of view.

The adventurers raised their weapons to the darkness, squinting and straining their eyes to make out any shapes in the black. They began to see movement, as if the whole darkness was undulating above them. They all knew very quickly that there were a great many creatures up there. And they all descended simultaneously.

Jade stabbed a screaming succubus in the neck as she fell towards her. The party erupted into battle. These succubi were not the same they had seen coming up the mountain. They were hairless, and sprouted curling, ivory horns, and had leathery bat-wings as opposed to the feathered variety they had encountered before. Aside from that, they were quicker, leaner, and more ruthless. Their knee-high boots were braces with metallic blades, and they spun through the air kicking and slashing with their talons. Jade jumped and spun, slicing one along the line of her mouth, and landed beside Regha, just as a succubus landed on the Sorceress and bowled both of them over. She tore at her face, and Regha desperately beat the demon with her staff to try and fend her off. Jade rolled to her feet, and drew a shuriken from her belt. With a flick of her wrist, the cruel metal star flew into the back of the creature's neck, severing her spinal cord. She fell lifelessly on the bloodies Sorceress.

The nod of thanks she gave, Jade didn't see, she turned and moved onto the next demon immediately. She glanced at the druids, still at the doorway. With all the movement, it was hard to see them, but Jalal's shadow was gigantic, and she heard ursine roars. Beside him, Aldur was throwing chilling winds from his fingertips, and bludgeoning any succubus who strayed too close to him with his club. The powers they used were not magic. At least, not in the way that Jade understood. She could sense arcane power as easily as she heard sound and smelled fragrance. But Aldur could be splitting the earth beneath her feet and she would not sense it. Her only conclusion was that they were somehow from within themselves, just as the "powers" of Jade and her kinswomen came from their own minds and bodies.

In a surprisingly short time, the mangled bodies of the succubi carpeted the stone floor. The day was won. But Vidala was perturbed.

"Where is Moribande?" she asked, moving the torso of a succubus aside to see what lay beneath it.

"Aye," said Ragnar with a snarl, "Damien must be avenged."

Jade glanced at the Barbarian on the floor, blanketed in the wings of succubi who had fallen over him. Damien. She mouthed the word on her lips.

"She's likely retreated to Baal, to guard him," Sander suggested. "The Prime Evils usually protect themselves with some of their most powerful minions." This was true. Natalya had told Jade about Mephisto, and how he culled his faithful Archbishops to his side when his enemies began to close in on him. But Jade knew better. She chanced a swift glance up at the ceiling. Moribande was still there, coiled in the darkness.

Jade had to respect the talents of the succubus. She had slowed her heartbeat. Jade's heightened senses could still pick it up, but she knew that had it not been for years of training and mental discipline, she would not know that Moribande was there. She made no noise or motion. Even if someone was to see her, they could easily mistake her for part of the architecture.

Jade glanced fleetingly at Iratha, who, she could tell, had also sent the intruder. From the ceiling, Moribande could easily fly about, swinging her blades and inflict heavy damage on them in such a crowd. Jade knew that they couldn't engage her like this, and hoped that Iratha knew the same.

Qual-Kehk suggested they move on, and the rest were quick to follow. Natalya fell into step with the other captains. Jade doubted that Natalya was unaware of Moribande - she was the most skilled among them. But she either thought it nothing to worry about, or knew that Jade and Iratha could handle it. The two younger Assassins stepped aside and allowed them to pass. Natalya gave Jade a grave glance as they met.

When finally the rest of the party had issued down the corridor, the two druids nodded. "You too go ahead," said Jalal, "we'll bring up the rear again."

"Don't worry," said Iratha in a casual tone, though her eyes were glowering. "We'll serve as rearguards this time."

Aldur opened his mouth to speak, but Jalal took him by the wrist. "Very well," and the two walked between the Assassins after the rest of the party.

Jade and Iratha glanced about the carnage offhandedly, and then turned to follow the druids. And in a motion so quick it even surprised Jade, Iratha withdrew a shuriken from her belt and slung it towards the ceiling. It whipped through the air, and then sparked with a clang as Moribande reflexively thwacked it aside with one of her elbow blades, and then launched herself downward at the Assassins, springing as if every tensed muscle had suddenly snapped.

Jade and Iratha leapt out of the way, but Jade felt one of the long jagged blades come perilously close to her neck. Iratha swiped at her with her sword but Moribande expertly cart-wheeled over the strike, and counter-attacked, forcing Iratha to twist out of the way. Moribande's sword raked along the stone wall with a screech. She jumped and flapped her wings to pull herself away from the two, alighting gently near the doorway.

"You both have skills, I'll give you that," Moribande congratulated them wryly. Her black, featureless eyes glinted towards the rear, and Jade heard sounds of battle echoing through the halls. "But will you stay and face the harlot? Or help your friends in a no-doubt perilous battle with Baal's most trusted protectors?"

Iratha glanced down the hall. Moribande made a move towards her, but Jade swiped at her with her katars to warn her off.

Moribande grinned. "Very well," she chuckled, "I'll make the decision easy for you."

She flapped her wings, rising haltingly into the air, and then pushed off the wall and flew over the heads of the two Assassins, who both spun on their heels and gave chase down the hall. In the distance, they could see the battle, a mired brawl between human and demon. And lording over it all, backed by a swirling doorway, was Baal himself, distorted and malformed into his own image.

He was supported by four bony, spider-like legs, and writhing about him were countless tentacles. He had a grin with too many teeth on his pasty features, and his long, slender fingers caressed the Soulstone about his neck, glowing with a cruel yellow light.

Ghostly figures swirled about his body, so ethereal they took a moment to notice. When she caufht sight of them, Jade bit her lip. She had encountered a similar spell on a mage in Westmarch. The scent of that sorcery was unmistakable. He was shielded from any attacks, be they magic or physical. But conversely, he could not make any attacks of his own. Before him, a number of demons were fighting Qual-Kehk and the others. Nearly all the Barbarians were dead, and Natalya had broken her arm. Aldur was fatally wounded on the ground, but was continuing to throw his strange brand of magic at the offending creatures.

Moribande flew over the fray, and blew a kiss to Baal. He smiled up at her deviously, and she sailed over his head, and into the chaotic gateway behind him. The standards flanking it rippled as she passed.

Jade and Iratha sprinted down the hallway and sprang into the room. Jade jumped and kicked the balrog looming over Isenhart in the face. The jolt caused the demon to reel back, but he didn't lose his footing. Isenhart drew his shield inward, and struck out, but the balrog quickly recovered and parried with his own, thick sword. But Jade was not finished yet. With a gasp, she let a burst of energy flow to her arms and legs, and in a blur of speed, she vaulted up onto the creature's back, and stabbed it with her two katars inside the shoulder-blades. She felt his ribs break under her blade. But his meat was thick and dense. He reared back, flailing with his blade at Jade. She ducked, laying herself flat on his back.

Isenhart took the opportunity to stab a decisive blow beneath his sternum, and inserted the sword up to its hilt. Jade grabbed the balrog by the horns and flipped up, looping her legs around his neck, and then, she slit his throat, cutting deep. Thick, dark blood exploded out of the wound, and he spread his wings and fell forward violently. Jade was thrown from his back and bowled into Isenhart, and the two collapsed on the ground. They both scrambled to their feet, ready to fight the beast in its death throws but the corpse face-down on the ground didn't move. The wings relaxed, and slowly settled on the ground, revealing the carnage on the other side.

The remaining adventurers were scrambling around a gigantic mummy. His one leg had been severed, and his elongated, animalistic skull was opened in a poison-spewing scream. He was supporting himself on his one arm, and the second, which had no hand, but rather a long, bony scythe, was swiping at any who strayed to close.

Baal, meanwhile, was frowning on his giant throne, still protected by his ghostly armour.

Regha raised her staff. "Get back!" she commanded, and the remaining heroes quickly distanced themselves from the fallen creature. He opened his mouth, and an undead snake writhed in his skull with a hiss. Regha's eyes were alight in orange flame, and she spun her staff around. From the tip, a fireball exploded into being, and then flew through the air and into the open mouth of the mummy. His head exploded, and bone fragments clattered to the ground, still aflame. The rest of the body toppled to the floor in a gasp of poisonous dust.

Baal righted himself on his dais, and his face twisted into a toothy grin. He laughed, and Jade felt herself chilled to the bone at the sound. "So my lieutenants have fallen," he chuckled. "Do not think you've beaten me yet." The apparitions encircling him dispersed. "For my work," he said, turning, "is nearly done."

"He's unprotected!" Natalya shouted, "after him!"

The heroes hefted their weapons and ran for the demonlord, but with a laugh and a clattering of his four heavy legs, he disappeared into the portal, which was swirling more violently than before, and sparks of energy were pouring off the base.

Ragnar raised both his swords and shouted a warcry. "You'll not defeat me so easily!" he bellowed, and charged the portal.

"Ragnar!" Sander cried, "wait!"

But just as Ragnar was about to plunge into the mystical doorway, another head emerged from the other side with a ripple. It was a mass of tusks and teeth, and its jawline was stretched into an eternal grin. Ragnar skid to a halt, but the creature descended, and bit his head clear off his shoulders with his jagged maw. The adventurers gasped in surprise as Ragnar's headless body fell back and rolled down the steps, blood still spurting from his neck from his heart's inertia. He twitched. In spite of everything she saw and knew, twitching bodies still disturbed Jade.

Meanwhile, the creature was emerging from the portal. He was a mass of bony spikes and muscled limbs. Four arms with huge, clawed hands flailed out from his rigid abdomen. His feet were three-toed with a back claw - like a bird, but heavy like a bear's claw. And his body ended in a long tail, tipped with a massive club, which wagged ominously behind him.

The adventurers backed away as he stepped down off the steps.

"We don't have time for this!" Vidala shouted. "Baal is corrupting the Worldstone as we speak - we need to get into that chamber!"

Jade and Isenhart stepped over the Balrog and joined the widening circle around the creature. It roared, and laughed. Then it spoke. They were all startled at the words, as none had thought it an intelligent demon.

"Fools! You have murdered my kinsmen, and I may well join them, but not before my Lord finishes his work. I am the Tormentor - Listor!" he lashed out towards Natalya, and she sprang back to avoid his many claws.

Jade's eyes darted at the great demon, at the doorway, and at the tensed heroes standing around him. She felt it happening. The consuming energies channeling through the mountain were darkening, becoming more sinister. Baal had already begun.

"I'll fight him," she stepped forward from the circle. "The rest of you take care of Baal. I'll handle Listor."

Regha looked at her, aghast. Natalya, however, was already moving towards the portal. She knew well enough that there was no use arguing with her, and that this was what had to be done. There was a practicality to Assassins that Jade had always been very comfortable with.

Listor laughed, and it sounded like his insides were churning with every note. "Foolish girl! You cannot survive this fight."

Jade extended her leg, readied her katars, and adopted a resolute grimace. "I don't have to."

Natalya had already entered the portal. Listor turned to attack Qual-Kehk as he passed him, but Jade lunged forward and jabbed him in the arm with her katar, then hopped back quickly when he returned his gaze. He croaked out a battle-cry, and lunged forward. His speed defied his size, and Jade had to reevaluate her strategies. Meanwhile, everyone else had gone through the portal. She was alone with him.

Quite suddenly, Listor whirled around, and swung his tail at her. She jumped up, pulling her knees up to avoid the blow, but when she alighted, he punched her square in the face with one of his huge fists. She fell back, winded.

Listor took one more step towards her, and then suddenly reared back in agony. Something zipped passed him, and another hit its mark. He turned with a low growl. Jade flipped to her feet and gazed beyond him.

At the base of the stairs, silhouetted against the glowing portal, Iratha stood with a shuriken in each hand. Jade smiled to herself. She would not face him alone.

Listor charged the dais, and Iratha greeted him by throwing a bottle that detonated at it hit his stomach. He grimaced in pain, but barely slowed. Iratha backflipped just as he took a swing at her, cracking him in the jaw. He took a step back, and then sprung forward, his four claws and gaping maw bared and deadly. Iratha leapt off the dais and turned as she landed.

Jade raced up to stand beside her. Listor turned, and snarled, a black ooze dripping from his toothy mouth. The two Assassins stood side by side, back to a pillar, and bared weapons of their own - Jade her pair of sturdy katars, and Iratha her long, thin sword.

Listor jumped forward and crashed into the stone floor before them. Iratha rolled to the side and lunged forward, stabbing him in the ribs, and Jade jumped up, and pushed off the pillar to deliver a spin kick to the side of his head as he screamed in pain from Iratha's blow. But as she alighted from her acrobatics, he backhanded her in the chest, sending her flying across the room, spitting up blood as she went. She was too dazed to correct her landing, and collapsed with a crash as she hit the floor. She struggled to her feet, still winded, and watched the battle on the other side of the room.

Iratha was backing away from Listor, throwing a shuriken every few steps. Each blow drew blood, but there seemed to be no stopping this powerful juggernaut. Jade collected what consciousness she had left, and charged at Listor with a great cry. He saw her, but paid little heed, intent on advancing on Iratha.

Jade leapt into the air, fists first, and stabbed Listor in the back. She let inertia carry the rest of her body over his, and then withdrew her blades, jabbing at his arms. Listor turned and chomped at her, and had she been any slower, he could have taken her head. She dropped to the ground, and rolled away, as Iratha clasped her sword in both hands and lunged forward with a scream, stabbing Listor through his vile heart. His anguished cries were like something out of a nightmare. But he resolutely bashed the sword with his fist, smashing it off at the hilt. He raised his four arms and growled as he closed on Iratha, now weaponless.

Jade sprang to her feet and jabbed Listor in the back. But with little ceremony, he batted her with his tail. Jade was pushed into the wall, and felt her ribs broken.

Listor grabbed Iratha by the shoulders, lifted her bodily off the ground, and threw her to the floor. He fell upon her, and dug his claws into her belly. Iratha screamed, blood splattering up from her gullet with every screeh. Listor grinned and laughed in fiendish glee. Jade's heart broke.

But Iratha was not finished. She drew from her belt another potion, and made a fist around it. Listor cried out in victory, and she smashed the bottle inside his mouth. He clamped down reflexively, biting off her hand, and the potion exploded in his mouth. His hide was so thick that the explosion blasted off bits of his teeth, but left his flesh intact. He opened his mouth, and Jade could see parts of it burning. His tongue was flayed, and blackened from the blow. He looked down at Iratha, and growled again. He had yet to be felled. He smote her across the face with one of his fists, and she wept in misery. And then, she reached up, and tore the blade from the wound she had previously inflicted upon him, and drove it, and, flailing to defend herself with her other, handless arm, she drove the shard of metal into his neck.

Listor's eyes widened, and he choked. He got up, reaching for the blade with all his hands, and gasped for air. He staggered away from Iratha, still groping for his neck, until finally he caught a hold of the blade. He withdrew it, looked at it for a moment, and then dropped the bloodied blade, and fell onto his side, dead.

Jade had since regained her breath, and slowly trod over to Iratha, still coughing for air, blood-soaked on the floor. She fell to her knees at her side.

Iratha smirked, her teeth crimson. "There is no nobler honour than to die in battle," she quoted.

Jade moved Iratha's hair out of her eyes. "Poems will be written of the name Iratha," she intoned. "I'll see to that."

Iratha coughed, and Jade felt a warm drop of blood splatter onto her face. "Don't waste time on this sentimentality," she scolded. "Natalya needs you. I can die alone."

"You shouldn't."

"But I will," Iratha said firmly.

Jade stood, stepped over Iratha's quivering body, and strode towards the portal. She was about to set her foot on the first step when it suddenly happened. The world crashed in on her.

A burst of energy exploded out from the inside of the mountain. Jade felt it rush through her, and was immediately overwhelmed. She had never experienced anything so intense. Every defense she had ever built up failed simultaneously - mentally, physically, and spiritually. She felt heat spread through her body, her pulse fluttered and her cheeks grew hot, and she felt her stomach churn with emotion.

Then, a second burst, more powerful than the first, issued from the mountain, and she felt her entire body bristle with an inner fire coursing through her veins, twisting and coalescing until finally, it exploded in ecstacy. She collapsed on her back, her mind reeling in sensation, her ribs searing with pain but she too preoccupied with awareness to notice, her body trembling in orgasmic shock. And then, the heat faded, the light died, and there was nothing but gasping breath, and an ecstatic numbness throughout her body. She smiled to herself, despite the gore she had fallen into.

Jade awoke not knowing that she had passed out, and the world was so quiet around her. All she heard were slowly retreating footsteps, far behind her, heavily armoured, and uneven - he was limping. She got to her feet, soaked in coagulating blood of many shades. The chamber was dark. The formless light had died. The stone looked like stone, and not fire. The only illumination at all was the portal before her, which had become a pale blue, and was swirling much slower, now, like a spiral of cloud, slowly shifting in a gentle wind.

Jade turned around, and saw nothing but a lone torchlight descending the stairs at the far end of the corridor. The room was cold, and the chaotic energies once reeling freely through this place were silent. Jade felt suddenly very alone. She looked in turn at the body of Aldur, then Iratha.

Jade turned around, facing the portal once again, which burned a cold blue fire, now. The demonic standards on either side had rotted, away, as if eaten by a horde of angry moths while she slept. Even the myriad demonic corpses seemed more dead than they had before.

Jade reached out, and the portal rippled like a pond when her fingers struck it. She felt herself twist and disperse within it. She could feel it because of her astonishing abilities to feel such things. The supernature of it had never occurred to her so poignantly before. She let the energies pull her in, and colour flooded her vision like a cosmic waterfall as she doused her head into the arcane ocean. And then she emerged on the other side, in a chamber, equally cold and empty, with no light but a single hole at the apex of the hollow mountain.

There was a stasis of disturbing magnitude within that mountain. Arreat itself was silently screaming for its purpose to return. Jade knew that the Worldstone was no more.

There was one sound within the hollow mountain, however. It was a strangled sob, a mourner. Jade stepped quietly into the chamber, her footsteps resounding heavily. And then the strangest scene she had ever witnessed became clear before her.

Baal, the Lord of Destruction, the Last of the Three, the Great Plague of Peace, the Enemy of All, lay dead, half-in the grey light, surrounded by his innards and ichor. And kneeling at his side was Moribande the succubus, weeping, her blades on the floor in disarray, and her arms strangely naked without them. Jade had never known that they had tears.

Moribande knew she was there long before she looked up, and when she did, Jade saw tears of dark blood streaming down her white face. They did not, after all, have tears.

"You're a plague," she whispered, "a sloppy solution to a cosmic problem. The universe saw discord, and so made you to correct it, and what have you done with that great power? This? This is your great victory, your progress? War? The crowning achievement of your race was destruction? And then you call us creatures of chaos."

She lifted Baal's gargantuan head, scarred and visceral, and kissed it on the forehead. Her bloody tears dripped down onto his face. "If you have come to murder me, then do it, human. Otherwise, leave me to my misery."

"What were we to do?" Jade demanded, vexed that she would be angry with her. "You expect us to allow ourselves to be killed, or worse, slaves to his will?"

"If not his will, than another's," Moribande spat. "To think that you are not born into bondage is naïve, especially for someone like you, an Assassin for the Viz-jaq'taar. You've done nothing but obey your whole life. You've denied your most basic human desires for the glory of some power you'll never know."

Moribande sighed haltingly. "But I care not. You can listen to the lies of angels or demons as you like, but they're lies no matter which side they come from."

Jade looked away. The blood felt pasty on her skin, and her mouth tasted like copper. But where was Natalya, and Isenhart? Surely they wouldn't have left her there - passed her by without knowing she was still alive. But there was no human blood or bodies anywhere.

"What happened?" asked Jade.

Moribande shook her thorny head. "Far too many things," she muttered.

Jade paused, sheathed her katars, and left the Worldstone Chamber.


“And so,” said Kala, as Jade wiped a tear off of her face. “The witch-hunter did leave from the hallowed mountain depths, and fell in step with the shadows of her kinsmen. Search she did for purpose, and a sign that all she had fought for had not been in vain.”

Bohdan looked at Kala, and turned back to Jade. “Have you found it yet?”

Jade shrugged mirthlessly. “I don’t know what to look for.”

“We thrive,” Kinemil noted, “we survive. Isn’t that enough?”

Jade looked up. “Should it be? Should we strive to survive, and be satisfied with mere survival? Why bother fending off demons from other worlds when wars still rage across our own lands, between brother and brother?” Jade sighed, and walked over to the canyon wall, touching it with her palm. “If we succeeded, then why do we still fight?”

Bohdan looked to Kala. “What do you say to that?”

Kala inhaled thoughtfully. “Being dead, I am no authority on life. And I am nowhere near ancient enough to understand the plans of Bul-Kathos. I do not know why he trapped me within these writhing shadows, let alone why he created us, his honoured servants.”

“Could it be that you were brought here so that we might speak as we do now?” Kinemil suggested.

Kala stood, and brushed out the creases of her dress. “Mayhap. But I have never been told my crime, so what must I pay penance for, if I do not know it? And if I am innocent, then why did he damn me only to serve you a century later? Did I not suffer enough in my days of heart, and flesh?” She heaved an ethereal sigh. “I grow weary,” she said, and plodded off through the snow. “Perhaps my duty is fulfilled, and now I shall go to sleep, and mayhap I shall dream a daughter to bear, that she might bear me to the Nephalem – the one last thing my mind’s eye has yet to see.”

And very, very soon, she was lost to sight, and the three adventurers turned, and followed the canyon wall.

It was mere minutes before they emerged from the fog, and found the rest of their party staring at them, on the side of an untouched hill of pure white snow, squinting in the reflection of a sun shining down from an cloudless, ultramarine sky.

[Nephilim]

If someone could give me some pointers on Chapter 13, it would really help. I find there were parts of it in the middle I didn't like, but don't know how to fix. I think some eyes that don't belong to me might help.

[Forbiddian]

If someone could give me some pointers on Chapter 13, it would really help. I find there were parts of it in the middle I didn't like, but don't know how to fix. I think some eyes that don't belong to me might help.

Here is a much cleaned-up version of the post, along with the second half of it.

Jade stood by Natalya, another Assassin, in a crowd of their fellows at the bottom of the staircase. At the forefront were Vidala, Isenhart, and Regha. Behind them were Sander, the oldest of the two Necromancers she had met, and Ragnar, the latest captain of Harrogath's Barbarians. Since, Jade, Natalya, and Iratha, a third in their party, had arrived in Harrogath, the captain (or "Slayer," as the Barbarians themselves called the position) had been replaced six times. Ragnar himself had been given the position in the field during the chaotic mess of a battle with the Ancient Ones, when his superior had fallen to one of Madawc's seemingly pristine axes found its way between his eyes, as most of Madawc's axes had the habit of doing.

Comma usage messes up the sentence readability. It would be smoother as: “Since Jade, Natalya, and Iratha had arrived in Harrogath, the captain (or ‘Slayer,’ as the Barbarians themselves called the position) had been replaced six times.” This would edit out the introduction of Iratha, but that could have been done when she was mentioned earlier in the paragraph.

Jade stabbed a screaming succubus in the neck as she fell towards her. The party erupted into battle. These succubi were not the same they had seen coming up the mountain. They were hairless, and sprouted curling, ivory horns, and had leathery bat-wings as opposed to the feathered variety they had encountered before. Aside from that, they were quicker, leaner, and more ruthless. Their knee-high boots were braces with metallic blades, and they spun through the air kicking and slashing with their talons. Jade jumped and spun, slicing one along the line of her mouth, and landed beside Regha, just as a succubus landed on the Sorceress and bowled both of them over. She tore at her face, and Regha desperately beat the demon with her staff to try and fend her off. Jade rolled to her feet, and drew a shuriken from her belt. With a flick of her wrist, the cruel metal star flew into the back of the creature's neck, severing her spinal cord. She fell lifelessly on the bloodies Sorceress.

Tense changes make it confusing which succubi you’re talking about in the second sentence. Also, “She tore at her face…” come on, Nephilim. It should be “bloodied Sorceress” in the last sentence, but that’s a real nit-pick from me.

Personally, I’d break the whole thing up into two paragraphs. Start with the one describing the very start of the battle flowing into the description of the different succubi. Then break the paragraph before continuing the battle. This would reset all of the “she’s,” “hers,” and tenses.

Although it would change what actually happens in the story, you might want to swap Regha for any random male from the party so you can free up the word “he.” Yea, yea, “it’ll detract from the story…” but the grammatically correct way sounds so horrible with all of the typing out names crap (Regha fell on the succubus, then Jade stabbed it, then the succubus died and the blood from the succubus fell on Regha), and the action-packed way is more confusing than father’s day in the Kobe Bryant household.

Changing Regha to Qual-Kehk would let you use He, She, and It to describe the three characters in the battle.

The nod of thanks she gave, Jade didn't see, she turned and moved onto the next demon immediately. She glanced at the druids…

Ouch. Who’s the she?

Jade glanced fleetingly at Iratha, who, she could tell, had also sent the intruder.

Sensed the intruder, maybe?

[Baal] had a grin with too many teeth on his pasty features, and his long, slender fingers caressed the Soulstone about his neck, glowing with a cruel yellow light.

Okay, most nit-picky thing I’ve ever done (so far, I’m not finished…): you used cruel a while ago to describe one of Jade’s shuriken (shuriken is the plural also, right?). This just reminded me of it. Back then, I thought that it was a pretty weird word to have, as cruel is usually associated with evil (or a really sexy prefix), but it really flipped the meanings of a basic word around in this case. Okay, the shuriken can be cruel (it’s a weapon, it was designed to cause bodily harm), but in this case, you’re describing the light given off by the soulstone. The soulstone could be cruelly glowing with a yellow light or glowing cruelly or emanating cruelty, but the light itself isn’t cruel (and especially not cruel in the precedented manner). Yes, I just made up a word.

Even if you don’t edit the word-choice, wouldn’t it still be, “cruel, yellow light”?

Aldur was fatally wounded on the ground

Cliché? Yes. Sexy statement? Oh yea. “Mortally wounded” is a standby, and it really sounds better than fatally wounded.

[Baal] smiled up at [Mordibande] deviously, and she sailed over his head, and into the chaotic gateway behind him.

That’s two “ands” continuing a sentence, and that’s not good, and you should change it. Although in this case, the second “, and” should simply be an “and”.

“He smiled up at her deviously, and she sailed over his head into the chaotic gateway behind him” would probably be the best way to word this sentence.



Okay, I’m tired, I’ve got school tomorrow (starts in 9 hours), I should really hit the sack. I’ll edit more tomorrow (note: I decided not to edit a lot of random typos that would be caught by Word. Oops, I meant “caufht”.

Run the spell check again and when it red-flags Aldur and Mordibande, just add those to the dictionary (although you’ll have to add it AGAIN for Aldur’s and any different forms of the word).

I mean, when it’s bloodies instead of bloodied, we all know what you mean, but occasionally, it’ll make it hard to understand (hasn’t happened yet, to the best of my knowledge).

Oh yea. I forgot to mention (P.S. and all that), this story rocks.

And it's not really cliché’d like a certain story about two people taking an immensely powerful object to a certain place while using the object to protect themselves as it gives them superhuman abilities. I sure hope Shael and the precious will be protected from the nine wolfriders.

Hah, I kid because I love that story, too.

See you all when I wake up (after a big History test).







Part 2: The second part

Listor grabbed Iratha by the shoulders, lifted her bodily off the ground

Should be “body.”

Iratha screamed, blood splattering up from her gullet with every screeh

Should be screech.

Jade's heart broke.

Hmm, I’m not a big fan of saying important things in plain words. This could be stronger, I think. If you want something simple “Jade’s stomach turned” is a little bit stronger, as it’s not making as grand a statement in three words.

And then, she reached up, and tore the blade from the wound she had previously inflicted upon him, and drove it, and, flailing to defend herself with her other, handless arm, she drove the shard of metal into his neck.

This is really a run-on. Break it up into two or even three sentences.

He withdrew it, looked at it for a moment, and then dropped the bloodied blade, and fell onto his side, dead.

I’ve gone through this before, this is a ton of “, ands.” You could take out the “, and then.” We all know that you’re talking about Lister, so it could just as easily be “He withdrew it and looked at it for a moment in shock before falling over, dead.”

Iratha coughed, and Jade felt a warm drop of blood splatter onto her face. "Don't waste time on this sentimentality," she scolded. "Natalya needs you. I can die alone."
"You shouldn't."
"But I will," Iratha said firmly.

I really liked this. I just thought that I’d point that out. My post was starting to look darker than the new Milky Way bars. Thank you, Marge, for that zinger.

She was about to set her foot on the first step when it suddenly happened.

Matt would like to make the motion to have this passive sentence deleted. “When it happened” has ticked me off since I read some Encyclopedia Brown where they built up all this suspense and then said something like, “Just then, it happened.” It completely ruined the moment. Having a passive sentence in a battle is bad enough, but “it happened” is like having the phone ring during sex.

…which burned a cold blue fire, now.

Could be changed into, “which now burned with a cold, blue fire,” or alternatively a cold, blue flame. Commas between adjectives help readability, but the rest of the sentence has to change, lest too many commas befall this gentle, unsuspecting sentence, which would be a bad, eye-burning way for a sentence to die.

Ouch. Even writing that sentence burned my eyes… and I didn’t re-read it at all.


[Jade] felt herself twist and disperse within it. She could feel it because of her astonishing abilities to feel such things.

I’m not sure the reason for why this is bad, but it is. Here are some possibilities:
1) Repetition: Felt, Feel, Feel. No.
2) The word “because.” No.
3) The fact that the second sentence is not needed at all. We already know that she has a spidey-sense.
If you really want to reiterate the fact that Jade owns sensing stuff, word it without the repetition of words. Try something like this: Her senses tingled and she felt herself twist and disperse within the portal.

Okay, that sentence wasn’t that great, but that’s why I’m not the author. I feel that if you just combined the two sentences, it would flow better. I felt that because of my astonishing ability to feel sentence structure. Well, not that astonishing, but that’s why I’m not a paid editor, either.

Colour

AHA! A person from Europe! That makes them a communist!

Personally, I don’t have a problem with this, but if you ever get it published or dropped on an American-only place, you might want to run a switch for it as it’s a red flag in Word. It also means that you’re a red, and are probably waving a red flag right now.

Actually, there are more communist countries in America than in Europe (assuming South America counts).

“If not his will, than another's…”

I’m not positive, but wouldn’t it be “then?” I’m really not sure, but my gut is telling me that it should be then. Look it up—I’m too lazy.

Jade looked up. “Should it be? Should we strive to survive, and be satisfied with mere survival? Why bother fending off demons from other worlds when wars still rage across our own lands, between brother and brother?” Jade sighed, and walked over to the canyon wall, touching it with her palm. “If we succeeded, then why do we still fight?”

Bohdan looked to Kala. “What do you say to that?”

Jade’s speech is really good. For me, anyway, it put the story into perspective and shed a new light on everyone. It also shows how Jade changed after Moribande’s testimony.

Normally, I don’t pick out really good parts just to display, but I have an ulterior motive for this one. Kala is a legendary seer. Albeit she’s dead, she was the one that Bul-Kathos spoke to, and she personally called the Ancient Talic to Mount Arreat. Bohdan grew up hearing tales of how great Kala was and he learned to have utmost respect for her. Now Bohdan chucks a borderline-insulting retort at Kala for no real reason?

“And if I am innocent, then why did he damn me only to serve you a century later?”

“A century later”? How long have the Ancient Ones been on Arreat? Yea. That ain’t no century I’ve ever heard of. I think that it's at least implied that they have been there for eons (and they might have even said that in their, "We are the spirits of the Nephalem, the Ancient Ones..." speech.

And very, very soon, she was lost to sight, and the three adventurers turned, and followed the canyon wall.

That’s two “, ands.” Although for some reason, it didn’t bother me at all in this sentence.








Okay, here’s the bottom line by Matt:

It’s a very good read, probably the best out here (haven’t read everyone’s, though). VERY few of the errors affect the readability at all, and the word choice is exquisite. It’s also very nice that you don’t use the word “said” every time someone says something (like in a certain story about a small boy learning magic at Hogwarts).


Here’s the full-chapter editing portion.

Jade’s telling the story, right? So shouldn’t it be “I” and stuff? Try changing “Jade” to “I” for a page or so at the start and see how it looks.

Some problems would be that it would HAVE to be first person detached, so Jade must have ALREADY gone through the changes (i.e. she’d be saying stuff about the cruelty of war on both sides, which would make her chat with Moribande less meaningful, and the change very hard to detect). To lessen the blow, you could use words like, “I thought” and things, but they would probably detract from the story after a few pages of that.

It would, however, allow you to get the added impact of First Person. The Third Person semi-omniscient is my favorite format (I guess that it’d be called third person omniscient, but I’d classify it as a different perspective when you only rarely tell about thoughts and feelings).

It would also highlight one of the strengths (if not the main strength) of this story. At least in my opinion, the fact that every character has a background and all of the characters change is what cuts this story out from the others. Most stories have 2-3 characters that they work on, and that’s really the story. The fact that you can blend themes with characters and easily switch from say, a character that’s always happy and in a stoned-ecstasy to a character that really hates life and would gladly die in an instant for what someone else believes in to a character that has a strong desire to urinate on the Worldstone.

Okay, those are some extremes, but your characters feel completely different. The switch to first person would help make that more concrete, and would highlight the transition to the anti-war perspective (I don’t know if this will continue, but it would really bring out this opinion).

Another thing about this whole story is that it really transitions well. It moves from character to character without ever doing something stupid.

And that was a serious… not some sarcastic criticism.

Seriously.

No sarcasm. The previous statement and this current statement are also not sarcastic.





EDIT: ARGH! There's no delete button, and the edit button is also gone for the first post. This makes my first post look stupid, and means that I double posted. If you read this, and you're a mod, could you delete the first post? It's also doesn't have the [quote] stuff, so it's significantly harder to read.

[Nephilim]

Thanks for your general grammar nit-picks. And I meant that seriously, too.
I’m not sure the reason for why this is bad, but it is. Here are some possibilities:
1) Repetition: Felt, Feel, Feel. No.
2) The word “because.” No.
3) The fact that the second sentence is not needed at all. We already know that she has a spidey-sense.
If you really want to reiterate the fact that Jade owns sensing stuff, word it without the repetition of words. Try something like this: Her senses tingled and she felt herself twist and disperse within the portal.

Okay, that sentence wasn’t that great, but that’s why I’m not the author. I feel that if you just combined the two sentences, it would flow better. I felt that because of my astonishing ability to feel sentence structure. Well, not that astonishing, but that’s why I’m not a paid editor, either.
Yeah, I'll take it out. It's derivative, too.
AHA! A person from Europe! That makes them a communist!
Actually, I'm from Canada. That makes me a socialist. But I do wave a red flag. Red and white, that is.
Normally, I don’t pick out really good parts just to display, but I have an ulterior motive for this one. Kala is a legendary seer. Albeit she’s dead, she was the one that Bul-Kathos spoke to, and she personally called the Ancient Talic to Mount Arreat. Bohdan grew up hearing tales of how great Kala was and he learned to have utmost respect for her. Now Bohdan chucks a borderline-insulting retort at Kala for no real reason? I'll change that. He's supposed to be seriously asking for her insight on the matter, because he values her opinion. But I see how that can be misinterpreted. I didn't detail his tone at all or anything.

I'll change "century," too. I didn't mean it quite so literally, because she has seriously lost track of how long she's been there. But I didn't want to be specific because I don't actually know how long ago Kala lived. It was never elaborated on in any Blizz sources. Anyway . . .

I thought about making this entire story first person when I first envisioned it, and it was my plan to jump from person to person, keeping the first person but shifting perspectives with the different chapters. But I don't like it when other people do that because eventually you get confused who's in the driver's seat, so to speak, and when they spell it out for you, it's painfully obvious that they're spelling it out for you. Plus, I'm just not comfortable writing a first person story, and I think I would've found it particularly difficult to write her orgasm in the first person. I think it would've had to have a level of self-awareness and intimacy I don't think I'm qualified to write with. Thanks for the suggestion, tho.

[Forbiddian]

As long as it occurred to you about the first person thing.

Coming to a logical conclusion and taking into account all of the possibilities is the author's real job.


The main problem with Third Person Semi-Omniscient is that it's really hard to use the mental figurative language (for instance, to describe her orgasm), as mainly facts are presented, with veins of people's thoughts for clarification and general story depth. Specific situations rarely involve feelings, so when a situation that CLEARLY requires that is presented, it is difficult to choose the correct words.



And yes, my inability to find the word, that defines the sentence's problem is due to the fact that I'm 14 and have only this year entered an English class where morons who pronounce "rapped" as "a different word that D2net will blip if I type out, and if I tell you through some other witty, virtually-independant clause, I will get banned" are gone. The point is, they're stupid.

St0op3d

ARGH! It takes a guy freaking five minutes to read a paragraph and they STILL pronounce half the words wrong!

Not anymore! MUAHAHAHA!

[Kurran]

Was just wondering if Jade is dead or alive? Somehow I'm not sure about this

[Forbiddian]

Was just wondering if Jade is dead or alive? Somehow I'm not sure about this

Yea, Luke Skywalker is Darth Vader's son. If you knew that from the start, the second movie would have kindof sucked... er... 4th movie.

It will most certainly be A: completely irrelevant, B: left to the reader to decide, or C: revealed later.

I have assumed that she was alive, but I hadn't really thought about that. It's a distinct possibility, however, now that it was brought to my attention.

As they say on "Leave it to Beaver," leave it to Nephilim.

[Kurran]

Well, I kinda assumed she was alive as well but I thought that maybe I had overlooked something but nevermind. There story rox and I can't wait until the next chapter :)

[Forbiddian]

The story itself should be sticked, and there should be a seperate thread for people to talk about it. It's good enough that it should be sticked, anyway, but I hate to load/sift through the whole story everytime I want to read a reply. Not that it getting scrolled off for not being sticked is likely....

Also, when the next chapter gets up, I'll have to sift through every reply to get to the story.

This story is so good that it makes me want to misspell words like "rocks," "ownage," "the," and "write."

[Gdog4evr]

I would just like to say that this story might just give An'yee a run for her money. I'm not sure if it's really better, but it seems to be equally inspired is certainly well writen.

[Forbiddian]

Yea, I hate to criticize An'yee, but the whole potion crap is kindof lame.

"Her leg was ripped off and she could look down at her stomach and see what she had for lunch as her body was ripped into a billion pieces and four knives were in her arm... but she drinks a potion and it's all better now."

And then, after being healed in a matter of seconds during a grueling battle by uncorking a potion, she walks into town and is surprised to be healed of similar injuries after 2 hours?

I guess it's to allow the reader to relate to the story by being able to play though it.

D2 is such a pot-fest "screw warmth, drink pots; screw energy, drink pots; screw softcore, drink rejuves!" This is OT, but my new Classic sorce has like 200 mana and is doing fine (chugging a pot every other spell, but still, gold is worthless and by substitution, pots are worthless, too).

In my opinion, the only person who's been able to work potions into the story so far is Tamrend. A guy got thrashed and they gave him a potion, but because his bone was broken, the super-speed-healing would cause the bone to grow wrong if they didn't set it right then.

I got the impression that it would heal a deep wound after a few days; an 11th century skin graft.



I like An'yee's story, but the potions really were a turn-off to the excitement in the story. I've only read through Chapter 6 or 7 (An'yee comes back after the first battle and talks for a while and debates using the fire katar), but if the potions become a pattern, I'm probably gonna be pissed.

[Nephilim]

M'avina had stood, wide-eyed, as she realized who it was with Bohdan and Kinemil. Jade knew, she realized. She knew what happened to Vidala and the others. Her heart had fluttered. Finally, she would know the fate of her best friend, and her mentor.

And then Jade had related the tale. M'avina had wanted to cry out to Athulua, what would it take to bring her solace. But she didn't. She didn't even cry. Heart-wrenching disappointment seemed to be becoming the norm.

They ate some dried meat, and related their stories from within the Valley of Whispers. Of the party, no one else, aside from Bohdan and Kinemil, had spoken to any of the ghosts. But Caden had not told their story to anyone, and M'avina had felt that he didn't wish for it to be told, though he had never said so himself. So she said nothing. Others had seen the ghosts, but had not interacted with any. M'avina's eyes strayed constantly to the disturbed snow, under which lay the skeletal baby Caden had taken out of the Valley. She thought someone would find it and accuse them of something. But of course, no one thought anything of a pile of snow.

Caden sat down beside her in the snow, and forced a shiver. "You haven't eaten much."

M'avina smiled mirthlessly. "I think I've lost my appetite." She glanced reflexively at the snow.

Caden frowned. "Yeah." He looked out on the mountains before them. "It's so perfect. Untouched by any man for weeks. Makes you think twice about walking on it."

She sniffed, and tapped feeling back into her nose. "And then, next snowfall, no one knows we were here."

Caden nodded sagely, and offered her his canteen. She took it, and uncorked it. She started at the smell. "Ale?"

Caden smirked. "Takes longer to freeze."

She took a swig. "Strong stuff."

He took the canteen back and corked it. "It's gotta be."

Kaelim walked past them. "Get your things, we're on our way."

They nodded in submission and jogged back to the camp to pull their cloaks back on and strap their packs to their backs, and sling everything else onto their trusty packhorse.

The wind was little more than a cool breeze, and the sky was beautifully clear. The sun seemed brighter than usual, and the air not as thin as it had been before. Maybe it was just the contrast, coming out of the blurred, hazy Valley of Whispers, but everything seemed this way. Brighter, clearer, easier. But there was still an almost unnerving calm. M'avina had grown so used to the howls and whispers of the wind of the Kae Huron that now, without them, she felt as if some great chaos was about to descend upon them, that this was the ethereal calm before the storm.

The hill from the Valley descended into a great caldera, and the mountains made a close horizon. They trekked with little conversation for several hours, and the mountain shadows grew along the pristine caldera, like a black claw with too many fingers slowly reaching for the other side.

The sun set uneventfully, and they reached the other side of the caldera shortly after nightfall, and made camp in the shadow of another network of mountains.

The Valley had seemed to calm everyone else down, but the appearance of Jade put M'avina on edge, for some reason. There was something remarkably vivid in the way Jade told her tale. M'avina could see the scene in her mind's eye, and she knew every detail of Moribande's body, though they had never met. But M'avina was drawn to the floor, naked with no blood. They had not defeated Baal without sacrifices. She knew that. Qual-Kehk had told her. M'avina found herself desperately wishing that she could just see Vidala's body, mauled and mangled as it may be, just so that she could grieve and weep like a normal person, and not be possessed of this sorrowful confusion.

And then she felt guilty for being so selfish.

Now, she found herself happily bored. No ghosts, no demons, no memories, just a beautiful night sky and a quiet fire. They drank some Barbarian wine, which was quite bad, and ate the last of their stale bread. Caden had said that they should save some for the rest of the journey, but Ume had interjected, saying that it would just become spoiled or mold-infested. Kaelim had agreed with Ume, and suggested that they keep on the lookout for any wildlife. After the dinner, they settled in for the night, but not before Kaelim approached M'avina.

"M'avina, I'd like you and Scyld to scout over this next hill, before you rest for the night," he requested. "There are many wild birds who forage in the morning, so I'd like to set out at dawn, and I'd think it wise to know the lay of the land before we head out."

M'avina wasn't very eager to sleep, not knowing what dreams would be provoked from the days events. She wasn't sure what had disturbed her more, Ord Rekar and the weeping mother, or the revelation of the bloodless floor from Jade. Either way, the day had not been especially kind to her subconscious. So she quickly agreed, grabbing her bow and quiver from beside her blanket, and walking to the edge of camp, where Scyld was waiting for her, fidgeting with some pebbles at the base of the ridge.

She smled apologetically as M'avina approached. "I'm sorry to have to drag you from your bed, M'avina. I would have gone alone but Kaelim insisted I have some protection."

"I don't mind," said M'avina sincerely, though the look on Scyld's face told her that she didn't quite believe her. They began climbing the rocky ridge. There was some loose rock, but little snow, so the climb wasn't very treacherous.

Scyld noted the terrain wryly as M'avina helped her up a large step. "We may have some trouble with the packhorse here."

M'avina nodded. "You know more about this land than I do, Scyld. What am I looking for?"

"Well, I think Kaelim expects to hunt wild turkeys in the morning. They live in certain places throughout the Kae Huron, though I can't say for certain if they're in this area," Scyld explained. "Though, after the portal, the Mountain Clan, and the Valley of Whispers, I just don't think Kaelim wants any more surprises."

"I see," said M'avina, and after a few more steps, they crested the ridge.

The mountain rising to the north of them protected the valley before them from much snow, as well as much light, so the terrain looked rocky and barren, even in the dark. Scyld made a wry face. "Well, I think we can safely say that nothing's going to be foraging here. We should move on," she said, and began to descend.

The hills to the south, which had bordered the caldera they just crossed, continued to form the southern horizon. The ridge they were on descended into the thin, rocky ravine, which seemed like a reversed apex between the two mountains. Beyond that, M'avina couldn't make out any specifics, only the black silhouette of the mountains on the darkening sky. She followed Scyld into the thin ravine.

"You know," said Scyld as they walked quietly through the ravine, "this is sort of like a childhood fantasy realized. When we were young, Caden and Drus and I would always want to play in the mountains. I eventually knew the foothills of Arreat as well as my own home. But were were forbidden to venture deeper into the Kae Huron. Even the rites of passage were limited to Arreat."

M'avina nodded. "What are the rites of passage?"

"Well," Scyld chuckled, "not as elaborate as my ancestor's, my father would always remind me." She sighed, "There are two. At the Age of Growth, every Barbarian must venture up Arreat, alone, and hunt a mountain ram. That is at thirteen years. The second rite is mostly only done by warriors at the Age of Manhood, when we're eighteen years old. Though," she shrugged, "the rest of us usually do it, anyway. I did it before I knew I wanted to become an alchemist. We are required to return to Arreat, and hunt a predator. Usually a wolf, though some of our bolder warriors return with the pelt of a bear. Malah told me once that when Qual-Kehk came back with the head of a snow drifter," she smiled, "though she may have just been telling stories."

"An eighteen-year-old taking on a snow drifter?" M'avina raised an eyebrow. "Though I guess if anyone were going to do it, it would be Qual-Kehk."

Scyld laughed, and then her face grew sorrowful. "Although . . ." she sighed. "Don't tell anyone this, but Caden . . . when he turned eighteen, I told him he shouldn't complete the rite. He was always so small, and no one expected him to be a warrior, and that's not a bad thing. We are a warrior people, but it is not our only concern. But he did it anyway, and he failed."

M'avina looked at her. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Scyld admitted with a shrug. "He never talks about it. But he was gone for five days, which is longer than usual, and then returned with a maimed arm and wounds from battle all over his body, but no pelt, no head, nothing. I think he feels the whole town has been mocking him ever since.

"It's been so hard for him all his life," Scyld shook her head. "When he reached the Age of Growth, all of his friends were exploding upward all around him, and Father kept assuring him that his spurt was just late in coming."

"Was your father a small man, too?"

"No, which made it even more disheartening for Caden . . . for both of them, really. Father was always encouraging, but, I mean, every Barbarian father wants to raise the greatest warrior in the tribe. It's not exactly a secret. Maybe Father was disappointed in him, but if he was, he never showed it. He was always very encouraging to Caden, to both of us. Caden was lucky to have him as a father. I know men - and women - in Harrogath who would have made Caden's life a living hell if he had been their son. Sometimes people lose sight of what really matters - they want their children to be great warriors, until a war starts."

M'avina laughed mirthlessly. "There hasn't been war at Skovos since I've been alive, but it's really the same. In the cities, every woman is pushed into training. They aren't given much choice in the matter. And then, when training is done, they have nowhere to put it to good use. I think that's why so many Amazons travel abroad."

Scyld nodded. "That makes a certain sense. Although before I met you and Vidala, I knew your kind only by reputation." She chuckled. "I guess Harrogath is a little out of the way."

"A little," M'avina agreed jokingly.

The ravine curved to the right as it descended, and they soon found themselves rounding the edge of the mountain that had loomed to the north. The half-moon came into view, vaguely obscured by cumulus clouds that dotted the night sky, and they could see the northern horizon, and a whole new landscape before them.

"Hm," Scyld used her hand as a visor and peered out at the scenery. "Do those look like trees to you? West of here."

M'avina followed her gaze. They probably were trees, either that or a jagged mountaintop . . . that swayed in the wind. "I think so."

Scyld nodded. "That's probably a good place to hunt. If anything's going to live up here, it'll be there." She wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. "It's probably a little father than Kaelim had been hoping for, but at least it's something."

Scyld looked over the rest of the land, and then smiled. "I think we can . . ." she took M'avina by the hand. "Come here."

Scyld carefully began to climb the rocky ravine, toward the base of the mountain which had blocked them before. The side they were on, M'avina noticed, was remarkably steep. Almost perpendicular. It made the peak look like it was leaning to one side.

"I probably shouldn't talk about Caden like this," Scyld said as she climbed. "Least of all to you."

"What we say between us stays between us, Scyld. You needn't worry about that," M'avina replied, then paused. "Why least of all me?"

Scyld turned back with a mischevious grin. "I think he's a bit taken with you, to be honest."

M'avina looked at Scyld a moment, who smiled and then continued up the rocky hill. It had occurred to M'avina, naturally. But M'avina wasn't even sure that she reciprocated or not. She wasn't sure if she had ever been in love at all, and so, felt that she had nothing to compare it to.

Finally, Scyld reached the mountain wall, and leaned against it to catch her breath as she waited for M'avina. When the Amazon caught up with her, Scyld was scanning the horizon intently.

Her eyes brightened as they fell upon something in the distance, and she gleefully pulled M'avina close, so she could follow her finger as she pounted. "Do you see the peak with the dent? And curves like a talon?"

It was a fitting description. Nestled in the jagged horizon was a large shadow, topped with, it looked like, a single claw from a bird of prey. M'avina nodded.

"That's Nulholla Peak," Scyld told her. She sighed wistfully. "I never imagined being so close to it. There's a magic in these mountains. I can feel it sometimes. I've heard legends about them since I was a babe."

The mountain seemed farther away than it would be feasible to reach, but M'avina had thought the same of the Tamoe highlands when they had first approached them from Westmarch. Growing up on Skovos, every destination she needed to go never looked too far away. Everywhere, you could see the ocean. M'avina let her gaze drift from Nulholla.

The horizon back home was always moving. Even when clouds obscured the sun, moon, or stars, the ocean was always a picture of change and movement. And when the clouds drifted away, it was a glittering blanket over the world. Here, in the mountains, the horizon was stagnant and unchanging. In Aranoch, she always had the sea to the south, and in Kurast, she always had the familiar, albeit overgrown, jungles.

But here, in the Kae Huron, with nothing from home but the bow slung across her shoulder, she had nothing left.

To distract her from the encroaching despair, she turned back to Nulholla, where Scyld was still warmly gazing as she played with her belt buckle. "Well," she said finally, "we'll have to set out pretty early to reach that forest, so we should head back and get some sleep."

M'avina nodded, and Scyld started down the hill, but suddenly, a light caught her eye - a shift in the motionless horizon. It gleamed, for only a moment, from the top of a peak amidst the mountains. And, now that she looked at it intently, it didn't look like a mountain. It was thin, and flat at the top. It looked more like a tower.

"Scyld," M'avina called. The Barbarian returned to her side, and M'avina pointed to the strange, shadowy peak. "There, I saw a light."

Scyld followed her gaze and squinted into the distance. "That is a strange mountain," she agreed.

They both stared at it for several minutes more. M'avina blinked. Her eyes were beginning to hurt. She sighed. "Nevermind," she said, turning, and making her way toward the ravine. "It must've been a trick of the shadows."

"No, wait!" Scyld shouted raher loudly, "I see it! A light!" She pointed excitedly

M'avina turned to look, but by the time she found the peak again on the darkening horizon, the light had gone out. "Are there any Barbarian outposts in this region?"

Scyld shook her head. "No. Harrogath is one of the few mountain strongholds, and it's only nestled in the foothills. It's supposed to be a preventative measure - theoretically, no invaders are expected to make it this deep into the mountains. There's a chance that some of the nomadic tribes could be here, but most of them were brutally decimated in Baal's advance from Sescheron, so I doubt that they would take the time to venture this far north. And it's in bad form to come into Harrogath's territory without asking permission, or at the very least notifying our elders.

"Either way, though, they wouldn't build a tower in the mountains. All the nomadic tribes build structures that they can take apart and take with them. A tower that large wouldn't suit their needs." Scyld paused. "I wonder . . ."

M'avina glanced at her. "What?"

"There's a legend, about the two swords of Bul-Kathos. The first swords ever fashioned in the world. He forged them in the fires of Cobralor, before the mountain slept. He wielded them against whatever powers challenged him, and drove his enemies from Mount Arreat with their blood on his blades. They were his children before we were his children."

Scyld got a faraway look in her eyes, and a strange depth to her tone whenever she spoke of legends. M'avina found it invigorating.

"And when he chose us, his people, to protect the mountain in his stead, he hoisted both swords above his head and threw them into the depths of the Kae Huron, and he bellowed that his most worthy warriors shall find the swords and when they are reunited, it would be a golden age of our people.

"According to our legends, a great warrior named Garmund the Berserker, during the dawn of the Sin War, went into the mountains at the behest of the Nephalem, and cried out that he would aid them in the defense of the mountain. And the Sacred Charge burst from the snowdrifts and into his hand. And with the great sword in his hand, fire did not scorch his flesh, and frigid cold did not numb him. And so he went into battle with the demons, with the colossal blade in one hand and a hatchet of his own creation in the other, Garmund led our people against them, and was a whirlwind of destruction. He died in the final battle, and where he fell, the city of Sescheron was built. The demons never returned to the Highlands," she momentarily lapsed out of her cryptic tones. "Until Baal laid siege to us, that is."

She quickly fell back into her lore. "The Sacred Charge has since been the weapon of the king of tribes, and hangs in the Great Hall of Sescheron. At least, it did."

M'avina heard despair creep into her voice, and immediately attempted to get her back on track. "You said there was a second sword?"

Scyld nodded with a gently smile. "Yes, the Tribal Guardian. It was never found. That golden age has yet to come to our people. But - here's where it gets interesting - there is a legend in the Scéal Fada that one of the first disciples of Caoi Dúlra, a young druid named Nord, was communing in the wilds of the mountains, when he came upon a great eagle, impaled upon the snow by a great sword. The eagle was dying painfully, and Nord tenderly broke its neck to end its suffering.

"Sensing great power in the sword, Nord drew it from the body of the bird, holding it by the blade, and laid it on the bloodstained snow. Then, the bird turned into Fiacla-Géar, who praised Nord for his compassion. He told him that the sword was an artifact of immense power, and he bid Nord to hide it in a stronghold until one worthy to find it should come and reclaim it."

M'avina saw the light in the tower flash again. "You think that this might be the stronghold?" she gestured into the distance.

Scyld grinned. "It certainly could be." She stepped away from the mountain face. "Oh, M'avina, you don't have any idea what it would mean if we found it? The prophecy says that in a time when our king fell, the new heir to the throne would pick up the Tribal Guardian and return to Sescheron to unite the two swords, and he would wear the crown of our people, and would be possessed of great strength. Don't you see? We might be venturing with the next king of the Barbarian people."

"Or queen?" M'avina raised an eyebrow.

Scyld was about to say something, but simply looked back at the horizon. Either at the tower, or at Nulholla, M'avina couldn't tell. The alchemist breathed deeply, tempered with excitement. "Destiny's coming together before our very eyes."

M'avina frowned, and didn't know why. The Amazon took a step down the hill. "We should be getting back."

Scyld nodded, "You're right, of course," and though she followed closely, she glanced back at the shadowed mountains on the horizon frequently as they trekked back to camp.

They had been on Meshif's rickety sailboat, as they passed the fertile delta into the River Argentek.

"Do you believe in destiny?" M'avina had asked Vidala.

Vidala had inhaled the salty air with a smile. "Yes . . ." she answered thoughtfully. "But there are some very ugly shadows to that."

M'avina quizzically cocked her head. "Like what?"

Vidala got a very distant look in her eyes, and a beautiful sadness swept over her face. She turned to M'avina, and made an empty smile. "I'll tell you later."

She never did.

[Nephilim]

Jabari had no idea where all these demons came from. His master, Vischar Orous, had a few theories, but all Jabari needed to know was that they were here, and they were many. The labyrinth below Tristram was choked with their distorted bodies. Around every corner, and lurking in every shadow, was some twisted visage - a creation of one of the Three. And every time they encountered one they hadn't seen before, Orous scribbled fervent notes into his tome, and would haul the carcass to the surface, so he could examine it.

But Jabari was restless. He and Orous were all that remained of the Zharesh Covenant's presence in Tristram. They had come before with the jovial Geshef, but he had been quick to fall. Geshef had formerly been Orous' apprentice, but with him dead, Jabari was all the aged sorcerer had left to aid him, and he put him to work at every available convenience. But others had come, too. Mercenaries from Ensteig, Khanduran survivors from the campaign in Westmarch, the Sisters of the Sightless Eye, and even other Vizjerei. During his time in Tristram, he had seen so many varieties of the turinash, he didn't even recognize some of them. He and Orous had only come from Lut Gholein, but there were Vizjerei from lands as distant as Ureh.

With all those different factions fighting the demons below Tristram, he feared that no action would be left for him. He was a mere novice - not even a formal acolyte. But he would never gain any experience if he was occupied hauling corpses up before the blood cooled. The Zharesh Covenant may have been preoccupied with research and scholarship, but they, like all other Vizjerei, recognized battle scars above all else. He had helped in the desperate slaughter below this darkened town, and had put his life on the line more than once. But he still felt that he was being cheated out of his share of adventure.

This thought occurred to him again as he struggled to drag a demon's corpse onto Vischar's examination table. It was covered in sweat and blood, which made the task all the more difficult, and the smell was intolerable. Plus, it was - at least, it had been - eight feet tall, and he had needed help from the good-natured Vactayan warrior, Aguinara, to get it up from the caves. But Orous forbade anyone but himself, and Jabari, from entering his tent.

It didn't help that Orous himself was absent at this time.

Jabari managed to get the bestial, thorny head onto the table, and then circled around and attempted to hoist the rest up by the clawed feet. It didn't help that the creature also had a thick tail to get in the way at every opportunity. And when he finally did push the lower half onto the table, the head lolled off.

It was at this time that Vischar Orous entered the tent. His turinash was bright blue, embroidered in gold - a sign of achievment in the Zharesh Covenant. Jabari's, being a mere novice, was a dull, generic red, used by all novice Vizjerei, or simply wizards who did not wish to state allegiance between one faction or another. In Orous' hand was the thick, old-looking tome that rarely left his grasp.

"Jabari!" he exclaimed, slamming the book shut. He shook his head. "By Tal Rasha, you can be so inept at times. Why did you not wait for assistance from me with this leviathan?"

Jabari resisted the reflex to roll his eyes. "With due respect, Master Orous, I didn't know when you would be returning, and I wanted to return to the labyrinth as quickly as possible."

Vischar sighed, putting his book on a table and motioning Jabari to the head of the demon. "Jabari, your place is here, in study. Not amongst empty-headed brutes who strike first and question second." Orous held the ankles of the demon stationary as Jabari pulled the head onto the table.

"But Master," Jabari noted, "many other Vizjerei are also in the fray."

"Don't remind me," Vischar snatched his book up off the table again. "Jabari, what we are doing here is very important work. We are uncovering the strengths and weaknesses of these creatures so that we might better understand them, and how to defeat them. Those other wizards," he gestured to the door with his book, "who I would hesitate to call 'Vizjerei,' are brashly throwing themselves into combat without knowing the first thing about the opponent they face.

"If they had any sense, rationale, or respect for their comrades, they would wait until we compiled enough information to know how best to attack these fiends. We would save countless lives to that effect. Instead, we have already lost dozens of capable men and women within that twisted labyrinth. Have you forgotten Geshef so quickly?"

"Of course not," Jabari was insulted at the prospect.

"Then let his death educate you, young Novice," said Vischar. Jabari hated being referred to by his rank. Orous continued, "let us educate those who attempt to overcome this evil. But we are scholars, we are not warriors." Orous looked at the fearsome creature laid out on his table. "This was the most intact of its kind?"

Jabari was surprised he had asked. The demon had a broken arm, and had died from a strike to the heart. Aside from a series of flesh wounds, everything was intact. Jabari had had a variety to choose from, of course, but most had been mangled, burned, beheaded, or otherwise disfigured.

"Yes," Jabari replied promptly.

Vischar nodded. "Good. Then, I would have you return to the labyrinth, to search for more creatures, you are doing an excellent job. But I must warn you again, young Novice," Jabari winced internally, "be careful. You're of no use to anyone as a corpse. You are there to observe, not to join in the fray."

"Yes, Master Orous," Jabari bowed curtly, and then turned and left the tent. He sighed into the night air, quickening his pace as he left. Luckily, the cave system beneath the Talsande branched up to the surface. It had originally been blocked by large rocks, but they were moved away, allowing the adventurers to forego the crypts and proceed directly to the main party, which was advancing deeper into the earth daily.

Orous had pitched his tent in, it seemed, as remote a part of town as he could, not a stone's throw away from the crude hut of the witch, Adria. Jabari's smaller, simply tent, which was barely larger than himself, was next to his. The Iron Wolves had made camp just south of the creek which bordered the town, and the Rogues had made camp east of the town, on the dirt road that led to the highway. The other Vizjerei, and most of the warriors, had taken up residence in the town itself, either in Ogden's Tavern of the Rising Sun, or one of the houses whose owners had either fled, or had been cut down by the strange, cloaked riders who roamed the countryside.

The Iron Wolves' camp was quiet and dark. Those who weren't in the labyrinth were likely sleeping. Jabari hastily crossed the simply wooden bridge, and in moments, he was in the middle of the town, hazily lit by candles in windows and lanterns on shopfronts. The cave system was on the other side of Tristram, and while Jabari could have circled the town to get to it, the cloaked riders, and opportunistic fallen ones gave him pause. He may have been battle-hearty, but he wasn't stupid.

"Jabari!"

He jumped in surprise because of the sound of his name, for one thing, but also from the break in the silence.

Aguinara jogged out of the smithy with a laugh. "I thought that was you," she said, her voice laden with a thick Vactayan accent. Jabari swore that she must have had Amazon blood in her. She was tall and capable, though she possessed the thick, red hair of her people, and she fought in battle as well as any man.

"Finally let you out, did he?" she chuckled, slapping him lightly on the shoulder.

Jabari nodded. "Yes. I was just going back to the caves. I hope they haven't gone too far deeper since I left, I would hate to lose them again. That labyrinth is a mad jungle to navigate."

Aguinara nodded. "Aye, that it is. I was just about to make my way down there, meself. What d'you say? You watch my back," she winked with a grin, "and I'll watch yours."

Jabari smiled. Aguinara was a career warrior, raiding tombs and seeking adventure, along with her partner, the Ensteigi knife-fighter, Gonnogal. They arrived, Jabari remembered, just after the curse of King Leoric was lifted. At the time, most of the townsfolk believed that that was the cause of all these problems. Evidently, that was untrue. In any case, Aguinara and Gonnogal had entered the Tavern of the Rising Sun as the adventurers were celebrating their supposed victory. Jabari had been there, as well.

Pierre Tombale, the leader of the vaunted Swift Wing mercenaries out of Westmarch - who had, he repeatedly reminded Ogden and Gillian, promised to cure them of their troubles free of charge - had told them to turn around and head home, boasting that they had already been through the labyrinth, and no fortune remained. With a shrug, Aguinara and Gonnogal had gone into the dungeon anyway, and returned with Valor, the legendary armour of the legendary hero, Arkaine, as well as assurances that there were still troubles beneath that Cathedral.

Tombale had returned to the dungeon, and was shortly killed when he inadvertently disturbed an old mage's studies.

Aguinara and Gonnogal had not known anyone when they came to Tristram, and so had yet to lose any close friends. Perhaps that was why they managed to cling to hope when it seemed that everyone else had despaired. Some thought that disrespectful, but Jabari thought it good for morale.

Together, they carefully descended into the dark cave. The suffocating smell of the caves filled their nostrils soon after. It got progressively warmer, until finally the tunnel opened up into the larger cave system, lit by the slow-moving rivers of magma. Vischar believed that nothing but water from the Talsande had formerly flown through these caves, and that the more powerful demons had somehow corrupted the water itself. Many had to agree. Jabari himself had helped the Rogues clear out the reservoir, where the mere presence of demons had been polluting the water supply.

The area was a rancid battlefield, thick with the smell of rotting, demonic flesh. The caves were so enclosed that the foul odour had nowhere to escape to, and the heat from the lava flows certainly did them no favours. Jabari wasn't sure how healthy it could be to be breathing the fumes of decomposing demons, but Vischar had conducted many experiments on the matter, and could find no adverse effects beyond the nausea that came from any mundane animal's corpse, as well.

Aguinara made a face, fanning the air in front of her nose. "Phew! Let's be out of this place before we get used to it," she suggested. Jabari nodded, making an effort not to open his mouth. Both stepped daintily through the mess of blood and gore, and with some effort to navigate the caves, they finally heard the sounds of battle echoing through the caves.

Aguinara gave a grin to Jabari, and rushed towards the sounds. Jabari clasped his staff with both hands and picked up the pace to follow her. Eventually, they came to a large chamber, where they saw many of their kinsmen battling a group of . . . Jabari looked closely. They looked like men - human men. They wore black armour that shone with an orange glint in the lava-light. They carried long bastard swords in one hand, and spade-shaped shields with an agry skull emblem on it. On their heads were concealing helmets with four curved horns attached. And from their helmets peered smoking, red eye.

Wendy, the young Rogue, was against the wall, nursing a blow to her thigh, and Raven, the Rogue Capatin, was standing over her, taking a shot whenever one readied itself. There were five of these strange knights. Some were missing arms, or suffering from other seemingly grievous wounds, but they were relentless, grunting with demonic exertion as they heaved their mighty blades at the six adventurers who still battled them. But one stood apart from the rest. His breast plate was orange and blue, and the horns on his matching helm were stained with blood. The T-shape slit, however, was twisted, as if he had been bashed in the face but sought not to repair it.

"Let the battle be joined!" Aguinara cried out, hoisting her axe from his sheath, and running into the fray.

Jabari followed with a sigh of dismay, as the one thought that occurred to him was "Great, now I'll have to lug one of these brutes back to Tristram." He stopped at the edge. Aside from Wendy and Raven, who were off to the side, there were six people in the midst of battle - seven, once Aguinara reached it. Aut Messersmidt, the Khanduran who returned from the war in Westmarch, was primarily focused on the lead knight with the dented helmet. Gonnogal, Aguinara's partner, was darting in and out, striking with his swift knives whenever the chance presented itself. Naj and Onan, two wizards of the Tiraj Covenant, were chanting complex spells which they assaulted multiple knights at once with fire and lightning. Baranar, one of Tombale's remaining mercenaries, was dueling with another knight, while the Rogue, Basanti, ducked out of a strike from one as she attempted to loose a crossbow bolt at him.

Aguinara dove straight for the lead, her axe overhead. He turned to her with surprising reflexes, caught the blow on his sword, and batted her away with his shield. Aguinara fell to the ground with a grunt, and Aut quickly moved in front of her.

The knight laughed. His voice was a metallic sound, but there was still a hint of a human voice behind it. Jabari hastened to Aguinara and helped her to her feet.

"Don't be so swift to protect her, fool!" the knight scolded Aut. "You'll have enough trouble protecting yourself. I'm stronger than you could ever imagine!"

Aut gripped his decorative, family axe, as he peered into the dark face of the knight before him. "That voice . . . I've heard it before."

Jabari glanced around. The others were still occupied with the other knights, all of whom still persisted.

The knight suddenly kicked forward, and stomped on the ground as the three jumped back. "You know me, warrior. I was Sir Lionhelm in my day. I was cursed - murdered by men who once called me kinsmen, for serving out my oath to protect my lord and king. But, I have embraced my curse. I am Lionskull the Bent, now, and I shall undo anything that opposes my new master."

Lionskull suddenly lunged forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Aut caught the sword on his axe, and slung it to the ground. "Lionhelm . . . one of Leoric's bodyguards."

"The same!" Lionskull shouted, and kicked Aut in the chest.

Aguinara sidestepped to avoid Aut as he fell, and rushed at Lionskull. Jabari gathered his energy, hoisted his staff, and chanted a spell in Kehjistani. Aguinara made to strike at Lionskull's mid-section, but as he blocked with his shield, she made a quick swig for his head. He turned away, but she caught him with the flat of her axe on the side of his helm. Lionskull stepped back with a grunt, just as Jabari let fly his fireball that struck him in the chest, and sent him flying through the air and into another knight behind him, dropping his sword.

Aguinara was on him quickly, and Jabari was close behind. He began to rise, and Aguinara swung her axe at him, which he deflected with his shield. But Jabari reached in and bashed the inside of Lionskull's knee with his staff, bringing the knight to his knees. Aguinara kicked the shield aside, and in a swift strike, took his head from his shoulders.

There was an ethereal, haunting death cry from both Lionksull's head an body, and suddenly, a blinding light escaped the cracks in his armour. When the light faded, the armour collapsed in a heap, with nothing left inside of it.

Her chest heaving with exertion, Aguinara managed a grin and slapped Jabari on the back. "So much for carting this one back to Orous, eh lad?" she laughed.

Meanwhile, the others were bringing down the last of Lionskull's group. The knight was missing a forearm, and had two arrows in his chest. He shuddered as Naj unleashed a bolt of lightning from her staff, and went suddenly still as Basanti shot him square in the face. The strange light erupted from his armour, which then collapsed, empty, just as Lionskull's had, and was.

Jabari looked around, and saw that, similarly, all that remained of the other knights was broken, empty armour.

Naj let the chaotic energies within her staff dissipate before she turned to look at Aut. "You knew this monster?"

Aut looked back at her. "I knew the man he used to be. He was one of Leoric's most trusted bodyguards. There were two, Lionhelm and Gorash. Griswold told me that they remained loyal to the king even after he fell into madness."

"They were likely fighting alongside the King when Lachdanan faced him down," Raven surmised.

Jabari hadn't spoken to Aut at length, but he had learned much about him during his talks with Aguinara, or even just the townsfolk. Apparently he was born in Westmarch, but came to Tristram at a young age and grew up there with his father, where they farmed the land and did little else. Gonnogal had said that the Messerschmidts were a rather renowned family in the mercenary community. Every generation had born a great warrior, who wielded the Reaver, a family heirloom.

However, Aut's father had been supposedly the last. He didn't want Aut to carry on the tradition, and Aut was fine with that. But when rumours of war began to stir, Aut felt it was his duty to protect his new home from his old one.

He had failed, and, along with the entirety of the Khanduran army, was utterly defeated, and sent back to Khanduras in shambles. Aut and the survivors of his contingent were detained for some time, so he didn't arrive until several weeks after Lachdanan had. When he returned, he found that the real threats to Khanduras had come from within. His father had been hanged for treason, believed to be involved with the kidnapping of Leoric's son, the Prince Albrecht. Khanduras had no king, no army, and no order. So Aut, who had, along with the rest of the survivors, been hoping to come home to finally rest, had to hoist the Reaver, and protect his land once more.

Naj stepped lightly through the rubble, and settled upon the battered helm of Lionskull. She picked it up and held her hand its brow. "There is a deep curse upon these men," she said, looking around.

Onan nodded, toying with his short beard. "Yes." He walked over to her, and placed his hands on the helm as well. "Spoken by a human tongue." The two spellcasters closed their eyes in concentration.

The Tiraj Covenant was one of the more dissident factions of the Vizjerei. They were more secretive, for one thing, and simply disassociated themselves from others. Like the Zharesh Covenant, they were based in Aranoch, but Jabari had barely met any Tiraj sorcerers in Lut Gholein, and knew very little about them. Though Orous would never admit ignorance to a novice, Jabari suspected that his mentor knew little more than he did.

Naj grunted in frustration, "His memories are elusive. The energies which bound his spirit here are quick to dissipate." But Jabari felt no disturbances in the balances. Whatever magic they practiced now was not of his understanding. After a few moments, they both simultaneously released the helm, and it clattered to the ground. Naj massaged her palms, and Onan wrung his hands, as if he had just burned them on a stove.

"He is gone from here," said Onan quietly.

"Aye," Aguinara nodded. "To whatever hell he so richly deserves, the blighter!"

"Who deserves what in the hereafter is not my concern, nor my business," Onan replied. "But he was guarding something. Hiding it. Even when we probed his flighty spirit, he resisted."

Raven sighed. "Wendy needs medical attention. I'll escort her to the surface."

Basansti locked a bolt into her crossbow. "I'll go with you, Mistress."

The captain shook her head. "No, Basanti, you stay with this group. I won't be long, and the Sightless Eye will guide me to you when I return with other Rogues."

"But the demons, Mistress," Basanti objected. "With Wendy injured, you will be too occupied to fight them successfully."

Aguinara examined her axe for blood and found none. "The way was clear when we came."

"Then it's not an issue. You shall stay here, Basanti," Raven ordered in a tone that allowed little argument, and, putting Wendy's arm over her shoulders, helped the crippled Rogue out the same way that Jabari and Aguinara had just come.

The adventurers both rested, and investigated the battlefield. Aguinara and Gonnogal conversed between themselves, but the rest of them sifted through the broken armour, looking for anything. Save Basanti, who seemed upset at being ordered to accompany the group, and was just waiting for them to move on.

Jabari sighed as he kicked aside another breastplate. "There's nothing here," he surmised impatiently.

"Wait," Naj paused, suddenly, before Jabari could suggest they move deeper into the caves. The party stopped what they were doing and looked to Naj, who had frozen in the centre of the fallen knights, her eyes looking to nothing, as if she was attempting to listen for something. "Everyone, be quiet and still."

They unquestionably obeyed. For a moment, Jabari feared some trap had been sprung, but knew better. Even if Basanti hadn't sensed a trap, Raven certainly would have when she had been there. Although, Raven had been growing much more distant and cold, lately, almost to the point that Jabari wouldn't have been all that surprised if she had intentionally left it for them to walk into.

But he soon felt what Naj must have been talking about. Now that he intently readied his senses, he felt it, too. He didn't know how to describe it. It was as if a very subtle dread was tugging at his heart or whispering in the corner of his ear. But it wasn't simply his conscience or his instinct. He knew that whatever it was that gave him small pangs of unease came from without. It had the scent of some magic on it. An acrid, sour scent, and a magic that was ancient and terrible. It was unlike any energy Jabari had ever experienced.

"Do you feel that?" asked Naj after a few moments.

He was about to reply, when another voice spoke first. "Yes."

Jabari whirled in surprise. It was Gonnogal who had spoken. Gonnogal, who barely knew how to read, let alone cast even the most basic of spells. If a lamen as unschooled as he in the mystical was aware of these sensations, then it was truly no magic Jabari could say he knew. But magic it was, he could be certain.

"What," Onan furrowed his brow, "was he protecting?"

Naj picked up her sand-coloured turinash, embroidered with multicoloured runes which had been dulled by the elements, and stepped lightly over the broken armour of the fallen knights, and down a tunnel, deeper into the caves. Onan followed close behind her.

Jabari glanced at his comrades. Tiraj sorcerers, he surmised, must be unused to working with anyone else, as they spoke little, and usually left it up to everyone else to figure out what they were expected to do. As such, Jabari wasn't sure if he was expected to follow the two, or wait there, or anything. But Baranar, who said less than Naj or Onan, picked up his mace and followed. When he did, so did the rest.

They found Naj and Onan at the end of a cavernous corridor, staring into a shaft that had been carved out of the rock, and reinforced with timber. But as he approached, Jabari felt the sublte tug grow into a violent clutch, and the eerie whisper an ethereal shriek in his ear. Whatever lay in that tunnel was surely the source of this magic.

The party wordlessly gathered around the Tiraj sorcerers, and peered into the tunnel. When Jabari saw it himself, he wondered if they didn't speak out of perplexion, or horror. For he felt both emotions as he looked into the tunnel.

As the stairs carved out of the rock descended, the very cave itself became tainted and spoiled. Blood trickled from clefts int the stone, and strange, bony thorns literally grew out of the walls in random places.

"Hepsheeba's ghost!" Aguinara cursed, finally breaking the silence. "What's happened here?"

Onan stepped forward, placing a hand on the wall for balance, and took two steps down.

"Onan!" Jabari whispered fervently.

The sorcerer continued heedlessly. "There is . . . something else, pushing in on our reality . . . or, being pulled into it. It's almost as if parts of some other realm are leaking into our own."

"Some other realm?" Gonnogal asked, quickly descending a few steps just to catch up to Onan. "Like a wizard's sanctuary or something?"

"Or something," Naj said, making Gonnogal jump in surprise as she gently pushed past him.

That sparked a thought in Jabari, "Perhaps Lazarus is attempting to fashion his own astral hideaway?"

Onan shook his head, his face contorted with extrenuous concentration. "No . . . no," he turned, and his face relaxed as he lapsed into explanation. "Worlds created by mortal agencies are sustained by relatively weak energies, when compared to natural realms like ours. If the barriers between them were to blur, for some reason, the real world would simply crush the lesser one into extinction." He sighed.

Gonnogal raised an eyebrow. "That happens?"

Jabari shrugged with a sigh. "It has. Some wizards try to create extra-dimensional sanctuaries to protect or seclude themselves in. Some, like Horazon, if the legends are true, have been successful. Most, however, have made sloppy work of it, and those worlds collapse within weeks, even hours, of their creation." Jabari liked educating others on matters of mystical lore. "But Onan's right," he got back to serious matters. "What's going on here is something else." He knew it as he said it. "This is Hell."

Baranar sighed, rolling his eyes, despite the ominous looks of the others. "Who cares what it is?" he asked. "Just find whatever lives in it, and kill it." He wove his way through the others and down the steps, making it to the end of the staircase before Onan, even. Shortly, the other adventurers were at his side.

This open cavern was equally strange, if not stranger. Entire walls seemed to have grown out of the rock, and the stone itself seemed a different hue - nearly violet. But everywhere, randomly arranged throughout the cave, were dead mutilated humans, universally naked, and placed on devices of torture. Whereas in the caves they had just come from, the dead were left to rot where they lay, these had been purposefully configured. Jabari found himself shocked by the macabre scenery, and almost overcome with the insidious dread that threatened to invade his perception.

Aut turned away, likely recognizing a few of the dead. "I knew that these demons were ruthless, but this . . ." he chanced a fleeting glance back. "They only did this to torture us." He put a hand to his mouth, and coughed. "Lazarus," he whispered, clearing his throat, "what have you uunleashed?"

"Let's stop asking what did this," Baranar suggested. "Let's just find it, and kill it." He walked into the cavern, heedless of the deformed bodies dotted throughout.

Jabari tried hard not to gaze into the eyes of the dead, and followed at the rear, with Aguinara and Gonnogal.

"Wait."

Jabari turned at Basanti's voice. "What's wrong."

"Do you feel that?" she asked. Aguinara and Gonnogal had stopped, as well.

At first, Jabari thought she was referring to the strange emotional sensations that Naj had pointed out before, and thought it odd that, of all people, she would only be noticing it now, but instead, he realized she meant it in a much more tangible way. For, in this hot, blasted outpost of Hell, he felt a wisp of cold air against his face. He turned to the source - a dark tunnel off to the side. A stray snowflake blew lazily from the tunnel, and alighted on the ground before them, melting instantly.

The adventurers exchanged glances, and cautiously stepped forward. Jabari looked back at the other four, who had either not noticed, or paid little heed to, their stopping.

The cold intensified as they neared it, but the wind did not. Nor did the light. It got very dark very quickly. Jabari felt his boot slip a little. The ground had turned to ice.

"Hold," Basanti whispered. The rest stopped immediately. They had all learned to respect the warnings of Rogues when they were treading upon unfamiliar ground. "Something's wrong, here."

Jabari peered into the darkness. He could make out very vague shapes, but nothing specific.

"We should leave," said Basanti. "Now!" she raised her voice in alarm, and turned on her heel. Jabari felt his heart leap in terror to see her so distressed, and made to do the same, but suddenly, the room became alive with a light that seemed to come from the walls themselves. In stark contrast to the darkness which had just been there a moment before, it blinded him. Even when he closed his eyes, the incandescence seared his eyes, and it took long moments for him to finally adjust. And even when he opened his eyes again, his vision was spotty and blurred. He saw the other three, before him, flailing about similarly, and he rushed towards the way he had come. But suddenly, a piercing chill filled the air, and a thick, creeping frost crept across the very air, forming a wall of thick ice to block his path. He turned to look back on the room.

Every inch of it, that he could see, was covered in snow, broken only by stalagmites of ice which reached upwards towards their stalagtite cousins reaching back from the ceiling. The light came from the walls and floor themselves, and illuminated the risen apex in the centre of the room. A chair had been carved out of a exceptionally large stalagmite. On either side were a pike, and on each had been placed the torn-off torsos of a man and woman. And on the back of the chair was another corpse, which had been ripped from the neck down and splayed out, hung on it like a coat to dry. Jabari could see the spine through the ice on the other side.

And sitting across the throne, her legs over one armrest and her elbow on the other, was the most beautiful woman Jabari had ever beheld. Even when he realized she couldn't be human, he still thought her beautiful. Her skin was a pale grey, like alabaster, and her hair was raven black, and gleamed in the light, despite the two, onyx horns that curved out from under her locks to complete the perfect symmetry of her face. Her eyes were a cold blue, nearly white, and her lips were black. What little she wore did nothing to hide her endowments. A pointed tail wrapped around one leg, wagging gently, and a pair of dark blue wings were slung over one armrest. They were the same colour as the boots she wore. Clutching lazily in one hand was a long, thin sword with a heavy barb on the end, the end resting lightly on the snow. There was a playful smile on her visage.

Jabari and his comrades were perfectly still. He still saw spots on his vision.

The demoness sat upright and spread her wings, resting her back on the icy support, her elegant horns framing the contorted face of the dead man mounted on her throne. "Welcome," she greeted warmly, "to my little corner of Hell." Her voice seemed accompanied by a chilled whisper.

Jabari took a step away from her.

She tilted her head. "You would flee from me, Jabari?" She knew his name. How did she know his name? "Do you suspect me of bearing ill will? You don't even know me. Do you judge me by the colour of my skin? Or," her eyes fluttered upward, to the gruesome corpse above, "the company I keep?"

This was a strange encounter, Jabari could be rather certain his companions would agree.

The creature shifted in her seat, still daintily holding the sword as if it was a cane. "I am Witchmoon. I am a servant of the powers which have taken root here. I must admit, I'm quite thrilled. I've been wandering the frozen wastes of your lands for years, and have never found a place to call my own. And then, I was called here, and granted this asylum." She moaned contentedly. "This is all mine. And you are my guests."

"If you serve those who have corrupted this place, then you are our enemy," said Basanti firmly.

"Do not be so quick to assumptions, Basanti," Witchmoon chided with a knowing smile. "Not unlike your kind, mine embrace a wide array of philosophical outlooks on our existence. It would be folly to think that every demon is of the same mindset. We think, and we imagine."

They adventurers exchanged glances. "Why have you trapped us here?"

Witchmoon stood. "I have several truths I would like to get off my chest," she put a hand to her chest, and Jabari couldn't help but glance at her breasts. "And I think that you should know them before you go further, in any direction."

She took a step forward, and they took a step back. She smiled daintily.

"I hate humanity in such a very general sense. I hate your society, I hate your civilization, and I hate every last member of your insipid race." She said it as casually as one might count chickens, still smiling gently. "I hate that you've infested this world - this rather expansive world, and had not the decency to simply leave me be."

"It's our world to infest, love," Aguinara said with a shrug.

"Your world?" Witchmoon raised an eyebrow. "You say it as if a realm is a thing to be owned. As if it was made for you, and not that you were made for it. The fact remains, my dear Aguinara, that humanity shares this world with countless other races, but when me and my kind were exiled here so many long years ago, you would not share it with us. Even when we forsook our masters and abandoned them to your Horadrim. We fled to the mountains, and shivered until our skin grew to resist the cold. And even there, we were hunted like vermin." She shook her head, like a parent disappointed in their child. "You couldn't even let us live in your shadow like mice."

She chuckled to herself. "Look what you would have us do. Defy our nature and flee from battle, only to hunt us, still. And so, in knowing that it would be our only chance at survival, I had to come back here - I had to answer that call. I had to get on my knees and beg forgiveness of him. If it was any other time, he would have killed me right there and then. And even now, my fate remains uncertain, even in his inevitable victory here. These Lords do not suffer traitors any longer than they must. And it's all because of you," she flicked the blade suddenly towards them. They jumped, having nearly forgotten it was there. But no one made a move to attack, including Witchmoon. She lowered the sword. "That is why I hate you so completely, and so profoundly." The sublte smile, and the distressingly casual tone in which she spoke, had yet to fade.

"Well, we're not entirely fond of you, either," Aguinara noted. Gonnogal chuckled.

Witchmoond rolled her eyes and grunted in disgust. "Ugh. You people don't even know what you love and hate. You barely know what you even are." She stepped aside and pointed with her sword to the man on the throne, his insides on display for all to see. Jabari heard Gonnogal gag.

"You're revolted? This is you! This is a part of you, one of the many facets of your kind. If I can see the beauty of your mangled dead, you should certainly be able to respect it, not be disgusted by a reflection you don't understand or appreciate. My flesh is as beautiful as the skin sheathing it. But you will never be able to see that." She lowered her sword quickly enough to scar the snow. "You're all identical underneath that delicate skin. You're not unique - you're not special in any way. How could you possibly be? You live your short, futile lives. But in the end, you all bleed the same colour and spill the same innards. That, my dear, is the principle of order - the order you fight so furiously to defend."

"I grow tired of this," Basanti spat. "Did you bring us here to simply rebuke us for being human?"

Witchmoon threw her hands up in defeat. "So then, my point truly is lost upon you, isn't it. Why do you define being human as excluding all that is not? You are not victims of the machine, you are willing cogs within it, churning out hatred and confusion. I tried, I really did. But you perceive me as a monster, to the point that becoming one is my only hope of survival. And that's all I have left to fight for."

Jabari didn't understand her. He didn't know what she meant, and he wasn't sure if she was trying to make them her evangelists. "What," he asked, pausing, "do you intend to do with us?"

Witchmoon sighed dejectedly. "If I didn't so passionately hate your kind, I would pity you. Your lives are so short and your capacities so limited, you can't possibly make any substantial insights with the resources whatever god you believe in gave you. So, I felt it rather compassionate of me to allow you a few minutes of actual thought before I murder you, which, I'm afraid, I fully intend to do."

Jabari had a feeling that such was the case. He took a step back and assumed a battle-ready stance. The others did similarly.

Witchmoon smiled, almost apologetically. Almost. "I won't lie to you, I shall revel in your deaths. I can only defy my nature for so long." She assumed a defensive, though elegant battle stance, and a stillness fell across the room. For a few moments, the only sound they could hear was the snow falling from nowhere.

Basanti fired a bolt from her crossbow, and it sounded like a thunderclap. Witchmoon dodged, swiping her sword in an effort to deflect it, but missing. The bolt lodged itself in one of the corpses behind her without incident. Aguinara rushed past Jabari, her axe raised. Witchmoon launched herself into the air with a push from her legs a flaps of her wings. Aguinara swiped, but the demon swung her legs back to avoid it, and made a slash of her own with her sword, but was too far away and hit nothing.

"Aguinara, down!" Jabari shouted, and spun his staff expertly along his wrist. He shouted an incantation and gathered his energy, releasing it in a ball of flame propelled from his palm. Witchmoon made a hawkdive to the gound and the fireball took a chunck out of a large icicle on the ceiling. Smoke fogged his vision for a moment, but when it cleared, he saw Witchmoon rushing towards him, her teeth clenched and her eyes gleaming with delight.

Witchmoon swung at him, and he caught the blade on his staff, lodging it in the hard wood. Barely missing a beat, Witchmoon brought up her free hand and slashed him on the neck. He felt her sharp nails dig into his flesh and fell back, fearing she had slit a major artery. He heard her and Gonnogal battle, but first had to be sure that he was all right. He felt the wound, and the blood flow was steady, but not alarmingly so. Glancing back, he saw Witchmoon, with amazing speed and agility, taking on Aguinara and Gonnogal at the same time. He reached into a pouch on his belt, and smeared the powder within on the wound to stop the bleeding. It stung very badly, but the alternative appealed to him considerably less.

When he turned back to the battle, Basanti was running at Witchmoon, to strike her in the back of the head with the butt of her crossbow. Though the demoness never turned to look, she seemed to sense her approach, and she harshly kicked Gonnogal in the knee, dropping him. She caught Aguinara's ax with her sword, and slung it to the ground, holding it there with her blade. And then, just as Basanti reared back to strike, Witchmoon twisted around suddenly, backhanding her with her free hand, and in the same motion, struck her with the flat of her wrist in the sternum. Basanti dropped the crossbow as she flew back, hitting an icy stalagmite and falling into the snow, either unconscious or dead.

And as Witchmoon turned back around, Aguinara socked her one in the mouth. The blow was hearty, and Jabari couldn't help but smile at it. It sent the demon back a few paces, allowing Gonnogal to regain his footing, Aguinara to free her weapon, and Jabari to join them at their side.

A drop of blood, that seemed far too bright a shade of red, trickled out of the side of Witchmoon's smile. Without a word, she struck like a cobra, and made straight for Aguinara.

Gonnogal struck at her, but she wove around the blow and kicked him hard with her sharp heel in the stomach. Jabari struck but the blocked his staff with her forearm. Witchmoon swiped at Aguinara's midsection, and the Vactayan blocked with her axe. But in the same motion, Witchmoon jabbed at her neck. Aguinara moved to avoid it, but the attack caught her cheek, slashing it open. The warrior woman gritted her teeth, but did not move her hand to the wound. Instead, she let it bleed and bashed Witchmoon's sword away with the flat of her axe.

Jabari ducked low, and quickly snapped his staff at the back of Witchmoon's knee. She tripped and fell. Jabari swiftly moved to jam her in the face with the butt of his staff, but she caught it on her palm, and swiftly moved it so that the other end boxed him in the ear.

Witchmoon shifted herself in the snow, and sliced at Aguinara's tendon, but hit her greave, so she quickly moved up her shin, and sliced out the back of her knee. Aguinara cried out and fell. Witchmoon reached up and grabbed Gonnogal by the shirt, pulling herself up, and head-butting him savagely, knocking him immediately senseless.

Then, she turned slightly, and quickly stabbed Aguinara through the heart, withdrawing the sword in the same motion, as if the blade had bounced off the ground below her. Aguinara coughed, and died instantly. But Witchmoon had yet to stop moving, she swirled around and slashed out at Jabari, who swiftly jumped back to avoid her, while trying to block with his staff.

For a few moments, both combatants were still, breathing heavily and gazing at each other.

Witchmoon chuckled. "You may all bleed the same colour," she smiled, lightly kicked Aguinara, behind her. Witchmoon reached up to her own mouth and wiped the blood away, showing it to Jabari. "But I don't."

"You're a monster," Jabari snarled, hardly believing that Aguinara was dead.

Witchmoon shrugged unapologetically. "I have to be."

With a quick incantation, Jabari fired a swift magical bolt from the end of his staff, slinging it from the butt like a trebuchet. But Witchmoon nimbly jumped in the air, flapping her wings vigorously. The missile smashed into the back of the throne, sending shards of ice onto the seat, and rocking it, so that the mutilated head at its peak lolled off, taking its splayed corpse with it. It sent up a tuft of snow when it hit the ground. Withmoon landed a moment later right on top of it, hiding behind the throne.

"Be careful, Jabari," Witchmoon warned, peeking out from one side. "If you waste all your energy now, I'll make short work of you."

Jabari breathed heavily, already exhausted. He had never been in so intense a battle without any other wizards to aid him. He was very aware that he would fail in moments if it came to combat once again. His spells were his survival, as with any sorcerer. But he could only push himself so far. His staff wasn't very elaborate, and didn't help to channel his energy as well as it could. Jabari was becoming more and more certain that he was going to die.

But there was Basanti. Raven would surely come and find her with more Rogues. The Tiraj sorcerers, and Baranar and Aut, were also likely to come back for them. And Gonnogal was merely dazed. He would come to eventually. Jabari knew that his only hope was to bluff, and keep Witchmoon at bay until help arrived.

Witchmoon smiled from behind the throne.

Jabari muttered a spell, and gathered his energy through his body and his staff. The hairs on his arms and neck went on end as lightning danced over his body, and his eyes glowed with electricity. But he held the energies, waiting for her to expose herself.

She did, jumping from cover to attack. Immediately, he released. The lightning raced to his hand and burst from his fingertips. Witchmoon immediately dover back for cover, peering out only slightly from behind the throne. The bolt of lightning crashed into the edge of the throne and exploded. Witchmoon shrieked and fellt back in the snow. Jabari was surprised - he had only intended to threaten her.

Witchmoon rose to her feet, her smile gone, and one hand over her left eye. Blood seeped out from under her hand and between her fingers. She scowled at him darkly. "I can be a surgeon or a butcher with this blade, Jabari," she hoisted her sword, "and you have earned no luxuries from me."

Jabari was spent in every way he knew. His knees buckled and his mind ached. Nevertheless, she ran towards him, ever footfall sending up a cloud of snow, her sword raised. Jabari concentrated as well as he could, then cast a spell, and threw out a fireball at her, just as she jumped with a flap of her wings and descended towards him.

The missile struck her directly in the chest, and she was thrown back to the wall. She hit with suck force that the ice cracked, and an icicle from the ceiling broke off and fell to the snow. Jabari looked to the ceiling, at the many stalatgtites of ice leering down over Witchmoon. She looked up, too, and then back at him with alarm.

Not allowing her any time to strike, Jabari cast another fireball, and threw it up towards the ceiling. He put everything he had left into it. It collided with the ice, and exploded, showering bits of ice and snow down onto the ground. Then, the ceiling came loose, and the stalagtites plummeted to the ground. Witchmoon tried to run, but a huge chunk of ice fell from the ceiling, blocking her path, and before she could fine a new one, the ceiling caved in above her. With a shout, she was buried.

Jabari fell to his knees. The blood pumping through his veins burned with every pulse. He fell forward, stopping himself with his hands. He looked towards the wall, where he saw Witchmoon's arm reaching out from under the rubble. It clenched furiously, and then went limp.

His elbows shook, and gave out, and Jabari fell flat onto the snow, almost soothing against his feverish brow. Everything ached and hurt so much that he could concentrate on nothing else. He had spent every last morsel of energy he had left, and now, as the world faded to black, he wasn't sure if he had enough left to simply keep his heart pumping.

The last thing he saw before the world blurred away beyond recognition was the blank, strangely contented face of Aguinara, staring up at the ceiling. A snowflake alighted on her eye, and melted into a tear. But she didn't move or blink. And then darkness enveloped him and he knew no more.



". . . calm down. You know as well as I do that this is little worse than the morning after a night of heavy drinking."

"Only if episodes like this are few and far between. I've told them, and you, over and over: be well equipped."

"I'd say he was well-equipped. He dealt with his wound in the midst of battle. Though even if he had any potions, he would've likely been too weak to even imbibe them by the time he was finished."

"Oooh. I still think it's foolish for you people to push yourself like this. If for nothing else, I have more needy patients to attend to."

"Then tend to them, Pepin. We'll watch him. He'll be fine."

His body still ached, and as sensation crept back into him, he became more and more aware of it. His mind reeled. The room spun without even opening his eyes, and his body felt like it had been struck be lightning. He opened his eyes and tried to lift his head, only to have the muscles in his neck cry out in protest. He laid back down, and struggled to clear his vision.

Basanti and Onan were standing over him. Basanti had a bandage around her head.

"Glad to see you're back," Onan greeted with a quiet smile. "Though I wasn't worried. I can't say the same for Pepin, unfortunately."

"That man worries about everything," said Basanti, rolling her eyes.

Jabari strained to raise his head again, but decided against it. "What happened? Aguinara?"

"Dead, I'm afraid," Basanti answered sorrowfully. "But you saved Gonnogal and myself. For that I thank you, and so does he."

"Where is he?" asked Jabari.

"Giving Aguinara a personal funeral service," Onan replied. "He buried her in the eastern forest shortly after he regained himself."

Another thought occurred to Jabari, and he sighed. "Vischar."

"I'm afraid he hasn't taken this very well," said Onan. "He's already collapsed his tent, and is making preparations to leave."

Jabari's head shot up. "What?" it really hurt, but he couldn't believe it.

"It's true," Basanti nodded, crossing her arms. "Wendy was tainted by the demon blade which wounded her. Pepin managed to properly tend to the wound, but she is still very weak and will need to recover. Orous has made arrangements with Raven to bring Wendy back to the Monastery as he travels back to Lut Gholein."

Jabari stared at them in stunned silence for a moment. "I must speak with him," he said, making to get up. Onan stalled him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Here, drink this first," he pulled a thin, clear glass bottle full of a thick blue syrop. He uncorked the bottle and handed it to Jabari. The young sorcerer took it and downed it. It tasted quite bitter, but it was cool and thick, and soothing. He felt the pain die in his joints immediately, though it still lingered when he moved. He rose out of bed, and grabbed his turinash from the bed post, and walked out of the healer's home. Onan and Basanti followed.

It was mid-morning, but few were out and about. Naj was speaking to Cain, showing him a strange necklace, at the fountain. Otherwise, there was little activity in the square. But Jabari could see the wagon on the far side of the town, and quickened his pace towards it. Raven was helping Orous load his things into his wagon. When he saw Jabari, he climbed down with a mirthless smile.

"Good, you can walk. I was afraid all my traveling companions would be comatose," he said.

"Master Orous, don't leave purely because of my indescretion. There is still much work to be done here," Jabari protested.

"Don't flatter yourself, Jabari," Vischar scolded. "Your injuries were an inconvenience, not a factor. Though I'd like to add that I do not view it very kindly. A novice respects his master through obedience."

Jabari raised an eyebrow. "If I'm not why you leave, then why do we leave?" he asked. "Why now? There are still many creatures in the labyrinth . . ."

Vischar took out a bundle wrapped in cloth from the front of his wagon, and carefully unsheathed it. "It is this," he said. "Baranar found it in the labyrinth and sold it to me." The cloth fell away, revealing what looked like a flat metal box, but Jabari soon saw that it was actually a book, bound in metal. Even the pages were sheets of steel.

Jabari looked at the book, and then at Orous. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"This is a monumental find, Jabari. It is an account of the Warlord of Blood. If Baranar had the faintest idea of what this truly was, I doubt he would have sold it to me for any price I could afford. If what this book says is true . . . Jabari, the world of sorcery will never be the same."

"But what about your research here?"

Vischar was growing impatient. "Haven't you been listening? This is an opportunity the likes of which few sorcerers ever even dream of getting. I can't just throw that away. As Chief Librarian of the Zharesh Covenant, it is my duty to bring this back, and further research what it entails."

Jabari looked back at the town. "What about your duty to Tristram?"

"I have no duty to Tirstram, nor do you. We came here of our own volition, but now we have better things to do than sate minor curiosities."

"Orous," Jabari explained. "These people need our help. This is more than just some rogue Archbishop playing with powers he doesn't understand. There are forces at work here that go beyond anything we've ever dealt with before, and these people will need every pair of hands they can lend."

Vischar's face darkened as he covered the book up again. "Jabari, I have made my decision, and I have made myself clear. Now get your things and come with me, I want to reach the mountains before nightfall." He put the book back in the wagon, and climbed up onto it. Raven helped Wendy into the wagon beside him.

Jabari looked at Onan and Basanti, who looked disappointed, and at Raven as she climbed back down. But no one was giving him any advice. This was a decision he had to make on his own.

"I'm not going back with you, Master Orous," said Jabari, as firm as he could manage.

Onan glanced at Basanti, intruiged.

Orous turned around slowly, seemingly unable to comprehend what he had just heard. "What did you just say to me?"

"I'm not coming, Master," he repeated defiantly.

Orous was fuming. "Jabari, I understand that you are young and passionate, and shall therefore allow you this one final chance. Get your things, and get into this wagon immediately."

"No," said Jabari, shaking his head. "I have a duty to these people, and I will not abandon them. I will stay and help them until there is no more work to be done, and then, I shall journey back to Lut Gholein and join you."

The anger faded from Orous' visage, and he turned back towards the road. "No, you shall not." He sighed. "Jabari, you are no longer my novice, and you are no longer a member of the Zharesh Covenant. You have lost every privelege that granted you."

Jabari was exasperated, "But, Master . . ."

"I am Vischar Orous to you, now, Jabari," Orous spat acidly. "I am your Master no longer. And if I had the power, I would rip all the training I ever gave you from your mind, and crush any talents you developed under my tutelage. But this shall have to do. Do not bother appealing my decision, either to me or the Zharesh Elders, for it shall go unchanged."

Without another word, Orous picked up the reins and flicked the horse into a slow trot. The wagon creaked to a start. Jabari chased it a moment. "But . . ." he halted, and the wagon kept on going.

Orous never turned back once.

Raven watched the wagon go, then looked at Jabari, and turned back, walking into town. Onan and Basanti stayed with him, though, as he watched the wagon trundle on the path and disappear into the forests to the east.

[Nephilim]

If someone could give Chapter 15 a once-over, I'd be appreciative. I don't have spellcheck on this machine, and I'd just like it polished before I put it on TDL.

[mashimaroinc]

a sign of achiev(e)ment in the Zharesh Covenant.

who(m) I would hesitate to call

which was barely larger than him (not himself)

The Iron Wolves had made camp just south of the creek(,) which

hazily lit by candles in windows and lanterns on (shop fronts)

the legendary (armor) of the legendary hero

The caves were so enclosed that the foul (odor)

from the lava flows certainly did them no (favors)

they wore black (armor)

with an (angry) skull emblem on it

Raven, the Rogue Captain, was standing

There was an ethereal, haunting death cry from both Lionksull's (should be Lionskull's) head an(d) body

(Basanti) Basasnti locked a bolt

Jabara felt the sublte (subtle) tug

Blood trickled from clefts int (into) the stone

Onan shook his head, his face contorted with extrenuous (extraneous) concentration.

"Lazarus," he whispered, clearing his throat, "what have you uunleashed?" (unleashed)

which reached upwards towards their stalagtite (stalactite) cousins reaching back from the ceiling.

The sublte (subtle) smile, and the distressingly casual tone in which she spoke, had yet to fade.

Witchmoond (Witchmoon) rolled her eyes and grunted in disgust.

Witchmoon made a hawkdive (hawk dive) to the gound (ground) and the fireball took a chunck (chunk) out of a large icicle on the ceiling.

Withmoon (Witchmoon) landed a moment later right on top of it, hiding behind the throne.

Witchmoon immediately dover (dove) back for cover, peering out only slightly from behind the throne.

Witchmoon shrieked and fellt (fell) back in the snow.

Jabari looked to the ceiling, at the many stalatgtites (stalagmites, stalactites?) of ice leering down over Witchmoon.

Then, the ceiling came loose, and the stalagtites (same question) plummeted to the ground.

"Here, drink this first," he pulled a thin, clear glass bottle full of a thick blue syrop. (syrup)

Master Orous, don't leave purely because of my indescretion. (indiscretion)

"I have no duty to Tirstram, (Tristram) nor do you. We came here of our own volition, but now we have better things to do than sate minor curiosities."

Onan glanced at Basanti, intruiged. (intrigued)

You have lost every privelege (privilege) that (was?) granted (to?) you."

Those other wizards," he gestured to the door with his book, "who (whom)


well, i tried. lol. REALLY nice story though! ive spent like, 2-3 hours looking at this story, on and off. =)

i hope you keep goign on with it!

[Nephilim]

Thanks for the help. Just FYI, I'm Canadian, so I use middle english. Ergo, odour, favour, etc. have a u.

And though it went on a rather lengthy hiatus after Chapter 13, I am getting back into the groove, and have the story pretty much mapped out to it's conclusion.

[mashimaroinc]

[QUOTE=Nephilim]Thanks for the help. Just FYI, I'm Canadian, so I use middle english. Ergo, odour, favour, etc. have a u.
yeah, i figured that out after awhile. which is why i stopped quoting those words, lol

thats awesome though. i cant wait til you end the story.

[Tao_of_Xero]

write a book please :D seriously, this is by far the best D2 related story I've read and by far outstrips the books that have been published. Can't wait for more.

[clercqer]

I can't wait to read the other chapters. This has been so much fun.
I hope the next part is coming out soon.

Regards,

clercqer

[kidonfire]

reading it, I thought I should point something out.
"need every pair of hands they can lend"

Shouldn't it be every pair of hands we can lend?

[Nephilim]

Yeah, I either meant to say "they can find" or "we can lend." I forget which.

[Nephilim]

M'avina had troublesome dreams that night, but forgot them by the time Arcanna nudged her awake. Despite the relative calm, as far as the winds were concerned, it seemed that few managed a good night's sleep, so it was just as well that they got up early. Particularly Jabari, who seemed especially troubled as they gathered up their things and started out.

As Scyld anticipated, they had some trouble with the packhorse, who was disagreeable from the early start to begin with, as they attempted to climb and descend the rocky terrain.

It had beem apparently implied that Jade would go along with them. M'avina had barely noticed her when she trekked across the caldera with them the previous day, and even this morning, she silently took a share of the supplies and slung them across her back.

It seemed strange the way she had just assimilated into the party with no ceremony. She had related the story of her experience in the Worldstone Keep, and then had said little else. Kaelim hadn't announced that she would be accompanying them, and Bohdan or Kinemil hadn't requested it. She just came along.

Nevertheless, M'avina was happy enough to have her, if only for her keen senses. Socially, the assassins had much to be desired. They were brutal and efficient on the battlefield, but quiet and reclusive the moment they stepped off of it. Not rude, of course. They spoke when spoken to, but generally avoided everyday conversation or congregation. Only Natalya had really associated with anyone outside of their Order, and M'avina felt that even that was for primarily diplomatic purposes.

Though the barbarians traded jokes and stories as they trekked, Arcanna, who was traveling alongside M'avina, seemed in an uneasy mood. But it wasn't until they had journeyed halfway there already in silence that M'avina broached the subject of the sorceress's disposition.

Arcanna smiled, apparently glad to have been noticed. "It's nothing, really. Just a feeling. I've had it since we left the Valley."

"What is it?" asked M'avina, though only moderately interested.

"I don't know," Arcanna muttered. "A dread. There are strange forces at work in these mountains. I don't recognize them, and call me paranoid, but I trust no magic I cannot label."

"Demons?"

Arcanna shrugged. "Maybe. Though even their spells I could identify. There is something deeper here. More subtle. We may have defeated the Three, but evil still lurks here, in these mountains, in some form or another."

"I think," said Caden, who had been a few steps behind them, "that evil will always lurk everywhere, Prime Evils or no, in some form or another."

"Touché," Arcanna conceded with a nod.

It took them shorter than they expected to reach the forest. It was entirely coniferous, the snow on the ground littered with a dense carpet of needles. The trees were closer together than they should have been. The lower branches were dead and black, as only insufficient sunlight reached them, while the upper canopy thrived.

They stopped behind a small rocky outcropping some distance from the forest, and Kaelim ordered M'avina to scout ahead. Growing up amidst the jungles of Skovos, M'avina had hawk-like vision when it came to the forests.

She licked her lips at the prospect of a hot meal. The barbarians didn't seem fond of avian meat, which M'avina favoured. But since she had come to Harrogath, if it wasn't rabbit, it was beef or lamb. Though she would have given her quiver for a hot meal of any kind, she had decided that she had had her fill of barbarian cuisine. She hadn't had chicken since she left the Rogue Monastery, and turkey was just as good in her books.

M'avina caught sight of some shadows amidst the dense forest. They were foraging, as Scyld had suspected they would be. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could make them out more clearly. They had a white, speckled coat, and even their naked, wattled heads were grey rather than pink, like the turkeys she had seen in the southern kingdoms.

"There's at least six of them," M'avina reported as she returned. It seemed strange talking about something so frivolous to them. These were traind warriors and wizards, and she had never dealt with anything other than demons and hellspawn alongside them before. She felt like she should be speaking with more gravity, and it took a moment for her to remind herself that she was talking about turkeys.

"All right," said Kaelim with a sigh. He turned to the party. "I don't think we need to form any strategies, just . . . please catch one, at least. I've considered frying up Oslaf once or twice."

Ume held up his hands in mock defense. "Don't look to me, it wasn't my idea."

M'avina laughed. It was nice to finally be genuinely lighthearted after Alaric's death, and not just pretend. And aside from Kinemil, who refused to acknowledge anything Ume ever did, the rest of the party seemed relieved in that respect, as well. Even Jade managed a smile.

They split off into smaller groups as they entered the forest. M'avina felt some relief at hunting something that wasn't hunting her back. It felt like being at home again. Either for training or just for food, she had ventured into the jungles of Skovos on several occasions to hunt. Usually just her and Vidala.

Bohdan was with her, she knew, just a few steps behind her. She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine that the steps were not so heavy, the air not so frigid, and the scent on the wind not so pine. But her imagination could only distort the truth so much. The smile faded from her lips.

"M'avina!" Bohdan whispered harshly.

Her eyes shot open. Through the trees, in the distance, was a rather large female turkey, with her back to them. M'avina crouched low to the ground and slowly put an arrow to her bow. She waited.

Bohdan was not so patient. He glanced at M'avina, and then at the turkey. "Shoot it!" he whispered loudly.

M'avina shushed him, but remained motionless. "I don't have a clear fatal shot. I'd rather not wound it and then have to chase it. It would probably spook the others, too." She explained it slowly, quietly, and patiently.

"Oh," said Bohdan, lowering his voice again. "Sorry. I've never hunted birds before."

M'avina wasn't really listening. She was watching the turkey. She lifted her head when she heard them speak, and so M'avina was still and silent. When the turkey descended once again to forage, though, she turned, and M'avina pulled her bowstring taut. She slowed her breathing, heard her heartbeat, and prepared to release.

Arcanna burst out of the underbrush so suddenly that M'avina almost shot her. The Sorceress flailed with her staff towards the turkey, who squawked in surprise, took a blow to the wing, and scuttled off speedily into the forest.

"Arcanna!" M'avina chided sharply, springing to her feet and after the turkey.

Arcanna moved out of her way, but gave chase after her with Jabari at her side. "I've never hunted before!" she explained defensively to Bohdan as he rushed past her.

It was all M'avina could do to keep the bird in her vision, and the turkey seemed much more capable bounding through the underbrush than she. M'avina chased her as fast as her legs could carry her for several minutes, even stumbling over a log at one point, but she righted herself quickly enough to keep up with the turkey.

The forest, despite being thin as far as the canopy was concerned, was still quite thick to the onlooker within, and M’avina didn't know she had come to its edge until only a few paces before she cleared it. And then, she stopped so suddenly that she nearly toppled over.

The turkey, forgotten, ran off into the mountains.

Before M'avina, nestled in the cliffside, and seeming to grow out of it at the same time, was a tall, simple tower. Immediately she knew that it was the tower she and Scyld had seen the night before. But it was much closer than they had thought it was, and thus, smaller as well. Nothing was even remotely ornate about it. She took a few steps closer, and saw that it had no mortar. The door at the base was a simple plank of wood, rotted at the edges and attached to the frame by crude iron hinges.

Bohdan and Arcanna emerged from the forest behind her.

M'avina turned back to the woods, and, slinging her bow across her shoulder, cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. "Scyld!"

Jabari joined them in the meantime. It took a few more shouts before the alchemist finally arrived. She untangled branches from her hair as she struggled through the forest. "What is . . ." she stopped as she turned to see the tower.

Bohdan and the sorcerers had stood silently transfixed, staring at the building. It stood out and blended in at the same time - so remote beside a turkey-infested pine forest in the middle of the mountains, but with an aura of permanence that made it seem like it was meant to be there. The mountains could just as easily have grown up around it as it could have been built within them.

"Is this the same one we . . ."

"Yes," M'avina answered Scyld's question before she managed to ask it. She had been sure the moment she saw it, and then had reconsidered, but now she was certain again. Even if the shape of the tower wasn't the same as the silouette they had seen, complete with a window in the exact spot that the shining light would have come from. But there was a feeling to it - a calmness. She hadn't even realized she felt it the first time she saw it, but now that the feeling came back, it was familiar.

Scyld walked immediately an purposefully towards the simple wooden door. M'avina was quick on her heels.

"Be careful," Arcanna warned, but even as she said it she didn't seem to think the situation merited it.

"I don't think there's need of caution, here," said M'avina, as she stopped at the foot of the tower, and gazed upward.

Scyld opened the door, and they carefully stepped inside. From the doorway, there was a low ceiling, but the floor of the chamber was several feet from the door, connected by a stone stair, giving the actual chamber considerably more head room.

There was no flooring, but instead a dark, rich soil, bare save for a single tree, a sapling in the very centre of the room. There was a hole in the ceiling allowing a single beam of sunlight to come through from outside and bathe the tree in a golden aura, illuminating more starkly the pair of morphos fluttering aimlessly about it, alighting on its many buds occasionally. The place smelled like an ancient wine cellar; the air was thick but not suffocatingly so. And the morphos - alarmingly out of place this far north - gave it a mystical atmosphere that comforted M'avina intensely. She stepped past Scyld and let her foot settle on the cool, smooth floor.

"By Athulua," she muttered, nearing the tree as she would a deer in the wild, almost fearing that it would flee from her if she moved too suddenly. "It's beautiful." She suddenly felt an urge to cry, but didn't.

The others slowly followed, stepping onto the soft soil, comforted by the change of pace. It wasn't cold, unyielding stone - it was the kind of soil a gardener would love, that left impressions where they walked.

M'avina neared the tree, and reached out gingerly, hoping to touch the one morpho on the branch stretching towards her. The butterfly flapped its brilliant blue wings idly, as if just out of habit, as it suckled on the pale pink blossom. It either didn't see her hand approach, or it didn't care.

Suddenly, something tugged at her foot, and M'avina started. The morpho leapt off its perch to mingle with its companion. M'avina glanced down at her boot, and saw that it had become snared in a root on the ground. Or rather, a vine. A vine that was moving.

In an instant, the ground was alive. Snake-like vines burst from the soil, wrapping around the legs of all the adventurers. Shocked at the sudden break in the tranquility, they had barely the chance to think of a coherent attack when they found their weapons equally ensnared. Jabari, his sword wrested from his hand, began to shout out a spell when suddenly the vines snaked up his body and wrapped around his mouth, effectively gagging him.

M'avina struggled in vain to rip the vines from her. With a cry of dismay and fear, she felt herself lose balance, and fell on her back. The terrifying bud reared up over her face, baring wooden fans and almost snarling at her. She tried to push it away but found her arms and legs thoroughly lashed to the ground by the thrashing vines, which now writhed over almost the entire floor. The two morphos continued to chase each other around the tree, once again either unaware or apathetic of the plight of M'avina and her comrades. She heard Bohdan scream in frustration, and Scyld muttered a prayer. The vine before M'avina coiled, and then struck. She held her breath.

"Fekala! Dúm'al gæla!"

The voice thundered and echoed in the small room, and immediately, all action ceased. M'avina opened her eyes, still waiting to exhale. The vine bud before her paused for a moment, and then retracted. The network of ivy loosened its grip on her, and she let the breath escape her lungs in a careful sigh. Looking back, the rest of her party were equally fortunate. They quickly reclaimed what weapons had been taken from them and scrambled to their feet, save Arcanna, who tenderly picked up her staff, and used it to hoist herself upright.

M'avina righted herself, brushed the dirt off her armour, and looked around. As suddenly as they had shown themselves, the vines had disappeared, leaving nothing but a mild disturbance in the soil.

She turned to see, beyond the dancing morphos and the golden sapling, Dimoak standing in the doorway opposite the one they had entered from.

"My sincerest apologies," said Dimoak as he descended to ground level. "None of you are hurt, are you?"

M'avina checked back at her companions, who seemed uncomfortable and perhaps a tad bad-tempered but unharmed. They all grunted some form of affirmation, and Dimoak nodded.

"Good. I'm very sorry about this, but I wasn't expecting friendly company. I just planted those vines recently," he looked proudly at the sapling, and gently ran his fingers down its delicate trunk. "I feel this needs to be protected." With little ceremony, one of the morphos landed on his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" asked M'avina.

Dimoak chuckled. "I'd ask you the same, M'avina. I live here. This is the Druid Watchtower of the Kae Huron. I received word on my journey back that I should take up this station in Aldur's stead, for this was his tower for many years before this one."

"Received word?" asked Bohdan, approaching them. "In these wilds?"

Dimoak grinned lightly. "A little bird told me. What of you? You stray far from the safety of Harrogath, my friends. Are you chasing the demons?"

M'avina and Bohdan exchanged glances. "Demons?"

"Aye," Dimoak nodded. "A band of demons came through here from the south, perhaps a week ago. At first I feared they might lay siege to the tower, but they seemed more preoccupied with keeping from being noticed. They wore cloaks and hid their tracks. They even avoided the wandering beasts. I cannot say even what species they were."

"We found a portal just north of Harrogath, outside of Snowgarde Pass," Arcanna reported. "Perhaps these demons came from there."

"Perhaps," Dimoak agreed. "But, if you did not come here for the demons, then why are you braving the winds of the Kae Huron?"

Scyld stepped forward. "A band of Barbarians left for Nulholla Peak before the siege of Harrogath began. We are here to find their whereabouts."

Dimoak shook his head. "I wouldn't know if they came here that long ago. Before the siege, Aldur lived here, alone. I came from Scosglen with Jalal. We met Aldur here and then continued on to Harrogath. But enough of this, come. I doubt the nights in the wild have been hospitable. Surely it was not merely the five of you, was it?"

"No," Bohdan shook his head. "We were hunting turkeys in the pine forest. Our rations are quickly running dry."

Dimoak laughed aloud, and clapped the barbarian on the shoulder. "Well, my friend, you have come to the right place, then. Gather your comrades and bring them here. The hospitality of the druids is at your disposal."

Bohdan nodded, and he left. Jabari and Arcanna wordlessly followed him, to assist. Scyld and M'avina remained. Scyld, to ask some questions she had been eager to ask the moment she saw Dimoak, and M'avina, simply because she wanted to keep warm.

Dimoak smiled. "The company of men shall be refreshing. The friendship of the wilds is comforting enough, but I cannot deny the blood in my veins."

"Dimoak," said Scyld carefully, "is this the sanctuary of Nord?"

Dimoak raised an eyebrow. "Nord?" he chuckled. "I thought only the most sagely of Barbarians scholars were aware of Nord. You are knowledgable indeed in the matters of lore."

Scyld nodded her thanks at the compliment. "But is this his ancient tower?"

Dimoak shook his head. "No, Scyld, it is not. This tower was constructed by Aldur not fifty years ago. Nord's sanctum was farther east. I know not where, exactly. None of us do. But our legends say that the hand of Fiacla-Géar carved out a hole in side of a great mountain, and there Nord slept and ate and pondered until the end of his days."

"Do you know of the sword he took from the eagle?" Scyld asked eagerly. "Did the legends ever say its name?"

The druid thought a moment. "No, I'm afraid. Fiacla-Géar only told Nord that he was to hold it for the children of Bul-Kathos, who would claim it when they needed it once more. Nord paid it little attention. The early druids never used edged weapons, so Nord simply tucked it away for safe keeping. He's more legendary to the druids for other reasons."

Scyld sighed, smiling wistfully at M'avina. "Oh well," she said with a dismayed shrug and a glance back to Dimoak. "Thank you." She turned and trod out of the tower.

M'avina and Dimoak watched her go in silence, and then M'avina turned back to the druid. "They did notice you leave, you know," she said, and then added, "and they were sad to see you go."

Dimoak pondered that a moment. "That comforts me," he realized with a nod.

M'avina smiled. "I'm happy to hear it."

"Will you go to gather your fellows?" Dimoak asked.

M'avina shook her head. "No. I have been too long from a warm solace. Amazons were never built to stand cold this long, I reckon." She looked at the tree again, and ran her finger along one of the leaves. "What kind of tree is this?"

Dimoak smiled at it. "I don't know, honestly. It is fruitbearing, I can tell, but I have not seen another like it before. Nor have any of the indigenous beasts. But its birth is more the mystery."

"How so?" asked M'avina, curious.

"This chamber never housed any plants. It was simply a home for the worms and bugs who found the rocks too hard and the snow too frigid. But when I returned from Harrogath, this tree had sprouted since. And the beasts who dwelt here told me that it first appeared the day that Baal was defeated."

M'avina's eyes snapped to his. "How certain are they?"

"The repercussions of Baal's death were felt as far as here, too, M'avina. Particularly by those so in tune with the balance of nature."

That made sense to her even though she knew she didn't understand the relationship he enjoyed with the natural world around him.

In the hour that followed before Scyld and the others returned with the remainder of their party, Dimoak gave M'avina a tour of the tower. The second floor was the dining area. It housed the cooking utensils, a long table, and a grand store of food that made M'avina's stomach twist in envy. The next level was a study, filled with books and scrolls, ranging from ornate, metal-bound tomes to simple parchments - runes scrawled on bark. But the fourth and highest level was definitely the highlight, as far as M'avina was concerned.

The room was conjested, as the walls of the tower angled inward as they ascended, but the ceiling was remarkably tall. Carved into both the ceiling and the floor of not just this, but every level was a hole allowing sunlight to reach the sapling at the base. But out of this chamber's four windows, M'avina beheld an amazing sight before her. She could see for miles on the winter landscape. Even the panoramic she had beheld with Scyld the night before paled in comparison to this. To the south, she could see the plains of the Highlands beyond the mountains, and to the north, she saw unfathomable dunes of snow. It was so vast that it denied comprehension. M'avina's breath caught in her throat when she saw it.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Dimoak smiled.

For a moment, she felt like she would never call anything else beautiful again. And for that moment, as she sighed, placing her hands on the windowsill and losing herself in the magnificent frozen vista, she felt content.

The rest of the party returned shortly after. Dimoak raided his stores and brought them fresh bread, smoked meats, and preserved fruits and vegetables. Kaelim was thrilled.

"I was afraid our energy would be spent by the time we reached Nulholla," he explained as they sat down to eat. "We would have taken more when we left, but the stores of Harrogath have almost been run dry by the siege. Game is scarce, too, on Arreat. The demons destroyed any and all life they came by. Malah worried that any animals who survived their passing will fear to return to Arreat in the future."

Dimoak set out earthenware plates before his guests. Many were cracked or misshapen, but M'avina loved having one in front of her nonetheless. "Life will return to Arreat, as it will in all the places the Three trod upon. But it will take time, as all good things of import do."

M'avina had gone longer without a hot meal before, but for whatever reason, she savoured every bite she took. A pair of wolves sniffed about their feet, but they knew that no harm would come from them in a druid's presence.

"Is there anything more you can tell us of those demons?" asked Ume intently.

Dimoak shook his head. "Not specifically. A dark shadow on my mind followed them, but nothing else. But I am at unease nevertheless."

Ume nodded. "So am I. The spirits here are frightened of something, but they are restless and crazed. I cannot discern what they try to tell me."

"We've felt it, too," said Jabari, gesturing to Arcanna, "a lingering . . . anxiety. I'm not especially used to it."

"I thought perhaps it was ambient energies from the mountain," Arcanna theorized, "but if it followed the demons as you say . . ."

Kaelim shook his head, and sighed. Every time Kaelim sighed it sounded much louder than M'avina normally expected. "I wish not to pursue their path, but we have no choice. We've come too far to turn back now."

Everyone agreed in silence. M'avina didn't know why, but everyone had become especially committed to this quest, even those who had seemed apathetic when they first set out. Perhaps it was out of respect for Alaric, and a communal refusal to let him die in vain. Whatever the reason, though, M'avina knew that no one would be turning back. These demons were a new development - they hadn't expected them this far out. Hunting them down within an few hours' march from Harrogath was one thing, but now they were in the wild, and they would be desperate, and vengeful. And it remained entirely possible that the demons knew they were coming.

For several uneasy moments, the only sound was the light panting of one of the wolves, as the others turned these questions over in their minds.

"There may be an alternative, though I do not know if it would be any safer," Dimoak said it quietly, but it drew the attention of everyone at the table.

Kaelim gestured anxiously after a second of silence. Everyone leaned forward in unison, and so every chair creaked likewise.

Dimoak's eyes darted from Kaelim, to Ume, and to M'avina. Then he sighed, and sat back. "Perhaps a mile north of here is a place called the Broken Path. There is an ancient mountain made entirely of ice, called the Gualahta Mhor, and the pass through it is treacherous and changes with the wind. Men do not survive there . . . without a guide, anyway."

Kinemil put his elbows on the table. "What do you mean by 'treacherous'?" he asked.

"These spires of ice are fragile and have fallen into each other. A lava flow far below the surface melts parts of the mountain, and the frigid temperatures of the north freeze parts of it again. Broken shards of ice are molded into every wall, and the Broken Path is rarely the same from one visit to the next. I won't mislead you, there is great danger there."

Bohdan looked at Dimoak with wide eyes. "I think I'd prefer to take our chances with the demons."

Kaelim shook his head. "The Broken Path may be dangerous, but at least we know what dangers would lay before us. And no mountain has a will to destroy, which is a luxury facing demons in battle doesn't afford."

Bohdan hunched over nervously. "I'm going to recommend against this," he muttered to Kaelim. "Heavily," he added with a nod.

"I'll second that recommendation," said Kinemil, putting a hand on Bohdan's shoulders. "No demons shall move me to fear. We have fought them before and we have emerged victorious."

"Of course we did," said Ume quietly. "Those who were not victorious against Baal's forces died in their attempt. Have you forgotten Alaric so quickly. We are far from any friendly sanctuary, save this very tower, but even it shall be far behind us soon. We would fare significantly better against the mountain."

Kinemil sighed. "Your faith in yourself and your comrades is disappointing, Ume. The most powerful demons from the depths of Hell have fallen to mortal hands. What did those heroes have that these heroes do not? Demons are of no matter, but the forces of nature I cannot account for."

"Perhaps not," Dimoak said with a smile, "but I can."

The stools creaked and groaned as the assembly turned to the druid. Kaelim raised an eyebrow. "Can you work your magic on the mountain, Dimoak?"

But the young druid shook his head. "No, I'm afraid. Even the most powerful of our order dare not defy the will of something so vast. But, I have friends in many places here. I can guide you as best I can through the Broken Path, should you choose it, but I make no guarantees. Gualahta Mhor has seen the doom of many a beast."

Kaelim sighed, and looked straight at Kinemil when he said. "Very well, then we shall take the Broken Path, and avoid the demons."

"Kaelim, I . . ."

"This is, and always has been, a mission to find Theodoric's party, or finish their work," Kaelim said firmly. "I did not leave the comfort of many good friends and a hot bed to sleep in to look for a fight in the wildlands of the Kae Huron. I can do that very easily in any tavern in Westmarch."

M'avina chuckled aloud at that, stifling herself quickly when it drew bemused looks from some of her comrades.

Kinemil and Kaelim looked across the table at each other for a moment, and then Kinemil looked away. "Very well. I apologize for my outburst."

"No apology necessary," Kaelim assured him.

M'avina could tell that the party was not in complete agreement. Though she couldn't read everyone's individual opinions on the matter, the unease pervaded what should have been a joyous occasion.

She wasn't even sure how she felt about the Broken Path. Had her sense of duty not compelled her so, she would have suggested giving up their quest. The Broken Path sounded like a deathtrap, but she had no desire to face these demons, either, for the implications of their survival disturbed her greatly. There were several options, and none of them boded well. They either survived the Siege, in which case they were skilled in their own right to survive the many battles they must have faced, and were cunning enough to evade the hunting parties that swept through Arreat. Or, they had come from the portal at Snowgarde Pass, which meant that they were powerful creatures, even if the Worldstone's destruction worked in their favour. Either way, she didn't want to meet them.

"Well," Arcanna said, louder than she had to, "before this dour mood sours the food, might I suggest we begin this meal?"

Arcanna and Jabari began eating right away, while the others muttered hurried prayers of thanks to their deities of choice. M'avina realized that she hadn't prayed since she left Harrogath and that worried her. Some of her friends had grown embittered at their gods for not delivering them from their hardships, but M'avina was fairly certain that this wasn't the case with her. It was just that without Vidala, it never occurred to her to pray. She felt guilty for that.

Or maybe it was that she just felt guilty in general.

[Ikeren]

These are my thoughts as typed out in a Word document while reading your story. If they seem a tad disjointed...well, what can you expect from my thoughts?

M'avina, unthinking, breathed through her nose for a moment.....

This paragraph has a big Grey box over it, in Netscape. I copied and pasted it to get it out, and I am not sure if this is a bug, or squelching due to gruesomeness. I am not posting the entire paragraph, as you could see why.

And here I beheld a monstrous ***** with hair of blood and a chalice full of many foul things.

This is in Chapter 8, the Prophecy one. I know what you wanted there, but don’t know how you can get around it. You are very obviously a much better writer then I, and I am confident you can find a way

Chapter nine: What potions they had they were not sing frequently.

I think this is a typo...

The part in Chapter nine that said “The trance-breaking shout” confused me to no end, because I missed it the first three times and didn’t realize the flashback was over, until they talked about hoof prints...then I was thinking “Snow? Sand”... finally, at the line with snowstorms and blizzards mentioned, I realized this isn’t the flashback and they are indeed talking about the snow. Maybe it’s just me getting confused due to missing the Trance breaking part, but I was really confused.

The snowstorm fogged his vision at every angle, but he turned around. And there was a shadow, there, behind the veil of snow. A woman. But it faded, and became one with the snow. He sighed, and felt the cold air fill his lungs.

It’s subtle things like that which signify the end of a memory...just too subtle for poor little me :-(

The trance-breaking shout. I missed that the first 3 times I read through it, trying to figure out what was going on...

Okay, it happened again, same chapter, but I realized quicker. I think it’s that I have been reading my monitor for 5 hours straight, and this story alone probably wasn’t meant for one sitting...I can find no fault in your righting style, just in my reading style...

Actually, I really like the flashbacks/memories. They are really good to set up the characters and what had happened. I also love the way they actually fight through the stories of the Diablo lines...and I also really enjoy how there are hero’s with their own sets...a brilliant thought.

I love the simple story telling logic you use, like the walking around holding hands in the fog. That’s the type of thing that makes it seem more realistic to me, and I just love it.

Oooh, I love the way you link it so closely to the Diablo Realm... “Nadir!”...hehe, wow that’s awesome.

Even the myriad demonic corpses seemed more dead than they had before.

Wow, you are the best! People who put an “of” after myriad make me want to vomit, and seeing it used properly is like a pipe dream.

Canadians also you the extra U...and it’s justified. We aren’t lazy when we spell colour!

Woot woot! You are a Canadian...no wonder you are such a great author! Which province...?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOHHHHHHHHH

I absolutely adore the stuff based on Diablo 1 regarding Tristram...especially the warrior killed by a studious sorcerer...I think you are talking about Zhar the Mad? Funny , because I had a warrior that killed him about 15 times, just for the fun of it (and to get spells for my lower level- at the time- sorcerer)...

clearing his throat, "what have you uunleashed?"

Typo. I feel obliged to point it out, because the story would be practically perfect in every way without it.

Aguinara socked her one in the mouth.

That seems more like something you would hear as somebody describing a fight, with no better way to do it, or a blow in a barroom brawl, then a horrible demon from the very pits of hell being hit...I don’t know if you intended it this way or not.

These were traind (Trained) warriors and wizards,

Ooooohhhhh, Baal dies and a weird tree goes? I love your story...it keeps getting better and better. And your characters aren’t overpowered, it doesn’t seem like a game, but more like an actual story...did I mention I love your story?



I’d like to finish by saying: You are my new god. Or, if that is against the religion you believe in, favourite author. This is much better then all 3 of the Diablo related books written by real authors, and much more game play related too (with the possible exception of the Warlord of Blood, which explained Bartuc quite well, whom we encounter in both Diablo’s).

[Nephilim]

The fires within the druid Watchtower burned brighter than they had. And since their human pursuers had not been seen elsewhere, Moribande assumed that they had likely decided to stay there for the time being. With one wing curled over the body, and the other pressed up against stone face of the mountain, she would have remained hidden even if anyone was looking. But the night was dark, and the beasts fled before them in ignorant fear. She was alone.

She turned, raising one of her long, steel tonfas, at the sound of wind passing under leathery wings.

"Oh," she sighed, "it's only you."

As silent as a feather, the demoness swept in and alighted, her metal-sheathed talons clattering lightly against the stone. She kept to the shadows, and spoke no words.

"They've met the druid," Moribande reported quietly, "so they may risk the Broken Path, but I doubt it. Nevertheless, you should go to Gualahta Mhor, to keep them occupied should they make the gambit."

Her companion remained still and silent.

Moribande turned from the mountain face and hugged herself with her wings. "So what brings you out here; keeping me company? You're not quite the conversationalist you once were."

The succubus shrugged absently.

Moribande nodded. "Yes, yes, I know. Doctor's orders." She sighed, sitting down and putting her back to the rocks. "I have only my memories to keep me company now, and to bring back to me what is now absent."

She closed her eyes, and leaned back her thorny head.



Glorious lust for battle and destruction was as thick as a fog in the air, and Moribande inhaled it steadily. It gave her strength, pride, and fervor. She flew over the amassed horde of Baal's minions, and she could smell the hatred and depraved lust in their sweat. She reveled in it. At the front of the army was an elaborate litter, decked out in flags and canvases, bearing standards and symbols that Baal or his brothers had used in ages past. And upon it, lording over his inevitable triumph, was the Lord of Destruction himself, exuding malevolence in a euphoric aura that dizzied Moribande with delight as she neared.

She alighted beside the litter, and looked up at him. He turned to her, and gave her a fiendish smile. Ecstasy flooded her blood and brain. She haltingly exhaled, and caressed herself in anticipation, then gazed forward.

The mighty walls of Sescheron stood before the dark army of destruction. They were tall, thick, and unfathomably wide, covered in spikes, chains, and flags. She had never beheld a city so nigh-impenetrable, and smiled to herself at how brutally they were about to exploit that "nigh."

Baal sensed her mood. "These barbarians are a mighty people indeed," he chuckled, "but they have prepared for an invasion of Men."

"They are fools," Moribande sneered.

Baal stared off longingly into the snowy sky. "I have walked the earth . . . always searching for that which will make me whole. High in the mountains of the Kae Huron, deep within Mount Arreat, lies that thing." He turned from the sky and looked her sternly in the eye. "I shall have it."

"I shall get it for you," she whispered.

Baal turned away, staring into the gates of the barbarian city with contempt. "My brothers shall not have died in vain. And I shall rule, unchallenged."

Moribande swam in the visions Baal's monologue brought to her. She could see the future, clear as the city walls. Fire, pain, and darkness, burning and searing reality until the lines blurred, and this ironically named Sanctuary was swallowed up by the whole of Hell.

The gates of Sescheron cracked open.

Silence fell upon the assembly.

With a loud creak of ancient iron, the spiked doors slowly opened outward, and a small figure, bearing an ornate flag of his people and trailing a long, thick cloak, approached the doorway from within. He paused a moment under the archway, and looked out at the sky. Then, he continued on, hobbled towards the centre of the square. With a groan of straining gears and disused mechanisms, twin stone slabs curved out from under where the gatekeeper walked, to bridge the short abyss between him and the snowy mountainscapes upon which Baal now stood.

The gatekeeper halted at a marked place, and planted his flag firmly beside him.

Baal's gaze narrowed and his grin widened. "Reveal me," he muttered.

In unison, the reanimated flag-bearers who had been shielding Baal moved to the side. Baal smiled at the gatekeeper, and stroked the Soulstone about his neck lovingly with his long, insidious fingers.

The gatekeeper's eyes widened. "Baal . . ." he mumbled quietly. But Moribande heard him. He turned, shaking his head in disbelief, to make for the doorway, but the gates had closed behind him. Hopeless, he turned back to the Lord of Destruction and sighed heavily.

"Baal!" he called loudly. He paused, unsure of himself, but quickly regained his composure, and continued. "The gates of Sescheron have stood for eons beyond remembrance, and you will not breach them now." He gained confidence as he spoke. "Remove your foul demons from our lands. We stand upon the side of Light!"

Moribande found this growing less and less amusing, and, looking up at her lord, master and creator, she saw his grin had inverted into a frown of disdain as well.

The gatekeeper pointed at Baal. "You will not be allowed to reach Mount Arreat!" he proclaimed, stamping the staff of his flag on the stone floor to reinforce it. "And that which you seek . . . will not be yours!"

Even as he said it, she felt Baal explode from within. "Enough!" he shouted suddenly in a voice that trembled the mountains and conquered the wind. It cascaded along the walls of Sescheron and, overwhelmed, the gatekeeper dropped his staff and clamped his hands to the sides of his head as it reverberated around him.

Moribande felt a surge of hatred for this petty human. Who was he to tell Baal, the Lord of Destruction himself, what he would and would not do? Who were these barbarians, these self-proclaimed children of some fictional god derived of fairy tales, to allow, or disallow, them anything? What a Prime Evil wants, he takes. That was simply the way of things. And how deluded must these humans be to presume that they could ever stop him.

Baal, despite his outburst, regained his subtle poise. He examined his cuticles idly as he waited to the echoes to subside.

The gatekeeper removed his cap, whatever confidence he had possessed had left him. He was already a broken man. Moribande knew it, so Baal must have as well. There were few things she loved more than to stare into the eyes of a man who knew with all certainty that he was going to die, and so this was a special delight for her. She saw everything in his face. His regret, his futile existence . . . his brief and final grasp on his own mortality had obviously struck him profoundly. Like every human, he always knew that he was a mortal, and would die, but before now, he had never actually believed it. And so, he clutched his cap to his chest, his lip quivering in terror, and waited for death to claim him.

But Baal had more grace than that. He smiled, leaning forward. "I shall take your position . . ." he paused, moaning nonchalantly, "into consideration," he finished with a grin and leaned back on his hind legs, chuckling to himself.

Moribande could barely stand the anticipation.

Baal caressed his Soulstone with one hand, and then, with the other, he gestured forward lightly. Suddenly, the flags to the right of the gatekeeper flared upwards, though no wind moved them. Baal gingerly tapped at the air before him again, and the flags to the left did the same. The gatekeeper huddled in on himself, glancing frantically from right to left in fear, and then, he turned to look at Baal, and gulped.

Baal closed his eyes, a smile dancing on his lips, and shimmered his hand idly before him. The air shrank and contorted, and Moribande tasted the black, hellish energies building before him on her tongue. Baal's eyes shot open and he suddenly lashed out with a grunt of exertion. The energy before him coalesced into two, snaky tendrils of black-orange liquid fire, that shot out from their origin, maliciously seeking its target. They interwove and separated, and the gatekeeper's face sank in hopelessness. The two flames made a wide circle behind the gatekeeper, and then they pounced on him, and disappeared into his body.

For a fraction of a moment, he looked as if he thought he might be saved. That was the look still on his face when his body, without ceremony, burst apart in a mass of blood and gore.

"Well," Baal chuckled, leaning back again, "it seems your terms are not acceptable," he said with a smile. He began to laugh to himself, and as his laughter grew in intensity until it was a cackle, he gestured to Eldritch at the front of the column. The misshapen minion smiled, and, screaming out a warcry, hoisted his axe and charged across the bridge to the gates of Sescheron. Immediately, the bridge began to retract, and many of Eldritch's followers fell into the abyss.

Moribande, however, was far too occupied to notice. She simply couldn't get past the look on the face of the human as he died, and she collapsed on the ground, laughing hysterically, tears pouring from her eyes in delight. She didn't stop until Baal did. And then, she caught the scent of fear. She sat up, suddenly focused. She looked at the walls of the city, and then to Baal.

"I'll make you proud," she promised.

He smiled at her, "If you die, Moribande, ensure that many fall beside you."

She stood, brushing the snow from her legs. "I shall."

Barbarian archers appeared on the walls, and in moments, most of Eldritch's minions had fallen. The piggish demon pressed up against the door to avoid the hail of arrows, and growled in contempt, turning back to Baal in protest.

Moribande spread her wings, readied her tonfas, and vaulted into the air. "Succubi!" she called, "to me!"

The demonesses, who had been swarming at the rear of the column, turned and rushed to her side, making a flying V formation as they sped towards the ramparts of Sescheron. The Barbarian fletchers, who had grown arrogant at their easy victory over Eldritch's kind, now looked with horror at this new devilry. As quick as they could, they put arrow to bow, but the succubi were moving fast enough to avoid most of the missiles.

Moribande licked her lips and swooped down to the ramparts. She alighted for a moment on the battlements, beheading the nearest archer, and then vaulted off to her left, spinning a ballet of bloody death and maiming along the ramparts. Panic erupted along the battlements as the other succubi fell into the archers with similar ferocity and similar results. Within minutes, almost the entire front line of the barbarian defense had been ripped to pieces.

But the city was far from overtaken. The gate tower was still not breached. Eldritch and what few of his people remained could not breach the gates on their own, and since the stone bridge had retracted, none of the siege demons could make it through to support him. So, it was up to the succubi to secure the gates.

Moribande glided around to the entrance to the tower, watching it from above. There were two guards at the doorway atop the steps, one armed with a decorated two-handed sword, the other with a mace and chain, and a shield. She folded her wings with a smile, and dove towards the ground, spreading and flapping her wings at the last moment, she glided towards the entrance from the side. The barbarian with the mace turned to look at her a moment too late, and didn't raise his shield before Moribande round-housed him savagely across the face, sending him tumbling down the steps to bash the side of his head on the edge of a stair.

She alighted and faced the barbarian with the sword, who was both surprised at the sudden death of his friend, and now resolved to avenge him. He hoisted his mighty sword, and lunged with a battle cry at Moribande. She succubus grinned, spinning aside, and with a shriek of her own, sliced off both of his hands. His blade, and his flesh, clattered to the ground, and he screamed at his stumps in horrified disbelief.

Moribande kicked out his knees and stabbed him in the heart.

She turned, momentarily, to examine the streets of Sescheron, now a river of chaos and violence. Not only the succubi, but also many of Baal's imps had teleported through the walls and their ancient incantations filled and tainted the air. The barbarians were resilient, though. Among the battling were obvious civilians - bakers, barkeeps, children, housewives - who had picked up whatever instrument was near at hand and took to the streets.

They were systematically slaughtered, of course. The succubi reveled in the massacre of the innocent, particularly children. They would turn from a sure fight and make for the nearest child if they smelled their fear on the wind. While it cost their ranks a few soldiers, Moribande wasn't worried. The terror such atrocities sowed were worth the sacrifice. After all, Baal was the Lord of Destruction. It was the dream of his minions not only to destroy all that lay before them, but be destroyed in his name.

Moribande smiled at the chaos before her, and turned back to the doors of the gate tower. She reached out to take the handle, when suddenly, out from the corner of her eye, she saw a bottle fly through the air towards her. It landed with an explosion at her feet, which knocked her back onto the body of the barbarian she had just slain. She flailed about until she was on her feet again, and looked at her newest foe.

A barbarian woman with a long, serrated dagger in one hand drew a second potion from her belt. Her face was stern and determined. Moribande saw no fear there, and that angered her. She flicked the blood of her blades and strode quickly and purposefully towards the alchemist. The barbarian threw her potion, and Moribande batted it away with the flat of her blade, sending it out to explode at the base of the stairs.

Moribande made an overhead strike that would have cloven the alchemist's skull in two, had she not blocked the strike with her dagger, holding it desperately with both hands. But her eyes did not show any fear.

Moribande's lip curled in livid contempt, and with all the strength in her other arm, she drove her tonfa through the belly of the barbarian girl. She cried out. Moribande twisted the blade with a cruel smile. She felt the strength resisting her fade. The barbarian woman fell, blood dribbling from her mouth and pouring from her wound. Moribande extracted her tonfa quickly and brutally, taking with it some of the woman's innards. She fell to her knees, and then slumped onto her back, dead.

Now, the gates were hers. Flicking the excess blood from her twin blades, she approached the doors and, taking the handle, wrenched one open as quick as physics would allow. Immediately, a barbarian lunged from the doorway, swinging his axe blinly. Moribande sidestepped easily, took his head from his shoulders with a quick slash, and kicked him aside as the next soldier advanced, a sword in each hand. She impaled him in each pectoral as he rushed towards him, then hoisted herself up and over him, kicking the barbarian behind him with both boots in the chest, pulling her blades from the falling barbarian as she did.

The barbarian she had just struck fell to the floor, and she slashed him in the side of the face, but her blade stuck between his jawbone and his skull. He writhed in agony, but she was more concerned with the other guards coming for her. The nearest, running at top speed with a hearty battlecry, had a massive maul over his head. Two more were coming from another angle, one with a halberd, the other with a sword and axe. But it was the one farthest from her, charging with a pike, that worried her the most.

Moribande jammed her one free tonfa into the sternum of the maul-wielding barbarian, and pressed the other to the floor. She used both to hoist herself up to roundhouse the one with the sword and axe in the face. Inertia carried her forward, pulling both of her tonfas from their victims, and she landed at a crouch, slashing the halberd-wielding barbarian across the belly and spilling his intestines. He dropped his halberd, horrified, and tried to gather them up as he bled to death.

And so all that remained was the pikeman, who was now almost upon her. He thrust his pike expertly, nearly catching Moribande. But she spun aside and swiped a tonfa for his chest. But he dodged the blow as well, and swung his pike around. Moribande bent backward to avoid it, and though the missed the brunt of the strike, the tip caught her on the cheek, and she felt blood drawn. She stood, and it dripped onto the floor.

The pikeman wasted no time, with a shout he lunged forward. Moribande rolled aside and struck the end of the pike with her tonfa, and, with a flap of her wings, she jumped forward, raising her tonfas to bring them down on either side of his neck. But he moved the shaft of his pike, blocking the strike. She brought her face in close to his, and shrieked in frustration. She attempted to knee him in the crotch, but he blocked with his thigh and pushed her away with the pike, and, before she could regain herself, thrust forward again.

But Moribande was quicker than he. She dropped to the floor, avoiding the thrust, and, in a quick, precise swipe, cut off his shin.

His cry was more of dismay than pain, and he fell to his side as she stood upright, and sliced off his head, her tonfa sending up a spark as it struck the stone floor beneath him. The gate tower was hers.

Moribande idly wiped the blood from her tonfas on her bare thigh as she strode towards the twin doors at the rear of the tower, flanked by flags and ornate candelabras. The warm blood slid down her white thighs and into her boots. The doors weren't barred or reinforced, as they opened outwards, but they had chains at the apex of the gates which were lodged in the floor on the other end, There were chains, too, crumbled on the floor to one side. Moribande looked at them quizzically, and then up towards the ceiling. She swore under her breath at the sight of gears and chains connected to the doorframe. The barbarians had cut the chains to the doors.

Moribande looked around, hoping to not leave empty-handed, and spotted a lever on the far wall. She quickly walked to the other end, and noted a heavy iron gear system descending into the floor. Removing her tonfas from her arms, she daintily set them on the floor. Moribande grabbed the lever and tugged on it, putting a foot against the wall for leverage when it resisted. Finally, it gave way, and the lever pulled a notch from one cog, which was weighted to turn, and the adjoining gears began to spin. The floor trembled as the rest of the gears turned accordingly.

Picking up her tonfas, Moribande sprang into the air with a flap of her wings and flew out of the gate tower, and up over the walls, which were littered with the freshly dead and dying. Baal was at the edge of the chasm, which, to Moribande's delight, was not being bridged by the stone causeway she had activated.

Moribande alighted by her master, who greeted her with a smile. "Oh," he pouted, taking her head in his hand and turning it to examine the bleeding wound on her cheek. She felt a stinging, burning pain where he touched her, and she closed her eyes, and let herself live in that sensation. "Someone struck you," he noted, squeezing the wound so it bled more vigorously.

"I struck them back," Moribande responded. "But I can take some pain of my own, my Lord. I would fall for you in an instant."

Baal pressed the wound hard, and rubbed the blood away with his thumb, and when he pulled his hand away, the cut was gone. "Perhaps, my dear. But you are, for the time being, more useful to me standing."

Moribande put a hand to her cheek.

Eldritch arrived from the other side of the bridge. "Simple swords will not move this gate, my Lord," he grunted in his guttural voice.

Baal rolled his eyes, irritated. "Very well," he said, turning to the horde behind him. "Dac Farren!"

It took a moment for the huge beast to lumber forward, heavy, iron armour covering his massive snout, leaving a hole for its mighty horn. And in its backpack carriage sat the small gremlin, Dac Farren, holding the creature's reigns in his hands. The beast grunted as Farren halted him.

"Thresh Socket, that is quite enough!" the gremlin commanded. Fearful, the siege beast calmed.

Dac Farren turned to Baal. "Your army moves slower than I would expect, my Lord," he chuckled. But the Lord of Destruction was not amused, and gave the gremlin a cold glare. Farren dropped his head to avoid his gaze.

"The barbarians built these gates strong, Farren, but I doubt they'll be any trouble for your pets," Baal gestured to Thresh Socket.

"Or my powers, my Lord," Farren stretched out his hand and a fireball materialized in his palm.

"Well," Baal intoned, turning back to the walls of Sescheron, "then you had best make short work of them, for I grow less patient with every cry I hear from within."

Moribande smiled smugly at Farren, and he shot her a quick glare before he urged Thresh Socket over the stone bridge. Several other imps, similarly mounted upon the living juggernauts, lumbered past Baal and his litter. Moribande had never liked Dac Farren or his brethren. The imps were not of Baal's creation, or his brothers, for that matter, and that immediately made them unworthy of being in Baal's presence.

They were as filthy as the humans - they were worse, they were the creations of human magi. But the Lord of Destruction delighted in sending any minion to their doom, no matter the origin. Moribande knew that it was folly to question his great wisdom, but nevertheless, she resented the imps, and she hated their defacto leader, Dac Farren, especially.

But she could not argue his effectiveness. The demon brute charged forward at Farren's command, and rammed a dent into the gates. The spikes drove into both armour and flesh, but the hide of Thresh Socket was thick, and scarred, and he merely took a step back, and bashed his horns into the doors again, now joined by two of his brethren. In minutes, the gates had cracked open, inwards. A fireball from Dac Farren shattered the chains, and Thresh Socket and another siege beast pulled the gates open, then then took flanking positions inside.

Baal sat up. "Ah," he mused, stroking his Soulstone tenderly, "finally, we may begin."

"I shall bring death to your enemies, my Lord," Moribande assured him, and jumped into the sky again.

"Moribande!" Baal called. "Stand before me!"

The succubus turned in mid-air and quickly landed on the litter, in front of him, kneeling, and lowering her wings. "I apologize, Lord. I should have . . ."

"Oh, get up, Moribande," Baal ordered, though he smiled at her humility to him. "I have a special assignment for you, my dear. This rabble can handle the masses, but it will take more skill and cunning than they cumulatively possess to handle their lords."

"Lords?" Moribande raised an eyebrow.

"Sescheron has eight Elders, and a single king - Halaberd the Conqueror, he is called. He is descended from Garmund the Berserker, the founding king of Sescheron," Baal explained. "He himself has five children." Baal leaned in closer. "The Elders convene in a fortress at the centre of the city. In front of this fortress is a statue of Garmund, with an axe and sword. It will make it easier for you to find. They may have gathered there, or they may be widespread, I cannot say. But by the end of this siege, I want the heads of the eight Elders, Halaberd, and his children. You must not fail at this, Moribande. The fall of Sescheron must be complete and utter." He clenched his fist for effect.

"I wll not fail you," Moribande promised him as the shadow of the doorway fell upon the litter. She leaned forward and kissed of his four knees.

Baal reached forward and touched her forehead. "I might love you if I were capable of loving anything."

Moribande found no words to express the surge of joy she felt at those words upon her ears. They gave her strength and courage. She stood, tears of happiness brimming at her eyes, and she gazed resolute into the face of her master.

"I will die before I fail you."

He nodded. "I know."

"But who will protect you?" she asked.

Baal motioned to his side, and Moribande looked to see an undead human, unusually tall, and with an animal skull on his neck. "This is Achmel. He protected Tal Rasha in his life, and he continues to in death."

Moribande looked hard at the mummified human. "Serve him well."

"Always . . ." Achmel's voice escaped his skull in a dusty whisper.

Moribande turned, and flew out of the gate tower, and back into the streets of Sescheron, now flooded with a thousand demons. They had advanced, she saw. She flew upwards in a spiral, to get a better look. From so far above, the city looked like a map, and like a plague, the crimson, human blood saturated the streets, and seemed to branch out from the gates like roots from a tree. They moved quickly.

And then, raised in the centre of the city, Moribande spied a tiny figure. The figure of a man. She smiled, and swooped towards it. The city below her grew massive again, and she brought up her wings, landing gingerly on the stone in front of the statue. The stone artifice must've been twenty feet tall. Garmund the Berserker had a young face, cleanshaven but tattooed, hidden behind a helmet, and his mouth was open and his eyes intense as he held a massive sword aloft in one hand, and a hatchet at his side in the other. And behind him was a short, wide fortress with plain walls and fortified access points.

With a flash, suddenly Dac Farren was beside her. Moribande had to stop herself from eviscerating him. She sneered at him, relaxing and rolling her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Dac Farren smiled, amused by her displeasure. "Just seeing what you were up to. One doesn't often have a heart-to-black heart with our master and then simply fly off into the wind."

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on that steed of yours?" she asked, walking around the statue of Garmund.

"I let him loose on a marketplace," said Farren with a shrug, scuttling around opposite her on his two small hooves. "He'll be occupied for hours. So," he said, looking up at the fortress before them, "what do we have here?"

"Nothing for you to be concerned with."

"So then," said Farren, rounding the base of the statue and meeting Moribande at the end, "if I just teleported inside . . ."

Moribande put a tonfa to his neck quicker than he could spirit himself away. "You do, and you die."

"Despite our differing origins, my dear, perhaps you would do well to remember that at the moment, we are allies," Farren reminded her.

She didn't know whether it was an offer of assistance or a threat. But she removed her blade from his throat. "Baal has sent be to assassinate the leaders of this city."

"Leaders? Plural?" Farren's grin looked too large for his face.

"Yes," she nodded, climbing the steps to the entrance. "Eight Elders, one king, and his five children."

Dac Farren raised an eyebrow. "Fourteen barbarians? No easy task."

"Our lord has great confidence in my abilities, and so do I," Moribande replied, approaching the two wooden doors, reinforced with a steel brace. She turned her head and put her ear to it. Muffled voices seeped through the thick doors.

"Not much protection for their leaders while their city is under siege," Farren noted, looking around.

The gremlin was right. The streets were deserted, but Moribande shrugged it off. "All the fighting is at the gates. These humans rely too heavily on their front defenses, and they think that if the outer wall is taken, they will fall. And this is true. So, they rush from every corner of Sescheron in the hope of winning the wall back. But they are too late. This city will burn by nightfall."

"And the Elders?"

Moribande took a step back, looking up to examine the structure. "The destruction of Sescheron must be complete and utter," she echoed Baal's sentiments. "The Elders and royalty may attempt to escape, and Baal has entrusted me to ensure that this is not the case."

"Might I lend a hand?" Dac Farren asked with a grin.

Moribande examined the gremlin. She didn't trust him, but she knew that if he betrayed her, he would have Baal to answer to. The barbarians were not renowned for their sorcery, but if anyone was going to be skilled in the magical arts, it was the Elders of Sescheron. Though it pained her to admit it, she knew that Baal's plans would be better realized with the help of Dac Farren.

"Very well," she sighed. "But do not strike until I give the order. And if you disobey a word I say to you, Dac Farren, I will just have to explain my way out of being punished for your murder."

"Of course," Farren bowed graciously.

Moribande eyed him with a glare but said nothing more. She flew up onto the roof of the building, landing lightly so as not to attract attention. Dac Farren teleported beside her. The roof of the fortress rose in the middle, and at the apex there was a hole, allowing a shaft of light to shine down. Moribande kept away from it, and motioned for Farren to do the same. She gave the hole a wide berth, and so could see nothing of the room within, but voices came up from within.

". . . but we have no other choice but a futile death, Guthlaf," an elderly woman stated firmly.

"No, Onela," a gruff male voice replied, "I would rather die than see those powers used within the walls of Sescheron."

"Very well, Guthlaf," said a younger man, "then perhaps we should send you out to face the demons and carry on without you."

"Oh, enough, Torkel," a woman, much younger than the first, but with a voice of steel, "you suggest that we sacrifice everything the children of Bul-Kathos stand for! What use is survival if we lose sight of who we are? There is a time when the sacrifice becomes too great."

"No, Varaya," the elderly woman said firmly, slamming her fist on something made of wood - likely a table, "there is too much at stake. Mount Arreat must never be realized by any of the Prime Evils. It is all our people were made for!"

An older man, whose voice was so low that Moribande had to strain her ears to hear, spoke. "It is too late for the magic of the druids now. This is no longer a siege but an invasion. The demons have breached the gate."

"Impossible!" Guthlaf exclaimed. "Those gates have stood for ages! How did they even cross the abyss? No, this can't be so. Egtheow, your visions have guided us true for a generation, but your talents must be deceiving you. This can not be so!" he repeated.

Visions? Moribande turned to look at Farren, who also seemed to realize the inference. One of the Elders was a seer, which did not bode well for the element of surprise. Farren took a step towards the hole, but Moribande motioned for him to stop. She had to be sure they were all there. So far, she had accounted for five, and from the sound, she could tell they sat in a circle, likely around a table - wooden, if Onela's vehemence was any indication. This left three still unaccounted for, and that wasn't counting King Halaberd himself.

"It is so," Egtheow whispered, "I have seen it."

"But . . ." a new voice, male and aged, seemed flabbergasted at the possibility, "the gates were chained . . . and our entire force met them at the gates!"

"The chains have broken," said Egtheow simply, "and they had winged demons who evaded the archers and took the tower."

"The gates have been shattered . . ." said Torkel quietly, "Sescheron is lost . . ."

"No!" the same voice said again. "Sescheron is not lost so long as we have men of good heart and will to defend it."

"Wulfstan, I do not take any joy in this fact," Torkel muttered, still quiet, "but it is a fact nonetheless. So we must move quickly. We must send messengers out to find aid."

This met with much opposition. A heavy voice bellowed above the rest. "First you ask us to use the forbidden arts of the druid, and now this! You're not a child of Bul-Kathos, you're a coward!"

"Hrothgar, that's enough!" Onela shouted.

"That is enough," a stern, thin voice agreed, "enough argument, enough counsel, enough talk. Our city falls to rubble around us but we bicker like children. We must come to a decision."

"Ulric is right," Wulfstan quietly admitted. "The Council of Elders looks to you, Halaberd."

With all the Elders accounted for, and Halaberd himself as well, Farren looked to Moribande for permission to attack, but she shook her head. She wanted to see what the Barbarian King would say.

There was a silence for some time, and it looked like it threatened to kill Dac Farren. But finally, a heavy sigh was heaved from below, and the King of the Highlands spoke. "No, it is too late for the magics of the warrior-poets, and the protection of Mount Arreat is not the burden of others to bear. It was entrusted by Bul-Kathos to us, his children. And we alone shall shoulder it."

"But, my lord," Torkel protested.

"I have made my decision, Torkel, and it is final," Halaberd declared. "Chaos may reign the streets of Sescheron, but in this fortress we shall have order until we are no more. But for now, we have a city to reclaim. I shall go and ring the bell of Garmund, calling in the reserves. The demons shall exit this city with our swords at their backs."

Moribande smiled at their impudent arrogance, spread her wings, and jumped into the hole.

[Nephilim]

A shadow fell across the table Elders. As she had predicted, the Elders sat around it symmetrically, and at one empty spot was the throne of Halaberd. She looked around the table, and knew which voice went with which face immediately. She landed with a thud at a crouch. The Elders gasped and pushed away from the table. Moribande eyed them all in turn with a grin.

"Your pride has doomed your people," she muttered to all of them.

Torkel opened his mouth and shouted towards the door, "Gaur -" before he could finish his cry for help, Moribande swiftly beheaded him. His body slumped back into his chair, and his head flew into the air to land with a wet thump on the floor.

Varaya screamed.

The doors to the hall opened, and a horde of burly barbarian guards rushed through the doorway.

Moribande dove into Varaya, cutting her scream short as she impaled her with both tonfas. Varaya's body fell back in her chair, and Moribande fell with it, somersaulting as she hit the floor, right beside the head of Torkel.

"Kill her!" Wulfstan ordered.

Hrothgar - a bearded giant of a man - drew a thick sword from a scabbard across his back. "No! Leave her to me!" he bellowed, and jumped upon to table to charge at her. Meanwhile, the guards did not heed his order to desist, and were approaching her from the side.

"Get the King out of here!" Onela commanded.

Moribande looked at her, dismayed, and saw two guards usher Halaberd from his throne. But she had better things to worry about.

Picking up Torkel's head by his hair, she flung it at the advancing guards, knocking the lead one back and disgusting the rest into shock, as Hrothgar jumped from the table, his sword overhead, uttering a bloodcurdling warcry.

Moribande caught him in the belly with one tonfa and flipped him over her head. He landed on his back with a stuttering cough, and Moribande quickly leaned back, and stabbed him once through the heart. His mouth and eyes widened in surprise, but no cry escaped his lips. Nevertheless, she slashed his throat to be certain.

She twirled into the advancing crowd of barbarians.

Onela spread her aged hands and began to weave then in an intricate pattern, muttering some ancient incantation beneath her breath.

"I think not," the voice of Dac Farren proclaimed as he materialized at her side. She hardly had time to be stunned before Farren wordlessly formed a ball of flame in his palm, and swung it into her face.

Abandoning her spells, the old woman screamed and staggered back.

Moribande decapitated the first barbarian in the advancing crowd, and in the same motion, sliced off the sword-hand of a lunging swordsman, then impaling him through the middle of his chest as he fell out of the way. She eviscerated the next in line, and then one of her tonfas deflected off a shield, but she quickly brought her other around to take of the man's knee. He fell to the floor, momentarily forgotten, as she moved on, cleaving a man's head down the centre of his skull, and then spinning around and taking another's torso from his legs.

Dac Farren beheld the carnage, delighted, and jumped upon the table. Every Elder had stood, save one. Egtheow remained seated, opposite the empty throne of Halaberd.

"You do not fear me, human?" Farren asked, approaching him.

Egtheow was the eldest of the Elders, by far. He weakly leaned on the side of his chair, his pale, gaunt face hidden behind a white beard, long but thinning. He looked Dac Farren in the eyes. "I have lived long enough to learn that I need not fear nothing."

Farren sneered at the seer. "The only thing more pathetic than an old man, is an old foolish man." He raised his hands, and with a growl shot out a column of fire at Egtheow. The old man's robes caught fire unnaturally quickly, and his flesh equally so. In seconds, he was engulfed in flames.

A barbarian turned his head to look at the burning Elder in surprise, and Moribande was quick to cut it from his shoulders.

The burning corpse of Egtheow, however, refused to scream. He simply slumped forward, and his skull broke like rotten wood as it hit the table. Dac Farren laughed hysterically.

"Laugh while you can, fool!"

Dac Farren turned, and saw, at the other end of the table, Onela standing with a ball of angry, red magical energy crackling about her raised fist. Half her face was blistered and seared from where the gremlin had struck her.

Farren smiled, "I shall, my dear." He backflipped, and winked out of existence, as he simultaneously winked back in behind the still-burning body of Egtheow. With a gesture, he cut a schism down the wooden table, and it collapsed inward. Onela gasped in surprised, and fell, the energies dispersing in her hand.

Then, with a twirl of his fingers, Farren looked to the table. The two halves buckled a moment, and Onela glanced at them uncertainly. It was only a moment before they slammed together with a loud crash. Farren's hand dropped, and the table dropped back to where it had settled when he first split it, nothing but a mess of blood and gore remaining of Onela within.

Moribande took vast advantage of the distraction the colliding halves of the table afforded her. She gutted the nearest barbarian, and took a dagger from his belt as he fell, then, just as Guthlaf - who had been standing at the side of the barbarian army, doing little more than encouraging them - turned back to look at her, she expertly threw the dagger to catch him in the eye. He reeled back with a scream, which attracted the attention of Dac Farren, who threw a fireball at the Elder. The flame exploded upon contact, throwing Guthlaf into the crowd of guards, bowling many over. Guthlaf himself bounced off the column, and fell face first on the floor, shoving the dagger deeper into his skull. He moved no more.

Five guards remained.

Moribande beheaded one as he attempted to get to his feet. She swung her blade at another's chest, but he blocked the blow with his arm, sacrificing it. And as it hit the floor, Moribande jabbed him in the throat.

But as she turned to face the remaining three guards, a club caught her in the stomach. She doubled over, winded, and received a quick punch in the face that knocked her back. She fell to the floor, cushioned by the many broken bodies of those she had already slain. She looked up, and scowled. The three barbarians took battle stances atop their fallen comrades. Moribande attempted to stand, but slipped on a puddle of blood and fell back down again. The barbarians took an ominous step forward in unison.

Suddenly one began to scream hysterically, dropped his swords, and frantically, scratched all over his body. Slowly, bits of flesh were torn off his body at an increasing rate, and spiraled across the room to coalesce into a gruesome ball between Dac Farren's outstretched palms.

The two other barbarians gazed at him in horror. Moribande stuck her tonfa into the corpse of her nearest victim and levered herself to her feet, springing forward and beheading one of the two unscathed barbarians. The remaining barbarian jumped at the sudden death of his friend, and backed away before Moribande could take a swing at him, as well.

Meanwhile, Dac Farren's latest victim was nearing his torturous end. Nearly half the meat had been torn from his bones, and his screams were distorted by blood and bile. Finally, Farren was finished with him, and, with barely any muscle left on his legs, he fell in a heap on the floor, organs bulging out from broken flesh and blood oozing from every pore.

Before him, Dac Farren held an orb of liquefied flesh in the air, dripping blood onto the floor. The two remaining Elders and one guard stared at it, as if trying to discern what use he could possibly have for it. Moribande was mildly curious, herself.

With a flick of Farren's wrist, the ball exploded into ribbons of flesh that shot forward at the barbarian guard. He opened his mouth to scream, but before he could, one of the ribbons plunged into his maw. He choked, and tried to grasp it to pull it out, but the ribbon broke and reformed upon his touch like a river. Finally, with a gurgle, he fell to the floor, and the blood of his comrade collapsed with him.

Guthlaf drew his sword, and Ulric wove his fingers before him.

Moribande flapped her wings and lunged through the air towards Guthlaf, but a ball of blue flame materialized in Ulric's palms, and he launched it at the succubus. Moribande tried to spin away from it, but the fire followed her, striking her in the abdomen and thrusting her to the side. She frantically beat the fire on her corset out as she landed on another barbarian corpse.

When she looked up, Guthlaf had already descended upon her.

Ulric prepared another spell, but Dac Farren, still safe across the room, was too quick for him. With a soft word and a gesture, the gremlin cast a spell on the Elder. Ulric gagged suddenly as he spoke an incantation, reaching for his throat, unable to speak. His eyes turned accusingly to Dac Farren, who pushed forward on the air before him. An invisible force suddenly propelled Ulric into the wall, and he crumbled on the floor with a cough.

Guthlaf took a moment to gloat over Moribande's fallen form, and she clenched her teeth in contempt, and swung a tonfa forward. Guthlaf, however, was a talented swordsman, and he blocked the blow. She quickly followed up with a strike from her other blade, which he blocked also. She kicked him hard in the knee but he stayed fast, and then slung her tonfas aside with his sword, and made a swing of his own for her neck.

Moribande avoided the strike and rolled on the coagulating blood soaking the floor. Guthlaf followed her, wildly chopping at her as she swiftly and acrobatically avoided him, pulling her arms and legs from his reach just in time. He moved so quickly that she found no time to right herself properly, particularly on the slick, bloody floor.

Finally, she rolled out of the way and his sword struck a corpse beneath her, catching beneath the shoulderblade. Moribande quickly propped herself up and kicked Guthlaf under his chin. The force sent him back a step, losing his grip on his sword, and with a flap of her wings, Moribande used the momentum to backflip and land upright.

Dac Farren stalked across the room, and stood over Ulric, who struggled even to look up at him. Farren raised his hoof, and kicked the Elder twice in the temple, and that was all he needed. Ulric twitched, and died.

Guthlaf dove for his sword, but in one swift motion, Moribande kicked it out of the way, and him in the face. He staggered backward, just as Farren appeared beside him, and began to mutter an incantation. Moribande, however, sprang forward.

"No!" she said firmly, pushing him aside with the back of her wing, and then, she turned to Guthlaf, shoved him against the wall, and jabbed him in the side of his abdomen. He cried out. "Where did Halaberd run to?" she demanded, running her blade lightly along the side of his face, "and where do his children hide?"

Guthlaf looked at her for a moment, ragged breath escaping his shuddering lips, and then spit blood and saliva onto her face. Moribande paid that little heed, but swiftly cut off his left hand with her tonfa.

"I am millennia older than you, Guthlaf," Moribande whispered darkly, "but I've learned a thing or two about dying. And I can make yours exceptionally unpleasant if you choose to vex me further."

"Whatever pain you can cause me pales in comparison to what dishonour I would scar my soul with if I betrayed my king," he said brokenly. "So save your questions and do what you will, demon strumpet!"

"Obviously," said Moribande moving her lips within inches of his face, "you have no comprehension of just how much pain I can cause you."

Guthlaf stared back into her eyes, and then, for a moment, they averted, and then locked back to hers, afraid that she would notice what he had looked at.

With a suspicious scowl, Moribande turned to follow where his gaze had once been. On the floor, one of the barbarian corpses held a sword, which was propped up by other corpses so that it pointed skyward.

Moribande had barely noticed it when Guthlaf suddenly pushed her aside with what remained of his might. It caught her by surprise, and she was forced back a step, momentarily releasing the Elder, who immediately turned, and tackled the upward sword. But Moribande quickly recovered, lunged forward, and caught the back of his armour, but he struggled against her, and Moribande felt herself losing grip on him.

"Farren!" she shouted, "move the sword!"

Dac Farren nodded and clopped over to the sword, but as he was halfway, Guthlaf kicked Moribande in the knee, and she tripped, releasing Guthlaf. They both fell to the floor in unison.

Dac Farren helped Moribande to her feet, and she looked at Guthlaf with a dejected sigh, and at the sword which had impaled him through the chest. He was dead.

Silence fell upon the Council Hall. From the chest down, Moribande was monotone with the blood of the humans, and nary an inch of the floor was not thoroughly coated in the life fluids of their many victims.

A foul horn sounded outside.

"Baal approaches," Farren noted. "We should meet him outside."

Moribande nodded, rehearsing her responses to Baal's sure disappointment in her mind. She and Dac Farren exited the hall and made their way to the front doors. In contrast to the gruesome scene in the Council Hall, the corridors of the rest of the fortress were clear and clean. Only now did the blood dripping from Moribande taint that. Both she and Farren left crimson footprints for a considerable time after leaving the Hall. Finally, they reached the entrance, and hastily disbarred the massive wooden doors, reinforced with a heavy iron framework. Moribande took a handle in each hand and pulled them inward. The doors creakily complied.

Baal had stepped off of his litter, and was circling the statue of Garmund, which had been chained to a group of siege beasts, who, under a beat dictated by the whip of the overseer, Shenk, tugged at the statue in unison. Moribande could see cracks forming along the base. Achmel walked behind Baal, and demons continued to swarm into the courtyard.

Baal turned at the sound of the doors opening, and smiled as he saw Moribande and Dac Farren descending the stairs to him.

"Ah," he welcomed them, "did you fare as well as we did?" he asked.

Moribande nodded. "The Elders are dead, my Lord, but Halaberd escaped."

Baal frowned.

"I will hunt him down for you," she assured him.

"Do you know where to begin?" Baal asked her, "we have razed the royal quarters, and he was not there."

"Don't fret, my Lord," said Moribande, standing before him with a smile. She reached up and caressed his chin with a bloody hand, leaving a streak where she touched. "I overheard them. He will not leave this city."

Baal grinned, "Then he will die in this city. But first, Moribande, we must find him."

The base of Garmund's statue cracked, fragmented, and finally gave way. The siege beasts rushed out of the way as the stone behemoth fell. It hit the ground with a deafening crash, and crushed two of the fleeing beasts and sending up a cloud of dust.

Baal, Moribande and Dac Farren laughed together at the scene.

And as the echoes of Garmund's fall faded away in the air, another sound continued. It was the faint sound of a heavy bell ringing. Moribande smiled to herself, and looked at Baal. "I think I have just found him."

"Then go to him."

Without a word to Baal or Farren, Moribande picked herself up off the ground with a flap of her wings, and flew into the sky.

Deeper into the city, she could see a tall, thick tower, and within it, was a massive bell slowly rocking back and forth. The tower was at the front of a massive palace, that was well fortified against any ground assault.

She flew in through a window on the tower and plummeted down it, unhindered by the stairway that wove around the edge, or the impossibly long chain that descended from the bell to the hall below.

Moribande landed so hard that it cracked the marble floor and jarred her body. But she stood immediately. Before her was a long, tall corridor, with red flags hanging on the walls, bearing the mark of several different tribes. Between the flags were tapestries of great battles in their history.

The brass on the toe and heel of Moribande's boots echoed loudly against the marble. She took her pace slowly, giving herself time to look at the tapestries. One, she noted, was likely Garmund's death, as the central figure largely resembled the statue they had just torn to the ground.

Finally, she reached the end of the corridor, and pushed open the doors. She took a step forward, and stopped, examining the scene before her.

This seemed to be the throne room of Halaberd. He sat at the far end of the hall, upon a more decorated throne than the one in the Council Hall, in full armour, and a winged helm. The throne was on the threshold of a doorway that opened into a balcony, revealing the seemingly endless streets of Sescheron beyond. And on the wall above that doorway, directly above the throne, was a massive sword hung upon the wall, that must have been almost six feet long, pointed towards the ceiling.

In front of Halaberd were three barbarians. One exceptionally tall, armoured woman, with a mace and chain in one hand, and a gladius in the other, one man, equally tall with shoulders like oxen and a long, thick halberd clasped in both hands, and a second woman, shorter and slighter than the first, dressed in a thick fur cloak, with a crossbow at her side.

Moribande chuckled to herself. "Is this the paltry force you keep to stand between a succubus?" she asked.

"These are my children," said Halaberd. "Halodar, Halamere, and Nimowah. They are all I will need for one demon *****."

Moribande rolled her eyes. "Honestly, I would think the people of Sescheron more caring about the fate of their king."

"If you must know," said Nimowah, the younger daughter with the crossbow, "the rest of his honour guard is occupied in the streets. But they aren't necessary, now."

"Do you not recognize me, Halaberd?" asked Moribande, taking a step forward, "or do we all look the same to your blind, human eyes? I am the succubus who dropped in on the Council Hall before you slipped away. If I survived the might of your Elders, and all the security they had been afforded, how do you think your children will fare?"

"The Elders . . ." Halodar, the only son present, began.

"Are dead," Moribande finished for him.

"Lies," Halaberd looked at her darkly.

The demoness gesture down her legs. "Their blood has made my body a canvas."

Halamere, the eldest daughter, shook her head. "Enough of this. We know why you have come here."

Moribande shrugged. "I was willing to give you some time to say goodbye to each other," she said, and, with a sigh, assumed a battle stance, "but, if you're so eager to die . . ."

Nimowah quickly picked up her crossbow and fired a bolt at Moribande. The moment she moved, Halamere and Halodar began to charge her. Nimowah's aim was true, but Moribande's reflexes were too good for her, and she ducked out of the way. Nimowah immediately put her foot in the hold and applied another bolt.

Halamere arrived first, and swung her flail towards Moribande. She caught the chain on her tonfa, and the heavy mace wrapped around it. Moribande attempted to tug the flail from her hand, but Halamere's grip was too strong. She brought her sword around, but Moribande blocked it with her other blade.

Meanwhile, Halodar had arrived, and he jabbed forward with his halberd. With both tonfas occupied, Moribande was hard pressed to avoid the strike, but flapped her wings to dodge. Nevertheless, the halberd cut a line in her corset.

Halamere used her flail to pull Moribande back to the ground, and kicked out a leg just as she landed. Moribande's leg gave way, and she tumbled backward. Halodar chopped at her neck, and so she quickly pulled forward, flapping her wings. The force propelled her upwards, and she pulled on her tonfa to bring Halamere closer, so that she could kick her in the face with her brass heel. The chain came loose from her blade and Halamere hit the floor.

Moribande turned to avoid another bolt from Nimowah.

Halodar thrust forward, and Moribande bashed the halberd away with the flat of her blade, then made a strike of her own with the other. Halodar was skilled with his weapon, though, and caught her strike on the end of the shaft, then brought the other end around for a beheading. Moribande caught the strike on her tonfa, but he hastily reversed his hands and brought her legs out from under her. Moribande landed on her back, and scissored her legs around to trip Halodar in turn. He landed opposite her.

Still on the floor, Moribande swung her tonfa at his neck. He caught it on his halberd, but the strike penetrated the shaft just below the head, almost to the point of slicing it clear off. Halodar grasped the head, and broke it off, then swung the shaft like a staff, hitting Moribande in the jaw.

She rolled quickly away to avoid his reach, only to see the head of a mace descending upon her. Moribande sat up quickly and somersaulted to her feet as Halamere's mace cracked down on the floor.

Another bolt struck Moribande harmlessly on one of her horns. She heard Nimowah swear to herself and reload.

Halamere charged forward, flailing her mace and chain furiously at Moribande. She parried and avoided any blows, until Halamere followed one up with a swing from her gladius. Moribande caught the blade on her own, and then spun and kicked the hand that held it. Halamere gasped as the blade fell from her hand and skittered across the floor.

Moribande swiped her blade at Halamere's midsection, but she hopped back, and then lunged forward with a strike from her flail. Moribande blocked with her tonfa and the chain wrapped around it again, so she moved it out of the way, and with her free tonfa, beheaded Halamere.

She saw Nimowah loose another bolt, and quickly moved Halamere's body to take the blow for her. The bolt penetrated Halamere through the back and jutted out from her chest, splattering blood on Moribande's face.

At a sound from her side, Moribande dropped Halamere's headless corpse to deflect a blow from Halodar, who had picked up Halamere's discarded gladius. His expertise was obviously restricted to the halberd, as he flailed about uselessly with the gladius until Moribande parried a blow hard enough to give her an opening, and impaled him through the heart.

She quickly pulled her blade from his chest to bat away another bolt from Nimowah.

Halaberd was shaking his head, tears rolling down his face. Nimowah's face was red with anger, and she strained to fit another bolt into her crossbow.

"The fall of Sescheron must be complete and utter, Halaberd," Moribande announced from across the hall, approaching slowly. "If you hadn't run from the Council Hall like a coward, then maybe you wouldn't have lived to see them die, and you could've spared yourself this pain."

"How can you take such pleasure in this?" Halaberd blurted out suddenly. Nimowah shouldered her crossbow and took aim.

Moribande stopped and examined them both. "It's what I was made to do."

"Well, no more," Halaberd proclaimed, and he stood, reached up, and took the giant sword from its hold on the wall.

Nimowah glanced up at him. "Father, no . . ." she urged him weakly.

"No!" he shouted, taking the sword in two hands, and stepping onto the floor. "This witch shall pay."

Moribande stepped back and spread her tonfas invitingly.

"Nimowah," Halaberd spoke firmly, "go to your mother."

His daughter shook her head, and replied, with equal firmness, "I will not abandon you."

Either ignoring her or acquiescing to her, Halaberd paid the comment no visible heed, and instead hoisted his sword and strode quickly to meet Moribande.

The sword was deceptively long. Moribande realized this as she made her first strike. She swept her tonfas towards the ground, but Halaberd wielded the massive blade as if it was a piece of wheat, and blocked her attack, then brought the pommel forward to bash her in the forehead. Dazed, she faltered back, regaining herself just in time to desperately cross her tonfas in front of her, blocking an overhead blow from Halaberd. She felt the shock of contact flow through her skeleton, and it took all her strength to hold the block, which she felt failing. What she saw of Halaberd's face beneath his helm was stern and resolute. His blade inched closer to her face.

With a cry of exertion and a flap of her wings, Moribande laboriously slung her blades out, throwing his sword backward. But Halaberd used the momentum she gave him, and brought the sword around. Moribande, however, had already back-flipped out of the way, and rose into the air, flapping her wings vigorously as she attempted to regain her strength and reassess her strategies. She gazed at Halaberd, who returned the gaze, and pondered.

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, at the sound of Nimowah's crossbow firing another bolt. Moribande turned and saw it speeding towards her, and moved to avoid it. But the barbed shaft grazed her shoulder. Thinking quickly, she cried out, and fell in a heap on the marble floor, concealing herself beneath her wing, and remaining as still stone and silent as a shadow.

"Victory!" Nimowah cried, and walked towards Moribande to lord over her conquest.

Halaberd, however, rushed to intervene. "Patience, Nimowah!"

Nimowah halted, and turned to look at her father. Moribande immediately sprang to her feet. Nimowah moved to defend herself, but Moribande clove her crossbow in two with a swipe from her tonfa. Defenseless, Nimowah turned to retreat, and Moribande swiped out, slicing her back open. Nimowah screamed and fell to the floor, blood spurting from beneath her cloak.

Halaberd rushed in at that point. Before he even made a swing for Moribande, however, she had already leapt away.

Halaberd, still keeping a hateful eye on Moribande, backed toward Nimowah and squatted beside her. Moribande, smiling, prepared herself for another attack.

Nimowah's breath came in struggled gasps, and Halaberd felt her neck, eyes still locked on the succubus.

"You show no mercy to a girl protecting her father?" he demanded, getting back to his feet.

"Mercy is a gift for the weak from the foolish. I am no fool, and she is no weakling," Moribande replied. "Shouldn't you at least take pride in the fact that she died honourably, if pointlessly?"

"I take no pride in the death of my youngest daughter!" Halaberd shouted. "But she is the last you'll destroy." Uttering a battlecry so loud that it filled the room, Halaberd lifted his sword, and ran toward Moribande, suddenly leaping into the air.

His leap seemed to defy his size, and Moribande recovered quickly from her surprise to jump back as he thudded to the floor with a swing that clove the air before him. He took a long stride and thrust his blade forward. Moribande jumped into the air, flipping over his head, and bringing her tonfas down as she was above him. But Halaberd was quick, and blocked the blow with his sword, just as she had anticipated.

Using the blade of the sword as a fulcrum, she swiveled around in mid-air, landing at his side rather than his back, as he had expected. As he turned to face her where he thought she would be, she reared back, and impaled him through the side on her tonfa. Halaberd let out a whelp of dismay, and a second when she withdrew it. His strength drained from his as quickly as his blood, and he fell to one knee.

"I am Halaberd the Conqueror, son of Deoberd the Resonant. I am the Barbarian King. I am the keeper of the Sacred Charge . . ." his voice grew weaker, and the sword slipped from his fingers. "I am . . ."

"You are no more, Halaberd," Moribande intoned as he sank further to the floor. "Your city is crumbling, your Ancients have not come to your aid. Your god has abandoned you. Your children are slain, and your legacy is in vain. We shall take what you so long have protected, and your race will become nothing but a bloody stain on the face of this world."

By the time she had finished, Halaberd was already dead.

But two of his offspring were not present.

"Nimowah. Go to your mother." He had said. Her mother - the Barbarian Queen Nimuen - must be near. And likely with her, the remaining sons of Halaberd. Moribande knew little of Barbarian custom, but had learned enough from the spies Baal had within the Highlands. The children of the Barbarian King were his bodyguards, save the youngest; that child was the bodyguard of the Queen. That made four.

Moribande turned from the broken body of the huge man and the gargantuan sword at his side, unstained. She walked out from the Great Hall into the corridors to the side. She hoped that they hadn't fled, but doubted that they had. Barbarians were not known for fleeing.

She passed many portraits, tapestries, and weapons upon the walls of the corridor. It was long, but her demonic eyes saw a figure at the end of the hall. But it made no move towards her, so she continued on as she had been.

She made out the figure some time before she reached the doorway. It was a boy. Obviously young, perhaps sixteen. He had already gained the height of adulthood, but had yet to overcome a slight frame. Nevertheless, he stood resolute, clad in chain mail and a helm. He held a long scimitar in one hand, and a long, heavy shield in the other. He had a look of fear on his face, but it was a defiant fear. She was still far from him when he first spoke.

"That I see you come from my father's chambers can only mean that he and my brother and sisters are slain," he said.

Moribande's brass toes clacked on the floor. "Not all your brothers and sisters."

The boy did not respond, but raised his sword and assumed a battle stance. "If you defeated my family, and if it is their blood that stains your flesh, then I know that I have little hope of victory."

Moribande nodded. "So do I."

"But I am Nimodred, son of the King. I shall face death and be reunited with my father. I do not fear you."

Moribande stopped a few paces from him. "Yes, you do."

She waited a moment, and then he attacked, rushing with his shield forward. Before he reached her, she jumped forward. He stopped in his tracks, and her blade raked across his shield. Struggling to back up, Nimodred stumbled into the closed door. With a flap of her wings, Moribande lunged forward and kicked him in the chest. The lock on the door broke from the force and he fell inward. And, before he could raise his shield, she lopped off his head.

"No!"

Moribande started at the sound, and turned to survey the room she was in. It was a bedroom. And huddled at the foot of the canopy bed was Nimuen, the Barbarian Queen, clutching a bundle in her arms - holding the last son of Halaberd. She was crying, and he was too in response to her. Moribande stepped over the headless body of Nimuen's son and approached the queen.

"Please," Nimuen begged. "Spare Deothen," she shook her head desperately. "He's only a babe. Let me run away with him and we will forget the conquest of Sescheron. Please . . ."

Moribande smiled. "The destruction of Sescheron must be complete and utter," she repeated. Quickly, she reached forward with one hand, holding her head fast, and slit her throat with the free tonfa.

Nimuen went limp immediately, and the baby Deothen rolled onto the floor, wailing hysterically as his mother fell dead beside him.

Moribande removed her tonfas and threw them onto the bed, then bent down, and picked up Deothen, turning him over, and peering into his face as it wept at her. She daintily ran a finger along his face, then smiled and laughed to herself.

"How could anything brought so fragile into the world have been meant to survive?" she asked herself, aloud. She had never held an infant before. Not one so young, anyway.

Even beneath the blanket he was wrapped in, she could feel the difference. The flesh was soft, and the bones were flexible. Her hand slipped from caressing his face to around his neck, and with no effort at all, she squeezed it, and crushed his spine in an instant.

Immediately, the wailing ceased, and she pulled her hand away, to see the blank, neutral expression on the baby's tear-covered face. A drop of blood escaped his dead lips. She smiled, amazed at how simple it was to take a life so young. She kissed him lightly on the forehead, and then dropped him apathetically on the floor.

And so did Deothen, last son of Garmund, die.

[0xDEADCAFE]

This is from Chapter 7:
Heat enveloped her like a blanket as she exhaled the cold air into the dreadfully hot Hellish environment. It was accentuated by all the furs she wore.
I don't think the point about the furs accentuating the heat makes sense. I've heard that its common for steel mill workers to wear heavy woolen sweaters to protect them from the heat of the molten iron. The point is that furs and blankets don't make us warm, per se. They makes us feel warm in cold environments because they help to hold-in the heat generated by our bodies. Likewise they will tend to hold-out the heat of a hot environment. Eventually a party wearing furs in Hell would become overheated, but a for a short time the furs would offer good protection against the Hellish temperatures.


:thumbsup: I am enjoying your story very much.

[0xDEADCAFE]

(After finishing all the chapters, I really wanted to write a long thoughtful comment here, but this stupid mouse has a "Back" button right next to where I keep my thumb and, twice now, I've lost everything I typed - so now I'm gonna be painfully brief!)

Great story - I wish you would stick to telling it. In short, I skipped chapters 15 and 17, and skimmed a lot of the flashback stuff in the other chapters. It's not that the flashbacks are bad, they are just not the story I want to read.

A few details:
- chapters 1-7: pure bliss
- chapter 8: not my cup-of-tea
- chapter 9 and after: continued loving the parts in the Kae Huron but became confused, bored-with and eventually annoyed with the increasing amount of time spent in the past. It's all well written, but consider this: all of the game storyline stuff is fairly predictable - we all know the plot. There's no comparison between reading an original and imaginative interpretation of game details to reading a good original story. None. Especially not when it's as good as this one.

My advice: you've got a great story going in the Kae Huron. Stick to it. If you feel like writing other stuff in between chapters, put it in another work. Why not have two threads going? One for this story and another for short stories or a novel that dramatize the details of the game. I'd probably read the second thread too, but not with as much relish as this one.

[Flankie]

I personally love the flashbacks. They help you understand the characters in the group and allow you to see them progress. The flashbacks also provide quite a bit of action... Without them I believe the story would be somewhat dull.

Thats just me though!
:lol:

[Nephilim]

I appreciate the criticism and suggestion, and it should encourage you know that I'm probably almost through with the flashbacks. But allow me to explain my logic. Things are going to happen that directly tie into what I cover in the flashbacks, and while I'd think the story would survive without the background information, I feel that knowing all this going into what's to come will add to it. It's either this, or I pass along these stories with real-time conversations, which I think would just become tiresome. Separating this from the main story would infer that it's not important. If you want to skip the flashbacks, naturally, you can read the story however you like, but I have a feeling that by the time this is entirely finished, you'll want to go back to fully understand it. Maybe this is a sloppy way of doing things, on my part, and I'll take this into consideration for future works.

[Simplistic]

I agree with Flankie. The battle/action scenes in the flashbacks are probably the best I've ever read in a fanfiction, and they really stir up the imagination. Those scenes alone and the way the detail you put into this story makes Winds of the Kae Huron one of my favourite stories.
Keep up the great work! :thumbsup:

[DaCerZ]

Absolutely loved the story, every bit of it. I've not got anything to say other than that.

I was engrossed in the story from start to finish and sad to get to the end. I could feel myself starting to feel the anticipation as i seen the scroll bar getting nearer and nearer the end thinking "Nooo, it'll be over soon."

Great story, truely epic. :thumbsup:

-Dace; w00t, 100 posts-

P.S. I may even write some fan-fiction for D2, your story really does inspire the writer in me whom i've locked away in place of my computing genius in me, heheh.

[Nephilim]

M'avina climbed the stairs of Aldur's Watchtower slowly. The light of the rising sun shone almost perfectly horizontally into the windows shaped into the stone, and she was not hesitant to let it warm her every time she passed.

She reached the study, and saw Dimoak there, a ptarmigan perched on his arm, and he spoke to it in a hushed mumble M'avina could not discern. The ptarmigan saw her first, and squawked loudly in surprise, flapping his wings incredulously. Dimoak turned to see her, and M'avina blushed.

"I'm sorry, I should've . . ."

"Oh no," Dimoak shook his head, "don't worry. You just startled him." He stroked the head of the ptarmigan, which seemed to calm the bird.

M'avina took a hesitant step forward. "What's his name?"

Dimoak chuckled lightly. "Most birds do not name each other in the same way we do. They have no need for names."

"Oh," M'avina nodded. "Kaelim wanted me to ask you to overlook the rations, we don't want to run your stores dry."

Dimoak shrugged, running his fingers through the ptarmigan's feathers. "It's not hard for me to get food. Tell them to help himself. When will you be ready?"

M'avina looked absently down the stairs. "Within the hour, probably. How long will you need to prepare?"

Dimoak smiled gently. "I'll be ready whenever you are."

M'avina nodded, and turned to retreat downstairs.

"M'avina, wait a moment," Dimoak requested, halting the amazon. She looked back at him curiously. "He wishes to speak to you."

M'avina raised an eyebrow. "I can't speak to him," she chuckled at the prospect.

Dimoak set the ptarmigan on the sill and walked over to a shelf, curved along the wall of the tower. There was a mask there, fashioned to look like the upper half of a falcon's head, with a hood of feathers at its back. Dimoak took it from the clay stand for it, and turned to M'avina. "This is a magical helm, fashioned by Aldur, this tower's former occupant. He called it Ghorschiamul - Ravenlore."

"What magic does it have?" M'avina inquired, examining the mask with a leery eye. She knew the powers granted by Hefaetrus and Athulua, but the magic of the druids was unfamiliar to her. She had seen them used in battle, and while she certainly respected their power, she had little ambition to be turned into a werewolf.

"The Caoi Dulra teaches that the most profound of lessons will come from those most connected to the world - anyone but us, actually," Dimoak admitted. "This mask allows the wearer to understand the tongue of the birds. It was Aldur's intent to help newer students better comprehend our philosophies."

"Why are the lessons of humans irrelevant?" asked M'avina, stalling. "Are we not natural beings in the natural world?"

"Yes," Dimoak replied. "But all human ancestry comes from civilization, and civilization inherently separates man from nature. So men, and women," he corrected himself, garnering a gentle grin from M'avina, "are universally jaded. No matter what we do, humans will always carry that distinction - that we live within nature, but are not a part of it."

The ptarmigan squawked impatiently.

Dimoak nodded, gesturing to a stool in front of the window, where M'avina sat obediently. He moved towards M'avina with the mask. "Relax, it may be slightly unnerving at first."

As she stared under the dark cloak of feathers approaching her, she heard, faintly, a flood of whispers. She shifted, backing away.

"Do not fear, M'avina. No harm shall befall you," Dimoak assured her.

M'avina nodded, but braced herself as the cowl swept over her head.

And in an instant, the world became something else. Distant, muffled voices filled her mind, but she could not discern any of them. It was like she heard ghosts, and she was frightened.

"You are welcomed by one such as me to my home."

The voice was near, and full. She knew immediately that it was the bird on the sill, but looked to Dimoak for reassurance nevertheless. He gestured back to the ptarmigan.

"You . . ." she felt a tad ridiculous, talking to a bird, but pushed herself to overcome that. "You live in the tower?"

"No," the bird replied. "This land of whispers and ghosts is where I live, high from the ground and far from the seas."

"Thank you for the welcome," M'avina nodded politely. "I am M'avina, daughter of Lysippe and Demetrus, of Skovos."

"I am called for now the Arrow of the Final Day, but names will change now and then," the ptarmigan replied.

M'avina smiled, but decided to come to the question that continued to nag at her. "Why did you wish to speak to me?"

"Because you must be spoken to," he said simply. "And because any journey is not without perils, and what the Sapling Guardian knows must be known by one who is not him."

"Sapling Guardian?" even as she asked it, she realized he meant Dimoak, who smiled politely when she looked at him.

"You seek the path that leads to the mountain which looks as would an eagle talon, carved into the peak as if by the hands of the gods themselves. This is so?"

"It is."

"Then know this you must, as I flew on the plains of snow not a fortnight before this day, and saw nothing that was real. I was traveling with she who was born alongside me, the Unique Facet of a Cliff Face. But as we neared the mount, I heard an echo on the wind - a voice, singing to us. And then, the world went dark, and we were confronted by nightmarish visages that assailed us relentlessly. Fearful, we turned back, and did not stop until we were exhausted from toil."

"Were you hurt?" asked M'avina, the fact that she was speaking to a bird had forgotten. Now her interest lay in his tale. "What were these creatures that attacked you?"

The ptarmigan looked at the floor. "I was uninjured, and so it was in the case of the Unique Facet of a Cliff Face. There is no word in my tongue that I could place on the things we saw."

M'avina grew worried. "Do you know anything about them?" she stressed. "Are they guardians of Nulholla?"

"No," said the ptarmigan firmly. "I have flown about the peak many a time since within my days. The mountain, and the relic atop it, have granted us nothing but ill winds from time to time, a crime which I will not hold against it."

"Relic?" asked M'avina. "Have you ever landed on Nulholla? Do you know what this relic is?"

"The peak, like the talon of falcon," the ptarmigan spoke in a distant voice, "it shadows the Relic, the statue of a great man sitting atop a throne, with a great sword at his feet, and his head bowed in agony. In his arms . . ." the bird paused, unsure of himself.

M'avina looked at Dimoak, and the headdress rustled. She put her hands to it, panicked that she damaged it with her sudden movement. "What?" she asked, "what is he holding?"

"Nothing," the ptarmigan replied. "He cradles naught in his arms, and stares longingly into it." He sighed. "But it is not the mountain that worries me, but these nightmares, that are new to these peaks. I cannot know what they seek or what powers they wield. But the journey you shall embark upon should merit caution and forethought. You must understand, I have seen these things, and the Sapling Guardian's guidance will only protect you so far. But I must leave you, now," he said with a sigh. "voices that I know and trust call me forth. Our meeting was a good one, I think, M'avina, daughter of Lysippe and Demetrus, of Skovos."

"The pleasure was all mine," M'avina replied, though was a bit perplexed at the bird's description of Nulholla. On the one hand, she wanted to heed the severity of his warning, but at the same time, she was more curious about what the Peak held in store for her and her comrades.

With a nod to Dimoak, the ptarmigan flew from the sill. M'avina started in shock as Dimoak pulled the mask off of her, lost in thought about the words of the bird.

Dimoak put the mask back on its stand, and the two shared a moment of silence, before the druid stepped forward and lightly put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, but said nothing, and continued to stare out of the window.

"I thought his words would possess more gravity if they came from him, and not from me," Dimoak explained, almost apologetically.

M'avina nodded. "Yes, they likely did. Thank you."

Dimoak smiled, "Should it brighten your spirits, you did quite well."

"Oh?" the comment caught her off guard, and she turned to face him.

"Yes," Dimoak nodded assuredly. "Many novice druids don't demonstrate the level of . . ." he pondered for a moment, searching for the most appropriate word, "comfort," he said finally, with some decisiveness, "that you did. Tell me, how do the Amazons regard the animal kingdom - philosophically or theologically?" He extended a hand.

M'avina took it and let him help her up. "Well, we don't regard them with the same reverence as your people, obviously, but we do respect them to a certain degree, certain animals especially. The gods each have several totems. Hefaetrus, the god I primarily revere, for instance, bestows his blessings upon the ox, the horse, and the cardinal. Killing these creatures - even by accident - is heavily looked down upon in villages that favour Hefaetrus. I once heard that the Arnazeads hanged a man for riding his horse to death, though that may just be a story. In general, the frivolous murder of animals isn't endorsed."

Dimoak shrugged. "It's a start, I suppose," he mused as he and M'avina walked down the stairs, and out of the tower.

The air was cold, but the sun was hot, making for a comforting dichotomy. The white peaks of the Kae Huron shone so brilliantly that the mountains on the horizon became indistinguishable from the sky. For a moment, when she looked to the east, it seemed to M'avina that the tall silhouette some distance from the tower was simply standing in a field of white. But then, her eyes adjusted, and the edges of the world before her appeared. Jade stood, like a stone sentinel, on the crest of a hill, surveying the expanse before her.

Dimoak had left her side, now conversing with Kaelim, who had adopted a much more positive attitude since the meal last night. M'avina had assumed at first that it was a façade to comfort his followers, but she had to admit, even she felt less burdened since finding Dimoak's tower. Maybe it was just the first full belly she'd had since leaving Harrogath, or maybe it was the warmth, comfort and security that seeped from the mortar-less walls of Dimoak's home.

M'avina walked towards Jade quietly, and stopped beside her. She looked at the assassin, who, if M'avina hadn't known any better, seemed not to have yet noticed her. Her mask was lowered; the silver, mournful kabuki face glinting in the sunlight.

"What are you looking for?" asked M'avina.

Jade lifted her visor but did not shift her gaze. "I don't know."

M'avina looked back at the party by the tower. Caden was in the forefront, a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked intently at the two women, but he did not approach. They were alone.

"Jade," M'avina began, uncertain. "Are you all right?"

The assassin pondered a moment. "In what capacity?"

"Well," she had to think, "you've seemed very . . . detached since Bohdan brought you out of the Valley of Whispers. More than you were before going up Mount Arreat."

Jade sighed. "I'm sure this debacle has changed each of us. I had to leave my friend to die alone in some demon stronghold. The Viz'jaq-taar may preach a philosophy of emotional detachment, but we are, ultimately, human. These things do take their toll. Naturally, I don't honestly expect to illicit any special sympathy - from you, or anyone. Too many have died in the arms of their friends, of late. It seems to make more sense to feel sorry for everyone these days."

M'avina pondered that a moment. "I've begun measuring my friendships in how much I pity them."

Jade nodded. "That's the only thing that ties us together, now. The mind-numbing shock of all this depravity, and the realization that it's touched every corner of the world. It will unite the lands of Men, for a time. But we are a fickle race, and our memories are short. Violence and war were not banished along with the Three. Then, we will forget pity, and only remember hatred and vengeance. It will happen sooner than you think."

M'avina looked back at the party by the tower. The paladin helping the sorceress load up the packhorse with supplies, the barbarians trading war stories with the druid, the Priest of Rathma talking philosophy with the Vizjerei mage. Just over a year ago, they wouldn't be seen near each other. They might have killed each other. Maybe Jade was just being cynical, but M'avina knew that she had a point.

"We all need someone to hate," she said. Dimoak had told her that the night he left Harrogath.

"No," Jade shook her head. "No one needs it. But everyone wants it. After all, it's hatred of a common enemy that's united us all in the first place. But now, we're driven by something else."

"Hope," M'avina suggested.

"Perhaps," Jade agreed tentatively. "Or a sense of purpose. After ridding the world of the Prime Evils and their most powerful followers . . ." she paused, chuckling to herself. "Going back to mercenary work will likely feel like a hollow experience."

M'avina looked to the ground. She knew that this was the most truthful thing they had exchanged. M'avina had never had to look to the future before, that had been Vidala's job. Now, this was all M'avina had. Pursuing another quest meant that she didn't have to think about anything else until it was done. There was a simplicity of thought to this lifestyle that she had come to appreciate.

She heard the murmurs of the party behind them. They had begun to set out, and were approaching.

"I do feel sorry for you, Jade," said M'avina quietly.

They shared a lengthy quiet.

"Thank you," Jade replied.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I really liked it. Both the conversation with the bird and the one with Jade were enjoyable and each added depth to the story.

With regard to the ending, one does not normally think of pity in this way, as a friendly or loving emotion. But I suppose if a group of people were to suffer losses severe-enough it could break down the more typical "don't pity me!" bravado that one expects. It certainly made me stop and think about what they had suffered and how it might have affected each of them. Very nicely done.

[DaCerZ]

Yay, new bit at last. Thats a nice interlude from all the killing and maiming of monsters and more-so it shows true human nature, contrary to popular belief, heroes in books and films as such don't fight 24/7 pulling off insane moves and crazy cool things. It did show that there is another side to these characters and in that makes them more real and better to read. Keep up the good work. :thumbsup:

-Dace; dying of the cold... still-

[Nephilim]

The Zakarum teaches us many things. The Archangel Yaerius told many truths to Akarat about the earth and sky, and the place of Man within it. And Akarat did faithfully obey these truths and preached them to the masses as he was decreed to do by Yaerius.

But the time of Akarat had long-since passed, and many truths allegedly proposed by the holy Light had been lost. A being of flesh was inherently imperfect, and so it came as no surprise that though the founding fathers of the Religion of the Light had nothing but good intentions, and followed the path laid out by Yaerius and Akarat as well as they could, their eventual successors were not as touched as they were. Over time, the tenets of the Zakarum changed.

In this day, it would be impossible to unravel the truths from falsehoods. According to the most sacred texts of the High Council, the prime decree of Yaerius was that all are worthy - all possess the same potential for both good and evil. None are born into their way of thinking. As such, all are worthy of becoming followers of the light, regardless of class, race, sex, or even their own past. Though its practice is subject to question, this belief is still held sacred by the Zakarumites.

But according to that same text, Yaerius also told Akarat that while all humanity is equal to one another, all is not equal to humanity. Men were chosen, of all the races in Sanctuary, to lead and shape the world. It was Man who was pulled from the chaotic wilderness and granted clarity. As such, all of humanity is one step above the world around it.

The Wilds cannot understand Men, and no Man can truly understand the Wilds. This is a necessary balance. Men stay within their city walls and walk only on their cobbled paths, while nature remains outside of them. The beasts of the Wilds, even nature itself, are barbaric, chaotic, and savage.

It was for this reason that the Broken Path frightened Kinemil so.

This tenet of the Zakarum was reinforced by the environment in which he grew up. Even before Mephisto's malevolent taint snaked through the jungles of Kehjistan, the forests beyond the borders of Kurast were teeming with dangers. Kehjistani children were taught to fear these dangers instead of understand them.

Demons he could handle - they sought destruction. Their entire will was bent on ending all life that lay before them. He could trust that aspect of them. But the wilderness had no malevolence and no will. It simply acted, and Kinemil felt much more confident pitting himself at the ravenous forces of Hell than the unpredictable fury of nature, against which he had not yet been tested.

A lesser man would have turned back then, but Kinemil was a man of his word, and he had a duty to Kaelim, however flawed his decision-making skills might be. It frustrated the young paladin even more that his comrades primarily agreed with Kaelim. Those who had been sympathetic with him had been eventually swayed by Kaelim and Ume. Couldn't they understand? Their fellows had defeated the three most powerful demons ever to set malevolent foot on Sanctuary. What possible threat could these new demons pose beyond those?

But no one listened to him, of course, as the death of Alaric was still too fresh in their minds. While Kinemil certainly was aggrieved at his gruesome fate, he also understood the need to press on despite that. Alaric had been taken because they hadn't expected to encounter anything more dangerous than a pack of wendigo. But now that they were prepared, things would be different.

From a strategic point of view, as well, going after the demon party made the most sense. They were scattered and leaderless now, and as such, posed no threat to Harrogath or any other outpost of humanity. But if they were allowed time to regroup and restructure their unholy hierarchy, who knows what they could do? Yes, it was their primary focus to uncover the fate of Theodoric's party, and finish what they started. But was not the safety of their people's their first priority?

A sigh from Bohdan brought Kinemil's thoughts back to the present. "By the Immortal King, Kinemil," the barbarian shook his head as they made their way to Gualahta Mhor, "our path is what it is whether your mood improves or not, so you might as well resign yourself to that fact and put a happy face on it. If not for your own benefit, then think of the rest of us."

Bohdan didn't like him, Kinemil knew. But they respected each other, and Kinemil believed that that was enough. Lately Bohdan had become more and more annoyed at the Paladin, which caused Kinemil to become annoyed with him, in turn.

The way became more rocky and convoluted than it had previously been. After leaving the Watchtower, they quickly took on much more mountainous terrain, but Dimoak kept them on a low path, to the foothills rather than the peaks. The valleys between mountains made natural wind tunnels that eerily howled above them, and the landscape around them was obscured by vast cliffs that made a close, broken horizon. And when they crossed one threshold, they simply saw the next one before them. It was the same in the dense jungles of Kehjistan, though, so Kinemil was used to it.

Nevertheless, he doubted in the druid. Not in his motives, of course, Dimoak had proven that he had nothing but the best intentions. But Kinemil had always regarded the druids as a fickle people, ruled by instinct and not by reason. He would not be eager to choose them as a guide for anything. This was primarily because they claimed to understand nature and its ebb and flow, and Kinemil held that this was impossible. No man can understand something so random and chaotic. And it was this supposed knowledge with which Dimoak was expected to guide them through the Broken Path.

The more Kinemil thought about it, the less he liked it. So he tried not to think about it, but this, of course, was the wrong course of action, as his mentor Ismail had once told him.

"Distraction is not a solution to anything. Focus on all that lies before you - your fear, your doubt, and your pain. Do not betray yourself by pretending they are not there. 'Know thyself, my children, and all that is thyself.'"

Ismail had been a great and righteous man, which made the tragedy of his corruption all the more poignant, but as Ismail himself had taught them, "Every man, woman and child has the potential to be the most benevolent human being, or the most vile sinner. Though we might sway the masses to the Light, or the demons might lure them to the Darkness, every man is ultimately responsible for his actions, and he will stand alone when the judgment comes."

They saw the peaks of Gualahta Mhor before they saw the mountain itself. They were gleaming towers of ice covered in patches of snow that refracted the sunlight to flare on their retinas. But they were not like the peaks of the other mountains of the Kae Huron. They were thin and numerous, and from this distance, they looked brittle. They were highest at the edges, too, and the line of peaks dipped in the middle, looking almost as if they had fallen in on each other. As they crossed the last ridge, the saw the mountain entirely, though Gualahta Mhor looked less like a mountain than it did a valley of ice. Running down its borders were vertical, overlapping rivers - signs of the melting and refreezing that Dimoak had spoken of before.

What was most strange about it was the sound. Where the rest of the Kae Huron were as silent as a snowfall, there was a constant sound from Gualahta Mhor. From the mouth of the gap at the centre of the base came a low roar, heavy and hoarse, like some terrible wind.

Kinemil found that many of the others had stopped at the peak of the ridge, like him. He couldn't help but feel some level of satisfaction at the uncertainty that flickered across their features. When Jade crested the hill, however, she took one look at the mountain, another at the faces of the party, and with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she trudged down the hill towards the base of the mountain. As if they were frantic not to lose face before the assassin, the rest quickly followed suit.

"We'll make camp at the foot of Gualahta Mhor," Kaelim announced as they neared it.

"We should likely stay the night," Dimoak suggested. "I'm not sure how long the Broken Path will take, so I would advise we begin at first light. We'll be less likely to be caught in the dark."

Jade suddenly stopped in her tracks, knee-deep in snow.

Kinemil, being only a few steps behind her, looked at her, but continued to trudge past her. So quickly that he barely had time to notice it, she raised her katar before him. "Stop," she murmured.

At first, he thought she was threatening him, but her face betrayed her. Her eyes were intense, and they darted to and fro. With her other hand, she slowly reached up and lowered her mask over her face.

Kaelim walked up behind her, but did not pass her. "What's the matter?"

"There is . . ." she paused, "something."

The rest of the column had stopped as well. Anything that would give Jade pause they knew they needed to be wary about. Kinemil looked around, squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun on the snow, straining his ears to hear some suspicious noise under the roar of Gualahta Mhor, and opening his mind to any alien energies.

When Jade turned to address the sorcerers behind her, she did so with such sharp haste that Kaelim jumped back, fearing that she was springing into an attack. "Do you feel that?"

Kinemil followed her gaze. Ume and Arcanna stood beside one another, and they were peering idly upwards, as if trying to unearth a long forgotten memory. Kinemil could not see Jabari from where he stood.

"I feel . . ." Arcanna looked to Ume for assistance, "something," she shook her head.

Ume sighed. "I am not familiar with this power."

"Me neither," Arcanna reiterated.

"Nor I," Jade admitted quietly, turning back to the mountain. Without looking at him, she asked. "Dimoak, can you explain it?"

The druid approached the mountain, staring at it strangely, as if he didn't recognize it, but felt he should. "No. But this magic has no place in Gualahta Mhor."

"Perhaps we can wait for it to pass," Bohdan suggested with a shrug.

"Shh!" M'avina suddenly hissed.

Quiet fell upon the valley, save the warm thunder from the mountain. Kinemil looked at the amazon, perplexed. "M'avina, what -"

"Shh!" she insisted frantically, her eyes wide with horror. "Listen!" she whispered.

Closing his eyes for assistance, Kinemil focused only on sound, ignoring the sun shining through his eyelids, and the chill creeping up his legs, even the steady roar of the mountain.

And softly, almost indistinguishably, there was a voice singing a song in a strange, musical language. It was an unearthly human voice - feminine, definitely. It would have been beautiful if it had not been so unnerving.

"Dimoak!" M'avina shouted for guidance.

Just as she shouted it, the snow erupted only yards from Kinemil. Instinctively he drew his sword as he backed away. The snow cleared and standing before him was a barbarian, a mace and chain dangling lazily from his arm. But his flesh was burned by the frost, if preserved by the cold. It was immediately obvious that his barbarian was dead.

At least, it should have been obvious. Kinemil was half reeling from the shock of the barbarian bursting from the snow, and being startled at his inability to detect the frostbitten zombie. Kinemil, like all Paladins of the Zakarum, had developed within themselves an inner eye. The undead were especially sacrilegious to the Zakarum, and so the Paladins were especially equipped to deal with them, not just physically in terms of the weapons they chose, but spiritually as well. Kinemil could sense an undead creature a quarter-mile away, but had not sensed this one buried three feet in front of him. Indeed, even now, Kinemil felt nothing before him.

But he had little time to dwell on it. The snowdrifts before them broke apart as a dozen undead barbarians rose up to meet the party. Kinemil shifted awkwardly in the knee-deep snow to make a defensive stance as the zombie in front of him prepared to strike. The monstrous undead was about to lunge forward when Bohdan skewered it through the stomach on the end of his halberd. The zombie attempted to push forward, but Bohdan kept it in check long enough to Kinemil to lop off its head with his claymore.

"Do you know who these barbarians are?" Kinemil breathlessly asked Bohdan as they moved on to their next target. The paladin had his suspicions, though.

"No," Bohdan replied darkly, "but I can hazard a guess."

So then Bohdan agreed - this was likely the fate of the barbarian group which had set out for Nulholla originally.

The two approached the front of the line. A zombie woman, her jaw hanging off one end of her face, lunged at Kaelim with her empty hands bared like bony claws. He fell back, exposing Caden as he squeezed through the front lines, eager for action. Then, he blanched.

A massive, undead barbarian, at least the size of Kaelim, loomed over the unusually small Caden, a cracked tower shield in one hand, and a mighty sword - the likes of which most men would require both hands to wield - in the other. With a dry, broken roar, the zombie reared back with the sword, preparing to cut Caden down with a single swipe.

But Caden remained transfixed, unable to move. Kinemil called out his name, but he didn't respond. The paladin swore beneath his breath and quickly rushed through the snow towards him, confident that Bohdan followed behind him. He knew, however, that he would be too late. If only Caden would move.

"Theodoric . . ." the name escaped Caden's lips in a whisper. So it was confirmed: this was the original barbarian party, and here was their leader, Theodoric, and he was going to murder his former friend.

But he did not. Theodoric smiled toothily, half the flesh torn from his face, his sword poised to strike. But he delayed, just long enough for Kinemil to tackle Caden, throwing both himself and the young barbarian out of the way as Theodoric swung the massive blade. Kinemil heard its jagged song and felt the wind on his face as it cut through the air.

Kinemil turned in the snow, shielding Caden with his body, preparing for another strike from Theodoric. But with a mighty roar, Bohdan swung his halberd and caught Theodoric in the gut. With a rasp, the zombie pushed the blade from his stomach, and turned on Bohdan, who backed away, and swifty cut off one of Theodoric's legs at the knee. He toppled over, and Bohdan finished him off with a decapitation.

Kinemil stood, ready for the next undead barbarian. But there were none. Glancing around, he saw that the undead force had been defeated with similar luck from around the group. In fact, as he surveyed the damage, he saw that not one of his party had sustained any damage - not a single scratch.

But perhaps the most bizarre thing was the packhorse. Not the calmest of creatures, even by horse standards, the horse had not only escaped all harm in the debacle, but had stayed perfectly still, and was even now nonchalantly eating snow. Kinemil could scarcely believe that the beast had kept its composure.

Jade lifted her mask, revealing a pensive face of concern, and frustrated confusion. She peered down at the undead swordsman she stood over, and gingerly shoved him with the sharp toe of her boot.

"Kinemil!" the sudden, macabre voice of the necromancer Ume startled the paladin, and he turned to the pale, gaunt man as he approached. "Kinemil," he repeated, "what did you sense from these creatures?"

So then it wasn't just him, Kinemil realized with some level of relief. He had feared that perhaps his skills had grown rusty. "I felt nothing," he replied to the necromancer.

"I felt nothing but that same magic I felt before," Jade stated firmly. "The Viz'jaq-taar are familiar with most all forms of sorcery, yet this one is a stranger to me, and, I take it, the rest of you, as well."

The sorcerers nodded.

M'avina pulled an arrow from one of the zombies and wiped the gore off of it diligently. "Will we still stay the night?"

"Will we even continue?" asked Bohdan. "We have discovered the fate of Theodoric's party, and now we risk befalling it with them." The barbarian looked at the faces of his comrades. "I think that turning back is more an option now than ever before."

It was a powerful truth, Kinemil admitted, and he wasn't sure how he felt. While honour would dictate that they finish Theodoric's work and find Nulholla Peak, he realized that he still feared Gualahta Mhor, which now as he looked at it, was more menacing than before, the cavernous gap open like a serpent's mouth, and the low roar its eternal exhale.

Kaelim, however, was quick to dismiss it. "No, we were put to a quest, and we have come too far to turn back now."

"But we cannot tarry here any longer," Jade shook her head.

"Is there any way we can camp within the mountain?" asked Oslaf.

Dimoak shifted uneasily. "There may be, but there are few places within Gualahta Mhor that I would trust to stay where they are, and those may not be accessible unless the glaciers shift in a very certain configuration, which there is no guarantee of. We should expect to enter the mountain and keep moving until we leave. Any reprieve we might meet is from nature's grace alone."

Arcanna was muttering, almost to herself. "The death of the Three left no anchor for the spirits of the dead to this world." She looked up, noticing the eyes of the party on her, and turned to Kaelim. "The reanimated hordes of the Prime Evils simply fell apart once Baal had been slain, as many here will account for. So for these dead to move against us would require another hand involved. Some level of sorcery is responsible for their restlessness. And," she floundered a moment, "some sort of spell must have been placed to shield the zombies from our senses. Very strong and distinct energies are required to compel the dead to return to life, and sustain them once they accept that invitation. At least one of us," Arcanna gesticulated wildly to the sorcerers, and Kinemil as well, "should have sen