Duel in the Desert, by Bleys

Ah, Drakhiya. City of stone walls and sand floors, where abound such
exotic delicacies as a pomegranate tart or a jug of that bitter
licorice alcohol, arak. There was also rat-on-a-stick, for more orcish
tastes.  Wandering around the city's streets by day to take in the
marvelous architecture and statuary would be sure to lead to sweaty
undergarments and dusty, dirty skin. This would only make for good
reason to then delight in the unparalleled ecstasy of the famous
Drakhiya baths, where the hot steamy water seems to have an enchanting
ability to wash one clean of even the foulest stink and
grime. (Although a certain unfortunate dwarf was unable to remove the
stench of the infamous resident bog monster, even after repeated
scrubbings, and futilely demanded his coins back.)

It was Festival time, the Feast of the Prophet, in the grand city of
Drakhiya, jewel in the eye of Drakh the All-Knowing, an occasion that
occurred once every year in the month of Waterhaze. The Festival
lasted a fortnight and was an unusual time in this usually
elf-intolerant city, when members of all races and classes and guilds
were allowed into the city's walls to partake in the events. The
Caliphs had always been praised for their seeming benevolence at
tolerating all humanoids and guilds at this special time. The harsh
reality of it all was that they appreciated the profits and attention
the Festival brought to their beloved city, and not a few of the
city's rulers had been able to refuse the sweet tastes of fine elvish
baking.

The night-time air above the city was once again rife with noise and
excitement from the celebrations below, as well as hazy grey and black
smoke from the pyrotechnic displays put on by commissioned mages of
the conjuration school. This year the theme of the fiery displays in
the sky seemed to be one of wonder, as most of the images portrayed in
the night sky were of mystical dragons and fierce ogres, and the
occasional beast that nobody seemed to recognize. Ishtaq the famous
juggler was conspicuously absent, given his nefarious history with the
current Caliph, yet many other street performers could be seen at one
busy corner of the city, performing their legerdemain with all-new
twists, never failing to enliven the crowd with their mastery. A group
of runty dwarven ex-Knights performed impromptu skits full of
slapstick and bawdy comedy to the delight of many in the crowd,
especially the Scythers present.

The normally wide and spacious avenues of Drakhiya were now thronged
with humans and humanoids from all reaches of the land, and
larger-than-life constructs of paper and glue depicting grinning
visages and figures from mythical lore either adorned the backs of
Festival-goers or dotted the streets and corners at regular
intervals. Trailing some of the adventurers were beasts of burden of
many shapes and sizes, from shifty-eyed ravens perched on shoulders to
intelligent wolves with huge maws to lumbering, vacant-eyed undead
that added a haunting presence to the otherwise cheerful
gathering. Outside of the city walls one would expect so many of those
pressed closely together here to be locked in combat. Yet a curious
atmosphere of tolerance seemed to drape the masses like a curtain,
made no less impenetrable by the numerous swarthy orcish cityguards
and serpentari militiamen dotting the streets and parapets.

One particular traveler who made his way through the masses filling
the streets had less-than-tolerable notions in mind. In fact, he was
not here at all for the Feast. This was merely a convenient milieu in
which he could work his dark tasks. Purses for cutting and jewelry for
nicking were there by the dozen to be had, and thieve he did with
thoughtless ease in this carefree crowd. But such aspects of
roguishness did not give Nattick the same thrill they once did, and
they were not his primary reason for being in Drakhiya at Festival
time.

Comely wenches tried in vain to attract the thin rogue's attentions as
he slowly strolled by the inns and taverns they frequented. Nattick
was a handsome human, thin and wiry of stature, normally with a full
head of hair that sprouted long dark locks, some of which hung over
his face, shielding his eyes at times. For traveling incognito,
however, his hair was pressed close to his scalp under a close-cropped
blonde wig. He was shorter than most human males, at a hand under four
cubits tall, and he possessed a quickness that even some elves would
envy. He had a thin, aquiline nose and his high cheekbones and the
slight upward curve to his dark eyes gave his face a constant look of
intensity and alertness.

Nattick was disguised in the finest nobleman's garb, as he was here in
Drakhiya posing as an ambassador from Tantallon, and this was another
reason the harlots were eager for him to look their way. He had donned
a hooded light grey cloak, the hood currently flipped back, over a
handsomely polished leather breastplate. A golden chain around his
waist served as a belt and where it buckled in the front it bore the
insignia of the Town Council of Tantallon. High black leather boots
that softened his step (and augmented his quickness, due to their
enchantments) adorned his feet, the left one concealing a wickedly
sharp knife that Nattick used in combat. A sheathed bastard sword hung
at his side, and he bore several 'official' rings of command on his
fingers. He could scarcely wait to shed his disguise and get down to
business, but he knew that would have to wait until tomorrow.

As he toyed with a ring bearing a green gem set into an intricately
worked band, his eyes idly surveying the curves of the tawdry women
lining the street, he mulled over events from the past few days in his
mind and coldly considered his objectives in the city of Drakhiya...


'I'll get right to it, Nattick. We admire your work,' Balfor had said,
the cunning Scyther sprawling out across from the rogue in their
booth. It was one of the few times Nattick had seen him relax his
guard, indicating that the Scythe leader trusted him implicitly.

The two Scythers were in a back corner of the bar in Hobbitat, well
away from prying eyes and unwanted personages, secure in one of its
many private booths.

Peering through the drawn curtain of the booth, Balfor silently
motioned for the hobbit waitress, a cutely smiling female with curly
brown hair, to bring them another round of imported Raveli rum.

'Thank you, bloodbrother,' Nattick replied simply in turn, nodding
briefly to his superior. 'What is it you would have me do this time?'

Balfor grinned slightly and stared at Nattick for a moment, admiring
his always-intense gaze and somewhat fearing him. Nattick was a true
find, one he was glad to have on his side, and he hoped his loyalties
to the Scythe would never sway. He quickly sat forward, thrusting his
face across the table at the rogue. 'Halforc and the others have
spoken. The elf bastard must be brought down. He is getting brazen in
his actions against us and we can no longer afford to let him
live. There is some sort of connection between Duender and that
strange tower in the desert.' Balfor paused for effect. 'We think a
war is brewing.' He sat back, gazing expectantly at the Scythe's
prized assassin.

Votishal. He had to be talking about the elven ambassador from Duender
that was recently organizing some sort of movement against the Scythe
clan. The elf and human inhabitants of this despicable city to the
west were now focusing their efforts on curbing his own guild's
power. The creation of the Elven Defense Force was probably but the
beginning of the reprisal from Duender and its resident guild, the
Eldar, and this Votishal was somehow at the center of it. Eliminating
Votishal would do much to hinder their designs, and nothing could
please Nattick more than to drive his knife into the back of some
grove-tending elf. This would also make him shine in the eyes of his
leaders, most notably Halforc.

The Crystal Monolith, now that was something else entirely. He had
heard of no one who had been able to penetrate its mysteries since it
first appeared in the deserts far to the south, near Drakhiya, about 3
months ago. Nattick had heard shades of rumors from travelers of far
lands that similar towers had appeared mysteriously there, always
right before something terrible happened. But how exactly was Votishal
involved? He knew Balfor was being cagey again, and that trying to get
any more information out of him than given would be no easier than
getting the Bard of Nepeth to sing. Perhaps Balfor did not know,
either...

Nattick narrowed his eyes slightly and stared thoughtfully back at
Balfor.  Just then the curtain parted and the beaming waitress
appeared with their rum, as well as another rack of roast rabbit,
which she placed before them and vanished, silver coins pressed into
her tiny hand by the rogue.  Nattick grabbed the pewter mug of rum and
took a swig of it, buying himself some time to think. Balfor simply
grinned back at him and hungrily tore into a leg of rabbit, waiting
patiently for Nattick's consent, confident he would have it.

Nattick had seen this Votishal a time or two in the past. He had been
a fighter of some renown and was said to be deadly in combat, and he
carried the prized two-handed sword, Elvenheart. This would be no easy
mark, but Nattick was not about taking the easy way out, and he
relished the chance to gain favor with his leaders. The fact that
Votishal was an elf made the offer all but impossible to refuse.

'So you are finally going to give me the chance to silence this
sniveling elf. I accept. Only tell me where and when this needs to be
done.'  Nattick's eyes had a cold intensity in them now, causing
Balfor to blink before speaking.

'The Feast of the Prophet is taking place in Drakhiya in a few days,
as you well know. The chaos that normally reigns in that city during
this time will be the perfect setting for you. Votishal will be there,
no doubt with some of his company in tow, for the trade conference. So
be ready for that. But we know he is really going there for something
more. See that he meets a brutal end, and investigate the tower and
his connections to it.  I'll begin getting the guild ready for any
surprises on this end.' Balfor looked thoughtful for a moment. 'You
have never disappointed us, Nattick, and the way you carry out your
job always makes for good stories. You know Boki is looking forward to
hearing about this one. He always gets a good laugh out of your
killing.' Balfor smirked back at the rogue, his mouth now full of
rabbit.

Nattick laughed. The gigantic ogre that was their mascot did take a
liking to him, and seemed to hang on his every word as he recounted
how he had taken down his last mark. More than a few times, Nattick
would have to stop in the middle of the story to explain certain words
to the ogre, and he had to wonder if even his entire brain was made of
muscle, too.

'I'll leave before dawn and head south, then. I want to be sure I know
this city well before the Feast starts. You'll have your proof in a
fortnight.' The rogue now grinned darkly back at Balfor, who
half-stood and lurched over the tabletop to give him an enthusiastic
headbutt. The drinks spilled and the entire booth shook, but the
Scythers just laughed.

***

Mara half-hid her face in a tankard of the local Drakh swill, gazing
disdainfully above the rim at a room full of sweaty, stinking humans,
orcs and dwarves. She slowly drank from the mug, cradling it in her
small, elven hands, with her feet kicked up in the chair across the
table from her. All of these brawny, unwashed brutes could do was
revel in their filth and idiocy, and the only reason they tolerated
her presence was because it was Festival time in Drakhiya. The only
reason she tolerated them was for her damnable loyalty to Illarin and
her people, the Eldar.

Most of them had not even noticed her slide in to the bar and seat
herself in the corner, for Mara was among the most skilled of
rogues. To look at her, she seemed nothing more than a small child,
and her fine features and slender, pointed ears belied the fact that
she was in fact a most accomplished hunter and killer. Eyes of the
richest green were set in a plain face of childlike naivete, with
red-golden strands of hair falling all about to her shoulders. The
upward tilt to the corners of her eyes gave her elven heritage away,
as did her ears, and she did nothing to hide these features. She had
clothed herself as would a well-to-do merchant with simple jewelry and
no visible weaponry, but a leather garter held a couple of deadly
throwing knives within easy reach. A razor sharp stiletto was
carefully tucked away up one sleeve, and a sheathed scimitar hung by
her side.

Growing bored of staring at the louts in the inn, her eyes darted to
look through the window out onto the Street of Snakes. The street
outside was packed from end to end with excited revelers and
merchants, and the serpentari militia's presence was hard to
miss. Forked tongue flickering wildly, one particular militiaman had
his hands full as he jabbed his glaive into the backside of a
forlorn-looking orc, apparently caught pick-pocketing or performing
some other mischief. Slowly the serpentari herded him up the street,
inevitably towards the dungeon in the Palace, Mara thought to herself
idly.

A tall human bedecked in a jester's outfit began gathering a crowd
around him a little further down the street. He held three long-bladed
knives in one hand and three potatoes in his other hand, apparently
preparing to not only juggle them but somehow dice the potatoes in
mid-air. His dark eyes glittered with greed and mirth, and Mara could
just make out one of the jester's accomplices working his way through
the crowd, searching for fat purses waiting to be cut. She chuckled
dryly to herself.

A rather self-important looking nobleman momentarily blocked her view
of the juggling display, as he made his way up the street with a small
retinue of fawning prostitutes. Mara found it amazing how these fops
all looked the same, no matter how hard they tried to outdo one
another with their garish outfits and jewelry. And yet, there was
something quite different about this particular aristocrat.

Her blood raced as she locked eyes with her quarry, a wiry human
Scyther she had traveled many stadia to neutralize. Ordinarily his
disguise would have fooled even her, but that intense glimmer in his
eyes was unmistakable. He did not notice her gaze, however, for he
seemed to be idly scanning the street as he strolled by, barely
succeeding in his attempts to thwart the advances of two orcish
wenches. As he passed by out of sight on the other side of the street,
she contemplated the dreaded Scythe assassin, and knew fear for the
first time in many months.

Illarin had been most pressing on the point that the Scythe clan was
probably going to send someone to spy on Votishal - or worse,
assassinate him. One of their lower-ranking members had been caught in
the Defense Force camp. Illarin and her lieutenants had learned a few
things about their potential subterfuge with her scrying magics on the
hapless orc before he was turned into fodder for the guard dogs. Mara
was Illarin's answer to any Scythe threat in this situation, and even
Votishal did not know of her presence. She was to ghost him in the
city and on his trip to the foreboding crystal tower in the desert.

But Nattick. She should hope to be asked to return with Razar the
Greater Demon's horns than to face this formidable rogue. None but the
most informed and powerful of assassins even knew his name, and none
wished to ever have to confront him. He was simply too good at what he
did, and he was always three steps ahead of his prey and his
pursuers. In fact, Mara thought to herself gloomily, he probably
already knew she was after him and where she was staying, and -
Heavens! - what color shift she was wearing, even though his stare had
simply washed over her a moment before.

Mara blushed slightly at this last thought, and her darkening mood
lifted considerably when she saw that a game of dagger toss was taking
place at the other end of the bar. Her dealings with Nattick could
wait a bit longer.

Made popular in the Scythe camp, these little booths had begun popping
up all over the land. Perhaps she wasn't as infamous as Nattick and
his talents for murder, but she was widely revered for her proficiency
at throwing knives. The fact that money was changing hands steeled her
resolve to play even more.

'Watch this, Gnorl,' a burly, vaguely handsome orc said, his lips
curled into an arrogant sneer as he readied a throwing dagger. Across
from him in the booth, about 10 ells away, stood an effigy of the
itinerant sage, Gaius.

'Thwack!' the dagger sounded as it bit deeply into the dummy's
forehead, right between the eyes. A round of drunken cheers went up
from the crowd around him, now watching the local palace guard do what
he did best.

Nobody seemed to notice the small merchant looking on from the
periphery, arms crossed under her breasts, a bemused grin on her face.

'Bet you can't hit him in the head five times running, Gryg,' the orc
called Gnorl said, plopping down several gold coins in front of him on
the table. The crowd broke into excited murmurs. Few were able to hit
called shots with these unbalanced knives with that amount of
regularity, and the escalating bets were making for a great game of
dagger toss, indeed.

Gryg grunted and said, 'So you'll be buying my drinks and wenches for
the Festival then, you flower-sniffing fairy!' He let another dagger
fly, and this one bit home right in one of the cheeks of the
mannequin. The crowd of drunks and Festival-goers erupted in laughter,
and still no one noticed the elf, or the fire in her jade eyes.

Gnorl began to pale and sweat visibly as each proceeding dagger was
driven home by Gryg's sure swing until all 5 dotted the face of the
sage's burlap-and-hay doppelganger. Taking a large swig of Gnorl's
beer and then taking his coins, Gryg winked at his dejected friend and
then turned to the applauding crowd. 'Who wants to help get Gryg a new
steed?'

As Gryg leered into the crowd, the serpentari bartender was hurriedly
setting up another effigy of Gaius. The popularity of the widely-hated
sage's effigy was unparalleled, no doubt due to his often vexing and
enigmatic advice, as folk rarely threw daggers at effigies of King
Drin or Ewani anymore.

'I'll fancy your wager, orc,' Mara said confidently over the murmurs
of the crowd, now enthralled with the drama at the dagger toss
booth. She strode boldly forward, the throng parting to let her into
the playing area surrounding the booth. The bar's patrons gawked at
her and some sniggered, for her small stature and trader's garb belied
her dead-on accuracy and cunning as a rogue assassin. When she reached
the burly orc, she grinned placidly at him, and met his arrogant smirk
without flinching.

'A hundred gold coins says I can best your marksmanship with 5
daggers, and I'll do it while blindfolded,' she declared, so
matter-of-factly that the now-silent crowd didn't know whether to
burst out laughing or to believe her. To look in her eyes, one could
not help but accept her words as truth.

Gryg was only thinking of how he was going to spend his new fortune,
for there was no way this elf could beat him at his own game - in his
own backyard, no less.

'Fine, elfie, you're on, but let me see this gold first cuz I don't
wanna hafta eat you when you lose. Would be a waste of fine flesh!' he
barked out, laughing as he placed a large sack of coins onto the
table. Gnorl began to look a little concerned.

Mara reached into a belt pouch and placed her stakes on the table,
next to Gryg's, and for the first time the orc got a glimpse of the
scimitar that hung at her side in its scabbard. No elf merchant would
carry such a blade around that did not know how to use it, and Gryg
frowned at her slightly.

The serpentari barkeep lithely worked his way to Mara and handed her a
square of something that felt as if it was made from the hide of a
giant snake, and the elf rogue neatly folded the cool skin in her
hands. Taking one measured glance at the stupidly grinning visage of
Gaius, she quietly wrapped the blindfold around her eyes, and then
held out a steady hand for her daggers. The barkeep hurriedly placed
the knives into her grasp and Mara fingered them deftly, taking the
first one up in her left hand, her throwing hand.

Absorbing energy from the engrossed crowd around her and feeding off
of the gamesmanship from her orc rival, Mara focused her mind fully on
the image of the target in her mind. With a wry smirk she decided to
show off a little bit, and with that she let the first dagger fly.

The first dagger found purchase in the right knee of Gaius, and Mara
proclaimed, 'That is so you cannot follow me all over this land to
pester me!' A nervous giggle ran through the crowd. Gryg merely raised
an eyebrow.

Next the rogue held up two daggers in her left hand, the points of
each between her thumb and first two fingers, and she hurled them
simultaneously. They bit home in each of the dummy's two eyes. Shouts
of amazement went up from some in the crowd, and some started to
applaud excitedly.

'Those are to keep you from seeing me as I rob your house!' The crowd
laughed in approval, and they were now becoming hers.

Her fourth throw came quickly, her entire body a blur as she threw a
knife into Gaius' mouth, and she said, 'That's so I don't have to
listen to your meaningless drivel anymore!' Even Gnorl began to smirk
a little at that, but Gryg's brow furrowed deeper.

Mara held the fifth and final dagger up and twirled it about her
fingers, grinning as she spoke, 'And this, this shall be to pay you
back for the humiliation you cause by making me look daft!' The last
dagger caught the effigy in the middle and to the side, exactly where
the stitching of the dummy's robe met, causing the robe to drop away,
leaving Gaius 'naked' in bare straw. The bar erupted in cheers and
applause, the crowd now ten-deep and into the streets as curious
passers-by began to gather outside of the packed taverna.

Mara flipped off the blindfold and admired her handiwork, five daggers
precisely placed where she had envisioned them. She smiled sweetly up
at Gryg, who was now looking as if he had left the slave pen doors
open and the slaves unfettered back home. The crowd pressed in around
her, some slapping her on the back and others offering to buy her a
drink, as she gathered up her bounty and graciously accepted the
praise.

As Gryg pondered some form of retribution against the merchant, who
was obviously more than she had seemed, he absently felt for the
remainder of his coins, tucked away inside his tunic, only to find
they were gone. As he looked down in shock at the cut drawstrings of
the satchel inside his vest that contained all of his previous
winnings, he noticed that his favorite ring was missing too!

Filled with rage, he looked up again and glanced about fiercely for
the little rogue, only to see nothing but smiling and laughing
tourists and patrons. Effectively pinned deep in the bar by the crowd,
Gryg sullenly snatched Gnorl's remaining ale from him and swigged it
down.

Outside, strolling casually down the street towards the Avenue of Sand
and breathing in the fresh nighttime air, Mara twirled the orc's big
ring around one of her fingers and smiled. Her good luck at the game
was a positive sign, and she'd take it, given the formidable task of
tracking down Nattick and confronting him if necessary. But that was
tomorrow's work, for tonight she would enjoy spending Gryg's money in
the welcoming steam baths of Drakhiya.

***

Sunrise came early at this time of year over the Gates of Dawn of the
grand city of Drakhiya, called Drakh by those who knew her streets and
alleyways well. The wondrous and exotic carvings adorning the eastern
gates seemed somehow alive in the light of the intense sun, with
mythical creatures of the light dancing about the rim and an
odd-looking dragon with a platypus bill clutching a sunburst at their
crest. Buzzards nesting on the city's parapets and rooftops took
flight, in search of their daily prey, while numerous bats now
slumbered in the safety of the city's many chimneys and overhangs.

Already the many wide streets were clogged with merchants and patrons
alike, for it was the second day of the Prophet's Feast, and the first
day of the trade conference. Booths displaying all manner of cuisine,
crafts, weapons, armour, and clothing were in business again, and this
was looking to be one of the most successful Festivals in recent
memory.

A couple of stories above the streets of Drakh and their hubbub, a
dark-haired rogue idly gazed down at the activity. He squatted
comfortably on top of the balustrade outside of the inn's second
floor, the flowing cloak about his body slowly turning the color of
the dusty tan and grey of the building behind him. Rendered
effectively invisible by his magical cloak and his own fluid motions,
he stood and gracefully spun around on the railing, and leapt to catch
the rim of the inn's roof. Nattick deftly pulled himself onto the
rooftop and started at a moderate trot towards the opposite edge, the
rooftops of the embassy district beckoning to him. He would have elf
blood today, and he could wait no longer to satiate his thirst for it.

Back on the streets below, one of several horseorc guards, mounted
atop a hardy black steed, directed a small cadre of orc laborers as
they busily prepared for the mid-week parade. The battle-worn orc
waved his falchion dogmatically, its steel glinting in the morning
sun, to direct the sweaty orcs as they placed lanterns and fliers,
while others laid out thin rope barricades to separate the streets
from the sidewalks. The orc workers did their best to not interfere
with the merchants or their customers, yet the muscular horseorc
seemed to enjoy being disruptive.

One azhad merchant cursed the mounted guard angrily as his careless
cantering about had toppled over a stand of pomegranates and driven
away a customer. 'Stupid horseorcs! Always showing up at the wrong
time!' The orc guard merely sneered in satisfaction and drove his
workers further up the street, making them toil at a frantic pace.

Further in toward the city's hub the trade conferences were already
underway, in the embassy buildings just north of the Palace of
Drakhiya.  The Caliph himself was there to preside over the conference
and was accompanied by his trusted Wazir, a serpentari high priest
named Yassar.  The serpentari's eyes glittered with greed at the day's
prospects, for he always fared well in bartering with representatives
from the other cities.  Not only did Drakhiya always seem to come out
ahead in the trade dealings with Yassar at the reins, but the city
always managed to turn a huge profit from the taxes on the sales in
the many booths and inns and brothels during Festival time.

In a building adjacent to the one currently occupied by the Caliph, a
bored-looking elf sat at a fine walnut table across from a small group
of avaricious hobbits. He was dressed in silks of blue and green, and
his rings and silver headband identified him as an ambassador from the
fair city of Duender, home to the Eldar. His right hand rested on the
pommel of a great two-handed sword which hung at his side, and his
left hand propped up his chin. He attempted to keep from falling
asleep while the hobbits droned on about how the people of Duender
needed to drink more Hobbitat Firebreathers.

Votishal lacked the handsomeness of most elves, but eyes of blue steel
and straight black hair pulled into a small ponytail gave him a
serious look.  He nodded absently to the Hobbitat ambassadors
periodically, only able to keep his eyes open from extensive military
training at the hands of Arehtama in the Elven Defense Force compounds.

'Gods,' the fighter thought to himself, 'these furtive hobbits would
try the patience of even Namril!' Votishal was not an ambassador by
trade, but was rather in Drakhiya at this time as part of a carefully
calculated move on the part of the Eldar. He merely tolerated the
day-to-day dealings of the trade conference to keep up his facade.

The elf absently fingered the pouch at his belt, which contained a
cylinder of crystal to be delivered a few days hence to the leader of
the enigmatic monolith in the desert a bit further to the south. What
it contained, he did not know, nor did he care for he could tell from
the look in Illarin's eyes that he would be facing battle soon. He had
longed to wield Elvenheart again in order to cleave some Scythe
skulls. She had all but guaranteed him that with her quiet but
meaningful stares, and he yearned to have the clan's taint cleared
from the lands for good.

Sitting at Votishal's left and staring fixedly at the cunning hobbits
was a towering half-orc. He was a rarity among rarities, a humanoid
with orcish blood that was tolerated by the people of Duender, for he
was raised by them. His mother was a human Eldar that was brutally
raped by a band of marauding orcs that had ambushed their city long
ago, leaving Stobb behind as a physical legacy. She died of the plague
soon after his birth and, his father unknown to him, he had been
raised by elves and human and their kin in the city of Duender and its
surrounding forests.  They treated him humanely, but more out of a
sense of responsibility than love, and kept him at a distance,
secretly ashamed of his heritage. He did not wear the silver headband
of the Eldar, yet his lifelong loyalty to them had been
unfaltering. He had gone out on dozens of sorties with the Eldar
patrols to put down the seemingly endless bands of orc marauders that
harried the landscape.

For now Stobb was being used as an escort for Votishal, acting as the
ambassador's bodyguard while here at the conference, and his
intimidating presence did much to back the ambitious hobbits off from
many of their schemes to sell more Hobbitat chattel.

'...so you can see, kind sirs, how the new mint Hobbitat truffles will
be sure to delight the tastes of even your most discerning Elfin
ladies, as our test markets in lands to the east have shown, so if you
will just sign here we will mark our next imported case just for
you...' one of the hobbits went on, and when he ran out of breath one
of the others next to him would pick up the pitch flawlessly. This was
not the first time this crew had worked together, and their technique
worked almost without fail.  Even Votishal began to show a glimmer of
interest.

But just then Stobb grunted disinterestedly, leaning back in his chair
and staring at his fingernails. The hobbits gave a start, then changed
tactics in mid-stream, noticing the pair's reticence and attempting to
divert their attention with a display of fine Hobbitat compasses,
determined not to come away empty.

A bemused grin cracked his face as Nattick watched the bored elf and
his large companion through a window. He lay on his stomach on a flat
stone roof across from the embassy, atop one of the city's many
tavernas, judging from the licorice smell of arak wafting up from
below. He waited patiently for the conversation to end, knowing soon
he was to find out the real reason Votishal was here. Languidly, he
wondered how much the elf's blade would fetch on the open market.

Deciding he had heard enough, Votishal stood up and thrust out his
hand for the hobbits to shake. Instead, one of them grabbed it and
kissed it, and the elf laughed heartily. His jaded exterior had
accidentally given the Eldar the upper hand in their negotiations with
these shrewd hobbits, a position not often gained by even the sharpest
traders. He glanced over some documents outlining the new deals and
trade routes between the two cities, found them favorable, and signed
them quickly.

As he pressed the signet of his ring into the hot wax sealing the
papers, Votishal shot a glance to the half-orc and said, 'Stobb, be a
good fellow and see that these fine merchants from Hobbitat enjoy the
rest of their day here in Drakhiya.'

The huge half-breed simply grunted and took a few gold coins out of
his money pouch and sprinkled them into the eagerly awaiting paws of
the hobbits, who bowed their way shamelessly out of the room.

Votishal giggled merrily at the smirking half-orc as the pair headed
back to their quarters in the Palace. There, Votishal would reveal to
Stobb and the rest of his party their real motivation for traveling to
the Feast. He would then make arrangements to head for the crystal
spire beckoning in the desert to solidify the pact between his guild
and the Consortium. A morning of successful trading behind, the elf
started to feel better about the unpredictable encounter ahead of him,
and once again his hand strayed to the pommel of his prized sword.

Outside and across from the window of the now empty trading room, the
dry desert wind blew tiny dust devils in the sand on the rooftop where
Nattick lay just moments before.

***

'I will dine with you shortly, and then I must be off to meet our new
allies. Expect battle soon, my brothers and sisters, and wait in the
city for my return,' their leader commanded.

'We shall do as you say, my lord,' one of the group said, a young
half-elven man. Though dressed as an attendant, he was wearing fine
quality silk garb, as were the rest of the entourage accompanying
Votishal on his mission to Drakhiya. The small mix of men and women
from Duender were hand-picked by the fighter, and like him they were
not really tradesmen but warriors. For now they were being sent out
into the city to keep the Eldar presence visible, even while Votishal
prepared for his sojourn to the strange tower in the south.

As the contingent left through the archway and out into the hall, a
passing orc palace guard leered at them, visibly fighting to maintain
self-control. The elves and humans from Duender ignored the scornful
guard icily and proceeded to the city streets outside.

All that remained in the lush guest chamber were Votishal and his
henchman, Stobb, who casually leaned against a column by the
entryway. A corrupt grin slowly crept across the half-orc's face as he
beheld the elf in silence. Stobb would finally begin to have his
freedom from the lifelong oppression of the Eldar guild's constant
silent judgment of him.  Sick of their disdain, pity and shame, he
found it fitting that Votishal's cleaved skull would be the first of
many more to come. His hand went to the haft of his great two-handed
axe and brushed against his tunic, where it concealed the mark of the
Scythe clan.

As the elf buckled on a glittering breastplate made of a strange
metal, the half-orc glanced sharply into the shadows cast by the
noonday sun in the back of the room. There the lissome form of a human
rogue stood, standing taut and silent behind a column near the
elf. Stobb grinned to himself, deciding not to steal Nattick's thunder
as he recognized the shadowy outline of his rogue friend.

'Votishal,' the half-orc said quietly.

'What is it, Stobb?' the elf replied, busily donning a light desert
robe over his armour.

'Things look pretty good for us now, don't they?' Stobb gazed intently
at his charge, studying his expressions.

The elf grinned confidently. 'A great war is brewing, and one that we
are sure to win. The key to what happens next lies in that tower. When
it is done, the land will belong to us again, it's rightful
caretakers. Much Scythe blood will be shed, and soon!' Votishal stared
defiantly, caught up in his pride.

'Did I not mention? I was never on your side, you puny elf,' Stobb
said ominously.

The elf merely stared at him confusingly, his jaw hanging open and his
eyebrows raised.  'Stobb, wha-'

In a blur Nattick leapt out from behind the column, driving the point
of his wickedly sharp knife home in between the unaware elf's
ribs. Votishal cried out in pain as he was wounded deeply. Acting out
of rigid discipline, the fighter somersaulted forward and came up on
his feet facing his opponent. He winced in pain as he slowly
unsheathed the large blade at his side, blood welling down his
backside from the deep wound.

The rogue threw back the hood of his cloak and snarled defiantly at
the elf, and with lightning quickness he yanked his prized sword from
its scabbard. Nattick twirled the knife in his left hand as he
beckoned to the fighter with his sword, its finely-welded blade
glinting in the light.

As Votishal slowly brought the point of Elvenheart up in front of him,
he became enveloped in a glowing blue light, and new energies wafted
over him, diminishing the pain from the stabbing. He stared balefully
at the assassin before him, noticing that he seemed to somehow blend
in with the background even as he moved. The bastard was wearing
Arehtama's cloak, and this made Votishal feel at once angered and
threatened.

The two circled each other slowly and menacingly, as Stobb quietly
placed a folding screen across the room's lone entryway, exchanging a
meaningful glance with the palace guard outside.

'I don't know what the hell is going on here, but both of your scalps
will adorn the palisade back in camp!' Votishal shouted angrily at the
rogue, eyeing Stobb warily and readying for an attack from both. The
half-orc now merely sat cross-legged in front of the screen, his large
axe strapped to his back. He stared back at the elf immovably.

The rogue feinted a time or two, making the bloodthirsty elf flinch
and leap forward each time, but he proved to have excellent balance,
almost as good as Nattick's. Finally Votishal let out a cry and
charged straight at the rogue, who met the downward slice of the elf's
massive sword with his own in a speedy parry.

Quickly, Nattick spun around and to the right of the charging elf, his
knife slicing quickly across the fighter's outstretched right arm,
leaving a thin red ribbon of blood in its path.

Not letting the sneaky human get behind him a second time, Votishal
quickly righted himself and bore down upon the rogue again, this time
weaving the large sword quickly and in a complicated attack. The elf
demonstrated an uncanny agility with a blade that was seemingly too
large for him, and instead of slowing him down it appeared to give him
strength.

Nattick had no choice but to steadily parry the fighter's exacting
thrusts and slashes, only his expert command of the sword and dagger
keeping him alive. The flickering blue light around the elf proved
somewhat distracting to the rogue, and he tried to counter this by
spinning his knife, attempting to divert the fighter's eyes for just a
second.

Nattick slowly gave ground to Votishal, who was trying to work him
into a corner. He had fought such experienced fighters before, and
knew he had to keep moving and parrying lest he be hacked to pieces if
cornered.

Seizing a rare opportunity, Nattick batted the elf's two-handed sword
away as he feinted with it, and sliced open a gash on the fighter's
left leg.  Nattick had managed to sustain only a few cuts and nicks
from the point of the large blade as he swept by the fighter, and his
opponent was now visibly bleeding from several large cuts.

Votishal screamed in rage, and with one hand he picked up a metal
brazier and hurled it at the rogue with astonishing strength. Nattick
had to duck and barely missed being struck upon the head by the iron
brazier, which whizzed past and clanged into the wall behind
him. Embers spilled forth from the top of the brazier in an orange
flurry, clattering about harmlessly on the stone floor.

The elf was upon him again with renewed fury and with a quick,
circular motion he managed to disarm Nattick, sending his sword flying
well behind and to the left of him.

Hastily, Nattick snatched up one of the many throw pillows lying about
and tossed it straight at the fighter. Votishal brought Elvenheart
slicing down, cleaving the pillow in mid-air, sending goose feathers
flying and falling about like a thick snow.

Votishal grinned triumphantly and loosed a wicked cut with his blade
right at Nattick's head, who dropped into a crouch, artfully dodging
the swing and executing a perfect foot sweep. He knocked the fighter
to his feet before him.

Moving so fast even Stobb's rapt stare could not catch it fully,
Nattick produced two hunga-mungas from within his tunic and hurled
them at Votishal's fallen form. They both plunged deep into the elf's
abdomen, producing a meaty sound as they bit deeply into his unguarded
flesh.  Greenish ooze seeped from the wounds and Votishal clutched at
them feebly, the poison spreading through his veins like liquid fire.

As Elvenheart fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor beside
him, the blue glow abruptly winked out of existence, and the elf
groaned. The last of the feathers slowly settled to the ground beside
him, landing in a growing pool of the elf's tainted blood.

Ignoring Nattick and glaring up at Stobb, who now stood over him,
Votishal spat. 'You have betrayed us, half-breed, proving you are no
better than the orc scum that gave you life. You will not live much
longer than I.'

'Maybe not,' Stobb replied, 'but I have found true brotherhood,
something your people could never give.' The half-orc grinned evilly
at Votishal as he stood and raised his tunic, revealing the steely
mark of the Scythe burned into his flesh.

'No...' Votishal gasped as he died, his eyes and face now glassy with
the shock of betrayal and death.

Stobb simply spat upon the ground, and Nattick had already begun
rifling through Votishal's garments, his bastard sword again hanging
at his side in its sheath. Elvenheart was also sheathed and on the
rogue's back. Stobb shook his head slowly in bewilderment, feeling
slightly uneasy at how quickly and effortlessly the rogue moved
without detection.

'Well done, Stobb, you'd make Boki proud.' Nattick said as he
continued to search through the slain elf's belongings. He cast a
sideways glance at the half-orc and smirked, 'And thanks for letting
me do him alone. I've wanted that scalp for some time.' In a flash the
rogue had the elf's scalp in his hands, and it was easy to see that
Nattick had scalped many a corpse before this one.

Stobb grinned back at the rogue. 'You know, Nattick, I'm one of few
who can look you in the eye. You're so damned creepy, half the guild
is afraid of you. Besides, all I care about is finally being able to
go to camp. I'm sick of the Eldar and their stinking teas.' The
half-orc spat into his hands and then began to straighten up the
room. 'The blood and feathers won't be a problem, but what do you want
me to do with this?' Stobb said, nudging Votishal's corpse with the
toe of his boot.

Nattick looked up and paused thoughtfully as he stared at the fallen
elf.  'Isn't the kitchen right around the corner?'

Stobb frowned for a moment and said, 'Well, yeah, but-'

'Use that axe of yours and give something to the cook to make for
these nice Eldar folk when they return. You know they can't resist the
Drakh spices, and why not let them share in our tradition of dining
upon corpses?' Nattick gave the half-orc a depraved grin.

Stobb threw back his head and laughed, twirling a silver headband
around one finger.  He hefted the limp form of the elf over his
shoulder and disappeared through the doorway, the screen that was
blocking it now moved aside.

Meanwhile, Nattick read with alacrity a scroll he had found tucked
away in a crystal tube, concealed within a pouch of the fighter's belt:


Z

Have your Consortium ready by the last day of the 
Feast.  We will drive the barbarian Scythe guild 
down to you first  so that you may 'dispose' of 
them as you had proposed.  We shall clean the filth 
from Drakhiya at the same time.

Remember: You are not to harm or banish any of the 
human folk associated with the Eldar, as per our 
original agreement. They will know of your magics and 
will assist in the cleansing.

I have sent Votishal to you to act as your lieutenant. 
You will find his thirst for Scythe and orc blood 
unparalleled.

I


Nattick frowned. Consortium? Cleansing? Whatever the Eldar and the
mysterious denizens of the monolith were up to, it did not bode well
at all for the future of the Scythe. It appeared this Consortium might
have something against humans, as well. Balfor had been right, Duender
was up to something, but what had that bastard gotten him into this
time? He did not like the sound of this 'Z' with whom the 'I', most
likely Illarin, was communicating. Of all of his marks, the toughest
had always been magic users, and only powerful magics could enable the
construction of a tower made of diamond. Nattick shivered.

Yet his thrill for a challenge egged him on, and he would be sure to
extract at least double payment from Balfor when all of this was
settled.  The rogue quickly swallowed his fear and began to relish the
idea of taking out yet another garlic-eating mage.

Just then Stobb reappeared from the kitchens, gnawing on some
mysterious meat that had been skewered upon a stick. Nattick rolled
his eyes disapprovingly at the half-orc and said, 'The cooks down here
use too much rodent for my liking.'

Stobb shrugged and said, 'What do we do now?' He touched Nattick's
Scythe mark and paled visibly as he transferred his own strength and
energy into his bloodbrother. Stobb wilted just a little as the
rogue's cuts healed almost completely, and the thin human nodded at
him in appreciation.

Nattick pressed the cylinder containing the cryptic message into
Stobb's hands. 'I need to get to that tower. Go to the captain in the
Dalairi embassy, have him take you to Akul. Give him this, and make
sure he gets word to Boki and the others. They are about to be
ambushed, and we need them down here as soon as possible. Until then,
lie low. There is no telling how soon the other Eldar in Votishal's
party will discover that he is missing.'

The half-orc snickered. 'Or that they've just had him for dinner.'

Nattick grinned at his bloodbrother as he backed away, melting into
the shadows. 'In a few weeks, when this is finished, I'll take you
into the frozen wastes to visit the northern orcs. The women are
lonely up there!'

Stobb chuckled as he set about cleaning up all traces of battle in the
Eldar suite. Before he could turn around his rogue friend was out the
window and gone.

Much later in the evening, following a delightfully spicy dinner of
exotic meats, every last member of the Eldar contingency spent hour
after hour hunched over the chamber pot, retching horribly. None of
the elves knew exactly what the meat was, but somewhere outside the
palace's rear gate, smoking her pipe of tabaq, an orc cook who knew
cackled evilly.

***

A huge ogre squinted in the brilliant light from the noonday sun,
which was just peeking out from behind a cloud. The ogre was trying to
stay focused on the activities taking place in the camp. All around
him, orcs, humans, dwarves and half-orcs scurried about in various
military-style drills, their ranking Scythe taskmasters pushing them
even harder than usual.  Seeing such a monster in the midst of so many
humanoids and yet not attacking them was an oddity itself, but an ogre
holding a clipboard instead of a club was inconceivable.

Yet to know the Scythe clan was to know Boki, for the ogre had been
their mascot for as long as anyone had known. In charge of
recruitment for the guild, Boki did much for their morale during
Halforc's frequent extended absences. Presently, the ogre was
preparing his charges for battle, and he knew that while Nattick was
in Drakhiya he would either start a war himself, or be there for the
dawn of one.

Off to Boki's right, one orc lieutenant led a group of Scythers on an
obstacle course. At the moment they were in the 'Underwater Tactics'
portion of their training. The grinning orc was urinating into the
camp pond, and as a few of the grunts raised their eyebrows in
confusion, a thick, blackish-green tentacle lashed out from below the
pond's surface, dragging two recruits screaming into its depths! A
moment later they reappeared, struggling mightily against the
underwater horror's grasp.  Stalwartly they wrestled free and made it
to the other side of the pond, glaring at their superior yet also
looking more confident than before.

The lieutenant gave them a curt nod, and then turned on the remaining
members of the crew with a fierce glare. 'Jump in, you pukes! Me got
no piss left.'

The ragtag Scythers leapt into the pond with a fierce battlecry, and
Boki chuckled to himself. 'Fleeyp gonna be hungry today if dey all
this tough.'

The ogre checked off a few things on his chart, which contained only
pictures and no words, and looked to his left. The games area had been
converted into a marksmanship improvement course, where Scythe forces,
from bottle collectors to idol figures, honed their skills with thrown
weapons and the bow and arrow. Boki frowned as he saw one
frustrated-looking recruit molding a voodoo doll into the likeness of
her commander, and the ogre flung a rock at her. The projectile struck
home right between her eyes and she looked up in shock, blood
trickling into her eyes and down her face.

'Throw like dat and den you can make dolls!' the ogre growled at
her. The frustrated rookie spat blood onto the ground and smirked at
Boki, then fell back into her training.

At the eastern perimeter of the camp and imperceptible to anyone's
vision, a dusky elf crept silently along the inside of the
palisade. His outline was blurred with that of the trees and logs of
the wall surrounding him.  The noiseless figure of the elf paused
momentarily as if regarding the goings-on in the camp, and then
skulked quickly out into the forest.

About twenty percha in front of Boki, near the western edge of the
camp, a long line of Scythers in full armour waited to climb a rope
ladder. From there, they proceeded hand-over-hand across a set of
monkey bars about two paces above the ground, where an energetic,
squat little man darted about.  He was wearing an absurd set of wooden
armour banded with iron, and wielding a ten-foot long pole with a hook
at its farthest end.

With this armament he constantly harassed the soldiers on the bars
above him until they either fell or reached the end, wherein they
dropped down into a makeshift pit of sand. Uttering unintelligible
shrieks and grunts and nonsensical phrases, the shifty-eyed human
moved about quite rapidly and always in a crouched position. Not only
did he succeed in clouting many of the trainees down from the bars but
he bested every one in combat until they were either forced outside of
the pit or knocked unconscious.  From there, an attending cleric would
revive them, give them a bit of gory stew, and then send them on their
way to the next station.

'You filthy little mangoes! I kill you all! Diiiieeee!' the slavering
little man shouted at a wide-eyed dwarf as he fell hard to the ground,
knocked free from the bars. In a dizzying blur the pole-wielding
maniac descended upon the dwarf, who was barely able to get to his
feet and wield his club in time enough to deflect a blow aimed at his
temple. He admirably fended off the first few thrusts of the pole with
the wicked hook but inevitably the strange human's energy and speed
proved too much for him. Taking the blunt end of the pole in his chin,
the dwarf let out a weak grunt and his eyes rolled back into his head
as he slumped to the ground unconscious.

Almost instantly, wooden armour creaking loudly, the tireless little
man whirled about and rushed at the next climber, screaming, 'I'll
show you fuzzy kiwis something! Furry, vulgar little bastards!
Yeaaagggh!' Rather than laugh at his absurdities, the Scythers
climbing their way along merely blanched, at once fearing and
respecting this mysterious and nigh-invincible psychopath.

Boki chuckled in satisfaction, causing the ground around him to shake
slightly. 'Psaico push hard but dey know how to take beating when he
done,' he muttered to himself. As the ogre tried to ponder why exactly
it was the little stooping human hated fruit so much, the hairs on the
back of his neck stood on end and his stomach turned.

All of a sudden, one of the Scythe's top sorcerers, Akul, appeared in
a puff of smoke at Boki's side. The tall human with the pointed beard
grinned and slapped the huge ogre reassuringly on his back, knowing
how much he hated magic and surprises.

'Dammit Akul, why always gotta mark me?! Mark a damn tree!' Boki
complained, as he recovered from the dramatic effects of the mage's
impromptu arrival.

'Sorry, Boki, but this is urgent. I've got news from Drakhiya, and
Balfor and the others better hear this, too,' Akul said, as he dusted
off his long grey robes and boots, made dirty from his recent desert
travels. His face was tan from the desert sun and his dark eyes
flashed with seriousness. He seemed to have traveled lightly, with an
empty wineskin slung across one shoulder and an ancient blue spellbook
hanging from his belt.

Boki grunted hastily and motioned for Akul to follow him. The two
Scythe elite ran further north into camp, heading for an exceptionally
large and stout oak tree. The brutish ogre waded straight into the
mobs of recruits spread out all over the camp, clearing a wide swath
through which Akul hastily followed.

As they neared the base of the tree, a rather imposing figure came
into view. Standing nearly two ells tall was a foul-tempered troll. He
was wielding a huge halberd whose steel glinted in the sun. He gripped
the haft of his weapon in one hand and was using the tip of the blade
to clean his long, grimy nails. Likely he was cleaning out dried blood
from the remains of the latest batch of elven recruits sent over by
the Elven Defense Force, or EDF, to reconnoiter the Scythe camp.

Bokwa the Troll looked up from his idle task and grinned toothily at
his long-time companion, Boki. Rows and rows of yellow, sharp fangs
jutted out from within the troll's snout, and his orange-yellow eyes
seemed to glow alight at the sight of the ogre. The two exchanged a
vicious headbutt that would have slain most humanoids, but the troll
and ogre simply bounced off each other and grunted in welcome.

'Bokwa, go watch training now, get Glumshakh to guard tree,' Boki told
the troll, who nodded in obedience as he was handed the
clipboard. Bokwa turned around and strode out from under the tree,
waving his halberd in the air a few times. A tough-looking orc wearing
chainmail and hefting a large club came trotting quickly and took his
post under the tree, as Bokwa disappeared amongst the crowd of
Scythers to the south.

As Boki clambered up the rough handholds hacked out of the tree's
trunk, the orcish guard gave Akul an expectant look.

The adept mage saw the orc's intent gaze and chuckled. 'Relax,
bloodbrother, you'll be out bashing elf skulls again soon. No more
boring guard duty. Trust me on this.'

The orc grimaced broadly and flexed his muscles, taking a few practice
swings with his club at imaginary elves, and Akul was soon up the tree
and gone behind the ogre.

A large and sturdy cabin rested atop a wide platform in the upper
reaches of the oak tree. From the outside it was well-camouflaged and
the lookout platforms all around it provided Scythe defenders with
excellent opportunities to shower pitch and arrows down upon any
parties foolish enough to try and invade the camp. Within the cabin
there were two bars stocked with the clan's favorite drinks, from
bottled beer to Polynesian Sunsets, and many comfortable benches lined
the walls. A few trophies decorated the bar, but most of the finer
ones were on display in the guild hall down below. One on display here
was a black lace negligee once belonging to Queen Alisha herself,
relieved from her ownership by one particularly enterprising Scythe
rogue.

At the main bar sat two men, one of them hulking over the other one as
he did most humanoids. This was Glock the Massacrator, perhaps the
most widely feared orc warrior in the known realms. A living legend,
Glock had slain thousands in battle, and his respect within the guild
was second only to that afforded Halforc. Not known for his intellect,
Glock did have an exceptional cunning when it came to battle tactics,
and none yet had been able to match him in combat.

Balfor occupied the stool next to the gargantuan orc, and the two were
reminiscing about old times when Boki and Akul strode into the cabin.

'... and then there was that time, when you went about killing all
those paladin's horses, and piled up their embalmed corpses at the
paperboy in town. Drin was livid that day!' Balfor cackled, and Glock
managed a wistful grin as he conjured up this memory. 'How much was
that bounty our good King placed upon your head?'

Glock frowned and gazed up at the ceiling, with as thoughtful an
expression as he could muster. 'Hmm, dunno, but remember him calling
it off after I killed almost as many kniggets as horses!' Glock
laughed heartily and Balfor clapped him on the back, laughing with him.

The few other idol figures present on the various benches laughed
along, too, but they had been regarding Boki and the mage curiously
since they strode into the cabin. As Boki finished slugging down an
orcish banana brew, he pointed at Akul, who cleared his throat.

Glock and Balfor turned from their conversation at the bar, and nodded
in greeting at their newly-arrived bloodbrothers.

The floor his now, Akul stated simply, 'There is a lot going on in the
city of Drakhiya, and it's more than their annual Feast.' All of the
Scythers in attendance were now listening to the mage intently, for
the thought of impending battle had been on all of their minds
lately. Not one of them hoped for anything less.

'It would seem that the Eldar are planning on picking a fight with us,
and they don't intend to lose. This note I carry came from Votishal
himself, soon after Nattick was done rearranging his face.' A few of
the Scythers snickered at this, and one spat upon the ground at the
mention of the troublesome elf from Duender.

Akul passed the note over to Balfor, who began to study it quietly,
and he continued, 'There is a new faction to deal with, and it's
whoever is in that crystal tower in the desert. They call themselves
the 'Consortium' and from what that note says it looks like they and
the Eldar mean to make us all extinct, as well as all the orcs.'

A low rumble escaped from Glock's throat, and several of the other
Scythers began to get bloodthirsty looks in their eyes, especially the
orcs present.

'This will obviously impact the other guilds, but it looks like they
are targeting us and Drakhiya first,' Akul continued. 'They probably
figure if they can get us out of the way, the rest will go easily. If
that note is genuine, the Eldar want to drive us all south into some
sort of trap. It looks like they have some plan that will either kill
us or banish us or both. Either way, it doesn't sound good.'

'Then I say let's take the fight to them! Enough of this sitting
around, sharpening our swords and picking our noses!' one defiant
female Scyther said, a spellcaster from the looks of her.

'That might be no good,' Balfor put in. 'You can see they're already
planning an ambush, and we might be headed right for it if we aren't
careful. What else do we know of Illarin's plans, Akul?'

The mage only frowned and shrugged. 'I wish I knew. I didn't talk to
Nattick myself. I only know that he killed Votishal. I do have a
suggestion, though.'

'What you got, mage?' Boki asked.

'The Aalgirzsti. I know this isn't their fight but they've got to have
a vested interest in this. We get them to ambush the Eldar before they
get to us, then we team up and turn south to confront whatever is in
that tower.'

Balfor exchanged a look with Glock, who merely raised an eyebrow in
return. 'Are the tunnels even finished yet? I thought Katacom said it
would be a few more months.'

'That was for all of the tunnels, and most of those are directed at
Nepeth,' Akul went on. 'No, the tunnel leading to the west is
complete, and has been for some time. I know the western orcs lust for
battle, and they're getting tired of waiting for Drin to die or
abdicate. What better time for them than now? These high-minded elves
want to wipe us all out, and what good would that do the Aalgirzsti if
they came storming over here only to find a bunch of flower-sniffing
wussies?'

The Scythers in the cabin cackled gleefully, and Akul grinned back at
them.

'This has possibilities, Akul. You'll have to do some fast
talking. Can you reach the Tusked One now?' Balfor asked.

'I can but try.'

Akul looked around the cabin and crossed to the far wall. There, he
proceeded to inscribe the outline of a wide and perfect circle with a
piece of grey chalk he produced from within his robes. Into the outer
rim of the circle he drew several arcane symbols, and when the design
was complete he began to chant under his breath. His eyes rolled back
into his head showing only the whites, and the mage hastened the tempo
of his chanting until a softly glowing purple and black miasma of
energy began to appear in the center of the circle. Slowly it widened
and grew in intensity until the entirety of the inner circle was
filled with a swirling grey mist.

Suddenly shapes began to emerge from the mist, and an exotic, walled
city appeared, viewed from far above as if from a roc's eye. Towering,
glistening white minarets with rounded, smooth tops rose from the
center of the city, where what seemed to be a grand palace was
built. Houses and buildings of white stone sprawled outward from the
palace in a grand spiral, and as the view of the city became closer,
many orcs could be seen traversing the streets and alleyways. One of
the Scythers on the bench let out a low whistle.

Rapidly, the panorama centered in upon one of the minarets at the
palace, and through a high window shaped like an upside-down spade,
the visage of a tall, heavily-muscled orc became clear. He sat upon a
throne that appeared to have been constructed largely of elf and
faerie bones, and his most notable features were the large, yellowed
tusks that jutted out from either side of his mouth.

He appeared to be holding court over some official-looking orcs,
perhaps members of his aristocracy, when he held up a peremptory hand
to the one he was speaking to, and gazed directly into the circle.

'Ah, our patrons to the east. An unexpected but welcome intrusion, my
brothers and sisters. The Tusked One awaits your request.' The massive
orc smiled smugly, and Akul breathed in sharply and snapped his eyes
open. The magical link to the imperial orc in the far west
established, he could now converse with the other side, as could
anyone in the room. Most of the Scythers stared, jaws slightly agape,
at the powerful magical display on the wall, never having seen its use
before, and also never having seen the wondrous Aalgirzsti orcs or
their city.

Akul bowed deeply in the direction of the orc called the Tusked One,
who closed his eyes and nodded briefly in return. 'Tusked One, I know
your people's needs are many and your resources are few, but we need
your help immediately. We are about to be ambushed by the elves of
Duender and some unknown force to the far south. If you strike now
through your tunnels, you can help us push back this elf uprising and
we can continue to help you build your precious network. If you cannot
come to our aid, who is to say what will remain of the east when you
arrive?' Akul kept a level tone and never broke eye contact with the
orc, who simply stroked one of his tusks and appeared as though he
were being offered fool's gold in return for his royal treasury.

The Tusked One grunted. 'Your clan is mighty indeed, Akul, and you
have done much to help us. But it is planting time in the west, and
many of my soldiers are away. Our fight is with the pigs that serve
Drin, on his throne of conceit! I know not how I could get you the men
you need for your fight.' The crafty orc appeared reluctant,
negotiating as coldly with his allies as he would with his foes.

'But what about Halforc, is he not over there with you now?' Akul
asked.

At that moment a flicker of doubt spread across the Tusked One's face,
but it was gone before any of the Scythers could notice it. 'Halforc
is here in the west, yes, but I do not think he is ready to
return. The troops I have promised him are scattered,' he said, a
little too matter-of-factly.

Balfor stood and addressed the visage of the imperial orc. 'Your
Excellency, the orcs of Drakhiya are also going to be under
attack. Though they are a mighty city they are in the middle of a
festival, and none of them knows of the ambush, or what to make of
this damned monolith in the desert.'

'Pah!' the Tusked One spat. 'Those sniveling desert orcs have made a
treaty with Dalairi trash. I will not send even one goblin to help
save the hides of fools that would ally with weaklings. Sorry, lords
of the Scythe, our alliance remains intact but you will have to fight
this battle on your own. May Gruumsh smile upon you in your hour of
need.' The large orc glared sternly back at the Scythe gathering, who
sat in stunned silence.

Glock brought a meaty fist down onto the bar, sending splinters
flying.  'Damn you, Tuskface, get off your scabby ass and fight with
us!' the brutish orc snarled.

Balfor shook his head at the visage of the nervously laughing orc in
the circle and spat. 'Forget it, Glock, he--'

Just then shouts and cries of alarm went up from all around the Scythe
camp. The sounds of steel-tipped arrows whizzing by in the treetops
could be heard from above, and wails of agony came from below.

Glumshakh appeared in the doorway of the cabin at nearly the instant
the sounds of combat ensued. 'We're under attack! Illarin has brought
her entire force here to die!'

'To battle!' shouted one of the Scythers in the cabin.

The Scythe elite let out fierce battlecries as they rushed out and
down into the camp below, where the chaos of battle reigned.

In the now-empty cabin, the visage of the Tusked One watched the
fleeing Scythers grimly as the magical energies holding the circle
began to flicker and fade.

***

Flaming arrows rained down upon the Scythe encampment as a large force
of elves and humans and their kin from the city of Duender
attacked. Some of the treetops within the camp were burning, but most
of the huts and other structures seemed impervious to the fire.

Many of the Eldar were streaming towards the northern and eastern
gates leading into the Scythe encampment, while many others were
leaning wooden ladders up against the palisade. They were executing an
organized ambush, although their orders were hard to discern over the
fierce battlecries coming from the angry Scythers within. In the
distance, behind the back ranks of the Eldar troops, an elven woman
who rode atop a white horse commanded the attack. She had straight,
shoulder length jet black hair and a pale complexion, even for an
elf. Her slanted, emerald green eyes seemed to glow supernaturally as
she contemptibly regarded the Scythe camp. On the exterior she had an
air of calm superiority, but within her fires raged as she yearned to
be personally involved in the combat.

'We should not wait too long to get in there ourselves, Illarin. Don't
underestimate the prowess of these brutes,' a sturdy elf atop a roan
mare next to Illarin said. He had light green eyes that were a little
bloodshot, and he too looked eager for battle.

The commander of the Elven Defense Force shot him a quick glance and
smirked. 'Trust me, Annac, I know you want to get in there and run
every last one of those savages through. We'll let Arehtama and his
vanguard do their work and soften them up for us. They'll be no match
for your steel and my magic.'

Annac grimaced at this last remark. His steel was no problem, for he
was among the most skilled warriors with the longsword, and many
sought him out for training and advice. What bothered him was the
thought of Illarin wielding her powerful magics, for he had seen no
foe able to withstand her brutal acid storms or lightning bolts, and
something about mages always made him feel uneasy.

The Scythe lieutenants and generals worked furiously to organize their
troops to face the onslaught, shouting orders to the hustling masses
as they tried to switch from training to combat.

'Come on, you maggots, no time to lose!' one orc captain screamed at
his charges.

'Grab whatever weapons you can and fight! I want elf guts for dinner!'
Balfor yelled out as he leapt from the tree containing the Scythe
headquarters. He tumbled forward expertly to break the fall and came
up with his fine broadsword at the ready.

All around Balfor the Scythers were vigorously beating back the Eldar
onslaught, some tipping over ladders, others mobbing the front ranks
of elves and humans as they attempted to press into the camp. Not one
member of his guild showed any traces of fear and this made him proud,
but the ambush was a disciplined attack that came while his Scythers
were in the middle of a fairly harsh training exercise. They appeared
to be outnumbered at the moment, judging by the number of columns of
attackers sprawling outside the camp. Bitterly, Balfor cursed the
Tusked One and vowed to get more out of the canny monarch the next
time they met.

Out of the corner of his eye a furtive movement caught his attention,
and Balfor turned towards it. There, at the camp's east entrance, the
Eldar forces seemed to be having their way with Scythers trying to
fortify the gate. Occasionally one of his troops would cry out and
slump forward as if struck from behind, yet Balfor could not make out
the assailant. Suddenly, as if out of thin air, the visage of a tall
elf with dark hair would appear behind one of the Scythers and stab
him in the back. He would then pull the hood of his strangely
patterned cloak over his head and all but vanish again, yet Balfor
could now see the faint outline of his movements.  Grinning furiously,
the large human warrior strode directly toward the elf, not letting
the faint outline out of his sight for one second.

In the north end of the camp, the Scythers were keeping most of the
ladders down and fending off the onrush of Eldar for the
moment. Burning pitch was being flung at the camp from the elven
artillery units, but most of this was dispersed in the trees above,
although occasionally some of it would boil down to scald orc and elf
alike.

Suddenly, a blue bolt of lightning shot down from the cloudy sky
above, shearing a great portion of the northern palisade. As the large
wooden posts shattered into splinters, many of the Scythers went down
in an explosion of splinters, and a throng of armoured elves began
pushing their way through the large gap in the camp wall. Shouts of
conquest went up from the Eldar ranks as the momentum began to turn in
their favor, and the Scythers again held steady and did not panic. Far
from the battlefield, Illarin smirked to herself, pleased with her
summoning of the lightning and its effects. Annac shied away from the
mage, trotting his horse forward a few steps.

The first few ranks of the armoured fighters to pierce the wall were
mowed down by Scythe arrows and hurled axes and lit flasks of oil. But
where they fell, more came through, stepping over the flaming and
twitching corpses of their fellows and screaming for Scythe blood. The
Scythe front began to break as it was now outflanked on the left side.

As the archers reloaded, the Eldar warriors charged after them
screaming, and many of the Scythe troops abandoned their defense of
the palisade to intercept the attack. Now more ladder tops appeared
above the wall and the Eldar began climbing over as they continued to
batter the northern gate, and the Scythe troops were on the verge of
being outnumbered badly.

A line of Scythe fighters fought terrifically side by side as they
fended off the advances of the Eldar troops at the east gate. Led by
Psaico and his crazy utterances, their morale was at first iron-clad.

Though they outfought their opponents they were growing more and more
spooked as one of their mates would mysteriously fall to an unseen
assailant. Slowly the elves pressed into the camp from the east end,
their confidence growing as the Scythers' waned.

A snarling half-orc fighter, bleeding from many cuts but fighting as
if unhurt, handled the attack of a deft elf who was wielding a long
and thin rapier. The orc's strength and determination began to wear
down his foe, but just then behind him the air shimmered, like a pool
of clear water through which a stone had been thrown. A sneering,
dark-haired elf then appeared from within this disturbance, his
gleaming dagger held high, set to thrust into the orc's back. The
rapier-wielding elf smirked at this, knowing he would soon have this
orc bested.

Just then, a large figure leapt out of nowhere and ripped the
scintillating cloak off of the dark-haired elf's back, tossing it to
the ground. The figure was none other than Balfor. Arehtama gasped in
astonishment, utterly shocked at being discovered, and he fumbled for
his falchion. As he attempted to unsheathe the weapon, Balfor slugged
him hard across the jaw, stunning the elf and knocking him to the
ground.

'Damn you, Arehtama, I thought Nattick had stolen that cloak of
yours!'  Balfor snarled at the reeling elf.

The fighting orc and elf had both stopped and turned, staring in awe
at the scene behind them. Balfor headbutted the orc soldier and said,
'Finish him off, you fool!'

The orc grunted as he hefted his club again, beating down the shaken
elf's defenses and moving in for the kill.

Balfor wheeled back around and saw that Arehtama had risen and was
drawing his blade, and without his precious cloak, Balfor could see
him easily now. The elf's dark green eyes held only hatred for the big
human Scyther, and blood ran in a steady trickle from the right side
of his mouth, now bruised and swollen. 'I had a better one made, you
flea-infested oaf,' the elf growled back.

'Time to die,' Balfor spat ominously. He swung his broadsword at the
devious elf's head, only to have it met by the falchion in mid-air.
Backing away momentarily while fending off some wicked swings of
Balfor's broadsword, Arehtama reached into his boot and produced a
small dagger.  Balfor pressed his attack and was obviously the
strongest of the pair, but the elf was quicker and had mastered his
blades, and the human could not yet penetrate his artful parrying.

Grinning, Arehtama began to score little cuts and punctures as his
ripostes with the dagger cut through Balfor's defenses, but none of
these seemed to faze the towering fighter. An even duel they fought
and none of the other soldiers from either side dared to intervene.

To the north of this duel, the Eldar front gradually wore down the
Scythe defense as they drove them backward further and further into
the camp.  Bokwa could be seen, his towering form easily visible over
the elves that were half his size, his halberd flashing as he cut his
own path through the advancing ranks. Glumshakh held his part of the
line to the northeast, as every Eldar that came over the wall was
systematically beaten down by the knot of troops he commanded. The
battle-hungry orc leered with bloodlust, his face and club spattered
with gore.

Boki had joined the fray, leaping out of the large oak tree and right
into the middle of a squad of elven and human rangers. Eager to cut
down one of the Scythe elite, they turned on the massive ogre and
commanded their wolves to attack, while they readied their own
weapons. Boki's face contorted into a maniacal grin and he let out a
heinous battlecry, bringing his club down to bear on the canines
leaping at him. One by one he smashed in their skulls, their shrill
whimpers piercing the ears of their masters, their bites unable to do
significant damage to the ogre's thick, scarred hide. As their wolves
were being snuffed out the rangers began to circle the ogre, looking
for their own chance to strike him down.

From above and behind the Scythe archers, a colossal orc came swinging
down from out of a tree on a rope, and his battlecry was so loud and
savage that more than a few of the Eldar dropped their weapons as
their hands shot to their ears. Glock swung his awesome scythe in
vicious arcs through the air, cleaving the heads of some surprised
elves from their shoulders as he flew through their burgeoning ranks
on his rope.

The presence of the legendary orc fighter boosted the morale of the
dwindling Scythers immensely, and confusion and terror shot through
the Eldar surrounding the orc. None wanted to face him, so Glock
brought the fight to them. The blade of his massive scythe ignored all
armour as it bit into the Eldar soldiers repeatedly, temporarily
darkening the sky with their flesh.

A trumpet wailed a rallying call from behind the Eldar front ranks, as
Annac was leading a charge of mounted elves and humans to reinforce
the shaken vanguard. His timing perfect and his appetite for battle
piqued, the EDF lieutenant pushed his cavalry into the Scythe camp,
reinforcing his troops' superior numbers over the barbarians.

Both sides now fought with renewed vigor, neither willing to back
down, and Annac drove his troops on towards the large orc wielding the
scythe, anxious to test him in battle.

From a concealed tunnel and behind the advancing Eldar forces, a huge,
intense looking orc in a set of armour constructed from bone
emerged. He was hefting a thick iron shaft capped with blunt spikes in
his right hand, and a few stalwart Scythers were at his back. He
stared angrily at the chaos in his camp, the cries of battle reaching
even his ears deep underground, from where he directed an ambitious
quest to burrow from the camp to beneath the fair city of Nepeth.

Grishnok growled and said, 'Get to work boys. You know the drill:
anything with pointy ears, or anything helping freaks with pointy
ears, dies.'

The fresh Scythe blood let out ferocious cries of their own as they
leapt into the fray. As many of the surprised and outflanked Eldar
turned on their new foes, their eyes widened in shock and hatred at
what they beheld.

'It's the slavers! Kill these orc scum above all else!' one of the
mounted elves shouted.

As a phalanx of cavalry charged at Grishnok and his crew, the orc
howled murderously and smashed the head of his mace into the head of a
charging horse, drawing first blood. Slain instantly, the horse went
down, legs jerking wildly, and its rider spilled forward onto the
ground. A foul-smelling orc pounced upon the fallen paladin with a
pair of filthy blades, carving the paladin's hide into pieces, and so
the slavers began to dismantle the Eldar cavalry.

Steadily, the veteran Scythe fighters held off the cavalry and swarm
of Eldar infantry, but were thus far unable to drive them back out of
the camp. Glock was leaving a growing pile of Eldar corpses in his
wake, while Boki and Bokwa were now toying with the cadre of rangers
sent in on the ambush, whose canine companions now lay in broken and
bloody heaps.

Sensing the stalemate and fearing greater than expected losses at the
hands of the tenacious Scythers, Illarin decided to take things into
her own hands. She galloped forth on her white stallion until she
reached the edge of the former palisade, now in ruins. Her eyes aglow,
blood burning with hatred, she pointed her outspread hands at the
Scythers in battle before her and called forth her magic. Billowing
jets of powerful acid flowed from her hands and shot into the Scythe
ranks, liquefying their flesh as they sent up pitiful screams of agony.

Her gaze turned to deeper in the camp, where Annac was circling his
horse warily just outside the range of Glock's deadly scythe. Grinning
to herself and sensing victory, she muttered, 'Let me warm him up a
bit for you first, dear soldier.'

The elf mage raised her hands high into the air and shouted an arcane
phrase. Instantly, a blinding, white bolt of lightning forked out of
the darkening sky above and straight down - and slammed into Annac.

Utterly vaporized by the blast, the elf did not even have a chance to
scream as he was killed instantly by the errant bolt, obviously
intended for the hulking orc. His horse let out the only scream as it
went down in pieces, its body cleaved in twain by the powerful magic.

For a beat the entire battle came to a sudden halt. Only the distant
sound of Balfor and Arehtama still fighting could be heard, their
blades ringing ceaselessly off of each other.

Illarin stared in shock and dismay at what she had wrought. Confusion
and chaos ripped through the minds of every Eldar as they beheld her
tragic mistake.

Sensing the Eldar's error and subsequent indecision, the Scythers let
out more savage cries and they began to rout their attackers. Glock
laughed and his deep rumble could be heard well above the din of the
fight and many Scythers were now taunting their foes, pointing at them
and laughing loudly as they staggered.

Deciding quickly, Illarin barked out, 'Call a retreat! Everybody fall
back!'

Immediately a corporal called out the order on his horn and shouts for
retreat went up across the Eldar ranks as they obeyed their leader.

As she led the retreat away from the camp at a breakneck pace, Illarin
mulled over the great losses her forces had suffered, the worst of
which was her errant spell that cost her a valuable lieutenant. There
was no emotion when she pondered the loss of Annac, only cold
calculation. She only hoped the losses that the Scythers suffered
would be enough to turn the tides in her favor when they met again in
the desert, for although she had failed to flush them out of their
camp Illarin knew the Scythers would surely follow her.

Clamors of joy rang out from the weary Scythers, their successful
defense breaking the attack as the fortunate turn of events gave them
the final push they needed. Many more Eldar went down as the Scythers
chased them out of their camp and into the forests.

Arehtama, now also suffering from a few deep gashes and sweating
steadily, heard the call for retreat and had to obey. His opponent had
proven himself worthy in battle, as the elf had not once been able to
trip him to the ground, nor could he get him to fall for even one of
his feints.

Balfor spat blood in the elf's face. 'Try and run, coward, I'll cut
you down just like you did my men. You'll not leave this camp alive.'
Balfor himself was looking worked over; a deep cut above his right eye
oozed blood steadily, and his armour stained with sweat and blood.

'Another day, Scythe brute! And then I'll make you eat your words,'
Arehtama sniped back. Dexterously, he produced a smoky glass sphere
from within his tunic and smashed it to the ground. A surging cloud of
caustic black smoke exploded from within the sphere, temporarily
blinding Balfor and causing him to cough and blink.

When the vapors had dissipated and Balfor could open his eyes again,
the elf rogue was nowhere to be seen - and neither was his cloak. He
grunted angrily and pushed his hand to his brow to staunch the flow of
blood.

Satisfied that the attack had been thwarted, the big Scyther wrestled
with his emotions. He would have that elf's scalp on his belt if it
was the last thing he did, but for now there were the wounded to
attend to, as well as making plans to head to Drakhiya. There, he was
sure they would face the Eldar again, and their shadowy allies in the
tower of diamond.  The desert orcs had grown tight with the Scythe
guild, and only combined with their strength did they stand a chance
in putting a stop to the Eldar and this Consortium.

Feeling uncertain for the first time, Balfor hoped that Nattick was
able to somehow swing the balance in their favor while he was down
there.

Many of the troops were already engaged in the grim task of dragging
their dead and wounded into the center of camp. Others were busy
trying to salvage what was left of the northern palisade, and some
were building a fire, by which the leaders were gathering. Any Eldar
survivors were summarily pitched screaming into the camp pond, where
Fleeyp's greedy tentacles snatched them and dragged them down into the
inky depths to be devoured. Scurvy, the camp's filthy resident cat,
emerged from her hiding place beneath the clan hut. She began to play
with a dead half-elf's tasseled cloak, whose glassy eyes stared,
unmoving, making the corpse seem like some grisly, giant cat trinket.

A few of the Scythe brethren still coughed and panted, Akul's haste
spells not yet having completely worn off. As Balfor joined the inner
circle of the Scythe gathered around the fire, Akul saw him and his
condition, and touched his Scythe mark, healing him.

'Rest up, Balfor, we'll need to move out soon,' the mage said to him.

Balfor nodded curtly and thanked Akul. 'We've lost a lot today but so
have they, more than they expected to I'm sure. Now they will have to
worry about us chasing them to Drakhiya, and they'll watch their backs
for us the whole way down.'

Boki, panting heavily, was bandaging several deep gashes on his legs,
presumably from the blades of some of the rangers he had bludgeoned to
death. Not one from the original group of rangers had escaped with
their life. 'What we do now, Balfor?'

Glock, resting his arms atop his scythe and leaning on it, grunted
interestedly. His eyes still burned with bloodlust and he was ready to
set his blade swinging again. He stared at Balfor intently, awaiting
his decision.

'Akul, scry Nattick for me.' Balfor thought for a moment as the mage
began to intone quietly. 'As for us, we need to get to the desert and
fast, but we can't go through the woods. Illarin will pick up more
elves along the way, for the wood elves hold the wide forests to the
south. We survived one ambush but we can't survive two, and not on
their turf.' Balfor grinned oddly and said, 'We have to ready the
fleet.'

All of the Scythers present except for Boki snickered and nodded in
agreement. The ogre wailed in anger and said, 'No, not da boats! Me
gonna puke da whole way!'

Balfor laughed loudly and clapped the big ogre on the back. 'Relax,
chief, we'll get you some of that fine Raveli rum you like so much and
you'll sleep the whole way. Besides, you need the rest, you old fart,
and we need your big club down there.'

Boki grunted harshly but didn't protest further, dimly realizing that
the Scythe's only chance of making it to Drakhiya untouched and on
time was by the sea. He just happened to be the most seasick ogre this
side of the Claw Mountains and thus hated being on the water.

Akul finished his chanting and touched his forehead, closing his
eyes. In his mind a vision appeared of a great monolith whose very
walls seemed to be constructed of smooth diamond. It glittered in the
scowling desert sun, its solid walls jealously guarding its
secrets. The only window visible was at the very top of the tower, a
couple hundred feet above the sandy ground. Clinging to one of the
walls and defying gravity was a smallish human, a sword and pack
strapped to his back. He was wearing claw-like devices on his hands
and feet and slowly working his way to the window, high above the
desert floor below. Above the tower, buzzards circled greedily, their
faith in Nattick's climb lacking as they waited for him to fall.

'He's about to enter the tower,' Akul said, opening his eyes again as
the vision faded, admiration in his voice. 'The little bastard's
climbing up the wall and is going to get in!'

The Scythers cheered excitedly at the good news, and Boki did a little
dance. 'Nattick gonna crush sommore skulls, yah!' the ogre shouted as
he moved, rather suavely for such a large creature.

'Then it's settled. We go by boat and we leave at dawn,' Balfor
commanded. 'Everybody ready their troops and gear up. This is a fight
to the finish. Akul, teleport back down there, get word to Nattick if
you can, and lay low. You'll know it when we get there.'

The mage nodded and headed for his room, while the rest of the clan
finished separating the dead from the wounded and began to prepare for
the next day's great journey.

***

In the clear blue sky far above the tower, buzzards circled in grim,
wide spirals, seemingly sure that the rogue on the tower walls below
was soon to be their next meal. A biting desert wind whipped through
Nattick's long black hair as he clung to the smooth surface of the
diamond tower.

Nearly ten percha above the sandy desert floor, he skillfully made his
way up towards a small rectangular opening in the otherwise flush
exterior of the monolith. He had been climbing for nearly an hour and
the sun's warmth beat intensely upon his backside. Silently he cursed
himself for leaving his neck exposed, knowing how badly the skin there
would be burnt. The climb was one of the more difficult ones he had
ever attempted, and only the bite of his gripclaws kept him from
plummeting to his death.

The exterior surface of the tower was at first glance a firm, slippery
face of seemingly pure diamond. Nattick had scouted around the entire
base of the tower several times, but as to any sign of a concealed
entry, there was none. The only defect in the perfectly smooth
exterior of the monolith was the lone window several dozen percha
above the desert floor. Essaying the hard diamond seemed a futile
task, but somehow the tips of the gripclaws Nattick was wearing found
purchase and he was able to climb. The glittering demigreaves he was
wearing also seemed to augment his ability to scale otherwise
unassailable walls. For the thousandth time he thanked himself for
exploring that hidden marble crypt all those years ago. It was no
small relief that Nattick had also taken a few hits of some of
Shanni's famed Arachnoid Elixir before attempting his climb, either,
although he fancied he could do without the taste of spider's eggs in
his mouth.

Nattick's goal was steadily looming closer, as he reached within a few
spans of the bottom of the rectangular opening. He was ambivalent
about the weather. There wasn't any kind of breeze up here to cool
him, and he wasn't sure how much more punishment he could take from
the rising sun. Yet he was also glad there were no gusts to wreak
havoc with his ability to stay on the surface of the wall and not
become buzzard bait.

Nattick's first impression of the tower was how ominously silent it
was. Absolutely no sound was betrayed by its uniform exterior, but now
he was coming to the uncomfortable realization that its surface was
also unnaturally cold. Every other parapet he had climbed before at
this time of day had become almost unbearably hot in the sun, yet the
hard diamond facade was refreshingly cool. If it did somehow manage to
absorb the heat, it did not do the same with the light, for it was
reflected in a blinding fashion. This made the tower seem like a
desert mirage if viewed from a distance, but right now it was merely a
nuisance to the rogue as he attempted to scale its walls without
losing his grip or his vision.

After well over an hour of tedious enterprise, Nattick had reached the
window. He now noticed it would only be a small matter to climb to the
flat top of the monolith, but he was not interested in a spectacular
view of the bleak desert surrounding him. With more than a little
effort he patiently waited just beneath the edge of the opening,
listening intently for any sound of inhabitants within.

Silence.

The distant shriek of a hungry buzzard from far above.

The sudden harsh whistle of a rare desert breeze blowing across the
opening.

And silence reigned anew.

Inhaling slowly and then holding his breath, Nattick reached an arm
over the edge and hauled himself in through the window. Quietly he
slithered through it and onto the floor, lying on his stomach with
palms faced down, like some absurd giant snake. What struck him first
were the dust and the smell, for he had to force himself not to sneeze
with great difficulty. A strong chemical aroma assaulted his senses,
and the odor reminded him of the times he had spent hiding out in the
quarry north of Tantallon.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimmer light of the chamber he had
entered, he could make out a thin haze of dust in the air. It was
certainly not as bright in here as the desert just outside the window,
but light seemed to somehow emanate from the very walls of the
tower. As he inspected them more closely, Nattick could see that the
floor and ceiling of this room were made of the same diamond as the
exterior of the monolith. In fact, he got the impression that somehow
the entire structure was one gigantic gem that had been magically
altered and hollowed out into the likeness of a tower. The thought of
magic that powerful sent a cold shiver down the rogue's spine, and he
slowly got to his feet as he realized he was the only current
inhabitant of this room.

The ceiling rose quite high, nearing a couple of percha, and he knew
that he was in the highest chamber in the monolith. The air was
pleasantly cool, if not a bit stifling from all the dust, and
Nattick's eyes fell upon a huge stone altar at the northern end of
this round room. The chamber was relatively unadorned, with the large
altar and a few stands on either side of it, most of which were
covered with various open books and strange-looking metal objects and
vessels. There was a simple archway leading out of the south side of
the room, and it appeared to open onto a set of smooth diamond steps
that spiraled further down into the heart of the tower.

Wanting to unearth more about the mysterious 'Z', Nattick quietly
stalked over to inspect the items on the altar and assorted
podiums. He noticed with a start that the entire floor was erratically
covered with the same off-white dust and he could make out several
sets of prints. Yet none of them were his own for his enchanted boots
prevented him from leaving any tracks, as well as enabling him to move
swiftly.

Each different podium seemed to be some sort of work station, and up
close the altar instead had the look of a large wizard's
workbench. The instruments were all finely crafted and polished steel,
and Nattick could not divine at all what each one's purpose was,
although some of them appeared to be used for crushing. There were
various bowls and flasks, all containing dusts of different colors,
and the rogue's heart stopped when he beheld what was in a large
trough on the workbench.

Gems, hundreds of them, in various shapes and sizes and many of them
uncut, were piled high in the trough. His knowledge of precious stones
told him that these were all genuine, and his greed told him they were
worth a small fortune. Immediately he thought of Bort the fence back
in Neville, and how he could score big with this stash of gemstones.

Fighting back his avarice, Nattick realized he would never be able to
haul that many gems out of the tower. He was also increasingly wary of
any traps the resident wizard may have left for unsuspecting thieves,
as thus far the going had been almost too easy. Perhaps this
spellcaster was arrogant and assumed that no rogue alive could scale
his tower walls and infiltrate his domain, and had therefore not
bothered to magically ward his equipment. If he had placed wards, they
were more carefully concealed than any others Nattick had ever
encountered.

He next devoted his attention to the various tomes that were laid open
across the altar, and found that they were written in some queer elven
dialect. He was unable to translate the passages fully but some were
obviously spellbooks, with their various incantations and lists of
ingredients, while others appeared to be logs or journals. One thin
grey text caught his attention, for it was nestled in amongst several
small vessels containing dust from the different jewels.

Carefully, Nattick pried the book from underneath one bowl, spilling a
little powder in the process, and when nothing awful happened he
realized he had been holding his breath. Leafing through the worn
vellum pages, Nattick read what appeared to be a description of
different gems and what powers they possessed once enchanted or ground
to dust. The mage had spent much time in writing this particular
reference, as there were many diagrams and colored drawings
illustrating his knowledge.

Some of the sketches showed wondrous sights that could not be of the
world the rogue knew: fantastic volcanoes, gigantic glaciers, entire
cities in clouds. Others still were hellish and ominous: some depicted
gloomy subterranean warrens set deep in the earth, or evil creatures
with hideous countenances, or giants that towered over ones that he
had seen. There were notations in the back of the book next to an
illustration of each gem. There were dozens, including sapphires,
diamonds, emeralds, as well as many that Nattick had never before
encountered. The rogue marveled at the wealth this enchanter must have
accumulated to afford this type of research.

Nattick remembered that something in Illarin's note hinted at
banishment or cleansing. Perhaps it was her intent to defeat the
Scythe army and bring them to this tower for 'cleansing', or maybe
drive them south into the desert, where the sorcerer 'Z' and his
accomplices would be lying in wait. He realized that the Feast of the
Prophet was the perfect time to stage an ambush of the city as
well. Even though the number of guards was always increased for the
Feast, the festivities and the tourists always made for a chaos that
was impossible to control.

His mind racing, Nattick tried to put it all together, but he simply
did not know enough. He knew more than he had when he set out for this
tower, but now there were more questions than answers. For openers, he
wondered which one of these lands in the book was a picture of this
mage's homeland. He was certainly not from the desert region or any of
the lands Nattick knew about, for this type of magic was alien to him.

The tower was so silent he had no idea how many truly dwelt here, but
he did know that it could not be long before somebody returned. He
couldn't immediately decipher much of the one text he had picked up,
and he did not have the luxury of time to sit and figure it all out
here. Nattick's eyes darted about, trying to discover any more clues
as to what lay in store for he and his guild.

Suddenly, across from him and behind the workbench, a dim blue outline
blinked to life on the northern wall. It was in the shape of a massive
archway, over twenty feet high, and the glow was steadily growing
stronger. Was it his imagination, or was the image of the wall inside
the glowing parabola fading? Nattick quickly grabbed a handful of gems
from within the trough and slung them into his backpack along with the
thin tome. As he turned to dash from the room, inspiration gripped him
suddenly and he snatched a handful of dust from one of the many
shallow bowls strewn about the workbench.

Bolting towards the southern archway and for the staircase beyond,
Nattick clenched the fine powder in his hand and felt a strange
tingle. A low humming noise filled the room and the hairs on the back
of his neck stood on end, and he thought he could hear voices growing
louder over the humming. He only hoped the voices were coming from
behind him and not in front of him!

Nattick burst through the archway and had to skid to a stop before he
toppled over the first step and down the spiral staircase. Catching
his balance just in time, he edged back from the stairs and sidled
back to the archway, out of view of whomever or whatever came through
that portal. Silently he chastised himself for his less-than-graceful
exit and for dallying too long at the workbench.

The voices must have been coming from behind him, for the stairwell
was silent and he could now make out the lilting voice of a female elf
from within, mingled with the deeper bass of a creature that could not
be human. Nattick had to swallow his bile, not wanting to spit at the
sound of an elf and give away his presence.

'...was saying, Rold, I do not like the sound of it. Either Illarin is
growing rash in her overconfidence, or this portends something
dreadful. There have been too many mistakes already, we cannot afford
any more.' The voice was beautiful, and it also possessed a haughty
and commanding tone. The speaker used a strange dialect, one Nattick
had not heard before.

'Aye, Zhephani, she underestimated the Scythe, and paid for it. Well,
her underling did,' the bass voice chortled, and Nattick could feel
the floor vibrate beneath his feet. 'But she will do her part, and
bring them to us. Those in this realm know nothing of your magic, or
of our might.' A loud thumping noise rattled the air, and Nattick
could only surmise that this large creature had just thumped its chest.

'Zhephani. So this was the mysterious 'Z' with whom Illarin had been
plotting,' Nattick thought to himself. He gnashed his teeth, for he
did not relish the task of facing an elven mage, let alone two of
them. Nattick thought himself absurd for assuming 'Z' to be male.

'Plus, we have Jalen and his... army on our side. We are invincible,
my lady,' the deep voice boomed. Something about the way the creature
said 'army' made Nattick's blood turn cold.

The elf let out a melodious laugh. 'I just need Illarin to do as much
of the dirty work as she can. I would rather not show her too much of
my power. That is what Jalen is for. When the time comes, they shall
all realize our full potential.' Nattick's ears were highly
perceptive, and he could have sworn at that moment that he could hear
her grinning evilly, yet he knew this had to be his overly active
imagination.

The being called Rold chuckled, creating a sound quite like an
earthquake, and Nattick felt a rush of fear. His palms began to sweat,
and then he realized he was still clenching the powder tightly in his
fist. Ever so quietly, he dribbled the powder into a pouch on his
belt, and as he did so he felt the cool tingle of the dust fade away.

There were sounds of stirring now, as if the elf were tinkering with
the items at her workbench.

'When is that lackey of hers going to make himself known to us? I
thought surely Votishal would have arrived by now, yet not a soul was
here to greet us upon our return,' the elf called Zhephani complained.

Nattick smirked slyly to himself.

'The Eldar are slow to act. He probably got distracted at the
Festival. He will turn up,' rumbled the hulking Rold.

'I grow tired of this waiting. I have more gems to prepare. See if you
can find him.'

The floor suddenly vibrated with the heavy footsteps of Rold, and
Nattick breathed in sharply. Holding his breath, he realized the
footsteps were not growing in intensity, and that his hiding spot was
safe for the moment.

Nattick felt his hair stand on end again, and a sickly green glow
emanated from the archway, bathing the stairs in a pale emerald
light. There was an odd humming noise, barely audible and low in pitch.

'Time for me to leave,' Nattick thought to himself.

Without a sound, the rogue turned himself around and steadily backed
away towards the first step, cognizant of its location. Slowly, more
of the chamber he previously occupied came into view, and its walls
were bathed in the pale green glow. A dainty figure stood before the
bench, her back to him, with long strands of silvery hair trailing
halfway down her back. She was the source of the light as her entire
body was enveloped in a green radiance, her arms stretched upwards in
a 'V'. Her left hand contained what appeared to be a sizable gleaming
emerald, and her right palm was opened towards the ceiling. A narrow
shaft of sunlight shot from the ceiling into her right hand, and
Nattick now noticed that the ceiling was an amber color, as if the sun
itself was right above the tower. Zhephani seemed frozen in this
position, and the emerald she held steadily grew brighter. He could
hear her chanting in an arcane tongue, the tone of her voice now husky.

Now almost at the top of the stairway, Nattick could see what this
Rold was. The rogue's heart was in his throat for a beat as he spied
the giant for the first time. A towering, muscular beast with
alabaster skin stood further back in the chamber and off to the mage's
right. Its skin seemed to glitter and reflect the light and looked as
though it were constructed from diamonds, and brilliant blue eyes
glowed like sapphires as he concentrated on his hands, which were
cupped before his face. There was a look of cunning and depravity to
his countenance, like some ancient evil statue brought to life. His
size easily matched that of the other giants Nattick had encountered
before, but the intelligence was novel, and a cause for alarm.

The giant seemed too engrossed in his current task to notice the
skulking rogue, and Nattick had now reached the top stair. Turning,
the rogue began his careful descent further into the monolith, unsure
for the first time whether he would escape alive.

***

A moody silence hung over the guest bedchambers of the Eldar coterie
in the Royal Palace of Drakhiya. The four elven men and two elven
women that made up Votishal's ambassador corps were still nauseous
from the previous night's fare. The Drakhiyan orcs always hated to
play the host at this time of year, and only their unbridled avarice
for profit kept them civil to the other races - and just barely at
that. It did not seem far-fetched to this crew from Duender that their
food and drink could have been spiked with demon spider venom or
rotten water from the plague city of Sadris, or worse.

What made matters far more disquieting was the mysterious
disappearance of their captain - or rather, the manner of his
disappearance. It was unsettling that Votishal had not met them for
dinner as planned, even though he had been most secretive so far as to
the details of their mission. A growing unease began to permeate the
group.

'We can only assume that 'Shal has already made for the crystal
tower,' a particularly red-faced slender elf said irritably. He was
cradling a brass cuspidor in his arms, a thin line of spittle
stretching from his chin to the brim of the spittoon. He appeared to
be the sickest of the frazzled group of elves.

'And what of his no-show at last night's supper, Faedryc? I think it
is the first time I have ever seen him deviate from his plans, and I
don't feel at all well about it,' said a concerned looking elf with
unkempt long brown hair.

'And I don't feel at all well, Daedryc. Yet we cannot go on worrying
ourselves silly just because he missed dinner last night. If anything,
we should be glad he's not here sick like the rest of us,' Faedryc
said, followed by a violent set of heaves.

Daedryc sighed wearily, and looked away from the sight of his brother
vomiting, lest he begin to do so himself.

'If you ask me, I think that half-breed Stobb is behind this,' a
red-haired female elf with severe features said. 'I never did trust
him. Anything with orcish pig-blood in its veins ought to be roasted
on a spit and fed to the dogs!'

The group collectively let out a nauseous groan. 'Please, my dear
sweet sister, no more mention of roast meat!' Daedryc said.

'Harissa is right, I bet Stobb is behind this. He, too, is absent,
after all,' a tall elf leaning by the doorway offered.

'Well of course he's also absent, Paedryc, you buffoon. He's gone to
the tower with 'Shal.' Faedryc said, between retches. 'He'll turn up
again soon, you'll see.'

'So what are we to do with ourselves in the meantime then?' the other
elven female said, a comely blonde with a lithe figure. 'We cannot
just sit idly by, and we dare not leave the city or we'll appear
suspicious.'

'I don't know, Ivivis. What say you, Nestor?' Daedryc asked of the
fourth male elf, who was squatting by the window and gazing outside, a
dour expression upon his face.

The elf turned his dark grey eyes on his companions and contemplated
for a moment. He sniffed indifferently, and resumed looking out the
window.

'Then it's settled. We shall keep up our profile in the city but look
for any clues while we wait,' Daedryc said.

The rest of the elves nodded wearily and began to ready themselves for
a long day in the brutal desert.

High above, hidden in the shadows cast by a brilliant morning sun,
Mara mouthed a silent curse to herself. The dexterous elf was perched
on one of the many frescoes that lined the highest portions of the
walls, just below the ceiling. She had taken an immediate liking to
the many accessible rooftops and open windows of Drakhiya. She
promised herself she would return to the city as soon as she could to
plunder its riches, once this business with Nattick was completed.

Nattick. This whole situation smacked of his treachery. Her elven
companions below were right; his abrupt departure was incompatible
with Votishal's usual behavior. And she had never liked Stobb either,
but nobody ever paid much attention to the unfortunate
half-orc. Perhaps that was by his design, and now Mara felt a sudden
sense of urgency.

Her heart sank as she watched the ragged crew of warriors file out the
doorway. Their morale crushed and physically ailing, they would make
no headway today, and it would do no good to reveal her presence to
them just yet. It was time for action, and she knew just where to
start her search for Votishal - for where he was, so was Nattick.

Mara descended from her lofty perch as silently as falling snow, and
quickly made her way to the doorway. A female serpentari with a
beaten-down look appeared in the archway, apparently here to fulfill
her duties as chambermaid. She did not notice the petite elf crouched
in the shadows, and Mara easily slipped past her and into the hall
outside.

Satisfied she was alone in the wide palace hallway, Mara slinked along
the wall towards what smelled like the kitchen. As she came upon a
broad arch at the end of the hall, she found she was right, and had no
trouble sneaking past the many busy orc cooks. She found herself in a
quiet hallway and kept hidden in the abundant shadows cast by the
rising morning sun.

As she neared the end of the corridor, she could see a surly, muscular
orc standing guard. His red turban gave him away as one of the elite
palace guard, and she paused briefly as she pondered her next
move. Her nose told her that what she wanted was around the corner,
beyond the orc sentinel, but Mara did not feel like slitting any
throats this early in the day. Fortunately, this guard must have begun
his shift without eating breakfast, for he seemed more intent upon
peering into the kitchens than standing guard, his large snout working
furiously.

The elf rogue slipped past the hungry orc on his blind side, and found
her way into the Caliph's personal harem. Mara found safety in the
shadow cast by an incense-burning brazier, and her timing could not
have been better - or worse. The concubines were engaged in an
animated pillow fight with His Excellency, who held all of their rapt
attention. Yet standing like a rigid statue at the other end of the
room was Masrur, the Caliph's widely-feared bodyguard. The gigantic
orc's beady eyes never stopped searching the shadows for would-be
assassins, and his prized falchion Draqisfang always hung at his
side. It was no secret that this monster had bloodied his tusks many
times in battle. He had a terrifying combination of brute strength and
lightning dexterity, and as yet no one was his match in battle. Mara
did not feel like trying to be the first in that category.

She needed a disguise for where she was going, and the perfect one lie
tantalizingly outside her reach, yet within Masrur's field of
vision. Hoping her good fortune would strike twice, she decided to
wait a few beats rather than attempt to palm the silk harem pants and
veil lying a few feet in front of her on a divan.

Masrur's piggy eyes narrowed slightly as they fixed upon the shadows
where Mara was hiding. She felt her heart stop and her throat clench
under his suspicious gaze, certain she had been spotted. The elf
didn't move a muscle and remained as taut as the iron brazier in front
of her, mentally preparing for a quick getaway.

Just then the auspicious rogue caught another break, as a stray pillow
snagged one of the bodyguard's tusks and was gutted open, sending
small white feathers flying in a cloudburst. Angrily, the orc swatted
feathers away from his face and sidestepped the flurry, his hand on
Draqisfang's hilt and the blade half out of its sheath. Yet when he
focused on the brazier in the far corner of the room, he did not see
anything suspicious, nor did he notice the now-missing pants and veil.

By now, Mara was well outside, having snuck back through the kitchens
and out the rear of the palace. She made her way through a few back
alleys to the outside of a brothel off the Street of Pigs. The streets
were choked with patrons and merchants already, and where there
weren't people there were stalls and effigies and crude kiosks, all in
place in time for the Feast.

Quickly, she donned the billowy silk pants and veil, stashing her
other pants behind the flap of a vacant booth that was apparently used
for selling fish. Mara slipped into the back entrance of the brothel,
and found herself in a quiet hallway with many closed doors. She could
hear the din of the raucous crowd in the taverna to the front of the
building, and at present she was the only one in this passageway.

Her quarry was the wily Ishtaq, and although everybody thought he
would not be caught dead inside of Drakhiya's walls, Mara knew him
better than most. She knew his addiction to the affections of orcish
wenches, and nowhere in the land were there better orcish wenches than
in Drakhiya. And when it came to sneaking around, there were few who
were better at that game than Ishtaq. Mara had a hunch he could be
found inside the city walls at Feast time, when it would be easiest to
slip in and out of the gates without notice.

Not wanting to heave open any doors and surprise unsuspecting guests
(unless she had to), the disguised elf headed down the hall to the
foyer of the brothel. Here, eager johns fawned lustily over the
assortment of harlots that paraded through the beaded archways at
either end of the room. A filthy red carpet covered the floor and
continued up a set of darkened stairs, no doubt leading to other rooms
above. A couple of orc prostitutes leaned over the railing of the
stairs, exposing themselves and grinning naughtily as they tried to
entice a couple of young loutish humans to follow them upstairs.

Many other strumpets reposed on benches lining the walls, some with
their tongues in the ears of their current customers, others looking
bored while they waited for their next trick. A smoky haze filled the
air as many of the men were smoking Salamander cigars or Smashterfield
cigarettes, and Mara made a face at the acrid smell and the lurid
sights she beheld.

The elf clad in harem pants turned many heads as she appeared from the
dark corridor, for though there were many races of harlot here she was
the only one with pointed ears and fair skin. Swatting away several
attempts to grope her, Mara made her way through the crowded foyer,
looking for any sign of the Caliph's nemesis. She knew that Ishtaq
would be disguised and that even her expert eyes would have difficulty
in spotting him, but she had to find him. Few had their ears to the
ground more skillfully than Ishtaq, so if anybody knew anything of
Votishal or Nattick it would be him. The itinerant rogue also owed her
money, and she would not let him escape her this time as he had so
many times in the past.

Out of the corner of her eye, something about one particular man's
movement drew her attention to him. A tall man wearing white desert
robes and a mask painted like the face of a swamp monkey was just
starting to ascend the stairs, his arm around an unusually
green-skinned female orc. Masks were not uncommon in brothels,
especially during Festival time, for many revelers wore them. Yet this
man had an oddly familiar limp. The kind of limp given out by the
Caliph for being caught red-handed with his personal harem!

Knowing she had found her prey, Mara wormed her way through the lusty
crowd towards the staircase, having to endure being pinched on the
bottom more than a few times. The lithe elf slipped underneath
Ishtaq's free arm, drawing a cold stare from the orcish wench at his
other side.

'Well hey, what have we here!' Ishtaq blurted out gleefully.

'Perfect. He's a drunken lummox,' Mara thought to herself. Swallowing
her pride, she beamed up at the grinning visage of the monkey
mask. 'If it please you, sir, I could give you better company than
your piggy little friend there.'

'Hey! This one's mine, sweetie, go find your own man!' the orc
prostitute snarled in protest.

Mara could feel Ishtaq's body suddenly tense as he lurched to a stop
on the stairs. Sensing his recognition of her, she continued to smile
innocently at him. She shot a hand under his robe, grabbing his
testicles in a grip like iron.

'Unh! Umm... listen, Shasha, maybe you better... find someone else
to... keep you company today. I think I... have my
hands... full... with this little elf right here,' Ishtaq blurted out,
not daring to make any sudden movements.

The orc called Shasha made a pouty face, but got a sly glint in her
eyes as the trapped man pressed some gold coins into her palm. Crying
mock tears, she bolted back down the staircase and out of sight, no
doubt in pursuit of her next trick.

'Well, well, my little Swamp Monkey. It has been too long since we
last... shook hands.' With this last phrase, Mara briefly squeezed,
making Ishtaq yelp and sound every bit like a monkey as well. 'Shall
we retire to one of the many rooms upstairs? We have lots of catching
up to do.'

'Curse you, Mara! How did you find me here? Aghh! Steady on now...'
The elf glared silently up at him, her eyes like slits behind her
veil, her grip tightening with his complaints.

'Did the Caliph send you?' Ishtaq hissed at her, turning to look over
both shoulders as he spoke. 'Please, just let go of me!'

'Tsk, tsk. No, my feral friend, he did not. But I will make you wish
for him instead, if you do not give me what I want. Let's go,' the
ruthless elf said, walking up the stairs and not releasing her solid
grip.

Having little choice, Ishtaq stumbled clumsily after her, emitting
high-pitched little 'Ah!' sounds the entire way up the stairs and down
the hall as Mara led him by his genitalia. Normally the sight of a
grown man in a monkey mask speaking so and being led around in such a
manner would have turned more than a few heads, but in a brothel it
was merely regarded as typical fare, so nobody they passed gave them a
second glance.

Finding an unoccupied room, Mara turned to face Ishtaq and led him
painfully into the crowded chamber.

'Close the door,' she commanded. Ishtaq pushed the door shut behind
him, and in a flash Mara released her grip and was at the juggler's
throat with a sharp blade. Her green eyes glinted dangerously through
the veil, and for a moment Ishtaq's blood went cold. She had knocked
his mask off in the process of putting her knife to his neck. He met
her gaze without wavering, but he licked his lips nervously. Ruefully,
he wished he wasn't so drunk.

'A trade party from Duender led by an Eldar named Votishal is here in
town on official business. Now he's gone missing and I want to know
why. Talk to me,' the elf demanded, pressing her dagger into Ishtaq's
throat.

'Listen Mara... I know I owe you from that poker game, but you have to
realize something. I'm not even supposed to be here! I-'

'I don't want your excuses, Ishtaq! I don't have time for any
games. Now tell me what I want to know.' She stared intently at him,
somehow managing to look threatening in her ridiculous courtesan
costume.

The man said nothing, his eyes darting back and forth. He obviously
knew something, and was going to try and get out of it. With her free
hand, she reached down to grab his crotch again.

'Wait!' Ishtaq cried out. 'All right, look. Put the knife down, you
don't need to harass me like this. I'll tell you what little I know.'

'Hah!' Mara laughed. She hesitated, studying him shrewdly for a
moment. 'You better have something good, Ishtaq! You still owe me
money, and all I have to do is scream for the guards and you'll be
taken right back to the Caliph!'

'Mara,' he said with feigned indignation, 'you couldn't do that to an
old poker buddy now, could you? Besides, get rid of me and you lose
everything I know. And that's a lot, heh.' Ishtaq was grinning at her,
and he coyly flipped one of her throwing knives up in the air with his
right hand.

'Give me that!' she shouted, but he snatched out of the air before she
could get to it. Just as quickly, he had the point of it pressed to
her neck, and his grin was replaced by a stern look.

'Stalemate, Mara. Now let's talk this out like a couple of sensible
rogues, eh?' Ishtaq's black eyes had taken on the same cold edge
Mara's own gaze held. Even while drunk, the crafty juggler still had
some of the quickest hands around, and he had somehow managed to pick
her pockets.

Her face twisted in frustration, Mara just stared at him in
disbelief. Ishtaq suddenly burst into laughter, and simultaneously
they both lowered the daggers from each other's necks. Mara couldn't
help but laugh with him, and for a beat they just stood there
chuckling.

In a flash, both rogues held their knives to each other's throats
again, each warily staring at the other and neither one laughing. Then
they both cackled again and backed away from each other. Mara sheathed
her blade, and Ishtaq tossed her the throwing knife, which she caught
by the handle in front of her. She gave him a hard look, and he just
smirked back at her.

They wandered further into the cramped room, relaxing briefly now that
they were out of sight of anyone else. Mara leaned by the window at
the far end of the room, careful not to turn her back on the nefarious
juggler. Ishtaq loitered by the doorway, alternately casing the room
and furtively glancing towards the elf.

Ishtaq caught a glimpse of the black-bladed scimitar that hung from
her side. He recognized it immediately as the prized sword Mara had
fished out of some forgotten tomb a few years back. The elf rogue was
never separated from her magical blade, and the rumor was that wounds
from its sting took months to heal. He did not care to personally put
that theory to the test.

'I see Elbelle made the trip, as usual,' Ishtaq said, nodding towards
the scimitar at Mara's side.

She smirked at him. 'Be glad I didn't decide to give him a taste of
you. You might be doing more than grabbing your crotch by now.'

Ishtaq realized he had been rubbing the sore spot between his legs,
wishing for a chunk of ice. He narrowed his eyes at her. 'I know I owe
you money, but did you have to shake hands in that way? And scare off
my date?'

'Date?!' Mara cried out in surprise. 'From the looks of her, she was
going to do more harm to you than I ever could. And what were you
thinking, Ishtaq, coming back into this city for a piece of ass?
Certainly those orcs are good, but they can't be that good.'

He grinned evilly and winked at her. 'Don't knock it until you've
tried it, sister.'

She shuddered. 'I'll pass, thank you. Their steam baths are more than
enough for my tastes.' She could not help but smirk back at the
lecherous rogue. 'But back to our business.'

Ishtaq nodded. He studied Mara for a moment. 'Yes, this business with
Votishal. I never knew the Eldar by name, but if you are looking for
who I think you're looking for, then you are too late. Word has it a
certain elven trade ambassador was carved up and served to his own
party late last night.'

'What?!' Mara cried in disbelief, her jaw hanging open. 'Was it-?'

'Yes. It was Nattick. He's the only one capable of such a thing, and
you know there is no love lost between the Eldar and Scythe.'

Angrily, the elf kicked over a shoddy wooden table, shattering one of
its legs in the process. 'That bastard! How did he do this so quickly?
I hardly let Votishal out of my sight. Are you sure he's dead?'

Ishtaq raised an eyebrow. 'Hardly let him out of your sight? That's
your problem right there. You know about Nattick. He strikes the
moment you let your guard down. Lucky he didn't take you out in the
process.'

Mara glared angrily at him. 'I'll have my revenge. Where is he now?'
Her hand moved to tightly grip the pommel of her black-bladed scimitar.

Ishtaq gaped at her. 'You're asking me? I hear lots of things, Mara,
but of Nattick's comings and goings I know nothing. I'm not sure
anyone does.'

She stared at him suspiciously.

Ishtaq spread his arms wide. 'I tell the truth, Mara. May as well try
and track an ant in this desert than find him. I cannot help you
there.'

Mara snorted angrily, realizing he wasn't lying for once. But she had
an idea where to find the scurrilous rogue. 'I must be off, then. A
pleasure, as always, Ishtaq. Don't get killed before I find you
again. I want my gold back.' She was already halfway out the window,
looking up and down, her veil discarded on the floor behind her.

Ishtaq chuckled quietly. 'Oh, Mara. If you do manage to find Nattick
then I know I can keep my gold, for I'll never see you again.' His
smile faded as he spoke, replaced by a serious look.

Mara raised an eyebrow. 'Is that concern I see in your eyes, Ishtaq?
Why, I never knew you cared!' She laughed then, as she descended down
a drainpipe into the alley below.

***

The rough night-time seas east of Tantallon were unkind to the small
fleet of ships that had put out a few hours earlier. Swells
approaching two percha in height had been rocking the flat barges and
transports up and down steadily since they reached the open ocean, and
there was no sign of mitigation. A perpetual downpour of heavy rain
had been pelting the fleet and its crews since the moment they left
the safe confines of their harbor.

This was no ordinary assortment of ships, for their existence was a
complete mystery to the rest of the land, including most of the lower
ranks of the Scythe guild. Since the founding of the guild soon after
the War of Faith, the Scythe elite had quietly amassed a collection of
ships over many generations. These were to be used for whatever
purpose the guild might find, such as war or escape or even smuggling,
should such a need arise. Carefully concealed under mounds of garbage
and magical wards, the seven vessels were all different from each
other. Some were barely seaworthy, their hulls and cabins left in
states of disrepair for many years.

Never had they all been pressed into service at once, as they were
now, and they were anything but a glorious site to behold. Reeking of
old garbage and filth, swarming with flies and other mutant creatures
from the contaminated Tantallon garbage dump, these ships were hardly
impressive. But the Scythe clan was not interested in appearances and
was rather at home in the unwashed berths of their prized armada,
knowing they were the only ones in the realm to possess any sort of
navy.

After all, many of the Scythe brethren were directly descended from
the buccaneers and smugglers of old, and the salt of the sea ran
strong in their veins. Many yearned to take to the sea again for
plunder and exploration, but this was a tradition that had sadly waned
over the years. This valiant return to the ocean to make war upon the
Eldar was all that the Scythe needed to keep its morale higher than
ever, something that pleased its idol figures greatly.

The largest of the vessels, a huge old war transport, heaved violently
to and fro in the tempest. The largest of the passengers on this ship
was also heaving violently over the side. This large ogre was perhaps
the most stalwart fighter ever to be a member of the mighty Scythe
guild, his prowess in battle second only to a handful of fellow
legendary Scythers. Yet here, on board this sturdy transport craft, he
was reduced to a green-tinged mountain of convulsions and agony. To
hear an ogre let out a battlecry is quite a fearful experience, yet
somehow the sounds of his horrible retching were more terrifying. It
was not an uncommon site to see a few of the hands dash to the railing
and lose their stomachs into the sea, for the storm was indeed
fierce. But Boki the Ogre's trials began the moment his ship left
port, for among all his strengths and victories, he could not handle
the motions of the sea beneath his massive feet.

Balfor watched with concern, a painful expression on his face, as he
hung on to some rigging above deck. He and a handful of other Scythe
crewmen were somewhat sheltered under the roof of the forecastle,
grimly watching Boki deal with his seasickness.

Balfor turned to a stolid dwarf who was hanging on next to him. 'Think
the fish will be able to withstand his lunch of haggis?'

The dwarf snorted. 'He tossed that hours ago. If any fish are left,
they'll be swimming in his bile!'

The ragged crew let out a round of raucous laughter, attempting to
make light of the situation. Boki could not hear them above the din of
the ocean's fury, which was lucky for the Scythers, for his sense of
humor stopped short when it came to his troubles with the sea.

'Isn't there anything we can do for him?' a concerned female human
said, one hand gripping her holy symbol tightly, the other clutching
the rigging. She was a husky sort, and did not appear to be handling
the tumbling motions of the boat very well either.

The boat lurched awkwardly forward, as it ran down the backside of yet
another large swell. The Scythers winced and grit their teeth, waiting
for the inevitable crunch as the boat slammed into the sea again at
the bottom of the wave. It did so, jerking the crew's bodies at crazy
angles as they fought to hang on to the ship. So far, only a couple of
the elven slaves had been lost overboard, but the storm showed no
immediate signs of abating.

A seedy-looking individual with stringy blond hair and the beginnings
of a short beard on his chin spat out a mouthful of sea water. 'I do
no think you could get to him without drowning, Yance. You clerics
never were as coordinated as us rogues, ya know. This storm is coming
on something fierce!'

'Indeed,' Balfor said grimly, eyeing Boki warily. The mountainous ogre
seemed in no danger of being swept overboard, for his tree-trunk like
arms had a solid grip on the railing of the port side of the boat. But
Balfor did hate seeing the ogre retch continuously, if for no other
reason than he needed Boki healthy for the imminent war.

The cleric called Yance spit a mouthful of blood onto the deck. That
last wave had caused her to bite her tongue, but it also firmed her
resolve. 'Razar take me, but I'm going to help the big brute. You
cowards can all wait here and watch!'

The spindly rogue sniggered, and Balfor simply shook his head. The
other Scythers just continued to cling to the rigging and watch, more
worried about staying alive through the squall and saving their own
skins.

Amazingly, Yance managed to reach the ogre, stumbling clumsily a
couple of times along the way. What she lacked in dexterity she made
up for abundantly in physical strength, as she clung securely to the
railing at the side of the big brute. Quietly, she prayed to her gods
and concentrated upon the ogre, who remained oblivious to her presence
as he vomited over the side.

Warmth pulsed through Boki's veins as he felt suddenly renewed. He
looked up from over the railing, his head no longer swimming as much
as it had before, and felt his nausea steadily melting away. Out of
the corner of his eye, he could see Yance at his side, her holy symbol
glowing brightly, and he knew why it was he felt better.

Yance finished her prayer and looked up at the ogre, who was grinning
at her with crooked teeth, stained yellow with bile. Bits of haggis
were stuck in between his large square choppers, and for a smile Boki
sure cast a frightful image. He grunted approvingly at the cleric and
spat a lump of undigested meat over the side. Yance cackled roughly
and the momentary peace was shattered once again by the force of the
boat smacking down into the ocean.

The crew stayed just like that for the remainder of the storm,
bitterly riding it out for another five hours, and Yance never left
Boki's side.

Happily, only one other hand was lost, and that was just an elf
oarsman.

**

Two halcyon days later, the small flotilla of ships plied its way
further south, out of sight of the coast. They had lost time due to
the storm blowing them north and east of their destination, and the
resultant calm afterwards had forced them to rely upon their oars. The
elf slaves were growing weaker from rowing around the clock, and even
a few Scythe recruits had to fill in for the ones that either passed
out or were tossed overboard by the storm.

No pack animals were brought on this trip, save for those pets favored
by the Scythe rangers and mages. Unfortunately they all had to share
the same boat, and the mages with familiars had a hard time keeping
their cats from being attacked by the rangers' wolves. Luckily nothing
more happened than lots of growling and a few hackles being raised.

An entire barge was reserved for that darkest of professions, the
necromancers. Normally an anti-social lot, they were even less
desirable company since they had all animated their undead pawns
before the excursion. Only a handful of non-necromancers chose to
journey to the south along with these lords and ladies of the dark
arts. These were the usual chums of the gravediggers, for they needed
help in finding the most powerful and fresh corpses to be had, and
this usually meant there was some killing involved. Needless to say,
there was very little activity above deck on this particular vessel,
for even while powerful and fully combat-ready, the undead were far
too clumsy and valuable to risk being tossed overboard if the sea
became unfriendly.

One ship was almost lost the day after the storm to the clutches of a
formidable sea squid. Some of the Scythers on board one of the smaller
vessels had taken to fishing, for the fish were always biting after
such a cataclysm. Apparently, not only the fish were biting but so
were the sea monsters, for one enterprising young dwarf had managed to
hook one as he fished from the aft deck.

Unable to cut the line free in time, the unfortunate dwarf got
swallowed by the abysmal beast as it surfaced directly behind the
boat. It had a wicked beak that took a large chunk out of the craft
after swallowing the dwarf whole, its thick tentacles whomping the
deck and threatening to tear the vessel asunder. The squid was a pale
mauve color with green splotches, and it had an unholy look to it. A
hazy black mist seemed to permeate the air over where it had surfaced,
and two immense bulbous black eyes glared greedily at the prey in its
grasp.

Fortunately for this Scythe crew, the Massacrator had decided to book
his passage on their ship, and it was only moments before he appeared
above deck, his large scythe gleaming awesomely in his hands. Others
of the crew were either trying to right the ship as it fought with the
sea and the squid or they were bravely piercing its thick skin with
their weapons, doing very little to discourage the horrible creature.

His scythe swinging in wide deadly arcs, Glock began to carve up the
beast one tentacle at a time. It emitted a shrill screech from its
beak and started to let go of the ship, tentacles flailing wildly. A
few hands were lost as they were swept overboard, knocked unconscious
from the force of the squid.

The creature bled a foul greenish ichor from many wounds, and before
it could pull away entirely, the massive orc was upon it, his scythe
tearing huge gashes in its eyes. The beast managed to pound upon the
battle-crazed orc more than a few times, making several bone-cracking
sounds. Yet with each punishing shot, Glock seemed to grow stronger
and he never wavered in his deadly attack.

With a mighty blow, Glock drove the point of his scythe deep into the
squid between its punctured eyes. With a final gasp the squid spewed
forth a jet of dark ink, covering its vanquisher completely.

Glock was unfazed, and keeping one hand on his scythe he reached over
with the other and grabbed the dead squid by its beak. He grunted and
heaved the entire carcass onto the deck and let out a ferocious
battlecry. Many of the Scythe crew stood with jaws hanging open at the
sight of their leader drenched in black ink, only the whites of his
eyes showing.

By now several of the other ships had pulled closer and circled around
the troubled ship, ready to lend a hand in killing the squid and
rescuing any drowning sailors. But the ship stayed afloat,
miraculously not springing any leaks, as the chunk taken out of her
backside proved to be relatively harmless.

Glock himself was nursing a few broken ribs and spat out a couple of
yellowed teeth, but he uttered no complaints and ate his portion of
squid with an air of quiet satisfaction. None of the Scythers offered
to touch his mark and help heal him, for the brutish orc would accept
charity from no one. Even Boki, now hardly green at all and no longer
retching, did not attempt to see to his long-time battle companion.

That night, the crew on each ship dined on cooked sea squid, telling
the story of how Glock caught their dinner over and over again. Each
time it was told it became more exaggerated than the last, and one of
the final versions being told before the last Scyther passed out had
Glock diving into the creature's maw and cutting his way out from the
inside.

For the rest of the days they were at sea after the squid incident,
not another Scyther had a line in the water.

**

On the third day of their voyage, the Scythe fleet could make out a
bit of the mainland coast to starboard. An eerie fog shrouded a small
peninsula, the ruins of an ancient castle peering out here and there
in the mist. A crumbling watchtower brooded over the ocean beneath it,
the waves having slowly eroded the huge stone blocks over the
centuries.

They knew there was no threat of being sighted from this particular
patch of land, for only the most foolish adventurers attempted to
explore the ruins of Lord Merrick's seaside castle. Rumors held that
frightful undead creatures, including the remains of Lord Merrick
himself, were said to roam the halls of the long-deserted castle. Few
Scythers held an interest in exploring this place, and they were glad
it was on the other side of the Lullingstone from their camp. Besides,
the architect of the castle was known to be an elf-lover anyway, and
this only merited disdain from the guild.

One brash rogue pointed out that some of the best fishing was to be
had on the shores of the haunted peninsula, but this only drew angry
glares from his shipmates, who pointed out he was lucky Glock had not
heard him mention fishing. He simply blanched and then held his tongue
for a very long while.

The spooky mists of the castle long in their wake, the Scythers' mood
brightened when they spotted the large sailing ship Atlantis off to
port later in the morning. She looked to be bound for Tantallon, given
her current course.

The Atlantis had long been the ferry from Tantallon Harbor to the
tropical islands in the southeastern sea, and her current captain was
a source of much mirth. A drunkard named Hazelwood, he was an old
washed-up sailor who could barely keep his balance, let alone steer a
large craft. Yet somehow he always managed to guide his vessel true,
but not without causing his passengers to fret during their journey,
which mercifully was free of cost.

A crop of fairly young adventurers currently occupied the Atlantis,
and as she passed to the port side of the fleet, they barely noticed
the bizarre armada of garbage-laden ships carrying the Scythe
army. They were too busy gawking at Hazelwood, who was busy urinating
his name upon the fore deck and not steering the ship at all. Their
knuckles white with fear, the handful of travelers looked very much
like they wished they could row themselves back to Tantallon instead.

'Swim for it!' one of the Scythe orcs shouted over to the worried crew
of the Atlantis, sending up gales of laughter from his mates. The
terrified lot finally took notice of the small Scythe navy, and they
momentarily forgot their predicament and stared in amazement as the
ships sailed by.

Hazelwood finally noticed that he had company off to his port side,
and cackled gleefully at the sight of the ragtag crew of ships. He
pointed at the mounds of trash still clinging to the sides of some of
the ships and laughed, then realized suddenly he was drifting off his
course for home. He yelped and grabbed hold of the wheel, briefly
focusing on his task as captain. Slowly and erratically he guided his
ship off into the horizon behind the Scythers, many of whom were
wondering if he would actually make it home this time.

'Well, the word is out now, about our ships,' Balfor said with
amusement to one of his lieutenants, a heavily scarred half-orc with a
patch over his left eye. The orc served as captain of this particular
vessel, and was a sort of admiral for all of the Scythe fleet.

'It's small matter,' the half-orc said in a thick accent, his lone eye
gleaming a dark indigo in the sunlight. Balfor could see on the orc's
face that he was as thirsty for battle as the rest of the crew, and
this piqued his own growing desire to fight the Eldar again.

For the thousandth time, Balfor gazed forward at the horizon, looking
for the telltale hook of land where they would make landfall. He
looked back to the half-orc, impatience in his eyes.

'How much longer, Gunarsh?'

The swarthy captain's mouth parted, showing many missing teeth, his
scarred face crinkling into what appeared to be a grin. 'Every hour,
you ask. Look, see how water goes green and clear? We in tropical
waters now. Swamp is mebbe day ahead, with wind.'

Balfor frowned, crinkling his face that was now burned from spending
so much time above deck in the sun.

'If ask me, this good for Scythe. Too many pansies in guild
now. Swabbing deck and working oars and sails weed them out. Let
Gunarsh teach new recruits.' He appeared to be grinning at Balfor
again, possibly with a more nasty expression.

Balfor laughed and clapped the rugged half-orc on his shoulder.

Gunarsh growled. 'Gunarsh serious! Make fleet strong like never
before. Snarf gold and women from elves and hobbits, not be stopped!'

Balfor smirked at his able captain. 'Get us to the swamp first,
Gunarsh, then we'll see. Plenty of elf scalps for you in Drakhiya.'

Gunarsh grunted and nodded reluctantly, turning his attention back to
steering the ship.

Balfor made his way below deck to get out of the scalding sun for
once. Another game of craps had broken out at the long table in the
center of their makeshift mess hall. Several other Scythers reclined
in their cabins or in the shadows, quietly sharpening their weapons
and anticipating battle.

He strode by the craps game and found Grishnok leaning quietly over a
small table, poring over some maps he had spread out upon it.

The powerful orc looked up at Balfor and grunted, his dark olive eyes
full of intensity. Grishnok had long been involved with the Scythe's
secret plan to tunnel under Nepeth for their eventual sacking of that
hated city, but he and his strategies had been appropriated for the
Scythe's current war with the Eldar.

'Grishnok,' Balfor said to him, nodding his head slightly.

The orc nodded slightly to Balfor in return, a look of mild curiosity
on his face. Grishnok was not a man of many words, and he was not the
smartest orc to ever join up with the Scythe. Yet he possessed an
uncanny shrewdness, particularly when it came to battle tactics in the
field and in laying sieges.

Balfor looked down at the seemingly random assortment of charts in
front of him, trying to divine the strategist's plans. 'What do you
make of our situation with camp?'

Grishnok stood up fully and nodded briefly, his lower jaw jutting out
for a second as he thought. 'Camp safe. Bokwa not let it be taken.'

Balfor nodded agreeably. Grishnok had left behind a solid defense for
shoring up the camp's earthworks to help fortify it while most of the
Scythe guild was away. At his recommendation they left the terrible
troll Bokwa in charge of defending the camp and more than just the
base of the tree that lead to their headquarters. The troll seemed to
accept this task with a great liking, and he and Glumshakh wasted no
time in marshaling what few troops they had into an efficient
garrison. Drun had been ordered to close the pub and shop to
outsiders, taking Kzoaki and Gramshiz along with him on a much-needed
holiday. Word had it they headed into Dalair to slum with the infamous
orcish prostitutes there, but in truth nobody knew to where they had
disappeared.

'Tell me again our approach to Drakhiya,' Balfor asked, making sure he
remembered every detail of their plan before they put ashore. He knew
the Scythers were frothing at the mouth already for some action, and
keeping their battle craze under relative control would be no easy
task. Any lack of direction from himself and the other idol figures
would turn them into nothing more than an unruly mob. Disorganized,
they would surely fall at the hands of the Eldar and their strange
allies in the diamond tower. He had no idea what to expect from the
latter, and hoped his guild was ready for any surprises.

Grishnok dutifully obeyed, pointing out with unerring precision every
detail of their planned journey and attack, as well as alternate
measures that could be taken. He hinted at a secret plan to make sure
the Scythe could traverse the vast unavoidable bog where the issla
dwelled. The last thing they needed was to incur the wrath of the
ferocious serpentine race or, worse yet, the dragon they worshipped as
a god, and Balfor hoped Grishnok's trick was a good one. They would
rely heavily upon their rangers to track the way through the deep
swamps and forests of the sparsely populated lands south of the
Shantih River. Since none of the Scythe elite knew much of anything
about the shady allies of the Eldar from the desert monolith, they had
prepared them to expect the unexpected. Magic was obviously one of
their strengths, given the rapid appearance of the tower and its alien
features. The Scythers in general did not seem to care how little they
knew about these new foes, and were only more eager to find new
enemies to rend and crush.

There was one known pass through the southern mountain range into the
vast desert beyond, and from there it looked to be a fairly simple
trek to the great city of Drakhiya. Grishnok seemed to know the city
in great detail, as if he was one of its chief architects. Balfor
grinned as the orc explained how they could defend the city if they
got to it first, or how they could also besiege it should it fall to
the Eldar coalition.

Balfor marveled at the orc's cunning and grasp of the moment, and he
felt renewed in his confidence about the quality of men and women he
was leading into battle. He clapped the big orc on the back.

'Excellent, Grishnok, we're in excellent shape.'

Grishnok nodded absently at him, still eyeing his charts as if there
were still elements in his plan that needed perfecting.

'Hey, how about that time we got all those ear bags from those
kniggets! Gods, we kept Drun busy that day. He hated us for that for a
while. I think he spit in my stew once,' Balfor grinned, flashing
white teeth.

Grishnok momentarily lost his cool composure and laughed. It was a
sinister sound that drew wary glances from the gambling Scythers a few
feet away.

'Had to make two necklaces for Grish,' the orc snickered, absently
fingering his throat where he must have worn his prize all those years
ago.

Balfor laughed along with his orcish friend. 'Take a break, my
friend. It's been a long day.'

They took a seat across from each other at the table. Balfor clapped
his hands and a goblin serving wench appeared momentarily, bearing two
bowls of the goriest stew she could find.

**

The fourth day dawned on the seven ships, bringing with it stronger
and more favorable winds. This improved the morale of the impatient
Scythers, who by now spent most of their day craning over the side of
the ship, looking for any sign of their destination.

There was a thin fog that seemed to cover the entire ocean like a
blanket, and it was taking its time in being burned off by the morning
sun. As it slowly receded, the fog revealed a stark white castle far
to port, its turrets and battlements poking oddly out of a jungle of
palm trees.

'Ha! Dere goes Castle Virgis. Dey make men out of little Scythe boys,'
Gunarsh snarled, his face cracked into a wicked grin.

All of the Scythers switched to port side now, attempting to get a
good view of the distant citadel. It was a relatively new and
unfamiliar development in the realm, and its denizens were reportedly
all women. They were also rumored to hate men and there was talk that
one day they would rise up and try to enslave the males of every race
on the mainland.

As the stories of these strange Virgision women spread throughout the
Scythe masses, one of them shouted out, 'Let's pay proper respect to
the ladies of the castle!' With that, he perched himself on the
railing, his back to the island with the castle, and dropped his pants.

The rest of the crew on every ship scrambled for railing space as
they, too, tried to moon the Castle Virgis.

Just then an excited cry of 'Land ho!' rang out from one of the crow's
nests. Far off and to starboard, a crook of land jutted out into the
sea, its shape familiar to the eyes of Gunarsh.

The Scythers let out roars and cheers of excitement, and there was a
mad rush as they at last hurried to prepare for landfall. Four days at
sea was no epic voyage, to be sure, but the bloodthirsty guild had
been ready for battle since the last Eldar had fled their camp.

Balfor nodded and winked at Gunarsh, thumping him on the chest and
congratulating him for leading the fleet successfully to its
destination.

Three hours later, the entire Scythe force was mustered across the
white sand beach far to the south of Tantallon. The last of the seven
transports pulled slowly away from the coast, putting out to sea about
a quarter of a stadium away to await the return of its army.

A grim, determined silence hung in the air about the army of
Scythers. As the last of the idol figures in command finished
inspecting their troops, Balfor took his place in front of the
gathering and turned to face his brethren. It was still morning and
the sun had not yet fully risen, and the thick jungles, hiding
extensive swamps, lay before them ominously.

'Bloodbrothers and sisters, I don't have to remind you of why we are
here. Don't let the swamp gnats and snakes get you down. If you see a
forest elf, kill it! Remember why we came, and think about how sweet
it will be to annihilate the Eldar and their cowardly allies!' He shot
his broadsword up into the air and made the sign of the Scythe. 'Make
yourselves shine in the eyes of Halforc!'

A lusty yell went up from the entire army, and with that the
lieutenants barked out orders to march. One by one, the columns of the
battle-charged Scythers made their way into the uninviting forest, the
mountains looming in the distance forbiddingly.

***

The tall human Scyther stood before the fire in the hearth, its dying
flames warming his chilled bones. True, the desert environment was a
fickle phenomenon: scorching heat during the day, enough to sweat the
eyeballs out of the toughest soldier, followed by the icy chill of
night, with no mountains or trees to mitigate the freeze of the feral
desert winds. But this room was always preternaturally cold, and Akul
always hated visiting the Dalairi Embassy. He knew the reason for its
chill was because of the presence of the Courts of Chaos, in the form
of a ghoulish ambassador named Petra. As far as he was concerned, the
Courts were not to be trusted, and the only reason they were here was
because they knew of the Scythe's interests in courting the efforts of
the orcs of Dalair. Chaosers tended to be haughty and interested only
in themselves, but they were a powerful lot of spellcasters and
fighters and they boasted more than a few rogues. Begrudgingly, Akul
had to admit it was best to keep the Courts at best as an ally, and at
worst as neutral to their cause, for they would make a formidable
enemy. Much of the Scythe elite mirrored the sullen mage's thoughts on
Chaos.

'Yet they do not have to stand here and smell her filth,' Akul thought
to himself. This upper chamber of the Embassy always reeked of blood
and feces, and he knew it was due to the presence of the shrine to
Chaos. Petra herself was always aloof and hovering in the background,
and she never seemed to rest. Something about her was beyond human,
even though she had the features of a human ('A human that has died
and spent a few years in an underground tomb,' Akul surmised
bitterly). She herself always seemed to smell of dried blood. He was
glad he never had to bear witness to one of her grisly sacrifices to
her gods of depravity, his own cannibalistic tendencies
notwithstanding. At least his victims fought for their lives and came
looking for trouble!

Akul glanced from the flames over to the tall figure shrouded in black
behind him and to his right. From there across the pentagon-shaped
chamber, Petra returned his glance with an arrogant stare, black eyes
glinting murderously in her cold, clammy face. She had cruel, angular
features that seemed to warp what otherwise might have been a
beautiful visage, and her black robes were slashed here and there with
dark streaks of crimson. A Chaos symbol dangled from a chain around
her neck, and she was studying one of several tomes she had brought
with her from her lair in the Courts of Chaos. Akul shuddered to think
what type of hide had been used to bind those books of hers, and he
frowned at her as he turned back to stare pensively at the flames
again. He resisted the urge to spit.

Akul sighed briefly to himself. Where the hell was Stobb?

To Akul's left, the Dalairi ambassador sat at his polished teak desk
frowning over some maps and papers. Mettertrop was an orc of advancing
years, and one who had demonstrated an unusual cunning for his
race. He was that rare orc who combined combat prowess with an ability
to manipulate people and win influence for his cause. Akul knew he was
the sort to come along only once every few generations, and he
wondered how the Scythe had missed out on recruiting him for their
band. Dalairi orcs were always loyal to a fault to their city, and
Akul was just glad for the moment to have someone like Mettertrop on
his side. The burly old orc was nothing like his bootlicking cousins
in King Kazarov's mountain clan, and soon Akul knew they would see the
error of their ways, perpetrated all those years ago. The last thing
the combined armies of the Scythe, Dalair and hopefully Aalgirzst
would be doing was signing some weak treaty with Drin the Fascist. But
that pig was a problem for another time, and Akul worried more about
keeping the Dalairi and Aalgirzsti orcs from killing each other. He
was fairly certain there would be conflict between the two clans, but
he also felt secure that they would table their hatred for each other
and join in the battle against the uprising of the Elven Defense Force
and its mysterious allies.

Thoughts of the pointy-eared folk turned Akul's mind to the Courts of
Chaos, one of several weaker guilds that allowed elves to join its
ranks. They worshipped some absurd force or god or something in
between, and their presence had always unnerved him. They were ever
plotting and scheming, and always for their own advancement. He
wondered just how they planned to try and turn the present strife to
their advantage. For now the Chaosers were nothing more than a curious
inconvenience, no doubt latching onto the cause of the Scythe as they
prepared to strike down the Eldar-Monolith coalition. As ever they
would probably remain a wild card, and at the very least they shared
his own guild's disdain for the despotic court of Truehearts that
reigned in Nepeth Castle.

'Another time,' Akul thought to himself. 'Drin and his ilk will get
theirs next.'

A small flock of crows took flight from the roof of the embassy and
flew by outside the open window, squawking angrily. None of the
current denizens of the top floor of the embassy paid much attention
to the sudden startling of the birds, however, for the avian
complaints were lost amidst the din of the crowded streets below.

Mettertrop looked up from his desk, peering over a pair of half-moon
shaped spectacles and looking in the direction of the staircase. The
sounds of a lively greeting echoed up the smooth jet-black steps of
the embassy, and the telltale noises of Scythers headbutting each
other and grunting told Akul that Stobb had finally arrived. The
Scythe kept a visible presence in Drakhiya by occupying the first
floor of this embassy, and the orcish captain below served as the
Scythe's token presence, and this was indeed who was following Stobb
the half-orc as he came up the stairs and into the chamber.

The muscular half-orc nodded slightly to Akul in greeting as he topped
the stairs, and grunted respectfully to Mettertrop, who had risen from
his seat and taken off his spectacles and was now grinning wickedly in
Stobb's direction. The orcish captain paused at the top stair, leaning
so as to still be able to peer down the stairs at his post, which he
had only briefly abandoned. Petra seemed rigid in her icy, arrogant
silence, yet her dark eyes never wavered from the group in her
presence.

Akul moved away from the fire, its warmth retreating from him and the
unnatural cold of the room creeping uncomfortably under his cloak
again.

'What of Nattick?' the mage asked Stobb as he clasped his arm in
greeting. The Scythe captain jerked his head in Stobb's direction, and
Mettertrop stared intently at the half-orc.

'Not back. The rest of the Eldar are drunk with Votishal and passed
out in a taverna.' Stobb grinned mischievously at this last, and the
others around him chuckled.

'The last I saw of Nattick, he was about to enter the monolith,' Akul
said, 'but my scries since then have been unable to penetrate that
infernal crystal. I'll be damned if I have ever encountered anything
like it! Gives me a headache each time I try and see him.' Akul
pondered for a moment. 'That was about six hours ago, and there won't
be much daylight left.'

The orc captain looked nonplussed and trudged back down the stairs,
disappointed.

Mettertrop looked concerned. 'None of our spies have yet returned from
that tower, and we have sent many.'

Stobb raised an eyebrow at the ambassador.

Mettertrop started for an instant, and then chuckled. 'Relax, Stobb,
none of them were like Nattick, but still... We have to think of what
to do if he does not show up soon.' Akul and Stobb both grunted,
nodding.

'The Scythe is on its way, in full force. That Tusked Fool out west is
still vacillating over when to -'

'Huh?' said Stobb.

'What?' said Mettertrop.

Akul paused, having lost his train of thought. He snickered. 'Sorry,
he's still being indecisive about coming over here and he's playing it
safe.'

'Oh,' muttered Stobb and Mettertrop.

'Anyway,' Akul went on, 'we can't count on him right now like we need
to, and the Eldar are bringing their battered asses down here to join
the fight. We beat them back soundly when they ambushed our camp, and
yet instead of a full retreat I've scried them all in the elven
forests, headed towards the desert.'

Mettertrop and Stobb looked at each other and grinned.

'Good! We can finally teach them elves a lesson,' Stobb said as he
spat upon the ground.

From the back of the room, Petra frowned slightly, and imperceptibly
the temperature of the room dropped.

Mettertrop nodded at the half-orc, but looked troubled, as if
something just out of his understanding was bothering him.

Akul seemed to sense the Dalairi's unease, and took on a more serious
look. 'I would have expected the Eldar to retreat after their losses
at our camp. Their morale could not be high, either, as Illarin took
out Annac by her own hand with an errant lightning bolt. Instead, they
press on to the desert, almost as if they are racing us to get
here. They must know of the Dalairi contingent camped out to the north
of us, who have taken no pains to conceal themselves. Yet they march
on, facing superior numbers and morale.'

'Are you suggesting they're laying a trap?' Mettertrop asked.

'Exactly, my friend,' said Akul.

Stobb frowned, his face contorting into a ferocious snarl.

'It has to be that tower. My spies have told me nothing of any elvish
military movements anywhere near the desert. And as for the tower,
well...' Mettertrop trailed off. Yet the situation was now clear to
all of them.

Outside, Mara stayed flush with a bas-relief of an orcish harlot,
whose arms extended over the top of the window from this side to lock
hands with the bas-relief of her whorish counterpart on the other
side. For the thousandth time, the elf thanked the gods that the
original artisans of the city of Drakhiya had been so obsessed with
statuary and provided members of her profession ample places to hide
and climb. The irony of hiding in the shadow of a whore did not escape
the rogue, however, and she was more than ready to be rid of her
association with the women of this particular calling. Ruefully, she
realized that she was still clad in harem pants.

The guttural voices of the party within the embassy caught her acute
sense of hearing again, and she listened intently.

'... from Nattick... in there. He's the...'

'... no way ... track him... have to...'

Mara cursed to herself silently. The streets below were getting
rowdier by the minute as yet another evening of the Feast came to
be. Already the crimson sun was dying a prolonged death to the west,
casting tall shadows across the rooftops. These were perfect for
hiding her from prying eyes, but did nothing to augment her ability to
overhear where to find her mark. And find him, she would.

The elf gazed down into the streets below. Once again, from wall to
wall they were teeming with humans and humanoids, some dressed in
garish costumes, others picking unguarded pockets, still others
stumbling from taverna to taverna, already drunk on arak and
whiteleaf. No militiamen or guardsmen were in sight as far as she
could see up or down the Avenue of Prosperity, and she decided to take
a chance.

Almost imperceptibly, the lissome elf slid down onto her backside, her
feet dangling over the side of the ledge, her body just below the
bottom of the window. She lifted her head so that her right ear could
catch the conversations coming from the embassy.

'... to scry him, headaches be damned. Stobb, you know where to wait
for him. Do so and do not leave until either he finds you, or I come
to you.' Mara then heard the mage utter something magical and the
hairs on her neck stood up on end as she sensed magic being wrought.

'He's marking him,' she thought to herself. 'Stobb, say hello to your
new shadow.'

Quietly and effortlessly, the elf rogue scaled down the back wall of
the embassy and came down outside an orcish hovel. Hurriedly, she beat
her way back through the crowd until she could see the entrance to the
embassy, the orcish guards out front glaring menacingly into the press
on the Avenue.

Mara's heart sank as she thought for a moment that Stobb had left
before she could get there, but just then her mark appeared in the
doorway of the embassy. The large half-orc's eyes darted furtively
through the crowd, and then he began a steady trek against the grain
of the crowd to the southeast.

Mara fell in tow behind a stream of humans and half-elves on stilts as
they paraded down the Avenue, and the elf relished her good luck again
as she gained ground on Stobb. Before long, they ended up at the
intersection of the Avenue of Drakh with the Street of Faith, in the
southeastern sector of the city. Here, the partying was less intense
but still raucous enough that she was in danger of losing her mark
several times, including when an overly affectionate, barrel-chested
oaf accosted her outside of one taverna. Reeking of ale, she left him
clutching his testicles in agony, and lighter one gold ring, slipped
artfully off his finger as he pawed her silk pants.

She found sight of Stobb again, just before he ducked into an
alley. When she got to the short alley, she found it empty and ran to
its other end. The alley opened onto a rather somber inner plaza of
sorts, between the serpentari temple to Draq and some other makeshift
hovels of the snake folk. There was nary a soul to be seen, including
Stobb. Knowing her quarry was no rogue, she nonetheless searched out
all the shadows and places she could conceive of in which to hide, and
found naught but rats and trash.

Furious at her sudden change in fortune, Mara trudged back through the
alley, and stopped in the middle to kick viciously at a rat in her
path. She missed badly, her foot coming down with a metallic
clang. Peering down, she found that she was standing over a grate
leading to Drakhiya's sewer system. The smell of offal made her nose
wrinkle.

And suddenly she knew where to find a certain rat named Nattick.

***

Nattick found that creeping silently down the crystal stairs within
the monolith proved to be an easy task. What was disconcerting to him
was the tight spiral the steps made as they wound their way up and
down in a helix within the cylindrical tower. He also still had a
queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach from the powerful magics
being wrought in the tower's zenith, although the hairs on the back of
his neck were no longer standing on end.

The rogue traveled what he figured to be roughly three or four percha
down the staircase, when the unmistakable stench of death assaulted
him. Halting in his tracks, Nattick narrowed his eyes
slightly. Listening carefully, he heard a sibilant, guttural
whisper. A different kind of chill crept up his spine as he realized
this was the sort of gibbering uttered by undead creatures. Absently,
his hand strayed to where the hilt of his sword usually rested, but he
gripped nothing but air. Nattick felt a brief pang of stupidity, but
dismissed it readily as he remembered there was no way to ascend the
walls of the tower with a heavy blade in tow. Wistfully, he thought of
the sword secreted in its hiding place far away from him.

The sound was coming from further down the staircase, and it did not
seem to be approaching or, sadly, leaving. Undead were notoriously
stupid when left to their own devices, but exceedingly difficult to
negotiate when set to guard or, worse, when commanded directly by a
necromancer. Nattick hoped this soulless monstrosity would have
neither a master present nor a door to guard.

He produced his favorite sharp knife from its hidden sheath, and crept
sideways down the stairs. The whispering grew louder, and intermixed
with it were new sounds, pitiful whimpers and harsh groans. The stairs
came to a halt at a flat landing before proceeding deeper into the
tower, and the landing opened onto another circular room within the
monolith. Nattick stopped about a dozen steps short of this landing,
peering into the room.

There was not one but nearly a score of undead humans and humanoids,
standing in a somewhat ordered group. The circular room of undead was
mostly featureless except for what appeared to be a smooth opal,
radiating an unholy black light. It hovered in mid-air in one end of
the room and evidently commanded the attention of the zombies
present. Some of these must have been in an advanced state of decay at
the time of their animation, as some featured disgorged entrails,
others with only the whites of their eyes showing in faces crawling
with maggots. Cockroaches skittered along the floor, from corpse to
corpse, and mosquitoes and horseflies buzzed angrily about in a crazed
insect orgy.

The rogue did not like what he saw, and decided to try and puzzle this
sight out at a later time. Seeing no lord or lady of the dark arts
(and not wanting to wait around to greet one) and realizing that these
undead were more concerned with the enigmatic opal than with him,
Nattick decided to resume his escape from this monolith of terror.

At the next landing in the tower, another couple of percha down,
Nattick sensed he was much closer to the ground. He stayed on the
landing and inspected what seemed to be a living area from the safety
of the shadows. The trencher of bread and meats upon the table and the
sparkling vat of cider were quite inviting to him, but the
overpowering smell of dung ruined any appetite he may have had for
them. Just then he spied an opening at the back of the room, and he
heard somebody humming from within. There were no other apparent exits
from the chamber aside from that one and the entrance to his landing,
and by his calculations that room would have no exits. Just then the
voice grunted, and Nattick stifled the urge to snicker.

He left whatever denizen occupied this level of the tower to his privy
time, and sneaked more briskly down the stairs, away from the foul
odor.

'Only a dwarf could make a stink like that,' Nattick muttered to
himself.

Mercifully the stairs ended a few tight spins later, and Nattick had
no idea which way he was facing when he looked into what must have
been the foyer. He spied a lone inhabitant, and in a dark blur he
leapt out of the shadows of the stairwell.

A dainty female elf had occupied this room, her hair curiously silver
as had been that of the sorceress at the tower's zenith. She now lay
in a crumpled heap in the corner, her life having leaked slowly from a
jagged hole in her lower left back. She never laid eyes on Nattick,
her vanquisher, who now stood over her corpse, wiping the blade of his
knife clean on her white robe. The elf's blood now smeared the emblem
of a black dragon clutching a diamond, sewn onto the back of her robe.

Nattick surveyed the room, and noticed a large, curved arch opposite
the stairs. A curious arrangement of symbols adorned the top and sides
of the archway, which was filled with the same blank crystal walls as
the rest of the tower.

The rogue grumbled. Looking to his right he noticed a small wooden
desk, atop which sat several stacks of paper. Quickly, he rifled
through them and saw that the only dialects he recognized were those
of elves and dwarves, among many others he did not. Nowhere was the
common language of the human or the guttural rhetoric of the orc to be
found. The writings all seemed to be propaganda, preaching about a
time when the land would be free of the orcish and human 'disease',
and that the Crystal Consortium would soon dictate a sort of new world
order.

Nattick could not help but wonder how the human members of the Eldar
felt about this particular dogma. He wondered, more precisely perhaps,
if they knew of this.

Grinning to himself, Nattick stashed a couple of the leaflets into his
pack, and set upon the mysterious portal that had to be his exit.

The wide, tall arch towered over Nattick, as if yawning at him
mockingly, and he remembered bitterly how much he hated magical
puzzles. For magical puzzles always contained magical traps. And
magical traps were nearly always deadly, or at the very least
humiliating. Nattick was in the mood for neither.

Glumly, he began to consider the shapes carved into the outer rim of
the portal. There were eight symbols, all of them unique, ranging from
basic shapes to complex spirals and totems Nattick did not recognize.

'____!' Nattick said, after a short time studying the cryptic runes.

Sighing, he frowned at the symbols adorning the archway in front of
him. There was no way to deduct any logical sequence to them, at least
not based on anything he had ever encountered.

He spied a square-shaped rune, but nothing happened when he said
'square' to no one in particular, and he was damned if he knew what
most of the rest of the runes meant anyway.

Given his recent dizzying trip down the staircase, Nattick picked a
spiral-shaped glyph as his first attempt, and tentatively he reached
out to touch it. With one eye shut and the other half-open, he jabbed
his fingers at the spiral, feeling the tight indented bevel of its
shape as he pressed against it.

Nothing.

The rogue spat upon the ground. At least nothing awful had happened -
yet. No columns of fire, no spring-loaded bolts covered with poison,
no chittering demons summoned from the abyss to rend him to shreds.

Nattick briefly doubted his decision to assassinate the elf ward who
had until recently occupied this room, wondering if he could have
coaxed the secret to this gate out of her before he murdered her. He
quashed these doubts as he felt safer not having chanced being
discovered. Besides, he had not met the doorway yet that could keep
him out. Or in, as it were.

He began touching all of the symbols, one at a time, from one end of
the arch to the other. When his fingers stopped upon the rune shaped
like a sphere surrounded by several hollow circles, it began to glow
the color of ocher. He snatched his hand back warily, forgetting for a
moment to breathe.

Once again, nothing untoward happened, and the rune glowed
steadily. Yet the portal remained closed. Gaining confidence, Nattick
tried to decide which rune should be touched next, and picked one at
random. It must not have been the correct choice, as the first
symbol's glow winked out as soon as he touched the second.

He touched the original symbol once more, setting it aglow, and
renewed the tedious process of figuring out which runes to touch in
their proper order. After figuring out the actual sequence, he made a
mental note of it, in case he was ever trapped in this infernal tower
again. Mercifully, only four of the eight symbols were required to be
touched in the proper order to effect the archway's opening.

The smooth surface of the portal slid upwards with a quiet 'whoosh'
and Nattick slipped outside for the first time in many hours.

Above, a waxing moon began to preside over the desert in a darkening
sky. To the west, the last orange rays of the dying sun cast a somber
hue over the sand dunes, and a cool breeze sifted through the rogue's
hair as he jogged away from the monolith. He never bothered to look
back.

The crystal spire in his wake was gradually swallowed by night's
advancing shadows, its outer surface limned in a faint azure glow. If
the rogue had turned back to behold the tower one last time, he might
have surmised this was either due to its alien magical nature or
perhaps some side effect from absorbing the intense light of the
desert sun all day. He also would have noticed that the portal through
which he exited had now closed, leaving its outline completely
undetectable. Nattick would not have cared to deduce how to open this
door from the outside to get back in, however, for as far as he was
concerned this was his first and last journey into the diamond
monolith.

After a quarter of an hour at a brisk pace, the rogue came to a
particular cactus and stopped. Presently he was just beyond the visual
limits of the city walls, although he could see the glow from its
decadent streets just ahead on the horizon. He imagined he could hear
the sounds of the city at night, alive with all manner of revelers and
entertainers, whores and thieves. Soon, he thought to himself, he
would be back inside and eager to track down Akul, for they had a lot
to puzzle out now. Stobb would likely be waiting to greet him in the
tunnels, probably with a wench on each arm.

Grinning to himself, Nattick manipulated a secret catch and pushed on
the cactus, which was nothing more than an expertly painted and
decorated sculpture made from the wood of an ash tree. It creaked back
on its base, exposing a hidden stairway that led down under the desert
floor. A holdover from ancient times when serpentari ruled from within
the stone walls of Drakhiya, this was one of several secret passages
of which only a privileged few were aware. These tunnels formed quite
an extensive hidden network under the city and intersected with the
sewers. Some went quite far and any maps as to their eventual
destinations had been lost in centuries past, so none alive today
could say exactly how far those lost branches spanned.

Occasionally, serpentari cultists of Draq could be encountered in
these dark passages, and they were at best an extreme nuisance. Their
numbers had been growing steadily in recent years, and if anyone
stumbled upon one of their secret meeting places underground then it
was exceedingly unlikely they would live to tell the tale. Stories
persisted about human and orc sacrifice, and even sacrifice of
serpentari young, among other rituals of unspeakable horror, all
perpetrated in the name of their dragon god Draq. Nattick had not yet
had the misfortune of dropping in on an impromptu serpentari
sacrifice, and to avoid doing so he crept around in the darkness below
Drakhiya as stealthily as any rogue had ever sneaked in shadows.

Once his night vision had adjusted to the inky blackness of the tunnel
and the cactus-door was secured behind him, Nattick found the bundle
that he had hidden earlier in the day. He slipped into his cloak and
felt safer now that he'd blend in with the shadows, even with a
bull's-eye lantern aimed right at him. He strapped his bastard sword
to his back, hung a few heavy throwing knives at his belt, and
unsheathed his wickedly sharp knife. Silently, he began to stalk down
the tunnel, dreaming of roast lamb and Drakhiyan whores.

***

Stobb stared vacantly at the moss clinging to the stone of the ceiling
of this ancient tunnel, and fancied it made for a poor mausoleum.

Many gashes over his legs and arms still leaked blood, the edges of
the wounds curiously seared as if wrought by a white-hot blade. His
last few moments in life were a painful blur, begun by being tripped
onto his face and stabbed in the back. He would recover only in time
to draw his blade and fend off a few of the many cuts taken at him by
that damnable scimitar, its blade glowing and humming as it bit into
his flesh repeatedly.

Stobb thought he might have gotten in a cut or two himself, but the
furious elf rogue that had hunted him down would take no quarter, and
she finally bested him with another dastardly trip and a hunga-munga
to his gut. The last thing he would see before expiring was the visage
of the female elf's face, youthful yet hard as stone with eyes full of
malice, as she ripped the deadly knife from his belly. His assassin
never spoke a word.

'May Halforc take her and rape her a thousand times before returning
the favor,' Stobb thought bitterly before his eyes glazed over, his
last breath rasping out of him harshly.

Mara stood and looked quickly to either side of her. She grimaced as
she covered the deep gash over her right arm, just below the
shoulder. Luckily the brutish half-orc did not wound her sword arm,
but she had hoped to escape any injury before having to deal with
Nattick. That one would take all of her strength and a lot of luck,
and she forced herself to bite back the pain.

The sticky medicinal bandage she applied tingled as it began to numb
her wound, and she wiped the blade of her hunga-munga off on the
fallen Scyther's vest. Her enchanted scimitar never needed cleansing
after tasting the blood of an orc or human, races it had been
magically enchanted to slay many centuries ago in Sylvandor. Its black
blade still glowed brightly in her left hand, the runes upon its
surface scintillating in the white light.

The elf would not allow herself to gloat over her
accomplishment. Nattick had drawn first blood in the burgeoning
conflict between the Eldar and Scythe, and she had only begun to atone
for his treachery by slaying Stobb. Nattick was her true mark, and she
expected him at any moment from within this tunnel.

Mara tried to look further down the tunnel, but the glow of her
scimitar ruined her night vision. Quickly, she sheathed the blade and
the tunnel was once again plunged into darkness. Stobb's torch had
gone out as it spilled from his hand and into a puddle of water when
Mara had first ambushed him.

She was currently about a quarter of a stadium along this tunnel,
whose entrance had been carefully concealed behind a tangle of pipes
along one wall of the sewer below the city's temple district. It ran
due southeast under and out of the city, and she knew she was
somewhere beneath the desert at this point. Nattick would supposedly
be returning from the monolith at the other end, she guessed. If he
had made it out alive.

She felt a shiver at the thought of the Scythe assassin. She knew he
would be one of the few capable of infiltrating the tower and
returning alive. And she would be facing him soon. She suppressed a
creeping desire to face the mage Akul instead of the dreaded rogue.

Mara stalked further into the tunnel as quickly and quietly as she
could, and found that the worked stone became cruder as she went
along. These were certainly ancient tunnels and built from masons
entirely different from and preceding those who had created the sewers
below Drakhiya. As they became more ruinous along their length, they
afforded many more places from which she could spring her ambush upon
Nattick.

There were many jumbles of rough rock and stone blocks that had
partially collapsed in the tunnel at several points, and she chose to
slip in amongst one of these to lie in wait for her rogue
counterpart. Mentally, she prepared her ambush. She knew if she did
not incapacitate Nattick quickly, she would not live.

Mara considered herself perfectly hidden, as her eyes and ears began
to adjust further to her spot in the musty corridor. The exit to the
desert, wherever it was, must have been quite a ways further down the
tunnel, for she could hear nothing of the desert winds. Occasionally
there was the scamper of rodent feet along the dusty floor of the
tunnel, and the odd skittering of giant cockroaches. She was relieved
to know she was a good distance away from the sewers and its huge
crocodiles.

Left to her thoughts, the clammy sensation of fear grew inside of her,
and she fought it back with a rigid discipline. Mara reminded herself
why she had come, and why Nattick must die. She was saddened by the
fact that the Eldar had changed so much from what they used to
be. Founded in peace as elves and humans came to learn to live with
each other, the many centuries that had passed had brought with them
change, and new conflicts. The orcs from the west kept coming across
in ever greater numbers, and each time more organized than the
last. There was talk of a vast, brutal civilization of western orcs
that lusted for conquest in the east. It was said that they had many
secret tunnels being built to surpass the ancient elven mists set so
long ago to protect her lands.

The Scythe had grown strong in its might, and their disdain for King
Drin and his family grew to include elves and their kin, especially
members of the Eldar guild. Their leader, Halforc, gone these many
years, was said to be shoring up allies in the west to come back and
not only drive out Drin but also all of the elves. Distrust, already
present between the two powerful guilds, had blossomed into hatred.

As a child growing up in Duender, these trends terrified Mara and she
could see all around her the gradual shift from peace to paranoia
among her guild mates. Fear of a sinister alliance and talk of war
spurred many of the Eldar back to old ways of thinking, of forming
armies and drawing battle lines. The Elven Defense Force was formed
directly from these fears, and the growing power of the Scythe guild
fueled the support for this militant band of elves and humans and
their kin.

Mara spent many years as a scholar and was at first philosophical
about the burgeoning conflicts in her world. She preferred to lean on
diplomacy and rhetoric to solve the problems of the world, and to
circumvent war and bloodshed with treaties and trade. Then the EDF
patrols began murdering Scythe recruits in their own camp, and the
reprisals from the Scythe were brutal and frequent, and things began
to spiral downward. Mara herself was personally drawn into the
conflict when her own father and mother were slain by a band of Scythe
recruits out on an 'elf-scalping' mission. Their scalps adorned a
wooden post of the Scythe camp wall along with scores of others, and
Mara was forever changed on that day.

Arehtama took her under his wing at the EDF camp, with Illarin's
blessing, and there she honed her chosen profession as a rogue. The
masterful elf rogue taught her more than just the arts of theft and
combat and backstabbing. He knew much about the land and its many
secrets, and he knew a lot about guerilla warfare. His specialty was
stalking and assassinating, and in these disciplines Mara had
excelled. When her training had been complete, she was given her
blade, Elbelle, the enchanted scimitar whose name meant 'Protection'
in elvish.

Grimly, Mara's thoughts returned to the task at hand. There was still
no sight or sound of the rogue, and she forced herself to be
patient. Stobb had not been in the tunnel for more than five minutes
before she bumped him off, and she got the impression that he intended
to be waiting a while for his companion.

Suddenly she smelled sweat and realized she must have been sweating
after her fight and the brisk trek down the tunnel. She silently
touched her armpit and realized with a chill that they were dry. She
then remembered that she never sweats.

Was that a draft she just felt in this otherwise still tunnel?

Mara's heart froze, her breath stilled. There was now complete silence
in the tunnels, and she could not remember the last time she had heard
a rat or a roach scamper.

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, its beat pounding in her
ears. Fear gnawed at her again as she felt certain her heartbeat must
have been echoing in the tunnel, advertising her presence. She knew
this was the madness of fear yet she could not rationalize her way out
of it. Her mouth was as dry as bone, and she forced herself to
breathe. She licked her lips, but her mouth still felt as if it were
filled with cotton.

Her eyes darted first down the tunnel, then back the way she came, and
nothing seemed to stir. Her instincts were screaming at her. Someone -
or something - had just passed by her in this tunnel. Yet she saw
nothing, heard nothing. She had merely felt a draft and caught the
smell of sweat, and she was neither moving nor sweating.

Then it came to her in a rush. She recalled how Arehtama's first cloak
was stolen, a source of embarrassment and shame for the elf lieutenant
for months. Nattick had bragged openly about it and made sure
everybody knew the score, for this cloak was unique. Its use enabled
the wearer to remain nearly invisible as they went about their
underhanded tasks, and this served to only heighten the deadly
mystique of the Scythe assassin.

Mara's blood chilled as she realized he had probably just swept past
her in the very same cloak. Had he seen her? She wondered. She also
knew she had no choice but to act now, lest she become the ambushed.

Quelling her fear once again, she slunk back the way she had come,
dark green eyes flicking this way and that, fearing an attack. She had
to find him first, and had to get back to Stobb's corpse before he
did, otherwise the element of surprise was lost, if he had not seen
her already.

The dark tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, and she moved as quickly
as she dared. If Nattick was cloaked in darkness somewhere ahead of
her, she might not know until it was too late. But if she came upon
him before he discovered the remains of his bloodbrother, then the
upper hand was still possibly hers.

Mara reached the site of her lethal ambush upon the half-orc, her nose
telling her long before her night vision could confirm it. She froze
in place, with the corpse of Stobb about three percha in front of
her. There was no sign of Nattick.

For a brief moment she began to wonder if her mind had been playing
tricks on her, and that maybe Nattick had not entered the tunnel yet.

And then everything seemed to happen at once.

The rats gnawing on the remains of the fallen half-orc seemed to
flinch. There was a soft rustling from just behind her. The air seemed
to grow heavy and still, pressing in on her ears. Acting on pure
instinct, Mara lunged forward as Nattick attempted to trip her from
behind, but she barely managed to maintain her balance. Perhaps he had
tried to stab her in the back, too, but if he did his swing went wide
of its mark.

She somersaulted and came up on one knee, now facing back down the
tunnel. Elbelle had been unsheathed during her tumble and the white
light from its blade temporarily blinded her.

That was when the first blow from Nattick landed, and it nearly
knocked her onto her backside. A hunga-munga slammed home into her
right shoulder, mercifully missing her lungs, but pain shot through
her right arm. Already throbbing from the wound Stobb gave her, her
injured arm now felt like a lead weight. She quickly rose and began
parrying the Scyther's attacks and slashes with all of her might. His
speed was blinding, and the look in his eyes was unnerving. Unable to
use her own hunga-munga as a secondary to parry his moves, she gave up
ground quickly, hoping that she would not stumble over a pipe or back
into the wall. The air around Nattick seemed to shimmer and radiate
and his outline blended in with his surroundings, thanks to Arehtama's
cloak.

Nattick was wielding a sword of uncommon length and heft, and it
seemed to be perfectly balanced, the way he was swinging it. She felt
in awe of this rogue, able to wield such a brutal weapon so artfully,
one that she thought she could barely pick up. For the first time in a
long while, Mara fought back panic as she realized that one blow from
this sword could truly end her life. The wickedly sharp knife he
slashed at her with from his offhand had already nicked her skin in
several places up and down her arms. Mara fought like a cornered wild
beast.

The dark Scyther seemed to pick up on her fear instantly, as he wore a
wicked sneer on his face. He pressed his attack relentlessly, trying
to keep her off balance. Nattick feinted with a high thrust, forcing
Mara to attempt to parry him there, and he quickly dropped and
executed a full leg sweep. The elf proved too quick once again for the
rogue's efforts, and she parlayed his failed trip into her advantage
by slashing low at his exposed head.

Nattick ducked and rolled to his left, coming up a few feet away from
Mara. She turned on him and wrenched the embedded hunga-munga free
from her right shoulder, groaning fiercely in pain. The agony seemed
to summon strength from deep inside her, however, and she felt her
fears begin to melt away. Mara launched the hunga-munga in his
direction. Nattick ducked and scampered away to his right. The knife
shattered against the far wall of the tunnel, its metallic death
rattle echoing in the darkness.

Nattick was now holding a lit flask of oil that he lobbed at her as he
emitted a blood-curdling battlecry. The elf dodged a direct hit from
the fiery missile but it exploded on the tunnel wall just behind
her. Some of the flaming oil splattered onto Mara's backside, catching
her hair on fire and burning her neck.

Mara screamed as the flames licked at her flesh, but she had no chance
to attempt to quench them as she brought Elbelle up time and again to
block Nattick's sword and dagger. He snickered at her, the flames
reflecting in his dark eyes and casting him in a sinister light. In
their furious exchange of slashes and parries, she managed to butt the
pommel of her dagger into his chin. He grunted painfully as he reeled
backwards, stunned for a split second.

Instead of using the opportunity to rush in and strike a blow, Mara
pawed savagely at the flames in her hair, which were thankfully now
smoldering and dying on their own. She realized with great despair
that much of the hair on the back of her head had burnt away, leaving
nothing but raw and scorched skin. Rage welled up inside of the elf
rogue.

Nattick had recovered from the staggering blow to his chin, but now
found himself on the defensive as blow after blow from Elbelle rained
down upon his bastard sword. Sparks shot out from the contact between
the two blades, and the scimitar's white glow turned an eerie blue
each time it neared the human's skin. The Scyther eyed the blade with
more wariness than before, though nothing akin to fear could be found
in his dark eyes.

'I'll burn you back, Nattick,' the elf spat as she pressed her
attack. 'You'll like how my blade cuts your skin!'

The Scyther's eyes widened slightly as he backed away. Steadily, he
parried each swipe from the glowing scimitar. His face was a study in
intense focus as he fought mightily to avoid being cut by the elf's
curved blade. Several times he had to parry the scimitar with both his
dagger and sword, leaving openings in his defense through which Mara
nicked and scored his skin with her hunga-munga. The pain only fueled
his concentration more, and Nattick knew he fought best when
injured. Grinning, he fell into a rhythm with the elf assassin,
studying her fighting style as he diverted her scimitar this way and
that.

Mara was fighting on pure emotion, her fear transformed into
wrath. While this gave her an edge in quickness and strength, Nattick
knew this was only temporary. His patient and cunning defense was
wearing her down and he would soon see her anger change into
frustration and then back into fear.

Nattick spat blood onto the ground, as he had bit his tongue when Mara
slammed the pommel of her dagger into his chin.

'Still haven't cut me yet, elf,' he snarled.

He gazed into her eyes, his fine-tuned reflexes countering every
stroke of her blade. His stare broke her concentration momentarily as
she returned his gaze. She flinched at the piercing intensity in his
eyes and she felt a chill run up her burnt neck. He laughed mockingly
at her.

Mara's eyes narrowed as she fought to regain her focus. She yielded
ground to Nattick steadily now as he began to dominate her with an
attack of his own. Instinctively, she kicked at his right leg as he
lunged at her, parrying his sword and sending him to the
ground. Before she could sear him with Elbelle, however, he had arched
back onto his hands and then flipped forward onto his feet with a
quick kicking motion.

Nattick continued to assault her with his blade, the sword seeming to
come from two different directions at times. He was certainly the
quickest human she had ever dueled and he was as fast as some elves
she had known. She doubted he had the natural agility of an elf, but
his technique and concentration were so refined that he seemed to be
much faster than he really was. The reach on his longsword was also
exceptional, forcing her to keep a greater distance than she normally
would. Each time she tried to regain the offensive, his defense proved
too strong. He seemed to erect a virtual wall of steel around him with
his parries, and she realized she would need to resort to other
tactics to try and best this rogue. There would be no successful
frontal assault on his tower of parry.

Mara parried an overhead chop from his outstanding sword and swatted
away a thrust from Nattick's secondary with her own. Adroitly, she
launched a perfect roundhouse kick into his midsection, sending him
sprawling backwards in surprise. She rushed at him then, wasting no
time in taking the initiative. Furiously, Nattick backpedaled as he
fought to keep his balance and evade her attacks. Mara lunged with a
thrust aimed at his heart, and Nattick brought his sword to bear just
in time.

Blades crossed between them, Mara and Nattick stared balefully into
each other's faces, merely inches apart. Their teeth bared in silent
snarls, each struggled to push the other backwards and tried to wrench
their blade free first. They attempted to trip each other
simultaneously, the net effect bringing them both down to the ground
with a crash.

Mara kicked away from Nattick and rolled to her feet. She launched her
hunga-munga at the rogue as he righted himself. Her secondary smacked
into his right thigh with a sickening sound and then bounced out,
broken and twisted. As quickly as she had hurled the dagger she had
produced a second one from within her bodice and began twirling it
hypnotically in her fingers.

She circled the Scyther, who was visibly pained from the blow and
stared at her sideways through narrowed eyelids. His sword and knife
each hung low at his sides; his body was tense as a tightly-coiled
spring. Breaths coming heavily from both of them, Mara continued to
slowly pace to her left, wary of a sudden move from Nattick.

An evil grin appeared on his face. Then with a flash of steel he
rounded on her and let out another battlecry. Mara dodged and parried
his attacks artfully and kept him off-balance with several shrewd
feints. Neither gave ground to the other for a few heartbeats. Then to
Mara's horror as she parried one of his slashes, the weight of his
blade forced Elbelle out of her left hand and sent it skittering
across the floor behind her.

Nattick, his eyes now full of bloodlust, quickly sliced his longsword
low and Mara gripped the hilt of her dagger with both hands and was
barely able to parry the stroke. This shattered her blade and sent her
off balance. Nattick spun into a low leg sweep, attempting to put her
on her backside.

In one fluid motion, Mara leapt straight up and avoided his trip,
grabbing onto the pipes running overhead on the ceiling. As Nattick
came up out of the leg sweep she caught him across the jaw with a
swift kick and let the momentum carry her body around. She caught the
glimmer of the scimitar's blade out of the corner of her eye. She
landed on the ground and rolled into a somersault away from Nattick.

As he snapped back from the blow to his jaw, he saw Mara reaching for
the pommel of her scimitar. Quickly he unleashed a hunga-munga, pulled
from a boot, in the direction of her back. Mara had turned around in
time to see the blade arcing towards her and with cat-like reflexes
she snapped out with her right hand and caught the hilt of the dagger
in mid-air.

Nattick frowned and cocked his head sideways, his dark gaze a mix of
respect and resentment, as he moved towards her.

Mara grinned back at him as she scampered to her feet in time to meet
another onslaught from her assassin counterpart. Using his thrown
weapon as her secondary, Mara fought with newfound confidence. Slowly
the two rogues moved in a rough circle as each tried to penetrate the
others defenses, but neither could break through.

'Your boy here should never have betrayed the Eldar,' Mara said
haltingly, conserving her breath as the fight wore on.

A grim, dark look came over Nattick's face. 'And you should never have
stayed to fight me. It will be your last mistake,' he said
ominously. The bastard sword was hitting harder now, sending painful
jolts up Mara's sword arm. She also became aware of a throbbing pain
again in her right shoulder and arm, her secondary weapon feeling
heavy in her hand.

Mara felt energy draining away from her rapidly. Nattick's patient,
vexing style was too much for her and was beginning to wear her down
for good. The big sword hummed evilly in the air as it sliced by her
right ear, inches from decapitating her.

In desperation, she yelled out a short battlecry of her own and put
all of her strength into a fierce counterattack. Finally she won
through and opened a large gash on Nattick's chest. The blue-white
glow of the scimitar pulsed as it bit into human flesh, searing it as
if the blade were fresh from the forge.

Nattick screamed as his skin blackened around the gash, the runed
scimitar seeming to suck the life out of him. The brief second the
blade was in contact with his skin it seemed to genuinely hate him,
and it was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was as if the
blade had some peculiar awareness of its own and reveled in pain and
destruction.

Tears of pain came to Nattick's eyes, the wound continuing to burn as
if filled with acid. He now put everything he had into keeping Mara at
bay, her attack briefly revitalized from her successful blow. Drawing
on his rigid discipline, Nattick coolly regained his composure and
began forcing Mara away from him again. The severe mismatch in the
length of their blades was decidedly to his advantage, and now the
Scyther had her frustrated as he exploited this.

Mara was clearly fading, her parries losing their ability to keep him
out, as her eyes began to take on a glassy look. Sympathy for her
found no home in Nattick's dark heart, and he wanted nothing more than
to taste of her elvish blood and collect her scalp for his belt. No
assassin that had attempted to take his life, and there had been
scores, had yet lived, and her treachery against Stobb could also not
go unpunished.

And then Nattick remembered where they were, and at once he decided
upon a fate for her that would make death seem welcome.

Grinning, Nattick took a wicked cut at her wounded shoulder and Mara
fought it off with a panicky maneuver of the scimitar. He followed his
initial attack almost instantly with a slice at her face with his
knife, and he tore open a jagged cut along her left cheek.

Screaming, she reeled backwards, dropping the hunga-munga and
clutching at her face. Now demoralized, she was almost his. He
threatened to shear her left leg with his sword, forcing her to bring
her scimitar over again. He completed the feinting maneuver and swung
the sword back around, smacking the flat of the large blade into the
right side of her head.

It made a sharp 'thwack!' as it connected with her skull, shattering
the bony socket under her right eye. This brought the rogue to her
knees with a dejected moan, her sword arm hanging uselessly at her
left side. Nattick swatted her blade with his own, wrenching it free
from her grip as he kicked her roughly in the chest, sending her
reeling over backwards.

Mara writhed in pain on the ground before him, and looking down upon
her he noticed for the first time that she seemed to be wearing silk
harem pants. Nattick grinned at the irony, for where she was going she
would need that outfit.

Swiftly, Nattick sheathed his longsword and, using his knife, cut a
strip of cloth from Stobb's vest and used it to bind the elf's hands
and feet. Moaning, she spat at him as she realized what he was
doing. Mara's right eye had swollen rapidly to the size of a chicken
egg. There was also a large oozing gash on her left cheek and the back
of her head was seared from burning oil. She would not make for the
most comely of wenches, Nattick realized.

'Kill me now, Scythe trash, I'll not be your slave,' Mara rasped, as
if reading his mind.

Nattick answered her with a baleful stare. Roughly, he dragged her
into a sitting position and leaned her back to the wall. He wrenched
the curved sheath free from her belt and used it to encase her
scimitar, careful not to touch the still-glowing blade. He could sense
its supernatural hatred for him as he gripped the hilt in his hand,
and sensed a great reluctance from the scimitar as he slid the blade
home in its sheath. They were plunged in darkness again briefly, until
Nattick produced a glowing sphere tied to a thin leather cord from
within his cloak. He placed it around his neck and the tunnel was lit
up anew, this time in a weird yellow light.

Mara, still winded from the intense duel, breathed in short rasps and
wheezes that pierced the silence of the desert tunnel. Nattick's dark
eyes glittered in his brooding face as he stared sullenly at Stobb's
corpse. Mara gazed up at the silent rogue with her one good eye, her
mind racing. Fear, fatigue, sorrow, anger and a half-dozen other
emotions all fought for control of her thoughts. Unease prevailed as
she pondered what Nattick had in mind for her future.

Nattick turned his somber gaze on Mara. 'I would know the name of the
one who tried to kill me,' he said in a quiet voice.

Mara barked a bitter laugh, yet she sensed a chord of respect in the
Scyther's voice, and before she could bring herself to tell him to go
to hell, she found herself saying, 'Mara.' She sighed deeply, waves of
resentment washing over her for telling him her name instead of where
he should go.

Nattick nodded curtly. 'Arehtama's pet. I've heard about you. I guess
I'm lucky to still be alive.' He grinned at her, and she could tell by
the look in his eyes that he was not being facetious. She wondered if
he could read the look of shock upon her distorted face.

Nattick turned towards the corpse of the fallen half-orc, wondering
what he was going to do with it. Just then, there was a puff of smoke
in the air behind Stobb's corpse and Akul materialized from within the
smoky maelstrom.

The tall and wiry mage appeared pleasantly surprised, if not a little
bewildered, to behold the rogue before him. He squinted, trying to
bring the blurred image of the rogue into focus.

'Nattick!' Akul said with a glad cry. Nattick regarded him sternly,
nodding to the ground at Akul's feet and motioning with his eyes.

The mage looked down at his feet and saw what lay there, and sighed
deeply. He jerked his head back up, his face now full of anger. His
eyes flickered to the form of the slumping elf leaning on the wall
behind Nattick, then back to meet the rogue's steady gaze.

'Her?' Akul asked quietly.

The rogue nodded, watching him.

Akul's eyes narrowed. Then he grinned evilly. 'So, what do you plan to
do with her then? Feed her to Fleeyp?'

Nattick chuckled dryly. 'After the Caliph gives her a few turns on his
rack, and perhaps a few turns in his bed, he can stuff her in a cell,
for all I care,' the rogue said in a cold tone. 'Oh, and see what you
make of this.' Nattick flipped the sheathed scimitar to Akul, who
caught it with both hands.

Akul regarded Nattick curiously for a moment, and then studied the
blade in his hands. He unsheathed the scimitar halfway and studied the
elvish runes on its surface. The mage whistled in appreciation. 'Very
old. Probably dates back to the Elf-Human wars, at least.'

Akul closed his eyes and touched the scimitar's hilt. His head cocked
slightly to the side as he beheld some magical image in his mind's
eye. The mage opened his eyes, and grinned at Nattick.

'I see now why you have that nasty wound on your chest,' Akul
said. 'This blade was enchanted to slay orcs and humans, and it dates
back several centuries. It was forged in Sylvandor, before the walls
of mist were put up. I'd wager it even has a name.'

Nattick raised an eyebrow at the mage as he bound his wounds from the
scimitar in some sticky medicinal bandages.

Akul did not reply, but turned an expectant gaze towards Mara. Nattick
followed his gaze and looked over his shoulder at her.

The elf chuckled softly. 'And why not? You already have my name. Very
well. Her name is 'Elbelle', and yes she has sent many an orc and
human to their grave.' Mara grinned defiantly at the pair of Scythers,
showing them crimson-stained teeth.

After an uneasy pause, Akul slid the curved blade back into its
sheath. Not taking his eyes off of Mara, who stared back at him
defiantly, he said 'So what do we know of  ... this one here?'

'Mara,' Nattick said to him. 'That is all she has told me so far, but
I know she was sent by the EDF. She was one of Arehtama's little
prodigies. Poor Stobb here found that out the hard way.'

Akul grunted, frowning at the elf. He supposed she had been sent to
Drakhiya as a spy of Illarin's. She was cut and beaten badly, but she
looked capable and her steely gaze did nothing to dissuade Akul's
opinion of her prowess.

He smiled at Mara, his eyes as cold as steel. 'You're lucky Nattick
here doesn't want you dead. Otherwise you'd be food for a crow.'

'A etebee teme imeb tettim!' the elf spat, seeming to curse at him in
a strange elvish dialect.

Akul's face darkened, his jaw set as he made for the recumbent form of
the elf. Nattick, smirking, stuck out his arm and stopped the mage in
his tracks. Mara laughed at the two of them, a somewhat unstable
giggle.

'Relax, Akul. Save your strength,' Nattick said. 'We have much to
discuss, and I know you do not enjoy skulking about in this
rat-infested tunnel any more than I do.' He gave the mage a meaningful
look.

Akul nodded curtly, still frowning at the elf. He took a step towards
Mara and backhanded her roughly across her face, right over her broken
orbit.

'Unnh!' she groaned as she was sent roughly into unconsciousness.

Nattick whistled softly, and Akul smirked at him sideways as he heaved
the limp form of the elf over his shoulder. The mage handed him back
the sheathed scimitar, which the rogue slung at his belt opposite his
knife.

'Careful with that elf, Akul. You sure you hit her hard enough? Can't
have her coming to and stabbing you in the back with your own dagger,'
Nattick taunted his friend.

'Shut it, Nattick, at least I wasn't too pansy to knock her out,' the
mage grinned back at Nattick, who smirked.

'You talk first. We have a long walk through these tunnels until we
get to where she's going,' Nattick jerked his head towards the mage's
senseless elven cargo.

Akul nodded. 'Our army is on its way. When I left to find you, the
rest of them had just shipped out.' The mage grinned at Nattick, who
had a slightly shocked look on his face.

'That's right, we broke out the fleet. It was our only chance of
beating the Eldar down here, and I hope they're not too late. They
ambushed camp a few days ago, but I don't think it went as well as
they'd hoped. Illarin ended up frying Annac and we routed them soon
after.'

Nattick snickered.

Akul continued, 'She still commands a large force and they've been
marching south through the forests ever since attacking us. It's going
to be a very close race to Drakhiya, but Dalair has a small army
camped to the north of the city. Mettertrop is working on the Caliph
to see if we can get the city guards.'

Nattick raised an eyebrow at the mage hopefully.

Akul shook his head in disgust. 'The Caliph has his own skin to worry
about, so he'll protect the city from any sort of siege, if that is
what the Eldar have in mind. But as far as how friendly he will be to
us, that is hard to say.'

Nattick spat. 'I think he might decide quickly who his friends are
when Illarin and her mage pets start raining lightning down upon his
precious city. So who is guarding camp?'

Akul nodded. 'Bokwa is in charge of defending the camp, and Balfor
leads the charge. Boki and Glock are in, of course, and even Grishnok
came out of his hole to help us fight.'

Nattick whistled softly in amazement. He had never actually met the
reclusive orc who was in charge of the Scythe tunnels, but he had
skulked through his secret passages many times before while carrying
out shady tasks of his own.

'So are the tunnels complete then? Is Aalgirzst coming over to join
the fight?'

It was Akul's turn to spit. 'The main tunnel from the west is
finished, yes, but it comes out far to the north of here. Also, the
Tusked One is content to play his waiting game and has refused to send
us even a token force. I guess Halforc hasn't been able to completely
win him over just yet.'

They had come to an intersection, and the smells of cooked lamb and
sweat and ale wafted down from several grates in the ceiling far
above. The noisy din of the nighttime Festival crowd above echoed
strangely in the large chamber. Several passages lead off in other
directions from this particular hub in the Drakhiya sewer complex.

Akul looked questioningly at Nattick, who surveyed the surroundings
then quietly nodded at a tunnel off to their left. The mage hefted the
unconscious form of Mara onto his other shoulder and they continued
their subterranean trek, now sloshing through cold dark water that
came up to their ankles.

'We should be able to deal with the Eldar, as long as the Caliph can
hold his city. The Dalairi orcs will keep the elves busy as well, but
they're no real match for them and they will certainly fall if we
don't get here first,' Akul continued. 'What we really need to find
out is what is going on with this Consortium. So tell me, Nattick,
what do they have in store for us?'

Nattick chuckled and shook his head. 'I'm still trying to figure out
everything I saw inside that tower, and I'll need the help of you
spell throwers for some of it.'

Akul flashed a toothy grin, looking eager for the challenge.

'Their magic is strange. There was also a room full of undead in
there, and there was some sort of odd giant, and they seem to be lead
by an elf sorceress. I got the impression there were a lot more of
them than I was able to see, and I managed to grab a few souvenirs
before I had to say farewell.' Nattick patted his backpack and smiled
mysteriously at the mage.

Akul's eyes widened, reflecting an intense curiosity. 'Let's wait
until we're out of this stinking city to talk about any more of
that. Not much good we can do here, and there are spies.'

The pair was now under the main portion of the city, and it was no
secret that the maze of dark sewer tunnels beneath Drakhiya was
usually home to spies from all sorts of guilds, particularly during
Festival time.

Nattick laughed. 'I know, my friend. Very often I have been one of
those spies of which you speak.'

The pair of Scythers continued in silence for roughly another half
hour, until they came to the end of a sewer tunnel. It had
progressively narrowed until only one person could walk abreast, and
the wall before them was a maze of rusty pipes and cobwebs. Mara had
begun to moan softly and Akul could feel her still form stirring a
bit. It would not be long before he would have to knock her out again,
a task he wouldn't shrink from if he had to repeat it.

Nattick kneeled and shot his hands into the dirty water at the base of
the wall. He seemed to manipulate a hidden lever or catch, and with
the dull noise of stone grinding upon stone, the wall before them
slowly opened inward. Darkness shrouded the tiny corridor beyond the
secret door, and Akul followed the rogue into the tunnel, the glowing
sphere at his chest casting the stone walls in a feeble yellow
light. The secret door ponderously closed behind them, snapping shut
with a soft 'click'.

The hidden tunnel was no more than a couple paces long before it
apparently dead-ended in a stone wall. Nattick leaned one side of his
face closely against one of the large stones in the wall, as if
listening through it.

Mara began to moan more loudly.

'Nattick,' Akul whispered with an urgent tone in his voice. 'Where are
we? I am going to have to thump this elf again very soon...'

The rogue shot out his hand behind him, palm upward facing the
mage. 'Just a second, Lorch is almost finished,' he whispered back.

Akul grinned evilly, now realizing where they were. Lorch was the
Caliph's royal torturer, and it was widely-known how much this orc
enjoyed his job. The orcish tormentor had a lusty appetite for female
prisoners, and his methods of causing pain to them went far beyond
what he did to the males. Turning Mara over to this fiend was
something Akul found a suitable alternative to death, and he admired
his rogue friend's twisted mind.

Nattick could make out dull thudding noises followed by muted cries of
agony. They had been coming at a steady clip, and were followed by a
prolonged silence. The rogue's keen ears could only detect so much
through the thick stone, so he assumed Lorch was finished with his
current subject. Mara began to visibly stir and Akul had lowered her
from his shoulder and was holding her limp form before him, a hand
firmly clasped over her mouth. The elf's eyes were still shut, the
right one swollen closed completely.

Nattick gave a sharp, sudden shove to the wall. There was a loud click
and a section of the stone wall then popped out towards him. The rogue
pried with his fingers at the loose end of the door and opened it with
a grinding noise. The opposite side of the concealed stone door was
covered in rows of iron spikes, jutting out at various angles, many of
them stained with dried blood and gore. A nauseating stench assaulted
their senses. Mara began to stir more violently as if awakened by the
foul smell, which reeked of decay, urine and feces.

Opposite them, they were staring at what must have been the inside of
a so-called iron maiden, for another row of vicious spikes poked out
at them from the inside of the closed torture device. Torch light
shone through two large triangular slits cut into the outer door of
the iron maiden, glaring down at them like some mad, iron
jack-o-lantern.

Akul was waiting to see how the clever rogue was going to open this
next, most uninviting portal when suddenly the light from one of the
triangles winked out. In its place there leered a pair of beady black
eyes.

'Who disturbs Lorch?!' came the harsh demand from outside the iron
maiden.

'It's Nattick, Lorch. On a job for the Caliph,' the rogue lied. The
assassin had delivered many a captive to the Caliph's brutal master of
pain several times before, so he took a calculated gamble that Lorch
would not refuse him this time, especially since he bore female
quarry. 'We've got a tasty morsel for you, too. Open up!'

The unseen orc from the other side grunted, and to Akul it sounded as
if Nattick had just promised a phial of the purest whiteleaf essence
to the most strung-out addict on the streets.

The outer door of the maiden creaked open noisily, replacing the
foul-smelling air in the tunnel with an arid, hot blast possessing a
heinous new bouquet all its own. Now the trio was treated to the
additional scents of sweat and bile, spiked with the intangible hint
of fear.

They were also greeted by the stooping, twisted form of a desert orc
with splotchy skin. Yellow, cracked teeth flashed behind a wicked
smile and an evil gleam shone in the black, piggy eyes of Lorch the
Royal Torturer as he beheld his newest arrival.

'What she do?' queried the loathsome orc.

'Murder. Spying. Being an elf,' Nattick said, smirking.

The orc cackled gleefully. 'Nattick never let Lorch down! Look what
Lorch has to play with now!' He made a move for the elf, but Nattick
cut him off as they entered the torture chamber.

They were standing in a room that would have been rather expansive,
were it not stuffed in every corner with torture devices and
shackles. There were beds of nails, thumbscrews, hot coals, branding
irons, iron maidens, racks, and many more implements of anguish the
likes of which only the most unfortunate had ever seen. A fresh trail
of smeared blood stretched across the floor to lead behind a closed
iron portal on one wall. The table where it started had its own set of
shackles and a ghastly iron mallet lying on its surface, one end
dimpled with blunt spikes and flecked with fresh blood. Another
massive door, this one cast in bronze, stood closed on another end of
the room, and a wide stone staircase led up and out of the
room. There, both Scythers knew, was the inside of the Palace, and the
entrance to these chambers was heavily guarded and inaccessible to all
but the most trusted (or most hated) by the Caliph.

Mara's head began to loll back and forth, and her left eye was
drowsily coming open.

Akul clapped her into a set of iron shackles set against one wall. The
elf stood, weakly, her head hanging low and her arms outstretched
against the wall.

Nattick stepped in front of Mara and regarded her silently for a
moment. Lorch wrung his hands in feverish anticipation, and Akul
stayed back, eyeing the demonic equipment in the room with an
uncomfortable frown.

'She's a bit roughed up for you already, Lorch. We got things started
for you down there in the tunnels,' Nattick stated.

The orc grinned, a perverted look upon his snarled face. His eyes
darted back and forth rapidly between his new elvish pet and Nattick,
waiting for the signal to begin his dark bidding.

The elf slowly raised her head to view her surroundings for the first
time. She was only able to see out of her left eye, but she saw more
than enough to realize where fate had brought her. Calmly, she took it
all in, her bold gaze ending on Nattick.

Nattick pulled Mara's scimitar from his belt, still sheathed, and
handed it to Akul.

Mara's lone working eye flicked rapidly as it followed the blade into
the mage's hands, and then returned to continue its steady bore into
the rogue.

'Your sword will come in handy cutting new posts for our camp. I'll
leave you here to get acquainted with Lorch. Some of your friends
might be joining you in here soon,' Nattick said as he winked at
her. Her battered face betrayed no emotion as Mara continued to stare
at Nattick.

'Emt ietem miti eemeb mebie, bbi beee mmti eee eieiebmt  ebei tt
beettebi,' Mara called out to the rogue as he and the mage took to the
stairs.

Nattick turned his head sharply to look at the elf, whom Lorch had
already begun to torment by ripping off her garments. Only the harem
pants remained.

'What the hell did that mean?' Nattick asked of Akul, who like the
rogue was watching the elf as he ascended the staircase.

'I don't know, my friend, but I don't think she was toasting to your
good health.'

Mara never took her gaze off of the rogue until he had vanished at the
top of the staircase. Long after he and Akul had teleported back to
Balfor and the Scythe army, she continued to stare at the empty space
where he had just stood. In her mind she kept repeating the same
phrase, over and over. It would become her mantra. Her mind had become
so entrenched in savoring these same words that she did not feel the
burn of the white-hot iron as the wicked orc branded the Royal emblem
of the Caliph into the flesh above her left hip. The harem pants had
now been shed, lying in silken tatters upon the ground, leaving the
elf completely bare.

'When next we meet, I'll be leaving you in chains,' the words echoed
repeatedly in her mind.

***

The last day of the two week Festival had arrived. The city's streets
were more crowded than ever before, as it was on this day alone that
the Caliph decreed that all food and drink be sold at half price. This
served to ensure that the merchants' booths were crammed with patrons,
and drunken ones at that. Revelers were more likely to make purchases
when a little tipsy, especially those of an illicit nature made in the
various brothels and whiteleaf dens throughout the city. The Caliph
skimmed from these profits, strictly off the books of course.

This was also the day of the Feast when patrons paraded through the
avenues in garish costumes and processions, some of which were
sponsored by various guilds and other cities from across the
land. There were huge floats constructed of paper and feathers that
paid tribute to various creatures and heroes of legend, including
dragons and chimeras and humanoids of all kind. Some were being
piloted up and down the streets by more than a dozen people at a time;
others were smaller and were worn as individual costumes.

Serpentari were always seen in greater numbers than usual on this day,
not only due to the lower fares for refreshments but also because it
was then that they always unveiled their acbali. These were large clay
pots that were painted with various images of duck-billed dragons,
reptiles, and other desert creatures in brilliant shades of red and
yellow and orange. They were filled with beads, necklaces, figs and
pomegranates, and sometimes the odd packet of tabaq. The reptilian
humanoids would hang many of these acbali on lines running between the
buildings in Drakhiya's streets and at numerous intervals throughout
the day they would hand out long wooden sticks for a few coins. The
wielder was then blindfolded and spun around and then they would
attempt to smash open the acbali, scattering its treasure all over the
sandy streets if they scored a hit. Children would hang around
whenever acbali were being elevated, as they were invariably the first
to dive in and snatch up the trinkets and desert fruits whenever one
of the clay pots was broken open.

Thin grey plumes of smoke rose steadily from many street-side tents
selling spiced lamb and goat meat, either wrapped in flat bread or
skewered on a stick. Street performers spit fire and juggled flaming
torches and swallowed blades, while rogues picked pockets and knights
sweat in their metal skins.

The horseorcs and city guards were doubled in number on this day, not
for fear of an attack, but simply because order needed to be kept as
well as possible on this most decadent day of the Feast. The current
Caliph had not lived through any, but in decades past there had been
riots and looting in his magnificent desert city. Though they were
usually sparked by conflicts between the orcs and serpentari, the last
one had been touched off when a particularly surly dwarf Scyther
insulted a knight's lady and would not take back his slur. He had been
pleased to compare her to a feeble old 'piggy' and it did not help
that the gang of Scythers with him could not help snickering. One of
the bloodiest street fights ever in the desert city occurred soon
after that, embroiling nearly everyone present at the time as the
hatred spread like a virus throughout the city.

Since that time, the serpentari had been repressed and beaten down
even more zealously by the resident orcs, and for three years after
that feast neither the Scythe nor the Knights of Drin were allowed
within the city's sandstone walls at Festival time. Up to this point,
the Scythe and Knights had maintained relative humanity towards each
other at this year's Feast. The serpentari seemed more cowed than
ever, even though they seemed to be present in greater numbers than
usual this particular year.

The Caliph was being paraded down the Street of Gold, being carried by
a troupe of four powerful desert orcs inside a cushioned, golden
platform that was covered in a fine veil of silk. One side was open
with the veil pushed back, and through here the wizened son of the son
of many sons previous of Suvarov the Prophet gazed out contentedly at
his busy city, dreaming of fat profits. A supple young orcish wench
lying at his side fed him grapes, upon which he nibbled
casually. Masrur tromped behind the Caliph's small caravan dutifully
and ominously, Draqisfang glimmering brilliantly in the rising sun's
rays.

Not a kernel of worry found purchase in the mind of the fat and
wealthy orc who was the leader of Drakhiya. His treasured city had
been plundered from serpentari many centuries before him, and he had
no real inkling of what it was like to be in combat or to have to
defend a city under siege, for the weak serpentari had never seriously
challenged the orcs since their downfall.

Perhaps that was why, when his morning breakfast was disturbed by
Mettertrop, the imperious and nosy ambassador from Dalair, the Caliph
had turned a deaf ear to his requests. The Dalairi orc was desperate
for help for some imminent battle with the Eldar guild, the
inhabitants of the mysterious tower to the east, and Drakh knew who
else.

The Caliph, already irked at the unwelcome intrusion, had his resolve
firmed when his trusted advisor Yassar, the wise old serpentari,
dismissed the blustering orc's claims of war in his precious city as
fatuous.

'I thinkss that thisss Mettertrop grows resstlesss, brooding in hisss
embasssy, your Grassse,' the serpentari hissed quietly into his
ear. 'Bessst to sssend him out to inssspect the ranksss of hisss army
and keep him occupied for today.'

With an irritable wave of his hand, the Caliph sent Mettertrop off on
an errand to visit his army, camped just to the north of Drakhiya, and
to appease him further he ordered that gallons of arak and plates of
spiced lamb be brought out to the troops.

Mettertrop left in a mute rage, muttering orcish curses under his
breath. Once outside the palace, he caught up with one of the palace
guards sent to do the Caliph's bidding and made sure that no alcohol
was brought to his troops. He would not have what few men he had at
his disposal drunk and acting like idiots on a day when he expected
battle.

Back at the embassy, the Dalairi ambassador to Drakhiya attached notes
containing duplicate orders to the legs of two separate large crows
and set them flying out one of the windows. He watched, a bleak
expression on his face, as they cawed and soared up and over the
northern walls of the city, one in the direction of the Dalairi force
camped in the desert just beyond, and the other headed for the camp of
the Scythe army.

Orc guards patrolling the tops of Drakhiya's walls scratched irritably
at their skin, sweaty under heavy leather and cloth armour, as they
watched the crows take flight. Bored with the duty they had pulled
guarding the quiet wall tops (no citizens were allowed up there), they
began to believe the whispers and rumors they had heard over the
previous few days about battle. Seeing two crows fly from the embassy
and headed towards the army outside, they began to stir excitedly.

Grunting and grinning, many of the orc guards began to sharpen curved
blades and stuff arrows into quivers, eager for a fight yet unaware of
and unconcerned about whom their enemy might be.

***

A rogue desert wind stole across the camp, briefly fluttering the
thick leather flaps of the large command tent. Within, the somber and
sweating orcs breathed a short sigh of relief brought by the cool air,
as did the thousands of Dalairi orcs sprawled out in rows upon the hot
sand. They had been encamped in the desert foothills of the southern
mountain range for over a fortnight and water and supplies were
beginning to run low. Soon, the commanding orcs in the tent grimly
realized, morale would begin to steadily dwindle.

An iron-jawed, stocky half-orc woman sat frowning over a piece of
parchment that was unfurled in front of her on a short table. She was
surrounded by a half-dozen of her top-ranking lieutenants, who were
regarding her, their general, with a silent, steady curiosity. A
messenger crow from Drakhiya had flown into camp a few minutes
previously, and they were anxious of what news its message scroll
contained. None dared to break the silence first, not wanting to break
rank and speak out of turn. Their leader was fair, but had a fanatical
belief in chain of command and rules of order, and woe be the orc who
found this out the hard way. More than one of them involuntarily eyed
the huge, double-bladed axe resting against the back wall of the tent
behind the general. The twin blades glinted dangerously in the torch
light, anchored at their center with the skull of an elf mage, slain
by the wielder many years ago. The skull was cast in mithril and tiny
rubies glinted in the eye sockets.

'Hmph,' Harlaw, the commander of the Fifth Dalairi Fighting Infantry,
grunted at nobody in particular.

'What it say, general?' one of the lieutenants queried, causing his
fellow lieutenants to wince at him, their eyes darting back and forth
between him and their leader.

Her head jerked upward, her face bearing a stern glare. There was a
very heavy silence that seemed to last a week.

Then, finally: 'Mettertrop sends word, the city will be attacked soon,
likely today. He is in touch with one of the Scythe's generals and
they are due any time. They are racing the Eldar down here, who are
going to try and sack Drakhiya.'

The orcs in her presence whooped in excitement, bellowing with joy at
the prospect of killing elves in battle. They began to sing an orc war
song, when Harlaw cut them off with a swift banging of her fist on the
table.

Eyes wide, the lieutenants halted their reverie and froze in place,
regarding the half-orc fearfully.

'Don't be so careless,' Harlaw said. She was all seriousness. 'We need
to look good to the Caliph to win his trust. We cannot let the city
fall siege to the elves and their allies, and this means we will have
to do battle with the unknown. Whoever - or whatever - is in that
tower has been helping them, so we have to be alert.'

The orcs murmured amongst themselves, shrugging shoulders. They merely
wanted to shed blood.

Harlaw grabbed up her axe. The lieutenants quit their babbling and
regarded their general warily.

'Men, this will be the finest day in your lives. Today, we will crack
the skulls of many elves and all of their fairy friends! Fear nothing,
for they cannot stop an orc filled with bloodlust, and they shall
learn what it means to pick a fight with Dalairi's finest!'

Harlaw hefted her mighty axe over her head and lead the men in a lusty
battlecry.

Outside the tent, excited murmurs arose amongst the ranks of orcs,
whose sagging morale received a tremendous lift when word spread that
battle was imminent. The lieutenants filed out of the command tent,
followed by their general, and they began to organize into regiments
to receive the attack from the elves. They were situated just inside
and above the lone pass through the southern mountains, which lead out
to the jungles and forests beyond to the north and east.

Morale was raised even higher when emissaries from Drakhiya arrived
soon after bearing racks of roast lamb and fresh water, and the
Dalairi orcs feasted heartily.

Within a few hours, Harlaw and her command had themselves in a strong
position to defend the mountain pass and contain the Eldar for as long
as they possibly could. Archers rimmed the pass from hidden niches in
the rocks of the foothills, and rows of soldiers waited to take the
field of battle down below. Others lay hidden in trenches dug in the
sand, waiting to ambush and outflank the elven vanguard.

The stalwart half-orc general waited patiently at the rear of her
army, eyeing the pass alertly and fantasizing about cleaving skulls
with her massive two-handed axe. She hoped the revelers within the
city walls were enjoying their dwindling moments of frolicking.

***

'How cute, they've dug little ditches in the sand and mean to surprise
us.' Illarin opened her eyes and smirked smugly at the man to her
right, a dusky elf with shifty eyes and a cloak that made him appear
to blend in with the forest around him.

Arehtama laughed loudly, his long black hair swirling behind him in
the air as he rode atop his war-horse, a huge grey stallion.

The Elven Defense Force elite were taking up the rear of the army,
which was composed of Eldar and mercenaries. They were on a mission to
exterminate all orcs and Scythers from the land. The march south to
the desert had begun as a painful and panicked retreat from the
botched ambush upon the Scythe camp. But Illarin, with her tenacious
command, had managed to shore up the plummeting morale of her troops
in a very short amount of time since that catastrophic moment. Her
army's numbers had swelled significantly since then as scores of wood
elves, all of them expert archers, joined her army's ranks.

The cunning elf sorceress played upon the rampant fears she had
labored for so long to sow amongst the Eldar. She spoke of the Scythe
organizing orcs and like-minded humans to rise up and dispatch elves
from the land once and for all. Unease and intolerance of this
magnitude had not been this prevalent since the wars between the races
many centuries ago. The dark arts of necromancy had even enjoyed a
resurgence in popularity amongst the elves, long ago borrowed from
their dark cousins Down Below. Hence it did not take Illarin long to
remind those under her command why they had come, and why they must
continue. She called to their attention the Scythe's continual hatred
of all elves, an animosity that was also demonstrated daily by
orcs. She spoke of the tunnels likely running right under the city of
Duender and possibly this very moment ushering in more filthy orcs and
their slaves from the west. Illarin did not need to outline the
obvious intent of these orcs to rise up and topple order in the east
and enslave all elves and their allies. The recent discovery of a
tunnel system leading from the Scythe camp to the dungeons beneath
Nepeth castle did nothing to dispel burgeoning fear amongst the Eldar
and elf-kin, and each month more and more of them were drawn to the
cause of the EDF.

Now, she harnessed the energy fueled by hatred and fear in her army to
drive them to the south, where they would link with the powerful
Crystal Consortium to annihilate Drakhiya. The Scythe was in hot
pursuit, fully by her design (although not at the cost she had had to
bear, she thought angrily), and now the Dalairi orcs were joining the
fray by trying to put up a stiff defense of their own.

'More grist for the mill,' the elf thought to herself hungrily, eager
to get on with the destruction of orcs. This pitiful obstacle from
Dalair whetted her appetite for battle.

'What of the Balfor and his savages, have they beaten us to it?'
Arehtama shouted across to Illarin, who rode beside him at a steady
trot atop a horse of her own, a sleek black palfrey.

The mage shrugged. 'That we won't know until we get there. They, like
us, cannot be scried due to protection magics.'

It was true; both armies possessed numerous powerful mages that had
mastered the art of enshrouding entire armies under heavy enchantments
that prohibited scrying of any kind. The Dalairi force, it would seem,
was not so magically gifted.

The rogue brooded over their shortcoming of military intelligence
without the ability to scry. Arehtama plunged back into thought,
gazing ahead of him into the trees. Thousands of elves had come to
their side as they trekked through the southern forests. They had
ridden all night and into the morn, and it was turning out to be a
glorious day. Rays of golden sunlight shot down through the branches
of the mighty trees all around them, seeming to betoken a fortuitous
day indeed.

With Annac dead, Arehtama had taken over much of the strategy and
logistics for the battle ahead, a task Illarin shared reluctantly out
of necessity. Now that they were privy to what the Dalairi orcs would
throw at them, he readied a feint of his own to draw them into battle
and then to deliver a counter-punch that would give them command of
the mountain pass and, ultimately, access to the desert.

The elf rogue grinned at himself slyly as he thought next of
plundering Drakhiya, hoping to take it and hold it before the Scythe
could arrive. He chafed at not knowing how close they were to his own
army, and as yet none of his scouts had sighted the Scythers. Arehtama
hoped that the small regiment of elite archers he had sent out to
intercept them would harass them long enough to give him mastery of
the desert pass.

He frowned as he thought next of the mysterious Consortium, having
only met one member of their elitist clan.  He was a pallid, leering
half-elf named Jalen, with golden eyes and silver hair, and he did not
make a favorable impression upon Arehtama. He was proficient in the
dark art of necromancy and had met with Arehtama, Annac and Illarin
many months ago in the EDF camp. They discussed how they would lure
the Scythe into their plan to ultimately exile them and all orcs from
existence on their continent.

Arehtama was optimistic about the finer points of the strategy, which
drew upon their like-minded enmity for orcs and humans. Though the
tradition of the Eldar was tolerance of humans and co-existence, this
had eroded rapidly in recent years. Current elvish dogma held that
they were not to be trusted, thanks largely to efforts overseen by
Illarin these past several years. Many humans had left the guild due
to the growing apprehension, but some stayed, eager to establish
themselves in Illarin's new world order. The wisdom and tolerance
preached by the legendary diplomat Bardoz were all but a curious
footnote to the modern-day Eldar, and the timely arrival of the
Consortium served to drive a deeper wedge between the elves and orcs
and humans.

The rogue shot a sideways glance at Illarin. 'Tell me again about this
magic of the Consortium.'

Illarin smirked. 'It is as I have told you. They venerate the Sihklas,
the most primitive manifestations of magic in the known realm. The
Consortium mages seem to have mastered this form of magic, through
their command of the mighty races of giants that first imprisoned the
Sihklas.' The elf paused as she ducked low to avoid some low-hanging
tree branches.

'The Sihklas are elemental spirits,' she continued, 'their power
somehow harnessed by these giants into gems. The use of this magic was
taught by these gem giants to the Consortium.' Illarin chuckled
softly, haughtiness in her musical voice. 'It is quite elegant, but
also quite simple, this magic of the gem sorcerers. The giants they
have befriended are loyal to them, and they and the dwarves fight
their battles for them.'

Arehtama whistled, eyebrows raised in surprise. Dwarves and elves, not
to mention giants, were a curious mix but these races had once been
allied many centuries ago so it was not altogether untoward.

Illarin nodded, seeming to read Arehtama's thoughts. 'But they are no
match for our advanced magic, and they hate the orcs just as much as
we do. They also have a healthy distaste for humans, but they know to
only target those not loyal to us. I have met with Zhephani and, rest
assured, she is completely in my grasp. Once the battle is joined,
together we will wipe out all traces of those who oppose us.'

She turned in her saddle to face Arehtama briefly. 'You are sure you
have them ready to expect what is coming?'

The rogue paused for a moment, as if still considering what Illarin
had said prior to her question. Then he nodded curtly to her. 'Yes, my
lady, they are eager to see what the Consortium has in store for our
enemies. They will carry on without fail.'

Arehtama frowned again. 'Illarin...'

'Yes?'

'You are sure of this Zhephani's loyalty? Her Consortium is still so
new, and their timing is almost too perfect...'

Illarin grinned, a deadly glint appearing in her eye. 'She is gravely
mistaken if she thinks she will take me unawares. Her only current
interest is control of the desert, and she can stay in the sand, for
all I care.'

Arehtama nodded, the mage's over-confidence only giving him more cause
for worry, but this he would never let her see. He wondered when the
next crystal tower would suddenly appear, and just where that might be.

'Besides, the only surprise they have is what is in store for
Drakhiya,' the mage hinted enigmatically, grinning and looking away
from her lieutenant.

The elf rogue knew better than to press her further, for Illarin only
revealed as much as she wanted to reveal. He could sense that their
conversation had reached a definite end.

Arehtama dug his heels into the side of his mount, spurring it
ahead. The wiry elf yearned to fill his day with the shedding of orc
blood. He looked forward to a rematch with Balfor, should he be so
lucky as to find him on the battlefield, after dispatching of Dalair's
star-crossed force.

Yet trust in this Zhephani and her Consortium, he could not. Arehtama
swore to himself, as he galloped into the front ranks, that he would
not be any closer to Zhephani or her gem mages than he had to be when
they attacked Drakhiya. He had a creeping feeling of dread that he
might end up on the wrong side of one of her spells.

***

The rows of thick ferns jostled roughly as unseen shapes lumbered
through them. Gigantic palm and banana trees, their broad leaves
filtering out sunlight, towered above the jungle floor, which thinned
out as it made the transition between vegetation and desert. Cicadas
made their prolonged, shrill call from unseen perches high above, and
monkeys swung on long vines from tree to tree.

The pair of Scythe orc scouts scurried through the underbrush, hacking
away thick fern branches with their scimitars as they patrolled the
outer perimeter of their camp. A mere stadium to the southwest, past
where the trees finally broke and gave way to harsh rocky
outcroppings, was the desert pass. It was here the Scythers ardently
anticipated their next encounter with the EDF. If they won the race to
the pass then they would absorb the Dalairi regiment as reinforcements
and move into the desert to hold Drakhiya, but if the Eldar made it
first they would face a pitched battle for control of the pass,
assuming the elves could overpower the smallish Dalairi force.

Roughly sixty percha within the confines of the jungle, the Scythe
army made brief camp at mid-day as they rested. Lieutenants and
sergeants mustered their units and took roll call, as rations were
passed out with water and consumed readily. Grishnok led a cadre of
engineers in the construction of various siege weapons, including
catapults and mighty ballistae, for use in open-field combat as well
as for a possible assault on Drakhiya's walls, should the EDF take the
city first. Necromancers performed dark rituals to help renew and
preserve their unholy servants, who stood and stared vacantly as they
awaited the next command from their masters.

Gathered in a ring at the center of the makeshift camp was the Scythe
elite and commanders of the various regiments. Balfor received
intelligence on how many of their own had been killed in skirmishes
with elven archers that morning, and learned that there was currently
no sign of any more strike units from the EDF bound for them.

Balfor thought it was a stroke of pure genius that Grishnok had lead
them through the extensive bogs populated by the issla. Normally a
xenophobic and hostile serpentine race, they had long ago forged a
pact with the swamp trolls to protect their vast stretches of
territory deep in the southern jungles. Bokwa was descended from a
powerful line of swamp trolls and the Scythers traded upon his good
name to gain passage through the harsh issla bogs.

This was enough to prevent the Scythers from being attacked outright
by the reclusive issla, but only when Glock single-handedly slew the
bog monster did they agree to fight at their side. This was their
reward for ridding the issla of a beast that had bothered them for
years, one that had attacked and eaten many of their kind as they
attempted to traverse the bog. It was a fearful, loathsome creature, a
quivering glob of green flesh with numerous suckered tentacles and a
gaping maw filled with large teeth and dripping green slime. It let
out a blood-curdling shriek when the massive orc cleaved its body in
twain with a final, vicious swipe of his awesome scythe. The issla
watching the deadly duel simultaneously let out a sharp, prolonged
hiss as the beast lay dying, which seemed to be their version of a
cheer.

The issla were a strong race of lizard humanoids, heavily muscled with
fierce red eyes and scaly skin of a dark, rich green color. They
defended their boggy home fiercely and proved to be a decisive factor
in rooting out the foolish elven archers that ambushed the Scythe army
from their perches in the treetops to the west of the bog. The
lizardmen scaled the trees with lightning agility and cut the elves
out of the branches, where they were mobbed below by bloodthirsty
Scythers. The fine elvish bowmen had managed to take out a few of the
Scythers, but fortunately they did not sustain anything more than the
lightest of casualties as they completely routed the wood elves. The
Scythe army was now clear of the bog and the issla had long since
retreated to their marshy lairs, having fulfilled their debt of
gratitude.

A small group of Scythers, including several mages, had gathered by a
large fallen log and were busily discussing the topic of gem
magic. Nattick sat on the ground, his back against the log and Akul
sat atop the log to his right. Boki the Ogre stood a few paces away,
squinting and frowning at his hands, which contained a few of the gems
the rogue had plundered from the desert monolith the previous day.

They had discerned with much experimentation that these particular
gems had been ensorcelled with a sort of teleportation magic. Only
when crushed into a powder did they seem to exert their magical
effects, for the gems themselves appeared inert and the gem dust, when
sprinkled into the air, conjured forth a shimmering portal. This would
hover in space for a few brief moments, only to wink out of existence
with a low humming noise. During its fleeting reality, the portal
offered a view of a strange and exotic locale, which was different
each time depending upon which type of gem dust was used.

The book Nattick had thieved from the gem sorcerer's table had proven
to be exceptionally valuable. Between the trials with the different
powders and what the book seemed to be describing, they were able to
puzzle out some of which type of dust lead to which location. None of
the Scythers could fully translate the weird script in the text, and
aside from recognizing geographical features such as crevasses and
mountains and sometimes structures such as castles, none of them
recognized specifically where these were. In some portals, the sky was
violet or there were too many moons or there was utter darkness, and
no sound or smell ever escaped from them. To a person, none was brave
(or foolish?) enough to attempt to enter these mysterious doors into
other worlds.

One particular powder, that of the diamond, seemed to make all
existing portals snap shut when it was sprinkled, and Nattick made
careful note of that effect. The powder supply was sparse to begin
with, and they had to spend the last of it to quickly close one
certain portal.

The malachite dust had summoned a gateway that displayed a wide muddy
river, upon whose banks were three huge and hideous ogresses that were
apparently fishing. To Boki, they were as enticing as scantily clad
nymphs, and he began to barrel over Scythers as he headed straight for
the portal, intent upon entering it. Only Nattick's spry reflexes beat
the lusty ogre to the punch, as he flicked the portal shut with the
last of the diamond dust. Thankfully, the last of the malachite dust
had been spent as well. Boki snarled angrily and sullenly went back to
pondering the precious stones in his hands.

'Might have been able to use that one,' the rogue muttered to
himself. 'Not too keen on a one-way trip to any of these other places.'

Akul nodded. 'It's too bad you didn't steal more of that diamond dust,
Nattick.'

Nattick smirked. 'Forgive me, Akul, I didn't exactly have time to
translate that book and experiment with the dusts on the spot. I got
company real fast.' He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. 'I do wish I
had been able to carry out one of those gem-crushers, however,' he
said as he rubbed his chin.

Akul smiled plaintively at him, and then gazed up at Boki.

'Boki, you figured out how to turn those rocks into powder yet?' the
mage asked with a grin.

The massive ogre grunted. 'Me try crushing with teeth, but tooth broke
first. Me try crushing with fist, but get nasty cut. So Boki try
hitting with rock, but dat no good. So now Boki will stomp with foot!'

He dropped a handful of gems at his feet and, before many of those
around him could grab a hold of something, he leapt into the air and
came down with both feet at once, making a thunderous BOOM. Akul went
sprawling backwards over the log, which bounced a few feet into the
air, and the other Scythers within a few percha of the ogre fought
hard to stand upright, most of them losing the battle. Toucans and
mynah birds squawked in alarm as they took flight from the trees above.

The ogre swore blasphemously as he realized he had only succeeded in
driving most of the gems into the earth, with one of them remaining
embedded in the leathery sole of his foot.

Boki's face was contorted in anger and frustration, and as the
Scythers slowly got to their feet they watched him determinedly pluck
the gems out of the ground. He popped the lone gem out of his foot and
held them all together in front of him in the palm of one
hand. Suddenly, he let out a savage battlecry and then slammed a
headbutt into his outstretched palm.

The Scythers all cackled in glee and as Boki slowly peeled his palm
away from his forehead, they all gazed in awe at the various powders
in his hand. Not a gem had survived the pulverizing blow from Boki's
headbutt.

'I'll take that,' Nattick said as he scooped the diamond dust into his
pouch. It was from the only diamond he had pilfered from the crystal
monolith.

'I think we've found our gem-crusher Nattick,' Akul said with a
deadpan expression on his face, pointing at the ogre.

Nattick smirked at him.

'Why is it so important we have any of this dust, Nattick?' the cleric
called Yance asked.

Nattick paused thoughtfully, exchanging a glance with Akul. They had
discussed much of what the rogue had seen within the tower that day,
and tried to put it all in context with the note found on Votishal.

The mage spoke first. 'Well, Yance, the magic of the Consortium is
unknown to us, but they do mention something about banishing or
cleansing us.'

Nattick nodded. 'Whether they mean to send us through one of these
portals, or bring something else across, we do not know. We also don't
know if our magic will be effective against them, and I have told you
all about their undead army and their alliance with these strange
giants.'

The Scythers present all had grim looks, but determination was in
their eyes.

'But at least we have found a way to neutralize some of their magic,'
Yance concluded. 'Let us hope it is enough.'

Balfor slapped the cleric on the back. He had quietly arrived at the
perimeter of the gathering of the Scythe intelligentsia, summoned by
Boki's ground-shaking antics.

'Of course it will be enough, bloodsister,' Balfor said, his voice
brimming with assurance. 'We've had an appetizer today of elf archers
and next we're going to feast on the entrails of some EDF pansies!'

'And then I've got a little something for that Zhephani bitch right
here!' a daunting orc fighter snarled, brandishing his poleaxe.

'Little is right, Hord!' taunted a Scythe mage, and howls of laughter
went up from the small gathering.

They continued to trade insults and take turns denigrating elves and
predicting kill totals for a few more minutes. Then a towering figure
lumbered out from the shade of a tree, his impressive scythe glinting
in the noontime sun. He had finished his meal of raw meat, as the
gleaming trickle of crimson from one corner of his mouth attested.

Glock grunted, and the other elite Scythers stopped short their pep
rally. They turned to gaze at him expectantly, an air of reverence
about them.

'Time has come to move,' the Massacrator proclaimed.

No one argued. Within minutes the Scythe army was marching out of the
jungle.

***

The diamond monolith shone brilliantly in the light of the rising
desert sun. Its perfectly smooth circular walls caught the sun's rays
and reflected them in shimmering shades of amber. It seemed to hum
with a powerful inner magic. A lone entryway at its base stood open as
if the tower were yawning mightily.

Gathered in a semi-circle a few percha to the north of the tower's
entrance, through which a certain auspicious Scythe rogue had stolen
away a day previously, were roughly twenty figures. Giants with skin
the color and consistency of precious gems towered nearly six ells
over their diminutive elvish companions, who were garbed in white
cloaks bearing the emblem of a black dragon clutching a diamond.

At the base of this semi-circle was a gigantic scintillating
portal. The elves in the half-circle seemed to be steadily sprinkling
dust from their hands and chanting. The elf called Zhephani, a comely
female with silvery eyes and long, straight silver hair, stood at the
center of the circle. She did not chant or scatter dust, but instead
gazed expectantly into the portal.

The gem giants stood with implacable looks upon their faces, some with
arms crossed over their chest, others fingering large smooth gems held
in their hands. Every one of them stared fixedly at the magical gate
as if expecting an ambush.

Within the crackling blue outlines of the portal could be seen a
foreign land. Massive pine trees with thick red trunks towered into
the sky, which was overcast and grey. Rocky terrain abutted the edge
of this mysterious forest in the center of the field of vision and
sloped steeply up and out of view to the left of the portal. The white
rock walls of a city or fortress could be seen perched atop the crag,
its visible dimensions hinting at something of vast proportions.

From this structure could be seen a steadily growing, wavering black
line, trickling slowly down the rocks. Soon, flashes of black and
crimson could be seen flickering above this line. These then resolved
into what appeared to be huge battle standards, rippling impressively
in a stiff breeze, an oddly disconcerting sight given the still desert
on the near side of the portal.

Slowly, the black thread fattened and grew. It resolved into imposing
shapes that were marching in battle formation, and headed for the
portal.

Zhephani's mouth curved slightly upwards at the corners in a sly
grin. The giants shifted uneasily and cast nervous glances at each
other.

A thick white fog began to steadily roil outward from the tower and
into the stagnant desert air.

***

Unnoticed by any below, a black crow ominously wheeled its way over
the city and into the tower of the Dalairi Embassy. Drakhiya was still
in the throes of its wild celebration on the last day of its
Festival. Within minutes of the bird's arrival, the revelry would be
extinct.

The streets of Drakhiya were awash with chaos that was steadily
escalating into alarm. Dark whispers and rumors heard over the
previous two weeks about war between the guilds had been getting
wilder and more outlandish. There was no way the Caliph and his
impressive force of elite guardsmen would ever allow fighting in their
city, people thought. Drakhiya was too far to the south and hence
well-removed from any such conflict. The Dalairi army to the north was
must be here on a training exercise. The crystal monolith in the
desert was just an anomaly and probably haunted, but there was no way
that could hurt them here.

But then the guards along the city's wall tops began to shout
excitedly and raise the alarm that the city would soon be under
siege. The horseorcs and guards posted along the avenues of Drakhiya
and in the tavernas began to disappear and head for the gates or into
the palace or atop the walls. The two gates leading into and out of
the city were then closed, massive iron portcullises slamming down and
preventing any intruders from invading - or any tourists from
escaping. The outer and inner portals at the Gates of Dawn and Dusk
both were then closed and sealed. Barrels of bubbling pitch and
caltrops and arrows were then brought forth from within the city's
batteries, headed for the wall tops. Columns of city and palace guards
began to file out of the palace and down Drakhiya's main avenue,
factions splintering off here and there down side streets.

Strange clicking and whirring noises could be heard coming from the
most peculiar squadron to come out of the palace thus far. A
detachment of mechanical men with metallic skin of brass, mithril and
adamantite marched down the city's main avenue. They were being lead
by a mix of humanoids and humans, who seemed to be the creators of
these clockwork soldiers. Their constructs wielded weapons of all
types and their precise movements made them seem like dire foes
indeed. They split their numbers in two, the halves heading in
opposite directions for the city's two gates. Most who laid eyes upon
them did so with awe and fear, never having seen their ilk before.

Then Masrur himself appeared, sans Caliph, at the command of an elite
cadre of guards, all wearing red turbans and heavily armed atop proud
war horses. As they cantered out of the palace's main gate and headed
for the Gate of Dusk, people noticed immediately that the Caliph was
not present. The Caliph's main bodyguard was simply never seen out of
his presence, and the only conceivable thing that might separate them
was war.

The previously festive crowd panicked. Booths and stalls were
overturned, baskets spilling forth their contents of fruits and other
goods. People slammed into each other as they fought frantically to
find cover inside buildings. One burly orc blacksmith managed to slam
shut the gate to his shop, but not before several pieces of armour and
weaponry could be looted by opportunistic thieves.

Some folk climbed to the rooftops to get out of the fray and to
hopefully avoid any fighting in the streets. A few pockets of calm
were established here and there in the frenzied melee in the streets,
as the more seasoned adventurers and warriors present at the Festival
drew their weapons and began to rally into small parties. A
battle-scarred dwarf donned a set of fine chainmail and hefted a
mighty mace. A stout half-elven ranger enjoyed a small buffer of space
around her, thanks to the presence of her off-putting Sylvanthic
wolf. A quintet of human fighters was in earnest discussion with the
guards in charge of the Gate of Dawn to allow them to help protect the
city, and their request was being seriously considered.

Old scores were being settled, as numerous brawls broke out all over
the city. Nearly every taverna was overwhelmed by drunk and angry
patrons that were now in the grip of fear. Furnishings lay shattered
in pieces amidst broken shards of glass and puddles of alcohol, blood
and urine.

Beyond Drakhiya's walls, the desert lay ominously still. There was no
sign yet of any marauding army, but the city still began to prepare a
defense against a siege, while it fought to re-establish order on its
streets.

The initial waves of panic and the subsequent looting and brawling and
trashing were beginning to fade. The disciplined and sizable army of
desert orcs had begun to take control of the streets. They organized
those present at the Feast into crowds that took shelter in the
various residential quarters of the city, or into groups of many
classes that were sent off to different parts of the wall to shore up
the defense.

Within the heavily-defended palace, which was designed as a fort that
could be held should the city around it fall to an invading force, the
Caliph smoked from his hookah nervously. It was the first time he
could remember not having Masrur within twenty feet of him, and the
unmistakable slithery worm of fear writhed vigorously inside his
stomach. The letter from Harlaw, the half-orc in command of the
Dalairi contingent, was ominous in its brevity:

They were wise to our tactics. Prepare to be attacked.

'Relaxxx, Your Grassse,' the serpentari called Yassar breathed to
him. He, too, smoked from a hookah but in a much calmer manner than
the Caliph. 'You had no choissse but to send Masssrur to the wall.'

A detachment of six peerless guards stood watch at either entrance to
this small, fortified room within the palace, menacing looks on their
brutish orc faces.

The Caliph nodded, his hands shaking as he fumbled with a jeweled
dagger. 'It has been so long since I have fought. But fear not, I will
slice open the belly of any elf I see. Curse them for bringing their
fight to us.'

Yassar grinned, showing dozens of pointy little white teeth. 'It
looksss like Mettertrop wasss right after all. Let hisss band of orcss
from Dalair prove themsselvesss to you, Your Exsselensssy.' He emptied
the bowl of his spent hookah, tapping it on a sewer grate in the floor
and sending tiny grounds of tabaq sprinkling into it.

The Caliph grunted. 'Let them throw themselves upon our swords if they
try and take our holy city. If the Scythe truly is chasing the elves,
then they will find themselves welcome in Drakhiya. My armies are at
their disposal if they can only help defend my city.' A pious look was
on his face, his hands shaking less visibly than before.

The serpentari rasped out a faint chuckle. He produced a carved staff
and hefted it in both hands. The head of the staff had been carved to
resemble that of an angry serpent.

'Yesss, Your Grasse. Your sssity. We shall sssee about that.'

The Caliph turned toward his most trusted advisor, an eyebrow raised
curiously.

In a blinding flash, the serpentari lunged at the Caliph, the head of
his snake staff coming to life and snapping its jaws viciously. The
snake head bit a chunk of flesh out of the Caliph's abdomen, and the
royal descendant of the legendary prophet Suvarov let out a painful
yell.

The orc guards cried out in alarm, drawing their scimitars as they
rushed to defend their leader. Simultaneously, the many sewer grates
in the palace and in the city proper flew open. Fanatical serpentari
spewed forth from the tunnels below, zealous looks in their eyes. They
were wielding spears, daggers dripping poison with blades in the shape
of serpent fangs, and snake staves charmed to bite and poison their
opponents. Each serpentari wore a leather thong around their neck,
bearing a crude green stone carving of a serpent, signifying them as
members of the dark cult that worshipped Draq.

Their numbers were overwhelming, and they took the orc guards
completely by surprise. The serpentari already on the streets were
shattering many of their clay acbali, which yielded contents of
daggers and swords and staves instead of candies and fruits and
trinkets.

Serpentari seemed to be coming from everywhere, welling up from the
many entrances to the sewers down below. They shrugged off costumes or
poured out in full battle gear from beneath massive floats that had
paraded down the joyful streets not moments earlier.  The serpentari
militia joined the attack on the side of the cultists seamlessly, as
they charged headlong at the orcs with their spears thrust before them.

Chaos reigned anew, albeit with a different face, in the troubled
streets of Drakhiya.

A wall of serpentari cultists fought madly as they came into the
chamber between Yassar and the royal guards. Two of the orcs lay dead
on the ground, their bodies marred with bite marks and bruises from
the evil staves. As one serpentari would fall, two more would arise
from the sewers to take his place.

Within the circle of cultists, Yassar wordlessly plunged an iron
dagger into the Caliph's heart. Poison, already rampant in the orc's
veins, had driven him to his knees. With the thrust of the dagger he
lurched forward, his legs jerking out behind him crazily as he went
down in a spastic death throe.

The serpentari had begun their long-awaited assault to take back the
city they once knew as Draqiris.

***

Torrents of acrid black smoke rose into the sky from the burning tents
of the camp of the Dalairi Fifth Infantry. Scores of demoralized orcs
sprinted through the rapidly deteriorating remains of their camp,
where only that morning they had enjoyed a pride-stirring feast on the
cusp of their long-awaited battle with the elves.

Harlaw had called out a general retreat, and the orcs wasted no time
in obeying her orders. Morale was shattered but discipline was not
lost. The rugged half-orc had ground every last shred of
insubordination out of her troops with a combination of relentless
training and stern leadership. Her mastery with her two-handed battle
axe on the battlefield was unrivaled, and orcs streamed into Dalair
from distant points for a chance to serve in her excellent command.

The general knew her force was being used as a sacrifice in the
oncoming war with the EDF, but she relished the chance to draw first
blood and do her part in building Dalair's alliance with the desert
orcs. She lacked the luxury of having mages in her service, and this
put her at quite a disadvantage when it came to military
intelligence. As she led a hasty evacuation towards Drakhiya she
surmised that this was why the elves had turned the tables on her
ambush late this morning.

Mages could conjure wild beasts as pets that could serve as their eyes
from afar, giving them priceless scouting information on enemies. They
could also magically scry any targets they had previously marked. With
elf pets at their disposal to do the sneaking, they had a distinct
advantage, as it was difficult to expose them when they were so
well-hidden, even within the perimeters of her camp.

Harlaw also did not have the ability to magically shield her troops
from the prying eyes of enemy mages. She felt as if they were sitting
ducks, and wondered how she could have avoided being so. Realizing her
situation was beyond her control, she left off the practice of
doubting herself and turned her thoughts to rallying her troops once
they were within sight of Drakhiya.

'Will they let us inside their walls if we get there in time?' she
wondered. 'Or will we be left like so many hungry dogs at the gate and
have to fend for ourselves.'

She could never have anticipated the insanity that was taking place in
the city when she would finally arrive.

For now, she continued to run. Harlaw made mental notes of her
numbers, and her stomach sank as she contemplated the great losses she
had already taken. The EDF had sent forth an initial sortie of
warriors that served to spring her trap. At first her battle plan
worked perfectly, as they lay waste to many of the first EDF wave. But
once sprung, her trap was no longer an advantage, and now her archers
in the rocks above had exposed their locations to the enemy.

It was then that the EDF came down on them like a juggernaut, with its
mages pinpointing magical attacks of lightning and fire and acid upon
the archers and their own bowmen and warriors streaming out of the
woods and into the pass in frightening numbers.

If she ever doubted the resolve of the EDF, she did so no longer, for
this second wave utterly overwhelmed her entire army and sent them
running back out of the pass in a rout. Unfortunately, they could not
hold it long enough for the Scythe to arrive and rally them. Harlaw
had to hope her army would be able to make a final stand at the gates
of Drakhiya, and she prayed that they would not get caught between the
EDF and their mysterious allies in the monolith as she made her
retreat.

The walls of the mighty desert city were now visible on the
rose-colored horizon. It was nearing mid-afternoon and the sweltering
desert heat was at its worst. Harlaw was confident her fit troops were
up to the rigors of a full-on retreat and then catching a second wind
to fight for their lives. She kept casting wary glances to her left,
in the direction of the monolith. So far, only miles upon miles of
sand dunes could be seen, the tower too far away to be seen at this
distance. As it was, she was not completely sure what sort of enemy
she could expect to see coming from the monolith.

Many plumes of smoke seemed to be rising up from the city. Harlaw
wanted badly to dismiss these as being due to it being the last day of
the Feast, but the smoke was black and the half-orc could not recall
type of smoke being produced by any cook fire or bonfire.

All around her, she could see the remainder of her force, and she
estimated they had lost about a third of their number in the
pass. Even at full strength, she figured they were still badly
outnumbered by the EDF, and that was just from what she saw. At her
last glance they were still pouring out of the forest in thick columns.

'Balfor better march that sorry set of pukes double-time,' Harlaw
thought dismally to herself.

They were within a half a stadium now of the Gate of Dawn, and
something was definitely wrong in Drakhiya. The unmistakable din of
riots, battle and bloodshed could be made out even at this
distance. Looking behind them and not seeing the EDF in immediate
pursuit, she slowed the fragmented Dalairi army to a walk.

Harlaw stared at the city walls and the dozens of plumes of black
smoke towering into the sky from within, and shook her head in
shock. Guards scurried atop the walls, screaming madly as they let
arrows fly, and pouring boiling pitch at unseen enemies inside the
city. For the first time that any of Harlaw's army had seen, the
massive Gate of Dawn stood firmly closed.

Too winded to speak and still numb from their failed defense, the orcs
could only continue to look from themselves to the city and back
again, shaking their heads in amazement.

Harlaw's heart sank further when she realized the crow she had sent to
Mettertrop earlier probably was not received, as they certainly did
not seem ready to defend themselves from the EDF. There was no way she
could see that they could get into the city, with its gates sealed
shut, and Harlaw felt certain that the Gate of Dusk would be similarly
inaccessible.

Suddenly, from beyond the northern walls of the city, a lone figure
staggered into view. From his leather armour and mailed metal cap it
was evident this orc was a city guard, and he clutched a broken
scimitar in his right hand. His cap was dented and blood leaked out
through several holes in his leather jerkin. He seemed totally unaware
of the army sprawled out before him, its orcs still straggling in from
the retreat.

He was coughing loudly, hacking up gobs of blood that he spat upon the
sand as he staggered along the wall, keeping himself from falling
several times with an outstretched hand. As he came closer it was
evident why he was limping, as his left foot was twisted and broken at
a crazy angle.

Harlaw and a couple others rushed over to him. As they drew closer the
wounded orc seemed to notice them for the first time and started in
surprise, nearly toppling over backwards. Then recognition lit up his
eyes and he attempted to speak.

This only served to cause him to convulse violently as he coughed up
blood and spat it on the ground.

Harlaw supported him and motioned to one of her subordinates to find a
combat medic, hoping one or two had strayed in by now.

'Serpentari...' he sputtered, between gags. 'Dey say... Caliph is
dead. The ser-' He was cut off by another cough, each one sounding
worse than the last. 'The serpentari have... risen up. Trying to take
over.'

'What?!' one of her lieutenants cried out. 'Them puny snake-people
could never take out city full of orcs!'

Others grunted in approval, but Harlaw's blood went ice cold. The
timing of a massive serpentari revolt with the assault by the EDF and
the monolith was no mere coincidence. Fear gnawed at her insides for
the first time in recent memory, and she looked about wildly, trying
to regain control of rational thought. They were now completely
trapped. What in the hell was she to do now?

A couple of lanky orcs arrived and began dexterously binding the
wounded orc's broken leg in splints. He screamed in pain as the
fracture was set, and then he passed out.

'General...?' One of her sub-commanders was tapping her on the
shoulder. She realized she was leaning against the wall and staring at
the ground.

'General Harlaw...'

She snapped herself out of her confusion and spun around. She was
about to ask what her lieutenant wanted when she saw it.

There, on the horizon, were telltale clouds of sand being kicked up by
the EDF army as it made its inevitable procession towards its
goal. Harlaw was certain they had slowed voluntarily as they regrouped
in the pass, and were probably towing siege engines to break down the
walls of Drakhiya.

She marveled at the ingenuity of their insidious plan to incite the
serpentari to rebellion right before they would lay siege to the
city. Harlaw could not help but feel like the proverbial skull of the
elf between the heel of an orc's boot and the ground as she lay in
wait for her annihilation. She would greet Death with a snarl and take
as many of the elves with her as her mighty axe could kill.

With renewed energy she rallied her weary troops and they began to
form up into battle lines to receive the attack.

None of them noticed the thick white fog creeping over the horizon far
off to their right.

***

Illarin watched intently as her first phalanx of cavalry sprinted into
battle to meet the remainder of the Dalairi army. Her archers had done
a masterful job of mowing down the hapless orcs with their first wave
of arrows. She delighted in seeing the sky briefly obscured by the
hundreds of shafts as they first soared upward in high arcs only to
rain down mercilessly upon her foes.

A second wave of foot soldiers followed closely behind the horsemen,
and her wood archers were reloading and double-timing their march to
the left and right flanks of the orcs, who were pinned between her
army and the city behind them, which was mired in mutiny. The elf
mage's lips were curled up in a defiant snarl, her eyes aglow with
hatred. She yearned to enter the fray but waited patiently, staying
behind with her elite regiments, including most of the mages and
necromancers.

Arehtama cast a meaningful look at her. She could see that he, too,
lusted eagerly for battle. Like a deadly viper, her pet rogue was
waiting to strike, yet Illarin decided to keep him in reserve for the
moment.

'No, Arehtama, you must stay with me to defend our rear against the
Scythe. They must be close by now.'

The rogue frowned. 'And what of your precious Consortium? When will
they arrive to do their part?'

Illarin shot him a nasty glare. 'Mind your tongue, rogue. Without them
we could never carry on with our plan.'

Arehtama sniffed disdainfully. He gestured towards the city, from
which fat plumes of black smoke, here and there showing a dash of
flame, boiled heavily skyward above its walls. 'This chaos in
Drakhiya, it is the Consortium's doing at least?'

Heavy fighting could be seen atop the walls, and every now and then a
humanoid form would plummet to the desert below. Before them, their
fighters and cavalry were deep in combat with the Dalairi, who looked
to be fighting to the death. No quarter would be given on this day.

Illarin grinned again. 'Not directly, my fine friend. They have gotten
the slimy serpentari to thin out the desert orc population for us. You
shall see how soon enough.'

'Then let me ride in with my troops, Illarin. Let us finish off these
stinking orcs so we can take the city and hold it against the
Scythe,' Arehtama said. His voice rose in an angry tone as he spoke
these words. He commanded a mixed squadron of archers, rogues, and
fighters and he hated not being able to use them.

'Enough!' Illarin hissed. 'I need you and your men here, with me. You
are too good for me to let go and leave our rear unprotected. And
look, here come our friends now.'

She gestured to the south, where a white fog stealthily billowed
towards them along the desert floor. It appeared as a thick cloud that
had fallen to the earth and within it could be seen hazy shapes.

From what Arehtama could recall, it was coming from the direction of
the crystal monolith. He did not like what he beheld at all, and his
already crumbling trust in the Consortium bottomed out into complete
antipathy, spiked with fear.

'What madness is this?' the rogue demanded, eyeing the fog as if it
were a gigantic cloud of poison.

Illarin chuckled softly. 'Behold the magic of the sihklas, you
fool. The elements of my art, in their purest form.' She paused, and
then looked at Arehtama. 'I wonder what other nasty surprises Zhephani
has in store for the orcs,' Illarin said, gesturing vaguely at the
creeping mist.

'Or for us,' Arehtama thought darkly to himself.

Just then, they noticed one of their cavalry riding his horse as fast
as it would carry him towards them, away from the battle. Illarin
looked more closely at the fighting and could see that one of her
regiments of archers was being decimated in hand-to-hand combat. She
could also see the bulk of her first wave knotted in intense battle
with the orcs, who seemed to be rallying heroically.

Illarin's mood darkened considerably, and her glare nearly withered
the elvish horseman when he finally reached them.

Panting, the elf finally managed to say, 'Illarin, m'lady... The orcs,
they... They defy our every attempt to break them.'

'I can see that, you dolt! Give me a damage report.'

'There is... one among them, their leader... A vicious bitch, that
one. She is their strength, we cannot take her out. Perhaps - '

The mage shot up her hand curtly. 'Enough.' Then, 'Arehtama, get the
men in position at the gates, but stay here with your men and the
mages, and hold the rear. I can spare no more troops on this Dalairi
trash.'

The rogue furrowed his brow, and appeared about to object.

'I said, hold the rear.' The mage's eyes flashed dangerously. Arehtama
held his tongue.

Illarin turned back to her cavalryman. 'Take us to her,' she commanded
ominously. She gestured and a dozen heavily armoured elves followed
her and the scout towards the battle.

Arehtama gave orders to a set of commanders, who were all wearing
golden bracelets shaped like leaves. The leaves glowed gently,
radiating soft green light. They nodded and set out hastily towards
the city on horseback, breaking north and south to ride around it as
they approached.

Reluctantly, he cast another glance at the horizon to his left. He
felt a chill as he realized the white fog had doubled in size, and he
gawked at its height, which was nearing twenty percha by his
estimate. The din of the battle drowned out everything else, yet he
thought he could hear a second set of noises now. They were disturbing
and bizarre and were coming from within the fog. He also heard a low,
malignant humming. Or did he feel it? There was also a distant
whispering or chattering, but he could not tell if it was just his
imagination beginning to get the best of him.

Then he heard it: a primitive howling, not quite human but not
entirely beast. It was unlike anything he had ever heard. His blood
went cold as he heard other howls go up in reply to the first.

Arehtama swore angrily in elvish under his breath, and looked away
from the fog.

Ahead of him, he could see that Illarin had disappeared into the
battle, along with her elite horsemen. As much as she vexed him, he
was loyal to his commander and he felt a pang of worry as he wondered
how she was faring in the battle. It was foolish of her to expose
herself so early in the battle to the enemy, but Illarin would brook
no argument from him, that much was clear.

He turned in his saddle to look back in the direction of the mountain
pass for any sign of the Scythe. None of his scouts had returned to
report any sighting of them, nor had the alarm gone up from any of his
regiments waiting in the rear.

This was cause for suspicion, but just then, several spaces in the air
in front of them shimmered, breaking his train of thought. Then there
were bursts of brilliant blue light and in their place appeared many
large, magical doorways. Through them, Arehtama could see the desert
just to the west of Drakhiya's Gate of Dusk. Hurriedly he ordered half
of the troops with siege engines through them, and he grinned with
satisfaction as they all made it through before the last of the
gateways closed.

Absently, he fingered a golden pin that fastened his magical cloak
around his neck. There, a glowing gem set in the tip of the pin slowly
faded to a dull red.

***

Illarin's stalwart henchmen cleared a path through the orcs around her
as she waded through the melee. Her eyes burned fiercely, glowing a
faint green as they always did when she was about to channel magic.

All around her she saw the death and destruction dealt out by the two
armies. The orcs from Dalair were proving to be quite scrappy with
their backs literally to the wall and Illarin rued underestimating
them. But she was not interested in analyzing her mistakes, and
continued to scan the crowded battlefield for her prey.

The elf cavalryman that notified Illarin of the orc general was
long-since dead, having caught a polearm to his gut as he waded back
into the conflict, but it did not take Illarin long to see who
unmistakably must have been the Dalair regiment's leader.

A hulking, half-orc woman was heaving an evil-looking battleaxe with
deadly effectiveness. A pile of dead elves and horses lay scattered
around her and a few of what must have been her best fighters.

A small cadre of orc fighters rallied around the large half-orc. They
were cut and bruised and bleeding from several wounds, their armour
dented and torn in many places. They were fighting in a berserk rage
and served as obvious inspiration to the weary orcs all around
them. Illarin noticed that her presence on the battlefield also
boosted the morale of her own troops as they saw her.

Her fighters cut a path to the center of the conflict for the
mage. Illarin coolly dismounted her mare, never taking her eyes off of
the half-orc. She could see that the Dalairi general had noticed her
out of the corner of her eye, and was working to finish off a pair of
elves with her giant axe. Illarin saw the metallic skull set in the
axe, its red eyes glowing fiendishly as the twin blades it had for
ears fed on elf blood.

Harlaw beheaded one of the elves and then slammed the other end of her
axe home in the second elf's chest with a sickening thud.

The circle around the two women widened as not one soldier dared to
intervene.

As she removed the bloody mithril blade from the fallen elf, Harlaw
turned on Illarin. She saw the glow in her eyes and the stout
quarterstaff she wielded expertly in her left hand. Harlaw spat blood
upon the ground, and then screamed savagely as she hurled herself at
the mage.

A smoking gust of acid shot forth from the elf's outstretched hand,
and Harlaw had to dive forward onto her belly to avoid it. The acid
must have found a victim as she heard the cries of agony go up from
one of the fighters behind her. Quickly, Harlaw rolled sideways and
sprang to her feet.

Illarin moved with blinding speed, parrying Harlaw's wicked cuts
unerringly. Many times she managed stiff counter-attacks that pounded
the half-orc brutally, keeping her off-balance. It seemed that the
mage was getting in two attacks for every one of the half-orc's,
dumbfounding the Dalairi general.

The elf taunted Harlaw with her laughter.

Harlaw, unfazed by the mage's attempts to bait her, pressed her attack
relentlessly. She had fought a mage only once before, and she knew it
was only a matter of time before she became the target of another
nasty spell.

One blade of the axe caromed off of the hard wooden staff, taking off
a few slivers of wood, but failing to shed the blood of its wielder.

Harlaw produced a wicked dart, with barbs up and down its tip, and
hurled it at the elf. Illarin screamed in pain as it embedded in her
left leg. Her attack, though still nimble, came at a more mortal pace
now.

Illarin's quarterstaff hammered a few more blows upon Harlaw's body,
who finally managed to score a hit on the mage by opening up a long,
jagged laceration down her right arm.

The ground began to tremble slightly as a series of distant thuds
could be heard coming from the west, signaling that the EDF siege upon
Drakhiya's western gate was underway.

Harlaw began to push the mage back, her superior fighting skills
giving her an edge, yet the half-orc was tentative. Illarin possessed
unparalleled skill with the staff amongst her mage peers. Harlaw
fought warily, wanting to be ready to dodge the next spell thrown her
way.

Another slice was scored by the axe, its red eyes glowing greedier
than ever, as it bit a deep gash into the mage's chest. Harlaw could
feel the blade slide across bone as she pulled away.

And then it came. A withering, smoking cloud of acid shot forth from
the mage's hand and this time it did not miss its mark.

Screaming, Harlaw sank to her knees as her entire head rapidly melted
in the powerful acid. Her screams turned to a sick gurgling as her
eyeballs melted out of their sockets and mixed with the rest of the
bubbling flesh sinking down from where her head used to be.

Harlaw's arms flailed wildly about her, the double-bladed axe
discarded harmlessly at her side.

Illarin roughly prodded her spear into the dying half-orc's chest,
sending her flailing form over onto its back, the acid hissing quietly
and voraciously as it continued to dissolve her flesh.

The death of their leader did nothing to dissuade the remaining
Dalairi orcs from their fight. Instead, it served to rally them as
they fought insanely to avenge Harlaw's death. They shouted out
vengeful oaths and hurled insults at their foes as they fought
ceaselessly.

Only five of Illarin's original dozen guard remained alive when they
finally won her free from the main battle, and they galloped in
retreat towards the back line. Hurriedly, they applied medicine to
their wounds as they pushed their mounts beyond their limits.

Stealing a quick glance to her right, Illarin noticed to her
satisfaction that the Consortium's white fog loomed close to the
city. The final phase of their combined onslaught would begin soon,
and she knew there would be no stopping them.

She turned back to look in the direction of the rear vanguard, and her
heart froze.

Flaming arrows were raining down upon her troops, and she could see
that many of her siege engines were consumed in flames. Her force had
lost the initiative and was now the one being ambushed.

Cursing, the mage turned her mount south and spurred it on to a full
gallop towards the plodding fog.

The Scythe had arrived.

***

Lightning forked out of the clear desert sky, summoned by warring
mages and aimed into the hearts of many an unfortunate EDF and Scythe
soldier alike. Tattered battle standards of both armies flapped
noisily in the stiffening desert winds. Savage fires, started by
Scythe archers and fireballing mages, fed hungrily upon the ruined
catapults and ballistae of the EDF. Many of the EDF mages lie dead in
widening pools of blood, slain by arrows shot from behind at the
initiation of the Scythe ambush.

Hordes of the Scythe clan rushed headlong into the rear of the EDF
army, their collective battlecry taking on an eerie, supernatural
quality and sending chills up the spine of many an elf.

The deep bass moans of undead crying out in service of their masters
were mixed with the unmistakable clash of steel upon steel as combat
was joined by both sides. Many of the EDF spell-throwers, including
necromancers, had been picked off by the Scythe's surprise
assault. Consequently feral undead roamed the battlefield dangerously,
attacking everything in sight regardless of their previous
loyalties. However terrible their attacks were, they did not serve to
significantly slow the maddened charge of the Scythe army.

Balfor felt a rush of triumph as he saw the first part of his attack
executed perfectly. Scythe assassins, with the help of the issla, had
taken out all of the EDF's rear scouts silently and efficiently, and
this served to rob the main force of any warning of the Scythe
attack. An army without eyes was as vulnerable as an unarmoured
backside was to a rogue, and Balfor intended to drive this dagger of
an ambush deep into the heart of the EDF.

Squinting into the distance, he saw the smoky black pall over Drakhiya
and frowned. His attention was then called to the mysterious white fog
about a stadium to their south, and he exchanged mystified glances
with Nattick.

'I saw nothing of this mist when I was in the tower, but it is coming
from that direction,' the rogue said to him.

'It is like no spell I have ever studied,' Akul said, half in
disbelief and half in wonder as he beheld the creeping maelstrom.

Balfor sent Grishnok charging into battle with his own command of
fighters as a second wave. He relentlessly pressed the attack to the
EDF, which was still foundering in confusion. Balfor wondered what
Illarin and Arehtama were thinking, as it was not their style to take
so long to organize a counter-attack.

He turned back to Nattick and Akul.

'The mist is one thing, but I must worry about Drakhiya first. You two
know the city best. Get in there and find out what in the Great Abyss
is happening. Then, fix it. And don't come crawling back to me until
it's done,' Balfor commanded.

Nattick smirked and Akul simply nodded.

'As you command, Balfor,' said the mage. He then uttered a magical
phrase and stepped through a shimmering blue portal that had opened up
before him, with Nattick the rogue right on his heels.

As the gateway winked shut, Balfor turned to a small human perched
atop a fast-looking light steed.

'Take your scouts into that cloud of mist. I want to know what they're
trying to hide, so don't get killed,' Balfor decreed.

The wiry rogue, who had an easy manner about him, grinned and nodded,
showing no fear. He barked out a quick command and led his mounted
scouts south into the desert towards the billowing fog.

Before Balfor could issue any more orders, he noticed the towering
shapes of Boki and Glock standing on either side of his horse. Even
atop his immense stallion, Balfor was still a foot shorter than either
of the legendary Scythers.

They did not say a word, and were not even looking at him. Following
their steely gazes, Balfor knew instantly where it was they were
staring. He laughed from his belly, rocking back in his saddle.

'Do you even need to ask?' Balfor said, grinning. The ogre and the
massive orc began to froth at the mouth.

'Charge!' Balfor yelled, and the imposing pair shot forth with
surprising speed. The ground around them trembled, sending Balfor's
mount wheeling onto its back legs and whinnying fearfully.

Of all the regiments he had sent to the attack thus far, Balfor felt
the most confident in the last one. He drew his fine broadsword from
its sheath and raised it above his head, signaling to the remaining
troops that they were to rally the initial waves and take to the field.

Balfor's gaze swept over the battlefield, his hawk-like eyes searching
for a certain nefarious elf rogue.

***

The massive wall of white fog towered over Illarin as she urged her
mare towards it. Her mount began to spook as they neared the mist,
which sent out thick white tendrils that flailed about almost
inquisitively. The small hairs on her arms and the back of her neck
began to rise and Illarin had the queer sensation she was riding into
a thundercloud.

An eerie silence descended upon the mage as she became lost in the
swirling white mist. It was oddly arid within the fog, which was of an
obviously supernatural origin. Illarin could not even make out the
sand of the desert at her mount's feet. Ahead of her, dim shapes began
to resolve within the billowing whiteness.

The elf slowed her horse to a trot and put a small ivory horn to her
lips. She made three small blasts with the horn, signaling her
presence to her allies within the mist. Illarin saw no sense in
alarming the front line of the Consortium, even though she was an elf
and leader of the EDF.

A couple of beats later, three terse horn blasts came back in reply to
her signal, their sound coming from a short distance off to her right.

Just then the fog began to dissipate before her. She appeared to be
riding into the clear center of the white maelstrom. Illarin noticed
with a start that she could see back through and beyond the white mist
through which she had just ridden. The details of the desert could not
be made out entirely but she could see out of the mist with far more
clarity than one could see in. She whistled in amazement at the
advantage this powerful mist gave to an advancing army, and she vowed
to learn how to conjure and control a fog of her own someday.

Illarin gawked at the terrible power of the Consortium's army that lay
before her. Her eyes widened and her back went rigid in her saddle as
she looked all around her.

The front ranks of the Consortium were made up entirely of a strange
mix of dwarves and giants. The top of the maelstrom was open to the
sky, and the sunlight was reflected brilliantly off of the hundreds of
polished longswords wielded by the dwarven warriors. Diamonds
glittered in their breastplates and in the pommels of their swords,
and the dwarves marched in tight formations next to their towering
commanders.

The scores of giants seemed to have skin made from gems which glinted
in the sun, making them hard to behold directly. There were giants
with skin like ruby, others of diamond, and some with rather exotic
hides of lapis lazuli or jacinth. They stood over a perch in height
and they seemed to be in command of the regiments of dwarves in the
front lines. Curiously, many of the giants did not have weapons, but
they all possessed large bags hung at their sides, bulging with what
appeared to be many small stones.

Here and there amidst the ranks of dwarves and giants could be seen
elven spellcasters. Some of them walked along the sand but many of
them chose to fly, hovering over fifty feet in the air.

Illarin rode her horse through the front lines towards the rear of the
army. As she passed through the ranks of dwarves, many of them did not
look at her, and those that did regarded her with a stern
aloofness. The gem giants stoically marched their troops forward and
paid the elf mage no heed. If the elves soaring above were watching
her, she could not tell so easily.

Illarin's eyes widened as she rode towards the second line of the
Consortium's army, and then she grinned evilly as understanding
replaced fear in her mind.

The lines marching towards her were a study in crimson and black. Huge
creatures with powerfully muscled bodies and the heads of fierce,
snarling bulls made up the second front. They wore heavy black
chainmail under dark red surcoats bearing a sinister symbol in their
center. They stood nearly ten feet tall and hefted massive battleaxes,
two-handed swords, and polearms, and many of them also had large bows
and quivers slung over their broad backsides. Dark black eyes glared
from furrowed sockets, and thick frothy spittle stuck to their muzzles
as they growled and gnashed their teeth in the anticipation of battle.

These were the Minotaurs, and they had been summoned from their
distant keeps to return to the lands in the east. Centuries ago, the
race of Minotaurs had enslaved the orcs and enjoyed a cruel
sovereignty over them for many generations. They forced the orcs into
lives of slavery and turned many of them into gladiators, killing off
the weakest of their number and breeding only the strongest of orcs
together. This was the downfall of the Minotaurs, for after a while
the fittest and smartest orcs had been selected for and they finally
led a successful uprising against their evil masters. This not only
earned the orcs their freedom but they had also succeeded in driving
the remaining Minotaurs beyond the farthest reaches of the known lands.

For many years thereafter the orcs would hunt Minotaurs for sport, but
before long all traces of the barbaric race had vanished. They had
retreated to the harsh lands to the far north and west and managed to
make a home in the unforgiving stark pine forests and rocky mountains
of this part of the world.

The orcs, alas, did not prove to be any less evil than their previous
masters, as they have ever since enjoyed many centuries of enslaving
other races, particularly goblins and elves. The western orcs had been
far more involved with the slave trade than their eastern cousins, but
orcs the world over remembered the brutality of the Minotaurs and
would fight to the death before being captured by one.

Though their ancestors bravely threw off the shackles of slavery so
many centuries ago, many of the orcs alive grew fearful at the mere
mention of a Minotaur. This mysterious race of man-beasts, long absent
from the eastern lands for so many centuries, had been relegated to
the stuff of legends. As with most stories told over the years, they
had evolved from reality into history and then into almost complete
fantasy, with very little fact remaining. Present tales told by orcs
involving the Minotaurs made them into colossal beasts that towered
over thirty feet in height and breathed fire and wielded magic,
although no Minotaur had ever been known to harness the forces of
magic.

There were scattered reports of Minotaur sightings in ancient secluded
pockets of forest or caves hidden in the foothills of mountains, but
these were largely scoffed at. However, no orc would try diligently to
seek out a Minotaur to prove that they still existed, for they had no
desire to have to fight for their freedom ever again.

This long memory on the part of the orcs for their bitter days as
slaves of the Minotaurs was exactly what had inspired Zhephani to
attempt to contact them. Another master gem sorcerer within the
Consortium lived in a tower of opal in the vast tundra to the far
northwest, and he had reported making a pact with a conclave of
Minotaurs that lived nearby. They lived within the rock walls of a
gigantic fortress and many were descended from the Minotaurs that had
fled from the orcs so many years ago.

The Minotaurs and the opal sorcerer had entered into some sort of dark
trade alliance, and while they were no friends of the Consortium,
neither were they enemies. Upon hearing of the rediscovery of
Minotaurs, Zhephani thought of the perfect use for them in her
campaign of genocide. She had promised them revenge upon the orcs, who
she reported had overrun the eastern lands with their numbers and were
like a scourge upon the land. Zhephani guaranteed much bloodshed and
her only request of the Minotaurs was that they take prisoner any orcs
they saw fit to spare and not leave one behind.

The Minotaurs told Zhephani they had no designs upon returning to the
east and taking back their cities, many of which had long since fallen
into ruin and been forgotten. The elf was not overly concerned about
any form of deceit upon the part of the Minotaurs, whom she judged to
be rather lacking in intelligence. They seemed completely enthralled
with the idea of doing battle with the orcs, especially since the
Consortium was facilitating the effort. They dreamed of revenge upon
the orcs ever since they had been banished from the east, and their
numbers had grown strong in the centuries that passed since. Perhaps
the only thing that kept them from waging an assault thus far was the
tremendous distance that separated them from the orcs, but the ability
of their newfound allies to gate them instantly into the east removed
all reluctance for an attack.

Illarin chuckled in spite of herself, not wanting to look the fool, as
her horse galloped rapidly through the ranks of the fearsome
Minotaurs. She could tell by the looks in their eyes that they
regularly feasted on animals such as the horse, and she dared not
tarry too long amongst them lest they get any ideas.

She wished she could see the looks of terror and fear upon the faces
of the orcs when they saw what was coming for them, but knew she must
resign herself to the rear ranks for the initial part of the battle at
least. She had a newfound respect for her counterpart in the
Consortium as she became privy to Zhephani's latest surprise. The
Minotaurs were sure to seal the doom of many orcs.

As she passed through the terrifying wave of Minotaurs, Illarin came
again to a brief space between ranks. Ahead of her now lay another
regiment of dwarves, and judging by their superior arms and armour,
she judged these to be the elite troops of the Consortium. These
dwarves were also commanded by gem giants, present in ever more
dazzling and varied colors of precious stones, some individuals
displaying combinations of two or three different gems for skin.

Behind these ranks a staggering number of necromancers commanded an
unholy army of undead. Those that were not fully engrossed in
controlling their undead puppets leered at her sinisterly, fingering
handfuls of dirt and dried worms. Many of the necromancers were
half-elves, reputed to be the best at the dark arts, but there were
also several dwarves and elves in their ranks. The undead creatures
were invariably humanoid, with all manner of weaponry, and where their
eyes should have been were two points of intense red light set within
dark sockets. Illarin's blood chilled at the guttural monotone sounds
uttered by the undead as they communicated with their unholy masters.

She made her way quickly through this lot and finally found herself at
the rear of the army. Scores of elves comprised the command of the
Consortium's army, and at their center was Zhephani. Illarin had
always marveled at how every elf she had ever encountered within the
Consortium was physically beautiful. To her, all elves were a thing of
beauty but this particular breed of elf carried it to an extreme. They
also possessed hair and eye colors of the most bizarre hues, with many
violets, silvers, and golds to be seen, sometimes mixed in enchanting
combinations.

Illarin realized that many of these sorcerers were in fact not
walking, but were gliding just over the surface of the desert. Some
flew even higher in the air, in clusters of four or five, and all were
in animated discussions. They were all garbed in white robes
emblazoned with the emblem of the Consortium, that of a black dragon
gripping a diamond in its claws.

Illarin approached Zhephani, who was surrounded by a small cadre of
sorcerers and was flanked on either side by a pair of imposing
giants. These were a rich emerald in color and their eyes glowed
softly, emanating a pale blue color.  They seemed half again as tall
as the giants she encountered in the preceding ranks.

As she neared them, she noticed that several of the elves were looking
at her upon her horse and smirking reproachfully, as if traveling by
horse had been a thing of the past and that levitating magically was
the only way to travel. Illarin felt a mix of hot anger and sharp
embarrassment, but she controlled her temper.

Zhephani then looked up, seeming to notice Illarin for the first time,
and smiled at her. 'Ah, Illarin, I have been waiting for you. I trust
all goes well with our assault thus far?'

The gem sorceress had a haughty tone in her voice that Illarin had
never liked, perhaps because she reminded her so much of herself. She
sensed that Zhephani considered her inferior, likely because their
uses of magic differed so widely. Illarin also fancied that some of
Zhephani's arrogance derived from having such imposing bodyguards at
all times, and nastily she thought to herself how tough Zhephani would
feel without them present.

Clearing her mind of such petty thoughts, Illarin smiled back at the
silver-haired elf. 'Yes, Zhephani, for the most part we have been
successful. I have just slain the leader of the army from Dalair, and
even now my troops are laying siege to both of Drakhiya's gates.'

Zhephani nodded. 'Excellent,' she murmured.

'But the Scythe have just arrived in full force, and they seem to have
taken my army by surprise,' Illarin continued. She bit off her words
as if they were poison, her infamous temper flaring up again inside of
her. Illarin knew her face must be bright red and that her eyes were
probably glowing with their characteristic magical green hue.

Zhephani raised an eyebrow at her, seeing how upset she was becoming.

'The orcs in Drakhiya are helpless to defend their walls as the
serpentari are revolting and keeping their hands full,' Illarin
continued, more calmly now. 'How fare you in readying the gates?'

Zhephani smiled slowly, her silver eyes flashing dangerously. 'Oh,
they're ready to deploy, have no fear of that,' she said, gazing up at
some of her fellow sorcerers as they flew along above them.

'Perfect,' Illarin said.

Zhephani looked back at Illarin, flying along level with the mage as
she rode atop her horse. 'Take your pick my forces to lead against the
Scythe. I will send Silivren with you. She will command these troops
and she will answer to you.'

Illarin smiled and nodded at the floating elf. 'Thank you,
Zhephani. We will drive the Scythers towards your gates when you give
the signal. Victory will be ours!'

Zhephani and the elves around her sent up a cry in reply, but it was
in a dialect of elvish that Illarin did not understand.

Zhephani must have sensed her confusion, for she laughed softly. 'It
is our own version of saying the same thing, Illarin. Victory will be
ours.'

Illarin smiled at her. 'What of this mist, will it follow us into
battle?'

Zhephani nodded. 'Yes, Silivren will maintain the fog until you are
upon them, and then it shall be released. Nothing like the element of
surprise, especially when those orcs see who has come back to visit,'
the gem sorceress said with an evil grin.

It was Illarin's turn to laugh now. She then bid her farewells,
promising to meet up with Zhephani again once victory was in hand. She
then nodded in the direction of Silivren, who was a smiling, pretty
elf with straight violet hair that fell about her face in errant
strands. Her eyes were of soft silver, sparkling like moonlight
reflected off of still water.

Silivren appeared to be an elf that perhaps had wandered too far from
home as she did not look to be a sorceress, certainly not the type to
be commanding legions of fierce warriors. Yet Illarin doubted her
newfound companion no more when Silivren barked out orders to one of
the gem giants commanding a regiment of elite Consortium fighters. The
small elf was deceptively bold and when she spoke there was an
authoritative air to her voice that defied disobedience.

Silivren listened to Illarin's requests for troops and then carried
out her orders with excellent conviction and without a trace of
hesitation. Illarin felt that this elf trusted her judgment and
command without fail, and she now felt grateful that Silivren was on
her side, if she was hesitant at first. Illarin noticed that not one
of the gem giants or necromancers flinched when Silivren called them
to their service, particularly the Minotaurs, who seemed abundantly
eager to comply.

Once their little army was in order and marching before them, Illarin
watched as Silivren muttered in that strange elvish dialect again. The
gem sorceress' eyes shone like polished steel as she worked her magic,
all the while sprinkling a mysterious fine powder from her hands as
she produced it from one of several pouches at her belt.

As they rode forth from the magical cloud on its northern front,
Illarin noticed that it seemed to envelop them and follow around them
as it did for the main army now behind them. She made a mental note to
herself again to learn more of this mysterious and beautiful magic of
the Consortium when the battle was won.

They were nearing the scene of the battle more quickly than Illarin
had anticipated, as the Scythers seemed to be pressing her EDF troops
steadily backwards into Drakhiya's eastern wall. She supposed that
this was something Balfor had intended all along, and she smirked at
the irony, for it was also her plan to get the Scythers as close to
the city as she could.

The Minotaurs were salivating more profusely now as they neared the
battle, froth speckling their muzzles. Their burgeoning battle lust
mirrored Illarin's as she prepared to deal out death to her enemies
again.

This time, she swore to herself, there would be no retreat.

***

'Gryg, toss me another quiver!' Nattick called out to the burly orc a
few paces down the wall from him.

The rogue had just let the last of his steel-tipped arrows fly into
the battle raging on the streets of Drakhiya down below him. It bit
home right between the eyes of one of the many feral serpentari,
leaving nothing but the fletching protruding from the space between
his eye sockets like some bizarre headdress.

The muscular orc named Gryg completed a bow shot of his own and then
stepped behind the crenellation and reached into a large wooden
barrel. He produced a quiver full of arrows and tossed it over to
Nattick, who snatched it out of the air and slung it onto his back in
one fluid motion. Gryg had to duck quickly to avoid a deadly spear
that had come arcing through the merlon where he had been standing
just moments before.

Nattick caught the orc's furtive motion out of the corner of his eye
and laughed at him. Gryg spat upon the ground and muttered something
unfavorable about Nattick's mother, then leapt back to his feet and
shouted a battlecry as he let several more arrows loose from his great
bow into the crowd of serpentari below.

'Arrows running low, Scyther, so what we gonna do next?' Gryg asked of
the dark rogue, between shots of his bow.

'I suppose we'll have to stab them with our blades, friend,' Nattick
replied. 'Unless you'd prefer to brawl with them?'

Gryg laughed out loud, flinching again as a spear hit the palace wall
in front of him and sent sparks flying into the air, its steel tip
scratching the rough stone.

'Aye, steel then,' the orc replied, patting the pommel of a falchion
sheathed at his side.

Nearly half an hour ago, the Scythe rogue had appeared atop Drakhiya's
eastern parapet and rallied the dwindling numbers of orc guards
present there. He had deftly climbed the wall from inside the city,
surprising the many guards and nearly drawing their attack. When
Nattick quickly explained who he was the orcs cheered as they realized
he was on their side. Gryg then introduced himself as the chief of the
wall guards and asked for Nattick's help in defending the wall. The
orc told Nattick of the serpentari ambush and that it was believed to
have been orchestrated by a large underground cult of serpentari that
worshipped the terrible dragon god Draq.

Nattick understood the situation, for he knew something of Drakhiya's
history. It seemed that the entire serpentari race had declared war on
the desert orcs and was warring to reclaim the city, long ago
conquered by orcs when it was known originally as the serpentari city
of Draqiris. He knew of the tensions that pervaded the city between
the orcs and the downtrodden serpentari, but these had festered for
centuries and he could never have foretold an uprising of this
magnitude. He admired their timing, given the assault by the alliance
of the EDF and the Consortium. And then it hit him: This was all part
of a carefully orchestrated attack, and the serpentari were just tools
in carrying out a larger plot. Nattick thought again of elves and spat
upon the ground, swearing blasphemously.

Ironically, neither Nattick nor Gryg was aware of their mutual
encounters with Mara the elf rogue of the Eldar, nor could they have
been, yet fate had seen fit to throw them together at this moment.

'If Balfor of Scythe trust you, then so does Gryg,' the desert orc
said, and Nattick accepted the offer gladly.

Swiftly, the rogue moved up and down the eastern walls of the city and
appraised the situation. It was looking grim for the desert orcs as
they were rapidly losing control of the streets down below, and it
appeared that soon after they would lose control of the walls
above. The serpentari were revolting and fighting madly everywhere,
and they appeared to be trying to gain control of the city's main
gates, judging from where the heaviest fighting was occurring. They
had no readily apparent leader or general, but rather seemed to be
acting as of one mind. Aside from their own battlecries and shrieks of
agony or victory, they did not give or receive commands from each
other, and this proved to be unsettling to the desert
orcs. Individually, a serpentari was no match for an orc, but their
numbers were far superior, and there were apparently far more
serpentari living in Drakhiya than any had ever estimated. Yet the
orcs fought bravely as they defended their claim to the city with
their lives.

Nattick sent an orc soldier in each direction along the wall to inform
all of its guards that the Scythe army had arrived and had engaged the
Eldar, and that the Consortium was coming right for the city. He
directed them to concentrate on defending the main gates and to leave
off of the streets for now. Nattick could see that the serpentari were
trying to force open the gates and expel the orcs into the desert, and
he knew that yielding control of the city to the serpentari meant they
would have superiority with their archers from the wall tops. Between
the hostile enemy outside and a dangerous one within, he knew the
Scythe would need every advantage it could get to win this war.

Drakhiya's western gate, the Gate of Dusk, was in imminent danger of
falling first as the EDF had somehow managed to get siege troops on
that side of the city quickly. They had done extensive damage to it
already and many of the siege engines and their elven operators kept
themselves just beyond reach of the bows of the orcs.

Nattick reported this to Gryg, who pulled his archers from the western
wall to fortify the east in an attempt to hold the Gate of
Dawn. Outside Gryg could see that the Scythe army was approaching the
city steadily, on the heels of the EDF, the forefront of which was
completing its decimation of the Dalairi orcs just outside the
gate. The fell white mist continued its ominous approach towards
Drakhiya, and it seemed to have widened appreciably as it was now
spreading towards the warring armies of the Scythe and EDF to its
north.

Gryg cast one last nervous glance towards the fog before he turned
back to join Nattick in launching arrows at the serpentari scurrying
about within his city.

'Have you any crows?' the rogue asked of Gryg. Nattick was leaning his
back against the inside of a crenellation, his breath coming in short
bursts, an arrow nocked and ready in his bow.

Gryg grunted in affirmation. 'South end of wall. Crows there,' he
said, pointing.

Nattick nodded, then leapt out from concealment and took a bead on a
running serpentari militiaman down below. The arrow was loosed from
the string and no sooner had it found its mark than the rogue was
already several paces down the wall, the sounds of his mark screaming
in agony piercing the air behind him.

Hastily, Nattick scribbled out a note explaining all that he had seen
in short sentences. He included the fact that Akul had taken a mixed
force of fighters and led them into the sewers. Nattick would have
preferred the mage's spells at his disposal upon the wall, but he
supposed Akul was either trying to strike at the base of the
serpentari cultists down below or to use the tunnels as a means to
ambush them, as they had ambushed the orcs.

He finished writing, rolled up the parchment and placed it inside the
message tube, which was affixed to the leg of an intelligent-looking
crow. This particular crow had been trained to fly to the mark of the
Scythe, so Nattick hoped it would recognize the mark on the battle
standards placed in the desert just to the east. As Nattick let the
crow fly from his arm, it took to the air smoothly and silently.

As Nattick made his way back up the wall to his previous station, he
saw Gryg and another orc pushing a flaming barrel of pitch over the
wall - to the outside the city. Moments later the sound of the barrel
smashing was accompanied by the 'whoosh' of flames and cries of agony.

'Out of arrows?' Nattick asked of Gryg.

'Yep,' Gryg nodded, drawing his scimitar. 'Elves knocking on door,
lizardmen trying to open door.' The orc pointed at him with his curved
blade. 'You pick which way we go.'

Nattick grinned as he whipped the huge bastard sword from its
sheath. 'Doors are more easily held than broken, my friend.'

Gryg grinned back at him. 'We skin some lizardmen!' he shouted, as he
and Nattick led the remaining guards in a charge down the stone steps
and into the fray below.

***

Akul pointed his finger at the serpentari warrior in front of him, who
was wielding black-bladed scimitars in each hand and was swinging them
at Akul's neck, one from either side.

'Nur Sept!' bellowed the mage, and as he uttered the arcane magical
phrase a ball of angry red light came hurtling from his open mouth and
shot straight at the serpentari.

Before the blades could be brought together to decapitate Akul, the
glowing red sphere hit the warrior and with a loud crackle it
enveloped him entirely. The serpentari's body quivered and his arms
flailed at his sides wildly, splashing the scimitars into the shallow
muck of the sewer. His eyes went wide and stared fixedly ahead, his
mouth open in a silent scream.

As the serpentari sank to his knees and slumped forward to land
face-down in the muck, the red light outlining his body slowly ebbed
away. When it flickered out, it took with it the serpentari's life.

Akul sneered at the corpse of the serpentari, and then quickly looked
up to assess the situation around him.

He was glad to see that the small strike force he had recruited at the
Gate of Dawn was still intact. A trio of fighters had the last of the
serpentari cultists pinned in a corner, and by the look of it, those
serpentari would soon be joining their fallen comrade in death.

To his right, the half-elven ranger was kneeling by her wolf, tending
its wounds while it gnawed hungrily on a hunk of salted meat. Gilhenna
was what the ranger called herself, and when Akul had asked her to
assist him in trekking through the sewers she volunteered without
hesitation. She had spoken nary a word since but her prowess in battle
and her ability to track enemies were proving to be quite useful. He
did not know exactly why this ranger sided with the orcs of Drakhiya
in this pitched battle that carried no obvious significance to a
member of her class, let alone a half-elf. But Akul was not in the
position to be picky about whom he picked for his death squad, and her
word and her steel were good enough for him. He made a mental note to
ask the morose ranger about her story later, should they both prevail.

Akul bound his own wounds, which were a couple of large but
superficial slashes from the scimitars. Once bandaged, Akul quickly
took a couple of swigs of Raveli rum from his wineskin and felt energy
returning to him. The powerful drink made him stagger for a brief
moment.

He stepped back and closed his eyes. He touched two fingers to his
forehead and muttered a magical word almost inaudibly.

Instantly, an image appeared in his mind's eye. At the center of the
vision stood Yassar, the advisor to the Caliph who had so recently
betrayed him with a dagger to his belly. The lithe old serpentari
cleric seemed to be standing in the royal gardens of the palace, from
what Akul could make out of his surroundings. Behind the Wazir, many
serpentari were climbing the walls and trellises of the garden and up
beyond the reach of Akul's vision. Yassar seemed to be tinkering with
a large brass construct shaped like a man, but exactly what he was
doing was not clear to Akul. All around the Wazir, serpentari cultists
fought fanatically with the elite palace guards, and bodies littered
the floor of the garden.

The image faded away and Akul's eyes blinked open.

Gilhenna and her wolf were both in front of him, gazing at him
expectantly, and the mage jumped with a start.

'Gods, you scared me!'

Gilhenna continued to stare at him stoically. 'Want me to track Yassar
next?' she deadpanned.

Akul nodded at her, watching over her shoulder as the last of the
serpentari fell to the blades of the dwarven fighter.

'Yes, Gilhenna, he's in the royal gardens. I'll need your wolf to
follow his nose to the right grate.'

The ranger nodded curtly then knelt down beside her wolf, speaking
softly to it. The massive canine twitched its head to the side,
intelligence gleaming in its golden eyes as it listened to its
master's bidding.

Akul continued to watch the end of the battle between his fighters and
the serpentari, the latter of which lay dead in the sewer water. The
dwarf was a berserker and continued to thrash about wildly with his
battleaxe, even though his opponents were slain. The human and orc
fighters danced artfully out of the way of the axe's deadly slashes,
and finally the orc was able to slam the pommel of his sword down onto
the top of the dwarf's helmet.

The dwarf stopped his attack as he staggered in circles for a moment,
and then shook his head and grunted.

Akul could not help but laugh, but the orc and human fighters just
leered at him.

'Apologies,' the dwarf called Kurgar mumbled, aware of his tendency
towards unbridled bloodlust.

'Just keep that thing pointed at the lizardmen and we'll get along
just fine, Kurgar,' the human fighter named Brenn chided his dwarvish
companion, motioning to the large battleaxe.

Pommuk the orc fighter grunted in agreement as he munched on what
appeared to be some greasy pork rinds.

'The garden is this way,' Gilhenna called out as she followed her wolf
into a tunnel leading off in the darkness to their west.

'Yassar dies next, provided we encounter no more of his lackeys down
here,' Akul called out as he fell in line with the rest of his party
behind the ranger. 'After we dispose of him we'll see about that west
gate, if it's still standing.'

'I like you Scythers, always so confident. I think I might like to
join if I live through this mess,' Brenn said, smirking at Akul.

The other fighters laughed.

Akul laughed along and turned to Brenn. 'Indecision and fear are for
the weak. They have no place in our guild. Remember that.' Akul was no
longer laughing.

'Indeed,' replied Brenn, gulping.

***

As the hot afternoon sun began its daily descent into the western
horizon, buzzards circled lazily above the crowded desert floor
below. From their vantage point, it appeared that a dust storm had
slowly and steadily kicked up around the walls of the vast desert city
of Drakhiya. But unlike most other storms, this one did not grow in
its ferocity nor did it blow across the desert for many miles. It was
also unusual in that intermingled with the airborne dust were columns
of smoke and ash, as well as a mysterious white fog that had crept
along the desert like some silent, cunning killer.

The buzzard's powerful sense of olfaction also betrayed other
peculiarities about this storm. There were the enticing scent of
blood, the noisome odor of sweat, the intoxicating smell of decay, and
the indescribable bouquet of fear, all of them combining to pique the
interest of this avian assemblage.

These opportunistic carrion feeders were simply hanging around for the
feast of their lifetimes, for a battle of mammoth proportions was
being waged several hundred percha below them, and they would soon
transform their lazy spirals into aggressive nose-dives when the war
was over.

Scores of dead littered both the sand of the desert and the streets of
Drakhiya. Fighting had raged on within its sandstone walls for several
hours now, with most of the conflict concentrating around the city's
two main gates. By far the largest hosts of each army were battling at
the Gate of Dawn and just outside of it, as the EDF had almost
completely annihilated the Dalairi Orcs. They were now concentrating
on dealing with the force of the Scythe. Thus far they had largely
battled to a stalemate but the Scythers were steadily gaining the
upper hand. The white mist loomed ever closer, however, and was set to
engulf the battlefield.

At the Gate of Dusk, the combination of pounding from the EDF siege
engines and the ferocity of the revolting serpentari had led to the
crumbling of the mighty stone gate. Desert orcs poured out of the
large gaps in the wall and over the rubble of their fallen gate, being
pressed by a rush from the serpentari. Oddly, the elves and humans of
the Eldar awaiting them outside worked with the serpentari and
attempted to merely contain the orcs and did not move in to decimate
them, even though they had them cornered. A thick cloud of white mist
came roiling into the area from beyond the southern wall of Drakhiya,
and it poured greedily over the fallen wall.

Back to the east, the Gate of Dawn remained intact, although the
fighting within and without the gatehouse were steadily ratcheting
upwards in intensity.

'What the hell is going on Balfor?!' an orc lieutenant screamed at the
Scythe general, as he fought feverishly to keep an elf warrior at
bay. The orc was speaking of the mist, which had now enveloped the
warring armies of the EDF and Scythe like a thick fog. Visibility had
been reduced heavily, as each individual was only able to see clearly
for about twenty feet in any direction.

Balfor spat blood upon the ground. He, too, fought with gusto, taking
on two elves at once. Both of them were wielding longswords that
seemed to have a supernatural affinity for human flesh, as the blades
shimmered an eerie green color whenever they neared Balfor. For now he
had kept them at bay without a scratch, which was much more than could
be said for his elvish opponents, both of whom were bleeding from
several slashes.

'My scouts never returned,' Balfor said bitterly, between parries. 'I
suspect we shall find out soon enough what this bothersome fog is all
about!'

'No time for fear! Hail to Halforc!' the bloodied orc lieutenant
shouted in a Scythe battlecry. From many directions throughout the
mist came hearty cries in reply from unseen Scythers, boosting the
morale of the bloodthirsty tribe.

For a few more moments, the fighting continued amidst the blinding
white fog, the shouts of both armies adding to the chaos as they tried
to rally their respective morale. Then, the mists began to dissipate -
slowly at first, and then almost seeming to disappear at once, as if
they had never been.

Out of this diminishing fog came the full force of the Consortium's
vanguard. The first wave consisted entirely of Minotaurs, who came
tromping in waving their battleaxes, swords and polearms high over
their heads. The sound of their thick black chainmail rattling,
combined with their ferocious snarls and guttural cries for blood,
made for a fearsome spectacle.

Shouts of panic and surprise went up from all of the orcs present,
most of who stopped momentarily to goggle at the sight of their worst
nightmare coming right for them. EDF fighters took advantage of the
orcs' loss of initiative and finished many of them off with single
swipes of their blades. A few orcs remained undaunted by the apparent
return of the hellish Minotaurs and screamed at their brethren to
fight back and to not yield. The Scythe commanders echoed them and
many of them broke off their fight with the EDF to engage the
Minotaurs.

The Minotaurs did not attack the EDF troops, but neither did they
assist them directly. Many times would a Minotaur trample over an elf
or human fighting for the EDF in order to get at an orc. They reveled
in their combat with the orcs and it seemed to take several orcs to
take on just one Minotaur. For several heartbeats the tide of
bloodthirsty Minotaurs swung the momentum away from the Scythe as they
butchered their foes with brutal efficiency.

Out of nowhere came Glock, presaged by his ominous and bone-chilling
battlecry. With the blade of his awesome scythe flashing in wicked
arcs and drenched with blood and gore, the monstrous orc charged
headlong right into the heart of the Minotaur brigade. For the first
time the massive man-beasts appeared uncertain of their opponent, and
the terrified screams of dying Minotaurs went up from the center of
the crowd where Glock stood his ground. Above the heads of the
Minotaurs, the orc's scythe could be seen, each time accompanied by a
jet of crimson or the disembodied limb or head of a fallen Minotaur.

The presence of the Massacrator was just what the orcs' flagging
morale needed, and they renewed their fight as their fear of their
ancient captors began to transform into courage. The Minotaurs,
however, had recovered from their initial unease at the sight of Glock
and now fought aggressively to bring him down, blood-tinged spittle
foaming at their mouths.

Balfor worked his way free of the fighting for a brief moment, as his
longsword took the head from another EDF sympathizer, this one
belonging to a troublesome human conjurer. The rugged leader of the
Scythe ran atop a low dune of sand that gave him a relatively wide
view of the fighting around him, now that the mist had dissipated.

As he had feared, the mist carried more than this mysterious and
unexpected band of Minotaurs, as right on their heels came what must
have been the full force of the Consortium. Balfor's mouth gaped open
slightly as he beheld the bizarre sight before him.

Second and third waves of troops were about to take the battlefield
behind the Minotaurs. By their look Balfor knew that the EDF now had
the decided upper hand in this battle, thanks to the arrival of their
allies in far superior numbers. A full spectrum of rich colors greeted
Balfor's eyes as he gazed across the lines of giants headed for the
battlefield. The giants seemed to have skin the color and consistency
of all of the precious stones Balfor had ever seen, and despite
himself he had to admire their savage beauty. They towered over the
heavily-armoured rows of dwarven fighters at their feet, apparently
commanding them. It seemed that many of the giants chose not to wield
weapons. Instead, their eyes and hands glowed dangerously and Balfor's
heart sank as he realized these giants seemed to be capable of some
sort of magic. He noticed that the giants gave the Minotaurs a wide
berth, and Balfor swore to exploit this possible schism in the enemy's
force at the first opportunity.

A smaller, albeit still sizable, force did not engage Balfor's army at
the Gate of Dawn but continued to head west, staying south of the city
wall and likely headed for the Gate of Dusk. Here and there, the air
was filled with small clusters of flying humanoids, none of whom had
wings but all of whom wore white and silver robes. Each figure seemed
to be surrounded by a gentle glow, the colors of these radiances
matching those of some of the giants striding far below them. Some of
these floating figures, whom Balfor assumed to be spellcasters,
approached the near gate while others followed the ground troops
headed to the west.

'God's teeth...' Balfor muttered, half in anger and half in awe.

Before the fighter could figure out how best to neutralize these
terrible giants, he beheld the dozens of gibbering undead headed his
way, commanded by a small army of necromancers. His own army would
have no aid from paladins, as their self-righteous philosophy never
rang true with that of the Scythe. Balfor had tried to entice a small
band of paladins to form a mercenary corps with the Scythe army,
tempting them with the certain knowledge that they would be facing the
unholy undead. They laughed haughtily at him and told him their wars
were fought on a much higher ground than some common guild war and to
leave them out of it. Of course no amount of money or treasure would
tempt a paladin, so Balfor was left now to rue the lack of smite power
in his army. Fortunately, the Scythe was replete with clerics and
mages, both of whom could match the necromancers' power, yet this
meant pulling them away from assisting the fighters and rogues in
their battles. He also had his own stock of necromancers at his
command, complete with undead pets, but they had long since been sent
to the battlefield and were now scattered throughout the fighting,
weaving their dark rituals and hurling them at the enemy.

Balfor ordered several of the troops commanded by his mages and
clerics to engage the oncoming undead, bringing them out of the
reserve at the back of the battle. His army was now fully committed to
the fighting, and it was his one large force against the combined
armies of the EDF and Consortium. Balfor's brow furrowed in concern
and he shot a desperate glance in the direction of the Gate of
Dawn. It remained sealed shut and he sincerely hoped that the desert
orcs would be able to throw back the serpentari and come out here to
reinforce him. Nattick's message had given him some hope, as the rogue
had yet to fail him, and Akul also had single-handedly turned a
situation to the Scythe's advantage on several previous occasions.

For now, Balfor knew he must wait for the Drakhiya orcs to come to
him, for his army was far too occupied with the hosts of the EDF and
Consortium to attempt a siege on the city's eastern gate. He turned to
the south again and strode back towards the battlefield, brandishing
his longsword menacingly. As he approached the chaos of the battle, he
saw a fairly large group of the levitating mages coming right towards
him.

Dozens of figures appeared to be flying about one hundred feet in the
air above the desert floor as they headed towards the Gate of
Dawn. Balfor stopped in his tracks and watched them for a moment, a
puzzled expression on his face. As they loomed closer he could see
that they were doing something with their hands, which were glowing
intensely. Their white robes rippled in the desert wind, the silver
patterns reflecting the setting sun's light brilliantly.

To his left, Balfor then heard the telltale screeching of Illarin, the
EDF battle mage who must have rendezvoused with her precious allies in
the Consortium, as she now rode into the battle atop her magnificent
black palfrey. Not wanting to take his eye off of the enigmatic
floating mages, Balfor nonetheless forged his way back into battle in
the direction of the EDF's commander. He had to neutralize Illarin and
try and demoralize his foes, as well as see just how powerful this
Zhephani was.

'Maybe Arehtama will be skulking about, too,' he thought to himself
with grim eagerness.

'Jorgga! Rally your fighters and spell-throwers and FOLLOW THOSE
FLYING MAGES!' Balfor shouted at one of his nearby lieutenants as he
pointed at the levitating cadre. The orcish fighter listened to Balfor
intently and then sprang to action, calling out the orders to those in
his unit. As Balfor strode briskly towards the sphere of combat around
Illarin, he felt secure leaving the Gate in his able lieutenant's
hands, for now. Something about the entire scenario was not quite
right but he could not puzzle it out.

All around him, the battle raged on with renewed intensity as the
disciplined troops of the Consortium joined the melee. The
awe-inspiring giants towered over their foes, hurling glowing gems at
them which exploded on contact and sent shards flying as they
burst. The giants unleashed their dwarven vassals once they reached
the opposing army and then joined the fray themselves, seeming to
relinquish their command. They sought out the Scythe spellcasters and
undead, often hurling their volatile gems from a distance. Some would
open their mouths and emit stinging clouds of poison, sending their
opponents into fits of gagging and coughing.

The dwarven Consortium fighters were disciplined and deadly, and all
of them were wielding longswords with edges of diamond that cut
through armour without fail. They rallied around their giant
commanders and formed a protective ring, enabling the giants to hurl
their exploding gems and breathe their noxious mists without
disruption.

A number of the Scythers were avid scalp collectors and there was much
profit to be made in the trade of giant scalps. Consequently many of
them had learned how best to fight giants and to bring them down
quickly. Even though these enigmatic giants with skin made from
valuable gems were foreign, the Scythers were unwavering in their
attempts to get at them.

'Save me their corpses!' one enthusiastic Scythe fighter called out,
as she brought down one of the gem giants with a final hack from her
two-handed sword.

'Piss on that! Give scalps to Gorgak!' a grinning orc Scyther shouted
back as he deftly skirted the broad strokes from a giant's blade, this
one the color of amethyst.

A pair of Minotaurs that were stalking nearby overheard the orc and
descended upon him amidst a series of lusty, guttural shouts. Gorgak
screamed in fearful surprise and was forced to back off of the giant,
and he backpedaled fiercely as he fended off the assault of the
Minotaurs.

The female fighter laughed at her comrade as he got himself into his
predicament, then leapt to his aid as soon as she had finished
stuffing the scalp of her fallen giant under her breastplate.

An imposing half-elven necromancer commanded a trio of rotting undead
fighters that were presently attacking a couple of Scythe
clerics. Their shields were all that were between them and the deadly
attacks of the undead, all of whom were wielding massive clubs made of
stone. One of the clerics, a dwarf, finished a prayer to his gods for
wrath which he directed at one of the undead. The ground beneath the
monster shook violently, jarring the undead beast until it collapsed
into the sand, never to rise again.

The half-elf necromancer Jalen began to intone a ritual, his golden
eyes glittering aggressively. The clerics were both too busy with the
remaining undead to strike at the necromancer before he completed his
ghastly ritual. A lone figure skulked imperceptibly behind the
half-elf, and just before the ritual was completed the rogue leapt
forward and plunged his stiletto deep into the side of the necromancer.

The half-elf groaned loudly and his cries of pain mixed with the
contemptible shouts from the Scythe clerics as they saw him drop to
his knees. They then went back to cringing behind their shields as
they traded blow after blow with the undead fighters.

The rogue silently circled around to the front of the necromancer, who
beheld her for the first time. She was one of the ugliest orcs he had
ever seen and hatred boiled hotly in his blood. She wagged the blade
of her katana at him tauntingly as she twirled a stiletto in her right
hand.

Jalen rose to his knees and leered evilly at the Scythe rogue. They
began to spar and he defended the cuts from her blade with his staff
as he began another guttural incantation. Before the rogue could give
him another wound to match the deep puncture from her stiletto, the
necromancer completed his ritual as a tiny black scarab vanished from
his left hand.

The half-elf shouted triumphantly as an assortment of huge insects
skittered forth from the sand beneath the rogue's feet and crawled all
over her body, biting her aggressively. She screamed in agony as she
was forced to leave off her assault to fend off the belligerent plague
of insects that swarmed over her.

Before the orc could finish plucking all of the insects from her body
and squash them beneath her boot, Jalen completed another evil ritual
involving a large chunk of ice. The air about him crackled with an
abysmal dark energy as he fed on the lifeforce of the orc rogue,
dropping her to her knees. He finished her off by ramming one end of
his staff into her jaw, killing her instantly.

He did not even have time to think about preparing a ritual to animate
her fresh corpse into a revenant, for the last thing he ever saw as he
looked up from the rogue's twitching remains was the flat surface of
the dwarven cleric's warhammer as it smashed in his face.

Frustrated with his lack of progress towards Illarin, Balfor had to
march quickly to his left to get out of the trenches of combat,
leaving the corpses of three unlucky elf fighters and one Minotaur in
his wake. As he moved swiftly behind the lines of heavy fighting to
the outer flank, he found one of his lieutenants. The tall and rangy
human female warrior made right for Balfor as soon as she saw him,
limping severely on her left leg and sporting a tight bandage marred
with bloodstains atop her skull.

'Lieutenant, any word from the inside?' Balfor asked of his
subordinate.

'Yes, sir. Nattick sends word that the Caliph is dead, killed by
Yassar. The serpentari are revolting and now they fight the orcs for
control of the city. Akul is in the sewers going after Yassar, and
Nattick is trying to get control of the gates,' the lieutenant
reported, rattling her words off quickly. She handed Nattick's
scrawled note to Balfor.

Balfor glanced at the note briefly and noticed that the scrawl was
indeed Nattick's. He nodded curtly. 'Continue.'

The lieutenant nodded. 'Arehtama took a large part of the EDF force
around to the west gate, and we couldn't follow but we did take down a
bunch of them as they retreated. These flying mages - '

'Hold!' Balfor shouted abruptly. He was glancing in all directions,
his brow furrowed in heavy concern. 'These troops, what are they
doing?' he asked, uneasiness in his voice. All around them, the
combined forces of the EDF and Consortium were moving in bizarre
patterns. They seemed to be falling back and at the same time moving
to the flanks. The net effect was that the Scythe was being drawn into
a circle and surrounded.

Surrounded on all sides, save for one: the Gate of Dawn.

Wide-eyed, the lieutenant followed Balfor's gaze. She simply stared,
mouth slightly open, and shook her head in confusion.

Balfor jerked his gaze back to the levitating mages, who were now
grouped in a semi-circular cluster of about thirty members. They were
floating above the Gate of Dawn. A strange, golden shimmering and
flickering seemed to glide over the air between and beneath them.

As Balfor began to comprehend what was happening, the sound of an
Eldar battle horn to the north sent his temper flaring. The Scyther
had just lost his legendary cool composure.

'You hear that, lieutenant?!' he screamed at the soldier, who followed
the direction of Balfor's outstretched finger and gazed to the
north. Amidst roiling clouds of dust came Arehtama's small army,
thundering towards the Scythe's unprotected rear in a clever
ambush. He was still perhaps a stadium away, but she knew there would
be no way they could regroup to present a unified front and receive
the onslaught. She further knew it was her own misjudgment of
Arehtama's maneuvers earlier that had left the Scythe in such a
predicament. Arehtama had feinted retreat, and she had bought it.

'There's your damned retreating elf, about to ream us in the ass!'
Balfor shouted at her, his face purple with rage, veins bulging
unattractively in his neck.

The battered lieutenant just stood there, gritting her
teeth. 'Why... why are they marshaling their troops around us like
this?' she stammered.

Balfor unsheathed a second longsword that had been strapped to his
back and stood brooding for a moment. 'They mean to push us into a
trap,' he said, gesturing with the longsword in the direction of the
coalescing golden maelstrom in front of the city's east gate. 'And I
mean to push back.' He spat upon the ground.

The lieutenant stood still, awaiting her next orders and feeling
demoralized at her blunder in letting Arehtama slip away.

Balfor seemed to have reined in his temper, and he gazed sidelong at
his lieutenant. Roughly, he punched her on the shoulder. 'No time to
be craven, lieutenant. Take your men, rendezvous with Glock in the
center and do not let them push you into that portal.'

The lieutenant regained her composure and nodded. 'Aye,' she said.

'Nattick has yet to let me down, so wait for him to come crashing
through that gate with all the orcs of Drakhiya at his back,' he said,
eyeing the steadily intensifying golden light uneasily.

Just at that moment, Boki came bounding up alongside Balfor, making
even the desert sand tremble slightly beneath his gargantuan
weight. He clapped the general roughly on the back, pitching him
forward and nearly causing him to spill into the sand. The ogre
positively reeked of blood and sweat, and his club was spattered with
knots of sinew and flesh and hair, forming a macabre collage of death.

'What we killin' next, Boss?' Boki asked eagerly of his leader. His
face was split into a huge grin, showing crooked white and yellow
teeth, many of them blood-stained.

'Boki, as always, you read my mind. Round up some of these sorry
excuses for Scythers and let's form a welcoming committee for Arehtama
and his men.' He then exchanged a vicious headbutt with the large
ogre, and they formed up to confront the wily elf and his troops.

'Hail Halforc!' the lieutenant called to them as she melted back into
the combat around her. The Scythe was now completely surrounded and
outnumbered nearly three to one, but their steady morale remained
unbroken.

Perhaps it was fortunate that they did not notice the large assembly
of buzzards circling directly over them at that moment.

***

Nattick felt a harsh, stinging sensation from the deep gash in his
left leg. The last serpentari warrior he fought had been vanquished
but not without some difficulty. The snake-like humanoid had managed
to penetrate Nattick's defenses and sliced a deep wound in his thigh
with a rust-covered scimitar. The rogue wasn't sure if it was the rust
on the blade or some fell serpentari poison that was responsible for
the throbbing coming from his left leg. He was growing tired at an
alarming pace, and though he was not surprised at this, he had hoped
his body would hold out a little longer. The large bastard sword he
favored in battle was growing heavier by the minute in his hands, and
sweat mixed with blood ran over small cuts on his hands and forearms,
making his grip on the cumbersome blade tricky to maintain.

Fortunately, Nattick's mind remained sharp in spite of his physical
fatigue. He took advantage of his roguish ability to practically hide
in plain sight, and ducked away from the quivering serpentari's corpse
and snuck away in the shadows, which grew ever taller in the day's
waning light. Catching his breath, he surveyed the scene around him at
the Gate of Dawn. Gryg had disappeared into the mob of fighting that
was taking place on the main road, its white cobbled flagstones
stained and spattered with blood. Whether or not his orcish companion
yet lived, Nattick could not say, but he knew there would be no
quarter given by either side in this epic battle.

'And just how many sides are there?' the rogue wondered darkly to
himself.

Subconsciously Nattick gripped his leg and massaged it, attempting to
dull the pain. He peered thoughtfully at the sealed eastern gate,
staring past the frantic combat before it. He wondered how his
brethren on the other side were faring on their own battlefield in the
desert. Inside the city walls, the orcs and their makeshift allies
continued to outclass the dogged serpentari in combat but were still
heavily outnumbered. The serpentari just kept pouring forth from the
sewers in staggering numbers.

Nattick surmised that the serpentari must have been breeding an army
of this magnitude for years, and he wondered just how extensive the
tunnels beneath the desert city had to be to hide such a force. He
also wondered who or what was responsible for teaching these
serpentari to fight like they were, unless they had done a fantastic
job of acting like inferior soldiers for generations before.

With a pang he wondered how Akul was faring in his quest to reach
Yassar and neutralize him. He had a fondness for the mysterious Scythe
mage, and hoped that he would not meet his demise at the hands of the
treacherous serpentari priest. Nattick hoped that if Yassar were
slain, the morale of the serpentari would break and they would then
scatter like the cowards they were widely held to be.

Nattick took one last look at the burgeoning hordes of the serpentari,
climbing out of sewer grates to replace every fallen serpentari. He
then decided to help them open the city gates after all, for if the
orcs in Drakhiya did not get help from the Scythe army outside, they
were going to be completely wiped out by the serpentari inside.

'Let's just hope the scene out there doesn't look half as desperate as
the one in here,' he thought to himself as he slipped unseen into the
gatehouse.

Quickly and quietly, Nattick began to ascend the stairs. The steps
were choked with bodies, mostly serpentari, but here and there were
the corpses of orc wall guards and the odd mercenary. The city's
fountains and streets were similarly awash with crimson blood, and
strangely Nattick found himself boggling at the thought of how
horrible this city would smell in just a few hours.

A sharp throbbing in Nattick's leg chased away all such inane thoughts
from his mind, and the dull aching had progressed to a sharp stabbing
as he clambered over the corpses in the gatehouse's stairwell. He
fiercely beat back the fears creeping into his mind about a crippling
poison, and swore to himself to find a cleric just as soon as he could
open the gate.

Nattick stopped at the third step from the top of the stairs. The
unmistakable sounds of swordplay came from just around the corner, to
his right. On the wall before him, torchlight from within the
gatehouse cast flickering shadows of those who fought around the
corner. The shadows danced and lurched madly across the surface of the
sandstone wall as the flames of the torch guttered wildly.

Nattick pressed his back to the wall, keeping his head turned so as to
keep an eye on the shadows' duel. He gritted his teeth and swallowed a
grunt as he steeled his mind against another sharp pang from his
leg. As he listened he heard what sounded like at least two different
orcs muttering curses as they fought with several serpentari, possibly
five or six.

'Make that four or five,' he thought to himself as one of the smaller
shadows caught the business end of a polearm in the back of his
head. The shadow writhed briefly before dropping beneath the glow of
the torchlight, a disembodied shriek coming from around the corner
simultaneously.

The rogue grinned and licked his lips. He tightened his grip on the
handle of his wicked knife, waiting for the right moment to stalk
around the corner and make his customary roguish entrance.

After a few more heated exchanges of their blades, Nattick could see
the shadow of the orc wielding the polearm go down amidst the sounds
of savage hacks from the serpentari's upraised scimitars. The other
orc must have fallen at the same time, as the victorious snake men
began to chatter urgently amongst themselves and no longer did he hear
the sound of steel upon steel.

In a blur the wiry rogue ducked low and spun around the corner, facing
in the direction of the serpentari. Two serpentari remained standing
from the combat and they were busy fiddling with the gate's winch
mechanism. They were faced away from him but Nattick locked eyes with
a wounded serpentari that was lying with his back against the outer
wall, his legs covered by one of the two fallen orc guards.

As the serpentari screamed in alarm at his comrades, Nattick sounded a
battlecry of his own and leapt in the air toward the unprotected
backside of the serpentari closest to him. He thrust the knife deeply
through the snake man's leather jerkin and through his scaly hide
beneath. Dark red blood welled up rapidly and voluminously around his
hand, and Nattick knew he had hit the 'sweet spot' where the main
artery courses down the inside of the serpentari spine. Garrison's
'hands-on' lessons about various humanoid anatomies were always
grisly, but invaluable in the information they provided to a
rogue. Between Garrison's teachings and his experience balming corpses
as a Scyther, Nattick knew very well where to place the dagger during
a backstab on almost any type of foe.

Reflexively, Nattick gave the blade a final twist as he completed his
backstab, but even then the serpentari was slumping forward lifelessly
to collapse onto the winch.

'One less of you lizards to exterminate,' the rogue snarled as he
turned to bear on the lone standing serpentari. He brandished the huge
bastard sword in front of him menacingly, and the serpentari hissed
eagerly at Nattick, a forked tongue flickering animatedly from within
the snake man's mouth. The serpentari grinned hatefully at the rogue,
showing several rows of sharp yellow teeth, and raised a jagged-edged
scimitar defiantly in front of him. Behind him, Nattick could hear
sounds of stirring as the wounded serpentari was attempting to rise.

Nattick wasted little time with both of his foes, as within a half of
a minute he had hacked the first one into three pieces and driven the
point of his sword home through the exposed neck of the second
serpentari, who was still attempting to regain his footing.

As the dying serpentari gurgled quietly at the end of the rogue's
outstretched blade, Nattick glanced quickly in either direction along
the wall top outside the gatehouse. Seeing that no more serpentari
were currently headed his way, he removed the tip of his sword from
the serpentari's neck and he leaned against the outer wall. Peering
down through an arrow slit, he saw that the fighting outside was
thicker and heavier than ever.

Nattick blinked once as if in disbelief, and then stared through
widened eyes at how vastly the scene outside had changed since he last
viewed it. It had only been about fifteen minutes, but there were now
all manner of creatures attempting to kill his guild mates and sack
the city of Drakhiya. Lumbering giants with skins like gems, very much
like the kind he had witnessed in the crystal monolith, were driving
small armies of well-armoured dwarves into the fray. Legions of undead
hammered away at each other and their masters, and it was harder for
Nattick to discern his allies amongst this lot. Even the Minotaurs of
legend could be seen stalking about the battlefield, and Nattick
ruefully acceded to the brilliance behind the plan to marshal them
against the orcs of Drakhiya and the largely-orcish Scythe.

Stranger still were the flying mages, hurling magical whirlwinds and
bolts of silver and gold light into the fray below. Nattick's stomach
turned as he realized how many strange mages like Zhephani there must
be out there.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, as it had done once in
the monolith. As a shiver crept across his spine, Nattick craned his
neck to look through the arrow slit and to his right. An eerie
humming, barely audible above the din of the fighting, could be heard
from that direction. It reminded him of the magic wrought by Zhephani
as he spied upon her within her tower.

There seemed to be a small conclave of the gem mages hovering near the
Gate of Dawn, just outside and perhaps twenty feet above Nattick and
to his right. He strained to see as much as he could of the mages, but
his vision was severely limited by the narrow slit in the stone
wall. He could now make out a low, scratchy noise as if the mages were
chanting or whispering, and every now and then there would be a golden
pulse of light. The air beneath the mages' feet seemed to shimmer, and
instantly Nattick recognized gem dust as it showered down from their
outstretched hands. Slowly, as the humming grew in its intensity, the
air between and beneath the mages began to shimmer, looking much like
the air above the hot surface of the desert when viewed against the
horizon.

Nattick recognized enough of this ritual to realize they were likely
attempting to open a portal of some kind. He did not relish the
thought of having to find out what was on the other side of it and
knew it would not be a welcome surprise for his guild mates. He
absently patted the pouch on his belt that contained the diamond dust
and quickly devised a scheme to get himself in a position to
neutralize the portal.

Hastily, he wiped the blade of his sword clean and sheathed it. He
tucked the knife into his belt as he strode purposefully toward the
gate's winch. His hopes for aid from his friends outside had been all
but dashed by the appearance of the Consortium's army, but to languish
inside the city fighting the endless rush of serpentari meant certain
death.

As the gate creaked open loudly and slowly, the gatehouse shuddered
slightly. This sent another twinge of pain shooting up Nattick's
wounded leg. But before the gate could completely open, the rogue was
already back down the stairs and out of the gatehouse, bastard sword
held high over his head as he rallied the besieged orcs of Drakhiya to
fall back to the Gate of Dawn.

***

Clang! Click. Whirrrrr. CLANG! Click. Click.

These were the sounds made by the huge brass automaton as it whaled
its massive arms about, flailing at its attackers. Wordlessly it
continued its assault, even though its current master lay
incapacitated at its feet. Without a command to the contrary, this
brass clockwork man would fight until its foes were vanquished, or
until it lie in scattered pieces, whichever came first.

'What in Gruumsh's name is that thing? And dammit, go easy on me
ranger!' Pommuk snarled contemptibly from his place against the
wall. The burly orc sat on the ground, his back propped up against the
wall, left arm held in front of him gingerly. Gilhenna, the half-elven
ranger, tended quietly to the orc's broken arm, ignoring his frequent
yelling whenever she moved his arm even slightly.

'Quit complaining. You would make a fairy look tough by comparison,
with all of your whining,' Gilhenna said to Pommuk, who clenched his
teeth and glared at her. He complained no more, and now only winced
whenever the splint tugged at his broken arm.

Gilhenna's massive Sylvanthic wolf sat on its haunches beside her, not
taking its golden eyes off of the brass man. The wolf had reluctantly
given up the fight after receiving a bludgeoning or two from brass
legs and realizing that even its sharp teeth could do no damage to the
construct. Even so, its hackles remained raised and he emitted a
constant low growl.

'Yeah, quit complaining Pommuk. A broken arm is no excuse,' growled
Brenn, as he parried blow after blow from the brass man with his
broadsword.

'Is an excuse. For pansies,' Kurgar the dwarf muttered, snickering
softly. As yet he had not succumbed to another berserk rage, but he
was only facing one foe and the fight seemed relatively in hand.

'Bah,' Pommuk muttered simply in return.

Their words sounded harsh to the untrained ear, yet there was a
definite undercurrent of camaraderie that had formed between this
unlikely group of warriors. They had met only a few short hours
before, but already the strong bonds of companionship that form in the
trenches of war had come to be between these adventurers.

The dwarf and human each fought the brass man, and though it was one
enemy its unusual makeup was proving to be a challenge. It did not
bleed as other creatures do, and steel seemed to bounce off of its
metallic hide. Brenn was only armed with an edged weapon, so he
focused his blows on the gear work at the brass man's torso and at the
creases of his joints. Unfortunately, these areas made for small
targets and as yet Brenn had not succeeded in dealing any significant
damage to the construct.

Kurgar had switched from his battleaxe to a hefty two-handed hammer,
and he swung either of the bulky weapons as if they were made of balsa
wood. His blows were proving to be far more damaging to the brass man,
with each successful hit shattering the air inside the palace with a
loud 'CLANG!'

Akul the sorcerer sat on a stone bench along the far wall of the room
and quietly smoked a pipe. His staff was leaned upright against the
bench beside him, and pinned beneath his boot was the neck of
Yassar. The serpentari Wazir lie in a crumpled heap at the sorcerer's
feet, blood trickling steadily out of his nose as he breathed in
short, harsh rasps. His hands and feet had been bound, and his tail
would have flicked wildly had it not been broken at its base by a
swift blow from Akul's staff. The way the serpentari's hands curled
unnaturally at the wrists showed that they, too, were broken.

Yassar hissed and cursed in his native tongue, between hacking coughs,
and glared up at Akul with beady dark eyes. Akul simply stared back at
the serpentari, unblinking and with a face chiseled from stone.

Suddenly, there was a loud wrenching noise as Kurgar thudded the head
of the warhammer home into the brass man's chest. The metal bent
inward as it ruptured and several springs and gears came spitting out
of the opening. The brass man, now merely an inanimate large hunk of
metal, fell clamorously into several pieces on the stone floor as he
died a noisy death.

'Yeah!' Kurgar shouted as he stood over the brass wreckage, and Brenn
came over and slapped him on the shoulder in congratulations.

Pommuk rose to his feet, wincing only once, and strode over along with
Gilhenna and her wolf.

'Nice work, dwarf,' Pommuk said. Kurgar grunted and nodded in reply.

Brenn burst out laughing. When the others turned to look at him, they
saw him doubled over in laughter and pointing in the direction of the
wolf, who had cocked a leg and was busy urinating on the remains of
the brass man.

Even Gilhenna cracked a smile at the sight of this, saying, 'Normally
he wouldn't piss on his food, but I think he must know this is one
opponent I can't skin and fillet for him.'

'Well done, friends,' Akul said quietly from behind them. They all
turned to see that the mage had risen from the bench and was standing
over the fallen Yassar, tapping out the bowl of his pipe. The spent
tobacco sprinkled down onto the serpentari's face, making him gag and
cough once more. 'It's time to get some answers from our good friend
here,' Akul said, motioning to Yassar.

'How you mean to do that?' Brenn asked of the mage. He noticed that
Akul's eyes were rather bloodshot, and that he reeked of a different
kind of tobacco.

'You been smoking greenleaf?' Gilhenna asked in astonishment.

Kurgar laughed softly to himself, and Pommuk stared and frowned at
Akul in confusion.

Akul grinned back at them. 'Of course not. Greenleaf dulls the senses
too much for us mages. No, this is a special foreign blend of smoke
that makes you a little sharper for a short while. A few other mages I
know of use it, and they turned me on to it. Highly effective, if not
a little expensive.'

'Mm hmm,' Gilhenna said with a smirk on her face.

Brenn grinned evilly at Akul, while Pommuk nodded as if understanding
but actually seemed to be more confused than before. Kurgar grunted,
muttering something unintelligible about mages.

Akul sighed. 'Anyway, there is no time to waste. Brenn, check on the
fighting outside the palace, it's been too quiet out there. Gilhenna,
help me get this traitorous scum back on his feet.'

As Brenn moved with cat-like speed to the archway leading into the
rest of the palace, Gilhenna and Akul lifted Yassar to his feet. The
serpentari spat a gob of blood and phlegm at Gilhenna, who merely
frowned at him and slowly wiped it from her face.

Akul backhanded the serpentari across the face. 'That's no way to
treat a lady, Yassar. You're just going to make things harder on
yourself in the end.'

The serpentari cackled, the pathetic wheezes in his voice making him
sound no less sinister. 'Fool Ssssscythe... I'll not tell you anything
about ussss... Sssserpentari will firssst rule Draqirisss, and then
the realm!'

Akul had been paying the mad serpentari no heed, however. He raised
his arms from his sides and above his head steadily, chanting in
crescendo under his breath. When his arms had arced high to either
side of him, the chanting reached a loud volume, peaking with his last
word.

'Treotha!' shouted the mage, his eyes flashing with bright white light
as he gazed into the hateful eyes of Yassar.

The serpentari recoiled from the brilliant light, as if his eyes
burned from their intensity. He cringed fearfully now before the mage,
as if facing judgment before a powerful deity. A feeble white glow
enveloped the serpentari's crippled form. The wolf's ears were now
pinned straight back on its head, hackles raised again as it stared
uncertainly at the serpentari.

'Speak to me of your treason,' Akul commanded.

Yassar whimpered pitifully, as if resisting the spell caused him much
anguish, yet he could not remain silent. '...he isss truly great and
powerful, oh yesss he issss...'

'Who?' demanded the mage.

'Draq! Oh great lord of dragonssss ... He hassss deigned to take form
here on our plane... He isss here! Here to ssssee to your doom...' the
serpentari said, growing bolder now and cackling insanely.

Akul was frowning slightly now, as were the others. 'Where is he?
Where is Draq?'

Yassar laughed defiantly, but then yelped as if in pain. He dug at his
eyes and rubbed fiercely at them, as if trying to keep out the light
coming from Akul's eyes. '...He... He... iss below... from the
ssewersss he givesss usss sstrength...'

Akul sighed heavily. The sewer tunnels went on for miles as far as
anyone knew, and at no time had he any interest in returning to them
and scouring then, least of all now.

Before he could prompt the Wazir again, the serpentari spoke. 'There
isss a ssecret chamber... Draq liesss in wait there... feeding uss
with his sstrength... Only thisss amulet will open the door... The
tunnel iss hidden behind a sssecret door in the tunnel below the
bathsss...'

Gilhenna looked expectantly up at Akul, who nodded sternly at her and
the others. He grabbed the crude green stone, carved like a great
circular serpent swallowing its own tail, which hung on a simple
leather thong around Yassar's neck. He tugged sharply at it, snapping
the cord, and the serpentari simultaneously recovered from the effects
of Akul's spell.

Yassar howled in agony as he realized what he had been forced to do,
and just then Brenn returned quietly through the archway.

'Foolsss! You'll never sssee the ssurface again if you dare to
disssturb him! Go! Ssseek your deathsss at the hands of the mighty
Draq!' Yassar screamed at them.

Ignoring the serpentari, Akul nodded at Brenn. 'What did you see?'

'The fighting rages on outside the Gate of Dusk, which has fallen, and
the Gate of Dawn has been opened. Through it there seemed to be
fighting in the desert, but...'

'What?' asked Kurgar, somewhat irritably.

Brenn sighed in frustration. 'I don't know. It's like the sun is
coming up, but it's nearly dusk now, or should be.'

'What do you mean?' Akul asked, not understanding.

'All I could see was this bright light shining through the gate, but
it didn't seem natural, somehow,' Brenn said haltingly, unsure how to
put to words what it was that he saw.

'What should we do, Akul?' Gilhenna asked.

'Diiieee!' shouted Yassar from behind them.

'Shut up!' Pommuk said, clouting the serpentari on the back of his
head with his good hand.

'We are too small in number to be of any use in the fight above,' Akul
said, sighing. 'We must continue what we have started, and find out
about this 'lord of dragons' of which Yassar speaks.' The look upon
his face betrayed his dismay, but he had resigned himself to another
adventure in the sewer tunnels beneath Drakhiya.

'But a dragon! Those need an army to put down! Surely you don't think
we -' Kurgar began to protest, but Akul cut him off with an upraised
hand.

'I do. We have no choice, really. There isn't enough time to try and
raise an army, and we're the only ones that know of this. This Draq
must be the source of the serpentari's power, for I've never heard of
them fighting like they are today.'

The others nodded reluctantly in agreement, understanding what they
must do. The four of them briefly exchanged glances, and then looked
back to Akul, their eyes full of intensity. They each nodded to him in
assent.

'Good,' said the mage, as he turned to look at Yassar. Sneering, Akul
said, 'Crocodile bait first!'

With that, he shoved the bound serpentari backwards and into the
still-open sewer grate in the center of the floor, through which Akul
and his band had initially sprung their ambush on the ex-Caliph's
most-trusted advisor.

The serpentari screamed in terror, and the sounds of his scream faded
as he hurtled into the darkness below. The screaming was cut off by a
distant splash, and then silence followed.

Grimly, the band of five descended into the depths of Drakhiya's
sewers once again, after Akul conjured a magical rope to lower
Gilhenna's wolf into the dark hole.

Pommuk was the last to descend, taking slightly longer as he could
only use one arm. He had angrily rejected Akul's suggestion of using
the magical rope trick just as the wolf had. When the orc reached the
bottom, he sloshed around in the ankle deep water, looking to his
right and left.

'Where's Yassar?' he asked.

Brenn pointed with his longsword down a side tunnel that lead off into
a large natural cavern. The form of the floating serpentari could be
seen, occasionally jerking unnaturally as if pulled by unseen forces.

'I think he's getting a tour of the sewers from that crocodile,' Brenn
said, snickering.

Pommuk grinned evilly back at him.

'The tunnel to the bath is this way,' Gilhenna declared, using her
wolf to track.

'Let's move,' Akul said, motioning for the rest of them to follow
Gilhenna's lead.

After passing through several branching tunnels and ignoring still
more tunnels that split off into the gloom on either side of them, the
group came at last to a fork.

They waited while the wolf sniffed at the air and then the water, its
legs making small whirlpools in the water as it moved. The water was
now knee-deep for humanoids, and the wolf nearly had to swim to keep
moving.

The wolf abruptly raised its head and peered expectantly down the
tunnel to the left.

'This way,' Gilhenna said as they followed her and her wolf into the
left fork. After traversing the tunnel for about one hundred feet they
reached its end, which widened out slightly into a small cul-de-sac. A
series of four grates lie in the ceiling twenty feet above them, and a
narrow set of rusty metal handholds led down into the sewer from one
of the grates.

'The Drakhiya Baths are above us,' Gilhenna announced, and Akul nodded.

'Start trying to find that door,' Akul said, fingering the crude jade
amulet that had until recently belonged to Yassar.

They fanned out and began to scour the slimy stone walls of the tunnel
and cul-de-sac. Rusty metal pipes ran in chaotic patterns over the
walls and ceiling, and here and there the beady red eyes of rats and
other vermin glared back at the group as they searched.

'Akul,' Gilhenna called out after a short while. She was standing at
the right side of the cul-de-sac and was holding the end of a pipe she
had seemingly broken in half and bent away from the wall.

Akul strode over to her, followed by the others. He could see that the
pipe was not in fact broken, but hinged in the middle. At its cut end
it was not hollow. Rather, the end was sealed with a different type of
metal, and in its center was a circular, jagged impression.

Akul held up Yassar's medallion and pressed the jade snake into the
depression in the metal. He felt a weak shock from the pipe and there
followed a loud creaking noise as a narrow section of the wall next to
them opened inward, revealing a roughly five foot wide passageway into
the rock.

A wave of hot air blasted them from inside the new tunnel, and a
potent stench of decay overpowered them, causing Gilhenna to
wretch. The pitch-black tunnel slanted moderately downward, but as the
floor of the tunnel was raised from the sewer by a couple of feet, no
water rushed into it once its door was open.

'By all that is pure and holy, what is that smell!?' growled the dwarf.

'That is the smell of death, my friend,' Akul replied coolly. 'Maybe
we are not the first to confront Draq today.'

'But we shall be the last thing he sees,' Brenn said grimly.

'Orcs no taste good to dragons. Pommuk is first,' declared the orc
fighter, as he elbowed his way to the front of the group. His left arm
was heavily splinted, yet Pommuk brandished his longsword with his
right arm as effectively as ever, and none challenged his status as
first to enter the secret tunnel. Following the orc, they filed into
the tunnel one by one, unable to travel abreast given the narrow
confines. They stuck together by keeping one hand on the shoulder of
the comrade in front of them.

The tunnel descended deeper into the earth and curved gradually to
their left. The acrid scent of decay continued to assault their
senses, growing strong enough to bring tears to their eyes. The
temperature in the tunnel rose steadily with the foul smell, making
them all sweat as well. Akul thought it better that the group remained
shrouded in darkness, lest they give away their presence to the enemy
ahead of them. The Scythe mage knew that dragons were able to see in
the dark and could smell better than they could see, but he chose not
to dwell upon these bothersome facts, so he let the darkness smother
his fears as well as his vision for now.

Traveling in a chain, the group completed several complete spirals
downward (a little more than three, by the dwarf's counts) before the
tunnel leveled out. After roughly another hundred feet, they could
feel the tunnel widening out on either side of them. A weak draft
steadily grew in strength as they walked along, pushing the
omnipresent stench of decay further into their nostrils. The heat was
now intolerable, and a dim red light emanated from a bulge in the
floor approximately two hundred feet further in front of them.

Pommuk stopped, coming to a halt slowly so as not to trip any of his
party and create a stir. Silently, the rest of the group fanned out to
either side of the orc, their eyes adjusting to the feeble light cast
by the strange object on the floor before them. The light seemed to
wax and wane, as if in tune with some sluggish heartbeat, yet the
object made no sound. It seemed to be about thirty feet around but it
was hard to discern where the light ended and the object began, except
that towards the center it appeared to have more of an orange hue.

They seemed to be standing in a large chamber and judging from the
steady hot breeze they knew the ceiling to be much higher here than in
the tunnel. The walls of the room could not be seen for the darkness,
and if not for the feel of the floor beneath them they could just as
easily have felt as if they were floating in space.

The group stood in place for several heartbeats, neither hearing nor
making a sound. Feeling a little bolder, Akul decided to give his
group the advantage of sight, at the risk of exposing themselves to
any unseen enemies.

'Lehot,' Akul muttered softly, and a bright white glow began to
emanate from the spellbook at his belt, illuminating much of the room
around them. The light pushed back the darkness for about fifty feet,
far less than the magical dweomer normally would penetrate.

'This dark air, I do not like it,' complained Brenn, who was peering
about suspiciously and covering his nose. 'It strangles sight and
smell.' His voice echoed ever so faintly in the background, hinting at
a room much larger than they might have guessed.

'Hush, human,' Kurgar said, jabbing the fighter in the ribs with the
haft of his warhammer. Brenn returned his glare sullenly, unease still
behind his eyes.

Akul had begun striding towards the red glow, and the rest of the
group fell in behind him. Gilhenna's wolf slunk low to the ground,
ears flattened completely back on its head, hackles raised as high as
they would go.

As the glowing object came within range of Akul's light spell, they
could make out something strewn across the floor in front of it. The
floor, they also noted, was smoothly worked stone and not at all that
of a natural cavern.

There were dozens of twisted carcasses lying on the ground, most of
them serpentari but occasionally an orc or human could be made
out. Their features were frozen in a portrait of agony, as if they
died writhing in pain, and all of them had been sliced open from under
their chins right down through the loins. Congealed blood spattered
the floor all around them, and a low altar made of a black stone stood
at the center of the mangled remains.

A pair of deep grooves led away from the altar and towards the glowing
red sphere, and now that they were closer they could make out what
appeared to be pulsating veins of deep red light coursing over the
object. It appeared to have a slimy surface, almost like skin, and it
was ocher in color. Something appeared to be concealed within the
disgusting membrane, which rose and fell in rhythm with the pulsating
red light coming from within. It seemed as if it were breathing, and a
slow red river of blood ran from the altar and through the paired
grooves into a narrow moat that went around the membrane. The coppery
taste of blood, mixed with the nauseating scent of decay, hung heavily
in the air, and now the group stood at the source of the odor.

'What in the...' Gilhenna gasped in a mix of disgust and horror.

The rest of the group just shook their heads in reply, staring in
repugnance at the unholy site before them. Brenn continued to glance
warily all around and behind him into the darkness, as if expecting to
be ambushed at any moment.

As the rest of them continued to gaze upon the disgusting sight,
nightmarish visions appeared in their minds. Images of a screeching
young serpentari lashed to the black stone altar flashed before their
eyes, his body lurching violently as he tried unsuccessfully to free
himself. A pair of serpentari, cowls covering their faces, loomed over
their live sacrifice, and a hungry red glow pulsated greedily from
somewhere behind them. Jade stones that glowed a bright green hung
from medallions about their necks, and suddenly they were holding
menacing daggers in their clawed hands. The wavy blades of the daggers
were plunged deep into the belly of the serpentari tied to the altar,
and as he screamed jets of dark red blood shot forth and welled up
from within his body. The serpentari priests continued to slice open
their sacrifice, their daggers headed in opposite directions up and
down his body. The serpentari on the altar began to thrash less
violently as his life force ebbed out of him, the red blood flowing in
a river towards the evil glow in the background. From within this red
light shone a pair of sinister yellow serpentine eyes, and they seemed
to gaze right into the minds of those who beheld this terrible
vision. The eyes flashed and another grisly scene of murder and
sacrifice filled their minds.

Fortunately for Brenn, he was too busy scouring the darkness for
unseen foes to fall under the spell of this abomination. His comrades
all began to scream and cover their eyes in an attempt to banish their
waking nightmare. Gilhenna's wolf stared helplessly up at its master
and whined pitifully.

Startled, Brenn turned to see the rest of his party locked in their
fearful gazes, screaming loudly.

'Hey!' he snarled in a loud whisper. 'Be quiet! You'll -'

Suddenly, the entire area around them was lit up in an angry red
light, however only Brenn was capable enough at the moment to take it
all in.

The group was standing within a huge underground cavern that had been
partially modified along the floor and walls but the ceiling far above
was dotted here and there with stalactites. Numerous tunnels, some
much wider than others, branched off in all directions from this
massive cavern, and Brenn could not immediately see the tunnel from
which they had emerged.

Lumbering toward them from different corners of the cavern were four
towering giants, their skins seemingly made of glowing red embers and
their faces set in fierce scowls. Yellow flames flickered from within
their mouths and eye sockets, and their hands were wreathed in flame.

'Dammit, now look what you've done!' Brenn screamed at his friends,
who were now doubled over and sobbing pitifully, their hands clasped
over their eyes as they tried in vain to avoid the hellish images in
their brains.

Looking quickly from the advancing giants to his helpless party, Brenn
swore blasphemously as he produced a hunga-munga from within his
belt. With lightning reflexes, he hurled the deadly knife straight
into the gruesome red blob that seemed to be tormenting his friends.

The blade sank deeply into the foul thing, slicing through its thick
membrane with a sickening sound. A shrill agonizing scream echoed in
the cavern all about him as his knife sank in, and the last thing he
saw before charging headlong towards the closest giant was his crew
slumping lifelessly forward to the ground.

Brenn unsheathed his broadsword and with a maniacal yell began to
attack the first giant he came to with barbaric intensity. As he drew
closer he could see that the giant's skin was in fact composed of what
appeared to be hundreds of fine red rubies. The heat radiating from
the giant's body was withering, and Brenn narrowly avoided a ball of
flame that the giant had hurled at him as he charged. He only hoped
that his friends would snap out of their daze quickly enough to help
him, if not help themselves. With any luck he could dispatch of this
giant before the others were upon him, but he knew he would have to
move quickly.

The giant was more than double Brenn's height, but was deceptively
agile as it proved when it landed a solid blow to the human's
ribcage. The fighter buckled forward, momentarily losing his balance
and his breath. Glumly, he awaited the death blow from the giant,
knowing it would come before he could regain his footing.

Just then, Gilhenna's wolf came snarling from behind Brenn and leapt
straight at his foe. With its powerful jaws the wolf managed to
puncture the rock-like skin of the giant, causing it to bellow in
agony. The strange gem giant bled fire, as yellow flames roared out of
the wound, singing the wolf's muzzle badly. The wolf cried out in
surprise as it let go its grip and backed away momentarily.

The wolf had bought Brenn enough time to recover, and with a swift
counterstrike he managed to slice open the belly of the ruby giant
with his broadsword. The giant's mouth moved wordlessly as it toppled
forward onto its hands and knees, and without hesitation Brenn
beheaded it in one vicious downswing. As the body of the giant slammed
into the floor, it flashed briefly in a shroud of flame, and then
shattered into thousands of pieces. The once-brilliant rubies of its
skin now lay crumbled and blackened, like so many fragments of
worthless charcoal.

Not wasting any time to gloat over his victory, Brenn looked up from
the giant's remains and saw that some of the rest of his party had
recovered.

Akul seemed to be hurling bolts of pure ice at the two giants he was
facing, and Pommuk stood between the mage and their foes, wielding his
sword expertly with his one good arm. Kurgar the dwarf stood closer to
Brenn, and judging by how savagely he was swinging his warhammer at
the giant he was fighting, Brenn knew he was in another berserk rage.

The wolf whined once and sped off towards the dwarf. Brenn raced along
after him, and as he came upon them, he saw with horror that Gilhenna
lay in a broken heap before him. Her head had been smashed in, likely
stepped on by the very giant Kurgar was fighting so frenziedly. The
wolf sat on its haunches at the feet of its slain master and let out a
loud, haunting howl as it cried to the cavern roof above.

His blood burning hot with vengefulness, Brenn circled warily around
the giant, attempting to get at its undefended flank as it dodged the
deadly blows from Kurgar's warhammer. Several times, the giant landed
crushing blows on the dwarf's head and body, but where they normally
would have felled even the most stalwart of fighters, the dwarf seemed
to shrug them off effortlessly.

Yet what the dwarf gained in strength and endurance from his berserk
state, he sacrificed in his ability to think and to dodge. Hence, even
as Brenn opened up a fiery gash along the back of one of the giant's
legs, the dwarf was set aflame as he caught the full force of one of
the fiery gobs launched from the giant's hands.

For a short while, the dwarf fought recklessly in a terrifying sight
of flaming fury, but before Brenn could finish off the giant and come
to the aid of his comrade, the dwarf collapsed in a lifeless pile, his
body now completely aflame.

'No!' Brenn yelled as he sent the giant to its fiery demise. He rushed
over to where Kurgar lay burning, but knew at once he was too late.

Tears clouded Brenn's eyes as he looked up from the smoldering remains
of his dwarven friend. He saw that Akul and Pommuk had teamed up well
against the last of the giants, with the mage alternately freezing a
part of the giant's body that Pommuk would then shatter into bits with
a blow from his longsword. After a few more such maneuvers, the pair
had finished off the fourth giant. Breathing heavily, they turned back
towards Brenn and started towards him.

Gilhenna's wolf let out another mournful howl, and as Pommuk and Akul
approached Brenn could tell that they already knew of the ranger's
fate.

Akul, shock darting briefly across his face, noticed the burnt remains
of Kurgar. Pommuk the orc grunted and spat upon the ground, expressing
his anger at the group's heavy losses.

'A nasty little trap,' Akul declared. Brenn looked at him and merely
nodded.

'Good thing you so jumpy, Brenn,' Pommuk said, grinning at the human
fighter.

Brenn grimaced and shook his head. 'What the hell was happening to you
all?'

Akul and Pommuk did not immediately reply. Their eyes took on a vacant
look, as if each was recalling some distant horrible memory.

'I'd rather not go into it,' Akul said. 'Just that that thing back
there got in our heads somehow,' he continued, gesturing behind him in
the direction of where the shimmering red thing used to lay.

Now, it was gone. In its place was a deep black hollow, and a slimy
trail of black blood led away into the darkness. With the giants slain
the pervading dark had crept back in around them, concealing
everything beyond fifty feet.

A raspy, hissing sound was coming from the darkness in the direction
of the blood trail, accompanied by a dull slithering noise that could
be more felt than heard.

The three of them exchanged urgent glances. Abruptly, they set off in
the direction of the sounds.

What came into view was a huge monstrosity, huddled in the
darkness. It had a huge serpentine body, covered on top with crimson
scales that faded into a brilliant yellow underbelly. Black leathery
wings lay snug against its slimy body, and a long tail sported a
vicious-looking stinger at its end. The head of the beast resembled
that of a platypus, with its duck-bill, yet evil snake eyes burned
with yellow hatred from within their deep settings in the reptilian
face. A forked tongue intermittently darted from between rows of
sharp, glistening teeth set within the creature's billed mouth. It
appeared to be some sort of embryonic, freakish dragon, and evidently
this was the avatar of the dragon god of the serpentari.

A deep gash in the creature's left flank bled copious amounts of black
blood, and Brenn surmised that this was where his hunga-munga had
struck home.

'Kill it,' Akul commanded chillingly as he beheld Draq's nascent
avatar.

The beast hissed back at them angrily as the fighters descended upon
it. The dragon fought feebly, as if it had not yet mastered control of
its limbs. It collapsed under the merciless slashes from the fighters
and the withering acid spewed forth from the mage's fingertips, barely
putting up a respectable fight. After just a few moments of furious
butchery, the dragon had not even managed to wound one of its
attackers.

The foul dragon let out one final deafening roar as it died, the sound
of its death rattle shaking the cavern around them and seeming to
rattle the entire earth. The three men dropped to their knees, weapons
falling to the ground beside them as their hands shot to cover their
ears.

When the din finally petered out, they slowly stood and regained their
composure.

'It's good that thing didn't have time to finish growing, or we would
have been dinner,' Brenn declared as he brushed dirt from his chest.

Pommuk grunted in agreement, still casting a wary eye at the twitching
remains of the embryonic dragon.

'Well don't get too comfortable just yet, friends. Looks like we've
got more company,' said Akul, a hint of fatality in his voice. He was
looking off in the distance behind them, in what they thought was a
direction roughly opposite from where they had come into the cavern.

As Pommuk and Brenn craned their necks to look over their shoulders,
they did not at first see anything. But then a dim red light began to
resolve, as if coming from within one of the many tunnels.

Solemnly they hoped it was not the same red light cast by dragons or
flaming giants, and as Gilhenna's wolf let out another somber yowl
they decided to stand and await their fate, whatever it may be.

***

The unearthly humming sound had steadily amplified until it nearly
drowned out the noise of combat all around the city. It was so loud
that it seemed to come from every direction at once, but all who were
present knew exactly the source.

The air in front of the Gate of Dawn had seemingly been rent in two by
the semi-circle of mages floating above and around it. They continued
chanting, which was evident by the sight of their mouths moving, and
instead of sprinkling fine dust from their fingers they were now
clutching glowing gems in their hands. Their arms were outstretched at
their sides and their eyes glowed with the same golden light that came
from their hands.

Yet no one was paying much attention to the gem sorcerers as the scene
before them commanded much more interest.

Simultaneous with the appearance of the glowing gems in the mages'
hands, the shimmering curtain of golden light beneath them flashed
once brilliantly and then resolved into a terrifying display. It was
as if a window had been opened up onto another reality, for instead of
the Gate of Dawn or the desert, depending upon the viewer's point of
reference, an altogether different spectacle appeared instead.

Bordered by crackling lines of golden electricity and limned with the
occasional flash of white light was a view onto a gloomy
landscape. For many stadia into the distance of this panorama the
ground was harsh and broken, the dark red earth split into many deep
crags and fissures. An unhealthy grey smoke filtered out of some of
these and the sky in this world was filled with roiling black
thunderheads that frequently spit out forks of bright blue lightning.

The most disturbing aspect, however, was the mass of unwelcoming
creatures gathered in the forefront of this vista. Rows of savage,
humanoid figures with mongrel-like features stood silently on the
ground or perched atop hellish mounts. The humanoids appeared much
larger than even the biggest of men, and thick muscles covered in
coarse black fur bulged out from within heavy suits of leather and
chain armour. They could have been distant cousins of gnolls, albeit
larger and better organized ones. Many of them wielded
bizarrely-shaped swords and pole-arms that vaguely resembled ones used
in the known reaches of the land. Even their steeds had a hostile look
and were gigantic, with six legs instead of four, their bodies draped
in heavy leather and chain armours as well.

Scores, perhaps hundreds, of large wagons dotted the landscape around
this infernal army. They were coverless and were ominously empty, and
displayed what appeared to be all manner of chains and shackles. Many
tall black metallic cages were also scattered about, and a number of
the riders were carrying thick nets.

They were all staring back into the portal as if watching the battle
on the other side, poised expectantly. A smaller conclave of the
dog-like humanoids stood off to one side, and standing conspicuously
in their midst was a collection of the gem mages, their white cloaks
emblazoned with the familiar diamond-gripping black dragon. The
humanoids accompanying them appeared to be leaders of a sort, as they
stood even taller than their brethren and wore more elaborately
decorated armour. Skulls of unknown creatures and unholy totems
adorned necklaces of some, while others bore large horned helmets and
surcoats patterned with violent images.

For the most part the forces of the Consortium and the Eldar ignored
the display in the portal, as they concentrated on their maneuvers
instead. They were united now under the joint command of Illarin and
Zhephani and they were using their advantage in numbers to force the
army of the Scythe closer and closer to the portal. Warily, they
avoided going anywhere near the portal themselves, but the Minotaurs
did not seem to exercise the same brand of caution. A pair of the
bull-headed beasts had been chasing an orc sorcerer when he charged in
a panicked frenzy straight into the portal. With an almost inaudible
popping noise and a brief flash of white light, the orc and his two
pursuers appeared within the panorama and not on the other side of it.

With blinding speed, a squad of the fierce dog-men swooped down upon
orc and Minotaur alike, obstructing them momentarily from view as they
surrounded them on their many-legged mounts. A few heartbeats later,
amidst flashing steel and snarling muzzles, the orc and one Minotaur
again appeared. This time, they were both unconscious and bound in
thick nets. The second Minotaur, or what remained of it, lay hacked
into pieces upon the ground.

The brutal dog-men trotted away on their steeds, leaving the slain
Minotaur in their wake and dragging the slumped bodies of their
captives in nets behind them.

Zhephani broke into a voracious grin, ecstatic that her magical portal
was effective. She searched the mob of fighting around her briefly
before she found Illarin's eyes, and she could tell at once that her
fellow elf sorceress had also witnessed the capture of the first
orc. The leader of the EDF returned her gaze with a firm nod and
solemn grin, and then went back to directing her troops and hurling
spells at the Scythers.

Slowly, Zhephani began to work her way closer to the Eldar sorceress,
gripping her staff a bit more firmly in her hands than before.

**

Soon after Nattick lead his small army of Drakhiyan orcs through the
now-open Gate of Dawn, they had given the Scythers a brief control of
the initiative. This was especially so since the serpentari had
suddenly and mysteriously broken off from their fighting. It was as if
they had all been hit at once by a massive spell of confusion, for
many of them threw down their weapons and ran screaming in random
directions out of the city and into the desert. Others just stood in
place as if stunned, and some continued to fight as vigorously as
before, though the latter were only a few in number. In addition to
losing their fanatical morale the serpentari also seemed to lose the
edge in speed they had until so recently possessed. Nattick attributed
this to the success of Akul and it warmed his heart to know that his
mage friend must still be alive out there somewhere. No one but the
serpentari heard the visceral screams of Draq's avatar as he lay dying
in the sewers below.

But the Consortium sorcerers had completed their opening of the
magical portal shortly after Nattick arrived with his reinforcements,
and Arehtama's troops were hammering the Scythers from the north. From
the west and within the city, the remainder of the EDF division that
had destroyed the Gate of Dusk now came marching down the main avenue,
thus completely circling the Scythers. Behind them came the small
detachment of Consortium forces that had rallied to the Gate of Dusk
to help take it, thus sealing that end of the city.

The Scythers were trapped, and Nattick knew it. He also knew that if
Balfor was apprised of the situation, and he never knew his general to
not be aware, that he too could see their despicable position. He only
wished he could rendezvous with his commander, but he realized that
any chance of finding him in this bottled-up chaos was
hopeless. Between foes Nattick stared up at the levitating mages, and
his thoughts turned to the diamond dust in the pouch at his belt.

**

The scene on the other side of the portal was now one of complete
bedlam. Scores of Scythers had been forced through the magical gate,
alive, dead or unconscious, as their enemies had finally been able to
wear them down. The occasional elf or Minotaur or other Consortium
member had also been dragged or kicked through by defiant Scythers,
but it was the army of the Scythe that suffered the heaviest losses
through the gate.

The dog-men sprang into action each time a new victim appeared on
their side, efficiently rounding up their prey into nets and hauling
them off to either be thrown into cages or strung up on wagons. Those
that put up too much resistance were slain on the spot, and only a
smattering of the dog-men had been put to death compared to the
numbers they had enslaved or murdered. Occasionally, one of their
quarries would break free and attempt escape into the bleak landscape,
but detachments of riders were at the ready to run such unfortunates
down.

None were escaping the cruelty of the mysterious race of humanoids on
the other side of the portal, and these dark allies of the Consortium
were proving to be a highly effective means of routing the Scythe army
and what remained of the Drakhiyan orcs. Though their numbers were
dwindling steadily now, the Scythers fought no less fervently than
before.

A swarm of biting and stinging insects assailed Glock the Massacrator
as he swung his awesome scythe in mighty arcs, cutting open the foul
necromancer that had plagued him so. But as the necromancer fell to
the sand in several large pieces, the gargantuan orc was forced to use
his weapon one-handed as he furiously attempted to squash the pests
crawling all over his skin with his free hand.

This gave the large retinue of Minotaurs and dwarves surrounding the
orc the edge they needed to press in on him. By the time Glock had
recovered from the plague of insects he had been weakened by the many
cuts and slashes landed by his foes. He was staggering now, fighting
off an ever-increasing number of swords and axes, and his enemies
sensed his weakening.

Another Consortium necromancer appeared, and this one was commanding a
huge undead troll. The infernal beast stood nearly ten feet tall and
had pallid grey skin with purple veins. Its bloodshot eyes glowed
supernaturally and it was wearing a black metal breastplate that had
been carved with the runes of some dark cabal. This necromancer had
chosen to forsake armed weapons for his pet, letting it deal out death
with its long clawed talons and teeth instead.

With a savage fury, the troll shoved its way through the crowd
surrounding Glock at the command of its master to attack. Hapless
Minotaurs and dwarves who stood in the creature's path were thumped
aside by the troll with careless abandon. As it penetrated the inner
circle surrounding the orc, the undead troll met with the business end
of the Massacrator's scythe. Glock buried the sharp point of his blade
into the side of the beast's abdomen and proceeded to rip it open as
he pulled through to the other side. Disgusting yellow entrails spit
forth from the huge gash, slipping and spilling over each other as
they popped out of the troll's abdomen.

Feeling no pain, the undead troll merely continued its charge straight
for Glock. It managed a vicious swipe at the orc's face and tore open
five deep cuts, with one of its claws catching the Massacrator's right
eye in the process. His right eye socket swelled shut rapidly and
blood drained down his face as it did from the rest of his fresh
wounds, but Glock fought through his newest handicap. He severed the
left arm of the troll at its elbow, sending the clawed remnant flying
out over the crowd around him.

The foul undead pressed on at its insane pace, chittering at Glock as
if laughing at him. It rammed its shoulder home into Glock's chest,
using its unnatural strength to bowl the orc over backwards. Before
Glock could recover, the troll pounced on top of him.

All in a flash, the troll lunged for Glock's neck and closed its jaws
around it, sinking its many long sharp yellow teeth into his
flesh. Glock frenziedly beat his fists against the back of the undead
monster, but it would not release its grasp on his neck.

Eventually Glock's attempts to bludgeon himself free became more and
more feeble until his arms merely twitched at his side. Blood came
from the corners of his mouth in a steady crimson stream, and he
gasped one last time, sending blood spattering out of his nose. The
Massacrator would howl his ferocious battlecry no more.

Other great orc fighters had also fallen on this day, including
Masrur, who managed to take out three of Zhephani's personal bodyguard
of elite giants before succumbing to the fourth. One of its magical
emerald missiles finally hit Masrur, paralyzing him momentarily and
long enough for the orc to be pounded flat by the enraged gem
giant. Yet even Masrur's glorious conquests paled in comparison to
Glock's legend, although both would be mourned and revered for
generations to come.

Balfor had been fighting near Glock but was too preoccupied with his
own battle to know of the legendary warrior's tragic fate yet. His
group had met Arehtama's charge but had been pushed back steadily by
their superior numbers until coming dangerously close to the outline
of the portal. He managed to find his way to Arehtama again and they
had resumed their duel from so many days before.

This time around, the elf had obviously been more rested, as he put
Balfor on the defensive early in the fight and had been unrelenting in
his attack. The Scythe general had been expending too much of his
energy and bore numerous nicks and bruises from his fights beside his
army in the trenches. Arehtama, meanwhile, had lead his troops on a
clever feint and remained behind the front lines. He had yet to taste
battle. His expert conditioning and rested sword arm were taking their
toll on the weary Scythe commander. His shimmering cloak made the elf
hard to target, and Balfor's fatigue was making it more difficult for
him to handle the unpredictable attacks of the rogue.

'It's too late, Balfor. I have you this time,' Arehtama taunted Balfor
with a haughty tone.

Balfor spat blood in the elf's face as they locked blades in a
parry. 'Piss on your mother, elf.'

The rogue grinned nastily back at him, knowing he was succeeding in
pushing him closer and closer to the edge of the portal. Either having
Balfor's head on a stake or pushing him into oblivion would be fates
Arehtama could accept willingly.

'You're about as far as you can go, Scyther,' Arehtama declared.

He was correct, as Balfor stood six feet in front of the portal. The
images of chaotic scrambling and torture taking place on the other
side of it did not serve to disconcert Arehtama as he stood facing it,
for he focused intently on his longtime nemesis.

Desperate, Balfor knew he'd be forced through the portal, as surrender
was out of the question. He simply lacked the energy to defeat
Arehtama this time and he had now run out of room in which to
maneuver. He decided to gamble on his only chance of leveling the
field for his clan.

'You're coming with me!' Balfor snarled back at Arehtama as he lunged
for him. The Scyther's attempt at surprising the rogue fell short, as
the elf seemed to anticipate this sort of attack. Spinning and ducking
at the same time, Arehtama dropped into a quick forward somersault. As
he came out of it he landed both of his feet in Balfor's midsection
with a swift kick.

This was enough to send the Scyther sprawling backwards in the air and
through the portal.

As he landed roughly on the other side, he lay in a crumpled heap on
his back, either unconscious or out of breath. Immediately a
detachment of the dog-men descended upon him, and one of them kicked
Balfor's broadsword out of his hand. Balfor seemed to stir at this but
was lifted up and clapped into chains before he could put up any kind
of resistance.

Nattick dashed hurriedly through the crowd around the portal, ducking
random blows and fighting through the pain in his leg, unaware of the
fate of his most trusted commander. The rogue ignored the cheers of
his enemies for the moment, as he had spied Boki a short distance away
and his desperate plan required the ogre's assistance. As Balfor was
carried aloft into the distance in his stricken new home, Nattick
stalked off in the opposite direction in the chaos on the near side of
the portal.

Zhephani felt a giddy rush of excitement as she saw the Scythe's
general sent to the other side. The elf would have liked to have seen
Balfor slain, but the fact that he was now enslaved by the cruel
Nilithni was satisfying enough for her. She knew he would never return
from that distant plane. Within a year the Scythe general's term as a
slave would be over and he would be sacrificed to their malicious god,
if he did not incur the wrath of his masters before that time came.

With the Scythe army in tatters and Drakhiya's orcs no real factor,
she and the EDF had now won the war. The serpentari were scattered but
they had done their part, and were now conveniently out of the
picture. Zhephani's eyes glowed dangerously. The time for her final
act of war had arrived.

The whites of Zhephani's knuckles showed on both of her fists as she
held her rowan staff before her. She strode up behind where Illarin
was fighting, and currently the Eldar sorceress was doing battle with
a mage from the Scythe. The athletic commander of the EDF ducked as a
simmering acid arrow splashed over her head, yet instead of returning
the attack with a spell of her own, she brought the end of her
metal-shod quarterstaff down upon the unlucky Scyther's head.

'Excellent,' Zhephani thought to herself. 'She's momentarily out of
spells.'

Wordlessly, the Consortium's top sorceress raised her staff above her
head. As Illarin caught the image of the silver-haired elf out of the
corner of her eye, she let out a cry of surprise and began to whirl to
face her treacherous opponent.

But she was too late. Quick as a serpent, Zhephani brought her staff
down through the air, one end pointing in the direction of Illarin. A
series of small but powerful whirlwinds shot out from the end of the
magical staff, engulfing the hapless Eldar mage.

From the ground, the Scythe sorcerer Illarin had been pummeling
cackled as the EDF's leader was lifted from her feet and wrenched
violently through the air.

Illarin was chanting rapidly and fiercely in elvish but her voice was
drowned out by the cone of whirlwinds surrounding her and thrashing
her, and they were carrying her straight for the magical portal -
which was now blinking and flashing chaotically.

**

'Throw me at that mage!' Nattick screamed at Boki. He knew to keep his
orders simple with his guild mascot, and time did not presently allow
for detailed explanations. He was pointing up and behind him, at the
mage at the top of the floating semi-circle of mages that were keeping
the portal open.

No Scythe arrow or flask of oil had yet been able to disrupt the
meddlesome floating mages keeping the portal open, and Nattick
expected that they would have magical wards in place against such
mundane missilery. He only hoped they had not planned on flying rogues.

Boki's face was frozen in a scowl but he trusted Nattick implicitly
and he knew that the serious look in the rogue's dark eyes meant
business.

Shrugging, the massive ogre threw down his club and knitted his hands
together as he knelt down to the ground. Nattick stepped onto the
ogre's palms and tugged a pouch free from his belt. His favorite sharp
knife was clutched in his other hand.

'Hail Halforc!' Nattick screamed like a madman as he was heaved high
into the air by Boki. The ogre rapidly stood and flung his arms up
over his head, using his unparalleled strength to hurl his human
missile in a high arc aimed straight at the top of the portal. Boki's
experiences tossing cows and breaking records in the Scythe's game
park had been time well-spent indeed.

As Nattick smacked straight into the top-flying mage, Boki let out the
loudest battlecry he had ever uttered as he picked his club back
up. He began to stomp about in a crazy battle-dance, smashing in the
skulls of any fool enemy that dared come near him.

The startled elf flying at the top of the portal made choking noises
as Nattick broke his momentum by slinging his left arm around the
mage's neck. The rogue swung almost completely around behind the mage,
which was exactly where he wanted to be.

Two dull crystals fell from the mage's hands as he desperately tried
to fight off the rogue clinging to his back. The pair lurched
dangerously in the air as the mage began to lose control of his
magical levitation.

Acting quickly, Nattick reached his right hand around in front of the
mage to meet his left and he began to fumble with the drawstring on
the closed pouch from his belt. Snarling, the mage clawed at the
rogue's forearms but his efforts were in vain as Nattick managed to
open the pouch on his first attempt. From somewhere in the crowd
below, Nattick thought he heard Zhephani scream 'No!' but he was not
sure it was her.

A sparkling white dust showered out of the opened pouch and down into
the crackling energies of the portal below. As an indistinct form,
swept up in several small whirlwinds, was shot through the portal
below them, the dust slowly filtered down through the magical miasma
formed by the gem mages' spell. A shrill screeching noise permeated
the air.

As the image of the distant plane began to flicker and fade in the
closing portal below them, Nattick laid the blade of his knife across
the mage's neck.

'Fly me to the wall top,' he commanded the elf in a cold tone.

The mage laughed back at him. Several of the other mages in the circle
were now coming in their direction. Their precious portal spell now
disrupted by the rogue, they had come looking for retribution.

Nattick was not about to give them one.

'Then you'll make a fine cushion!' the rogue shouted as he sliced open
the elf's throat.

Instantly, they began to fall, and in the short heartbeat of time that
Nattick had before he plunged to the earth he managed to rotate the
elf's body, still rigid in its death throes, beneath him before they
crashed into the sand floor below.

Blackness washed over the rogue as he was plunged into unconsciousness.

**

Raucous cheers went up from the remaining Scythers and orcs below as
the hated portal had finally been closed, and they had taken advantage
of the new wrinkle in the fighting brought on by Zhephani's betrayal
of Illarin.

More badly outnumbered than ever before and without their general, the
remains of the Scythe army rallied behind the remaining idol figures
and most of all Boki as they took what fight they had left to their
foes.

The EDF were in a bad state of confusion as they were now fighting off
the very same Minotaurs, dwarves and giants that had until recently
been assisting them in annihilating the Scythers and Drakhiyans. The
Consortium's forces largely ignored the Scythers now, due to the
latter's depletion in numbers, although Minotaurs still leapt to
attack any orcs within their sight.

Elves hurled spells at elves as the Consortium mages now fully joined
the fray, having waited in reserve until the signal from their leader
had been given. With Zhephani's dispatching of Illarin, they unleashed
their elemental magic on their unsuspecting Eldar patsies.

Fortunately for the Eldar, Arehtama remained alive to command them and
he seemed unfazed by the shocking betrayal perpetrated by his latest
enemy. The elf rogue sat atop his horse again and from there he
sternly called out the orders for his army to retreat. A black mare
behind him bore two riders, the front of who was a male elf with dark
grey eyes. He wore a bloodstained surcoat over a suit of heavy
platemail and he had several deep scratches on his face. Behind him
and with her arms clinging to his midsection (they had actually been
tied there so she would not fall off) was an unconscious female elf
that looked as if she had been burned and beaten badly about the
face. What remained of reddish curly hair hung limply from underneath
a bandage about her head.

The EDF made for a rapid and disciplined retreat, but not without
suffering heavy casualties as hundreds of them fell to aggressive
Scythe and Consortium charges from behind. It was a bizarre scene to
witness and to a newcomer it might have appeared that the Scythe and
Consortium had been allies all along as they fought side by side
momentarily in their pursuit of the retreating Eldar.

But the two remaining armies plunged into battle with each other again
as the last of the Eldar streamed away to the north and west in the
desert.

Night had fallen over the desert but the fighting that had begun hours
earlier continued to spill blood onto its floor to mingle with the
sand. Now the Scythers stood scattered and spread out, swallowed up
and outnumbered badly in the ocean that was the army of the Consortium.

Zhephani had crept back behind the front lines to devote herself to
commanding her army. She called out orders to her units of Minotaurs
and dwarves to maneuver them into position to finish off the stalwart
Scythers, who she knew would fight to the death. Nastily, the gem
sorceress welcomed the opportunity to personally see to the complete
extinction of the guild she hated and feared the most.

The doomed Scythers continued to call out taunts at their foes and
they continued to yell to each other in support, in spite of their
imminent fate.

'Drun will like this one's ears!' shouted one orc.

'You'll wish you had pushed me into that portal!' shouted another
Scyther, a vigorous human female with rippling muscles and a pair of
shortswords.

Boki cackled gleefully as he continued to flatten the skulls of all
who opposed him.

From within the city, which had lain ominously silent since the last
of its orcs had charged forth into the desert, came a low rumbling
noise. The fighting in the desert outside the Gate of Dawn had moved
several hundred feet to the east during the Eldar retreat, so when the
first orcs lifted themselves out of the open sewer grates in the
street, they went unnoticed.

Dazedly, Nattick rose to his feet, his head pounding and his left arm
throbbing mercilessly in pain. As he held it up close to his body, he
was sure his arm had been broken during the precipitous drop. It now
matched the steady pain coming from the infected wound in his left
leg, and judging from the sting coming from his chest every time he
took a breath he knew a couple of ribs were also fractured. Yet he was
alive.

As he slowly shook his head and realized his luck to now be the stuff
of legends, Nattick regained his bearings. The fighting raged on in
front of him and he could clearly see that the Scythe was on the
losing end. It was small comfort to him that the Eldar were nowhere in
sight.

As he steeled himself to join his blood brothers and sisters in their
battle to the end, a stirring behind him caught his ear.

The rogue whirled around, nearly toppling over at the sharp twinge of
pain shooting up his leg. He stared in amazement at what was happening
in the city.

It wasn't the hundreds, possibly thousands, of western orcs coming up
the main avenue of Drakhiya that caused the rogue to gape like he did.

It was the lone figure at their vanguard he could not believe. There,
towering two feet over the tallest orc in the crowd, was Halforc
himself. The big, lanky reclusive leader of the Scythe had chosen the
perfect moment to make his return. He was wielding a huge black-bladed
Scythe and grinning ferociously.

Nattick shouted in excitement and turned back around to face the
battle. He could hear his fellow Scythers screaming savagely and he
knew that they had seen Halforc's glorious return as well. With an
army of western orcs at his back, Nattick pulled his bastard sword
from its sheath one last time as he fell in with the western orcs'
charge, limping along lamely but with all of his remaining strength.

Gritting her teeth, Zhephani fumed silently as she beheld the surprise
horde of orcs. Suddenly, things were not going according to her plan.

**

What happened next took place rapidly and there is little to tell
other than that the Scythe army, strengthened anew by the timely
arrival of its unpredictable allies from the far west, systematically
picked apart and destroyed the army of the Consortium. Down to the
last gem-hurling elf clad in white, the Consortium's hybrid force was
either laid low or driven away.

Perhaps a dozen or so of the mages were able to magically teleport
themselves away from defeat and certain death at the hands of the
Scythers and their orcish allies, but unfortunately for Zhephani this
select group did not include her, or her lieutenant Silivren. To their
credit they did not abandon their troops as they were being mauled at
the hands of the savage western orcs, and though they did manage to
bring down more than a few of their enemies with their dangerous
spells, they did not succeed in killing anyone else of the caliber of
Glock or Balfor. Although the Scythers did not actually see the idol
figure Balfor put to death after his horrifying banishment to the
other plane, he was considered as good as dead given his bleak
predicament.

As much as he would have enjoyed personally dispatching Zhephani with
his own blade, Nattick did not take part in the actual slaying of the
masterful gem sorceress. His accumulated wounds prevented him from
being able to press through the tight and thick circle of his brethren
and the orcs surrounding the Consortium's fallen general right before
she was struck off. The sounds of her dying screams as she went down
beneath the vicious hacks and slashes of many a scimitar were comfort
enough to the rogue, although there was still a great emptiness inside
of him.

He had been responsible for finally disrupting the foul portal,
Nattick knew that true enough, but he had not been quick enough to
prevent the loss of Balfor and countless others of his guild
mates. Glock had also been slain, and he knew that there would simply
never be another orc warrior that would grace the Scythe with the
fearfulness and brutal efficiency at killing that the Massacrator had.

But Akul had not only survived but succeeded in his daunting
assassination of Yassar, and even now he was regaling Nattick with a
vivid retelling of his adventures in the sewers under Drakhiya and
their fantastic encounter with the serpentari's pet dragon.

His companion on the wall top, Gryg, had also lived through the
carnage in the desert, and he would be seeing the world around him
with one less eye now, judging from the bloody bandage over his right
eye. But the muscular orc grinned triumphantly at Nattick as they came
upon each other again at the end of the battle, and they slapped each
other on the back amicably. Gryg then melted back into the shifting
crowd to seek out a cleric.

There were new friends as well, as Akul had brought with him a
fearsome orc warrior named Pommuk and a formidable human fighter named
Brenn, who moved with the quickness of a cat. The strong bonds of
friendship between them had been forged in their brief but intense
escapade together during the battle in Drakhiya (or The Duel in the
Desert, as it would later come to be known). Nattick knew that as soon
as some semblance of order had been restored at the camp, Boki would
be burning many marks of the Scythe into new recruits, and that
Pommuk, Brenn and Gryg would be at the forefront of this new class of
Scythers.

'So tell me again what happened after you slew the dragon,' Nattick
prompted his mage friend, not for the first or last time.

Akul smirked at the rogue. 'I told you, we were standing there, about
ready to throw down our weapons for good -'

'YOU were ready to quit, not Pommuk,' grunted the brutish orc who had
joined up with the Scythe during the battle. He stood to the mage's
left and was wearing a new sling on his left arm, matching the one
also worn by Nattick. The orc winced as a young female western orc
fighter put the finishing touches on his sling by tightening the
straps. She was cute, for an orc, and the western orcs differed from
other orcs as they had white tusks at either corner of their mouth and
had skin of a more pale olive hue than their brethren. They also stood
taller than their eastern cousins, and possessed more swagger and
cunning, things they lorded over the eastern orcs at every opportunity.

'Hey! You no tighten his this much!' Pommuk snarled at the comely
young orc as he pointed at Nattick.

The female orc grinned up at Pommuk. 'You big strong orc, you supposed
to be tougher than humans and not whine so much!' she said,
emphasizing her words by cinching extra hard on her final adjustment.

Pommuk's eyes bugged out but he complained no further, and Brenn and
the others just laughed at him.

'Mine fits just fine, Pommuk. Maybe she just doesn't like you as much
as me!' Nattick taunted his newest orc friend as he grinned at him.

'Or maybe it's her way of telling you she thinks you're sexy!' Brenn
chimed in as they all laughed again. Pommuk scowled murderously at
them in return, and the young female orc blushed as she walked away,
but not without casting one last sidelong glance at Pommuk.

'Fine,' Akul continued. 'So all of us except for Pommuk were ready to
give up, when from a far tunnel came Halforc leading this army of
western orcs. We thought there were more gem giants or dragons or
worse, so you can imagine our surprise.'

'And joy,' Brenn said, finishing Akul's thought for him.

'I still can't believe it. Even we didn't know about these tunnels
down south, but I guess we can't be too surprised about it,' Nattick
said.

Akul nodded. 'Nobody has ever fully mapped the tunnels and sewers
beneath Drakhiya. The sewers were first built by the serpentari, but
after they were ousted from the city centuries ago all of their maps
and writings regarding the sewers were lost in the chaos. Since then,
the western orcs must have stumbled upon them in all of their frenzy
to connect to the east and bypass the elvish mists.'

'They just neglected to tell us about these particular tunnels,'
Nattick stated, a wry smile upon his face.

'Yes, but lucky for us they were there at all. Otherwise you and I
might be on the other side of that portal now, slaving for our new
masters,' Akul said with a somber tone.

Nattick sighed. 'Hear me now. I will find out what happened to Balfor
and the others sent over there. I'll spend the rest of my life
searching for them if I have to,' the rogue said, fire in his eyes.

No one doubted his will, but they remained skeptical of anyone ever
finding the banished Scythers, even Nattick. The rogue remained free
of all such ambivalence and doubt, however.

Akul and Nattick and their small group stood in the desert a few
hundred feet to the east of the Gate of Dawn. The battle had been over
now for a short while and the only activity left came from the small
bands of orcs and Scythers that roamed the battlefield, either looting
corpses, finishing off dying enemies, or finding and assisting wounded
comrades. Halforc lead one of these small groups and presently he was
out of sight of the rogue and the mage. Nattick had yet to actually
speak to Halforc, but knew that Akul had spoken with him briefly in
the sewers.

'What was Halforc like? I think you may be the first among us outside
of a chosen few to actually ever have met him,' Nattick asked of the
mage.

'He is everything you have ever heard of him, and more,' Akul said, a
hint of reverence in his voice. 'He is really quite ugly, and he
towers over the rest of us by a good two feet at least. Your first
instinct when you see him coming towards you is to run, and I have to
admit I was glad he identified himself in the sewers, for I did not
know what to make of him or his army of orcs. I think they were as
surprised to see us down there as we were to see them,' Akul said with
a grin, and Brenn nodded in agreement.

'What did he say?' Nattick asked.

'As he marched toward us out of the tunnel with his army at his back,
he called out: 'I am Halforc of the Scythe! Tell me who you are or get
out of the way!' They stopped before us, and they were quite a sight,
let me tell you. I could tell they were eager to get to battle and
that if we did not join up or move they were going to make us their
first conquest!'

Nattick let out a low whistle.

'We must have looked like fools, for none of us could speak for a
moment. Halforc towered over us, leaning on his great black scythe. He
has this aura about him. He just has this ability to lead. You want to
follow him, and learn from him. I can't imagine anyone or anything
that could best him in battle, either hand-to-hand or by leading an
army against his. He may look dreadful but his eyes gleam with
intelligence and he seems to be able to know your thoughts before you
even speak,' Akul said, pausing for a moment. Nattick had never heard
his mage friend gush quite so about anything, and so far Halforc was
living up to his own legend.

'We finally managed to tell him what we had done, and what we knew was
happening in the city above,' Brenn said, picking up where the mage
had left off. 'Halforc grinned at the mention of the battle still
going, and the orcs he brought with him began to shout for battle and
to march on.'

'That was about it, we didn't stand around and talk for long,' Akul
said. 'Right before he resumed leading his army's march, he asked my
name and I told him. He then said, 'Akul of the Scythe, take the
vanguard with me and let's crack some elf skulls. The first one of you
sorry lot to kill an elf gets a trinket!''

The group laughed at this, and they looked around them but could still
see no sign of the Scythe legend. Darkness had fallen upon the desert
now but the desert to the east of Drakhiya had been lit up by the
fires from many torches. There were also several funeral pyres
burning, some containing orcs and Scythers and others containing the
fallen remains of the armies of the EDF and Consortium.

'So who bagged the first elf?' Nattick asked.

The others all pointed at Pommuk, who stood grinning fiercely with
pride.

Nattick tilted his head back and laughed heartily. 'Ah, so the gimp
beat you both to the first kill! Outstanding!' he said as he clapped
the muscular orc on his good shoulder, one wounded man to another.

'Here, let me show you how to headbutt,' Nattick offered to Pommuk. He
placed his right hand on the orc's shoulder, and the orc did the same
in return. Then, all at once they smashed their foreheads together and
staggered backwards, laughing.

Pommuk took a bit longer than Nattick to recover, and as he nursed his
sore forehead with his hand he said, 'Little rogue got some
pluck. Pommuk will have to get used to this!' Akul and Brenn burst out
laughing, pointing at the orc mockingly.

'Yes, yes, all in good time, friend. So what was the prize?' Nattick
asked.

As the others looked quizzically to the orc, Pommuk just
shrugged. Then a lone black horse came galloping up behind them from
the desert to the east.

They all turned to face the rider, Nattick being the slowest to turn
as his leg still throbbed with pain. As the rider dismounted from his
horse, Nattick's mouth dropped open slightly in awe as he beheld the
rider.

Striding towards Nattick was none other than Halforc himself. The
tall, gangly warrior towered over the human rogue, and the
black-bladed scythe strapped to the half-orc's back glinted ominously
in the firelight.

'Nattick the rogue?' Halforc asked of him.

'Aye, Halforc, that is me,' Nattick said, nodding his head slightly to
his senior bloodbrother, the most senior of all Scythers. Akul, Brenn,
and Pommuk all followed suit.  As he lowered his eyes, Nattick noticed
with some pride the steely mark of the Scythe glinting from its place
in Halforc's chest, burned into the sinewy muscle there ages
ago. Idly, Nattick wondered if Halforc placed the mark himself.

Halforc thrust out a hand at the rogue, which Nattick accepted
readily. The rogue was not aware, but there were very few individuals
that merited such a handshake from the terrible half-orc. Clenched in
the iron grasp of his leader, Nattick looked up once again into the
eyes of Halforc and knew at once of what Akul was speaking when he
described the enigmatic chief of the Scythe. His deep-set eyes, with
irises of black, seemed to be assessing Nattick, judging him for his
worth as a Scyther. At the same time Halforc also seemed able to read
his mind like an open book, and Nattick felt a shaft of fear running
through him as he met the gaze of the original Scyther. All at once
Nattick wanted to run screaming from Halforc, never to see him again,
and also to follow him to the ends of the earth and die in his service.

Halforc's features were as rough as his reputation. His brow was
furrowed with many wrinkles and his olive-green skin bore the numerous
scars and scratches from countless previous battles. Surprisingly
white teeth, albeit sharp and in uneven rows, shone out at Nattick
from within a fierce grin, and a hook of a nose protruded from the
center of Halforc's face. The way it deviated slightly to one side
told of its being broken at some point in the past, and more than once
by Nattick's calculations. A shock of coarse black hair sat atop
Halforc's head, shot through here and there with shafts of steel
grey. He smelled of leather and sweat, and these were mingled with the
scent of blood, which spattered his armour and boots.

'You do good things for the Scythe, Nattick the rogue. You are well
met,' Halforc said to him next, as he let go of the handshake.

'Thank you, Halforc,' Nattick replied simply. In spite of himself he
felt giddy, as not only was he finally meeting Halforc himself but was
being showered with praise by him.

Halforc nodded at him, and then turned to face Pommuk. 'You, orc, here
is your trinket for beating the rest to the elves,' he said as he
produced a cloth-wrapped bundle from within his studded leather
breastplate.

Pommuk caught his prize in mid-air, grinning from ear to ear.

'I would know your names as well,' Halforc said to the rest of the
group.

As Pommuk, Brenn, and Akul introduced themselves to Halforc, the orc
fighter greedily unwrapped his prize. From within the bundle of cloth
he produced a hefty scimitar, its sharp curved blade made entirely of
mithril. Runes of power glinted along the length of the blade,
emitting a soft golden glow. Hoots of approval and astonishment went
up from the others as they beheld the rare magical sword bestowed upon
Pommuk, who was no longer grinning but rather gawking at his new
weapon with childish fascination.

'That's some trinket,' murmured Akul.

'It likes to taste the flesh of elvenkind,' Halforc said, now grinning
as well. 'But I think you'll find it to be some good against all of
your other enemies, better than any other blade.'

'Thank you!' Pommuk shouted at Halforc. The orc fighter stepped away
from the circle and began to practice cuts and slashes with his new,
prized sword, testing its balance and finding it perfect.

Halforc turned back to face Nattick and Akul. 'Enough with the
pleasantries. We have some serious problems,' he said sternly to
them. The mage and rogue remained silent in reply. Akul swallowed hard
once, and Nattick tried to as well but found that his mouth was full
of cotton.

Halforc motioned to a nearby orc who instantly came to his
side. Halforc instructed him to lead his horse, which had been one of
the Eldar's mounts, back into Drakhiya to be prepared for travel.

As the obedient orc carried out Halforc's bidding, the Scythe overlord
lead the small group back in the direction of the Gate of Dawn. He
explained to Nattick how fortunate he and his Scythers were that the
western orcs had arrived when they did, for their annihilation would
have been certain otherwise. Halforc stated that after Akul and the
others had earlier tried unsuccessfully to persuade the Tusked One to
lend them his army to put down the Eldar and Consortium uprising,
Halforc himself had heard the news of the Scythers' request. He had
been waiting impatiently for years for a chance to do battle with the
elves again, and was not about to miss out on the perfect opportunity
to do so. He managed to convince the Tusked One to let him have one
regiment of his orcs to lead through the hidden tunnels towards
Drakhiya, where he knew the battle would be joined after what Akul had
told them. Little did he expect to find that his guild was in the
process of getting routed and about to be destroyed utterly!

'If I didn't want to smack around some elves so bad I would have left
you fools to your deaths! The Scythe has become weak in my absence,
never before have we asked others for help in a war,' he
said. Halforc's callousness knew no bounds, and it was this brand of
toughness that had bred the Scythers to be the fierce guild that they
were. His clan of like-minded killers and anarchists were united in
their common goal to oppose King Drin and his tyranny, and this
contempt spread naturally to elves as they attracted a lot of orcs to
their cause. Relying on others for help was regarded as a sign of
weakness in the Scythe, and Halforc was repulsed at the thought of his
guild degenerating into a band of frail and inept weaklings.

It was no real shock to Akul and Nattick to hear Halforc's wrath at
finding his guild's army in such disarray, but they were stung by his
remark about them becoming weak.

'Surely you don't consider Balfor or Glock to be weak, Halforc!' Akul
protested.

The towering half-orc grunted. 'No,' he admitted, 'but I've never seen
so many elves before. What the hell is happening over here? I leave to
get the western orcs to come over and help us get rid of Drin, and now
the elves are rising up?! You have all grown soft.'

'It's not just them, Halforc,' Nattick explained. 'There's a strange
new force in the land. Or there was, anyway,' he said,
snickering. 'The Eldar had allied with this Consortium, who only
appeared a few months ago in their tower of crystal, down here in the
desert.'

'Seems they had a common goal to eradicate orcs and Scythers, but they
differed on who would get to hold the reins after they got rid of us
all,' Akul went on. Halforc raised an eyebrow at him.

'Right before you showed up, Zhephani and her Consortium betrayed the
Eldar,' Nattick explained. 'She sent Illarin, the Eldar's general,
through the portal and then they began to attack the Eldar, as well as
us. At that point they had numbers on both of us and the Eldar's
morale was shattered. Arehtama, another Eldar and a lieutenant in
their Elven Defense Force, lead them on a full retreat.'

'That's when the Consortium turned all of their fury on us, and they
were having their way with us, until you arrived,' Akul said. Halforc
nodded at him, frowning.

The group had now reached the Gate of Dawn and paused outside, and the
inside of the city was now busy with orcs as they ran about putting
out fires and gathering the dead. There was no sign of the serpentari.

'Hmph,' Halforc said, still frowning. 'You're still lucky we showed up
when we did, or at all. But I guess now I can see why you needed
help. There is more than Drin to worry about these days.'

'Aye, Halforc,' Nattick said, agreeing with him. 'But never fear. We
Scythers are as nasty and tough a bunch as we ever were, give us half
a chance to make you proud again.'

Halforc leered down at the rogue through slit eyes, but a grin cracked
his face. 'We shall see, Nattick, we shall see.'

In the streets and desert, with the threat of the Consortium and the
EDF now gone and the spoils of victory beginning to wear off, old
grudges and rivalries began to emerge. A handful of Dalairi orcs had
managed to survive complete desolation, and they were currently being
bullied about by their cousins from the west. The Drakhiyan orcs were
in on the conflict, too, accusing the outlander western orcs of
looting their city and wanting to take it over.

Halforc grew disgusted with the burgeoning chaos, and he excused
himself momentarily from the group. As Pommuk took this opportunity to
show off his new mithril sword again, Halforc strode over to where the
small band of Dalairi orcs was fighting with a much larger group of
the western orcs. The gangly half-orc unhooked the scythe from its
sheath on his back and brought the back end of it swinging in a rapid
arc right at one of the western orc's heads. With a firm thud the orc
fell forward onto his face, unconscious, and instantly Halforc had all
of the orcs' attention. After smacking a few of them around and
gesturing threateningly, the fearless Scyther negotiated a temporary
peace treaty between them.

Fearing retribution from Halforc, which could come in many nasty
forms, the orcs rapidly spread the word over the next few days among
their respective groups that infighting was not to be tolerated and
that it was definitely in their best interest to feign civility for
now and to get along. To further make his point, Halforc assembled his
chief lieutenants from the assembly of western orcs and told them in
graphic detail what was to become of the next orc to pick a fight with
a Drakhiyan or Dalairi orc. For the rest of that night and all of the
days and nights that followed in the aftermath of the Duel in the
Desert, the bickering tribes of orcs co-existed better than they had
ever before. A truer and lasting peace among the orcs of Dalair and
Aalgirzst and Drakhiya would not be forged until much later, but that
is a story for another time.

Once Halforc had rejoined Nattick and the others, they continued to
discuss the events of the preceding fortnight, including all of the
players involved on all sides of the mighty conflict. Once Halforc was
fully apprised of the current scenario in the east, they went about
finishing the clean-up of the city.

There were raids planned on the crystal monolith to the southeast, but
when the first raiding party, lead by Nattick, came upon the site of
the tower, they found that it was gone. It was as if it had vanished
completely, and the only sign of it ever having existed was the
perfect circle of smooth sand left where the tower's base once
stood. No matter how hard the desert wind blew it did not disturb the
packed sand that had lain beneath the tower, and to stand upon it was
like standing on a firm flat rock.

The group made camp briefly, using the circular depression as a privy
and a bin for discarded trash from their meal. They then headed back
to Drakhiya to tell the others of the disquieting news regarding the
tower. The general consensus was one of relief, for at least the tower
was gone and not able to serve as a rendezvous for future attacks from
the mysterious Consortium.

**

Within a week, a semblance of order had been restored in Drakhiya, and
a new Caliph had risen to power. Now aware of the extensive tunnel
system leading all the way to Aalgirzst, the orcs of Drakhiya sent a
crew of diplomats back to the west with the Aalgirzsti orcs as they
headed home. The Caliph also commissioned a small, secret band of
mercenaries to begin mapping the labyrinth beneath his city. The
Aalgirzsti left a small detachment of ambassadors in place in Drakhiya
as well. The Dalairi orcs maintained their disdain for their western
brethren, and the feelings were returned, so they continued their
tradition of ignoring each other, yet Mettertrop remained in Drakhiya
to do his best to make Dalair's interests seem more important than
Aalgirzst's to the Caliph.

Glock's remains had been burned in the only ceremony of any sort held
by the Scythers for their dead, and what it lacked in circumstance it
made up for in sheer display. The massive orc's body had been placed
atop a huge pile of his fallen brothers and sisters in the desert, and
with them burned their weapons and armour, save for the awesome scythe
of Glock. That was to be saved for its place in the Scythe's trophy
hall in camp, a permanent tribute to their most destructive warrior
ever.

Nattick had the slow poison in his leg reversed by one of many Scythe
clerics that were kept busy in the aftermath of the Duel, and he and
Pommuk were able to shed their slings the day after the battle.

Boki wasted little time in putting Pommuk and Brenn to work, as he put
them in charge of organizing the new recruits of the Scythe, for so
many had joined the guild in the days following the war that the orc
and human newcomers had almost an entire squadron at their
command. Most of these were orcs from Drakhiya and more than a few
were from Aalgirzst. A decent number of humans and dwarves of all
classes that were in Drakhiya for the Feast decided to come over to
the ranks of the Scythe. Halforc beamed with pride at the large
assortment of new Scythers, and although the guild's numbers were
still severely diminished from the battle, the morale was higher than
ever.

Already throughout the land the tales of the Scythe's determination
and ability to survive were being told, and in the days and weeks that
passed after the Duel it became clear that the Scythe was the dominant
guild in the land. Likewise, the treachery of the EDF and their Eldar
sponsors had also became widely known, and Arehtama kept his beaten
down and shattered army in seclusion for quite a long while.

There was talk among the Scythe elite of mounting a force to besiege
Duender and wipe out the Eldar and their EDF once and for all, but
they simply lacked the numbers to do it and decided instead to focus
on rebuilding. Their camp was in as bad a shambles as Drakhiya was,
and there were still the pesky knights of Drin and other nuisances
that the Scythe would have to pay attention to, lest they be attacked
themselves in their diminished state.

And so the Scythers finally made their exodus from the desert city of
Drakhiya, trekking back across the jungles and swamplands to their
waiting fleet to the east. As they sailed north, the new Scythers grew
ever more eager to reach camp and to be branded with the mark of their
new guild. The established veterans had their fun ordering the newest
members about, playing jokes on them and making them swab the deck.

One night in the hold of the flagship, Boki, Nattick and Akul all
shared ale from a gigantic flagon, which had been crafted from the
skull and bones of one of the fallen gem giants. They were pretty well
into their cups and the mood on the ship had been a lively one since
their journey began. Nattick had forbidden any mourning of Balfor or
Glock or any of the other lost Scythers, as this would be pointless
and weak, and they chose instead to only speak of their conquests,
both on and off the battlefield.

'So how you do that?!' Boki asked of the rogue, managing to look as
incredulous as a heavily-scarred ogre could look.

'Do what?' Nattick asked in reply, somewhat baffled. The rogue was
fairly well sauced and was staring into his full mug of orcish banana
brew.

'When I throw you, you shout for Halforc. Then he appear behind you!
HOW YOU DO THAT?!' Boki asked again, all at once excited and
curious. He had slammed down the flagon and grabbed the thin rogue by
both of his arms, pinning them to his sides.

Akul looked on, a mirthful expression on his face, relaxed from the
buzz of the alcohol.

Nattick burst into laughter. 'You crazy lummox! I didn't do that!
Nobody could do that! It was just... dumb luck.' In spite of himself,
Nattick couldn't help but smirk mysteriously at his big ogre friend.

Boki just stared at the rogue in his grasp, mouth open and face
contorted into a doubtful expression.

'Naaaaaaaaah! Nattick fooling on Boki again! You DID summon Halforc!'

Fortunately for Nattick, Boki was grinning at him again, but he could
tell there was just no convincing the big lug that he didn't, in fact,
somehow magically summon their long-lost leader at just the right time.

He decided to let the ogre keep thinking that. Boki was bound to tell
this story first and foremost among all the other war stories he was
sure to tell, and Nattick felt that his reputation could always use
enhancing.

Many days later the Scythe fleet finally pulled into harbor. It seemed
that many hadn't noticed - or cared - that the Scythe guild had its
own stash of makeshift boats stored in the town dump. So it was that
they were able to put them back in their hiding places, covered with
trash and guarded only minimally.

Halforc chose to ride alone back to camp, using the horse he had
acquired after the Duel to ride north through the jungles and
forests. He spent some time on reconnaissance of the various
settlements of elves and other creatures scattered throughout the
expansive forests to the south of Tantallon, yet still he arrived at
the Scythe camp a few days ahead of the fleet.

Bokwa the Fierce greeted his guild mates with frenzied glee as they
made their triumphant return to camp. The troll had marshaled the
skeleton crew he had with him to clean up the camp after their battle
with the EDF, and in addition to picking up the grounds they had
already made significant headway in repairing the huts and tents. The
last remaining task in repairing the camp was a daunting one, in that
the huge wooden fence needed rebuilding in many areas, and this job
was left to the new recruits. Mara the rogue's prized blade, Elbelle,
was used extensively to cut many posts for the Scythers' new fence,
but never once did its sharp blade become dulled.

The recruits took to their task of building the wall without fail,
with Scythe marks burnt freshly into their skin, and as the Scythers
set to work rebuilding the fence they composed a song exalting the
guild's most recent conquest:

My guild is the Scythe, they call us the Scythers 
We rule from the forests south of Tantallon 
We're stronger than even your strongest fighters 
So throw down your swords and run along!

We'll rant and we'll roar like true blooded Scythers 
We'll rant and we'll roar for great Halforc 
Until we see your blood welling up in geysers 
Pain and death we'll bring 'til you beg 'No more!'

I am a brother of the sword, a student of Balfor 
I can fight, I can ride, I can hit any mark 
I can slay any foe, and I fight in his honor
Wherever there's battle, in light or in dark!

The elves they did come, they thought they could do it 
Ambushed and attacked while we toiled in training 
But they should have known wiser, for within a quick minute 
'Twas the blood of elves that came down a-raining!

Wicked Illarin, with her pet elf Annac 
Craven Arehtama, with meek little Mara 
Kidnapped our men and put them to the rack 
But now it is Annac who's food for flowers!

Farewell and goodbye to our Massacrator 
Farewell and so long, mightiest orc called Glock 
We're bound to go on, killing elves round the 'quator 
We sons and daughters from your proud stock!

I've got me a room down in the Scythe camp 
Hung with bones of those who opposed us 
Let this be a lesson to Zhephani the tramp 
Your Minotaurs and Giants crushed into dust!

I'll leave you with the words of brave Boki 
The skull-smashing ogre who made Nattick fly 
'Bash hard, do Boki proud!  
Fry 'em up, me likes 'em crispy!'

We'll rant and we'll roar like true blooded Scythers 
We'll rant and we'll roar for great Halforc 
Until we see your blood welling up in geysers 
Pain and death we'll bring 'til you beg 'No more!'

Boki beamed with pride as he listened, and he clapped Halforc roughly
on the shoulder.

'Tings is good here again, Boss,' the ogre said to his wayward friend.

Halforc nodded in reply. He remained silent as he scanned the camp and
watched as it was slowly rebuilt. His scarred face betrayed no
emotions.

'What we do next? You gonna leave us again?' Boki said to Halforc.

'I must get back to Aalgirzst. There is unfinished business there,'
Halforc said to the ogre, who now wore a look of dismay upon his face.

Halforc grinned at Boki and laughed. 'Relax, Boki, I won't be gone
nearly as long this time. The western orcs are ours now, I am sure of
it. As soon as the Upper Tunnels are done, we'll be back in the east.'

At this the ogre broke into a toothy grin again. 'And den we gonna
smash Drin?'

'Everybody,' Halforc said back to him. 'Just everybody.'

The ogre cackled in delight as Halforc strode off toward his horse,
undoubtedly to take his leave as suddenly and silently as he had the
first time.

Boki then looked all about for his friends Akul and Nattick, but he
could not immediately find them. The ogre assumed they were sleeping
off massive hangovers from the constant drinking on the journey back
from the desert. But Boki could not have been more wrong.

**

High atop a ruined watchtower set along the shore just to the south
and east of Tantallon, Akul the mage and Nattick the rogue sat across
from each other at a makeshift table. Two lanterns burned brightly,
one set upon the table and the other hung from a hook by the archway
leading to the staircase. The yellow light from the lanterns chased
off the gloom within the crumbling stone tower, its windows sealed
shut from the outside by thick planks.

The Scythers were deep in thoughtful study of a thin grey tome, one
that had been lifted from the crystal tower by Nattick some days
ago. Several sheets of parchment lay scattered atop the surface of the
table as well, some blank and others with sketched out diagrams and
notations. Bowls filled to the brim with many different kinds of
precious and semi-precious gems lay in a row along the floor, and in
front of some of them were neat piles of different colors of dust. A
heavy stone mallet lay haphazardly next to one of the dust piles.

Their search for the way to Balfor and the other lost Scythers had
begun.

----------

Copyright @ 2002, Brandon Brooks, All rights reserved.