Vicious Magick - Smashwords

Vicious Magick written by Jordan Baugher Smashwords Edition Copyright 2010 Jordan Baugher Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1: Claustria

Zanther sits at the bar. He nurses a pint of Dragon’s Leg, the cheapest swill available in Claustria. As he digs around in his pocket searching for a leaf of thinpaper and a pinch of smokeweed, he observes that the seats around him all seem to be occupied by black-vested Darrinians who keep eyeing him as if he were a treat to be unwrapped. It should be noted here that Zanther isn’t all that pretty. These Darrinians have the stocky build and matted, greasy hair of their counterparts back home, but unlike most Darrinians, these men have thick muscles and each carries on his back a gleaming, flawless longknife forged with the precision of a master military smithy. The emblems on the hilts of their weapons mark them as a special detail assigned to do the bidding of the Kleptocratic Party, the de facto rulers of Darrinia. Zanther takes another small sip of his beer before rolling his cigarette. He snatches up a small candle sitting on the bar, using it to light his freshly-rolled smokeable. Before he can exhale his first drag, a halfdozen stools are overturned and longknives are drawn, all of them pointed at Zanther’s head. Disturbances at the Stuck Pony are rare, so the patrons are watching the scene tensely, torn between their desire to flee and the chance to be entertained. With Claustria Castle just a few blocks away, soldiers typically deal quickly and harshly with any violent acts. Zanther holds his hands in front of him to show his cooperation, and as soon as the points of the blades lower just a tiny bit, he uses that moment of hesitation to reach for his own longknife. He poses in defiance for but an instant before realizing that he’s holding only a rusty hilt; the blade remains firmly wedged in its scabbard. He ducks between the slashes of the two nearest Darrinians as he contemplates his next move. It’s here when everything gets sketchy. Zanther’s vision becomes altered; the color is drained from his surroundings and everything he sees is black and white and blue. He can see the veins of his attackers pumping their angry blood, but their movements are languid, almost lethargic. Zanther ponders this for a moment before realizing that time itself seems to have slowed.

Rather than try to figure out the reason for this shift in perception, Zanther makes the most of his advantage and reaches for a mop in a bucket a few paces away. He swings it at the face of the nearest Darrinian, breaking it in half on his nose. Left with a pointed stick, he drives this into the chest of another Darrinian, watching as the blue blood gushing from his heart turns red upon its exposure to the air. As this second black-vested man drops his longknife in a futile effort to pull the stick free, Zanther snatches the falling longknife and uses it to decapitate two more of his attackers, their faces frozen in shock as they struggle to process what is happening. With a few quick thrusts, Zanther decommissions the last of his enemies. Time regains its normal fluidity and heads and bodies fall to the ground in a sick succession of splats and thuds. The patrons of the Stuck Pony stare, mouths agape at the speed and quality of the carnage wrought by this single, scruffy man. Zanther reaches into the pocket of one of his slain foes and produces a few dodeckas, the de facto currency of Upper Kleighton--the value of the dodecka is currently pegged at one-twelfth of a goat. He drains the remainder of his drink before dropping these coins onto the counter and stepping out into the night.

In this world, there are good kings and bad kings. A good king spends most of his time in his palace, cutting babies in half and solving other disputes, while a bad king dons a disguise and walks among his people pretending to be a revolutionary in order to draw out his enemies and study them face-to-face before having them tortured in inventive and horrifying ways. Madra is what one would call a bad queen. She’s among her enemies all right, but she doesn’t do much walking. Her small, pleasing frame and innocent eyes conceal a cruel and calculating intellect honed in her twenty-four sunspins of crushing rebellions and thwarting assassination attempts. She is also at the Stuck Pony this night, seated next to a duke. Due to Madra’s presence, the Stuck Pony is filled with guards, all of them dressed as plainfolk, their weapons concealed by long coats and simple cloaks. As soon as the first longknife is drawn, a dozen eyes shoot to Madra for guidance. With a single finger, she commands them to hold their positions, and they do this without protest She watches as Zanther slices his way through his attackers. She isn’t smitten; the smitten ones are the Darrinians. A feeling stirs in her nethers, but it isn’t love. Madra decides at once--she will have this young man, she will possess his quick movements and powerful thrusts. The Duke unconsciously licks his upper lip as he looks Madra over, noticing none of the violence just a few paces away. Her leather top reveals a generous amount of cleavage, cupping her tiny breasts tightly to her chest. While such an outfit would normally be viewed as unfitting for a female monarch spending a night on the town, the voices of those who would dare object to any action of Madra’s have long been silenced. As soon as Zanther leaves the tavern, Madra rises from her seat. Marchand, the leader of the Stoneguard, the highest-ranking soldiers in Claustria and the personal guard of Claustrian royalty, rushes to her. “Shall we apprehend him, your Highness?” “Not yet. I wish to speak with him first--alone--to try and gather a little more information about this fracas.” “Are you sure that’s wise, your Eminence?” the Duke asks.

Dressed in puffy silks, white frills poofing out from between his lapels, his sleeves inflate his shoulders. His white makeup, his fake mole, his white wig, Madra notes all of these. It strikes her that this prissy aristocrat is the complete opposite of a man, an ideal clearly illustrated not ten eyeblinks ago by the dusty knifesman outside the Stuck Pony. “You seek an audience with the Queen of Claustria to discuss special dispensations for your properties and then you question my judgment. Would you consider that wise, Kaverle?” “I beg pardon, your Eminence.” “Beg is the operative word,” Madra says as she steps away from the table.

There’s a third person with a personal stake in Zanther’s exploits tonight. His long robes are dark blue. He stares at his drink, a Mongovian Brain Buster. As he watches the men point their longknives at Zanther, he pulls back a frayed sleeve and twists the outer ring on the face of the gold watch he wears on his wrist. As it does for Zanther, time slows for this observer as well. He looks on as Zanther stabs and cuts his way through the men. His eyes follow Zanther out the door, and his attention then turns to Queen Madra. She exchanges words with a muscular man, probably one of her bodyguards, before approaching the bar. He pretends to focus on his drink as Madra approaches. “You’re a little far from home, aren’t you, wizard?” He shrugs his shoulders, keeping his eyes low. “I haven’t called Arcania my home in quite some time.” “There seem to be a lot of out-of-towners at the Stuck Pony tonight,” she says. “By morning, you’ll have one less outsider to worry about--I plan to be well on my way by then.” “It’s odd,” she says, “your drink was full before he started hacking apart those men, and yet it’s now empty. I never saw you take a sip.” “It’s awfully dry in here--perhaps it evaporated. I suspect it was mostly water to begin with.” “Why’d you help him?” He smiles sheepishly. “Help? I never left my seat.” She bats her doe eyelashes at him, then clears her throat. He relents. “Okay, okay. I didn’t like the odds. Thought I’d even things up a little.” She nods and walks toward the door.

Zanther cracks two flintrocks together. It takes almost a dozen tries to get enough of a spark, but he eventually gets a small fire to catch as he takes a drag of his cigarette. He feels a tug at his gray canvas shirt. He coughs up smoke in surprise as he wheels around to find a sultry young brunette wearing a leather top, a silky skirt, and no shoes.

“I saw you back there, you were great,” she says with glowing eyes. “Um...thanks?” “Listen, your name’s Zanther, right? That’s what the bartender said. I’d like to...take you somewhere.” Zanther flashes his teeth in a grin. “I’d love that, actually. Really, I would. The thing is, I’m not really looking for that right now. For one thing, I don’t think I could afford your services, and--” “My what?” “I mean, that is to say--” She slaps him hard across his face. “You’ll regret this. You’ve no idea.” Madra storms off into the shadows, muttering curses. Zanther watches her go as he rubs his sore cheek, confused. “Did I say something...wrong?” “You don’t have any idea who that girl was, do you?” asks a voice from a nearby rooftop. Zanther looks up to see a figure clad in a dark blue robe. “I don’t mean to be rude, but who in the High Hell are you?” The figure falls from the roof, landing gracefully in front of Zanther with a minimum of bruising. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Novanostrum Singularis, Maximagus of the Third Circle.” Zanther nods, shaking the young wizard’s hand. “You have a very long name.”

Varello sits in a small clearing by the river, strumming a few chords on his lute as blocks of wood assemble themselves in front of him and burst into a campfire. A fish dances frantically in the water, flopping onto the shore and into the flame, crackling and bubbling. After its crisp scales achieve a palatable shade of black, Varello snatches it out of the fire and bites into it, saliva and grease dripping from his lips. Five or six man-lengths away, two soldiers with X-shaped insignias on their helmets interrogate a blindfolded drunk. “Priester! We traced it to you. We know you had it, so just tell us where it is now and we’ll let you be on your way.” “I’m sorry, I can’t hear very well. Please speak louder.” One of the soldiers grabs his pinky, twisting it until it breaks with an audible snap. “Where is it?” “I...I don’t have it. I lost it in a card game to some guy back in Dahlworth. Zinter? Zanter? I don’t remember exactly what his name was.” “Where?” demands the other soldier, the tip of his spear nudging the drunk man’s throat. “Claustria!”

“Enough!” Varello shouts, wiping his greasy hands on the cape of the closest soldier. “Cut him loose. I’ll make for Claustria while you two report back to your commander. We’ll need more troops, especially if the Queen gets wind of this.” The soldier looks Varello over, his eyes lingering on his pointy hat and red mantle. “We shall request that the commander send men to Claustria as you ask, but this one shall not be set free. The Pontiflex Minor has given us orders to expale traitors to the Church.” “He’s just a drunk,” Varello says, “hardly a traitor. The man’s a priester, for the Gods’ sake. I doubt it would be a terrible thing to let this man go back to his business.” The soldier shakes his head. “You forget your place, bard. You’re not here to give orders. While under the employ of the Pontiflex Minor you shall not hinder us, lest you find yourself solved for X.” Varello sighs and returns to his campfire. A few moments later, a scream tears through the silence of the valley, causing a flock of sheep to turn their heads in the direction of the noise. They panick for a moment before following the lead of the head ram, who has already fallen back asleep.

Madra kicks open the double doors leading to her spacious personal chambers as Marchand appears in the hallway. “Is something wrong, your Highness?” “I need you to assemble the Stoneguard and locate Zanther Maus, the criminal who murdered those men back at the Stuck Pony. You are to bring him to the dungeon--unharmed.” “He...turned you down, didn’t he?” Marchand asks in disbelief. “That bumpkin, he thought I was some common whore.” “Well, I mean, if he’s never been to Claustria, and with that outfit...” Madra narrows her eyes at him and clears her throat. “What about my outfit?” “It is the, uh, the very essence of refined tastes and royal elegance.” “That’s better. And my orders? Were they to stand around gawking at me?” “Er, no. The criminal--he shall be collected forthwith,” Marchand says with a salute.

“So, Zanther, what did you do to merit a Darrinian assassination squad?” Novanostrum asks. “They want this,” he replies, producing a tattered map from his pocket. “What’s it lead to?” “I’m not exactly sure. I won it in a card game. The guy I got it from, this drunken priester, he said it shows where some drawing is hidden, some famous piece of artwork. ‘Nexus’ something. ‘Nexus Sketch,’ maybe? Supposed to be worth a lot of money, if you buy into that.

“Personally, I thought it was a load of horse-hockey at first. I’d have rather gotten some coin instead, but that priester didn’t have a dodecka to his name--I checked--so I took his map. He seemed somehow, I don’t know, eager to be rid of it. And now I can see why. Still, if those Darrinians were so eager to get it, I’m thinking it might be worthwhile to track this so-called Nexus Sketch down so I can sell it.” Novanostrum lights his longpipe as they walk toward the city gates. “Hey, wizard, what do you want, anyway? What I told the girl about my not being interested, that goes double for you, so don’t get any ideas.” “Actually, I’m also interested in that map you have. I was hoping to accompany you to retrieve the object in question.” “Yeah? And why should I trust you?” “How do you think you were able to kill those men back at the tavern? Felt like you had a little help, didn’t it? Time dilation is a marvelous thing. Those assassins, they were just the beginning--there’s a whole host of terrible things waiting for you down that road, and you’ll need my assistance.” “I suppose you’re right,” Zanther says with a sigh. “What do you say we meet up here in the morning and get out of this wretched place?”

Varello sits on one of the many stone fenceposts encircling the cemetery. With his lute in hand, he smiles as the moon breaks through the thin cloud cover. He starts to play, plucking the strings slowly at first, then gradually increasing the tempo to a frantic pace before slowing it again. He continues playing his melody in random fits and starts, pausing occasionally as he surveys the area. Near each crumbling tombstone, there are movements as the ground swells and sinks. Sounds of stirring and scratching can be heard. Overshadowed by the din of the lute, this stirring and scratching increases in volume to a dull rumble. A decaying hand punches through the earth in front of one of the tombstones. Moments later, other hands emerge, dragging out the bodies they are attached to. Varello watches as the reanimated bodies dig themselves free and converge around him. He stands and makes his way toward the entrance of the graveyard, continuing to pluck the strings. He skips across the darkened plains, the wet grass and sod sinking under his steps. He strums his lute as he goes, the horde of deadders shambling along in his wake and groaning incoherently. A stray dog wanders up to Varello, and he whistles to it. The dog freezes, and Varello keeps skipping along as the dog is absorbed by the horde. A flock of sheep, a few wolves, they all become food for the undead. The flesh and bones of the animals are quickly dissolved by a sea of gnashing teeth and toxic saliva. In the distance, Varello can see the dark outline of a castle spire against the moonlit sky.

Zanther walks between the similar-looking buildings, all of them constructed of the same grayish brick. It takes time, but he finally manages to locate the inn where he stayed the night before. Before he can walk through the door, he senses a movement. He turns around to find twenty spears pointed at him. “Can’t we talk about this? Maybe over a few drinks?” Zanther asks, coughing out a nervous laugh. One of the soldiers starts to say something about how a drink would be nice, but he is quickly silenced by the glares of his cohorts. The leader of the group claps irons on Zanther’s wrists and gives him a push in the direction of Claustria Castle. On a rooftop less than a block away, Novanostrum watches as Zanther is shoved through the castle’s main gate. “Can’t leave this guy alone for a tick,” he says to himself, inhaling a breath of smoke from his longpipe, “I wonder what I can use to blast through stone? “Yes, thanks for pointing out the obvious. But if I start calling up bolts and fireballs, they’re going to realize pretty quickly they’ve got a wizard to contend with and that Queen already knows I’m here. It wouldn’t be great for my continued anonymity.” Novanostrum’s eyes are drawn to a barrel in front of a shop selling powderblasts. “Yeah, that’d do it.” He drops to his feet on the cobbled road and tips the barrel onto its side. He rolls it nonchalantly down the sleeping streets, the wood bouncing on the cobbles. With every bounce, he shudders, bracing himself. As he gets closer to the castle, he scans its outer wall for a clear spot which isn’t in the immediate vicinity of any guards. He finds a suitable place and sets the barrel down, removing the lid before tipping it onto its side. He draws some of the black powder out into a thin line to serve as a fuse and produces a small box of matches from his sleeve. Just as he’s about to strike it, he hears...musick, someone strumming a stringed instrument off in the distance. He pauses to see if he can hear anything else, and he does--he hears screaming.

An old man whispers something in Varello’s ear before scurrying off into the shadows. Varello nods, then looks back at his horde of deadders, all the while absentmindedly repeating a simple succession of notes on his lute. The tone of the song grows more serious as he straightens his posture and begins walking. Varello leads his undead army straight down the main street leading from the city gates towards the castle, with a few beggars and bystanders fleeing in terror in an attempt to avoid being absorbed by the putrid mass of groaning bodies. He continues to play, seemingly oblivious to the pandaemonium taking place directly behind him. As he approaches the castle’s main gate, the guards protecting the entrance drop their pikes and dash away, escaping down side streets as they scream. The horde of deadders parts around Varello and converges upon the giant, wooden door. They crash through, toppling it with the sheer power of their weight.

Peeking from behind a building, Novanostrum watches as the bard and the deadders enter the castle and decides to use the distraction to his advantage, hoping the chaos will divert attention from his fireworks display. He strikes a match and holds it to the line of black powder. A piercing explosion blasts a hole in the castle’s stone facade, showering the immediate vicinity with rubble and burning fragments of wood.

Zanther is chained to the wall, stripped to his undershorts. He is blindfolded and gagged, and he can feel the cold, mossy stone walls pressing against his exposed skin. He hears a familiar voice outside his cell command the guard on duty to stand down so that she may interrogate the prisoner alone. He listens as the door is unlocked and footsteps approach. A hand pulls the blindfold down around his neck. “I told you you’d regret it. Now we’re going to do this on my terms,” she says as she puts the blindfold back in place. Zanther attempts to scream, to wriggle, bracing himself for the inevitable touch of a blade or a burning hot poker, but the sensation he feels on his skin is somewhat different--wetter and warmer and far more fleshy. A fist pounds on the door to the cell. Zanther can hear the telltale sound of fabric rubbing against skin as the woman struggles to dress herself. “I have not finished interrogating the prisoner yet!” she tersely replies to the guard outside the cell. The door bursts open. “Your majesty, the castle is under attack! We must get you to safety!” Despite still being blindfolded and gagged, Zanther reflexively attempts to smile. “Let me borrow your longknife,” she says. An instant later, Zanther hears a hollow clunk as the flat side of the blade connects with the back of the guard’s skull. The woman immediately removes his blindfold and gag and sets about freeing him from his shackles. Zanther notices the unconscious guard crumpled near the door. As soon as he is free, she hands Zanther the longknife. “Get dressed and help me get the hell out of here. I can’t rely on these idiots.” “You think I’d help you?” he laughs as he says this, slipping into his clothes. She removes her diamond necklace and puts it in his hand. “With the proper incentive, yes, I think you would.” Zanther shoves the necklace into his pocket, cautiously peeking his head through the doorway only to find corpses dragging themselves toward his cell from both ends of the hallway. He closes the door again and turns to the girl. “I might have some trouble killing these people.” “Why?” “They look like they’re already dead.”

Novanostrum runs down one hallway, then another, looking for some sign of Zanther. He rushes headfirst into the grand foyer and immediately finds his way blocked by the horde of deadders. In the center of the group of undead, he watches as the bard directs them. They all seem to be shambling in the same direction, down a set of stairs. Novanostrum decides to find out what they’re heading for. He twists the ring on the face of his on his watch, and the tempo of the bard’s song slows exponentially. The deadders, whose languid movements are not sprightly to begin with, become nearly statuesque. Novanostrum rabbits his way through the crowd and slides down the banister.

The door to the cell falls inward under the crush of fetid flesh, and the deadders pour in. Zanther steels himself, preparing for his final battle as the woman crouches in the corner of the room, quaking in fear. He experiences a sense of déjà vu as time once again slows for him. Just as it did at the tavern, his vision is drained of color and he springs into action, swinging his newly-acquired longknife through undead flesh, severing limbs and heads and torsos. He finishes slicing up the dozen or so corpses only to see Novanostrum step into the frame of the door as time and perception return to normal. The wizard surveys the cell, taking in the aftermath of Zanther’s spree. “The royal consort. You’re really moving up in the world. Looks like you don’t need my help at all.” “I don’t, but I won’t turn it down.” “That’s good, because there are a lot more of these things on their way here as we speak,” Novanostrum says as the sound of a plucked melody echoes through the stone corridor. All around them, arms and heads twitch and writhe instinctively toward their living flesh. Madra grabs Zanther’s shoulder. “Will you two cut it out? You can hold hands later. We’ve got to get out of here. Come on, I know a nice little way out of the castle.” They rush down narrow stone hallways, following her into a storage room cluttered with dusty chests and tables. In the corner of the room is a large, wooden wardrobe. Madra feels around under one of the chairs and produces a rusty key. She opens the wardrobe, reaching behind moth-eaten cloaks and dresses and twisting the key into a lock they can’t see. The back of the wardrobe reveals itself to be a door leading to a coffin-sized room containing a rope and no floor. Hanging on one of the walls of the tiny room is an oil lamp. Madra hands it to Novanostrum. He lights it with a match and holds it above Zanther and Madra as they climb down the rope. He closes the door to the wardrobe behind him. “Hey! Catch this,” Novanostrum says as he tosses the lamp to Zanther and grabs the rope, pulling the door to the tiny room closed before he begins his descent. It’s not a far climb, only two man-lengths until Novanostrum’s feet land on a wooden deck, a short pier. In the light of the lamp, he sees the glimmer of the surface of the subterranean river and the outline of a small boat. “Do you bring all your men here?” Zanther asks.

“Just the ones who save my life,” she says with a wink.

Varello, taking care not to break his rhythm, skips through the castle’s halls searching for his quarry. He notices an open cell with a few severed arms and legs in front of it and glances inside to find a pile of wriggling body parts. On the floor of the cell he spots an unconscious guard. His nostrils flare, drawing in the smell of the Queen’s...perfume over the stench of death and decay. He follows the trail of feminine stink to the storage room. Aside from some wooden boxes and a few sticks of furniture, the place is empty. Under his melody, he can hear a sound echoing into the room: flowing water. With an angry flick of his wrist, Varello strums a diminished chord which echoes throughout the castle’s stone corridors in a shockwave that topples his entire undead army, knocking them back into their respective eternal slumbers.

Chapter 2: The Flatlands

After the river emerges from its underground tunnel, Zanther, Madra, and Novanostrum float for nearly a whole bellchime in silence, shivering as the panick-sweat covering their bodies meets the cold, predawn air. Madra is the first to speak. “My kingdom...it’s gone.” “You’re overreacting, your Highness,” Novanostrum says, “I don’t think the bard isn’t interested in you or your kingdom. I think he just wants that damned map.” “What map?” In the light of the rising sun, Zanther is inspecting the map in question, running his fingers over the cryptic runes denoting landmarks and what he assumes are directions. The paper is worn and tattered, covered with various stains and even a few small burn marks. “Hey, Nove,” Zanther asks, “what exactly do you know about this ‘Nexus Sketch’ and those deadders back there?” “The deadders were merely the puppets of a powerful sonomagus named Varello. He’s an assassin who uses powerful songspells to manipulate people, animals, corpses, et cetera. “As for the Nexus Sketch, let’s just say it’s not just some rare piece of artwork--it’s supposedly one of the most important objects in the world.” “And Zanther’s map leads to it?” Madra asks. Zanther shakes his head as he puzzles over the illegible characters. “It’s not leading us anywhere if we can’t read it. Nove, can you read this?”

Novanostrum studies it carefully. “It looks to be a map of Upper Kleighton, but I don’t see a big X or an arrow pointing to the location of the Nexus sketch, and I can’t read the place names or the writing on the back.” “I thought about that,” Zanther says, “if it’s in code, I think we can use the names of places we recognize as a cipher to decode all the text on the back.” Novanostrum stares at the inken scribbles for a moment before shaking his head. “It doesn’t look like a code--it looks a completely different language, one I don’t recognize.” Zanther gives a disappointed nod. “However,” Novanostrum says, “the Universitorium is about a day north of here, surely someone there can translate this map for us.”

Kragnar dips his clawed toe gingerly into the pond and immediately recoils at the chill of the water. He takes a deep breath, filling his powerful lungs. He exhales a plume of flame, blasting the surface of the pond with fire until bubbles form in the water. He dips his toe again, testing the water and finding the temperature satisfactory. Lowering his massive dragonic girth into the makeshift hot tub, Kragnar snatches up a boiled fish, savoring its delicate flavor. He spits the head and bones onto the bank and repeats the process with a halfdozen more fish, forming a small pile. Halfway through his eighth fish, Kragnar’s ears perk up at the sound of voices being carried down the nearby river. Water slides off his scales, dripping onto the grass as he slinks toward the edge of the river and submerses his massive, steaming, scaly body.

“I’m just saying, Claustrian women are a bunch of b--” Zanther says before being interrupted by the appearance of a dragon popping out of the water and slamming the boat with his anacondesque tail, smashing the vessel into planks and splinters and sending Zanther, Novanostrum, and Madra flying in different directions. Zanther and Novanostrum land on the riverbank, the lush grass breaking their fall. They hear a shriek and look up to see Madra in the dragon’s grasp. “Well, heroes, what are you waiting for? SAVE ME!” They look at each other. “You heard her, Nove, save her. Do some of that wizard junk you do.” “Wizard junk?” “You know--fire, lightning, meteorites, whatever.” Novanostrum looks at the dragon, then at Madra, then back at Zanther. “Wizards follow a strict code. We try to ‘do no harm’ as it were. Who am I to accost a dragon merely trying to survive in a cold, hard world? He’s done nothing to me.”

Zanther blinks in surprise. “Well, your sleeve is torn.” “My what?” Novanostrum inspects the damage. “Son of a...okay. Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll slow time, which will allow you to run on the surface of the water and cut the beast down before it even has a chance to react.” The sky turns black, and the grass and water turn different shades of gray and white. Zanther draws his longknife, his footfalls pattering across the surface of the solidified water. The air is still, with birds overhead stalled in mid-flight, and Zanther springs toward the dragon. With his free hand, Kragnar swats at Zanther. The force of the dragon’s blow knocks Zanther’s longknife from his hand and sends him flying into a tree. The dragon snatches the longknife from mid-air and flicks it at Novanostrum. The weapon sails through the air, narrowly missing Novanostrum’s head before becoming lodged in the trunk of the tree. The wizard is stunned. “It...didn’t work?” “Enough!” Kragnar bellows, shocking time back into its normal flow, “I’m not going to kill you two; malice isn’t in my nature. I am going to eat the virgin, though. Hunger, you see, is in my nature.” “I’m good with that,” Zanther grumbles from the tree. Madra pulls off her shoe and launches it at the dragon’s eye. He drops her, and she swims between his legs. A split-twitch later, the dragon shrieks out in debilitating pain, sending a blast of fire about a hundred man-lengths into the air. Madra pulls herself onto the riverbank and starts wringing out her clothes. “What’d you do that for, woman?!” the dragon yells. Madra brushes her hair from her face in defiance as she directs her regal glare of displeasure at the beast. “Dragon! These are Claustrian lands over which I am queen. I do not require a lot from my dragon subjects. You do not have to pay taxes, nor are you required to present for the moonthly deference, but I do ask that you not lunch on my royal person. However--you are free to eat that one,” she says, pointing at Zanther. “Blecch. No thanks, I don’t eat men. Well, your Highness, I’m sorry I smashed your boat.” “It’s okay, dragon. There is something you can do to make it up to me.” Back on the ground, Zanther whispers in Novanostrum’s ear. “Did you hear what he called her? Heh. As if.”

Varello walks the deserted road, his lute slung across his back. He whistles to himself, dejected by his failure. In the distance, he can still make out the outline of Claustria Castle. Grassy hills stretch to the horizon in every direction, the monotony broken only by a few trees scattered here and there. Varello sees a slight movement by his foot--a pebble, shaking almost imperceptibly. He bends down to inspect it closer and hears a whooshing sound. Squinting at the glare of the sun, he can make out a dark mass projecting itself towards him at many handspans per eyeblink per eyeblink.

He just barely manages to dive behind a tree as the dragon impacts the ground with the force of a meteorite. Varello scrambles into a ditch, the tree exploding into flame and cinders behind him. Kragnar looms large over Varello, hiding him in the cold expanse of his shadow. In desperation, Varello unslings his lute and starts plucking a soft lullaby. The dragon sways on his thick haunches for a moment before toppling backwards.

Zanther, Madra, and Novanostrum are walking along a small path which cuts through the Flatlands. The midday sun beats down upon Madra’s blouse, which is almost dry. Zanther absentmindedly rubs a bruise on his shoulder. The path from the river connects with the main, dusty road, forming a fork. The left path leads to a gloomy, overcast horizon. The right path leads towards sunshine and a rainbow, and the sound of chirping birds can be heard. “So...which way is Claustria?” Madra asks. “Well, we’re going to the Deathstretch,” Novanostrum says, “which is this way,” he points at the gathering stormclouds. A sickly crow circles around for a moment before falling out of the sky, dead. Zanther turns to Novanostrum. “Wait--what? “Claustria is that way,” Novanostrum says, indicating the sunlit road and ignoring Zanther, “if you walk quickly, you might even make it back before sundown. You’re sure you don’t want to come with us?” Her eyes linger on the dead crow. “No, I think I should be with my people.” Zanther shakes Novanostrum’s shoulder. “The Deathstretch? Are you insane? Let’s just go around it.” Novanostrum raises his hand authoritatively. “You’re a hunted man now. Nobody will be crazy enough to follow our trail into the dead forest.”

Chapter 3: The Deathstretch

Varello lands his dragonic steed in front of the megadoor to the Deus Palatium. Two Crucifer guards part to allow him entry. He takes long strides down a long hallway before passing through another set of double doors and finding himself in a large chamber where the Pontiflex Minor is seated. Massive skylights fill the room with natural light, illuminating immense frescoes which are reflected in the mirror polish of the marble floors. Varello approaches the Pontiflex Minor, who is seated comfortably on a gilded throne with velvet cushions. “Your Holiness, I was able to locate the target, but it seems the map has passed to a certain Zanther Maus. I followed his trail as far as Claustria Castle, but that was where he eluded me.” The Pontiflex Minor nods. “I’m aware. I have soldiers arriving in Claustria as we speak. As for your failure, I know you will be honored to be expaled as a sacrifice to the Two True Gods.”

“Expaled, your Holiness?” “Yes,” the Pontiflex Minor says with a flourish of his hand, “guards--if you will.” “So...you’re not going to allow me another chance?” “No, you’re to be expaled straightaway. I have others who will do my bidding with more loyalty and success.” Varello shakes himself loose of the grip of the two Crucifers holding him in place. “Indulge me, your Holiness, and imagine that I just damned you with a really clever threat.” “Hm?” the Pontiflex Minor raises an eyebrow. Varello pulls something from his sleeve and smashes it onto the ground, filling his immediate vicinity with a cloud of smoke. When it clears, he’s gone. The two Crucifer guards rush down the hallway to the megadoor to see a dragon flying off toward the horizon.

Zanther and Novanostrum walk towards the ominous storm clouds hovering over the Deathstretch. The trees are skeletal, devoid of leaves and flowers. Zanther starts to whistle as they draw closer. Novanostrum shoots him an angry look. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” “You do realize that these woods are filled with fell beasts, filled with the most vicious and loathsome creatures in all of Upper Kleighton, right?” “Actually, I think the most vicious creatures in Upper Kleighton are the girls from this brothel I visited in New Kestle. You wouldn’t believe these women, they were covered with scars and burns and some of them were missing limbs, and they had the most saggy, dangling--” “Shush!” Novanostrum hisses, “Did you hear that?” As they walk pass the treeline and find themselves within the Deathstretch, Novanostrum turns his head left and right, scanning the trees, each of which looks like a giant, dead hand reaching to the sky. “Hear what?” Zanther asks. “That’s the point,” Novanostrum says, “This place is supposed to be filled with a hundred kinds of unimaginable foulness--but I don’t see anything.” “Remind me again why we decided to go this way?” “It’s the fastest way.” “Fastest way to what? An early grave?”

Madra walks the road back to Claustria. She places a hand over her growling stomach. Feeling a sudden urge to empty her bladder, she relieves herself behind some bushes and continues walking. As she walks, she surveys her bruises and the state of her clothes.

“I should have gone with him,” she says quietly to herself. A network of birds communicate with each other between trees, using their melodic, singsong chirping. A thin rainbow stretches across the sky, seeming to terminate within the walls of Claustria Castle. Madra turns her head, looking back over her shoulder at the Deathstretch. It’s far, but at the edge of the horizon she can just make out black clouds writhing and boiling over tiny dots barely recognizable as dead trees. “No. No, I shouldn’t have gone there. Those two are suicidal idiots,” she reassures herself, pulling her black leather top down to straighten it out. “Still, I hope they’re okay.”

As Zanther and Novanostrum get deeper and deeper into the grim, dead forest, they step gingerly over bleached bones and skulls. Most of the skulls are large and bestial, still managing to inspire fear even long after the deaths of the creatures to which they once belonged. The pervasive silence weighs upon them. Zanther draws his longknife, springing into a fighting stance. Novanostrum looks around, confused, seeing no immediate threat. “What are you doing?” Novanostrum asks. “This seems like the point in those stories where terrible things start attacking the hapless protagonist.” Terrible things do not attack either of them, and continue not attacking them for a while. As they walk, Zanther periodically feigns relaxation before snapping back into his attacking stance. “Maybe,” Zanther says, “all the stories about the Deathstretch were made up to scare tourists away. Or, maybe this place is so depressing that all the horrible monsters killed themselves. What do you think, Nove?” “I think the sun’s still up.”

Madra draws closer to Claustria. She is now able to see where the road terminates at the gates to the castle city. “Well, at least it doesn’t appear to be on fire,” she says to herself, “that has to be a good sign.” The closer she gets, however, the more she sees that doesn’t seem right. The shields of the soldiers guarding the gate do not bear the Claustrian royal crest-- they each bear the black X denoting them as Crucifers. In front of the closed gate, a line of disgruntled Claustrians are milling about, murmuring to each other about their discontent at being unable to enter the city. Madra walks right up to the two Crucifer soldiers, her eyes burning with fury. “And just what in the High Hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands. “This town is temporarily under the protection of the Grand Pontiflex,” the soldier on the left informs her.

“Since when has the Grand Pontiflex taken it upon himself to ‘protect’ sovereign lands?” “Well, we’ve been here since this morning,” the soldier on the right replies. “You may inform the Grand Pontiflex,” Madra says, “that his ‘protection’ is not required. I am Madra, the Queen of these lands, and I am allowing you one chance, one opportunity to shove off.” The first guard looks her over and chortles. “A queen? You look more like a cow-milker, and you stink like a yafbeest. Besides, you can’t be the queen. Our troops are scouring the area for her as we speak, and they will find her.” Madra’s face turns red. “I demand entry! I demand to be taken to whomever is in charge of this insanity!” The second guard takes a step closer to Madra. “Nobody goes in or out. Those are the orders.” “Un-bonking-believable,” she says, storming away. It’s now when an old man approaches her and taps on her arm. He wears spectacles and a white suit. His hair and beard have long turned white, presumably to match his long coat. “I can understand your frustration, young Miss,” he says, “I’ve been trying to reason with these gentlemen since my arrival here a short time ago, and these fellows have steadfastly refused me entry that I might allow these fine Claustrians the opportunity to purchase and enjoy my patented tonicks.” As he says this, he gestures toward the wagon behind him, the side of which bears the painted words ‘Professor Sogbottom’s Good-tyme Tonick’. She nods, confused. He continues. “There’s nothing for it. It’d take an army of wizards to get into this place, and I seem to have misplaced mine. I’ve decided to continue on to the Universitorium to refit and relax and get reacquainted with some old acquaintances of mine. I wish you a good day, young Miss.” “Wait, did you say you were going to the Universitorium?” “I certainly did. One of the finest institutions around, in my opinion. Just something about books and lectures and learning that instills in people the desire to drink prodigious amounts of tonick.” “Would it inconvenience you too much if I tagged along?” “Not at all; I would consider it a privilege to travel in the company of such a beautiful lady.”

Back at the Deathstretch, the sun starts to dip dangerously close to the horizon, or it would dip dangerously close to the horizon if it were visible through the dark storm clouds perpetually occupying the sky above. “We should probably make camp soon,” Novanostrum says. “Are you out of your bonking mind? No way am I stopping until we’re out of this accursed place. I’m not even tired.”

They continue walking. Almost at once, the Deathstretch transforms itself. The trees sprout white leaves, white flowers, and chalky fruits of various shapes. Beneath their feet, white grass sprouts along the edges of the path. “Uh..Nove, what’s happening?” “I’m not quite sure. I think we need to walk a little faster.” They walk faster. They hear the buzzing of insects in the distance, the rustling in the trees. They hear the calls of beasts. “The dead forest is come alive,” Novanostrum says with a demented smile, “brace yourself.” The attack comes from all directions. Tentacles slither out of the black ponds to grab their feet. Winged reptiles swoop down upon them. Furry, clawed animals of various shapes materialize in the shadows, joined by giant scorpions and spiders. The outlines and glowing eyes of the beasts are the only parts visible to Zanther and Novanostrum in the muted light. As the animals close in, Novanostrum reaches for his Ristwatch, dilating time. Zanther is able to see only the blood in the veins of the beasts as he begins hacking and slashing his way indiscriminately through the fell flesh of all the monsters in the immediate vicinity. After what would seem like a few eyeblinks to an outside observer, Zanther collapses to one knee, gasping for breath. Bloody limbs and torsos and fanged heads fall to the ground almost in unison. Novanostrum reaches for his longpipe. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he says as he lights a pinch of smokeweed and draws in a breath. Covered with blood and sweat, Zanther glares at him. “I feel like I just killed every damned thing in this damned place.” “Heh. No, not by a long shot, I’d wager.” It’s now that the second wave comes, hundreds of nightmares charging at them from all angles and directions. Even the trees stretch their dead grasp toward the two of them. Novanostrum tosses down his pipe and Zanther springs into action, slicing and attacking everything within the reach of his blade. It’s a noble effort, but there are just too many of them. Zanther withdraws and stands close to Novanostrum, trying desperately to fend off the beasts. The creatures are unfazed, choosing to pause dramatically and close in on their quarry. Novanostrum laughs like an overexcited banshee child and reaches inside the sleeve of his robe. He produces a wooden staff as long as his body is tall, the end of which is knobbed and curls back on itself, leaving Zanther’s mouth agape in wonder. “Where were you keeping that?” he asks, temporarily forgetting their impending death. Novanostrum ignores the question and slams the end of his staff into the ground, sending a shockwave outward in all directions. Zanther falls on his back, and the beasts are knocked back a few paces. Novanostrum waves his staff around in a circle, lining the perimeter of cleared space with flames. He then points the staff at various points in the sky and lightning bolts immediately begin raining down upon the beasts.

The fell creatures, that is to say, the minority of the creatures which are still alive at this point, flee whimpering into the night. Even the trees lean back as much as they can. And just as quickly as they began, the fireworks are over. The lightning stops crashing down, the flames burn out, and all that remains are chunks of smoldering beast flesh and charred branches. Zanther nods as he stands, brushing the dust from his pants and sheathing his longknife. “I think I know why you wanted to pass through here.” “Yeah?” “You’re bonking crazy and killing a bunch of things is therapeutic for you.”

The moons light the road, giving the trees and the grass a bluish tint. Sogbottom’s horse looks older than its owner, but still manages to clomp along at a decent pace, each of its footfalls an obstinate affirmation of its refusal to die. “I’ve heard it’s faster to travel through the Deathstretch,” Madra says. “And from whom did you receive such terrible advice?” Sogbottom asks. “Some friends of mine.” “While that is technically true, I actually know of a shortcut that involves circumventing the Deathstretch altogether.” “If we’re going around it, how is that a ‘shortcut’?” “One must picture time in relative terms. Going around the Deathstretch takes about two days, going through it and dying causes one’s arrival to be delayed indefinitely.” The horse gingerly lifts his tail and lets Madra and Sogbottom know how he feels about them through song. Madra grimaces at the stench, but Sogbottom appears unbothered. “What do you plan to do once we reach the Universitorium?” he asks. “I suppose I will try to find my friends and travel with them for awhile. Claustria’s not a safe place for me right now, and I have nowhere else to go.” Sogbottom nods as he listens. “If, in fact, your friends were foolish enough to travel through the Deathstretch, I don’t expect they shall make it to the Universitorium alive.” Madra dismisses his comment. “They’re not exactly what you’d call ‘ordinary’ people. I have a feeling they won’t have any trouble.”

Chapter 4: The Universitorium

Zanther and Novanostrum sit at a table with a young woman and a bookish middle-aged man at a pub on the outskirts of the Universitorium, the Thirsty Scholast. “There were all these monsters,” Zanther says, “fiercer than lions and uglier than Novanostrum--if that’s possible--and he was all like ‘zap!’ and ‘ka-pow!’ and shooting them with lightning. But they kept coming, so I had to step in and cut them down. The young woman rolls her eyes and takes another sip of the wine in her glass. The bookish man studies the map, crinkling his eyebrows and stroking his beard. “These characters resemble those used by the Nasonic monks who live deep in the Centripetal Mountains.” “Can you read it?” Novanostrum asks. “Few can read it. Only the most revered Nasonic monks are allowed to read and write the sacred text.” “Well,” Novanostrum says, “this is supposed to be an institution of higher learning, is it not? Are you telling me there’s nobody here who can translate this for us?” “I know a few philosophers who I’m sure would be happy to speculate about the meaning of the characters for you.” Having shaken the last few precious drops of beer from his mug and into his open mouth, Zanther slams it onto the table. “I think we’ll pass on that.” The scholast shrugs and rises from the table. “So what do you think?” Zanther asks Novanostrum. “He’s just one guy, and this is a big place. When it comes to texts, there’s one group of people who always seem to have all the answers.” “The Librarians? I don’t know, Nove, those guys kind of give me the creeps. The way they hide under those hoods and roam from town to town, it just doesn’t sit quite right with me.” “I dated a Librarian once,” the young woman says. Zanther and Novanostrum pause in their conversation and look at her. “Well?” Novanostrum asks. “Well, what?” she asks. Novanostrum clears his throat. “Are you going to elaborate, or did you simply feel the need to inject yourself into our conversation?” “Hmph,” she says, standing abruptly and storming away. Zanther cocks his head to the side, giving Novanostrum a quizzical look. “You don’t, er, date much, do you?” “Simple-minded people irritate me.”

Zanther raises his hand, gesturing to the bar wench to order another mug of Dragon’s Leg. “But she was mine, and you scared her off.” “Then you should thank me.” “Thank you? For what? Are you out of your bonking mind?” “You’re a taken man, now. Madra’s got you in her sights and she won’t be pleased if you’re off copulating with every tipsy missy who crosses your path.” “Madra? She had me kidnapped and then tried to force herself on me. I don’t consider that to be the basis of a serious relationship.” “Well, why not? She’s attractive, she’s a queen, and she likes you. What more do you want?” “I don’t like a girl who can have me deheaded with a flick of her wrist.” “Now you’re just nitpicking, Zanther--nobody’s perfect.”

Professor Sogbottom pulls a chunk of cheese from the bottom of his knapsack and hands it to Madra. She breaks off a piece and chews it slowly as the wagon grinds its way across the endless plains. The wagon passes an odd cluster of bushes, and an arrow twangs itself into the wooden seat between them. Sogbottom puzzles over it for a moment before the realization hits him. “Brigands!” The next few eyeblinks are a blur as the old horse spooks and snaps itself loose, and the sudden lack of velocity sends Madra flying from the wagon. She lands face-first on the ground. As she loses consciousness, the last thing Madra sees is Sogbottom lifting the seat of the wagon to grab a weapon. With her vision fading, she hears the whistling of volleys of arrows, and the frantic footstomps and screams of their assailants.

Zanther and Novanostrum are in the Penulpenulibris, the main library of the Universitorium and the third largest library in all of Upper Kleighton. The building is a huge, circular tower whose interior is lined with thousands upon thousands of books. A huge, rotating gear is attached to the ceiling, and hanging from this gear are rope elevators which scholasts and Librarians are using to access books hundreds of man-lengths above the floor. “Nope,” one of the Librarians says as he hands the map back to Zanther, “we don’t have anything like that.” “Nothing? No texts about Nasonic monks and their written language?” Novanostrum asks. “Oh, sure, we’ve got lots of books about Nasonic monks, and a few of those books are dedicated solely to their written language.” “So what’s the problem?” Zanther asks.

The Librarian motions them closer and speaks in a low voice. “They were all written by philosophers.” Novanostrum sighs. “Would it be possible for us to speak to the Libros Majorum about this?” All chatter in the Penulpenulibris dies, and two dozen angry eyes focus on Zanther and Novanostrum. The Librarian puts both his hands on Novanostrum’s shoulders. “Nobody speaks to the Libros Majorum!” he hisses. “Fair enough,” Novanostrum says. “There’s nothing for it,” Zanther says, “we’ve got to go to the source of the scribbles.” The Librarian’s expression softens. “The Nasonic temple is outside the village of Zweissergrund.” Zanther and Novanostrum nod their thanks before exiting through the thick, oaken door and into the muggy street. Tipsy scholasts stagger by in twos and threes. A young man empties the contents of his stomach in a nearby alley. “What do you think that was all about?” Zanther asks. “The Libros Majorum is the one in charge of the Librarians. Some say he’s a wizard of the First Circle, a man not to be trifled with. Rumors of his power are what allow the Librarians to travel unmolested between the kingdoms of Upper Kleighton, transporting their books. There’s a legend of a Darrinian king who once had two Librarians put to death for trespassing in his lands.” “And what happened to this so-called king of legend?” “The day after the Librarians were deheaded, a book was found on his throne, a book bound in flesh. The text within the book was said to be twelve hundred pages of tiny text--the inner monologue spanning the king’s entire life. The text was written in blood.” “And you actually believe this?” Zanther asks, raising his eyebrows. Novanostrum shrugs. “It’s possible there is no Libros Majorum and the Librarians created the legend themselves as a means of protection. However, the fact that the Darrinians and Crucifers give the Librarians such a wide berth leads me to believe the Librarians have some kind of power backing them.”

Madra awakens to find a cloth wrapped around her forehead and the horse reattached to the wagon. Sogbottom has a few scrapes and bruises, but appears to be otherwise intact. “What the High Hell happened?” she asks. “It was the most curious thing,” Sogbottom says, “they’d surrounded us, and I thought for sure we were about to be murdered, but before they could step in and deliver the coup de grace, they all turned on their heels and fled. Something must’ve filled them with a holy terror, because they never even looked back.” Madra gives Sogbottom a puzzled look. She can’t see directly behind the rapidly-progressing wagon, but if she could, she might be able to make out a cluster of bloody bundles, barely visible within the tall grasses. Closer inspection of these bloody bundles would reveal that they are men, grasping their knees, eyes frozen wide in terror, their throats each slit from ear-to-ear. Sogbottom whistles cheerfully between swigs of his tonick. He offers it to Madra, but she refuses.

In the distance, far in front of them, Madra can see the outline of a long, flat structure with a bell tower in its center. Surrounding this structure are smaller buildings, pubs and houses and other, smaller towers. “So that’s the Universitorium?” Madra asks. “It is, indeed. The epicenter of scholastic endeavors, the source and origin of any and all knowable knowledge. I used to teach there, you know.” “You don’t teach there now?” “Every now and then I teach a class, but with the expansion of their Philosophy department, it’s getting harder for the rest of us.” “Oh? What did you teach?” “Originally, I taught Musick Theory before the course was reassigned and recurriculated into Philosophy of Musick. I then taught a course concerning the prophesies of ancient peoples, but that course was also reformulated into Philosophical Prophesy. Finally, I taught a course in alchemy, but when the directors told me they would cancel my class unless I could produce the Philosopher’s Stone, I resigned, choosing instead to focus my alchemic efforts towards the concoction of tonicks to ease the mind and refresh the spirit.” “I see.” “What about you, young Miss, where did you matriculate?” “I had private tutors. My father was always worried about my safety, so I wasn’t allowed to travel much when I was younger.” “That’s unfortunate. Well, if nothing else, you are traveling now,” Sogbottom says. “True, but I wish the circumstances were better. I’m not sure what I’m going to do if I am unable to find my friends.” Sogbottom smiles. “The world’s a big place. There are always opportunities to make new friends.” Madra frowns. “That holds true for enemies as well.”

Chapter 5: The Submount Steamtunnels

Zanther and Novanostrum walk along the metal tracks leading to the Centripetal Mountains. Though most of the sleepers are missing and many of the metal rails are missing, some of the sections of track look to be in good repair. “Has someone been fixing these?” Zanther asks. “I can’t imagine why they would,” Novanostrum says, “they were abandoned for a reason, and that reason still holds true.” “And what reason is that?”

“These tracks lead to the Submount Steamtunnels,” Novanostrum says, “steam-driven locomotes ferried goods between Claustria and Port San-torus along this route, at least, they did until problems started occurring.” “What kind of problems?” “Well, the locomotes that went in one side of the tunnels started to develop a habit of not coming out the other side.” “Hmm. How are we going to get across these mountains to Zweissergrund?” Zanther asks. “Well, since nobody else is using these tunnels, I thought we might as well. We won’t have to worry about snowstorms and ravenous mountaintop thunderbuzzards.” The tops of the mountains are dusted with a thick layer of snow, with dark clouds obscuring some of the peaks. Zanther peers into the dark maw of the tunnel where the tracks converge. “I don’t know, Nove, it just seems kind of dark...and...gloomy.” Novanostrum pulls out his longpipe and fills it with a few shakes of glowing smokeweed. He lights it and blows a few smoke rings. “You’re scared of a cave? We made it through the Deathstretch; we’ll make it through this. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel fated to die here. Do you?” “Dying is for cowards and zealots.”

As the wagon rolls through the outskirts of the Universitorium, Madra scans the signs of the shops and buildings. At the sight of the first pub, Madra hops off the wagon and rushes inside. Undeterred, Sogbottom keeps his pace. Madra walks through the bar, which is empty save for a bald man reading the day’s Kleighton Gadabout over a flat pint, a barmaid with a broom, and the bartender. He cleans glass mugs and hangs them from pegs overhead, trying to avoid making eye contact with the young woman sauntering up to his bar. “Did a wizard and a knifesman come through here?” Madra asks. “Lots of people come through here.” She taps her finger on the table impatiently, her ring clacking against the wood. Noticing the Claustrian royal crest, the bartender meets her gaze. “Listen, they were here last night. I wouldn’t have thought twice about them, except that the guy with the longknife didn’t pay his tab. I asked around about them this morning, but a Librarian told me they were off to Zweissergund.” Dejected, she steps away from the bar, lost in thought. Out in the daylight, she looks up and down the road for Sogbottom, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Guess you’re off to Zweissergund, huh?” Madra turns around to see the bald man holding his newspaper.

“Sorry,” he says, “I overheard you talking to the bartender. Name’s D’kassar.” He holds out his hand, and she gives it a cautious shake. “I’m...Madra.” “It’s not an easy place to get to,” he says, “the Centripetal mountains are treacherous. You’ll need a guide. I grew up near Zweissergund, so I’m very familiar with the area.” She sizes him up. He’s wearing a beige robe and has a necklace of beads strung on a leather thong. “You’d just head off through the mountains with someone you just met? Why?” He scratches the back of his head. “Until yesterday, I was an instructor here. I taught a class detailing the rituals of the many religions of Upper Kleighton, but my entire department was sacked. Said they needed to expand the Philosophy Department. So now I’m looking for a new gig.” Madra sighs. “Give me your necklace.” “What?” “I need to know if I can trust you.” “I don’t understand how that will help,” D’kassar says, “but here.” She puts on the bead necklace. “Now pull out one of your knives. The one tucked into your left boot should suffice.” D’kassar blinks in surprise, but does as she asks. “Now,” Madra says, “come at me. Try to cut this necklace off of me.” “Um...” “I haven’t got all bonking day! Just do it already!” D’kassar charges at her, slipping behind her and getting an arm around her shoulders, struggling to grasp the necklace. He fails to see her boot as she knifekicks over her own left shoulder, striking him in the face. He drops his knife and crumples to the ground, cupping his face in his hands. “What’d you do that for?” he asks, sputtering up a mouthful of blood. She places his necklace over his head. “I’m a young, vulnerable woman. Before I go running off into the mountains alone with you, I need you to understand the consequences should you attempt to defile me.” “I...understand,” he says. She holds out her hand and helps him up. “Great. Let’s go shopping. We won’t get far without supplies.” The two of them walk down the cobbled street, passing young people carrying books. The bell in the main tower of the Pedagog, the sprawling building constituting the heart of the Universitorium, chimes eleven times. “If I may be so bold,” D’kassar asks, “who is it you’re so eager to find in Zweissergrund?” “A friend. His name is Zanther.”

“He must be someone special if you’re willing to go all the way across the mountains just to see him again.” “Oh, you’ve no idea. It was lust at first sight.” “Does that happen to you often?” he asks, giving her a devilish glance. She smacks her open palm against his ear. “That’s twice I’ve warned you, now.” “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. So what was it about this Zanther person that sent your nethers into such a tizzy?” “That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think?” “Hey, the mountains are filled with horrifying ways to die. If I’m going to risk my life trudging across them, I’d at least like to know why we’re undertaking this journey.” “If you really must know,” she says, “I saw him kill an entire Darrinian assassination squad before they even had a chance to blink.” “He sounds like a High Hell of a guy.” They reach a large store specializing in travel goods, and Madra pawns off one of her more elaborate pinky rings. They buy fur coats, powderblasts, backsacks, and mountain-climbing gear. Across the street, they find a smaller general store and fill their new backsacks with hardbread, yafbeest jerky, and other random supplies. As they walk past the last vestiges of the Universitorium, they are able to see the tops of the Centripetal mountains beyond the plains before them. “I’m wondering,” Madra says, “what the powderblasts are for.” “Aside from the perpetual blizzards and sheer drop-offs, there are also beasts to contend with. There’s supposedly a tunnel that runs under the mountains, but you’d have to be bonking crazy to go that way.”

The walls of the steamtunnels are sheets of smooth, bluish rock, pocked here and there with veins of violet stones which sparkle in the light of the torches. “Hey, Nove, what are these shiny rocks? You think they’re worth anything?” “I don’t know. They seem a little familiar, but I don’t recognize them. You’d think if they were worth any money they’d have been stripped when the tunnels were first dug.” As they walk along the tracks, the tunnel suddenly widens into a large underground chamber. The walls are irregular, apparently the natural features of a preexisting cavern. “Hey!” Zanther shouts, his greeting echoing through thousands of man-lengths of tunnels and caverns. A few eyeblinks later, they hear a reply. “Hey!” shouts an echo of Zanther’s voice as Novanostrum gives himself a wizardly facepalm.

“You realize,” Novanostrum says, “that if there’s anything down here, it now definitely knows we’re here?” “Good,” Zanther says, “it’d be nice to have someone a little more interesting to talk to.” The two of them walk deeper and deeper into the mountain before they’re stopped by a distant sound, the sound a hundred footclaws would make on stone if they were running towards something. In the light of their torches, Zanther and Novanostrum realize that the sound is, in fact, a hundred footclaws running toward something--the two of them. The footclaws are attached to feet, which are attached to lizardshaped people, which in turn are attached to rather large spears and pickaxes. “Serpentites,” Novanostrum says. “I think,” Zanther says, “that we’re going the wrong way. If I recall, there was a fork in the tunnel a while back. That other way seemed like the right way.” Novanostrum draws his staff and stands fast against the rapidly approaching horde. The serpentites stop in their tracks, confused and awed by the sight of an angry wizard. “Don’t take another step!” Novanostrum shouts, “Or I’ll blast you right out the other end of this mountain!” “He’ll do it,” Zanther says, “I saw him do it just the other day.” One of the smaller lizard people daintily puts his foot in front of him and takes a step. Novanostrum responds by attempting to conjure a huge fireball, but all that happens is the purple stones in the walls glow with a fierce scarlet light, which causes the wizard to have a revelation. “I remember now! We learned about these stones when I was a student at Pigrash. They’re called moonmight stones. They...absorb magickal power...damn.” “I think it’s time to go,” Zanther says, to nobody in particular. He can hear Novanostrum’s rapid footfalls receding into the distance.

The air is thin, and Madra’s breath comes out in puffs of steam. An aggressive goat charges her from behind a rock. There’s an explosion as she squeezes the trigger of her powderblast and fells the animal. “Nice shot,” D’kassar says. “Thanks.” They trudge forward and tiny clumps of thick snow begin to fall in sheets, limiting their visibility. Madra snaps her head toward a sharp whooping sound as two yeti, seemingly identical twins, run out of a cave and straight for them. “What the High Hell are those?” Madra asks. “Reload your weapon.” She does, and they both fire on the beasts, to no effect. “It’s just bonking them off!” D’kassar shouts.

“Forget it! Run!” Madra and D’kassar run down the mountain trail with the yeti in hot pursuit. They spot a cottage in the distance and dash towards it. As they get closer, an old man steps onto his porch to greet them. “Get inside, grandpa,” Madra yells, “they’re coming!” “Hey!” the old man shouts at the yeti, stopping them in their tracks. “They don’t want to play! Go home!” The twin yeti slink away, dejected. “Wow,” D’kassar says, “that was some neat trick.”

After sprinting down the side-tunnel of a side-tunnel, Novanostrum and Zanther manage to barricade themselves inside a room filled with barrels and metal shelves stocked with boxes of hardbread and jerky. Novanostrum grabs a dusty mug from a metal shelf, wipes it with his sleeve, and holds it under a nozzle protruding from one of the barrels. He twists the knob, and a frothy, amber liquid falls into the mug. He sniffs it, puts it to his lips, and takes a sip. “It’s beer,” Novanostrum says, “and it’s good.” Immediately, Zanther fills his own mug. “Oh man, it is good,” he says, trying to gauge how much beer is left in the tapped barrel and in the other barrels. “We should probably hang out here for a while until those lizard people forget about us.” Novanostrum takes inventory, looking over the shelves while nibbling a piece of hardbread. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he says, “these tunnels were supposedly abandoned a few dozen sunspins ago. Why would these supplies still be fresh?” Zanther shrugs. “It’s cold down here. Maybe this stuff just keeps really well in this kind of environment.” “I don’t think so,” Novanostrum says, “not this well, anyway. And did you notice how some of the sections of the tunnels seem to have been repaired recently?” Zanther finishes his beer and refills his mug. “Let’s just enjoy our good fortune without reading too much into it.” Novanostrum nods, clinking his glass to Zanther’s. “So, Novanostrum, I’ve gotta ask you, if you’re some big-shot wizard, why are you running around the countryside like some bum? Shouldn’t you be flying on skyships and walking around flanked by servants?” “I had some problems after I graduated from Pigrash.” “Oh? What kind of problems?” “Well, when I finished Pigrash, I was a Maximagus of the Sixth Circle. I got a job as a researcher, working with top secret artifacts being stored deep in the sublevels of the Knot, you know, that giant superstructure which encompasses most of Arcania.

“Long story short, I got a little too curious, looking at things I shouldn’t have been looking at and playing around with types of magick which shouldn’t be muddled with. I was banished to a horrible place, but with a little help I was able to get back to Upper Kleighton. However, I’m no longer welcome in Arcania.” Zanther nods. “And you, Zanther, how’d you get so handy with a blade? You don’t strike me as the soldiering type. Are you a mercenary?” Zanther almost chokes on his beer. “A mercenary? Not quite. When I was very young, my father had me study the intricacies of longknifesmanship. I was in a couple of tournaments. No big deal.” Zanther pulls out the map, turning it over in his hands. “So this Nexus Sketch, do you really think it’s worth all this trouble? Worth dying for? It’s just a piece of paper.” “I’ve seen a lot of ugliness,” Novanostrum says, “seen a lot of things I wish I could forget. But this is a chance to see something divine, something amazing. That’s worth something to me. What about you? Why are you going through all this?” “I’ve spent my whole life growing up in my father’s shadow. Finding this Nexus Sketch, that would be a way for me to prove my worth. Plus, I’m sure it would really get his goat.”

Madra and D’kassar are sitting at a table inside the old man’s cabin, drinking hot cocoa. “And that’s when my wife walked in! Heh, rest her soul,” the old man says, eliciting laughter from his two guests. “Ha! And did you explain to her that the woman was just a witch responding to your ad in the Kleighton Gadabout?” D’kassar asks. “I was too embarrassed to tell her I even took out that ad. I thought by trying to sell the mole on my bum to a witch I was being clever, saving the money it would’ve cost to pay some physick to cut it off.” “So then what happened after your wife walked in?” Madra asks. “Well, it would’ve been funny, save that my wife started punching the witch and got herself turned into a groundpig.” “But you got her changed back, right?” Madra asks. “No way to turn her back. Had that groundpig for ten sunspins, was a damned shame when it came time to eat it.” “No way!” D’kassar shouts. “Yep, fed the thing to her family for Beaster Feast. You see, I’d already told my in-laws long before that she’d run off with a philosopher, but her parents still came to visit every summer. Well, one summer when they showed up, I realized I’d forgotten to go to the market, so...” “What did she taste like?” Madra asks.

The men both look at her, their mouths agape. “Truth be told,” the old man says, “she was a little gamey.” The old man walks to a closet and tosses his guests some pillows and blankets. “Well, kids, it’s time for this old man to get some sleep. Like I said, in the morning we’ll walk on over to the village and I’ll show you where Slotterhaus, the Mayor, lives. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you find your friends; it’s his job to know what’s going on in Zweissergrund.”

Feeling dehydrated and cranky, Zanther and Novanostrum stagger cautiously out of the supply room. Encouraged by the lack of lizard people, they make their way back to the main tunnel. As they walk along the metal rails, they both notice a faint, melodic sound--a lullaby being plucked on strings. “Really?” Zanther asks, “I mean, how did this guy even find us? Maybe if you bathed more, your smell wouldn’t lead him right to us.” Novanostrum holds a finger to his lips before producing his staff and raising his arms into a battle stance. “Brace yourself,” he whispers. Varello appears, flanked by dozens of serpentites. He plays a minor seventh, and the lizard people charge Novanostrum and Zanther. Novanostrum swings his staff, managing to clock one on the head, while Zanther cuts one through its midsection before clanging the steel of his longknife against the axe of another serpentite. “Use your watch!” Zanther shouts as he severs a clawed arm from its owner. Novanostrum swings his staff wildly, clearing the area around him for the short instant it takes him to attempt to twist the outer ring on the face of the Ristwatch. “The stones! They block this magick as well,” Novanostrum shouts, ramming the butt of his staff into a lizard face before snatching his attacker’s scimitar from its claws and using it to loose his entrails upon the cold stone floor of the cavern. “Yeah? This guy’s magick seems to be working just fine!” Zanther says before picking up an attacking serpentite by his tail and swinging him around in a circle, knocking out three other lizard people in the process. “The acoustics in here are really good,” Varello explains quietly, observing the skirmish from a few manlengths away, managing not to skip a beat. “Don’t fight them, Zanther,” Novanostrum says with a grunt, narrowly avoiding the thrust of a pike aimed at his head. It takes him a moment, but Zanther finally understands what Novanostrum is getting at. He does a spin move around the nearest serpentite and cuts between the thrusts of two others, bringing his blade down through Varello’s lute with a grating thwonk and reducing it to a pile of splinters. In the absence of musick, the serpentites blink their huge, reptilian eyes, focusing their attention on Varello. Zanther and Novanostrum use this opportunity to slink away from the fracas, stepping away cautiously at first before breaking into a full-on fleesprint.

The lizards circle the bard, brandishing their weapons ominously and flicking their forked tongues in anger. Varello slips a hand inside his coat and produces a small, wooden flute.

Chapter 6: Zweissergrund

Zanther and Novanostrum tromp up the snow-covered path, spotting an idyllic mountain village. The log buildings are immaculate, with cheerful children and smiling wives visible in the windows. In the distance, they can see a ski lodge with a few rosy-cheeked tourists standing on a balcony, their smiling mouths puffing out clouds of steam. Zanther and Novanostrum look at each other, horrified, and they keep walking on the main path, bypassing the town and heading toward the pagoda-shaped pagoda perched ominously atop a nearby mountain. “Let’s just find these monks and make tracks to somewhere warm,” Zanther says. “You realize you’re travelling with a world-class wizard,” Novanostrum says, “there’s no reason either of us should needlessly suffer this uninfernal climate.” “Yeah, so what can you do? Magick the sun a little closer? Apparate me some whiskey? Summon a centaur and cut it open so I can climb inside?” Novanostrum reaches up his sleeve and pulls out a very, very long scarf and hands it to Zanther. “Gee...thanks.” “Don’t mention it.”

The old man leads Madra and D’kassar down the street, past horse-drawn carriages containing vacationing nobles, past rows of nearly identical cottages. A few blocks ahead, they can see the large log mansion, the home and office of Mayor Slotterhaus, the master of Zweissergrund. “You’ve been so kind to us,” Madra says to the old man, “and we never even asked your name.” He turns to her and holds out his hand. “Josepher Crickadee. Nice to meet you.” “Crickadee,” she says, “it sounds...familiar, but I’m not sure why.” He narrows his eyes at her for a moment, but brushes off her comment, instead pointing to a small shop on the corner of the intersection. “That place,” he says, “has the best blackbread rolls you ever tasted. Three dodeckas for a dozen, if I’m not mistaken.” “This town sure has changed since I was last here,” D’kassar says as he looks around the town, taking in the orderly rows of vacation homes and the newly-cobbled streets.

A young woman smiles at him, her fur coat clinging tightly to her trim figure. Unconsciously, he starts veering toward her before Crickadee grabs him by the collar and points him back toward the log mansion. “Careful,” Crickadee says, wagging a finger, “she’s a tourist trap.” D’kassar turns his head for once last glance, and she winks at him. He starts to wave at her before feeling a slap on the back of his head. “Focus,” Madra says, “we’re here for a reason.” Two guards wearing hooded fur coats and holding powderblasts are posted in front of the large oak door leading into the mansion. Crickadee puts a hand on Madra’s shoulder, pulling her aside and speaking softly into her ear. “This is as far as I go. Slotterhaus is a shrewd man, and he knows everything that goes on in this quiet little town, but be careful--he didn’t get to be mayor because of his charm and wit.” D’kassar speaks to the guards, and they are allowed into the main hall, where they wait on a bench for a butler, who leads them into Slotterhaus’ office. An enormous window comprises the outside wall of the spacious room. The two remaining walls are wood-paneled, adorned with the heads of various exotic animals. The eyes of a yafbeest head mounted on a plaque glare at Madra and D’kassar. Slotterhaus sits behind a massive mahogany desk. His tiny eyes move back and forth, reading the text on the paper he holds in his hands. Madra coughs, a sarcastic attempt at getting the Mayor’s attention. “A report,” he says, not bothering to look up, “the safety of my people depends on my diligence. I’ll be finished in a moment, if you would be so gracious as to wait.” D’kassar stands politely with his arms behind his back, and Madra taps her foot impatiently. “You!” Slotterhaus says, suddenly jabbing a fat finger at D’kassar, “I hear you used to be a Nasonic monk. I also hear you’re pretty handy with a powderblast. I’m looking for a new ski instructor with just that very skillset. My last instructor had a rather unfortunate incident with a pair of yeti, you see.” D’kassar shifts nervously from foot to foot. “Yes, well, I mean, if it pays well--” The afternoon sun shines brightly on the top of Slotterhaus’ head. “It does, it does. And you,” he says, turning his lascivious gaze to Madra, “I bet there’s a job here for you, too.” Her left eyelid begins to twitch.

Zanther and Novanostrum reach the giant stone temple, and Zanther rushes up to pound on the double doors. Inside, he can hear shouting and grunting. Novanostrum tilts his head, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching the doorway. They wait for the doors to swing open. After three ticks, nothing happens. Zanther bangs his fists on the doors again. They exchange a confused look, both of them getting irritated and confused. Zanther tries pulling one of the doors open by its large metal handle, only to find it locked and immobile. Novanostrum pulls out his

staff, waving it in slow, gentle movements, magickinetically manipulating the springs and gears in the lock in an attempt to force it open. They hear a small click, and Zanther tries the door again. Again, nothing happens. Novanostrum leans forward, surveying the handles, the hinges, and the lock. “Damned thing is welded shut.” “Guess these guys don’t get out much,” Zanther says. “Well, how do we get in?” Novanostrum asks as they both hear an ear-splitting scream. “Are we sure we really want to?” “Okay, well let’s just take a few moments to compose ourselves. No sense in getting all worked up,” Novanostrum says as he steps a few paces away from the door and sits cross-legged, producing his pipe and filling it with a pinch of smokeweed. He snaps his fingers and a small flame appears as he puffs his pipe and looks over the façade of the building. Zanther has his hear pressed to the door, listening to the strange grunts and shouts inside. Aside from the steel door, the wall of the pagoda is made of one piece of solid stone, flat and ten manlengths high. Above the wall is a small eave topped by a stone roof, and the next floor is indented inward two or three man-lengths, in true pagoda fashion. All told, the building is seven stories high, all stone, and no windows. “Can’t you blast a hole in this wall with a lightning bolt or something?” “Yeah, and they’ll be really eager to help us if I do that.” “I mean, they’re just monks. We could probably rough them up a little. No big deal.” “Here’s my thinking, Zanther. There are people living in there, so they’ve got to get food and water and oxygen, so it’s logical to assume that people go in and out of this building.” “You’re saying there must be another door somewhere. Well, let’s start looking for it.” “Clearly, it’s hidden. There could be a tunnel through this mountain, or it could be concealed by magick. Rather than try and cover this whole area fingerwidth-by-fingerwidth, it might behoove us to go back to that village and sniff around for information.” “That creepy-looking village with the gingerbread houses? I bet they don’t even have a pub.” “Zanther, if there is one universal truth I’ve discovered during my travels, it’s this: there is always a pub.” The two of them make their way back down the mountain, their footfalls marked by imprints in the thin layer of snow covering the hard-packed dirt of the trail. “All this walking,” Zanther says, “I mean, we should’ve been travelling by skyship from the start, right? I mean, it’d be faster, at least.” Novanostrum shakes his head. “With everyone out to kill us? If you tried to get on a skyship, they’d find us in a tick. Not to mention the cost. I know I can’t afford it. Can you?” “I suppose not,” Zanther says as they reach the outskirts of the town.

They wend their way through the tangle of shops and lodges and cottages, finally making it to the pub. Novanostrum pats Zanther on the shoulder. “I’m going to ask around a bit, see what I can find out about this temple,” Novanostrum says, “you check around in there. I’ll meet you in a little while.” “Sounds good,” Zanther says as he heads inside. Compared to the rest of the village, the pub is an island of normalcy. It resembles a pub in the two most important ways a pub can be resembled: it sells alcoholic drinks, and is full of drunks. Zanther spends a tick unwinding his unwieldy scarf and hangs it on a peg. He strolls over to the bar and plops himself onto a stool. “What’s your drink?” the bartender asks. “I’d like a Mongovian Brain Buster.” “Those are my favorite, too. However, we don’t have those; we don’t have everything you need to make ‘em.” “Okay, well, how about a Screwdropper?” “Don’t have those, either.” “Okay, well, what do you have?” “All we serve is Muscov Gin.” “So why did you ask me what I wanted?” “Well, if you said you wanted Muscov Gin, I’d serve you that.” “I’ll have a Muscov Gin.” “Good choice.” Zanther waits patiently as the bartender mixes his drink, and tosses a few dodeckas on the counter after eagerly seizing the glass and gulping the drink down in a few chugs. The bartender watches this performance, standing at the ready. “Another drink?” “Just make two of them, it’ll save us both some time.” The bartender mixes two more Muscov Gins and takes away the empty glass and a handful of dodeckas. Zanther downs the second drink in one shot and begins sipping the second. After a few ticks, he starts to wobble on his barstool as the alcohol hits him. Novanostrum appears, taking a seat next to Zanther, rubbing his red hands together. The bartender, recognizing his robes as those belonging to a high-level wizard--one likely possessing the ability to reduce the place to a smoking crater or perhaps the ability to produce large sums of cash--runs from the other side of the bar to take Novanostrum’s order. “Wizard, what can I get you?”

“Can I get a Mongovian Brain Buster?” “Sure thing.” Zanther gives them both a sour look and sizes up the remainder of his drink. Novanostrum turns to him. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t have any luck finding out about the temple. Did you?” “Temple? What temple?” Zanther asks. Novanostrum nods, unsurprised. The bartender appears with his drink. “Hey, bartender, we need to get into that temple up on the mountain. How do we go about that?” “Don’t know why you’d want to go in there. Those Nasonic monks are all a bunch of nutters. Anyway, about ten sunspins ago they stocked up on enough rice and beer to last an entire century and shut themselves up in there for good, to await the return of some prophet or something. Nobody goes in or out.” Novanostrum gives him a confused look. “So, if nobody can get in or out, how’s their messiah supposed to get in?” “Well, the way I understand it, that’s the point. He was kind of a bastard. Killed thousands in the name of some god or another. When he was finally captured, he was being lowered into a volcano, and he swore he’d come back for revenge. So those guys, those Nasonic monks, they built a fortress and they hide in it in case he makes good on his promise.” “That’s a shame,” Novanostrum says, “we really need to talk to a Nasonic monk.” “Would an ex-monk do? I hear there’s one at the Mayor’s mansion right now.”

The Pontiflex Minor’s spacious chamber is empty, save for two figures. The waning light of the sun comes through the high-set panel windows in feeble rays. Two torches burn in the center of the room. The Pontiflex Minor himself sits on his throne, a shadowed figure kneeling in front of him. “My spies tell me he’s making his way toward Zweissergrund,” the Pontiflex Minor says. The shadowed figure nods. “The spell is constructed so that you shall have seventy-one bellchimes in this world to accomplish your deed,” the Pontiflex Minor continues, “should you fail to do as I ask within that timeframe, you will be sent screaming back to that place from whence you were summoned. Do you wish to return there?” The shadowed figure shakes his head. “If you are able to succeed, I have the power to allow you to remain here indefinitely. Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?” The shadowed figure nods once again. “Kill Zanther Maus and anyone who might be traveling with him, and bring his map to me.”

The shadowed figure’s face is covered with black rags, his yellow eyes shine through a slit in the tattered strips of cloth. The figure raises his head, these yellow eyes locking upon those of the Pontiflex Minor. “It shall be done,” the shadowed figure hisses.

The butler leads Zanther and Novanostrum into Slotterhaus’ office, where a red-faced Madra and a nervous D’kassar are standing in front of the Mayor’s desk. Slotterhaus shoots his butler an angry look. “You’re supposed to screen my visitors. So far it seems you just let every beggar off the street right in here unannounced!” The butler shrugs and walks back to the doorway. “I refuse to be your concubine,” Madra says, “you’ve got a lot of pluck’n’verve talking to me like that. I’m a queen. With a few words, I could have this little backwater burgh burned to ashes!” “Hey, Madra,” Zanther mumbles. Still seated behind his desk, Sotterhaus regards his new guests’ dirty clothes briefly, and focuses his attention back on Madra. “I don’t see any soldiers around here, little girl--aside from my own, I mean.” Novanostrum chooses this moment to interject. “Mister Slotterhaus, yes? We’re here looking for an exmonk we were told might be around here. Also, just for the record, she is a queen. Just a really bitchy one.” “I think I’m the one you’re looking for,” D’kassar says, meekly. “Novanostrum!” Madra shouts, “Burn this place to the ground!” Zanther, still drunk, looks around. “Shouldn’t we get out of it first? Yeah?” Slotterhaus nods at the butler, who gestures to a few guards who suddenly appear, blocking the doorway. Novanostrum looks them over, then shifts his gaze to Slotterhaus. “Listen, buddy. I’ve had one hell of a bad day so far. First it was these lizard people trying to eat me, then it was this temple full of jibber-jabbering lunatics. Now there’s this hormonal whore-queen screaming at me and this bald little pimple of a man--you--threatening me with your toy soldiers. I feel a headache coming on. You know what happens when a Wizard of the Third Circle gets a headache?” As he says this, the drapes catch fire and the walls start shaking. Slotterhaus sees this and reevaluates the situation. “You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot there, all of us. How about this: I’ll open a tab for all of you at the pub, and you all can stay here as my guests tonight. I’m sure you’ll want to be on your way in the morning, yes?” “Absolutely,” Zanther says, putting an arm around the still-fuming Madra and turning to lead her out of the room.

They file out of Slotterhaus’ office and down the stairs leading to the main entrance. Once outside, Madra, Novanostrum, Zanther, and D’kassar head in the direction of the pub. After walking for a few ticks, they encounter a very ragged and tattered Professor Sogbottom haggling with a salesman over the price of a small wagon and a horse. After the salesman walks away, Madra introduces everyone to the Professor. “What the High Hell happened to you, man?” Zanther asks. “’Twas that damned yeti. I was lucky to ‘scape with my life.” “Well, we’re all going to have drinks, courtesy of the Mayor,” Madra says, “I’m sure he won’t mind buying a few extras, should you care to join us.” “Sounds refreshing.”

He’s clothed entirely in black rags, hundreds of them tied together, the fabric stretching over his bulging, red-muscled body. Holding Slotterhaus up by the neck, the mayor can just barely make out two burning yellow eyes in the slit between the rags covering his face. “They’ll all be staying here tonight,” he manages to sputter out before being dropped onto the floor. Slotterhaus looks around his office in shock, but the intruder is gone. He spies his butler, standing at the door, motionless. “Seriously, you just let anybody in here,” Slotterhaus says, dusting himself off. The butler shrugs. “He seemed very eager to see you.”

They walk into the pub to find a large table cleared for them. A barwench takes their orders, and Zanther and Novanostrum sit on both sides of D’kassar, ready for business. Zanther slaps the map down on the table. “We’ve heard this map is written in characters that can only be read by the ‘top-tier’ Nasonic Monks,” Novanostrum explains, “and we need to get into the temple so we can figure out what it says. We tried pounding on the door, but nobody answered.” “Doesn’t surprise me--they probably didn’t hear you. Part of the training for becoming a Nasonic monk is to have your eardrums punctured before you are able to become a full-fledged member of the group, you know, to ‘avoid distraction’ or something. The rest of the training consists of learning to write those horrible little characters. There are all kinds of rules and it takes forever to learn how to do it properly. That’s why I left, actually. The ear thing would’ve been bad enough, but those little characters are murder.” “Yeah, well,” Zanther says, “we need you to get us inside. There must be a secret tunnel or something.” “Why?” D’kassar asks, “I can read it for you. Can’t write it worth a damn, but I can read it. All our sacred prayers and sacred threats were written in it, as were our toilet-scrubbing schedules.” Zanther and Novanostrum exchange a glance.

“So what does it say?” Novanostrum asks. D’kassar looks it over. “Well, it looks like it’s just an ordinary map of Upper Kleighton.” “Yes, we can see that,” Novanostrum says, “turn it over--there’s writing on the back.” “Oh, right,” D’kassar says, squinting at the characters, “let’s see, it says, ‘Six barrels of beer, smokeweed, prophylaxis, leg of yafbeest.’ Yes, that’s what this part says.” Zanther nods, considering the revelation. He turns to Novanostrum. “Do you think it’s a recipe for a magick potion?” “I think the map’s creator was a drunk who wrote a shopping list on it. What else does it say?” D’kassar continues reading. “Ah, here it is, ‘In the second house, in the House of the Gods, where the bull charges the sea,’ and...that’s it. That’s all it says.” “Where the bull charges the sea?” Madra asks, “What the High Hell is that supposed to mean?” Zanther smacks his face. “I’m so stupid. The drunk I won the map off of, he was this deaf priester who gambled away his church. ‘The House of the Gods’ is probably his church in Port San-torus.” “San-torus,” Novanostrum says, “Taurus, the Bull. It makes sense.” The Professor nods. “Actually, I’m on my way there. The traders have all the ingredients I use to brew my Good-tyme Tonick. Should you wish to accompany me, I shall be departing in the morning.”

The door to Zanther’s room creaks open, and he immediately thrusts the sword into the mass atop the bed, only to be hit by a shower of feathers. Pillows. Hearing the commotion in the room next door, Zanther and Madra quickly get dressed and slip out the window and onto the roof of the veranda, taking turns dropping (un)gracefully to the ground below. Novanostrum investigates the noises, flinging open the door only to be greeted by a flock of metal projectiles zipping towards him at extreme velocities. He steels himself, and the sharp weapons bounce off his body and clang onto the hardwood floor. He turns his attention to the daemon assassin charging at him with an edge weapon in-hand, something on the order of a scimitar but with extra angles and points protruding from it in various places. The wizard raises his staff, conjuring a fireball and flinging it at the daemon, but the daemon produces his own fireball of green High Hellfire with a sweep of his arm. The two fireballs smash together, causing the room to explode. Novanostrum is blasted through the window and onto the cold ground next to where Madra and Zanther are standing. At the end of the street, they notice Sogbottom packing his new wagon with supplies he is apparently stealing from a closed shop. The two of them each grab one of Novanostrum’s arms and rush toward the wagon. Sogbottom recognizes the three figures hurrying down the street. “Time to go, is it?”

Chapter 7: The Longmeadow

Sogbottom’s wagon creaks down the dirt path which winds its way across the grassy expanse. The purple-reddishness of the sunrise emanates from the horizon, beginning to gain the upper hand in its daily battle against the night. Novanostrum and Sogbottom sit on the wagon’s bench while Zanther and Madra are (presumably) sleeping inside on the fold-out bunks. Sogbottom holds the reins to the distemperate horse. “So how much farther is it to Port San-torus?” Novanostrum asks. “If we make camp somewhere at the end of the day, we can likely arrive by noontime tomorrow,” Sogbottom says as he takes a hit from a bottle of tonick. “What’s in that stuff, anyway?” “Little of this, little of that. Mostly alcohol, the blood of a seagoat, and a few choice herbs.” “You got any more of it?” “Until I get to the Port and purchase the ingredients required to brew more, this bottle is all I’ve got. Here, try some.” Novanostrum takes a drag of the potent potion. His eyes widen, he coughs, and twin tongues of flame shoot from his nostrils. “Neat trick,” Sogbottom says, impressed. “So when do you plan on telling the other two your little secret? I imagine Madra will be particularly displeased.” Sogbottom scowls. “Not much gets past you, does it, wizard? I gather they’ll figure it out when the time is right.”

D’kassar wakes to find a pair of yellowed eyes hovering just finger-widths above his own. The eyes are attached to a daemonic face covered in black rags. “Where did they go?” asks the rasping, singed voice. The ex-monk feels a warm dribble creep down his thigh as the contents of his bladder are involuntarily loosed. “S-San-torus,” he says, clinching his eyes closed and praying for a quick death. D’kassar takes a deep breath, waiting for the end to come, but it doesn’t. When he opens his eyes, the daemon is gone. He catches a faint whiff of something he assumes is brimstone until he directs his eyes toward the stain on his sheet. “A nightmare,” he says to himself, sighing in relief.

Above the wagon, a skyship plies its way across the clear sky. The Longmeadow stretches out before them, its monotony of tall grasses broken only by the occasional brook or tree. In the distance, they can see a cluster of tiny houses. “We should stop and fuel up the horse,” Sogbottom says. There are five houses facing each other in a pentagon shape. The houses themselves are tall triangles of plank wood with rounded front doors. Tattered cloaks hank on the drying lines strung between the houses. Sogbottom ties the horse to a post and knocks on the nearest door. There’s no answer. Madra hops down from the wagon and walks to the marble fountain erected in the common space in the center of the houses. There’s a pile of supplies stacked next to the edge of the fountain--a barrel of feed, a barrel of water, and a sack containing hardbread. Attached to the barrel is a wooden placard which reads, ‘Take what you need’. Zanther and Novanostrum try knocking on the other doors, but there is no answer at any of the other houses. The last house they approach has a sign on the door which says, ‘Feel free to stay in this house for the night’. They walk back to the others. “So what do we do?” Madra asks. “I vote we stay,” Zanther says, “Professor, your thoughts?” “It appears they have made their hospitable intentions clear. I see no reason not to take them up on their charitable offer.” Novanostrum rolls his eyes. “I don’t like it. How do we know they don’t have this all set up so they can rob people in their sleep--or worse. It’s quite obviously a trap.” “Nove,” Zanther says, “I’ve seen you kill hundreds of ravenous monsters in one shot. Are you telling me you’re afraid of some houses and a few barrels?” “Fine. We’ll stay. I’ll keep a watch while you sleep.” Zanther, Madra, and Sogbottom head into the house and settle themselves on three of the four beds inside. Novanostrum sits on the rocking chair on the front porch, gazing at the ominous dual full moons shining in the sky. From inside, he can hear the vigorous snoring of his three companions. He maintains his watchful demeanor for a few bellchimes, but nothing happens. The horse whinnies, and Novanostrum snaps his head in the direction of the commotion, but sees nothing. He walks over to the horse, but continues to see nothing. A breeze stirs the grasses and a crow caws somewhere in the distant night. “Nove, you’re being paranoid,” he says quietly to himself. He steps inside the house and locks the door behind him. He sits on the bed, feeling an intense fatigue he hadn’t noticed before. The storing of the others is cacophonous, extreme, and he blinks in surprise at the ferocity of Zanther’s snoring in particular because, because...

“Zanther, you don’t snore,” Novanostrum says. Novanostrum rolls out of bed and into a defensive crouch. “Hey! Wake up!” he shouts. The others don’t stir. Novanostrum plucks his staff from his sleeve and slams the end of it onto the floorboards, rattling the house’s foundation and calling forth an ear-shattering sonic wave audible for thousands of man-lengths in every direction. They continue sleeping. It’s now when the scratching starts. Scratching at the windows, scratching at the door, scratching on the walls. Novanostrum swears he even hears scratching inside the room. He can hear the scrabbling of tiny claws on stone coming from the direction of the chimney. A bat falls out of the chimney, squeaking and seizing on the flame in the fireplace. It chirps as it zips out at Novanostrum, sinking a few claws into his forearm and causing him to drop his staff. What the wizard doesn’t notice is the viper positioned just behind his ankle, poised to strike. With a snap, the viper clamps its jaws down on his calf. Novanostrum shrieks in pain. While the wizard is busy trying simultaneously to stomp on the snake and swat at the bat, the windows at each end of the house are shattered as pale, skinny bodies fling themselves inside and surround Novanostrum. One of them picks up his staff and flings a fireball at him, blasting him across the room, where he lands with a thud between Zanther and Madra’s beds. On his back, Novanostrum tries to produce his own fireball, his own earthquake, something. Whether it’s due to the viper’s poison or the incapacitated state of his left arm, he doesn’t know, but his magick is not forthcoming. “Time to go back to the basics, I guess,” he says, picking up Zanther’s longknife and charging into the crowd of invaders. They bare their sharp canines at him and cluster themselves around him. “Nosfers! I knew it!” he says, finally realizing the extent of his predicament. Novanostrum tries to beat them away with the longknife, but they begin to overpower him. One of them grabs the wizard’s arm, inadvertently twisting the outer ring on the Ristwatch. Time slows, and Novanostrum suddenly finds himself able to move with great celerity. The powerful blade comes down again and again, each time severing a Nosfer head from its body. With the undead dead, he hacks the snake into pieces. He picks up his staff and flings a fireball at the bat slowly flapping around the room, blasting it through the shattered window and halfway to Rhea. The temporal balance restores itself as the wizard collapses onto the empty bed. Outside, the first traces of dawn are visible, giving every indication that this sunrise will be a brilliant one. The first sunbeams of the day enter the room, seeking out the bloody, contorted Nosfer remains. Upon contact with this sunlight, the bodies and heads melt into ash.

Zanther stretches his arms and gives a powerful yawn. He sits up in bed and yells at Novanostrum. “Hey! Thought you were gonna stay up and keep watch, and here you are, asleep on the job! You’d never cut it as a guard.” Zanther is shocked to see his longknife sail across the room, zipping by his head and lodging itself into the wall.

Chapter 8: Port San-torus

The horse’s hooves clomp along the brick-paved boulevard cutting through Port San-torus. Pubs and inns line the left side of the street, while the right side opens up to a large commons set up like a bazaar. Scraggly merchants from across Upper Kleighton (and even a few from elsewhere) sit behind tables and installs hocking exciting fruits, exotic gems, strange-smelling meats, tiny mechanical Mortesian contraptions, weapons, vials full of liquids of every color, and more. “This is a pretty big place,” Novanostrum says, “the map could’ve been more specific about just where the Nexus Sketch is hidden within this commercial bedlam.” “He was a priester, and the map mentioned the ‘House of the Gods,’ right?” Madra says, “I’d think the most obvious place to look would be a church. How about that church over there?” Zanther squints his eyes. “Looks more like a brothel to me. We’d better check it out.” From the outside, the building does indeed look like a Crucifist church. The pointed spires and large xshaped flourishes give the impression of a holy place, however, the drunks stumbling about outside and the scantily-clad women filing in and out cause Zanther, Novanostrum, Madra, and Sogbottom to mumble to each other about how the place may in fact no longer be a church. Madra, Zanther, and Novanostrum hop down from the wagon and walk towards the entrance while Sogbottom heads to a line of fence posts to tie up the wagon. Inside, despite the debauchery happening on tables and tiny stages and presumably within the confessionals as well, some traces of the building’s original purpose are still visible. Religious relics hang on the walls--large x-shaped golden crosses and paintings of saints. The pews have been chopped up and converted into booths, with dancing girls shaking their flesh above customers, trying to get tips, trying to convince the men to step off to somewhere more private. A large, gilded fireplace gives the place a homelike feel. Madra and Zanther manage to find an empty booth, while Novanostrum heads off to locate a toilet. Zanther plops a handful of dodeckas onto the table and signals one of the girls. She takes their drink orders and walks over to the bar, returning a few moments later with a frothy mug of amber liquid and a frosty mug and a fruity blue drink in a fluted glass. Zanther takes a big swig of the fruity drink, staring at the endowments of the hostess leaning over their table. “You want me to dance for you?” “No thanks,” she says, “why don’t I dance for you?”

She stands of their table, shaking her assets in Zanther’s face while Madra turns a deep shade of angry. After a few ticks of gyrating and contorting, he helps her clamber off the table and back to her feet. As the gets ready to walk away, Zanther notices a golden coin stuck to her left buttock. He reaches to peel it off. It’s at this point when several things happen at once. Feeling the hand on her ass, the girl turns around and slaps Zanther’s face. Another drunk patron notices the girl’s distress and rushes over to defend her honor, landing a few punches on Zanther before the knifesman realizes what is happening. In an instant, people are circled around the two of them, watching them trade blows. Zanther gets the worst of a roundhouse kick, flying into a wall and dislodging a picture in a frame. It crashes down onto his head, showering him with glass and the wooden fragments formerly comprising the frame. A folded piece of paper flutters down onto his chest. It’s now when the daemon assassin comes bursting in through the skylight above, sending screaming patrons and prostitutes running in every direction. Zanther looks up at the charging ball of red muscle, too dazed to react. The daemon notices the folded piece of paper and snatches it up. Madra sits at the table, shocked. She takes a refreshing swig of beer. “Aha! This must be the map--the key to my freedom. After I deal with you, of course,” he says, giving Zanther a snort of contempt as before unfolding the paper, which is not the map but is, in fact, the legendary Nexus Sketch. Staring at the image on the paper in his hands, the daemon’s face distorts into a horrible grimace as he starts to dissolve into a pile of smoldering red ash. “I...I’ve been tricked...” Novanostrum walks over from the bathroom, looking refreshed, when Sogbottom comes rushing in with a look of panick on his face. “Crucifers!” the Professor yells, “The town is positively crawling with them, we’ve got to get out of--ah! The map!” Sogbottom lunges for the tattered paper sitting atop the pile of reddish ashes next to a still-woozy Zanther. The Professor grabs the paper and rushes toward the fire. Zanther staggers to his feet, and he and Novanostrum dart towards Sogbottom, with Zanther managing to connect with a flying tackle just a splittwitch after the paper touches the flame. Professor Sogbottom is knocked into a table, his beard and wig coming loose and revealing a mop of greasy, brownish hair as his spectacles slide across the floor. Zanther raises his eyebrows. “You! You spoony bard! What the High Hell did you do that for? That wasn’t the map, you idiot, I’m pretty sure it was the Nexus--” It’s at this point when a horde of crucifers kick the doors open and swarm into the church. Novanostrum pulls out his trusty staff and swings it around his head, knocking the soldiers back with a burst of energy. “It’s time to GO! Let’s get out!” the wizard says, jumping over the writhing mass of pikes and armor. Madra and Zanther follow suit.

Outside, the streets are filled with Crucifist soldiers, soldiers who don’t necessarily know what they are looking for, but who are at least clever enough to realize that people who are running are people who need chasing. So they give chase. With a mass of soldiers in pursuit, Zanther, Novanostrum, and Madra run for their lives. Varello (formerly Sogbottom) appears from amidst this mass, riding atop a charging bull, stampeding over bystanders an sending Crucifers flying. “Follow me!” he shouts to the three of them as he charges past. Madra gives Zanther a confused look. “Do we follow him?” Zanther tosses a glance back over his shoulder at the horde of Crucifers, then back at Madra. He shrugs. “Might as well.” Varello’s bull gallops towards the docks, where the bard leaps from his mount and lands on his feet, running, leading them down a pier and up the gangplank of a large ship. Zanther and Madra follow him onto the ship, and Novanostrum is the last one aboard. The wizard launches a fireball at the middle of the gangplank, blasting it to splinters. The bull, now standing on the pier, is quickly surrounded by Crucifers. Both the men and the beast seem unhappy about the situation as they take a moment to size each other up. On the ship, the four of them are surrounded by men wearing light blue robes. One of the robe-wearing men is also wearing a fancy hat, and he observes the chaos in the town through a telescope. “To sea!” he bellows. Zanther, Madra, Novanostrum and Varello sit crumpled on the deck, trying to catch their breath as men rush around them, pulling on ropes and loading cannons. The sails unfurl, as the anchor is hoisted up. The Crucifers on the dock have gleefully taken to pelting the ship with their powderblasts, and the sailors cheerfully answer the Crucifers’ shots with cannon fire. A cannonballs is all it takes to disperse the soldiers and most of the pier. The captain walks over to the four of them, holding out a hand to help Madra to her feet. “Thank you for your help,” she says. “We didn’t attack them to help you,” the captain explains, “we just really beeing hate those guys.”

Chapter 9: The Codex

The captain, an agreeable enough if not overly laid-back sort of fellow, is taking his new guests on a tour of the ship. As soon as they get belowdecks, they all can’t help but notice one thing: books. Tons of books. Piles of books. Books on shelves tilted at a 45-degree angle to prevent them from falling out with

every movement of the ship. Books in boxes. Everywhere they look, they see books. Newish books, tattered books, dog-eared books, all categories of book represented. “We’re a sort of floating lending library,” the captain explains, “the Libros Majorum oversees libraries all around Upper Kleighton, and we travel between them, exchanging books. In this way, all of the Libros Majorum’s libraries are able to function as one giant library.” “So what’s your problem with the Crucifers?” Zanther asks. “We believe in spreading knowledge. Books are primarily sources of information, of learning. The Crucifers support ignorance; they burn books, they hate science and innovation. They’re constantly trying to stifle us, but our knowledge of science always keels us supplied with better weapons.” Novanostrum looks confused. “I thought Librarians were basically guaranteed a kind of de facto noninterference in their travels throughout Upper Kleighton. I was unaware the Crucifers were acting in violation of that arrangement.” The captain nods. “It’s true, there are few who would knowingly tempt the wrath of the Libros Majorum, but when this current Pontiflex Minor seized control of the Crucifist Church, he made it one of his priorities to hinder our activities.” “Why him? Why now?” The captain shrugs. “He must see our activities as a threat to his dominion.” Looking glum, the captain leans on the wooden railing lining the main deck, gazing down at the clear, calm water below. He sees two fish pass each other going opposite directions. After their tour, the captain leads the four of them to the galley and advises them to relax. They sit around a table, regaining their composure. Novanostrum smoke his longpipe. Zanther takes a sip from a flask he produces from his hip pocket. He stares at Varello. “We walked all the way across the Continent looking for that scrap of paper...why’d you destroy it?” Varello, tuning an old lute he discovered during their tour of the ship, gives Zanther a serious look. “I have an axe to grind with the Pontiflex Minor. It’s true, he originally hired me to acquire your map, but after he threatened to have me expaled, I became High Hell-bent on messing with his plans. So I took it upon myself to get your map and get rid of it before he could have a chance to find it. However, I didn’t realize that the paper you had in that church-brothel wasn’t the map.” “Yeah, well, that was no ordinary piece of paper,” Zanther says, “it must have been some kind of holy relic--you and Novanostrum missed it, but once glace at it zapped that daemon to dust.” “The Nexus Sketch was real?” Varello asks incredulously, “Well, that must mean the original painting is real as well.” Madra, Zanther, and Novanostrum all turn their eyes to Varello. “What do you mean, ‘the original painting’?” Zanther asks. “If you’re really curious,” Madra says, motioning at the books surrounding them, “why don’t you do a little research?”

A messenger runs into the Pontiflex Minor’s chamber. “News from Port San-torus, your Holiness.” “Speak, messenger.” “A daemon was sighted in a brothel, but all that remains of him is ashes. The atheists were located, but it seems they escaped aboard a Librarian ship bound for Arcania, your Holiness.” “Send word to our main in Arcania that this Librarian ship must be intercepted upon its arrival.” The messenger gives a deep bow and runs back down the corridor. Inside the chamber with the Pontiflex Minor, a dozen old men in funny hats have their heads bowed as they try to be as pious as possible but succeed only in being very quiet. The Pontiflex Minor paces the room, speaking to himself. “Have they found it yet? It does not matter. We can’t risk a revolution, least of all a revolution by our own troops; they must be dealt with. They must be dodecimated.” “You!” he shouts, pointing at one of the old men, “There is a silver urn in my bedchambers--fetch it.” “And you!” he shouts again, pointing at another old man, “There is a statue in the hall outside the Grand Treasury holding a serpent-shaped staff. Bring it here.” He waits a few moments, and both men return with the requested artifacts. The Pontiflex Minor unscrews the top of the urn and shakes handfuls of glowing green powder onto the floor, drawing a large circle. Within the circle he drops more powder, creating a septagram. The Pontiflex Minor then takes the staff and pounds the tip of it into the edge of the circle, causing the powder design to burst into flame. The Pontiflex Minor waves the staff in a complicated series of movements and a shimmering portal opens above the star. An angry looking daemon pokes his head out of the portal, looking around cautiously before emerging. After a moment, more daemons follow until there are a horde of angry daemons standing in the center of the chamber, looking confused. Immediately, the daemons swarm the old men, tearing them apart as more daemons run out of the portal. After a gross of daemons have trooped out of the portal, the Pontiflex Minor waves his serpentine staff and the dimensions are once again separated. He pounds his staff on the ground, the flames go out, and two hundred eighty-eight eyes are focused on his holy visage. “I have summoned you, High Hell’s High Guard, the most vicious fighting force between here and eternity, to find four individuals. A wizard, a knifesman, a queen, and a bard. They will shortly be making their arrival in Arcania by ship, and whomsoever of you manages to kill one of them will be given your freedom in this world. After seventy-one bellchimes, the incantation I have used to summon you here shall expire, and you will be sent screaming back to High Hell.” It takes the daemons a few moments to process this information, after which they scramble through the doorway. The shrieks and screams of priesters and janitors can be heard as the daemons slaughter their way out of the Deus Palatium.

Zanther and Madra sit on the floor in one of the ship’s book-filled corridors. They each pore over a stack of books, looking for anything pertaining to the Nexus Sketch.

“So,” Madra says, “are we dating or what?” Zanther looks taken aback. “Dating?” She gives him an angry look. “Well, what were you doing coming into my room back there in Zweissergrund? Were you not about to try to seduce me before we heard that daemon in the room next door?” “Seduce you? I just wanted to see if you had an extra bucket in your room so I could fill it and wash up a bit.” She throws a book at his face. “What’s the matter with you? Do you not find me attractive?” “Well, no, I mean...yes. It’s not that.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You already have another woman? Is that it? You could’ve mentioned that before.” “No, I don’t,” Zanther says, “it’s just, well, you frighten me, to be quite honest. I’d prefer not to get involved with someone where I have to spend one week every moonth wondering if she’s going to have me put to death for some arbitrary reason.” Madra slaps him hard, the snap of her hand contacting his cheek echoing throughout the hull of the ship. She rises, stomping down the corridor away from him, passing a running Novanostrum. The wizard races toward Zanther carrying a book. “It took the help of three Librarians from the crew, but we were able to find this,” the wizard says, handing Zanther a catalog of religious relics mainly dealing with descriptions of which churches have which fingers of which saints, but also bearing the following passage, which Novanostrum has bookmarked: During the Battle of Abbot’s Cove, when the Trinese Forces overwhelmed the Crucifers defending the Deus Palatium, an Ex-plosion knocked loose a Wall exposing a giant Antechamber containing a certain Painting. One of the Trinese Soldiers, overwhelmed with Emotion at the Sight of the Painting, used a Piece of charred Wood to make a rough Drawring of the Painting to show his Family. All of the Soldiers present, upon seeing the Painting, swore Allegiance to Pontiflex Chastis ZI on the Spot and drove away the Remainder of the Trinese Forces. Pontiflex Chastis, upon seeing the Power of the Painting upon the Minds of the Enemy Soldiers, ordered it destroyed in the Name of the common Good. The Trinese Soldier who made the original Drawring became a Priester and founded his own Church in a City by the Sea. What the Drawring and the Painting actually depict is a Subject of much Debate and Speculation by Phillosophers. After Zanther reads the passage, Novanostrum skims it again. “Destroyed in the name of the common good?” Novanostrum asks, “Something with that kind of power? Just doesn’t seem very Crucifer-like to me.” “You think the painting is still somewhere within the Deus Palatium?” Zanther asks.

“I’d bet your life on it.”

Chapter 10: Arcania

The Codex pulls into Arcania, the wizard city, without incident. As the first contingent of Librarians begins unloading crates of books, Zanther, Novanostrum, and Madra step onto the dock. They can see the spires and towers of the King’s New Omnimagick Tower (a sprawling complex of buildings linked with skyways and commonly referred to as the ‘Knot’) stretching from the center of the city. Dock workers mill about the pier in their long raincoats. A few of them mill closer to the three of them, surrounding them. Zanther gives Novanostrum a panicked look, and half a dozen workmen shed their raincoats, revealing wizard cloaks, and Zanther, Novanostrum, and Madra find themselves at the business end of a half-dozen staves. Novanostrum has his own staff drawn, but he finds it levitated right out of his hands. Their aggressors part, and an older, taller wizard makes his way toward them. “Novanostrum Singularis...I was under the impression we had banished you quite permanently. And yet, here you stand. You look surprised to see me. Wait, hold that pose!” “Rassamander, you bastard!” As he says this, Rassamander Andolin, Maximagus of the First Circle and head wizard of the Arcanian Wizards’ Council waves his own golden staff, freezing the three of them in their respective poses. In a state of suspended animation, Zanther has one hand on the hilt of his still-sheathed longknife, Madra, her eyes wide, has her hands over her mouth, and Novanostrum stands defiant, arms crossed, rolling his eyes. Rassamander snaps his fingers and his statuesque victims are placed on a wooden platform being drawn by a horse. The Maximagus walks toward the main boulevard, trailed by the impromptu parade float and his contingent of elite wizards.

Varello watches the scene from his cabin window. He climbs the stairs leading to the captain’s quarters and knocks on the door. “I assume you saw what happened to them,” Varello says. “What can I do? It’s not our place to fight wizards. We’re Librarians. It’s one thing to trade fire with some clumsy Crucifers, but getting our ship blasted to pieces by lightning and fireballs isn’t something we’re trained to deal with.” Varello nods. “Well, I think I can help them, but I’ll need your help. I need your crew to find me some books about songspells.” The captain rises from his chair. “That’s something we can do.”

Storm clouds gather overhead as people in the streets of Arcania freak out, swarming merchants to purchase supplies so they can barricade themselves in their homes, people fleeing to the countryside, people fleeing to the city from the countryside. In the midst of all this simultaneous, undirected fleeing, rumors fly of an army of daemons killraping and murderslaughtering its way across Upper Kleighton, seemingly in the direction of Arcania. Somewhere within the scurrying masses, a few plucked notes make their way into the general noise, nearly unnoticed amid the general din of hysterical screams and shouts. Rassamander leads his procession towards the heart of the Knot. Within the crowd, a strange thing is happening. Instead of running around in anxious circles, some of the people are skipping in the rain, moving their bodies in time with the lutist. A woman carries a giant pitcher of water, swinging it around like it’s her dancing partner. She almost hits Varello. He leads this group of dancers through throngs of serious-looking wizards, and when he draws close enough to the rolling wooden platform, there’s a subtle shift in tempo, and the melody changes. It takes a few eyeblinks, but once the melody has run its course, Varello sees Novanostrum’s eyes unfreeze. Novanostrum jerks his head ever-so-slightly, motioning toward the staff of the wizard marching nearest the float. Without skipping a beat, Varello kicks this wizard, grabs his staff, and tosses it to Novanostrum. Zanther and Madra begin to snap out of their stupors, and Novanostrum blasts the confused wizards with fireballs and lightning. Rassamander conjures a shockwave, knocking his own wizards off the street and into second-story windows and awnings, but Novanostrum swings his staff like a bat and deflects the energy toward a philosophers’ guild, which explodes in a shower of wooden planks and sophistry. At the bottom of the crater, two bearded men sit at a table smoking pipes. “The worst thing is,” one of them says, “we’ll never know for sure what caused this explosion.” “How can you be certain an explosion even occurred?” his partner asks. A few eyeblinks later, a stray fireball crashes down upon them and knocks them to the ground, burning and writhing, trying to put out the flames which have consumed their clothes and their beards. Rassamander pulls his staff into two identical golden staves and crosses them, sending a barrage of meteorites showering down from the sky. Just before impact, Novanostrum twists the outer ring on the face of the Ristwatch, and the celestial projectiles stop. The rain hangs in midair, confused about the sudden lack of gravity. The people stop moving. Next to the float, a paused bolt of lightning looks like a giant tower, a tree of light. Novanostrum massages his temples. “Still have your father’s watch, I see,” Rassamander observes. “Comes in handy sometimes.” “And yet, even with that trinket, he was perpetually late...still is, I hear.” Novanostrum snaps. He plucks Zanther’s longknife from his frozen hand and wings it at Rassamander, piercing him through the chest. Time resumes. The meteorites melt into dust, but the rest of the carnage continues unabated.

Zanther spins around, looking for his weapon. He finds it lodged in a wizard and pulls it free, wiping it clean on the sputtering old man’s cloak. Seeing their leader dead, the remaining wizards drop to their knees in deference as Varello, Madra, Novanostrum, and Zanther walk calmly towards the city gates. “Hey, uh, Nove,” Zanther asks, “what happened back there? Did I save the day?”

Chapter 11: The Mucklands

The four of them walk along the solid sodden path leading through the Mucklands. A few arm-lengths on either side of the path, the thick grass fades into a swampy, marshy bubbling bog. Unseen, crouching in the shade of the trees, thunderfrogs make their mammoth presence known through a series of bass-laden croaks. “Do you think,” Madra asks, “this place might be dangerous?” “Oh, most definitely,” Varello answers, “it ranks right up there with the Deathstretch on the Kleighton Gadabout’s list of ‘Places People Would Rather Die Than Risk Visiting’. I think it came in at number three. The Deathstretch was number two.” “Oh? What was number one?” “The Deus Palatium.” “Lovely.” “You can always turn back, you know,” Zanther says. “Turn back?” Madra says, “After those bastards occupied my kingdom? No, I’ll have my revenge.” “Speaking of revenge,” Varello says, “aren’t we a little under-armed for whatever it is we’re planning? Shouldn’t we go in there with powderblasts a-blazing and some giant, gleaming longknives?” “Oh yes,” Novanostrum says, “that’s why we’re stopping in the Darrinian Capitol. They’ve got the best weapons on the continent.” Zanther holds up his own longknife, borrowed from a Claustrian soldier, looking it over. “So the four of us are just going to march right into the Deus Palatium and do what, exactly? Ask the Pontiflex Minor politely if we can have a look around so we can try to find a secret painting which may not even exist?” “Something along those lines,” Novanostrum says, “but probably with more killing. They do have thousands upon thousands of soldiers.” “I must advise you,” Varello says, “I just don’t see this plan as having a very high probability of success.” Novanostrum smiles. “What are you worried about? We’re not trying to fight the whole of their army, we just want to assassinate the leader of their church because he keeps sending soldiers and daemons and homicidal bards after us. If we can find the Original Painting, so much the better. Anyway, we did just

manage to kill a Maximagus of the First Circle and fight our way past the Wizards’ Council. This is just one old guy and a bunch of soldiers. Should be a breeze.” As they make their way down the thickly-vegetated path, their eyes and lungs are assaulted by thick, black smoke. They can hear screaming. “Seems like someone’s house is on fire,” Zanther says. “Who’d wanna live out here,” Madra asks. “You guys just sit tight while I go save the day,” Novanostrum says before walking off the path towards the burning structure. Madra makes a sour face. “Should we follow him?” “Nah,” Zanther says, “he’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”

As Novanostrum approaches the house, a large wooden maze of verandas and porches built on stilts anchored in the swamp, he looks over his shoulder for the others, but they don’t seem to be coming. “Need to have a little talk with those guys about sarcasm,” he says to himself, walking down a plankway connected to a short set of stairs. With the screaming continuing unabated and smoke and flames billowing from the windows, he blasts open the front door with a gust of wind and enters the fray. Inside, the flames illuminate a trail of blood leading into a bedroom. He follows it to find a woman bound to a bed, beat and bloodied and hysterical. “Get out!” she screams, “They’re still here!” “Who?” he manages to spit out before being tackled by a sinewy stack of red muscle. The daemon has his foot on Novanostrum’s throat, eyeing his prey carefully. “But I need...proof...” he says, thinking it over, “a head should do, I’d think.” Novanostrum lifts his staff a tiny bit, managing to shoot a plume of flame out the window which explodes vibrantly in a shower of green and yellow sparks. The daemon is startled by this, and snatches up the wizard’s staff as other daemons burst into the room. “Hey, Scanthyll, this is my shot to get out. Not gonna let a hoofhead like you ruin it for me. The human is mine to kill,” one of them says to the daemon standing on Novanostrum. “Back off, both of you, his head is MINE!” shouts another one. As the three daemons duke it out, Novanostrum tries to crawl to the bed where the woman is bound.

Madra, Zanther, and Varello see Novanostrum’s fireworks display. “Cocky bugger, isn’t he?” Zanther muses.

“I still hear screaming--I don’t think he was doing that to show off,” Madra says before darting off toward the house. “I’m not convinced there’s a problem,” Zanther says to Varello, “think I might just hang out here for a while.” Varello shoots him a look of contempt and follows Madra. With a sigh, Zanther follows along, too. Zanther walks into the burning bedroom to find his three companions surrounded by four daemons, one of them waving Novanostrum’s staff like a club. Varello’s lute lies on the floor, smashed into splinters. Upon noticing the knifesman, the daemons shift their angry stances from each other and toward him. “Four of us, four of them. We each get one, we all stay,” Scanthyll says. The next tick is a blur of wind and steel and cursed axes and hooves and fire, but it ends with Zanther, Novanostrum, Varello and Madra bruised, bloody, and still surrounded. Out of desperation, almost unconsciously, Varello starts whistling a slow, sad melody. Novanostrum, Zanther, and Madra drop their respective jaws as the daemons drop like sacks of hammers, asleep. Still whistling softly, Varello motions at the girl and the door. The woman has stopped screaming, and Novanostrum unties her and slings her over his shoulder as they make their way out of the room. After snatching up Novanostrum’s staff and handing it back to the wizard, Zanther motions for Varello to follow, but the bard shakes his head. “If he stops, they’ll wake up,” Madra whispers. They file out of the house, making it halfway down the plankway before the burning stack of boards finally creaks, cracks, and crumbles. The whole smoldering mess is extinguished as it sinks into the bubbling water. The four of them linger to watch for a few moments, then quickly start putting distance between themselves and that accursed place, but they don’t get very far. A giant crab skitters out of the muck, clicking its enormous pincers together, frothing bubbles out of its mouth. “Oh, High Hell, no,” Novanostrum says, with the girl still slung over his shoulder. The wizard raises his staff and summons a huge lightning bolt which strikes the crab, instantly boiling it and blasting it to pieces. Zanther rushes over and scoops up one of the claws, sticking an arm inside and pulling out a large handful of tender meat which he devours eagerly. The others stare at him. “What are you lookin’ at,” Zanther asks, “I’m hungry.”

Chapter 12: The Darrinian Capitol

As if emerging from a long tunnel, the four of them follow the path out of the Mucklands and across the fields surrounding the Darrinian Capitol. They can tell it’s the Capitol because the buildings are huge, bureaucratic, and imposing. Shaped like huge hammers and fists (one is even shaped like a blindfolded ogre holding scales; the seat of the legislature), these buildings make up the nerve-center of Darrinian political decision-making. The Darrinians, by nature, have always been fierce isolationists, jealously protecting their privacy and self-determinance. In the interest of self-protection, they sent their spies and their armies into neighboring lands to ensure that their own lands would remain isolated. As a result of this constant aggression, the Darrinians are now never invited to participate in the bi-annual Continental Council or the Upper Kleighton Lympic Sports Meet, which is held every sixth sunspin. Once, in the early days of the Lympic Sports Meet, the Darrinians agreed to play the role of host. When the delegations and fans arrived from the farthest reaches of Upper Kleighton, they were fed a grand feast, every bit of which was drugged. Their guests fell into a deep sleep, and they awoke to find themselves being expaled. As there were no survivors to report home with the details, the Darrinians have maintained that nobody ever showed up in the first place, possibly because they all got lost. Naturally, they were the de facto winners of every event, but have since been banned from any participation in the Meet. It’s for all these reasons that Zanther, Madra, and Novanostrum ender the Darrinian Capitol with an air of hesitation. The girl riding piggyback on Novanostrum’s shoulders, however, does not seem concerned. “I don’t know what you’re all so worried about, I’ve been here dozens of times and nobody’s ever expaled me.” “That’s because you’re from around here,” Zanther explains, “foreigners like us, they’re not so keen on.” Novanostrum smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” Madra frowns. “Fake mustaches and fake names? And stupid accents?” “Of course,” the wizard says. Despite being home to a bloodthirsty, xenophobic army, life inside the city gates looks pretty much like life at any other major city in Upper Kleighton. A man haggles with a merchant, trying to make change for a goat, which is struggling against the rope in his hand. Most of the inns and shops are built from sturdy, grey brick, as is the road below their feet. They register at a small inn using Darrinian-sounding names and head to their room to clean up. Without all the dried blood covering her body and after running a comb through her hair, Novanostrum finds the woman to actually be quite attractive. “So...uh...you said your name was Risma, right? How would you feel about getting a glass of wine with me?” the wizard asks. “Sounds like lots of fun. I’ve never been on a date with a wizard before. Will you do some magick for me?” “Well, I work on commission.” “Put on a show for me, maybe I’ll put on a show for you.”

Zanther and Madra sit at a table at the Rusty Hammer, stealing the occasional glance at the weapon shop across the street as they sip their drinks. “You know,” Madra says, “Novanostrum’s really falling for that girl. What do you think of her?” “Something’s a little off about her. For someone knocked around by a gang of daemons not six bellchimes ago, she seems pretty full of pluck. And for all that blood, there’s not a mark on her. Not a scratch, not a bruise. It’s awfully strange.” “Maybe she’s just dumb and lucky,” Madra says. “Living all alone smack dab in the middle of the Mucklands? Something’s going on here, and I don’t think I want to find out what it is.” Madra sighs. “Varello. I can’t believe he’s gone.” Zanther smiles. “Gone? That guy’s slippery as a snake. I wouldn’t count him out just yet.” Madra wipes her eye. “I...I suppose you’re right.” “Hey guys!” Risma shouts as she and Novanostrum walk towards them and sit at their table. A barwench takes their drink order and scurries off to fill it. “They still over there?” Novanostrum asks. “Yep. Maybe they’re open all night. You know how these Darrinians are...” Zanther says in a low voice. “Nah, they’ll lock up and head out in a little while. Just have to be patient.” “So how are we getting in? Or are we just gonna smash and grab?” Zanther asks. “Here’s the thing,” Novanostrum says, “with this watch, the Ristwatch, I can slow down time for about thirty eyeblinks, or completely stop it for ten. It takes roughly and hour for the magick to recharge. Either way, that’s not going to be enough time for a good, solid heist. We need a plan. Any ideas?” Risma gazes out the window, her eyes on the sewer grate at the edge of the street. “What if we come up from below? This city has all kinds of tunnels running under it.” Madra grins. “Going through the sewer? You know, Risma, this really sounds like a job for the men. We should keep watch from over here.” Zanther narrows his eyes at them. They have a few more drinks as they wait for the sun to disappear completely. Soon after the gas-lit streetlights pop into luminescence, a burly man across the street turns his key into the lock of the door to the weapon store and plods into the night. Novanostrum sees this from the nearby alley, nods at Zanther, and they drop through the metal hatch leading to the sewer and into the darkness below. The sewer is just a tunnel with a man-length-wide ditch running through its center. Preferring not to draw attention by using his staff to produce light, the two of them make their way using the muted light from the street above which trickles down through grates placed here and there above their heads. Down unseen paths branching from the main sewer line, they can hear the skittering of tiny, padded footsteps.

“How do we know this even connects with the weapon shop?” Zanther asks. “They have to drain a lot of water forging those longknives and pikes, so they must have a fairly large drain somewhere in the smithery. I’m thinking it’s right around...here,” Novanostrum says, pointing directly overhead at a round metal grate. “Well, how do we get it open?” “Give me a boost and I’ll show you.” Zanther cups his hands together and Novanostrum puts a foot on them, lifting the grate out of place and getting a handhold on the floor above. He pulls himself up, and reaches an arm down for Zanther to follow. “Guess they’re not too concerned about security,” Zanther observes. “Not when everyone’s convinced the only criminals are foreigners.” Zanther gives a wry smile. “There might be a little truth to that, though.” The shop itself is spacious, its walls lined with longknives, handbombs, and powderblasts. Novanostrum picks up an elephant-bone staff, waving it around, checking its balance. Zanther, meanwhile, holds two matching gold-plated longknives, taking a few practice swings. He grabs their scabbards and tosses them into a large sack. They each grab a few powderblasts, all of them with gleaming steel barrels, and toss them into the bag, along with a few dozen pouches of ammunition. “Do we need crossbows?” Novanostrum asks. “No, I don’t think so. Oh...wait. What’s that?” Hanging just out of reach, their eyes are drawn to a showy master longknife, its incandescent blood-red blade inlaid with jewels. “The Longknife of Iniquity,” Zanther says, “wonder what it’s doing here?” “Leave it,” Novanostrum advises, “it’s time to get out of here.” “A weapon like this...do you think this is even the real thing?” Zanther says, his eyes growing wide. Novanostrum shakes his head. “You can’t counterfeit the glow of a blade forged in the flames of High Hell. More trouble than it’s worth. I suspect it’s only a matter of time until the Quester of Righteousness discovers his weapon is here and lays waste to anyone in its vicinity.” “If he’s even still alive,” Zanther says, “I mean, how else would they get it?” “The Longknife of Iniquity has passed through countless hands. It’s been bought and sold and killed over and lost and found more times than a prostitute from New Kestle, and contact with it is just as deadly.” “You’re right. As always, you’re right,” Zanther concedes, following the wizard back into the sewer. They emerge into the alley a few moments later to find Madra and Risma waiting for them. Madra paws through the sack as a group of shadows amass at the end of the alley.

“Foreigners!” one of them shouts, “Darrinia does not take kindly to thieves!” Zanther and Novanostrum bare their new weapons, but Risma holds up a finger to them. She walks over to Novanostrum and gives him a kiss on his mouth. “Let me save you for a change,” she says, waving her arms and opening a portal in the air which looks like a rippling whirlpool. She pushes the three of them through. Zanther and Novanostrum fall a few armspans to the ground to find themselves on the road just outside the city gates. Madra, carrying the sack containing the powderblasts, comes tumbling after them a moment later. The portal evaporates with a loud compression of air and energy. “She opened a mattergate?” Novanostrum puzzles to himself, “I’ve never seen it done before. I think I’m in love.” “You think she’ll be okay back there?” Madra asks. “Risma? I have a feeling she’ll be just fine--it’s this guy I’m worried about,” Zanther says, giving Novanostrum a playful punch to the shoulder.

Chapter 13: The Deus Palatium

On the edge of the horizon, the spires and glimmering contours of the Deus Palatium loom ominous. Platoons of troops march in scattered groups, and the clangs of metal-on-metal and reports of shots can be heard as a few of these groups are pitched in combat with red-skinned malefactors. Novanostrum, Zanther, and Madra are perched at the top of a hill, watching the carnage separating them from their destination. “How many damned daemons did they summon?” Zanther asks. “It appears someone conjured the whole of High Hell’s High Guard, and they’re converging here,” Novanostrum says. “Yeah, but if the daemons are targeting us, why would they be after the Crucifers as well?” Madra asks. “Daemons will kill indiscriminately,” Novanostrum says, “it’s hard to tell who’s the target and who’s the collateral damage. Still, it would take a Maximagus of the First Circle to pull off a trick like this. There are only four or five wizards of that caliber on the entire Continent, and I killed one of them. “Regardless, we must fight our way through this rabble and make our way into the Deus Palatium if we want to get to the Pontiflex Minor.” Zanther pulls his new gold-plated longknives off his back with a dramatic flair. “Let’s get to killing.” The road to the Deus Palatium is paved with well-set bricks. With most of the skirmishes taking place out in the surrounding fields, only one group of preoccupied fighters stands between Zanther, Novanostrum, Madra, and the megadoor leading inside the holy palace. Two daemons are fighting a half-dozen Crucifers, with pieces of what might’ve been another half-dozen Crucifers scattered on the ground around them. Novanostrum nods at Zanther, time slows, and colors

recede. In a flash of metal and purple blood, Zanther beheads and behearts both of the daemons. The natural laws of physics snap back into place, and the three of them find themselves in front of the startled Crucifers. “That was incredible!” one of them says. “You--you saved us,” says another one. “Can you open the main gate for us? We wish to have an audience with the Pontiflex Minor.” “After a show like that, we will certainly request you an audience with his Holiness,” the first Crucifer says. Seemingly glad to get off the battlefield, they signal to the guards inside to raise the large iron gate blocking the megadoor. They all scurry inside as the gate is immediately lowered again. The main hall of the Deus Palatium has a gray-and-white checkerboard marble floor extending seemingly into infinity, but they only walk for about two ticks before they come upon the door to the Dual Chamber. “Please wait just a moment,” one of the soldiers says as he and another Crucifer walk through the door and close it behind them. It’s not long before they emerge. “The Pontiflex Minor will see you now,” one of them says. As soon as they are through the door, it locks behind them, causing Madra to cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. At the far end of the massive Dual Chamber, standing in front of a massive throne with velvet cushions, waits the Pontiflex Minor. “I’m told you dispatched a few of those fell daemons with great skill,” he says, “now, tell me, why is it you’ve come here?” “Basically,” Zanther says, “this wizard and I would like you to stop sending soldiers and daemons to kill us. In addition to that, we’d also like to take a look around your fine palace. Also, she,” he says, pointing at Madra, “is pretty bonked off.” Novanostrum and Madra share a look, both of them impressed by Zanther’s eloquence. “Holiness, I am Queen Madra of Claustria,” she says, curtseying as best as she can while holding two loaded powderblasts, “I’ve come to demand the withdrawal of the Crucifer forces occupying my kingdom.” “Oh? They left a few days ago,” the Pontiflex Minor says, “they weren’t there to occupy your kingdom. They were trying to locate these two. “You know I sent assassins, soldiers, and daemons to find you,” the Pontiflex Minor continues, raising his voice, “and here you are, come to me. I could’ve saved myself a lot of trouble had I just waited and killed you myself.” The three of them clutch their weapons.

“Still, that wouldn’t have done at all. You’d have the Nexus Sketch, and the foundations of Crucifism would be shaken. Now it’s gone, and pretty soon you’ll be gone, I can succeed the Grand Pontiflex once he finally succumbs to his illness, and things can return to normal.” “You haven’t killed us yet,” Novanostrum says. “Oh. Right. Details,” he says, raising his silver serpentine staff. The doors to the room open, as do several marble panels in the walls. Daemons start piling into the Dual Chamber, clambering toward the center swinging axes, chains, and maces. Madra points the powderblast at the nearest one, squeezing the trigger and dropping the hellspawn like a bag of dead cats. The other daemons pause for an eyeblink, then resume their charge as she reloads. Zanther swings both of his gilded blades at a rapidly-approaching daemon and severs the torso from shoulder to armpit, sending the head and left arm flying off the body in a spray of sludgy blood as Novanostrum picks off targets one-by-one with lightning bolts which send down a shower of plaster and stone as they pierce the ceiling. “It’s no good,” Novanostrum says to Zanther, “there’re too many of them. Time to show off a little.” He slams his elephant-bone staff into the ground, sending out a shockwave which knocks down most of the daemons, then spins it around over his head, conjuring a stormcloud which crackles and rumbles as it grows in size and intensity inside the Dual Chamber. Finally deciding to participate, the Pontiflex Minor blasts fireballs into the fray, causing Zanther and Madra to dodge and dive, all while avoiding the blows of the weapon-swinging daemons. The brimstone sweat of a hundred daemons mixes with the spinning stormcloud, turning it a pale green and causing acidic rain to pelt everything in the large room. One of the daemons wrests Madra’s powderblasts from her hands and another daemon splits one of Zanther’s longknives cleanly in half with his black axe, while the Pontiflex Minor targets Novanostrum with a meteorite the size of a wagon. The room shakes as giant slabs of stone are knocked loose from the ceiling by the penetration of the space rock, which slams into the floor just next to a diving Novanostrum and sends him and his elephant-bone staff flying to opposite sides of the chamber. With Novanostrum down and his spell broken, the stormcloud explodes, showering the daemons and walls with the acidic mixture. Daemons and humans alike, all are momentarily stunned by the simultaneous explosions. Novanostrum raises his head, noticing the acid reacting with the wall behind the Pontiflex Minor, melting away images of expaled traitors to reveal another mural beneath. “What the...?” Zanther exclaims, tilting his head. Daemons start noticing the wall’s transformation, staring at the newly-revealed image and disintegrating into ash. The Pontiflex Minor is understandably confused. “What is happening here?” he asks. Zanther points at the painting, and the Pontiflex Minor reflexively turns around and gazes upon it. “Ah...I see,” he says before his body bursts into ash. His hat and clothes fall to the floor as his silver serpentine staff rattles down the steps leading up to the lectern, transforming back into a snake and slithering away.

Novanostrum, Zanther, and Madra stand in the center of the room, catching a glimpse of the image, which is also starting to dissolve and melt away. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

She looks as if she has only recently bloomed out of her adolescence and into womanhood. Her auburn locks fall over the shoulders of her simple robe: the outfit of a wizardess. She walks between the trees, her path lit by the moons above, both of which are mostly illuminated. What little grass grows here and there is chalky white, as are the trees and their leaves. White flowers bloom and white fruits hang from limbs. She stays on the path, paying little attention to her surroundings. This same sense of cavalier disregard does not seem to apply to the owners of the hundreds of pairs of glowing eyes staring out from every dark nook and crevice. The eyes glow not from malice, but from fear. The unimaginable beasts shrink back as she approaches. In a small clearing of white grass stands a man, his face shadowed by the hood of his cloak. She approaches him with her arms crossed in front of her, palms flat and facing outward; a wizard’s gesture of peace. They size each other up, and she is the first to break the silence. “You know where it is?” “I do indeed. I’ll tell you where to find it if you agree to my terms.” She fluffs her hair seductively. “And what terms would you have for a woman like me?” “A woman? You would deign to call yourself a woman? Don’t make me laugh. I know exactly what you are and what you can do for me.” “Oh?” “Oh yes. It will take a lot for you to please me, and I intend to be quite pleased indeed.”

Books in the Vicious Magick series: Vicious Magick Livid Steel Seductive Silence The Legend of Zanther Mystickal Melody Knives and Needles Toil and Trouble Dearly Detested (coming soon)