Scrolls of the Scribe

[Topaz]

((These are Dundale’s writings. These posts provide the background to most all the Guardians’ stories.))

Scrolls of the Scribe

Here upon these weathered pages, loosely bound and fast showing their wear, lie what is known of the stranger who walks the paths of Valley Atrebla, naming himself Dundale and calling himself the Scribe to the Guardians of Truth. Judge not too harshly as you read of his deeds and the circumstances that have landed him in your midst, for what he has done, hath been done in a sense of fairness and what is right, though some would surely be quick to disagree.

Between the ancient fatherland of Radurdan, and the western valleys founded by the upstart Tharumaine, that some now call Agaelon, lies a long, hard spine of the world known only as the Shadowrange. In ever diminishing heights its spires march to the South from the Great Northern Rim, where those towering peaks reach so high into the night sky some say the very stars come there to rest. Down sheer, icebound precipeces and pinnacles of stone, long ages of hard weather have laid bare the bones of the
mighty beast, wearing them smooth while adorning them with thick forests of evergreen and fir. And from their last high walls, they spill forth a myriad of swelling rivers that cut broad paths down through the northern buttresses of the Iron Mountains, feeding those lush vales below, yet always seeking a path to the sea.
For ages untold those peaks that lay just below the eternal snowline have been held as home by clans of skilled hunters and craftsmen. And though they grow little of their own need, their women have long been wise in the ways of keeping the yearly plunder from the lowlands fresh and wholesome for their use. But by nature, and in part due to the harsh hand beneath which they survive, they have long ago hardened themselves to the realities of war, and seasoned their spirits to sacrifice. For their
existence depends upon the bounty of others, and the strength of their own hand to seize it.
Akin closely to the old blood that still flows strong in Radurdan, the tribes have warred with the land of their origins for generations, seeking always to hold what lands they do have from the yoke of the Black Throne. And though they plunder the ripe fields of their new neighbor to the West, and on occasion bring their women bound and gagged from the fertile fields where the rivers spill forth, they have often allied themselves to the sons of Tharumaine, for they too make war on the ancient
Kingdom to the East. It is of one such incident, and the misfortune of one Agaelon shepherd's unwary daughter that the tale I am to tell was born. For when Glarius, brash, young and mountain-born, took the lass who was called Jaelith by her folk, she was a'ready with child. A child that was to be born to her in strife, though she named him Dundale, which meant 'light of the evening star' in the valley of her home.

Jaelith struggled against both the harshness of her new world, and a consuming heartsickness for the lost lands of her father, to raise the child she had borne. Her struggle to protect him from the hard hand of her captor, and now husband, was neverending. For Glarius despised the boy, being not of the same blood and a strong rival for his bride's favor.
Despite his deprivement and his mother's intense sheltering, Dundale found his own niche within the clan. It soon became apparent to all that he was sharp of eye and skilled with the bow, his aim true and consistant. At the young age of ten, while wandering above the village in hopes of bringing home some small offering for the cookpots, he came to a ledge overlooking a narrow ravine. Deep in the cleft below, cutting the meat from a small, freshly slain hornbuck, Glarius sat unaware of the
crouching snowpanther just above, or the boy in the shadows higher still.
The sleek white streak of death fell screaming and writhing to the ground at his lodgefather's heel, causing him to bolt in fear from the sudden danger. But the sharp-fanged beast would harm no other living thing, for Dundale had pierced its heart with a hawk-feathered shaft, even as it had sprung murderously for its unwitting prey. Then, before he could be seen, he vanished back the way he had come, following the trail quickly around the village and coming unseen to his mother's lodge. And
though he was questioned harshly, and Glarius was never to be sure who had saved his life that day, the boy held his tongue and would not say it was he who had sped the killing arrow. From that day forth, a measure of fearful suspicion seasoned the glare of the older man's eye, and a closer heed was paid to the lad's comings and goings.
The second winter following Jaelith's abduction saw the birth of the next of the three boys she would breathe life into before her death. Caleb, sired by Glarius and favored by him before the very warmth of the sun, came ripping into the world, nearly killing his mother in the bargain. Now, the days Dundale had spent listening to her wisdom, receiving instruction him in the ways of the world to which he might someday return, were filled with her pain and the screams of the dangerously ill child.
He became truly alone in that dark time, for he was now both the source of his mother's growing sense of guilt and the deep depression that it brought, as well as the object of her husband's hateful scorn.
It was such for the next four years of his life. He tried to avoid the stiff treatment his mother was no longer in any condition to shield him from by pledging himself and his bow to a band of foragers and hunters led by his one true friend within the clan. At DaFaar's side, he learned to track the great Swordpaw bears through the wilds of the Shadowrange. And when there was water needed on the high trails, he was a most adept pupil in the skills of its finding. But the talent which the old and
grisled warrior unleashed in him that was to be his greatest joy, was the swift-fingered rendering of music from the taut-stringed Mandobar the old one held so dear. It was not long before Dundale was held in regard for his new talent, for he was a clever and creative songsmith, and the tales of their past that he had learned as a child, he now gave back to them in rhythm and rhyme.

[Topaz]

Naught may hold forever

Dundale rose slowly from a restless slumber, grimacing at the throbbing pain behind his eyes. Kicking aside his scattered attire from the night before, he eyed the cluttered condition of his small chalet with a soured expression of amusement. Piece by decadant piece he began to recall his fare of the night before, the disheveled pile of clothing and empty flasks telling the tale as well as a bard of the highest order.
Not bothering yet to dress himself, he kicked aside his own dirty garments, then gathered the ones belonging to the still sleeping tavern wench into their own small pile. As he placed her things on a stool near his bed he seriously considered easing back in beside her, back beneath those warm and inviting covers. Scratching a two-day stubble on his chin, he shook his head and began to mumble over all the reasons that was not such a good idea.
There were things afoot in Rhydin that required his attention. And then there was the joining of Sir Jerod and Topaz at week's end. Shaking his head, he turned from the object of his pleasure and set himself to his bath. The girl, damned if he could remember her name, would just have to wait.
He was threading the last of his bootlacings when she rolled over and cracked an eye at him. Biting back a chuckle at her uncomely morning appearance, he leaned over and stroked back the tangle of her hair. A thin smear of her lip-paint ran across her cheek, and she could manage to open only one eye. Nonetheless, he gave her a warm smile and spoke softly so as not to pain her waking.
"I have to go. Not that I wish to, but there are things I must attend to. Ye are welcome t'stay and sleep, if ye wish. There's sweetbread and cheese in the hold, and some tea I traded for a few days ago, though ye'll have to make yer own fire. And I put fresh water and towels out as well. I may be gone for quite a while, so stay or go as ye desire."
"Ye are kind, sir," she managed a bleary-eyed smile. "Just one thing afore ye go." Sitting up, she gathered his long, dark hair behind his head and began to work it into a tight braid. "Have ye a name besides 'scribe', luv? And be tellin' me the truth now. Ye don't carry yerself like any scribe I've ever known." As she spoke, she tossed a curious glance toward the longsword standing in the shadows by the door. Its weathered sheath
spoke of its long possession, and in the grain of the leather, shaded areas could clearly be seen, as if it had belonged to a mercenary and once born sigils of service sewn along its length, but now were strangely removed.
He returned her question with a hard, silencing smile. "Be careful of the things ye wish to know, girl. Lest ye bargain for a burden too hard to bear."
With that, he strapped on the blade and covered himself in the deep green cloak he was rarely without.
The shutting of that door behind him, though soft and barely heard, resounded through the days of his future fate like thunder in the heavens, for Dundale the scribe was never again to shed his boots in that comfortable little house again.
The morning brought bright sunshine, but quick winds cut a path through the still quiet streets of Rhydin with a fierce whistle and biting sting. Feeling the tug of duty, Dundale drew his cowl close and set out for the GoT news office. He was, after all, Head Scribe.

[Topaz]

Call of duty

He kept himself turned from the stronger gusts, but the piercing chill found its way behind his thick cloak, through the leathers he wore, frosting the pommel of the sheathed blade slung at his side. By the time he stepped up to the frost-paned door of GoT, he was shivering and flushed across his cheeks and the bare knuckles of his hands. Raising his hand to rap on the fastened door, he saw from within the smiling face of the new lass some had spoken of. Mery, he believed her name was.
Just as Mery went to open the door, she gave a closer look at the man standing cowled and dark on the narrow stoop. Dundale could see the uncertainty roll in combative waves across her attractive, earthy face. Her deep, ocher brown eyes were perfect crystal balls in which to read her cautious calculations. He knew her reasoning was sound, but dammit, it was cold out here. He reached up to rap the jamb, and caused her to step back quickly, a dangerous look in those dark orbs.
"C'mon, Mery! I'm Dundale. Let me in! Its bloody cold out here and we need to talk before I ride out this morning." His smile didn't do a lot to strengthen her convictions, just narrowed her eyes to slits. "Please?!" he pleaded, hands showing from beneath the deep green of his cloak.
Storm clouds roiled behind the dark eyes of the scribe as he came from the GoT Commanders office. Some who stood near looked on with curiosity, shaking their head at the fresh and obvious conflict that rose with the dawn. Rumor held Topaz and Dundale were embattled over a difference in viewpoint. Though held a close secret, it could easily be gathered to be serious. Never had the mild-spoken northerner behaved in such a brash and dangerous manner as the last few days. And, as many now remarked, he had taken to lashing back his cloak, revealing the longsword at his side. The runes that graced its scabbard now danced fiercely in the morning light, remaking the image all had cast for him.
"'ello, Dundale, sir!"
A thin voice called from behind as he came round the stone wall by the entrance to one of the lesser and earlier-to-open pubs nearby. He turned sharply, wearing no hint of smile on his grim face.
'Something ye need, friend?" The scribe's voice was gruff and straightforward. The drumming of his fingers on the pommel of the sheathed blade spoke of his irritation.
"Sir, a rider came whilst ye've been gone. And the girl," The boy beneath the cowl of his deep green shortcoat blushed and cut his eyes toward the ground.
"Yes, ..the girl? Say on lad! I haven't the time to pass with yer fancies of riders and tavern whores. What say ye?"
'The,……the rider, master Dundale. He said to give ye this.' Arkien, as was the messenger's name, produced a tightly sealed scroll from his pockets, keeping his eyes steady to the knees of the stern and impatient scribe. "And he said to say to you the words exact,…just a he'd spoke them t'me, sir. But not where's n'other ears might hear, sir. Do ya see me meaning, sir?"
Dundale's eyes narrowed to dark slits. "I see your meaning clearly enough. But d'you see where you stand, boy? You had better get on with yer tellin' or I'll find me a way t'hurry ye along.'
'Sir!…S..si..sir! I di'nae mean to raise yer ire, sir. Its just that the rider gave me such a start..and he took the lass with him, he did. He took her and she went with him as if'n she were still asleep, she did." The boy looked with open eyes at the older man, then delivered the message as he had been told. 'He said, sir,.to say to you when we set to eye, 'Dark are the paths of dawn when hard hands wield the remembered flame. Come, falconer. The day is at hand, and ye are needed."
Dundale stood as stone. No expression opened the pages of his mind for the boy to read, yet fear crept over the younger ones face. The boy pulled up his cowl nervously and made to apologize for the dire nature of the message, but he was too late. The scribe had gone in a flash, rounding the back side of the tavern he had intended to test his thirst against. It would have to wait. As would all other matters that he bore at the moment.
'Danth! Ready my horse. And another. And be quick! I haven't the time for yer straw talk and tales this morn! Now, boy, hurry!'
Dundale's dark, greying mane flew behind him as he entered the stables where he housed the grey stallion he so favored. As he went quickly from one task to another, gathering feed into his packs and bringing out his leathers for hard travel, he muttered erratically to himself,.cursing quietly the fate that had set him now to this new and foreboding path. He would have to ride without sleep to reach the Atreblian valley in time. If indeed there was any time left at this very moment. The Dark Flame! How many, many years had it been since he had heard that black name spoken aloud.
Within mere seconds he was mounted and away, pointing his stallion toward the northern roads, and the dark desolation that was now Krondor. It had been long since he had been in Atrebla; he silently willed that all would be well when he arrived. And that his arrival would be swift and unhindered.
The day broke before him, cold yet bright. And the wind came to his back with the aid of one who is glad to see the departure of an unwelcome guest, .and cares not for their quick return. This time the guest did not turn to watch the horizon vanish behind him. There was now a deed that carried more weight to the bedraggled warrior turned scribe, than all the cares and responsibilities of the Guardians of Truth and the denizens of Rhydin.

[Topaz]

A Stranger, a Fortress and a Secret

The sharp outcropping where Dundale stood, set above the ragged treeline like the broken wing of some great fallen bird, shed its loose shale beneath his cautious step. In the crisp fall wind that whipped through the dawn, edged in fire by the rising sun, he felt the certainty of winter. Its approach would be less than welcome where he was bound. But less welcome would be the news he bore in haste. Its chill lay like cold steel near his heart.
"D'ya think the Guardians will receive us when they know our purpose, TaKhian?"
Turning from his scrutiny of the mist-shrouded vales below, Dundale shot a grin at his riding companion's use of the name he had once worn with less than honor. A name he had at one time fought to deny.
"You are sure you want TaKhian, old friend? I wish I were as sure as you that such measures would be t'yer liking." The disapproving sneer on his face seemed tainted with some dark and pleasurable memory, yet there was also shame beneath its gleam. The other man dropped from his saddle, his quiet laughter accented by the ring of his steel as it clattered at his side.
"I think I stand in his presence a'ready." There was little mirth in the younger man's observation. "It is said that he never left, nor did heal the wounds he dealt the arse end of the realm."
The dire and thoughtful expression on Dundale's face remained firmly set, then gleamed like a gem whose polished surface gleams forth from its hard stone prison. The brightness of his eyes proved his welcoming of the light's revealing. And to Kemoc, lowering the cowl that covered his thinning pate, there seemed something there behind that dangerous and familiar glare. A mumbled 'perhaps,' was the only response his jibe earned from the dark and moody clansman. Their silence held through a last scan of the vales below, the return of their horses to the northern trail, and the passing of the noonday meal as the set hoof to the valley floor. Then only after the rogue broke wind settling himself back into his saddle, a snickering escaping both he and the fouled mount, did Kemoc speak.
"You have spoken of these you now call friend. And I see your uncertainty when you speak of some. It worries me to witness it. 'Tis a face I've not known before." The narrow lane through the rock-strewn path widened as it came into a thick grove of Hangfronds and Spinebark. A thin whip of the prickly vines that draped across the path caught Kemoc's cheek, pulling a narrow line of skin from just beneath his eye. It distracted him from the inquisition momentarily as he cursed his luck and wiped away the tainted blood. Dundale exploited the opportunity to its fullest, bidding his companion to follow even as he spurred his mount to flight. Before them lay Valley Atrebla and the famed stronghold known as the Beacon of Truth. And behind those venerable towers and impenetrable walls were the answers he bound himself to know. No matter the means he must employ to have them heard.
The day closed rapidly as the blaze of evening's sunset burned to black across the horizons. It was the same with Kemoc's worries over the stability of Dundale's mindset. The leader of the Shadowrange's strongest and most elusive band of outlaws sat his saddle as if he straddled the Pearlstone of Muir itself. Comforted and reassured that he had done as should have been, the shorter man resigned himself to the trail. There would be little time nor opportunity to alter the course of the coming events now, even had he a mind to. With a full breath and a boot to his mount's ribcage, he fell in behind Dundale's brisk laughter and rode hard as the trail would allow.

[Topaz]

Hammerhand and ill winds

Shadowdancer darted through the rough brush with ease. Foam flew from his flanks in long,stringy tendrils of lather that slapped against Kemoc's grey like whips in the night. Still the mysterious southlander kneed and urged his mount closer as they fled through the nightwinds of Atrebla. There was no time left for their plans, no time left for caution nor worry about the allegiances of those they now sought with such abandon.
"Fly Dundale! Fly! I feel its breath at my heel! I hear the crack of the fire's whip in the night! The Dark Flame has arisen!"
Dundale's shadow seemed to pull ahead slightly as he cut the corner of a sharp outcropping of black stone, then vanished as the trail turned suddenly upward into the last pass. He left no answer in his wake; just dust and the damp whisper of sweat from his weary mount. He prayed his companion did not lose his stirrup in the hard, unexpected cut. There was no time to stop and return him to his saddle if he did.
In the distance behind them, a cold, pale moon began to ease above the eastern horizons. Somewhere in the midst of the surrounding desolation, something howled long and shrill. It sounded hungry; it sounded near. A snow panther probably, or some other creature of like fang and appetite. Dundale grinned beneath his cowl at the thought of the lean meal he and Kemoc might make them. The horses however were another matter. Surely they would see the lights of the Beacon soon. The night was closing too quickly. The Guardian's Keep would be a most welcome sight to him now.
As was usually his wont, the tides of his fortune had turned ill in a moment's span, and at the predictably worst possible moment. Their turn at the crossroads at last dusk had set them to cross paths with two of the most desperate souls he had seen draw breath in many a season. They had been garbbed as priests, though their robes and hoods were tattered and soiled from their flight. Of the Faith they most certainly were, but of a remote northern sect even Kemoc did not recognize. The fact they seemed more wary of the silver sigils the southerner wore bound to the sheath of his longsword. Their eyes had seemed drawn to the gleam of the strange ornament he staunchly refused to discuss or explain, keeping them huddled together more in apprehension than for warmth or fear. And they bore a tale that had set fire to his saddle and froze his heart. Drawing rein to the black Radurdan stallion as the narrow path opened onto a broader and less overgrown expanse, he could still hear the ring of the older one's dread as he had plead unnecessarily for mercy, then begged for aid and something cool to drink.
"Numbered now are all the days of this land, warrior. And not by the blades ye wield will ye win through the darkness that is to come. Give us drink, or let us pass on as we may, I beg ye. Or if your heart is so black a'ready, then slay us here and save the ones who come their miserable trouble. We are all lost to chance of hope anyway."
Kemoc had held silent while the tattered clerics had ranted in their doomsayer hysteria, keeping a firm grip to the pommel of his blade and a cold eye toward their shifting purpose.
"I do not put steel to holymen, stranger. Not even though they strike me with their faith and name me barbarian as ye have. But I will give you water and hear your tale. That is if ye can survive the dire fate of its telling." A slow but firm smirk crept across his face, sending them both into a quivering mutter mixed and smattered with a dozen different invocations of their Deity. "What has caused ye to make such haste from the safety of your own homelands. Know ye not that these lands even now fall deeper into shadow with the passing of each night into day?"
"And all the quicker for the evil tidings that we bear, clansman." He peered closely at Dundale, even as he kept a cautious eye on the readiness of Kemoc's hand. "I do read ye right, do I not, sir?" He proceeded with caution. "Ye have the arrogance of one born on the High Slopes. I would say the Shadowrange by your garb. And blessed are ye that ye are not there now. They feel the touch of the Dark Flame even now, and the Lords of Agaelon no longer stand so forward in their pride. There is even talk of the breaking of Lightbane's Hold. AnAkbar the cruel, Shahira of the Servants themselves has been seen riding the witch A'Rua'Nelle through the mists of the haunted vales of Radurdan. Even now the dead may rise to walk the ways of the Towers of Rahn. Doom, I say, is all that is left to befall if such has come to pass. Doom! Doom!
Now, hours away from the terrorstricken prophecies that plagued the pair, Dundale and Kemoc paused for a brief moment to let their animals gather their breath before the final stretch of their journey. Just visible on the low slopes of the mountains they approached, the glimmer of the pale moon was cast back to them from the highest towers of the place they sought. The Beacon of Truth, the famed Keep of the Guardians of Truth. In silence they sat deep in worried thought. From here it seemed far too fragile a place to have such a thing as this laid at its door. They did not look at each other as they spurred the weary mounts down toward the worn and well-traveled road that ran true as an arrow toward the fortress. What hope they had fostered and fed upon now wrapped them in a most uncomfortable blanket of doubt and uncertainty.
"To the end," Dundale muttered as he made the road.
"To the end!" Kemoc raised his voice to the indifferent moon and drew his dragon-forged blade, kicked the ribcage of the grey soundly and sped into the breaking dawn. He left a cloud of dust and the ringing of a desperate battlecry in his wake.

[Topaz]

The seeing stone

As a chill and meager dawn touched the turrets and high towers of the Beacon of Truth, Dundale and his companion slid wearily from their horses before its massive entranceway. Neither spoke, yet a thousand words lay just behind their eyes as the gazed on the fabled Keep. And both wondered at the silent reception they had recieved.
"D'ya think there are any of the Guardians hereabouts?" Kemoc wondered aloud. Then turning toward the silent and brooding clansman, he voiced another, darker concern. "Or do you think we will be welcomed here with less than we had hoped? I sense something ill upon the winds this morning, my friend." With a furtive glance about him, the graying southlander slid his blade half from its sheath and stepped just behind Dundale's passing shadow.
"I agree it is not the welcome I had hoped for, Kemoc. Yet I have never been here before, and I know not if any of the Guardians are even about. But surely there are servants about. Surely we will find them soon enough once we enter the halls. see to the horses and I'll give a knock at the doors."
Grumbling his discontent, Kemoc tied the lathered horses to a nearby post and turned to seek water for the pair. His temper did not often suffer him to be ordered about like a common stablehand, but with Dundale,..or TaKhian as he more favored to call him these days, it was best to hold at least some semblance of a civil tongue. Behind him he heard the creaking of the main doors as his companion opened them, then the vanishing clatter of his boots hitting the polished floors within. Around him a stiff, cold breeze began to whip the dust at his feet into the air. The horses pranced nrevously, and a darkness seemed to cloud his already sour mood.
"TaKhian?"
There was no response from within. He left his task and came quickly across the great wooden walkways, through the entrance and into the ill-lit halls beyond. His blade fully drawn now, he passed quickly into the gloom and shadow before him, coming to stand at his comrade's side with hardly a sound of his passing. But as looked hard upon the polished walls of the main hall the cold wind he had felt before the gates whisked past him with a renewed fervor that sent a deep shiver up his spine. Before he could speak his unease the dead sconces upon the wall burst suddenly into fresh flame, lighting the lamps anew and revealing in earnest that they indeed stood alone within the Beacon. Something was surely amiss here. Had the great fortress fallen to the habitat of spirits and ill fortune? It raised his hackles and brought a tighter grip to his swordhand, yet it seemed not to bother his moody companion.
Dundale turned without a word at the sorcerous appearance of the light, seized the wrought-iron handles of the nearest set of carved doors and flung them open. His stride caried him through and again beyond Kemoc's sight before the superstitious southerner could protest. Yet he followed, halting only when he saw Dundale pass through yet another portal within, then come to a halt at the far end of the chamber. He stood before a long desk of sorts, and threw his hood back from his head as laid his hands on what he found there. Bathed in an ethereal blue glow, he drew even closer, then lay his hands upon the Palantir before him. Beyond hope it did exist. Before him was the last of the ancient seeing stones of Numenor. He began to chuckle darkly as he pulled himself into the seat before it and caress the smooth power of the globe.
"Now we shall see what we shall see," was all he said for a very long time.

[Topaz]

Cold eye in the north

The fire red glimmer of the Bloodstone setting in his ring reflected the pale light emanating from a Seer's stone before him. It carved the blanket of darkness with blades of light that sundered the black shroud of night, but did not kill. In echos of passing shadow, naught but the sheen of teeth too brilliantly white, and the stench of evil most pure, cast any clue to the dark entity behind that narrow and purposeful intent. A finely polished digit, stiff in the knuckle but keen of claw, dug furows of pain across his cheek as he watched his beautiful and cunning prey flee along the mountain paths to her assumption of safety. A soft chuckle, the rattle of dry bones stirred by a cold and heartless breeze, escaped his cracked lips and stilled the last flickering lamp in his chamber.
What may have been a laugh escaped him while he watched the setting of the mortal sun. Dark and gathering shadow came tickling the young woman's heel, yet she did not pause nor turn her from her way.
" 'Tis been an age and more since I have set m'boot to the roads and trails of RhyDin. And what we shall see, little one,.....we shall surely see!"
In a demonhail of malcontented mirth, AnAkbar wiped away any distractions he may have had and turned his malignant attention wholly toward the lush, silent valley spread out like carpet before the girl's hurried image.
In his memory, when the world had passed its ignorant judgement over him, the dwellings in 'His' valley were inaccessable from their North. Now there was not only the secretive girl, but the rogue as well who had made their attempts to escape.

[Topaz]

The witch’s illusion

AnAkbar sat alone in the dark hole of his prison, but he was not blind. He saw the reapings of his work, the strife sewn by his hand springing to life. Through the luminous haze within the crystal at his feet he could almost feel the touch of the wind, pressure of his boot on the throat of the world again. The power of the banishing was weakening. He could feel it. The last piece of the shattered key was afoot in the world, and the Children of AruMacAmon walked again among the living.
'Yes, a different day,' he muttered quietly to no-one. No other sound broke the dead silence around him save the flickering of two small torcheres behind his head, and the persistant hollow clicking of one long blade-sharp fingernail against the pale pate of a human skull. "Yes, tis a different day altogether."
The thin, malicious laughter that rolled from his lips abruptly ceased as the glimmer from the seeing stone faded to a sickly green and yellow murk. A thick smell began to emanate from its surface like mist. It gave off a fevery heat, clamming his skin as it crept up his hand, sealing it to the curvature of the hellish bone in his grasp. The tendrils snaked around himand bound him like iron..
"Baru aman a rumanadara Ca'man!" The wizard hurled the ancient words like daggers at the gathering swirls, "A Baru aman a ruman....arrr..."
Silence seized the chamber in its fist, then clenched. Deep night fell as the wall sconces sputtered into darkness. The last glimmer of true light from the invaded orb vanished beneath the slithering ooze it now dispelled. Gagged by a power unknown to him, AnAckbar sat still as death, his eyes captured by the scene unfolding between his knees.
The surface of the stone seemed to corode, to run in crystal rivulets as it fled the acid light that raped it from within. Where it flowed over the blackened brass of its vessel, it hardened again into long, green-hued shards, razor sharp to the touch. The stench drifting from the devestation of the ancient oracle entwined and danced to the strobing rythyms of the embattled light, gathering tightly into itself. Then, from the depths of the stone, a heavily ringed hand appeared.
AnAkbar gasped, nearly choking himself for air as fear took his heart. With careful grace and ease, the smoke began to take a feminine form, then drag herself forward. The touch of the sharp, thirsty edge over which she crawled had no effect, brought no blood as it sliced her hands. Even as she slipped through the shadows that lay between them, her dark mane hiding her face, the wounds healed.
She came slowly. Her hand climbed his thigh with a touch both cold and firm. With tortuous pleasure she slowly released her hold on him, gradually returned to him his voice.
"Damn you, A'Ru a'nelle! Look what you have done to the Stone! Aaarrghh!..Let me go fully! I command you now! At this mome......!"
She slammed his mouth shut with a whisper and a tiny wave of her free hand, the nails of the other digging to the bone in his leg. He could not scream, but he destroyed the skull beneath his hand as all the resistence he could muster shattered it, sending schrapnel flying all around his chair.
"Witch!" Suddenly free, he screamed and lunged for her.
She bellowed in wicked laughter, rolled from his side, releasing him completely now to play in her game. "It has been too long, love," she toyed.
The taunting taint in her voice fired his feet. He rose bathed in deep flowing waves of crimson as the conjuring he worked fed upon his anger.
" 'Tis no game, woman, when you destroy my property!"
An unexpected peal of mirthful laughter at her joke came suddenly from the shadows where she hid. Then, in mock abeisance, the slender troublemaker came from her hiding. A soft green light followed at her feet, pacing her steps toward the wizard. With her humble approach she brushed away the length of black, silken hair from her face. Her eyes beamed with mischief and an air of equality, even as she knelt before him and sought his quivering hand.
"It was but a small illusion, m'lord. A little surprise to liven your day."
With the approach of her shimmering, revealing glow, the last remainders of her trickery vanished. Smoke rose from the torcheres, light once again pouring from their scorched iron webbings.
"But,...! I saw...!" he stammered. "No magic may work its power upon an Oracle! How did you manage...?!"
The woman's eyes met his own. A strength lay there he had never seen before. Not in her eyes, nor any others. Not even had he stared in the crystal blue depths of mighty A'Daeron's own.
"There is a new craft in the world today, m'lord. It is weak and discarded as useless by most who hold its knowledge. But to us, to those who still remain in service to the Dark Flame, it has been a gift unheralded and unlooked for." She paused, drawing closer to him by degrees.
An opportune flash from behind as the twin lamps fully ignited revealed the unearthly markings at her breast, claiming her to the black truths of her allegiance. It was warning enough, and he paid it full heed.
She sprang from her groveling even as he shied from her touch. Sudden threats poured venomously behind a hardnailed digit pointed viscously in his direction.
"Yes," she hissed, "a new power. A new fuel to fire the holy braziers. We feel again the gathering warmth of the Dark Flame, my love. We are returning to the world."
"Then why the reason for your anger, woman. Free me. Let me give you aid, the strength of my own hand. I would see the end to this farce the humans have thought to carve in our domain. Break the hold of the banishing if this new gift holds the power you say."
A'Ru'a'nelle's face grew dark with the coming storm behind her eyes. Her voice lowered, her words chilling to ice with the cold truth of enlightenment.
"Who do you think has weakened it thus far? Do you not feel the touch of the North winds now and again? Do you not meddle your hand once again in the affairs of the mortals? And in my own?"
The wizard cringed from the last cold dagger, hurled to maim. "What do you mean?" he managed, seeking the farthest depths of the bone-crafted throne from which he ruled his prison realm. "I have done nothing.."
"Liar." Her tone was casual, as gentle as the soft rumble of the great snowcats that roamed the Shadowrange mountains. They always gave warning before their pounce. Prey holds a sweeter taste if filled with fear at the moment of the kill. Then she bared her fangs.
"The portals that have opened in the southlands have been tampered with. I know it was your hand behind its cause." Her accusation sank into his flesh.
AnAkbar's brow furrowed painfully. Hs hands drew slightly closer, dim red flickers dancing beneath his nails.
"The paths behind the world do not yet belong to the Master of the Flame. I will do with them as I please."
"No." Firm, dangerous, she came for the kill. "You will do as you are told." Black silk again shadowed her eyes, drawing his attention further as he tried to know her mind. "The southlands are not as they once were. They no longer remember us there. They no longer fear us there. The Guilds have brought the fools to believe they are safe, that they have powerful and divine protection. It is still a time for our caution, not the time to show the hard hand of the defeated, returning in anger and hot for revenge. We are making progress and will not make the same mistakes again. This time, we will not fail."
AnAkbar started to speak, but the spellcaster raised her hand and held him to exasperated silence.
"Storms have ravaged Muir. The Lord of Agaelon is missing. A wizard rules in his stead. Decadance tightens her quiet grip in Rhydin. My followers poison the feeble minds that govern the human realms from Radurdan to the forbidden lands beneath the southern seas. Power sits again on the Black Throne. We bring them to their knees by their own hand, slowly....completely. Then we come to take their heads."
Meance crept behind her eyes. Rising to full height, she mounted the one raised step of the dais between them. Her hand found the skull at the end of the grotesque throne's armrest just a she kicked from her path a shard from its shattered twin. Standing close, her breath dank, her nipples hard beneath the sheer drapings of her garment and only a hair's breadth from his hand, she held his mind and made her point.
"Let the Guardians pass through the portal or I promise you you will forever regret this moment. You have made a grave and costly error by manipulating the last fragment of the amulet back into the world. It was buried in the Seeker's catacombs for a reason. If the three should find themselves together again, held together as one, more will fall than the walls of your little prison,....m'lord." She spat the courtesy at him with obvious disgust at his ignorance.
"I have found her, though. The girl Trillium. The one you set to find a path to all our ends. And I came upon her just as she passed from the Iron mountains, but she has sought sanctuary where I cannot now reach her. I almost had the second of the three in my hands, but you closed that trap just as my prey reached for the bait. These Guardians of Truth are not fools to be trifled with. Not like the naive in Muir. And though our power is growing, we are not yet ready. Leave them be. Leave them to us and I will see you soon freed. Continue as you have, and either you will destroy us all,......or we will see an end to your meddling by our own means. "
The wizard held his tongue to see if the witch had done, guaging his parameters, cautioning himself to control his anger. He came quietly after a long, tense silence. "What would you have me do?"
"Leave my workings alone. Gather yourself together, for you will soon have a guest. A place will need to be prepared for her.... uh... ..comfort!" A peal of new laughter ripped the anger from her face with maniacal speed. Her eyes flashed with devilish passion. "Come! Walk with me along the ancient ways. It has been long since I was here. I will tell you of the valleys of your home, the place they now name Atrebla. And you can promise me how you will halt your armies as they pass down from what you have left of Krondor. We can lie and swear our love to each other." She paused to grab his hand and drag him from his obstinant stance.
"Then I will tell you how it feels to be a tavern wench again and sleep with the ale-sodden and hapless rogues of the world! Liars, thieves and scribes who remember nothing of the truth. Rhydin is ripe with them. The grog is strong there, and in the Red Dragon Inn, tongues struggle freely to be heard. Just as if they were dying men drowning in a sea of foam and ale, and to tell what they knew might save them."
She cackled at her joke, momentarily allowing the illusion of her appearance to slip through her forgetfulness. Beneath the sheen of healthy, firm flesh around her face, the opaque image of a burned and cracked complexion came through like a reflection coming from deep water. AnAkBar never noticed. His eyes were suddenly drawn to what lay beyond the opening doors of his domicile.
Drawing closer to each other, the evil pair stood silent in the never ending wonder each felt when they gazed upon the realm of his banishment. A failing sun, black but brightly streaked with purple, ribboned with reds the color of blood settled behind a thin line of low-ranging hills, orange and heavy with the corrosive odor of iron. Stagnant pools of power and magic quivered like quicksilver hither and thither throughout the barren valleys. A shimmer of refracted light cast rainbow colors above those dangerous resevoirs, coaxing forth the great beasts that fed from them with an appealing, soothing underdrone.
"I wonder how they will like the place they created for us?" he asked to no-one.
She didn't answer his offhand pondering. There was no point. There would be no choices.

[Topaz]

And it begins

The witch stood upon a smouldering stone, eager to depart the pathetic company she kept, returning her demented gaze to the southlands and to the hunt. The game she played wove itself tighter with every breath she drew. And with the sustenance it brought her wicked heart, it wearied her of the pitiful companion at her hand. She turned and scowled at the imprisoned wizard beside her and spat her disgust upon the ground between their feet. The thin hissing sound that followed came like a serpent's threat, bearing the venom in her words straight to her victim's heart.
"You have grown weak, AnAkbar. Where is the Black Priest of the Neverending Flame? Where is the soul and bone of the one I once knew? You stand imprisoned ... by the fault of your own hand. You stand and cry that ye have been undone. Ye stand for the trials yer enemies have set for ye... and ye stand where ye are because I allow it!" A'Ru'aNelle ground her teeth in exasperation as she captured the ancient necromancer's startled eyes. His stuttering and stammered attempt at speech drove her to dangerous rage.
"Who ... who do you think ye're tal... talking to? I ... I am..."
"You are no-one!" Her eyes blazed behind the truths she brandished like a bright and deadly sword. 'You are the prisoner of a weak and dependant race. You are an old fool, full of power and afraid to use it! Do you think the Seekers have the skill and strength among them to enforce the edicts they bound ye to? Do you see them here now to bind your will and hold ye from returning to the world? Do you see their bright and shini ..."
A sudden rumble beneath the feet of the witch's fury silenced her as if she had been slapped. AnAkbar turned and rose above her, drifting from where he stood like the smoke from the burning stone, encasing her in the acrid stench of his wrath.
"You have said overly much, woman. I let ye have your say because it pleases me ... I have let pass the fact ye have destroyed my property and come uninvited into my misery. In some demented way I found your trivialities amusing. But your ignorance of the gravity and consequence surrounding the matters in which ye toy disgusts me beyond repair. Do you not see that the reasons I stand behind the edicts imposed mean your very survival? Do ye not know that the very breath ye take is allowed because I do not unfold my hand?"
The wizard's rage cloaked him in a shadow no fire-born light could break. It seized his upstart disciple in an irresistible hold as if he had physically reached out and taken her by her throat. She could not speak. She could not plead. He allowed her nothing as he dimmed the very world around her. The shimmering blaze of his accursed prison faded to nightshade, cooled to ice around their feet, vanished from their touch. In its place, crystal clear to her inner sight, yet hazed with the smoke from many a pipe and obscured by the raucous cacophony of it's intoxicated patrons, the crowded tables of the Red Dragon Inn appeared on every side. A'Ru A'Nelle tried to scream her protest but choked with her effort as the dark magician leaned close to her face and whispered his words.
" What use are the eyes in your head, witch? You do not see the spume you stir, nor the undertow of your thrashing in these unfamiliar waters. Have a care you are not dragged beneath the raging stormtides ye create by your own hand! Open your eyes and see the truth!" AnAkbar commanded all the witch's horizons. His stare swallowed her will, devouring all resistance and protest. "Let me enlighten you as I have always done. I know you will appreciate the gift and amend your errors accordingly." The grin that spread across his ancient face bore all the mirth and warmth one might expect from the cold caress of the far northern icewinds. Her attention was completely his.
The ghostly images of the unaware warriors, thieves and merchants around the evil pair faded to mist, replaced by dead dark night and the dim light of a handful of stars. With the cast of his hand and a stern word of command, spoken in a tongue A'Ru'a'Nelle knew and feared, the void that cloaked them cleared to an opaque and pungent haze. Its depths now occupied by no one particular scene, but by a myriad of images that silenced the old one himself and clenched tight his pupil's jaw. Fear and hatred are sometimes said to be brothers born of the same woman, yet fathered in brothels far apart. The witch knew them both now as one when she gazed upon the citadel known as the Beacon ... and into the bright eyes of its Guardians.
"See now the true face of your task, for here are the ones ye will come to know if ye choose to continue your charade. This is no longer a world where our name is feared. No longer does the Dark Flame command obedience from the weak who gather round the lights of truth and honor to protect themselves from our domination. No. No, the ones who name themselves the Guardians have brought the pitiful southlanders to believe they hold the measure of strength and will to seek out the very shadows from the Halls of Night. They do not remember the caress of your dying faith. They have forgotten the need of your mercy. You have come too late if ye expect to prevail by your reputation. It is nothing now but a tale the old women use to scare their disobedient children. And the cost of their reminder will whither your soul and rot your bones. Look! See the face of the doom ye have chosen!"
In the shadowy murk around her trembling hand, A'Ru'a'nelle began to realize the faces of some she knew too well, some she had heard only worrisome rumor of, and some she openly sought with a vengeance. Their bright and piercing eyes wielded strong, smiling blades to strike her black, malevolent heart, but the fell strokes she endured only served to further harden that unblemished stone.
They were an unlikely group, this myriad of strangers who had set themselves so profoundly upon the pinnacle of righteousness. And how many might dance upon that needle's point she was pressed to count. Led to arms by a fairy fierce and an Atreblian born mage of long and distinct lineage, their number and name was a mystery to most, but some of the terrible faces that swam before her eyes, she knew a'ready and had reason to fear. One and then another, ever larger and more stern of eye, she watched in silence as the fire from their pure hearts blinded then burned her miserable eyes. Came the warrior proud and the radiant beauty of the mysterious woman ever at his side. The fierce eyes of the wolf hung hard and curious just above the dangerous gaze of its mate. Slant-eye seemed to taunt her from the folds of a swirling white mist, laughing as he strode openly beside the pair. Had her plans then come undone for that adventuresome little outlander? The thought raised bile in her throat.
There were others. All the same in spirit yet quiet and different in many deadly ways. With a start her eye came to rest on one she knew too well. The renegade who hid in their midst, calling himself a scribe. His spirit image was riding hard to the north, toward her as she watched. Her hands clenched and unfurled rapidly and without control, for in the gleam of his eyes she could see his future. Those dark orbs shone into her night and showed her the very face of the one she sought with such determination ... the thief! The wench who held one half of the key to AnAkbar's prison close to her soft breast. And she drew near to another shadow draped figure ... another woman. The one bound to the mage who unknowingly held in hand its mirrormate. The two must not be joined! The power of its unity must not be laid in the hands of the mortals! Blasphemy and damnation! This can not come to pass!
A'Ru'a'Nelle screamed in bitter aggravation, freeing herself from the wizard's hold, ignoring the peals of spiteful laughter that rang from his wicked throat. As she spun away and began to fade from the hell of the old one's domain, she could hear through his malevolent mirth the words of warning he spat to hasten her on her way.
'Anne,' he cackled. 'she is called 'Anne' ... and she does not know yet that ye come for her! Beware that ye be not too late, witch. For if the pair should join, no touch of all our strength may break the bonds that will come. No power we may bring to bear. Are you ready to pass completely from this plane?" His maniacal laughter sped her to her task with one last echoed warning. 'Be not late, nor slow on your road! They are close! So very, very close!"

[Topaz]

Harbringer of doom

The storm came close on the heels of the stranger, wrapping around her like a dark, terrible cloak. Deep, rolling peels of thunder resounded from the lesser slopes of the Iron Mountains behind her, drowning her frantic poundings on the great doors of the stately manor to which she had come.
There were lights aglow behind the tall front windows, and a billowing of woodsmoke escaped from two or more of the tall chimney stacks, yet the doors were shut fast and no-one came to answer her plea for entry. With a worried glance back up the mountain path, she pulled the hood of her cloak tightly around her head and turned to go. In the near distance she could see driving sheets of rain approaching fast as lightning began to crack and explode across the darkening sky. She knew she had to get to shelter quickly.
By chance alone was she seen, for at just the moment a bright flash ripped away the curtain of nightfall, a small child happened to peer out into the night, catching but a glimpse of the figure departing from the entrance in haste.
Trillium was only a few steps away, the first huge drops of water beginning to pelt the stone-paved path around her, when the doors flung wide. A small, nervous man in dark clothes stood silhouetted in the light that sprang from within. As he called out to the disappearing figure, another woman, tall beneath a long, flowing red mane appeared behind him.
"Miss!" he called to her, looking northward with caution at the black maw of the approaching storm. "Come inside, miss. Hurry! Afore the storm catch ye!"
Trillium turned on her heel at the call, shielding her face from the now stinging rain. She ran for the welcome light, nearly slipping on the slick, wet stones. Shaking the water from her cloak, she stepped into the foyer as the young man secured the doors behind her.
"Thank you," she managed as she shed her wet outer-garments and smoothed away damp strands of hair from her face. "I'm sorry to be disturbing you this evening, but the storm came as if from nowhere, and I'm afraid I wasn't prepared."
"Tis no bother to us. Come inside by the fire and dry yourself." The woman with the darker red hair came to her side and guided her toward the hearth of large, open fireplace. "You are certainly welcome to our fire, and to our table as well, if you feel the need. My name is Khrysta, and and this is the Montoya estate. All who need are sheltered here. Come, sit and gather yourself. I'll see if I can round us up some warm drink." The woman's smile was warm, but barely disguised her rampant curiosity at the sight of the lone, young traveller. And more so that she had come from a direction most now looked to with dread. For North lay what had once been Krondor, and naught but rumors of war came down those paths in these dark times.

[Topaz]

Words of a child

A sharp pop and crack from the briskly burning fireplace awoke Trillium with a start. As she sat up, rubbing the remainders of an ill-remembered dream from her eyes, she reached her hand beneath her thin nightown and grasped tightly the broken circle she wore as a necklace around her neck. A measure of calm eased through her at its touch.
Thin light crept from around the corners of her windowshade, reminding her of the decisions she had made the night before. The memory brought her quickly from the warmth of her bed to huddle near the blazing fire. She stood barefoot on the stone hearth, thanking the unseen nor heard manservant who had come during the night to stoke the coals and add more wood.
"M'Lady?" The softly spoken words came with a gentle rap on her chamber door. Trillium recognized the voice, though not the earliness of the visitor. A young apprentice in the kitchens had become a close companion during her stay at the Montoy Estate, brought her her meals when she did not join the others at table, and now stood ouside her door seeking entry.
"Amber?" Trillium eased the door open and guided the young one in. "Its much too early for breakfast, child. And I see no trays anyway. What are you up to this morning?" A familiar look of suspicion crept warmly over the older girl's face. She had come to belive that nothing was ever as it seemed with her newfound and mischievous friend.
"M'Lady, pardon me intrusion, but...." Amber twitched just a bit as she gained her spirit. Then she looked directly into Trillium's eyes and continued, speaking rapidly and stumbling occasionally over her words. "I beg ye don't feel hard to me..I,I just can't abide with what ye are ...are about t'do. Please, ma'am,..please don't try it alone. I' ..I can hep with the gettin and bringin' and cookin'. And I promise I'll be n'bother to ye. But..but ma'am.. I...I..."
At first a look of astonishment swept over Trillium's face, flashing brightly from the diminishing flare of the flames. It gentled into appreciation of her little friends concern, then burst forth in a full laugh as Amber stuttered herself near to tears. She reached out and hugged the sparsely dressed child, then offered her a chair by the small corner table where she took her meals.
"So you are a spy, as well as the sneak and informant I know you so well for, eh?" The words were delivered as a compliment of sorts, and taken with every bit of pride the small one could muster. She fairly beamed at her friend and idol's recognition of her talents.
"Yes, ma'am. And Many other things have I learned. Useful things. I could hep you, ma'am, I swear I could. I know things...and sometimes I see things that none know yet. I.."
"Hold on, hold on!" Trillium calmed the rising enthusiasm in the child before she derailed herself again. Gently grasping Amber's arm, she looked upon her kindly, but with a gaze that spoke clearly the importance of the coming question.
"What sort of things do you see? And what sort of thing do you think you know of me? Why do you seem to believe I might need such skilled and diverse 'help' as you might have to offer?" Her grip tightened just slightly, and her gaze dominated the child's widening eyes as if the older one's fingers themselves forced open the lids and held them firmly apart.
Amber twitched beneath that hard stare. But as she settled, her eyes began to glaze and fade. Her voice became a whisper, scaring Trillium at first. She thought the child might be having a seizure from some imagined fear,..or worse. Just as she reached to grab Amber's shoulder with her other hand, the girl began to speak. At first is was unintelligible...rambling mutterings in something Trillium was sure was not language at all. It was more like the rumbling growls from a small puppy as it defends its bone and feeds at the same time. Slowly the muttering evolved into a smattering of words, though the glaze deepened to a pale green in her eyes. Concern darkened Trillium's face and she considered putting an end to this absurd and spit-drenched display, but her intense curiosity wouldn't quite allow it, especially when she began to recognize more and more of the deep tones as actual words. She began to concentrate with all her ability, focusing on the words and scratching them out with her worn quill in a back page of the journal she kept.
Just above her writing was the list of items she had needed to acquire before her departure from the comforts of these walls. All but two had been lined through as today had neared and she
had readied herself for the next leg of her journey.
For over an hour she kept her complete attention fixed upon the child as she went through her unsightly spasm. When it subsided, Amber drifted quickly into a sound sleep, snoring softly in her chair. Trillium pulled the blanket from her bed and covered her, then returned to her journal to try to decipher the erratic ramblings she had tried to record. Outside, a morning storm had rolled down from the mountains and was passing noisily through the Atreblian valley. With hardly a thought, she postponed her intended departure for another day.
The log she had kept was erratic at best, confusing and nearly unreadable where she had let the quill drip ink here and again when the words the child had spoken had startled her so. But she plodded away at it well into the morning, ever pondering over the dark words she copied neatly to another page. When she was done, she sat back in her seat and slowly read what she had written. Again, and then one more time before she saw the thread appear. A look of wonder came into her eyes as she turned to gaze upon the smallest seeress she had ever come upon. She could only guess if the child had any knowledge of the gift herself, then returned to read the script one more time.
The old journal was bound in hard leather, stained dark from usage by more than one generation of her family. Beneath its strapped and thonged exterior, there were still some of the writings her father and his own father before had done as they had used it. She felt connected to them somehow as she looked again at what she had added.

'Stone of Truth. Break the Sword of Time. Fairywing shall lead when the Flame is Dark. Where is Truth when all the world is a lie? Where the storm is blackest, there only a thief may shine. There is nothing not known. There is everything to know. The Stone calls. Who will answer? Who will see? Will it be the Truth? Cold bones, dark flame. I know not my name. I know not my name.'

The child had repeated the limerick ever more softly until she had faded into her peaceful rest.

[Topaz]

Black Dawn

When there was only darkness, and silence drowned the void with its roar, evil and its twin were born. In anger and strife are born most great beings of the world, and accompanied by the piercing wail of their birthing pains, they announce themselves and their dismay with their very first breath. With a cry desolate and sorrowful, tainted with malice and seasoned with spite, came the first essence of thought before the dawn of time. Evil reared its anxious brow with intent as it hindered the coming its weaker sister, Compassion. And born of that terrible turmoil they arose to attain structure and form, purpose and precognition. Yet in the nothingness of the void, naught was there to create but anger, nothing to voice but rage against the sorriest of all circumstance into which to be born. Nothing to reap from desire but sorrow. Cold and righteous indignation bred then with the covetous whore, Greed. And of that union came the black scourge of the world; the three-faced Bastard of Doom: Cunning/Contempt/Complacency. As an Ill Wind that seeps silently through the world, the three dark Children of Creation crept from the cold bed of their sires to fire the thoughts of all souls to come after with the Dark Flame of their Truth. And through the Ages to come, there joined together those whose hearts were impassioned by their beauty,
enthralled by the black promises that freely fell from the mouths of the three, ensnared by their words cruelly crafted in their deceptions. Thusly were they then bound forever to burn within. Thus they are eternally in bondage to the service and worship of the Dark Flame. And for the light of Day, which is cold and vile to their wills, they harbor only hatred.
Tall are the towers of the Guardian's Keep. Reaching into the night as beacons to guide the hapless, weary and righteous within the comfort of the halls below. Behind the sanctity and sufferage of its noble entrance, across the threshold where only justice and honor may pass and stand, the undying light that fired the torcheres in the main hall flickered, dimmed, then failed to near extinction just as dawn slith the horizon asunder with piercing blades of fire. Yet none felt nor knew of the diminishing of their light. None within the Keep, save one, sensed the passing of their season of comfort. a season they had enjoyed while the world aged into bitterness around them. Through the paneled passages and lavishly decorated nooks and ways, a new breath settled deep within that living essence of stone and old wood. It marred the memories that mortared its halls and foundations and wafted away the stagnant peace embedded there by time, smelling as sweet and pure as Fall harvest at Autumn's end, cleansing with a cool and thorough pass of its hand, then driving the last of Summer's lingering squalor before suttle wings of dread. As the old ones feel such a cold touch to their heart when Father Winter rears his merciless brow, threatening their waning days anew, the aged walls of the Beacon of Truth creaked and moaned in protest, then
settled flatly to her ancient foundations with a resounding crack.
"An ill wind a'bringin' the morn," an Elder whispered as she awakened from an uncertain dream. She crossed herself quickly and clutched her cover tightly to her chin as the shutters to her narrow window rattled suddenly at their latches. Like old bones beat together in the dark, they kept time to the rythmic poundings of the gathering morning breeze. The wind whistled with mischief and flew through their breach, cackling with glee at the name it had invoked. Fostered by the fearful and those blinded by faith, its dark discord had been named that before by those it had touched. But hidden deep within this new caress lay an unfamiliar cold. Could she but hear the message it held, she would be the awakening of the woe it wielded. She might herald its dark tidings of coming war. She might be the one to warn of the new storm of fear soon to break around them. She held her hands to her ears and cried quietly for her salvation.
Just beneath the rounded window of that rear tower, a young girl, afflicted with a marvelous gift often mistaken for insanity, dropped to her knees and moaned aloud. She saw and heard clearly. An uncanny foreknowledge of the world, touched with the gift of a simple mind, assured her of her fear. Around her, reality crumbled.
From above, a thin mist of old mortar drifted down upon her from the high ceilings. Where she placed her hands upon the floor, a spiderweb of thin cracks ran like mercury in ever widening spirals. The rapid snapping of its paving grew rapidly louder until the chamber roared as would a great crowd that stood to hail and herald a King. Thus her scream went unheard, blown to the heavens on dark draft of an Ill Wind.
And the towers of the Beacon surrendered in silence to the coming of the new Day.

[Topaz]

Return From Shadow (part 1)
Dundale


A whirlwind of worlds and possibilities lie beyond the portal mists. To pass within the kaleidoscopic haze that forms and marks those gates is to make a grave assumption as to ones safe passage and intended destination.....for they are of magic..and thus subject to the laws of the unnnatural. All one may truly hope for when blindly braving the unknown is some degree of consistency and mayhaps the chance of an answer by the powers that be to a travelers urgent need.
Dawn still lay hidden beyond the eastern horizons when the two haggard riders came through the old North Gate. It lay steeped in shadow, hidden in a narrow vale on the higher rim of the Atreblian valley. In the darkness beneath a dim, starless sky, the gate shimmered first in golden hues as it awoke to its use, then burned with an ethereal crimson fire as the portal was breached. For a few brief moments, there in that black wood where Dex Montoy had hidden his secret door, there was the light of a dying sun to chase the shadows back into their holes and illuminate the grim passage of the two strangers.
The pair rode in silence from the higher ground, traveling always southward and bearing slightly toward the east, toward the coming day. They never looked behind them, as if what they escaped or fled from was too horrible for memory. The taller of the two led them. Though his cloak and cowl were gathered close about him against the early morning chill, his stubbled chin protruded determinedly and wisps of long, graying hair whipped about the strong set of his jaw. He sat deep in his saddle upon his black stallion, firmly gripping the reins with one hand while caressing the stout neck of his steed with the other. On occasion he would glance around to reassure himself his companion fared well and remained close.
"Are you able to go on, or should we stop to rest?" The older man eased his pace until he was abreast of the other. When there was no response he seized the gray mare's reins and brought her to a halt, reaching quickly to steady the younger man in his saddle lest he should tumble forward. He eased the cowl back from his companion's face, pulled a mop of sweaty blond, shoulder-length curls away from his face and raised his head to peer into vacant blue eyes. They were the color of dusk on a summer's eve,
fire-rimmed and shadowed in the hollows beneath.
"Where are we?" The question was asked in a feeble, half-tone with no heart behind it and brought no effort to raise his head.
"We are passing southward through Atrebla. The gate did not open where I had hoped, and no command of mine could turn it elsewhere. Rhy'Din was our need so we might seek some aid for your wounds, but it seems now we will have to travel at least to the Beacon or the Montoy estate before we may try again. Try to drink this. It will help, though the flavor is foul."
"No! I want no more to do with that poison liquor. It is of the enemy and cannot sustain us!" With some effort, the pale rider shook his head and brought a gloved hand before his face in weak defiance of the other's intent, but his resistance was futile. The older man produced a flask fashioned in a crude manner from the bladder of some unnamable creature, adorned with wicked markings and evil script, and forced some of it down the younger one's throat. Where it dribbled from his unwilling lips, the drops fell upon the scabbard of his blessed sword, turned quickly to an ill smelling vapor then vanished on the morning breeze. But the concoction had the desired effect. He was awake in his saddle now, though sputtering,
spitting and grumbling.
"I didn't think we were coming back to Atrebla. I thought you were done with the Guardians for good after they betrayed us to the Servants of the Dark Flame…"
"Quiet! Do not, even now, even here in this gentle wood, call their name aloud. We do not yet know the true fate of the witch A'Ru'anell. Nor do we know for certain that the treachery was born among the Guardians. They were my friends at one time, yet I know not how we fare with them now. It may be we return to find nothing but harsh words and sharp blades. But still I would seek the council of Topaz and the Lady Sher. And to Devarrah I hope to bring you for healing, my friend. If she will still have us."
With the full light of morning shining against his face, some of the shadow and pallor seemed to subside. Kemoc raised his weary head, shook back his hair from its entanglement around his chin and managed a half-hearted smile.
"Well, TaKhian, let us be about our business then. Lead on, my friend."
"Not TaKhian. Not here in these valleys, Kemoc. Here I was known as Dundale. Here I was but a scribe for the Guardians. None know the full tale, nor will they know of the mysteries we have unraveled during our battle with the Servants of AnAkbar. It will be wisest to keep these dark secrets to ourselves unless we find ourselves in need of those talents. For now, we keep our own council until we see how fairly or foul blows the winds of Rhy'Din."
Turning their mounts once again southward, they returned to the trail, urging fresh speed from the horses beneath them.
"On Shadowdancer!"
"On Stardust!"

[Topaz]

Return From Shadow (part 2)

Sharak's Landing, the inn and tavern at Harvor's Ford, a league and a measure north and west of Rhy'Din, holds a solid and sordid reputation for being the unofficial crossroads of the outlands south of the Atreblian valley. Here, where the Twin Rivers merge with the smaller waterways that meander down from old Krondor and the Iron Mountains, Dom Sharak and his expatriated cohorts set themselves to rule one small corner of the world the way they deemed was right and fair. Of course, it is the way that is right and fair to themselves, and what serves there for law is subject to change according to the amount of coin involved or the amount of drink most recently consumed.
The day was growing old when the two strangers, walking their weary mounts and sweating beneath the heavy cloaks they wore, came down the dusty lane that led to the riverside docks and the ramshackle old two-story that housed Sharak's establishment. With few words passing between them, and fewer still exchanged with random passersby, they came directly to the inn as if they knew it well. Under the dual watch of Sharak's hired guard and the border patrols set here to regulate and monitor proper tariff procedures applied to the local trade, Dundale and Kemoc made their way through the crowded docks to the stables behind the inn.
"I'll see to the horses and secure our lodging, Kemoc. Go on into the tavern and have that fat bandit serve us up something to eat and two tall tankards of whatever he's passing off for ale these days."
With little argument, Kemoc obeyed. But as Dundale watched his comrade listlessly relinquish the reins to Stardust, his bright-eyed mare, worry for his companion's condition once again began to darken his mood. Kemoc had suffered much at the hands of AnAkhbar and the demons who served that black-hearted wizard. It was by divine grace alone that the lad had survived. And it was also true that but for the heart that beat in Kemoc's breast, and his courage, the aging warrior-scribe himself would have endured a nasty and most untimely demise. He owed the boy his life, and determination to get him into the hands of a healer who might be able to wrest the darkness left to gnaw at him by the Servants lay heavily upon him.
Almost mindlessly, Dundale attended to his tasks, then made his own way toward the tavern that sat astride the fork where the Twin Rivers join.
"…not what I heard. Not a word of truth to it, if'n ye ask me."
"But it came from the mouth of Sharak hisself, is my information." A short, sniggering laugh punctuated the statement, ending in too hasty a silence as Dundale stepped into the sahdowy interior of the tavern, quaintly proclaimed by a swinging, weathermarked clapboard as the 'Fin and Fang'. A bearded trader set his mug too heavily upon the bar and turned a hard stare toward the new arrival. More eyes joined those to watch as Dundale shed his cloak, hanging it alongside many others on a row of carved pegs by the door. With a solitary manner about him, he scanned the room for Kemoc, then made his way through the stubborn crowd to a table in a far corner where his companion now sat regaling a small group with a tale, waving a frothing mug about in the air as he spoke.
"I see you've rounded us up some company for our supper." The scribe, taller by half a head than any of the gathered revelers, gave a sideways grin that masked his unease. Then an eyebrow rose noticeably as he scanned the table. "And did you forget to order me a tankard, as well"
"Oh. My apologies, Dundale. Right away, right away! A drink for my friend!"
A scantily garbed tavern wench hastened away at Kemoc's behest, returning quickly with fresh mugs and bearing a tray laden with bowls of a steaming stew ladled over thick chunks of greasy, yet tender mutton. There was bread and too thin butter, spicy hot peppers, and a stout wedge of pale white cheese. The ale flowed freely through their meal and all was served with a warm, flirtatious smile from the young, blonde wench. For a time the pair basked in the pleasures of a world they had not seen for quite a time; yet it was a world, though familiar and comforting, that seethed with its own brand of danger. Oftimes hidden behind a smile most sincere.
While those around him enjoyed themselves, and Kemoc's wild tales of his adventures in his homeland - he never spoke once of the Servants or the ordeal from which he had barely escaped with his life - Dundale sat quietly nursing his bottomless tankard, watching with growing interest the comings and goings of the young serving girl. More than once, he noticed her hanging nearby. She was apparently engrossed by his companion's tale, then seemed to wander haphazardly through the crowded room, always ending her sojourn at a table on the far side of the room occupied by four rogues, similarly clad, who seemed to constantly scowl across the way, ignoring the drink that sat in front of them.
"I think its time we should retire," Dundale suggested quietly to Kemoc during a lull in the revelry. He hated to shorten his friend's enjoyment of the evening. Gods knew it had been too long since even a shadow of mirth had found its way onto that youthful countenance, but age and instinct had begun to sound an alarm, raising the short hairs of his neck and causing his sword hand to clench and release in slow, relentless repetition.
They made their way from the tavern, across the darkened docks that wrapped the rear of the aging structure, and began their ascent to their rooms before any sense of trouble came to them. And but for their inebriated state, they might have missed the first assault as it came upon them in the dim, flickering lamplight of the upper hallways.
Kemoc, still laughing over the antics of the wench, stumbled into Dundale, nearly bringing them both onto the shabby carpets of the inn's upper hallway. Turning about as he righted himself, he looked straightaway into the eyes of his assassin, blade drawn and yellow teeth bared in the soot-stained light. The murmur of voices behind the apparition warned him the assailant was not alone as he struggled for his feet and his sword, crying out to Dundale as he rose.
"Guardians..." came a long, slow hissing threat from the shadows.
"Swords, Dundale! We are attacked!"

[Topaz]

Return from Shadow part 3

At Sharak's Landing, the hour was not late. In the 'Fin and Fang the ale flowed, tales grew long and rich, and there was song. On a small dais built onto an outdeck overlooking the docks, two dueling bards plied the crowd with their wit and pried from them their coin. Elsewhere around the pier, others gathered in smaller numbers to drink and gamble, and there was naught to disturb their merrymaking None knew nor realized the moment murder was done in the upper hallways of the Inn itself.
Turning at the sound of Kemoc's warning cry, Dundale stepped sharply backwards and whirled to face the way he had come, sword drawn and firmly grasped. At first he could see nothing but the back of Kemoc's head.
His young comrade swiped the air before him violently. His fists were clenched and he seemed to struggle with some unseen and indomitable foe. He sank toward his knees, one arm outstretched and clutching desperately at a space above his head. His other hand grasped the air just in front of his face, fingers splayed and strangling. All around him on the old wooden floor of the inn, an eerie light began to creep. It thickened around Kemoc's ankles, seeming to suck him slowly into the worn and faded carpeting. In his extreme effort to simply stand, he cried aloud.
"Dundale! My sword! Draw my sword!" His left hand flailed wildly as he sank to his knees in the floor.
"Kemoc! What the…!!" Dundale dropped his blade and seized his friend's outstretched arm, trying to drag him away from the foul phosphorescence.
"No!" he cried, gritting his teeth, spitting and straining" No! My swo….arrgh….My sword! Draw my…aanngh!! My sword! " He wrenched his arm free, growled and struggled forward, only to sink to his hip. The hilt of his blessed blade, never before handled by or offered to the scribe in all that he and his companion had endured, was vanishing fast into a whirlpool of purple and crimson, along with Kemoc himself.
Dundale dove around Kemoc, seizing the dimming hilt and dragging it toward him through the spinning, sucking murk. It did not at first come free, for in the end he placed his boot squarely in Kemoc's back and strove with the ethereal sinkhole for possession. When it did come, not all at once free and whole, it drew forth as if mired in a well of potter's clay, slowly and with much resistance. Yet when it was fully drawn, it seemed dim and transparent, as if it were forged of the gossamer wings of faeries, not the blessed alloys of Kemoc's homeworld.
"Your sword! What has happened…? Kemoc!" Dundale's beseaching cry fell on deaf ears, for his companion, mired to his chest in the floor, prayed now and loudly. Of a sudden, the sword gained substance in the older man's grasp. It warmed to his touch, gathering weight and balance. Along its razor-sharp edges, fire danced just beyond the range of his sight. And throughout the musty old hallway, there was a low, droning tone that stirred the dustmites and shivered the cobwebs in the shadowy corners above.
Without a warning there was a sudden flash of brilliant, emerald light. The enraged whirlpool of crimson and purple sucking the lad into hell turned suddenly dark. Its rotations gradually became sluggish, deteriorating to nothing, as Kemoc's lower body oozed back onto the carpet. With the coming of the green haze about the quivering blade there came another strange occurance, and it drove Dundale to instantaneous and decisive action.
As the new light grew, devouring the flicker from the smoking lamps that lined the hallway, dark images began to form at the head of the stairs, coming into life and sight as if appearing in a dream. They slowly gathered substance and definition. And they were armed. One grappled with Kemoc as he writhed and rolled across the muddled, still shimmering carpet, Kemoc's fingers firmly wrapped around the hazy figures throat, smoky fingers coiled about his wrists. Their other arms wrestled above Kemoc's head for control of a jagged, misty blade. All around them, smoke began to rise.
"Witchcraft!" Dundale pronounced, bringing the singing blade to front and striving to behead the most immediate apparition with a mighty swing. The gleaming sword passed unhindered through the grim image of the assassin. Its deadly grin vanished as if it were smoke in the breeze on an autumn eve.
There were faint traces of an odor. It was like a candle burned to the end of its wick; an oil lamp that expires in the night. Then, like butter left in the sun on a warm day, the rest of the thing melted toward the floor, evaporating and exploding in tiny, gaseous eruptions that stank.
Released from his deathmatch, Kemoc slammed his hands against the floor, declined his head and began to chant in a low, melodic tone. Dundale knew from experience that his friend was deep in a state he could only define as prayer. But to whom or what he prayed, he did not know. He had only witnessed the miracle twice before, and now stepped away as he did not know what to expect. "Kemoc..?" he ventured cautiously.
The prayer stopped. In the doorway at the head of the stairs, two more small clouds of rank gas drifted through the hall. Another ball of mist, dark in color and thick like fog, rose just beyond the doorway, vanishing into the rafters above. In the corner, huddled beneath a near-dead lamp, its greasy smoke drifting down around her like a dark, veil of mourning, stood a thin, wispy girl. She wore only a filmy, almost transparent gown. In her hands she held a shimmering crystal the size of an infant's fist. Its brilliance danced about her in a rainbow haze of refraction, cocooning her in a soft web of light.
Kemoc rose and seized his sword from Dundale's awe-stricken, paralyzed hands.
"I see you, witch! I know you for what you are. And I know what these are, as well…" He glanced around at the near dimished, steaming piles that had been sent to kill, brandishing the holy weapon before him.
"And I you, priest! But it was not you I sought here! You should know that!" The witch's hands moved before her. Where her swift fingers had been lingered a sickly rose hue that remembered the runes she'd traced.
Kemoc sought his friend's eyes. Dundale stood behind him, his own sword in hand now. His back was braced against the far wall just under the flutter of a burning lamp. He seemed to need the feel of light in truth, to escape as far as he could from the reach of those poor other, vaporous excuses. There was a fear growing in his eyes. But there was recognition also in his gaze. And he could not take his eyes from the girl.
"I know why," he quietly began. "I know her well. Though I have not seen her in many a long year." Dundale slowed his speech to be sure he was understood, for he did not think he could bear to repeat what he had to say.
"Do you remember Dyyim Tyr?" He asked the back of Kemoc's head.
"I have heard of his attack on the Guardians, and of his death. Yes. But what has that got to do with this?""
The witch shrieked in the sputtering death of the lamp beneath which she cowered. "You'll see! Yes! You'll see precisely what that has to do with this!" The sound of her maniacal cackle sent shivers runningthe length of
both the men's spines, causing them to clench their fists and moan.
"She was his witch!" Dundale stammered. "When he died, there was a brother.
Granym, I think his name was. Some of Dyyim's darker followers, and his brother, took the corpse to Radurdan and tried to resurrect him. They failed miserably, but the body rose. And had to be put to death." He slowly inched his way down the wall, seeking a stronger pool of more promising light. From side to side his head moved as if in truth his eyes did not believe what they beheld, and refused any assurance that what was before him was real. He stuttered slightly when he spoke, but it was clear enough to be heard by all.
"Damn me! If Annaria is here, where the hell is Granym Tyr?"