Chapter XIX - The City of No Rules

"Gisk!" wailed Ephirea, her voice resounding off the walls of the dank cellar. "Of all the slimy, stinking, cesspools that thing had to send us, we end up here?"

Preosha frowned at the rhetorical question from the mercenary. She really could not stand whining, especially not now, since where they ended up seemed immeasurably better than where they came from.

"Hush up, Ephirea," commanded Melina. "Gisk couldn't be all that bad." The Accabashi woman's eyes looked questioningly about the room. "Could it?"

"It certainly could," answered Lysinthia. "It could easily be either the worst or the best place we could be." The bard looked to begin one of her fanciful tales again, presumably about Gisk. Preosha forced herself to pay attention and learn what she could, despite her natural aversion to wasting time.

"First things first," interrupted Quillion. Preosha breathed an audible sigh of relief at his timing. The Half-Elf looked about the room at each of the companions. "Is anyone injured at all from our encounter with Emiriak?"

The companions looked at one another questioningly. Some, Preosha included, did a quick check of their own bodies and possessions, looking for damage to either.

"It appears that we have managed to escape relatively unscathed," rumbled Dealyon, his voice seeming to fill the small cellar. "I am more concerned about the possibility of someone unwelcome following us through that gateway. We have no way of determining whether or not the sage managed to disable the device."

Preosha nearly laughed as Tersiano and Malaryn, in response to the Druid's words, turned to face the blank wall where they entered from with apprehensive expressions.

"Dealyon's right," affirmed Quillion. "We can't stay here any longer than necessary. Though I really don't want to venture into a city like Gisk without some sort of plan. It's easy to get separated and distracted here." The Half-Elf turned to Lysinthia and asked, "What was it you were saying about this place?" Preosha almost groaned.

"It will all depend on how we pluck our strings," continued Lysinthia, plucking a guitar string for emphasis. "The city of Gisk is, in theory, run by the Mayor of the town, Jeffrom Grenylin, but almost anyone outside of Solitude knows that he's just a puppet of the real power, the Thieves and Assassins Guild. If we're going to really get where we need to, I think we'll either need to avoid either group entirely or actively seek their help."

"There is another option," ventured Aramari. "We could go through both channels, the Mayor and the Thieves Guild."

"Hey guys?" interrupted Malaryn, edging away from the wall towards the door where Scintara made her entrance. "Don't you think we should check out the city first before we decide anything like that?"

Preosha felt like standing up and applauding the big smith's words. Someone around this cellar needed to think logically for a change. Malaryn continually surprised her with his observations.

"You're correct, Malaryn," affirmed Quillion from where he examined the contents of one of the half-rotten barrels in the center of the room. "We need to get a feel for the city and see whether or not it's possible to get out of here quickly. Remember that we need to get to Gypsyroam, not waste time here. Luckily, the Gateway at Oheniies' home sent us almost halfway there."

"How do you suggest we do that?" asked Melina with an edge to her voice. Preosha noticed that lately Melina seemed to get a bit short with everyone. In the inventor's life experiences, only a woman with a man preoccupying her mind changed her attitude so radically for so long. She would have to watch the Accabashi woman closer to find out who this mystery man might be.

"Well, what's the best way to find out what's happening?" answered Quillion. Preosha ground her teeth at his response. She hated it when people answered a question with a question.

"Oh, stop being so bloody mysterious, fearless leader," demanded Tersiano. "We all know that we need to get out there in the city and see it for ourselves."

"Exactly," said Quillion, "Now, the only question is, who's best qualified to do that?"

"Oh, I'm definitely going," Scintara volunteered. "You couldn't keep me away from this city for long."

"I'm in," said Preosha, matter-of-factly. She really wanted to catalogue this city for herself and see if the stories she had heard rang true.

"I think I'll come too," Malaryn said morosely. "You're probably going to need someone to intimidate a lowlife or two."

"I'll go myself as well, since I've been in this city before," said Quillion. "Now, let's take…"

"Hold it, Quillion," interrupted Lysinthia, "I know as much or more about this city than anyone. There's no way you'll keep me out of it."

"Very well," responded Quillion, his voice low and controlled. "If there is anyone else?" The leader of the companions looked around the room once, giving everyone a chance to volunteer one more time before continuing. "Good. Now, as Dealyon mentioned before, we can't stay in this cellar any longer. Scintara, did you see an inn or tavern nearby when you went outside?"

The leather-clad thief tossed the remains of her apple to the side of the staircase before answering, "Oh yes. There's an inn less than a hundred strides from here that should work just fine."

Preosha thought she detected a bit of sarcasm in Scintara's voice, but the thief's face and eyes betrayed no sense of amusement. The inventor had a feeling, though, that this inn could prove most uncomfortable.

"Well then," continued Quillion, "let's get going. I don't want to have my back to that wall if the Czak Myar come storming through it."

Preosha stood and gathered her steel staff, unconsciously checking the trigger switches on each end that released her array of nasty surprises stored within. The staff reigned as one of her finest inventions and had saved her life more times than she cared to count. She had even devised a way to make the middle third of the staff collapse in on itself, thereby allowing her to hide it under her clothing when she did not want it noticed.

As she and the others neared the door leading up and out of the cellar, Scintara stopped them, saying, "I just want you guys to know, a little surprise is waiting for you outside."

"Surprises are not what we need right now, Scintara," reprimanded Quillion. Preosha fully agreed with his words. "Especially not after what we've just been through."

"Oh, don't worry, Pointy," reassured Scintara. "It going to be a pleasant surprise. Sort of."

Preosha heard Quillion grumble something under his breath that she could not quite make out. The Half-Elf probably stewed about the fact that Scintara had given all the clues she would until they all got outside. A definite dislike for Preosha. Why could the thief not just grow up and act responsibly?

The thief flashed a quick grin and then threw open the cellar door, bolting through the portal before the door even opened fully. Preosha, from her position behind Malaryn, could only make out the sky above, and what she saw stunned her. Clouds roiled and whipped by her line of vision, dark in their violent potential. She saw no rain falling from them, but they appeared ready to unleash a torrent. During the companions' stay in Haven, Preosha had heard reports of the droughts continuing throughout Mer, despite the storm that had wracked Haven.

Finally, the big smith clamored up the stairs and Preosha slipped out after him, examining her surroundings. The cellar opened into a small alleyway within strides of a definite main street, judging by the number of people walking by the alley's mouth. She affirmed her earlier observation that the rain did not fall from the clouds above, but the cracks in the road flush with rivulets of water showed that the rain had indeed fallen earlier, in great quantities. It appeared the parched land had received its share of the water stolen from it by the drought lasting through The Feast of Winds.

She moved to the mouth of the alley, more to allow the rest of the companions room to emerge from the cellar than to assuage her own curiosity about a city she had only seen on a map. The first thing she noticed as she drew near was the increase in the wind's force. Apparently all the ingredients for a violent thunderstorm had gathered with the exception of the precipitation itself. Interesting weather considering the lack of rainfall the continent had received all year long. An idea occurred to her as she stepped out into the street, glad for the cloak she pulled around herself to ward off the wind's chill bite. Despite the oppressive heat of the year, she always traveled with the cloak. A lesson learned through her years with the companions. She waited at the mouth of the alley until one of the companions came up behind her.

She turned her head to speak to whomever walked up next to her and, to her surprise, Aramari stood just beside her. Apparently, the priestess of Meyasha decided to investigate this weather phenomenon for herself. Preosha waited until Aramari finally drew close enough for her voice to penetrate the wind.

"Looks like your legacy lives on, Aramari," she half-shouted, hoping the increasing wind did not rip her words away.

The priestess looked at her askance for a moment, as if trying to discern Preosha's motives before responding. "What do you mean?" she mouthed back.

"Well it's clear this weather isn't a result of a natural weather change. Droughts do not turn into thunderstorms this powerful over a matter of a few nights, you know. It takes a goodly amount of time for weather patterns on Mer to alter so drastically."

The priestess looked up to the sky and her eyes unfocused for a moment, apparently lost in thought. After several seconds Preosha grew irritated with the priestess' delay in answering her comment. However, just before she spoke her mind on that very thing, Aramari turned her head to stare intently at the inventor woman.

"I warned everyone before I shifted the storm patterns to provide us cover from the Rivanwraith that weather could be affected all around the continent." The raven-haired priestess shivered slightly at mentioning the beast's name, but recovered quickly to continue in a firm, strong voice. "This weather pattern is indeed a ripple caused by my alteration of the storm patterns over the Moon Sea, but I accepted the consequences for my actions when I did it."

Preosha met the priestess' stare in pride and defiance before Aramari spoke again. "Besides, the people needed water and now they have it. Maybe not in the way anyone expected, but they have it. If we're finished now?" The priestess did not wait for an answer before wrapping her own travel-stained cloak about herself and striding into the street to where Scintara stood. Preosha watched her go a few steps before breaking into a slow smile. It was good to have the old Aramari back. The inventor had worried that the priestess would not recover her strength after her encounter with the Rivanwraith.

"What was that all about?" asked Tersiano, over Preosha's shoulder.

"Mind your own business, mage," snapped Preosha, her smile melting away almost instantly at the wild mage's words. "You should know better than to stick your nose in women's matters."

As she walked away, she heard the wild mage reply, "I'd as soon play Courage with a rastier," referring to an age-old children's game usually requiring one to hold their hand out and move it before getting slapped. Yes, if things kept up as they had, Preosha felt this quest the companions strove to complete might just work out.

The Tale of the Ale easily stood up as the most dilapidated hovel of an inn that Melina had ever set foot in. Unfortunately she had to settle for it, as the rest of the inns around the area, at least that she had determined from her views from outside, did not hold up to even this one's standard. The Accabashi sighed regretfully. If the weather did not threaten to unleash a storm to rival the tempest in the Moon Sea within a few moments, she would just sleep out under the stars. She could tolerate almost any storm better than the stench of this foul building.

Wrinkling her nose in a disgusted manner, Melina took a sip of the oily bitter wine from her chipped glass. At least she did not have the sensitive sense of smell that Ell, Quillion, and Lysinthia had. Those three must be positively miserable in this filthy common room. She herself, well used to being outdoors and not in a city run by thieves and assassins, could scarcely stand remaining in a place such as this. The green fungus that covered patches of the damp floor grew unchecked up the side of the walls, only to be blackened by endless hours of saturation by pipe and cigar smoke. The people that braved this common room must have joined an exclusive club that required them to smoke as much tobacco as possible to remain a member. Melina had even seen a person lighting the end to a strange, skinny version of a cigar that smelled far worse than any other cigar she had known.

Melina's eyes roved back to the double, swinging doors leading outside, where Ell crowded next to the portal in an attempt to feel the swirling winds from outside. The Yerracht woman stretched her head forward towards the breeze from the seat where she perched herself, almost to the point of falling off the chair. Occasionally she would notice her position and sit back abruptly, only to slowly, unconsciously lean forward again.

Quillion, in his usual manner, sat at the table and seemingly ignored the scent of the room. Only an occasional flash of nausea across his face betrayed the revulsion his acute sense of smell afforded him. It appeared the companions' leader would sooner heave his breakfast all over the table than admit he had a weakness. Melina supposed a time and a place existed for such mindless stubbornness, but she had yet to run across it.

Lysinthia sat not far from the Half-Elf, intent herself on putting up a strong front in the face of this atmosphere. Melina watched the bard a bit closer. It may well not be a front. The bard, after all, had frequented many more common rooms than any of the companions, except possibly Malaryn, so she could have built up an immunity to filthy holes such as this. The green-eyed singer's tastes would certainly point her to finer establishments, though. The only sign she gave betraying her façade, lay in the occasional glance she stole towards Quillion, watching to make sure he did not notice any weakness she might inadvertently betray. Apparently the bard intended to match the Half-Elf in stubbornness. Melina gave a quick snort, burying her face in her wine. Those two definitely deserved each other, even if they denied it. A couple locked together through their trials of fire and repressed emotions.

Unbidden, her eyes traveled to Dealyon, who stood a bit behind Ell's perch near the doorway. The stoic Druid stood as impassive as ever, watching the storm build outside. His hood shadowed his face again, preventing her from seeing his eyes, but she knew he did not watch her. He focused his vision on the swirling energy patterns of the winds that she knew only he and other Druids could see. She always knew when he looked at her anyway, even when shadows covered his eyes. She just felt it. She wished she could see his face. She did not like it when his hood obscured his features from her as it did when he wore it as normal, though it did lend him an air of mystery that drew her attention. Pierce it all! Why did this nature-loving Druid twist up her thoughts so?

Almost as if the thought of him summoned his attention, Dealyon turned his head towards Melina, watching her with as little reaction as ever. Pierce him and his mysterious Druidic nature! She did not like it when people seemed to put on an air of mystery, anyway. She never could determine, though, whether Dealyon merely put on that image or whether he truly was that mysterious. One of these days she would find out.

She thought she noticed the Druid's hands twitching under where he held them in the folds of his sleeves. What was he doing? She would knock him down a notch or two if he thought he could poke fun at her with all of his…

Melina.

The voice in her head startled her so badly, she sloshed sour wine across the front of her soft leather jerkin. Tersiano and Lysinthia looked at her questioningly. She scowled back at them while taking a cloth from her pack and wiping the offending liquid away. Lysinthia smiled empathetically and turned back to Scintara's ongoing description of their current section of Gisk. Tersiano gave one of his blatantly amused grins and raised his glass of wine in salute before turning back to the conversation.

Melina, look at me.

Melina, recognizing the low-pitched correctness of Dealyon's speech, pointedly ignored the Druid's request and continued cleaning her jerkin with the damp cloth. This oily wine would certainly leave a blotch on her doeskin jerkin. Why did Dealyon have to surprise her by thundering his voice in her head like that? It seemed like a waste of a spell to her.

It is not a waste of a spell when a private conversation is necessary, Melina.

Sighing in dismay, she gave up cleaning her jerkin and sat up in her chair, arms folded, and glared at the Druid pointedly. She deliberated whether or not to wall off her mind from the Druid, much as she had done her emotions about him. Her jaw dropped. By Mael! Surely she did not just think that! Hopefully Dealyon did not hear her stray thought. She snapped her jaw shut with a click of teeth. Pierce him if he did!

Please do not close your mind to me, Melina. You know I would not resort to Telepathy were the need not important.

Despite how much she wished to the contrary, Melina agreed with Dealyon on that point. He would not have touched her mind if he did not have a dire purpose. At least it had better be dire.

I assure you it is. I can sense a feeling of danger in the air here. It is a feeling of… wrongness. I can explain no further than that.

Melina grinned inwardly at the strain in Dealyon's tone. She knew the Druid did not like not understanding his environment. Sense of wrongness? That did not help much. The only thing wrong she smelled was the stench of this building.

Melina, you are a child of nature yourself. Do not let your revulsion of the inn cloud your ability to make contact with the world around you.

The Accabashi woman flinched as if the Druid had struck her physically. Once again, Dealyon had cut through the layers of self-delusion she wrapped around herself and tapped the heart of her problem. Melina had allowed the recent events surrounding the companions to cause her to withdraw into herself, cutting off her ability to embrace the world around her. For a member of the Mendolashe, such a thing was almost unheard of.

You are too critical of yourself, Melina. Regrets are useless and mistakes must be learned from.

Shooting the Druid a glare that likely did not affect him at all, Melina accepted the hidden meaning behind his words and forced herself past the stench of The Tale of the Ale, striving to feel more of nature around her. She stretched every sense to its limit, trying to detect and catalogue every bit of information she received from them. She knew she did not have enhanced senses as the Yerracht or the Elf bloods did, but she prided herself on her contact with the natural world.

She listened. The crowd noise quickly faded into the background as she focused past its chatter. The winds outside dominated the surrounding sounds as they ripped through the streets in blast after unstoppable blast. The force of the winds did not seem natural, despite the time of the year, but the weather pattern changes everyone experienced lately could easily account for that.

She smelled. The odor of the room proved much more difficult to focus past than did the crowd noise, but with a swallow of the bile that rose in the back of her throat, Melina pushed through the sour stench of filth. She focused on identifying the less obvious smells of the room. She could smell the faint scent of fretheme blossoms lingering on her clothing. She smiled. Even after the long travels, the scents of her native land of Consul still remained with her. She could smell the slight, but sharp scent of the leather from Malaryn's trousers from where the big smith sat near her. The occasional stirring of the air brought the hint of impending moisture from outside, but again, nothing stuck her as unordinary.

She felt. The cloying moisture and humidity of the room stemming from the water on the floor and the amount of bodies within caused Melina's shirt to cling to her with its increased weight. Despite the slightly uncomfortable warmth of the inn, she still shivered occasionally as the cool breeze from outside flowed over the wet sleeves of her shirt.

She looked. The hazy room seemed to be wavering slightly through the soot drifting though the air. The white clouds of exhaled tobacco smoke seemed to have a life of their own as they intertwined with each other in a dance seemingly meant to obscure the sharpness of a person's vision just as they stung their eyes with their acid whispers. Melina blinked fiercely at that thought. Just the mention of burning eyes caused her to tear up in a sympathetic response. Blinking away the tears, she tried to penetrate the haze and look at the room itself, but other than the companions and the other patrons of the filthy place, nothing drew her interest.

She watched the smoke billow backwards from the doorway, recoiling from the strong winds outside as if chased. The more she watched the spectacle repeat itself, she more the imagery of the scene impressed itself on Melina, the white smoke recoiling from the dark winds from outside the inn. Though it should normally be late afternoon in this part of Mer, the amount of light outside seemed scarcely enough for sundown. Perhaps the problem troubling Dealyon resided in that somehow. It certainly bothered her.

Perhaps. If it is related, though, it is not directly so…

The abrupt halting of Dealyon's thoughts echoing through Melina's head almost caused her to fall forward in surprise. She had never heard the Druid halt a sentence in mid-stride in all of their years of travel. What could have caused him to do that?

Melina, did you feel that?

Confused, Melina stood up in her chair and took a half step towards the Druid. Feel what? The only thing she felt had more to do with her aching muscles than anything else did. Stopping herself from striding to him, she stretched out fully, cat-like, as she had seen Ell do on many occasions to cover her actions. Suddenly, she felt it. A flicker of something, like the light in the room had dimmed briefly, though that had not actually happened.

Something powerful is passing through this area.

Sometimes Dealyon had an extreme penchant for stating the obvious. Melina snorted in half-disgust.

Watch the other companions' reaction to its passing. It is tying to remain hidden, but we are now all attuned to such intrusions.

Dropping back onto her heels, Melina watched the companions for a moment. They all seemed unaware of the peculiar flicker that she had experienced. Suddenly, it occurred again, it almost felt like she blinked, though her eyes remained wide open. Tersiano gave a slight shudder as if feeling a draft, and she saw Malaryn hunch his head between his shoulders as if he expected to get hit from behind. Melina slowly walked around the companions' table and towards the nearby window, keeping a close feel for a reoccurrence of the flickering sensation.

When she reached the window, the first thing she felt was the searing cold radiating from the glass. Even in the most powerful thunderstorm, the heat of the season should not allow this much of a temperature change. She stretched her fingertips out cautiously towards the greasy glass and touched it briefly. The sudden sense of cold surging through her arm made her gasp audibly in pain and shock.

Be calm, Melina, the cold will not hurt you. It is a trick of the mind more than a true physical occurrence.

Despite Dealyon's reassuring presence, Melina felt a surge of panic welling up in her stomach. Try as she might, she could not remove her hand from the glass. She could feel herself will the muscles to contract and break contact, but they steadfastly refused. Her mind seemed fuzzy, as if she had drank too much of the greasy wine. Maybe that was the cause of this strange malady she felt.

No Melina, it is not the wine. Something is trying to break through your defenses. It is strong, but not focused. You have the strength to hold it off at will. If you will maintain your defense for a few minutes more, I should be able to discern its intent.

If Melina trusted herself to speak without squeaking, she would berate Dealyon so thoroughly he would not be able to tell a turnip from a tulip. She could feel the Druid's mental presence surrounding her like a warm fog, almost a feeling of him embracing her. The fact his presence held itself nearby steadied Melina, and she resolutely fought back the bitter cold from outside. She could feel the Druid's frustration as his mind slid around both her and the cold that besieged her. Apparently Dealyon could not glean any "intent" from this faceless threat. Serves him right for acting like he knows everything.

Melina, I have never claimed to know everything. In fact, in this case, I know very little. It appears that something is searching the area, but I cannot tell if it searches for us. Its search is so widely diffused throughout such a great area, the searcher cannot see all, as its focus must rest on a limited area.

Well that was all well and good, but Melina concerned herself more with the question of how she could break contact with this "searcher".

That should be quite simple for you. What you must do is…

Dealyon's voice faded from Melina's mind as the flicker happened again, sending the chill feeling surging into her body, flooding it with a cold malice. Melina's mind reeled much in the way it had when she had slipped once as a child and fell into the ice-drenched waters of the River Sieronath. She inhaled sharply and slammed her eyes shut in reaction to the cold. She regretted instantly that action, as her mind's eye flooded with terrible images.

A flash of blindingly bright light.

A tall man in thick, red robes stood before an ornately fashioned throne of black and gold. His face was partially obscured by the shadow cast by the enormous regal chair. The man seemed fairly unremarkable in his well constructed, but plain robes and thin-limbed stature. Melina felt struck by the contrast between the gaudiness and visual horror of the throne and the plainness of the man.

The throne itself gleamed with fiery gold in the amber light radiating behind it, the metal hammered into terrible images of people being slaughtered by a faceless menace. The areas of the chair where the gold did not touch, however, seemed to disappear in the darkness. Melina could not determine if anything existed in the pitch-black areas around the gold. Melina felt a tremendous malicious power radiating from the area around the throne. The chair must have been some type of religious artifact to hold that much power.

The man suddenly raised his head and looked at Melina, his face revealing itself from inside the shadows of the throne. Melina felt a dagger of ice plunge into her chest as the man locked eyes with her. The normalcy of his face stopped at his eyes of blue. His handsome features failed to hide the man behind it once she saw his eyes. They revealed such menace and power that Melina knew the throne held none of the dread she had felt. The man held it all.

For a moment, the man's eyes widened a bit in surprise, the way a person does when spotting a bug on their mantelpiece. Then, the man gave a smile that could be considered charming were it not for the chill of his eyes, and said, "Hello, Accabashi."

A surge of choking and flickering red light.

The mountaintop she stood on looked like something out of a violent nightmare. Even the craggiest mountain ranges she had ever seen paled in comparison to the jagged, sharp edges that dominated this landscape. Trying to orient herself without moving, lest she slip and cut herself open on the razor sharp rocks around her, Melina searched for signs of movement, of sounds, of life.

She could only hear the slight whistling that came from the light breeze drafting through the sharp rocks. She could only imagine the terrible symphony that would occur here if the wind ever rose in intensity. She could see no signs of movement anywhere. The only thing she could smell was the sharp, acidic scent of the soil under her boots. She dared not touch any of the rocks for fear of Freier only knew what kind of infections. It appeared she was the only living thing on this bleak mountain. Now she needed to find out how to leave this place.

Before she could apply any thought to the matter, however, Melina felt a surge of dark power from behind her, a familiar power. She whirled around reflexively, heedless of the lacerations to her feet from the rocks slicing through her boots. There, on an outcropping of rock just above her, she saw the shadowy outline of the beast that had pursued her for many weeks, the Rivanwraith. Melina looked around frantically for a place to hide herself from the creature's sight, but could find nothing but more of the black, sword-edged rocks. She gave up and turned to face the monster. The bloody creature could find her wherever she hid anyway. It was then that Melina realized that she did not feel the all-encompassing fear that invariably came when the Rivanwraith drew near. She felt fear, but it originated more from herself, not from the Rivanwraith.

Intrigued, she peered closer, trying to pierce the veil of darkness that shrouded the creature. Without the usual terror that infused her at the beast's appearance, Melina's natural curiosity won over her caution. She wanted to finally see what this creature that had bloody near stripped Aramari's mind from her looked like. She took a step forward to get a closer look and then cursed softly. She had again forgotten the jagged rocks on the ground and now had another set of gashes on the soles of her feet to worry about. In the lack of light on the mountain, she could not determine how much blood she had lost already into the acid smelling soil.

A sense of movement drew her attention back to the Rivanwraith. She could hardly make out its shape, but she had the impression the creature was roaring or screaming, though no sound came from it. Puzzled by the lack of sound, Melina stood stock still, attempting to reason the situation. Then, in a spectacle that caused Melina to feel the same crippling fear that the Rivanwraith normally caused, but instead this time came from the depths of her soul, the Accabashi woman watched dozens of the black shapes gliding through the sky above her. She could feel the menacing strength from each one as it sailed above her on the light winds.

Merciful Freier! There is more than one of them.

A surge of sickly, black light.

The alleyway where Melina stood seemed familiar to her in some way, but she could not bring it from her memories to identify. Her head felt fuzzy, as if she had just woken from an afternoon nap and had not gotten enough sleep. She could still feel an icy, fluttering, dread in her stomach, but could not fathom why.

Looking about the alley, she saw a door leading down into a cellar that triggered faint memories as well. Stepping closer, she noticed the door lying in shredded pieces, strewn about the stairs it had previously concealed. Melina crouched next to the tattered doorway, inspecting it closer. From the pattern of the pieces of wood, this door had been sliced apart from the inside. Whoever had done it must have used a very sharp axe to make cuts this precise.

Hearing a soft coughing behind her, Melina shifted her crouch, pivoting to face the sound and reaching to her belt loop for the morning star that no longer hung there. Cursing herself softly for not having her preferred weapon with her, Melina watched the homeless beggar who made the sound. The filthy old man simply stood, half inside the shadows of a corner of the alley, watching her with uninterested, glazed eyes.

Sensing no threat from the rag-covered beggar, Melina stood up cautiously and took a step towards him. Perhaps he had seen who shredded the cellar door. The man regarded her dazedly as she walked his direction. Strange in these times that he would not view her with at least a bit of apprehension. Then Melina noticed the dark stain running down the man's left side. Melina instinctively squinted her eyes, attempting to get a better look at the beggar's side. When she did, her breath caught.

The man's arm was completely gone! From where his arm would normally be, there only existed a trail of blood running down his ragged clothing, and not in a stream as if it had been torn off or the like. A sharp object had severed the man's arm. He did not lose it in an accident. The vision of the sliced door flashed across her mind but she pushed it out ruthlessly. This man would die soon without her help.

She began to rush across the half-dozen strides that separated her from the beggar man, but stopped short when she saw the shadows the man remained half enshrouded by begin to writhe and twist. She stood in the alley, dumbfounded, as the darkness seemed to gather and coalesce into a deeper black figure. The Accabashi could not make out what shape it made, but only that it moved.

She wanted to cry out in alarm as she saw a taloned hand emerge from the darkness behind the beggar's head and slowly wrap around the man's throat. Melina could not make out any details of the hand, as it seemed to absorb any of the ambient light from the moon above, but she could see the danger it posed. Slowly, the talons on the end of the fingers began to grow and lengthen, until they were almost a hand long a piece. She could not make out the edges, but she knew in her heart that they were razor sharp, sharp enough to do the damage to the door behind her. A voice issued from the shadows behind the beggar man. It resonated in a way that sounded to Melina that it came from deep inside a well.

"Good night, Melina y'Accabashi," echoed the silky voice. "I'm pleased to see I have the right place."

The taloned hand ripped backward violently through the man's neck. Melina screamed out her defiance, and found herself looking up into the face of Aramari. The barbarian woman screamed again at the sight of the Priestess of Meyasha, and scrambled backwards, looking all around for signs of the shadowed figure with the taloned hands. Her friends crouched all around her, but she ignored their presence, so frantic was her search for the killing stalker.

Melina!

The force of Dealyon's voice resonated through her panic, adding to it for a brief moment until she recognized the low mental voice of the Druid. What happened to her?

It is all right, Melina. You are all right. The force that searched the area focused on you for a brief moment and you cried out. When you fell, the rest of the companions gathered around you and attempted at tending your wounds.

Wounds? Melina drew her eyebrows together in confusion. What wounds? How could she have hurt herself if she had only been seized for a brief moment? She felt Dealyon kneel down behind her and grab her shoulders gently but firmly. At any other moment, Melina would be overjoyed at his touch.

The wounds that appeared on your feet.

The Druid's unflappable tone frightened Melina even more. The Accabashi shook visibly as she directed her eyes towards the tattered remains of her boots. There she saw the bloody shreds of the soles of her feet from where the jagged rocks of the black mountain had ripped them apart mercilessly. Melina turned her head away quickly and buried her face in the Druid's tunic, the forgotten images of horror returning with a clarity that terrified her.

"It was real," she managed to say between the choking sobs that wracked her body. "It was real."

The tower shook with the violent fury of the winds that tore through the city like a pantheon of unleashed banshees. Each blast of wind whipped Emiriak's cloak with a jerk, causing it to billow out with a loud pop, startling the Czak Myar arrayed behind him. The pull of the fierce wind threatened to dislodge him from his perch on the gray stone parapet, the highest point in the barracks of the Knights of the First Order. Emiriak resolutely refused to acknowledge his precarious situation, though. A gust of wind, no matter how unnatural, would not move him when he did not wish to move. Even the shocked whispers of his soldiers at his defiance of nature failed to lighten his mood.

Fires spread throughout the city of Haven. This infernal city of all that represented good and right burned for its arrogance. Petyon had led the forces of Mirdas Morgal into the city as soon as night fell, catching the "ever-vigilant" Knights of the First Order completely off-guard. The initial few hours of the invasion had been a rout as the Czak Myar led the horde of Mirdas Morgal soldiers through the northern reaches of the city, destroying any and all opposition that dared oppose them. Unfortunately, the riches of the city had taken their toll on his forces as reinforcements from D'Akimar Isle began breaking off the main assault to loot the hastily deserted buildings. The Czak Myar were too well trained to dare break off a winning assault, but the common soldiers from Mirdas Morgal had no such restraint. Soon, Petyon had reported, only the core members of the Czak Myar had pressed the chase.

While Emiriak pursued the cursed Half-Elf and his filth-ridden friends, the Czak Myar had come to a standoff after penetrating well inside the walls of the fortified inner city. The Knights, though badly routed and driven from their barracks, still outnumbered the elite troops of Mirdas Morgal and began to regroup, forcing the Czak Myar into a small siege of the city's grand palace. By the time Emiriak had emerged from Oheniies' lair, the Knights had fully regrouped and launched a counter-offensive, sending out rank after rank of their finest lancers, breaking the siege of the palace and forcing the Czak Myar back to the north. Even now, as Emiriak watched from on high, the charge and feint maneuvers of the Knights threatened to break through the ranks of Mirdas Morgal foot-soldiers and shieldmen that had been taken forcibly from their looting to guard Emiriak's position in the Knight's barracks.

The city to the north still burned and the raging wind brought with it the smell of carnage and death, but even his unobstructed view of the ravaged city of Haven could not lighten Emiriak's mood. Not even the fact that the Knights knew not that the invasion of the city had any purpose in mind other than a distraction, and perhaps a test. Even if the armies of Mirdas Morgal had razed the city, they would not have stayed for long. No, the steel-clad idiots on horseback below truly believed they had stopped the invasion and now drove the evil invaders back from their land. Fools. Emiriak could bring forth enough men and weapons to flatten this city twice over if that were his mission. No, not even the infantile thinking of the Knights could lift the shroud cloaking Emiriak's mind. Nothing could pierce the black rage that seethed through him at the one thought racing through his mind that he could not banish: the Half-Elf had escaped!

The entire reason for bringing forth the troops into Haven had been to keep the Knights away while he hunted down and destroyed Quillion and his accomplices who had escaped him too many times already. Then, just as he had been certain that victory lay within his grasp, it slipped away like a water snake. That damned old fool sage Oheniies had opened some type of device that sent Emiriak's quarry away to Mael only knew where. Emiriak had felt the sage's strength weakening and had very nearly broken through the magic barrier Oheniies had conjured when it suddenly disappeared, surprising Emiriak enough that he had staggered from the loss of opposition.

In the room where the sage had stood only moments before, however, there lay nothing except the ragged remains of the device that spirited the Half-Elf away from him. Emiriak had seen Oheniies neither destroy the device nor form a Gateway to escape himself. Upon questioning the men around him, neither had they. So where had the old fool gone? For that matter, where had he sent Quillion and his flunkies?

The only clues Emiriak had found in the room at all to explain Oheniies' disappearance were the large pool of blood in the center of the room and the unexplained scratch marks on the edges of the shattered permanent Gateway. Shouting his rage to the deaf walls of the alcove, Emiriak had summoned all of the power from V'cir he could muster and sent it pouring forth into the Gateway, hoping to reactivate it somehow, but it had been to no avail. The bloody device would never function again. Emiriak would have to find another way to pursue the Half-Elf. As Emiriak had turned to leave the room, he had scarcely noticed the ashen remains of four of his men lying on the floor, sucked dry of their life by the black scimitar.

Another loud pop of Emiriak's heavy cloak brought the Czak Myar's attention back to the present and he focused his eyes on the tableau of the broken ranks of the Mirdas Morgal armies. So, the bloody great Knights had finally broken through a bunch of throwaway soldiers on a distraction mission. It mattered little any longer. The men had accomplished their purpose in holding the Knights at bay long enough for Emiriak to find Quillion. Still, the idiot soldiers might still prove to be useful in Emiriak's search for vengeance on the half-breed. That many soldiers could usually frighten these villages of southern fools into revealing what they wished to keep hidden.

He looked behind him into the eyes of one of the Czak Myar entrusted to stay near him and carry messages to his soldiers. Emiriak spoke no word, but instead gave a slight whirling of his wrist and fixed the man in his gaze to ensure he understood. The stoic Czak Myar trooper nodded slightly, but not before swallowing hard. Emiriak grinned inwardly. His yellowing eyes seemed to unsettle most of his men. Yet another unexpected benefit.

The trooper raised a small curved horn to his lips and blew three blasts from the instrument, one long and two short. The hair-raising sound of the horn's screech cut through the whipping gale to the ears of the soldiers below. Emiriak snorted as the troops immediately formed a box using their shieldmen on the outside with archers showering the knights with the barbed, black arrows of Mirdas Morgal make. Perhaps these soldiers did have a use after all. With a bit more training, they might even make decent Czak Myar lapdogs.

Emiriak watched the slow retreat of the brown-armored soldiers with less interest now. He wanted to leave this foul city and continue his chase of the bastard Half-Elf. His patience wore thin and he did not want to wait on the safe withdrawal of his troops. He gripped the hilt of V'cir, feeling the icy power of the blade surge with shocking cold through his body. He tapped that power and sent his mind adrift, searching for the dark malevolence that was the Rivanwraith.

It took very little time for Emiriak to find the creature, so great was its disturbance of the psychic plane. The creature appeared as agitated as Emiriak was himself at the escape of Quillion's companions. Strange that. Emiriak would have thought the great beast to be oblivious of one Half-Elf, regardless of how much he irritated Emiriak. Perhaps the Rivanwraith searched not for Quillion, but for something else entirely. Ah well, the Rivanwraith could search for whatever it wished. Emiriak cared not. What disturbed Emiriak about the Rivanwraith lay in his impression that the beast had sent back a glimmer of recognition when it had ripped Emiriak's memories of the escape from his mind. The creature knew something about the deep scratch marks on the edges of the broken Gateway. Emiriak knew that he would as soon teach a rastier to sit up and beg as get any more information from the Rivanwraith, though. Cooperation between him and the beast existed on a tenuous level at best.

Satisfied that the Rivanwraith came at his request, Emiriak turned back to the center of the rooftop, intent on meeting the cursed beast. Suddenly, a flash of white streaked by his vision and he spun away from it reflexively. Dropping to a crouch and drawing the dread black scimitar at his side, he scanned his surroundings, looking for signs of the flash. There, embedded on the side of the tower wall sat an arrow, still quivering with unspent energy from its flight. Some pathetic Knight dared to fire upon him? Upon Emiriak!

The leader of the Czak Myar stood quickly and fluidly, despite his obvious rage, and strode to the edge of the parapet, intent on ending the life of the arrogant Knight who wanted his life. The previously stoic Czak Myar officers behind him scattered back down the staircase, intent on avoiding the same fate their fellow troops had met at V'cir's hands below ground.

Emiriak felt V'cir gather energy with which to strike. All he needed was a target. A flash of torchlight on metal drew his attention to the parapet to the left of and just below his position. He reached out his free hand and formed a crushing motion with his hand, unleashing energy he knew only instinctively how to control. The Knight of the First Order rose from the parapet slowly, his hands and arms pinned to his armor along with the bow that he used to shoot at Emiriak.

Despite the fact the man dangled over twenty strides above the ground, he smiled back at Emiriak with a grim defiance of the Czak Myar's obviously greater power. Were he not in a killing rage, Emiriak would have both admired and scorned the man's courage. Emiriak, however, felt only the need to destroy this person who had dared attack him.

Meeting the Knight's smile with a ghastly one of his own, Emiriak slowly began to close his hand into a fist, ever so slowly. The Knight continued to smile, despite the obvious increase in pressure until his armor began to buckle and warp inward. Then the Knights face reflected panic and pain. The fool had actually believed his armor would save him! Emiriak could only shake his head in wonder at the blind trust of Mer's finest soldiers. Well, the fool knew better now.

Emiriak began to chuckle as the sickening snaps of the man's legs being crushed met his ears. The sound of the metal armor groaning under its unbearable strain brought true amusement to the chuckle. When these grim sounds were joined by the sound of the Knight's cries of agony, Emiriak shouted a joyous laughter into the night sky, and lifted his arm, sending the man higher into the air until he was only a glint of metal in Emiriak's vision.

The Czak Myar's laughter continued as he released the Knight and watched him plummet from the heavens. Neither did his mirth did subside even a bit when the bulk of the Rivanwraith blocked out his vision of the Knight's descent. Emiriak heard the mangled Knight's screams silence abruptly as the Rivanwraith claimed its prey, which increased the volume of his laughter. Tears streamed down his face as he watched the cadre of Knights in the streets below recoil in fear from the shadowy presence they could feel above them, but not see. Was he going mad? It did not matter. Wiping the tears of mirth from his cheeks he focused himself on what did matter, the hunt for the companions.

©   1999   C.A. Lutke