That night, they celebrated their victory. Qualtan and Glaive clapped their hands as others skipped and danced. After a particularly rousing production of trilling pipes and thumping drums, Brelk took center stage. He smiled, bowing with a wide sweep of his arms.

“Thanks to our charitable hosts who have allowed us to accompany them on our mutual journey.” He raised a drink to the crowd that circled him. He lifted his head back, and drank deeply, eliciting wild applause. Staggering forward, he pulled free yellowing sheets of rolled up paper.

“I have made a poem of our adventure, one that I will now share.”

“Uh oh,” Glaive warned. Qualtan merely shrugged, relaxing back against a creaking chair.

The minstrel began his tale. His rhymes did not match, and he gasped for breath on occasion from speaking too fast. He took another gulp of drink and lost his place, pausing with anger and some confusion. Yet the revelers seemed not to care. They clapped and cheered, prompting him on.

“He’s awful,” Glaive complained. “These people either have bad taste or deaf ears!”

Sarvov, who also sat close by, grunted in agreement. He waved his hand about. “They are all drunk to a fault, as we should be if we are to suffer more of this! Here, more drink!” the blacksmith commanded to an older woman who balanced clanking tankards of frothing beer on a wooden platter. She smiled, giving him one of the mugs and he complied gratefully by imparting deeply, spilling most of the liquid on his beard. The brothers Arnim and Frahn had befriended two lasses and spent most of their time with them. The foursome sat on benches playfully nudging each other, as the performing Brelk dropped his pages accidentally, grumbling as he bent over to retrieve them and attempting to retrace where he had left off.

“We should be so lucky, eh?” Sarvov commented, observing the twins before releasing a rather loud belch.

“Some of us already are,” Glaive responded, as Qualtan was suddenly pulled away by the beaming dark-haired girl he had danced with before. Sarvov smiled, responding with a salute of his tankard and another belch.

The girl took Qualtan by the hand and ran towards the back end of the wagon train. She wrapped her arms around him and they kissed. Her passion grew and she bit his lips, causing him to recoil. She pressed herself against him again and repeated the action. Qualtan winced, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Your teeth are too sharp for me,” Qualtan laughed.

She laughed, licking the small drop of blood from his lips. She stared at him intently with her black eyes. “I am too much for you?” she said teasingly.

“Your dagger fangs make me think I am kissing my friend Glaive rather than you,” Qualtan said. She feigned offense and slapped at his arms.

“If you cannot distinguish between your orcish friend and I, you have more pressing concerns to deal with!” she said. She laughed, dancing around Qualtan. Her striped black and white skirt twirled about, revealing her long, slender legs. Her ankles jingled with small bells attached to pretty bands of colored twine. She lifted her arms into the air, humming loudly.

“Isibelle, your people seem very happy,” Qualtan said, observing her as she leapt about.

“We are happy because we are free! We live by our own rules! No lord controls us! We come and go as we please, where we please. Our pleasure comes from that power! You should join us! To give your own power to a so-called King is foolish.”

“Foolish to help others, as your clan has helped us?” he asked.

She moved in close, her hands taking in the detail of Qualtan’s arms as she walked around him, caressing him. “That is different. We do so without the commands of others. It is a pity what you and your friend plan to do. Life is for pleasure!” She turned Qualtan about to kiss him once more. She leapt onto his arms, toppling them both over. Both laughed as they rolled to the ground.

As the evening festivities drew to a close, the night grew quiet. The clan folk took to their wagons to sleep, leaving their guests to rest in their tents. Torches were left standing to guard against the press of dark, their spitting heads flaring and ebbing. The shrill clicks of insects occupied the surrounding forest, their bodies flashing lights of yellow and red. A great owl hooted its mournful cry from somewhere. An animal cried out as it shuffled nearby.

Brelk sat alone, finishing the last of his draught. He struggled to rise, as drunk as ever before. He grabbed hold of his knees in an attempt to right himself. Succeeding, he gasped happily and stumbled towards the tents. He entered one, singing to himself until he stepped on the foot of the tent’s occupant. Sarvov immediately awoke, crying out in pain and shoving the hapless minstrel back outside.

“Accursed fool! Disturb someone else from a good night’s sleep!” the blacksmith yelled, shaking a fist at Brelk, who lay squatting on the ground.

Sarvov withdrew back into his tent, and Brelk slowly rose again. He wiped himself clean and bowed mockingly towards the blacksmith’s tent flap. Spinning about dizzily, he finally found his own tent, and flopped inside. He rolled about in the blankets provided, unable to fall asleep. The constant clacking of the insects outside prevented him from doing so. He hid his head underneath his pillow, and when that failed, curled inside a nest made from his coverlets. He turned to one side, and then another. His head already pounded from too much drink, and the songs of crickets and grasshoppers seemed to magnify the hammer that struck his brain.

“Damnable bugs! Sing your songs somewhere else and let a poor man rest in peace!” he cried out, pulling at the few long strands of hair left on his head. As if on command, the forest grew silent. Content, Brelk sighed, stretching out in comfort. A shadow drew close to his tent but he was unaware, his mind already filled with thoughts of himself standing in a grand ballroom performing before the royalty of Turinthia. They were dressed in fancy coats and long robes, dripping with jeweled broaches and necklaces of silver. Their mouths were open with awe, and their eyes brimmed with tears at the beauty of his soliloquy. They rose from velvety seats, clapping wildly, as he bowed, moving aside his long tunic and cape made from the finest of silks. They rushed to greet him, to touch him. Their hands grasped his, and patted his shoulders and his back. He laughed, taking in their adoration. The Queen of Turinthia, dressed in white and silver, addressed him. Her cheeks were rosy with pigments of red and her eyes flashed under streaks of blue. Feathers from the rarest of birds adorned her chest. Her curly hair was drawn up within a crown of gold and her ringed fingers touched his face. He smiled, enjoying the dream. She touched his ears and played with the locks of his beard.

“You are magnificent!” she said to the beaming poet.

“Yes, your majesty, I know, I know!” he replied with a blush to his face.

She drew nearer, her face close to his, and he could smell the rose petal scent of her perfume, and the lavender from her hair. She placed a hand on his eyebrow, and traced the lines of his face. He giggled at the attention. She kissed him on the cheek and he sighed. Yet, as she did he suddenly took notice of a different smell. Her breath was foul and wretched. He squirmed, attempting to remain polite, but she breathed out of her mouth and the rank stench increased.

“My lady,” he said, drawing back with some confusion. She kept her hands upon him and cooed softly, seductively in his ear.

“Do not leave. I am your Queen.”

She licked his cheek, and her face seemed to change. The pupils of her eyes shrunk and her teeth had become spiny and sharp. Her hair seemed to recede, and her crown fell from her head, bouncing onto the stone floor of the reception hall. Her hold grew firm and he could not pull away. The throng of admirers that had surrounded him seemed to turn into smoke and float away, leaving him alone with the Queen. The hall began to age, as great white, marbled pillars began to crack and crumble, while spider webs began to grow over her empty throne. Banners fell to the floor, caked with dust. The hall became colorless and grey.

Her hands were pebbly and clawed, and great black talons began to sink into his arms. Fear began to overtake him as he struggled to free himself. He attempted to look away from the Queen as her voice grew hoarse and deep.

“Will you not sing another tale?” she hissed.

“My lady, please! You are hurting me.” He begged as her hands tightened, squeezing his arms. Her tongue elongated, like a lizard’s, and it writhed about his neck and face. He grimaced, attempting to pull free. She opened her mouth wide, a great gaping maw and blew hot breath over him. Brelk gagged from the smell. He squirmed under her grip.

“Release me!” he demanded, pulling furiously away from the creature that once had been a queen. The thing began to laugh at his state, and he struggled ever more violently to escape.

“Release me!” he yelled. At once his eyes opened and he wrenched himself free from his dream. The outline of his tent surrounded him. Yet for the briefest of moments he was unsure, for immediately before him were two peering eyes, a purplish face, and long, white teeth. He cried out and the face seemed to disappear, a great rush of movement escaping from the open flap of his tent to the outside. Brelk jumped up, wiping the wetness suddenly noticed on his cheek. He screamed all the more as the smell upon him was that of the Queen of his dreams, transformed into a monster.

Others rushed out upon hearing the cries. As they approached, he stood by the open slit of his tent, quaking with fear.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” asked Lofgren, the first to respond.

“A monster! A devil in our midst!” Brelk said, pointing out beyond the wagons. “It was here! I awoke to see a devil! It ran away when I called out!”

Qualtan appeared, taking the elder man by the arm as his legs grew weak, falling back in near faint. He gently lowered him to the ground as Glaive stood behind him, looking about.

“Now, now, Brelk. What exactly did you see?”

The minstrel mumbled, looking about with widened eyes, until Qualtan placed his hands upon the sides of his face, focusing his attention. His eyes bulged even more in realization. His expression was pleading, his lower lip trembling with remembrance.

“Oh, Qualtan! It was a beast from Hell! Scaly skin, snake-like eyes! It left a chill in my soul that has yet to leave!”

“We should look about despite the night,” Qualtan said, looking up to Lofgren who stood near him, wringing his hands with concern. The woodsmith nodded grimly, waving at other men to grab torches and look about.

“It moved like a spirit, as if it was never really there, but it was!” Brelk shrieked.

“There, there. We’ll see what lurks about. You won’t be left alone.” Qualtan rose from his knees as two other clan folk lifted Brelk, attempting to soothe him.

“What do you think?” Qualtan asked Glaive.

Glaive looked into the dark shadows of the forest and sighed. “I thought I had seen something as well, back before we traveled to the bridge, remember? That keeps me from thinking his ale-addled brain played tricks on him this night. Something follows us.”

Qualtan nodded, respecting his friend’s beliefs. “But what?”

“Something that is fast, hides well, and was able to sneak into this circle of wagons, with little fear or worry, it seems, of being caught. Whether our visitor was one or more I cannot tell.”

Qualtan stared about as Lofgren led his brothers in forming a wide arc around the wagons, poking torches at dark spots in the trees, slashing at grasses and bushes to disturb any hiding thing that lay in wait.

“Whatever it is, it’s traveled a long way. To what end I wonder?” Qualtan asked aloud.

“Indeed, I wonder to what end WE travel to, if this creature or creatures have been keeping pace with us. I don’t like it, Qual. Not one bit.” Glaive nervously fingered a blade wrapped beneath his left forearm.

The men returned from their quick search, finding nothing. “It is too dark to find anything now, and too dark to risk deeper travel into the forest. We will have to wait until the morrow,” Lofgren said. He was at a loss, as no one else had seen or heard the intruder, including the two men who had been left to guard their camp. “The man was drunk. Perhaps that was all. We will have a better look at things in the morning. I will leave more men to watch the night.”

Qualtan agreed. “And I will join them.”

The remainder of the night proved uneventful. No other glimpse of fleeting form or hiding shape was to be had, and chosen guards grumbled with the loss of sleep. In the morning, armed men once more looked about for any hint or sign of lurking foes, but found no proof. They quickly refilled their wagons and moved on. Frahn and Arnim attempted to console the worried poet, but he refused to forget the evil eyes that had peered so hungrily, or the slithering tongue that had lapped at his face. The next few nights showed no return of the intruder and the nearness of Turinthia brought forth relief that the forest was soon coming to an end.

“We are but three days away from the boundaries of Turinthia! We will give you direction as to which way you should go. I hope we will know you again!” Lofgren said happily to Qualtan and Glaive.

“As I do as well. Your compassion and fellowship have given us a pleasant end to our journey,” Qualtan replied. Lofgren laughed, patting Qualtan on the back.

“Nonsense! Had it not been for you, we would not have completed our journey! Now, let me show you these maps…”

As they spoke, Glaive turned around towards the laughter of Arnim and Frahn as the two maidens they had befriended poked and played with them, to the amusement of those around them. Even hatchet-faced Sarvov seemed able to crack a smile, as Glaive observed three of the crafts folk continually refilling his tankard of ale. They placed arms on his back and squeezed his shoulders in an intimate fashion that Glaive still found surprising, to have attention so showered on people who were little more than strangers to them. Glaive looked back to Qualtan. Lofgren had placed a hand on his neck, messaging him gently. The raven-tressed girl, Isibelle, appeared, grabbing hold of one of Qualtan’s arms, running her hand through his hair. Only poor Brelk seemed unwilling to accept their ministrations. He sat upon an upraised barrel, flinching away from two women who attempted to calm him. He still had not forgotten the night before, and had grown forlorn ever since. Glaive shook his head. These were friendly folk to be sure. He was just not used to such people.

On their final night of journey, the crafts folk decided to have a rousing party to appropriately see off their newfound friends. Once more the men danced with their swords. Once more the women twirled and undulated to the rhythmic beats of drum. Isibelle sat on Qualtan’s lap, and grew overly attentive to the point of bringing embarrassment to the young warrior’s heart, for they sat with many others. She plied him with kisses, and he pulled her away. The action was not lost on Lofgren who merely laughed.

“Do not worry, Qualtan! We are all brothers and sisters here! We are free folk as I’m sure Isibelle has said. We have no qualms about petty rules of behavior! Live!” He lifted up a mug to Qualtan as Isibelle laughed, continuing her amorous play. Drink was shared liberally and its effects were already showing through; Brelk was sitting to one side, singing to himself, cradling a cup of ale, and Sarvov was nearly the same. The blacksmith pushed back an additional cup that was presented to him. Qualtan had refused further drink as Isibelle wrapped her arms around him. Qualtan had additional questions for Lofgren with regards to the directions he had given them earlier, but the woodsmith would have none of them.

“Drink! Worry about such things tomorrow when we leave the boundary of the forest! Your friends have the right mind for this night, as should you!”

Qualtan looked over to Glaive who was already snoring, stooped over the table they shared. The twin artists were fully fixated on their maiden friends, soon lost in a crowd of whooping observers. Everything seemed to spin, and Qualtan grew dizzy. Again Isibelle insisted with another draught of ale. Qualtan already felt he had been given enough, though he was somewhat surprised at how he felt, for he thought he had not imbibed as much as the others. Isibelle pushed herself on him further as Lofgren clapped at her impatience. “Come,” she said seductively, sliding off Qualtan’s lap and tugging at his arm to follow her. Head swimming, he did so, pausing to gain balance but ever being pulled by Isibelle’s leading grasp. She rushed him into her wagon, closing the door tight. Qualtan dizzily looked about the room, at the decorated curtains, the finely carved furniture, the ornately cushioned chairs. He dropped onto the side of her bed, rubbing his head.

“I don’t know why I feel this way,” he said. And it was true. Had he truly drank that much?

Isibelle laughed quietly. “Relax. There is no reason to be guarded here. You are with me now.” She climbed atop him once more. She gripped his shoulders, and anxiously pulled herself over him as he slumped into her bed. Qualtan felt his mind go numb. His eyes rolled and images of Isibelle were at times replaced with swirls of grey and black. They coiled into each other’s arms.

Outside, the twins Armin and Brahn collapsed to the ground, spilling their drinks about. Sarvov rubbed at his temples fiercely. A girl literally fell onto his shoulder with another drink but he pushed her away. “I’ve had enough,” he said, rising, but two laughing men pushed him back down.

“There is no need to leave just yet! We are just starting!” one of them said. The blacksmith looked over to see Brelk who was literally being held down, struggling as a woman poured drink from a long slender decanter over his face and into his mouth.

“There is something wrong here!” he grumbled, attempting to stand. The two men again tried to ply more drink towards his face but he growled and shoved their hands away. A woman quickly leaned onto his arm but he pushed off. “Stay away, witch!” he cried out.

“Sarvov! What is the matter, my friend?” Lofgren said, rising from his own chair to walk around the table towards him. The blacksmith staggered to his feet, pulling himself clear from the bench. “Leave him alone!” he cried out to the group of craftsfolk that had pinned Brelk to the ground, spilling drink after drink over his face.

“You have nothing to fear,” Lofgren said, a sudden hoarseness entering his voice.

Sarvov passed a hand over his face. “I’m not drunk!” he cried out aloud. He was aware enough to realize it. The blacksmith had been inebriated many a time in the past, and knew this was not now the case. “You’ve done something to me!” he said, his heart racing and his legs shaking. He reached for his mighty sword, the two-handed broadsword he had crafted himself. Lofgren immediately grabbed for his arm, stopping him from attempting to grasp the weapon.

“You are ill from drink. Calm yourself,” Lofgren said as Sarvov, fighting to keep his eyes open, looked at him dully. “You put something in our drinks…”

Lofgren smiled, an evil, reptilian smile. “I commend you, blacksmith. Your constitution does you credit. You should have been asleep some time ago.” The craftsman unsheathed a long dagger from his belt. As if in a dream, Sarvov observed the action, his mind screaming to respond, his body unwilling to do so. Lofgren plunged the blade into Sarvov’s belly. Half aware of the injury, he could only stare into the eyes of Lofgren, now pale and cat-like, as he withdrew the blade and struck him again. The blacksmith fell to the ground.

Candles played tricks with the eyes, casting menacing shadows upon the interior curved walls of the wagon. Qualtan could not tell if he was fully awake or drifting into dream-filled sleep. Surely he was asleep, he thought, as Isibelle seemed to change before him. His hands caressed her legs, which at first felt smooth, but now were scaly and rough. Her teeth grew sharper and her now taloned hands raked his back. She grunted loudly with pleasure, her eyes enlarging into saucers of milky white as she stared past him. Her form twisted beneath his, and she rolled over to squat atop him. Her hair was still long and fair, but her face was now purplish in color. As she smiled, a long probing tongue darted forth. Were there growls heard outside the wagon? Qualtan could not be sure. He attempted to move but she pressed her hands on his chest to stop him. Her noisome tongue drew circles on his stomach, up towards his neck. Her body was now shriveled and hard or at least Qualtan imagined so. His heart raced as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Somewhere inside his mind he knew something was wrong.

“Sssshh,” the she-thing said, biting at his ear. “You have had too much to drink.” Qualtan’s head fell back, his hands touching the skin of her reptile-like back. She sucked at his neck, pulling at the flesh, until she brought her lips to his shoulder. She purred, and then hissed. She bit into his arm, and he cried out. Colors swirled past his eyes. His neck grew wet as blood spilled onto the sheets. Pain! He felt pain! Yet how could a dream hurt so? His eyes cleared. Through the fog of his drugged mind, he realized at last what he was experiencing was real. She bit him again, lapping at the blood like a cat over a bowl of milk. The agony shot through him like a hot poker bringing him out of his stupor. Crying out, he forced himself to react. He brought forth two fists and slammed them against the sides of her ears. This time it was Isibelle that growled. Qualtan repeated the action. She reared up, clutching her head. With a short, stout kick, Qualtan hurled her crashing over the side of the bed. Qualtan shoved himself free from the pillows and blankets, knocking into a small table. He reached for his shoulder and grimaced at the blood that painted his hand.

Isibelle hissed, rising from the floor.

“What are you?!” Qualtan demanded. She jumped onto the bed and with one lithe movement leaped towards him, mouth open, claws bared. He met her leap with a blow from his uninjured arm. She was sent spinning madly into, and through, one side of the wagon. Qualtan fell, the numbness of his mind refusing to let go.

“They poisoned me,” he said, calling his sword to his open hand. Like a fool he had not worn his armor during the celebration. He tore through the aperture of the damaged wagon to see a horrible sight.

The clan folk had changed. The kind and gentle people that had befriended him and the other travelers were now wailing and screeching things, their faces hidden in the gloom of night. They howled and mewed, forming a circle at his approach. Isibelle lay unmoving on the ground.

“What are you? What do you want?!?” Qualtan said as the creatures hissed menacingly at him. One of them moved closer, and despite the change in voice, now rough and deeper, Qualtan could tell it was Lofgren.

“What are we? We are maugs, human, and I thank you twice. Once, for your protection from the trolls who we had expected to meet, and twice for the meat you and your friends will provide us. We have waited a long time for this, keeping back the change as best we could, until we were at last free from the perils of the forest. Now, it is too late for you. We will absorb your strength as we feast on your still beating heart!”

The creatures started to laugh at him, and Qualtan’s face grew pained. His eyes began to glow as a hot rage overtook him. “Betrayed again. Lied to, again!” Qualtan screamed into the night, a cry of anger and frustration as the maugs surged forward to attack. Qualtan quickly turned around, and raced to the front of the wagon, smashing free the restraints that held two horses. Before the maugs could grasp his intent, he lifted the entire wagon over his head, his arms shaking under the weight. The maugs suddenly stopped their forward advance but before they could react further, the wagon was hurled towards them. It exploded onto the ground, taking five of the maugs with it as a plume of dirt and debris billowed out. The other maugs withdrew swords and assaulted him. Despite his strength, he had been drugged and his injured arm grew noticeably useless, adding confidence to the maug’s attack. They had underestimated him. He sundered their ranks, his rage all enveloping. They could not pass beyond his weapon’s length. Two maugs retreated and shot cross bolts at him. His magic shield prevailed. With claw and knife, sword and spear they pressed against him, for surely his drugged state would eventually bring him down, yet his magically fueled hate made him one of them. He roared like a beast and fought back savagely. The maugs began to fall back, dismayed at the force now unleashed against them. Their elders had already fallen, and the remaining maugs decided their lives were too important to sacrifice further for an attempt at a lone human meal. Realizing their mistake at last, they fled into the forest. Three scrambled onto one of the wagons to escape, yet with two successive leaps, Qualtan jumped atop it, and shattered the hapless drivers before they could flee.

Snarling, he jumped high, vaulting off the wagon and into two more maugs that had attempted to run past. He grabbed one’s cloak from behind, snapping it back as he hurled his sword like a javelin towards the other. The maug he had caught raked at him with long claws, but Qualtan grabbed its head and twisted sharply, snapping its neck. The other maug stood still, gasping for breath with its back impaled by Qualtan’s sword. Qualtan willed the sword back, pulling free from the maug who collapsed with a gurgling rattle.

Qualtan now stood alone, panting as he watched the few remaining maugs running into the trees. His rage subdued, he lurched back into the camp. “Glaive! Brelk! Armin!” he cried out, walking over the dead maugs that lay beneath him. He smashed the locked doors of the wagons, fear welling inside him for what he may find.

“Glaive!” he pleaded.

At last he cracked open the final wagon’s back door and stepped within. Glaive and Brelk lay chained to one side, fully under the spell of the sleeping potion given to them. They had been stripped and left naked, having been partially readied for the next step. That step lay on a bloodied table and a grisly pot where the remains of Arnim and Brahn were stacked. Qualtan quickly looked away, not wishing to see further how the pieces of the two had been selectively arranged. To one side hung Sarvov, his face dark and dour as it had been in life, dangling from a large hook that secured him firmly from behind his back. Qualtan could no longer remain in that charnel house. He broke free the shackles that secured Glaive and Brelk and dragged them outside.

“Glaive?” Qualtan said hopefully, inspecting his body for signs of mortal wounds, cradling his head in his arms. Suddenly he stiffened and with a sneer whirled about, his blade extended. Lofgren literally impaled himself, having attempted to sneak up from behind him. He dropped his own sword and crumbled before Qualtan’s feet.

Qualtan grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up against the side of the charnel wagon.

“Filth! We were nothing but fatted calves to you, while you waited for the proper moment to finish us!” he said, his rage returning.

Lofgren’s eyes widened and he laughed as blood poured from his lizard-like lips.

“The magicks that course through my veins protected me from the full effects of your vile drinks. Look now at what remains of your clan! Was it worth it, to betray us most foul? Was it?” Qualtan said angrily, shaking the dying maug.

Lofgren croaked out his final words. “We are maugs and you are prey. My folk will feed on yours again. Hah!” He laughed wildly, spitting blood on Qualtan’s face. Qualtan released him, shoving him against the wagon. Lofgren rose to his feet, a jeering expression on his face before he paused, falling over dead.

A hissing sound took hold of Qualtan’s attention as he turned to see a lone child maug of the clan holding a small sword behind him. Tears streamed down the sides of its craggy face as it charged at Qualtan, who easily disarmed it. It leaped up to claw at Qualtan’s face, but he kicked it to the ground, stepping over it with his sword at its throat.

“Fiend from hell! Go back to your home there!” Qualtan said as it struggled to free itself. Qualtan raised his sword to strike. He paused as the creature froze in fear, mumbling in panic. Qualtan’s lips trembled as he fought back against dark emotion.

“Thing of shadows, I should kill you now before you grow to do further evil. But I cannot, I cannot.” He released his foothold and the maug quickly retreated on all fours, backing up against the fallen body of Lofgren. It stared at Qualtan curiously. Tears of anger welled in Qualtan’s eyes. “Do not follow the course of your fellows. Look around you and see what they have wrought!” Qualtan said pointing around with his sword. “If you seek to harm others, this will be your fate! Leave now! Go sulk in the forest and find your brothers and sisters! Learn well the lesson from today! Go now!” Qualtan yelled. The maug hissed and with a graceful motion leaped over the top of the wagon and into a patchwork of branches, disappearing.

The maug threat finally extinguished, Qualtan grew weary. He stood and looked at the space amongst the trees where the child maug had fled and did not move for some time. Eventually, his surge of energy spent, Qualtan gently placed the still sleeping Glaive and Brelk into one of the wagons. Qualtan searched through the others, taking back his armor, as well as swollen skins filled with water and crates of food. Loading the supplies into the wagon, Qualtan took the coachman’s seat and urged the horses forward. His body was lined with scratches and claw marks, caked and matted with ichor from the maugs. True sleepiness overcame him but he forced himself to remain awake for fear of reprisal from any maugs that may still lurk about. They traveled throughout the night, following the path Lofgren had originally shared with him. By morning Glaive awoke, yawning mightily, his head pounding as if it would burst. Brelk was already awake, whimpering in pain as he struggled to sit up.

A sudden bump caused the wagon to lurch and Glaive immediately reacted. They were being taken somewhere, he thought. He looked about, confused over his surroundings, and then remembered the party from the night before. He thought back to his drunken state and how quickly the world had spun around him. His brow furrowed with sudden realization. “Drugged! We were drugged, Urgsh take me for a fool!” He noticed his weapons had been taken from him as had much of his clothes. He spied his wrist gauntlet and secured it to his arm. He checked the back door and saw that it was unlocked.

“What are you doing?” Brelk whined, holding his hands to his head. “What has happened?”

“Quiet, you!” said Glaive. Opening the door, Glaive saw no other wagon followed. Were they at the back of the caravan? He climbed over the top of the wagon and cautiously crept towards its front. No other wagon was about. What mischief was this? The driver had a cloak over him and seemed unaware of his presence. He inched closer, holding on as the wagon swayed to and fro. At last he jumped into view, wrist gauntlet armed and ready to fire, but he gasped for only the tired form of Qualtan sat there, head bobbing. Qualtan was too exhausted to react to his approach. He smiled weakly.

“It’s about time you were awake.”

Glaive was flabbergasted. “What happened here? Where is everyone?”

Qualtan motioned him over. “Better take the reins, for I can’t hold them for much longer.” The wagon veered off the road as Glaive quickly took control, bringing them back on course. “What the devil happened to you?”

“They were maugs, Glaive, maugs. They poisoned us to make us sleep. They had planned to kill us all along. They were merely waiting to clear the forest’s dangers before using us to fill their bellies.”

Glaive sat back in shock. “Maugs!” His look of surprise gave way to quick anger.

“I knew it! I knew it! I knew they must have been up to no good, being as friendly as they were! They probably go about doing just that, enticing their next meals with drinks, women, and a good time! Where are they now?”

“I killed most of them.”

“And the others? The twins? The blacksmith?”

“Dead. They got to them before I could.”

Glaive grew quiet. “I see.”

“You two were not yet on the dinner plate. Had I not been able to cast off their sleep effects when I did, you would have joined them.”

“Maugs,” Glaive repeated. “Even that girl?”

Qualtan nodded, his eyes closing.

“Hah! Too bad.”

“She left her mark on me,” Qualtan said, showing his once again injured shoulder.

Glaive winced. “A pretty kiss too, as a matter of fact. And the very same shoulder at that. First that lass from Cuthbert, and now a hungry female maug. Women will be the death of you yet!”

Qualtan forced a weak smile at the jest.

“Go inside and rest. You’ve done more than your share. I’ll take over from here. Turinthia isn’t far away. Look!”

Before them was a clear road that traveled into a tended valley below them. The hills were soft and green and beyond them was a standing row of giant watchtowers of stone, shielded by metal. They stood tall over the scene, extending in a line that continued as far as the eye could see. Beyond them were the faint beginnings of farming settlements that began to rise from the lush fields. Far in the distance, Mulberry, one of the lesser cities of the great nation could be seen. Qualtan smiled, feeling relief at last. Patting Glaive’s shoulder as the half-orcne halted the wagon; he exited the coach seat and entered the wagon from behind. He surprised Brelk who was just about to exit. He was shocked by Qualtan’s appearance as he stepped past him.

“What has happened!” Qualtan waved the question away as Glaive called for Brelk to join him up front.

“Glaive? What is all this? Where is everyone? Aah, why does my head ring like school bells at the end of summer?” He grabbed at his temples.

“I’ll tell you the story. Leave Qual alone, he requires rest!”

“But where are the rest of the wagons? Were we assailed?”

“In more ways than one! Come!” Glaive said, as a confused Brelk climbed aboard next to him.

“I don’t understand…” the poet said, still clutching his head.

It was only a few days further after passing the city of Mulberry that the three companions reached the white towers and flowered terraces of Tringolm, Turinthia’s capitol. Domes of tiled blue and gold sparkled in the sky as they passed through red-shingled houses, golden-roofed promenades, and the many columned schools and libraries of learning for which the busy capital was well known. They soon stood before the Parade of Heroes, that noble gardened pavilion that led towards the royal house itself. Qualtan directed their attention towards the bronze statue of his father Eucradus, hero from the Great War, and he stared at it with pride.

“Maybe I will join his side here one day,” Qualtan said. Glaive smiled, putting an arm on Qualtan’s shoulder. “I’m sure he looks down and is proud of his son.”

“Well, here we take leave of each other,” Brelk said. “My work takes me in other directions. Surely you will let the King know of me? Our adventure together has already inspired a new song!”

Glaive squeezed his arm. “Yes, yes, but you will need to buy a new lute to fully accompany it. To do any less would be an insult to the King.” Glaive gave a side smile towards Qualtan who returned the gesture.

“That is true. What is a minstrel, a poet of quality without his lute?” Brelk mused.

“Like a knight without his sword,” Qualtan added.

“Yes, yes, we will definitely prepare the King for your skills. Of that you can be sure!” Glaive continued.

“Maugs! I thank the stars for you two! What could have become of me! When I think of the many times I had joined their camp by the fisher folk, and their attempts to invite me to travel with them! It all seemed so innocent. They would have killed me even then?” he asked, staring at Glaive sadly.

“Yes. You’ve been very lucky in avoiding death.”

“Alas, Sarvov, and the twin youths! I will make an ode to them. I will honor you both as well, never fear.”

“We are honored.” Qualtan and Glaive bowed at the minstrel.

“Good luck to you both! If you need further proofs for your knighthood to be bestowed, my songs are at your ready!”

“Thank you, Brelk,” Qualtan said.

“Good lads, both of you! Well, I’m off then. I’m sure I can find an inn hereabouts to barter a song for a good, strong ale or three.” And with that, the aged minstrel arranged his robes and walked off.

Qualtan briefly watched him go, turning his attention once more to the figure of his father, standing high.

“It’s back to just you and me, the way we first started on this mess,” Glaive said, looking up at the imposing sculpture as well. “Are you ready?”

Qualtan nodded, sighing loudly.

They walked past the rows of bronzed figures, as the palace of the King loomed at its end. Multiple domes of a blazing red topped the palace, crowned with white cupolas. Troops in shining silver suits of armor paraded in a large open courtyard, as they passed multiple guarding walls towards the palace interior. The mangled, torn scroll his uncle had given him served as passage; at each gate a runner sped to the next to herald their arrival. Soon, they were climbing the massive granite steps that led to a guarded doorway. There they waited under the curious stares of the soldiers that stood watch until a robed emissary of the King appeared. He wore a high collared tunic with a large cap. His beard was curled and his vest was decorated in crossing patterns of yellow and black. He requested Qualtan’s scroll and reviewed it. He took it, reading it briefly, all the while smiling at the young warrior’s embarrassment of the scroll’s condition. The sheets of paper were crumpled, stained, and torn apart.

“You have been expected for some time. Come with me.” They followed the attendant towards a parlor where they were cleansed and refreshed. Qualtan and Glaive were led through dazzling corridors supported by multi-colored archways. They walked past halls of long mirrors, addressed by patterned curtains that hung from high banisters above. Busts of past rulers and wise council members alternated from each side. At a wide entranceway, the attendant paused and directed them to continue without his presence. Qualtan gasped, for they entered into the hall of the King. A hammerbeam roof of molded timbers and curved braces lent an air of authority and power as sculptured creatures of Good peered down from spandrels overhead. The floor was tiled and Qualtan’s metal shod feet clacked loudly on their smoothed surface. Oversized chandeliers hung low, leading to the great gilded chair that stood alone before them. To either side were alcoves accompanied by rows of chairs and long wooden benches where the King would argue and debate with his many councilors, advisors, visitors, and knights. Twin sets of balconies were placed above for the citizenry that were sometimes invited to observe. To the left and right of the wall behind the great throne were painted golden lions of heraldic type, each facing towards that chair of chairs, dwarfing it with their immensely illustrated size.

Qualtan and Glaive stood still, unsure of themselves, as they took in the grandeur of the hall.

“Well, if we were in trouble, they would surely have done something by now?” Glaive asked.

Suddenly a gentle bell sounded. From a small blackened wooden door behind each alcove, a procession of knights appeared, their gold-silver armor gleaming, ten to each side.

“Then again…” Glaive mumbled nervously.

Following the knights, somber men and women in dark green robes, advisors to the King, entered the hall. They held trailing scrolls in one hand, and knobby inkwells in the other. At last, as the knights and assistants took their place amongst the benches and chairs, the King himself emerged. He was short, aged, with a grayish beard. His form was well hidden in a long flowing gown. A jeweled sword was attached to a golden belt. A small circle of gold metal surrounded his balding head, small enough that Qualtan was taken aback, for surely the ruler of the most powerful nation on their continent would have shown a much larger crown. His face was lined from years of worry, but his smile shone through bright and his green eyes twinkled. In his hand was the travel worn scroll Qualtan had surrendered to his attendant moments before.

One of the assistants rose and spoke. “All bow to King Prelance, guiding hand of the Nation of Turinthia.”

All save Glaive immediately responded, grunting apologetically as Qualtan yanked on his sleeve, prompting him to quickly join the others in their gesture of fealty. The King read through the scroll as the assemblage waited silently. At last he looked up.

“You are late, good sir,” the King said, looking at Qualtan. “I had expected you some time ago.”

Qualtan cleared his throat. “Noble King, I apologize for my delay.”

The King waved him silent. “Tch! No apology is necessary at this time. Your family is well known to me, Qualtan, as I’m sure you are quite aware. Lord Greythorne has attested to your character and training, as has your uncle, of whose council I take most seriously in all matters. As to your delays … they have been made known to me.” The King chuckled, lifting an arm. Suddenly from the hallway that the King and others had exited, a large bird appeared, alighting gently on the King’s extended forearm. The King laughed, lifting a cracker from one of his many pockets. The bird, its red head twisting from side to side, chirped and took hold of the salted treat.

Both Qualtan and Glaive stood amazed, for this was the very same creature they had observed many times on their journey here. “We have come across that bird before,” Qualtan said, as the King nodded in agreement. Glaive immediately felt guilty, especially when he thought of his prior attempt to shoot it. “Er, and a very noble bird it is!” he said, shuffling his feet.

“Was it sent by you to observe us?” Qualtan asked.

The King’s eyes widened. “Not by me certainly; I am no wizard. It was sent by another.” The King pointed as another visitor appeared at the doorway. This newest guest was grey-bearded, tall and straight despite his apparent years. He walked past the King, bowing as both giggled in their shared mirth. Qualtan could not believe his eyes, as his uncle Aurelus approached him, arms wide.

Qualtan guffawed and rushed to embrace him. He felt comfort and warmth in the presence of his beloved uncle, as well as relief at no longer having to stand before the King alone.

“It was you … all this time?” Qualtan asked.

Aurelus beamed at his nephew. “I had to keep an eye out on you in this, such an important voyage that it was. I did not interfere—I would not—but I COULD see you through my little friend, and things I saw indeed!” He eyed Glaive curiously who smiled nervously, quickly beginning to feel two feet tall, surrounded by such legendary figures as he now was.

Aurelus turned back to face King Prelance. “I could only speak of trifles, of course. My friend was limited in what he saw. It is to you now, to report your trials to your King.” Aurelus patted Qualtan on the back, winking in support as he took his place amongst the knights and advisors that leaned forward with anticipation of the young warrior’s tale.

“Aye, and pray thee, tell me as well of your encounter with Romulax, as your uncle has refused but to tease me with this.”

Qualtan took a nervous step forward. He looked briefly over to where Aurelus now sat. The wizard smiled, nodding in support. Taking a deep breath, Qualtan began his tale. For hours he spoke, detailing the events that had transpired; his battle with the evil druid, his and Glaive’s fight with the ghuls and haegtes of Cuthbert, their dealings with the high elves of Hermstingle, the escape to the Gladed Forest with help from the centaurs, and their deadly confrontation with the trolls and maugs on their way past the fisher folk towards Turinthia. Qualtan remained truthful and detailed fully all events, knowing to lie now would do him little good. Regardless of how his uncle may have felt about his association with a half-orcne, it was too late to worry about it. Glaive squirmed mightily, feeling the wizard’s attention on him as the story of Qualtan’s battle with Prince Termenon, the Sword of Eagles, was told. The scribes that were present wrote down his words, and Aurelus seemed to grow with pride as the pieces of the tale which he did not have were finally put into place.

The King was silent, his hands placed on his chin as he listened earnestly. His eyebrows would rise on occasion with interest, and he would grunt at times, while laughing at others. The knights whispered amongst themselves, nodding with smiles and agreement as they compared Qualtan’s story to their own past and present exploits. At last, his throat dry, Qualtan completed the retelling of their adventure. He paused to bow, and stood unsure of what was to come next.

The King continued to smile at him, lost in his own thoughts for a time. “Ah, the tribulations of youth! I could share for days my own self-narration, of when I became a knight, but I fear you are weary enough and need no further burden as my own knights could attest.” The plated warriors laughed gently at the King’s self-reproach.

“You have presented yourself well. Your deeds are those of a true knight. You have showed me humility matched with courage, and the values that are essential for any knight to uphold: wisdom, charity, regard for those in need. I would say this to you as well, Glaive, your loyalty and devotion to this warrior gives you credit. Credit enough in my eyes, to feel you have paid the debt of your mistakes and learned your lessons well, wouldn’t you say?” the King said with a rather stern look that broke into another of his smiles. Glaive nodded, wishing he was anywhere else. To be forced to stand and be evaluated by kings, wizards, and knights, especially with his dirty laundry made bare, was nearly too much to take.

Glaive cleared his throat. “Yes, your majesty. I swore to stand by this noble knight for all that he’s done for me, and though I’m sure few of orcish blood have graced the presence of your hall as I do now, I stand now before all of you to state my word on that holds firm.” Glaive half bowed, heart pounding, hoping his words had been good enough.

“You are correct in stating none of orcne blood have stood before me here. You are a mixed sort, to be sure. The wars between orcne kind and our own are stated in historical fact and continue to this day. No orcne would dare stand before me here and expect his life would not be forfeit. And a thief? Well, such a rogue and scoundrel would be presented here in chains. The debauchery and treachery of the merchant lords of the Woodworm Ports are well known to us, as are the assassin and thievery guilds that are feared in those lands. The infection of those parts has ever tried to infiltrate Turinthia and our battles are constant to prevent them from ever gaining a foothold in these lands. I will not tolerate them here, ever.” The King stared at Glaive, challenging him with his eyes. Glaive nodded, a rage in his breast over this humiliation eager to explode.

“So what is his role to you, then, I wonder?” the King asked Qualtan directly. “We have no need for the skills of thieves in my court.”

Qualtan felt Glaive’s growing annoyance at his position in all of this. It was true, he had called Glaive his squire, and he had played the role as such, to appease the high elves. Yet it was unfair to name him again as such for in truth, he was not his servant. He was his friend, and despite their travails, he felt strongly in him. Because of his half-orcne nature, he had been willing to play along, but it seemed wrong to Qualtan to continue the affair.

“My lord, he is…” Before Qualtan could continue, Glaive took over, stepping forward, and bowing low once again.

“I am his squire, and his servant. I am beholden to him and will do all I can to support and serve him as a knight. This I will continue to do until he decides otherwise.” Glaive looked at Qualtan kindly, any look of resentment gone.

“Very well. Qualtan, I have one final question for you that I beg for your answer before I decide whether or not I accept your plea of knighthood.”

“Yes, my lord?” Qualtan replied.

“It’s a very simple question, but one that I have posed to all the assembled knights here. Some were elevated to their roles through the ranks of Turinthia’s soldiery for acts worthy to be called knight. Others came as you do, through petition. A knight is more than a man or woman who wields a sword; anyone can do that. As I’m sure your uncle has told you, and as your father showed in his service to our country and the Alliance, it takes the deepest of commitments and the noblest of souls. A knight represents the honor of his name and that of his King and Nation. So tell me truthfully…” The King paused as he repositioned himself in his throne. “…What have you learned in your journeys that warrants this?”

Qualtan did not have to think on the matter, for he already knew the answer to the question, the very same question he had been asking himself for some time now. “What have I learned?” he asked, walking about to face both the King and the listeners that sat by. “I have learned of manipulation, base thievery, and betrayal. Manipulation by those that asked for aide, yet held back darker truths to take advantage of me; thievery by those who used the false veneer of friendship with the intent to rob me. And I have learned betrayal by those who befriended me with the sole purpose of doing me harm. I have learned that all good is not as clear as I had originally thought, nor is the use of evil. I have learned that titles do not assume noble worth, but that deeds do. I have learned, my King, that all is not as it appears to be, and that mind, wit, and character are even more important in deciding courses of action than relying solely on force of arms. As my uncle had told me prior to my journey, a true knight, a true man of honor, listens to his own counsel with that of those given to him. He never follows blindly, regardless of who he serves, whether King or knight.” Qualtan paused, as those around him took in his words.

“These are the lessons I have learned. It is for you now, my lord, to decide if they have made me worthy enough to serve you.”

“So you would not blindly follow me as your lord and King?” King Prelance asked.

Qualtan looked at the ruler of the mightiest nation with sober eyes. “I would not.”

The knights mumbled uneasily, for devotion to one’s King was parallel, and this young warrior’s blunt declarations brought them discomfort. The King however, sat back, releasing the bird/spy of Aurelus, and brushing the crumbs of crackers from his lap. Pleased, he smiled at the knight-to-be.

“You have learned your lessons well. I wish for men and women of mind and might to serve me, not legions of parrots to copy my words. No good ruler or King is better served by such. Step forward.”

Qualtan, glancing briefly at his smiling uncle, approached the seat of power occupied by King Prelance. He knelt before him as the King rose, removing his own sword and placing it upon Qualtan’s right shoulder, and then his left.

“As lord and ruler of the nation of Turinthia, that office allowed me by the High Lord who rules us all, I impart upon you the honor of knight of the Order of the Bearded Lion. You shall forevermore serve your Lord, your people, and your King with the nobility and courage you have presented here today. Do any oppose this?”

The knights responded by rapping their knuckles on the benches before them in a show of approval.

“Then it is done. Rise, Sir Knight, and be welcomed with much love and grace into our fold.”

Qualtan rose, his heart full of excitement at the realization of his goal, as the King hugged him, kissing his cheeks. He turned to face Glaive who bowed, as did all the others. The knights stood, and roared their approval. The journey to become a knight had ended, and his journey as a knight had just begun.

Ceremonies followed to make his membership official. Qualtan was garbed in robes of white and fasted for one day and one night, purifying himself for the formal ritual of knighthood that was to take place. He was led by his sponsor, Aurelus, and his squire, Glaive, into a high chambered place of worship dedicated to the High Lord that was bathed in rainbow light by the multi-colored panes of glass that decorated its chiseled walls. Qualtan felt as if he was in a dream, for all of his fantasies of what this very day would be seemed to be coming true at last. The King and white-haired Lord Greythorne were present, as were all the knights of Turinthia that were able to attend. The high cleric of Tringolm blessed him, his face half-obscured by an overly high collar, and his armor and sword were re-presented to him. Now truly a knight of the Order of the Bearded Lion, Qualtan was escorted out through a row of knights that held swords aloft over his head as he passed. Celebrations were held afterwards, as Qualtan was introduced to his now brother and sister knights. As the knights danced throughout the night, Qualtan went to where Glaive stood, happily engaged with a great tankard of ale.

“Our fears seem to be over,” Qualtan said.

Glaive laughed, now free from worry. “You made it. Heh, WE made it through, and don’t seem to be looking to be going back to Hermstingle any time soon.”

“And Glaive, thief and Master Brother of the Company of the Dartful Hand, is now squire to a knight and member of the noble court of Tringolm, seat of the Alliance.”

“Who would have thought of it? I certainly did not. My life was meant to follow a narrow road, I thought, until I met you. I … am beholden for that.”

“You didn’t have to say you were my squire, you know.”

“Didn’t I, now?”

“You are no man’s servant.”

“And never will be! But I am your friend and if I need to title myself as squire in that position, I will do so. You already knew that, didn’t you?”

Qualtan grabbed Glaive’s arm and squeezed it affectionately. “I did. Friends and brothers we are, until the end!” Qualtan said, toasting his mug of ale with Glaive’s. As they laughed, one of the King’s advisors, who had attended Qualtan’s presentation to the King, slipped away from the revelry. He nodded and smiled to passersby in the maze of hallways he traversed until he reached his personal quarters. There he locked his door, and looked about the room for a time. Satisfied, he began to undress.

He began to chant softly, echoing words of magick as his body began to shrivel and blacken. He gasped, his eyes rolling, as he collapsed to the carpeted floor. Feathers sprouted on his shrinking form, and his mouth elongated to that of a shiny black beak. In his place was now a raven, which hopped with purpose towards a nearby open window. He flew towards it, perching as his avian eyes scanned about. Confident, it flew into the sky. The bird traveled for some time, floating on currents of wind, until it reached the back of a humble farming house, far away from the fortified walls and ramparts of Tringolm. It slipped through a small crack in the crumbling building and squeezed inside. The house was plain, with only an aging fireplace and makeshift chairs adorning its interior. Various rusty tools and implements lay hung on a spinning rack of metal that decorated the kitchen, its pantry long bare. The raven was now a man, and he flung himself onto a creaking chair to gasp for breath. Opening a cobwebbed trunk, he pulled free a robe and quickly covered himself. The advisor to the King removed additional supplies from the bottom of the trunk; chalk, a bag of sealed herbs, and a sharpened, feathered quill. In quick succession, he stoked a new fire, pinching the herbs into the flames, and drawing a circle before it in which he sat. Closing his eyes, he pricked his wrist with the sharpened quill, and squeezed his arm to draw forth blood. He loosened the droplets of red over the small fire and began to speak words in a different tongue.

The fire crackled, and soon began to change color from a yellow red to a blue-black.

“My lord and master! Praise to your power!” the advisor said, prostrating himself within the drawn circle.

A voice emanated from the dark flames, a deep voice that seemed to vibrate the very walls with its bass tone.

“Tell me what you have learned.”

The advisor nodded, and quickly retold the tale of the young warrior who had come to Turinthia, nephew to Aurelus and son to Eucradus, to become a knight. He told of his adventures, his travels and of his squire companion, the half-orcne Glaive. All this and more he said, until the flames began to flicker back to red.

“You have done your service well. Go now,” the voice said.

The advisor bowed multiple times, as the fire resumed its normal state. Like a dog happy for attention from its stern master, he giggled cheerfully at his success. He used a cloth to remove the circle and added water to deaden the fire. Carefully folding his robe, he placed it back along with the quill, herbs and chalk into the weather-beaten trunk. His form took that of a raven once more, and he flew back into the narrow crack to return home.

His satisfaction over his duty to his master was well placed, for in lands far beyond the Alliance and its rivalrous neighbors, a mighty fortress stood. A man sat alone in the highest tower of that fortress. He stared at the dying embers of a warming fire. He seemed a man as any other, until one saw close what the shadows hid. He wore black armor, etched with foul designs of evil magicks. The air seemed to warp and swirl about him, and the darting images of nameless things seemed to appear and reappear about him; a small gremlin face, a clicking insect-like leg, a slithering tentacle. His head was crowned, yet upon further examination his true form bore through. Beast-like antlers protruded from either side of his darkly curled hair and his inhuman forehead was plated, ribbed at its center. The massive neck that supported the heavy structure was hidden within a cowl of black. His face was bearded and his eyes glowed yellow with otherworldly design. The nose was thin, with sculptured cheeks and full lips, deceptively noble. Despite the ebbing fire and the heavy armor he wore, he seemed cool and relaxed. He wrapped his fingers together and smiled, revealing bright teeth and razor fangs. Two attendants stood by his side, their faces and forms hidden underneath cowls of black.

“So, the sword has returned, and is carried by the blood of my brothers’ jailors,” he said, an air of deadly menace about him. “The son of Eucradus, indeed. I will watch this stripling, and wait, until the time for our revenge draws near. He will pay for the deeds done by his bloodline to us. Yes, he will pay.” Thus spoke Darksiege, one of the surviving two of six, of Those That Stand in Shadow. He sat in the dark, nurtured by the absence of light, as he began to plan and plot.