Many hours later Qualtan awoke, finding himself locked within a tightly fitting cage suspended high above the cavern. Arms and legs trembling, he had to force them to work. His armor had long been removed. His drowsy eyes adjusted to his new surroundings. To one side swung another cell, a lone skeleton its sole occupant. Qualtan’s chest and back burned from the beatings the giant had given him. He grabbed hold of two metal bars and attempted to pull them apart. He growled half in frustration, half in pain as his eyes began to glow once more. With a final gasp he released them, realizing the effect of the bald man’s sword was far more reaching than he had thought. His strength had left him! He looked at his still shaking hands, dumbfounded. He savagely grabbed hold of the prison bars and tried again. The steel rods held. Weakened even from this exertion, he slumped to the side, breathing rapidly.

“You won’t break free that way, lad!” a voice jested.

Another cell hung close by, occupied by a prisoner. Qualtan hadn’t even noticed it, so intent was he on freeing himself. He turned towards the voice.

“That’s it, lad. You’ve been asleep for some time now, ever since they tossed you in! My name is Friete. I’m a merchant by trade. Are you all right?” Qualtan nodded dully. He looked at the man, his face scummed with dirt. His hair was astray, and his body was thinned.

“You’re a knight of Turinthia, you and your friends, is that right?”

Qualtan smiled back, weakly.

“You came to rescue us. A pity you failed,” Friete said sadly.

“Where do they come from?” Qualtan asked, pulling himself up.

“The Slth? Not from here. An evil place that only wizards would know,” the man said softly. “They come and go, never more than around fifty of them from what I’ve seen, there and back, taking prisoners away. They used up quite a bit of us digging up this place. They like the water here. Apparently it’s better than what they are used to back home, and there’s more of it here, besides!”

“What of the human that leads them?”

“Eh? He’s a Slth! He has powers over and beyond the others he leads. Likes wearing a mortal coat, especially when dealing with the outside, but he’s a goblin like the rest! I…”

A sudden yelp of pain drew Qualtan’s attention. Apparently, talking was not allowed. A long slender pole was shot into Friete’s cell, jabbing him in the side. Qualtan took note of the wooden platform near the very top of the ceiling where sat three of the Slth. There were pulleys and gears beside them that controlled the chains from which their cages hung. They could crank the cages close to their landing to empty, or fill and swing them back out. Racks of manacles stood behind them for additional use. For good measure, the Slth struck Friete a second time. The merchant gritted his teeth in pain, rolling into a ball. Qualtan lunged at the iron bars of his own prison, but failed again.

“Friete!” Qualtan yelled. The merchant nodded pitifully. Only when the three Slth removed themselves, probably for a break, did Friete dare to speak again. “They don’t like us speakin’.”

“Why do they keep us up here? Why separate us from the other prisoners?” Qualtan whispered.

“They put the troublemakers up here, to wear them down a bit. I was caught stealin’ food. Been up here for two days, no food and water. I’ll be here for a few days more as punishment. You’ll be kept up here for awhile too,” he said.

Qualtan pushed himself against the bars of his prison. “You said they come and go back to their home, taking the prisoners with them.”

The merchant nodded meekly. “It’s a sad thing, make no mistake.”

“Where? Where do they go?”

The merchant shrugged. “I don’t know, I told you that…”

“No, I mean how do they do it?”

“Ah. I see what you mean. They take them through the largest tunnel on the first floor. There!” he said, pointing to a tunnelway closest to the falling waters. A small sculpture of a Slth ornamented its top. “It’s big enough for them to take back supplies, captives, whatever they need. Once you go through there, you never come back. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks now. With the carving out of this den now complete, they don’t hold many here for long, I think, and it will be my turn soon.”

“The lead Slth, the one that wears a human face. He mentioned they had a partner, some benefactor, beyond the Mezzolankeans. Do you know who this is?”

The merchant slumped down in his cell. “I know nothing of that.”

“Have faith, Friete. There is always a way,” Qualtan said hopefully, sagging back against his cell. The words were said as much for Friete’s sake as for his own, he thought.

The man laughed. “What way is that? You are trapped here as are the rest. Whatever ship you came in, it’s best it leaves and never comes back. We are all doomed.”

Qualtan pondered their situation. If Visandus returned and they were not there, how often would he dare to come back before abandoning them, assuming the mission failed? Worse, what if they were to land and send others; they too would be easily captured or killed. And the “threat” the bald man had alluded to on their ship—what evil acts was it already preparing? Who was this mysterious benefactor that had personal interest in him, and would soon be collecting them? He needed to escape and escape quickly, but how? His strength was gone. Would it return in time? What if it didn’t—what if the Slth’s sword had siphoned out all of his magical ability, permanently?

All these thoughts and more assailed his mind. For a moment, Qualtan panicked, fearing the worst, but then he calmed his inner voice, unwilling to be overwhelmed by it. He attempted to reach out to his sword, not knowing where it was held or how it had been secured. He was unsure if he was too far for the sword to respond or too weak to reach it with his mind. He called for the Goldenflame, visualizing the sword in his mind, reaching out from within himself. After a few minutes of concentrated effort, Qualtan failed.

“I’m wasting my time. It’s too far,” he gasped. “It’s up to me. I have to do it.” The young warrior paused. He knew he had no choice now but to wait, and hope for his strength to return. Hope the magic of his uncle and the other Arch-Mages truly was more powerful that that of the Slth. “That, or a miracle,” he said to himself.

The days passed slowly. For five days, he was left in his cage bereft of food or water. The Slth would rein in his cage throughout the day to poke and abuse him with their long metal prods. All he could do was to curl tightly into a ball and absorb the punishment. What moisture he could get was taken from the drops of water that struck his prison from above, sliding down the iron bars that oppressed him. His tongue felt swollen, and his body was racked with pain. All he could do was to continue to test the metal rods that stood against him, focusing on one in particular. On the sixth day, Friete’s cage was pulled back and he was brutally yanked out and shackled by the awaiting Slth.

In the fog that was now his mind, Qualtan could hear his pleadings for mercy.

“They take me to my end, Sir Knight! Pray for me!” he wailed as the creatures dragged him away. Qualtan watched helplessly as a line of prisoners issued from the door holes below. They were of all sizes and age, from youth to elder, human to orcne. They were chained together by ankle and wrist. Qualtan strained to see if he could find the other knights or Glaive, but none were visible. Friete, still crying aloud, was attached to the rear of the group. They were coaxed forward into the large entrance marked by the Slth image the merchant had mentioned. Friete looked up towards Qualtan with a sad look on his face as they disappeared into that dark, cavernous mouth.

Qualtan cursed. He crawled about within the tight confines of his cage, dizzy with thirst and hunger, only to collapse once more, his legs unwilling to work. Tears welled in his eyes from the rage in his breast, unable to help anyone, least of all himself. He took to the iron bar he had been struggling against once more, but again could do nothing against it. The bar held firm. How much longer, he thought with growing panic. How much longer before his time ran out? He hung his head in misery.

“You’ve lost your playmate, little Kindling!” a familiar voice boomed. Qualtan looked over to the platform that controlled the cages. There stood Horga along with two other Slth. At his command, they reined his cage in, halting it at the very edge of the platform. The giant held bread in one hand, a bowl of water in the other.

“Treats for our caged pet.” He laughed, placing the items on a tray that was attached to a long pole. Horga took the pole and stretched it towards Qualtan’s cage, where the warrior took the offerings, gulping the water down with desperate need.

“A week more and you will be gone from here. They are on their way,” he smirked. “I will miss our battles together!”

“Our last match was no battle, unless you call striking down a weakened foe from behind a battle worth bragging about. Your…your honor has left you, giant,” Qualtan said weakly.

“Bah! Your words sting not!” the giant retorted, crossing his bulging arms.

“None…none of this matters to you. You serve otherworldly creatures that steal living beings, yet you stand there proudly.”

“As I said to you before, the games played between your Kind and that of others do not interest me, or any other giant. Your petty struggles mean little to me.”

“Like the Great War, which the giants did not include themselves with.”

“Bah, that old tale? It did not matter to us. Those battles took place far away from giants’ land. There was nothing of interest to it.”

“And what creatures come to ferry me?”

The giant’s eyes darted with slight embarrassment. “That I know not. I only serve the Mezzolankeans, and through them these stinking beasts,” he said, crinkling his nose at the Slth who stood around him.

Qualtan, weak as he was, gave Horga a look of disapproval.

“You are still an immature child of a giant, and a foolish one. You need to learn more about the world from which you seek to escape boredom.”

Horga’s eyes squinted with anger. “You call me a fool? You are no elder to speak to me thus! Have a care, little Kindling, else I teach you manners anew! We played a game, and you have lost it. Accept your fate as a knight, if that is what you truly are.”

Qualtan laughed, surprising the giant. “You think these beasts would not enslave your own Kind if given the chance? If they plan on some allegiance with others against the Alliance, do you think your people will be safe? Your race avoided the Great War out of fear, not disinterest, and now you serve creatures of equal worth. Think on that, Unus, and come visit me again when you have grown up!”

Qualtan had hoped to injure him, for the Unus, who likened themselves as giants, were despised by the true giants. Horga’s Kind felt the Unus were mongrel monsters unworthy of the title.

His ploy worked. The giant roared, smacking the cell with the long pole until it snapped in two, cursing Qualtan in the language of his elder race. He shoved two of the Slth out of his path as he walked away.

“Words. Nothing left to fight with but empty words,” Qualtan said sadly, looking at his hands once more, as he returned to his task of gripping the lone prison bar in an attempt to bend it. Giants were supposedly honorable creatures; disregarding of other races, it was true, but passing noble. Young and wild this giant was, but Qualtan thought he could reach through to that nobility. Attacking that nobility by bringing their great shame, their fear of Those That Stand in Shadow to the forefront, Qualtan was sure he would have been able to rattle him. Alas, that was not to be. Apparently, the studies Aurelus had given him on the topic had been wrong.

Still, Qualtan’s barbs did have some effect, although he could not see it. The giant stomped away, pushing Slth out of his way until he was a distance from the floating cages. Horga paused and looked back towards Qualtan. “Unus,” he said to himself.

* * * *

Visandus was worried. He had returned to the islet, but the knights had not appeared. He took a wide berth, circling the islands, avoiding passing warships, but to no avail. “They are in trouble. They must be,” Visandus said to his first mate as he viewed the island through his telescope.

“Perhaps we should send some of the soldiers on a boat?” the first mate offered.

“No. If they have fallen amiss, I will not add more men to the body count. I may be wrong. We will have to wait.”

“For how long? We risk capture at every turn round these isles!” the first mate said.

“I know. We shall continue as we have for now. Go tell the men!”

“Your final word?”

Visandus removed his telescope and gave a stern look to his first mate. “My final word.”

Bowing with reluctance, the sailor left his captain’s side.

The spy that was now Boreson observed their conversation, having completed his assignment of mopping the deck. Suddenly, he began to breathe quickly and he groped at his throat. He rushed into the inner folds of the ship, hiding behind a stack of barrels. He grabbed at his face as the skin began to stretch and pull of its own accord. His features began to change, as the false lips disappeared and returned his original mouth. His eyes began to glow brightly. Growling, he struggled against the transformation. The face of Boreson returned. The spy gasped. He needed a new body, for his stolen form was not a permanent one and was soon to expire. Moving quickly, he exited into the ship’s main corridors, searching for prey. He found a lone sailor, cleaning down the sides of the hallway. He motioned for the sailor.

“Quick! I need your help!”

“Eh? What?” the sailor replied, busily scrubbing with rags and soapy water.

“Quickly! This will only take but a moment!”

“It better, or else I’ll be skinned for sure, leaving this mess about!” the sailor said, dropping his rags into a wooden container. The spy was fast. A knife flashed, a gasp was muffled with a clawed hand, and a body fell. Dragging the dead man into a dark corner, the spy took on the appearance of the fallen sailor. He took the shriveled remains and opened a portal, hoping to throw his victim overboard, when a squad of men approached. Cursing his luck, the spy had no choice but to stuff the body into an empty barrel, moments before the men discovered him.

“Earl! It is you! We thought we heard noises! You left your tools in the hall!” one of the men said.

“That…was me. It was nothing. I merely tripped and fell,” he responded nervously.

The men laughed. “It’s that hidden ale of yours that’s making you fall! Come, we have work upstairs to finish up!” Earl laughed, joining the others as they patted him on the back. He would have to return quickly to remove the body before anyone took notice.

* * * *

A day passed. Qualtan sat in his cage, the stench of his own filth and sweat clinging to him like a second skin. His hands trembled no more, yet he still felt weak. He knew he was running out of time, yet forced himself to have patience. Testing himself as he had each day, his mind half lost to exhaustion and lack of water, he again took hold of the one lone iron bar that had become the world to his focus. Almost nonchalantly, he wrapped his dirt-encrusted hands around its form, and squeezed. Before he was about to release it in defeat, it gave way. The metal had been pushed inwards. Qualtan paused, releasing it in surprise. He was unsure if he was merely dreaming or if it had actually happened. With a desperate gaze, he inspected the sides of the bar, now gently twisted. The bar was still firmly held, but there was no doubt; he had damaged it. He smiled, giggling like one who had gone mad, looking at the bar, and then to his hands. Again, tears swelled in his eyes, but this time they were tears of elation.

Then, an event occurred. On the eighth day of his imprisonment, a new slaver ship was nearing the island’s port, and the bald man appeared below, briefly looking upwards to Qualtan’s cell.

“Human! We have treated you well, have we not?” the bald man teased, laughing at his captive. “A ship arrives to bring you some new friends. You will have but a short time to know them, for another ship that soon follows will be yours. Hah hah!” At his command, twenty of the Slth appeared, forming two rows of slavering guards. They carried chains and manacles clumsily in their large taloned hands, dragging them as they accompanied the bald man to meet the ship. The defense of the cave was now halved.

“Either we escape now or die,” Qualtan said to himself. Dragging himself to the side of the cage, while keeping a watchful eye on the three Slth that sat on the nearby platform, he grabbed the door of his cage. Again, the sound of the tumbling water covered his actions. He twisted and pulled, his eyes at last returning to their former glow of inner eldritch rage, as his face contorted into straining fury. “Come on, damn you, come on!” he said, demanding from himself a return of his strength.

At last, the bars began to bend. They creaked and they twisted. He gritted his teeth, hiding his need to yell from the effort as the door popped free! He immediately took hold of it, slumping to the bottom of his cage, dizzy with success. He looked behind him. The sound of the metal snapping had been well concealed by the waterfalls. He lay for a moment, his arms in stinging agony, his stomach in knots, attempting to regain his strength. Forcing himself to rise, he crept to the door, peering downwards, and then upwards. He climbed outside and closed the door. The three Slth, intent in their conversations, did not see the Human-Kind reach the top of the cage, nor see him leap onto the grill-like tracks on the ceiling above that fed the many chains. Just then, the Slth took notice of a clanging noise. They clambered to the edge of the platform but saw nothing amiss. From their viewing distance, a pile of rags covered with hay showed the human prisoner was huddled in sleep. They did not see the human who pulled himself, crablike, along the chains and beams above them, lost in the darkness. His feet and hands were firmly held, and he opened his mouth wide, exulting in the water that rained down on his face and body, helping to cleanse him. Fearfully, he dared to look below, hundreds of feet down, where the occasional Slth would scamper by. None looked up to see him. The tracks and chains were slippery, but he lay close to them, ignoring all else. One of the Slth left the trio, disappearing into the corridor behind them. As Qualtan climbed down, the two Slth took no notice of him. They did not see his quick descent towards them, nor hear the slight chiming of manacled chains that were stolen from their resting place nearby. When the chains came crashing onto one of the Slth’s heads, the other had little time to respond before the same chains slammed it to the ground. It struggled to rise, but Qualtan took hold of one chain and wrapped it around the creature’s neck, silencing the beast.

Rising, he stumbled and fell again as his burst of energy left him. But he knew there was no time to rest. He staggered into the corridor as the other Slth returned. It did not see him, crouching in the shadows, until a metal chain whipped at its overly sized feet. It fell and before it could rise, Qualtan battered its head with the chain again and again, until it moved no more. He quickly made his way toward the corridor that led to the bald man’s office. In his daze, he nearly walked right into another Slth, but was able to hide in time as it paused, sniffing the air, and then continued on its way. The door was locked, but with his newly returned strength he was able to shove himself through, closing it quickly behind him.

Qualtan fell to his knees, exhausted. He grabbed the Slth’s decanter of wine and spilled it over his face, eager for any liquid. He looked about, knocking over tables, looking for his sword. It had to be here, he thought. Surely, the bald man would keep the prized weapon of his special captive close by. Pausing, Qualtan calmed himself. Reaching out with his hand, he closed his eyes, and called his sword. A sudden bumping answered him. A metal block with strange markings hopped into view. It seemed to have no levers or latches, merely a sealed, solid square. He extended his arm towards it, and the blade responded. The case began to smoke, and an image of the sword appeared on its face. With a sudden wrenching, the sword, glowing red hot, melted through, flying through the air to reach Qualtan’s hand, where it immediately cooled. The knight held the sword firmly, relishing its weight. Reaching the bald man’s desk, Qualtan tore through his drawers.

“There has to be something…anything!” he said, poring through the papers he found. They were written in a language he could not understand. Qualtan rifled through the pages as quickly as he could, desperate for any hint or clue that could shed light on their current dilemma. He knew the bald man and the others would be returning and he had yet to free his friends. His heart pounded from his abused condition. His eyes darted constantly from the office door to the many notes and forms in his hands. It did not take long. He discovered a thin box set beneath piles of pages with inventories of Kind and gender. The box was locked by bolts on each corner. Qualtan tore it free. Within lay torn scrolls, faded and blackened, but the wax mark upon them was unmistakable, even to Qualtan’s eyes. There, in melted red, was the symbol of six small skulls in a circle of snakes.

“The sign of Those That Stand in Shadow,” Qualtan whispered, frozen by the sight. He had been taught well by Aurelus during his youth, and there were few indeed that did not know that dreadful sign. His heart raced. The slave trade went deeper than even Mezzolanke. The Dark Ones were behind it as well, and one of their members was most assuredly the “benefactor” to which the bald man had alluded that was coming for him and the others. How long had their vile touch been extending, after taking root within a nearby Turinthian rival, ever closer towards the Alliance? How could Mezzolanke dare to deal with them? Out of greed, or perhaps fear? This was deadly news. Qualtan looked about, and finding a loose cowl on a brass hook, threw the pages into it, tying the ends of the cape into tight knots and slinging the garment around his shoulder.

Qualtan left the room, closing the door behind him. Trekking out into the hallway, he made his way towards the tunnel through which the knights and Glaive had originally been herded. Again a group of Slth loped by, and again, Qualtan flattened himself against the dark curvings of the corridor walls. He moved swiftly now, deeper and deeper into that dark abyss, until he found another Slth loitering just before him. Qualtan charged. The creature, unsure of the shadowy form rushing towards it, cocked its head with curiosity. It soon realized the danger and hissed menacingly, but not before a club of wrapped chain smacked its head, knocking it senseless to the floor. Three Slth stood guard, keeping watch on the prisoners located in this place. They carried whips and keys, slamming their fists against the walls to shock and intimidate their helpless captives. Suddenly they stood still, sensing danger. Before them in the gloom, two eyes burned red and the rattling of chains sounded. They immediately lumbered forward to challenge the visitor. That was their first and last mistake. Qualtan’s sword suddenly exploded with light, blinding them. They paused, unable to see. One fell as chains smashed its head. Another Slth struck out wildly with its claws, hitting nothing but air. Qualtan dove beneath it, striking his sword into the Slth’s rubbery underbelly. It staggered forward and was down. The third Slth unraveled its whip and shot the tassels into the dark. Qualtan took hold of the stinging barbs, pulling the beast in, and found the Slth’s throat with his sword.

With a gurgle it fell, arousing prisoners from their dull lethargy. The knights had been held in separate cells. They rushed toward their individual prison doors, trying to see what had happened.

“What is it? Who is there?!” Euric called out. When Qualtan appeared, even Euric took a step back at the knight’s wild appearance, his burning eyes, and his ragged look.

“Are you all right? All of you?” Qualtan asked.

“Yes, yes!” Glaive said, peering out from his own cell. “What of you? What is happening out there?”

Qualtan opened the cells using the Slth’s keys. “The Slth that wears the face of a man left with a contingent of his Kind. I have just broken into his chamber to retrieve my sword. The Dark Ones are behind this, allied with the Slth and the Mezzolanke!”

“By the High Lord! Are you sure?” Bartholomew asked.

“I found their mark upon the papers I have taken. Quickly! They may already be on their way. We must free the others at once.”

“They took our weapons and locked them down there,” Richard said as he rose from his seat atop a pile of rags. “They have stored tools for digging and maintaining these tunnels, along with the property of these other poor souls.”

Glaive took Qualtan’s shoulder with concern. “You look as bad as I feel.”

Qualtan smiled, his eyes straining for rest. “I have had little food and water these past days.”

“They have taken better care of us. I guess we didn’t warrant enough trouble to get the attention you got,” Euric said.

“Quickly, this way!” Richard said.

“If what you say is true, this puts their threat at a higher level. We must get this information back to the King. How many Slth are left?” Bartholomew asked as they reached a bolted door. He took the keys from Qualtan’s hands and began testing them on the padded locks.

“Enough,” Qualtan said, sagging against a wall. Glaive quickly propped him against his shoulder. “Twenty left with their leader. Another prisoner that was taken away said he had numbered their lot around fifty, yet the news grows worse. The Slth leader said there is a spy aboard our ship. That is how they knew of us. Visandus must be warned.”

“You are too weak to fight,” Glaive said with the softness he was oftentimes reluctant to show.

“I’ll fight, never you mind.”

The door was opened, and the knights quickly reclaimed their belongings, as well as the weapons and tools held for the other captives. Qualtan’s own armor lay there, and he was grateful for its return.

“They take their prisoners through a specially marked tunnel—back to their world somewhere,” Qualtan added.

“That leaves thirty or so of the creatures,” Jesepha said, slapping on her short swords to each of her legs.

“Twenty-three,” Qualtan corrected, and they all smiled.

“And the giant,” Euric added.

“If we are quick enough and fierce enough, we can counter the Slth still stationed here. We will need the help of the other prisoners to escape from this place. When the others return, it will become difficult,” Qualtan said.

“Then you are in charge,” Bartholomew said, smiling broadly. “Lead us then!”

Qualtan nodded, appreciating his gesture of trust.

The knights opened cell door after cell door, freeing the other occupants. Weapons were passed out to those who had originally carried them, as well as pickaxes, shovels, hammers, mallets, and other instruments that had been imposed upon the slaves. Cries of relief and righteous anger rang in the air. The prisoners were strong enough, for they had been fed well, intended for labor. But any who had dared to dispute their treatment or demand release had been quickly whipped or punished into silence. There was no lack of assistance to the knights’ requests, whether from human or hobgoblin. Outside the corridor, two pairs of Slth heard the growing noise. Unsure of what was taking place, they entered the passageway. They paused when they saw one of their own lying still on the cavern floor. Before they could react, a rumbling sound reverberated throughout the length of the corridor. They looked up and suddenly beheld a rushing force of erstwhile prisoners coming their way.

Three of the Slth were immediately enveloped by the horde. The fourth escaped back to the main floor of the cave, bellowing out croaking calls of warning before its throat was made a pincushion by the bolts fired from Glaive’s wrist gauntlet.

“Nineteen!” cried Jesepha, jumping over the dead Slth.

The knights and other escapees converged around the great center pillar. In response to the sentry’s cry, a tide of Slth appeared from the other corridors. They pointed and growled with horror at the sight of their escaping prey.

“Richard, lead a group into the other corridors on this level and free the prisoners there as well! Do not enter the largest one marked with their sign! Bartholomew and Jesepha, continue to the second floor! Converge back here when you are done. Euric, stay with me,” Qualtan said.

“What of them?!” Richard said with some doubt as a line of Slth scampered forward, a rolling mass of teeth and claw.

Qualtan ran to the lower hanging cages that hovered only a few feet off the floor. Grabbing one, he swung it at the approaching Slth, scattering them like tenpins.

His question answered, Richard nodded with some awe at Qualtan’s display of raw strength and quickly led his contingent of escaped slaves into the other corridors.

Glaive removed a sword as he stood by Qualtan.

“Go with the others!” Qualtan ordered.

“Fiddlesticks! I’m not leaving you here to face these stinkies alone!”

Three of the Slth that Qualtan had struck lay unmoving. The six that remained approached cautiously, respectful of their opponent’s power. Euric immediately engaged one, aided by a few ex-prisoners.

One of the Slth bounded past them in the hopes of reaching the cavern entrance to escape and warn his fellows. Glaive followed the movement, launching his wrist bolts yet again. They caught the creature’s ankles and it fell before it could reach its destination. Roaring, it turned around as Glaive approached. He continued to fire at the beast as it started to move towards him. He struck the Slth’s stomach, chest, and face until it nearly reached the half-orcne. It raised a heavy claw to strike before it fell over with a loud thud. Glaive clicked his wrist gauntlet a final time, drawing an empty cartridge.

“Well, that was close,” Glaive said to Qualtan as he quickly reloaded.

“Just keep yourself alive, will you?” Qualtan retorted as he battled the four remaining Slth. They were strong, but not as strong as he, and they were slow, being used to relying on their fearsome appearance and large teeth, rather than having to actually engage in combat against smaller, more agile opponents.

“Watch out for the left. Now, the right!” Glaive warned from his position away from the fight as the creatures ganged up on Qualtan.

“You are not helping!” Qualtan gasped back as he punched and hacked at his opponents. One of the Slth came around and grabbed him from behind, attempting to pin his sword arm down.

“Oh, for the love of Urgsh, must I do everything?” Glaive casually walked up behind the Slth as it struggled to hold Qualtan. Reloading his wristbow, Glaive raised his arm, sending a volley of bolts into the Slth’s posterior. It yelped like a dog whose tail had been pulled. The Slth released Qualtan, allowing him to strike back, kicking the beast away.

Richard freed the prisoners his group found as they fought their way through the Slth in an attempt to return to the main floor. The group led by Bartholomew and Jesepha succeeded in breaching the stairwell. The two knights became pinned against the Slth that lunged at them with their scimitar-like claws.

Qualtan could see their dilemma, but was hard pressed against the Slth as others joined in, seeing the battle against him as the most pivotal. Suddenly Richard came to his aid, yelling at the top of his voice with a crowd of prisoners behind him. Joining Euric, they circled the defending Slth, hemming them in with swords, tools, and even fists. With his opponents now occupied, Qualtan leapt atop a hanging cage, and then another, making his way up towards the second landing.

“Watch the front door, Glaive!” Qualtan cried out. Glaive saluted, following his command.

Qualtan steadied himself on an empty cage that swayed closest to the walkway and jumped across. He smashed his way onto the three Slth that had held their place against Bartholomew and Jesepha, as well as the prisoners behind them. All four of them struck the side of the walkway hard, causing the side of the cave to rumble with the impact. Two Slth crumpled to the floor, unable to fight, while the third fought back savagely. Its claws managed to pierce through Qualtan’s armored shoulder piece and into his right shoulder. He winced in pain, falling back. The Slth advanced as Qualtan fell, but his involvement gave the others time enough to act. A mob of prisoners grabbed for the Slth’s legs. It stumbled, swaying, as it tore into this new threat. It ripped two of its attackers from its heavily plated knees, until Bartholomew attacked, running atop the backs of the angry prisoners to reach the Slth’s face. He struck at its neck, biting deep with his sword. The creature’s head bobbed to one side, and then the rest of the mob heaved it over the side of the walkway, causing it to bounce and crash to the floor below.

Qualtan slammed his sword arm in anger and pain against the wall. Long trails of blood trickled past his hand.

“Qualtan, you must rest! You have done too much,” Jesepha said tenderly, touching his injured arm.

“We must hurry back below and help the others!” Bartholomew said.

Suddenly a roar of challenge echoed in the cavern. Above them, atop the wooden platform, stood the giant Horga and three remaining Slth who cowered behind his great bulk.

“I will take care of this,” Qualtan said.

“You are too weak and injured! To battle him thus is madness!” Jesepha said.

“No one else can. I must do this!” Qualtan implored. “Hurry!”

“I do not envy you this,” Jesepha said, kissing him on the cheek.

Bartholomew put a hand to Qualtan’s neck, squeezing it affectionately. “You gamble on your strength to survive. I hope you are correct,” he said sadly. Qualtan removed his roughly made sack with the paperwork he had taken and pressed it against him.

“Not solely on my strength. Go. Remember to warn Visandus!” Qualtan said. He pulled one scroll free from the satchel he passed to Bartholomew.

“Come, little Kindling! I’m waiting for you!” the giant said.

Qualtan moved closer, passing through one of the bridges that connected both sides of the inner cavern, taking in the pressure of the waterfall that spilled from above to cleanse his arm and snap his faculties awake.

He took the tunnel that led to the platform above. The giant nodded, and three remaining Slth withdrew from his side to confront the knight.

Outside, the bald man led his expedition back towards the cave. The Slth carried a fair number of captives, their hands and feet bound to long poles which they balanced on their shoulders, carrying the new slaves like hung meat. The tally of prisoners was good indeed, and the bald man was eager to send them to their purpose. Suddenly, he stopped as the sound of rushing water from the cave was mixed with something else. He could hear the sound of battle. His mouth gaped, and he motioned for the Slth to move quickly. At the cave entrance he saw what was taking place. His expression turned into one of extreme anger.

“No. No!”

Calling out in the Slth tongue, he ordered his brethren to drop their captives and assist their comrades in the cave.

“They return!” Glaive said, pointing to the entrance of the cave. Mumbling to himself fearfully, he quickly skirted off to one side as the torrent of Slth rushed in.

The main battle was taking place on the first floor as Bartholomew and Jesepha had joined the others massing around the few remaining Slth who yet stood. As they fell, the knights and their allies turned to face the new Slth horde, howling and growling as they surged into the cave. The bald man, aghast at the scene, removed his black blade, fighting his way through. Suddenly Bartholomew appeared before him, his magical shield in hand.

“You can go no further, butcher,” he said to the bald man, who sneered and attacked.

As Qualtan entered a tunnel towards the upper landing, the three Slth readied their attack. One brazenly stampeded in his direction, hoping to frighten its foe in the same manner as their prisoners. Seeing the warrior carried a wounded arm only added to the Slth’s confidence. However, the Slth did not understand the human’s weapon, or its potency. A burst of starlight flashed from the human’s sword, igniting the entire corridor with its brilliance. The Slth shrieked in pain, closing its eyes and raising its claws to ward off the sudden brightness. When it opened its eyes again, the warrior stood before it. His sword bounced off the Slth’s savage claws, and quickly took the beast down.

The other two lay in wait, clutching a long net between them. At his approach, they rushed him as one, attempting to trap him quickly. His sword brought forth a magical shield that frustrated their plans. The net hit the shield and bounced back, enmeshing one of the Slth with his portion of the net. He tripped and fell. The second one’s claws sunk into the back of the human’s armor, knocking him to the ground. The Slth pounced on him, thinking his weight and power would easily overwhelm the lone human. Yet his strength was too much for the Slth. He easily shed the creature off his back and punched it squarely in its left eye with the hilt of his blade. The pain was too great and the creature, yelping loudly, ran back towards the end of the corridor. The other Slth clawed its way free from the net. Again Qualtan rolled out of its attack, striking its legs. It buckled, and with a quick movement, Qualtan grabbed hold of one of its arms and tossed it down the tunnel.

Qualtan approached the end of the passageway, leading him to the wooden platform from which the hanging cells were managed. The giant smiled, waiting for him. He stepped back, giving Qualtan room to enter the stage.

“You’ve made a mess of things, little warrior,” the giant grinned. “Quite a mess indeed! Seems a giant cannot trust any magic except for his own.” He placed a large metal harness over his head and shoulders. A spiked visor slid over his face. Grunting with satisfaction, he withdrew a large battle mallet of black metal, peppered with studs of steel.

“This time, no falling boxes will stop our fight,” he said, testing the mallet with great swings.

The Slth that had fled Qualtan grabbed hold of the giant’s leg, quaking behind him as Qualtan moved in. Irritated by the Slth, the giant took hold of the creature by the back of its neck like some unruly dog. Squealing in pain, the creature was lifted high above and tossed over the landing into the cloud of fighting down below.

“Worthless coward!” he spat towards it.

Qualtan slowly circled.

“You are kind to your allies,” Qualtan said.

“Bah! They have kept me amused enough.”

“Why don’t you go downstairs and help stem the tide that will defeat your friends?”

“Why should I care? They are nothing to me.”

“Your Slth master will be upset.”

At this the giant, his face nearly hidden behind a thick metal grille, puffed with anger.

“He is not my master. I serve at my own whim.”

“Look at you!” Qualtan said as they continued to circle. “You wear metal to hide your toes and to cover your balding head. Are you so afraid?”

“Hah! Impress with words when you cannot do so by strength of arms. You are bleeding, you are tired. I owe you, Kindling, for your insults to me and my race from before. I will enjoy this, our final match.”

He swung at Qualtan. Qualtan’s sword met the blow, displacing it with a large shower of sparks. As it was, the impact was still enough to force Qualtan to his knees. He rose again, but slowly.

“This is more like it!” the giant said. He swung a second time. Again, Qualtan deflected the blow, but again, the force behind it dropped him to his feet. The giant’s blow continued on, crumpling a metal support. It rocked the entire platform. The beams that had been thrust into the cavern wall creaked and swayed with the impact.

Qualtan advanced, trying to push his own offensive. He struck out with this sword, but the mallet met him each time. Pieces of metal flew from where his sword bit, but it was not enough. The blows the giant gave back kept him unbalanced, and a strong kick to his chest sent him nearly off the side of the platform. He righted himself carefully, and just in time, as the giant’s deadly weapon came smashing down to where he had lain just a moment before, again doing great damage to the platform they battled atop. Qualtan’s strength was ebbing away and he longed for rest. His legs began to tremble, and his sword-arm grew heavy.

The giant continued his advantage. He positioned Qualtan at the very edge of the landing and rained down his mallet again and again. Qualtan brought forth his enchanted shield, unable to fight back. Again he fell to one knee as the impact from the blows pushed him ever backwards. The beams began to splinter and crack beneath his feet.

“I’ll bury you like a nail in rotted wood!” the giant said, but when he struck again, Qualtan angled his position. The mallet bounced off the magic shield, hitting the platform floor with a loud boom. Qualtan raised his sword, calling its energies to him and striking the giant’s weapon, hewing the head of the mallet in half. The giant paused in shock to stare at his weapon, for it was made of metal, not wood or stone. The blow unbalanced the giant, giving Qualtan an opportunity to swoop back from his initial attack, hitting the giant’s protective faceplate with a flurry of smoke and shrapnel. The giant reeled back, instinctively reaching for his face. He stumbled and fell. Qualtan would have pressed, but he was too tired, his body too wracked with pain. He could not continue. The giant’s hands gently padded the hot broken metal that lined his head, searching for any sign of harm but finding none. The blade had not struck deep enough. Horga breathed a sigh of relief.

“A fine pose to take, servant of evil, lying on your back,” Qualtan gasped.

“More jests, Kindling? Your barbs grow as weak as you do,” the giant said, attempting to lift himself.

“How else to treat one who serves the cause of evil! You would serve the Dark Ones themselves if you could!”

“Hah! Again you attempt to injure me with talk of your wars! They knew of our power and dared not to enter our lands! We would have crushed them as easily as I will crush you!” The giant rose, unsteadily, to his feet. Qualtan’s blow had twisted the giant’s helmet to one side, obscuring his vision. Horga grabbed and attempted to rearrange it.

“And yet you would serve their cause—an enemy to your own people.”

“Your words are pathetic!”

Qualtan played out his final option.

“But you do. The sponsor of these other worldly creatures is a Dark One, and you didn’t even know!”

“I tire of your noise.” The giant readied another charge, but as he began to move forward, Qualtan hurled a wrapped scroll at his armored feet.

“See for yourself.”

The giant paused, unsure of Qualtan’s game. Qualtan made no movement towards the giant. In fact, he moved closer to one side of the platform’s edge where it had become weakened during their battle. He leaned unsteadily on his sword. The beams teetered and sagged, unable to bear the weight upon them. The giant picked up the scroll, keeping a watchful, beady eye on Qualtan while he did.

“I took that out of your master’s very room. It is written in the tongue of the Dark Ones, so you know that I do not lie. Look at the seal mark. Look at it!” Qualtan yelled.

The giant squinted at the skulled image, his face both angered and confused.

“Under your very nose,” Qualtan added. The beams beneath his feet gave way slightly, bending downwards.

As full realization dawned on the giant, he looked below at the raging conflict.

Qualtan began to laugh, egging the giant into deeper fury.

“An ignorant giant indeed! When your kin learn of this, they will never allow you back!”

The giant roared, his face beet red. “This is a lie. A lie!” He threw the scrollwork away and hurtled towards Qualtan. All reason was gone, replaced by blind fury.

Qualtan waited until Horga was nearly upon him. The giant crashed his mallet down as Qualtan dived to one side for safety. The platform crumbled, shattering under the weapon. The giant plummeted, bellowing with such intensity his voice could be heard over the clash of fighting throughout the cave. Some of the combatants stopped, turning to see the giant’s falling body crashing through one bridge, and then another, disappearing into the wide crevice fed by the waterfalls.

Qualtan, dangling for his life from a beam that had splintered, crawled back to safety. He saw the conflict below, and could see the ex-prisoners failing against the Slth. They were too strong. Too many were falling from those they had come to protect. What else could they do? He looked about, hoping to find something, anything, to assist in the melee, and then sudden realization struck him, and he smiled. He stared upwards, seeing the final solution to their battle. He started to climb onto the rocky wall itself, heading towards the dam-like plug which metered out the torrents of water that rushed from above.

The bald man was engaged with Bartholomew when he heard the giant’s cry and saw his plummet. He then saw what Qualtan was doing, and his eyes widened with panic. Bartholomew, seeing his opponent’s change of attention, thought he could take his foe unawares, but the bald man narrowly avoided his sword thrust, returning to their contest. He slammed his sword against the knight’s magic shield, unable to do it harm.

“You are not the threat!” the bald man said. He grabbed hold of one side of Bartholomew’s shield, and using previously undisplayed strength, lifted him up like a child’s toy, flinging him into a tangled body of Slth and ex-prisoners. Fighting his way through the crowded conditions, the bald man jumped atop one of the hanging cages, and similar to Qualtan’s prior path, quickly reached the second floor of the cave.

“Stop!” he commanded, but if Qualtan could hear him, he did no such thing. Like some agile insect, the bald man jumped from the second floor walkway onto the very wall of rock from which the waterfalls bled. He began to climb towards the ruined platform atop the cavern complex, moving with inhuman speed.

Qualtan struggled against himself. His mind nearly turned blank, and he felt he would faint, but he pushed forward, climbing towards the plug.

“Stop!” the bald man growled, closing the distance quickly. Qualtan looked down numbly, seeing his approach.

“This is the only way out,” he gasped to himself, hoping the others would survive. He reached the seal, wood buttressed with iron poles and metal bolts. He began to push against them, bending them loose.

The captives and knights were surrounded by the Slth. They were losing ground, and many had already given up.

“We will not survive this!” Euric said, unable to continue the fight. Bartholomew looked back at his comrade, his own hope fading.

Glaive sat, somewhat leisurely, behind a tumble of rock. He continually aimed his gauntlet, shooting at the Slth who passed his presence. “One, two, three…” he intoned as the Slth would stumble from his attacks, becoming easier targets for the other fighters to press against. His weapon stopped firing, and he cursed, for he had no more bolts to arm himself with. “Damn the luck! Guess I’ll have to use my sword.”

As he fidgeted, a Slth stalked closer. “Where did I drop the thing?” Glaive said aloud. The Slth’s face suddenly appeared between the rocks and debris Glaive had sat behind. It roared with tremendous force, but Glaive merely removed one of the bludgeons from his arms and struck the Slth on the nose. It cried out in surprised pain, grabbing hold of its bleeding muzzle and then took off running.

“Ah, there it is!” Glaive said, as if the brief appearance of the Slth had been little more than a slight nuisance. Smiling to himself, he rose, patting the dust off his pants. His smile was quickly replaced with a drop-jawed look of horror, as a raking and tearing of metal echoed throughout the complex. A tremor began, and the fighters, both Slth and non, took notice. High above, the plug Qualtan had been wrestling with began to give way. A burst of additional liquid force came shooting out as the pent up water began to free itself. The bald man was staggered, fighting against the torrent, desperately trying to reach Qualtan. The knight, groaning with pain and effort, at last twisted free a major part of the plug. The Slth and their opponents froze as one. With a great wrenching noise, the wall from which the waterfalls streamed from tore loose, unleashing a vast wave of water. The bald man held tightly upon a rocky perch, but could no longer hold himself against the pressure that struck him. He was thrown off the wall by the force of the water. All fighting ceased as the bottom of the complex became a riot of jostling and shoving. Stone debris began raining down on them as the great support pillar of wood shuddered. Its supporting beamwork was dislodged by the push of the water and it lurched. High above, pulleys snapped free and cages came crashing down to the floor. Qualtan was battered by rock and water, trying to climb down. The corridor to safety that the destroyed wooden platform connected to was buffeted by stone and he could not reach it. The knights led the captives out of the cave, while the Slth went deeper in, making their way for the large doorway that led to their home. Many were swept away by the surging waters to be either crushed by rolling boulders or smashed by falling cages.

Qualtan was suddenly hit by a rapid jet of water and was forced off the wall, luckily landing on an outcrop of rock below. Pieces of the ceiling began to sunder, exploding into the cavern. Qualtan could see the majority of the captives had escaped, running wildly towards the open mouth of the cave, an opening that was soon cut off by tumbling rocks. The wooden pillar that held the ceiling at last gave way, and with a sad groan, tore loose. The bald man had survived his fall, as the pooling waters had buffeted his descent. Peering up at the approaching doom, he dove back under the water with the few remaining Slth towards hopeful escape. Qualtan, seeing that the ceiling was about to collapse, knew there was no time to reach the cavern floor and then race to the mouth of the cave. There would be even less time beyond that to fight his way through the growing pile of debris that blocked it. He knew there was only one avenue to escape, though he knew not what would become of him if he took it. He leapt from his perch, diving into the waters below as the cave’s roof fell. Many minutes would pass before the roar of the water and the collapsing of the ceiling would relent. Eventually, there was silence. As the chaos subsided, no one was there to see a strange mist waft up from the flooded, earthen crack into which the waterfalls had previously poured…

Outside of the cave, the escapees watched as the stone peak fell in upon itself. Freeing the prisoners the Slth had left outside, the knights and their allies quickly gave themselves some distance from the crackling stone pile.

“Qualtan! What of Qualtan?!” Glaive asked. He looked for any sign of his friend as water spewed from the clogged cave opening, filling the surrounding area.

“He is gone!” Richard said as they continued to flee.

“No! He could have survived this! He has giant’s strength! He may need help!” Glaive stopped, turning to go back.

Bartholomew reached out to him. “What could you do, friend Glaive? You cannot lift massive rock. Look! The doorway to the cave is already blocked with earth and stone.”

“He could have survived this!” Glaive implored, straining his vision.

“We must go! We must board everyone on the ship! There are warships about, we cannot delay,” Bartholomew said.

“No!” Glaive said, taking a few halted steps back towards the cave. The debris pressed against its mouth had sealed it shut. “I wont abandon him!”

“Glaive,” Bartholomew said gently. Glaive looked at him, an angry rage upon the half-orcne’s face, but when he saw the pain and loss in the knight’s own eyes, he relented at last.

“You abandon his sacrifice if you stay. There were other avenues of escape, which the Slth pursued. Perhaps he fled with them.”

“To where?! Some vile land where the Slth roam freely? He was wounded enough as it was! How will he endure that? How will he find his way back home?”

“If you have faith in your friend, he will find a way. Come, follow his wish, Glaive. We must go.”

Glaive struggled with himself. The irony that the warrior he once attempted to steal from, thinking him sent by his erstwhile employer Lord Thule, would become such a treasured friend was not lost upon him. Were those tears that welled up in his eyes? Glaive would never admit it. He was a half-orcne, a thief, and cared only for himself. To care for others was a sign of weakness, and a weakness he had been proud not to carry…until now. Sighing, he took one final look at the tumbled cavern and joined Bartholomew.

They ran, stumbled, and clambered through the sticking vines and dense trees, desperate to reach safety. Many of the ex-prisoners who were wounded or too young or old to keep pace were carried by others. As they neared the shore, a sudden wail erupted from the ruins of the slavekeepers’ den. It was loud and piercing, a cry of warning that echoed past the isle.

“Accursed sorcery! An alarm has been sounded!” Richard said, squeezing his palms against his ears.

“Let us pray Visandus is near, or else this will be one of the shortest attempted rescues in the annals of the Order,” Euric said.

They ran into the lapping shores of the sea, scanning the large pillars of island rock that dotted the horizon for any sign of the missing ship. For a moment, panic grew, as no ship could be seen, and fear of warships responding to the cry was great.

“If he has failed us…!” Richard growled, nervously scanning for enemy craft.

“That accursed wail will wake the dead! How much longer must we wait?!” complained Jesepha.

“No, look! He comes!” Bartholomew said, pointing to a ship that rounded a stony corner.

The freed prisoners rushed deeper into the water, fighting against the waves that attempted to keep them back. The knights had to physically restrain some of them, so anxious were they to flee the isle. They had begun to squabble over the hidden canoes the knights had originally landed. Some of the captives began shoving and knocking others out of their way. The orcnes and hobgoblins in particular were rudely pushed about by the others, despite their own wounds, and refused a seat on the slender canoes, or an opportunity to swim beside them. As Visandus’ ship released additional craft to assist, Bartholomew himself took control of the situation, leading the unwanted creatures to safety upon the incoming boats.

“Pfaugh! We should leave them here to rot!” Richard said.

“They fought as we did. We will protect them as we do the others. There is no argument to that,” Bartholomew said evenly.

“You spent too much time with the dead orcne-lover,” Richard said, frowning as he prepared to take his place upon a raft.

Angered, Bartholomew began to move after the other knight, but a quick hand from Glaive stopped him.

“It’s not the time. Remember, you are supposed to be the rational one in all of this,” Glaive said.

Bartholomew’s face relaxed. He smiled at the half-orcne, nodding in agreement.

“You are correct. Now is not the time.”

The canoes were speedily paddled towards the main ship. Ropes and ladders were dropped as Visandus waved fervently.

“We have no time to waste! Hurry yourselves!” he yelled.

“A ship approaches, captain!” said the lookout atop the crow’s nest, eyeing another watercraft from his telescope.

Visandus took hold of each knight as they came aboard. He was particularly gentle with Jesepha, who allowed his aid.

“I feared you all lost! We have narrowly escaped two warships on patrol in these waters! Are we missing anyone?” he asked, realizing Qualtan was not present.

“Qualtan is gone,” Euric said sadly. “He destroyed the prison cave. It collapsed and he was lost within it.”

Visandus became silent for a moment. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“There are worse dilemmas. He warned of a spy on your ship! We were worried for your own safety,” Bartholomew added.

“A spy?! By the sea gods, we will deal with that, but first we must leave this place, now!”

The ship began to reverse its course, backing out towards the sea. Another ship joined the first one seen by the lookout, and was quickly bearing down upon them. Visandus changed their direction, moving towards the maze of rocky islets instead.

“Rowers! Put your backs to it, lads! We need speed and precision!” Visandus yelled. His words were echoed to the rowmaster below as drums were beat. The rowers increased their efforts. “We circle the large rocks ahead and then double-back! We’ll lead them on a merry chase!”

They moved swiftly, knifing through the tight channels between the massive walls of rock. The two ships followed their path, their red color marking them as Mezzolankean warships.

“They are too bulky! We’ll lose them soon enough!” Visandus said, keeping himself to his ship’s wheel. The path they chose was treacherous, for many sharp spears of rock tore free from below the watery depths. The ship lurched as it passed over some of them. Two rowing paddles became stuck and snapped loose. As they turned sharply, a deep groan was heard. The side of the ship was heavily scraped by stony teeth. Wooden beams ripped, and sailor and soldier alike battled against the wound. The warships fell behind, despite the damage done. They did not have as much room to navigate through, and were slower in moving their way over the rocky fencework.

“Hah! There is more rock than water in this path! Their heavier ships will have a harder time of it than we, if we can stay in one piece!” Visandus said confidently. They steered past a large oval stone outcropping that stood atop a fragile pillar of rock.

As the massive rocky ledges beside them grew closer, sailors looked up with nervous fear.

“Are you sure we can clear this?” Euric said, looking about with growing concern.

“We’ll either stick or break,” Jesepha said.

“Have faith! I know these waterways, and this ship is small enough!” Visandus replied.

The merchant lord’s plan seemed to work. Their stolen slave ship was lighter, quicker, and able to maneuver through the watery maze. The warships lost ground when forced to change their course too quickly. Volleys of flaming arrows were fired their way, but did little damage, missing their mark. Damaged paddles were replaced and the torn gap was sealed. The path grew tighter still, until their ship shuddered, squeezing itself through two giant cliffs, their sharp sides pulling at the tips of their sails. A yardarm vibrated, bent, and finally pulled free, crashing to the deck below. The warships, forced into single file, slowed to a stop. They were too wide to make it through the crevice.

Visandus and his men cheered. The hurdle was passed!

“We circle ’round and exit out to sea!” Visandus said, clapping Euric on the back.

The waterway opened as they passed through the last remaining islands of granite. They angled around them and soon veered towards freedom. The ship began to leave the Brokens behind. As they did, another ship, which had sat in wait beneath the shadow of a large islet, silently pulled free. It coasted quietly, lacking any masts or sails. The knife-shaped ship began to trail them, increasing in speed.

“What the devil is that?” a sailor said, pointing to the flat, low-lying ship.

Visandus ran to the stern of the ship, followed by the knights. He looked into his telescope, attempting to identify the type of craft that now pursued them into the free waters. It seemed made of metal. A strange tower-like structure sat in the middle of the deck with flags of Mezzolanke flying above it. It reminded Visandus of a temple floating on a saucer of black steel. The bow of the ship was ornamented with a grotesque black sculpture. It seemed some sort of funnel, carved into the likeness of swirling flames emanating from the mouth of a winged gargoyle or demon that crouched just beneath where the bowsprit would be. It moved with deadly purpose, metallic paddles moving faster than any mortal could row.

Visandus grew concerned. He had never seen such a vessel before.

“It moves with a rapid pace unknown to me,” Visandus said, keeping watch of the ship.

“It is enchanted!” Richard added.

“Whatever it be, it will be ill luck that falls upon us if it catches us! Move, seadogs! Row for your lives!” he yelled to the rowmaster. Soldiers replaced tiring sailors in an effort to keep their lead. Sweating backs heaved and muscles pulled.

“A gift from the Dark Ones. It must be! It still comes closer, despite our efforts!” Richard added, taking the telescope from Visandus’ grasp.

“We have more to worry about than that—look!” Bartholomew said, pointing to the enemy craft.

The eyes of the demon sculpture began to glow. From the tip of the funnel molded from its mouth, a crackling of black, bubbly light issued forth, an effervescent aura that seemed to expand like darksome steam.

“They launch an attack! Cover yourselves!” Bartholomew warned.

Instantly, a blast of ebon power ripped from the mouth of the funnel. It struck their mainmast, shattering it in an explosion of debris. The sailor in the crow’s nest cried in fear as he fell into the ocean covered in black flames. The yardarm was struck into two, tumbling down into a crowd of retreating sailors, its torn sail ablaze.

Visandus was numb with terror. He had never encountered so deadly a weapon. The knights paused in remembered horror, thinking back to their trek into a deadly swamp, and the noxious creature they’d met within.

“We’ve seen this power before! Truly a weapon of Those That Stand in Shadow! Visandus, you must make haste, for there is no defense against it!” Euric said.

“Row for your souls! Row!” Visandus screamed at the top of his voice. Men scurried to and fro, fighting fires the smoldering sail had set loose upon the deck.

The enemy ship grew closer. Mezzolankean soldiers cheered at their success as they readied a second attack. The slave craft angled to one side, attempting to avoid their line of sight. The ship fired again, missing them as it struck water, hurling spray at their side.

“You are the sea-expert! Where is your value now?” Richard demanded, grabbing Visandus’ arm.

Angrily, the merchant lord swatted the knight’s hand away.

“What would you have me do? There is nowhere to hide! Such weaponry is beyond me!” Another blast struck near the ship, causing it to lurch to one side. Rowers rolled off their benches, momentarily losing control of their paddles.

Bartholomew keenly observed the transpiring events. The other knights kept busy, pulling injured sailors away, battling fires, and clearing debris, yet he stood silent, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

“We cannot outrun them. No maneuver will do,” he said quietly. “Visandus!” he yelled suddenly, attempting to gain their captain’s attention amidst all the chaos.

The captain frantically spun the ship’s wheel veering their rudder left, then right, waggling the stern, giving direction to the rowers whose hearts were near bursting from their exertions.

Bartholomew shoved himself next to the merchant lord. “Your defensive movements delay our escape from these waters!”

“So? Would you rather have us sink instead?!”

“Lead the ship straight into their sights!”

Visandus looked at the knight incredulously. “Are you mad? That will end our journey here and now!”

“You cannot outrun them. They will soon be upon us no matter what you do. They are powered by means unknown!”

Visandus looked again at the approaching ship, his face strained with anger.

“We cannot escape them,” Bartholomew repeated.

Visandus sighed, realizing the knight was correct. “You suggest we surrender?”

Bartholomew smiled. “No. We have a final chance. I will guard the stern. Lead us back on course!”

Visandus frowned with confusion. The knight positioned his shield, drawing the merchant lord’s attention to it. Sudden realization beamed across his face, and he smiled with new hope.

“May the sea gods protect you on this!” Visandus said.

Nodding, Bartholomew ran towards the stern of the ship. “Richard! I have need of your help!” he cried. Richard took note of his command, following Bartholomew’s quick pace.

“Avast, ye lads! Keep her straight and hold!” Visandus bellowed. The rowmaster waved, echoing his words.

“What is happening?!” Richard inquired.

“You are the strongest from the rest. I need you to hold me firm!” Bartholomew said, reaching the very end of the ship.

“Has all reason left you? We will be struck down…”

“Not with this,” Bartholomew said, balancing himself behind his shield, which he drew forth. Richard at last understood his plan. He laughed bitterly.

“This, then, will be our final hope.” He grabbed hold of Bartholomew from behind, wrapping his arms tightly around the other knight’s waist. The ship began to drive forward in a straight path, as the enemy ship matched its direction from behind.

“What is the fool doing?!” Euric said, taking note of Bartholomew’s position. Jesepha gasped, for she knew full well the elder knight’s gamble.

“He means to save us all, if he can. Hold on to something!” she said.

The enemy ship aligned itself directly with the slaver ship’s path. Mezzolankean sailors cheered the ease with which their prey was soon to be caught. The funnel weapon began to glow, and the demon eyes grew red with warning. Visandus stood and watched, as did others on the craft, seeing the evil brilliance that was growing behind them. The weapon reached its firing point and released the ebon beam of power once more. The ship would be struck directly, quickly, losing its back half to flounder and sink. The secret of the slaver island would be safe. But something quite different occurred next.

The radiance that was to engulf the ship reached it. Richard buried his face behind Bartholomew’s back, shutting his eyes with expectant fear. Bartholomew merely smiled a wild grin of challenge and defiance. The energies from the weapon surrounded them, a sparkling void of shadow and non-light that blotted out the sun and at the same time felt like scalding heat to the body and chilling cold to the soul. Bartholomew raised his arm. The netherworldly energies met the enchanted shield. Time seemed to slow, as the dark beam seemed to suddenly sputter and splatter like a stream of water pouring over a wide dish. The two knights seemed to stand within a cloud of rainbow light as Bartholomew’s shield took in the power that threatened the life of their ship, drinking it in. Richard strained, forcing himself to keep Bartholomew standing before him as the wind shrieked and cried in rage about them. The magic shield flashed bursts of gold-white, until it soon glowed with the same ebon color as the magic beam that had struck it.

“Release it! Release it now!” Richard begged as he began to lose his own footing, pushed back from the buffeting forces let loose against them. The sailors on the enemy ship were dumbfounded, unsure of what was taking place. Their blast had been on target and should have struck clear. Yet now, they spied a glowing disk of black light that grew brighter and brighter before them. Crying out with rage, Bartholomew shoved his shield forward and the energies were sent back against the deadly ship. The beam struck through the funnel mouth and into the crystal within that powered it. The ship was ripped asunder. The entire bow of the strange vehicle cracked open, sending sailors jumping off on all sides. A great gaping hole cleaved through where the funnel weapon had been, reaching into the waters below. The ship heaved, groaning as it stopped. The stolen slaver ship at last pulled away, its opponent frozen in smoking ruin.

Bartholomew was soon lost in a crowd of clapping hands and hugging arms. In the celebration and relief of their escape, none had seen a black bird alighting nimbly near an open porthole, hopping through it. Earl, the erstwhile sailor, soon appeared from where the bird had landed. He was content with his masquerade, sure that none had noticed him. He had fled for safety’s sake, assuming the Mezzolankean’s special assault would have prevailed against the knights, but they had failed. As he closed the porthole, even he did not realize a wafting tentacle of smoke followed his direction, keeping pace with the escaping ship.