Misery & Hope, Dragonmarch Chapter 2

Cantlin City was a mammoth metropolis. It had been crafted during the First Age of the realm by the Dwarves, and even among their own people it had been a marvel of craftsmanship that was unsurpassed among their own by anything else their hands had wrought. Not even the distant Mount of Swords, where the kingdom of Gaia was found upon the highest peak of the mountain, could compare to the beauty and stature of Cantlin.

            The gigantic mountain was hollowed out from the peak and then downward, and the industrious Dwarves had harnessed the mighty power of the magma at its base for energy and heat, to refine metal in all manner of work, so that the smithy guilds to be found within the mountain were unmatched in their number or skill anywhere on Kallendaros. Dwarves were stalwart folk, nonplussed by many changes other races would find drastic or dire, and their people stayed within Cantlin to work their trade and enjoy their handiwork if only the vying factions of the Humans would leave them to their tasks. Which both sides, at least to a large degree, did. Massive amounts of armor, weapons, siege works and supplies poured out of Cantlin like water from a mountain stream, but since the priesthood had seized control of the city they also took hold of the supply demand and the trade routes in the Thistlebrush Wastes, to harm the stock and provision of both Eastport and South Deep.

            Despite this unfortunate change for the fortunes of the Dwarves, they remained within Cantlin, and worked their trade with the same zeal their ancient forefathers possessed, doling out goods with skillful expedience. The shops and guilds of this ancient race lined the circular streets of the mighty city, working into the sloping walls of the inner city, and dotting the angled slant of mountain crust outside like ant mounds protruding from a large hillock. There was cavernous paths of grand size so that armies might march through them leading to the districts of industry both within and without the inner portion of the city, and smoke never failed to rise in a hundred locations about Cantlin, due largely to the capitalized magma that rested under their collective feet.

            Beneath that, under the houses, shops, guilds, Inns, churches, and the like was a Temple of ill repute. It had gained notoriety during the War of Seven Seasons, when the Dwarves waged war with the Elves of Sylvanri for control of Eldain mines that ran in rich veins under Elvish soil. The Temple was a prison. The Prison of Red Glass. It was composed of obsidian, formed naturally from the raging power of the volcanic energies churning under Cantlin; and the floors, walls, and ceiling glimmered always with the crimson fire of the lake below. The prison had several layers, and each lower level was a torment of hot, stagnant air that stole breath and hope. It left doomed prisoners to wither away and die, turning to so much dust and ash as the very water of their bodies was stolen from them all the more quickly the closer to the magma they were placed. Each level was a dungeon cell unto itself, left open for the prisoner to roam from one end to the other, always treading upon a floor that was fairly glowing with the hellish rage of the molten fire under their very feet. Food provisions and water were lowered on dumb waiters that were too weak to support a man upon, and it was for the food, and more importantly, for the water provisions, that prisoners fought and killed one another.

            There was one tragic tale of a man placed there long ago, who was in a mid-level of the Temple. Driven mad from the heat and fear of death, he killed anyone he crossed paths with and tried in vain to drain out their blood before it dried so he might use it to cool himself if only a little. Such was the mental state of any man left in that horrid place for too long. The lowest of the levels did not even allow depravity to settle. Men would wither and die in so many hours, their strength spent with the simple act of breathing, scorched lungs begging for a relief their parched lips and throat could not accord them. They would go blind, feel their extremities wither away, and then their burnt lungs would fail and they would at last suffocate in just a short span of hours. The populace of the city, and anyone within a hundred leagues of Cantlin, rightly feared the very name of the Temple.

            The priesthood had re-established the Prison when they took over the city from the reigning nobles, who now paid tribute to the Dragons. The Magistrate Kraed, who dwelt within Cantlin City for a short time so he might be nearer to his benefactor within the Deep Green Sea, was seized shortly before the battle at Lake Purt and placed in the Temple of Red Glass upon the upper most floor. It had been done by Aram’s servants discreetly, so as not to alarm anyone by his disappearance immediately. Then it would be Aram’s moment to rouse the ire of the Council of Magistrates against the Old Nobility. He would be the instrument that would instigate the war between the factions. The final war between them, the old Magistrate deemed, and that prospect gave him a chill that all the magma beneath Cantlin could not remove from him.

            And at last, after the ambush Julias Darkmane had planned for Uriel Ravenlore and his contingent of soldiers, the young lord of the south was brought bound and broken through the gates of Cantlin City.

            The outer ramp of the city was a mound of inclined stone that had been placed, slab by laborious slab, by the Dwarves to gently incline wagons or carts laden with goods to the gates of the city. A deep indenture of sheer, rounded stone, formed in a half circle established the doorway of the gate. A pair of stout doors carved from iron oak wood, imported from the Iron Keep Mountains enclosed the only road of access from anyone the Dwarves did not wish to enter their city. And if they feared a siege engine being brought to batter their mighty doors a slab of stone weighing several tons would slide from a space above the doors to further ward intrusion as a last resort against imminent invasion. The highway that rose above the forest floor out of the Thistlebrush was sheer and long, with nothing to accord a man cover, especially in the case of attack. Only the sure footed liked the passage, as the wailing winds of the southlands could rightly pluck a man off of the pass and send him careening back down to the forest below if they were not wary. Horses also disliked the notion of this sharp view and bitter wind, but the Alhoon that the Dwarves favored for heavy toil did not care, so sure were these animals in all their steps. The Dwarves of long ago did not build the ramp with Humans or horses in mind.

            Uriel could feel that biting wind tearing at him in the dark of night as the company of Clerics dragged him into the city of Cantlin. He was wearied from the long travel and denied food or horse or even the comfort of a full rest at night. Yet the young lord did little to cry out and please his captors, so they beat him with clubs and stones when he walked. More than once an errant rock cracked his head and made him fall, dashing himself on the road and wounding him further, but his strength and his pride allowed him to stand once more, and he said nothing of the matter. He did not ask so much as their names, nor the location of where they might take him, for his keen mind already deduced it. They were taking him to the Temple of Red Glass, where he would face the inexorable death of the fiery floors and magma-formed walls. If such was his fate he would face it stoically, for the sake of the south and his father, whom he would not disgrace by pleading with or begging his enemies. He prayed for vengeance to come to these wicked men, a sour prayer that did not flee from his lips the entire time he was awake, because in his mind’s eye he always beheld Caspin. He saw his best sergeant dying at his feet, in his arms, doing his final duty for the captain that led him into battle and finally to his doom. Anguish was a flood that drowned Uriel under waves of despair, and Uriel also prayed when he found the courage that he might die and be spared these feelings. But death was not to be, as was strangely fitting, Uriel deemed. Caspin’s death would be avenged, he knew, and he longed for his own hands to find the neck of Julias Darkmane and throttle his vengeance out of him. Or to plunge that hell-forged sword into the blackened heart of its wielder…

            Uriel was jerked to a halt from the rope collar that his captors had fashioned for him, bringing him to his knees as a gagging noise was wrenched from him. He was horribly parched already from the days that it took him to reach Cantlin, and then the company of Clerics waited outside the walls of their own city, hidden in the recesses of the Thistlebrush as if they were enemies of their own people, before bringing Uriel within in the dead of night. Then it began to occur to Uriel what was happening; at least in part. They were enemies of their own people, traitors to the Dragon Clerics and to the Old Nobility they had long ago defected from. Julias Darkmane engineered the attack at the lake, and the pretense of Cantlin’s surrender back to being lorded over by its rightful inheritors was a ruse. His father wanted the meeting to occur in secret, like the priesthood, so he might find glory among the people by handing Cantlin back over to them free of Dragon-rule rather than inform the populace or most of his own councilors of his decision. What reckless fools they had been! Now August had much to answer for: the deaths of good soldiers and the loss of his only heir. The man was too old and steeped in his ways to take a second wife and foster another heir to his bloodline. No, his life energies, like those of his properly groomed son, were spent like blood for the war effort and dethroning the Dragon Clerics. Uriel was now at their mercy, these men that had taken a middle ground between sides, attempting to effect some radical change from both factions. Uriel feared to know what change they hoped upon, unless that change was the utter ruin of the Southron remnant.

            The stars were twinkling orbs of cold light scattered through a veil of hazing clouds as the young lord of South Deep was dragged further into the great old city, hardly seeing a shorn wall or carven tunnel mouth, but turning aside into tight passages and gloomy corridors, he was led ever downward and out of sight, perhaps forevermore. His blindfold was then removed by rough hands, and his eyes labored to regain composure. The stench of mold and stale, trapped air assaulted him, and more than once his fine boots and strong legs faltered over debris that was scattered like refuse across the halls he strode. The sound of their footfalls echoed terribly within, and from somewhere beyond and below a dim red glow began to catch like fire.

            “We’re nearly there, my lord,” one of the Clerics called from behind the warrior, and Uriel heard the telltale sign of a stone leaving his hand and hurtling toward Uriel’s back. Uriel nimbly stepped aside and allowed the rocketing missile to strike a guard ahead of him between the shoulder blades, causing him to yelp like a wounded dog. There was sniggering mixed with howls of derision as the man struck wheeled back in the half-lit, stench riddled hall. He jabbed a thick finger toward the soldiers behind Uriel, whose hands were bound low behind his back, the stout rope collar digging into the exposed flesh of his neck. “What the bloody devil are the lot of you doing back there? Trying to kill me? I have half a mind to thrash you for pelting me with a bloody stone!”

            “It wasn’t my doing!” a man cried out, younger and lower in station than this fellow, Uriel had some while ago deduced, “He moved when I was pitching it at him!”

            “Why are you throwing stones in the blackness, you dullard?” the older Cleric spat, then pulled his arm back and struck Uriel a blow across the face that dropped him to a knee. “And you! You might do well to stay right where you are and take what’s coming to you! High and mighty lord of the southlands! Pah! Haven’t you learned by now, little churl? There are no more southlands. The kingdom of the south is ash, like the deluded dreams you seem so content to nurture.”

            “Such lovely words you form on lips that have spent all of their lives fawning upon Dragon flesh,” Uriel growled back. “You’re the worst type of traitor: a blood traitor, a turncoat to the very people you should be fighting beside!”

            “Maybe I don’t see it that way, young lord,” the older Cleric prompted his soldiers to lift Uriel back to his feet, one stalwart young man gripping either one of his arms. At another time, at his full vigor, Uriel surmised that shaking off a pair of inexperienced Clerics would have been a simple task. But he was haggard, wounded and half-starved. Better that he conserved his strength for the time being. Now wasn’t the moment to act.

            “And how do you see it, Cleric?”

            “I don’t see myself as wyrm fodder, for a start,” the man chuckled, which the rest of the Clerics joined in on; a jolly sound, punctuated with a small streak of hidden menace reflected in their eyes. Uriel only stared a baleful glare, never relenting from meeting his captor’s eyes. “The wyrms have already won. You prolong what could have been a good relationship between our races, and have us killing one another instead of working together, like the elders of Telaine wanted us to.”

            “The nobles that formed the covenant with the Dragons were cowards and fools, who did not have strength enough to fight and win back what the thieves stole from us! Divided, we cannot hope to stand against our true oppressors!”

            “And slaying the Dragons’ priesthood is a fine way of showing the so called turncoats and cowards that the Old Nobility has the right of things, is it?” the older Cleric scoffed angrily, all humor swept from his face. “Gentlemen,” he waved open arms to the lot of Clerics surrounding Uriel, “Let us show this snide young lord how indebted we are to his enlightened way of seeing the truth of matters!”

            Uriel didn’t know where the first blow came from, only that it collided with his left temple and sent a starburst of pain tearing through his head. He staggered, and then a second and a third blow fell like rain drops. His head pounded, his sides were like sheets of livid flame creeping over his flesh, and he grit his teeth to stay the screams his captors desperately craved. At last his strength failed him and he fell to the ground, but that only turned the punches and clubbing to kicks and spittle, until at last Uriel Ravenlore knew no more.

***

            “What have you fools done?”

            Uriel strained to open his dim eyes, but they didn’t want to heed him. Instead they rebelled, seeking to remain closed and blot out the light and pain that lanced at them. His head sagged pitifully, tatters of blood-streaked hair falling over his face.

            The first voice was Julias Darkmane’s, “Why is my prisoner bloodied so badly?”

            “The man is a lion!” one of the Clerics, the one who threw the stone, Uriel deemed, spoke. “He tried to break loose and we had to restrain him!” There were murmurs of assent to corroborate the tale. Uriel would have laughed, but he felt like his teeth might fall out if he opened his mouth at all.

            “You’re telling me that the man, trussed up like a wolf in a snare, broke free so well that you had to beat him half to death? Why did no one stop this before it carried on for too long?”

            “I would have,” came the familiar voice of the older Cleric that first shared words with Uriel, “But he was a dangerous man, and I wanted him safely waylaid, so he wouldn’t cause any trouble to you, Lord Darkmane.”

            “Of course,” Julias answered sourly. “Your zeal disturbs me, Elgar.”

            “But not my methods,” Elgar added in hopefully. “I know that Argent and Phillip failed to return from their hunt of the southron whelp. You’ll be needing a new knife man, will you not?”

            “If I do, I am sure I’ll have no trouble appropriating one, thank you,” Julias answered him shrewdly. “For the time being, I want Lord Ravenlore returned to his fullest vigor before we introduce him to his final palace. It will be a fine palace, my lord,” this time Uriel knew that Julias was addressing him directly. “There are walls of fine glass and floors of obsidian, the rarest sort. Not to be had anywhere else on the face of Kallendaros, I can assure you.”

            The voices of Julias and Elgar fell away, and Uriel strained his failing ears to catch what was being said. He only just heard, “Bring him to full health, Elgar with good food and wine, but let no one who has not bore him here come to this passage in the Temple. Magistrate Aram and I will be most displeased if our guest is discovered by anyone in Cantlin. That means a fellow Cleric, another Zealot, or even one of the Council of Magistrates. If anyone learns that Uriel Ravenlore dwells here, under the streets of the city, I will have my new knife man work his trade upon you for a start. Do you take my meaning?”

            “You make your point very clear, my lord,” Elgar said a little bitterly.

            “I hoped that you were a man of understanding, Elgar,” Julias said politely, almost sweetly. Then there was silence, and a pair of soldiers that had hold of Uriel’s arms dragged him along the stone floor, his feet sliding through thick dust and scattered debris. There was a stale, choking heat present, though it was slight and not so awful. It smelt faintly of sulfur and scorching flame, but Uriel hardly perceived it in his present state. The Clerics that dragged him suffered no resistance: truth be told, Uriel couldn’t have stood on his own two legs right then had he been driven into a foaming rage.

            Soft footfalls followed their procession. The rustle of robes and cloak mingled with chain mail clinking behind the cloth told the young lord surmised that Julias Darkmane wasn’t finished with him just yet.

            The last of his painful journey, began just a few days prior on the skirts of Lake Purt while he held the still form of Caspin Garand in his arms as the soldier breathed his last, was near an end. He barely recalled the twists and turns they took as they descended into what felt like the very bowels of Netherhel itself, so far did the Clerics drag their captive. At first Uriel tried to recall where they strode, how long each passage was by the count of their steps, how many torches lined the walls, how many steps adorned the stairwells they ventured down. But the procession became dream-like, and Uriel failed to comprehend anything at all by the conclusion. He found himself inside a small but well furnished chamber that was quite warm but almost cheerful by the dim look of things. There was a bed, a wash basin and a dresser, among other effects that gave Uriel pause to think they had just stumbled into a right and proper bedroom of sorts. This was Julias’ room of healing, he supposed.

            Uriel was cast onto the bed, which was firm yet comfortable, and the leering form of Julias Darkmane came over him like a fell shadow. He leaned down so near the young lord that Uriel fancied he might whisper to him, but the Zealot only smiled. “I take it upon myself to heal every man I take captive, Uriel Ravenlore, in the case you’re wondering why I bother to mend you before I break you. I want you filled with life and renewed with hope when I cast you personally into the Prison of Red Glass, from which there is no escape. But you are a man of skill and substance, so I wager I shall hear favorable reports about how you fought and lived on the upper crust for many weeks, if not longer. When the deed is done and the need for the secrecy of your fate passed, I shall impart your valiant demise to your esteemed father. Then I shall send him to meet you.”

            Spasms of cold rage lent strength to Uriel’s wearied frame, and the young lord almost managed to snatch Julias by the throat with a snaking arm before the Zealot pulled away, laughing coolly. “Perhaps there is less time than I suspected for him to mend. See to it that he eats and drinks his fill, and finds his full vigor again, Mentora. Or I will be sending you into the Prison along with him, as penance.”

            “As my lord wishes,” one Mentora answered without missing a second.

            “As my lords commands,” intoned the second, both of the pair oddly monotone and heavily garbed against the heat of the inner chambers below the city.

***

            Aram stalked back and forth through the mansion halls within the very heart of Cantlin. The mansion, like the rest of the vaunted city, was carved of pure stone, the bones of the earth, hollowed out of the living mountain the city rested within. The mansion halls were nearly windowless, with a low ceiling and segmented walls, partitioned by Dwarven stone cutters to display differing segments of the grand house, such as servant’s quarters or dining halls. Aram was now utterly alone within one such hall, his sandaled feet making no sound as he trod the lush carpeting that layered the floor underfoot.

            Thus far all the machinations of his mistress were going well. Kraed had been taken and thrown into the Prison of Red Glass below the city, soon to die in the misery accorded by such an awful place, while Julias Darkmane rode out with a strong contingent of Clerics to apprehend Uriel Ravenlore and his own cohorts. And therein lay the bane of Aram’s own designs. Julias Darkmane, Zealot of the Tyrant Wyrm, still drew breath. Not only that, but the very man, one of the Unseen, had failed to do as Aram bade him. It was little consolation to the Magistrate that Dane Arkblud did not give away the secrets of their pact, which indeed spared the elder man’s life but hardly served his wants. The Urdan was undone by the Zealot’s prowess, which only made Aram fear Julias Darkmane all the more. For if he could defeat one of the Unseen, what else might this mighty man do when he put his mind to it?

            Aram dismissed such notions and forced his mind to more immediate matters, no matter the worry that this Zealot caused him. If his mistress placed her complete trust in this man it would be to her great misfortune. In Julias Darkmane there was a great wellspring of self-reliance, and that would be the fool’s undoing. When the Magistrate spun back to march down the empty length of hall again he found Julias Darkmane slipping into the entry through the twin doors of burnished iron oak, closing them behind him. The Zealot’s blazing black eyes never straying from Aram.

            “Ah, Julias,” Aram intoned in rank irritation, “Is the deed finished then? Is the young lord ours?”

            “Ours?” Julias quipped. “I don’t recall you riding in the vanguard of the assault to capture this young lion.”

            “Mind your tongue, Zealot,” Aram snapped in mock anger, hoping that the force of his rank would contain this volatile warrior. “I am the mouthpiece of the mistress Gildaryss, and you might do well to remind yourself of that from time to time. Such insolence will certainly bring ill will against you.”

            “It already has, if my new servant Master Arkblud is any indication,” Julias returned smoothly. Aram’s face was stone, but within he felt his resolve crumble as fine ash might after the fire spent its rage. Julias surmised that the Magistrate sent the Urdan after him, and why shouldn’t he?

            “A Zealot of your standing has enemies aplenty, I shouldn’t wonder,” Aram calmly remarked, hoping that his voice did not betray his fear.

            “Especially enemies among my fellows within the priesthood.”

            “You think another Cleric tried to kill you?” Aram asked him. “Those are very serious charges, Lord Darkmane. You may want to consider treading very carefully before you pursue such an allegation.”

            “I don’t plan on bringing up my charges on the man,” Julias answered him sternly, almost coldly. “But if the situation repeated, that fellow had best learn to sleep with his eyes open, or the instant he closes them he’ll find me there, a blade to his upturned throat.”

            “You never did answer me, Lord Darkmane,” Aram broke from the conversation with such force that Julias smiled a little flippantly. “Have you managed to capture Lord Ravenlore alive?”

            “Alive and healing within the cells before the Temple.”

            “Healing?” Aram exclaimed incredulously, “Why is he healing? I have no desire to leave this loose end living, threatening what the mistress commands! If Uriel Ravenlore escaped, that would be the end of us both, Lord Darkmane! Why is he healing?”
            “I won’t cast the man into the upper crust of the Temple until his strength and spirit are restored, my lord. He is a fierce opponent, and I respect his bid for survival, bleak as it is. As it stands, I recall the lady commanding that we capture Lord Ravenlore and make it appear that he has gone missing, a scheme launched by Lord Kraed of Morgarand. She never declared her desire to see the man dead, so if I postpone his demise so he might suffer the Prison of Red Glass in full health, what concern is that of yours?”

            “You frustrate my designs, Julias,” Aram scowled darkly, fixing the Zealot with a murderous stare. “Now I depart for the south, where the Council will convene. Speed word of South Deep’s actions against the priesthood as soon as they are made known, if you will. The sooner we fan the flames Gildaryss wishes to ignite, the safer I shall feel.”

            “You have no confidence in our mistress, Magistrate,” Julias hissed, irking Aram. “It isn’t a becoming trait in a Dragon’s mouthpiece at all.”

            “It may be, Lord Darkmane, that the confidence I lack is not with the lady Gildaryss, but in those sworn to serve her, who may have plans and schemes of their own laid aside in their hearts, petty as they are.”

            Without waiting to see what reaction that may have incited within the cunning mind of the Zealot, Aram hustled out of the room, intent on appointing a carriage and a number of staunch defenders to see him safely to the Kanaron Mountains. Julias was sure that Aram tried to have him assassinated. It may be that the threat he issued was true, or perhaps it was meant to disarm Aram, so the Magistrate was off-guard when a hired killer of Julias’ choosing caught up with him. Either way he would be prepared. He delved deeper into the bowels of the mountain where the secret escape routes the Dwarves had carved out centuries prior lay, and where horse and carriage were prepared to whisk Aram away anywhere he wished, appropriated from Lord Kraed. Aram schemed anew as he went. There would have to be an end to Julias Darkmane, and soon. Or else Aram’s long span of years would be cut murderously short by that hell-cursed weapon his mistress favored him with. With that thought, his retreat into the innards of the mountain hastened.

***

            Uriel was strong again. They had been short weeks, a time of swift healing at the hands of his quiet, monotone Mentora, who were very skilled at their craft. They were a short pair, and their countenance made Uriel feel that neither of them were Human, but born of another race entirely. They had the height and stature of Dwarves, but they were too slender for that, and their voices did not have the deep, resounding feel like the sons of earth possessed when they spoke. Whatever their nature or identity, they served Lord Darkmane’s will without fail and nursed Uriel back to full health in the allotted time. Soon it would be his time to face the Temple of Red Glass and his final acts of valor, laid out before him like raiment for a gala ball. But this was a dance unlike any other, and his motions, swift, sure and skilled, would only be witnessed by the One God Himself, enthroned in the vast Heavens before he ascended in spirit to meet Him. He resigned himself to that finality, at peace with his impending death while trapped in that small healing chamber that had been the only reality Uriel knew for the last month.

            He sat upon the edge of his sickbed, rubbing his hands through thick locks of unkempt hair and a fresh, youthful beard sprouting over his cheeks and chin, smiling ruefully. It must have been summer’s ending by this time, the conclusion of August, which meant that he was thirty years of age. How his father must have mourned him on that sad day, or perhaps there was war being had at his expense! He almost leapt to his feet right then, without boots or even proper clothing, to rush off and join in the battle against the priesthood. He wondered if young Justias Eventine would take his place among the army of the southlands. Though that passionate youth was not born of the south, Uriel doubted his noble father would forbid Justias from shedding his own blood and sweat upon the battlefield that was yet to be. In a way, that prospect broke Uriel’s heart a little, thinking that he might be the reason that all the south might go to war, and the beautiful realm of the Old Nobility would suffer the sight of so many dead, the land stretched out like some mass grave to accept a morbid, final sacrifice to the Dragon overlords.

            “When am I to face my fate?” Uriel asked the nearest of the two Mentoras that cared for him, but the diminutive figure did not respond, going on his business of cleaning crockery and instruments they employed to aid in Uriel’s healing. The pair rarely spoke at all, instead moving about in mute harmony, complimenting one another with apt grace as each performed a task that fit somehow into what the other was engaged in. “I asked a question of you. When is Julias Darkmane coming for me? Surely, the lord under Magistrate Aram knows that I am well now.”

            “It is not your place to question the lord when he comes or not,” one intoned with the least bit of care. He didn’t even possess the inclination to face Uriel while speaking to him. Uriel grimaced.

            “I’m not questioning your lord,” he corrected, “I’m questioning you.”

            “You should be gathering your strength, young Lord Ravenlore,” the same Mentora that first addressed him spoke plainly, without emotion. “You will need all that you can muster in the Prison, when the lord comes to throw you in.”

            “You hide your gloating awfully well,” Uriel acidly replied, “Does he bring many here to heal before playing out his sick games?”

            “He has brought a number, though not many by your count,” the Mentora shrugged, still keeping his back to Uriel. “Others receive the punishment of the Mirror.”

            “What is this Mirror you speak of?”

            “Pray that you never learn of it,” the Mentora assured him, with a measure of emotion finally present in that small voice. Uriel detected that it may have been fear. Sighing deeply, the young lord of the south lay on his back, folding his arms behind his head (his right side strained and felt stiff yet, but those muscles would smooth out) and tried to find sleep. He didn’t know if it was night or day, or how much or little sleep came his way, but he knew that until Julias Darkmane came for him that he was safe in this dismal, hot place. Safe as an insect that waited for the spider to show itself from somewhere farther along the strands of the web.

***

            “Wake, Lord Ravenlore! The time of your trial is at hand!”

            Uriel rose slowly, expectantly. Julias stood before him, arms folded over his armored chest, hell-forged sword hanging loosely at a hip. His cloak was nearly jet-black, and his armor finely polished with gauntlets, helm and spurs on his mail-clad ankles. The golden medallion of the Dragon Cleric hung like a proud symbol from his neck on a fine chain of like material, and Uriel was sorely tempted to reach for it and snatch it away. But he knew that would only end in his further harm, and more time spent healing at the skilled but cold hands of the Mentora that Julias kept as strange pets of a sort. Instead, Uriel rose to his feet and began to work the kinks out of sore and tense muscles. But they were well trained, heavily seasoned muscles, and the coming thrill of survival in one of the deadliest places to be found on Kallendaros lent them a surging rush of blood. Julias draped out the clothing he would wear during his interment, tossing it to the bed with the wave of an arm.

            “Tell me what news of the land above before I face my end,” Uriel demanded as he stripped the robe that was his nursing raiment off and began to dress in these fresh, sturdy clothes.

            “Why should I tell you anything?” Julias countered. “Do you think that any knowledge at all will keep you alive in the Temple? There is only one thing that will keep you alive where I am sending you, and that is water. It only happens to be rationed once per day, so any man or woman that is down there with you will also want their measure of it. Namely, all of it. But you should have no trouble fending those off.”

            “Kill them, don’t you mean?”

            “I knew you were a fast learner when we crossed swords,” Julias smiled coldly.

            “I will not provide you with any sport at all, unless you give me word of the land above, and what you know of South Deep, and my father.”

            “He sits behind his great fortified city, as he always has, and all of his lineage has, until his loins begat him you. He pines over you, and he now faces a deadly new rival in the young man that would be named king of the northlands by the Order of the Valar, as I hear it.”

            “Justias…?” Uriel mouthed blankly, his jaw going slack.

            “The impudent young whelp that you aided in eluding me in the north? Or should I say, eluded poor Cray? Imagine! The fool has the gall to allow himself thought a king because a lucky stroke slays one of the Dragons!”

            “Is that why I am prisoner?” Uriel dared to venture a guess, “Justias slew one of the wyrms, and now the Council is worried that the rest of the southlands will fall under our sway? We’ve proven that the gods you Clerics follow can indeed be slain! They are no more gods than you or I!”

            “I have long known that the Dragons are not gods, Uriel,” Julias said flatly, much to the young lord’s surprise. “I have been south of the Kanaron Mountains, where the mistress Gildaryss has her lofty lair, high upon the peaks of that formidable chain. There are bones on that side of the mountains, scads of long ago bones where wyrms have met their end, half-buried by rock and earth and time. They are forgotten by their own kind, dead and useless, their names and their might no longer needed in a realm that has long passed them by. It is much the same for men, Lord Ravenlore. It may be that, by slaying you here, in the Temple, I will give you a death that time itself may recall. As such, it is only fitting for men like us to die with glory upon our swords and fire alight in our hearts. What else is there for men of our nature?”

            “You and I are not alike, Lord Darkmane,” Uriel countered sharply, “You place yourself on a throne of grandeur, but the higher you place yourself, the farther it will be that you fall when someone dethrones you. If you cannot believe me, look upon the Dragon that Justias slew, and tell me that the wyrm didn’t think as you think now.”
            “Your lack of vision surprises me,” Julias replied, almost sadly. “My lot,” he emphasized, “is to find a good end, a quick end, dying as I have lived.”

            “And what awaits you after your glorious demise?”

            “A warrior’s fate,” Julias retorted.

            “I tell you this; let me know of the events above us and I will be sure that your ear hears very good things of me in the Temple of Red Glass. Do not favor me with this request and I swear to you that I shall simply lay upon that crimson surface and bear the heat and agony of a draining death until I succumb. You will not have any sport.”

            “I believe you,” Julias told him with a respectful nod. “What would you ask of me?”

            “Is there open warfare between our factions?”

            “Why do you even care?” Julias furrowed his brow at the question. “You are facing your end, Lord Ravenlore, the least you can do is ask me a question of merit.”

            “When you’re about to die, all questions have merit, do they not?”

            “Very well,” the Zealot answered, “There is not war yet, but the declaration of war is coming soon, as I have engineered it. Your capture is instrumental in this design.”

            “Why did you not just kill me?”

            “The rest of your soldiers are certainly wondering that same thing, Lord Ravenlore,” Julias replied soberly, making the young lord fume with a budding rage. Uriel repressed it with much inner turmoil, and returned Julias’ patronizing grin with one of his own. “The skirmish at Lake Purt will incite a series of questions that our Council cannot answer. They will turn to Magistrate Kraed, but he will be deaf to their inquiry. Your lord father will believe we placed a cunning snare to harm him. The Council will believe that Magistrate Kraed has defected to the Old Nobility: a turncoat. Perhaps they will draw other conclusions concerning the matter. It will end the same: the war that both factions have been spoiling for will commence at last.”

            “Spoiling for?” Uriel almost screamed at him. “Are you mad, Julias? Your Clerics, my soldiers, they’re all going to fall upon the ends of their kinsmen’s swords! The only creatures that will profit from the entire south being embroiled in war are…”

            “Yes?” Julias prompted, his face twisting into a smug grin.

            “The Dragons have decided that the priesthood no longer benefits their needs.”

            “Not all the Dragons, to be sure. But enough to ensure that this plan reaches a deadly fruition. You should be glad that your end is here, within the bowels of Cantlin, Lord Ravenlore. Do you really wish to witness the destruction of your beloved home city?”

            “The One God have mercy on us,” Uriel mouthed softly, closing his eyes in prayer.

***

            The entry point for the Prison of Red Glass was a span of smooth stone that formed a natural bridge or causeway across an expanse of open, cavernous space. There was a brief, but abrupt, descent into the depths of the Temple, and even there the walls of the cavern were glistening with fragments of rough stone that were polished into a glistening mineral. Volcanic rock mingled with the common sedimentary stone to form wondrous designs in zigzagging patterns along the face of the walls everywhere that Uriel cast his gaze. Wafting winds carried a heavy heat that first rose over him and then settled on his shoulders like a millstone, trying to bear him to the floor of the earthen bridge. He shook himself and walked before Julias and the rest of the Clerics that came to watch over the proceedings. The elder Cleric Elgar and most of his cronies followed at Julias’ skirts, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of throwing the lord and heir of South Deep into this hellish pit.

            The bridge arched near the heart of it, sloping gently and then descending to a sheer wall with broken chunks of obsidian and sharp rock mingled in varying displays. There was a sheltered alcove where escape from the magma-inspired winds might be found, and likely where guards who had the misfortune of actually being given duty in this deep and dank pit could at least find some meager measure of refuge. Nearby there was a large pulley system with a basket and a chain affixed to the far wall, coated with a strange grease that not only kept the material safe from corrosion and heat damage, but also kept anything flammable from igniting or melting due to exposure. It was large enough to accord a single person a journey down, with a winch and gear where men could work it from above.

            “Lovely, is it not?” Julias declared from behind him, prodding him forward with sword point. The stab of the steel did not make him start, but the feel of that accursed blade against his thin clothing, the cursed sword Zagmatar so near his mortal flesh, made him step up his pace despite himself. Unbidden, images of his dear friend Caspin going to his final rest right in Uriel’s very arms, his duty to his commanding lord played out to its ultimate end assailed him. Uriel’s face contorted with fresh grief and he struggled with the alarming notion of spinning on his heel and trying to throttle Julias Darkmane before he ran Uriel through or before both careened off of the bridge.

            “The Dwarves knew their business here, to be sure,” Julias continued to speak as they walked the length of the narrow bridge. There were no rails, and it was easily slender enough so that only a single man at a time might venture across or fear being cast down to his doom. “This level of the Prison is named the Upper Crust, by the Dwarves who built it centuries ago. This was where the allies of the Elves were put to spend their final days. For the Elvish warriors the Dwarves managed to capture alive, however, all of them faced the gloom of the lowest level of the Prison, where only the Dwarves with their thick skin might go for short periods of time without taking ill from exposure to the heat.” Then Julias let out a fair laugh. “I assume you can imagine how the delicate, fair skinned Elves took to that sort of treatment?”

            “I can imagine,” Uriel replied plainly.

            “There are bones aplenty down there,” Elgar added quickly, darkly. “I have a fancy for the skulls of the Elves. They’re shaped so queerly compared to our own.”

            “When you say ‘our own’ exactly which race do you hail from, Elgar?” Uriel wondered shrewdly. “I can’t fathom it, but you do look to being near Human.”

            “Laugh while you can, young lord,” Elgar shot back, “But soon enough I’ll be adding your skull to my trophy wall, right beside the Elves. Mayhap I’ll use yours for a bedpan.”

            “Perhaps you might consider using it for a brainpan, since you seem to have gone lacking,” Uriel suggested. There was good humored chuckling behind him, and he felt Elgar’s stare burn into his back, hot as the volcanic winds that tore about his clothes and his hair. It wouldn’t be long before his exposed skin suffered a terrible wind burn on this upper crust, and he was already deducing which parts of his attire he might tear apart to cover his face, neck and hands. There must also be tunnels or coves where the heat did not quite reach, but those likely would shelter fellow inmates, and he seriously doubted they would wish to share with him. Would he have to resort to the bestial tactics Julias spoke of earlier to survive at all down there, when survival only meant prolonging the torment? But that was the Human will: to prolong life no matter the cost, especially when that life was one’s own.

            The walk came to an end. They stood at the cove, near the small stone shelter carved out of the naked rock where the basket sat empty, waiting to be filled. Below there was a tundra of wasted stony earth, strewn and blown by acrid winds that stunk slightly of brimstone, patches of stinging dust riding upon their fringes. Uriel felt a little as if he were staring into the pits of Infernus Hallux, and it was yawning to take him in. The deep and fiery glow of the magma was a faint pulse of malevolent life somewhere far below, catching the luster of the volcanic glass dotting the landscape. The young lord sighed in stern resignation and dutifully climbed into the basket without prompting.

            “What a fine display of courage,” Elgar chimed from afar, his tone sugar coated in mockery. Uriel paid it no heed.

            “I do indeed expect good things of you, Lord Ravenlore,” Julias repeated as he commanded men to take hold of the winch and work the device that would lower Uriel to his fate. “I wish that we might just finish our duel, and learn which of us is the better swordsman, but I deem that this will still be a good end for you.”

            “I hope that you find your ‘good end’ as well, Lord Darkmane. I assume these are the last words we’ll be sharing in this life.” They said nothing more, but both men fixed one another with a stare that shared their animosity and steel-hardened wills until Uriel was lowered too far down to keep eye contact.

He immediately went to assessing his situation. The sticky lard was all over the basket and chains, so he took generous handfuls of it and rubbed the substance through his hair, over his face, on his hands. He endeavored to keep more in a large, sloppy ball so he might apply it anew when this batch began to crack and peel from him. He fathomed that its coating would keep him from initial harm down on the Upper Crust, until he could glean his bearings and hope to perhaps make an ally down there.

            He was a little less than ten feet from the bottom when the basket stopped and there was a horrid clanking noise. Then the bottom of the basket gave out beneath him and Uriel went falling in a heap to the floor of the cavern, rolling to keep himself from serious harm. He was back to a stand with nary an injury in a few heartbeats, looking ruefully up at the bridge overhead. The basket was already being carted back up and far out of reach, which Uriel saw the reason for instantly.

            They came out of the shadowed corners of the cavern floor like Shades dwelling in the Hall of Shadow. Miserable, unkempt, seared with wind and heat and slender to the point of being emaciated, these haggard people screamed in shrill voices for deliverance as they sought to grasp the basket, but the Clerics never allowed it to get so close to the floor of the Upper Crust. Their piteous eyes stared up, straggles of dry and scraggily hair falling over sunken cheeks. Uriel couldn’t hardly tell man from woman down in this pit, and he fathomed that soon it wouldn’t matter. Only survival mattered to them, it was plain in their eyes like animals being hunted or caged.

            “You want some water?” one of the Clerics called out from over the bridge, sneering at the lot of them. They shrieked with dismay and agony, which caused the Cleric a delight of laughter. “Here then, I saved this for the lot of you!” He spat over the edge and the spittle landed on one of the foreheads of some older-looking fellow, rolling down his left cheek. To Uriel’s disgust the old man tried to scoop the spittle up so he might put it on his tongue, but others surrounded him like buzzards and launched themselves on him to snatch it away. Uriel could hardly believe what his eyes told him. Three other people were attempting to wrench a mouthful of spittle away from this old man so they could use it for whatever end, even though Uriel deemed that the spittle was now long gone, lost in that scuffle.

            Instinct took over, and the young lord of the southlands launched himself into the fray to stay the madness. He was quick as a leopard among them, delivering slaps and using leverage to throw each away in turn, and he was again surprised and filled with dread at how light, how easily manipulated they were. Two ran, but the third person simply lay where they fell. Though they were not seriously harmed and Uriel could see their chest rising and falling with some effort, they made no attempt to stand again.

            Uriel watched to see the others flee before turning his gaze back to the old man. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks gaunt and most of his hair had fallen out. Death was near him, it was plain on his face. Uriel managed a kindly smile for him, which the old man fought to return, but the image was a cruel parody and looked skeletal. The smile remained. His eyes, fixed still on Uriel, now peered through him, seeing nothing. Uriel knelt over this poor, wretched shell of a man and offered a prayer for his soul, when he took note of his curled left hand. He pried the fingers open and found a signet ring clutched so tightly that it imprinted the poor soul’s palm.

            The ring was a Dragon Cleric’s ring, but more importantly, it possessed a ring of finer platinum and a House standard, which declared the owner to be a member of the Council of Magistrates. For the second time in one day Uriel’s jaw dropped in stark surprise. He was kneeling over the wasted body of Magistrate Kraed, mouthpiece for Morgarand, Dragon of the Deep Green Sea. Uriel stood solemnly over Kraed’s dead body, and envisioned a land awash in this wasted death. The heat of the Prison was like the licking tongue of the Dragon’s flame, and now that serpent was tasting the scorched flesh of southlander and Cleric alike. Uriel never felt more impotent in all his life: here he was, privy to the very secret that might at last destroy the hold that the priesthood had over the land, and he was doomed to carry it with him to the grave. He bowed his head at last, alone in that forsaken place.

***

            “Is it true, Aram?” Magistrate Dorlen wondered cautiously, “Has the wyrm Morgarand been slain?”

            The stronghold of Belgast was in an uproar with reports and fallacies or half-truths running quicker than wild fire among the priesthood the last several weeks, and Aram found himself awash in the fury of the firestorm. There was word that Morgarand had grown silent of late within the Deep Green Sea, and the rumor that Magistrate Kraed was suddenly gone from Cantlin City, stolen away in the dead of night as reports had it. It gave all of the Council pause for worry. Their gods had been wounded. The great wyrms were drawn into a conflict their dutiful soldiers had long fought on their behalf. It was the covenant of old that forbade the Dragons from bringing ruin and flame upon Kallendaros again so long as Tithing and branding were practiced, and the army of the priesthood served as loyal soldiers. But would the spilling of wyrm blood be sufficient to provoke their rage? Gildaryss, daughter of Anzaryx, would hold the answer to that fated question. She was greatest among the Dragons.

            “What of it, Magistrate Aram? What have you to say concerning this matter? Have you not been to Cantlin City? Have you not last seen our fellow Magistrate shortly before he took leave of us? What does the mistress Gildaryss know?”

            “How might she know anything concerning Magistrate Kraed?” Aram argued as he sat in his Council seat, all in a great half circle in the loftiest chamber of the tower, facing one another. “Morgarand is not her child, nor her charge. So it stands that Magistrate Kraed is not her property. I am not Kraed’s keeper, either. But you know the covenant and the law as well as I do, Magistrate Dorlen. If he has turned traitor, then he deserves a traitor’s fate. Likely, he will be subject to a tribunal meeting and judgment.”

            “There is to be no judgment before we even find the man and learn his fate, and his intentions!” piped in Magistrate Gallent. Both Gallent and Dorlen were friends and allies. Gallent possessed a vast and worthy stronghold in Myrodia, near the prosperous city of Greywalk, to its west. He was the avatar of Devisius, Dragon of the Saraphin Forest which lay like a gentle blanket of silent doom embanking the whole of Myrodia’s western flank. Magistrate Dorlen possessed a mansion in the city of Eastport, near to the water front of the majestic Pearl Ocean. He was a shipping master and merchant lord to boot, making him a man of great influence and greater wealth throughout all of southern Myrodia. It also made the man self-elected diplomat for many meetings with South Deep’s mouthpiece, a mouse of a man named Petrian. The little dotard was keen with words and pierced with innuendo the way a bladesman would cleave with the sword, which made him rather much like the Council.  Dorlen’s benefactor was Ramzes, Dragon of the northern waters. He rested in an obscure northern river named the River Rowan, which cut a long swath out of the countryside and gave Myrodia a boundary from the forgotten north.

            “Do you suspect that Kraed has gone over to the enemy?” Dorlen wondered, rubbing the slender, lengthy beard that adorned his aged chin. He sank back deeper into his cushioned chair and brooded, as was commonplace for the man.

            “I suspect that Kraed’s disappearance, along with Morgarand’s, is not mere coincidence. Then this young upstart comes unknown from the north, and stirs dissension among the southlanders. He has the audacity to slay Brackaelyk!”

            “The Dragon of the Blight is dead after all, then,” Gallent said quietly to himself, nursing a small mug of brandy wine that would never be drained. His spidery fingers rolled over the goblet’s glass surface as if attached to it, and the Magistrate stared fixedly at the mug more than anyone he shared words with.

            “There have been reports of the wyrm’s death from the Goblin tribes which dwell in service to the Dragon, at least until he was slain at this young churl’s hands. Now the tribes grow restless. Doubtless they will appoint a new chieftain, now that Brackaelyk is passed on, and they will plunder his horde and attack both Cleric and southlander with Dragon cursed weapons!”

            “I am not afraid of the Goblin tribes,” Magistrate Admil said calmly from where he sat, nearest to Aram. Jaerzahad, desert wyrm, elected Admil for his mouthpiece. He was strong as any warrior Aram had ever known, with an unusual outlook on matters, sometimes providing a perspective others might overlook. It was said that Jaerzahad brought Admil from the far north on Dragon-back, out of the Arnor Desert where the man lived in a gypsy band. His hair and skin and eyes were dark like olives and his speech was a little queer, but Aram liked this man best among the others.

            “What is it that you do fear, Magistrate Admil?” Gallent asked him pointedly.

            “I fear the young man who can slay a wyrm. Don’t tell me that it was mere chance that an unheard of warrior came from the northlands, from uncultured forests and hills and deserts, and chanced a journey to the Thistlebrush Wastes, only to kill a Dragon on random whim.”

            “What are you insinuating, sir?” Dorlen broached the question.

            “I hailed from the north, out of the heart of the desert. I know the breed of men that are born and come into manhood from afar. They are not like the men of the deep south, or even the wily warriors and Rangers of the forest lands in Myrodia. They do not hold the Dragons in esteem like you do because they did not grow up in a region rife with the destruction their power can engender. No, this one came down with the intent to kill wyrms, and he has made his start. South Deep has found a champion to rally behind.”

            “They have found more than that, Magistrate Admil,” Aram argued point. “Rumor reaches Cantlin, Eastport and beyond that this upstart is to be crowned king of the northlands, to be named king within the halls of the Castle of Lords in South Deep itself! One of the Order of the Valar has come to set him straight and bring him to the city of Orizon, to present him before the whole of the Order in the Artisan’s Tower.”

            “How can this be?” Dorlen fairly laughed, “There is no power in the north! Kartia City is an isolated trade township compared to the grandeur of Eastport, and what else have they? Aradis? Orizon? The Valar won’t suffer someone outside of their Order to rule in their sacred city!”

            “You forget the prophets of yore,” Gallent reminded him shrewdly, “The Book of Prophets speaks of a king coming from a land unknown, to re-establish the southlands and claim the title of ruler. And he shall be a warrior.”

            “Pah! There is no castle, no fortune, no army waiting for him in the north!” Dorlen argued smoothly, rather amused by the entire proceeding. “This boy will have farmers, trappers and hunters for infantry, cavalry and pike men? What will be his standard, I wonder? The pitchfork?”

            “Scoff if you will,” Aram shook his head in disapproval, “But this man has already done what no warrior before him has: he has slain one of our benefactors, possibly two of them, and Kraed may have aided him.”

            “Why would one of the Council do such a foolish thing?” Gallent asked, his interest peaked by the direction Aram took. Aram had them snared, he knew, so he ventured further, spinning the cunning lie that Gildaryss wanted him to weave. Every word he issued would bear them closer to the final war. He wondered what the forthcoming war would be named, and whether there would be a Human left to recall it and chronicle its passing. He shuddered.

            “Don’t you see?” replied Admil, breaking in before Aram’s lips were even parted, “The Old Nobility have offered him amnesty if he aids them in supplying knowledge that will fuel this campaign, this Dragon Quest.”

            “Magistrate Admil may be more right than he knows,” Aram added quickly.

            “Tell us what you know, Magistrate Aram,” Gallent prompted, eager to hear more.

            “How do you think that the young Dragon Slayer gained his knowledge on the whereabouts of the wyrm Brackaelyk,” Aram said frankly, taking leave of his seat and wandering the midst of the half-circled table when it became time for one of the Council to lead the discussion. Aram found himself here often, competing for the privilege with Magistrate Dorlen. The high chamber of the tower was the most secure place in the fortress of Belgast. It was two stories higher than the outer wall, with a protective wall that was easily as thick, moored at the foundation with great blocks of quarried stone. The loftier reaches of the tower served as quarters for visiting members of the Council of Magistrates, of which there was always a man or woman serving as acting commander of the stronghold. It was common knowledge even among the lowliest of the priesthood that every Dragon, without exception, would migrate at some point over a course of some years toward the Outlands. They would remain in that far off, desolate region for months. The Magistrates never inquired why they journeyed so far from the green realm of Kallendaros, or the heights of the mountain chains which they so seemed to favor, but it was part of the old covenant. It was supposed, many reasoned after a time, that the wyrms gathered in the bleak stretches of sun-baked desert to hunt for game or sleep for long periods, for it seldom seemed that the wyrms slept or ate otherwise. It was part of the glamour, a part of the illusion the wyrms used to maintain their cloak of deity. Generally any Dragon that ventured out would have its Magistrate remain in Belgast to assume command until they returned. Jaerzahad was among the least frequent to make such a journey, while wyrms like Devisius or Morgarand were often going afar for reasons they did not know and could only guess at.

            More than one hundred years ago the priesthood of the Dragon was ordered to labor with the raising of Belgast, named for a Dorym Hayn of old that was said to have formed the Kanaron Mountains during the golden years of the First Age. The high chamber of the central tower served a duel function: it aided in spying out the return of the benefactors, and it was the Council chambers for the Magistrates when they wished to convene and discuss matters urgent or of import to their benefactors. That seemed to be growing in frequency of late.

            Now Aram strode through that mighty chamber as if every stone was carved for his feet to tread, the walls fashioned to uphold and bear his words as he served the secret will of his mistress, mightiest and most cunning of all the Dragons. This deception was even against them, and Aram knew that. Only the desert wyrm, Jaerzahad, conspired with her concerning the fate of the priesthood, which they deemed to be obsolete, save for a few choice men. Aram prayed now that he was one of those few, lest he be sowing the seeds of his own end. None of that bothered him now, however. Better a living dog than a dead lion, he thought, quoting an old heathen proverb. He was master of the situation, and he had been in the southlands directly attending these issues longer and in more detail than they had. In fact, only Magistrate Kraed could have boasted more time involved in affairs of the south, and now he was gone. He lay dead in the same city that he aided in bringing under the yoke of the priesthood to begin with. The irony of it wasn’t lost upon Aram as he moved from chair to chair, regarding the other members of the Council. There were empty chairs to be sure besides that of good Kraed, but only two. A time when all the members of the Council were gathered under a single roof was nearly unheard of. It hadn’t been done for the last sixty years at least.

            “There was indeed a traitor among us, but he has fled, or been slain. Either way, that would be a fitting end for the man if he has defected. We have another problem, which I have yet to address the Council with,” Aram strode to the center of the half-circle, lush carpeting richly absorbing his footfalls until he came to a sudden halt, hands poised before him, spinning with great intention as he looked at the lot of them. “One of the commanders of South Deep led an attack on one of our patrols near Lake Purt last month, and there was a bitter struggle. Fortunately, the struggle turned to our favor and we managed to repel them without losing all of our men, most of which served under me,” he added emphasis at the insult of losing soldiers to the southlanders while each Magistrate nodded agreement. “This attack is utterly unprovoked, and it coincides further with this brazen attack on the very beings that we created the covenant with. They strike at our roots, at the source of our authority, and they bleed our strong arm by using terrorist assaults on routine patrols through harmless reaches. Where would the soldiers of the southlands have received word of where my patrol was at the time? Why attack a lot of soldiers that were only keeping our borders secure from any stray beasts that came out of the Deep Green Sea?”

            “Then Kraed is indeed a traitor!” Admil declared vehemently, slamming his strong fist on the cherry wood table, making everything resting on the surface leap a little, as well as the rest of the Council. “He gave us over to the lord of South Deep!”

            “Perhaps he was taken prisoner and they have tortured such information from him,” Dorlen pointed out diplomatically, “You can’t simply come to a decision of this magnitude without first learning more about the whole affair. Kraed has been a faithful member of the Council for more years than you, Magistrate Admil!”

            “Yet here I sit, allied with my fellow Clerics! Where is Kraed? Let the coward show himself!”

            “How do you explain the unprovoked slaughter of my Clerics, Magistrate Dorlen?” Aram questioned swiftly, arching an eyebrow. Dorlen pursed his lips and rubbed his little beard thoughtfully, reluctant to answer. “You know the answer!” Aram accused. “You all know the answer! The Old Nobility has wanted war with us for years uncounted, ever since the House of Ravenlore led the others in the Great Betrayal. They want the covenant rent asunder, and now they aim to make it so! But I say, this cannot be allowed to stand! We must ready ourselves for war, if need be. We must at last consider our final conquest: conquering the final bastion we have allowed the Old Nobility to have in memory of the Old South. South Deep must fall.”

            To that notion Dorlen sprang forward and Gallent not far after him, protesting in a booming voice that resounded through the high chamber. “There will be none of that talk within this chamber until we have the whole of the Council gathered here!”

            “What remains of it,” Admil snorted, turning a sour face to Dorlen, who feigned not to notice it.

            “The whole Council is gathered, along with their Zealots, if there are plans of war to be discussed,” Gallent agreed quickly, defending his friend’s stand over the matter, “There is much to talk over, including the ramifications of breaking trust with the Old Nobility and wantonly spilling their blood on the soil that is our mutual birthright.”

            “That is well for the lot of you,” Admil intoned, “But my native soil is the rich and flowing hills of sand, the Arnor. I won’t allow sentimentality  to decide for me whether or not the Old South has overstepped their bounds and declared war, whether we would have war or not. If half of what Aram has said is true, do we really have time to discuss?”

            “There will always be time to discuss, especially things of this gravity, Magistrate Admil. Would you not agree, Magistrate Aram?” Dorlen prompted the eldest of those gathered to reply.

            “As you say, Dorlen,” Aram agreed. “Let the Council be called in full. But send the missive quickly. Time is of the essence, I fear.”