Chapter CVI: The Endless Landscape

North closed his eyes as the wind caressed him, a gentle touch drifting over his skin.  The tied drifted in, lapping at his feet and leaving tiny foam bubbles across the sun-drenched sand.  Across the horizon, the sea sparkled as if fireworks were exploding across its surface, the water constantly changing, rippling, flowing, moving with endless momentum wherever the tides bade it.  The Elvaan's iron-gray hair stirred in the wind, lifting from his scalp only to droop back down, and he gave a contented sigh as the scents of the sea breeze mingled with those of the island and wafted past. 

"There are dolphins," he said, pointing towards the shimmering sea, "just a few hundred malms out.  A whole pod, seeking warmer water.  They're further south than they've ever been before."

"They're explorers," November mused, shuffling through the sand to stand beside him.  "Adventurers, seeking their fortune, letting the sea take them where it might."

North said nothing, not wanting to break the romanticized imagining of dolphin life.  He could sense their confusion, their doubt, their pain at being so far from familiar surroundings.  Then again, he considered, perhaps that was part of the adventurer life as well.  Maybe November's assessment was not terribly off-base. 

Purgonorgo's sand crunched through his fingers as he stood, and he let it slip between them and become lost again in the bright beach with its infinite companions.

"I feel like those dolphins do," North muttered, chin drooping towards his chest. 

The tide splashed around his ankles as he looked down.  A moment later and Virtue's voice called to them from her home, beckoning them inside.


The white witch's house was a simple place, a hut of graying wood with a thatched straw roof.  A dirt path led from the beach through Purgonorgo's tropical foliage to her doorstep.  Tiny animal tracks embedded in the soil told short stories of prowling, romping, chasing, and stalking.  North followed them with his eyes as they made their way through the brush, enjoying the tales in every step.  They ran right up to Virtue's door, a collection of planks nailed together and painted cherry red.  Smoke was puffing up from her chimney, despite the tropical heat of the island.

As he opened the door, a hiss of air and a flash of light birthed a flame as Virtue lit a candle, placing it in circle of others on the musty floorboards of her house.  The sunlight streaming in through her solitary window illuminated countless particles of chalk in the air, rising from the six-pointed star she had drawn on the floor.  The smoke from the scented candles was creating a thin, sweet-smelling haze which drew a veil over the room.  North sniffed, detecting the aroma of flowers and herbs not native to the small island.

Virtue's home was littered with a collection of curiosities.   Stout wooden shelves housed rows of books of all shapes and sizes, bound in leather, tied in string, made of paper or parchment.  Some were old and musty, with dog-eared pages and worn covers, others looked practically brand new.  On her wall was mounted a collection of insects, dried and preserved, pinned and labeled in a velvet case.  Maps of areas North had never ventured to were strewn in a corner, alongside stacks of boxes marked in languages ranging from common to Old Elvaan to runic symbols.  Of those he could read, North saw one labeled "Clothes," another "Songs," and yet another "Tonberries."

Odd mathematical instruments cluttered a desk situated before the window.  From their arrangement their purpose seemed to be divided between actual study and weighing down the papers beneath them.  Papers and scrolls were scattered in piles across the maple-wrought desk or shoved into drawers and shelves lining the wall.  Atop one of them was also a glass jar with what looked like an Orc hand preserved inside.  This was just a sampling of the strange an inexplicable collection of the white witch.

Virtue stood up, brushing chalk and dust from the knees of her white frock.  Her star, two overlapping triangles, filled half the room.  Each of its six points contained a runic symbol beyond North's reckoning.  A chalk circle encompassed its entirety, and in the middle of it, laying where Virtue had bade him place it, was Guttler.

"I don't understand," he swallowed, reflexively placing a hand over the scar on his chest.  "None of this was necessary when you aided November."

Virtue crossed the room, taking him by the hand and leading him into the center of the star.  "Lie down," she commanded, being careful not to step on any of the chalk markings herself.

"Tell me what all this is, Virtue," he demanded, standing over Guttler.  It stirred in his presence, but its malice was noticeably subdued.

"Guttler's teeth bit November but once, and she was afflicted with the same choking curse it transfers onto everything.  Few enough survive the axe to realize that it inflicts this suffering upon all that it cuts into.  It is strong, not easily broken, but all her healing required was essentially physical recovery and removal of the curse."

"And what makes this different?"  November stepped towards her.  "This pattern - these preparations - you needed none of them to help me."

"You don't matter to Guttler," the witch told her frankly.  "When it cut you those years back it made no distinction between you and anything else it has hunted.  You received a wound and a curse, both curable without extraordinary means."  She turned her head back towards North, ageless face inscrutable.  "You, on the other hand, Guttler is actively trying to kill.  Even if I remove the curse for now it will inflict it again.  It will fight you, fight against you, turn on you.  The cure for your ill can only be achieved by confronting its source."

North felt a stab of pain his chest as he looked at the axe.  "And how do I do that?"

"Lie down," Virtue told him again, "and take Guttler in your hands."

Silently, she moved towards the cast-iron stove tucked into the corner.  Flames licked the black metal as she opened the hatch, using tongs to remove a tin cup hung over the fire. The amber broth within steamed and bubbled, and North eyed it warily as she brought it towards him.  She repeated her command with her eyes, and reluctantly he obeyed.  Taking the silver-bladed axe by the hilt, he lay down in the center of the star, back pressing against the floorboards as Virtue leaned over him.  Carefully, she extended the cup with the tongs, taking care not to step within the chalk circle itself.

"Open your mouth," she told him. 

"What is all this for?"  He demanded, even as he did so.  She poured the liquid down his throat, and he licked his lips after swallowing.  It tasted like syrup and lemongrass, and he coughed twice before getting it down.

Virtue withdrew, watching North intently.  "I am sending you to meet Guttler," she explained.  "This seal is for protection."

"To guard me from the axe?"

She shook her head once.  "You are on your own, from this point on.  The seal is to protect us."

"What - "

Something suddenly grasped his heart, biting and twisting with teeth made of fire.

He convulsed, trying to shoot up, but found himself pinned to the floor.  The chalk was melting into his skin, and Guttler had burst into black flame against his chest.  Virtue's dark eye were upon him as flame engulfed him entirely, his cries unable to escape his frozen throat.  The world tore open around him, and fire consumed all. 

North screamed with all his being, but his voice was lost in the void which swallowed him up, Guttler's booming laughter following him into the dark.


November looked at North's body, sleeping peacefully on the floor of Virtue's cottage.  He was gravely still, and looked far too much like a corpse with his arms crossed over his chest and Guttler upon him as it was.  Still, he gave no sign of discomfort or distress.  Moments after the witch's tonic had passed his lips he had fallen deep into slumber, and she had kept vigil by his side.

"Will this cure him?"  She asked of Virtue.

"No," the witch raised a hand to silence November's immediate reaction, "but it will provide him with the means to cure himself.  The rest is up to North."

"Then all is well," the Summoner declared.  "North cannot fail."

"I hope the same is true of us."  Virtue gave a weary sigh, sinking into a wicker chair near her desk.  Through some trick of the sunlight, November thought, or odd shadow cast by the particles of dust in the air, she suddenly seemed a much older.  The white witch hunched over the table, the streaks of gray cutting through her hair like twin snowfalls from her temples.  She turned towards November with her eyes hooded, a grave look on her ageless face.  "The demons have followed you."

She gave a slight gasp, but quickly collected herself.  "This was not unexpected.  I will protect us while North sleeps."

"Then steel yourself well, November, for they come in numbers, and with murder in their hearts."


The pain left North with a gasp which emptied his lungs.  He collapsed on the ground, head bowed as sweat dripped from his chin and brow.  His hair was matted with perspiration, and the whole of his skin felt hot to the touch.  Eyes closed, he clenched his fingers and grit his teeth, composing himself with no small effort.  Some time passed before he was able to raise his head and stare out across the landscape.  What he saw there locked him in place.

In the distance, further off than a hawk's eye would easily perceive, lightning rained down from roiling clouds suspended over jagged peaks which scraped the sky.  Above him was naught but gray, a grim and lightless sight which stretched on without end.  Suddenly he became aware that a rain, so light as to be a mist, was washing over him.  It left no mark or ripple as it touched the ground, for indeed there was no ground to speak of.

What it was he was crouched upon, he could not say.  It seemed almost a liquid, though he rested upon its surface without sinking.  Colors shifted and swirled below the surface, a maelstrom light flickering and flashing with no discernible pattern.  Here and there images he thought he recognized appeared only to vanish before he could process what they were.  His nails scraped against it as he stood, but the ground rippled and restored itself like a pool disturbed.  The rain continued to fall as North looked around the vast, lifeless landscape surrounding him.  He was unclothed, naked against the elements, yet felt neither warmth nor chill as the wind sifted through his iron-gray hair.

He needed only to look across his surroundings once before taking notice of the rock jutting up through the liquid surface below him.  Several yalms off it stood, the lightning in the distance and the swirl of colors beneath him casting a wicked gleam across its surface, was Guttler.

It was embedded, blade-first, into the protruding rock.  A rumble of thunder crashed somewhere far-off as the two became aware of each other.

Tiny pebbles began to shake free from the craggy stone, and a low growl filled the air.  North braced himself as a wave of contempt swept over him, more powerful by far than the wind or rain.  His heels dug into the ground, impossibly finding traction.  He questioned it not.  At Guttler's core, a lick of flame sprang forth as the axe began glowing red.  The sensation of malice was palatable.

North scowled.  Defiantly, he ran forward, arm outstretched, to tear the blade free from the rock and drag Guttler to submission.  A wall of flame erupted from the weapon, and the Beastmaster halted close enough for them to singe the hairs on his arms.  He bound backwards like a rabbit, halting as he stared into the flames.

The fire was shifting, congealing from a shapeless mass into a distinct form.  As North watched, spellbound, what had been uncontrolled flame formed claws and teeth, eyes and a snout, arms and legs all composed of Guttler's acrimonious blaze.  The fire-beast stood tall as a Behemoth, and thunder answered its call as it reared its head back and let a howl shake the land.  It resembled in some ways an enormous dog or wolf, but was a creature altogether the stuff of blackest nightmare.

Blistering heat and bloodlust swept over North as the rain began to intensify.  Thin drops were now prodding at him, needle-like, as he cast a hateful glare at the beast.  Its flames leaped at him, targeting him clearly, yet they did not burn.  He cast his voice to the wind, howling greater yet than it had.

"Be you weapon or beast, fire or flesh, I will bend you to my will, and failing that I shall exterminate once and for all your blighted presence!  I will not yield!"

The beast roared, and both came forward to join in mortal combat.


"What manner of protection do we have?"

Virtue waved off the question dismissively.  "Had we enough I would not have even mentioned the demons coming.  No sigil or ward will hold them long.  The most we can hope is delay, but this late in the afternoon it only works in their favor."  She cast a look towards the round sun, hanging low in the sky.  "Night is no ally to us, November."

"How long until North recovers?"  the Summoner asked, casting a worried look back towards Virtue's isolated house.  They had moved outside, into the dense rock and jungle which naturally defended the white witch's home.  The wildlife North had so enjoyed when they arrived had grown silent, and an unsettling stillness had gripped Purgonurgo Isle.

Virtue looked at her gravely.  "Minutes, or perhaps years.  Perhaps he will die in the next moment.  He faces Guttler itself in the realm of his own soul."

"Die?"  November sputtered.  "You said nothing of death!"

"It was not important."

"How?  How could the chance that he might die in this undertaking not be important?"

"Because if he did not do it, he would definitely die," she told her, eyes glinting.  "I gave him a fighting chance.  The rest lies with him.  Do not let your confidence in him waver."

November glared sharply at the white witch, but turned away without response.  Her faith in North was unshakable, but under these conditions she could hardly be optimistic.  "I am not concerned for his success, for he is North, King of Beasts, and there is no foe he cannot tame.  I worry we shall falter in this task and demons will take him as he sleeps."

"Then you will have failed, and forfeit my aid in any case, because I am counting defending my home now as payment for my services."  She had taken a long staff from her home, and let it lead her now as they walked.  "Come with me.  Time is short, and we must plan our defense with all haste.  This island is ill-prepared for such a siege, but we must do what we can with what we have."

"Do you know how many of them we face?"

"Too many," the white witch replied, leaning for a moment heavily upon her staff.  "But whether or not we are overwhelmed shall be determined before the night is out."

November followed Virtue out into the bleached sands of Purgonurgo as the sun dipped towards the restless ocean. The witch faced the tide, head tilted skyward. November felt a chill run through her as the wind suddenly changed direction, gentle breeze transforming into a harsh and biting gust. The sand at their feet tore up from the ground and sprayed outwards as Virtue lifted her staff towards the heavens. Tiny granules assaulted them, and November pulled her robe over her face defensively as the wind cut across the island. A blast of air howled past her, nearly knocking the Summoner from her feet, and then in an instant the wind ceased, returning to its gentle state.

Lowering the folds of her black-and-white robe, November blinked sand from her eyes and looked out upon the beach. All across Purgonurgo, etched into the sand, stone, and soil, lines radiating from the point where Virtue stood had been carved out by the wind. Snaking and twisting along the island, a complex web gripped the isle, and November's eyes widened as she felt the steady pulse of eldritch force emanating from the ground all about her.

"This ward will tell us when they arrive, and offer us some defense. As long as its power holds, they shall be weakened while on the island, while our own powers shall be in a small way augmented." Virtue lowered her staff, but seemed unsteady as her hands grasped at it. She leaned on it like a crutch, but only for a moment before straightening. "They will be forced now to wait for nightfall, when their strength is greatest."

"That gives us hours yet to prepare."

"You prepare," Virtue huffed, shaking off whatever weariness she exhibited a moment before. "I will go fix something to eat."

Her ageless face seemed twenty years older for a moment as she turned from the sun, but her stride was strong as the White Witch left November on the beach, alone with the tide, the sand, and a growing sense of dread.


The beast came again, fangs of fire clamping down over North as he pressed his heels into the liquid ground. Where he saw only flame, his fingers found substance, and he held the creature by tooth and by mane as they grappled. His own teeth were bared, eyes alight with the blaze which did not burn. Though  Guttler's fire engulfed him, the only heat he felt was that of his own rage.

"You will kneel to me, monster!" He said from behind clenched teeth. "I will see you bow or I will see you broken!"

It only howled in response, tearing itself away from his grasp and swatting at him with burning claws. Though the fire was harmless, flesh was torn away from him. North staggered back instinctively, clutching at his chest to find a fresh red rip stretching down the length of the scar Guttler had already given him. His blood bubbled and boiled away in the heat. The rain was coming down in torrents now, washing over both of them and leaving the beast only a ruddy glow behind he sheets of water. No matter how much poured down, it would not extinguish. North sneered at it, wiping wet strands of hair from his face.

The beast lunged, and North quickly sidestepped its claws. He delivered a swift kick across his muzzle which it barely even acknowledged. It came at him with its maw wide, but he ran directly at it, leaping up as it lowered its head to bite him, and planted his foot in its snout. Immediately it jerked backwards, but North used the momentum to gracefully propel himself into the air. At the apex of his flight, he spun completely around and extended his leg. He gathered speed like a plummeting stone, and came down directly upon the back of the beast's neck like a guillotine. It collapsed forward, and North went with it, skidding to a halt some dozen or so feet away. No sooner had he regained his feet than it was already recovered, howling with fury at the assault.

Surging forward through the rain, North closed the distance between himself and the beast and sprang into the air. It snapped at him with its jaws, but he twisted acrobatically and evaded. When he landed upon its back, he grabbed fistfuls of what his eyes told him was fire but his hands perceived as thick strands of hair. It roared as he pulled back upon it, rearing off the ground, trying to dislodge him. North held firm, digging his heels into its sides and pulling even harder. The rain was pouring so hard it felt as if his skin was being scoured, yet still the flames of Guttler's monster burned. Lightning danced around them, and deafening thunderclaps shook the endless landscape. The Beastmaster was tossed like a rag doll as the beast thrashed, yet still he held on.

Then, with a roar to rival the thunder, the beast reared as high as it could, and then came down upon the aqueous ground. The shockwave rattled every bone in North's body, and the surface beneath them, which had shown not a ripple or divot or any sign of disturbance through their entire struggle suddenly surged outwards. With a mighty heave, the beast finally broke North's grasp, and the air rushed from his lungs as he struck the ground. The flaming creature loomed over him, paw raised in the air. Its malice was so intense that it burned where fire could not.

In the next instant, the ground it had forced away came rushing back like the tide. One moment North lay on his back with the beast perched over him, and the next he was overcome with the feeling of being swept away by some massive undertow. When he gasped for air, his eyes shot open and he found himself now surrounded by darkness.

The beast was there with him, the shining silver blade of Guttler gleaming at its core. Together they fell, no end or beginning in sight, and North realized that the were going to fall forever.


Virtue turned an eye on North as he lay perfectly still within her circle of protection. His breathing had grown shallow, but he gave no other sign of anything he might be feeling. Resting on his chest, Guttler was dull and silent. A draft blew in from an open window, and the candles surrounding him flickered. For a moment, the flames cast a shadow which resembled some manner of great beast, but the impression faded in the blink of an eye.

The White Witch stood, leaving her ceramic plate on the table. The last few scraps of her meal went untouched. Outside, the last feeble rays of sunlight were sinking beneath the waves. Never before had the darkness swallowing the mainland felt so near.

She took one last look about her ramshackle little house, allowing a thin smile as she stepped out the front door.

In the distance, close to the shore, a jet of fire suddenly filled the night. The sound of beating wings and guttural howls was near, much nearer than she would have thought.

Resolutely, Virtue took hold of her staff and swiftly walked towards where November was. She had done everything she could for them.

Now it was time to die.

Chapter CV: Scars

"Blood," Guttler's unmistakable voice cried out, "Me want more blood!"

"Blood," North's voice echoed, and the ragged sound of his own breath slowly draining from his chest scratched at his ears.

He was stripped to the waist, ankle-deep in mud as rain slicked down his taut, powerful muscles.  The Sanctuary of Zi'Tah was silent save for the constant beating of the late summer storm upon the canopy of trees.  The soft forest loam mixed with centuries of fallen leaves and undergrowth now formed a thick stew of muck at his feet.  It was cold, but steam rose from North's arms and torso as his palm dug into Guttler's rigid hilt.

As rain washed over him, the blood coating his forearms and torso ran down across the white fur coating his legs, staining it red and brown.  He blinked water from his eyes, looking out at a world tinted the same colors.  His breath escaped from him again, slow and ragged, rattling like an animal trapped in a cage.

Yards away from him, desperately clutching at the staff held in its thin-fingered grip, the remaining Goblin cast its gaze about for the escape which had eluded its fellow.  Four others lay face down in the mud, the dark blood pouring from their wounds mingling with the rain and soil.  The ground was red around their corpses, and the stench of death rose up, clinging to the blood-smeared trees.

"Please," the Goblin pleaded, its knobby knees shaking in the mud, "please don't kill me."

"Blood," North spat, watching it run from his hands.  Without it coating his body he felt the chill the rain ushered in.  His steely, gray-eyed gaze settled on the Goblin.  He needed more blood.

Raising Guttler's silver blade, he took a step forward.  The Goblin reared back, a sob escaping from behind its leather mask.

A tree fell behind him, the deep trench Guttler had cut in it finally giving way.  The flames licking at its bark were quelled as it splashed into the muck.  Ash swept up past North's feet, but the fire and the smoke were quickly being suppressed by the rain pouring down from the sagging gray sky.  A wave of heat did nothing to warm him.  Only blood could thaw the ice in his veins.  Guttler's deep voice urged him on, guiding his hand towards what it desired - what he desired.

Panicking, the Goblin threw lightning from its staff.  North stopped, his vision blurring as the muscles in his chest constricted.  The stench of his own sizzling flesh filled his nostrils.  His lip curled back, saliva dripping from his teeth as his arm pulled back of its own accord, dragged by Guttler over his head as he felt his legs keep pumping.  Mud sucked at his feet as he pulled them free, advancing on the beastman as a howl he was barely aware he was making escaped his lips.  It screamed, terrified, placing its hands in front of its face as North bore down upon it, Guttler still drenched in the blood of its companions.

The mud struck his arm like a lash, wrapping around his forearm with a tautness it should not have possessed.  He lurched, halted in mid-stride as his feet flew out from underneath him.  His whole body twisted, trying to anchor itself to something as the dirt and water pulled him down.  Tendrils of mud wrapped tight around him, and he sank into the bubbling goop which greedily swallowed him up.

He opened his mouth, snarling out a protest, when his tomb of muck sealed up around him, embedding him beneath the ground as rain continued to pound down upon the Sanctuary of Zi'Tah.

All at once, the ground hardened and cracked, the mud becoming thin, fragile clay.  A great pulse of heat boiled away rainwater and turned the dark-brown loam a pale tan.  The flames surrounding them roared higher, defying the downpour as they exulted in the new life being breathed into them by Guttler's rage.  North tore free of his earthen constraints, his bestial eyes searching for the power which had dragged him down.  With a throaty grunt, he spun round, the muscles in his arms twitching as he laid eyes on his attacker.

November was nearly doubled over, her hand clutched across the gaping wound splitting open her side.  Her eyes were glassed, her face haggard as she breathed in slow gasps.  Her green robes were stained with mud and blood.  She was leaning heavily on her staff, the golden jewel affixed to the top of it sparking and pulsing intermittently.  Behind her, the normally monstrous body of the Earth Avatar, Titan, appeared ephemeral, as if only halfway between this world and the next. 

"Run," she rasped at the lone Goblin, which had stumbled back against the trees, clutching and sobbing, scratching at the bark with yellowed nails.  It blubbered at her incoherently, looking back and forth from her to North to its dead companions, bleeding out in the dirt.

"Run!" She screamed at it again, and North's powerful legs carried him forward, growling insanely as he swung Guttler towards her.

Titan's fist caught the blade in the air, and a great shockwave shook the trees around them.  The fire immediately surrounding them died as the wind rushed away, starving it in an instant.  Black flames ran the length of Guttler's blade as North pressed forward, racing up Titan's arm and sinking beneath his rocky skin.  The Avatar's figure faded, losing substance one second and gaining it the next as November's staff erupted in a fountain of golden light.  Sweat ran down her face, black hair clinging to her in matted clumps as she forced all of her might into maintaining Titan's presence.

North tore Guttler free and struck again, and with that second strike the mountainous form shattered like glass, all that he was dissolving into the mud beneath.

November collapsed forward, but instantly North's hand was on her throat.  The breath left her body in a rush as she was slammed down, sinking into the mud as the Beastmaster clenched down, a froth at his mouth as he raised Guttler up again.  She stared feebly, no power left in her to resist.  North was choking the life from her, the silver-bladed axe crying out to have its thirst slaked.

And then the Goblin was there, a flurry of shrill screams and furious strikes with its staff, engulfed in an aura of air so cold that North's skin turned black where it struck.  The Elvaan rolled off of her, tumbling through the wet sod.  Leaves and mud clung to them as they struggled, North caught off-guard by the ferocity of the attack.  It struck at him with its tiny gnarled staff and scratched at him with long, broken fingernails, leaving jagged scratches in his skin.  Between gasps and sobs and foul curses it beat at him with arctic air.  November found the strength to roll over, trying with flagging strength to push herself up from the muck.

The assault lasted all of a handful of seconds before North lashed up like a snake, his teeth sinking into the Goblin's neck.  It cried out in agony as he bit down, tearing away with a bloodied chunk of flesh in his teeth.  It staggered back, but before its feet had fully sunk down into the ground, Guttler separated its head from it body.  The two pieces hit the ground with a wet thud, turning the mud a murky red.

North hunched his shoulders, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.  It was a slow, aching rasp, the rattle of a starving beast.  His skin was burning, even where the Goblin's ice had frozen his flesh to the point of hypothermia.  With the hand not grasping Guttler, he brushed the coarse and bloodied strands of hair from his eyes, grunting as he sniffed the air.

November was standing in front of him, he realized, and even as Guttler reflexively came into the air, she smeared her hand across his shallow and unshaven face.

"Here, North," she choked, "here is my blood.  Take all that you want."

A coppery taste filled his mouth as November collapsed in front of him.  Her hand left a crimson trail down his neck and chest, cutting off at his abdomen as she fell face-first into the mud.  He stood still, rolling the taste on his tongue, letting his mouth hang open as blood ran down his cheek.  Another flavor mingled with it, a bitter, salty tang which left him numb.

Guttler sank into the ground, its hilt toppling into the mud as North fell to his knees.  A wail broke from his lips, a mournful howl which was carried by the wind through the Sanctuary of Zi'Tah and into the weeping skies above.

"November," North sobbed, his tears disappearing into the rain, "what have I done?"

She gave no response.  She only hung limply in his arms as he clung to her.  He looked at his hand in horror as it slid up the side of her robe, covered in blood from a wound he had dealt her.

"Keftenk," he muttered, and then raised his voice to a shout.  "Keftenk!"

The forest was still, rain squelching the last of the flames borne from Guttler's rage.  Then, from behind a charred cedar a figure stirred.  Keftenk, his face ashen, peered uncertainly out from behind the tree, eyes darting about the scene in abject terror.

With a mighty heave, North took hold of Guttler's hilt, screaming as black fire raced up his arm, and hurled it towards the other Beastmaster.  It splashed into a brown puddle, and Keftenk looked down at it in wide-eyed horror.  He clung to the tree, his words coming out as incomprehensible blubbering.

"Take it," North growled as he stood, cradling November in his arms.  "Take it to the dragon's treasure, and leave it there."

"M . . .Master . . . " North's apprentice stammered.  His eyes were still filled with fear, but now also desperation as he bit his lip.  His diremite familiar was pushed back into the bush, unwilling to venture out. 

"DO IT NOW!"  The Elvaan's voice shook Zi'Tah, and before he knew what he was doing, Keftenk had stooped down and taken hold of Guttler's handle.  He swallowed hard, holding it like a live serpent.  The axe was spouting furiously at North as he turned his back.

"I'll make this better," he was whispering to November, "I promise, I promise, I will make this right."

Keftenk watched his Master disappear into the Sanctuary of Zi'Tah, holding the Summoner close. 

When next they met, it would be in the Valley of Sorrows.


North awoke to the feeling of a cold spray hissing as it drizzled across his face.  His eyes squeezed tight once, then opened to find the strangest thing greeting him.  A ray of sunlight was streaming down from above, and the sun peeked out from behind a string of puffy white clouds drifting lazily across the sky.

The pain in his cheek and his chest were stabbing at him, though they felt dulled today.  Whether it be that it had actually subsided or because he had grown used to it, he could not say.  His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he slowly sat up, taking care of an ache in his back which was explained when he realized he had been sleeping on rounded wooden logs.

He looked out at his surroundings, and inhaled deeply as a warm breeze blew over him from across the sparkling depths of the blue sea.

"November," he said, "I notice we are now quite far from Onzozo."

His response came in the form of a smart rap on the back of his head.  He turned, rubbing the spot she had struck as he turned to look up.  The Summoner was there, hands now gripped tightly on the tiller of the wooden ferry which bobbed up and down on the waves gently buffeting the craft.  Gingerly, he started to stand.

"Don't strain yourself," November warned him.  "You'll pass out again."

"I'm fine," he replied, bracing himself against the railing.  With some effort, he managed to upright himself, surprised at how weak he still felt.  Contrary to his physical weariness, he was more alert and awake than he remembered being in a long time, even during their trek through Buburimu.  Squinting across the sun-dappled sea, he peered off into the horizon.  All around them the water stretched, frothing happily around their small vessel as it rocked them to and fro.  The gentle hum of the motorized engine driving it forward was interrupted only by the calls of ocean birds.  He breathed in the sea air, savoring its taste. 

"The darkness hasn't stretched this far," November observed, voicing his thoughts.  "I'm glad you're awake.  You've been in and out for days, I hoped you'd be able to enjoy the sunshine."

He did not reply, only stared out into the sea.  The last few days were lost in a shroud of pain and half-remembered flights from the Baronet Romwe and his demons.  He remembered November carrying him onward, always onwards, as they moved south.  Of how they came to be on the open water he did not know, but he was thankful now to be awake again, and once more aware of his surroundings.

Slowly, his eyes slid down the craft towards the shaggy furs he had been laid out upon.  The kraken club was resting in place, laid out beside his gloves and horned, fur-lined helm.  It twitched occasionally as the waves rocked the ferry, the enchantment upon it amusingly reacting to the motion.  The weapon seemed almost puzzled as to what it should be doing.

Then he found Guttler, on the opposite side of his blankets as the club.  The axe was still, eerily so, making not a move or sound.  Just the sight of it made the scars across his chest and cheek begin to ache.  Unlike everything else on the ferry, it had not a drop of water on it, and the logs it rested on were bone dry and peeling.  As he looked upon it, the gleam of its silver blade flashed in the sunlight, and North averted his eyes.  He could look no more upon the cursed thing.

Instead, he made his way to the front of the boat, watching as it cut through the water, feeling the pulse of sea birds and schools of fish and crustaceans and reefs; the immense and intangible force of life which was now so absent from land.  He drank deeply from that well, relieved to once again feel in such magnitude the thoughts and impulses of the animals.

For a long while, they were both silent.  They listened to the whir of the engine, to the calls of the birds, to the endless rolling of the restless sea.  The sun was dipping west, but sunset would still be some hours off.  All was peaceful, and they were content.

A sharp pain like an electric shock against his cheek jostled North, and he put a hand to his jaw as he winced.  A sigh escaped his lips as the feeling passed, not fading away entirely, but becoming tolerable.

"We're going to Purgonurgo Isle."  It wasn't really a question.

"Yes," November said simply.

He turned towards her, a shame he had long thought buried in his eyes.  "November, I," his head dipped as words seemed inadequate.  "I had a vision as I slept.  I saw . . . I saw Zi'Tah, again."

Her face did not change, she merely adjusted the till again as they crested a wave.  Her eyes scanned the horizon, unreadable, and North looked away.

"Was Keftenk's fate my fault?  Would he have never gone back for the axe if I had cared enough to find him again?"  She gave no response, but he wasn't really looking for one.  He let himself slide down to a sit, turning his head towards her as he leaned against the ferry's rails.

"I failed many people when I took up Guttler.  I failed myself.  I failed you, November."

"You came back to yourself," she replied, making obvious effort to keep her tone steady.  Emotion choked her throat.  The memory was a hard one.

"And if I hadn't?  If I were a mindless slave of Guttler, no better off than Keftenk?"

"You did," her tone spoke more than her words, "that is all I wish to speak of this."

The pain came back to his chest, but as he squirmed in discomfort, he saw November wince as well.  Her breath was suddenly labored, and she shuddered slightly.  Her knuckles turned white on the till, but after a few moments she composed herself, relaxing her grip.  He grasped the rail again, pulling himself back up with a hard gaze directed her way.

"It still pains you?"  He asked in surprise.

She shook her head.  "I have not felt it in years, not since last we came here," as she spoke, her eyes moved towards Guttler, and then she closed them fiercely and turned away.  "But ever since you recovered the axe, it has ached again, off and on."

"Let me see."

Her head slumped slightly, damp black hair forming a veil around her face.  Slowly her hand drifted to her side, and she lifted the side of the short black-and-white robe she wore up to her midriff.

It was no more than a single red line now, but the scar from Guttler's bite remained.  He shuddered, the memory still vivid.  He could feel the shock of resistance up his arm as mystic steel met fragile flesh.  Her scream still echoed in his ears, the scent of her blood was fresh, the taste of her fear and terror.  As if sensing what was happening, Guttler suddenly gave a low rumble.  North's own scars began to burn, and in two quick steps he had made his way to the weapon, taking hold of it with a new-found fury.

"I should toss you into the ocean," he growled at it.  "I should rend you in the fires of Ifrit's Cauldron, or toss you into the Attowha Chasm.  I should rid this world of the blight you bring once and for all, and to hell with the oath I took!"

"North," November's tone was placating.

He stared at the axe, which was making biting and snarling sounds in his hand.  Disgusted, he tossed it back down, the blade sinking an inch into the wood and staying there.  His face a storm cloud, the Beastmaster stared out at the water again. 

"I forgave you a long time ago, North," she told him.  "You are a fine and noble man, and you took on a terrible burden."

"I might have killed you - "

"But you did not.  You regained yourself, and you have not gone down that path since.  You are a Beastmaster, not a beast."

He looked out over the horizon.  They would still be many hours on the water, with this painful topic between them.

"Let us change the subject, North," she once again could read his thoughts.  "The sunlight seems to keep Romwe away, and by nightfall we will have reached Purgonorgo Isle and be safe.  If we are to have a moment to speak of lighter things, this is it."

"You're right," he said, nodding.  The sea was dazzling, innumerable points of light dancing across its surface where the sun caressed it.  The air was warm, the water was cool, and they were surrounded once again by life.  It was a good day.

"What shall we discuss?"  November was smiling, seeing the change in North's demeanor as he relaxed.

His jaw set, and he looked about.  "Well, for starters," he began, turning to face her, "where did this boat come from?"


The sun had not quite yet finished its dip beneath the western sea when they made landfall   Scents of coconut and wildflowers wafted by, mingled with the tang of the ocean.  Purgonorgo's blond sands crunched beneath their feet as they walked ashore.  Cerulean crabs scuttled past as they waded onto the isle, and a great Uragnite, its browning shell covered in moss and algae, gave them a brief regard before turning away to do things which concerned it more. 

They tied the ferry securely, using a length of rope they had found in its stores to fasten it round a tree sprouting near the beach.  Guttler was muttering angrily, growling out half-formed words and protests, but, relatively, behaving itself.  There had been enough fighting during their flight to sate it temporarily, but as night fell it was growing restless.

North walked ahead, surveying the towering rock formations greeting them at the beach's edge which led to the inner parts of the isle.  It was there that their destination wait.

"We will have to find a way to announce ourselves," November advised.  "She will not like being surprised."

North nodded, feeling a choking fit coming on but suppressing it as best he could.  A few hacking coughs escaped, and November walked towards him in concern.  His scars were heating up again.

"It's nothing," he waved her off.  "I'll be fine.  Perhaps I can send Galahad ahead to alert the witch woman of our presence."

"Perhaps she already knows you're here."

Both of them looked up in surprise, and sure enough, her back to the rising moonlight, was the witch.  She was sitting atop a rocky outcropping, bare feet dangling over the side as she looked down at them.  Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were hidden by shadows, and her midnight-blue hair brushed behind her, carried by a salty sea breeze.  The white robe she had on was illuminated by the pale glow behind her, creating an aura all around her.  Lightly, she dropped down, falling nowhere near as fast as one should, and landed gently in the sand below.

"Welcome back, North," she spoke, her voice deep and smoky.  She was tall, as tall as he was, and though there was a streak of gray at either of her temples, her face seemed ageless.  "November," she nodded to the Summoner, "I am happy to see you again."

"How did you know we were coming?"  North queried her.  "Magic?"

"I keep a spyglass, I saw your boat some miles off."

"Oh," he was a little disappointed.  "We need your help again.  The curse - "

Before he could continue, another fit of coughing struck him.  The sand crunched under his fingernails as he fell to all fours, struggling to breath.  Guttler was laughing audibly, and the scars on his face and chest were burning like never before.  He gagged, and drops of red dotted the white sand beneath him.  November was already at his side, clutching him and saying things he couldn't hear. 

He took an amazingly deep breath.  It felt like all the tastes and smells of the entire island and all the ocean flowed into him at once.  It was the best breath he'd ever taken. Guttler made a noise he'd never heard come from it before, like the yelp of a wounded dog.

The witch removed her hand from his head, drawing it back with a serene expression.

"Thank you," November said fervently, "thank you."

"Do not thank me yet," her tone was grave.  "It was very different with you, November."  North slowly was making his way to his feet, panting as he recovered from the fit.

"Can you help me?"  He asked plaintively.

She nodded.  "Am I not Virtue, the white witch?  Come to my home, we shall begin in the morning."

"Why wait until then?"

"Do not be impatient, Lord of Beasts.  It will take some time to prepare for what must be done.  Besides, you look more than a little in need of some food and good sleep."

He heard a rumbling he knew did not come from his axe, and placed a hand over his aching stomach.  "Perhaps there is something to what you say," he admitted, and both she and November laughed.  After a moment, he joined in, and the three of them were soon on their way.

Dinner was a meal of noodles with butter, mixed in with fresh spinach and carrots and served hot with tomato sauce.  Crystal clear spring water washed it down, and Virtue had an astonishingly delicious dessert of ice cream she made herself from seaweed and antlion's milk, flavored with the cocoa bean which grew on the island.  After eating and talking, answering all the questions she had, Virtue gave him a tonic which sent him off to a deep, deep sleep, undisturbed by any pain or hellish dreams.

The next day, North would learn that the witch's cure was just as deadly as the disease.

Chapter CIV: The Wounded King

Clutching at the alabaster furs which protected him from the biting cold, North pressed forward through the bitter winds assailing Buburimu Peninsula. He kept his head held down, but it did little to shield his wounded face from the stinging pain in his cheek. When Bongo struck him with his bow, the heavy wooden weapon sliced directly across where Keftenk had cut his cheek open. A ugly, puffy scar now marred the Beastmaster's face, and every touch of the freezing cold further irritated it. It had grown black and puffy, and November feared he had an infection.

Guttler was like an anchor at his side. Strung from his belt, the ax constantly rumbled and growled to be given use. It sensed his weakness, trying to tug at his strings as it had done with Keftenk, and came away even more enraged when it found his will more indomitable. It alternated between being searing hot and ice cold, depending on its mood. More than once since they had started their journey, he had words with the relic weapon. The effect of his threats seemed to wear off faster and faster each time. At present it was mumbling about blood, and instead of trying to burn North, seemed content to weigh him down.

A few more miles, two days of travel at the most, and he would give Guttler all the blood it wanted. Its silver blade would drink deeply from the demons infesting Onzozo.

November trailed just behind North, her figure bundled up in a cloak and heavy furs. North looked back at her once, the cold wind bringing tears to his eyes, then turned forward again. He knew she hated feeling so helpless. It was her own power as a Summoner which prevented her from treating his wound or keeping them warm. While most of the nightmarish creatures infesting Buburimu had left, demons still patrolled the entire region. If she were to summon an Avatar it would be like sounding a gong to announce their presence. So she followed behind him, waiting patiently, despite the obvious pain it caused her to watch him struggle so.

His festering wound was the least of his concerns. Beneath his fur-lined leather jackcoat, he could feel the throbbing pain of the other mark Keftenk had given him. Across his entire chest, Guttler had ripped him open, and he had yet to fully heal. November had treated him as best she could, but it lingered as did the cut on his cheek. He did not tell her about the severity of the pain it gave him, but it felt like his skin was constantly tearing itself apart. Every time his coat rubbed against his skin a fresh wave of pain shot through him, and it was a struggle to keep moving. That he had managed to brush off as simply wanting to keep sure footing through icy ground.

The other side effect, unfortunately, had been more difficult to hide.

He felt it coming on again, bracing himself against what he knew was coming.

When it came, he first shuddered with his whole body. His chest constricted, the cut on it suddenly throbbing as if it might burst. The Elvaan raised a hand to his heart, clutching at his breast as his breath escaped from his throat in a dry wheeze. He managed to stagger forward a few more steps before sinking down. His knees struck the ground, and at his side Guttler felt heavier than ever.

"North!" He felt hands upon him as he gasped for air. The pain was blinding him, but he recognized November's voice. Every breath was like fire in his throat, and he choked, gagging as his fit worsened. Guttler was burning again, keeping him weighted down and trying to smolder through his clothes. Consciousness was starting to leave him. His lungs were burning. He could no longer draw breath. Distantly, the sound of November calling his name echoed as the air somehow became even colder than ever, and the sky had never been darker.

His chest rattled, thrusting up suddenly, and then the King of Onzozo went still.

He gasped as his eyes shot open, heart pounding like an earthquake in his chest. Involuntarily, his body shot up, sucking in air and reveling in its taste. For a drawn out moment he sat straight-backed and wide-eyed, trying to keep from hyperventilating. His ears twinged as the sound of rushing water filled them, and he turned rapidly to find its source. November was standing over him, wrapped in an ethereal blue aura

The ground at her feet was pulsing with magic, rising up and swirling all around her. Hands outstretched, she held a staff with a gleaming blue jewel attached to the end of it, a spark of the summoning magic she utilized still burning in its core. Around her, cerulean scales glistening as its serpentine body coiled tightly, the Avatar of Leviathan slowly faded from view, drops of his healing water still brushing lightly against North's skin. She lowered her hands, her blue-glowing eyes returning to their normal color as she looked down upon the Beastmaster.

"Thank Altana," she whispered fervently.

"No - " he sputtered, coughing violently before taking a long, gasping breath. "November," he managed, "do you realize what you've done? The demons - "

"North, you were going to die." Her voice was hard. "I will not stand by and watch that happen."

"This has happened before, I would have recovered! If you just gave me a minute - "

"North," she cut him off, "I started healing you half an hour ago."

He stopped, gaping at her momentarily. "That's impossible," he said bluntly.

"Look around," the Summoner swept her arm out, indicating their surroundings. His eyes darted quickly, assessing the situation. There were high rocks encircling them, and a narrow ledge leading down to a path below.

"This is not where we were."

She shook her head. "I had to move you. I've been trying everything I could to get you breathing normally. A few minutes ago you stopped entirely - I had no other recourse. I had to use magic."
Gingerly, North reached up and touched his face. The scar on his cheek was still there, and still throbbing. Beneath his coat, he could feel the mark on his chest burning as well. He had learned not to be surprised. Several times she had attempted to heal him, but Guttler's wounds stubbornly remained in place. Pain still wracked his body, but his breathing had returned to normal.

"This is south of where we had been," he noted. He could taste the salty tang of the Gugru Blue in the air, off to the east. They were closer to Mhaura than anywhere else.

"Yes."

"Why? Onzozo is the other way, November."

She glared at him. "North, you're dying." Her blunt tone caught him off-guard. "Guttler's curse is affecting you more and more every time it takes you. We have to get you to a healer."

"There is no time!" He cast his fist out angrily. "Every second we delay is one more moment the beasts of Onzozo suffer under the usurper who cast me out in the first place. He stole my kingdom from me, and I will reclaim it amidst a river of his blood."

"You will die," she told him, "and your kingdom will crumble."

"What would you have me do?" He raged. "I cannot sit by and let that demon scum occupy my throne!"

"We must heal you, North." Her voice was steadfast and determined. "We have to take you to the witch woman."

He scoffed at her. "That journey would take days we do not have!"

"And yet we will make it regardless, for I will not have you die and Onzozo fall into ruin!"

"November, you - "

He froze, the stinging wind slicing across his scar. A feeling like spiders crawling across his spine made him shudder, and a gasp escaped him. November started forward, worried that another fit was about to overtake him, but he threw a hand up in warning. A cloud of tingling darkness gathered at the base of his brain.

As a Beastmaster, North could feel the life energy of living creatures within a certain radius. Others of his ilk could sense monsters within a short distance, some perhaps up to a mile or two. Some of the more skilled ones could even tell you what type of beasts they were sensing, and lock on to one life sign to track it. The most experienced and seasoned Beastmasters would be able to command those monsters even from a distance, communicating their will across the ether.

North could sense every monster in the winding, twisting depths of the Labyrinth of Onzozo, and their movements, at the same time, and command them all at once. There was no way to sneak up on the him, as he could feel a presence and know exactly where it was headed and what its intentions were an hour before he ever laid eyes on its source. That was the reason every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run. A force of unbridled malice, directed squarely at him, was headed his way.

"We have to move." His tone brooked no questions. "They're coming."

"How much time do we have?" November asked. Both were already walking quickly, and soon it broke into a steady jog as she followed North's pace.

"Not enough," he grit his teeth together as the cold assailed them. Pulling his coat tightly over his face, he concealed his scar from the elements as best he could. He increased his pace as a feeling of dread swept over him. They were coming from above. Ten of them - no, eleven - closing in rapidly on them.

"Give us cover," he ordered. He looked back and caught the look on November's face. "They've already found us, no sense in trying to hide your magic now."

She nodded, skidding to a halt as she turned back, bringing out her staff. She plucked the blue jewel at its tip off, placing it in a pouch at her side just as she quickly snatched another gem from it. This one was a brilliant green, and sparks shot from it as she affixed it to the point of her stave. The dust at her feet began swirling as the wind suddenly gathered around her, a miniature twister of dirt and ice rising as an effluent emerald light burst up from the ground.

The winged form of Garuda, Avatar of the Wind, materialized in the air above the Summoner. She stood what must have been seven feet high, with feathered wings stretching out nearly twice that length. Her entire form, that of a thin, green-skinned woman with hands bearing talons like those of a bird of prey, was ethereal as the air itself. She was the manifestation of wind itself, harnessed by November's power.

Chanting in an arcane language, the Summoner swung her staff skyward. Garuda tilted her head in the direction the wind was blowing, and suddenly every breath of air was swirling towards her. The ice on the ground and the frozen sea spray began gathering rapidly in the air, swallowing them in an envelope of frigid mist. Within moments, all visibility around them was obscured, the thick cloud Garuda had gathered hiding them completely. November ended her chant, and the Avatar folded her wings over herself, dispersing into the wind from whence she came as the green aura around the Summoner faded.

"This won't keep them from finding us long," North warned. "Keep moving."

The Hume nodded, and they both began moving forward again. His eyes were useless in the dense mist, but his senses were more than enough to guide them. Crabs on a beach digging futiliely at the frozen sands for food told him where the beach was. Scavenging birds flying above told him what the ground ahead of him looked like. Worms crawling beneath the surface let him know where to run. Nature was North's guide, and as they ran through Garuda's cloud it never let him down.

"How are we doing?" November asked, panting slightly.

"They know we're in here," North grumbed, trying to search for another place to hide. "They're right above us."

He scoured the thoughts of the animals nearby. Not a one saw any cove nor cave nor outcropping anywhere near their position. Their concealment was limited to the extent of the summoned cloud, the length of which was rapidly running out.

"North," November called worriedly. The sound of snarling was reaching them.

He continued moving forward. The pale yellow glow of searching eyes was penetrating through the mist. It would be only moments now before they were upon them. His mind was desperately searching for some way out. Eleven points of darkness radiating nothing but murder were closing in around them. They were on the ground now, scouring the mist. Some remained in the air, watching any point of escape.

"North," November said again, more urgently this time.

His thoughts were racing. The scar on his chest was screaming in agony as the cold air seeped in through his clothes. It was hard to breathe, and for a moment he worried another fit was coming on. Guttler was burning at his side, sending a constant hiss into the air as it steamed. He reached down to grab its hilt and throttle it into silence. As soon as he touched it, fire shot up the length of his arm as Guttler's unrestrained bloodlust burned through him. He ground his teeth, and could feel the ax reacting in the same way.

"North!" November shouted this time as searching claws began swiping through the mist, inches from her head.

"Fine," North snarled. "We'll do it your way."

He turned, tearing Guttler free from his belt. With the other hand, he tore loose his kraken club, brandishing both as the flaming blue energy from his silver ax burned away the clouds around him. The feeling of malice filling the air focused solely on him as the demons became aware of his location. He returned it in spades.

A demon's hand burst out from the dissipating mist, and then smacked against the ground as Guttler separated it from its arm. A demon's howl rang out, cut off a second later as the kraken club crushed its throat. North spun quickly, claws catching the lining of his cloak. The Elvaan lashed out both weapons as he turned a full circle. Guttler sliced the demon's stomach open in a single motion, and in the next instant the kraken club tore into the cut, spilling its smoking entrails out onto the ground.

"Get the ones in the air," he told November as he rushed past her, both weapons singing in the wind.

The next two demons came at him at once, as a third rushed him from behind. The cloud obscuring them was all but gone now, and the rest were closing on him rapidly. Flames burst from the staves the demons held, shooting out towards the Beastmaster. North held out Guttler, and the ax greedily drank the fire as it called out for him to drink their blood.

It's blade sank into the chest of the first surprised demon as the second sprang back, hissing. The third was upon him already, this one bearing a curved blade. His kraken club arched back, catching the blade as he ripped Guttler free, along with most of the muscle and tissue in the first demon's chest. It fell convulsing as he spun to meet his attacker, crossing blades with him rapidly as the fiend howled at him. North grimaced, and with a single stroke he shattered the demon's blade, his other arm swinging around and crushing its face with a single powerful blow from his club. The weapon kept swinging, pulping its skull and as its horns broke, splintering across the ground along with its shattered fangs.

In the next moment, North was brought low as a shocking bolt of electricity struck him in the back. Every muscle in his body contracted, and the scent of his own flesh sizzling wafted into his nostrils. It lanced through him, boiling his blood as it burned his skin. He fell to one knee, bracing himself against the ground with his club as he turned his head to find the demon he left alive preparing another surge of foul magic. Above him, the remaining six demons still in the air circled overhead, preparing to swoop in and finish the job.

He fought to regain his footing, but his body was still trembling from the lightning spell. The demon was already preparing to unleash another strike, yellow eyes balefully staring its target down. North's eyes widened as it let another bolt fly, aimed straight for his heart.

The wind swept past him as the bolt caught the palm of the enormous being now standing next to him. North craned his head up to find the hulking form of Titan rushing by, the earth quaking at his heel.

Screeching, the demon wizard took flight as Titan bore down upon it, but it was too late to escape the Earth Avatar's might. With one enormous hand, the elemental, his body a pale mismatch of Buburimu's white sand and the ice frozen within it, snatched the demon out of the air before it could get away. With a single contemptuous squeeze, the fiend's head burst open as dark blood gushed out. It tossed the carcass skyward, towards the gathered demons flying overhead. They flitted out of the way as it flew by them, spiraling through the air until it was out of sight.

November's arm slipped under North's as she helped him up. Once back on his feet he slipped away from her grasp, balancing and standing straight. Gathering himself with a steadying breath, he looked up at the demons circling above them, casting Guttler towards them threateningly.

"Fly away, peasants. You are not prepared to deal with a king."

To his surprise, they huddled in close, and the growling, guttural language of the demons reached his ears. November stood by him, glancing up in uncertainty as Titan loomed behind her. Her staff now bore a clear, golden-colored jewel which flared brightly in the Avatar's presence. After several moments of conversation, their wings folded in and the small group of demons dropped rapidly to the ground.

Five of the demons bore no distinction from one another besides their armament. Two were unarmed, but their teeth and claws were threatening enough. Two others bore ebony-bladed great axes, the weapons gripped tightly in their long, powerful fingers. Another held a staff, and North detected a tinge of worry in the wizard's eyes as it glanced at the form of Titan behind them.

The sixth, however, wore a crimson cape of some fabric which looked like blood. Its hands were covered with thick metallic gauntlets, and a golden necklace dangled from its neck. Demons were already tall, most of them standing six feet at least, but this one was closer to seven, with horns which looped once like a large ram. He took several steps forward, prompting North to raise Guttler in warning. The demon stopped, and what passed for a smile crossed its lips.

"Good day, your Majesty," it hissed at him, making a shallow bow. The sound of its voice was like a thousand icicles rapidly breaking.

North's eyes narrowed. "Get away from this place while you can. My ax still thirsts for blood and I am of a mind to oblige it." Guttler roared hungrily, affirming his words.

"You must be the displaced King of Onzozo. The master has been awaiting your return." Its pale yellow eyes were firmly affixed on him. "I am Baronet Romwe, noble Kindred of Zvahl." A sneer of sorts crossed its face. "With the arrival of the Royal Family my position has been relegated to this pathetic backwater. Fortunately, your arrival will help me get back into the palace where I belong."

"Do not presume to speak so freely to me," North warned. "Your low position hardly affords you that right."

The ugly smile on Romwe's lips melted away. "You are nothing but a foul primate," it spat at him. "A king of your land is as good as a worm in ours."

"And you are nothing but an errand boy," North responded. "Leave now and you'll live to tell your master that I'm coming for him, next."

The demon aristocrat chuckled. It was a grating noise. "You have no idea how far beneath us you are."

"November," North commanded, "show the Baronet which of us is beneath the other."

The Summoner nodded, and a golden glow swept over her as Titan suddenly sank into the ground.

Romwe hissed, throwing himself into the air with one thrust of his powerful wings. An instant later Titan re-emerged with a rage-filled roar, bursting up from beneath the gathered demons and tossing them from their feet. They howled angrily, rushing in to attack the Avatar. November chanted rapidly, and in response Titan drew back its fist and let loose a punch which could shatter a mountain. The demon it struck, one of the ones bearing a great axe, burst apart on impact. Wet chunks of its shattered body rained down on the others, leaving an acrid smoke as it hit the ground and blood spilled out.

Then, to North's surprise, Romwe swept back down. He snatched the fallen demon's axe from the ground, and in his hands it erupted in foul, black flames. The Kindred folded his wings and sped forward, spinning the great axe rapidly as it flew directly towards Titan. The Avatar growled, rearing back its fist once gain, thrusting forward to crush the demon in mid-flight.

November gasped as Titan's arm fell from its body. The Baronet erupted from its back, a gaping hole where the left side of its chest used to be testament to his attack. Titan's massive form staggered around, trying to swipe at the demon with its other arm, but Romwe easily avoided the strike, leaping underneath it as he brought his burning axe up once again. The terrible sound of rock grinding against metal made North's stomach clench as Romwe swung his weapon. Titan stood mutely, arm still outstretched, beady glowing eyes staring forward.

Then, the top half of its body slid away from the lower, and both parts crumbled back into the sand from where they had come.

Behind him, November staggered as if she had been struck, a sheen of sweat lining her face. The aura around her flickered and died as Romwe smirked, showing his fangs.

"Now then," he said, "I believe - "

"Guttler," North swung the black ax up as he began running forward, "Onslaught!"

The weapon was only too happy to comply. At North's word, the same howling tunnel of flame and burning energy Keftenk had been unable to harness struck out true, consuming the entire group of demons in the same torrent. The two unarmed demons were swept up instantly, the dark flesh melting from their bones as they were caught in Guttler's path. The wizard threw up a shield, chanting furiously as North pushed forward. It screamed as the staff it was holding started to melt, and began to flail in panic. The mistake cost it its hands, extended past the reach of its shield, and then scorched completely off the wrists they were attached to. Only Romwe and the other axe-wielding demon avoided it, managing to soar quickly above the path of Guttler's blast as it consumed their comrades.

Romwe scowled darkly, flaring out his blood-red cloak and leveling his gaze at North. With an indignant huff, the demon swung his own burning axe around, and made a nose dive directly for the Beastmaster.

North roared, bringing both his weapons forward, catching Romwe's axe under its blade and across the shaft. Black flames licked his body, chilling his skin where they touched. Guttler snarled like a beast, spouting off fire, but weakened by its recent release of Onslaught. Romwe towered over North, pressing down, seeking to grind him into the dirt.

"If you ever returned," the Baronet hissed, "the Marquis Andras ordered your body be brought to him, so to string up in the halls of his new lair."

"The demon aristocracy have vision beyond their means," North rebuked, and with a powerful thrust of his arms he tore away from Romwe's axe. The demon jumped back, brandishing it's burning weapon as North did the same.

The Baronet eyed him carefully, both of them circling slowly. "You are a powerful one," he commented, "perhaps beyond my means so long as you hold that ax. The Marquis, however . . . he will flay the skin from your bones."

"Then let him come," North said darkly. "And we will settle this ourselves."

Romwe lowered his brow, lip curled in irritation. "Think of this not as mercy," he told him, flaring out his wings. "I leave now only so that I may return with more might with which to crush you."

"Bring as much from Onzozo as you want," North replied. "The more I slaughter here the less I will have to deal with later."

The demon scowled, and then shouted something in their terrifying language to the one surviving member of his party. Both demons slowly took to the air, and then began flying back towards the Labyrinth of Onzozo, Romwe's axe trailing black fire as they went.

"North, we have to get out of here," November rushed to his side as they flew away. "When they return, we will - " She stopped, pulling her hand slowly away from the Beastmaster's trembling arm. "North?" She asked, her voice small. "North?"

The Beastmaster gave a single heave, throwing his body forward as he violently hacked. A moment later he was choking again, pain arcing through every inch of his body. The two scars Guttler had left him were throbbing so much he felt they might burst open. His spine convulsed, and he felt the back of his head strike the ground as he struggled to breathe in.

November desperately calling his name was the last thing he heard before his world went black.

Chapter CIII: Unstoppable Forces

As Mertron's blade arced through the air, Xaijin shifted his weight. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he bobbed momentarily, and then at precisely the right moment he sprang backwards. The mercenary's sword crashed into the ground, missing by miles. Smirking as he easily dodged the clumsy stroke, Xaijin tapped down lightly on the ground as he gathered chi into his fists for a counterattack.

There was almost a full second between Mertron slicing his sword upward and Xaijin realizing he had been hit.

A pulse of shining, golden light shot forth from the blade as it was pulled free from the frost-covered ground. It swept outwards from the point, creating a wave which blasted forth with intensity that tore the rocks apart. Xaijin did not even register what had happened before the blast took him full in the chest, tearing him off his feet and tossing him like a rag doll into the air. Contorting his body, the Elvaan touched down on the ground again, his feet and fingers leaving a trail as he skidded to a halt, several yards from where he landed.

His eyes shot up, only to find Mertron already bearing down upon him. The air around his sword shimmered with a golden light as he brought it down on the Monk's head. A plume of dust and ice shards burst at Xaijin's feet as he sprung backwards, the blade missing him and tearing a trench into the ground. Again, Mertron tore it free as if the frost-covered rocks were melted butter, and once again a plume of shimmering energy exploded forth.

"Rrrrr - ragggh!" Xaijin roared, bringing his chi to bear. White light blossomed from his palms as his aura flared bright red around him. The blast took him dead on, shattering the rocks at his feet and scarring the ground. A cloud of smoke flared up around him, encircling the Elvaan as Mertron's blast halted. A frigid wind stirred, carrying the smoke away and revealing Xaijin's still-outstretched hand.

His palm was completely black, scarred from the impact of Mertron's power. He ground his teeth, a guttural growl escaping his throat as he clenched his fingers. The skin on his hand was smoking, and the scent of burned flesh wafted through the air. Parts of his already-tattered garb had been blasted away, leaving similar burns on his shoulders and forearms. The red-haired Elvaan was panting, steam pouring from his body as his aura heated the air.

"Alright, that's impressive," Mertron said, tapping his blade against his shoulder. That he could heft the enormous thing with one hand was absurd, but he looked to be giving it no more effort than if it were a simple stick. "Ragnarok here throws out enough energy to cleave a Gigas in two." He lowered the golden sword, leaning against its hilt as it sank into the ground. "I'm gonna bottom line this. You can't win, and it'll be painful if you try. If you just turned and left, I'll probably forget you were ever here."

Xaijin drew back his burned hand, flesh still sizzling. His skin cracked and flaked off as he stretched his fingers, a grimace of pain slicing through his features. Suddenly, his face contorted and a senses-shattering eruption of chi arced across his body, glowing white-hot with intensity. The energy exploded off of him, and in an instant the burns covering his torso sealed over with clean, unbroken skin. He exhaled slowly, flashes of his power surging across his dark eyes.

"That's pretty - " Mertron started, and then never finished.

Xaijin's fists exploded into his chest with force which would tear a bugard in two. The distance separating the two of them had been closed in less than an eyeblink. The mercenary was torn from his feet, but no sooner did he leave the ground than Xaijin's foot lashed out, whip-like, catching him across the back. His body flew forward, but even as he sailed through the air, the Monk was still upon him.

"You wasted time talking," Xaijin muttered into the other Elvaan's ear, "and now you're going to die." As he uttered the last word, his fist came down, crushing Mertron back into the ground. He skidded to a halt several feet away, immediately rushing back to the shallow crater the mercenary's impact had made. Chi erupted from his fist, and when he brought it down it howled through the air as he sought to crush Mertron's skull.

His knuckles made contact, and a volcanic surge of energy shot up into the air. In Castle Oztroja, light poured in through every window, the blinding eruption mimicking the long-absent sun. A wave of heat followed afterward, blasting across the landscape and melting the frost, causing a torrent of newly-created streams to drench the barren rocks of Meriphataud. The ground heaved once, rumbling in protest to the forces being unleashed upon it. Finally, a moment of stillness settled across the mountain range, eerie in the juxtaposition to the raging violence which had just been unleashed.

Xaijin pulled back his bloody knuckles, face contorted in pain as Mertron shifted Ragnarok away, pulling himself to his feet.

"That wasn't smart," he commented, the blade bursting into golden flame. He swung fiercely, the flat of his sword catching the Monk directly under his ribs.

Like a bolt of lightning, Xaijin arced through the air, bouncing feebly against the ground when he made contact. His ribs felt like they were on fire, and blood trickled down from his lips. He threw his eyes up angrily, finding Mertron already rushing him, sword ready to swing. Defiantly, he threw himself forward, charging towards the other Elvaan at breakneck speeds. Mertron swung, missing as Xaijin ducked underneath the slice and delivered a fist straight into the mercenary's gut. He skidded back, but then blindly struck with his sword, the waves of energy it cast cutting through the air. Bringing his arms up in defense, Xaijin winced as he felt his forearms burning as Ragnarok's energy struck them.

Mertron regained his balance, immediately coming forward again. Xaijin let him in close, ducking and weaving each of the great sword's attacks. Each cascade of energy emerged from its point, and so he stayed well within the length of the sword itself. However, even in the midst of attacking himself, Mertron still twisted and spun his body to avoid all of the Monk's counter attacks. The landscape around them was trembling, shuddering beneath the weight of their monumental chi colliding. They seemed not to notice, locked in their battle of life or death, as the ground rumbled and fissures split open around them.

Xaijin landed a graze, fist scraping against Mertron's chin. He moved with the force of the strike, spinning around and shifting his sword grasp to slash through with the momentum, nearly cutting the Monk in two. Xaijin arched backwards to avoid the strike, flipping away and then immediately coming forward again, trying to stay in the pocket where Ragnarok's energy releases could not reach him. He swept Mertron's feet out, but the mercenary planted the blade of his sword, bracing himself and preventing a fall. Immediately he swung the golden sword up again, hair from Xaijin's long red mane sailing into the wind as it brushed millimeters from his face.

Mertron suddenly shifted his grasp, and brought the hilt of his sword up, slamming it into Xaijin's chest. The Monk stumbled back, even as the other Elvaan caught him again with the flat of his blade. This time, Xaijin managed to get an arm up, but he could feel his bones strain as he skidded across the ground. He stopped at the end of Mertron's arm length, a half-circle dug into the ground where he had attempted to block the strike. The sword dropped away, and pain shot like lightning through Xaijin's body. Shuffling back quickly, his right arm hung dead at his side, resisting his attempts to lift it. Scowling, he lashed out with a sinewy leg, his chi riding along the strike like a cannon blast.

The ground itself tore open at Xaijin's kick, sending a shockwave of erupting earth towards Mertron at incredible speed. Eyes widening, he brought Ragnarok up defensively as the strike overcame him. He was pushed back, Xaijin's energy forcing him backwards. With a snarl, a bloom of golden energy surged out of his great sword, and he contemptously slashed through Xaijin's assault. The rising earth split off in either direction, leaving Mertron unharmed in its center. The mercenary was staring hard at Xaijin, however, letting Ragnarok's point dip close to the ground as he held it in one hand.

"You shouldn't be that strong," he protested. "Where does all that power come from?"

"I thought you said you knew who I was," Xaijin replied.

Mertron hefted his sword up again, tapping it against his shoulders. "Of course I do," he answered, "you're Xaijin."

"Yes," he said, and once again his lips started curling back in a smile." Now let me show you what that means!"

The next thing Mertron knew, he was doubled over as Xaijin's fist dug into his exposed gut. Blood shot from his mouth as he gasped, but in the next moment he was arching backwards from an uppercut to his chin. As he flipped over, Xaijin spun around, lashing his foot out once again. The kick caught the other Elvaan in his side, and a thunderous impact cracked the mercenary's ribs. He spun around rapidly in the air, crashing down to the ground with force that kicked up a cloud of dust around him. Xaijin drew back his left arm, his aura burning red around it like an inferno. With a shout of anger, a blast of concentrated chi shot forth, exploding as it struck Mertron dead on.

It then dissipated as the Elvaan sliced through it, still wielding Ragnarok and already back on his feet. The bored look had fallen away from his face, replaced by a hard, angry glare. He held his sword in one hand, the other clutching at his ribs. Growling, he sliced rapidly towards the Monk, each slice throwing out a wave of golden light. Xaijin spun to one side, dodging one, then leaped quickly in the air to avoid another. One came at him as he jumped, and he threw himself backwards, landing on his hands and propelling himself forward just as another wave approached. Gritting his teeth, he let loose his own chi with a roar, and with a devasting spin kick he broke the energy wave into pieces, the golden light fading away to harmless sparkles in the air.

His skin was blackened where his leg had struck Ragnarok's blast, burned and blistered. He winced as he put weight on it, hobbling momentarily before regaining his balance. Mertron leveled his sword at the Monk, taking a step forward.

"Look, I know you're a tough S.O.B., you don't have to prove that to me." To Xaijin's surprise, he lowered his sword and started rifling around in his shirt. After a moment, he produced a cigarette, resting it in his lips and then patting himself searchingly. "You don't have a match, do you?"

"Sorry," Xaijin replied, "just got out of jail."

"Really? I gotta hear that story." Sighing, he lifted a finger, which produced a tiny flame from its tip. "Not much good at magic, myself, but I can do the important stuff." He took a drag from his lit cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke into the freezing air. "Alright, so here's the deal. I'm only getting paid to take out that castle right there. I didn't think to negotiate fighting a living legend into my contract."

"I'm going to tear your head from your neck if you don't get to the point in about three seconds," Xaijin told him flatly.

"Right, right," he waved one hand dismissively, taking another puff. "So look; I'm just going to put this out there. You want to walk away from this, I'm not gonna go after you. Just walk off into the sunset or something - well, there are no sunsets anymore, but you get my point - and we'll both forget the other person exists."

Xaijin lowered his guard. His right arm still felt dead at his side, stunned from direct impact with Ragnarok. It was a struggle to keep his leg straight after blocking the barrage of energy from the sword. At this rate, sooner or later he'd be unable to properly attack or defend. Worse, he'd delivered strikes he was fairly certain would rip a Behemoth in half, and yet Mertron was still on his feet. The sword's power was no doubt extending itself to its owner, protecting him from the worst of the attacks. If the two of them continued at their current rate, time was on the mercenary's side.

"So I just walk away," Xaijin said, "and no one comes after me? I'm free to go?"

Mertron tapped a long trail of ash from his cigarette. "You got it, chief. Deal?"

"Of course not, you idiot." Xaijin's muscles tensed, and the rocks at his feet shattered to dust. "I just needed another few moments before I could do this again."

Once more, a white-hot fire of chi burned across the Monk's body. His long red hair flared back as the sigils representing his chakra etched themselves in the air. In a flash, his burns and bruises disappeared, and feeling snaked back into his right arm. Then his aura went from white to red, whips of lightning-like energy leaving scars across the ground. His eyes glowed the color of blood as he leveled his gaze at Mertron, a grim smile curling back his lips. A hellish, unnatural howl filled the air as the space surrounding Xaijin went black, and the halo of Souleater's power chilled the area more than the lack of sunlight could ever do.

"Great," Mertron complained, flicking his spent cigarette away. "Looks like I've got no choice." He hefted Ragnarok in front of him, and in the next moment everything surrounding him was burning in the intensity of a blinding golden light. "You could've walked away from this, Xaijin!" He shouted. "It's too late now!"

"Yes," Xaijin agreed, "it is much too late."

"Ragnarok," Mertron intoned, his voice steady as he drew the blade back, "Scourge."

The ground rumbled as the mercenary launched forward, golden light swirling fiercely around his unstoppable sword. His eyes were glowing like lighthouse beacons as he stormed forward, each rushed step issuing forth a tremor in his wake. With each heartbeat, the storm of energy around him condensed and focused into the sword's point. The blade was consumed with the flames of its own power, cutting through the air itself and leaving a vacuum behind it.

Xaijin charged forward in response, the clouds above parting as he moved. The entire valley in Meriphataud was shaking as pitch-black energy laced with streaks of red lightning focused in his fists. The land around him began breaking apart, disintegrating as it came into contact with his overwhelming aura. Each thunderous step he took left a crater behind him from the force of impact. As he rushed towards Mertron's burning sword, he drew back each clenched fist, and the power he had gathered rushed into his hands, screaming to be released.

Mertron swung his sword forward as Xaijin's fist breached his aura, and for a moment the entire area went deathly still.

In the next instant, Meriphataud Mountains lit up with an intensity to shame the shrouded sun. Castle Oztroja shook down to its foundations, massive stones falling from parapets as inside glass shattered, wooden objects splintered, and anything not bolted down was thrown over. A dome of pure chi was rising up from the point of impact, rapidly spreading, undulating between bright gold and deep black. Miles away, the army closing in on the castle was thrown into turmoil as the ground split open at their feet, fissures separating units and swallowing some unfortunate beastmen whole. Demons shrieked and fell from the air, overcome by the waves of energy sweeping over them.

In one shattering moment, the dome of power contracted, and then violently burst outwards, dissipating into the wind with one final surge of unfathomable might.

Xaijin and Mertron were both standing, their backs to one another, on the opposite side of where they had begun. Neither moved, nor said a word. A wind, shining with the remnants of their combined chi still in the air, brushed lightly between them.

The stillness was broken as Ragnarok clattered to the ground.

"Well that sucks," Mertron muttered, collapsing to his knees. He let out a sharp cry as he hit the ground, gritting his teeth in pain. "You broke my arms, you Monk bastard. I can't believe it." He started to sigh, but then hacked in pain, globs of dark blood shooting from his mouth. "How am I supposed to light a cigarette now?"

"That's not really my problem," Xaijin replied. He took one step forward, and then stopped. He hovered where he was for a second or two, and then coughed.

A spray of blood shot out from his torso where Ragnarok had sliced him, opening him up from shoulder to stomach. He too fell to his knees, blood pooling around him.

"You got guys coming to help you?" Mertron asked, falling forward into the dirt.

"Guess so," Xaijin replied weakly, his body shivering.

"Me too," he said. "I hope they get here soon."

The Monk didn't respond, concentrating instead on keeping his insides where they were.

"Man, you really screwed this up for me," Mertron complained. "But I guess I should've known. You are Xaijin, after all."

"Yeah," he coughed. "Get what that means now?"

"I do," The mercenary affirmed, suppressing a cry of pain as he inched forward on the ground.

They both laid there on the ground, bleeding in silence, for several moments before the sounds of movement approached them from both directions. The beating of leathery wings approached from where Mertron lay, and a rush of hurried feet carried across the wind, headed towards Xaijin.

"Hey man," Mertron coughed again, "that was a good fight."

"Yeah," Xaijin agreed. "It was a good one."

"Just sucks though," the Elvaan told his opponent as a demon suddenly dropped down next to him. The creature lifted Mertron up, ignoring his cry of pain as he hefted him by one arm. Another demon landed beside it, grabbing his other hand and spreading his fingers open for him, wrapping his hand around Ragnarok. It began glowing again as soon as he touched it, and it dangled from his grasp.

"What's that?" Xaijin asked, his vision blurring just as figures started appearing in the distance, quickly racing towards him.

"After all that," Mertron told him, even as the demons started carrying him off, "now we're both gonna miss the war."

Xaijin felt darkness rush over him, swallowing him in its cold embrace. Even then, his last thoughts were that he couldn't help but agree.

Chapter CII: The Ninja in Winter

Clenching the thick animal hides he wore tightly around himself, Bongo bit down to keep his teeth from chattering. The air in the dark wasteland around them was already freezing cold, with the wind whipping past him it made it feel like tiny needles of ice were slicing against his skin. One glance at his companions told him the situation was similar for all of them.

Dantrag was keeping a stoic face, but his whole body shivered as they marched forward. Right beside him, Hubby was completely wrapped in his fur cloak, bunching it around his face to keep all but his eyes concealed. Luma was making no such effort to conceal her discomfort, stamping her feet and letter her teeth chatter. The Mithra's tail was wrapped around her waist like a belt as she rapidly rubbed her arms.

"C-C-Can we g-go back t-t-t-to the desert n-now?" She asked through clenched fangs.

"We're almost there," Hubby urged her on, wrapping a bit of his cloak around her. "Qwid, can't you keep us warm?"

In their midst, the Tarutaru shook his head. "That army down there is too close," he warned. "They'll sense my magic and then we'll be toastaru." The Red Mage had his scarf wrapped tightly around his face, yet still traces of frozen breath escaped when he spoke. "Best I can do is try to keep the wind off us."

"Don't give up yet, people," Bongo stepped out in front of them. "Oztroja's in sight. We're not going to let some bad weather stop us now."

"Are you s-s-s-sure?" Luma complained, but she continued stepping forward anyway.

The frozen peaks of Meriphataud Mountains stretched out, encompassing them in a tomb of frigid air. With the skies blackened and the landscape concealed in frost, Bongo's senses as a Ranger were the only thing that had brought them this far. The journey from San d'Oria had not been an easy one. As miserable as the weather was, it was not even the worst they had seen. Around Jeuno it was coldest, darkest, and the most unforgiving, with parts of the sea freezing around the enormous floating bridges upon which the city was suspended. They had stayed clear of the demon-infested city, but trouble had still found them on more than one occasion. Those were isolated instances, however, nothing more than ill timing and happenstance. Now there was an army in the valley below, and the slightest misstep could spell disaster.

The presence of the force beneath them was more than a little terrifying. Ever since they had put Jeuno out of sight, they had found traces of the legions which had gone out ahead of them. The troubling signs of beastman activity had grown with every day, and before long it became clear where the Orcs in Fort Ghelsba had disappeared to.

Batallions of armored greenskinned beastmen filled the valley beneath them. They marched in strictly ordered lines, divided by function. Their armored soldiers stood in the front, steel and leather covering every inch of them. Their metal masks were crafted to look like fearsome tusked beasts, and they all held stout wooden shields with a layer of leather pulled taut over them. Behind the enormous hulks of the front line, their warriors were waiting. Spears, swords, scythes, and all other manner of weapon sprouted from their ranks, looking as grim and deadly as the beastmen holding them. Still behind them were the archers, hundreds of them, sporting quivers filled with thousands of deadly arrows waiting to shower down on their foes. More than that though, it was easy to see that mixed in with each unit was an Orc wearing a mask, or perhaps more accurately a hood, made of animal skin and marked red with what was probably not paint. These stocky irregulars were not arranged like the rest, but wandered free amongst the Orcish forces, stamping the ground with their oaken staves as they passed. The mages, versed in the blackest of spells, ready to rain fire and lightning at the slightest provocation.

Legions of Orcs would be enough to contend with. However, even they, the fiercest, most ruthless of the beastmen on the continent, were only third in the organization of the army below them. They were the barbaric core, and surrounding them was what could very appropriately be called a shell. The Quadav had come out from their caves, and the enormous turtle-like beastmen wrapped around the Orcish forces, surrounding them with a barrier of steel-like plates and armored scales. The Orcs were relentless in their onslaughts, raised to be unstoppable machines on the battlefield. The Quadav, on the other hand, seldom took the offensive. Instead they practiced an impenetrable defense, one which had kept the entirety of the Bastokan military from moving them out of the mines they had occupied for over twenty years.

The Orcs and Quadav marched side-by-side, forming a bristling forest of weapons. They were beginning the halt to their daily advance, and a river of fire was flowing where they set up camp. Illuminated in that glow was the third aspect of their formidable gathering. Colorless skin and clothing made them all but shadows in the pall of Dynamis, but as the army settled in the Vanguard began to take shape. Surrounding the other beastmen, their blackened counterparts from inside the World of Nightmares were living up to their name. They were the front lines, the spearhead to pierce whatever target they were aimed at. Of the Vanguard, there was a mixed amount of Orcs, Quadav, and Goblins as well, larger and more fearsome by far than those Vana'diel was used to contending with.

As if that were not enough, the Kindred were flying with them. Darting in and out of their ranks, sometimes walking amongst them, but more often flying above on leathery wings. Were the sky not already black, they would have darkened it with their presence. Bongo's senses, attuned sharply to nature, told him the demons were there by way of a sickening clench in the pit of his stomach.

For days they had traveled behind the multitudes, slinking in the shadows, moving as much as possible without attracting attention to themselves. They had started out miles behind them, with only the glow from their fires at night marking their presence. Now they were literally right on top of them, and hoped to overtake the horde and leave them behind soon. Though passing through the treacherous mountain slopes of Meriphataud made travel slow, the five of them were still far more mobile than the ungainly army filling the valley. They gained a little more ground every hour, and though the march seemed endless, they soldiered on.

Now their destination was in sight. Looming over the horizon, visible even in the darkness, were the spires of Castle Oztroja. Their friends were in there, somehow impossibly alive in the Yagudo stronghold.

"Almost there," Bongo told them, pressing onward even as the cold bit into him. "They'll have a fire going for us when we get there."

"And beer," Dantrag added, "beer must have survived the end of the world, don't you think?"

"Undoubtedly," Hubby offered from beside him, smiling as best he could through chapped, blue lips. "That'll put the warmth back in our bellies."

"Fire and beer, and our friends," Bongo summed up. "That's enough to keep me going for a few more miles."

"I d-d-d-don't k-know your friends," Luma complained. "Introd-ductions are w-warming, yes?"

"They will be," Hubby assured her. Turning his eye back to the castle, his look turned wistful. "Which . . . who else do you think made it?" His question was directed to the air, but the other three members of the linkshell all picked up on it.

"Tensaiji, without a doubt," Bongo asserted. "He's the best Ninja in the world, no way the demons got him."

"If Tensaiji made it, then Dorobounin made it," Dantrag said as he carefully scaled down a depression in the rocks. "I wouldn't be surprised if those two are right below us, scouting these guys for Rykoshet."

"Rykoshet," Bongo chuckled, "he's definitely waiting for us in there. Bastard's too dumb to get himself killed, no matter how much he tries."

"Don't forget Meowolf and Forge," Qwid put in as he hurried to catch up with them. "That pair is as invincible as these mountaruins."

"So Tensaiji and Dorobounin, Meowolf and Forge, and our fearless leader himself," Hubby was still looking out at the castle. "Not a bad lot. Not bad at all."

"C-c-c-can't w-w-wait to m-m-meet them," Luma replied, still shivering.

"How can you be so cold?" Qwid frowned at her. "You're the one here with fur."

"Tshaya is t-t-t-tropical," the Samurai explained. "I'm m-more used t-t-to sweating."

"Well think warm thoughts," Bongo ordered her. "Only a little bit longer and - "

They stopped in their tracks. Their eyes fixed on Oztroja, far in the distance. Luma hissed sharply as Qwid visibly flinched. Far below them, an unsettling murmur rose up from beastmen ranks. They would have said something themselves had the next sight not struck them dumb.

A tower of black flame had erupted in front of Oztroja, spiraling into the sky and forming a writhing, impure mass of power. The wave of force which swept over them doubled Qwid over and made Bongo's knees buckle, despite the epicenter being miles away. An eerie, unsettling wail swept past them on the wind, but was quickly overpowered by an explosion that shook the ground all the way out to the mountains.

"What's happening?" Dantrag demanded, tearing his axes free from his belt.

"This power, it's . . . " Qwid bit his lower lip, as if unsure whether he should say more. "Bongo, can you feel anything?"

The ground was shaking beneath him, but the Ranger managed to cast his senses out into nature, grasping for some sense of where this impossible force was emanating from. After a few moments, he shook his head, clasping on to the rocks for dear life. "We're too far away, and there's too much interference from the beastmen. I can't see what's out there."

"We've been following this army the whole time," Hubby protested, "they never had an advance troop. How can they be attacking already? And what kind of power is . . . "

"That's no army," Qwid told him, a shred of fear quavering in his voice. "This feeling is . . . is coming from one person."

They stared at him, and then back out at Castle Oztroja. The pillar of black fire was dying down, but the sensation it left still chilled their souls. What was more, every few seconds were punctuated by another explosion loud enough to rattle the rocks on the ground at their feet.

"We've got to hurry," Bongo told them. "They need our help, right now."

"Let's go!" Dantrag rushed out ahead of them, breaking for a narrow path leading down the mountain's face.

He took three long strides, and then slowed. A moment later he stopped altogether, slowly raising his hand up.

It was about to touch his neck when a spray of blood erupted from it, staining the frozen ground at their feet as the Elvaan's body toppled over.

"Dantrag!" Hubby shouted, rushing towards him. He almost made it before he cried out, the chain mail links over his arms falling away as he screamed. Blood was gushing from his forearms, which now hung limply at his side.

Bongo spun as he heard the familiar clang of metal on metal, and turned to find Luma with her great katana half-drawn, another blade cutting into it.

"Fast," she marveled, "t-t-too fast for Luma."

Something dropped down into the snow, too fast for the eye to follow. Luma's weapon snapped in half, shards of steel raining down from its shattered length. The Mithra clenched her shoulder, pulling her hand away to reveal a cut which went straight through her armor.

"Not too fast for Bongo," the Ranger growled, and in the same breath an arrow flew from the bow he had suddenly drawn.

It stopped in midair before falling, sliced in half. In that time, the Hume had already fired three more. Two sailed off into the mountains, scratching the rocks as they fell, but one froze, hanging suspended in mid-flight. Bongo narrowed his eyes and let another arrow loose, directly towards the first.

The original arrow spun forward, deflecting the second, and both were cast away. Bongo stood watching the empty space but a few paces from him, another arrow already nocked in the bow Hubby had given him. He silently cursed himself for breaking his own. If he'd had his own weapon, he knew he could have hit his mark.

While it might have been too fast for the others to see, his senses had their attacker's location pinned down. He knew without a doubt that right now he had an arrow aimed at the heart of whatever it was.

"Hubby," he said quietly, "are you alright?"

"Can't . . . move my arms," he said through clenched teeth. "Dantrag," he spat out, "Dantrag is dying."

"Qwid, heal him, quickly." He stretched back his bowstring, daring the attacker to move. "Luma, you can walk?"

"Blood is warming," she replied, slowly making her way behind him, sliding against the face of the rock wall.

Bongo let his eyes dart down, and then back up. If they had been spotted by the horde below, there was no sign of it. They were likely transfixed by whatever was happening at Oztroja.

"Good," he told them, "everybody get out of here."

"But - !" Qwid protested.

"NOW!" He barked back, letting another arrow fly. It bounced harmlessly off a rock, but another was already in his string, and then off again. This time there was the sound of something tearing before it again struck a rock, sparks showering the ground.

A haze appeared in the air, like if smoke were to assume a solid form. There were hands and arms there, legs and a body, and two red eyes which stared menacingly towards the Ranger. However, they were almost as incorporeal as the air itself, giving only the vague impression of a human being. One thing that appeared perfectly solid, however, was the blade gripped in the assassin's fist.

Fury swelled up in Bongo's eyes as he saw that weapon.

"Everybody, go, now," he whispered coolly.

"Here," Luma let the still-gasping Dantrag lean against her, supporting his massive frame as he clutched at the freshly-healed scar on his throat. She looked back at Bongo, a fang slipping past her lip. "I will say hello to your friends for you, Bongo."

"Thanks, Luma," he said sternly, "but I'll be able to speak for myself."

The hazy form moved forward, but Bongo dashed to the side, arrows flying from his quiver like rain. He kept it pinned back, eyes watching without any change in emotion. No matter how straight he shot, the figure was too quick to be hit, save for the single tear on what looked like his sleeve. Dodging Bongo's barrage, however, was enough to keep it away from the others.

"Bongo," Hubby called back to him, "be safe."

"Just hurry," he growled.

The shade in front of him made no move to stop them. Bongo kept his arrow trained on the form until the sound of their footsteps could no longer reach his ears.

"Now then," the Ranger snarled once he was sure they were gone, "you are going to tell me where you got that katana."

Emerging from the haze, a hand stretched forth. Slowly, the form started to harden and take a more definitive form. The smoke cleared away, drifting off with the wind until a man wrapped entirely in black stood before him. The blood of his friends had already frozen to the midnight blue weapon in his hand.

"Kikoku," Bongo did not hold back his rage. "That belongs to Tensaiji. Where did you get it?"

The red-eyed man said nothing, but took a step forward.

"Tell me, dammit!" An arrow sliced through the air. Quick as a whip, the Ninja lanced his hand downwards, and the two halves of the projectile fell harmlessly to either side. Just like that, he came forward, but Bongo was already moving. His hand quickly yanked his own dagger free, the edge of Kikoku scraping against it. Shards of metal were shaved off where the two blades touched.

Another arrow flew from his quiver to the bow, his hands a blur as he loosed them at his target. The ground was dotted with shafts sticking up from the freezing ground, but the Ninja effortlessly moved through them, stretching his blade out towards Bongo again. He could feel it cut the air as he barely managed to evade the strike. Before he even regained his balance, the Ninja was attacking again, slicing down with Kikoku in a taut arc. Bongo rolled towards him, letting the blade strike the ground as he kicked up in the air. The black-garbed man twisted to avoid the blow, giving Bongo time to pull himself free from Kikoku's range.

He had no time to breath before the attack resumed. The assailant was relentless, and even the attacks which missed left rends in his leather jerkin. The merest slice of Tensaiji's katana was enough to cut anything, and even a close call was still dangerous.

Bongo decided he was having none of it. Rushing forward, he pulled one of his daggers free, letting the Ninja counter the stroke with his own weapon. The dagger shattered like glass against Kikoku's power, but in the time it took to do that, Bongo grabbed hold of the Ninja's arm. He pulled the smaller man forward with all his might, and with a snarl he drove his head directly into his nose.

The next sensation he felt was the air rushing from his lungs as a foot was planted in his gut. He doubled over, giving the Ninja the opportunity to wrest his arm free. As he sliced upwards, Bongo gave a yelp of surprise, pulling back to find his cheek cut open. Grimly, he stared at the black-garbed figure.

"I'm going to take that katana from your dead body," he promised, "and give it back to my friend."

"I must end this," the red-eyed man said. His voice was muffled from behind his mask, and lilted in the way only someone just struck in the nose sounds. "Goodbye."

"You son of a - "

Bongo's yell was cut short as the Ninja sliced through the air. A wave of darkness rushed over him, darkness so thick and powerful that he couldn't breathe. It wrapped around him, suffocating him, wringing the life from his body. The entire world seemed to be going dark, twisting and shuddering horribly, transforming into something . . . evil.

His struggles to break free were quickly silenced as even the Ninja faded from view, leaving only the endless abyss to swallow Bongo away from the world of Vana'diel.