Chapter XV: Setting the Stage

Jinxie tasted the salty air as she stepped into the Whitegate harbor. Four days had passed since she arrived in Al Zahbi, and ventured into the exotic realm of the Aht Urhgan Empire. The sights and sounds were incredible, almost overwhelming, the entire area was a hub of activity which attracted all from the plainly dressed Qiqirn to the most flamboyantly garbed traders from all reaches of the Empire. Four days she had been here, living in a modest traveler’s hostel by the wharf, as Xaerus continually vanished for longer and longer periods each day. Whenever she returned, she would not speak about where she had been, only that it would be revealed soon.

Today, Jinxie had taken to the marketplace, holding the newborn Drake in one hand as with the other she cautiously eyed the contents of a container of Karakul milk. The liquid certainly didn’t appear questionable, and the vendor insisted it was vital for the growth of any strong child. From the looks of it though, it was the same thing as the sheep’s milk she could find anywhere in Mindartia. And the horns of these “Wivre” creatures that were being hawked in the stand beside her; were there really creatures with horns that size? While she was thinking about it, exactly what was so fashionable about wearing the skin of these Marid beasts that made the price so exorbitant?

She was so momentarily caught up in the strange ways of the people in Al Zahbi that she dropped the bottle of Karakul milk she was holding when Xaerus’s hand grasped her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, holding Drake closely against her, though the child gave no fuss.

“I’ll pay for the milk,” Xaerus said wryly, her nose twitching underneath her blindfolded eyes, “though you shouldn’t pay for Karakul when it’s the same thing as Sheep.” He gave a meaningful glance at the vendor, who took a step back and grimaced.

“What is it, Xaerus?” Jinxie repeated, although she directed a sideways glance towards the merchant as well.

“It’s time to go.” She intoned, her voice becoming quite serious. “You have been summoned.”

“Summoned?” Jinxie asked, confused. “By whom? Where?”

“What else do you think I’ve been doing, Jinxie?” Xaerus said, the blind Red Mage turning her back on Jinxie and walking away, gesturing for her to follow. “You’ve been granted an audience with the Empress of Aht Urhgan.”


Icon remained silent as the Yagudo warriors with him trussed up the Skink, the carcass of the massive lizard hanging limply from the spit he had been tied to. The warrior had been leading them out to survey the land, examine the boundaries of where the demons currently would and would not go, and occasionally venture as far as Sauromugue and bring down some food. Though not entirely necessary, Icon enjoyed leading the activity, and allowing the Yagudo to maintain their habits was an integral factor in earning their trust and cooperation. So he continued to lead them, gradually becoming accepted as one of their own, and encouraged other members of the team which had taken Oztroja to do the same. On this day, Celeres had taken him up on his on his invitation.

Night was falling on them when Icon gave the signal for them to round it up for the day. The sun sinking low behind the Meriphataud mountains, the Yagudo came together and prepared for the trip back to Castle Oztroja. They had seen no demons this day, but Baeladar had explained how that could be a bad sign; if they were no longer sending out patrols to sweep the surrounding areas, it meant that they had become confident they had completely secured the lands they held, and that implied that they had killed everyone they could find. Icon wrinkled his brow, putting the thoughts out of his head and wordlessly counting the Yagudo who had come with him. It took him a moment to realize that they were short by one.

“The other human,” one of the Yagudo supplied, seeing the questioning look on Icon’s face.

“Ah,” said another of the small group, who then hung his head, not meeting Icon’s eyes. “Forgive us, we did not notice that he was not here. It is . . . difficult . . . to tell you non-Yagudo apart.”

Icon looked from one identical Yagudo face to the next, and then exhaled slowly. Before action could be taken, however, Celeres came bounding up across the rise, hand waving frantically. Icon snapped one of his axes out of the belt on his waist, but Celeres gesticulated wildly, urging him to put it away.

“Back . . . here!” The monk said, out of breath. “There’s . . . a person!”

Icon’s eyes went wide, and he ran after Celeres as the monk bounded back the way he had come, kicking up the red-tinted dust of Meriphataud at his feet as he went. Celeres ran, though clearly winded from trying to catch up to the group from wherever he had found this mystery person, stomping past the stunted shrubs of the mountain range’s rocky ground, not slowing in his flight to retrieve whomever it was. Icon stopped as he saw Celeres slowing down, before finally skidding to a halt underneath a ledge. There, partly concealed by the shadows, was indeed a man. He was wearing bits and pieces of worn armor, underneath which was a uniform bearing the standard of the Grand Duchy of Jeuno. His head was tilted back against the cliff wall, and he breathed with extreme effort. It was clear the man did not have long to live.

“Here, Icon, come over here!” Celeres shouted, and Icon indeed came over to see the man. The Jeunoan soldier rolled his eyes upwards and watched Icon come, giving a slight cough. As Icon came closer, he could see blood streaking the rock face he was propped up against. Whatever he had gone through to reach this place, it had cost him dearly. “Look,” Celeres said, turning back to the man, “I brought help, you’ll be okay.”

“Don’t . . . don’t care . . . “ the man rasped out in a dry voice. “The others . . . you must help the others . . . “

The man stopped, eyes frozen just beyond Icon. The warrior turned to see the Yagudo gathered about behind him.

“It’s okay,” Celeres said, “they’re friends. Hang in there, man, what others? Where?”

“They’re . . . you have to . . . “ was all he managed to get out before slipping into unconsciousness.

“Help him!” Celeres cried, and the Yagudo hesitated, looking at one another. With an affirming glance from Icon, however, they came forward, and carefully picked the wounded man up. His only chance now was a speedy return to Castle Oztroja. Even then, the outlook was bleak.


It was many hours later when Rykoshet entered the room where the Jeunoan was being kept. By his bedside, Odessa sat vigilant, her face looking drained after what she had done to keep the man alive. Tired eyes looking towards the door, she afforded Rykoshet a slim smile, and then her eyes fluttered and she stifled a yawn. Her robes were flecked with the blood that had still been dripping off the man when he had been delivered to them by Celeres and Icon.

“How is he?” Rykoshet asked of the clearly exhausted Odessa. The Elvaan woman turned her head back towards the soldier, her eyes unreadable.

“In and out,” she responded, sounding concerned even through her weakness. “He said his name earlier. He told me he is Lieutenant Raidom of the Jeunoan Ducal Guards, under the command of Captain Wolfgang. That was all he got out before he went back under.”

“So,” Rykoshet said, pulling a chair up beside the bedside and easing down into it, “what are our chances of learning anything?”

Odessa shook her head, sadly, as she drew a hand across the face of the soldier. “I’ve done all I can, but the damage was just too much. If he makes it through the night, there’s a chance he’ll survive, but . . . it’s going to be a real struggle for him, Rykoshet. He might die without saying another word.”

“We have to find out where he came from,” Rykoshet declared, talking as much to himself as to Odessa. “You heard what Celeres told us he said. If there are others out there, we have to find them. We have to find everyone we can, it’s the only way we’re going to pull through this.”

“I know,” Odessa replied, looking the wounded man over, “but it’s out of our hands now.”

Rykoshet gave a frustrated sigh, looking the soldier over. Wherever he had come from, he had risked everything to get out, to seek help, and he had made it so close, too. If he died now, his life and those of everyone who might be depending on him were in forfeit. It was tantalizing torture having survivors come so close, and then be taken away.

The Elvaan fighter suddenly broke from his thoughts as he heard Odessa gasp. On the bed, Raidom’s eyes had flicked open, and his hand was grasping hers tightly. Intently, he stared around the room, before locking eyes with Rykoshet. When he spoke, his voice was a haggard gasp, but the words he said came through unmistakably.

“Garlaige.” He rasped, looking dead at the blonde Elvaan. “Wolfgang. Led. To. Garlaige.”

His breath rattled once in his throat, and then his eyes closed again. Any strength he had left in him was now being devoted entirely to his own battle to stay alive.

Odessa stared at Rykoshet for a moment, until he turned his head and shared her glance. It was a long moment of silence before either spoke.

“What do we do?” Odessa asked in a soft voice, as if speaking too loudly might disrupt the entire world around them.

Rykoshet took a long moment to reply. When he finally did, he first stood, looking the wounded Raidom over. The man had nearly given his life to get the message out, and still might before the night was out. “I’m going to go get the others,” he said, heading towards the door. “This is officially a rescue mission. At daybreak, we head for Garlaige Citadel.”


Vancian was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.

Two weeks ago, the ashes of his body had been consigned to the earth, hastily spread with but a single witness and a quickly uttered prayer to mark his passing. All that he had been quickly scattered on the bitter Beaucedine winds, whipping across the glacier and vanishing in the constant flurry of snow and ice which permeated the air. It had been necessary, having died as he did in this blighted land where those laid to rest in the earth were damned to return as the walking dead. To save Vancian’s soul, the sacrifice had been his body.

Even as the flames overtook his friend, Menphis had sworn he would see justice done.

Since the day when before his very eyes Vancian had been cut down, he had trekked southward, barely escaping the surge of demons which had burst forth from the hole in the sky and overwhelmed the area. Surviving off of nothing but his instincts as a Ranger and the gun by his side, Menphis had managed to escape the fate which had befallen the wizard, but when he had reached safety, clinging the wounded Vancian to him the entire time, it had been too late. He had died in Menphis’s arms, and the Jeunoan had been given no choice but to commit the body to flame, there in the tunnels of Beaucedine where the stench of burning flesh overpowered him, and the smoke nearly choked him to death. To do it outside would be to give himself away, and while he still had a chance at survival, he would take it. As the flames ate away at Vancian’s body, Menphis saw in them only the face of his killer. He let the heat scorch the image into his mind. He never wanted to forget that face, right up until the moment when he put a bullet into it.

Menphis had made his escape, days and nights spent in terror and discomfort as he navigated frozen waste and darkened caves alike, before finally, after five days of wandering through the Beaucedine Glacier, every moment in danger of being discovered, he had found the tunnel which led him to sunlight. Emerging in the Batallia Highlands, his heart sank down even further.

The sky had gone from blue to gray, and what he had previously attributed to the naturally overcast nature of Beaucedine, he now saw covered the sky as far as the eye could see. The sun was a muted blob hanging overhead, and the world around seemed to be having the life itself sucked out of it. What was truly wrenching to see, however, was the flight of demons overhead, a swarm focused on Jeuno. The city Menphis had been born and raised in had fallen. He had struggled for days to return only to discover that there no longer existed a place to return to. Still in his mind, he saw the face of Vancian’s killer, and still his finger itched to pull the trigger of his gun, to mete out justice personally.

So it was that Menphis had continued trekking south, driven by forces he no longer understood or even acknowledged, only the burning desire to put one foot in front of the other and survive another day. Through the Pashow Marshlands, where he endured the sticky mud and driving rain, across the Konschtat Highlands, where the high heat of the season left him weakened and dehydrated, and then across the blasted terrain of Gustaberg. He did not know what he was walking for, or even if he should continue, but he knew that if he stopped, he would never start again, and never live to avenge Vancian. So on he went.

Finally, two weeks after the cataclysm, Menphis had stopped. Demons, a sign that Bastok had shared the same fate as Jeuno, flitted about the area, sparse in their patrols, a sign that they had much confidence in their dominion of the land. He was not worried about being seen, he no longer worried about anything in regards to his own life. What stopped Menphis was the sight in front of him. Some hundred or so yards off, his tired but keen eyes just making them out, stood a group of four people, the first living things besides monsters that Menphis had seen since Beaucedine. They were in front of the lighthouse, somehow still standing, making their way inside.

Cautiously, Menphis trailed after them. If they were making their escape somehow, he could find a way to go with them. If they were in league with Vancian’s killer, then they would all be sorry that he had seen them.

Everyone in league with the black-cloaked man whom had cut Vancian down would have to die. It was the only punishment suitable for being associated with the man Menphis had seen open the gateway to Dynamis.