Marignon

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Marignon is a feudal theocracy. The Inquisitors control all aspects of the country, including warfare. The feudal lords pay tithes and tax the peasants, but all political decisions are made solely by the church. Marignon rose out of the ashes of Ermor and has succeeded in holding the shadow of the fallen empire at bay through religious zeal and austerity. The widespread fanaticism in Marignon has done wonders for their survival thus far. The heavy infantry of Marignon are armed with large weapons such as great swrods and halberds. All units carry the bright red and orange livery of Marignon. The Inquisitors are trained in the House of Just Fires together with the Witch Hunters. The Witch Hunters are mage-priests of Astral magic.

From The Encyclopedia Illwinter

Dramatis Personae

Links to individual character pages may contain spoilers for people reading through from the beginning.

Leaders of the Church

The Archbishop of Marignon

Head of the Church of Marignon

The Archbishop of Avoca

Deputy of Military Intelligence

The Archbishop of Spire

The Archbishop of Amirdon

The Archbishop of Elkland

Excommunicated by Muszinger

The Archbishop of Forest

Father Muszinger

High Inquisitor of Marignon

The Archbishop of Wic

Patron of the Magus Temple

The Archbishop of Polgrave

Warden of the Shadow Watch

Miscellaneous

Ghost

An assassin

Esclave

A young man who enters the House of Just Fires as an initiate

Aftial

A supernatural being

Msgr. Raymond

An inquisitor serving in the east.

Saints

St. Wordscigam

Author of St. Wordscigam's Compendium

St. Lynad

To whom the Trials were given

St. Quantum

A rare saint from the empire of Pythium

St. Onbec

The Angry

Turn0

I am the Alpha, the Iota, the Omega

Dear Brothers of the faith,

Rejoice! For the LORD has not forgotten His people, nor has He forsaken those upon whom His favor rests. We cried out to Him in our time of trouble, as human frailty and sin threatened to tear apart His church, and He has answered us most magnificently.

I am the deathless roar of the pounding surf...

One thousand years since the Ermorian heresy, and one thousand years before that, the Manifestation. Through that time, loyal servants of the faith have kept the holy books, preserving the words of the prophets and the layers of interpretation added by the best minds of the age. And in two thousand years of careful, obsessively detailed writing, there is not one word about Her.

I am the still, small voice in the wilderness...

The knife slips in with no resistance, and I glance around to make sure no one has heard the muffled groan as the old man slips back down into his bed where he will remain undisturbed until morning, and then be laid to rest forevermore. I wipe my blade clean on a corner of the bedcloth, and slide over to the window. Another drop of oil on the hinge and it opens again to let me out over the wall-- back into the quiet night and the guards who wait patiently to arrest me.

I am every new born infant's cry-- every last death rattle.

Some of you are skeptical, but I ask that you have faith. I have dispatched countless brides of the Enemy back to Hell, and none can doubt my dedication to the task of protecting God's people from deception through fire and faith and the sword. But truly, this one is no witch. There can be no doubt when you look upon Her that She is filled with the light of our Heavenly Father-- but where other men cannot doubt I learnt to long ago. She volunteered to take the trials: the iron burnt Her not, and the water accepted Her as one of God's own yet She did not drown. She is who She claims to be, brethren, and through Her, God is about to begin his final great work in this world.

Father Muszinger, who writes to you in the name of our Loving Heavenly...

I am the Alone. One before numbers had meaning...

But I have much to learn still. The wise elders of the church can discern good from evil more readily than some new initiate who stares, wide-eyed, at the wondrous secrets which are revealed to him daily. I study from dawn to dusk, and pray from dusk to dawn, and still there is so much that escapes me. The simplest task-- the lighting of a candle-- wears me out utterly and leaves me shuddering for days. I wonder if this is what my parents imagined for me when they sent me off, their firstborn...

I am the indwelling soul of everyone...

I startle at the sound of the guard bringing me a meal. Condemned murderers are never fed, and so this means that my patron had pulled the necessary strings to force me to waste away in the sunless hole in the ground rather than be cleanly executed in the square. For a moment I consider breaking the sacred code and betraying the name of my employ. I turn to the food and gag upon the swill. At least this will help my reputation if I ever get out; I am known for my lithe frame and noiseless tread. My friends, if I have any of them left, already call me...

I am beyond the other side of everything.

I am Faithful, and Pure...

...Father

... son

...and Holy...

...Ghost.

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Turn3

Muszinger

996 A.P.P.M
To his Lord, The Archbishop of Polgrave,

Dominus Vobiscum. I trust the new year finds you well, and that the recent murder in your househould has not proved too great a burden. I understand that the attacker was caught, and as a personal favor to you I will see that she is tried as a witch and barred from paradise.

The Three of Three will not be happy at the next conclave. AFTIAL has declared that, in honor of Her arrival, the period of peace for Carrofactum should be extended to two months. The Three Above believe AFTIAL's arrival to be a sign that we are supposed to establish God's Kingdom on earth by military conquest, so they will be frustrated by this period of waiting and prayer.

Yet I believe we see eye-to-eye on this matter: AFTIAL comes to cleanse not the exterior world, but to renew the LORD's church from within. She comes to purge the last vestiges of death-worship from our lands, to drive the devil-worshipers and druids out of the Church, and to restore doctrinal purity. Unfortunately, our view will not carry the Church, despite my close ties to AFTIAL. The Three Between are also enamored of conquest, and so we will have war with the neighboring barons to bring them more closely in line with the church, but let us pledge never to lose sight of this true goal:

For nothing that comes from without a man can defile him.
It enters him and leaves him, and does not change him.
Yet as each man dies, so death waits within each of us.
And this is the corruption of man."

Cum flammae et fidei et gladiis,
Father Muszinger

Esclave

On the first day or Carrofactum I rose early and wandered the twisted halls of the library in search of The Map of Jerovia, reputed to be "Thee most trvest and accvrate portrayle of the lands hereabovts, with propre notes to gvide the faithfvl pilgrim". I was skeptical, and rightly so, for the tattered shard of map I found hidden within a tome contained precious little information not commonly known throughout the kingdom. I was on my way out when I saw her, sitting by herself on the floor, quietly turning the pages of a ancient volume. The dawn sun had just crept high enough to pour in through the nearest window, and it sparkled off the dust in the air, providing her with a halo. She was dressed all in purest white, and I for a moment I could hear chanting from the choir below.

Since then I have seen her every morning. I admit that I seek out the library now, in the hopes of seeing her. I have not yet worked up the nerve to speak to her and ask how a woman gets access to the inmost library in the House of Just Fires. Her choice of books is decidedly esoteric. After she departs for morningsong I have gone to her place of study and easily located the books she has been readings as the ones without a fine layer of dust. Many a time she has been reading a work in one of the Lost Tongues, but I cannot imagine what she hopes to gain therein. But, ah, my heart beats fast every morning when I catch a glimpse of her, my goddess of the morning (forgive, oh LORD, your servant for this small blasphemy).

Ghost

I hate priests with a passion above all else. If there is a god anywhere I hope there is an eternal lake for fire for these vermin to swim in. After three weeks the food stops; the cell changes; torture begins. For hours they ply me with fire and blade and ask me to recant my allegiance to She Who Loves Not The Light. From what I can understand through the pain and the smell of my own smoldering flesh I am accused of having sold my soul to acquire the skill and strength to become an assassin, despite the handicaps of the female body and mind. I will not give them the confession they want which is further proof of my guilt. They cut the sun from my skin, condemn my soul in stern, solemn voices that betray none of the joy they took in my trial.

The crowd is in a frenzy at my burning. No longer a member of the church, I am an animal to be sported with. The wood is stacked, and lit. The heat begins to curl my hairs and itch my skin. Then the heavens open and the rain comes down. Lightning strikes amongst the blood-thirsty vulture-peasants. The smoke and steam overpower me.

I am in my mother's arms, on the verge of sleep as she sings to me. I am awake, and seeing the very living face of light. She tells me I am safe now, that I should be at peace. The evil men who did this to me will face justice, not just in the world to come but in the here and now, and I am to be the instrument for this justice. She will guide and protect me as I walk the dangerous road of my life. When I can no longer walk, she will help me crawl. When I can no longer crawl, she will carry me home.

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Turn6

Lead me, O LORD, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies;
make thy way straight before my face.

For there is no faithfulness in their mouth;
their inward part is very wickedness;
their throat is an open sepulchre;
they flatter with their tongue.

Destroy thou them, O God;
let them fall by their own counsels;
cast them out in the multitude of their transgressions;
for they have rebelled against thee.

But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice:
let them ever shout for joy, because thou defendest them:
let them also that love thy name be joyful in thee.

For thou, LORD, wilt bless the righteous;
with favor wilt thou compass him as with a shield.

Psalms 5:8-12

Muszinger

"By all that is holy! I should smite your where you stand!"

Father Muszinger grinned softly at that thought as the Archbishop of Marignon strode across the conclave room, spittle flying from his massive jowls.

"You have torn the Church apart with your mad support of this... Aftial. You have sown the soil of faith with the bitter seed of war, and watered the harvest with blood!"

Eventually, Muszinger knew, Marignon would tire. The summer heat still lingered in the House of Just Fires, and the old man was, well, indecently obese.

"The kingdom is falling apart! Condemned witches disappear from embarrassingly public places, and while you play solider in the Plains of Eternal Peril, the mighty Aftial, Goddess of... Courage," the sarcasm dripped from his lips, "remains cloistered in the library playing with the minds of schoolboys and sucking at the rotten teat of ancient-- nay, heretical-- knowledge!"

With the last, Marignon pounded on Muszinger's desk with his diadem, then, overcome by exertion, started coughing uncontrollably.

The Archbishop of Wic strode into the center of the chamber. "Friends!"

A hush fell, as this perfect specimen of a man lifted his hands unto heaven.

"Friends. Let us not quarrel. It is true that the lords refused to accept the authority of Aftial, and that most have risen in open revolt, but so much the better. The chance lies before us know to clear the kingdom of this black bile, and bring all power directly under the control of the Church. Father Muszinger's campaign to do this has been quick and decisive. I returned to my home province for the first time in several years, and found the cathedral there in shocking disrepair, and the peasants cowering from me-- from me, a true servant of the LORD."

"Vampire..." muttered someone from behind Muszinger, but he pretended not to hear.

"There is some truth in what Wic says," said the Archbishop of Avoca from where he stood by the fire, despite the heat of the day. "Woledar was a crook who cheated the church out of its rightful tithe. The people will be much better off with their taxes going directly to the church through me."

"And, you, Amiridon?" Wic turned toward the shortest of the archbishops.

"Ach, 'tis true" he murmured. "Me people be better off wid out the yoke of tyranny."

"But what of the witch?" asked the Archbishop of Spire. "Old Ratty let her get away. He's not doing his job properly."

If Muszinger had one regret in life, it was not killing everyone who knew his nickname from school. The indignity of being called back here to answer these ridiculous charges was grating enough. Things were so much simpler out in the field where a good smite took care of everything.

Muszinger rose. He knew he lacked the stage presence of Wic, but... "By the grace of God, I have been charged with a sacred quest. Aftial guards every hair on my head. No man may hinder me." He puled out his dagger and spun it gently on the desk, then sat again and leaned back. "I challenge any man to face me in combat. I will be unarmed, but the LORD will protect me, and the false accuser's soul will never enter the Kingdom."

The blue robes of the Archbishop of Elkland parted with inhuman quickness, and a wicked looking man darted forth with dagger and short sword. Muszinger's heart froze for a second. He'd expected an attack by one of the elderly archbishops, not a fully trained assassin. What if Aftial's protection...?

A searing pain in his arm, and then a flash of light and a thunderclap. The assassin's bloody dagger clattered down with his sword onto the empty stone. Only the faint smell of brimestone and a little wisp of smoke remained.

Muszinger rose. "May the LORD bless and protect you all, as he has blessed me. I return now to the front-lines of the war against death. The Archbishop of Elkland is hereby excommunicated for allowing this assassin to infiltrate the conclave."

And with that he strode from the room, dizzy lights before his eyes. The dagger had been poisoned were his last thoughts as he pushed into the crowd of inquisitors who swirled their black cloaks around him and prevented the Archbishops from seeing his collapse.

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Turn9

Esclave

"Esclave."

I awoke with a hand on my shoulder. I had been working on cross-referencing a particularly tricky passage from the Encyclopedia Illwinter with St. Quantum's "Gvide to Bvffing" (http://www.shrapnelcommunity.com/threads/showflat.php?Cat=&Number=356846&page=0&view=collapsed&sb=5&o=&fpart=1|), and must have fallen asleep on my pages where I sat working in the library.

"Esclave."

I turned, and beheld her. Close up, she was... and her voice was the soft glow of sunrise, and... she knew my name!

"Um, yes my lady?"

"I need you to make me a sword."

I hesitated, fearful that my pounding blood had made me mishear. "I fear a blacksmith might serve you better."

She laughed with a twinkling of bells. "I don't need you to forge me one, just put these," she poured five fire rubies from her hand onto my pages, "into this." So saying, she drew a short sword of common design and also balanced that on my books.

I was somewhat flummoxed by this odd request, not least because I had no way to fulfill it.

"Perhaps... my lady, you would be better served approaching the Archbishop Marignon with this request. He has many fine magi who could help you with this, while I, a lowly cleric, have most scant knowledge of magick. What I do know is purely theoretical..."

The golden-haired one paused, but her eyes twinkled. "Everything required is in St. Wordscigam's Compendium. Beyond that, all that is required is a pure heart, a keen eye, and a steady hand."

In the face of such beauty I was not about to deny any admirable trait. "I am at your service, my lady."

"I would be glad to show you how to begin." She moved closer and put a hand on the back of my chair.

"I...I believe I can make it work," I managed, hastily gathering my books and preparing my retreat, "But now, I think, I hear the call for morningsong, so... uh..."

"Then I will see you again tomorrow morning, oh, and Esclave?"

"Yes?"

She reached out with her pure-white sleeve and wiped my cheek with a smile, "You have ink on your face".

Ghost

The smell is overpowering and it has been 2 days since my last proper meal. In the dark, I clutch Aftial's gift tighter and a faint fire glows along its sharp edge, lighting my enclosure. I think back to that last conversation with her:

Father Muszinger is using the lords' rebellion to build his support. In each province he deposes the current lord for not accepting the church's new doctrine and replaces him with a leader loyal directly to Father Muszinger.

A lurch! For a moment I panic. I calm my heart, and quiet my breath. I am not here. You cannot notice me. We are underway at last.

Spire Woods is the last of the old provinces on Father Muszinger's path of conquest. The prince, Leric, is defying the church's commands. The throne after him passes to his wife, Manthe, and after her to their son, Pagobar, but the fourth in line for the throne is a good man: loyal to me and well liked by the church. With him on the throne, Muszinger will have no grounds to attack.

The servants grunt on the stair. I feel a little sorry for them. If I fail, they will surely be put to death for their involuntary participation.

But removing the top three will not be easy. The royal family is paranoid about assassination. Worse, they cannot stand each other, and are rarely in the same building. If you kill one, the others will tighten security even more.

The door is open now. I can hear the servants being roughly searched and yelled at, for no reason other than that the guards hold swords and the servants do not. But everything is in order, and now I am moving again.

Your only chance is the Midwinter feast. They will gather to celebrate together-- but not in some great hall where an assassin might be able to intrude. They will dine together in their private hall with only one set of great doors, nowhere to hide within, and a pack of their most faithful guards outside. Every dish will be sampled for poison, and every servant who enters will be thoroughly searched.

The voices are muffled, but I can hear. The servants leave the room. The royal family drink and eat noisily, bickering with each other. A knife intrudes near my face, and it is time to move. The calf's carcass is sliced from nose to tail and I arise. They fall like leaves, my sword and my arm in perfect harmony. My shield does not come off my back. Now it is quiet. I can have a quick meal before figuring out how to escape a score of heavily armed guards.

Esclave

I awake in the bitterly cold morn. Careful not to disturb her, I incant to the candle, which flickers briefly in the stillness, then goes black. I decide it is not important to see anyway, and return to warm slumber.

In the morning the bed is empty and she is gone, leaving only a note about how she must go out to fight, but that she loves me. To fight! I gesture to start the fireplace and the room explodes into flame.

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Turn12

Muszinger

On this very day, nine-hundred and ninety-seven years ago, the inconceivable happened. While the faithful sat in quiet remembrance of the manifestation, the corrupt leaders and faithless magicians of the empire of Ermor, forsaking the teachings of the church and seeking to master the grave on their own terms, opened the forbidden gate and let death pour in.

On this very day, one year ago, the inspirational happened. The LORD sent forth His faithful servant Aftial to lead the church triumphant against the hosts of darkness and bring the light of faith to the lost and confused people of the whole world. You have seen Her fight today-- seen how the heretical and barbaric spells of these druids melted into mist in the face of righteousness. You have seen how the forces of Marignon, inspired by Her presence and reunited under the direct leadership of the church have swept our enemies before us time and again these last glorious months. You have seen God himself lean down from heaven and smite the unbelieving.

Yet if you look to the west you will see that the sun is setting. Night is coming, and the servants of darkness stalk the fetid fields and dying forests, reveling because they are unchecked and unmatched in their conquests. Until THIS day! I set here the cornerstone for the topless tower that will rise upon this plain. At its top shall be a never ceasing flame, and it will maintain a faithful watch upon the lands of death, protecting the lands of the church beyond, never sleeping, never turning aside-- a dagger pointed at the heart of our enemy-- a ray of light shining down to the craven creatures below who long for God's loving sword to free them from their misery.

This shall be the Shadow Watch, and the men chosen to serve here will carry a awesome responsibility, holding the blackness at bay and waiting until the promised time when the LORD's most faithful servant will lead us on the final, great crusade to cleanse this stain from His creation. If the defenders of the Shadow Watch ever feel tainted by the stench of decay which rises from those foul fens they should climb to the highest point of the tower as the golden sun rises in the east. As far as the eye can see will stretch the Church and Kingdom of Marignon. Every cottage you spy will be the house of a devout believer. Every fire will be from the cleansing of the flock. Every road will be one along which the armies of Marignon march to bring salvation to the people of the world. As the sun ascends high in the sky let it's fiery rays penetrate you, burning your despair and rekindling the light of your faith; for darkness does not love the light.

And every night must end in glorious day. Through time and tides of time the everlasting light will bring this death-infested world to an end. We who have the good fortune to live through the fires of the LORD's most precious gift must be prepared to be singed as His righteous anger scours the world. Yet prepared by the fires of the Church, and protected from deception, we will all by lifted up by LORD. And above the broken confines of this world He will make us live to never die.

Esclave

On the last day of Carrofactorum, we passed into the town square where an angry mob had gathered.

"She's a witch, burn her!"

There was a crowd gathered around some woman, who certainly was dressed like a witch.

"Hey, maybe you should step in," suggested Cleric Virgilie with a wink and a nudge. Ever since I started displaying my increased knowledge of practical magick he's been insisting that it won't be long before I make the rank of Witch Hunter. But it's one thing to master the arcane magicks (only the non-evil ones of course), it's quite another to acquire enough political friends to make the necessary rank in the church. Normally a cleric spends many years mastering basic fire magick, and so has enough time to find friendly church leaders to sponsor him. Me... I think I spent too much time this year with my angel in the library.

"Let's just keep going," I muttered under my breath, but it was too late, we'd been spotted by the extremely loud leader of the crowd.

"You, good sirs! You are from the House of Just Fires! We have found a witch, may we burn her?"

I sighed. "How do you know she is a witch?" You won't believe some of the ridiculous charges people have brought against supposed witches. There was this one time when a guy brought in a newt and insisted that it was really all that remained of his best friend...

"She was overheard speaking ill of the Most Righteous Aftial!"

This was about to get a little tricky. The inquisition had surprised everyone by making criticism of Aftial blasphemy, arguing that

'... as you do unto the most pious of my servants, you do also unto me,'
and then they went into the village to buy meat.

meant that speaking ill of Aftial was speaking ill of the LORD. Myself, I was not sure about the Angel. Certainly she had helped the Church expand it's realms, but she seems to inspire worship, which belongs only to God. I realized suddenly that I never had never asked my goddess of the morning what she thought about Aftial, and now she was gone...

"Burn her, burn the witch!"

The mob was getting out of hand. "Quiet, quiet. There are ways of telling if she is a witch."

"Tell us!"

"What are they?"

"Do they hurt?!"

"I shall perform the sacred test of St. Lynad. Stand aside, good people, and let me near the accused."

Virgilie gasped a little, since the test of St. Lynad was notorious for getting out of hand and spreading fire to innocent bystanders. The crowd knew this well, and drew back as far as they could.

Chanting loudly, I approached the young women who, hands tied behind her back, quaked in fear. Her witch's hat was far too big for her, and fell down over her face. I tried to reassure her with sympathetic eyes, but realized that the chant, which describes in awful detail the burns which will be inflicted upon the unrighteous was probably not helping.

Best get this over with. I raised my hands to heaven and a tongue of flame fell down from the sky directly on top of the witch. Immediately the dust in the air began to burn in a maelstrom that carried sparks everywhere. In seconds, the heat from the inferno had singed my robe and hair. With a loud cry, for the heat was unbearable, I dropped my hands. The fire vanished, and the smoke settled. There, on the blackened cobblestones, stood the woman, completely unscathed, but looking very shaken.

The crowd was stunned, and I seized on their uncertainty. "The LORD has protected this woman from the divine fire-- yet since she has brought this suspicion upon herself, I hereby cast her out into the Plains of Eternal Peril, there to reflect on how to lead a more godly life."

As the crowd milled about, I gingerly stepped over the heated rocks to the woman's side, and whispered, "Sorry for the exile, but you'll be safer there. The after-effects of being turned briefly to stone should wear off soon."

As I strode off, not feeling like talking to Cleric Virgilie, I bumped into a perfectly proportioned man, whose face shone with a look of divine health. "Very impressive, my young friend," he said in a smooth baritone. "Come with me, for there is much to discuss..."

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Turn15

Ghost

The tree branch is smooth and the sun is warm. To the east, I spy rising dust. The armies of Pythium march north towards the Plains of Eternal Peril, covering the world under their purple banner. The wind tosses the tree, but I remain motionless.

Down below the tree there is a a rough dirt track. Used frequently enough to prevent large plants from blocking it, but not enough to prevent a covering of low weeds, grasses, and wildflowers, it is perfect cover for my line. The finest thread, strong as a rope many times its size, is loosely stitched to the tree across the way. It runs invisible across the path, then up into my tree. There it is tied onto a large boulder which I hauled up via a pulley with much effort as the sun first rose this morning.

My eyes flicker. The long evening had started at the pub...

"May the devils take your soul sir!"

"They most assuredly have yours already!"

"You spit upon the church, and turn your back upon the LORD of hosts!"

"Lies, and filthy lies! The Emperor Telicus, Lord of the Emerald Throne, worships the LORD in more truth than the blood-sucker Wic."

Wedged between the disturbing Forest of Wic, the aptly named Mountains of Madness, and the new lands being conquered by Pythium, that powerful yet cruel fragment of the old empire, the horse people of Tapanete were quickly realizing that there would need to choose sides. Aftial had told me that there were many loyal worshipers of the church here. They would bring Tapanete over to the side of right if a few disloyal leaders could be removed.

"You dare insult the Archbishop! Right! I'll have your leg for that!" And the pub descended into chaos while I sat sipping my hot water against one wall, unnoticed by all.

A hoofbeat. I am awake without moving. Stupid to have fallen asleep, but still plenty of time. Mestor is alone, flying down the track on his horse to respond to the dreadful news that his prize stallion was murdered last night.

Horrible horse screams, and blood everywhere. Soon there would be guards, but I couldn't help feel a bit of remorse for this poor creature. Every man whose life I have poured out into the earth has been a man of power, with a thousand crimes, petty or great, which merit death, but this poor animal...

I shake the memory, plant my feet noiselessly. Mestor is only a few heartbeats away. I shove mightily and boulder plummets to the earth, snapping the thread up to exactly throat level. He makes no sound as he tumbles off. I leap lightly from the tree. Somehow he has fumbled his sword free. A weak stroke slides off my shield, then my sword flickers up under his rib cage and a sharp twist spills entrails into the sunny morning light.

The LORD has granted me victory again. All praise the name of Aftial, Protector of the weak, Goddess of courage, Terrible vengeance upon the ungodly!

His horse, confused by loosing its master, turns around, comes over and is looking at me. I reach for its reigns gently, "Come on, let's get you to a better master."

Esclave

997 A.P.P.M
Salutations Magister Esclave,

The time is almost at hand. Your mastery of earth magick under the guidance of Amirdon has proceeded quickly, and my construction here in the forest is complete. Soon the Magus Temple, with you as the first student and teacher, will host many capable magicians not bound by the politics and strictures of the church.

But we must be careful. The Three of Three has uncovered a treacherous letter which appears to seek some sort of understanding with the undead menace to the west. The Church has always used such opportunities to purge those who scare them, and I fear they will try to pin this letter on me. In the council I can count on the support of Polgrave, Muszinger, and Amirdon. I cannot say how Forest will decide, but with Elkland's seat still empty, a tie will be broken by Marignon voting against me. Before this can happen, we must make ourselves strong.

I am disturbed, for I can find no information about the true author of this note. Post-scriptum I pen the portions released by the council. I know it is not much to go on, but I hope you will help me uncover this traitor and clear my name.

In His Name,
The Archbishop of Wic

Greetings,

The Church,----------------, has a wealth of --------------- notions about you. There are those of us, however, who take a more practical view of the world. ---------------------------- --------------------------------------

I must stress that I cannot speak for the entire Church, ---------------------------------------------- Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement, temporary truce, or at least a sham war to placate ---------------------------- my side. If you are interested in discussing such a policy simply send back a note with this messenger.

In peace,
A lesser foe

Esclave,

Be not afraid. You have sought me in your studies all your life. In vain did you look in books and ancient prophecies while I stood beside you and held your hand. In your heart you have always known, why else did you never ask my name when we were together? The LORD dwells in the heart of every man, granting him the knowledge of good and evil-- how to recognize angel from devil. When first your eyes beheld me they glimpsed a heaven you had never known in the dark cathedrals of the church.

And yet good men are still led astray. Seduced by power, they seek to use that power to save others, the kingdom, the church. Ever and again they are lost to the light. Be on your guard, but be not afraid. You have known me and your soul is claimed for God. Neither the dusty grave nor the hosts of Hell can separate you from His love, and thence from mine.

I go now into the wild. Though I will visit you in dreams ever and anon, I will not write again for a season, but which time it will have been three of three months since I left your side...

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.
Aftial

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Turn18

Can a man be profitable unto God? Is it any pleasure to the Almighty that thou art righteous?
Or is it gain to him, that thou makest thy ways perfect?
Will he reprove thee for fear of thee? Will he enter with thee into judgment?
Is not thy wickedness great, and thine iniquities infinite?

Muszinger

Night falls quickly in the westlands. Father Muszinger heard the call to evensong and looked up from his letters, shocked that so little remained of the day. He finished his last missive and went down to the new cathedral, glad that he had no role to play in the ceremony that night. In the choir, he took the gilded seat next to the Archbishop of Polgrave as the monks in the main chamber chanted on. The choir was empty of other nobles tonight, providing a perfect opportunity to talk.

Et verbum caro factum est

"Father, the knights have gone riding off into the Plains of Eternal Peril. Some new sign about their beloved chalice. We could have used them here, in defense against the shadow."

"Yes, but I think it's better they remain well away from evil. This whole grail thing reeks of the ancient druid heresy, and heaven knows that enough of the locals here believe that kind of nonsense. No, Polgrave, better to have them wasting their time on the Plains, and expanding God's kingdom in that direction. Msgr. Raymond is with them on their quest to make sure they maintain orthodoxy."

Et habitavit in nobis

Muszinger spoke again after a long moment, "You will leave soon against the barbarians in the north?"

"Yes. I know I can trust you, dearest friend, to maintain the Shadow Watch while I am gone."

"It shall be so. No servant of the enemy shall gain a foothold, and we will remain vigilant against the seduction of death."

et vidimus gloriam ejus, gloriam quasi unigeniti a Patre

"Father... what of the rumors that Aftial has born a son?"

"Officially this is nonsense, but in truth... it is so."

"I do not understand."

"Neither do I. Angelic birth is unknown in the scripture, but here, at the end of time, who can say? We must trust in Aftial and the LORD, that this is part of His divine plan."

"But, the father?"

"A human, no mystery there. A Cleric Esclave who is serving under Marignon. Sorry, was. He is dead by now."

"Is that wise, father?"

"It is Aftial's wish, and for the best. The human vessel who helped create this child could have become a problem and given Marignon a way to exercise control over the child."

"Is the child so important?"

"I wish I knew."

plenum gratiae et veritatis.

What is man, that he could be pure, or one born of woman, that he could be righteous?

Esclave

The inquisition's chief weapon is surprise. Surprise and fear.

Broken glass and dogs barking woke me with a start. Coming in through the remains of the window was a figure dressed all in black, with a black mask before his face. Sparks flew from my finger tips, setting the posts of the room smoldering, but flickering harmlessly on the robes of the inquisitor, who opened his hands and returned fire.

In the ensuing smoke I reached the door, and slammed it open, not bothering with the handle. The hallway sparkled with candles, and I darted down the corridor, heading for the library.

At the end of the passageway I collided with another figure in black. His dagger whipped across my arm, but I kicked it away and ran on, darting back and forth in the corridor as fire flies rained upon the stones.

The library slept in perfect quiet. Normally its peace was infectious, but as I ran, panting, through the stacks, every shadow was an inquisitor, every lit candle a fireball signaling my doom. Crouching to gather my breath in a dark place by a window I heard a voice.

"You cannot escape. We have every entrance to the library sealed with guards. Give yourself up, that you may be absolved of your sin before dying, and escape the fires of hell."

I soon saw the inquisitors (there were maybe five of them together now) marching, chains and torches in hand, down the rows of the library, methodically searching. I prepared to meet my God.

But Aftial came to me, and whispered in my head. I broke the window with a robe-wrapped arm and jumped, two stories, into the night. Perhaps Aftial slowed my fall, for the hay of the farmer's wagon merely knocked all breath from my body, broke my leg, and rendered me unconscious.

I awoke in the Magus Temple, under the care of the Archbishop of Wic, who helped tend me back to health. My guardian angel had made sure that I fell into a cart already bound for friendly sanctuary, and the clueless driver of the cart had born me here along with his cargo.

One night, I awoke to hear a woman screaming near at hand. In the morning, Wic explained that another poor soul had fled here to escape the inquisition. Her wounds had too severe, and she had perished, despite his skill.

The next day I began the final stages of training to be a magi. There are skills which Wic cannot teach, but yet I make progress, with Aftial's help. Aftial... when last she wrote, she seemed to say that we had a son, who must nearly be born now. I wonder if I will ever see him.

It is so hard to think that I am now a fugitive from the Church... or part of the Church. I knew that in ancient times the archbishops struggled against one another for power, but it still is hard to imagine that I am here, alive, only at the sufferance of Wic; that Marignon or Muszinger would kill me in an instant. And yet Wic's allies on the Three of Three are Muszinger and Polgrave. The politics are beyond me at this point. All I know is that I am safe, and that Wic is a truly good and faithful man.

The LORD our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth.

Ghost

The damned thing stares at me. The sunken recesses in its skull gaze fixedly into my eyes, or slightly past them, to settle unblinking upon my ear.

It was stupid to get so caught up in the moment. The last official in Tapente who required removal was friar Adaloald. I found him in the cathedral late at night, counting the day's collection. Perhaps I wanted a fight. I made a noise as I approached, and he drew his dagger, and grabbed a hefty candlestick for his other hand. Back and forth we raged in the flickering gloom of the house of God, but I backed him into the alter and slashed the weapons from his hands. Sobbing and bleeding he knelt there, under the sacred sun. For a moment I saw the priests of the inquisition, and the damnable Father Muszinger... saw how I too had been dragged to the side of the sacrificial alter... saw the sacred sun cut forever from my flesh with laughter at my pain... and I gutted Adaloald, drawing my blade through his belly as he screamed loudly.

Too loudly. The guard was alerted, and they caught me. I was ready to die. Aftial had promised me my eternal reward, and to die in her service was easy. But I did not die, though their beating brought me close. My prison cart passed through the tangled Forest of Wic, but we passed the cathedral and went instead to a new building, across its archway were emblazoned "The Magus Temple", and in the firelight the letters shone as if writ in blood.

I was bound and thrown to the cold stone floor, and the archbishop strode in. His voice was beautiful, and carried perfectly within the chamber, echoing in the dark reaches to make his soft requests like the choir of angels.

"Dear child, have you lost your way within the woods at night?"

I made no reply, for I had no strength to speak.

"There are many monsters in the forests at night. It is said that the undead still roam this land, that the vampires never really left these haunts. It is a perilous night out there for a little girl."

The angel touched my soul and loosed my tounge. "You do not frighten me. The angel of the LORD protects my soul, and though you kill my body I will sit on high and watch you roast in the fires prepared for you and your kind."

"Ah, my precious one. So full of life and vibrant in your anger. I may yet escape the fires of Hell, but you shall never see paradise!" With the last his voice rose and thundered off the walls. He drew forth a small black box and opened it in front of my eyes. Inside was a filthy, improbably tiny human skull on a rusty hook. "This talisman represents the living dead, even I will not touch it, for fear of my immortal soul."

The archbishop motioned, and a hideously deformed excuse for a man came forth. I saw that his arm too bore the mark of the sacred sun removed. Others held me on the floor as the accursed picked up the talisman, though it pained him and burnt his hand. The archbishop raised his hands to heaven and intoned:

"Thus saith the LORD, the God of hosts: You have made your graves upon a high and lofty hill: there you went up to offer your sacrifices. Behind your doors and doorposts you have put your symbols of death, forsaking me."

Pain unending as the hook was pressed into the flesh of my ear...

"But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those you practice the arts of the grave, or raise up the dead-- their place will be in the fiery lake of burning sulfur."

The metal passed through and the pain lessened slightly. The crippled man was pierced by a sword from one of the waiting guards.

"And they that bring forth life from the grave will forever suffer in this world and the next. This is the unpardonable sin, the furthest man may depart from his just maker."

A new burning in my ear, and then my lips and tongue moved of their own accord speaking one of the Lost Tongues, and the dead body rose up and stared at me, and I compelled it to attack the archbishop. But there were too many guards, and the thing, through strong, was bound in chains as Wic regained his composure.

"Once already you have been barred from paradise by the church, unto which the LORD delivered the keys of the kingdom. But now I name you necromancer. You have had congress with the dead, and made a mockery of the living LORD, and God no longer has a claim on you."

I reached out to the angel, to Aftial, but heard only pain within my head and the mad mutterings of the soulless from where he attempted to gnaw his limbs off to escape his bounds.

It has now been many weeks. The flesh has fallen from my undead companion, who they locked within my cell, but his skeleton keeps an ever present vigil at my side. I can command it with my thoughts, but ever time I do my soul turns a little blacker. If I do not tell it to do anything it stares at me, hour upon long hour. I can feel its gaze through my own closed eyelids as I try to sleep. I will never be free.

But who may abide the day of his coming, and who shall stand when he appeareth?
For he is like a refiner's fire...
And he shall purify...

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Turn21

Esclave

I dreamt I saw the city of Marignon, a castle in the sand. Its nine proud towers, and three broad bridges o'er a channel carved by a child's hand. On each of the towers, some token, fetched from the quickening sand: A gull's feather, a leaf from the deepest woods, a white golden pearl, stolen from the sea. The walls, two thousand years old, could not hold the raveling tide. Elkland went first, the salty brine poured inside, round cathedral, and House of Just Fires. The streets were washed clean, the towers went down, without even a mound to remain. And as the night fell, the top of the church sank into silence with no star in sight.

I dreamt I saw a new Camelot. On a low hill above endless plain, white walls and red roofs. Through a canyon in the point of the hill, a broad highway, up which golden knights raced on silver chargers. At the top of the canyon, a perfect circle of green, stark among barren rock. Ringed round: stables and houses and blacksmiths. My charger drove east, through the gate of a squat, sturdy tower, then on, up the hill to summit, and the temple there, nine pillars of white marble holding up a gold roof.

I dreamt I saw the Shadow Watch, an empty, formless void. Despair and sadness from this dark tower, and a thousand crawling things in the thickets around. Two dead men chased me through fire-lit hallways. I came to a fork, left, I must go left. I mistrust the voice, and go right. I am falling, falling down... but my angel stepped over my bed, called me by name back into the light.

Muszinger

What does the LORD require of us? Obedience to his will. Without his guidance, death is certain for every man. Without his generous support, we will all fall to dust in just a few short runs of the sun across the empty sky.

Those of you who question the Church's crusade against the empire of Pythium are questioning the wisdom of God. For this order comes not from earthly, fallible men, but directly from the mouth of God's most holy servant, Aftial. Those of you who refuse to aid us are already joining yourself to the enemy.

And what of the darkness? The mindless hate that dwells in the west is currently slumbering, possibly leaderless. The stout-hearted men of the north, Ulm, have taken up arms and are tying down there armies. Brave though they are, Ulm worships the earth and iron, and punish the faithful with a twisted inquisition unguided by God. It is best that these two heathen empire struggle with almost equal strength.

For everything there is a season. Aftial has commanded us to move against Pythium now. The LORD's plan is to leave the battle against the darkness and the undead for a later hour, when the darkness of death may be lifted as the curtain of this world rolls aside.

Ghost

In the corner of my cell I find a small white thing. It is probably a child's toy, or lover's charm. A little carved unicorn head on a chain. I pick it up. It can't hurt, can it?

The guard, bringing me food, stumbles in the hall and dies on his own spear. What luck for me. Harsh sounds issue from my mouth, and the dead man returns to twilight life, and under my power sets key into lock. I am free, though this new undead ambles after me also.

Slipping noiselessly through silent halls is hampered by my two undead minions who decide to carry on a loud argument in undead ("Aaaaargh", "Braaaaaaaains","Rarrrrr","Braaaaaaaaains"). Perhaps the skeleton is jealous that the soulless still has flesh and skin.

I run, trying to shake them, but they never tire in the endless halls here, underground in the temple. I come to a fork, and a voice in my head whispers that I should go left. I don't trust voices in my head anymore. I go right. The little charm snags on the wall, and as I look down I see that the dark floor is a bottomless pit. Stupid voice. I turn around and go left. Inside a small room there is only a rusted old breastplate.

The soulless rushes forward, grabs the breastplate, and a flash of lightning blasts him to dusty death. The skeleton goes up to it and seems unaffected, fondling it oddly, as if he remembers armor from his days of life. I risk my luck and grab it from the pathetic creature and put it on. It fits like a glove. I turn to retrace my steps, but the little unicorn flashes and I notice a ladder in the corner of the room. I climb into the free night, into the twisted forest of Wic.

But now, where to go? The skeleton stares blankly south. Nowhere in Marignon will I be safe with this thing following me. I head off, into the wild.

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Turn24

Ghost

The peasants of Towen shiver under a bitterly cold sky. The land is rich enough, but the local lord is the last independent prince between Marignon and Pythium, and he has no desire to let either power learn that he has been letting his peons get above their station. I earn a living killing nobles and stealing what I can. Perhaps this earns me a few points in the Good Book.

I awake to the blowing of clear trumpets and the straight columns of Pythium's legions. The full wealth of the depraved local prince has gone to equip a score of heavily armored knights. They clash across blighted farmland. Their chargers, fed on the grain denied starving people, do not falter. Their shields and lances come up and slam into the front lines of the legion... which hold. The knights are pulled down, the wealth of the land strewn broken across the frozen mud.

That night, as the Pythium army enters the gates of the city, I pull a cloak over my undead friend and slip inside also. I don't know why. I've seen military occupation before. The peasants have too; they hide their babies. I watch a squad of soldiers turned looters, rapers, pillagers, kick down the door to one hut and draw their swords...

One man in emerald armor grabs them by their belts and one-by-one tosses them over his shoulder, back into the street. He apologizes to the family huddled in fear, then takes the looters to the center of the city, reprimands them, and has them whipped in the flickering light. The city remains unlooted.

The man is Brutus, prophet of the Pythium Oracle.

I awake in the dead of night, back in the forest. That wretched pile of bones has picked itself up and is shambling toward the Pythium camp. I can't find the right words of deadel to make it stop. I follow it. Wouldn't do to have it killing people. The camp is utterly still, the sentries all asleep. The skeleton goes straight to one tent and raps on the doorpost with its knuckles, than falls into a dissembled pile. I approach, am I free at last?

The door opens, it is Brutus, open-handed.

"Yes, my lady?"

I cannot speak. His eyes move to my ear. A smile crosses his lips.

"Ah, it is that time. Well, you're frozen, please come in."

Inside, he pours himself a glass of mulled wine.

"Et tu?"

I shake my head, my eyes are fixed on the many open coffins.

"My friends," he says. "Men who I led many years. I have always sat one night with. But... tonight... The Oracle has told me; you are here to send me on as well."

I shake my head. A flicker of confusion passes his face. Then rasps issue from my mouth. The nearby coffin lurches and a form leaps on Brutus. Unarmed, he rips the body's head off, but a second undead throws itself at Brutus' knees while the first, sans head, slams fists into Brutus' face. More coffins empty and Brutus keeps ripping bits off them as I watch. The din is awful, why don't the guards come?

At last the dead have been torn into chunks too small to pose a threat. Brutus, winded, hideously bloodied, with a broken arm and clothes torn and bitten into tatters, gazes up at me with patient, gentle eyes. I stab him through the heart.

I wake on the forest floor. It is finally spring, and my heart leaps. Has the past dark winter melted into dreamland? But my hands are still red with his blood. His face still floats in front of my waking eye. I am still fortunes' fool. I am still a pawn of fate.

A clear trumpet and the straight columns of Pythium's legions are marching along the road I chose to sleep upon. I don't want to run anymore. Unbidden, dead forms spring from hidden graves under ash trees and three skeletons and I rush a full legion. The skeletons die in a hail of javelins, and I alone continue my headless charge-- yelling, pleading, daring the legion the kill me. I do not seek forgiveness from a forsaking God. I do not shout the name of the angel who has abandoned me. A javelin grows large in my vision.

Esclave

"Lord Wic, help me understand."

"There's no need for the 'Lord' nonsense away from the city. Besides, my dear Esclave, you're nearly as skilled with magick as I, and of the two of us, only you have consorted with angels."

"Just the one. And that is what I don't understand."

"Ah, so this is going to be a question about women." Wic smiled and stopped walking. He leant against a tree and stared off into the distance, casting little fire darts which melted holes in the snow. For a moment, I just watched his calm demeanor. We were marching to war - on the road past us trudged a mercenary band of archers - but Wic looked like he was on the way to a Midwinter feast.

"Does she love me?"

Wic pursed his lips. "I think so. She went to bat for you against the inquisition, and that take madness or love. Did you know the Inquisition has never pardoned anyone before?"

"By why did she order me to leave her? Why does she send me out to fight while she stays, studying the Compendium and talking long hours with the smiths?"

"That I cannot say. One must always be careful dealing with supernatural creatures. Their ways are not our ways. Their goals are often inscrutable."

For a moment I debated asking him about the insidious rumor I had hear- that Wic had made some sort of deal with the devils... but that was nonesense, and I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship.

A few days later I watched, a little shocked, as Wic gleefully mashed the black hawk into a bloody mess of feathers and muddy snow with his mace.

"Damn I hate those things." Then he smiled and drew a deep, satisfied breath. "Ah, it is good to be back out on the march. We'll have quite a feast tonight when those guards finish looting the city... Towen I believe they're calling it these days, though it's changed names many times while I've been archbishop of Wic. Maybe we can even liberate a few dancing girls to keep us company tonight."

I vaguely murmured something, averting my eyes from the bloody smear and trying to fight down my nausea and fear. The implacable Pythium legion still loomed in my mind. On and on they came through the arrows and fire. A swarm of black hawks surrounded us, and we flailed them off. When we looked up again, the legion had scattered the line of our infantry and killed the leaders of the mercs. It was only at the last moment, as the longbows were firing nearly point blank, that they broke.

Suddenly I shuddered. I came back from a long way.

"Esclave, are you alright?"

"I saw... a stone angel which turned to coal. It fell over into a pool and caught on fire. A dead man sat by it and roasted a lizard on an ashen stick."

Wic waited a moment, then clapped me heartily on the shoulder. "Esclave, my boy, I do believe you've just had a vision. Let's go plunder some ale and you can tell me all about it."

In the next weeks I searched for answers, as the peace of Carrofactum prevented the army from marching on. A guild of sages dwelt in Towen, and I sought them for advice on my visions and dreams. They advised me to seek the cave of passing time- I might find some answers there.

Wic took some time off profiting from the fall of Towen to search with me. Night was falling on a chill spring day when suddenly the sky went black and a score of hawks descended directly on us. I tried to strike back, but they clawed at my eyes and I couldn't remember a good spell to cast. Above the thunder of wings I heard Wic's calm voice in-canting, and steel being drawn. I turned and ran into the nearby wood, hands over my head. Suddenly I was alone in utter darkness. I could see stars ahead. I cried out.

"Is there anyone there?"

I am.

"Who are you?"

You already know me.

I was pretty sure I did not, but was in no position to argue. "Are you the cave of lost time?"

No answer.

"Why am I seeing these signs?"

The oracle in Pythium is powerful. This close to its dominions, all those attuned to the stars see signs.

"What do they mean?"

What you make of them.

"That's no answer!"

It is.

As long as I had the ear of a cryptic advice-giver: "Why does Aftial do what she does? Does she love me? When will I see our son?"

When snow falls in the morning it is beautiful and clean. But it falls on dirt, and human feet mix them together. Finally, it only appears clean at night. But a new day may dawn and the snow will melt. And when it does, it will carry the dirt away too.

"Esclave!"

Wic was shaking me awake.

"Ah, good. You took quite a fall when those blighted birds attacked. You've been out for almost an hour. Here, I cooked you some black hawk. Have a thigh, it'll get you right again."

Muszinger

It will take me three months to reach the battle front. During that time, I will have to make crucial decisions for the kingdom without any one to advise me. Writing down the reports and orders may help.

2 months before Carrofactum: First strike. Our lizard allies are wavering in their commitment. There are too many legionnaires in the towers on their borders. Our declaration of war should help draw those legions north so they'll be caught flat-footed when the lizards also strike. Sir Gawain and some mercs will head south from Camelot, while Raymond leads more knights onto the Plains of Eternal Peril. Wic and Polgrave will each lead an army due south for the main strikes.

1 month before Carrofactum: Birds everywhere. Some foul enchantment to summon the things. Welsh, Ucrema and Tapanete have all been hit hard, but the province defenses held everywhere except the last. The prophet of Pythium has been killed by a servant under Aftial's direct control. His army, stranded, was driven out of Towen by Wic. Gawain and Polgrave have both advanced against strong province defense and many birds, but they have taken the plains with minimal losses. Vanheim has cast their lot in with us.

Carrofactum:

Peace for a month, though our faithless allies and enemies do not recognize this most holy time: Man has joined the fray with an animal attack on the eastern edge of Pythium. Closer to home, a Pythium force of nearly one hundred with powerful mage support is in Great Woods. I will summon all the men who can get there to the province of Towen. To reach there myself I must abandon my slow bodyguard, but the LORD will protect me. Aftial will join us there, and I will finally take command of the army and put a swift end to this false oracle and this war.

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Turn27

Start small. Unstop your ears.

"Gentlemen , I am as fond of pointless talk and endless meetings as the next man, unless the next man enjoys pointless talk and endless meetings, but we have been following this Pythium army for five ..."

"Three, sir."

"Three months now, and we are no closer to defeating it then when we started."

"I must say, Father, that I agree with Sir Gawain in this instance, even though he is in muscle-bound idiot. We cannot catch this force and while we all stay together here the border is in disarray. Everywhere the forces of Pythium slip into weakly defended provinces. The beasts of Man hold parts of the Plains of Eternal Peril and ..."

"Polgrave, relax. We'll regain the lands once this last gasp of the empire's strength is quashed. I remember standing on Canese Plain with you arguing that we had to follow this force North and protect your precious Shadow Watch. Now all of a sudden you've changed your mind-"

"And you change yours as we get close to your precious forest and dark temple-"

"Brothers! Peace be among you."

Open your eyes.

A frail, sickly man glares hatred at a relaxed man in red robes. This paragon has his feet up on a small stool while another man wearing the dark robes of the inquisition stood nearby. The dark robed man spoke again.

"The Three Below must remain united in this. Pressure from Marignon is increasingly calling for an end to this war to enable the great final battle against the shadow, or to fight the Vans or the lizards. Especially since your spy, Polgrave ..."

The frail man sputtered indignantly, "Barely mine. You know that whole cadre answers to Avoca."

"What is this news the spies bring?" This from the booming voice that opened this conference.

"Never mind." snapped Polgrave.

"Yes, sir-thinks-not-much shouldn't hear scary stories," said the relaxed man shifting his weight a little.

"No, Wic," said the inquisitor. "Rumors must be brought into light and tried before God." He turned to Sir Gawain, "A spy reports seeing Vanheim's mages using death magic in a battle with Pythium forces. A bane, and many wights were among the undead reported."

"My God! But this is horrible news. We have only five allies ..."

"Three, sir."

"Three allies in this war. If one of them has fallen into darkness ..."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Wic, getting up. "Very wrong, very naughty of them. But before anyone believes this flunky he will have to come before the inquisition to prove his veracity. I assume Ratty here will conduct the trials himself and, well, people do die during the trials . Dreadfully sad of course ... "

"Wic! You overstep the bounds of godly conversation. And you will address me as Father Muszinger. The trials are judged by God alone. I am merely the vessel of his righteousness. The inquisition is not used for political aims, and if these ridiculous charges happen to be true, a notion so ridiculous I laugh at the mere thought," (the speaker's face was devoid of mirth) "If they are found to be true then of course we must have peace with what remains of Pythium and war with the Vans!"

"Yes, father." said Wic in a sullen voice, but a smile in his eyes.

Loose your tongue ...

What am I seeing?

The war council of those who did you wrong. Esclave is about to speak.

"My lords! My goodly lords." Esclave's voice could be heard above the chatter only with difficulty. He looked nervous. "Are we not here to discuss how to defeat the Pythium legion rampaging through our lands?"

"Yes," said Gawain, "The little man is right."

Wic casually flicked his wrist and the candle by Gawain flared, singeing his beautiful hair. The knight put his hand on his sword but only but only glared back at Wic. Then he spoke, "Do we have bows?" Everyone ignored him.

"Can't we just assassinate the leaders? Doesn't Aftial have a club of martyrs for that cause?"

"I believe she just had the one," said Muszinger. "Now deceased."

"And where is Aftial, Father? Couldn't she just drop from the heavens and deliver good smitings all round?"

"As I understand it, and I am no mage, such an act requires some advanced and forgotten earthly magic to aid her heavenly abilities. She is working to discover this, and also was busy planning the fort at Towen ..."

"Another fort!" said Gawain with a sigh. "Don't have enough? We've got, what, Marignon itself, the Shadow Watch, Camelot, that's five ..."

"Three, sir"

"Three already, why more?"

"The lizards are capturing many of Pythium's forts. We need to protect our land."

Polgrave spoke gently, "So what can we do?"

"The LORD has revealed to us how heavenly fire may fall for great distance and burn the unfaithful. Marignon and Spire will be blasting the army with this. The fires may not kill a man in armor, but the theurgs and communicants will toast up nicely.

"Very good," said Wic with gusto, "That'll finally whittle them down. What else?"

"For now, little. We will attempt to guess where they will head next, and I will take some of the fastest troops to meet up with the eastern army. Whether by fire, or the sword, we will send this army to their final rest." Father Muszinger rose, signaling the end of the conference.

Well?

I do not understand why you show me this.

In time, all will become clear.

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Turn30

Oh God, grant now this prayer for your most faithful servant. Let the heavens open and a divine wrath fall down upon the heretic. Smite the unbeliever, destroy the heathen, and purge death from this world. Send me the fire of your righteousness, and I will send it against your enemies.

Gawain

The morning Fires From Afar cast an odd light over the valley, warming Sir Gawain's heart. Soon, very soon. He wandered along the rise, trying to see you the fires had struck. Down in the valley there was smoke and fire.

"Hector!" He bellowed.

"I'm right here Sir."

"So you are. Charge five of the knights along that ridge. Make sure you ride noisily: raise banners, sound trumpets, that sort of thing."

"Yes sir."

Gawain sank back into deep thought. Should he wear his best golden armor today, or the backup? One the one hand, it promised to be a bloody battle. With Father Muszinger guarding all the roads out of the forests and the bulk of the army coming in behind Gawain, the Pythium legion was finally trapped, and would fight desperately to the last man. That sort of hopeless heroics could really spoil a good coat of finish on a man's armor. On the other hand, Gawain liked to look his best especially when he was performing impossibly heroic feats in front of young maidens. And the forest of the Archbishop of Wic had some of the most beautiful virgins in all the kingdom, at least if half of Wic's campfire stories where true. In the end, the ever-so-slightly more shiny armor won out, and Gawain wrestled it on with the help of Sir Boris.

The rest of the company likewise donned armor. There seemed to be fewer than usual. Probably Hector had taken too many knights with him.

"Sir Gawain, Sir Gawain."

It was that pesky knight with a complicated name.

"Yes, good sir... knight."

"Look what rises in yonder vale."

"Uh..."

"The valley, Sir." put in Boris.

Gawain looked. Smoke still rose into the air above the trees.

"I don't see anything."

"Look, right there. 'Tis the holy grail, formed out of smoke. It is a sign from the Almighty."

"Ah... possibly."

"It is."

"Well, let's be honest, I don't really see it."

"It is there, just above the tree with the broad leaves."

"What, the tree with the serrated leaves or the sort of tabular extensions coming off the new shoots?"

"The serrated one."

The other knights clinked in their armor and Gawain suddenly had an inkling for a spot of fighting.

"Yes! Of course I see it now. 'Tis a fine sign of God's favor. Knights, we ride now to glory!"

"Sir?"

Boris again.

"Yes?"

"What about the plan to have Hector's force scare the legion into running into the trap?"

"Oh, drat it all, I'd forgotten. But look, it was the sign of the Holy Grail."

"Was it?"

"It was."

"But it was just a temporary superposition of two smoke plumes..."

"Never mind that, my lad! It is time for action!"

Muszinger

In the east, Muszinger waited patiently, watching the Fires From Afar streak from the north and vanish into the forest. Screams echoed from within. Men were dying, roasted alive, but they were heretics. There were only two roads out of the forest onto the Plains of Eternal Peril, and the fishermen (odd heathens, but quite useful) watched the other one.

Father Muszinger stood alone on the dusty road. A vulture flew overhead, casting a shadow across the bright sky. The inquisitor's eyes scanned the forest for motion, but saw only the twisted, gnarled forms. For not the first time, he wondered if it wasn't about time for the inquisition to pay a call on Wic - not all the rumors about his Magus Temple in there could be true, but if even a few of them were...

A squad burst from the darkness at double speed march. In the moment while their eyes adjusted to the morning sun, Muszinger raised a single gloved hand and the soldiers of Pythium were transformed into pincushions. One managed to catch most of the crossbow bolts on a shield, and he stumbled on to where Muszinger stood - a small word to Aftial and the soldier melted into the ground as a bright bolts left after-images on Muszinger's retinas.

Peace returned to the road. A discreet cough let Muszinger now that the well-hidden squadron of crossbows had reloaded. Salad-related thoughts flaoted through the Father's mind.

The next force was smelled before they came into sight - an acrid stench of smoke and blood. They were barely in formation, but there were a lot more of them. Bolts flew again, but the centurion survived.

"Close shields! About face! Javelins ready, javelins fire!"

Cries from the trees and bushes along the road as javelins pierced bodies - the legionnaires had reformed with inhuman decision and caught many archers still out of cover.

Muszinger called on Aftial to smite the centurion.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, a bit desperate now, as the swordsmen of Marignon engaged the legionnaires. A javelin twanged into the ground at Muszinger's feet, and a man rushed him with just a shield. Muszinger spun to avoid the charge and drew his dagger - but the man kept running until that dagger softly buried itself in his back. In the chaos of the main battle, the crossbows ran or used their bows as clubs against scattered legionnaires - while their protecting swords men were tied up by the main group.

One last call to Aftial went unheeded, and Muszinger switched to fire magic, sending several fire darts into the fray. They did little damage, but the men, who had lived in fear of the fires from the sky for the past many months, lost their courage and broke.

While the swordsmen sent all the heathens to their final judgment, Muszinger lent hard against a tree and tried to calm his beating heart. Why had the angel abandoned him?

Ghost

Aftial, I have called you here to save you.

It was the Arch-Theurgs who ambushed me and sent me hence.

No sparrow falls without me, and none can thwart my purpose. But you, you have tried. Aftial, I bring you here to ask for and receive the forgiveness of this woman, Ghost, who you swore to protect and failed.

What? This is the crime for which I am called back? You have grown blind and old my lord, if you think I need to atone for this! I have brought war to Inland - allied your precious church with death-magic users - a hundred other things. Next to that, what is my promise to a little girl?

It is enough. Answer carefully now, my trusted servant, for you fate hangs in the balance. Ghost stands before you, will you seek forgiveness?

Why is she here? She reeks of death! Your own rules forbid her enter here.

I am the rules, not they me, and I am merciful. Ask!

No. I will not bow immortal knee to this gutter-wench. And I warn you, a host of angels stand at my back. Step down now, or we take by force this heaven, which is rightfully ours, not the playground for men.

Aftial, I have called you by name from the first morning. But you cannot contend against me. You seek power and ruin, and would return to earth to seek them there, and I will not stop you. You are, as always, free. Free to go.

Did you not hear! I challenge you for control of heaven! War never ceasing...

Where did she go?

She is lost, and returned to Marignon.

Are you crying? But surely... the priests used to say you saw all things past and future. You must have known this would happen, right? This is all part of your plan? How can you cry?

How can I not? Come now Ghost, your part in this tale is over.

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Turn33

Muszinger

How did it come to this?

Father Muszinger gazed over the smoking ruins of the great library at Barra. The words of a hundred generations burned beneath those blackened columns, and the twisted, gruesome corpses of the sages lay all about. One man had died on the steps of the library -- unable to run quickly with his stack of scrolls, a knight's lance had ripped his body asunder, and his blood now stained those scraps of paper he had sought to protect and oozed slowly down the stairs...

- - -

"The sacrifice of blood is not specifically forbidden, Father -- legend says that during the fall some noble Church fathers advocated an alliance with the infernal devils against the greater peril of death made manifest."

"That is legend, and folly, and heresy, Wic!"

"But Father..."

"Enough, give me peace for a little while. Leave!"

Muszinger sank down in a chair and stared into the depths of the fire. What day was it? Where was he? The Mountains of Madness, yes...

They had marched here in splendor after defeating the Pythium army. Here, where the arch-theurgs of Pythium had murdered Aftial. These mountains were now made sacred by that act, and though all in the Church agreed that death could not hold back the mightiest of the LORD's servants -- not with the end so close -- still some vengeance had to be delivered unto the evil purple empire, and a church would need to be built at the spot where the Goddess of Courage had ascended into heaven.

The first week in the Mountains had been exciting. It had been a long time since the Inquisition's work had been so rewarding. No petty heresies about which side of the bread was the godly one to butter like they had back home -- these people openly worshipped the oracle and openly celebrated the slaughter of God's holy servant. Children played with evil-looking Aftial dolls and gleefully recreated her defeat at the hands of the teleporting band of arch-theurgs (each of whom had a special super-power in the game). Fortunately the toys were all made of wood and served as kindling for their owner's pyres. Yes, the Mountains had been cleansed and made righteous over the wails of the damned and the cries of the heretics. Though hard work, it had been accomplished swiftly. The new church was dedicated, and the land made safe and orderly when the messengers of doom started to arrive.

First came the news that Pythium had qualified for membership in the great alliance. Muszinger had personally bound the fate of Marignon with three other kingdoms in order to defeat the growing southern menace. Now the foolish terms for membership had been met by the one empire the alliance was supposed to last long enough to destroy -- and just as they stood on the edge of destruction!

Next came news that Aftial had returned to Marignon -- welcome news in itself, but she had stayed there with the Three Above and pardoned Pythium for killing her.

And then the crushing blows -- the Archbishop of Marignon published reports that the kingdoms of C'tis and Vanheim were using death magic in their wars against Pythium -- the Archbishop of Elkland had been recommunicated (they had had to invent that word) in exchange for a mighty gift of twenty water gems to the war effort -- the inquisition was to be placed under the personal control of the Archbishop of Avoca -- Muszinger's army was to disband, the monies for their wages being required to pay the army already (already!) fighting the undead in the shadow lands -- Muszinger, Wic and Polgrave were to return to Marignon to face trial for heresy.

Sitting by the fire, Muszinger took up the heresy charge and stared blankly at it. There was a knock, and the Archbishop of Polgrave entered.

"Father..."

"How many of these have I signed in my time?" Muszinger asked, holding up the charge. "Bitter reversal of fortune."

"Father, we must take action."

"Yes. But what? Are you here to offer another deal with the devil like Wic? A chance to sell our souls to the infernal forces to gain strength to conquer our political enemies? No, of course not. Your study is death itself. Surely you are here to argue that we must side with the darkness to counter these charges that our allies are friends of death!" His voice rose a little, on the edge of breaking into hysterical laughter.

"You do me wrong Father, I urge no such thing. The power and danger of death are well known to me, true, but I would never argue that another should take up my burden, be tortured by the same inky blackness which stalks my dreams. No, I am here to discuss practical matters. You must charge Marignon with heresy youself. Have the inquisition -- those who are still loyal to you -- move out in force to quash these vicious rumors. You must take steps to defeat the enemies of our LORD and yourself."

"Must I, Polgrave?"

"Yes. Time is of the essence."

"But... oh God, forgive your humble servant! The rumors must be true. I have spoken myself with spies who saw such a thing. They say the ruler of Vanheim is a foul undead thing, and the dragon Cole? The whole race of C'tis? Who led Ermor into the night, Polgrave? Which treacherous, stinking vermin poisoned the mighty empire, the mighty church, and brought death incarnate into a good and wholesome world? We had thought, I know, deluded ourselves that these animals had put such evil behind them, but a lizard cannot change its scales."

"My dear friend. No-one has been a more zealous defender of the faith than yourself. But even if the charges are true, it is treason for Marignon to usurp control in this fashion, and heresy to not put on formal trial the people who make such claims. But I know why this is so. Their information comes not from our own loyal spies, but from the angel-killing masters of deception in Pythium. Their words are lies because of their source, and Marignon knows this, this is why he hides behind treason. Take the fire of faith and the torch of the inquisition, and shine light into this dark secret, expose its evil roots!"

"I could do as you say, but how can we win? Our army's salary is cut. We must pillage enemy lands or disband our force and be left powerless. With Aftial now preaching forgiveness, how can we lead the troops into battle against Pythium? And yet we cannot stay here."

The door burst open, and for a moment Wic hung there in the shadow, his robes drooping from his outstretched arms like some hideous bat.

"My lords! It is a good day to die!"

"What new devilry is this?"

"None whatsoever." Wic stood aside, and a man moved into the room. A weather-beaten man in dirty brown robes, leaning on his spear and trying to catch his breath. "I present St. Onbec, the angry."

A stunned silence filled the room. Then Polgrave ran over to offer the man a chair.

"Are you for real?"

The man stared in Muszinger's eyes, and his face shone with a holy light. "More real in this world than you, rat."

"Why you!" Muszinger rose to smite the insolent scout, but Wic swiftly interposed himself.

"Hear him out. He brings our salvation."

"What lies!"

"I saw the serpent masters, Pythium, at Boddern Weald, scarce one month ago. Their foul magicks have conjured up some dispossessed spirits to fight against the lizards."

"My God."

"He was not there that day, for the lizards did not hesitate to raise the dead in their own turn."

"And you will swear to this?"

"By my spear and unto the living face of God."

"You see what this means, Father?" said Wic. "For a little while at least we can hold the army together fighting the damned lords of Pythium. Marignon's power cannot reach us while we retain our force, and the men will not complain once they are fighting the shadow of death even here. This is our key to our survival, and the gates of power back home."

Muszinger turned away to look into the fire again. "My friends, all you say is true. But this is not the key to salvation, but the footstep of doom. Vanheim, C'tis, Pythium... these now have all joined the darkness of Ermor. Are we alone to stand against the night? It was always so, but can we survive divided? While Elkland marches on the lizards in the north, and Marignon fights the greater shadow, we fight in vain here in the south against yet another race fallen into necromancy! The end is coming. It is almost upon us, and the LORD's return will not be to a bright clean world, but to a shadowy waste, where foul things hold sway and the living wander like ghosts in the night. We are all doomed."

Wic laughed, "You worry too much, Father. We, loyal servants, will always be protected as long as we do what is right-- and now we know that it is both right and convenient to continue the war against Pythium for as long as we have strength. Perhaps the LORD intends us to die in these Mountains, but I do not think so. I say we march into the heart of Pythium. Strike the library at Barra, and put a stop to the heathen learning that goes on there. Already the knights are agitating to ride there, in the hopes of finding clues about their precious grail. March out. Fight out little part of the greater struggle, and let God determine where we fall."

"Yes," said Muszinger. "Do what you will."

- - -

And so Muszinger watched the fires erase history. Pythium had used no death magic in the battle, although they had sacrificed many young girls to summon lesser devils from Hell. Onbec (or whoever he really) had disappeared again into the wild, taking Muszinger's sense of direction with him. Why continue this battle? Why fight this fight? For now, he was just reacting. Just trying to hold his army together long enough to see his way back to Marignon, and the Angel, and God.

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Turn36

Esclave

I took the wounded east out of the Mountains of Madness. Slow though we were with the weak and the lame, no one molested us. Some peace treaty with Pythium had made Muszinger very unhappy, but I was just glad to be away from the front. I never want to to see anything like the conversion of the Mountains of Madness again. Once out onto the plains, we turned west again, heading for Towen. We had recently received word that Aftial had returned from the grave -- and the rumors said she was subtly changed.

Now, as I sit with the sages of Towen and read through their tomes, I search for clues about what happened to that gentle creature which whom I passed my mornings in the House of Just Fires all those years ago; that gentle creature who is the mother of my unseen child. Surely this is not the same Aftial, returned now from heaven with a flaming sword and new-found wars to fight against out friends the lizards and the shadow itself?

But if I am honest, I never knew her. Our encounters were brief, and what do I know of women, angelic or mortal? What do I know of angels at all? Scripture and tradition name nearly a hundred such beings, servants of the Most High, and describe their character in detail. But there is no Aftial.

The sages do have one book, a collection of druidic poetry which managed to elude the inquisition. One stanza speaks of an Aftiel:

But thee Aftiel, patron of the evensky

draw your veils o'er us now.

Cloak our misdeeds in darkness

and set us free.

If this is Aftial, then I fear for Marignon. What is an angel who comes to us with false titles -- promising a new morning of greatness for the church, when in truth she is the night-bringer and ender of things? What misdeeds does she cloak? What veils draws she over the eyes of men?

The sages suggest that I search for answers in Great Woods. They say that a mighty warrior who was close to Aftial fell into darkness there. I do not know what I seek, but will find this ghost warrior's grave and tale, to see how Aftial protected those she swore to defend.

Muszinger

A week before the beginning of Carrofactum, Muszinger called Wic and Polgrave into one of the Barra library rooms which had escaped destruction and which they were using as a command post. The topic was the future of the Southern Army.

"We stand thus gentlemen. The gold Gawain and his knights liberated (with regrettable loss of life) pillaging this province will cover our expenses for some time, but we cannot go home yet. Though many inquisitors remain loyal to me, they are mostly pressed hard in the struggle against Ermor. I suspect now that this may have been Marignon's plan all along."

"And what of that fat fool himself?"

"Msgr. Buternot reports he is besieged within the Shadow Watch by a large army of the undead."

"He had better not leave his body parts lying around." muttered Polgrave.

"Any chance our problem will be... ah... taken care of by the undead?" asked Wic.

"Marignon is a servant of the Church, vouched for by Aftial, God's precious messenger who..."

"None of which really undermines the fact that he's actively trying to kill us, does it? Face it, Father, Marignon has schemed against all three of us since he came to power."

"But I will not march openly against him, nor undermine him in the battle for the shadowlands."

"What, then?"

"The Three Above are all busy. Avoca has his hands full trying to bring the Inquisition to heel, while Spire is trapped with Marignon. No-one is coming to enforce our arrest warrants here in the south."

"How very pragmatic of you Father," said Wic. "So we stay here, forge a little power base for ourselves, and prepare to retake power if things go poorly on the Western Front?"

"We must still pray that direct conflict can be avoided. Aftial alone is good and can bring Marignon back to the light. We must regain our strength and unity and convert all the heathens of the world before the LORD comes again."

"That's a lot for one winged beauty to do in just under a year," said Wic.

"What? Do you not believe? Have I not told you? There is no taint within her -- she is pure as snow."

"Even as you say."

"Very well then. I shall return to the Mountains alone. You two convince that bone-head Gawain to ride East."

"It shall be done."

Muszinger swept out of the room, and Wic's deferential look hardened into a thin smile.

"Poor fool. He believes so strongly and so deep. Reminds me of that boy, Esclave. He cannot, nay will not, see that Aftial plays him as a pawn."

"We should bring him to see this," said Polgrave.

"Perhaps. But for now, it is best that he walk alone. We can hardly have such a self-righteous man around while we do what needs be done."

"I know. I have all the ingredients for the Rite of Shantanok assembled."

"Then, are you ready to begin?" asked Wic, with just a little bit of awe in his voice.

"No, we must wait for the first night of Carrofactum, and we will need to stand on the broken tower in the Forest of Saran, where a saint's blood was shed."

"That's twisted."

"It is death magic, Wic, not fluffy bunnies. You're not backing out now, are you?"

"Of course not, Polly. You know my soul is already spoken for. What do I have to fear?"

"You sound smug for one condemned to eternal torture in hell."

"At least I'll be warm."

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then turned and marched out into the twilight.

Gawain

Sir Gawain stared, entranced, at the dancing patterns on the shield.

"I want that one. And that flaming blue sword."

"Uh, sir, I'm not sure that shield is altogether good. It might be accursed."

"What makes you say that?"

"The little plaque underneath which reads: Shield of the Accursed."

"Ah, so those little squiggly symbols have meaning."

"Indeed, sir."

"Well, since we have to march out tonight to go fight the... what was it again?"

"The mutant space goat of Saran."

"Yes, the goat thingy that's got Wic all nervous. Anyhow, after we've killed that we'll come back here to Barra and I'll pick up my new sword and shield. That should give you plenty of time to find out if picking up this shield will turn me into a newt."

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Turn39

"Who goes there?"

"Ah, relax Fred, it's me."

"Sorry, this blasted fog makes me nervous. Can't see a thing."

"I know, I'll be damn glad when the morning watch comes on."

"I'll be doubly glad. This is my last night on freeze-your-nose-off duty. Wait, what was that?"

"What?"

"Ah, nothing. I just thought I saw a shadow move."

"Heh. Good old Fred, getting jumpy from watching shadows. Hey, that's funny, 'watching shadows', cause we're at the Shadow Watch and we're the night watch, and night is like shadow. Funny, eh? Fred? Where did you go? Fred! Quit fooling around you idiot, it's..."

Glitch

Foen

The undead are worst during the day. During the night they are shadows, nightmares, things that go bump; during the day they are all too real -- translucent abominations flickering under the sun and blighting green grass with their otherworldly tread.

And so we snuck through the Bright Woods in the Shadow Watch at night. Brother Guide protested a little, but he's been relying on our protection for this past year as we preached and fought in the empty shadow lands, and he's learned to respect the opinions of druids (reformed branch, of course-- Brother Guide is a loyal member of the Church). We helped him past the tangle of thorns and thickets that makes this wood an impenetrable barrier to living foes, and he handily dispatched the few sentry shades and spirits we came across.

We came to the edge of the woods across from the southern bridge into the Shadow Watch. All seemed quiet, but we were not deceived. The bridge was held inside by the Archbishop of Marignon himself, but not even he could safely overcome the hordes of undead that lurked on this side of the bridge. Every building in the druid encampment where I had spent years training waited to boil over with foul spawn at the first sight of a living being. But not even undead eyes can see a druidic woodsman under the trees.

I took up my bow to give the signal, and paused. A shuffling creature had emerged from one of the houses and in the moonlight I saw the ruined half-face of Ashaltar, the druid priest who had been instructing me in the priesthood long ago, before death had crept into the woods, before we had allied with the inquisition as the only force strong enough to save our woods from blight, before the inquisition had barred women druids from the priesthood. This was Ashaltar, dear friend, now an abomination, spreading disease with each step. My bow twanged as I sent an arrow speeding to send his soul to rest. I cannot miss, but the creature is no longer troubled by a piece of wood through its heart.

The buildings boil over with stark black and ghostly white shapes, and the silence is broken:

"Legionnaires, on the left!"

"Get back into the woods, stay our of the reach of the zombies!"

"Oh LORD, in the name of St. Lynad we beseech your aid in the hour of our death!"

Arrows fly around me, but pass uselessly through the dead things which are closing fast. If Marignon doesn't see the trouble we're in... but he does. With a loud clap the arrow in my bow glows with a holy fire and now as the shafts take flight and strike into the mass of spirits, the foulness melts and disappears.

It is not enough. We can't fire fast enough to catch all of them and they swarm, relentlessly from every side. A soulless reach me, and my bow drops as I grab my dagger, slicing its putrid wrist, then its elbow, then shoulder. Bizarrely I think of butchering a fresh deer under dappled leaf-light in the summer...

The blast wave knocks me down before I see or hear it. Then my hair is on fire and my cloak. A figure, Marignon, stands on the bridge, wreathed in flame. Another flare lights the night, and this one thuds into a nearby building, which erupts like a hornet's nest as ghosts and shades boil out and melt back into hell.

"Foen!"

Relieved that my hearing still works, I turn to see where Guide points. It is Ash... no, the abomination, almost upon me. My bow lies on the ground, and I manage to get a flaming arrow into the thing's eye socket before it can touch me with its deadly diseased finger.

"Sleep, friend," I whisper, as my dead mentor burns to death standing upright.

The battle for the Shadow Watch has just begun.

Marignon moves and speaks quickly for so fast a man, "Father Muzel and Spire hold the northern bridge, but cannot get out. Meanwhile, Shenlar, captain of the Tower Guard, holds out against all odds among he buildings near where the waters of the River Hvarl flow under the Shrine of St. Torgin and, sanctified, forms the moat of the Shadow Watch. We must relieve him. Guide, you have the lance?"

"Yes my lord," and that bastard pulls out a herald lance from somewhere in his dark cloak. That might have come in handy any number of times during our long months in the Shadow Lands.

"Let's move then," says Marignon.

We set out, leaving the wounded to guard the southern bridge, and march north over fallow fields with no sight of life. To the west, the sky lights up with fire, and shouts ring out. The undead must be attacking the north gate. We double our pace.

There is no cover, but the undead are too intent on their task (building a bridge over the sacred creek out of dead townsfolk) to notice us. The Archbishop mutters and our arrows flame again. The dead can't help but notice this. Even an indirect hit on one of the corporeal buggers knocks it into the sacred water where it dissolves like a bad dream. But most of them aren't corporeal, and our quivers are nearly empty before the last spectral legionnaire fades in holy fire, his horrible grin fading, as his ghostly limbs suddenly find themselves unable to support his nothing-shield of fear, or wield his invisible sword of hate.

Guide walks unconcerned into the water I had just seen melt bone. Holding aloft the herald lance, he runs into the burnt-out ruins on the other side. We watch for a moment, then hear mighty cries. Over and over the night opens up and sunlight pours down, setting fires among the undead on the other side.

But Marignon's face shows no joy, only deep weariness. "Hopevoid is over there," he says. "I can hear his death cackle."

"Who is that?" I ask.

"One of the most powerful of the old Spectators of Ermor, brought back to serve death. He's cunning. Perhaps Spire and the guard can drive him back, but he'll have a plan. Is there any other way across the river?"

"There's a place where it's possible to ford the Hvarl just by that bend to the east," I say. "But, from the north? Don't we hold Wacce?"

"Not anymore. A large undead force has been ravaging T'ien Ch'i's south-lands and took Wacce last month. That's where Hopevoid's reserves will be."

We ran east until we found the ford. Peering out over the swiftly moving water, my eyes were just able to discern movement on the other bank.

"There, my lord."

"Well spotted, Foen," said the archbishop. "When this is over, I'll appoint you as chief priestess over the druids here are the Watch -- scriptures against women priests be damned. I'm afraid the former chief priest, Ash-something, didn't survive the first days of the siege."

I don't know what to say, so I pull an arrow from my quiver. "More fire?"

"Alas, I am too tired for that spell again. Let's sneak across and engage them on the far side."

I would protest, but he's the head of the Church. And his plan would have been a good one if he hadn't slipped off the narrow shallow path and made a huge splash. Skeletons jumped into the water from the far bank, and the rest of the night is some nightmare combination of mud wrestling with walking bones and exchanging arrows with the treacherous crossbow on the far side who must have made some sort of pact with the undead for their service. Have they never heard of the Fall of Ermor? Surely, not even St. Reggie, who watches over mercenaries, will be able to save their mortal souls.

At last, bloodied, out of arrows, and with many of our companions floating dead in the river, we gain the far bank. The human leader of the crossbows, Qos Qon, still barely lives, an arrow through each shoulder pinning him to a tree. Marignon quickly says the man's last rite and then sets the tree on fire, burning away the man's sin.

Dawn is breaking now, and with my eagle eyes I can see the dark shape that is Hopevoid in the midst of a throng of undead marching hard for the main bridge across the Hvarl. But clear trumpets ring out, and the Tower Guard is marching forth to meet them in perfect step. A herald lance, no two, are held aloft, and the head strides an unarmed, barefoot man in the black robes a a high inquisitor. The undead will be crushed between our two forces. Marignon lets fly with a fireball, and I think, as the sun rises behind us, I can see a glimmer of hope in the spectator's hollow eyes -- he is about to be freed from long, silent slavery.

Esclave

I placed the purple crystal in the kindling and turned to the stack of parchment one last time. St. Wordscigam's Compendium is a useful reference for creating magick items, but its instructions for the most powerful ones are often frustratingly obtuse. It had taken me the better part of three months and several re-buildings of the lab to decipher the ingredients and procedure for the communion matrix. I had remembered to expose this batch of crushed feldspar to moonlight, right? Ah well. I pulled out my huge pitted lead shield and crouched behind it. Then, with a flick of my wrist, set the kindling ablaze.

I winced, but no explosion shattered the early morning quiet... yet anyway, the fire was supposed to burn until the crystal changed color, and I planned to stay here behind my shield for the whole time. I heard the door creak open.

"Escalve, are you there?" said Wic.

"Wic, get out, quickly -- the fire!" I shouted.

"Oh yes?" Wic sounded mildly interested. He crossed over to the flame and peered down at the crystal. "Is this a slave matrix?"

"No, it's a crystal matrix. You know, for the leader of the communion," I said, still from my safe hiding place.

"Hmmm... aren't those the ones with a propensity to shatter during production?"

"Yes. Yes they are!" I sighed. One day, Wic's blatant disregard for his own safety would get a good number of people killed.

"Well, looks like it worked this time, it's changed color -- though how you expected to see that from all the way over there I'm sure I don't know. C'mon, put your things away and come with me. Ratty wants to have a meeting."

We walked through the chill spring air around the wall of Fort Doom to the central keep. Stormclouds hung off the Mountains of Madness and wreathed Aftial's shrine in an eerie light. When we reached Muszinger's office we saw that Polgrave was already there. He looked extremely ill. Always pale, his skin was now translucent, and he had lost much of his hair.

"Brothers, be seated," and we took our place at the table. Spread out upon it was a large version of the map I had just completed, showing the extent of the kingdom and the threats we faced on all sides.

"My... research assistants at the... Shadow Watch... report that Marignon... crushed the undead army... and marches on... Ermor now," said Polgrave, pausing for a breath after every few words.

"They ignored the truce of Carrofactum all along the western front. The Archbishop of Marignon lacks all respect for tradition," said Muszinger. "But I am most concerned about what happens if Ermor falls. There is a vast store of evil and evil things there. Our erstwhile brothers could easily be corrupted."

"Might Aftial be corrupted?" asked Wic, innocently.

"No," said Muszinger, "but she is delayed in the east on important other affairs anyway."

I laughed, and every eye turned to me. "Aftial remains far from the fight because the evil of the Shadow Lands make her weak. Once the force of death is reduced she'll be there to take possession of the soulgate in person."

"How do you know this, Esclave?" said Muszinger.

"I read. I pay attention. Since her return, Aftial has focused on Ermor with a single-minded zeal. She wants control of Ermor, it's the only thing of value in the Shadow Lands, everything else is waste. Besides, it's prophesied."

"Really? I thought there were no prophecies concerning her," said Wic.

"None about Aftial, but Aftiel..."

"We've heard this heresy before, Esclave," said Muszinger.

"But you do not listen! You're a fool, Father," I said, angry now. "Aftial is the doom of Marignon, and she has abandoned you in favor of more malleable fools."

"I could have your head, you little..."

"Do you know what I found in my travels? The grave of a woman named Ghost, she whom Aftial had sworn to protect. Her body was desecrated by foul death magicks and her soul surely rots in hell." It had felt good to get that out, but Muszinger would surely kill me now.

Muszinger rose, but Wic did too, and reached out a hand, palm up. "Friends, friends," he said, "we must stick together of we'll all be destroyed."

"Wic... is right," managed Polgrave.

I drew an uneasy breath as the fire in Muszinger's eyes faded. Wic turned over his out-stretched finger, tracing a near little circle around the north end of the Black Gorge.

"I've heard bad things about this place, Imictan. Massive armies of undead under Vanheim's control, and Vethru himself, who I now believe to be undead also. We should attack this place and cleanse it."

"But we are beset on all sides by foes," said Muszinger. "If I had three armies I'd send one against those egg-sucking snakes, and another against Man. St. Onbec reports from the fall of Pythium that Man used a swarm of undead to murder the angel Martu, whom God had sent to protect the secrets contained therein. Yes, I'd send my third army against those tricky Vans, but surely they pose the least threat?"

"Yes... which is why... it makes sense," said Polgrave.

"A famous T'ien Ch'i philosopher once said, 'Pit your strength against your enemy's weakness,'" I said.

"We are hardly prepared to fight Man or C'tis just yet," said Wic, "and we must keep Sir Gawain and his knights busy or they'll start pillaging again."

"Very well, since you are all in agreement... I must stay here to preach and pray. Wic, you're in charge of the attack, and take Esclave out of my sight with you."

But I am not going to fight the Vans. Last night I had a dream. I saw my love, Aftial, as she had appeared to me in the library: soft, and surrounded by light. My breath caught as I gazed into her eyes, and I heard her voice in my head.

"Esclave, why do you say such awful things about me?"

"Because they are true," I replied.

"My love, I have only your best interests at heart."

"I cannot believe that. You crave only power. Now begone from my dreams, you are not welcome here."

"Very well," she replied and her visage changed from young woman to otherworldly thing with two great wings and a bright flaming sword. "If you will no love me, you will fear me; you will still be my slave!"

From behind her robes, she brought forth a young boy, and held him by his had, as he gazed blissfully up at her.

"My son!" I cried.

"Yes. Flesh of your flesh," and so saying she grabbed his hand and pulled forth his little finger. The boy cried as the rough treatment, and his eyes went wide with fear, but no sound escaped his lips. "I hold you life in my hands," she said, "and you will learn the price of disobedience." She swung her sword across her body, and, laughing, sliced off the boy's finger.

I awoke in the darkness, clutching my bloody, mangled hand, with that horrible angelic laughter still ringing in my ears. And so I go north, alone. I cannot risk further harm to the child, I must save him. But I cannot fight angels... not yet.

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Turn42

We fought nine days before the walls of Ermor, the very gate of Hell.

On the first day we laughed at the force sent to meet us -- maybe two score undead and a pack of vile mechanical killing machines -- but as that first eternal night wore on, our laughter turned to shock, and then to weary tears. The ground opened up, became a sea of dead things, the cream of Ermor before the breaking of the world, woke from dreamless slumber for this final battle against the light. For every one we slaughtered another rose from the dust, and for every one of ours who fell, a new warrior joined the foe.

On the second day we pushed hard for the gate. The Tower Guard and the Men-at-Arms, resplendent in their red be-jeweled battle shorts, formed a shield for the solemn priests and their chanted voices which rendered dust to dust once more. But the pride of Marignon faltered and failed before the mass of implacable, unbreaking death, and the guard was dragged down into the parched and frozen earth by a thousand unseen hands.

On the third day I saw my brother druids run out of arrows, and they who I had fought beside for years in the Shadowlands were cut off from where I stood with the priests. I watched them draw knives uselessly over living bone until their blades were dull and their arms were tired and their will faltered and they were trampled to death.

On the fourth day I saw the sun set on Marignon, as the priests grew tired and hoarse and their chanting grew weak. The relentless wall of death advanced. I saw my own untimely end in every lifeless socket. I saw the ruin of Marignon, naught but ancient monuments under a twilight sky.

But on the fifth day I saw Orion and his eternal knights blaze back and forth across the sunless plain. They fought on and on in grim silence, ranging ever upon the field -- a thin line of flame between the darkness and the light.

On the sixth day I saw one of these immortal warriors fall, smashed down by a dozen rusty blades. But his brothers swept in, blowing aside the clouds of death, and Orion came forth. He lay his hands upon the dying man and whispered his release. Then they were gone, swept back into the chaos and the dust and darkness, their fallen comrade sleeping peacefully upon the earth with a smile on his lip.

On the seventh day the Archbishop of Marignon summoned forth two creatures of pure fire to fight alongside the knights. Their flickering warmth brought joy back to our hearts and we cheered ourselves hoarse as bone and shadow melted before them.

On the eighth day I saw the eternal knights finally reach the walls of Ermor and scatter the dark lords there like so much chaff. Brother Henry was there as the knights closed, and he snatched up a sword from the claw of a fading spectator. But the hilt froze his hands and burnt them black. He fell to the ground still clutching the sword, his face in a hideous grimace. We could not pull the damned thing free, for none could bear the pain of its unholy touch.

On the ninth day Aftial descended from heaven. The field was still as she flew out of the clouds, and on the ground beneath came a new army from the East. Ermor issued forth more dark and terrible servants than any we had yet faced, but the flaming sword of Aftial met them in the air and cast them down. From above the confines of the world her voice -- a trumpet -- shook us to our knees: "Oh death, were is your victory! Men of Marignon, this is the cleansing of Ermor as was foretold. A new dominion is arisen and the shadow fades!" In a swirl of blinding light she swept down and towered over the Archbishop of Marignon.

"Atticus, prophet of dread, is vanquished. I slew it with my own hand, and you have scattered the legions of death. Now there is only one dark stone left to overturn. We must march into the heart of shadow and face Ami, She Who Loves not the Light. Then, when her twisted body is consumed with holy fire, we will march upon the Soulgate, unnatural passage to the world beyond!"

She paused for a thunderous roar of approval, but there was no sound upon the earth. Her eyes flickered over the mob of pale, wounded priests, all that remained of Marignon's grand army.

"Marignon, reform the ranks."

"Most high Aftial, I..." he collapsed. Nine days on his feet had been too much. "We need time to regroup before we try that gate." His eyes gazed into that dark maw and the gate built of skulls. On the other side huge shadows and terrible forms moved and mad mutterings and whispers echoed.

The angel's face twisted with fury. "Coward! I would give you victory over your fathers' thousand-year foe and glory unending!" With deft strikes of her sword she disrobed Marignon and plucked his magic armor free. Then she reached forth her hand and the body of Brother Henry flew to her. She lopped off both his hands and grabbed the Wraith sword as it fell. Now, with a fell blade in each hand, she shimmered against the sky-- darkness and light and no color anywhere. She stalked off into the gate of Hell, flinging the guard there aside with great sweeps of her swords. On and on we watched her wade into the night, a bright and abiding flame in the shadow.

Marignon, from his fetal position on the ground, spoke up, "We must go after her, she must... have aid... have someone... there is so much evil there..." He looked around at the assembled fathers of the church and each avoided his gaze and looked instead the the door to death.

"Father Muzel, will you go?"

"No, my lord."

"Lord Spire, will you go?"

"No, my lord."

"Monsigneur Buternot, will you go?"

"No my lord."

"Brother Estorgan, Brother Gebuin, Msgr. Sarr, Msgr. Virtil, Captain Shenlar, Brother Theag?"

Each shook his head in turn no.

Marignon turned his weary eyes to meet mine, and I saw that the head of the church himself, though the world hung in the balance, would not go.

My voice caught in my throat.

"What, Foen?"

"I will go."

I took only my bow and nine favorite arrows. I passed unchallenged through the gate of skulls and followed her footprints into the gloom. They glowed on the bone dust and the horns and tentacles and clawed wings all around recoiled from the brightness of Heaven's glory.

As I walked that path, falling headlong into nothingness, I saw the faces of my mother and my father beckoning me to join them. I felt the hounds of death grabbing me and as I lay, unable to die, I felt them gnawing at my eyes and chewing on my intestines. I heard the cries of a the damned wailing, wailing, always wailing... I hurried on into the night, a glimpse of flame ahead my only hope.

I came at last to a great bridge over a bottomless chasm, but the bridge vanished into space at the far end. Or, rather, into a hole in the air so black I had to shield my eyes. Aftial strode out onto the bridge, light in one hand and darkness in the other, and before her stood a giant black skull with blood dripping from its empty eye sockets: Ami, the Personification of Death.

The skull spoke, "You are too early. God has appointed the time for this fight, and it is not now. Depart, you have no power here. Go back to the living lands, and return in six months, at the end of the world."

But Aftial laughed with the twinkling of bells, and flowers sprang up at her feet, "I am not here to do God's bidding. I am not bound by the old fool's party tricks," and so saying she put forth her light and the shadow of the skull boiled away, leaving a giant angel of light who carried a sickle of flame: Ami, the Harvester.

The Harvester spoke, "Your doom is nigh. Behold, I am the angel of death. I, too, am a servant of the most high, for what is life without death? Light and dark are two sides of the same coin, allies even. And so, even I, I am holy, and your sacred fire cannot touch me."

Aftial swung her flaming sword, and as it clashed with the sickle it went out, falling down into the bottomless chasm beneath. But with her left hand she swung the Wraith Sword, and it melted through the great sickle and into the arm of the Harvester, who roared in annoyance and vanished, replaced by a dark, beautiful lady with pitch black silk robes and no weapon: Ami, She Who Loves not the Light.

"You have fallen far from the LORD, but you still cannot see. You cannot kill death. I am immortal. I was there at the beginning of time, and my ending is the end of all things. You cannot injure me."

Suddenly I saw Aftial sitting on the gates of Heaven, with storm clouds her garb and the world her crown, and I cried out in a loud voice, "I am yours Aftial! I worship thee!"

From the empty chasm under the bridge I heard the same cry, "I am yours Aftial! I worship thee!" and up floated great monsters the size of mountains, a thousand thousand eyes and claws in a shifting mass, and they turned to face the angel and bowed down, repeating their cry.

Aftial turned to Ami. "Here, where I am worshiped, I shall be God, and death shall die." Shadow plunged into shadow and darkness swirled over the bridge. When it cleared, only one paragon stood facing the void, but the voice of Ami floated over the world.

"Poor fool. For so it is written that by killing me your body and soul now hold the gate open, and you cannot close it."

Then she was gone, no more than a whisper of dream on a bright sunny morn. But Aftial, with a smile on her lip muttered, half to herself, "Why does everyone assume I want to close the Soul-gate?" She turned to the void creatures and I, and perhaps the whole world, for her voice echoed from every dell and hill in the kingdom, "Behold, I am become Afti-el, the shining one, and I shall make all things new."

And from every dark place in the unholy sepulcher, and from my mouth too came the cry in response.

"Afti-el, Afti-el Labach'shanic eloi Afti-el, Afti-el Labach'shanic tani"

Then the floodgates of night collapses, and I was plunged into darkness.

Muszinger

999 A.P.P.M. Father Muszinger,

By now you have surely heard that Afti-el has destroyed the armies of death and Ami herself. Sadly, in the battle, The Archbishops of Marignon and Spire proved unable to carry out their duties satisfactorily. Because of this, on Afti-el's orders, I hereby relinquish control of the Inquisition back to you.

Afti-el further orders you to seal the border against the creeping heresy of C'tis and Man and prepare plans for Case Chartreuse, the invasion of the lizard kingdom. Case Chartreuse will be a difficult war. We share borders with the lizards on both the north and the south, and ever since the Treaty of Lapintha we have had peaceful and undefended borders. Afti-el will lead here in the north, and you are responsible for the south. Attempt to keep Man out of the fray as long as possible (word that they will be embroiled in conflict with Pangaea is welcome). We have only six short months to bring the word of Afti-el to as many as we can, by fire and faith and sword!

Her servant, the Archbishop of Avoca

Father Muszinger,

Imictan has fallen, and we will soon be through the walls of the fort at Iron Range. The Vans have learned our trick of using fires from the sky, and have also shot assassin's arrows at us, but so far our losses from such things have been minimal. Still, the situation is not abundantly pleasant. I trust we are done with this war once the fort here falls?

The Archbishop of Wic

Muszigner sat back to gather his thoughts. Both letters were good news on the face of it, but with worrisome undertones. He wished now that he had not insulted Esclave at their last meeting. The boy would no longer answer his letters, but it looked as if he may have been right about Aftial's true name. What was in those prophecies about Afti-el that he had uncovered?

And Wic... a single arrow from the sky could rob Muszinger of his most valuable advisor and warrior, just when he would be needed most against the lizards. Iron Range would be a valuable outpost for fighting them, no doubt, but is it worth the risk? More worrisome, the rumors about young virgins disappearing in the Forest of Wic grew louder every week. But Muszinger could hardly accuse Wic of having a hand in this via letter.

Muszinger read both missives again, and then descended the stairs of the church to the lowest office in the old broken tower where Polgrave had secluded himself. The man was clearly unwell, but it wasn't at all clear what the matter was. Muszinger knocked on the door. Hearing no answer (and being the head of the Inquisition) he entered. Polgrave lay naked upon the table surrounded by well-burnt down candles. On his chest pulsed the ugly purple lines... a five-sided star inside a circle.

"What have you done!"

Polgrave woke with a start, and for a moment, his eyes were nothing more than the whites as the looked at Muszinger, and his tongue seemed forked. Then he was human again, and groveling on the cold stone floor. "Forgive me, forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I have... I am dying, Father."

"The righteous need not fear death old friend. But what have you done?"

"I... I feel death inside me. It is gnawing away at me, taking everything, everything. I thought, I thought, I found this spell in one of these old lizard books."

Muszinger crossed swiftly to the open book. The text was all in lizard-scrawl, but the title of the spell was translated by a shaky hand, Twiceborn. "What does this do?"

"I don't know. I just... I was so close to death. I thought I should try it, it sounded promising. Father, I know it was wrong, I am sorry, forgive me." He clawed at the purple marks, but it soon became clear they were not on his skin, but inside it.

"Polgrave, the LORD forgives all those who come to him. You have used forbidden death magic only out of fear, and not out of a craving for power. Your soul may still be saved, but you must dress now and follow me to church where we shall pray to Aftial... Afti-el for your life."

Muszinger left the room, and though one of Polgrave's eyes still trembled in fear, a cunning smile stole over the other one, and a smile tugged on one side of the frail man's face.

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Turn45

Esclave

There can no longer be any doubt, except among blind fools such as Muszinger, that Aftial (Afti-el as she now styles herself) has fallen from God. Whether she entered this world pure and was corrupted by the evil herein, or whether she came here well-meaning to bring ruin and death to it, the end result is the same. My love, the bright lady of the morning, is now the dark ruler of a darkening land, swiftly ushering in twilight with her blood-stained hand. She appears now more brilliant and white than ever before, but her crown is a pile of skulls and she shimmers in daylight as one of the damned.

And what or our son? No-one can tell me where the child is held, and so I remain here, surrounded by my useless books and meaningless trinkets. I watch, while outside my window storm clouds gather on the Mountains of Madness. I sit, while the world rushes to its awful close.

Gawain

At night, the fortress at Iron Range seemed to cling to the sheer cliffs that hung above the Black Gorge. Small dark forms circled around a lonely light in the highest tower, the only sign there might be life. Around him, Gawain's men chattered and shivered in the cold air, but Gawain was warm.

"All right, listen up knights. We've been waiting for Wic and his part of the army for five..."

"Three, sir."

"Three days, and we will wait no longer. There's no reason to think Vanheim left anything other than a token defense here. The harbor is deserted. No doubt all those who could have slipped away over the waves, leaving on the weak and lame to fight the legendary knights of Marignon!"

His men gave a half-hearted cheer. It had been a long time since they had enjoyed a real fight. Too much patrolling wasn't good for knights.

They swept down the mountain at full gallop, glittering in the moonlight -- over the high narrow drawbridge, then into the deserted cobblestone streets of the fort. There was no sign of life except for the occasional bat. Gawain and his men dismounted and searched on foot. Indeed, everything was gone, even the laboratory had been burnt down. A faint smell of smoke from somewhere... Gawain followed his nose to the sea-ward courtyard, where a solitary red-robed figure stood staring out across the gorge to the twinkling lights of Vanheim beyond.

"Turn and fight like a man, dog!"

And the man turned, and as he did, Gawain's eyes snapped shut from the blinding light, and then he was engulfed in flames, but unburnt. When he could see again, he stared down at the charred Van on the ground just behind him. When he could hear again, he found that the red-robed man was laughing at him, and sipping calmly from a flask.

"Blood-sucker," Gawain murmured.

"Mmmm," said Wic, "Do you want some? Marvelously good for the stamina. Why, if you were in the habit of drinking blood you might have gotten here in time to have some fun with old Neinos there." He gestured to the still-smoking corpse.

Gawain caught the tossed flask, and a few red drops of liquid spilled out onto his freshly shined armor. He threw the container to the ground.

"Monster! Heretic!"

"Oh relax, it's just tomato juice. Now listen, have you sent Brother Gebuin to the Vans to make peace now that we've secured this place?"

"To the Vans? No, you told me to send him with peace messages to the crawling heretics."

"Yes, the... oh..."

"I sent him to the lizards."

For a moment, wrath clouded Wic's face, then it passed.

"My mistake, there are too many heretics. Ah well, the egg-suckers will be confused. Anyway, put this place in order, leave a guard and ride east as soon as you can. More wars, more glory await."

"My knights will o'ertake you in a week."

"Ah, but you forget your legends, Gawain." Wic jumped up onto the low wall, "Vampires can fly." Then he was gone.

Gawain ran to the edge and watched the dark spot falling, falling to the depths bellow. At the last minute Wic's cloak billowed and spread and he soared out over the water and away into the night.

Muszinger

Muszinger paused before the door to the room to compose himself. At least this would be easier than fighting the demon inside Polgrave had been. That force of darkness had withstood all manner of torture and prayer, finally quieting only in the face of Afti-el's power.

The door creaked open, and Muszinger passed into the pitch-black room, and stood a distance from the presence he felt in the other corner.

"God be with you."

"Bah."

"Am I wasting my time here again today?"

"No, I have news."

A long silence, broken at last by Muszinger, "And what, pray, is that news."

"They conspire against you. A house divided must fall."

"Marignon has never been stronger. We rule half the known world."

"And yet you do not see the plots."

Muszinger smiled in the dark. "I am head of the inquisition. I see plots within plots. This morning I tortured a druid to death trying to make him admit that he was in league with Pangaea to overthrow the Church. Which plots do you speak of?"

"The members of AYE, former allies."

"They plan to destroy us?"

"Aye."

Muszinger laughed out loud. "The fools have waited too longer. The LORD's servant grows more powerful as we near, so quickly, the end of all things. What have we to fear from mortal foes in these few short months before the LORD's return? Even if our surprise invasion were to falter..." he suddenly grew quiet.

"It will falter. The air will rise up against you."

Muszinger sighed. It was always like this; more riddles than answers. Alone, hours later, he tried to piece together what he knew about the conspiracy against him and his enemies' attack plans. Then he took out the attack plan he had produced for the lizard wars, Case Chartreuse. From another drawer he drew out Case Emerald, the attack on Man. With a small sigh, he drew more scrolls towards him and wrote names at the top: Case Maroon, Case Blue, Case Orchid (remembering the shifty look in the druid's eye that morning, he added a small scroll for Case Lime). Enemies everywhere... were there even enough armies in Marignon to actually attack everyone. Only the thought of Afti-el and her heavenly protection sustained his hand through the night, and only the sure knowledge that his heavy burdens would be eternally rewarded in just a few months enabled him to find sleep in the morning.

Foen

Shortly after the fall of Ermor a lizard passed by. He was blind and ancient, no doubt lost in the land of eternal night. He carried, he claimed, a suit of dragon chain-mail made entirely from scales shed by the dread dragon Cole. Afti-el heard this and came down from the citadel, killed the lizard, and donned the armor, which shone a brilliant red over her blinding glory.

The Archbishop of Marignon never recovered from his cowardice at the gate. Afti-el thrust upon his head a crown of black laurels found in the crypts, and then chained him upon the bridge before the soul gate, and commanded him to bring forth an army to spare his life. Twisting, crying, Marignon brought forth five great lions of shadow and flame. They burnt his body as they passed, and the form still hangs there limp and smoldering, but none will dare that place to find if he yet lives.

As for myself, I have wandered in dreams along forest paths lit by the last rays of the setting sun. I do not know what I seek, but my heart is ashen and my mouth is dust when I think of Afti-el. I know I shall never escape this prison, never walk softly beneath lilting leaves again. I seek, perhaps, some power of life, some force of nature to counter all this endless death. I have not found it yet, but ever I search. The seasons change around me. The leaves of this world color and fall. Winter comes soon.

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Turn48

Muszinger

Muszinger climbed the stair.

At the top, the pulpit where he would give his Carrofactum homily. In his pouch, a sealed letter from Afti-el to be opened at the end of the world, about half an hour from now when the great cathedral bells tolled midnight.

Muszinger was tired as he climbed. Nine years as head of the inquisition, and four of those during this last period of upheaval, which some heretic scribes called the Ascension Wars, reflecting various fools' recent claims to Godhood. The priests of Marignon knew better. God alone conquers. These tribulations were but preparing this drab world for the LORD's triumphant return.

'God', and it was both a prayer and a sigh. The end couldn't come soon enough. Muszinger was not as sure as when he'd started. Not as sure about the righteousness of the inquisition. He had tortured to death his last child only hours before, and good riddance to be done with that messy business. Tired, so tired.

Muszinger reached the pulpit and gazed out into the cavernous cathedral, filled with the Southern Army-- 'My army', thought Muszinger, 'My support through the Archbishop Marignon's grab for power'. They were all in battle garb of course, the knights' golden armor particularly stunning. The candles reflected off every metal weapon and bathed in every red-orange uniform. It looked like the sun itself was squeezed into the stone walls.

Muszinger began to speak.

He told the faithful the oldest story, the only story. Of a creator whose creation went awry, and of a God who came down to fix it. Then it was time for the traditional Carrofactum reading. 'How many times,' he asked himself, 'have you read or heard this passage?'

In the soft light he looked at the beautiful ornaments on the huge leather tome. His fingers turned easily to the passage...

"But the LORD did not leave us alone, nor did He foresake His people. For even as He ascended into the clouds He spoke one final time unto mortal ears and his command was seared upon their hearts and written on their minds: 'Keep though, the month of my coming sacred, and when you have remembered me two thousand times, there suddenly I shall be among you again.' "

And now Muszinger was reciting completely by heart:

I am the Alpha, the Iota, the Omega

I am the deathless roar of the pounding surf...

I am the still, small voice in the wilderness...

I am every new born infant's cry-- every last death rattle.

I am the Alone. One before numbers had meaning...

I am the indwelling soul of everyone...

I am beyond the other side of everything.

I am Faithful, and Pure and Holy.

Muszinger's voice trembled in awe as he finished the chant. Did he hear another voice taking us his words? Was that God, here now in the room, speaking alongside him? Muszinger's hand seemed to be glowing and slightly translucent, and it shook slightly as he closed the great book one last time.

"Tonight, we celebrate Carrofactum as we have celebrated it for two thousand years since the LORD's coming. Tonight the length of the world is measured in minutes and we shall all be lifted up, far beyond the sky. In the the twinkling of an eye we shall all be brought home, and the LORD will walk among us again, and wipe away every tear from our eye."

Muszinger paused. He felt some great magic rushing through the room. For a moment he thought... but, no... it was too soon. And Muszinger remembered that in the depths of the old broken tower Polgrave was struggling to bring a great magical being into the world: Catharsis, the spirit of cleansing fire. Afti-el had approved the project, but Muszinger was not easy. What need was there to bring some great warrior spirit into a world so much on the brink?

Turning back to the crowd, Muszinger spoke of the dead, the martyrs and saints who had sustained the Church through all the long dark years.

"Soon, very soon, we shall be reunited with them. What will that be like? To sit at the LORD's table with the greatest heroes of a forgotten age?"

A bell tolled

Suddenly it was all too much. This was it, the end.

A bell tolled.

Muszinger ripped open the letter in his pouch. What instructions did the LORD's right-hand servant have for him? Confused, Muszinger saw they were the attack plans he had laid out for fighting Marignon's enemies.

A bell tolled.

But, by the grace of God, an uneasy truce had been maintained for the last final months of the world, so... so...

A bell tolled.

Here was a note from Afti-el. But his hands were trembling too hard.

A bell tolled.

'You are immediately to implement the enclosed attack plans.'

A bell tolled.

That was it. That was all. No word about the end of the world. No news about the LORD's return.

A bell tolled.

The crowd was growing frantic now, hanging on each reverberation.

A bell tolled.

These were long range plans, for a war of many months at least. A hard strike against Man and C'tis, the two most dangerous. Force them to defend their turf for a few months.

A bell tolled.

And then... pull back and fight hard for every piece of land. The overwhelming numbers would force the defenders of Marignon back, and back further, scorching and burning the lands they had spent so long gaining, but always delaying the advance, protecting the great cathedral at Marignon.

A bell tolled.

It was not a plan to win. Only a plan to delay. Only a plan to hold off foes until this moment.

A bell tolled.

Maybe, it was all some mistake. But Muszinger knew that Afti-el did not make such mistakes.

A bell tolled.

Later, as he marched east, at the head of a fey army beyond hope and faith, he looked back to the broken tower and saw it shimmering in a sickly green light.

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Turn51

Gawain

"Well, this is the forest of Idun."

"Indeed, sire."

"Seems like a strong province defense."

"Indeed, sire."

"How, exactly, does one, ah... kill one of these lizard things."

"I believe skewering it with a lance is traditional."

"Very good." Gawain looked out over the cohort of knights. There would be death before this was all over. Death, and lizard blood, which stains frightfully, or so Gawain had heard.

Muszinger

Wic,

I will not be able to coordinate the war plans very well from out here in the field, and I'm afraid I don't trust Polgrave as much as I once did. Thus, you must take charge of the unfolding situation. I must confess I do not understand Afti-el, or why the LORD's return did not come as the scribes had predicted, but we must trust in Him and in Her too.

The war plans are sound. Gawain and I will seize the fort at Pythium. Try to lure Manish forces into our dominion where we can defeat them more easily. I hope we will kill some lizards here in the south, but we must be prepared to absorb great loss of territory in the north. The inquisition must be out in force to prevent the peasants from losing faith. We will hold the lizards at Marignon and Camelot. Hopefully, our attacks on Man will give Pangaea a chance to regroup and distract Man so that we will be able to turn our attention on the scaly ones and beat them back.

By Fire and Faith and the Sword,
Muszinger

Esclave

I find it hard to concentrate on my work. We hear that Man has employed large number of magical creatures in their invasion. There is a weapon, the Elf-bane, that could come in handy against these unnatural things, but ever since the Archbishop of Amiridon disappeared, I am the only one in the kingdom with the skills to forge these things for the paladins who clamor for them. And I am distracted.

All my life I knew the world was coming to an end, and suddenly it stretched out before me, all my mistake and all my fear. And just as suddenly, my source seems to restricted. Surely our enemies will pour in from every side, and we will all be killed. I have received hints that the Archbishop of Elkland is holding onto my son while Afti-el flies around killing things. But I cannot journey to Camelot. The Plains of Eternal Peril will be the primary battleground in this war.

Is it any wonder that I cannot properly sharpen a blade?

Gawain

The second before his lance hit home, Gawain saw giant feathery wings rising from the back of a huge snake. Then, with an awesome force, his lance splintered as it ground a strange undead creature with a hundred vines into dust. He was off his horse, surrounded by monsters. Lizards the size of men who walked upright, and huge 10-foot snakes who struck with blinding speed. But the solid wall of charging knights prevailed quickly, and Gawain himself escaped without a scratch. The animals were running, and Gawain let out a mighty roar, chasing after one in fancy black robes and hacking it down in a burst of cold flame.

Muszinger

My lord,

Great news from the north. Sir Balide has killed one of the "Queens" of the Air. Also, the mercenary Tempestus has seized the rich farmlands of Solian in the heart of Man. The fort at Iron Range is under siege, by the lizards, but can hold out for many months. The dragon and his armies march into the north. As planned, we put up no resistance.

Wic

Foen

Tvinto, a druid I knew back in the sunlit days, has died in the foolhardy invasion of T'ien Ch'i. They say that the heathens have great demons of fire and water and that our little band never stood a chance. Closer to home, the forces of Ulm, luckily few in number, surround the dead city on every side, but have not yet tried to put us under siege. God knows we are too weak to repel such an attempt. What few living men remain in this desolate land have long since gone mad, and the only defenders left are a few dying vine men and the strange fiery snakes which crawl out of the Archbishop Marignon's mouth.

Meanwhile, fell tidings come from the utter west. On a dark field, and surrounded by a horde of the undead at her command, Afti-el fell upon a host of heavenly angels and slaughtered them with her fell blade. The blood of these innocent creatures spilt upon the ground and cried to the heavens -- blasphemy! blasphemy!

Is there war in heaven? Has the LORD forsaken us?

Esclave

I believe Wic truly enjoys this war and being in charge of it. He seems healthier and more full by the day, and by night, a steady stream of new maidens comes to his chamber. But I suppose sexual immorality is the least or our worries now. The inquisition patrols everywhere, and saying a word against the war is punishable by a swift death.

Polgrave has fallen utterly. The broken tower to the south glows with evil death magic, and Wic says that Polgrave, who tried to learn too much of the dark side, now summons foul creatures from the crypt. If the propagandists from Man are to be believed, a Wraith Lord, most feared of all undead warriors, lurks the plains just north of here, preying on invaders and townsfolk alike. Wic has informed Muszinger, and I can only hope he will leave the foolish siege of Pythium to return here and root out this infection. Muszinger is a fool, but just because he refuses to see the evil in Afti-el, I cannot believe he will refuse to see the devastating change in his old friend.

Muszinger

Wic,

I was pleased to have your letter. I am sorry your home in Wic Forest was burnt down. I approve your plan to reclaim it, but do be careful. The enemy may be reading this communication, so I shall say no more.

The news from Umidor is excellent. Two more battles won by Sir Balide and the trolls! We'll build a wall out of the heathens' dead bodies. Also, I want the friar who single-handedly turned back that pack of wolves made a saint. Philippe, I believe you said his name was. See to it.

What news from Polgrave? I trust he still holds the tower and temple in good faith?

Ah, I sense our enemies' alliance may be cracking. No attack from Vanheim yet, and surely Man will grow swiftly tired of taking the brunt of the casualties while Lizard armies make unopposed gains. Let's see how they react to our next move...

By Fire and Faith and the Sword,
Muszinger

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Turn54

Muszinger

Muszinger recalled a hymn from his childhood. He was sitting on a hard wood bench between his parents. Up front, a man convicted of heresy flogged himself in a wild frenzy of remorse. The choir, high in the lofty recesses of the cathedral lifted up a slow, lonesome song:

The words echoed in him as marched the ornate halls of the palace of Pythium, always just on the edge of real hearing and imagination -- angels' music.

There had been angels defending the gates and towers of Pythium. Hosts of beauty which made the heart ache to look at them and flaming swords to cleanse the wickedness from the hearts of men. Gawain and his knights had tossed them aside like chaff in their charge, and then hunted them down on horseback, hacking their bodies to bloody chunks, which they burnt, dancing around the pyre. Then they sacked the rest of the city, burning and looting.

But now the palace was quiet. Little streams of water murmered in the stillness. Muszinger came to the foot of a spiral staircase. How long before, it could not have been more than six months, had he climbed that other tower in the cathedral at Saran Forest? How many nights ago had he read those orders which had started all this madness, which had plunged the world into bloody war?

Muszinger reached the top of the tallest tower in Pythium, and gazed back toward the broken tower of Saran, and beyond that to the Mountains of Madness and Fort Doom. These few leagues where he had been trapped for years now-- fighting, always fighting. The broken tower still shone a sickly green, and the stories of the evil king of death, Antrax, unleashed upon a hapless world by Polgrave, had reached the ear of every soldier. Polgrave! Dear friend, lost to the light... and now death stalked the lands north and west of them, cutting of any hope of reuniting with loyal forces. Death rode at the head of a wave of nightmares: every heretic burnt by the inquisition, that was the rumor, each bent on seeking revenge upon the living, be they warriors of Man or Marignon.

Muszinger watched the stars. Why had the LORD forsaken Marignon, and which in his time? For now, the borders still held, in one bloody battle after another, but they could not last. Avoca had been struck down by heavenly fire in his office in the capitol as he sat praying for angelic aid. Spire was even now stuck desperately alone in a flood of Ulmish and Van armies. The Archbishop of Marignon, if the reports are true, has been driven mad by the evils of Ermor. No, Marignon would fall. The mighty kingdom which had grown so great in the last years would wither utterly to a flickering ember.

But the greatest threat never came from without, but from within, from the rotten heart of man. Polgrave, utterly mad, and doomed, and fallen into blackness. Dear friend, now a pawn of death, and controlled by the black ichor infecting his veins. And according to Esclave, Wic was performing human sacrifices, and promulgating some now gospel about bringing forth the devils to hold back the flood of death which swirled around Fort Doom.

Yet the greatest darkness now in a sky of night was Afti-el. So pure when she arrived in this world, so full of heaven's light. What fell beast now stalked the weary world, trailing sickness in her wake? What twisted darkness had brought her low? How had the plans of the almighty LORD been so utterly perverted, that his greatest servant would lead to the destruction of Marignon?

Marignon would fall. But still Muszinger would ride out one last time on the LORD's crusade. He would track down and banish Antrax if he could, and if he could not... he would take his eternal reward. If those stars still held a heaven, he would see the living face of God. And death, afterall... What was it the prophet had said?

There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
Even drought bears fruit. Even death is a seed.

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Turn57

Esclave

The floodwaters of Marignon's enemies have covered the land. Now the deathless roar of their pounding surf laps at the few remaining rocks of resistance: Ermor, Fort Doom, Camelot, and Marignon herself.

Muszinger and Gawain are dead, their bodies eaten by the lizards who sacked Pythium.

The Archbishop of Elkland is dead. Madness took him, and he marched forth from Camelot against the Manish army, leading with him into death the last of the knights of the Chalice. Now the city on the hill lies empty and defenseless. If my son is there perhaps Man will spare him when they take control. Perhaps not. He is the spawn of Afti-el. Will an infant's cry be enough to save him?

Afti-el is/was dead. But Hell could not hold her and Heaven did not want her, so she has returned to slay more innocents at Marignon, and perhaps, if we're lucky, to butcher the lizard horde which tears and claws at the gates of the holy city.

Archbishop Polgrave is... undead? We heard he was killed when the lizards overran the broken tower, but we have also heard that he is now in Marignon, aided by two mysterious acolytes who fled T'ien Ch'i's destruction of the Shadow Watch. God's holy fire continually blasts this heresy, this man who used magic to cheat death.

We will not hear further news of the war. A vast company of Man's troops surrounds us, and slowly breaks down the defenses of our mountain stronghold. There is no way that Afti-el will be vanquished and peace made in time to spare us.

Wic remains as cheerful as ever, somehow still believing that the death which comes for us all swiftly will pass over him. He thinks demons will come to our aid and hold death at bay. But we are death. Marignon is now the corruption the LORD charged us to fight. The sound of daily prayers is a death rattle. And Man, like an unstoppable force of nature, will break through and kill us all.

Foen

I can no longer see. The blackness of Ermor has finally robbed me of sight. This is what I hear:

My fellow druids have abandoned the corrupt faith of Marignon and turned to our old ways. We have brought forth great vine ogres and summoned the spirits of the old trees of Ermor. These ghosts and mindless things mix with the awful snakes still crawling out of the body of Marignon where it hangs, chained before the Soul Gate.

There is no more than a half dozen living left in the land of the dead, but that is good, for there is no food. We sustain ourselves on an endless supply of foul wine. The Ulmish army sieging us is not so lucky. With nothing to eat for miles and a great force, the mass of living men out there are slowly dying as the twin horsemen of disease and starvation hunt them day and night.

The Soul Gate laughs as these, near death, kill themselves as they tear down the gate of Ermor in order to kill the few living within.

Perhaps I am not blind. Perhaps there was just no light. Now great arcs of fire flow from the Archbishop's withered form. It is Ulm, they are in the gate. I cannot but fight, and it is a simple matter to convince them that the air they breath is poison, for it is. The mass of fire snakes boils at the entrance. A once mighty charge of sacred knights falters, breaks. Poison and flame. Ulmish infantry roast in their shells and bile pour from their mouth. Most welcome death.

Now mighty stone crushers come forth and meet our ogres at the gate. There is stalemate: rock and vegetation fight their ancient, slow battle. But Marignon, crying each time in pain -- for he longs to be cut down and killed -- summons forth unearthly flame, melting the very rock of these creature ones by one by one. The granite melts and pools.

We watch, without emotion as the Ulmish magicians and priests on the other side of the wall who had fainted in the choking dust are trampled by a few rampant ogres.

But a new Ulm army has us under siege. They will break through again, storm again. We have no more power to restore the vine men. There are no more spirits to call forth. Death comes.

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Turn60

Esclave

The Archibishop of Spire marched a thousand leagues from the dead lands East of Ermor with a few loyal priests and a pride of great lions, fighting every inch of the way against Vans, lizards, and Man. We assume he was trying to reach us, but for what purpose none can say. We watched, helpless, from our beleaguered walls, as this lion-hearted man was cut apart by Angels of Man, hours short of his year-long goal.

Yet perhaps his death was not in vain, for the leaders of Man launched their attack on our gate the next night. Perhaps they thought Spire came at the head of a grand army? They misjudged. Marignon has no armies any more. But attacking at night was folly for the army we can muster these days is a force of undead, and at night these terrors overwhelm the senses.

My dreams of late have been stalked by the King of Banefires, corruptor of the world, whose presence in the world causes us to grow old and sick and die. He appeared on the edge of shadow as Man attacked. Sickly archers came to serve his sickly crown, and their bolts shivered the flesh from the forces of Man: angel and devil, knight and wolf.

Wic stood laughing in a crowd of his young girls, bellowing with joy as he brought forth fire against the forces trying to breach the gate, standing unafraid as he shouted orders to the men of the tower guard, who somehow found courage to fight against the terrible foe and with our terrible allies.

Wic was invincible. He disappeared in a hail of arrows from the enemy longbow, but not a one touched him. A horde of imps tore through out lines, ripping body parts and leaving a trail of blood, but the boiling swarm passed around Wic like a summer's breeze.

Then he was gone. The sky opened and flames poured down, killing everyone around me. I watched for a second, untouched, as seasoned witch hunters around we burnt brightly in the night. I turned to Wic, but there was only his cloak, flaming and flailing. I think I heard his mighty laugh once more before the world exploded in flame again, killing every undead within sight. Then, all that was left were charred embers of cloth, floating up to heaven.

I guess we won somehow. We found ourselves still under siege, and Antrax still present, more blasphemous in the pale light of dawn. I looked around at the remaining witch hunters, but they all tried to avoid seeing where Antrax stood in flame. And so I said my last prayer to the God who has deserted us, and gathered the torn remnants of my cloak.

"Antrax!" I cried, "Foul corruption of fire, dark spawn of death. You cannot stay here. Vanish back into the grave."

The green flame parted and within I saw a young man with nine fingers and my eyes and Aftial's bright hair.

"What, father? Would you kill me now? Look how quickly I've grown. Look how powerful I've become. I just saved your life. Yours, and all these other pathetic fools."

I looked into the eyes of my son, but they were empty. He spoke again.

"But you can't touch me. Hurt me and you hurt yourself. It is appointed that I stay here, at the grave of Afti-el, and sap the youth of the world from its bones until everything dies."

I reached out an arm, and plunged through the sickly flame, which devoured my clothing, but not my arm. I grabbed him by the wrist. He grew into a mighty king, towering over the mountains with a crown of dark stars, but I steered his arm as easily as a child's, and brought him to the gate.

"Begone, devil. Farewell son I might have known. You may not return."

And though the fires outshone the sun and melted the gate of the fort, the thing snarled and floated down the road away from Ft. Doom. I watched my son within turn old and gray and wrinkled, and then he vanished into the waiting force of Man.

Foen

I saw, in my mind's eye, the city of Marignon fall to the lizards. I watched as mighty undead beings and warriors fell under the scaly horde. I looked, as Polgrave, now a leathery shell of his former self, returned again to the ground, this time to feed the worms forever. The last true-hearted defenders of the city fell under claw and bone. While Afti-el struggled outside on the field, the lizards reached the Cathedral of Marignon, built with the corner-stone of the old church at Ermor, before the fall. The building was torched and burnt long into the sky. The doors to the house of Just Fires were broken, and the inquisitors there all sliced apart. The dungeons were opened, and the rabble of condemned witches and heretics stood blinking in the bright blue light of the sun, and around them they watched the complete destruction of Marignon.

Still Afti-el fought outside the gate, and the bones of the skeletons melted as they closed upon her. But at last I heard heaven scream, and Afti-el was buried under a horde of the undead, and did not rise again.

And as Afti-el collapsed there came a cry from the heart of the dead city, once as mighty as vanquished Marignon. I rushed to the Soul Gate where the Archbishop of Marignon yet hung. The inky nothingness beyond the bridge was shrinking, swirling into nothingness, and I recalled the words of Ami to Afti-el: "By killing me you body and soul now hold the gate open."

I watched in disbelief as the gate shrank. Marignon let out a little sigh, and went limp. I rushed to his wasted, shrunken form, and took his head upon my lap. A dark crown lay upon his brow, and thorns twisted in and out of his skull.

"Marignon," he croaked, "How is Marignon?"

I turned my face from his and put on a brave voice, "My lord, the Pretender Afti-el is vanquished. She has left the earth for the last time."

"And the city? The cathedral?"

"They are lost."

A great shudder wracked his body, but his voice came again, stronger, "The LORD giveth and the LORD taketh away. Blessed be the name of the LORD." He looked at my skeptical face, "The LORD saw that Marignon was too corrupt, Foen. He sent us Afti-el so that our own pride would wipe us clean."

I could not help but think that an almighty God could reform the church in a less destructive fashion. The coming of Afti-el had torn the world apart and bathed it in blood. Marignon was still speaking,

"...now we can begin again. A new church, a new kingdom."

I did not share his optimism. There was nowhere in the kingdom yet where men of Marignon lived free. Everywhere they were under siege or occupation.

"Then come, my lord, we must get you away from this place. The armies of Ulm will soon break through again and kill us, but we might be able to hide somewhere in the darkest place in the old city."

"No. No. Don't you see? We are the last remnants of the old, corrupt Marignon. We, too, must vanish into the night. Can you help me to the gate?"

In the end I had to carry him, and prop him up against the gate of skulls. And there we stood, hand in hand, until the end.

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