The Slave

The sun peeked over the horizon as Ujaala and I rode from the gates of Xoc-Nehar into the wastes beyond. The qobad birds, our mounts, settled into a swift trot, eating up the terrain with their long strides. We made our way north, and then east, finding a river that fed the Edda, and following that inland. That first day I gained a healthy respect for the qobad, an opinion that would only grow stronger.

Qobads were swift and tireless, and when we stopped for the night and hobbled the creatures, they foraged efficiently. Their stride was smooth, and they were keen-eyed and tractable. They were the perfect mounts for the Red Wastes.

As with so many of the animals of my youth, the qobad is long extinct, and so I should describe them for readers who are more familiar perhaps the vaalerop or the duskbat. Qobads cannot fly, though at times they moved so swiftly one could be forgiven for believing them capable. They stood tall, with backs at the level of my shoulders, their long, agile necks lifting high above that. Their heads were formidable, sporting curved, heavy beaks. Qobad feathers came in a variety of hues, with individual family lineages identifiable by pattern and color. The ones we rode were covered in black feathers, tipped in yellow. Their heads and necks were entirely bare, the skin as crimson as a Kharsoomian. Their amber eyes were bright, their nostrils a red-orange lump at the base of their beak.

As handsome as they were, their most impressive trait is their ability to live on nearly anything. A qobad can eat anything from small prey to carrion to roots and seeds scratched from the unforgiving earth. A properly trained qobad can feed both itself and its master, and it is for this reason that they were so prized by the natives of Kharsoom.

I beheld Kharsoom for the first time from the back of a qobad, and I believe this was the proper way to experience the Red Wastes. It was a land of stark, cruel beauty. Its soil was red, and during its infrequent rains, ran like blood. The land was dry, great cracks running over the surface, littered with stony hills and gnarled, leafless trees. Kharsoom had jungles and swamps, they tended to be cramped and dense places, the water brackish and foul. Ancient ruins were plentiful, some abandoned, but many more resettled. The Kharsoomians were a proud and insular people, convinced that they still dwelt in the pinnacle of civilization. For the rest of Thür, Kharsoom fell millennia before these events took place.

Its weather was equally harsh. Days were hot, but nights were frigid. The air was dry, always jagged with unshed lightning. When Kharsoom rained, it flooded. In the mountains that bordered the great land to the east and north, the climate could quite easily kill the unwary. I first experienced the freezing Kharsoomian night as the sun began to set that first day. The chill was sudden, surprising me, and not for the first time did I regret no longer having my highland cloak.

I found a rocky dell where we would be shielded from the night winds. "We'll stay here for the night," I said, dismounting.

Ujaala followed suit. She would have been feeling the cold more than I was. I wore a loincloth and boots, both carrying subtle enchantments that would keep at least those areas of my body comfortable, but she was entirely nude. She wore only a golden collar, belt, bracers, anklets, with fine chains running to each, marking her as a slave. She was beautiful, with a voluptuous figure, with thick thighs, heavy breasts, and soft buttocks. Her skin was a dark brown, her hair long and wavy. Her eyes were wide and slanted, nearly black in hue. Her countenance was lovely, round and expressive. Her sex, fleeced in a triangle of hair, drew my eyes often, though it would be a long while before I was able to truly experience it.

Ujaala fixed the hobbles to the birds, and they began their foraging. I gathered dried wood, the only kind available, and built a fire. As I knelt, Ujaala placed one of the furs about my shoulders.

"Thank you," I said.

"Do you wish anything else of me, my lord?"

"Sit down," I said. She obeyed immediately, wrapping herself in the other fur. "I never gave you the terms of our partnership."

"Partnership?" She frowned. "You are my new master, my lord."

"No," I said. I had killed slavers in the past. I had always held a special loathing for their ilk. In fact, a skirmish against hobgoblin slavers had marked the beginning of my first adventure with the Mythseekers. "I do not own slaves."

"You own me, my lord. Lord Kulla gave me to you at your demand. According to the laws of Kharsoom, I am yours."

I sighed. I knew that arguing was pointless. "Your task will be to guide me to Zaqhat's motte."

She nodded. "Yes, my lord. I know the way."

"When you've done this, you'll be free."

"Free?"

"Yes, free."

"I don't understand, my lord."

"You know what free is."

"Yes."

"Then what is confusing you?"

"What would I do with freedom, my lord?"

"Whatever you like."

She shook her head. "My lord, if you give me freedom, all I can do is make my way to the nearest brothel and sell myself to them."

"You have skills?"

"I am a bedslave. I have been a bedslave since I came of age."

"Before that?"

"I can clean. Cook a little. I have not had to do these things, and I have forgotten most of what I knew."

"I see." I stared at her in confusion. I had spoken to entities utterly alien to myself, and yet this was the strangest so far. "Were you always a slave?"

"I was taken as a child, brought to the great market in Deszu where I was purchased as a maid."

"Oh." I tried to think of what that truly meant, how I could bridge the gap of our understanding.

"I will tell you anything you wish to know of me, my lord."

I could not think of anything. "Can you tend a fire?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Do that. I'm going to find some food."

With the fur about her shoulders, she got to work on the fire while I crept off into the hills. I found and killed a lizard the size of a dog, dragging it back to the campfire. The qobads were curious, and greedily devoured the innards I tossed them. I charred fillets over the fire, and though I would have liked some salt, after a day of riding, I was ravenous. Ujaala never requested food, but accepted it with demure thanks.

"Do you wonder why I am hunting the wizard?" I asked. I thought perhaps discussion of goals might give us some ground upon which to begin.

She shook her head. "No, my lord. You are my master, and the reasons are your own. I will serve you and when you find Zaqhat, you will agree to let me continue to serve you."

"You will be free, Ujaala."

"Master, I beg of you."

I held up a hand and she immediately fell silent. "That's all we'll talk of it." I chewed thoughtfully. "You speak Kharish." Until this point, we had been conversing in Huyu. Though she carried an accent, her command of the language was impeccable.

"Yes, my lord."

"You will teach me. That is your first task."

"Would you like to begin now, my lord?"

"Please."

Thus I began to learn the language of Kharsoom. Through Ujaala, I would develop my first rudimentary understanding. It would not be later until my time with Clan Sesamhat that I would gain fluency. I find Kharish to be a pleasing tongue, its rigid forms strange and imbued with significance.

It was two days into our ride that we encountered the first Kharsoomian settlement. On a low hill overlooking a dry riverbed, and surrounded by a crumbling sandstone wall, it was a modest village of less than fifty souls. A millennium ago, it looked like this place had been a walled watchtower, but the central tower had partly fallen, a town of tents crouching amongst its skeleton like a cluster of mushrooms. The locals were Kharsoomian, their crimson skin glistening in the sun. The town's guards, about four of them, carried spears tipped in sharpened bone, and wore pauldrons of boiled leather. They watched us with suspicion, for we were both outsiders, a Rhandonian and a Tabiyyan. Still, they waved us through the front gate.

Once inside, Ujaala and I dismounted, leading our birds. I found a man standing in front of a rack of smoked lizard meat, the air shimmering over the smoker behind him.

He spoke to me. "Hail boldisar," Ujaala translated, though I understood the words of the greeting.

"That is the second time I have been called that."

"It is--"

"Explain later. We could use provisions. Please, negotiate for the meat. Get us a good price."

"Yes, my lord." Ujaala turned to the man and spoke in Kharish. In contrast to her demure attitude with me, she was forceful, gesturing emphatically to make her point. She looked to be a stern negotiator, not giving an inch to the man, even making to walk away before he called her back. When she named the price to me, I found that she had succeeded in my command. I gave the man his silver and walked away with more than enough food for days. She repeated the performance with the local water vendor, filling our skins with gritty, though perfectly potable water.

"Well done," I said.

"I did as you ordered, my lord."

I looked about at the tents and broken buildings of this place. "I don't suppose there's an inn here."

"No, my lord."

"Is it safer sleeping here or out there?"

"Here, my lord. You are a boldisar and you own a slave. It gives you status, even as a barbarian. So long as you comport yourself as you have been, they are honor-bound not to harm you. We will be welcome by the communal fire."

We settled down by it that night, our birds close by. That night, Ujaala sat close, though she was careful not to touch me. As we ate, a Kharsoomian man approached. He was reedy but muscular, his staff partly swollen. He said something to me in friendly Kharish.

I looked to Ujaala. "He is asking you if he might make use of me, my lord," she explained.

"Make use?"

"Lay with me. He is offering to pay. Not very much, but the amount is not an insult."

"You are not be offended?"

"He is being respectful. This is the way it is done. You may accept or refuse. Or if you wish, I can negotiate a higher price, though I do not think he has much more than he has offered."

"What do you want?"

"Whatever you wish, my lord."

I shook my head. "Tell him no. Be polite. I've no wish to spill his blood."

She spoke to the man in low, reasonable tones. The man nodded to her, then to me, and left the fire. Ujaala leaned into me, still wrapped in her fur. "If you do not want him to make use of me, does that mean you wish to?"

"What is a boldisar?" I asked, changing the subject, abruptly uncomfortable with this line of conversation.

"The word means 'man of wind,' or 'windman.' A boldisar is a former slave who wanders from place to place and sets wrongs to rights. He is a hero. Though there are many who take the form of a boldisar for protection and are little better than brigands."

"I see. And this is what I am?"

"It is how they see you."

"I was never a slave."

"You are a barbarian. Such things are linked in the Kharsoomian mind. For them, It is how you appear, a lone man with an impressive weapon... this is how they understand such a person."

"I think I understand." I almost kept my next words to myself, but I found them spilling out. "A cultural hero. In Rhandonia, we have knights-errant."

"What are those?"

"Like boldisars, but they take vows. They fight for the glory of a lady."

Her eyebrows went up. "A knight-errant might fight for me?"

"A noble lady."

"Oh, I see. Yes. That sounds similar, my lord. Where is Rhandonia?"

"Far away," I said wistfully.

She cuddled up to me, pillowing her head on my shoulder. "I will go there with you if you wish it."

I did not have anything to say to that. I still believed I would never see Rhandonia again.

The following night found us huddling in our furs in front of a campfire. I missed the steaming jungles of Lixha, and I wondered how the weather could be so different this close to the Edda. The answer has to do with the gods of Kharsoom, though one should look to scholarly texts, not these tawdry tales of my loves.

Ujaala watched me shiver. "My lord, would you like me to join you? I can warm you with my heat." She sounded as cold as I, and I felt as much pity as I did relief.

"Yes," I said, and she came to me, expertly rearranging the furs so that the two of us would be cocooned in warmth. Then she was in my arms, her head on my chest. Her breasts squashed against me, her nipples hard from cold and contact. I felt myself swelling, though I dismissed any thought of laying with her. Instead, I found myself inspecting the collar at her neck. Close up, I could see the intricate filigree on the golden surface. It was not completely covered, and in places was entirely smooth. "What does the collar mean?"

"Every slave in Kharsoom wears one."

"What do the markings mean?"

"It is the heraldry of the three clans who have owned me." Her fingers expertly found each one as she identified them for me. "You can see the markers of Clan Nizar, who first purchased me from the great market. Clan Ilyaas, Zaqhat's own, who purchased me when I came of age. And Clan Ghasson, Lord Kulla's family. At the next city with a slavemarker, we will need to add your marker. You are a barbarian, though. You have no clan."

"That's true. I have no family I am aware of."

"You own a slave. That gives you the right to commission a mark. Not a proper clan mar, but enough of one. There are symbols reserved for propertied barbarians."

"Ujaala, I will free you. We won't need to decorate this further."

"Even so. Otherwise, I will still be Kulla's property and you have no ability to free me. Your wish is..." she caught herself, then managed, "not what is best, but I will need the record."

"As you wish."

She pushed back, meeting my eyes. "My lord, this is how it must be done. My wishes are not important."

"It will be done, Ujaala. We need to catch Zaqhat first."

She snuggled back into my chest, pillowing her head against my heart. "We will, and you will take your revenge."

"It is not..." I faltered. I didn't know how to explain this, least of all to this woman who would have no reference for such matters. Or would she? She knew Zaqhat. He had owned her for some period of time. She was potentially an untapped fount. "Ujaala, would you tell me of Zaqhat?"

"He is not as strong nor as handsome as you, my lord," she purred.

"Thank you," I chuckled. "What I want to know is... what do you know of his faith?"

"His faith?"

"He does not worship the Kharsoomian gods does he?"

"The Kharsoomians don't worship the Kharsoomian gods," she said, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"They don't?"

"The Kharsoomian gods are all dead, my lord. They worship, but it is not like the barbarian lands do."

"Where are the barbarian lands?"

"Everywhere that is not Kharsoom."

"I see. I probably should have guessed that."

"When Zaqhat first purchased me, it was with the intent of making a bedslave of me. I had flowered, blossomed. At that time, he had a proper Kharsoomian chapel, with all the icons arrayed in their old pantheon. He kept it honored and ignored, like a proper Kharsoomian. Until one day, when a visitor arrived. I did not see him, but the other slaves spoke of him. Zaqhat had only two bedslaves then, and we knew that one of us would be employed to make the guest welcome. Yet we were not summoned. Zaqhat came to us that night, and he was distracted. We did the things he liked, but he barely paid attention. He felt as though he were someplace else. Someplace that frightened him."

"Did you ever see this visitor?"

"I was curious. I sneaked out of the bedchamber the following day, and I spied on him in the baths. As he entered, he wore robes and a cloak, marking him as a barbarian. When he took them off, I saw it marked him as more than that. He was a ghoul."

"A ghoul, you're certain?"

She nodded. "I had not seen one then, but in Xoc-Nehar, there was an infestation in the cemetery. Lord Kulla allowed us all out to watch the ghouls be drawn and burned. They are horrible, awful things."

Though her words could have described Diotenah, I thought of Maireili, my little savior. She had been brave and her tribe kind and welcoming. "One ghoul does not define the race."

"Yes, my lord. I should say that I am frightened of them, with their hairless bodies and sharp teeth and black eyes. When I saw the visitor, I did not know the mark of the ghoul. I thought him a demon or a sorcerer."

"He might very well have been," I murmured.

"Tattoos went from his head, down his neck, and across his body."

"What were they?"

"Symbols. Writing maybe. I do not know the language of magic, but it looked like some of the writing I saw in Zaqhat's library." She shivered. "He chilled me to the bone."

The description reminded me of the tattoos of Velena Grimm, my old companion. They marked her as a witch, bound to an entity not quite a god but far from a mortal. "Do you know who he was?"

"The name I heard was Thabban, though Zaqhat was careful never to speak it in the presence of others. Well, when he knew he was in the presence of others."

"What happened then?"

"I feared I would be sent to him. In Kharsoom, it is customary for a lord to give his guests a bedslave, and in turn for visitors to bring one for the lord's use. But Thabban never asked, and had none to give."

"And Zaqhat?"

"He did not make use of us either. It was the longest he had gone. He was not married, and he had no concubines." She shook her head. "I cannot imagine a man willingly going without love for so long."

"How long did he stay?"

"Several weeks. He left in the middle of the night. After that, the chapel went ignored. Zaqhat did not come to us for several more weeks. When he finally did, his desires were... changed."

"Changed?"

"He liked to hurt us." She shivered. "He never left marks, for he still cherished our beauty, but the torments were awful. After this, he shaved his head and filed his teeth, as though he wished he were a ghoul. When he gave me to Lord Kulla, I was relieved."

"I am sorry he did that."

"You are going to slay him," she said. "I get my revenge as well."

I nodded, my thoughts with this mysterious visitor. This Thabban had converted Zaqhat somehow. He had been an enemy so invisible, I had not even known to look. Another thing I knew with certainty, down to my bones, that Thabban had known Diotenah.

She traced her fingertip against my chest. "You should not think of such ill omens, my lord."

"I find I must," I said. This cult, whatever it was, could only be my responsibility. No one else knew of it. Knew how far it ranged or the chilling extent of its powers.

"Please, let me comfort you. I would be pleased to swallow your spear."

"You would?"

"I am quite skilled."

"I suppose you were trained in the Silken Labyrinth."

"No," she said, looking up into my eyes, scandalized. "Such things are rare. But I have lain with one who has. Zaqhat's other bedslave, his favorite, had been and she taught me technique. All those who have sampled my skills have been quite pleased."

I almost resisted, but I was cuddling with this nude and undeniably alluring woman. Her hot flesh on mine was enough to inflame me. It had been now several days since the orgy, and that had hardly been my most satisfying or proud encounter. A knight's kiss from a beautiful woman could be precisely what I needed. "Yes. Yes, I think I would like that."

She beamed. "Wonderful! I'm certain you will be pleased, my lord. Then, perhaps you might see how I might continue my servitude."

I almost protested, but she went to work. Her head vanished inside the furs, and I was left with the pure sensation of her actions. She brushed her soft lips over my chest, her tongue dancing over my skin. Her breath was gentle, a breeze over me. I sighed, laying back. She had been right. She was skilled. I felt her hands softly opening my loincloth and pulling it off my body.

"Your spear is so big!" she cooed, the furs muffling her voice. "Oh, my lord. I am a lucky bedslave indeed."

Her breath danced about my length, caressing from root to bloom. Through the sultry cushion, I felt her lips just beyond, perpetually and maddeningly out of reach. I was surrounded in a warm and inquisitive cloud, a delicious contrast to the freezing Kharsoomian night on my face. Every second I thought I would feel gentle lips or curious tongue, but she continued to expertly use nothing but the air in her lungs.

My mind spiraled with need. I wanted to seize her head, force her over my staff. But I resisted. This sensation was too incredible. She tormented me, her lips always only a hair's breadth from my flesh. I hated and loved it in equal measure, I needed more but wanted the teasing to last forever. My fists balled tightly on the fur below me. A frustrated groan exploded out of me. I felt the soft pulse of a satisfied chuckle against my turgid sex.

When she finally dragged her lips over the head of me, a ragged moan fell from my throat. I thrust, chasing her mouth, but she retreated, only to return with the fluttering of her tongue, like wet butterfly's wings, over me. She felt like she was everywhere, the owner of a hundred tongues, a thousand lips. Bright sparks of sensation bloomed over me, spreading, joining. She had enflamed me, my staff pulsing with absolute need.

She kissed the base of me, where coin purse met staff. I groaned again, this act, so accepting, at once supplicant and assured filled me with a comforting warmth. Her tongue ran from the root of me to the crown, each side in turn. I felt her lips against my head, a soft brush, her breath now catching the dew of her saliva. It felt like the striking of flint, a sudden spark of pure pleasure. And this time when I rocked my hips forward, I was rewarded with the warm pillowy feel of her mouth enveloping me.

I moaned again, the sudden directness of the action bringing the sparks of my desire to full flame. Her mouth was awash in saliva, and I felt it dripping free of her lips, down my length, tracing cooling paths. Her head moved over these strands, warming them, leaving more behind. The touch of her mouth was like liquid gold, her saliva and tongue dancing in delirious concert.

I thought I would finish quickly, but Ujaala's touch was expert. She kept me poised on the precipice, each stroke letting me deeper into her mouth. Her tongue explored me as her saliva continued to streak down my shaft. She took my pleasure to the very edge, retreating only when I threatened to explode. I do not know how she detected it, perhaps a note in my moans, a tightness in my fists, or a thrust into her.

Then, as I could take no more, I felt the close of her throat. I knew this would not be a limit, and I found myself humming with breathless anticipation. She opened herself without a heartbeat's hesitation. As the warmth closed over me, my whole body ignited in molten shivers. I fought the need, desperate for this worship to continue, but I could not.

I cried out, and I felt her move me to the front of her mouth as I filled it with jet after jet of my seed. She dutifully swallowed every spurt, gently milking me until no more issued forth. She emerged from the cocoon of the furs to pillow her head against my chest.

"You enjoyed that, my lord?"

"Very much," I said, stroking her hair.

"I must apologize, my lord."

"For what?"

"I did not ask how you would like to spend. Whether you wished to do it in my mouth or on my body."

"Your mouth was nice."

She snuggled closer, purring with pride. "That is proper Kharsoomian manners."

"It is?"

"Wasting any seed, whether it blooms crop or man, is wrong."

"What of... when a man..." I coughed. "Pleasures himself?"

She looked up in horror. "Oh, no. That should never be done. That is why a man needs wives, concubines, and bedslaves."

"Interesting culture."

She was serious about ensuring I had no untended needs. For the next few nights, after we bedded down for the night, she would eagerly polish my spear. No two times were precisely alike. Sometimes she used her hands, sometimes not. Sometimes she was forceful, other times subtle. Every night was like a different mouth upon my sex.

One night, after we had finished and sleep was drawing us down into its velvet embrace, I looked up at the sky. It is hard to describe, but there is nothing bigger than a Kharsoomian sky. Perhaps that is the tragedy of those people. Of all those who needed gods to protect them from the infinite, they had none left.

My musings turned to that strange place as I held Ujaala. I felt her slipping off to sleep, the warmth of her flesh against mine. My attention went to the river of purple through the stars. I wondered if my loves were looking at them from our home in Castellandria. If they thought of me. If they worried.

If they would want me in my present, diminished state.

It was then a smear of white danced across the sky. I thought, at first, it must be starlight, but it kept falling like a ribbon through the air. My heart soared as I recognized the feathered serpent descending through the clear night sky. I sat up, eager to greet her, and in the process accidentally rousing Ujaala.

"My lord?" she asked, groggy.

Quiyahui alighted by our guttering campfire, slithering toward us. It is difficult to explain, but I knew her posture well, and I saw in it relief and happiness. Ujaala saw me looking and turned, seeing the feathered serpent for the first time. Quiyahui was now more than twice as long as I was tall, her vertically-slitted blue-white eyes fixed upon us. Ujaala screamed in terror, scrabbling away.

"Calm yourself," I soothed.

"My lord, a beast. Get your weapon, your great spear!" She burst from the furs, hiding behind me.

"Ujaala, calm yourself. This is Quiyahui, a friend."

The serpent put her head in my arms and was still. Her eyes went from me, to Ujaala, and back to me. Ujaala hugged herself, shivering in the frigid night. "It is your pet, my lord?"

"She is my companion," I corrected.

The qobads, who had roosted for the night, squawked to wakefulness. They regarded us, but with good Kharsoomian stoicism, did not rise.

"If you are certain?" Ujaala asked.

"Come. Touch her. Go on."

The young woman approached. I believe she was battling both the cold as well as her own fear as she touched the coatl's head. "She is soft," Ujaala said cautiously. "And cool as the sky."

"She is at that. Now get under these furs before you freeze."

"As you wish, my lord."

She climbed under the furs, and put me between her and the serpent. Having my coatl back with me calmed me like nothing else. For the first time she was had parted, I felt a sense of peace. Doubt fled me. The irony was, of course, that we would soon be parted again, and this time for far longer. In that moment, I did not know, and I slept peacefully between slave and serpent.

Over the next several days we found the edge of Udath Swamp. Ujaala traced its borders, explaining that it would be easier to follow the hard-packed earth on this path and then cut into it as we neared Zaqhat's home. She had grown somewhat used to Quiyahui, though the coatl still unnerved her. It had not yet been the full moon and I wondered what her reaction would be to find that Quiyahui had a far more human form.

We rode along the shore, where the rusty water of the swamp lapped up against thick, evil-smelling mud. Small islands and gnarled trees sprouted from the water. Shapes moved through the dark, and the calls of strange beasts echoed through the mists.

It was midday when Quiyahui danced down from the sky. Ujaala's qobad reared and retreated a few steps, but I kept mine controlled. The beast squawked once, and I gave it a soothing pat at the base of its neck where flesh met feather.

Quiyahui stopped in the air before me. The smoky light of the day played off her coat, every color of the rainbow momentarily shimmering along her body. The feathers behind her neck frilled outward into a hood, and I knew the meaning of this. I nodded to her, and she seemed to understand. Our ability to communicate was still in its infancy, but even then we knew each other's mind.

"Ujaala," I said. "Quiyahui is warning us. Danger."

Quiyahui, her warning taken, slithered to the northwest, where the terrain raised into rocky foothills. We followed, and she brought us to a spot overlooking the path, then uttering a low hiss. Ujaala let out a small, terrified scream, but I hushed her. I took the coatl's meaning, dismounting from our qobads, tying them in a dell below.

"You stay with them," I whispered to Ujaala. "And stay quiet."

"What are you doing, my lord?"

"I want to see what the danger is. And if necessary, fight it."

"Please, my lord. I'm frightened."

I embraced her once. The feel of her breasts against me, her nipples hardening against my skin, was almost enough to keep me there. "Be silent. They will never know you are here."

I ran to the overlook, and Quiyahui joined me. I fell to the ground, Ur-Anu clutched in my hand. Before long, the squawk of qobads and the rip of their powerful talons in the turf approached down the shore. A group of riders came into view, fully twelve of them. They were Kharsoomian, bearing bone spears and axes. They were dressed more than most, every one sporting irregular pieces of bone armor and elaborate warpaint that crawled over their nude glistening bodies. I felt the threads of Fate reaching to them like striking serpents, an unspoken question. I held off. I would not engage unless spotted.

Had Quiyahui not warned us, we would have run right into them, and I would have had no choice but to face them in battle. They rode by without a second look, and I touched Quiyahui's neck in gratitude. Her blue tongue flicked out in response. We waited until their sounds retreated, and then went down the slope. As we reached Ujaala, she threw her arms about me.

"My lord, I was so worried!"

"I'm fine." I kissed her forehead. "Come, let's go. I would like to put some distance between us and those brigands."

Quiyahui uttered a hideous hiss. I turned. The brigands emerged from the gap in the rocks behind us, having approached silently. The lead one smiled. "This is what I saw," he said. Or something to that effect. My Kharish was still not very good.

"A boldisar and his slave," said another. Behind them, were the others, all silently approaching

"Kill the boldisar and the beast. Take the slave."

Now when the strands of Fate struck home, I listened to them. I allowed the men to get closer, and then I exploded into a whirlwind of violence. A strike killed the lead one's qobad, and cut the leg from another. Then I was among them, using their superior numbers to shield me, every strike from Ur-Anu guided to cause pain and terror. They were skilled combatants, but they had not fought the Heacharids on heaving ships during storms. They had not battled rotkin in a dead city of the gods. They had not danced with ravenous coatl in the driving rain.

I was not alone either. Quiyahui darted in at opportune moments, striking, pulling them from their birds, then retreating into the sky. We killed half of the brigands before the others wheeled about and fled. Neither Quiyahui nor I pursued. I stood amongst the dead, catching my breath. They had cut a few new stripes in me. Nothing that would trouble me overmuch.

"My lord?" Ujaala approached, her eyes wide.

"Are you well?" I asked.

"You are a boldisar! Only a boldisar could do that."

"I thought all boldisars were slaves."

"That is the ideal," she said. "But not all were enslaved."

This was a complex cultural concept, and one that I would only truly understand with immersion. "Perhaps I am."

"You were injured."

"Minor cuts," I said. "Come. I would like to get some distance in case they circle back and try again."

I briefly considered taking some of the outlaws' qobads, I contented myself with their supplies. In the Red Wastes, one takes what one can, for there is no guarantee of better options. Ujaala and I mounted our birds and continued along our path.

We rode north, finally forsaking the hard-packed earth at the border and moving into the swamp itself. We went from island to island, settling on one as night began to fall. The ground was dry enough for a fire, and I got to work while Ujaala tended our mounts. After our modest repast, Ujaala joined me in the furs, and I settled back, ready to enjoy my nightly knight's kiss. Instead of her mouth, I felt her hands, caressing me to hardness.

"My lord, I thought perhaps I could show you new delights this night."

"New?"

"You do not have to content yourself with my mouth."

"We have no night tea," I said. "I would not put a child in you."

She shrugged, continuing to stroke me. "I would care for it if you did."

"No, Ujaala. Such things would be irresponsible. We have not the time nor the resources to care for a babe." I did not add that I still planned to free her, and we would go our separate ways.

"Do you not want to try me, my lord? I am like a desert orchid, so I have been told."

"When we have night tea, I will fuck you blind. Until then..." I trailed off. She had sparked something in me, and suddenly I was bored with nothing but knight's kisses.

I felt her shift, guiding me to her sex. She ran me over her lips, her wetness caressing mine. My body strained for hers, longing to claim her as my own. "You are considering?" she purred, her eyes fixed on mine, smoky with desire.

"Get me wet with your mouth," I decided.

"I am wet enough, my lord."

"You heard me."

"Of course, my lord." She disappeared beneath the furs, and I felt her tongue on me, licking up and down my length. Soon, her mouth was sliding over me, the lines of her drool covering my staff. Either she truly was eager, or she was pretending quite well. I wondered if she would be as eager if she knew what I had planned.

I glanced over at Quiyahui. She was coiled up, not bothering to watch the two of us. I suppose I would learn if he was jealous or eager when the full moon rose.

She emerged from the furs, smiling like a cat, her lips shining. "You are wet, my lord."

"Very good," I said, pushing her onto her back. She lay down, spreading her legs. As much as I would have liked merely slamming myself home, I had no illusions. She would need some preparation.

I caressed her sex, and she cooed in pleasure. "Oh, my lord!" I found her folds soaking, her juices thick over her soft fleece. My left hand pushed into her thick, wavy hair, and I held a fistful. She moaned with this sudden force, her needy eyes looking into mine as I slipped my fingers inside her. She thrust to meet me. I beckoned, withdrew, traced and found her hardening pearl.

"This could be your staff," she purred. "Feel how good I am? How soft and wet? That is for you, my lord. Take what you already own."

"That is not what I am after," I said. I took my hand from her sex, now gooey with her nectar. I slipped my hand down to her rosebud and pressed against the puckered opening.

"Oh!" she exclaimed with surprise.

"I am going to take you Arthan fashion," I said. "I trust you're able."

"I will do whatever you require, my lord," she said, though the trepidation was clear on her face. She inhaled, relaxing, and she accepted me inside. Her brow furrowed sweetly as my fingers plumbed these hot depths. "Oh. There are pleasures here too."

I smeared her nectar over her rosebud with purpose. I wanted to sheath myself in her badly, and I could not take her sex. She had revealed too much when she vowed to care for a baby. She had thought of this. No, she wanted it. She believed that if she became mother to my child, she would be more to me than simple bedslave. I had only the vaguest ideas of Kharsoomian culture at this point in my life, but later I would understand the delicate hierarchy of bedslave, concubine, and wife. It was one that Tanyth expected me to obey and was annoyed when I did not. At the time, I could understand such a pregnancy gambit, and it made a stark kind of sense. I would not play that game. Not here, and not in this place.

When I judged her to be as wet as I could make her, I withdrew my questing fingers, then spreading her buttocks and angling myself for entry. I rested the head of my spear against her puckered opening, poised to take her. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, my lord. If this is what you want."

"It is."

"Then it shall be yours." The final word was choked into pained cry as I pressed hard against her. She once again took a deep breath and relaxed, her sweet brow furrowing. Almost immediately she screwed up her face as I entered her. She was tight, exactly what I wanted, a warm vise around my sex. I lay there, impaling her with roughly a third of myself, letting her get used to the intrusion.

"May I..." she gasped, "May I touch myself? It will loosen..."

"Yes," I said.

I felt her hands between us, her fingers teasing her slit, tracing lines about her pearl. With her first touch, she loosened just a bit and I sank deeper into her. She moaned, partway between pleasure and pain. I pulled at her hair, and her shuddering cry allowed me to sink a little more into her. I was pleased with her willingness in this matter. She clearly was not fond of Arthan sex, yet she would perform it upon my command.

Her hand was busy between us. Her breath came quicker as she found a delicious place upon herself. At each heightening, I was able to bury myself more deeply. She seemed determined to take me all, and when that thought went through my mind, affection bloomed in my breast and I kissed her softly on the lips.

Her eyes, so recently closed against the impossible sensations, opened. "My lord?" she managed.

In response, I thrust the last bit, completely burying myself in her. Her moan came out as a final, agonized squeak, her eyes slamming shut. I let myself rest then. I felt her shuddering around me, her body unaccustomed to so decadent an intruder. I felt her, gazing into her face, measuring the tiny grimaces of agony, the soft expressions of bliss. Her hands remained busy on her sex.

I began to rock against her. Small motions at first, just enough to begin to stoke the bliss my body demanded I find. I gripped her fat hips, pushing down into her body. Her legs were in the air, tenting our cocoon of furs.

I felt her hands between us, urgently playing herself like a lute. Her body clenched on me, milking me. I do not believe this was skill, but a frantic instinct that guided her along the right path. My thrusts lengthened. First it was merely the head of me, rocking gently inside her. Soon, I was pulling half of me from her aching body before sliding it all back inside her. She shuddered, the pain and pleasure overcoming her. Her lips quivered and tears webbed her lashes. The bliss was heavy on me stoked by the expression on her lovely countenance.

She panted, her grunts growing faster and faster. I pushed into her, matching her pace. I was frantic, wanting to reach my end as she did. I could not hold it off. Even distracted, she was still wonderful. Finally, I could hold back no longer.

The explosion was white hot, erasing my vision. I felt myself spill into her in great, shuddering gulps. At that moment, she cried out, her body quaking from her feet to the crown of her head. She gave a single broken cry, her body clenching about me.

I collapsed against her. We were still, and then I felt shivery arms about me, and soft kisses on my neck. "Was that to your liking, my lord?" she murmured in my ear.

"Very much," I said, kissing her once on the lips. Then I pushed myself up, gently removing myself from her. She winced, then sighed when I was free.

"That pleases me. You were not upset that I touched myself?"

"I liked it. I find I enjoy the sights of a woman pleasing herself."

She blushed, coquettishly looking at me through her lashes. "I am a lucky bedslave indeed."

"I will give you your freedom," I said. "When this is over, you shall be a bedslave no longer."

"Do not say such things, my lord." She nuzzled my neck, kissing the soft flesh. "I am yours. I will give you whatever you require, whenever you require it. A man would be foolish to discard so sweet a gift."

She did not give up on the idea of bearing a child. Every night, she offered me her sex, and I had to refuse, though my resolve was wavering. She was too lovely, and her sex so inviting. It did not assuage my guilt when the day after I took her Arthan fashion, she had to ride sitting awkwardly on her hip.

It was perhaps a week later when we came upon a castle sitting in the middle of the swamp on one of the larger spits of land. Like most structures in Kharsoom, it was plain this had been erected millennia ago and had since fallen to ruin and rebuilt several times. The pennons flapping from the battlements were green, a prancing qobad on the flags. The village that surrounded it was a small one, huddled about the crumbling castle walls.

"Is that Zaqhat's motte?" I asked.

"No, but that is the qobad of Clan Ilyaas," she said, pointing to the pennons.

"A kinsman to Zaqhat. We need supplies anyway. Perhaps we can learn something."

We rode in, and the sight of two outlanders and a coatl drawing looks from the Kharsoomian peasants. I noted that at least half of them wore the slave collar, though they were far plainer than the fine gold that wrapped about Ujaala's throat. The town was surrounded by bogs, cultivating the akaberry, a sour fruit that was one of the few that would grow in the dying water of Kharsoom.

We stopped at the edge of the settlement, filling our skins with the local swamp water. A Kharsoomian guard approached us, concern stamped on his face. "You do not want that water, outlander. The water vendor is that way." Ujaala translated his words, but I understood the dragon's share of them now. Her lessons had taken root, and I had developed something of an affinity for acquiring language.

"Thank you for your help," I said in my own halting Kharish, and I caught Ujaala's proud smirk. I had introduced her to the wonders of the sweetwater goblet, and she treated it as though it was my cleverness as opposed to a gift I had been lucky to receive.

The man left us alone, no doubt believing me a mad fool. As the second skin finished filling, a pair of guards approached from the castle. I still found it odd, two men wearing little more than pauldrons on their shoulders, leather harnesses over their chests and waists. They carried spears tipped with bone and helmets of the same. Swatches of green cloth decorated with the Ilyaas qobad hung from their shoulders like half-capes. Their slave collars were bronze.

"Hail boldisar," said one, Ujaala translating. "Lord Uras of Clan Ilyaas requests your presence."

I stood, securing the skin to my qobad. "For what?"

"He is honoring you, my lord," said Ujaala. "It is custom for lords to show boldisars hospitality."

"Then I accept," to the guard.

"You should dump out that water," advised the guard. "Lord Uras will fill your skins from his own well."

"I'll do that." I did not bother, but when I left, I found that Lord Uras had taken it upon himself to replace the foul swamp water with the far cleaner well water.

They led us to the castle gate, now standing open. The courtyard was small, and I saw only a few defenders. I confess I had a moment of reflection, measuring this place against my ability to take it.

A young man ran to us, a plain iron collar about his neck. He had a wide, earnest face. "Your qobads, my lord?"

"They'll be seen to in the stables. Fed and groomed," the guard said to us, as though anticipating my objection.

I handed over the reins to the boy. "Thank you, my lord," he said, glancing to the coatl. "And your... pet?"

"Quiyahui will stay with me."

The two of them exchanged looks, but did not comment. I would become used to this look. In my travels through Uazica, I was considered an outlander, and my idiosyncrasies were met with polite indulgence. In Kharsoom, I was a barbarian, and not held up to their standards. I would use this from time to time. In the Red Wastes, manners can acquire outsized importance, and navigating them adroitly the key to survival.

The guards escorted us into the keep, where we found a modest feasting chamber. One end of the room was a hearth, burned down to embers, with the head of a fierce lizard glowering over the top of it. The table was ancient and wooden, with room for at least ten on either side. A dais stood at the far end, with two wooden thrones at the center and furs about the base.

Upon the thrones sat our hosts, the lord and lady of this castle. They were a handsome pair, both middle-aged, the man on the cusp of leaving it and the woman having only just entered. He was tall and reedy, with the beginnings of a paunch. His black hair was long, copiously streaked with silver. He wore a narrow golden band on his brow, and heavy gold bracelets. His harness was fine, but he carried no weapons.

The woman was younger than he, her body lean and hard. Her breasts were small, her maroon nipples wide. Her belly was flat, lined with muscle. Her black hair carried no gray, but it would come soon. Her burgundy eyes were small but expressive. She wore gold earrings, a necklace, bracelets, and small anklets. I found my gaze lingering on her beauty.

As we entered, the guards at our backs, the two nobles rose, stepping off the dais to meet us.

"Brave boldisar," said the lord, "you honor us with your presence." Ujaala translated.

"The honor is mine, my lord," I said.

"I am sorry, do you not speak Kharish?" he asked.

"I am learning. I understand some, and Ujaala translates."

"Your Kharish is lovely," said the noblewoman.

"I am Lord Uras, and this is my wife, the Lady Ia." He spoke slowly and clearly. The tiniest frown rippled over his features as he looked at Quiyahui for the first time. "Did not the stableboy tell you? Your pet will be comfortable in my stables."

"She stays with me."

"As you wish," he said, flashing an amused smile at his wife.

"May we know your name, boldisar?" prompted Lady Ia.

"I am Ashuz, sometimes called the Blackspear. This is Ujaala and Quiyahui." Once again, I found my gaze snagging upon Lady Ia. Kharsoomians are known for their beauty, and she was no exception. Her nudity did nothing to dissuade me.

"You are welcome here, Blackspear," said Lady Ia, offering her hand.

I kissed her graceful fingers. "You do me honor."

"I've heard of a Blackspear. Adventuring along the Edda Aroyac. He's said to carry an obsidian spear and travel with a feathered serpent."

"Are you on a quest now, Blackspear?" Lord Uras asked.

"No," I lied.

"You will not have to look far in Kharsoom. This is a land of adventure. In the meantime, you must be famished. Sit, and you will eat your fill." I could not help but notice that as much as I avoided staring at his wife, Lord Uras did not bother to hide his lust for Ujaala. He devoured her with his eyes. I thought of the custom Ujaala had spoken of.

As we sat down at the table, the door opened and a slave brought in a tray of food. Every time we finished a course, the slave returned with another. While it was far more opulent than any meal I'd had in some time, it did not seem the equal of a nobleman. Kharsoom is not a land of plenty, but the nobility is fond of their delicacies. I would find that Uras was not wealthy when compared to the rest of the nobility and though he set a fine tablek it was not one to remember.

"Tell me, Blackspear, where did you find so fetching a bedslave?" Uras remarked lightly, no doubt thinking of the same custom.

"Won her in battle," I remarked, eating the roasted leg of some kind of lizard.

"A fine reward indeed. Where does she hail from?"

"You can ask her."

He laughed. "You are a barbarian... no, such things are not done here. I would not speak to her any more than she would dare speak to me."

"Tabiyya."

"How terribly exotic."

"Have you ever been?"

"I could not leave fair Kharsoom."

"And you, Blackspear," said Lady Ia. "Where is your home?"

"I have no home."

Lord Uras clapped his hands. "A true boldisar! It has been far too long since we have hosted one of your kind."

"It's my pleasure," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Tell me a story of your adventures," Lady Ia said. I turned to her and in her eyes, I saw the flicker of desire.

"I do not know if my Kharish is up to the task."

"Nonsense, let this lovely bedslave translate. Her mouth shapes well around Kharish vowels."

"As you wish." I told them the story of the dryad and the hobgoblins. I cannot say why that one leapt to my mind. Perhaps the swamp reminded me of that foul lake. Lady Ia was enchanted, watching me as I spoke. The Lord, however, watched Ujaala, though I do not believe he heard a word from Ujaala's lips.

We finished our meal, and the slaves took our plates away. Lord Uras barely tore his gaze from Ujaala long enough to speak to me. "I have quarters prepared for you, Blackspear. I will of course offer you the use of my bedslave for the night."

"That is not necessary."

"She is quite beautiful, I assure you. Kharsoomian."

"She is lovely, Ashuz," Lady Ia assured me. "You will find her to your liking. You have my word."

The shabbiness of the castle made me doubt this bedslave's loveliness, but I remembered what Ujaala said. Though perhaps I could have taken the castle, I did not relish the idea of bloodshed. I thought it best to mind my manners and marshal my strength for Zaqhat.

"You have my thanks." I glanced at Ujaala. "And I offer you my bedslave in return."

"I would be honored," he said. The speed of his response said he had been waiting for this and only this. "Come this way, my dear." He took Ujaala by the arm and escorted her down a hallway, apparently eager for the night's entertainment to begin. I sighed in amusement, surprised only that I felt no jealousy.

"This way, Blackspear," Lady Ia said. "Would you prefer Lorkha? Or Huyu?"

"I speak Huyu," I said in that language.

She smiled, responding in kind. "I have a fondness for linguistics. I want to assure you that you will enjoy Tura. She was almost more than we could afford."

"Your customs are somewhat strange to me. I thought Kharsoomians were..."

"Complicated," she said with a smile. "Yes. My husband is not much of a warrior. He has but one wife, and he will not conquer any more. But a bedslave? A lovely one he can offer to visitors? An expense that we can manage."

I looked her over. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"You offer me a bedslave. What if I would prefer the lady of the house?"

"I cannot do that."

"Why not? Your husband is even now laying with another. Do you not have the same right?"

"I do not." She sighed. "Some Kharsoomian ladies indulge anyway, but I'm afraid I am somewhat old fashioned. You'll enjoy Tura, Blackspear." She stopped, and opened a door, revealing modest quarters beyond.

I went inside, pausing. "It is dark in here."

"I will ask Tura to start a fire."

"If she comes in, I would not be able to recognize her. She could be anyone." I put a hand on her waist, gently pulling her forward. "I would only know her by scent. By taste."

She blushed, her crimson skin growing darker. "Blackspear!" I pulled her to my lips, and kissed her hard. She was soft, momentarily melting against me. I pushed my tongue into her mouth, plundering her before she managed the strength to push me away. "I must be firm. Custom will be respected. I am a proper lady of Kharsoom, and no matter what delights a handsome boldisar promises, I will not succumb."

I let her go, keeping her eyes in mine. I murmured, "I would make a bedslave of you."

Her chest heaved, her crimson skin bright. Her bare slit glistened with juices whose scent had just hit the air. "I will send Tura down to you," she said. "Promise me this, Blackspear. You will treat her like a goddess and a whore."

"I will shatter her," I vowed.

Ia shivered and made her way down the wall, her hips swinging, the muscles crawling in her buttocks. I undressed, putting my things in one corner, then went to the hearth to light a fire. After the frigid Kharsoomian nights, I was looking forward to a roaring hearth. Quiyahui found a place near the ceiling, coiling up and growing still. For the first time I beheld a Kharsoomian bed, little more than a dais covered with a pile of furs.

Not long after the flames first claimed the wood, a knock came at the door. I opened it, and Lady Ia slipped past me as though frightened to be seen in the hall. She had removed her jewelry, wearing only a plain slave collar. Somehow, the collar made her seem more naked than she had before.

"My la--" I started.

She put a finger to my lips, murmuring, looking at me coquettishly through her lashes. "I am Tura, bedslave of Lord Uras, here as an expression of his hospitality for you, brave boldisar."

"I see."

"I am here to do whatever you require of me, my lord."

"I am pleased to hear that." I swept the lady into my arms and carried her to the bed. There I used her relentlessly for hours. She was pliant and willing, and I employed all the skills I had gained over my years to please her. Near dawn, we lay exhausted on the bed together, my arm over her sweat-slicked back. A soft knock interrupted us.

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I will remember you on cold nights, Blackspear." She slipped out of bed and went to the door. Another Kharsoomian woman, younger and softer than the lady of the house, slipped in, and Lady Ia was gone.

"I am Tura, the lord's bedslave," said the woman as she climbed into bed with me. "You and I lay together all night."

"I understand," I said. I nearly roused myself to sample her, but Lady Ia had exhausted me, and I slept. When I rose, the bed was empty. The fire was down to embers, and Quiyahui was coiled in front of it, regarding me with her blue-white eyes.

I met Lord Uras and Lady Ia at breakfast in the main chamber, and Lady Ia looked upon me as though we had not shared a night of unbridled passion. Ujaala was waiting for me there, giving me a demure smile.

"How did you find Tura?" asked Lord Uras.

"She was most accommodating. Did not refuse a single request."

"Excellent. There is no substitute for a Kharsoomian woman, is there? Although your bedslave certainly comes close. An intoxicating creature. Wrung pleasure from me I did not think possible."

I felt no jealousy there, though he been speaking of Sarakiel or Quiyahui I might have cut his throat. "I am pleased to hear it, my lord."

"We have laden your qobads with food and filled your skins with water from my own cisterns. Let no one say Lord Uras of Clan Ilyaas is not a friend to boldisars!"

"Again, thank you."

He waved it away, and we ate well. We left the castle soon after, waving to the lord and his lady as we rode into the swamp.

"Are you well?" I asked Ujaala as we put the settlement behind us.

"I am. He was gentle enough. I expected the worst when I found he had but one wife and no concubines."

"That speaks ill of him?"

"A man with so few outlets for his desires can grow cruel. He did not cause any hurt that will linger."

"Good," I said, though the phrasing disturbed me somewhat. Granted, I had caused her pain when I took her Arthan fashion.

"I learned something," she said after a moment of silence.

"Oh?"

"In the time since I quit Zaqhat's castle, he has constructed a secret passage. Lord Uras told me all about it."

"He just told you?"

"You know how men are."

I laughed. "No, I don't."

"After you are sated with love, you like to talk. You will tell many things. I believe that if you wanted to know every secret in Kharsoom, you would need only talk to the bedslaves." I lingered with that piece of wisdom, and would return to it often.

"Do you know where this secret passage is?"

"I think so. I made him describe where it was in as much detail as he could."

"You did that?"

"I thought it would please you."

"Very much, Ujaala, thank you."

She preened in the sunlight. "I live to serve you, my lord."

We arrived at Zaqhat's castle late in the afternoon several days later. It was on a hill, well-guarded from the swamps around it. Unlike his kinsman's home, there was no settlement around it, and the place was in more jagged shape than Uras's home. It was a castle in decline, beyond even the ruined nature of most Kharsoomian structures.

"Here," Ujaala said, though I guessed it already. The green flag with the qobad flapped on the battlements. The castle had a look of being haunted and empty in a way I couldn't quite express. I thought of Zaqhat, that look of triumph on his face when we shared the cultist, and perhaps that moment had been hollow.

"Show me the way in."

Ujaala led me around the eastern side of the hill, into the dense trees of the swamp. We crossed a shallow waterway to an island covered in gnarled trees with thick cages of roots. Here, hidden amongst trees and stones was a cave. "Here."

"Beneath the swamp," I said.

She nodded. "Are we going now?"

"I will wait until nightfall." I sighed. "It is too close to the castle to risk a fire. Tonight will be cold."

"I will warm you, my lord."

I let her continue to believe that as we ate. If everything went well, we could spend the coldest part of the night in the castle itself. Night fell, and I had foolishly forgotten the time of the month. As the first silvery fingers of the full moon reached our campsite, Quiyahui changed. I watched as her sinuous body shimmered, reshaping itself, and then she stood in her human form, petite and lovely.

Ujaala stared, more frightened than confused. "What is this?"

I explained what little I could. This was far from ideal, as Quiyahui was not nearly as fearsome in her human form. Ujaala took it in stride, and as for the coatl, she seemed to harbor no ill will for the bedslave. With that behind us, I arrived at the part that neither of them would like.

"I am going in alone," I said. "Quiyahui, I want you to look after Ujaala, do you understand?"

Quiyahui kissed me, her blue-white eyes looking into mine. I took that as a yes.

"My lord," protested Ujaala. "We should come with you."

"It is too dangerous," I said. "You are no fighter, Ujaala, and Quiyahui can't fight this way. I will return as soon as I can, and the three of us will sleep in the castle together."

Ujaala had no further protests, giving Quiyahui an uncertain look. Satisfied that the two were as safe as I could make them, I made my way into the yawning black of the secret passage. I looked back only once, and the two of them crouched among the rocks, watching me. That would be the last I saw of them for some time, but Quiyahui would be as good as her wordless vow.

The scent in the dark tunnel was that of the swamp, but beyond that, I detected a hint of bright purple. This place carried an enchantment of some kind, for only magic could appeal so strongly to the wrong sense. That helped explain how such a tunnel could exist without flooding. Whatever the magic had done, it did not render the tunnel as stable as I might have liked. The wooden struts every ten feet or so were wet, and the walls constantly wept with water. Mushrooms grew in the dark and pools of stagnant water collected everywhere.

The only light came from ahead, and I focused on that. Sometimes I glimpsed drawings on the walls. They reminded me of designs I had seen on the walls of Tann, places the new ghoulish inhabitants had defaced what had once been dwarven art. As this snaked into my head, I felt the ring on my finger begin to tug.

Once again, Diotenah's whispers permeating my waking mind. She wanted me in that castle. There was power to be had, and she wanted the bearer to take it. She had always thought it would be she, and I believe the ring never knew the difference, recognizing only that it was worn. It could only grasp for the fell power that it had been promised at creation, guiding its bearer on the paths of darkness.

I emerged in the dungeons, flickering torchlight illuminating the wet bricks all around. The cells were empty, their rusted manacles hanging lank from the walls. The guard at the top of the stairs nearly called out, but I hurled Ur-Anu with deadly accuracy, and the preternatural sharpness of the blade pinned him to the stone wall beyond before he could utter more than a croak.

I climbed the steps, pulling Fate from the guard's chest, sending his nerveless form tumbling down the steps. I opened the door, revealing a stone wall in the interior of the castle. I crept through Zaqhat's home, and when I happened upon one of his guards, I slew him without hesitation or mercy.

That was foolish. One can only leave so many corpses before one is discovered. I was creeping along a hallway when the alarm was raised. I cast about for somewhere to run when the door in front of me opened. My quarry Zaqhat emerged, his bloodorm about his neck. He was nude, without adornment or harness. A bedslave, a comely Kharsoomian lass, clung to him in fear. I wondered for a moment if that had been the same bedslave Ujaala knew.

Zaqhat saw me instantly, his eyes widening in disbelief, and I like to think, some fear. "You!"

"Me," I agreed.

The bedslave screamed, fleeing down the hall. "Guards! He is here!" Zaqhat shouted.

"They cannot save you."

He retreated into his room and slammed the door. I heard the thud of a lock slamming home. That might have been effective had I not been wielding Ur-Anu, a weapon forged to slay gods. I sliced through the iron hinges, the door falling inward. I stepped through the now open portal ready to slay the cult leader.

Zaqhat's bedchamber was beyond. A fire blazed in the hearth. His bed was in the Kharsoomian style, the furs in disarray. Shelves contained books, jars of alchemical ingredients, and the odd artifact.

Zaqhat whirled, now holding a wand in one hand and a dagger in the other. Though nude, he was ready for battle. "I should have slain you in Lord Kulla's castle."

"Your cult. What is it?"

"Cult? Is that what you believe you have found?"

"What else would you call it?"

"The Rising Shadow is nothing more or less than the pains of a grand rebirth."

"I don't understand."

"And you never will, barbarian." His familiar fixed me with its four green eyes and the language of magic spilled from the wizard's lips. As before when he enchanted me, the walls retreated about us, and I was in a great cavern. Glowing fungus grew in hungry copses. Zaqhat and I were no longer alone. Armed ghouls emerged from the sticky shadows, licking their sharp teeth and brandishing their weapons.

I threw myself into battle, a whirlwind of death. The ghouls fought back, surrounding me to try to bring me down. It was far into the battle before I realized something. The threads from Ur-Anu were almost entirely absent. Only one, a single path glowed for one fate. It went right to Zaqhat. Every second it changed, as he or I moved, the path that would lead to his death made minute adjustments.

Abruptly, two more threads struck, showing me the pathway behind. Two guards, wielding bone spears, burst into the room. I slew them swiftly, and once again the sole thread went to Zaqhat. It demanded that I step forward and thrust, a simple move, but one I could not execute for the ghoul in my way. I spun around him and struck. Zaqhat howled as I opened his arm, but it was far from the fatal hit Ur-Anu had promised had I struck a mere heartbeat sooner.

I reminded myself that I faced an enchanter. It was an easy thought to have, but it was harder to truly act as though the ghouls were mere fignments. The illusions he conjured were as real as anything. They had sound, odor, even taste, a fact I learned when I slew an illusory ghoul and the blood spray landed on my tongue.

I was not only battling Zaqhat, but my own senses. I closed through the nightmares, trying to focus only on the threads Ur-Anu gave me. At last, an opening, and I knocked him to the floor.

In desperation, Zaqhat flung the brute force of his magic at me. His words were desperate, less incantation and more plea. We do not always understand the magic within. We learn the words, the gestures, the symbols that let us funnel this great power through our bodies. Think of these as riverbanks. There sometimes come times when the power we demand will crumble the banks and smash the levies. At this time, the power is as dangerous to us as it is to our enemies.

This was what happened now. My elemental magic would have conjured a great tempest, but Zaqhat was an enchanter. He took my senses, merging them with his own, and for a moment it was as though we were a single being, spiraling through the same nightmares. Moving was a fight through my own muscle and bone, my own tendons and blood rebelling against me. My mind was not quite my own, but neither was his. We were chained by fetters of iron will.

The magic was solid about me. Its scent permeated my pores, a spicy, meaty odor I recognized as the stench of a man's skull freshly split. Sparks, the sensations of a limb awakening after too long asleep, covered me. I fought through it with revulsion, swinging Ur-Anu. The thread showed me the series of motions I needed to plunge the obsidian blade in the wizard's heart, but the magic bound me in a quagmire.

I pushed the spear down, fighting through every layer of Zaqhat's power. The obsidian entered his breast. He cried out in sudden terror and agony. The world vanished.

A light, brighter than any I had ever seen, tore the sight from my eyes. A cacophony crashed in all around me. Burning covered my hands, radiating up my arms and making my bones feel soft and pliant. Scintillating agony exploded from inside me, making me, for a moment, cease to exist.

Then I was weightless, and all around me was bright thunder. Mercifully, the world collapsed about me and I rested in oblivion for a time.