The light of day offered little comfort. The events the night before had chilled him beyond the sun’s ability to abate. Idly he redressed the cut on his hand as he reflected further on the details of his encounter. His dealings with Merrick go back many years. Until last night they had all been conducted through his vassals and messengers. SanTera had practiced what he would say to The Merchant many times before his arrival. Dealing with matters in person in unfamiliar territory set him on edge and he knew it.

Nothing had gone as he planned. That bit about cheating stung him in a way he was not prepared for. A man of education and character needn’t succumb to emotions. That is the territory of animals. The old teachings at the court panged like a clacker in a bell.

Cradling his forehead in his hand SanTera leaned forward onto the desk. He cast an edge-long look out the crack in the dusty wooden shudder. The city outside was invading his solace. Heavy carts drawn by horses pushed the engine of commerce through the artery outside his window. SanTera had seldom enjoyed the company of others, but he always felt he could control people, like them or not.

Merrick must be praising himself with that smug silver smile. I am the Regent, I will not bow to this blister of corruption.

Every device in his studied past failed him when his emotions erupted.

Merrick must be praising himself with that smug silver smile. I am the Regent, I will now bow to this coin counting snipe. Penning the last few words of a letter the cut in his hand ‘

‘The Tile!’ The words came out of his mouth like an involuntary cough. Thats how he triggered the door! Merrick had been a tinkerer and he had stumbled into one of the little mans creations. As he replayed the events of the night before in his mind a light rapping came form the door to his room, a moment later it opened. Steadman, his personal assistant and bodyguard, poked his head in the door. ‘We must depart soon m’lord or we’ll miss the train.’

The door shut and a moment later the Regent departed.

"I have prepared the way for you there is no need for you to worry." The silky baritone voice came from the door behind him. Durgen knew the voice from hundreds of conversations that had come before. "Father, when will I be allowed to go with you to the gathering." The eagerness in his voice was too obvious. The delicate Elven tongue was his first language and he spoke it with flourish. "Soon my son, I have but a few preparations yet to make. When I next depart you will be with me." He heard his father turn and leave the hall. Father loved to have the final word and would often punctuate his discussions with his departure.

The white marble walls of the hall had been built ages ago. The care and craftsmanship was an art the Elves maintained to this day. The Temple of Feyhilannya was one of the oldest structures of Elf-kind. Its remote location from the city was no accident. This sacred place was only visited by the elders. The gardens that surrounded the temple were as integral to the structure as the pillars that supported the high domed ceiling.

During the first age the Goddess had chosen this grove to share the secret of the forest with her children. As the chosen ones of the Goddess, the Fey were worthy custodians of her precious gifts. In time they built many monuments to honor her, few matched the simple splendor contained within these marble walls.

The afternoon sun did not penetrate the canopy of trees outside. The suns rays traded their golden light for green as it passed through the garden. A breeze carried a mild sweet smell from the honeysuckle that clung to the braided bamboo trellises near the reflective pool surrounding the hall.

The temple and surrounding gardens had been Durgen’s home as long as he could remember. Last week he and father had celebrated the tenth anniversary of his life gift. As usual many of the elders brought gifts from the gathering place and sang the songs that celebrated life’s renewal. When the others departed father had given him a special gift. It was a foreign weapon. He had seen similar weapons on the frescos that retold the war with men. Great care had been taken in creation of the weapon. Where men capable of such care in their craft? It was not made by Elf-kind. It was heavy and bore it’s life-taking weight at one end in the shape of a star. Sweeping patterns of gold and silver adorned the shaft and head. The weight of it in his hand kindled a desire to destroy. He wished to heft the weight of it and test its nature, but as father instructed. There was a time and a place. Durgen sat on the stone chair smiling at his good fortune.

Ashlan climbed the outer stairs of the temple. A slender stone railing stood between him and the jungle trees. As he scaled the exterior of the temple he could see the mountains to the south. The weight of man pressed on the borders of elf-kind. Soon they would come again. Even if they didn’t the damage had already been done. The human seed tainted many of the elves. The Goddesses children were no longer worthy of the mantle the Goddess had given them. I will set thing right. He thought to himself rounding sthe last set of stairs to the roof.

Men had been a blight on the land for some time, but with the arrival of the men from the lowlands everything had changed. They did not respect the boundaries of others. They did not even know how to live in balance with nature. Everywhere they went they were destroyers.

Ashlan reached a high platform overlooking the gardens outside the temple. Clouds seemed to race across the reflective pool below. Tilting his head skyward, the clouds seemed less concerned with the influence of the wind. Cupping his hands behind his back he pressed his thumb into his palm. ‘The arrow will not stray again’ The words spilled over his tightly clinched teeth barely more than a whisper. A fimiliar voice filled his head and offered words of comfort. ‘You have been patient and done as I requested.’ Song-like whispers, maternal and soft like a lullaby. He continued struggling to admit what had only been a thought a moment earlier.’The men grow in numbers. Soon they will return to finish what they started’. The voice came again. ‘Not to worry, the shadow King will falter. It will not be long before they turn on each other. We will not give them any cause to turn their attentions to us.’ Ashlan kneaded his palm with his thumb as he cocked his head to redress his statement. “My scouts tell me that mercenaries and scouts have crossed into our lands. Surely this is a sign of their renewed aggressions?’ ‘Be patient. Your time is coming. Your human son has a big role to play ‘ Has he been fully prepared?’ Lacy eddies of song accompanied her words. ‘He is ready your greatness.’ Pride swelled in him as he said the words. ‘Good, the elders will not deny us again.’ She said, confident of her words.

Ashlan unclasp his hands. His raven skin was pearlesent black against his white robes. In the middle distance a flock of broad-winged birds found a momentary roost. Patience, patience. All move to the will of the goddess. Her web was broad and sticky and she pulls the strings.

Ashlan descended the stairs slowly. His thin sleeveless robe brushed each step. The tight silk braids that formed his sandals tensed against the muscles in his feet in his practiced confident stride.

He passed through the garden with his thoughts on distant matters. Arriving at a stone building with a single door he waited a moment outside the door without announcing himself. Moments later a stygian skinned warrior emerged from the fortification. He bowed with a slow grace that other races could not aspire to. ‘Ready the men, I feel like hunting’. Ashlan’s words were cool and sharp.

SanTera stood on the loading platform at Weyerman Station nursing a bandaged hand. A painted wooden shingle hung from the eaves of the station house. A smaller shingle hooked to the bottom of the sign posted the departure and arrival times of the train. There, in simple letters, were the three cities of his dominion. White stains from repeated erasing made the smaller shingle pale grey.

A station attendant carrying a small folding stool stopped under the sign. Stepping up on the stool he erased the departure time for the capital city of Tegis. In a steady hand he changed the departure time by one quarter of an hour. Even in the shade of the station house SanTera was feeling the mounting heat of the day. "What is the delay?" He said in an accusatory tone to the station hand. "Unloading some cargo that requires additional preparations sir. Won’t be long." The man’s practiced words came out without thought or feeling like he had said them hundreds of times.

Last nights encounter rubbed at him. Men like Merrick had sprung up all over the realm. Stealing power and influence. Little more than brigands, these men took much and gave little in return. The people whom they held sway over answered to money or fear. Merrick and his ilk are the consumption that will ruin this empire if left unchecked. SanTera’s idle thoughts kept his mind of the heat.

It had taken years of skillful planning and positioning to inherit governance; it would not easily be wrested from his grip. Merrick will find an adversary in me like none he has encountered before. His musing was interrupted by the sudden conveyance of his luggage to the loading compartment of the land train.

‘We are ready to depart m’lord’. Steadman’s raspy voice was comforting. SanTera’s attendants were seeing to his personal effects. Steadman was overseeing the activities. Steadman had been selected for his position not because he was a big man or a strong man. The opposite was more or less true. Those qualities would have done nicely, but it was his ability to decisively act that earned him the job. Outwardly Steadman wasn’t much to look at. His torso was too long and his legs thick and knotted. His head was bald and freckled by the sun. His fists looked like gnarled roots at the base of a wind blown tree, but in the four years Steadman had served him no man had ever bested him.

Adjacent to the loading dock the armored behemoth shuttered to life. SanTera allowed himself a thin smile. The land trains were his brainchild back when he was but an advisor to the King. The trouble back then was trade. The river was too shallow at points to be a reliable form of transport. Horses were rare and small in this area, hardly useful for large loads.

The land train was to be the beast that would propel the kingdom to greatness. It would supply the army, move passengers, and deliver goods throughout the Kingdom. The engine, as the alchemist called it, was a menacing sight. The layers of scalloped metal at the front tapered to a rivet-laced tube before swelling to encompass the pilot box. As a whole it resembled an armored knight lying in state, eyes cast skyward. Flags flew from the engine declaring the glory of the kingdom. SanTera was careful to include his own family crest among the banners. It was the solution to the growing needs of the realm. The giant vehicle would be propelled by a new discovery - his discovery.

SanTera had been on a tour of the port city of Gravagnost. A local merchant had implored him to see his new invention. He had been refused several times, but the merchant’s persistence had paid off. The man was an alchemist of sorts and his assistant was a native shaman. The two of them had managed to trap a spirit in a hollow brass ball. As they continued their demonstration the alchemist held a metal rod near the brass sphere. A polished stone affixed to one end propelled the sphere away from the rod. The closer the rod came to the sphere the faster it would move. The afternoon with the merchant was time well spent.

In the months that followed SanTera funded the alchemist and required of him a much larger example of the spirit cage. Two years later, while the King was campaigning in the north with his army, SanTera revealed the spirit powered land train Manticore to a group of nobles and merchants. The completed marvel was greeted with skepticism from the crowd until the demonstration revealed it could pull twenty heavily laden freight wagons.

SanTera had failed to mention to the onlookers that in order to move that much weight the spirit inside the container had to be a powerful. SanTera did not ask where the shaman had acquired the spirit nor did he want to know. It was enough that it worked.

Now, as he prepared to board the Manticore, SanTera gazed toward the polished brass canister that sat in front of the pilot box. The pilot was priming the drive crystal. A deep sound was barely audible from the soul cage housed in the lead wagon. The low thrumming caused his ears to tingle.

Steadman folded down a wooden step to the Regent’s private coach and stepped inside. The Regent’s personal seal was etched into the black lacquer finish of the coach. As SanTera prepared to enter, Steadman grabbed his tunic and pulled him into the coach. Unprepared for the violent movement, SanTera failed to lift his foot in time to clear the step. He crashed to the floor with his arms under him. Where he had been standing a moment ago he saw a dagger, still quivering in the hardwood planking of the coach. The blade was stained ‘ ‘poison’ the word came out of his mouth like a curse. Freeing up his arms he recovered his wind. Grabbing the handrail, SanTera twisted to see what was happening. Steadman shouted to him in a low, animal voice. ‘Stay put, I’ll see to this!’

SanTera did as he was instructed. Raising his hand to block the glare from the sun-bleached dock. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. Steadman was alone against three men. Two of the three men held short swords; the third had already been disarmed, his weapon lay on the ground under Steadman’s foot. Steadman held the hapless man’s wrist at an unnatural angle. The assassin was at Steadman’s mercy with only a thumb and forefinger controlling him.

The pressure Steadman applied to the man’s wrist sent him face first to the slivered boards of the station dock. The broad chested man closest to Steadman lunged at him, sword arm extended. Steadman, still holding the first man, used his free arm to pin the approaching blade between his right elbow and his ribs. A quick spin to his right pulled the attacker off balance, disarming him in the same motion. With a quick adjustment of his hand Steadman gripped the pommel of the blade and in a single motion extended his hand in a punching motion toward his off-balance opponent. The blade trailed his fist in a slashing arc and appeared to miss its target. Steadman ignored the falling barrel of a man, finishing the sweep of the blade by sheathing it in the man whose hand he still held.

The remaining man removed his half-cape with a twirl that wrapped it around his forearm. Steadman was motionless, except for the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders. With slow methodical steps the remaining man advanced on Steadman. The man made an overhead strike towards Steadman. Steadman pulled his blade from the fallen man to parry, but the attack was a feint. Somehow in Steadman’s movement he had managed to pop the blade up from under his foot into his left hand. The second blade met the redirected blow inches from his belly. Using the man’s blade as a guide, Steadman drove his blade along his opponent’s blade and into the man’s midsection. Steadman let the man fall. Turning in a slow circle with blades held low he studied the fallen. Satisfied, he dropped the blades and moved back to the train.

Nitasi sat with his ankles crossed atop a warm boulder. He looked south over the broad plain. Everything looked the same. The sparse trees of the planes were surrounded on all sides by knee-high grass. Wind beat against the tops of the grasses like the gods were shaking out the dust from a great blanket. Two reflective ribbons of water marked the east and west boundaries of the bear tribe’s lands. Yes, all was where it should be.

He barely heard the wind blowing across the tall grasses. The warmth of the morning sun too escaped his notice. Nitasi had detached himself from his hunter’s vigilance. He sat still and quiet, not dreaming or reflecting, just sitting. Dreaming had been how he used to pass his days, now it had become a curse. The images in his dreams were too real and the faces too familiar.

Nitasi had spent the night honoring the dead. He alone had built the bridge of fire to deliver his people to the hunting grounds of the gods.

Casting his head down Natasi studied the worn souls of his leather foot coverings. The bottoms were polished smooth from years of use. The tops were rough - still showing where a sharp stone had cut them from a bison. Careful sinew stitching held the two pieces of hide together. There on the hide, like the first drops of a summer rain, were spots of dried blood. The blood of his people.

Everyone he knew or loved was gone.

Nitasi’s throat was tight and his chest ached. The spasms of despair had washed over him so many times he had spent all his tears. Natasi rested his face in his hands. After a moment he pushed his fingers up following the contours of his face. When his fingers reached his licorice colored hair, he paused. Feeling his hot breath against his face he tried to swallow. His lips pursed as he strained against the lump in his throat. The lump threatened to cut off his air so he abandoned the idea.

Feeling in his pouch for the walking medicine, which had now become a regular comfort for him, he started across the clearing toward the trees. He walked like a dyeing animal looking for a place to end its time. There would be no grassy glen or sunlit brook awaiting him. His path to redemption would be measured in other ways. The Coyote had stolen his time of honor and made a mockery of his sacred beliefs. The Gods wouldn’t allow his people to be destroyed without retribution. The Bear clan would not be the pitiable people who once lived here, Natasi would bear the burden of the clan’s memory and its future.

Hemmer was nearly to the bottom of the steep incline that descended into the ruined city of Loth Tenna. The memories of his last visit here were swarming in his head. During his descent he had to stop several times to keep from falling. The vines that had climbed out of the valley over the years provided welcome handholds. In his head occasional flashes like stars bursting stunned him. The subsequent dizziness and nausea had caused him to loose sight of the elf. He was more concerned with surviving the descent than keeping an eye on his guide. Guide, Hemmer laughed to himself. This day has just begun, but events were unfolding that challenged everything he had based his life on for the last nine years.

Reaching the bottom he collapsed onto the green turf at his feet. He was drenched in his own sweat. The effort and concentration it took to make the climb in his current condition had sapped his strength entirely. His eyelids were heavy and he caught himself drifting off. He opened his eyes to see the elf standing over him. ‘Delay the recovery of your strength. A better time will present itself soon.’ Her use of the tongue of man was telling of her own language. Hemmer had not had the opportunity, nor motive to tell her he spoke her language. He decided not to play his card yet. ‘What’s your name?’ He asked the question that had been in the back of his mind for some time, but the idea to ask her now was so spontaneous that he surprised himself. She looked at him for a moment. Her golden eyes piercing and probing him. ‘Naleth’ She said without expression. Another moment passed, she relaxed slightly letting her hip jut to one side. ‘What do they call you lowlander?’ Hemmer started to answer ‘Deitri’, Hemmer. I am called Hemmer.’ She turned away from him and started walking. ‘There is much to be done this day Hemmer, You can rest later.’ Her words trailed off as she moved between two large marble blocks deeper into the ruins.

Using his rifle he pulled himself to his feet. His head reacted violently to the change in position. His vision fogged and turned black at the edges. Points of light pricked at the dark borders of his haze. He steeled his resolve and calmed the tides that attempted to topple him. Following Naleth’s path, he willed himself forward. After a few unsteady steps he found a rhythm that allowed him travel at a decent pace.

The ruins barely resembled a city. Giant stones lay scattered like a child’s blocks over a forgotten field. It wasn’t long before he entered a section of the ruins that was familiar.

He couldn’t be sure whether it was the injury to his head or whether the madness of the elf was spreading. He kept hearing voices, the song of the dead. Each step he took they drew nearer. He looked up to get his bearings. He was close behind the elf. He had been following her sound more than watching where she was going. The images of the events that happened here ten years ago were crowding into his conscious thoughts. Hemmer rapped his fist against his head in an attempt to drive out the images, but they would not leave. The pleas of the dead returned to him as if he were driving his sword into them all over again.

His mouth hung slack, saliva pooled under his tongue and spilled over his lips. Shadows moved off to his right. His head tilted to follow the images sending his body stumbling in the opposite direction. Soon a swarm of shadows pressed in on him. Accusing in their aspect. ‘Get away from me! I am done with you!’ He spat the words at the shadows. The stinging he had felt from his encounter with the wild spirit returned. Cold chills passed over him and a sinking feeling gripped him. This place knew him.

The crimes committed here were above man’s law. The laws of nature permitted savagery among animals. Man it seems was capable of things unimagined in nature.

He would soon have to atone for his transgressions. He became acutely aware of the empty tubes on his belt. They felt like guilt reborn. He had spilled blood. He knew the taste of it. His own and his enemy’s. ‘You brought this upon yourselves!’ Hemmer’s spittle laced words were directed at the phantoms. ‘I am not finished yet. What I took, I took on the field of battle. You, you took the lives of innocents.’ He chocked on the accusation. Hemmer rubbed his thumb against his ring finger. ‘We’ll see who is the vengeful spirit.’ Slurring his words he stumbled forward.

Moving between and among the stones of the ruins he felt small. Cemeteries had such stones, but the dead had been laid to rest there. Unrest grew in the spirits like a pot set to boil. They too had cause to hate.

He felt as though he was pushing through water to keep up with the elf, dragging the sprits behind him like a long cape laden with stones. His head throbbed, but all else was numb. Euphoria erased the pain that had been his constant companion. He could see his feet moving, but he no longer felt them. He followed the elf into an archway. As he entered his eyesight failed him in the darkness. He could no longer see his feet. Was he flying? A bright spark exploded behind his eyes then silence. The stream of his delirium continued to wash him away. He was floating, floating on a sea of phantoms. Bleached fingers pulled at his skin. Fingers probed his face, his nose, his lips, they had the touch of the blind ‘ reading him, drawing him in. Hemmer sank into the sea of the dead. In the distance he heard his heart beating. The war drum was strong. Was this a dream?

Naleth doubled back to see what was taking the man so long. She found him unconscious a few steps inside the ruined temple. He had a fresh wound on his head from a fall. She rolled him onto his back and grabbed him high on his arm and dragged him into the great hall.

Why him? What had her people done to lose favor with the Goddess? She studied his sun-weathered face. Why Him! She gripped his face and squeezed it with contempt. His stubbled face was foreign to her experience, it was rough like a wool blanket. She withdrew her hand it still held the memory of the feeling. She balled her hand into a fist and erased the sensation.

The cleansing ritual was something she knew from stories told in her youth. It was said the elders performed the ritual before seeking an audience with Goddess. The details of the ritual were secret, known only to the elders. The only thing she had to go on were childhood stories and intuition.

She knelt on the temple floor by a pool of rainwater. Tugging gently on the silk straps of her armor she released the shoulder straps. She leaned forward to pull the breastplate over her head. In doing so she caught sight of her reflection in the water. Tears had washed away the paint she had worn to cover her freckles. She was not so different from her captive. What was he now? He was free to go. I am his captive? She asked herself. He holds the truth of my faith, my existence in him. She removed her leggings and gauntlets placing them along side her armor. She knelt over the water in a stained shirt that ended at her hips.

Cupping water in her hands, Naleth brought it to her face. The cold water tingled against her skin. Casting a glance toward the unconscious man a few strides away, she removed her shirt. Pushing the soiled garment into the water, she massaged the material, coaxing the dirt and sweat away. Naleth used the garment as a washcloth. Each passing of the cloth over her body brought a chill. The jungle’s heat would soon undo her work, but for now she was clean.

Naleth stood, rung out the shirt, then donned it more. Turning toward the rubble filled stairs, she glanced again to the human spirit-walker. ‘I will have answers. Goddess deny me no more.’

‘The door is down! Move in.’ The commander’s voice cracked with zeal. Armored men, swords drawn, poured into the shadowy doorway. Inside the screams of the Fey that had been barring the door quickly faded. Hemmer moved inside with his bloody sword held low. Confident and unsatisfied he moved inside. The carnage was exquisite. Moving with haste he made for the stairs. The crowd of retreating Elves was piled at the base of the narrow stairs. Women fled with their young in an attempt to escape the inevitable. There were no warriors left to defend them. Hemmer joined the melee. It was a foot race. His blade moved unimpeded from one to the next. They had ceased to be living beings they were the funnels of his aggression. He killed indiscriminately, not stopping until he reached the top of the stairs.

Hemmer awoke with a start. It took a moment for him to get his bearings. The temple. He groaned, waiting for his head to clear. He had been here before. The King, the elite guard, the voices of the past were crowding his head.

Leaning his head back he stared at the ceiling. He was weary. His body felt like driftwood run aground. Even though he was awake his eyelids were heavy. It was quiet in the cavernous hall. The wind outside intensified. Peering through the thin slits of his squinted eyes he saw a small bundle tied neatly near him. It was the armor the elf had worn.

Coaxing himself to concentrate, he took in the details of his environment. The smoke charred hall was enormous. Several doorways opened to dark recesses. The doors and frames had been burned away years ago. She was nowhere in sight.

Climbing slowly to his feet Hemmer took his rifle in hand and moved closer to the bundle. His leather boots echoed in the open space. On the floor next to it were damp footprints. He followed them to a narrow set of stairs. The steps curved in a tight spiral upward. The further he traveled up the stairs the darker it became. Soon the afternoon sun was a memory, he was feeling his way though the stairs in total blackness. There in the pitch he felt that he was no longer alone. The heavy, moist air was motionless and stale. The stifling heat in the stairwell made it feel like a chimney. The air before him felt as though it were going to boil. Then it gave form to its heat. Two words belched forth ‘Sacoul Sect.’ He had heard these words before. He knew the translation without thinking ‘ kin slayer.

In the darkness spirits emerged. Even without light Hemmer could see their shapes coalescing. More of them were forming. Malice emanated from them like an invisible sun. He quickened his stride, feeling each step with his boot before putting his weight fully on the tread. For several minutes he pressed on tripping over broken stones and rubble on the stairs. Ahead he noticed that the stairs started to grow lighter. The wind too returned with a welcome breeze. On the stairs at his feet, mixed in with the stones, were bones and skulls. ‘Unwelcome reunion’. The words flew from his lips with a snort. A few steps further and he was clear of the stairs. An unnatural light filled the room ahead. Bathed in the glow of it was the young elf maiden.

It had been hours since she arrived at the open roofed sacred chamber. A gentle radiance illuminated the chamber. A voice filled with such passion and warmth as to bring tears of joy, addressed her by name. ‘Naleth Treewhisper, forest child speak your peace, our time is short.’ Naleth trembled in the presence of the otherworld being. Her voice would not steady itself and her thoughts were frantic. Everything she wanted to say, all the words she had rehearsed in her head, only amounted to one. With tears streaming down her face all she could muster was, ‘WHY?’

The impassioned voice of the Goddess charged the air with her rebuttal. ‘You who has scorned me at every turn. Accepted or declined my teachings at your whim. You have not earned the right to question me! This MAN whom you attribute with my blessings bears no such gift from me. He is a product of his ancestry, no more. He is a union of us all. And with my blessing shall continue down his path. Your brethren at this very moment come to claim him. They will see him judged for his actions. Your bringing him here has angered the dead.’ ‘I did not bring him here!’ Defiance edged into her voice. They will be the judges of that.’ The Goddesses words were delivered as a warning. Naleth formed the words in her head. What am I to do now? The Goddess answered before she could pose the question. ‘The answer is already in your heart. Ready yourself, When I depart you will be tested.’ The light of the Goddess faded and the room returned to its half-light.

Naleth looked up. She scanned the shadowed room. In the darkness of the western wall were the living shadows of her people. In defiance of the sun they crawled into the daylight. Moans and whispers shot accusations in her native tongue. She bore their malice as they came at her in waves. Inexperienced in the nature of the dead, she was paralyzed by their assault. Icy spines penetrated her as each fettered soul vented its hate. Naleth fell backward raising her hands defensively with no effect. The spirits pressed in. She could not avoid them or escape them. She was suffocating, choking on their anger. The anguish pushed down on her. She opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound escaped her lips. She was sliding across the floor. Moving to an opening in the wall. The ruined city came into full view as she neared the hole in the tower. Clawing against the stone floor she was unable to stop her movement. The opening was too wide to grasp the edges. Franticly searching the floor for something to hold onto, she found a seam in the stonework. Her fingers bit into the groove. Measuring her strength against the will of so many was futile. The spirits bashed at her hands and pulled at her legs. Her body hung over the precipice. Far below the broken stones offered a quick death.

The tips of her fingers felt as if they were going to explode. The clawing hands of the damned were tearing at her, intent on her destruction. She felt a set of hands grip her forearms. The hands seemed to reach into her very core. Then she felt the other spirits redirect their attention to the one holding her. She was one with the spirit. Their emotions flowed freely, without the hinderance of language or rune. She felt the spirit’s pain, fear, love and hate blossom into resolve. It was the spirit-walker. With the horde of spirits attention directed at him, she crawled away from the opening and moved toward the stairs.

Once she was clear of the shadows she turned to see that Hemmer was in the midst of them. His body was on all fours. Her innate empathy toward spirits had given her sight. She had seen it on the battlefield and in the houses of those as their life spark transcended. The cherished memory of the self in transition to the beyond was as clear to her as a shadow in sunlight.

His spirit was waning, but she sensed his resolve had not changed. With each passing moment his spirit grew dimmer. She sprung to her feet without thinking and launched herself into the fray. Placing her hands on his body as she had done before, she held his spirit in place. Locked in this symbiotic embrace they stayed the hand of fate, but time was overtaking them. The spirits would gain strength as the sun’s light faded. The two of them would eventually succumb to exhaustion. It felt as if a sandstorm was blowing over them. She buried her face in his vest in an attempt to avert the pain. She was close to him again in the spiritual bonding. Through her fingers his essence flowed. Images flashed In her head. Memories ‘ His.

A light from the center of the room sent a wave of silence over her. The angry spirits shrunk from it and the storm of pain abated. Naleth opened her eyes to see the Elven honor guard from The Gathering Place. She had seldom wished to see the white cloaks and black armor of the Veighsee, but with their arrival her relief was complete. She stood and moved toward the commander. He shot her a glance and she stopped in her tracks.

The slender black-skinned commander signaled to his troops. One of the elves advanced toward her. In his arms was her armor, bundled just as she left it. ‘Lady Treewhisper, I believe these are yours.’ The soldiers’ formal tone leaked no emotion. He took a step back, and then rejoined the others.

The commander ordered his men to secure the prisoner. The evening sun illuminated is upper half, his lower half eclipsed by the half wall of the sacred chamber. His ashen skin was moist with perspiration. He pursed his lips and spoke. ‘We will be departing for The Gathering place presently. My staff will only keep the spirits at bay for a short time. Scout, is there anything you require before we depart?’

Naleth wanted to protest as they placed Hemmer in irons, but she was back among her people now and her lapse earlier would not be tolerated. He was a kin slayer after all and he would be judged.

Still facing forward, she allowed herself a sideways glance at him. He was still on his knees facing the sundered wall where she had nearly met her end. They pulled him to his feet. He did not resist: compliant once again. As the guards marched him toward the stairs he looked up. His blue eyes were steely. She could see the water welling in his eyes. He opened his mouth, his eyes transfixed on her. ‘Sohlou Rou Teehenna’ The words where spoken with perfect dialect. His clear understanding of her language was not what gave her pause, it was the words. ‘Now you see.’