A reflection of the moon Isiltelpë, partially obscured by pewter grey clouds rippled in a puddle that had formed in between a set of cobblestones until a large, scaled foot crashed down into the water, destroying the image in an eruption of sparkling water.

The foot belonged to a heavily armed Lizarian, who towered over the squad of yrch minions that had been placed at his disposal. The lizarian paused, resting the double headed axe on his shoulder as he licked the air with his forked tongue. He surveyed the environment back and forth for movement that would give away the position of his prey. Lit only by the moon, the street was deserted and soon the orcs under his command grew restless and idly fidgeted. The road before them rose a little before turning right and swerving deeper into the town.

Though a lifetime of fighting to the death with siblings had left him knowing better than to follow the instincts of the goblins, he too felt the urge to satiate his bloodthirsty urges. The air was thin and cool, the wind seemed to stand perfectly still. It was a perfectly calm night. Soon growing impatient with the lack of activity, he raised the axe above his head and hissed orders to the Yrch.

"Move out, you slimy rodents! He couldn't have gotten far!"

"Niii-yahhh!" Shouted one of the goblins in its nasally voice, waving a chipped and dented cleaver knife in the air as the group took off at a quick jog down the road.

*****
Jaz Verdek's lungs seemed to be on fire. Hiding in a derelict hovel, he had watched the lizarian and his patrol from the cracks in the wooden siding. He couldn't tell exactly how long the squad had stood in the middle of the street, or how many times the Lizarian's head had swung in the direction of his hiding position, but it had seemed like he had been holding his breath for an eternity. When the sound of their screeching voices disappeared out of earshot he finally allowed himself to gasp for air. The stench of mildewed straw at the floor of the building assaulted his senses while he waited for his heart's beating to resume a natural pace.

Then, carefully looking both ways to make sure the coast was clear, he stepped out into the alley way.


The city-state of Hajlicze sat at a crossroads deep in the heart of the Salquedor Grasslands. It had evolved from a small farming community to a thriving trade center after some enterprising individual had built a small fortress to defend the town from bandits and disruptive monsters. Over time, the town wrapped itself around the fort as refugees from other jeopardized villages swarmed to Hajlicze for protection, and then, following the abatement of whatever their crises were, failed to move back. Thus, the small city resembled a ring of haphazardly collected ramshackle housing radiating from the central fortified citadel. The main road cut a diagonal swath to the southwest through the city to the gates of the fort, though a labyrinth of smaller roads and alleys allowed access to any section from the numerous secondary access points in the fort's defenses.

At some point not to long ago, the warlord Andrik Berishaj seized power in a bloody coup de etat against the previous leaders, the ruthlessly corrupt Iordanescu family.

While few in Hajlicze shed any tears at the passing of the decadent Iordanescus, the new despot had cracked down on political dissent with a violence that destroyed any support he may have had amongst the people, proving to them only that they were now even more at the mercy of tyrants than they had been before.

In order to implement his authority over the surrounding countryside hamlets, Berishaj dispatched his forces to extort many of the squireen kulak families. One of these families was the Kucharik family, which was how, beyond all probability, Jaz Verdek had wound up in this remote city, evading patrols of Yrch foot soldiers.

In an effort to coerce the resistant Kuchariks to support his taxation policies, Berishaj's goons had abducted Krystyna Kucharik, the young daughter of the family.

Although rescuing her had looked like easy money at the time, as Jaz prowled the dark streets of Hajlicze guided only by the moonlight, he was beginning to have second thoughts. The tall thick walls of the fortress and the towers rising from the keep within them looked eerily black against the grey-blue moonlit skyline, imposing both in physical size and psychological depth.

Jaz checked his longsword and headed off toward the looming stronghold.

*****
Jaz approached the massive eastern wall of the fortress. Some 50 feet tall, made of stone and brick, Jaz wasn't sure, exactly, how he was going to get through the obstacle. Between the castle's wall and the town there was a gravel road about 100 feet wide, allowing the guards pacing the ramparts to easily spot any group of approaching attackers.

One lone attacker, concealed by the night’s shadows, however, wasn't as easy to spot.

Watching the silhouettes of the guards above, Jaz waited for them to pass by as they finished their rounds. Spotting an opening, he sprinted the across the loose stone roadway, sliding to a noisy stop, and flattened himself against the base of the wall.

He paused to catch his breath, then turned back to the task at hand. Originally, the fort had been constructed seamlessly, the mortar in between the stone slabs sanded down into a nearly polished surface to deprive anyone of the chance to scale its defenses.

Fortunately for Jaz, time and the hand of man had worn divots into the facade, cracks that might be used for balance by a skilled climber. While the half-elf was in no way a skilled climber, he had seen people do similar things before, and shrugged off concern. He scooped a handful of chalky gravel from the ground beneath him and rubbed his hands together, eliminating residual sweat brought about by his nervousness.

He slid one hand after the other along the rocky vertical surface, eventually finding depressions deep enough to grip. Raising his right leg, he placed it on a rocky protuberance, and pushed down with his leg, raising himself several feet into the air. With his left leg, he scouted the surface, eventually finding a cavity that he could fit the toe of his boot in. Thus braced, he reached out with his left hand to find the next handhold. It was the same routine that any professional climber utilized.

Unfortunately, as it has been previously stated, Jaz was no professional climber.

Without his left hand providing balance, the entire weight of his upper body rested on his precariously positioned right hand. His fingers, never truly secured, slid away from their handhold, causing his whole body to tilt backwards. Gravity did the rest of the work, taking back down to the gravel he started from. He landed hard, the impact soliciting a huff of air.

As he stood back onto his feet, he could hear a commotion from further up on the wall. The guards, it seemed had overheard his fumblings and were currently moving to respond.

The half-elf took off, sprinting back across the stony clearing to seek cover amongst the line of shanty hovels. He dove over a rundown fence, keeping himself prone with his face in the grass, safely obscured behind the barrier. He swiftly pivoted himself around, spying through wooden fence line at the large black walls. The soldiers, black against the night sky, were practically invisible, though the torches they held gave their positions away by bobbing up and down.

He lowered his head, breathing in the cool night air through his nostrils and smelling the scent of dew-covered grass. Small rocks buried amongst the turf pressed against his face, but he refused to move, for fear that the guards would see the motion. Had it not been for the sense of impending doom, he could easily have felt peaceful. The full moon cast its weak light across the landscape, plunging the shadows into an even darker black in contrast to the objects that reflected the light. Slowly, the sound of the Hajlicze soldiers grew distant, perhaps moving off to search for movement elsewhere. Jaz exhaled a long breath.

"Most people seeking to enter the castle choose to utilize the gates."

The voice, as strangely creepy as it was unexpected, froze Jaz's blood cold as he realized he had not been as unseen as he assumed. The half-elf flipped himself over, scooting away from the sound of the voice.

"No worries, young sir, I'm no Berishaj minion," the voice spoke again.

Jaz scanned the shack he had just crawled away from, and noticed the speaker standing stone still next to a wooden post on the opposite side of the hovel. The human male had long, unkempt hair and an equally unkempt beard, and wore what looked to be a single-piece wool garment. The colors of the world were all indistinguishable, as the moon's light reduced everything to various shades of grey and black. Though the man's sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones echoed a derelict lifestyle, something, perhaps a glint in his eye, or his posture, or his polished accent betrayed a history of affluence. Jaz couldn't be certain of any of these observations, and thus reached for his sword anyway.

The man chuckled, shifting slightly to put his weight on the pillar. "Perhaps you should come with me before you wind up drawing attention to yourself. That is, of course, unless you are actually intent on taking on Berishaj's entire army singlehandedly. Naturally, I wouldn't suggest that. Though, perhaps, it would be fun to watch."

Jaz was suspicious, but having no one else to turn to, nor anywhere to run, could think of no better tactic than stalling for time. "Who are you, then?"

"My name is Youash Sokratis. A former chamberlain to House Iordanescu. While my family might not have been the most... beloved... in Hajlicze history, I can assure you that I have a vested interest in supporting whatever mischief you intend to bring about for the current residents of the castle. We should get away from the castle before we draw attention to ourselves."

The half-elf didn't trust the man for a second, but under the circumstances, given the potential for help, couldn't refuse. "Okay, lead on."

*****
The pair cut a winding path through the veritable maze of wooden dwellings, avoiding the main thoroughfares to elude the search teams that prowled the streets. Walking in silence, they were practically undetectable, soliciting little more than the odd peak from citizens who notices them through half-opened doorways. This was not unexpected. In the city of Hajlicze, where the fist of authority often came down indiscriminately, it was better to utilize excuses like "I didn't see anything" than it was to actually report crimes and by doing so draw the attention of the authorities. Thus, any citizen that did see the two shadowy figures moving about in the moonlight simply closed their doors and convinced themselves that it was all just a trick of the lights. They reached the abode of Youash Sokratis without incident; 'house' being an overly generous term for what was little more than a windowless one-room shack.

Jaz was apprehensive as the man led him into the unlit interior, perhaps understandably so given the odd nature of their meeting. But, Jaz was forced to realize, had the man intended him any harm there would have been a thousand opportunities before now, and had the man actually been with the guards, there would have been no need for the elaborate charade.

"Close the door," Youash whispered, fumbling about in the dark confines of the hut. Jaz followed as instructed, plunging the room into pitch black. A crack and hiss later, a match held by the elderly man expelled a globe of light which, with their eyes adjusted to the night, was overpowering. The old man used the match to light a single candle that sat atop a small wooden table located in the center of the room, then proceeded to slouch back into a small chair.

The room was spartan, Jaz observed. Aside from a torn banner that displayed the Iordanescu family crest with it's stylized letter 'I' that hung from the wall opposite the single door, there were no decorations covering the bare wooden walls. The table, the chair and a foot stool were the only furniture in the home, though a mess of straw and linen in the corner approximated a bed on the earthen floor.

"Even here we must keep our voices down," the elderly fellow muttered, lighting a pipe with his still burning match. "Berishaj's men are thorough indeed. But as I was saying, there are other, better ways to enter the castle than trying to bully your way past the guards. Even a properly equipped army would have a tough time defeating the walls of Hajlicze, and you seem to be quite a few soldiers shy of an army."

Jaz, of course, needed no reminder that he was on his own. Had he not been alone, he wouldn't have had to spend so much time evading the seemingly ever-present foot patrols.

"But if there is a way into the fortress," Jaz stated, "they must be watching it by now."

The former chamberlain hissed as he blew smoke from his nostrils. "I am alive, am I not? When they butchered my lord's family, I made my escape, but not through mixing with the pandemonium like the others. Which is why, of course, the others found their heads mounted on pikes the next day, while I am living a life of absolute luxury."

Jaz didn't know if he should feign amusement at his benefactor's strange, morbid, self-depreciating humor, which was made even more disturbing by the man's sinister chuckle.

"But anyway, Berishaj is a thug. A militarist. He thinks he is safe behind his walls, his army. He crushes the people for money that he then wastes recklessly on his own lavish lifestyle and keeping his army satisfied. The army is the key to the fortress, and the fortress the key to Hajlicze. His time and effort are spent keeping the army content with the money the army brings to him from squeezing the people. Quite the symbiotic relationship, wouldn't you say?"

Jaz, while interested by the former chamberlain's views on the application of realist political theory failed to see how any of this was relevant to his task. "Soo, this helps me?"

"It helps both of us. I know not what your cause is but it does not matter. Any damage you inflict on Berishaj will diminish his leadership in the eyes of his men. Someone, another officer perhaps, eyeing his throne, might decide that it is time for Berishaj's own head to stand on a pike," The old man let off a mirthful cackling chuckle, made all the more ominous as plumes of smoke rose from his mouth. His sinister facial expression was accentuated by the shadows cast by the candle light as he rocked back in his chair. "You can have whatever you want, it concerns me not. I, in turn, shall have my revenge."

"Yes, but what does this have to do with getting inside the castle?"

Youash stroked his beard then took another puff of smoke. "Isn't it obvious," the man choked out a spurt of smoke, "the castle is as fundamentally unsecured as it is impregnable. A paradox, you see. Brought about by overconfidence in both Berishaj's ability to lead and his soldiers' success in suppressing the population. All they are concerned with is preventing invasions and uprisings, the two things that can harm their flow of gold. They are so busy manning the wall and policing the streets that the more subtle flaws present in any fortification can be exploited against them. Stealth and planning, rather than brawn and courage, are your weapons in Hajlicze. Which is why you need me, and I need you."

"Another way into the castle then?"

"Precisely. As with all buildings that are designed to withstand a siege, Hajlicze fortress has systems for expelling the waste that accumulates without dumping it over the wall."

"I didn't see any drains at the base of the walls while I was scouting the perimeter, though. That's why I was trying to scale the wall itself."

"My boy, you must learn to think more broadly. What sort of an idiot would build a large drain at the base of an impregnable wall? That would form a weak point a besieging army could then undermine with magic, or even explosives, which would render the remaining defenses useless. No, lad. At Hajlicze the sewer was built over one-hundred years ago by slaves. It is underground, buried so that foreign armies will never know its location."

"But you do?"

The old man grinned. "I told you. It’s how I escaped. At the northeast edge of the city lies lake Algir, little more than an oversized pond that collects run off and rain water throughout the year, providing the town with its drinking water. There is a spot at the water's edge, beneath the surface just enough to evade casual observation, where one can find the opening to the castle's drainage system. Too small for use by any large or heavily armed soldiers, one of our size and stature can climb into it with ease, and crawl the mile and a half back to the fortress. I shall prepare a map of the castle grounds for you, so that once you emerge inside the fortress you will know how to get about."

"Will you take me there now?"

"No. It will be light soon and you have been awake all night. I wouldn't want you crawling out of the well in the midst of Berishaj's PT formation. Today you shall rest, recover your strength. In the evening I shall take you down to the lake. That way by the time you are ready to strike it will be just past nightfall. My god lad, it will be magnificent!"

*****
The Castle of Hajlicze, known affectionately as Doomstorm Keep by its current residents, stood atop the surrounding city like a conquering hero. The power center of self-proclaimed Grand Duke Andrik Berishaj's small empire, its walls had been reinforced and expanded, creating an imposing edifice that lorded over the surrounding countryside. There was not a single peasant within a dozen miles who couldn't see his lord's domain in the distance and be assured of the havoc that disobedience could unleash. The red and black banners of Hajlicze flew from its five towers while lance-armed soldiers stood watch beneath the stark black Iron Wall, the colossal forward rampart of the facility. From the center of the Iron Wall hung a cage holding the decaying remains of Berishaj's former minister, Mikulas. The minister, as it turns out, had the misfortune of suggesting renaming the castle with a "softer, kinder" label. He reasoned it would inspire the local countrymen by winning their hearts and minds. Duke Berishaj, who had quite an eye for drab, authoritarian things, called the minister to his chambers and after an insightful half-hour long round-robin panel discussion of the issue ordered Mikulas executed on the charge of promoting cowardice in the ranks. So ended all discussion of Berishaj's reign adopting kindlier, gentler atmosphere. And so the soldiers patrolling the walls kept one eye on their tasks and another on the keep, where the Grand Duke held his court.


"There is still the issue of compensation," Baran the Merchant continued, his eyes glancing nervously around the room. His uneasy shifting beneath heavy multilayered robes resulted in the jiggling of his large gold-plated necklace. "My lord the Sultan of Gaulilla is most insistent on coming to some form of accord with regards to his participation in this adventure. War can be terribly disruptive to trade after all, and he does think that some form of preemptive reimbursement is in order."

Grand Duke Andrik Berishaj, Lord of the Grand Duchy of Hajlicze, scrutinized the shady merchant. Undoubtedly nervous- failing the Sultan uniformly resulted in death- the merchant struggled to betray as little emotion as possible. The tassel of the pudgy man's black chaperon hat fluttered slightly in the breeze passing through the northern bay window before settling over his left shoulder. It was true that the Grand Duke needed the Sultan's support and thus had dire need to reach some degree of understanding. It was just as true, however, that the Sultan, who for so long chafed under the rule of the Lords of Lomedor, would need the Duke to deal with these troublesome powers that be. The question was not if they would reach an agreement, but how much Sultan Al-Hadari would extort from Andrik before signing on officially. And so this merchant, hand-picked by the Sultan for his well-developed haggling skills, was negotiating for his life as much as the Sultan's interests. By driving too hard a bargain, Andrik might walk away, failing the mission. On the other hand, giving in too early would arouse the Sultan's ire, which, of course, would bode ominously for Baran's long-term survival.

For decades, the Sultan's raiders had struck out of the Anfauglir Desert with virtual impunity, sacking any caravans that failed to pay tribute to Gaulilla and terrorizing the villages that received the few caravans that dared run the raiders' gauntlet. More recently, the Royal Knights of Lomedor and their Cossack mercenaries had brought an end to the Sultan's monopoly over trade, driving the raiders deeper into the northern desert. With peace now reigning over Ea, other trade routes had reopened. Most chose to avoid the treacherous deserts altogether, putting even more nails in the coffin of Gaulilla's kleptocratic economy.

What Andrik had in mind, however, would make even the Sultan's greedy eyes gleam. Concessions were of no importance to the Duke of Hajlicze. After all, any treaty could be bent or broken. Or ignored entirely for that matter. Treaties, Andrik had always believed, were of use only when retaliation for breaking them was a threat. Once Andrik had power, he reasoned, he would no longer need allies abroad.

Though past middle age, Andrik was no weakling and would never cower in his chair while issuing commands the way the now-defunct Iordanescu had. Andrik stood from his throne, the large gold pendant of Hajlicze dancing off the polished silver breastplate of state. He swept his gaze across the notable individuals that stood amongst the retainers in the large throne room.

Havlik, commander of the Ducal Guards, stood still as a statue on his left. Havlik wore his black plate armor neck to toe, the demonic skull-shaped helmet carried under his left arm while his wickedly serrated sword dangled from his right hip. In addition to his missing right eye, a scar across the bridge of his nose gave evidence of the Commander's long martial history. The expression on his face was as hard and imposing as the armor he wore. Havlik's fanatical loyalty and unforgiving nature made him the perfect war leader for the ambitious Grand Duke.

Perched on the window sill under the large bay window to the right of the throne, the young Count Maehim Von Jezyk sat sniffing the blue-dyed rose he held in his right hand. Many dismissed the young Lomedor noble as little more than a fop but Andrik knew much better. Beneath the rakish exterior and behind his ice blue eyes lay the calculating mind and chilling soul of a monster. His straight raven-black hair was parted down the middle and hung down to his jaw line. His dark blue jerkin covered much of a yellow doublet, though he kept the cape that clung to the left shoulder of his uniform wrapped around him as he sat. His pendent of station that marked him as a count hung loosely from his neck, for it had been designed for his more rotund father. The father had, sadly, passed on not to long before under incredibly suspicious circumstances, the boy's quick assumption of his father's mantle and brutal suppression of opposition left Andrik few doubts about the identity of the true architect of the old Count's fate. It was the same sort of move Berishaj himself would have executed. This meant the boy was far too dangerous to be allowed to survive and threaten the Duke's power later on, but at this stage in the game, Berishaj needed the new Count's intellect and resources. To the Duke, Jezyk, like most people, was a resource to be utilized and then destroyed when it was no longer convenient.

Elger, the Mages Guild representative was much more of an enigma. Dressed in peasant finery, Elger lacked the ostentatious appearance that the Duke always associated with the mages. None-the-less, he seemed to possess his own aura of malign energy. Hungry, sunken eyes remained perpetually in motion over an omnipresent grin of chipped teeth. In his hand he flipped a single gold coin. Andrik knew the man was not to be trusted, and wondered why, exactly, the Mages Guild would dispatch such a peculiar agent. If their aim had been to maintain a low profile, his ragamuffin appearance would be even more noticeable among a group of nobles than the usual Mages Guild uniform. Andrik had yet to discern the interests of the Mages Guild in this situation; the enigmatic archons of the Emerald Tower always played their cards close to their robed chests. It was they who had shown interest in the young Kucharik girl; even now their interrogator, Sybarin, was working on her. But they had offered their support, and Andrik was more than willing to accept.

Finally, he let his eyes drift back to Al-Hadari's representative. The merchant shifted again as the Duke's gaze dropped on him. "I believe I have a solution that will suit both our interests. Tell your master I offer him the world."

The Grand Duke waved tat the guards standing at the heavily reinforced wooden double doors at the entrance of the room. They pulled the door open and immediately a trio of rough-looking, burly warriors thundered in through the open doorway. Decked out in ox-hide leather and thick wool overcoats, red sashes trailed from their waists. They carried their beloved recurve bows slung across their chests while lethal sabers dangled from their belts. Thick black facial hair obscured most of their pitted and scarred heads; unkempt beards merged into their equally wild hair. Their eyes burned with a malice that echoed in every heavy footstep down the center aisle's red carpet. The Sultan's emissary turned pale.

All three stopped just shy of the throne, standing at attention. They then executed a flawless deep bow at the waist.

"Komban-wa, Tono," The first began to speak, "Hunnan namewa, kanadesudeska-"

"Oh, stop it," Von Jezyk interrupted, breaking the silence he had held all afternoon. All eyes turned on him, none more angrily than those of the man he was addressing. Uncoiling from his seat on the sill, he dropped to the floor and faced the wild-eyed warriors, unfazed by their hostility. "First of all, you're supposed to be cossacks, not samurai. Second of all, this is supposed to be make-believe Europe allegory land, not feudal Japan. Lastly, faux-Japanese? Please. While it might sound cool to periodically shout things like 'baka!' or 'Ike!' it is incredibly out of character and unrealistic."

The lead cossack roared in return, clutching the pommel of his saber. "I am Hunnan! The Swooping Hawk! War leader of the Red River Cossacks! Who DARES insult me?"

"SILENCE!"

The Grand Duke's booming voice drowned out the verbal sparing match between the two underlings. With a huff the cossack returned his gaze to the Grand Duke, and, after a pause, continued his introduction.

"I am here at the request of the Grand Hetman, Daujotis. Our camp is assembled and ready to march. For too long have we suffered the indignities of the Aristocrats of Lomedor. Our people grate under their decadent culture, while their armies occupy our rightful lands and devour our rightful produce! We stand ready to fight alongside the Grand Duke of Hajlicze if he stands against the tyranny of Lomedor!"

Baran the merchant was livid. "Cossacks," He nearly squealed at Berishaj, "Unacceptable! This is an outrage! You would have us make common cause with these infidel animals?"

The animosity between the raiders of Gaulilla and the Cossacks was epic. For centuries they had battled each other on the fringes of civilization, fighting over scraps and raiding rights. The presence of friction amongst Berishaj's coalition partners was a calculated risk, but a necessary one. With both of their armies at his disposal, he could bring a force to rival any in Arda.

"I think, freeman Baran," The Grand Duke said in a leveled tone, "that the Sultan would much prefer having the Cossacks as allies. In exchange for your participation, the Cossacks will allow the Sultan his choice of slaves from captured populations and promise free and exclusive movement of Gaulilla's caravans."

The merchant was taken aback by the Grand Duke's offer. Any uncertainty behind the wisdom of aligning with their age-old enemies was washed away by the image of gold pieces that the Duke could almost see dancing in the merchant's eye.

"I imagine that would be acceptable." The Sultan's man stammered.

"Very good," Andrik said, repressing the smirk that could have easily formed on his lips. He turned his attention back to the Cossack. "War leader Hunnan, return to your camp and tell your Hetman that the time is at hand."

*****
The dark passageway possessed a noxious odor that Jaz simply could not grow accustomed to. Scuffling along, stooping to fit in the narrow confines, the sound of slowly draining water was his only companion. The slippery rocks that line the tunnel were coated with an indiscernible film that the half-elf didn't wish to know the origin of, though he unfortunately found himself guessing. But this, combined with the upward slant of the tunnel, made the trip that much more complicated, sapping strength as he was required to constantly seek better purchase to simply remain still, much less attain forward motion.

For what seemed like an eternity and a half, he crawled at a backbreaking snail's pace, growing more and more frustrated. He couldn't tell how long it had been since he had left the old man by the lakeside and swam up through the mouth of the passageway. The fact that it was once again night outside was not a factor at all; the depth and length of the tunnel were enough to cut off outside light sources.

The temptation to vomit at the increasingly fetid reek doubled as he tried to breathe using his mouth. The odor of the air had a palatable taste that was even worse than the smell. He brought up his bandana to his nose, hoping that perhaps the scent of his own sweat would dilute the fumes, but his hands, covered in the filth of the surrounding walls only magnified the problem due to their proximity to his nostrils.

The quality of the refuse continued to increase, both in quantity and in quality. Quality being a relative term when being used to describe decayed matter, but none the less, emaciated debris gave way to putrefying scraps, a sure sign that he was nearing the end of this hellish experience.

Soon enough though, he saw light. Not much, barely a solitary sparkle of light in the distance, but after what seemed like an eternity of foul darkness, any light at all was a sign of salvation. With a renewed sense of urgency, he pulled himself along, clumsily groping and slipping his path toward what had to be the exit.

The tunnel opened into a vault of a cavern, the dimensions of which were impossible to tell given the lack of light. The floor squished as Jaz stepped out onto it, happy to be relieved of the confines of the tunnel, and flexed his back to work out the kinks in preparation for his next feat. The room before him was a trash depository, dominated by a large conical pile of rubbage, discarded scraps of meat, feces and whatever else the people of the fortress tossed into it. Fluids draining from elsewhere in the castle poured down on the heap, creating runoff that lead back down the tunnel Jaz just finished navigating. The point of the rancid cone pointed upwards to a circular hole in the center of the roof, which, if the old man was telling the truth, lead up to a large well in the center of the castle grounds. That it lead to a well of some sort wasn't a lie; Jaz could see clouds moving across a starry sky as he looked up through the hole.

Jaz then took the time to review his notes, noting that once he left this vault he would have to move with a purpose lest he be spotted by some idling member of Berishaj's army. Immediately upon exiting the well, the castle itself would be directly to the north. However logical, he wouldn't attack the building itself, as that would draw the attention of the guards stood eternally vigilant at the front door. Instead, he would head for the servant's shack attached to the building's eastern side. From there he would be able to access the less well known and accordingly less well-guarded entrance to the central building of the complex. The keep itself was a fairly simple design, with the first floor being the administrative section, the second floor being the barracks, the third the armory, the fourth private apartments and the fifth half-floor being the private quarters of the Duke himself. Jaz, however, was looking for the basement level, of which the southern half was provision storage and the northern the dungeon. Which, as the old man had reminded him repeatedly, was important because neither of the two were connected; if he found himself in the middle of crates of flour and salted meats, he would have to go all the way back up to the first floor then head back down to the dungeon.

With that in mind, he stepped forward through the cesspool and began to ascend the pile of refuse, as disgusting of a task as any he could remember preforming. Plant and animal matter molded into a squishy substance that compressed as his hands and feet came down onto it, parting and sloshing with nauseous noises beneath his weight as he climbed toward the opening above him.

Reaching the top of the pile, he backed into the side of the disposal well, placing his left foot on the other side and pushed himself up. Step by step and butt-wiggle by butt-wiggle, he made his way up the otherwise short distance, though given the amount of effort put into the event it felt much further. At long last, first his head, then his shoulders appeared over the edge of the hole. Boosting himself with his arms, he rolled backwards over the lip of the well.

Jaz touched down on soft, grassy dirt, rolling into a crouch. After what must have been several hours underground, the fresh air should have been relaxing. Except for the fact that he was now in the exact center of hostile territory.

Scanning his surroundings, he attempted to orient himself. The walls loomed high, establishing an artificial horizon of darkness above which the night sky seemed light by comparison. A city of tents, hundreds of them at least, was cluttered throughout the open field, extending out from the walls. There was movement, of course, drunken soldiers laughing and joking and playing games around dozens of campfires that sporadically lit up the enclosure like fireflies. Following the walls with his eyes, he located what must be the Iron Wall, which, he was pleased to note rather absentmindedly, did not look half as foreboding from the inside as it did from the outside.

And if that's the Iron Wall...

He turned about, finally laying eyes on the castle keep itself. Slightly too long to be cubular, its four corners consisted of murderhole-spotted cylindrical towers, upon each was a crenellated turret upon which more guards kept watch. The mercenary wasn't particularly worried about them, since from their height an individual on the ground would be nearly impossible to see at night.

Jaz located the side annex that the old man said was the servants' quarters, and without further ado took off at an easy sprint. The pair of buildings extending like wings from the base of the keep were hastily constructed affairs, made out of wood which set them apart from the solid stone masonry of the rest of the castle complex. Clutching his sheathed sword tight with both hands to prevent it from rattling, he moderated the sound of his footfalls by running on the balls of his feet.

Finally reaching the small, windowless wooden building to the east of the keep, he flattened himself against the side. He regulated his breathing, simultaneously calming his mind and keeping excess noise down. He inched toward the door that stood in the center of the frame. Prodding the flimsy entrance with the tip of the scabbard, he found the rickety apparatus both unlocked and unsecured. If this were the EETC barracks, the sergeant would throw a fit, He thought, allowing himself a bit of smug self-importance. Using his sword as a prybar, he wedged the door open enough to fit through, then silently slipped in.

Lit only by strategically placed candles, the building was in truth little more than a furnished long hallway, not unlike any number of barracks that Jaz had the pleasure of inhabiting throughout his life as a mercenary. It was truly a quarter for servants. This one, he mused, would rate better than the quarters of the Manta Ray, but probably a smidge worse than Osfeld's Trading Company's tenements in Ondolond. To his right was a common sleeping area for the lower ranking personnel, notable by the numbers of poorly crafted bunks that filled the interior. To his left were the sets of small, private rooms for more senior staff that increased in overall quality the further one walked down the corridor. That passageway, if the old man wasn't lying, ended at a doorway that offered access to the first floor of the castle keep itself. Seeing no movement nor hearing any sound, the quarters were almost suspiciously empty, but since that was in his interest anyway, Jaz dismissed it as good luck and got to work. Setting off down the hallway to the left, Jaz didn't make it more than three paces.

"Who is there?" A shrill, yet commanding, voice erupted behind him. Jaz tucked his long sword behind him as he turned to face the speaker who emerged from between a pair of bunks toward the end of the hall. It was a tall, lanky, humanlike fellow dressed in a chef's uniform, Jaz observed, and the resident forcefully marched up to where the half-elf was standing.

"Well? Explain yourself. Who are you and why..." His voice trailed off as he closed on Jaz. His eyes widened, assuredly in surprise at the elf's disheveled appearance. "...Are your clothes so ungodly flithy? It smells like you are literally covered in..."

Think fast, Verdek

"I'm, um, coming back from...er... cleaning latrines, sir!" It was close enough to the truth that Jaz almost smiled inwardly.

The man nodded, then glared skeptically at the lying mercenary. "Then what do you think you are doing heading into the manor, Latrine Boy?"

"I, uh, just got promoted, sir! I'm the new assistant house-elf!"

"Wait, you’re an elf?" the man gave Jaz an incredulous look.

"Yes, sir!" Jaz pointed to his ears with his left hand, solidifying his grasp on the concealed sword with his right.

"Thank Lothlumendil!" The man exclaimed with glee. He pulled off his toque hat and indicated his own ears, the points of which speared upwards through locks of golden hair, proving that he wasn't, as Jaz had assumed, a man at all. Apparently, this elf liked to talk. "There are practically no other elves in Hajlicze, you know. Now I've finally got someone to talk to! Thank the heavens! What type of elf are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

Jaz's father had deserted him before he was born. The half-elf had grown up with no understanding of elves be it their culture, language or society. All he knew of elvenkind was based on second-hand mercenary scuttlebutt. This question was beyond him. He hazarded a guess anyway. "A cool one?"

The other elf laughed. "No, no. I meant which type of elf? A wood elf? High elf? Wild?"

"Um...Wood elf." That sounded good.

"Even better!" The elf chef exclaimed, "I'm a wood elf too! Think of the odds! Meeting in a place like this! So, which kingdom are you from?"

Jaz only knew of one elven kingdom. He didn't know it could be a multiple choice question. "Um...Yomenïampa?"

"Figure that!" Although Jaz didn't figure it possible, the elf grew even more excited. "I'm from Yomenïampa! All hail the Lords of the Woodland! Where in, exactly, do you hail from?"

This was getting so far afield that Jaz started getting nervous. He knew nothing of Yomenïampa aside from the name and the fact that it was in a forest. So he strung together as many woodsy sounding words as he could fit in a sentence. "Um, Pine..oak...thistle..town."

"Knock me down! I'm from Pineoakthistle Town too! Perhaps we might even know some of the same people! Which clan are you blooded in?"

Jaz, once again, didn't know that Elves even had clans, and certainly didn't know the names of them. So he tried to think of the Elvish-sounding names he had heard before. Elrond? Legolas? "Elronolas."

"Huh." The elf looked pensive for a moment, then looked back up in alarm. "Wait, there are no Elronolas' in Pineoakthistle Town! You're an imposter! GUA..."

Since the sword's blade was still in its sheath, Jaz's blow didn't cleave the elf's skull. But still, three pounds of steel straight to the head was enough to put just about anyone down, and Jaz wasn't surprised at all when the elf dropped like a stringless marionette.

He was tired of listening to the elf's annoying voice anyway.

Exchanging his soiled clothes for the cook's outfit, he bound and gagged the now unconscious Yomenïampan and shoved him under the furthest bunk in the shack. He found the change of clothes was refreshing in fact; the odor of an off duty chef was still better than that of the sewer. Clutching his sword, he bolted down the corridor into the keep.

Once inside, Jaz was confronted by an ornate double door, which, if memory served, lead into the grand hall. This wasn't where the mercenary needed to go, so he turned right and bolted down the access corridor that would take him to the stairways to the dungeon. Sprinting down the hallway at full bore, the half-elf narrowly managed to dodge out of the way of a porter who chose the wrong moment to step out of a side room. A stream of curse words followed him as he continued to move.

He hit the spiral staircase running, taking the steps two or three at a time. He followed the wind to the level below, where the stone walls and ceiling became claustrophobically narrow compared to the floor above. The feeling of unease was exacerbated by the weak light emanating from braziers placed sparingly along the hallway. Running forward, the corridor turned sharply right, causing the mercenary to overshoot the turn and rebound off the wall.

Not quite five feet from the corner was the entrance to the cell block, which was easy to recognize as the pointed tips of a portcullis hung above the arched entryway. A lever sat off to the right of the entrance; a precaution against rioting prisoners as the entire dungeon could be sealed off by the castle guards.

The north and south sides of the cell block were lined by the doors of cells, separate from each other by a floor of smooth tile. The jailor, a beefy minotaur who stood nine feet tall if he was an inch, stood centered in the room, checking his charges. He wore a cuirass of padded leather, the sort of protection one needed against prisoners, and carried a large hardwood club propped lazily over his right shoulder. It's large bovine snout turned sharply at the mercenary as the jailor was undoubtedly confused as to what, exactly, a sword-wielding half-elf cook was doing in the dungeon.

"What Raku's name are you..." the minotaur began to growl, but Jaz wasn't about to give up the advantage of surprise. In a move typically regarded as suicidal, the half-elf charged the Minotaur.

Violent by nature, let alone personality, the minotaur wasn't startled for more than a instant, flipping into combat mode out of gleeful instinct and murderous intent. The bull-man swung its club at th approaching half-elf with all the force its well-muscled body could conjure, which was more than enough to crush the cook's bones to dust.

Fortunately, Jaz was not in its path.

Dropping to his side, Jaz used his own momentum to slide across the smooth tiles, gliding through the muscular pillars that were the minotaur's legs. Thrown off-balance by the force of his own swing, the giant guard could do nothing to stop Jaz's sword as it thrust into the small of its back, the blade of the long sword severing the vertebrae of its spine.

Instantly paraplegic, the bovine jailor crashed helplessly to the floor, the hard tiles knocking several teeth from its large extended jaw. To prevent the now crippled minotaur from making any further commotion with whatever mooing noises a minotaur makes, Jaz dispatched him with a sharp overhead blow to the skull.

Breathing heavily from the exertion of the last few minutes of recklessness, Jaz sheathed his sword and took stock of his new predicament. The prisoners that filled the cells, dozens of them, cheered Jaz's defeat of their tormentor. He really had not considered the need to check each cell for his quarry, for that matter he didn't even know what she looked like.

"Kristina Kucharik!" Jaz shouted, "Are you in here?"

"I'll pretend to be Kristina," A husky-voiced bearded man called back from one of the cells.

"I doubt it," Jaz sardonically replied with a roll of his eyes.

"You want the girl?" another voice quipped.

Jaz headed for the cell of the new speaker. "Yeah. Where is she?"

"They took 'er," The man said, leaning his face as far as he could between the bars, "Lemme outta here and I'll show yah!"

"Okay, one second," Jaz wasn't the sort to trust random guys in prison cells, but he was never of the habit to trust random old men either. New experiences every hour on the hour. He made his way back to the minotaur's corpse and retrieved the key ring from its belt. Walking back over to the cell, he stopped short only a few feet away as something else danced in his mind.

"Hold on," The half-elf said with a wink, "I've got an idea.

*****
Elger, concierge to the Guild of Mages, was decidedly bored with the light show. He twiddled this lucky coin between his fingers as part of his habitual hand-eye coordination drills, but other than that had little else to keep his mind occupied. Though lacking magical aptitude himself, he had nothing against the wizards he served, and to certain extend was captivated by displays of their craft. But after three straight days, it had lost lost its charm and he wished that the witch would just break already.

Sybarin, the inquisitor that had been assigned to the Gypsy witch, seemed to be endlessly thrilled with his work, but that didn't help Elger's depleted patience. The various incantations invoked by the mage, the purple-tinged clouds of shadow that they unleashed, and the tortured whimpers they solicited from the girl had all long since lost their appeal.

Elger truly was bored.

The stool he sat on had grown uncomfortable after hours of being confined to it, but given the lack of other furniture he had no alternative. Sybarin had even placed a moratorium on pacing back and forth; appearently it was too 'distracting' and interefered with the mage's work. The room itself offered little amusement either; the black robed Sybarin whose face was half shrouded by his hood, the girl chained spread-eagle on the wall, the flux of shadowy magic energies and their ghostly images, the small table covered with books that the mage refused to let Elger touch.

At the end of the day, that was the way of the Mages Guild, secretive and suspicious. He wasn't getting paid to be a repository of need-to-know information that he really didn't need to know. But still, for someone who prided himself on discovering other people's secrets, being denied knowledge of the purpose of his own mission was unbearable.

"There it is," the black shrouded mage cooed, dragging Elger from his thoughts.

Only half hearing the wizard, Elger checked. "What now?"

"I have found it. Quickly, fetch Lord Berishaj. Hurry!" Of all the orders Elger ever had to obey, this was the easiest. Slipping his coin into his coat pocket, the rogue obliged the mage, leaving Sybarin alone with this subject.

Sybarin was a cruel man, a master of negative energy, the transcendental force of shadow and death, the form of magic the world called 'black.' He distained the title "necromancer" out of loathing for the fool cantrips that squandered nega-energy on animating skeletons and zombies. No, dark magic had so much more potential, power waiting to be exploited and used to bend the natural laws of the universe. He could feel the waves of pain and suffering as his magics tore into the helpless girl's sould, the sensation driving Sybarin to extatic arrousal.

Like any proper Gypsy princess, this one's soul contained the spirits of her maternal line all the way back to the founding of their wretched kind. Sifting through centuries of accrued experience for a single kernal of knowledge was quite time consuming, but Sybarin reveled in anguish, and the thousand gypsy souls contained pain and suffering to spare.

Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath ragged from the orgasmic thrill as his magic ripped its prize from the fingers of a figment of some long dead gypsy queen. Hundreds of years of searching were now at an end. For ages the Mages Guild had sought the secret of the Aundil Flame; many had come to the conclusion that it was mere myth in the first place and had given up. Treasure beyond reckoning had been spent as the Mages Guild had moved silently through out history trying to locate it. With this key, the Guild could excel to levels of power undreamed since the dawn of the Valar themselves.

The sound of the door opening behind him dragged Sybarin from his reverie. Felger had returned far faster than he had expected. Perhaps the Duke was already on his way. "Elger, that was certainly fast..."

But the individual standing in the doorway was not his assistant. It was a very confused looking green-haired elvish cook. Sybarin's face turned read in outrage at this intrusion.

"How DARE you interru..."

A sword that seemed to materialize in the cook's hand impale the dark mage, driving up from the gut underneath the ribcage. As blood began to flow from the mage's mouth, Jaz withdrew the sword and sent the wizard tumbling backwards into the corner with a swift kick to the midsection. Jaz noticed the room was drab as the sinister energies dissipated. "Are you Kristen Kucharik?" He asked the girl chained to the wall. She bobbed her head in his direction, distantly seeing him through half-closed eyes that expressed deliriousness after three days of magical torture.

"I...didn't...I won't..." she stammered.

"I'll take that as a 'yes' cuz I really need to get going," he said, not knowing what to make of her. When a quick glance around the room failed to turn up the keys, he set to work on the manacles with his sword- his trusty multipurpose tool. The girl slid to the floor, forcing Jaz to catch her before she fall all the way. She was limp in his arms.

"Oh, no you don't, missy. We need to go!"

"I..." She breathed

"Need to run like the dickens," Jaz finished for her, "Come on!"

With that, the mercenary dragged the semi-aware girl out into the hallway.

****
The Commander of the 1st Regiment was the hardened Cavalier Alarion Novak. In his youth he had been a stalwart champion of light, handsome and principled; the sort of fellow every woman dreamed of. Somewhere along the line, however, he had abandoned the paladin code, becoming jaded by the harsh realities of war.

But as he walked down from the castle onto the parade field, he took in the scene of the army moving about the tents and campfires. The night air seemed fresh, devoid of the threat of sabatuers the night before. He felt a bit of youthful exuberance return; his red and gold plate armor didn't feel so heavy nor his obligations so demanding. He placed his hands on his hips and puffed his chest with pride.

"It truly is a great great day to be a soldier," he said to the page that dutifully followed him everywhere. The page nodded hesitantly in return, perhaps not accustomed to Alarion being in such a light hearted mood.

Then, suddenly a half-naked man shot past the pair from behind without so much as recognizing their presence. He was shortly followed by two more, both of these men as undressed as the first.

Alarion frowned. It was basic military courtesy to salute senior officers and the commander of 1st Regiment was due respect by the junior soldiers. But more importantly, the soldiers were ridiculously out of uniform. If this was somebody's idea of a joke, he wasn't laughing.

As he turned to address his page, a veritable horde of half-naked men erupted from the keep's main entrance. They swarmed past the ex-paladin, merely bouncing off his thick armor but knocking the young page off his feet. Alarion's temper skyrocketed as he saw the group barrel towards the tent city.

The sound of clinking metal heralded the approach of a pair of armored Ducal Guardsmen down the steps. The first to reach Alarion's position rendered a salute.

"Sir! Did you see where the prisoners went, Sir!"

"Prisoners?"

"Sir, yes, sir! There's been a jailbreak, sir!"

"Well, don't just stand there! Raise the Loth damned alarm!"

The soldiers ran off, screaming at the top of their lungs. It didn’t take long for others to echo the call, filling the fortress grounds with noise, motion and confusion. Bugles sounded reveille, drawing undressed and half awake soldiers from their tents, while those that had been on duty leapt into action. And that was how the encampment began its decent into chaos.

In the ailed light of the campfires, uniformed troops mistook their half-dressed recently-roused brethren for escaping prisoners, drawing weapons against them. Knowing nothing of the escape attempt, the surprised soldiers assumed betrayal by their peers and defended themselves. Others, observing the resulting fighting but ignorant reasons behind the recall assumed the fort was under attack and being infiltrated by enemies, and dutifully passed on this false report to other uninformed guardsmen. As the situation spiraled out of control, races predisposed towards mayhem, such as the lupines, Lizarians and the yrch, gave them themselves over to carnage, recklessly swinging away with their weapons without regard to friend or foe.

Outraged by the anarchy, Alarion screamed at his page to get his horse and his gear. As the lad dashed away, Alarion grumbled to himself. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

****
Jaz led the half-conscious girl into the hallway, just in time to see a column of people come around the corner. Flanked by armored guards, a large, well-built man seemed to be leading an entourage. Based on the man’s look of hostility, well-trimmed beard, fashionable clothes, polished bronze breastplate and the crown on his head, Jaz concluded it must be someone of grand import.

“Whah-oh, time to go,” he coughed. Spinning, he tore off in the opposite direction, yanking the girl along by the hand. In response to a furious order, a quartet of guards charged after them. Dashing through the maze of corridors, Jaz backtracked to into the main bay, with its tiled floor and now-empty cells. Slinging the girl in front of him, he swept her up in both arms and pranced over the corpse that was sprawled in the center of the room. Using their combined weight to his advantage, they glided across the smooth floor to the exit on the opposite side. Three of the pursuing guards, whose sabatons found no purchase on the slippery tile, tripped over the bovine carcass sending them cartwheeling in different directions. The fourth, more cautious, danced around the obstruction and continued running. Crossing the threshold out of the cell block, Jas twirled the girl to her feet then spun to kick the drop lever. The portcullis fell just in time to intercept the guard, who bounced off its iron grill and clattered to the ground.

“Are you okay,” he asked her.

She stared bewilderedly in reply. He shrugged and took the lead toward the stairs. “Yeah, it was a rhetorical question.”

*****
Maehim stood up from his inspection of the blood-splattered body of the inquisitor, intrigued by the single wound. It didn’t take the returning guards to figure out the half-elf rascal had escaped; he knew the moment the riot gate crashed down, trapping their group in the dungeon. Though usually quick with a sarcastic quip, Von Jezyk prudently chose to refrain from commenting on the situation. Berishaj, like any good alpha-male thug, was beyond enraged at this slap in the face, and the look in his eyes spoke of murder. For his part, Elger seemed dispassionate about the death of his comrade though he was always impossible to read. Walking back out into the hallway, Von Jezyk rejoined the group. A ducal guardsman swung around the corner on the other side of the portcullis, came to attention and saluted.

“Milord! Prisoners...!”

Swollen veins were visible on Andrik’s head as he slowly came about to face the trooper. Maehim couldn’t help but smirk when he saw the Duke’s hand trembling, and decided to help diffuse what could have become a very unpleasant situation.

“Exuse me soldier,” he asked, “do you think you could flick that lever?”

The guard, no doubt suddenly realizing what had just transpired, hurriedly obeyed. Once the iron gate rose back into the ceiling, the Grand Duke spoke in a voice so controlled Maehim was startled.

“Find that elf cook,” The duke said quietly, “I want his head on a platter.”

*****
Jaz had expected some level of confusion as the guards rounded up fleeing prisoners. He had intended to use the distraction as cover to make his own escape. What he didn’t expect, however, was abject pandemonium.
Descending the castle’s front steps onto the now battlefield-looking courtyard, his eyes were drawn to a mounted knight in red and gold armor who was shaking a halberd and bellowing instructions to subordinates. Jaz wasn’t interested in the knight himself; the value was in the horse he rode upon.

Pulling up along side the cavalier, the half-elf reached up and grabbed the man by the sword belt. Beneath his barbut helmet the knight’s eyes were wide with disbelief as Jaz used his own weight as leverage to pry him from the saddle. The knight crashed to the ground in a shower of gear and armor. Jaz finished the fallen officer off with a kick that caught him in the chin, snapping his head back and leaving him motionless in the dirt. “Can you ride?” Jaz asked the girl.

“I...”

“Another rhetorical question.” He climbed into the saddle, he situated himself then reached down and snatched up the girl, tossing her sideways across his lap. With her secured, though perhaps precariously, he lashed the reins and kicked into the horse’s flank, putting the beast into a full-on gallop through the melee towards the gates of the Iron Wall.