Wielder of the Void

The Elderspire Saga: Book 1

B r o c k R o b e r t s

COPYRIGHT © 2011

Edited by Matthew Sidner & Dawn Olvany

Forced Exodus,(.

The sea air of the Thulsenan coastline was filled with bitter wisps of brine that choked pedestrians walking along the seashore yet today onlookers cared more about the living shadow over the water than the salty air in their lungs. Gasping in astonishment or anxious with fear, the multitude of onlookers flailed in recoil as great feathered wings lowered its massive feline body onto the sandy beach. It came to rest in stoic majesty as though glossy ebon night had been given a material form with which to perform its bidding.

The great hind paws sank deep into the damp edges of surf to support and steady its body as it landed. Chest forward and wings pumping lazily, it glared defiantly at those gathered to view its entrance. The total of its forward weight came to rest on its left forelimb; its right glistened of open wounds with arrow shafts driven deep from feline shoulder to avian foot. Within, the upturned paw’s talons clutched protectively to a limp human form like a parent to vulnerable young. A piercing screech peeled from the dark beak of the creature as it craned its head to the sky; a shriek of pride, pain and warning.

Fur-lined shoulders hunched in exhaustion as the wings wrapped themselves about the powerful feline torso. The black coat of the body mirrored the ebony feathers about its neck; feathers which hid rivulets of blood, yet more evidence of combat. Piercing amber eyes scanned for threat even now and the throng cringed ever backward. Whether they stared upon the victor or the defeated, the gathered audience did not know. These Thulsenans prided themselves on being a stout and hearty people, not given to superstition and mystical foolery. The fact that a creature borne of myth and midwife tales stood before them chilled many to their very soul. A groan emitted from the bedraggled form nestled to the creature’s chest. Slowly the beast lowered what appeared to be a man though dirt, torn clothes and long, wild hair seemed to make the form seem genderless. The beast’s hawk-like head darted in motions too quick to fluidly register with the naked eye as it regarded its charge now lying upon the wet sand. Having deposited its burden, the winged creature emitted another cry that seemed to rattle the cobblestones of the streets and shake the dust from the mortared bricks of onlooking shops. A storm of sand and water rose underneath it as its powerful wings lifted the body into the early evening sky. At a speed unattainable with even the fastest stallion,

the creature retreated back the way it had come, heading west toward the golden crescent of the setting sun. The body on the sand began to move. “Good-ah… goodbye Triumph. Goodbye… my friend,” Malerick whispered through his sand-caked lips.

Attempting to stand erect, powerful muscles and a haphazard beard affirmed the onlookers’ suspicions; this was definitely a man. Wearily he came to unsteady feet and began to wobble as much as walk toward the beginning of what appeared to be a seaside marketplace. As he took his first steps, Malerick’s mind noted that the architecture about him was foreign, the mode of dress unfamiliar and the atmosphere distinctly different from his homeland. Indeed it was the beginning of what seemed another world entirely.

The crowd parted as he made his way onto the rough-hewn cobblestones of the street. A generous radius about him cleared as if he were at the epicenter of an impenetrable penumbra. Pedestrians looked the other way as he scuttled by, the most brazen of the merchants and loquacious of customers taking great pains to ignore him should they pass his gaze. Whispers filtered to him of pedestrians warning their countrymen to stay away or risk unwanted attention from the local guards for involvement with an outlander. The scuffing of his old boots was the only welcoming sound he heard as he made his way toward the central heart of the marketplace. Shopkeepers in the process of storing their wares until the following morn stopped and stared at the back of this vagabond staggering his way into their midst.

“Excuse me good sir, but what manner of beast was that?” a portly man asked in a strange accent that drew his words through his nostrils. He wrung his hands into the hem of his berry-stained apron and gave off the smell of sweet confections. His shiny bald pate glistened with sweat and his forearms were caked in flour. Hawkers and customers alike scattered from about the heavy-set man and the stranger he addressed as though both were suddenly struck with an infectious plague. The speaker, however, simply smiled. “What?” asked Malerick incredulously as if he misunderstood what creature the man was referring. Following one stout finger’s gesture out to sea, the bedraggled man suddenly understood.

“Have you never seen a graephon before?” asked the newcomer. The quick shaking of that bald head was all the answer the baker afforded. The disheveled man’s face sank farther into confusion. The baker smiled wider in an attempt to cheer his audience.

“Sir, I don’t know who you are or what circumstances brought you here but it would seem you’re in a better spot now than you were before. Trapped within the clutches of a monstrous beast! The very idea is scandalous!” said the baker. He smiled as he dobbed at the sweat of his brow with the edge of his apron. The newcomer seemed to regain some of his composure.

“That creature was my friend,” he said as the baker’s brow rose in disbelief. “Where am I?” “Why good sir, you are in the Peddler’s Row of Tan Partha,” answered

those bulbous cheeks. Malerick shook his head in disbelief. He knew of this place. Tan Partha was the coastal crown city of Thulsena on the western coast of the Alumbrian mainland. He was a long, long way from home and his eyes scanned about him as one lost in unsettling environs.

“Can I ask where does such a creature come from sir? I’ve never seen nor heard of its like before,” the baker continued. “From Carthuis, my homeland,” Malerick replied dryly his gaze turned to the western horizon.

“Carthuis? My, my, my. Across the sea a thousand leagues, they say. Greatest navy north of the Icewall, they say. I believe even Fang Shiu Khan may fear them,” the portly man stammered. Amazement graced those generous features as though Malerick were a fantastical attraction in a menagerie and not a simple man.

The Carthuian paid them little heed. His mind was stammering, searching for what he knew of Thulsena, what could be useful for him now. What he could recall was very little.

The previous queen of Tan Partha was not of the kindest persuasion and relations between the Thulsenan and Carthuian monarchies were tenuous at best. She had been dethroned by invasion when he was but a child and Carthuis’ King Agremagne had refused trade with Thulsena after some sour transgressions with its usurper, Fang Shiu Khan. Fine Tan Parthan silks were a great commodity back home. None of this was of any help to him now. Malerick sighed. “Might I ask how old you are sir?” the baker muttered as he dry washed his hands with his flour-saturated apron. What did his age have to do with anything? Malerick thought. Why did it matter? A quizzical look crossed his features as he decided whether to answer such a peculiar question. But then, what could it hurt? “Twenty four. How old are you sir?” Malerick replied. Perhaps asking the same question of the man might hint at his purpose. The baker smiled a gay smile, but a mischievous twinkle flashed over his eyes. “My good man, I make the soil seem young,” he barked quizzically and patted the back of the younger man’s shoulder.

“You should head east of here and look for an inn marked the Lady’s Grace. It’s a fine, fine establishment ran by a fine, fine woman. She will help you if need be. If not, then I am sure the entertainment will be quite to your liking. And might I suggest a bath, good sir. The barmaids are quite delectable, but only if one is groomed properly,” he said. Again he dry washed his hands into his apron.

Malerick found the portly man appallingly nice and peculiar in a way the outlander could not place. Something seemed amiss that caused the Carthuian’s hackles to rise. He nodded but was unsure whether to take the portly man’s advice. The baker seemed to sense it.

“Good sir, from the looks of you I would say you lack the coin for so much as a bath. Here,” the baker said and pressed a thick gold sovereign into the outlander’s grubby palm. A strange script marked both sides, one having a finned serpent coiled about the edge eating its own tail. The beast’s body was wrapped about a strange blocky symbol, prominent and slashed in odd waves that Malerick only perceived could be some language that he was unfamiliar. The opposite side showed a ship with sails that were ribbed like the wings of a bat and more of the strange block text around its lip. “Very generous of you,” the outlander replied. The heavy coin was certainly more than standard fare for beggars, he thought. He had no idea the balance of currency in this new country but back home this would be a sizable amount of money. Beside himself, Malerick felt his earlier apprehensions melting away. “So you accept my token then?” asked the baker. “I do! I will find a way to repay you,” blurted Malerick as he bobbed the coin back toward his benefactor in thanks. The baker waved it off as trivial and smiled an impossibly large grin in return while the Carthuian shook his head at the funny little man. Along the road to the west a commotion had started as men in dark livery forcibly pushed their way toward the baker’s storefront. “Go now boy. The city’s guardsmen take harshly to outlanders. By order of the khan, you’re not welcome here. Head east toward the Lady’s Grace. The house matron is one of the very few Thulsenans with a soft spot for outlanders,” urged the baker. Malerick could only nod and turned eastward toward this inn. “Gentlemen! He went this way!” bellowed the baker as he shooed the outlander with his hand behind his back. “He darted through my store!” Malerick smiled and wished to thank the portly man but there was no time. He looked back over his shoulder as two large men in livery stopped before the baker’s threshold and slowly entered, swords drawn.

,(.

The baker closed his storefront portico to any further disturbances from the street outside. Shops were closing as the day grew long with people rushing to finish last minute business along Peddler’s Row. The baker would see no more patrons; his work was done. The mangled bodies of what once had been two city guards, his final visitors, cluttering a dark corner of his shop. Pitiful fools.

So much time had passed and yet now it seemed all too soon. Thick fingers itched nervously at his skin as his apron dropped to the floor. This was not his floor, nor his shop and certainly not his flesh. Humans were disgusting and their skin made his crawl. Why did they have to be so… soft? He shivered as he walked through the door leading into the oven room. A smell wafted to his nostrils as he passed before the huge bread oven.

The stones were still warm from this morning’s baking, the coals still glowing somberly. Pastries and half-made dough lay strewn about in mounds of baking flour. A large burlap sack of the white powder rested in the corner and leaning against it was what a one time had been a large man, bald headed and jovial. Of course without his flesh none could have discerned his hairlessness or his smile. The sanguine remnants of what once had been a hand rested atop the sack as though clenching it to remain within the world of the living. That flour would be useless now. The absorbed blood had clearly ruined it of its purpose. The baker laughed to himself. “All is finally ready. You told me I would know him when I saw him, that it would be unmistakable. You and your little games, ha!

“Well I have found him. All the pieces fit. To think it’s been so long, so long that I have waited. The next the tercentennial cycle is at hand,” he said, slamming his fist down on the kneading table. Clouds of white and red flour fell all about the room.

“Finally, another chance! And this time all will be fulfilled,” he continued, laughing to himself. The body in the corner shifted slightly causing a small cake pan to tumble into the viscera on the floor. The baker gave a start as though realizing some unfinished chore in his routine. “Oh yes, you. I almost forgot,” he said. Sighing to himself offhandedly, he walked over and picked up the body by the muscles of the forearms.

“Shall we dance?” he said and laughed as he twisted the skinless corpse about the room. Small pieces of fat and tissue scattered from the open gaps between the muscles and bones. The baker heard a crunch as his boot shattered several digits on the corpse’s left foot.

“I’m sorry!” he gasped and dropped the body into a heap on the floor. “I remember you being so much lighter on your feet,” scolded the bulbous man. He paused and tapped his lower lip in quandary. “Oh, now, now, what to do with you?” he muttered while scanning the room, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he continued to tap his right index finger to his lips. His eyes swiveled in their sockets to lock on the massive bread oven.

The portly man grinned malevolently and belted another guffaw as he began pumping the bellows of the small fire inlet that heated the interior chamber. The coals began to glow brightly in a vibrant red aura and crackled in protest to being worked again this day. “Yes, well now, you will simply have to stew over it, won’t you?” he responded to the flippant coals. Releasing the bellows, the room fell silent and the dead man’s rictus remained locked in impotent response to the joke. The baker grasped the ruined body angrily below the shoulders. Such a clever pun and not even a murmur out of the man; being dead was no excuse! None!

Hand over hand he unceremoniously fed the lifeless body through the oven’s mouth. Fat fingers scooped up remnants of castaway viscera from the floor and added them to the blazing container. Iron hinges of the aged oven door

squeaked in agony from lack of grease but he paid them no mind. There were more important things to think on now. There was revenge to wreak and havoc to sow. There was all of Creation to destroy and oh-so-little time to prepare. He had waited so long and now his opportunity seemed ready to eclipse him yet again. There was still so much to decide. A pungent scent began to fill the air akin to beef being charred over an open flame. Such a pleasant smell, he thought. Just needs some pulped cranberries.

As he turned away a great groan wailed behind him. Cinders blazed and coals cracked in showers of sparks that the oven’s door could barely contain. Its stone walls radiated an oppressive heat while the iron door was progressing to an orange hue. The shop’s oven apparently was not made to accommodate ingredients in such quantity. It was good the fat merchant was dead, he thought, for the man lacked the vision for competitive commerce with such a petite instrument. Soon the thing might very well erupt. Who knew? There were so many things about this trivial world that he neither had the time nor the desire to contemplate. It was time again to focus on his penultimate goal: the eradication of all Creation. The white-hot oven door swung open and the stone mouth behind it belched flames amid acrid smoke. Meat fat turned to grease consumed the oven’s interior with a fire it could no longer restrain. Spilling forth, the floor became a mire of blazing liquid that consumed bags of grain, flour, sugar, oats and cornmeal. He could not have planned it better himself.

Peeling off the unwelcome skin, his true, twisted form stood stoic as a vertical seam formed in the air before him. Reality distorted along the edges of the rift as the seam widened like sliding doors made of warped, trick mirrors. Beyond the rift a blank Void answered him with a colorless, odorless opacity far outside Creation. His home realm beckoned and his Master awaited news. Anxious to tell, his twisted mouth peeled back a wicked grin of sharp, misshapen teeth. After so many centuries, He might finally be pleased again.

The Lady’s Grace,(.

The setting sun cast ominous shadows over the street as passersby blatantly ignored the bedraggled Carthuian. He tried to ignore them as well and focus on finding this inn. Try as he might, his mind was continually drawn to the simple dissimilarities of this place compared to his homeland.

The mode of dress for men here was comparable but the jerkins were tailored differently, with long sides that fell about the hips. The boots were much the same as well, only taller and turned down at the middle of the shin rather than closer to the ankle. The women wore dresses as back home but with the neckline cut square and exposing the tops of their bosom. The tapering neckline he was used too would seem modest here.

Also peculiar was the fact that many wore robes and flowing mantles in a myriad of colors. Most were very natural browns and greens but scattered through the throngs were blacks, reds, whites and blues. At home such attire was mostly reserved for Vicar Archaen, his students and clergy. Here it seemed such garments were commonplace among all; no religious connotations whatsoever. The architecture seemed to draw his eye as well. Everything within Carthuis’ crown city of Cartelestra was made from stone mined from the island’s central quarries. Here building exteriors were made of some smooth clay garnished by exposed beams of darkened wood. The foundations were composed of large boulders rounded like river rocks unlike his home’s cube-cut quarry stones. The roofs of many of the buildings were graced in wooden shingles or woven thatch; no clay tiles here as in the Carthuian crown city. His new surroundings offered much in the way of an eye-catching education in foreign lands. He absorbed it as his shadow stretched farther east from the setting sun.

His body ached for a shave and a bath; his stomach for a hot meal. The baker’s words of warning to an outlander proved true time and again when he attempted to ask directions to this Lady’s Grace. Those citizens his bedraggled look and foul stench would not dissuade quickly dispersed upon hearing his accent. Truly outlanders were unwelcome here.

Continuing down the twisting road, the merchants were finishing storing their wares, marking the end of the business day. He began to question his direction as the road lead into what was obviously the more expensive end of Wayfarer’s Street. He had left the makeshift stands and street carts some time

ago. Here shops were larger, taller, more colorful and well-maintained. The inns he had seen to the west would fit wholly within the common room of the fine establishments he now stood among. Surely the baker was not sending him here. He stopped, sighed, placed fists on his hips and accepted the conclusion that the baker must have been spinning a ludicrous fiction. This inn of his did not exist. Defeatedly, the Carthuian spat in anger. The pinched tones of metal scraping metal caused his eyes to lift above the street and he almost swore. A sign, painted and gilt covered, depicted a young woman with hair like sunlight on calm waters blowing a kiss to the wind. The lettering beneath her outstretched hand proclaimed the name of his long-sought refuge. He scoffed at the oddity of it all. After searching high and low for this place, it found him. Shaking his head, he sniffed mirthfully as he stepped toward the entrance. The strap hinges of the large plank door gave way easily as Malerick entered into the massive common room. Pipe smoke plumed blue-white specters that haunted the rafters of what had to be one of the most expensive and expansive inns he had ever seen. The floor was completely spotless and shone as though polished continuously with the freshest beeswax. He stepped toward the nearest barmaid to ask for the innkeeper when a voice halted his motion. “Out! Out you rapscallion! I’ll have no street trash cluttering about my establishment. Be along on your way,” came a high shrill voice in a nasally accent that seemed more aged than wine of the finest vintage. A small woman with her iron gray hair pulled back in a severe bun stood tapping her foot on that polished floor. At first he thought to bow in courtly fashion but then realized that his appearance would only make it seem a mocking gesture. Best to just be out with it, he thought. “Good woman, I want only a bath and a proper shave. Would that be a possibility?” he said in a soft and even tone. The barmaids had all stopped their wiping and polishing to stare at the small battle of wills. The one nearest to him folded her arms beneath her breasts and sneered at the dirty vagabond before her. She sniffed and blew a long, wispy bang from before her eyes. The old woman paused and regarded him through silver eyebrows. “You have not the coin for it boy. Don’t force me to have you removed. Gillard?” The old woman snapped her fingers and a man as large as he was wide moved from his perch beside the hearth. Malerick assumed this to be Gillard, the common room bull. This was not going well. “Would this cover it?” Malerick interjected quickly. Flinging the fat coin, he was surprised when the woman snatched it from midair with fingers more deft than her age should allow. She looked at it scornfully as if testing it for credulity before sniffing and tossing it back. “I’ll not accept stolen money, ruffian. Now be gone!” “I swear on my oath that it is not stolen. It was given to me,” Malerick pleaded. The old woman scowled like a buzzard appraising a carcass. A derisive sigh escaped her lips and a look of sympathy began to grace her features.

“A handout to a pitiful wretch to try and keep him above the soil another day, no doubt. Still, it’s good gold and has the khan’s markings, which makes it worth more than the common man’s sovereign. A lord must have blessed you with this or perhaps one of the khan’s retinue?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as though to test the truth in his reply. Her eyes watched askance as he moved slowly toward her. Gillard grunted loudly and tapped his massive forearm with the fingers of a ham-sized fist; a warning to stay clear of trouble. Malerick wet his lips. “A baker gave it to me down near the shore. Please Mistress, could I have a place to bathe?” Malerick pled. Her eyebrow twitched and slowly sank in concession. “Aye, I suppose that you can. But mark me boy, this is not the coin of a common baker. Only those that serve the palace would have such a coin. It’s more valuable than a simple bath,” she said awkwardly as though not willing to divulge such information. “Leinora, come here girl.” The flaxen-haired barmaid that had stood before Malerick let her arms fall limply to her sides as she made her way toward the innkeeper. Bright green eyes studied him with one last appraisal before she averted all her attention to the elder woman. Her hand twiddled with the polishing rag in her hands as she approached. The older woman thrust the coin toward the younger and gave her instructions. “Go see Terelian and get this fellow some decent clothing, something comfortable and clean. The tailor owes me a favor and our guest’ll not be seen in my inn looking as he does. This coin’ll cover it as well as a bath for him, and maybe a spot in the stables should I feel generous. Now off with you girl and be snappy.

“If Terelian gives you any trouble then you tell him old Weilina will come down and paddle his bottom like the time I caught him stealing sweet cakes from my kitchen when he was a child. And for Osilion’s sake girl lace your bodice. You’ll give the poor man the fits!” She said in a no-nonsense tone. The girl spun about quickly and was out the door before Malerick could so much as thank her. He turned and decided to thank Weilina instead. She sniffed. “Think nothing of it boy. Now get upstairs and out of those soiled clothes. I’ll have water brought to the tub in the first room on the left. And don’t you go about disturbing my other customers. I’ll not have any ruffian coming in off the street and disrupting the peace, no matter what coin he carries!” she said in an elevated tone that would pass for yelling were it not so motherly. “I thank you, good woman,” Malerick said and bent to kiss her cheek. She gingerly declined by taking a step back, but her cheeks reddened with delight. “Perhaps after you’re bathed boy. Now head up and be quick about it,” she said and smacked his backside with the end of the towel she carried. Malerick laughed to himself as he walked up the stairs. Perhaps his luck was not going as bad as he had thought.

,(.

Malerick stood before the mirror wiping the stray froth from his chin. The shave had felt almost as good as the bath. At the edge of his periphery, the mirror showed the dark striations of ink that ran over the length of his right shoulder and upper arm. Those lines wove to form the pattern of a lion’s visage with flaring mane and below it shone five facetted deltas, marks for his rank and station. Combined, they proclaimed him as First Sword in the Order of the Golden Mane, an officer and master swordsman in service to the Carthuian aristocracy. His rank, his station was something he had earned and held with pride as a soldier in service to his king, his court and his comrades. He shook his head and turned from the mirror, from the man that no longer existed. “Truth. Temperance. Vigilance,” he whispered the chant of the Order. “What little good you brought me.” He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for the nausea of remembrance to pass. His mind flooded with images of king and court; of Saul, his mentor, teacher and commanding officer; of Shatragon, his one true friend through the scandal of the king’s murder; of Amenicia, his betrothed and duchess of Vessix who had condemned him and their love as he sat rotting in prison. As he opened his eyes it all faded into wisps of a long expired dream. He turned, wiping them away along with the last remnants of shaving froth from his chin.

Draped across a dressing chair, his gaze admired the doeskin pants and a white wool shirt with deep brown laces that Leinora had brought back from the tailor. She had apologized for being so late but a fire had caused quite a commotion down Peddler’s Row and the street was mired in audience of it. She had also been kind enough to bring a pair of hair shears and trimmed up his lengthy mane. He dressed quickly and savored the feel of fresh, clean clothes upon his person.

As he looked in the mirror he nearly recognized himself. A year in the palace prison had certainly taken its toll, but nothing a few good meals and some days in the Blossom sun wouldn’t cure. He smiled and ran his open palms down his cheeks and neck, testing the shave. Weilina had even sent up some of her husband’s pleasant scent that he slapped onto his cheeks. He was almost back together again. Weilina had not been too pleased to have him clean his boots in the bath water but there was no immediate alternative and no cobbler to be found at this hour to sell him new ones. Besides, that single coin had to be running thin by now and Malerick was not about to add boots to his tally. He hoped that enough might remain to barter a good meal. An inn’s hot lamb was always preferable to a prison’s cold gruel. Exiting the bath chamber freshly cleaned and newly clothed, he made his way down into the common room.

The lower floor of the inn was filled nearly to overflowing and the barmaids twisted through the throng with their patrons’ deliveries. A serving girl directed him to a spot at the table nearest the stairs next to a bearded man in a leather jerkin covered with overlapping steel plates. The bearded man adjusted his cyan-trimmed cloak to make room and Malerick made note of the massive mace hanging from his hip. The stranger offered him an infectious smile as they exchanged introductions.

“Weilina had asked me to hold a spot at the table for a fellow outlander. I told her I was more than happy to do so,” said Talvero, the bearded man. “I’m Chalkavainin and generally unwelcome in Thulsenan borders.

“What brings you here?” asked Malerick.“Just following orders,” said the cyan-cloaked man cryptically as he

turned to stare long into the candle at the center of their table. The Carthuian fought the urge to pry as Weilina waltzed over to him. “So boy, there did exist a handsome face beneath all of that grime and shaggy beard. I dare say you might even make a few of my girls blush.” Talvero’s face twisted slightly at the comment and stroked his own, well-trimmed beard. The old woman whipped him playfully with the end of her polishing towel. “Thank you Weilina,” Malerick replied. She snapped him next with the towel and brandished an admonishing finger. “Don’t get any ideas boy. These are good girls and are not here for your amusements,” she said in that no-nonsense tone. Her face softened to that motherly look again as she put a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me see if I can get you something to eat.” She raised her hand and made a strange gesture to Leinora, who returned shortly with a mug of strong tea and strips of lamb with carrots and potatoes in thick gravy. He was afraid he might drool on himself just watching it placed before him. He smiled up at the old innkeeper. “Are you sure that coin will cover all of this?” he asked, implying more than just the meal He looked down his body at his fresh clothes, clean body and now-groomed appearance. “Well no, it doesn’t. But,” she sighed and patted his shoulder, “me husband was an outlander much like yourself when I met him. In recent years Fang Shiu Khan has forbidden all outlanders entry into the country. There is little in the way of new folks running about, aside from the Qerestasi,” she said and nodded toward the group of gypsies preparing for a performance at the hearth.

“These days we only get these gypsy entertainers and the few folks that sneak or smuggle themselves in,” she said and raised a quizzical eyebrow that scanned both the Carthuian and Chalkavainin. He smiled and she nodded, looking the other way so as to say she didn’t want to know.

“I met my Harlin much the same way I met you today boy. I’ll take that kiss now though, if you still want to give it.” Malerick leaned up and pecked the old woman’s cheek.

She turned twelve shades of red, smiled at him and then bolted off,

scolding the snickers and jeers that came from her girls about the inn. The man next to him laughed heartily while tipping back his mug. Fork in hand; Malerick paced himself with the meal, attempting to not gorge himself upon it like a hog to fresh slop. He looked up as patrons began taking their seats and winding down their conversations. A hush fell over the crowd and all eyes made their way to the front of the hearth. An odd little fellow in a garish green coat with golden tassels and purple lapels began juggling empty bottles of wine. The audience clapped in rhythm as stubby sticks with flaming tips were tossed into the juggle without breaking his stride. Next he performed a somersault that found him walking on his hands with his feet in the air. A young girl in a flowing pink and teal skirt with matching top set multicolored balls atop the little man’s feet. One by one his feet tossed and juggled the balls to a roar of applause from the crowd. He made a quick, throaty yelp, popped the balls into the air while his body collapsed into a somersault. Rolling out of it, he came to rest on one knee and the balls landed squarely in his upturned palms. Cheers abounded. Following the juggler, a man with long, coiled mustachios and chin scruff oiled to a point proceeded to swallow swords blade first. The gypsy horde clapped in syncopated rhythm as blade after blade disappeared and reappeared. Next he took long rods with fiery ends and spun them in his hands, pausing occasionally to place one of those ends within his gaping mouth. He tilted his head back as the gypsy girl in pink and teal poured something from a wineskin into his mouth. Spinning the flaming rods into circles of light at his sides, he brought his hands before him until the rings interlaced. His cheeks flexed as he blew their contents into the rings and red flames danced into the rafters. Screams cascaded to cheers as the flames burned away. Weilina sighed in relief as only the cobwebs in the rafters were casualties to the gypsy’s actions.

Next a wondermancer in long robes embroidered with the constellations made items disappear from his hands to reappear in his pockets. He passed solid rings of brass through one another, linking as a chain only to break free of each other once more at his command. Producing a fat hare from the wide-brimmed hat of an audience member was the finale of his act, met with grand applause. “Something more interesting in that candle?” asked Malerick as he clapped and smiled. The cloaked man next to him laughed but his attention was held fast to the flame on the table. “Just deep in thought my friend,” said the bearded man.

The front of the hearth was cleared for a strange old woman with one eye completely white, her heavy gray locks braided with brass bells and dangling crescents. She asked what tales the crowd might like to hear. Suggestions ranged from the story of Atmos, the god of storms and his slaying of the Sylvan Ram to the fall of Nedron the Conqueror. Shouts overlapped each other for the Battle of Azgan Kulketh, the comedic Seven Sons of King Egvar the Intolerant and still more for the First Guardians of Creation. One fool drunkard even shouted for the children’s tale of Llewellyn and the Scipiodryad which met with many boos and

hisses. She calmed them with open palms patting the air before her.“All good suggestions, truly they are but tonight is a special night,” she

said as her gaze drank in the room. Malerick dismissed a sudden cold chill as his imagination when it seemed her one good eye rested on him.

“Tonight I will regale you with the tale to end all tales. It is the father of all stories, the beginning of us all. It is a tale of the farthest distant past and of our impending future rolled into one. It is the tale of our destiny.”

The Tale of All Tales,(.

“Before Fiermos, God of Fire, deformed half of Entropen’s body in a battle for the heart of the goddess of music and creativity; this tale began. Before the Elderspire spewed forth the steam which rained down to form the seas and the lava that cooled to form the land; this tale began. Before even the Ethyreals stepped through the Veil to watch as Creation itself was formed; this tale began. For this is the tale of how All Came to Be, how Rhom was born, how the Veil was formed, how Khaos stole the four elements from Düm Himself to create that which we all are. It is the tale of the oldest of wrongs and the most vengeful of jealousy. Do you wish to hear tell of it?” she asked. The audience barked their approval.

The old woman clapped her hands and a gypsy on short stilts wearing a long, black robe took the center of the stage. A second dressed similarly save a robe of red stood facing the first, mirroring his stance. Both actors’ faces were hidden behind deep cowls giving them a vacant and otherworldly appearance. Their hands came together, arms forming a unified ring as the black robe’s fingers lacing with those of the red. The sleeves of their robes hung like great wings from their arms.

“In the beginning, Khaos and Düm coexisted in harmony and shared all that was before what is. Yet Khaos’ nature was not one of stagnation and he grew weary of the absolute nothingness,” she bellowed and the red-robed gypsy began to fidget. Heads began to nod as they realized the red robe was Khaos and therefore the black was Düm.

“For you see, Khaos held no sense of order or reason and had no tools with which to conduct his bidding. He was the very essence of potential, of drive, of influence, of willpower but in and of Himself, he lacked any resources to fulfill his intentions. His angst grew; his tumultuous nature began to fester for a cure to his malaise. If he could not find within, he would take from without and it was then that the solution came!” said the old storyteller. A red-robed hand shot to the sky as though proclaiming a grand epiphany. The crowd was hushed in rapt attention.

“It was then that Khaos delved deep within the abyss of Düm,” she said and the red-robed hand slithered up the sleeve of the black, “and there he found earth.

“He found it to be heavy, stable and stalwart in nature,” The red-robed actor’s hand reappeared with a wooden orb stained dark like fresh topsoil.

“Khaos was fascinated. What could this be?” she said and the actor waved the orb before his face. It rose from his palm, levitating as if in a dance while the red actor bobbed in exaggerated expressions of joy.

“Curiosity only fueled Khaos’ need for more elements, more objects with which to interact. Once more he probed the inner confines of the Void and this theft produced water.

“Khaos found this second element to be less stable than the first. It did not hold its shape and instead reacted almost violently to the slightest touch,” crowed the storyteller. The red actor’s hand plunged into the folds of the black’s sleeves. Reappearing once more, this time he held a glass orb of impossible blue that appeared to slosh as it moved. The black actor’s appendages began to tremble as though agitated at the invasion by his counterpart.

“Düm was displeased with these thefts. He who was the whole of all, the Great Emptiness of the Void, had, for the first time, felt incomplete,” she said breathily. Her exaggerated pauses of speech heightened the dramatic mood of her tale. “He was the pinnacle of order, of equilibrium, yet now He had a small fragments of Himself missing. His harmony of nothingness was broken.

“Meanwhile, Khaos explored His newfound treasure of water. It was but a mere accident that the two orbs combined upon contact,” said the gypsy woman as if in surprise. The red actor tauntingly juggled the brown and blue orb before the black-robed gypsy. With slight of hand, the two orbs collided and intermixed into a larger, perfect sphere of dark greens and browns with blue striations.

“There was no stopping Khaos now for he had seen too much. What other treasures might the emptiness of the Void house? He must know,” she stated as the red’s hand probed at the sleeve of the black once more. He paused then mimicked a bounce of excited victory as his hand produced an opaline orb of the brightest ivory. The black actor bent forward in an offensive stance as though he were ready to pounce upon the red.

“Wind was the next to be stolen. This element was even less stable than water. Holding little to no form at all, it was erratic and encompassing in nature. Khaos brought it to the first two and waited for a reaction.

“It too combined with the first, but not as the others. It engulfed the orb of the first two elements like a shell about an egg. And there it remained,” the storyteller continued. Between the two actors the combined orb floated; its diameter nearly as tall as the stilted men. The outer penumbra was hazy and white like the skyline of the coldest winter days but within it the audience could see suspended the blue, brown and green orb.

“Khaos marveled at this new object. Both He and Düm tested it in their own ways,” she said as the robed gypsies mimicked her words. The red actor probed and prodded at it while the black dragged his fingers like claws over the opposite side of it.

“As you all know, what happened next began the conflict that rages still

today. The thievery of the final element, fire,” she spoke and fanned her fingers wide before her face. The red gypsy had produced a shimmering orb of reds and yellows from the black’s sleeves. The black gypsy radiated rage.

“The fourth orb was nothing like the first three. It was completely unstable, unpredictable and violent. When it touched the others, a reaction that forever changed the fabric of reality took place. The waters began to boil, the land heaved and belched molten rock while the winds raged with tumultuous fervor. So it was that our world began to form.

“A great plume of molten stone poured forth as Creation vented its’ primordial fury. Higher and higher it rose into the heavens, belching ash, steam, soot and noxious vapors. From that steam was borne torrential rains that pummeled the volcano’s height, cooling the stone and so it was that the Elderspire formed.” The actors moved their torsos from left to right as they stared at the orb before them. The orb between the actors shimmered like a facetted jewel as it mimicked the events of her tale. As the orb calmed down the storyteller’s voice became somber as if she were in rapt reverie.

“When the land, sea and sky settled, Khaos found something amazing had happened. A crystalline dragon, fearsome and beautiful, crawled upon the surface of the world. Life had been born. Rhom had been born,” she crooned, her repetition of words accentuating her point. Members of the audience stood, some even gasped, as they could see this shimmering serpent-like creature wandering over the brown and green landscape of the world. They could hear its tiny cries; watch as its wings stretched in majesty, its claws tear at the soil.

“What Khaos did not realize was that life has a balance to be paid. Life within Creation bore its opposite in the Void,” hissed the gypsy. The folds of the black actor’s robes began to shift and move as though hiding creatures crawling over the surface of his skin.

“The four elements stolen from Düm had formed a vacuum in their absence. As life took hold within Creation, each absence in the Void was filled with a dark creature, a minion, borne of that particular element. That is how Raige, Ethyreal of Earth; Mallus, Ethyreal of Wind; Dephyal, Ethyreal of Water and Skorn, Ethyreal of Fire came to be,” snarled the crone. Four hideous creatures crawled from beneath the folds of the black’s sleeves to perch upon the actor’s hands. The sounds of moving chairs rang out as some audience members moved closer, others moved farther away. Malerick caught whispered hisses proclaiming a curse upon the gypsies for portraying Creation so vividly.

“That is amazing,” whispered Talvero over the lip of his ale. Malerick agreed. They joined the gathered crowd in awe as the four monstrosities leapt from the black’s hands to the surface of the world. The minions, each distinctly smaller than Rhom, took up positions around the crystalline dragon and prepared to strike.

“Thus the First War began,” the gypsy continued with deep sorrow in her voice. The small creatures on the world cried, clawed, bit and tore at each other. The land began to scar in their wake.

“For three hundred years the minions of Düm fought Rhom. Khaos watched in rapt attention, willing his Creation to fight back. The struggle for power and dominance tore at the very heavens of the world. Yet, in the end, it was Rhom who fell,” she whispered dejectedly. The shimmering dragon’s body wilted and a golden light flashed about it that expanded to encompass all Creation.

“As he expired, his soul formed the Veil that forever separates the ethereal Void from Creation,” she continued. The black robed gypsy pounded his fists against the diaphanous barrier now covering the world.

“Düm was furious! From outside Creation he commanded his minions to take back the elements and destroy Creation. They tore at Rhom’s flesh, using malevolent powers of the Void to separate their own elements from his body. As they did so, Khaos continued to will life to defend itself.

“Within Creation the elements held powers of their own and as each was pulled from Rhom’s body, it formed a new creature. First Bahetmuth, Primordial of Earth, took form. His massive tusks ripped into the corporeal form of Raige,” the storyteller cheered. “Quelonaksis, Primordial of Water, dug her claws into Dephyal who fought back impotently. Ashtir, Primordial of Wind, used the torrents of her wings and the piercing sounds of her cries to punish Mallus. Faenix, Primordial of Fire, tore at Skorn with talons of ash and fire.”

On the surface of the planet, the small creatures played out their violent skirmish. Stunned onlookers watched as each Primordial handily defeated its Ethyreal counterpart. The red actor’s shoulders slumped in mourning while the black’s gaze hung menacing over the scene of his defeat.

“Unable to overtake the Primordials, the minions of Düm crossed the Veil back to the Void to lick their wounds. To this day Düm’s servants still plot to destroy all and take back the elements to their Master,” the gypsy said. The small monstrosities leapt from the world and disappeared up the black-robed gypsy’s sleeves. Meanwhile, the red gypsy held his face in his hands.

“Bereaved, Khaos buried the torn remains of Rhom within the oceans and lands of this world. He took fragments of Rhom’s shimmering scales to forge the pantheon of gods who took stewardship of his Creation. It was the gods who eventually quelled the Primordials into their eternal slumber in chambers deep below our world.

“Those are wonderful tales as well,” she paused, “but they are for another time.”

The old gypsy bowed in closure of her tale. The audience cheered as the actors bowed as well. The orb of the world disappeared into a wisp of smoke and dust as the hearth was cleared. The common room became a bustle of activity as the next act prepared to take place.

“I wonder how they did that? Created the world and the Primordials and such?” asked Malerick.

“They must have an earthmancer in their troupe. Masters of illusion and trickery, they are,” nodded Talvero. “They can make dust and stone bend to their

will.”Malerick nodded in kind. Elemancy was something he had always been

fascinated by yet so few practitioners existed in his homeland that he knew very little about it. Mancers were a dying breed and their secrets were cryptically shared even amongst their own kind.

Tables were replenished with drinks and hot food as the gypsies retook the stage. A tall, slender man with long orange and indigo hair took up a small, three-legged stool just to the left of the blazing fireplace. The flame’s illuminations cast a flickering strobe over the man’s unusual locks and highly chiseled features. Malerick leaned over to speak with his tablemate but never took his eyes from the hearth. “What manner of man is he?” Malerick asked. “Him? He is an Aerlean,” the man answered and twisted in his cyan-trimmed cloak. He sat stroking his short beard and sipped again from his mug. “An Aerlean! I’ve only heard stories of them. They are not so different from the Chand,” stated Malerick with a sense of bewilderment. Talvero spit into his mug. “The Chand? May they all greet Oblivion with open arms,” the cloaked man said off-handedly.

A creeping into the Carthuian’s hackles told him he was being watched though all eyes were riveted on the cleared space serving as a stage. He scanned about him quickly but saw none save the barmaids not staring toward the Aerlean. It was nothing, he told himself. “They are not all evil.” That tickling endured, making the Carthuian feel watched all-the-more. He scanned the room again. No one seemed out of the ordinary and many patrons had their cowls pulled over their faces, talking quietly in huddled bunches. Was he being watched? “My friend, they are all evil; every last one and his brother too. They dwell down there beneath the Icewall in that godforsaken Toreden, just waiting for the chance to cross over and slay us all. They’ve been that way since the Great Rending and I don’t expect them to change. If Mandom had not intervened then perhaps we would not be talking tonight; not on this side of the Veil anyway.

“Be that as it may, I don’t speak much of the gods’ work. That is their business and not a flagon of mine,” the other man stated in reply. He tapped his mug on the table in time with the other crowd members as a cloaked figure slipped up before the hearth. The Aerlean beside it had donned a walking stick as tall as any man in the room. He pressed his lips to the side and placed his fingers over small holes in the shaft. “I knew one once; a Chand I mean. A long time ago,” Malerick replied. The other man scoffed mirthfully and clapped along with the crowd. The minstrel raised his flute and the room fell silent.

The cloaked figure before the Aerlean knelt down upon the floor. The room’s tension became palpable, anxious and enthralled. A soft, airy melody began flowing from the long wooden shaft of the Aerlean’s flute and the figure

stood. The cloak fell away. What was revealed seemed to pull the air from Malerick’s lungs. A long raven mane fell in cascading waves down bronzed shoulders. A body stretched with feline grace and predatory precision as it reached toward the ceiling with the crescendo of the music. There were metallic tinkles from small bells hung about supple wrists and ankles. A skirt of violet gossamer was cinched with a golden brooch at one hip, its diaphanous state obscuring all beneath it teasingly. Silk of a crimson red was cut high at the hip and low at the waist resembled what Malerick could only imagine would be worn beneath heavier, more modest clothing. The same material made up a garment that barely fit over a generous bosom, and the laces that held it cinched seemed to strain at her movements. A golden chain laced about her waist reflected the firelight, as did an array of overlapping golden disks that formed an inverted triangle starting at her hairline and ending at the bridge of her nose. Malerick had never seen such an intoxicating woman. As the music softened, so did her movements, and when it rose in intensity she followed. Lithe movements became violent shifts as she spun or tumbled to the music’s command. Her bare feet, hands, even arms and hips at times beat out a strange percussion to the phantasmal music of the flute. Small brass discs that strapped to her fingers chimed a rhythmic peripheral to complement the performance. Malerick watched in open-mouthed amazement; he had never seen such a display. His heart thumped loudly in his throat and ears but he was too mesmerized to notice. Flashes of light broke his euphoria as coins flew through the air and landed at her feet. Gypsies standing beside the hearth that had remained motionless now sprang to collect them from the floor without hindering her path or movements. Malerick watched as their purses bulged with a small fortune just from the few moments of crowd generosity. A tap at his shoulder caused him to jump convulsively. “Boy, I’ll be wiping up enough spilled ale tonight without adding your spittle to the mix. Close your mouth before something takes roost in it!” Weilina said bitterly. Her smile seemed to take some of the bite from her tone as she glanced down at him.

“You men are all the same. A simple show of an ankle and you are ready to fight Manslayer himself,” she admonished. “But she… she shows much more than her ankle,” Malerick said like an awestruck sycophant. He grasped his mug and slapped it to his dry lips. Weilina wondered what got more ale, his mouth or his chin. The spilled ale dripped down his neck in cool rivulets. “I don’t necessarily enjoy such ‘entertainment’ as you men do, but it’s good for business to let the Qerestasi perform here of a night. All the men in this room think to claim her and not a one will. If I had her looks and her youth I’d tease the lot of you as well.” Malerick’s eyes caught a dark spot high on the dancer’s left hip. It seemed to be too intricate to be a birthmark and yet the detail seemed to swim in his mind like smoke in a slow breeze. Flitting about the floor, she made her way

toward him. The man next to him cast back his cyan cloak and grinned openly. His head cocked back as she swayed in front of him and spun quickly, lifting that skirt in a halo about her body. Her narrow, predatory eyes cast a glance upon the bearded man that should have set the table afire. So much for a dull evening, Malerick thought. The room seemed to agree as people began moving about around him. As she came before the Carthuian a motion to his left barely registered in his vision. Her supple waist twisted and her smile glinted like a string of pearls that swam in Malerick’s head. Her smile quickly faded as a figure that had been sitting several tables away was suddenly there before him, his arms wrapped about her waist. At first she merely wiggled seductively but as it became apparent he was not letting go she began to snarl her protest. “Let go of me,” she spat and pressed her open palms against his chest. The man’s cowl slid back as he laughed and revealed the chiseled features of another Aerlean countenance. His skin was bronze hewn, like the flutist, but his hair was streaks of gold and platinum intermixed with a verdant green. He smiled an acid smile. “Why struggle woman, do you know who I am?” asked her assailant. “Yes I know who you are, Ansuren. Now unhand me,” she hissed and the music stopped. Loud protests rained down upon the two as the crowd grew anxious at the premature ending of their entertainment. Her nails dug deep into the fabrics of the Aerlean’s loose tunic but he seemed ill affected. The Carthuian felt his lips move without his mind registering his words. “What did you say, infant?” the Aerlean glared back at him impetuously. Men in crimson and gold livery began to stand from the tables adjacent to the Aerlean’s. “I said she doesn’t want your affections Aerlean,” Malerick spoke back in challenge. The woman’s eyes glared at the Carthuian in a manner that would have spoke of displeasure in any other situation. Surely she could appreciate his wanting to help. It must be the lighting in the room. “Indeed,” quipped the Aerlean, his grip on the woman unfaltering.“You aren’t a gypsy, boy, but your accent is definitely one of an outlander. Oh the khan will be pleased; foreign scum within our borders, protecting a gypsy harlot. How quaint…” “Let her go,” Malerick said as he rose from the chair. There was a feminine grunt as the gypsy was pushed aside, the motion masking the Aerlean’s fist. Malerick’s vision blurred and his jaw exploded in pain, the impact felt more like stone than flesh. Through watery eyes, the human could see a strange distortion encircling the Aerlean’s clenched hand. The soldiers around him began flinging tables out of the way in an effort to join their leader. A flash of cyan at Malerick’s side showed his table mate would not go unnoticed. “An Aerlean windmancer. Something told me this would be an interesting day,” uttered the cyan-cloaked man. His mace’s crown sported six wicked blades that flashed as he tossed it between his hands. He hunkered down

taking a stance that lowered his center of gravity. Malerick smiled, thankful for an ally. People around him were either bolting from the common room or crowding about the perimeter to watch; none seemed anxious to help him, save the mace wielder. Liveried men with drawn swords formed a bladed semicircle in front of Malerick and his ally. Without thought, Malerick grabbed a broken leg from one of the flung tables and brandished it before his attackers. Blade or no, he would not go down easily. Chaos erupted all about them. Liveried men surged forward, engaging members of the gypsy troupe as well as the outlander and his friend. Patrons crowded about or made for the inn’s exits, adding to the commotion of bodies. The gypsy minstrel spun his flute like a staff and struck with precision across the heads of his attackers. Daggers had appeared in the dancer’s hands as she too joined the fray. Gillard flung two soldiers back from the hearth to defend the cowering serving maids.

A battle cry spewed from one of the liveried men but was cut off in a wet thud as the cloaked man’s mace struck him square to the chest. Another soldier lunged at the Carthuian who dodged, the thrust going wide of its mark. Malerick’s club countered soundly to the brim of a soldier’s helmet. The wood splintered as another blow addled the contents of the liveried man’s head. His body crumpled and his hands relinquished their sword. Malerick wasted no time in grabbing it from the floor. The blade was light and swift, arcing before him and removing the forearm from another attacker. “I see you have some skills, Outlander. Try them with me,” Ansuren challenged. His gold and platinum hair stuck to his face with sweat as he countered one of the gypsy men that had assisted in the money collection. The Aerlean gritted his teeth and made his way through the melee toward Malerick’s position.

“Let us have at it,” he said and began pacing a circle around the Carthuian. Sword in hand and sweaty, Malerick’s heart thumped with the cold hand of fear and the hot grip of battle. He rotated his forearm and brought a fluid strike toward the Aerlean. His slash met vacant air and his side burned as the Aerlean’s fist struck square between two of Malerick’s ribs. The blow could have been worse; he was being toyed with. “Come now, boy. Surely you can do better than that,” the Aerlean laughed. “I’ll take no honor home with me tonight if you can’t defend yourself somewhat properly.” “I’ll try to oblige,” the outlander said with a quick strike. Ansuren anticipated and ducked as Malerick had hoped. He reversed his blade’s arc and twisted his wrist, finishing the strike in a downward motion. The sword’s tip opened the Aerlean’s chin with a flowing gash that pursed like a lover’s kiss. A sneer of pure loathing crossed Ansuren’s features.

A flash of black at Malerick’s side said someone new had joined the

battle. He took only a moment to see a cowl pulled close over ashen gray skin. Could it be…Shatragon?

A black dagger in the newcomer’s hands inserted into the breast of a liveried man and a sharp jerk twisted the blade like a key in a lock. The liveried man’s eyes glazed and his face went lax as his body fell limp to the floor.

A turn and a bow answered Malerick’s suspicions. His Chand friend from back home had found him. He had not a clue as to how, but he had found him. Time for questions later though, he hoped. The battle still raged. Its tide, though, seemed to edge away from the liveried men and toward Malerick’s allies. A thunderous noise from the front of the inn nearly brought the battle to a halt. “Resist us and perish!” came a guttural baritone. Malerick froze as he saw lumbering shapes pushing through the broken doorway. Weilina and her girls cowered behind the bar as massive, loathsome creatures like sundered men from tainted dreams forced their way amongst the combatants. Their faces were marked by prominent jaws that thrust forward as they growled, twisting their countenances into hideous mockeries of human expression. Narrow, predatory eyes glared over hairless muzzles as though facial features of man and beast had been mixed to a loathsome outcome. Blunt snouts snarled and flared above jagged maws of uneven teeth. Slurred speech and bestial grunts accompanied the new assailant’s entrance into the contest. “Pressgang!” uttered a shrill cry from one of the few patrons still within the inn. A floundering of movement followed the mass egress of those still watching the battle. Sheer panic enveloped the room as the bestial men drew forth heavy, weighted nets of forged iron chain.

The flutist returned the instrument to his lips and began to play a quick piece that could not be called music. Ripples like those of steady water broken by a falling stone began to course away from the Aerlean’s instrument. The creatures seemed to freeze in place as though made of stone as the ripples reached each of them. His hands worked in sporadic motions along the shaft and then stopped bluntly. His body crumbled to the floor with a liveried man standing above him brandishing a heavy wooden club.

Malerick snapped from his confusion as Ansuren’s fist landed an openhanded blow, the butt of his palm striking the Carthuian’s chin. The force of the strike hammered his lower teeth into their upper counterparts. A bell rang somewhere deep in Malerick’s mind as the floor met his face abruptly. His eyes surveyed two of every person in the room and each of them bearing a glowing halo. Malerick’s vision failed him as the room began to swim and he was tugged roughly from the floor.