It wasn’t until much later, under the gibbous, broken moon, that the celebration finally ended. The three friends waited outside, not wanting to witness what was surely to be the most upsetting and disappointing night of Gwen Waterflower’s inevitably short and tragic life.

As the revelers filed out of the building, Milla and Thom were positively glowing. “I’ve never felt so happy,” Milla slurred as she ambled past Sam.

Thom smiled at them. “Come, we’ll bed down for the night and have you all set for your journey in the morn.”

Reluctantly, they followed the pair as they stumbled through the crisp night air, Simon and Emma trailing behind, equally drunk. Under different circumstances, watching two small drunk children stumble in the darkness like a pair of old drinking buddies might have been amusing. But given the state of the village, it was deeply unsettling.

They passed through the ramshackle doorway into the Cask home, wincing at the stench.

“You can take the three mattresses to the right,” Milla said. “Oweyn will be staying the night with his bride, and our little ones can share.”

“Are you sure, we don’t want to be an inconvenience,” Nate said, hoping against hope they could find somewhere else to bed down.

“We insist,” Thom said as he undid his trousers and let them fall to the floor. He lay down in bed, wearing only his shirt, which was definitely not long enough.

His wife climbed into bed with him and pulled a dusty blanket over them.

Charlie laid down, and immediately began to sneeze and cough. His breath was raspy and ragged. Sam laid back, and even her eyes began to sting. Nate sat down, then immediately jolted back up, his face ashen.

“Sam, Charlie, I think I need to see you outside.”

They looked at him quizzically, but sensing his urgency, stood and followed him.

“Where are you off to now?” Thom asked.

“We left… something… outside,” Nate stumbled. “We’ll be back later, don’t wait up for us.”

Thom and Milla exchanged a befuddled look before shrugging and rolling over.

Back out in the crisp air, Charlie’s breathing eased.

“What was that all about?” Sam asked.

“Bedbugs,” Nate shuddered. “My mattress was crawling with them. I can only assume yours were too.”

For the next two hours, anytime one of them felt even a minor itch, they panicked, scrabbling to ensure that it was not one of the small red parasites.

They found a smooth patch of grass under a tall twisting oak tree and unfurled their bedrolls.

“You know what I miss most?” Sam asked as they stare up at the foreign stars.

“Your mom?” Nate asked.

“I was going to say donuts, but now that feels superficial.”

Charlie grinned. “I miss music.”

“I miss toothpaste,” said Nate.

Sam groaned. “Pizza.”

“Feeling clean.”

“Watching movies.”

“Being inside.”

“Hot showers.”

Their list grew longer and longer, until finally a somber silence fell over them.

“How are we going to get home?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Nate answered.

“I can’t stop picturing my mom, sitting on a curb somewhere, drinking heavily, waiting for me to come out from my hiding spot,” Sam said.

“Just like the day you were born,” said Charlie.

Their reverie was interrupted by an ominous grumble, like the muffled snarl of an angry lion.

“What was that?” Sam asked, horrified.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Charlie said. Even in the thin moonlight, his face was particularly pallid, his forehead glistened with sweat. His stomach shrieked again, loud and angry.

“Are you okay, Charlie?” Nate asked.

“Fine,” he gasped, his lips pressed tight together in a thin line.

“Is it the ham?” Sam asked, barely suppressing a grin.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charlie gasped. “I feel great. The ham was delicious.”

He rolled over as his stomach roiled again. “I’m going to go to sleep now.”

“If you’re going to be sick, it’s best to get it over with,” Nate said. “There are some bushes over there, we’ll plug our ears.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said. “But I don’t know what you’re-“ He drew a sharp breath as another upsettingly loud roar split the night air. “-talking about.” He began exhaling rapidly like a woman in the middle of birth pangs.

“Okay, goodnight then,” Nate said, making a face at Sam that caused her to suppress her giggles.

Several hours later, as sleep began to overtake her anxious mind, Sam was jounced awake by the sound of heavy feet padding along the ground. A distant shriek startled Nate and Charlie. They both sat up.

One of the distant huts was ablaze; brilliant orange flames licked the cool night air almost ten feet above the roof. Several people scrambled with buckets, each tossing a small, ineffective splash of water onto the raging inferno.

Another scream shocked them into action. They scrambled to their feet. Each grabbed a spear. Their hands shook as they clutched them in terror, peering into the dark night as shadows seemed to move all around them.

“Yarn-heads!” a woman shouted as she stepped out from her hut wearing a thin nightgown. Behind her stepped a hulking man, his body nearly naked except for a small loin cloth and a thin ball of rope which had been wrapped around his entire head.

His body was thin and muscled, scars crisscrossed his entire frame. He carried a long curved machete, which he hacked down into the woman’s neck, cutting clear through her collar bone and into her chest.

She gurgled and stumbled to the ground, taking the yarn-head’s weapon with her. He yanked at it in increasing desperation as one of the old farmers approached with a sickle. The yarn-head held up a single hand as the old man swung, slicing clean through his enemy’s forearm and neck.

Bile welled up in Nate’s throat as a geyser of blood erupted, spraying nearly ten feet from the brigand who fell to his knees, grasping his neck with his remaining hand, trying in vain to hold his throat together.

“What do we do?” Sam asked, her mouth suddenly dry and tight. None of them were particularly well equipped for a fight.

Another yarn-head rounded the corner, nearly crashing into the three of them. Charlie shouted, gripping his spear tightly as he thrust at the man. There was no coordination between the three as they swung and stabbed in a chaotic panic.

The yarn-head swung his machete, which clanked uselessly off their spears. Sensing there was easier prey available, he grunted angrily and ran off into the smoky night.

A third bandit bounded out of a hut to their left. Seeing the three of them he charged, swinging his weapon wildly over his head, screaming a war cry as he ran.

Nate and Sam both darted in opposite directions, away from the attacker.

Charlie quickly set his spear against his foot, his scream matching the yarn-head’s as the raider impaled himself on the weapon. The marauder’s momentum toppled both of them to the ground.

“Charlie!” Sam screamed.

Charlie shoved the dead raider off of him. “I’m okay. I’m okay. I think.”

His eyes bulged. “I’m not okay,” he said, his face grim and pale.

Sam knelt next to him as Nate poked his head out from the bushes he had dove into.

“Are you hurt? Did he cut you?” she asked as she grabbed his shoulders and chest, probing for a wound.

“No,” Charlie said through gritted teeth. “I… I pooped myself.”

“You what?”

He looked up at her apologetically as his bowels loudly emptied into his pants. “I think the ham might have been bad.”

And just as quickly as the raid had started, it was over. The bandits disappeared into the woods to the north, carrying the pittance of food and supplies they had stolen, whooping and hollering in the gloom.

For a brief moment, everything was stillness, a heavy silence heightened by their adrenaline. The roar of the burning hut the only sound. Then the wailing of women and children rent the night air, a choir of misery and anguish.

They made their way to the Cask home, spears still gripped tightly. Every breath was ugly with scent of war; blood and feces and the cloying stench of death. Each shadow, each snap of a branch, brought panic.

Milla was weeping openly, her head pressed to her husband Thom’s chest. He had been stabbed through the stomach, but had dispatched two of the yarn-heads with a shovel before falling.

“You,” Milla said through sobs. “You saved my babies. If they had been in the beds we left for you, they would have…” she trailed off.

Oweyn and his bride appeared. “Father, no!” he shouted.

“Thank the Aether you’re alive,” Milla said, clutching her son’s arm.

“Lucky is what we are.” Gwen appeared more shell-shocked than terrified. “One of them tried to climb up to steal the ham. He slipped and fell. Broke his neck.”

“Who are they?” Nate asked.

“Yarn-heads. A band of raiders that burn and pillage their way across the land,” Milla said.“Thieves and murders, the lot of ‘em.”

“Why doesn’t someone do something about them?” Nate asked.

“Who? We’re farmers here, not soldiers.”

“Don’t you have like, a king or duke something? Someone to protect your lands from marauders?”

“Oh, sure, a king. A fat lot of good they are,” she spat on the ground. “They’re never around when you need ‘em, but the moment you’re late with your harvest tax, their armies march on your doorstep.”

“What about the Soldiers of the Sun?” Sam asked.

“They’d help if they could, Aether be blessed. But they’ve got bigger things to deal with than us folk of the plains.”

After Charlie cleaned himself as best he could, they spent the rest of the night burying the dead in shallow graves, not far from the village, in a bare patch of dirt that served as a cemetery in the ocean of grass. A total of seven had been butchered in addition to Thom; two of them children.

They finished their work as the sun began to rise, leaving simple rock markers to indicate where their loved ones had been laid to rest.

The vicar cleared his throat. “May you know in your soul that there is no need to be afraid of death. For in death, we are re-united with the Aether that gave us life. May you be as free as the wind, as soft as wool, as straight as an arrow, that you may journey into the heart of the Aether, and your souls smile in its embrace.”

The group trailed from the graveyard back to the village in the shimmering morning light, Nate and Charlie still gripping their spears in quaking hands. “What will you do now?” Sam asked a somber Milla, her face still red and swollen with tears.

“Oweyn will inherit the farm,” she said. Her grim faced son put an arm around her.

“What about your other children?”

“Emma will be married off when she comes of age.” Sam scowled at the thought, wondering what precisely that age was. “Simon will become a warboy, he’s old enough now. Rupert as well, in not too many years.”

“A warboy?” Charlie asked.

“My, you really don’t know much of anything, do you?” Milla said. “The eldest son inherits the land and titles, the younger boys have to make their own way. Soldiers more often than not. Warboys.”

“That’s terrible.” Sam said.

“Is it? A warm bed and regular meals? Could certainly be worse.”

They made their way back to the village in a solemn silence. At the Cask home, Gwen began to round up the pigs that had broken loose during the fight. Oweyn grabbed an enormous club and began to beat ferociously on an oak tree.

“Why’s he so pissed at that tree?” Charlie asked.

As if in answer to his question, dozens of acorns clattered to the ground, which the pigs gobbled and chortled loudly.

Sam gave Milla a hug. “Thank you, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“We’ll be fine, deary, don’t concern yourself for us. We Casks are a hearty lot. We’ll make do, we always have.”

“All the same, we’d better go,” Charlie said. “You have plenty to take care of here without us crowding in.”

“Where we can find Bernard Bailey?” Nate asked. “You mentioned he might sell us some horses. Er… clackers.”

“Just head straight down past the last cluster of huts. He lives a fair ways further down the road. Not quite part of our little village. Hopefully the yarn-heads didn’t make it that far.” She clucked her tongue. “Poor old man, all alone out there since his wife passed from lung rot.”

They turned to leave. Charlie stopped. He reached into his pouch, and withdrew one of the gems. He turned back to Milla, taking her hand. He gently placed the stone in her palm, which he held in his own. “I’m sorry we couldn’t help more, but thank you for your kindness.”

He turned, and the three friends hurried down the road. Milla gasped as she saw what was in her hand, and fainted.

They followed the winding path through town. Despite the events of the night before, the townsfolk had, for the most part, resumed their normal activities. The imperative to survive surpassed the desire to grieve, and even small children were again playing games and laughing.

The village gave way to a thin wood where the dirt paths of Edgebreak, clotted with roots and mud, met a singular road constructed of plain, flat rocks. The trail was well worn and broad. Green grass and ruddy brush sprouted through gaps and holes where stones had been dislodged.

The friends were uncharacteristically silent as they walked. Death still held tremendous shock to their modern sensibilities. Death was something they read about in poetry, or saw in glorious 3D on a movie screen, or understood in the abstract while attending the funeral of an elderly relative. To have death rendered so suddenly and violently was a shock to the system.

Not far from the hamlet, in a thicket of trees, they saw a small hut set back from the path. An old man sat on a discolored log resting against the front, smoking a pipe, the wide brim of his frayed hat drooped, covering most of his face.

“Are you Bernard Bailey?” Nate called out.

The man tipped the brim of his hat up with the neck of his smoking pipe. His face was covered with warts of all different shapes and sizes. “Aye, that’s me. Who wants to know?”

“Milla Cask said you might have some clackers you’d be willing to sell,” Nate answered.

The man studied them for a moment, his eyes piercing and shrewd. “Alright then, follow me.”

They wound around his hut and followed a small dirt track deeper into the woods. Bernard caught Charlie staring at his face.

“What?” he said.

“Do they hurt?” Charlie asked.

“Do what hurt?”

“The warts.”

Sam elbowed him sharply.

“You know, I’m getting sick of you elbowing me,” he grumbled.

“Based on the way you’re talking to people, I think it might be good to be quiet for a while and re-evaluate your life choices.”

“Nay, they do not hurt,” Bernard answered.

“I like the big one,” Charlie said, ignoring Sam’s icy glare. “On your chin. Looks kind of like my Uncle Marty.”

“Sir, please don’t name my warts.” Bernard sniffed indignantly as he hitched up his loose pants and picked up his pace.

They came to a small clearing where a jumbled fence surrounded a spacious circle of dry red dirt. In the center was a hole that led straight down, its mouth yawning fifteen feet across.

“That’s the hive,” he said. “How many are ye lookin’ fer?”

“Hive?” Charlie said, his hands suddenly clammy. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Uh, three, I guess,” Nate answered.

“Yeh guess? Is it three, or do yeh be needin’ more?” the old man snapped.

“Yes, three,” Nate said, clearing his throat.

Bernard whistled three times, each distinct in pitch and rhythm. The ground rumbled, and the ominous sound of dry sticks banging together rhythmically emanated from the grotto.

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Three giant beetles, their brown bodies slightly larger than the thick horses they had seen at the annual Fourth of July parade, clambered out into the sunlight. Charlie retched and vomited.

They clicked and stretched their long, barbed legs as they scrambled in a circle, doing a lap around the fence until they came to a stop in front of Bernard.

He slid his hand down the long black horn of the nearest bug; the clacker shivered and leaned into his touch. Its chitinous armor was a deep amber with swirls of green and red. Its six long legs were nearly as long as its body, and its sloped back formed a natural saddle behind the head plate.

Nobody moved.

“Well, do yeh want ‘em, or not?” Bernard said. “They’re well trained, I can assure yeh of that.”

“We’ve never…” Sam trailed off.

“We’ve never ridden one,” Nate finished for her. “Could you show us how?”

“Well first, we’ve got to settle the small matter of yer payment,” he eyed them suspiciously.

“Sorry, of course. How much?” Sam asked.

He studied their faces, calculating the delicate balance between much money they were likely to have with their obvious ignorance about the price.

“Five grosh each,” he said, “Fifteen for the lot.”

Nate sniffed in loudly through his nose. Having no idea what the exchange between a grosh and a zlot was, he wanted to avoid tipping his hand.

“Do you have change for a silver zlot?” he finally asked.

The old man pulled out a pouch of coins, and began to poke through it with his fingers. “I’m afraid I only have twenty three grosh.”

“Which means you’re short by…” Sam said, letting the words hang.

“Twelve grosh,” the man said, confused.

“Right, twelve. Because one silver zlot is worth fifty grosh,” Sam said, winking at Nate.

Nate licked his lips. “Tell you what, you show us how to ride them, and throw in a fourth clacker, and we’ll call it even.”

Bernard grinned widely. “Yeh got yerselves a deal!” He whistled again, and a fourth bug emerged. It was then they noticed Charlie now stood fifty feet back, wringing his hands nervously like a child.

“Charlie, c’mon, we need to get to Whitespire,” Sam called.

He shook his head. “I’ll walk ,thanks.”

“’Tis a five day walk, lad,” the old man shouted.

“Look, man,” Nate said. “Either you can suck it up and ride one of these things, or we’ll meet you in Whitespire.”

“You wouldn’t,” Charlie said, entirely unconvinced by his declaration.

Sam sighed. “Charlie, I’m not walking to Whitespire. If we have to knock you out, tie you up, and sling you over the back of one of these things, we will.”

Charlie hesitated. “Wouldn’t that… Wouldn’t that make me seem less manly?”

“Oh, honey… That ship sailed a long time ago.”

He stared at the bugs for a long time, his palms sweaty, his mouth dry. “Could you guys please peer pressure me?”

“Everybody else is doing it,” Nate smirked. “What’s the big deal, I do it all the time, and I’ve never been caught.”

“You’ll look older and cooler if you do it,” Sam added. “Don’t be such a chicken.”

Reluctantly, hands trembling, Charlie joined his friends as Bernard showed them how to control the clackers. The animals were incredibly intelligent, able to understand whistles and clicks, and reacting to subtle touches to their antennae rather than using a bridle or spurs.

After an hour of practice, even Charlie was able to control his mount, which he had taken to calling Neekerbreek. He still dry heaved if he thought too long about what he was riding, but the creature’s movements were extraordinarily smooth as it scrabbled across the dirt and sod. Nothing like the horses he had ridden in Boy Scouts, which had always resulted in the occasional chaffed thighs and pinched nads whenever the horse jolted him too high during a run.

“What do they eat?” Sam asked as she rubbed the forehead of her mount. It chittered and purred at her touch. “Easy, Hedorah, easy.”

“They’ll eat most anything organic,” Bernard said. “Trees, leaves, grass. Some folk like to feed ‘em meat, but I find that makes ‘em more aggressive.”

“Aggressive?” Charlie said, his voice shaking, his eyes fluttered as if he might pass out.

“Oh, aye, lad. Yeh see that horn there?”

Charlie glanced down the long curved protrusion that stuck several feet out from the nose of Neekerbreek.

“Imagine one of them bearing down on you at a full run. That horn can pierce even the strongest of armor if they like.”

Charlie shivered, and gagged.

“Thank you, Bernard,” Nate said. “Charlie, pay the man.”

Charlie flipped a silver zlot to the old man, who snatched it greedily out of the air.

“Follow the road north, it leads directly to Whitespire,” the old man called after them as their mounts hurtled down the road, their long black legs a blur of motion.

“Aren’t you going to name yours?” Sam asked, as she caught up to Nate.

Nate shrugged.

“That’s no fun,” she teased. “How about… Garthim?”

“I approve.”

The clackers were not only incredibly fast; they did not seem to tire. Despite his distaste for the creatures, even Charlie had to admit that their smooth motion made travel far easier than it would have been on foot or by horse, which apparently didn’t exist in this strange place.

The thin forest soon gave way to a rocky plain with rolling hills and patches of garish, bitter-scented flowers and stubby brush.

Charlie was the first to notice a group of twenty figures standing on a hill in the distance. It was difficult to tell from this distance, but they appeared to be dressed in black robes that swirled in the wind. On their heads, they wore crowns made from animal horns bleached white in the sun. A malicious chanting floated across the plains on an unholy wind.

“Who are those guys?” Charlie asked, pointing.

“How would we know, Charlie?” Nate asked.

“Should we go see what they’re doing?” Sam asked.

“Sam, you are exactly why horror movies seem so unrealistic,” Nate said. “Did you hear that noise in the spooky mansion? Let’s go explore wearing only our panties!”

“Okay, I guess we’ll just ignore the obvious cultists summoning who knows what to feast on the blood of children,” Sam said.

“Hopefully childhood obesity isn’t a problem here,” Charlie said. “Wouldn’t want the Cthulhu to get high cholesterol.”

A few hours later, the salty sweet perfume of the ocean filled the air. In the distance, they could see the serrated cliffs that ran along Deadman’s Bay.

The hills swelled and rolled in front of them, mimicking the rough gray sea to their right, which slapped and spat against the pitted coastal rocks. At the crest of the tallest butte stood Whitespire.

The city was enormous, a colossal stone wall surrounded the innumerable stone and wood buildings that were pressed together, their sloping slate roofs a dusty red. The wall had an open black gate where travelers came and went, carrying goods or driving wooden carts pulled by clackers.

Outside the city walls, the hills were dotted with crude mud homes like the ones they had seen in Edgebreak. Farmers and laborers worked the land, their bedraggled children shouting and playing along the road.

At the center of the bustling city, an immense gothic castle towered over the other buildings, its roof slats a bright blue color in contrast to the ruddy reds that painted the rest of the city. From the center of the castle, the titular white spire stretched skyward. It stood nearly twice as tall as the castle surrounding it. At the tip of the white spear a glowing blue globe of semitranslucent glass floated, its exterior swirled with different hues of vivid azure as it slowly rotated.

“I wonder where they got the name, Whitespire?” Nate said. Sam snorted.

As they approached the city gate, several guards who had been playing dice against the wall scrambled to grab their weapons, long glaives they had left leaning against the gate. They were dressed in tan breaches with simple chain shirts and metal helmets that didn’t quite sit straight.

“Who goes there?” one of them shouted, his voice cracking. As they approached, he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. One of the warboys Charlie reckoned, and felt a pang of sadness imagining young Simon wearing the same oversize armor and struggling with a pole arm.

“We are here to meet with Alianna Stormbow,” Nate called out as they slowed their mounts.

“Aye, and would you like to meet with the Prince of Lions while you’re at it,” the guard shot back. His fellow soldiers laughed.

“I don’t know what that is,” Nate said. “But we are here on an errand from Elred Elebar.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “What errand might that be?”

Sam sighed, and tossed on of the bundles of white armor to the ground. “Bring this to whoever’s in charge, and let them know we’re waiting.”

The soldier’s eyes bulged so far out of his skull Charlie worried they might audibly pop and roll to the ground. With trembling hands, the guard picked up the armor, openly terrified. Without another word, he ran into the city.

The remaining soldiers all gripped their long weapons so tightly their leather gloves groaned as they shifted nervously from foot to foot.

A dusty gust of wind came from within the city, filled with the smell of hay and feces, sending Charlie into a coughing fit. He doubled over, holding his side as he hacked so hard he farted.

The soldiers exchanged a confused glance. Charlie, red-faced from the effort, noticed their expressions.

“Oh what, you guys have never coughed so hard you farted?”

“You okay?” Nate asked grimly.

Charlie shrugged. “If I said no, it wouldn’t make much of a difference, would it?”

“I hope they hurry,” Sam said. “I have to pee so bad my back hurts.”

One of the soldiers snorted, but a scowl from his companion made his smile disappear.

The soldier returned from his errand, leading four Soldiers of the Sun in full armor, their spears crackling with energy. They were all women, muscular and graceful. They wore white helmets that covered most of their faces, and wore no colored decorations or adornments.

Behind them, a dwarf marched, wearing a variation of the same armor, but with blue highlights and a hood pulled over his balding head in place of a helmet.

His beard and hair were white, and instead of a spear, he carried a heavy shield and a thick mace that glowed with a brilliant blue energy. He looked old, though being their first experience with an actual dwarf from an actual fantasy world, it was difficult to gauge his precise age.

This was made all the more difficult by the obvious, grizzled strength with which he comported himself. He had the gate of a warrior, someone who had participated in countless battles and survived to tell the tale.

Sam squealed in excitement. “Is that a dwarf? Like a real, life, dwarf?”

“So it would appear,” the dwarf said in a growling baritone, stepping through the gate. Their clackers chaffed and shifted as the Soldiers of the Sun approached.

“Easy, girl,” Nate said, calming Garthim who clicked affectionately at her new master.

“Who are you, and how did you come into possession of the armor of Elred Elebar?”

The three friends exchanged a nervous glance. They hadn’t discussed how they were going to explain what happened.

“Well, uh, see…” Charlie stammered.

“She saved us from a pair of Stone Golems,” Sam said. “We owe her our lives. When she was killed by the Queen of Storms-“

“The Queen of Storms?” the Dwarf was shocked.

Sam nodded. “That’s what Elred called her. When she fell in the battle, we decided to return her armor, along with the armor of Stran Blos, whose body she… well, we found. She said we should seek out the head of her order, Alianna Stormbow.”

The Dwarf tossed his shield to one of the guards, who was staring dubiously at Sam. It hit him in the face, knocking him to the ground. Charlie laughed, but caught himself as the soldier glowered at him.

“I think you’d best come with me,” the dwarf said at length. He turned to the young guard who was nursing a split lip. “See to their mounts.”

Charlie practically leapt from the back of his clacker, relieved to be away from the thing. Nate and Sam followed more reluctantly.

“And who are you?” Nate asked as the Soldiers of the Sun flanked them, their spears ready to strike. The dwarf held his hands up, and the soldiers relaxed.

“I am the head of my order, and a teacher of the healing arts at the School of the Sun,” he answered. “My name is Qailz’risd’anth’freiv’ryn’th.”

“Huh…” Nate said. “That whole thing is your name?”

The dwarf nodded.

“I’m never going to remember that.”

“He’s a teacher, let’s just call him ‘Professor,’” Sam suggested.

“Well, I’m more of a doctor than-“

“Doctor Professor it is!” Charlie said with an enthusiastic grin.

The dwarf shrugged. “If you like.”

They followed him through the iron gates and into the city’s narrow cobbled streets. It was sensory overload. Vendors shouted, selling their wares or strange-smelling foods, children ran, darting between the bustling adults, several beggars wrapped in thick cloaks sat against the side of buildings, their deformed hands outstretched.

Most of the citizens of Whitespire were human, but the occasional stout dwarf was mixed in for good measure. Sam made no attempt to hide her stares of wonderment.

The streets were uncomfortably narrow, and had no discernible pattern or rational layout. A small sluice had been dug next to the road. Through the narrow channel trickled a filthy stream of excrement and rotten food. Flies buzzed and danced and nettled them as they walked.

Dirt and soot swirled in the air, which stank of body odor and filth. Doctor Professor grabbed Sam’s arm, pulling her out of the way of a thick sludge of urine and feces that splattered heavily to the ground.

“Always walk down the center of the road,” he said, pointing to the woman who was shaking the last remnants of waste from her chamber pot on the second floor of a home.

Charlie’s lungs tightened again, as though someone were kneeling on his chest. The stifling air and dust were doing his asthma no favors. Sam and Nate exchanged concerned looks as he coughed and wheezed.

The crowd and bustle began to thin as they wound toward the center of the city. The buildings became more expensive, more refined, and the citizens dressed in finery, rather than the tattered, simple clothes of the city outskirts.

A gaggle of perfumed women with powdered faces and extraordinarily garish and impractical dresses stared down their noses at them. One whispered an unheard insult to her friends, and the three of them giggled and laughed. Sam’s neck flushed an ugly red, but she said nothing. She had grown accustomed to the judgmental stares and whispered insults.

Charlie coughed, hard. Doctor Professor stopped, turning to him, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright, son?”

Charlie nodded, spitting thick mucus to the ground. “I’ll live.”

Doctor Professor studied his face for a moment, his eyes shrewd. “May I examine you?”

Charlie looked to his friends, who both shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

Doctor Professor placed the palm of his right hand onto Charlie’s chest, and stared intently at the back of his hand. “You have the breathless disease,” he smiled, relieved. “I was worried it was lung rot.”

“What is lung rot?” Sam asked.

“A terrible disease that ravages the body, filling the lungs with puss and black bile. Lung rot is beyond my abilities. But this?” Doctor Professor closed his eyes. “You may feel some discomfort.”

Charlie felt his chest relax, as if some unseen force stretched the lining of his lungs. His eyes widened as his chest began to tingle. The sensation was unpleasant, like he had inhaled water while drinking too fast. His pulse sped. His heart thrummed in his neck and behind his eyes.

Then it began to burn. His lungs ached, as if he had sucked in ash and flame. His breathing became ragged, but despite the unpleasantness, he did not feel the urge to cough. His breathing was steady and slow.

A warmth began to expand from Doctor Professor’s hand, and spread quickly through Charlie’s torso like a wave, extending out to his limbs and hands.

Doctor Professor opened his eyes, removing his hand. As the strange sensation was yanked from his body, Charlie coughed so hard he retched. He doubled over as thick white chunks slid out of his throat. At first he thought he was going to drown in the thick globules, but as he spat the salty substance to the ground, he began to feel better, despite the terrible ache in his ribs.

Finally he stood back up, his stomach muscles throbbed from hacking. His breathing slowed.

“Better?” Doctor Professor asked.

Charlie nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“How did you do that?” Sam asked.

“As I told you, I am a healer. The Aether allows us to understand and manipulate the human body, to knit together wounds, purge poisons; some of the most powerful of my order were even rumored to be able to restore lost limbs.”

“Could you teach us how to do that?” Sam asked. “For next time he has an attack?”

Doctor Professor looked at her, puzzled. “Next time? There will be no next time. He is healed.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “You mean, no more asthma? Just like that?”

“I am unfamiliar with the term ‘asthma’, but you should not have any more breathing issues, if that is what you mean.”

Charlie grinned from ear to ear. Sam practically tackled Doctor Professor with her hug. “Thank you!” she said.

“Goodness, child, of course,” he said, laughing. “Now, if there is nothing else, let us make haste. Alianna will not want to be kept waiting.”

He rushed them through the maze of streets to the Castle’s outer wall. Two more soldiers of the sun greeted them, snapping to salute Doctor Professor before opening the heavy iron portcullis behind them.

Inside was a lush courtyard lined with placid ponds and peaceful gardens, a tranquil contrast from the cacophony and tumult outside the castle wall. In the center was a cobblestone square where a line of soldiers, mostly women, were being drilled.

Stripped to nothing but the skimpiest of undergarments, each soldier held a wooden practice spear, weighted at one end. They were thrusting the blade in a sequences of stabs, feints, and strikes against heavy wooden posts, their rippling muscles glistened with sweat.

Behind them, a drill sergeant dressed in the full resplendent armor of their order would make corrections and shout words of encouragement.

At the rear of the courtyard was a wooden observation platform, roughly two stories tall. There a fierce woman stood, her white armor glimmered in the fading light. She stood with the practiced stance of someone prepared to explode into violent action at the drop of a hat.

On her head, she wore a blue circlet of weaved metal that glittered, holding her long hair in a tight bun at the back of her head.

Unlike the other soldiers they had seen, her armor was adorned with a brightly colored sash and gauntlets, similar to Elred, only a deep azure color. Even at this distance, authority and power emanated from her, drawing the eye and commanding attention.

As the gate closed behind them, the escort of soldiers that had flanked them peeled off and disappeared into the castle’s inner chambers. Doctor Professor led them past the trainees, Charlie’s eyes wandering to inappropriate places as they passed the muscular women who continued their drills as if they did not exist.

“Alianna,” Doctor Professor called out. “These three have brought the armor of Elred Elebar and Stran Blos. They also claim they encountered the Queen of Storms.”

Alianna studied them for a moment, her harsh face wore an expression of intense concentration. Now closer, they could see that her chiseled features had been distorted by a long scar that ran from her hairline down the right side of her face and neck like a discolored river, disappearing into her armor.

Her eyes were a brilliant argent, her gaze cold and withering. Her lips were pulled tight, and the wrinkles around her eyes and on her forehead gave the impression of someone not given to smiling and laughter.

After studying each of them for a moment, she finally nodded and descended the staircase.

“Follow me,” she said. Wordlessly, she led them through a set of double doors at the back of the courtyard and down a winding hallway.

Thick, ancient, wooden beams ran along the top of the structure. Simple torches hung from iron sconces every ten feet, occasionally dripping burning oil to the stone floor.

Heavy wooden doors dotted the hallway, which came to a sharp turn into a wider chamber, with stone stairways leading both up and down.

They climbed for what felt like ages, Charlie with a spring in his step as he breathed deeply and easily for the first time in his life. He was far more accustomed to exercise resulting in a nearly immediate need for a water break and whispered vows to never leave the comfort of his sofa again.

At last, they came to what Nate guessed was the top floor of the castle, some six stories in the air as near as he could tell. The entered another spacious chamber where a group of hoary soldiers sat around a table, discussing military supply chains while moving small wooden figures on an enormous map. Their conversation ceased when they saw the three interlopers.

Alianna nodded in acknowledgment to them as they passed, but not a word was spoken. Through another set of doors they came to her office. In the center sat a wooden table covered in thick, weathered books and crumbling scrolls of parchment. Behind the desk was a bookshelf overflowing with the same; tomes stacked and crammed into every corner, scrolls jutting out at strange angles. Several small stacks had accumulated on the ground nearby.

Alianna sat in the only chair, a spartan affair built for durability and function, not beauty. The only decoration in the room was an enormous oil painting filled with swirling colors and geometric shapes. There were words written in an elegant looking script, like a mixture of Arabic and Korean. Evidently, Elred’s gift did not grant them ability to read whatever language they were speaking.

“Tell me everything that happened,” Alianna said calmly, her face a mask.

They hesitated a moment, unsure how to start. Finally Nate began. “Sam.” He paused to nod toward his friend. “Her. Well, she came across this book.”

They told their story again, trying to include as much detail as they could remember. Nate did most of the talking, though Charlie and Sam both interjected to add details he missed. Alianna seemed particularly interested in how Elred died, and the words spoken by the Queen of Storms. She asked several probing questions to pull more detail from them.

Finally, they finished with the raid on Edgebreak, and their journey to Whitespire. Alianna and Doctor Professor stared at one another, their mouths pulled tight.

The silence hung for a considerable time, much to the discomfort of the three friends, who had no desire to be the first to break the stillness.

Finally Alianna spoke. “I thank you for bringing this news to us. Elred was right, if the Aether brought you to our world, there must indeed be some reason for your presence. What that purpose might be, I could not say.” She inhaled sharply through her nose. “Tomorrow we will bring you before the Council of Kings to retell your story. They will decide your fate.”

“The Council of Kings?” Nate asked. “Can’t you tell them what happened?”

“We just want to get home,” Sam said. “If that’s even possible.”

Alianna frowned. “If the Aether wills it, it will be so. Until such a time, you will tell your story to the Council.”

She nodded to Doctor Professor, who cleared his throat. “Eh, if you’ll come with me, we’ll find you some food and a bed for the night.”

They wound back through the castle, turning and ducking through doors. They were quickly disoriented in the maze of ornate hallways and long staircases. They came at last to the barracks. Doctor Professor opened a door, inside were two sets of bunk beds with straw mattresses and wool blankets.

“Did we do something wrong?” Sam asked as she stepped into the room. “Alianna seemed angry.”

“You’ll have to forgive our captain,” Doctor Professor said. “She is not a warm woman. But you wouldn’t be the first to mistake her harsh manner for disdain.”

They each sat on the edge of the beds, Charlie and Nate on one, Sam on the other. The setting sun cast a heavy orange pale over the room through the window at the far end.

“I’ll make sure the quartermaster brings you food and water, and your animals will be fed. Chamber pots are under the beds. Is there anything else you need?”

Sam shrugged. “What can you tell us about your order?”

Doctor Professor smiled as he sat down heavily next to her. “Those of my order are known as the Anchorites of Light.”

“So you’re not a Soldier of the Sun?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, indeed I am, but there are several sects within the organization. Captain Stormbow is the head of the entire organization. Each of the orders have a different specialty. The Eremetics are dedicated to the acquisition of knowledge and history, as well as the manipulation of the Aether. The Cenobites are devoted to the arts of war; that was the council you saw as we entered Alianna’s office. There are many others, the Marists, the Patricians, the Bloodlights. Each has a special understanding and relationship with the Aether, and serves it in their own way.”

“Each order has a head, chosen from the body to lead. They, in turn, council with Captain Stormbow, when needed.”

“And you’re the head of your order? The Anchorites of Light?” Charlie asked.

“Yes, for seven years now, though I most often feel inadequate to the task.”

“How does one join your order?” Charlie pressed. Sam and Nate shared a surprised look.

“One must first serve as an apprentice to a master of the order. After much study and trial, they are then be presented before the membership and must be found worthy to join our ranks. It is not an easy path, but there is wonder and joy to be found in seeking to bring balance to the Aether.”

“That’s a question I have,” Sam said. “Elred told us that the Aether has a light side, which you serve, and a dark side. Is that what the Conclave of Flame and Salt serve?”

Doctor Professor became somber. “Yes. There is opposition in all things, light and dark, good and evil, life and death, love and hate. We worship the white Aether, all that is good and holy. The Conclave, may the Aether take them, have been corrupted by the darkness.”

“But you keep saying you seek balance in the Aether,” Charlie said.

“Yes, balance in all things,” he replied.

“But wouldn’t balance mean equality between the dark and the light?”

Doctor Professor pursed his lips. “Well, you see-“

“And you worship life, right?” Charlie interrupted.

“Yes…”

“By killing the bad guys?”

Doctor Professor sighed. “Well, it’s complicated…” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Tell me, when you saw the Archon, what did you feel?”

Charlie’s eyes fell. “Cold, and hopeless. Like all the good had bled out of the world.”

“And the Queen of Storms? Did you feel any different in her presence?”

They all shook their heads.

“Our wisest master and head of the Eremetics, Gadium the Lightkeeper, has said that by the fruits of their labor you shall know them. A corrupt tree can’t bring forth sweet fruit, neither can a healthy tree bring forth corruption.”

“I suppose,” Charlie said, still unconvinced. “I would like to join your order, if that would be possible.”

Nate’s jaw almost hit the floor. Charlie was not one for rules or for joining any sort of organization. He had been kicked out of the Boy Scouts because he felt they had become soft after they rejected his bid to have the Anarchist’s Cookbook converted into a merit badge manual.

Doctor Professor nodded. “We shall see. Let us meet first with the Council of Kings on the morrow.” He stood, a warm smile on his face. “All will be well, I promise.”

And with that, he left them alone to their thoughts.

“You want to join his order?” Nate finally said.

Charlie shrugged. “He cured my asthma.”

“Yeah, that is something,” Sam said. “But weren’t you the guy who insisted that anyone who played a priest in any role-playing game was likely a pedophile?”

“You referred to my healer in Sam’s campaign as a walking box of band-aids,” Nate added.

Charlie shrugged again, unusually sober. “Things change, I guess.”

As they watched the last red sliver of sunlight disappear on the purple horizon, neither Sam nor Nate could argue with the sentiment.