image [https://i.imgur.com/r8VAZLN.jpg]

CHAPTER XX: The Candle of Alnoor

46 Flamestar 1011,

The Age of Night

5 Days until the Night of the Moon

The Alnujum,

Sultanate of Nur (Sovereign Territory)

After weeks, where all the eye could see was the seemingly endless vapor that was shimmering above the scorched sands, Nedraj, wiping beads of sweat from his brow, squinted ahead at a faint rock wall, dead ahead, barely visible through the haze of heat.

"Can you see it, Hellflayer?!" he said, his voice tinged with excitement despite the oppressive heat. "The northern wall! There! Upon the horizon!"

"...The Den," Íbolín muttered, shielding his eyes from the glaring Flamestar. "So it is, at last."

Dathan, his weathered face creased into a toothless grin, clapped Íbolín on the back, the sound echoing faintly in the dry air as he laughed heartily.

"A few more miles north along tha' cliffs then, and we should set up a mor' permanent camp." The old len shouted.

The group trudged onwards, their boots stirring up the fine, powdery dust that covered the ground. Every step sent a cloud of earth swirling into the already heavy air, mixing with the heat to create a sweltering atmosphere. They moved in a line, following Íbolín’s lead, their shadows long and dark against the bright backdrop of the Flamestar.

"The Hamyir are doubtless, still prowling the entrance." Nedraj said, concerned. "We have to be careful where we decide to rest!"

The cliffs loomed ahead, their jagged edges casting long, slender shadows across their path. As they neared their destination, the group fanned out, surveying the area for the ideal spot to establish their camp. They sought a location that provided both a strategic vantage point and some respite from the ever-present danger of the desert heat.

Finding a relatively sheltered area, they began the task of setting up camp. Tents were pitched with precision, each placed to maximize the shade provided by the sparse, gnarled trees dotting the landscape. Supplies were unloaded with care, arranged in an orderly fashion to ensure easy access when the need arose.

Dathan, moving with an agility that belied his age, directed the placement of the sentry posts to the Rajari who had come to fear him and his companion Ithandacar. His toothless smile had given way to a look of concentration, understanding the importance of their position in relation to the Den. Nedraj, meanwhile, consulted another strange book, his finger tracing possible routes for their upcoming reconnaissance.

As the camp took shape, the atmosphere was one of quiet determination. Each mercenary of the caravan felt the anxious buzz creep up. Each knew the role they had to play. The air was filled with the sounds of preparation – the clink of metal, the rustling of canvas, and the occasional command issued in a hushed tone.

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That night, they found themselves nestled perfectly between a deep crescent formation of rocks, just east of the wall. At the center of the alcove was a large, ornate purple tent. Inside, Dathan, Íbolín, a handful of mercenaries, and the prince himself sat on the floor around a circular wooden table, smoking from the prince's hookah which bubbled and let a sweet scent of coal tobacco fill the dwelling. Servants poured tea, as their benefactor continued to flip through his book.

Dathan slurped his tea, which was luke-warm at best, and Íbolín puffed on the hookah, staring off into space, lost in thought.

"Well?" Dathan said, finally having enough. "Are we gonna' talk about this or are ye gonna poke yer nose around that book all day?"

"What is that, anyway?" Íbolín asked.

"I brought it with me from the Madrasa. One of the only books on the Den that was worth anything. The Testimony of Makar Al-Khyin."

Dathan chortled. "Hah, o'course."

"And, why do we need a book written by this len?" Íbolín asked. "I thought we were just going to follow the mine-carts?"

"We need the book because, he was a disgraced captain of the Hamyir, turned marauder. He wrote this and drew maps of the Den of Glory and Excellence, which he was once tasked to protect. We will need to know which tracks to take, which lead to dead-ends... and which perhaps are severed."

"That can't be real, prince. Especially if ye are aware of his fate, I'm telling yeh." Dathan said.

"I'm lost." Said Íbolín.

"Makar Al-Khyin disappeared, shortly after penning this account, supposedly." Dathan instructed, quickly.

There was a silence.

"So you want to take lessons from him?" Íbolín asked.

"Precisely. He tried to do what we are doing." Nedraj said, turning his vision toward Íbolín before quickly returning.

Íbolín scrunched his face.

"It doesn't really make sense. If he disappeared, how do you have the book?"

Dathan chuckled again. "Told ye. Been' saying that book has been a fraud for years. Its treated as rivetin' fiction in the Mystmarshes."

Nedraj closed the book and looked at Dathan unamused.

"You really think you know everything don't you, old len."

Dathan's toothless smile spread across his face.

"If you perhaps reserved judgement until you had all the facts, perhaps you would be a lot wiser than you are." Nedraj said, yawning, covering his mouth.

"The legend is, after scouting the Den while he was in charge of its' safety, he and his son descended into its depths. His son published it years later." Nedraj said.

"Alright, but is it trustworthy?" Íbolín asked.

"Maybe." Nedraj said. "The Nur would say probably not. Makar Al-Khyin, for his namesake, was known to be a scoundrel who abandoned the Sultanate in their darkest hour, during the Fioran reconquista. But, the fact that he is hated so much by the Nur elite leads me to believe that it's the best possible resource we have."

"If it's missing, why not fill in the gaps with later copies?" Íbolín pressed further.

"Of course, the after-published copies are certainly not trustworthy, censored by the Sultanate... turned into a bumbling fiction of a fool. Makar is a character in children's folk tales, a buffoon. But this... is the original manuscript. We see there is something... more serious at play in our friend Makar."

"Is tha' right..." Dathan mused in disbelief.

"Oh, it is." Nedraj smiled devilishly. "It really is, old len."

"If this is the written testimony of Makar, why did the Madrasa part ways with it?" Íbolín asked.

Nedraj made a rude sound with his mouth.

"Oh, you know Hellflayer. It's a... souveneir." Nedraj said, matter-of-factly. "I lifted it from the Madrasa, obviously."

Dathan blinked. "I knew it."

Nedraj was taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yere' a thief, through and through." Said Dathan. "Ye' got stones, I'll give yeh that, prince."

Nedraj stared at Dathan for a moment before he broke out into laughter.

"Oh, that's rich," The prince said, struggling to control himself. "What were you doing here before, then? Or did you jjust come to redecorate it with your corpses?"

"We are no thieves," Said Dathan, sharply.

"Oh-ho," Nedraj said, still laughing. He turned and lifted his hand, pointing to Íbolín, who averted his eyes, turning to a pensive, brooding countenance.

"That's right, I forgot you're noble len on a noble quest. It is such a sacrifice to have to work with a sinner like me..." Nedraj continued. "The treasures of the Den have belonged to the Sultan for a millenia, what else could you want?"

"The Sultan has somethin' that rightfully belongs to Mystalbion, aright'" Dathan smiled. "If ye repented, Yol would forgive you. He could and would, were he sought,"

Dathan made a religious sign with his hands and closed his eyes as he concluded his reply, while Nedraj licked his lips and narrowed his eyes. The trio and the rest of the mercenaries were forced to enjoy an uncomfortable silence.

"You know, you are probably the least pleasant, most ignorant, bull-headed len I have ever been forced to know." Said Nedraj.

"Enough. What can the book tell us about the Den?" Íbolín asked, abruptly trying to rein in the conversation.

Nedraj grumpily flipped the book open again, and laid it on the table. He flipped to a page with a crudely drawn diagram of the den, from both a side profile and top-down profile.

"As you can see, in the original, the Den contains an elaborate... floor plan."

On the book's parchment, Íbolín could see the network of tunnels and chambers inside, crudely drawn with ink from a shaky hand. Íbolín began to thoughtfully consider the scope and scale of what he was being shown.

There was an awkward silence as Nedraj looked blankly at Íbolín's face.

"This is a very serious dilemma, Hellflayer."

Nedraj pointed to the first major network after the entrance.

"Does this look familiar... you were just... here, right?"

Íbolín's face contorted slightly, and he looked to Dathan, who also looked to him with a look of concern.

"Only for a moment." Said Íbolín. "Like we said, we couldn't go further."

"Of course you couldn't." Nedraj quipped smugly.

"It was too dark, we..." Íbolín said, unable to stop from swallowing the pit of saliva wallowing in his throat.

"...saw a darkness, so rich, so concentrated, darker than the darkest depth of the sea, or the longest, blackest night of the Havenstar?" Asked Nedraj, rhetorically. "Yes, we already talked about it. When we first met. Remember?"

Nedraj laughed, in somewhat disbelief.

"You do not realize your luck. What luck, you were caught before you ventured too far. These caverns we are heading into... they have not..."

Nedraj caught himself on his words.

"...even if we had every len in this group sporting a fresh torch, the darkness would completely devour their light. It is an abyss. There is no light which can penetrate it's shadows. Instead, would-be thieves who would outrun the Hamyir, such as our long-lost friend messer Makar here. You would have been left to bumble around in the darkness and become lost to it forever..."

Íbolín and Dathan locked eyes for a moment, before turning to the prince, who was flipping through the book. Nedraj paused and turned up his face toward his associates and sported a grin. "These networks are probably teeming with treasures, already."

Nedraj closed his eyes and exhaled, his mind running with images of power and glory. He then shook his head and returned to focus.

"But well... aside from that, I regret to inform you that the rest of the pages are missing." Nedraj said soberly, moving on with a look of solemn concern. "But we will succeed where all others have failed."

Nedraj examined it further, tracing the ancient Nur script with his finger. There was a strange pause which came over his normally jovial demeanor.

"Mataha Al-Zulmat..." Nedraj said, somewhat daunted.

The silence was palpable.

"I don't speak ancient Noor, prince." Íbolín said, condescendingly. "Translation?"

"Mataha means... Labyrinth, and..." Nedraj said, hesitantly. "Zulmat is akin to... shadow, darkness, abyss, void..."

Íbolín puffed on the hookah once more, and the coal cherried. It's sweet scent seeping back into his nostrils. He let out a laugh of discomfort at realization of something.

"Yol damn it," He said.

Dathan glared at him.

"If it's so dark, what can we do then? We wasted our time coming here!" Íbolín said.

Nedraj reclined, pulling the Hookah cord toward himself and smoked it himself, grinning.

"Hang on, Hellflayer. Before I answer..." Nedraj said. "What were you two going to do about it? What did swamp gramps tell you to do?"

Dathan didn't flinch at the insult, but Íbolín was at a loss for words.

"Were you going to pray the darkness away, old len?" Nedraj asked, puffing a sweet cloud of smoke out again.

Dathan pulled on his beard in thought.

"You had no plan, did you," Nedraj continued. "Not only this, but you had no idea about the Labyrinth."

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"I heard some things," Dathan quipped. "Yol would have shown us-"

Nedraj chuckled. "I knew it,"

Dathan curled his lips, dejected.

"It is impressive that you breached the gate, I'll tell you that. That is one of the reasons I purchased your freedom," Said Nedraj. "But now perhaps I am seeing this all in a new light. You both really should be dead."

"Yol saved us," Said Dathan, firmly. "He spared us."

Nedraj rolled his eyes. "The Hamyir saved you, a strange streak of mercy, but mercy nonetheless, that didn't kill you on the spot."

The coal cherried as the Hookah bubbled.

"It's odd," The prince continued. "I realize that you never really answered. Why did you pursue the Den in the first place?"

Dathan and Íbolín exchanged quick looks.

"Well, I think it's obvious, if ye know anything about the den," Dathan replied. "In tha' misty hills, tha' stories are still told by school lennings at play. It's not a secret tha' Sultans got a hoard."

Nedraj chortled.

"All Mystish children are told Nur folktales, in addition to ours. We are neighbors, you know," Dathan said.

"Sure," Nedraj said, unimpressed. "So just like the marauders who, since the Den's construction, have thrown themselves against the Honey Gate, to the Hamyir, year after year, to be slain or imprisoned. You decided to give it a go, off of a damn nursery rhyme?"

Dathan shook his head and inhaled deeply from his nostrils.

"I will pray for ye, Prince. For yer' blasephemy. I believe' ye' will change, someday." Said Dathan. "Truth be told, I had a dream,"

"You had a dream." Nedraj's interest was piqued.

"I did." Dathan replied. "As tru' as I see you now."

"Tell us then, this dream." Nedraj ordered, indulging him. Dathan cleared his throat.

"I was standing in the sand, and ther' were great hills overlooking a valley. I looked up and saw a beast. It was a white wolf with golden, glowing eyes.. It beckoned me to follow, and so I did. There, I sawr' what I recognized as the Honey Gate."

The next words formed in his mind, but he spoke them not.

When I turned back to see the beast, I sawr Lumendíl, the sword of the Conqueror, in its teeth.

"And uh' the wolf took me on his back, deep into the den, where I saw a great pile of treasures and holy relics."

Nedraj raised his eyebrows, unnerved. "How... strange,"

"What's so strange?" Íbolín asked.

Nedraj said nothing while his scarred companion grinned.

"It's the same thing you saw in your vision at the Madrasa, huh?" Íbolín quipped, looking into his cup, taking a swig.

"Not quite! Not quite. I saw no wolf." Nedraj quipped, unwilling to be had. "...but it was... similar."

"...It is the providence of Yol," Dathan insisted. "After the dream of the white wolf, I went to my brother, a bishop of Yol, and explained the dream. We spent days tryin' to figure it out. We even went to Galeron, and searched the great libraries and cathedrals, and well, we found... some strange thins'."

Dathan stroked his grey beard.

"We searched the histories of tha' great wars between the Nur and the North. The holy wars, to spread ther' little book of babblins' to us straightened folk, who just want tha' pure stuff. None of that extra nonsense. Anyways, the plunder and bloodshed up to tha' horses bridle in the holy cities... most o' that is now lost ta' the sands of time, but there were a lotta' writers who thought the Sultanate got the lion's share o' the loot."

Nedraj lifted his eyebrows, and put the hookah tube to the side for a moment and took a sip of his tea.

"Well, the fundamentalists have murmured for years that when the Sultanate conquered half of Fiora, they made off with relics and 'sold them' and 'buried them' in the desert." Íbolín interjected.

"Oh, how ticklish. You did receive an education, Hellflayer! Yes, this is true, and we Rajari all saw it as a lie to inspire pilgrims to come die here, to waste their energy trying to digging up trinkets, which were never there." Nedraj responded. "The Nur made their money during those years of dynastic chaos off of your flagellant and hysterical people."

"But you're convinced that... what was it? Lumendíl? ...is in there?" Íbolín said, sipping his tea, shifting his eyes to the liquid, trying to avoid Nedraj's own eyes.

"...By accessing the higher planes, the Hall of Seeing Stones only shows what the Nur call 'maahuru'. That is, what is. But by what is... it means in a state of constancy. What was, what is, what is to come, it is always happening." Said Nedraj, instructively. He turned to Dathan. "You will doubtless find it interesting that the Nur use maahuru to describe your god. He lives in a state of maahuru, he is privy to what the seers see, but at all times."

Íbolín pondered the prince's words, unsure what to make of them.

"So, you saw it, then?" Íbolín said. "Tell us."

"Saw what? Lumendíl? "Nedraj's eyes slanted. "...Why so interested in Lumendíl all the sudden?"

"I'm just want to be sure we aren't wasting our time... looking for treasures of that magnitude, in general." Íbolín replied.

The hookah percolated again. Nedraj was staring off into space, pensive, his look even sullen.

"I saw the sword, yes. I did. And many other treasures. We will be rich, Ithandacar. I would not have wasted your time, alone mine."

Nedraj's countenance fell.

"And... I saw much more, beyond that." Said Nedraj, exhaling. He rose, and sat up. After taking a deep breath he spoke again.

"I must make it clear, that Lumendíl is mine."

"What do I have to do with another sword?" Íbolín nodded without hesitation. "You said it yourself, it's just a butter knife. A symbol."

"Good," Nedraj said. "As long as we are clear in our expectations."

"I expect to find enough to get lost, somewhere." Íbolín sipped his tea and glanced at Dathan. "Find a white beach somewhere. Maybe in Kemodesia. Far, far away."

Nedraj scrunched his face. "So, I take it you are rejecting my offer then?"

"What?" Íbolín said.

"You've forgotten already?" Nedraj replied.

There was a silence.

"No, I will not be returning with you." Said Íbolín. "I will probably never set foot in the North ever again."

Dathan's mouth slightly opened, and he side-eyed Íbolín, seemingly leaving something unexpressed.

"You found me here, in the middle of nowhere," Íbolín said. "and I am the Hellflayer. Why would I not be found in the empire I scarred and bled myself for?"

Nedraj sighed.

"I understand." Said Nedraj. "I assumed as much, but maybe even still, you might change your mind."

"If the fortune we believe is there, I will secure what I need." Íbolín said, with a strange milkiness to his eyes. "Perhaps I will finally be able to change mine."

"You are a strange one, Ithandacar." Said Nedraj. "It is beyond me why you would abandon the seat of power you are rightfully entitled to."

Íbolín slowly closed and opened his scarred hand, staring off into space.

"You walked away from many len's dream. I can't imagine the ire of your rivals and the souls and families of those you slew... to see you just to walk away."

There was more silence.

"It is obvious to all that you are upset about... something in your Fiora. You regret the formation of the Empire. Yes, that is very clear." Nedraj continued. "I already told you that I have great plans for Rajar. With Lumendíl in hand, we can oppose them, maybe make things right?"

"If it's just a butter knife, I regret to inform you that we would need far more than that." Said Íbolín. "Some day soon, there will be one crown over the entire League."

Nedraj scoffed. "I highly doubt that, Hellflayer. Your legions remain bogged down in the Drummarg, with no change in sight. Even if you broke through, Rajar would work out a non-aggression agreement with the Venrex, and if you were dumb enough to press into Ishra, it would make the decade-long nightmare seem like child's play."

Íbolín picked a small piece of tea leaf out of his teeth.

"They will all be overcome." He said. "What... I have set in motion... will not stop."

Nedraj scoffed and interjected quickly. "Your... effect is undeniable, Hellflayer, but you must realize that the Venganzi of Fiora have plotted in secret to overcome your country. They would have done it without you, you just happened to get it done, faster."

Nedraj continued.

"You are not solely responsible for the Empire. No one ever is for such things. It unfolded for many reasons that happened all at once, Ithandacar. There is a common trajectory for these things."

Íbolín smiled.

"Maybe you're right." He said. For once, he felt some flicker of emotion from the prince.

The two shared a look of silent agreement.

"Then, let's return to tha' task at hand and find out, lennins'." Dathan said. "How do we deal with tha' dark."

Nedraj slipped into his devilish grin again.

"...There is only one way to oppress a darkness so foul." Nedraj said, slowly.

Dathan and Íbolín looked up expectantly, waiting for the answer.

"The channeling of the arcane." Said Nedraj.

Dathan sniffed. "What kind o' magic."

"The old kind." Nedraj replied. "Maybe as old as you. Something only the Madrasa could help us out with."

"O' course." Dathan chuckled heartily. "The seein' seers of the Madrasa can look down tha' halls o' time, but couldn't forsee someone as contrivin' as ye' comin' up that hill."

"That isn't how their window into maahuru works. If they knew where to look, maybe they would have seen my day."

Dathan closed his eyes in surrender. "Fine, out with it'"

"Well, perhaps its better that you... see it for yourself."

Nedraj turned around, and reached over into his personal effects. There, in an almost rehearsed manner, he gently pulled out a large draped container, and slowly pulled it over, holding it in front of the len. It was covered in a maroon, velvet cloth. He licked his lips, and WOOSH! He removed the covering and a hot, white light, began to fill the tent. It illuminated everything, so much so, that the tent and all that was in it appeared as lucid as if it were a dream. Íbolín, Dathan, and the mercenaries who were with them all began to recoil and shield their eyes in vocalized pain. The light was the brightest they had ever seen, and gave off a strange, soothing vibration that seemed to hollow out their very bones.

"Dhafa!" Nedraj commanded, and the light instantly retreated to a cold, focused dim atop the wick of a candle, but still as bright as the noon Flamestar in its' corona.

As the intense light subsided, the prince's companions began to regain their composure. They tentatively looked up to see Nedraj, his silhouette outlined against the less blinding but still luminous object he held. On the table before him was the cylindrical glass container, ornately trimmed in metal, which cradled the candle set upon it's golden stand. The candle's flame, a hypnotic shade of bluish-white, danced gently, captivating everyone's gaze.

"Mother of the Conqueror!" Dathan exclaimed, awe-stricken by the sight. He instinctively dropped to one knee in a gesture of reverence, his eyes fixed on the mesmerizing flame.

Despite the prince's command having dimmed the light, Íbolín still found himself squinting, the candle's brilliance lingering in his vision, still doing violence to him. The light, though subdued, continued to emit a powerful presence, its ethereal glow casting a serene ambiance throughout the tent. It gave off a feeling of conviction, and inspiration.

"This is how we will cross the dark corridors of the Labyrinth." Nedraj bellowed with confidence. "The Candle of Alnoor!"

Dathan fainted.

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Elsewhere in the arid expanse of the Great Nabi, there was a stream of lightly armored footlen, marching with urgency. The noon-day Flamestar was of course a hindrance, but this coalition of both Fioran legionnaires and the royal Hamyir was composed of the very best. In the front were a small contingent of horselen, helmed by the Sultan's right hand, Zalman, as well as Daryusz Venzicar, and their adjutants.

Taking point, Zalman spotted black speckles in the distance. Having grown up in these sands, his instincts to differentiate between the mirages of day and wraiths of night gave him pause. He reached into his cloak pocket to extract his telescope, and spun its bronze cylinders. He squinted his eyes and saw that there were downed len, being circled by carrion.

"Daryusz!" Zalman shouted, winniying his beautiful Nur horse, turning to him. Returning to the group, his ally Daryusz' face was covered with a gold satin sash, and he quickly removed it.

"Yeah?" Daryusz asked.

"There is activity over there." Zalman said, pointing behind him. "It looks like a group of len."

Daryusz drew his sword, and dug his heels into his borrowed horse, and the horselen took off, with sands kicking up behind them.

As Zalman and Daryusz approached the site, the reality of the scene before them unfolded starkly. The desert floor was scattered with bodies, their stillness contrasting sharply against the restless movements of the vultures and carrion crows, who squawked and tried to hold their ground until the horselen forcefully showed themselves. The air was heavy with the harsh scent of star-scorched sand and the faint, unsettling odor of decay.

Daryusz reined in his horse, which snorted and pawed at the ground, uneasy amidst the deathly stillness. He dismounted with a swift, practiced motion, his boots sinking slightly into the warm sand. His hand remained on his sword, ready for any sign of danger.

Zalman, also cautious, scanned the surroundings before joining Daryusz on the ground. His eyes flicked from one lifeless form to another, searching for any clue that might explain the devastation. The bodies were chained to stakes, with arrows in each torso. They were marauders, dressed in tattered leathers and thick linens. Poking out from the sands were a few imperial coins, which Zalman had lifted to examine. After confirming, he handed it to his adjutant, who seemed pleased. The captain gave a quick nod, and his adjutant began to dig through the sand and started pocketing all of the coins that he saw. Zalman squatted down, and poked around the clothing and examined them, noticing that the clothes had been ripped apart from wicked slashes. Curious, he removed his gauntlet and ran his bare fingers along the tears, and his minds eye flashed a memory before his eyes. The vision he saw of Alflayir, dancing through a score of len, tearing them asunder reappeared. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as he looked to see if Daryusz had noticed. The silence of the scene was broken only by the occasional flap of wings as the birds took flight, disturbed by the intruders.

Daryusz had sheathed his sword and was standing with his arms folded.

"I'm sorry." Said Daryusz. "Our len have gone too far into your desert."

Zalman curled his eyebrows at the comment, astonished.

"I beg your pardon Lord Venzicar?"

"It's one of our ceremonial executions. Left behind to scare our enemies." Daryusz replied. "You see the coins?"

Zalman plucked the arrow from the corpse in front of him, and rose to his feet, now feeling the feathered end of the arrow as he walked toward his Fioran counterpart.

"These lances which hoist these corpses, they are Rajari, and Nur. And this, is not an imperial arrow." Said Zalman. "These are Mystish arrows, and judging by the one over there, some of them are... Rajari, or Marauder, purchased from Rajari traders? I thought that imperial execution required a Fioran arrow to the heart?"

Daryusz blinked.

"And... these lacerations to the... raiment of these marauders... though... vicious, we Hamyir, though fierce, do not fight like this. The blades of our scimitars are not thick enough to slash like this."

"What are you saying?" Daryusz asked.

Zalman squat down again, and stroked his black beard.

"Surely you know, Lord Venzicar? I mean, forgive me if I don't know any better, but this is not a proper imperial execution, though it was made to look like one."

Zalman slowly drifted his eyes to lock with Daryusz'.

"Alflayir, was here."

Daryusz' eyes widened as it sunk in.

"This was designed to throw off marauders who might have been on their trail... and probably us, too."

Rising to his feet, he took his gauntlet which he was holding in his right arm, and fastened it back on, stretching his fingers out to ensure it was comfortable.

"With respect, Lord Venzicar. He would have fooled you had you come alone."

Daryusz strung his gold sash back over his face, as his black breastplate glimmered in the Flamestar's light, and marched back toward his horse.

Zalman turned to his adjutant and spoke in his native tongue.

"Tell the len that Alflayir is near, and it is confirmed he is loose in our country. Tell them to be ready to give their lives for the Sultan, and to give their letters to their wives and mothers to one another."

The adjutant looked nervously at Zalman, who exchanged with him his own look of somberness at the grim thought. Eventually, the adjutant bowed, and went to fulfill the command.

Daryusz grinded his teeth and clenched his fists.