The courtyard was empty when they got there. Though the hustle of the party had vanished. Azhar eyed the shorter man over his shoulder.

“The climb a little tough for ya, old imp?” teased Azhar.

Toftof puffed, rolling one shoulder, and cracking the other, “Hey, I’m only one year older dan ya.”

“Ya got ya die?”

Toftof smiled to the younger man and flashed two die wedged between three of his fingers.

Azhar smiled back, then reverted his eyes back to the palace doors. The once cheery palace took an ominous look under the dim-lit cherry blossoms and blackened water.

“Lets go.” Beckoned Azhar.

…

“Stupid old mon!” cursed Cirin. His voice echoed in the sandstone house they were in. It was an empty place. All it had were four chairs and a lone window one the opposite side to only exit. He was pacing madly.

“Why must he go, while we wait here? I can fight. I can beat Zanzabarra.”

Mother Manama chuckled from where she leaned by the door, “Mother Manama tinks ya be too quick to dat conclusion. Ya don’t know who dis man is, and ya be forgetting why our Azhar wanted ya ta stay here.” Her many bracelets jingled as she flicked a hand at Sol, who had been sitting in the chair closest to the window, his great green eyes were plastered to the thing. “Protect da boy. A simple task Manama tinks.”

“Ya don’t get it Mother Manama. Sol will be fine, but will Azhar? Dat stupid old mon can’t handle whatever Zanzabarra has with him not even wit Toftof. Da bandits said he had atleast a dozen men!”

Mother Manama started to chuckle again, “ ‘Ya don’t get it’ eh? Ya sound just like Azhar, boy.”

Cirin quit his pacing and balled his hands into fists, “I need ta get some air.” He spouted, already to the door.

Manama stopped him with a hand outstretched across the door.

“I can’t even do dat now?” complained Cirin.

“I’ll go wit ya.” Manama tossed her head about and leaned towards Cirin. When she was only a breath away from the boy, she flicked him in the forehead, “To make sure ya dun run off.”

Cirin stepped back with a hand on his head, “Fine.” He retorted.

Manama stepped out first and Cirin, glancing at Sol briefly, followed shortly after. As soon he passed the open door, a frigid desert wind rush past him, revealing his ruby red eyes to the world for the briefest of moments.

“As red as blood.” Humored the fortune teller.

Cirin grasped his hair to cover those eyes as fast as he could. When he was sure they were covered he eyed Manama now leaning against a fence overlooking a maize field.

Manama pulled out a pipe from her baggy clothes.

She spoke as she prepared the device, “How much ya know about dis city, eh?”

Cirin paced to a similar fence and leaned against it. He studied the fortune teller. She seemed familiar with Azhar and Toftof, though he wasn’t sure he could trust her. Out of all of Azhar’s companions she seemed the most peculiar. Now this question caught him off guard. What would she gain from it? Was it a test? He decided to answer.

He pointed at the black tower to the north, “I know dis be a towa city. Dere be a pool of watta by da towa dat let all da farmers here use dere lands. Da nobles control it, but da people can live off of what dey make so dey need no help from da empire.”

“A free city.” Puffed Manama from her pipe, “Manama say ya know mo dan ya show.”

Cirin coughed at the excess smoke she was breathing. Waving the smoke away, he continued, “A friend of ours made sure we learned about it in Lamonori.”

“So da young prince be learnin’ all dis to?”

Cirin pulled his blade out and weighed it in front of him. He closed one eye and let the other trace the length of the blade, “He’s learned it betta dan I have.”

Manama puffed once more, “Has he always been so quiet?”

Cirin lowered the blade when she said that. He had been so distracted by Ezmir, Zanzabarra, and the bandits that he had not paid the prince much thought, “No…” he trailed. Sol hadn’t said as much as a word since they entered.

Cirin coughed at the smoke engulfing and finally pinched his nose to it. All at once, the urgency he felt before returned.

“What is dis?” he coughed.

“Ah dis?” Said Manama holding out her pipe, “One of Mother Manama’s many tools. Any who inhale da smoke let da smoke calm dere nerves.”

Cirin narrowed his eyes and immediately set them upon the direction of the palace.

“Azhar!” he spurted his nose pinched tone.

Manama had deliberately used a spell to calm him down, and if it couldn’t have gotten worse just when Cirin regained his sense he heard ruffling within the field.

It was clear Manama heard this to, for she quickly doused her pipe and withdrew one dagger then the other.

“Go in da house.” She commanded.

Cirin held his blade in front of him. “I won’t run away to dis.” He was already facing the fields.

The rustling soon multiplied. Little by little it got louder. They were close.

“Cirin. Rememba ya job in dis. Protect Sol.” Warned Manama.

Cirin did not budge.

Then came the war cries, one after the other.

“Rentrala’far!”

“Rentrala’far!”

“Rentrala’far!”

Manama sighed heavily. She spun her daggers nimbly in both hands, and charged into the head high maize field. Though it was faint, Cirin could hear the metal clashes emanate from within followed by the death wail of Manama’s first victim.

Cirin backed away then, feeling her words sting him more they relapsed in his mind. He didn’t want to run, not in the slightest. But even more so, he reviled the idea of losing Sol. The mere thought made him quiver. He shook off that pailing chill, turned heel, and ran into the sandstone house.

He wish he had sooner.

The window was open. Sol was gone.

He tossed his head back as the thought of telling Manama occurred to him, yet revealing that much would risk telling the bandits as well. Unless the bandits were behind Sol’s disappearance. Cirin shook his head at the awful idea. The wind whistled from the back of the room. Cirin snapped to it.

The window was open from the inside. Sol, the docile prince he had always known, had run off on his own.

“Sorry Manama.” Said Cirin as he ran to the window and climbed out of it. Cirin scanned the fields up ahead, noting the trampled maize trail left behind. Sol was his charge and he alone would see the prince safe.

…

The heavy palace doors swung open with a menacing creak. The sunswept interior had been completely erased, and its wake a set of candles lit the cavernous halls every few feet. Azhar withdrew one blade, and Toftof adorned his fists. Though the little light that was there was more than enough. Zanzabarra had been busy.

The masked nobles were masked no more. Their hands and feet were bounded, and the faces were revealed, most tear drenched and sullen. For every five nobles there was an armed thug patrolling, at least two dozen thugs in total.

Finally, one man, the only familiar amongst them, stood arrogantly at the throne with one leg resting on the knee of the other.

The moment the impetuous duo had entered, all eyes had turned to them. That was to be expected. Their entrance was not the most inconspicuous.

Azhar rested his sword cleanly over his shoulder, and tossed his eyes from one side of the room to the other, “I was told ya would have a dozen men with ya. Looks like ya brought more.”

Zanzabarra laughed from the other side, “Naturally!” he roared, “I am cautious man, Dog of Lamanori. When I saw ya and da Liar enta my newly acquired manse, I knew I had to make precautions in case ya decided ta be noble and help da fools here of Ezmir.” He flicked his hand in villainy fashion, “I suppose my caution was in good spirits. Can ya see my face from dere.”

Azhar squinted. “Unfortunately.” He yelled back.

To that, Zanzabarra stood up tossed his to the side of his throne.

Toftof stumbled forwards, “A Blackneck!?” he spurted.

Zanzabarra’s entire neck was tattooed with the intricate markings the Blacknecks were famed for.

“As you can see, ya have no chance of winning. Be a good dog and run to ya masta, be da rat you are and scurry back to ya hole.”

Toftof looked to Azhar. Azhar nodded.

“Alright.” Said Toftof. “I’ll roll my die. If it be odd, we’ll kill ya men but only capture ya.”

“IF it be even.” Continued Azhar, “Ya all die here.”

Zanzabarra started laughing where he was, prompting his men to laugh with him.

“Is Lamanori famous for it’s jesters now?” He chuckled.

Toftof threw the dice and laughter dimmed more and more until the die landed in Toftof’s balmy hands.

The imp looked at his hands and produced a toothy grin, “Ya die.” He said simply.

That prompted a silence that made even Zanzabarra retract his smile.

“Kill dem!” He barked, “Kill dem now!”

The two dozen men roared and charged the duo from all over the hall.

The duo did not wait for them. Instead they charged as well, fist and sword at the ready.

Azhar had a large reach with sword, but Toftof was faster. When the first man neared him, Toftof quickly felled the bugger with an uppercut to the chin and a round kick to the gut. Azhar sidestepped this clash and slammed the flat of his blade against the second man to fight, then quickly elbowed a third man in the chest.

One after the other, the duo traded places until seven men had fallen. By then they were surrounded. Azhar had his back to Toftof. The two took up stances.

Azhar looked above his blade, “Is dat all?” he taunted.

…

Trampled maize plants littered the path ahead. Cirin had been running through the path Sol made for a while now. He could feel his own chest thrumming. Coming across a patch of empty dirt he strained his eyes hard for the remainder of the path. The darkness of night made it that even harder, yet he knew he had to find the prince before the Rentrala’far did and worse, before Zanzabarra’s men did.

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Finally, he spotted a pair of broken stems in the corner of his eye and made for that patch. It wasn’t long before the path led to the end of the maize farm and the beginning of Ezmir’s housing. Even here the streets were empty of denizens wishing to evade the night’s chill.

Cirin stopped to catch his breath. Tracking in the city would prove harder than in the fields, since here those who passed left little to no indication of where they left. Three paths lay ahead of him.

One to the left, one to the right, and one more straight through. Even then each of the streets would eventually diverge into even more streets.

Cirin cursed under his breath as the thought of finding Sol became even more daunting. No. He shook his head. He would find Sol, it was all an issue of time. Slowly he rose to his full height and he snapped his shoulders to stretch. He considered Sol’s position then. Where would da prince go in a city he hardly knows? Cirin blinked, then rubbed his eyes madly. One structure towered above the rest. Truly there was only one place either of them would think to go.

Cirin centered his vision on the three roads now ahead, only the straight road led to the tower. Cirin inhaled deeply and started running. Dat has to be it He thought madly. It couldn’t be anything else.

At every turn the boy looked up to the tower and took the path that seemed closest to it. He did this for five different streets and eventually he came upon the noble’s district.

There, upon the same bridge he had passed earlier that day, stood Sol staring directly at the tower looming in the distance. The prince then tossed his head from side to side, and proceeded to go back across the bridge and towards the former street.

Moments before Sol passed him, Cirin stepped out from hiding and in the way of Sol.

Sol almost crashed into the boy out of shock. “C-C-Cirin.” He stuttered.

Cirin stood still for several moment and at last reached out and knocked the younger boy on the head.

“Ya idiot!” scowled Cirin, “Did ya know how much I looked for ya?”

Sol managed a smile as he rubbed his head, “I was going to come back.”

“Come back dead? Didn’t ya say ya had me ta protect ya. Ya damned fool! I mean if ya died…”

Cirin stopped his rant, feeling his throat catch on the last word. He took a breath, “If ya died, ya’d breaking our promise to Catherine.”

“But I had to.” started Sol weakly. “You saw them, didn’t you? The golden eyed one. He looked sad, very very sad.”

“Da towa priest?” Cirin shook his head, “No. No no no. We can’t do stupid tings like dat. I’m sure he looked sad, but tink how sad everyone would be if ya got hurt in all dis.”

“But Cirin!”

“No mon.”

Footsteps echoed from across the bridge and Cirin snapped to. It wasn’t just one pair of step but many. Cirin grabbed Sol’s arm and turned to the nearest wedge between houses but he could hear steps coming from the other side of the street as well.

The same sweat he felt before crept upon his brow. He turned his head.

Thugs. A lot of thugs. Across the bridge and on the other end of the street, bandits lined up in scores. They carried clubs, swords, and daggers and there was no mistaking their intent to kill.

“Rentrala’far!” they cried out unison.

“Rentrala’far!”

“Rentrala’far!”

Cirin forced Sol behind him and backed into the center of the street. There was nowhere to hide and the horde of bandits would reach them in seconds.

“The locket, Cirin!” cried Sol.

Cirin eyes went wide. How could he forget?

With moments to spare, the boy reached in his back pocket and produced Catherine’s locket. The first group of bandits had already crossed the bridge and the second had stopped five paces from the duo.

Cirin flipped open the locket, held it high with two fingers and tapped it twice with his thumb. Just as before, the locket swelled with power and flashed so brightly the day turned to night.

When the light had faded the encroaching bandits slowed and froze. One yelped in fear and pushed past the rest and soon all the bandits started running for dear life in each their respective directions.

Cirin swallowed and ogled the locket in awe, “It worked.” He trailed, “It really worked.”

Finally the last of the bandits, who had fallen on his bum cried out in Cirin’s direction with his finger held out and pointing a little ways above Cirin, “Monsters! Magic wielding demons, y-ya be da death of us all.”

After that, the man scarcely got up and ran as fast he could.

Sol tugged on Cirin’s sleeve and pointed up. Cirin squinted at the gesture, utterly confused by it, until he followed Sol’s hand and realised what he was pointing at.

On the roof of the house behind Cirin and Sol stood the golden eyed tower priest, and above him lumbered an enormous floating rock twice the size of the house he stood on. It blocked out the moon.

Cirin’s instincts made him want to warn the boy of such a rock, but he soon realised that the rock rested on the boy’s upstretched hand. Almost as he was lifting it.

The boy snapped his fingers with his free hand and the rock shattered into a million pieces revealing a hollow center. The pieces then shattered into millions more and spun into a lifelike sand.

Again the boy snapped his finger and the sand formed a carefully crafted set of stairs that led him to the base of the house.

As he walked down, he stared forwards in complete indignation.

“Thank you for saving us.” managed Sol. The boy did not respond. Instead he finished his trip down and made for the nearest path to the tower.

Cirin narrowed his eyes at the boy. He was thankful Sol was saved, yet the idea that someone else did that made him uneasy, especially the way that someone did it. Cirin looked to the young prince, who was fidgeting nervously, and sighed.

“Go.” Said Cirin as he pushed Sol towards the boy.

Sol glanced back at Cirin nervously, gulped, then puffed his chest, “Thank you!” he bellowed.

Finally the boy stopped his empty walk and turned to them.

“If I were you, I’d leave this city.” His voice was soft like Sol’s, but seemingly trembling. It was a rusted sword. Cirin balled his fists. But this blade spoke much of its master.

“I dun really care.” Started Cirin, “But my charge here seems ta think ya need help.”

“That’s laughable. I saved you.”

Cirin snarled, “Hear him out will you?”

The boy tossed his eyes to the prince, “Speak.” He said in imperial fashion.

Sol nodded, “Join us.” He said simply. Catching both the boy and Cirin off guard, “We’re going to travel the whole country. See all the cities! It’ll be a lot of fun.”

“See all the cities, huh?” uttered the boy. He tossed his golden eyes down for a moment, “It’s too bad den. Come tomorrow dis city will be no more.”

Sol stomped forwards, forcing Cirin to catch up to the prince and hold him back. “Why?!” questioned the prince.

“Because.” The boy reared his head to the tower and continued, “I will destroy the tower there and with it Ezmir will shrivel into da desert and die.” He returned his gaze to the duo, and pulled down the collar covering his neck.

Sol and Cirin were taken aback. The tattoo was detailed, black, and it covered the whole of the boy’s neck. He was a Black Neck.

“I am bound to dis fate. But you two can choose ta leave.” Said the boy.

Cirin hated hearing that. Until then he didn’t care. If Ezmir did shrivel up, then what? It meant nothing to him. Yet here was someone who had given up to what other had labeled them as, just like Sol had before Cirin had met him, just as Cirin would have been had he never met Azhar.

Cirin red eyes locked with the boy’s gold, “No. I will stop ya.”

The golden eyed boy released his collar and rose both his hands. His mouth was frowning as he spoke, “Ya be too late.” The boy snapped his fingers on both hands and he vanished into a cloud of sand and smoke.

Cirin furrowed his brows and began pacing to the street Sol had been heading before. He stopped as he spotted a blade dropped by one of the bandits. He reached to pick it up, it was rusted thing, heavy and barely usable, but he wagered he’d need it. He placed it on his back, crossing the blade he already had.

“Cirin.” Started Sol.

“I know, Sol. I’ll save him to.”

…

“Eleven.”

“Twelve!” boasted Toftof, “Why dat surprise ya? I’ve always been betta dan ya.”

Azhar rubbed his head, “You beat eleven too, remember dat one fool I kicked in the teeth and you punched in da gut?”

“Ay, I landed da last blow, so it goes ta my count.” Asserted Toftof.

Azhar sighed loudly and pointed his blade at the last quivering man, “Tell ya what. I’ll best dis man here and we’ll stake da bet on Zanzabarra.”

Toftof snickered and lept towards the final, “Not if I do him in first!”

Just moments before Toftof landed his blow, Azhar blade went flying and collided with the man’s head, hilt first. The man fell forwards dumbly and the sword landed in between his legs.

“Twleve- twelve.” Stated Azhar proudly, walking past Toftof to pick up his weapon.

“Ya damned bastard.” Swore Toftof.

All the while Zanzabarra stood in front of his throne.

“How?” he blurted, “Twenty four men, and just two of you. HOW?”

Azhar shrugged and picked up his blade, “Twenty four be just a numba if all twenty four happen ta be idiots.”

Zanzabarra pressed two fingers against his forehead, “Fine. Fine! I will best you lamanorins myself. At arms.” He commanded.

Zanzabarra took two steps and withdrew a skinny pointed blade. Just as Azhar stepped forwards, Zanzabarra placed his own arm behind his back posed with his body facing the side and his blade held in front of him.

Azhar rose a brow and managed a smile, “A shifting sands user, eh?”

Zanzabarra began circling the two of them, keeping his distance from Azhar and especially far from Toftof, “I’m surprised.” He started, “Ya know dis style?”

“A good friend of mine was a masta of it. Some pirate from Galokin, ya probably neva heard of him.”

“hmpf. As if I’d associate myself wit da nortern scum.”

Azhar held his blade facing the man as he circled him, “Oh? ya have a dislike for our esteemed neighbours?”

“If It’s da boy you be wondering about. Yes, I did want ta kill him. If ya were any no-name guards, I would have killed him where he stood.”

Azhar craned his head, “Dat be problematic fa me den.”

“Too much talk!” roared Toftof. The liar split into a running start.

“You impatient fool.” Cursed Azhar.

Toftof reached his man with a set of swings, heavy yet fast. Though Zanzabarra proved more nimble than he looked, dodging each of the hits with practised ease. Zanzabarra lunged. Toftof dodged.

Only moments had passed but it became apparent that neither would land a hit. Perhaps Toftof was the first to notice this, because after his first set of attacks he shifted his feet and started swaggering about.

Azhar puffed, “A new stance?”

Totof lifted his fists up near his chin and began weaving his body down and inwards. Zanzabarra responded by leaping back in kind, his eyes buzzing about trying discern the sudden change.

Toftof did not let him. As he weaved forwards, he stretched out with his right, forcing Zanzabarra to dodged the hit and try and get at the imp’s left.

Azhar smiled. Toftof was a fool, but when it came to combat he was an upstart genius.

Toftof dodged the lunge, but only by letting his body fall as if he had tripped. This caught Zanzabarra of guard, for the next moment, Toftof gripped Zanzabarra’s lunging hand with his left and twisted his body up until he met his taller opponent with a solid kick to the chin.

Toftof somersaulted backwards, while Zanzabarra stumbeled back gripping his chin.

Zanzabarra regained his balance a moment later, spitting out a glob of blood as he repostured himself.

“Come.” Taunted Zanzabarra.

Toftof scowled and rushed his opponent again. That was a mistake.

Just as Toftof had shifted his stance, now Zanzabarra began slashing. Toftof managed to evade the first slash, but barely escape the third as it drew blood from his cheek.

“switch!”

Azhar pushed Toftof back with his free hand and went at Zanzabarra.

They met with a clash of blades held steady by their palms. Both sides pushed back and engaged once more.

Azhar fought like a dancer with wide swings and numerous twists of an ankle while Zanzabarra played the stalwart noble, and met each of the attacks with a flick of his wrist.

The two fighters could be no more different, yet the way they met each other’s blows made it seem as if they had fought each other for years.

Zanzabarra snarled and stepped back on his right foot to brace for another attack. Azhar smiled to this, as he stepped in and delivered a clean cut to retreating man’s shoulder. His left shoulder.

Zanzabarra nearly dropped his blade from the shock of it, but managed to keep his cool long enough to leap back a few paces.

“You insolent wretch.” He roared at Azhar, “My defence was impeccable.”

“No it was quit pecable.” Rebutted Azhar.

“You Cur!”

“If you would shut ya mouth fer a second I’d tell ya.” Laughed Azhar.

Zanzabarra swung his blade at Toftof then Azhar, then lept back once more and move his blade to his mouth. He bit his handle, ripped his sleeve with his free hand, and began tying the wound tightly.

Azhar flicked his blade to the side, “Ya let ya guard down.” He started.

Zanzabarra grunted in outrage.

Azhar pointed his blade at Toftof, “I’d admit ya defence would have been impeccable if ya were to fight each of us alone. But ya decided to fight one of us while da udder watched.”

Zanzabarra’s eyes shot wide.

“Ah, ya see now, eh?” taunted Azhar, he point his blade at Zanzabarra’s feet, “Ya fighting style put emphasis on ya dominant hand and side. So every time, ya retreat and engage on da same foot. It’s meant to make ya opponent focus on dat side. Tho a true masta would make up for it. Ya still have a long way ta go.”

Zanzabarra spat out his sword and caught it with his right, soon reassuming his first stance. He had finished tying the now reddened sleeve cloth.

“Why would ya tell me all dis?” He quandered.

Azhar shrugged, “Call it a habit of an old teacher. I see potential and I try ta grow its wielder. Weder dat be on my side or da enemies.”

“Oi Azhar.” Warned toftof.

Azhar’s cool expression shifted with his brows, “I know.” Once more he took up his stance. Toftof did the same.

Zanzabarra stepped forwards, “Dat habit will be ya downfall.” He said as he charged forwards.

This time he fought differently. The moment he met his two foes, Zanzabarra began deflecting each of their hits as he turned his own body, forcing them to do the same.

Azhar had step back multiple times to stray from Zanzabarra’s onslaught. Somehow, he managed to fight both Toftof and Azhar at the same time by shifting his fighting style at a remarkable rate between the two. He’d practice long stabs to sway Toftof away while spinning his heel towards Azhar to make Azhar dodge every time Toftof swung back in the mad fashion that he did.

Azhar then tried his best to step behind Zanzabarra, but again to no avail. Zanzabarra had become a spinning top in the way he always forced Toftof to be between them no matter where Azhar stood.

Azhar disengaged completely. Fighting him together was proving fruitless, and beyond that. He glanced from side to side. The nobles who were still confined were becoming restless. He’d need to enact his plan and do so now.

Azhar tossed his eyes to Toftof then the far right corner of the end of the hall, “Toftof! Now!”

Toftof jumped back and ran a little ways to the far corner, stopping only to engage Zanzabarra. He did that two more times until they managed to bring Zanzabarra near the darkened corner. There was an open doorway there, just as the renegade rentrala’far had told them.

Toftof baited the man til he had his right side facing the doorway.

“Switch!”

Zanzabarra turned to his next opponent instantly, only to have that dubious enemy focus entirely on his injured left side.

Naturally, the weary Zanzabarra strayed from his attacks as much as possible, retreating to his right foot everytime, until eventually he found himself standing at the doorway leading out the great hall.

Zanzabarra’s eyes went wide as he realised this and swung madly at Azhar, making the man jump back in response. He had already stepped back into the exit by then.

“We’ll continue dis on an udda occasion, Dog of Lamonori.” He scowled.

Azhar and toftof stood shoulder to shoulder and watched the man as he backed out of the exit. It was a narrow passage, so neither of the two get close enough without being slashed.

Azhar smiled when Zanzabarra was gone.

“Ready?” he asked Toftof.

Toftof looked astounded, “I didn’t tink dat would work.”

Azhar walked into the exit, “My plans always work.”

Outside, in the dim moonlight, stood Zanzabarra and with him, four familiar Rentrala’far bandits. They had him surrounded.

Just when Zanzabarra turned for the door. Azhar and Toftof emerged from the shadows.

“It be ovah, Zanzabarra. We have two men inside who should be freeing da nobles. Ya ploy and all ya tried to do here will be settled by tommora mornin’.”

The lean bandit from before stepped towards Zanzabarra with rope in his hands, “Come quietly and ya can still be spared.”

Zanzabarra stifled a laugh and dropped his weapon, “Da wise snake hunta digs two holes: One ta draw dem out, and an udder to catch dem.” He reached in the collar of his cloak below his tattooed neck.

Azhar realized it too late, taking only two steps before Zanzabarra pulled out an onyx necklace and vanished into a cloud of smoke.

The four Rentrala’far seemed thoroughly shaken by that.

“Magic.” One gasped.

Azhar pushed back his locks and squeezed his brows, “Damn it.” He cursed.

“If we run inta him again, we need ta remove dat necklace.” Noted Toftof.

“We’ll run inta him again.” Said Azhar, “I’d bet my spirit on it.”