Chapter 1:
chapter title

      Don-Zee opened his eyes and slowly looked around. The prison cell had been nearly pitch black when he had been brought in some time earlier, and it remained so now that he'd awakened from a restless sleep.

     As his eyes adjusted, he made out two other forms nearby, leaning against the wall. Far up in the ceiling he could make out the faintest trace of torchlight being let in through a crack in the stonework. He stirred and felt a stabbing pain in his legs. They were held tight by manacles bolted to the wall. He sat up stiffly. His hands, at least, were free.
      "Ah, the Qiliv awakes at last," he heard a voice say. Don-zee looked at the two figures, trying to make out their shapes in the darkness. "The legends are true, then. No one sleeps as soundly and as long as a drunken Qiliv."
      Don-zee's skin prickled as he absorbed the insult. His own race called themselves Inenus, but in Angerthine, the language of Men, they were called Qilivs. In the Empire, being a Qiliv meant being a serf, worthy only of a life of degradation and ridicule.
      "Those with clear consciences sleep well while those whose souls harbour evil twist and turn in their sleep," he replied.
      "Then your conscience must be clear as the summer sky for you have slept two days, Qiliv," came a second voice. "Do you not know how long you have been here?"
      Don-zee sighed. "I have obviously been resting since I arrived and no one has yet told me how long it has been until now. So no, I suppose I don't."

      Drawn by black horses, the carriage sped through the damp and foggy streets of the city of Hibur. Underneath the overcast skies and the ever-falling rain, the sprawling collection of houses and buildings looked dull and lifeless, betrayed only by the occasional twinkling lights in a few of the windows. People stared from behind doorways as the black coach with gold trim clattered through the empty main thoroughfare.
      On the door, the crest of the Empire, a silver crown lined with gold, was visible. Although it was still early in the evening, the gloom of the North-western spring had descended on the town and the street torches had already been lit. Wisps of fog curled along the edges of the buildings and a heavy mist engulfed town and townspeople alike.
      The carriage went onward through the wet twilight until finally stopping at the street's end, parking in front of what was easily the largest building in the city.

      Centuries before, the land of Gornol had been the domain of the Zehalime, the Chetu'ul from the North. When the Empire drove the Zehalime back to their Island and settled the land in their place, they built the great port of Hibur to spread their commerce forth across
      the Great Bay to faraway lands of the Northeast. For many years, as trade grew between the two ends of the north, Hibur flourished. It drew its population from the rest of the continent, with people coming from far and wide in search of work and wealth. But as time passed, Senolia and Hycolia began to trade more amongst themselves and less with the west and south. The dark things in Greatwood, to the southwest, multiplied and less people were willing to make the long journey around its edges to reach Gornol.
      Finally, the Zehalime regained their strength and began to raid ships traveling across the Grand Bay. Commerce ceased to flow through Gornol and Hibur shrank as people abandoned it for the southern lands. Even the weather forsook it, and the once sunny country of the north became known as a land of gloom and fog.
      All that remained of those glorious times was the Main Building, as the locals called it. From the outside, it appeared old but still impressive, several storeys tall with stonework harkening back to an earlier era of craftsmanship. From its high ramparts, the banners of the Empire and the Province of Gornol hung, wet and limp in the never-ending drizzle.
      Even from the outside, decay was apparent. Most upper-floor windows were dark or boarded. Guard posts set into the archway of the entrance gate were empty. Moss and weeds grew everywhere. The stones themselves were grey and worn.
      Here in this decaying splendour, the Lord of the City had his office. The Governor of Gornol also maintained offices and a court here in the Main Building for those infrequent occasions when he left his mansion in Gornol City, on the West Coast, to pay a visit.

     The carriage driver, a large soldier clad in the white cloak and the grey chain mail of the Imperial army, jumped down from the carriage and ran back to open its door. Then he stepped back holding his clenched left fist out in salute.
      Another large man emerged from the carriage, his body concealed by a black velvet cloak on the back of which was displayed a crest featuring a large red dragon, flames spurting from its mouth: The imposing crest of the Imperial High Command.
      The man in the black cloak looked grimly about him, wiping rain from his thick black beard. His black eyes glared at the cloudy sky. His flat, upturned nose sniffed the wind.
      "Does it ever stop raining in this forsaken place?" he growled. The soldier at his side lowered his hand and went to stand beside him. Although the two men had only been on the ground a few moments, both were now completely drenched.
      "From what I've heard of this land, my Lord, this is a rather pleasant day," the soldier said, immediately regretting his remark, as the other man fixed his dark gaze on him.
      "Lieutenant, we'll conduct our business here with all due alacrity and then leave. Is that understood?" he rumbled.
      His face grim, the lieutenant responded stiffly. "Yes, Lord General."
      "Now," said the general in a deep voice, "where is the Lord of the City? Did you not send ahead to tell him of our arrival?" He paused, then added: "You had specific orders."
      "Sir," the lieutenant responded nervously, "messengers were sent ahead on your instructions and returned to confirm they had completed their mission."
      "Well then," the general grumbled darkly, "where is he?"

      Silence once again filled the prison cell, broken only by the occasional dripping of water. Finally, Don-zee tried to strike up the conversation again. "Tell me," he ventured, "with whom do I have the pleasure of being imprisoned and where exactly is it that I am?"
      "My name is Ritchar," replied the second voice, which Don-Zee could see emanated from the smaller of the two figures. "I am a traveller from the land of Gerne."
      "I am called Khazav," the larger figure said. "Where I am from, and what I do is not important." His voice betrayed a tinge of anger as he spoke.
      Don-zee ignored the subtle intonation from Khazav. Qilivs were notorious for missing such conventions as jokes and sarcasm, which made conversation with them very difficult.
      "Well, I am Zee, son of Wye, of the House of Don although I am called Don-zee by those who know me. I have no profession, unless you considering being able to empty a keg of fine Antrillan mead in under ten minutes to be one."
      "Well Qiliv," said Khazav, "I do not see much need at this point for someone of your professional abilities but should we be lucky enough to leave this place and encounter a hostile case of mead, I will be happy to have you at my side to protect me."
      The sarcasm was lost on Don-zee, who smiled with pride. "Sir," he gushed, "those are the kindest words I have ever received from one of the Taller Races. I am at your service!"
      "Unfortunately, Qiliv," came Khazav's reply, "I am not currently in need of servants."
      "As for your other question," Ritchar said, "we are imprisoned in the Main Building of the City Hibur, in the custody of Sorkon Jackalhind, Lord of the City. Why are you here?"
      "An… altercation in one of the city's drinking establishments," Don-zee explained. "I was plying my trade and found myself unable to pay for it. The inn keeper took great offence at this and behaved in a manner I found most upsetting."
      "And exactly what did he do that was so upsetting," asked Khazav, "other than expecting to be paid for his merchandise?"
      "Well, first he called me all manner of bad names," answered Don-zee. "You've likely heard them all and it saddens me to repeat them. I replied, 'If you'll only shut your mouth, you may have your alcohol back. You need only wait until my body has finished with it and then I shall be more than happy to refill your keg!' That's when he called over three large men. They roughed me up and brought me here. How came you to be here?"
      "Seems I'm from the wrong place," Ritchar frowned. "You know the village of Tzuba?"
"I am from the Northeast," said Don-zee, "but I have not heard of that place."
      "Well, I am truly surprised," said Ritchar. "I thought all those north of the Great Lake knew of Tzuba. It was a beautiful village in the land of Gerne until the Empire destroyed it without reason. I am one of only a handful of survivors. We are hunted now by the Empire for they wish to destroy all traces of Tzuba so they are not embarrassed by their actions. I wandered up to Gornol hoping to 'disappear' into the forests of the Northwest but passing through Hibur I was recognized and taken prisoner by the Imperial Police."
      "How would they recognize a stranger to be from Tzuba?" asked Don-zee. "It's odd you would be picked out so easily. Were you recognized by the soldiers you were fleeing?"
      "I am Chetz-Grinuaolli," said Ritchar, "descended from Men and the Grinuaolli. In a city where one is often not sure if one's father is Chetu'ul or Man, strangers stand out."
      "Perhaps if Chetz-Grinuaollis were not so talkative, they could disappear with greater success." offered Khazav.
      "You have been silent a long time, friend," said Don-zee. "What is your tale of woe?"
      "I do not recall, Qiliv," growled Khazav, "our having made an agreement that we would be friends, nor is my tale any of one's business save my own."
      "He's been like that since we arrived," laughed Ritchar. "Take no offence at his manner. I've learned not to."
      Silence again descended on the room as the three figures drifted back into their own thoughts. In the darkness, the faint sound of scampering rats drifted towards them.

      As the soldier and general stared across the empty courtyard, the front doors of the Main Building burst open. Visible in yellow torch light was a short, wide figure clad in purple and gray robes. He ambled down the steps and across the courtyard toward them. He had a pale face and ruddy cheeks. He was clean-shaven as was the custom of the men of the Northwest. He was almost completely bald, save for a few wisps of grey hair clinging to the back of his scalp. His most prominent feature was a large nose with a reddish glow. Around his neck hung a thick gold chain with a pendant engraved with the city seal of Hibur. He trundled up to the two men standing by their carriage. As he approached, the horses neighed and stomped. The two tall men stared down at him with disdain.
      "This is Lord General Gormann Daggerheart," announced the soldier in the white robes. "I am Lieutenant Mosh-agon, his chief assistant."
"Lord General," replied the shorter man, "Welcome to Hibur. I am the Lord of the City, Sorkon Jackalhind. My city is open before you. On behalf of the people of Hibur, I proclaim that we hope to extend to you every manner of…"
      He was abruptly interrupted as one of the horses whinnied loudly, drew up on its hind legs and landed hard on a puddle, spraying Sorkon from head to toe with murky water.
      "It seems," the general laughed darkly, "that even the horses know how much respect a Lord of the City of Hibur is entitled to."
Sorkon wiped muddy water from his face and stared at his boots. "Well, I suppose the welcoming ceremony is over. Lodgings are prepared, as well as victuals. You must be hungry after your long trip. Do you wish to refresh yourselves first or see the prisoners?"
      The general leaned over until his face was up against Sorkon's. "My dear Jackal-ass," he muttered quietly, "the less time I spent in your forsaken town, the better. We will see the prisoners immediately." Without waiting, Gormann and Mosh-agon strode toward the entrance hall. Sorkon followed, muttering to himself: "Jackalhind, damn it, not 'ass'!"

     Khazav, Ritchar and Don-zee stirred as they heard the jangling sound of keys being shook. A lock was turned, the door opened and light flooded the room. The prisoners blinked in the yellow glow, barely able to make out the figures standing in the doorway.
      "Release them from the walls but leave their legs bound," they head a voice say. The sound of metal-shod boots echoed in the chamber and the three felt armoured hands grab their bodies and raise them to their feet. The sound of keys was again heard and they were dragged forward into the hallway outside the chamber.
      "Bring them, hurry!" urged the voice. "The General wants to see them immediately!"
      The prisoners adjusted their eyes as they were led down a low, stone, torch-lit hallway. They were rushed down the smoky hall and up a spiral staircase. Khazav and Ritchar, having the longer legs, were able to move at a good enough pace for the guards but Don-zee's shorter legs were unable to handle the pace. He frequently fell and the guards cursed and kicked him before raising him to his feet again. Finally they grew tired of constantly picking him up and carried him like a carcass, heaping more insults on him as they went.
      They reached the top of the stairs and moved down a slightly larger hallway. They stopped at the end before a set of closed, oaken doors. Like those on the front gate of the building, these too had the Imperial crest mounted on them. The leading guard knocked.
      The doors opened to a cavernous room with a cathedral ceiling and walls covered in intricate brickwork and tapestries. From the ceiling hung candelabras all lit with white candles. In the far corner a small hearth was burning. Two large windows were set opposite the hearth through which could be seen the dark, cloudy night sky and below it, the dim lights of the city. The sound of rain pounding on the roof echoed in the chamber.
      Standing by the window, looking out on the city was Gormann Daggerheart. His black cloak was folded back over his shoulders revealing a suit of chain mail. The reflection of the candlelight twinkled on the metal. The prisoners were led into the room and pushed down onto three small chairs lined up against the wall near the hearth.
      Slowly, Gormann turned around. He walked toward them, fixing each in turn with his dark stare. His eyes moved from Don-zee to Ritchar to finally rest on Khazav. Gormann recognized Khazav, a large, powerfully built man whose face showed the ravages of a hard life. Dark brown hair, flecked with grey, hung limply to his shoulders. His beard was thin and greying. His eyes looked tired but burned with a fierce glare.
      "My old friend," Gormann said, a smile curling over his thick lips. "What a strange place to meet you again after all this time." Ritchar looked startled. He looked over at Khazav but the man's face betrayed no emotion. Don-zee could see them both clearly now in the torch light. Ritchar was a handsome man with a gaunt face, long, blonde hair and a short, unkempt beard. His blue eyes seemed almost to shine in the light. His ears curled up to a rounded point. And his arms and legs were wiry and covered in scars.
      "You know him? You never said…" Ritchar started to say but was cut off as Mosh-agon slapped him with his armoured glove. Ritchar's head dropped briefly and when he raised it, a trickle of blood was oozing from his lower lip.
      "Silence," ordered the soldier. "General Daggerheart did not give you leave to speak!"
      "At ease, Mosh," barked Gormann. "My honour is not so easily bruised." He resumed looking at Khazav, who returned Gormann's stare without flinching. After a few seconds, Gormann looked over at Ritchar. The Chetz-Grinuaolli was smaller than Khazav but still tall, especially for a half-breed.
      "You are Ritchar Grussilivri," said Gormann, "of the village of Tzuba." His tone did not seem to invite a reply and Ritchar did not offer one. Gormann finally looked at Don-zee. He was of average size for a Qiliv, about four and a half feet in height with a stout build. His hair and beard were thick, long and brown but ragged from his recent tribulations. His face looked solid and his eyes were small. They were so intensely blue they almost glowed. His right eye was bloodshot and bruises covered his arms and legs, the result of his recent ordeal in the tavern.
      "And you are a Qiliv," concluded Gormann. "I suppose you have a name, but I am not entirely sure I care about that." Don-zee looked dejectedly at the floor. The abuse never seemed to end.
      Gormann took a step back and straightened his shoulders. "All right, the time for introductions is almost through. I am General Gormann Daggerheart of the His Majesty's First Imperial Army. This is Lieutenant Mosh-agon." "I have traveled a long way to meet you, all the way from Imperius-on-Great-Lake, in fact. I have a need for your services."
      The three prisoners looked up, startled. Even Mosh-agon looked a little confused. He nervously cleared his throat. "Sir, what use do these three pieces of filth have for the Lord General of His Majesty's greatest army?"
      Gormann waved him off. "There are many things the Imperial Army can do but a few things they must still have caution around." He looked around at the room. "Mosh, you and all these men are dismissed. I would be alone with the prisoners."
      Still looking confused, Mosh-agon waved the other guards out of the room and followed them. The doors closed with a clang. When the noise had ceased echoing through the chamber, Gormann pulled over a chair and sat, facing Khazav, Ritchar and Don-zee. "Do you wish to know what it is that I want you to do?" he asked quietly.
      Khazav looked at the General with a stony glare and did not answer. Don-zee continued to look at the floor, fearing more abuse. Only Ritchar articulated what they were all thinking: "Why should we help you?"
      "An excellent question, Chetz-Grinuaolli, an excellent question," replied Gormann. A slight smile crossed his lips. "Consider your current position. You are all in my power here tonight and were I to have you executed, there would be none to stop me. You are from Tzuba which is a crime in and of itself. Your tall friend here," he nodded towards Khazav, "is a deserter from my army and," he looked over at the downcast Don-zee, "no one really cares if one kills a Qiliv."
      Gormann stood up and turned around, walking rapidly towards the window, his black cape billowing out behind him. It seemed that as he walked the sound of the rain on the roof intensified. When he reached the window he turned around. In the torchlight, his face took on a menacing appearance. "On the other hand, I could give you your most precious dreams if you were to assist me. For you, Chetz-Grinuaolli, I could find you a quiet place to live, perhaps somewhere west of here along the Darnellian coast. You could have a cottage of your own, perhaps in a small village, an end to your fugitive existence. And you, deserter, could have your old life back. Imagine your sword back on your hip, men at your command, power in your hands. And the Qiliv? Well, what does a Qiliv dream of other than the next keg? Yet I shall give you freedom, land, a hill of your own if you want. I am the Lord General of the First Army and such things are in my power to grant!" As he finished, lightning flashed outside the window and thundered rumbled through the room. It seemed that the storm had grown stronger as Gormann spoke and diminished now that he'd ceased speaking and was walking walked back toward them.
      "But if you do not help me," concluded Gormann after sitting down, "you will all die here tonight at my whim. That is the answer to your question."
      "What would you have us do?" asked Ritchar.
      "There are two tasks I would have you perform to win your freedom. The first is quite simple, the second is not. Near here, at the end of the Gorn River deep in Gornol Wood, there is a castle, the Keep of Corelia. The castle's owner is in possession of something which belongs to his Majesty, the Emperor. You will go to the Keep and retrieve it for us."
      "Why not go ask him for it? None has the power to deny the Empire," retorted Ritchar.
      Gormann looked annoyed for an instant. Taking a deep breath, he said, "The item in question was stolen from the Imperial treasury in Imperius-on-Great-Lake. My spies have discovered that it has been spirited to the Keep of Corelia. Now, if word were to get out that the Imperial treasury had been successfully broken into, and that a castle master in the Northwest was defying the Emperor's wish to return it, that would be very embarrassing to His Majesty. Therefore, he instructed me to find another way of retrieving it."
      "So why not send a special squad of soldiers, or hire the local Thieves' Guild? What is so special about us?" asked Ritchar.
      "Soldiers can be captured and kept hostage, or they might talk with their friends and spread the tale across the land. The Thieves' Guild is expensive and they like to record all their activities in triplicate. If you are caught, you will be taken for common bandits who bungled the job and the Empire will not be besmirched. We will, of course, deny all knowledge of you if that should happen."
      "What is the object we are to get for you?"
      Gormann looked at the fire for a few minutes and then returned his gaze to the three. "It is a staff."
      At this, Don-zee finally looked up. "A staff?"
      Gormann looked over at him. "Not just any staff, Qiliv, or I would be satisfied to cut off one of your arms, clear the flesh from the bone and carve a replacement for it. No, this staff was chopped off a statue of one of the Emperor's ancestors in an act of vile sabotage. A stone staff, that is all."
      "So," said Ritchar, "you want the three of us to go to this Keep, sneak in, find this one stone staff somewhere inside and return it to you. And I presume there will be no assistance from you or your men, not so much as an escort to the woods."
      "You presume nearly correctly," replied Gormann. "Certainly we cannot take you to the castle, or get you in. If you get into trouble, I will not come to your aid. However, as it is in my interest to see you succeed, my men will supply you with the essentials you need: Weapons, food, armour and horses. What you do with these is up to you and your skills."
      "You seem to be putting a great deal of trust in us, General," ventured Don-zee. "What is stopping us from taking what you give us and riding off with it wither we will?"
      Gormann looked astonished, then shouted:. "I should not have expected something so perceptive from you, Qiliv! But to answer you, there is nothing stopping you from taking what I give you, passing through the city gates and then turning southwest for Nevron, or north for the Border. But should you do so, you will have nowhere safe to flee to on the entire continent. Do you not know that almost all the known lands belong to His Majesty? Should you think to leave the Empire, where will you hide from me? Zehal is a land of darkness and Chetu'uls, and Marn is far, far away. You will be marked for death and any Imperial soldiers finding you will attack and kill you!"
      Again the rumbling of the rain increased and lighting streaked outside the window, only to subside as Gormann began to calm himself down.
      "I offer you freedom, and I give you a reasonable price. If you succeed, you will have the armour and the horses and your lives to live as you would. Why would you run away?"
      "What is the second task?" asked Khazav
      Gormann turned toward him. "That will be revealed to you when you return from your first mission. You need not know of it until then. Well then, what is your answer?"
      "I will go," answered Ritchar, "for I am tired of being a fugitive. I only hope you will keep your word when we have returned."
"I will go as well," said Don-zee, "because I have nothing to live for but do not wish to die a wretched death."
Ritchar, Don-zee and Gormann looked over at Khazav who still stared at Gormann. "I will do your task," he said after a long pause, "but on one condition."
      "Deserter, you are not in a position to make conditions," said Gormann.
      "I will not go without my sword. Do you have it here?" asked Khazav.
      Gormann paused, then he began to laugh deeply. "Ah, old friend, you still know me after all this time. Very well! I do indeed have your sword and you may use it in your mission." Gormann stood up and clapped twice. The doors immediately opened and Mosh-agon came in, followed by the other guards. "Lieutenant, our 'friends' have agreed to assist us in our mission. Is that not good news?"
      "The finest, my lord," said Mosh-agon, looking discombobulated at the turn of events. "When do I get to torture them, sir?"
      "Mosh," smiled Gormann, "there will be no torture tonight. In fact, remove their manacles and call Jackalass. I want these men dressed and fed well and given the finest accommodations in the city. They will leave on their mission at daybreak!"

      The Gornol Inn and Tavern could claim to be the finest lodgings in the city by virtue of being the only lodgings in the city. Back when Hibur had been a thriving port, there had been many such places but after travel in the Northwest diminished, all but the Gornol Inn closed for lack of business. It was a tall building, six floors in all, with the largest tavern in town. It stood near the water's edge and with windows looking east out over Grand Bay. Even in these downtrodden times, the Innkeeper, Barlow Clyvewell, did his best to keep up the establishment and maintain the quality of the rooms and the service.
      Mosh-agon brought Khazav, Ritchar and Don-zee to the Inn. As they walked through the wet city streets, the few people out in the night started curiously at them. They reached the inn without incident and found Clyvewell waiting for them at the front door. He was a Chitzo, short and plump with curly brown hair and the jovial expression typical of his race.
      "Aye, so these be the 'guests' of the Empire, eh?" he called out.
      Mosh-agon stepped forward with a harsh look on his face. It seemed to Khazav, Ritchar and Don-zee that Mosh-agon was only capable of a harsh look but had different varieties depending on the situation. "Innkeeper," he hissed, "it is not the business of the city to know who these folk are!"
      "Well, then you're in the wrong place, friend soldier," laughed Clyvewell. "Dontcha know that we are the central place for information in this here city? Oh yeah, oh yeah, bring them in, eh? I received your general's message and what he requested is waiting for them." With that, the innkeeper turned and disappeared through the doorway.
      Mosh-agon gave Khazav a shove forward but instead of moving towards the door, Khazav turned and walked up to Mosh-agon, a burning hatred in his eyes. Mosh-agon did not shrink from him but stood nose-to-nose with Khazav. After a few minutes, he whispered, "It would be my pleasure to gut you and leave you for dead on the street but that is not my General's wish. Enter the inn, now!" Khazav slowly backed off, turned around and walked up the stairs, followed by Ritchar, and Don-zee. Mosh-agon motioned for the guards to wait by the door and entered the inn behind them.
      By the time the lieutenant had entered, the others had already been led down the main hall by Clyvewell to their rooms. The innkeeper kept up a pleasant conversation with them, explaining to them bits and pieces of the inn's history. Finally, after many turns and two flights of stairs, they reached a wooden door.
      "This, gentlemen," huffed Clyvewell, obviously not fit for the stairs, "is your room, eh? You will find three beds, three sets of clothes, one sized small." He paused looking Don-zee over. "And fresh towels. Down the hall I have drawn baths for you. The message said you are to be bathing, changing, and coming down for a dinner which I have also prepared. I'll be seeing you shortly, eh?" He turned and headed back for the stairs. The three turned and looked at Mosh-agon who was still standing by the staircase staring at them.
      "Were you going to watch us change, soldier?" asked Ritchar.
The lieutenant looked at them fiercely but did not approach. "You are not to try to escape. We have the hotel and the city guarded!" With that, he too turned and walked down the stairs. They were finally alone. The door had barely closed when Khazav suddenly found himself pushed back against the wall by Ritchar. He looked startled as the Chetz-Grinuaolli held him tight, an angry look in his eyes.
      "Now look," Khazav objected.
      "No, you look!" muttered Ritchar. "We are shortly going to be leaving on a quest, which will be very difficult to accomplish and I just want to know a few things, okay?"
      Khazav nodded, his face grim.
      "This general seemed to know you. Know you quite well in fact. I am a Chetz-Grinuaolli from Tzuba. You surely know just as well as I do that ten years ago the entire town was slaughtered. Now, it was a legion of the First Army that attacked and destroyed my home, and killed my people and I just would like to know if you were a participant."
      "No," Khazav said with no emotion. "I left the First Army before that happened."
      "For your sake," growled Ritchar, "I hope so. I've sworn by the Lords of the Grinuaolli, the Caranrodien, to slay any soldier who destroyed Tzuba. Know that this oath supersedes all other things for me, even our mission. Now, why does Gormann know you so well?"
      "I once held Mosh-agon's job," Khazav replied, "but I couldn't abide Gormann treating his corner of the Empire like his personal possession, slaughtering who and burning what he would. So I left. I just forgot to ask permission."
      "And what are you doing up here in Gornol?"
      "If you must know," sighed Khazav, "I thought, like you, that Gornol would be a safe place to hide. The First Army maintains only a small garrison up here and few people travel this close to the Border. I thought I could hide here for a long time. Unfortunately I was recognized by an old mate. That's why they imprisoned me. Now, do you mind?"
      Ritchar released Khazav and slowly backed away. "I don't know if I trust you yet," he said, "but the circumstances leave me little choice."

     An hour after the group bathed and changed from prison garb to the clothes that were provided, a knock came at the door. The innkeeper's voice floated in: "Gentlemen, dinner is served for you in the private dining hall. First floor, turn right. You won't miss it, eh?"
      "I must say," said Don-zee, "that it has been so long since I have had a chance to wear such clean, quality clothes, I had almost forgotten what that feels like." He still looked haggard but somewhat more respectable in the simple but neat garb.
      "Well, don't get used to it," said Khazav. "Once we're on our journey, we won't have any laundry services. They may just be taunting us by letting us have this pleasure."
      "Then if this is our only chance, Qiliv," laughed Ritchar, "you should enjoy it while you can. I will worry about tomorrow, tomorrow!"
      Don-zee sighed loudly. "Look Ritchar," he said, "do I constantly refer to you as 'Chetz-Grinuaolli' or Khazav here as 'Man'? We're going on a long journey together and just as you said, we might as well all start treating each other with some basic respect."
      Khazav and Ritchar looked at Don-zee with wonder in their eyes. Their whole lives they had viewed Qilivs with nothing but disdain, as did everyone else. They seemed genuinely surprised to discover Qilivs had feelings and were capable of expressing them. This time, Don-zee did not miss the subtle body language.
      "Yes, how about that," he signed again, "I have emotions too."
      They three stood silently, looking at one another. Finally Ritchar broke the silence. "What do you think Gormann really wants?" he asked.
"Why did you think it's anything other that what he told us?" replied Khazav.
      "It seems odd that an Imperial general would recruit three fugitives to perform such an important task. Surely he has trained assassins and thieves he can cull from his own ranks, men he would surely trust more."
      "Perhaps," answered Khazav, "this is a task he does not want his own men to know of."

     The dining room was small but cozy, with ornate tapestries lining the walls and a fire burning in the hearth in the corner. They found a table laden with all manner of breads, vegetable and meats, and much to Don-zee's delight, a keg of Antrillan mead. They ate and drank well into the night and it was quite late before they pushed themselves away from the table. Almost immediately, Clyvewell appeared.
      "Will there be anything more for you gentlemen tonight?" he asked.
      "No, Barlow, unless you can give us another evening like this one," Don-zee smiled. "Wherever I travel from now on, praise for the Gornol Inn shall always be on my lips."
      "You are well mannered, master Qiliv, but I take my orders as I am given them, eh? Your bill's paid for and the payer wishes you to get a good night's sleep. You'd best head to your rooms and I'll see to you being awoken at the proper time in the morning, okay?"
      "And just what time shall that be, master Clyvewell?" asked Ritchar.
      "The General said you were to be up at daybreak, eh?"
A cold chill seemed to pass over them. Having had a chance to rest, bathe and eat well, they had almost forgotten that there was a price for these comforts. With a shrug, Khazav rose and left the room. Ritchar and Don-zee followed. They did not speak again that night.

     The dawn broke, cold and gray. It had rained all night and the air was filled with drizzle and fog. Far away, over the water, seabirds could be heard calling to each other. Clyvewell roused them at first light. They washed, ate breakfast and after the meal, he led them to the entrance hall. There he pointed out three wooden chests, each with the Imperial seal on the lid. Inside were fresh traveling clothes as well as a light suit of chain mail. They dressed and stepped outside.
      Waiting for them on the front step was Gormann, Mosh-agon and six guards. As they came out, the general stepped forward, holding a large bundle wrapped in a black cloth.
      "Here, as promised, are the rest of your supplies," he said. He dropped the cloth to the ground, then pulled it away to reveal three swords and three small shields. One of the swords was longer than the others and set in an ornate scabbard. In its pommel was a small red jewel and the blade glowed a faint blue. "I believe you recognize which one is yours, deserter." Khazav nodded and it seemed to the others that he almost smiled.
      After they picked up the weapons and shields, the Imperial guards led them to three grey horses. Each looked strong and was well laden with supplies for the journey.
      "These," said Gormann, "are fine Imperial stallions. They have seen battle all through the continent. They are well trained and fast, the best you could be provided with. They carry enough supplies to get you to the Keep and back, if you move expeditiously."
      Ritchar turned to Gormann. "I'm not from this place and neither are my companions. Where is the Gorn River?"
      Mosh-agon now stood forward and handed Ritchar a rolled piece of parchment. "This is the map," he said brusquely. "The Keep is northwest of here. Upon leaving the city, you follow the Imperial highway that goes north towards the Border until you reach the edge of Gornol Wood. Just inside the forest, a path will diverge to the west. This path is narrow and not frequently traveled but it will lead to the Keep. Do not leave the path! Gornol Wood is a dark and gloomy place, filled with many dark things, not unlike Greatwood. If you travel into its depths, you may not find your way back out again."
      "Luck should be your companion," said Gormann. "I must leave Hibur for a while but will be here for your return when, assuming you are successful, you will be assigned your second task. One last thing," he added darkly. "Do not enter the Keep, especially at night."
"Why not?" asked Khazav. "What manner of creatures lives in that place?"
      Gormann shrugged. "Simply take it as good advice."
Without further conversation, the three mounted their horses. Don-zee had the most trouble, given his short stature, but after a delay he was able to mount his steed and the party set off. They trotted slowly through the misty streets, accompanied by Gormann and his soldiers. In the cold, gray morning, there were no inhabitants to be seen. Finally they reached the gate of the city and set out through it turning north to ride along the highway.
      Gormann and Mosh-agon watched them until they disappeared around a turn in the road. "Sir," ventured Mosh-agon, "will you not stay here until their return?"
      The General looked at his lieutenant with an expression that may have resembled pity. "No, Mosh, I have places to be. You will wait for them here until they come back but fear not. I should be back before them."
      "If they return empty-handed," asked Mosh-agon, "what shall we do with them?"
      "Oh," murmured Gormann, lost in thought, "then you shall torture and kill them."