The Shadowy Path - 7. Chapter 7 - The Interlude

"It was not the usual darkness. No, there was something wrong, something accursed. The sleeping beast had awoken. With pain and death it crossed the land.

Again and again you raided against the night and again and again it tore you apart. The world was burning and the world was drowning.

And above all this was a red glow. Red is the colour of blood. Black is the colour of the devil. Black and red, together they bring death.

It was called the Age of Oblivion."

- Chronicle of Nidiel the Bearcatcher, description of the Age of Oblivion, fourth verse, written c. 215 New Era

* * *

Anden
Frosty Moors, Grand Duchy of Malkania, 1523 New Era

The night was about to give way to dawn. Five soaking wet figures stumbled up a muddy slope covered with lichen and scraggly shrubs. Sleet had whipped the moor since evening, coating the ground with a watery slush, and they trampled the mud under their boots.

The area was hilly and treeless, with no landmarks in sight. Unless you count the boulders poking out of the low vegetation, as if tossed by some huge, angry monster.

The loose soil made it difficult to walk. Despite their exhaustion, the walkers glanced up at the sky from time to time. They were not frightened by the raging storm that had broken out at just the right moment. On the contrary, they feared that it would die down, for only sleet splashing from the sky could keep the pursuers at bay. The storm hid the five fugitives under its wet coat and covered the tracks behind them.

The tallest of the five hooded figures led the group. The task had naturally fallen to Anden Telon. Each of them had their own strengths: Taihan was unbeatable when it came to medicine, herbs and the like, Zaltarim had the scent of a seeker, Izaskar knew the laws of mathematics, physics and astronomy and Jestok... well, Jestok had mastered the Might.

Anden himself had no such expertise. Rather, he was generally gifted, but when it came to operating under pressure and taking the lead in the midst of chaos, he did it better than any of them.

As a person, he was still flawed, clouded by his emotions. It was this weakness that had brought the Brotherhood to ruin. If he had not refused to read the signs, the horror of what had happened could have been prevented. The traitors had been able to complete their plan in peace.

In fact, it was surprising that they had not been caught yet. Especially since Anden had no idea of their current location. It was dark, they had no compass, and they couldn't afford the luxury of stars. All that remained was the faint hope that he had guessed the right way by the direction the wind was blowing. Otherwise they would be helplessly lost.

Anden had not bothered to share his concerns with the others. The wary Zaltarim had no doubt come to the same conclusion about being lost, but it was best to keep the others in the dark for as long as possible.

As a small woman, Taihan struggled to keep up with the men. Jestok the Yellow Coat, on the other hand, was a broken man, and it was better that he maintained the illusion of a good chance of rescue. Izaskar, too, was not worth upsetting any further. Judging by his miserable stumble, the mathematician was on the verge of a mental breakdown anyway.

Anden knew that without those three, his and Zaltarim's chances of escape would have been much greater. Still, the thought of abandoning them made his skin crawl.

He peered at the sky again. The cloud cover remained in place, but it could break up at any moment. And it was from the sky that the pursuers would most likely arrive. Anden imagined the screeching of the chimeijans filling his ears, and the figures riding on their backs...the...

They couldn't give up! He quickened his pace, motioning to the others to keep up. Taihan cursed and Izaskar's panting faded into the distance. The man was certainly not an athlete. They weren't able to keep up this speed for long.

Then memories struck and Anden returned to the day the Brotherhood had last gathered. It had been a prelude to disaster.

* * *

Fourteen people, friends or at least long-time colleagues, had gathered in the tower room. A few weeks later, two of them were dead, six were traitors, five had fled into the night and one neutral had left the others in the lurch.

Anden Telon sat at an oval oak table, in his place between Eistaf and Bendac. A fire was burning in the fireplace, jokes were made and cheeky greetings exchanged. It was almost homely in the large tower room of the sanctuary called Haven. The Brotherhood was in full attendance, as it should be at a half-moon meeting.

There was a lull in the chatter as Laftakom Greyhand rose to open the meeting. His dry, hoarse voice echoed off the stone walls of the tower as it had so many times before.

Laftakom spoke of the day-to-day issues: the purchases to be made and how to prepare for winter and frost. Next to him, young Chab tapped wildly on the typewriter, documenting his master's words in the memo of the meeting.

Anden let out a long yawn, then looked at Eistaf out of the corner of his eye, as he often did during meetings. As usual, Eistaf did not remain silent, but actively participated in the discussion, making sharp points about the issues raised by Laftakom. For such an artistic person, Eistaf Negos was incredibly practical and clear-sighted. As if made to lead nations, Anden had once thought.

Apart from Laftakom and Eistaf, the main voice at the beginning of the meeting was Randalos, looking surly as usual. He accompanied almost every proposition by Laftakom with a disgruntled grumble. The others remained mostly silent.

Shadows splayed Lufudon Narthouy's gravedigger face, and his mouth twisted sourly while others laughed. He was the troll of the Brotherhood: as ugly as he was mysterious.

Obeiron had a small copper-wired machine on the table in front of him, and the thick-bearded man was fiddling with it, oblivious to the conversation around him. Vanna, on the other hand, was holding a tiny mirror in her pretty hands, enhancing her face. The gesture was one of Vanna's many ways of presenting herself as a silly fool. Anden knew that despite the mirror, the beautiful woman was watching the situation intently.

Mocvann Gravenhild, Vanna, gorgeous and lovely Vanna! You are a descendant of the mighty grand dukes of the West, the Sunshine of Gravenhild, the brightest star in Malkania society and a beauty adored by thousands of men.

Just the sight of your serene eyes, the curl of your lips or the flutter of your golden braids can make anyone forget about eating and sleeping for weeks. And the few who aren't blinded by your beauty tend to underestimate your other talents.

You are a brilliant speaker, an infallible tactician and negotiator who never misses a trick. When Laftakom wanted to make a difference through personal diplomacy, he sent you, and the result was almost always excellent.

Vanna, if I liked women, I would have loved you. Now I hate you, you traitor.

Maendrym Cors wore a high-collared jacket and sat with military stiffness to the right of Laftakom, glaring grimly at anyone who dared look at him for too long. Cors had spent his childhood in the Camps, amidst the icy horrors, and it was easy to see how the harsh environment of his upbringing had affected him.

Anden had often wondered why Laftakom hadn't thrown such a grouch down from the highest tower in Haven. The reason was the same for all of them: Laftakom had gathered the best talents of the Inhabited World and would not let any member of his circle vanish, no matter how troublesome their character.

We have named you General Cors. You're an ingenious strategist and spend your days studying the science of war. You know the movements of infantry formations as well as machine warfare from before the Oblivion. You also have a perfect grasp of the intricacies of politics and social structures, but you are too grave and crude to put your skills to good use. Your teachings have spread, however, and your books are read by administrators and soldiers throughout the Inhabited World.

I didn't like you, Cors. Your betrayal didn't surprise me. What kind of creatures are you building up armies for now?

In keeping with the tradition of the half-moon meeting, participants took turns to share their latest news. This usually meant presenting their own recent ideas and research findings. Each described their achievements in their own characteristic style: Bendac in a shy and modest manner, Vanna in a charming way, Lufudon secretively, Randalos in a pompous way and Obeiron in a way so complicated that no one else understood anything.

"Well, let's move on to your news," Laftakom said, glancing around the room. "You may begin this time, my dear Anden."

The old man used to choose the speakers in a completely random order. He must have found it entertaining. After nodding to his master, Anden began to talk about his current project, which he believed would significantly improve the food supply of the nations. He was enthusiastic, describing at length the progress of his research and the observations he had made.

The others followed, whoever was listening: Cors had his stony gaze fixed directly on Anden's nose, Zaltarim, sitting on the far left, kept nodding silently, and Randalos drummed his fingers on the table with a bored expression.

When Anden finally finished, he was out of breath. Laftakom thanked him for an interesting presentation, and Eistaf leaned over to whisper in Anden's ear, "If you had gone on a moment longer, Randalos would have bristled with anger."

"Then why didn't you ask me to continue?" he whispered back, making Eistaf giggle with laughter. It was a laugh Anden could have listened to forever.

Next came Obeiron's and Bendac's presentations, which Anden listened to with only half an ear. He was not interested in Obeiron's technical jargon, and Bendac's stammering and blushing was embarrassing to watch. Instead, he studied Eistaf, who sat with relaxed posture, picking fluff from the sleeve of his elegantly cut jacket.

Eistaf, you still look very much like the handsome boy whom Laftakom led to Haven one bitter, frosty night. How haughty you were even then. And yet so utterly charming. After all, you are related to the emperor himself.

I, a mere kid myself, stared at you with round eyes. I couldn't have been happier when you accepted me, a lowborn, as your friend. This friendship blinded me and hastened the Brotherhood's demise.

Eistaf, were you playing your violin and laughing at my jokes while planning Laftakom's murder? What did you think you would gain by allying yourself with those devils? Why did you tread the slippery path of treachery? Why you, my love?

Even at that last meeting, Anden could have seen the light. The plan of Eistaf and his collaborators had been exposed by a slip from young Chab. Laftakom had asked the boy to speak next, and Chab had begun to recount his new experiences with the Might. In his carelessness, Chab had spoken out of turn, explaining that he was practically testing the speed of various reactions when a human was subjected to a control discipline.

Randalos had then snarled loudly while everyone else had turned to look at Chab, who was too late to correct himself: "...I mean control...sheer control of the Might!"

Laftakom's look was openly questioning, and at least Zaltarim and Taihan looked stunned.

Taihan spoke first. "The practice of the control discipline on human beings is strictly forbidden. I, if anyone, know the injuries it causes. What do you need such a skill for and who did you use it on?" She blurted out the words so fast that they clumped together.

"I didn't..." Chab started, startled, but Eistaf hurried to intervene, "He used it on me. I was Chab's guinea pig because I wanted to feel the effects of this cruel spell. I wanted to understand the pain experienced by the victims of the fallen. I asked Chab to try the control discipline. I am sorry if I have betrayed your trust, Master."

Anden shivered. He knew his friend well enough to know that the explanation was pure bullshit. Eistaf Negos would never have been so tender.

Laftakom fell into a pensive silence. Chab, staring at his typewriter, looked ashamed and Eistaf apologetic, but Anden had time to observe the reactions of the others.

It was impossible to read Vanna, but at least the woman had stopped plucking at her mirror. Bendac trembled, perhaps the unexpected turn of events had shocked the fearful fellow. Taihan looked openly disapproving, while Randalos had a contemptuous "what did I tell you" expression on his face.

Go to hell, Randalos Vevozor! If you had wanted to, you would have been powerful enough to tip the scales in our favour. Randalos, if you were with us, the traitors would be fleeing from us now. And Obeiron would still be alive.

Then Laftakom spoke, calmly as was his way. "You have broken the rules of our brotherhood. It is not without reason that we are all forbidden to practice the control discipline. You know history well enough to understand the atrocities of this dark curse. You too, Chab, young as you are."

"Eistaf, you should already understand the sanctity of our rules," Laftakom continued. "Your habit of questioning established truths has been to our advantage, but crossing a certain line is not acceptable. The fact that you are acting out of sheer curiosity and compassion is certainly mitigating. What makes it more serious is that you lured Chab into your experiment. I still don't think a vote on punishment is necessary. I would ask you not to engage in such foolishness again. Next time you won't get off so easily."

"What! No punishment?" Taihan cried. Her dark eyes burned with anger.

In his heart, Anden agreed. He could not understand Laftakom's laxity in such a serious matter. But another, much stronger voice in his head urged him to be loyal to Eistaf.

Laftakom raised his hand dismissively. "Calm down, Taihan, we've always dealt with situations like this by talking. Does anyone object to my approach?" he said, letting his gaze wander around the table.

Taihan looked as if she wanted to argue, but then shook her head. Even Randalos seemed to have no desire to challenge his master's authority.

Anden felt the weight lift from his chest as Laftakom concluded that there was no need for further action. Eistaf and Chab mumbled embarrassed thanks, and then the half-moon meeting resumed with Randalos' ponderous lecture of his study of continental plate movements.

For the rest of the meeting, Anden reflected on the proceedings of Eistaf and Chab. The idea of the forbidden use of the Might had undoubtedly come from Eistaf. Had he brought up the prohibited subject out of curiosity? The last time he had been guilty of such an open breach of the rules was when he was much younger. Anden dared not to think how many similar situations had gone unreported. That was the way Eistaf Negos had always been, more secretive than open about his actions.

Eistaf did not like moral lectures either, and Anden did not enjoy giving them to his best friend. Hence the simple reason why Eistaf had not confided his experiment to Anden, but to the easily led Chab. That was what Anden had thought at the time, and only afterwards did he realise his mistake.

Chab, you are still just a boy, the last of us to join Laftakom’s circle. You were one of the poor children from fishing villages of Northern Isles, a plain brown-haired orphan boy.

I remember when you were found wandering in the wilderness and brought to Haven. You would surely have been sent away on the first liner boat if Laftakom hadn't found out something. You were strong in Might, perhaps even more powerful than Jestok or Randalos. You stayed with us.

You turned out to be smart, soaking up information like a sponge. Laftakom thought of you as his own son and taught you everything he could. And yet, Chab, you are among the renegades who murdered your mentor. Why?

* * *

At the end of the half-moon meeting, Anden had started to leave for his apartment when Zaltarim had approached him and asked him for a walk. Slightly puzzled, Anden had shrugged his shoulders approvingly.

He liked Zaltarim, even though he had never gotten to know him very well. The bespectacled man was an elusive and complex character. At times Zaltarim would talk jovially about things he had seen or heard, but at other times the playful storyteller would become a serious and stern hermit.

Zaltarim's long journeys also alienated him from his comrades. If anyone knew the muddy cart tracks and cheap inns full of cockroaches, it was him. In the Brotherhood, everyone had their own occupation, but it was Zaltarim's chosen path that Anden respected most.

Zaltarim did not lead his companion to the garden of Haven, as Anden had originally expected, but to the riverbank. They walked one after another along the narrow path to the bank where the Wicked River flowed, black and cold.

The late autumn chill swirled around the treeless slope, and Anden wrapped his jacket tighter around him. He did not particularly like cold winters, but he had gotten used to them here in the north. Zaltarim, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind the weather, as he walked ahead of Anden only in shirtsleeves.

A crow let out a hoarse caw above them. Anden tilted his head and saw Zaltarim's black-feathered pet scrambling against the wind. After greeting his master, Krahh headed for the towers of Haven. The bird was yet another indication of Zaltarim's eccentricity.

When they reached the spot where the bank reached its highest point, Zaltarim finally stopped and turned to face Anden. "You're probably wondering why I dragged you all this way. I wanted to talk in a place where no one could hear us."

"What do you want to talk about?" Anden asked.

"Something is wrong, Anden. I don't know exactly what, but I can feel it."

"Wrong? What do you mean?"

"I have a feeling - you know I get them sometimes - that something is very wrong here in Haven. It's as if there's something evil among us that could erupt at any moment." The grey eyes behind the glasses were sharp, which told that Zaltarim was serious.

"What could it mean?" Anden asked, confused. He believed Zaltarim's perception, as a seeker the man was exceptionally sensitive to such things.

"I don't know exactly, but I guess you also paid attention to that scene at the meeting. I don't think Eistaf was telling the truth," Zaltarim replied.

Anden winced, he was irritated when Eistaf was being criticised. "Why do you think that?" he asked more firmly than he had intended.

"Small gestures. He seemed to be in too much of a hurry to save Chab from the situation, as if he was afraid the boy would reveal even more."

"So what? It could be something entirely else."

"Oh, Anden, you like Eistaf too much to notice what I do," Zaltarim said a little sheepishly.

Anden bit his lip, he did not like it when others brought up his and Eistaf's relationship. What he thought of Eistaf Negos was nobody else's business, not even the trustworthy Zaltarim.

"Why don't you tell Laftakom about your suspicions?" Anden asked sardonically.

"You know he won't listen to me. The stuffy, stubborn man let Eistaf and Chab get away surprisingly lightly. You're the only one I can talk to about such things."

Maybe Zaltarim was right, he shouldn't tell Laftakom. Zaltarim and old Greyhand did not get along very well, but rather only tolerated each other. Anden thought it was because Zaltarim preferred to do things his own way rather than listen to authority.

"Couldn't you talk to Jestok, Bendac or Taihan?" Anden suggested, knowing that Zaltarim liked them.

"Yes, maybe I should. I just wouldn't want to share this with too many people because I have no proof beyond a bad feeling."

Anden nodded, perhaps it was not worth going to the others without better information. "How about we both keep our eyes open? We'll take action as soon as we need to," he finally suggested.

"Yes, that's probably best. Don't mention this conversation to anyone," Zaltarim warned before they turned to return to the shelter of the thick walls of Haven.

They made their way along the ridge of the hillside towards the dark, looming castle beyond. In the darkening evening, the wind danced with the brown grass of autumn. Anden tugged the collar of his coat upwards, wishing he were already in his own apartment. He would sit in his favourite chair by the fire, ask old Hobbe for a warm mug of cocoa from Southland, and think of something other than Zaltarim's unpleasant musings.

* * *

The last few weeks in Haven had given no hint of what was to come. Everyday life had followed its familiar course, even though the fate of the Brotherhood had already been written.

Jestok had strummed a lute and serenaded one of the maids. Laughter had blossomed on their faces, and Anden had guessed that the girl was ready to go to bed with her seducer. For a trained chemist, Jestok was unusually light-hearted. Or perhaps that was why he understood the chemistry of love.

Obeiron had been testing his combustion engines in the courtyard. Randalos had glared at it disapprovingly every time he slouched past. But now Obeiron was dead, murdered.

My friend Ob, Ob-technician, Ob-sacrificer. Your wonderful gadgets would have been an invaluable aid on the escape. Who uses those devices now? And for what purpose?

Anden himself had been busy with his own work in recent weeks, visiting the common room only on rare occasions. The methods used to improve the soil in the Age before Oblivion had begun to open up after a long period of toil, and he had not wanted to run away from his work.

Old Hobbe together with the other servants had provided enough company on those busy days, and Anden was not in the habit of being too sociable. It was likely a problem they all shared. Each lingered in their own chambers, doing their research without bothering to visit each other. Had they been more in touch, a change in the traitors' behaviour might have been noticed in time.

Vanna and Cors had returned from a journey together. There was nothing unusual about that either, although Anden suspected afterwards that the duo had used their absence to weave their treacherous plots. He remembered that Bendac had seemed troubled when they had enjoyed grog in the common room one evening. But Bendac had always been socially awkward, so Anden hadn't paid much attention.

Bendac - I can't believe it! Your hair droops thin and your posture is bent with shyness. You never say a bad word about anyone. You know everything about plants and animals, but you go as red as a beetroot when a pretty girl smiles at you.

You don't do well with people, but with animals you're more skilled than anyone else. You feed the birds, chatter to the cats and pat the horses. And you, the kindest of the kind, murdered Laftakom in cold blood! How long did you walk in the shadows before your final fall?

Perhaps it was better that Laftakom was not anymore here to witness this atrocity. His noble ideals had been betrayed in the most terrible way. An unholy alliance had been forged with the powers that Laftakom Greyhand devoted his life to oppose. A worse betrayal could hardly be imagined.

For six of them, the common cause was not enough. The sacred vows of the Brotherhood had been broken, as the six cursed ones had hoarded more for themselves. In doing so, they had reached out into the depths of the Darkness.

* * *

The sleet whipped across his face, but Anden did not bother to pull up his hood. The blizzard was a sign of life, something worth fighting for. When you are drenched, you could also forget, at least for a moment, until memories came flooding back, painfully.

Fragments of a conversation sprang to mind from the day Anden had first sensed that life could not go on forever as it had been. Now it seemed an eternity since that meeting. It belonged to the past, to another era that would never return.

It had happened a few days after the last half-moon meeting. Anden had marched into Eistaf's apartment in a very confused state of mind. He needed to be convinced that the allegations in the letter he had received were nothing more than malicious gossip.

How wrong he had been! By going to Eistaf, he had made the traitors wary. Damned foolishness, trusting a friend who betrayed him in the worst possible way.

Anden's senses had been sharpened by the soft music from the loudspeakers Ob had built and the scent of wildflowers wafting from the air freshener - as it always did when he entered Eistaf's apartment. Eistaf Negos appreciated beauty and style. Eistaf the sensualist, Eistaf the charmer, Eistaf the traitor.

By the time Anden arrived, Eistaf was fiddling with a glass bird that glittered in all the colours of the spectrum. For a moment, he had simply devoured his friend's features. Eistaf's long neck was bent into an arch, and the wisp of hair that grew back of his neck had spilled out from under his collar. Anden felt like slipping his fingers around the wisp and tugging at it.

The wisp in the neck told everyone that Eistaf Negos was of Imperial descent, though only a distant cousin. You could have guessed the lineage from the man's refined appearance, Anden thought. Eistaf had everything: He was the right height, his build had a certain grace to it alongside his strength, and his face was delicate, almost too attractive for a man. No one could match Eistaf - or Vanna, of course, but Vanna was a woman.

When Eistaf heard the sound of Anden's footsteps, his brooding expression softened into a smile. The jingle of the music died away in an instant as Eistaf pressed a small button on the belly of the glass bird.

"So beautiful and so fragile, like a first love in spring," he said in his baritone, and tossed the bird indifferently in the basin in the corner of the room. There was an unpleasant sound as the glass bird shattered on the rocky bottom of the basin.

"Why did you break it?" Anden asked.

"There was a darkening in the wing. The artist strives for perfection and there is no room for flaw in his world."

"Pity about the bird though. I could have taken it for myself."

"Anden, I would never give you anything less than perfect," Eistaf said, smiling that relaxed smile he knew Anden loved so much.

The words were like prickles on his skin. Anden would never get anything imperfect from Eistaf, because Eistaf could never give perfection to another man.

They had talked about this years ago, and the memory of it still made Anden sad. Why did Eistaf have to open a never-ending wound now? Sometimes he hurts others so easily. And yet Anden could never stay angry with his friend for long. Not in front of that smile.

Today he was not here to look at a smiling Eistaf, but to demand an explanation for a matter that troubled him. But it was not easy, because he could not be firm with Eistaf. With others, yes, but not with Eistaf, whose presence made the confident and determined Anden look fragile and confused. They both knew this only too well.

Anden gathered himself and straightened his shoulders. "Eistaf, one of my contacts claims to have seen you meeting with some people known to the fallen, and says you asked them for information on a route to the Bewitched Land of the dreaders. Another source tells me that you've been scouring the bookstores in the gloomiest alleys of Dimalos in search of forbidden works on dreaders and their powers? What game are you playing?"

The smile faded from Eistaf's handsome face. "So your snoopers claim. How interesting that you would send your minions to stalk your best friend. But why should this information you've pried bother you?" Eistaf said in a voice far too mild for his expression.

He didn't even try to deny the accusations! As much as Anden had hoped that the sources had been wrong. But no.

"Is that your answer? Of course it bothers me if you're involved with anything related to the dreaders. Our rules forbid us to touch such things."

"Laftakom's rules," Eistaf said calmly.

"What!"

"You heard what I said. We cannot slavishly lock ourselves into dogma if reason says we must do otherwise. Just as the laws of states, the rules of the Brotherhood must be able to adapt to the changing world. There is nothing sacred or set in stone when it comes to man-made rules of conduct."

Anden had learned over the years that Eistaf had no respect for old traditions, but his words still felt wrong. They went against everything Anden held dear.

After a moment's silence, he said: "Eistaf, we are talking about matters of principle; why does our Brotherhood exists."

His interlocutor narrowed his eyes and spoke again. "We are no longer children. You are thirty-two, I am two years older. Even if we look younger than our age, we will inevitably grow older. With Laftakom's teachings we may be able to extend our lifespan to perhaps a hundred and fifty years. No longer than that. But what would an endless life sound like? That would be one of the gifts this new path could give us. Think of Anden, the two of us here forever - together."

Anden swallowed and hesitated. It sounded too wonderful to be true. Moreover, the proposal would mean giving up everything he believed in. So he shook his head and said: "No, that would be wrong."

Eistaf Negos sighed, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth. "Oh Anden, you are so predictable. But listen. If eternal life does not tempt you, what about power and might? The ability to do things we have only dreamed of. What we have done so far has been nothing but hustle and bustle. A poor bargain compared to all the things we have the opportunity to peer into with this offer. Just think, a chance to return humanity to its glory days, to the Age before Oblivion!"

Eistaf's pale brown eyes had glistened disturbingly, and Anden had sensed a strange feverish excitement in the man. If only he had realised then that with Eistaf it was no longer a matter of idle dreams. The traitors were already preparing to carry out their plan.

In his gullibility, Anden had thought it was just a philosophical debate. But much more heated than the kind of debate they usually had. He had thought that Eistaf was just weighing the options and was interested in Anden's opinion on the matter. How little Anden's opinion had mattered at this point. It had not been worth a penny, even though they had once sworn eternal friendship. Those, too, had been empty words of betrayal on Eistaf Negos' part.

Of course, he had been angry with Eistaf and had spoken his mind. "You are mad if you believe in the promises of those who were created to destroy. You think you can play the game with them, when just stepping onto the playing field is a sure path to ruin. You don't know the powers you're dealing with. You cannot control the situation, no one can control the witches of Cmorh-Biyr. You are making a mistake for which all of humanity will pay."

"Hah, you've filled your ears with the gossip of the Blue Moon apocalypticists again. Lufudon has done his research. He's familiar with the powers of the dreaders. Lufudon has convinced me that we can do great things by harnessing these beasts. Why miss an opportunity when the alternative is to wallow in this state of backwardness for thousands of years? Lufudon has shown..."

"I don't care what Lufudon has shown. The man is as treacherous as a poisonous snake, perhaps even a fallen."

Lufudon Narthoy, you're an abomination to a man. I have always loathed your piercing pig's eyes and your sharp, ever-bleeding nose. Your shrill voice grates on my ears, and your obsessive interest in literature about the darkest secrets makes me sick.

"Know thy enemy", you used to reply to others' queries and continued to explore the dark literature. You exuded toxic, but hid your true nature from Laftakom. I wish I knew how you blinded the master.

"Watch your accusations!" Eistaf interrupted. "You've always had a strange personal problem with everything to do with Lufudon. He has worked hard for the good of the Brotherhood, been the most loyal of the loyal. While your admired Zaltarim has floundered around the world on his ridiculous hunt, Lufudon has worked tirelessly on research that has brought us to a turning point. This is beyond your comprehension."

"Are you saying that his hunt is ridiculous? How dare you!" Anden could not remember when he had ever been so angry with Eistaf.

Eistaf Negos, however, had remained calm. "You surely understand now why I have not spoken these thoughts to you before. I knew you would react with such emotion. You are trapped in Laftakom's outdated ideas. Come back when you've calmed down. Then we can talk in peace."

Anden had nodded coolly and left Eistaf's beautiful apartment for the last time, although he had not known it at the time. They had not spoken of it again. The opportunity had not arisen. A week later the treason was discovered.

He had not visited Zaltarim either. Something in his mind had prevented him from talking to anyone about his and Eistaf's relationship. It was a mistake that Anden perhaps regretted more than anything else.

* * *

Anden came back to the present. The night could not last long. The first signs of dawn reddened the sky, and as the sun raised its full face for another day, the escape would be cut short in the arms of the traitors.

He stumbled forward. Others followed somehow. Their pace had slowed to a miserable trudge, but Anden had no strength to hurry anyone.

Then he saw movement in the lightening sky. A black dot was moving swiftly towards them. Was it a lone chimeijan and its rider? A scout to alert the others. So this is where it would all end, like this.

Anden shouted an alarm. He fumbled in his pocket and found a switchblade. A few slashes to his wrists and the veins would open. Others could do what they liked, but he would not surrender himself alive to the beasts of the dark.

The movement in the air above them grew closer. Izaskar fell to his knees and could only wring his thin hands. Taihan pressed herself to Zaltarim's side, blathering panickily. Jestok merely stared in resignation at the sky and the approaching destruction. Anden could not help them. He opened the blade of his switchblade. Eistaf, for your sake.

That's when Taihan's scream rang in his ears. It was...that screamed name...He had to watch it again. Anden saw a large crow fluttering through the storm towards them. Like Taihan, he called out the bird's name.

"Krahh, Krahh..." Anden echoed and put the knife back into his pocket.

The bird landed on Zaltarim's shoulder. A roll of paper tied to its leg contained information that was hard to believe: reinforcements were close by, the pursuers had disappeared.

Anden floated down the clay slope with Izaskar, so relieved he was. The wise Krahh was indeed capable of miracles. Just as Zaltarim was no ordinary man, the world's last great jackdaw was no ordinary bird.

Krahh had given the five fugitives a second chance, a new life. Anden Telon would use it in the best way he could think of: to continue the work for humanity that Laftakom had left unfinished. And along the way, he would avenge the traitors, avenge them harder than anyone could have imagined.

* * *