I. The Gloaming Land
1. Waking up in a Desert without end.

He came back to consciousness to the beating of a steady drum, each heavy thump rocking his body and rattling the individual bones of his skull so knifing pains lashed throughout his head like a Fury's scourge. It took a moment for the vertigo to pass, until he stopped feeling like he was free falling into the lavender sky above, and in that time he realized that the drumming was his own heartbeat, and the knives in his head were only metaphorical. He was sprawled, spread-eagle, on sandy ground, and the ache from every corner of his being quickly assured him that all of his various appendages were present and accounted for.

Just once, he thought resignedly. Just once, I'd like to wake up and not be hurting, screaming, or crying. He wiggled his toes, felt them respond and complain, and then did the same with his fingers. After a moment of watching the unchanging purple sky, cloudless, endless, he decided to risk sitting up. The effort made his vision blur and with a groan he tucked his knees to his chest, put his head down, and rode out a fresh spell of dizziness.

He was sitting on a flat, featureless plain, for all the world as though he'd simply fallen out of that equally featureless sky. Maybe he had ? portals to other worlds could be random like that, opening over cliffs or at the bottom of seas, in the heart of volcanoes and even the depths of stars. He was lucky he'd only fallen, and not been mashed, burned, frozen, or chopped to bits. From the color and quality of the light, he guessed the time to be about twilight, but there was no sign of which direction the sun was setting. Or, for that matter, that there even was a sun to set. The sky was the deeply purpled color of a livid bruise, and the light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, as if the whole plain had been fitted with mood lighting.

His sword was jammed in the ground not far from him, vibrating gently as though it, too, were thrumming to a heavy heartbeat. Paladin frowned and reached for its hilt; it stilled under his hand. It might have fallen mere moments before, though he would have thought he would have heard it. He let go of the hilt, and after a moment, it began to shake again. With a nod to himself and a slithering hiss from the sand, he pulled it loose and wiped the blade clean on a pants leg.

There was no sign of his guns, nor his coat, nor his backpack ? nor anything or anyone else from the warehouse, although looking down at his torn and dirty clothes he could see the vivid marks of his recent captivity. He sucked air through his teeth and rested the flat of his sword against his shoulder, the v-shaped crossguard cold against his cheek. No food, no water. No daggers up his sleeve, no armored coat to shield him from the cruelties of an uncaring world, no bag of tricks to deus ex machina his way out of a jam, no Mister .45 to save his arse when he was in too deep. Just himself, his scattered wits, and his sword against whatever this odd, twilit world was going to throw against him.

He shrugged, smiled, and stood smoothly. No time like the present. He stretched, bounced a couple of times on the balls of his feet, then abruptly spun into a kata, his sword spinning in a steely blur around him, breaking the silence of the plan with its lethal, whistling song. His muscles protested sharply and then relaxed as he stretched them, the aches and pains slipping away. He finished with a defiant salute to the unchanged sky above, noted that the light had neither grown nor diminished, and frowned slightly.

Tiny mountains, looming out of the distant haze like islands from a mirror flat sea. They could be small, mere hours away; they could be continent-wide and half a world from him. There was no sense of scale, no way to tell if there was even a horizon line to prove that he stood on an ordinary spherical world and not, say, a giant cube, or a flat disk. Paladin sighed and tucked the saber into his belt, giving the ground another look ? save for where his own footsteps had stirred it, and the snow-angel impression of his body, there was no sign to show it had ever been disturbed. Not by wind, nor animal, nor man.

There didn't seem to be anything else to do but set himself in the direction of the mountains and start walking, so he did.

*

There are two ways to avoid being lost. The first is to know, either instinctively or through painstaking awareness, where you are, where you're going, and how to get from Point A to Point B. The second is to admit that you don't know any of the above, and simply not care. After all, to paraphrase the Cheshire Cat, if you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there. This had been the rule Paladin had followed through all his years of wandering, and despite the occasional setback, it had served him well.

The same featureless plain still spread out around him, and only a long, unbroken trail of his footprints testified to his progress; he might have come miles, now, or only a few yards. He could have been walking minutes or hours, keeping as straight a line as he could manage with no landmarks from which to draw a bearing. The mountains looked no closer, the air still held its twilight dimness, the sky above remained that distinct bruised purple.

But not everything was unchanging; at some point a great, pregnant moon had taken its place in the sky, looming directly overhead like the rock of Damocles, blunter cousin to the better known sword. Perhaps it had risen, completely unnoticed, while Paladin's attention had been wholly absorbed on placing one foot in front of the other in a steady pace; perhaps it had simply appeared there like a magician's trick, sprung full-born and weighty in an eyelash blink.

It was an unfamiliar moon, younger and less scarred than the silver orb he was most used to, the shadowed vales of her mares forming no discernible face, no comforting companion for his long trek. She hung harvest yellow in the endless dusk, colored by the hidden sun, or an unseen haze in the air, or maybe just naturally so. He had time to ponder that, though direct observation required craning his head directly back and staring overhead, throwing his balance off and risking losing his ground-eating pace.

He'd spent a lot of time developing that stride, worked hard on it, because he'd spent a lot of time walking over the years ? it was a measured pace, in tune with his breathing, taking full advantage of his long legs to cover the distance, holding himself neither too stiffly nor too loosely. Once set in his pace, he could keep it up for days, chewing up leagues of travel until he finally dropped. A good portion of the effort was mental, pushing aside the complaints of his bruised body and the twinges as it healed, refusing to let his thoughts linger on just how far he must have traveled without yet seeing a sign of anything living, pushing aside the nagging worry that he might be going in circles, or the demands of hunger and thirst as they stirred within. Even before he'd dropped into this bizarre land, it had been some time since he'd ate or drank; unwilling guest to the River Rats, who weren't known for their hospitality.

His memories were hazy. He was used to that; he'd never had perfect recall, had suffered total amnesia more than once over the many years. You could only retain so many memories, after all, and his life had been crammed to the brim with more than its fair share of horrors and heroics, daring adventures and peaceful moments, long summer days and harsh winter nights. But he'd lost track of time over the course of his captivity, and with Kacey's trial date looming ever closer, and solid evidence still in short supply, the gap in his thoughts nagged at him like a vacant tooth, a sore spot that he couldn't stop poking and prodding.

It was that very urgency that led to him being captured, he remembered. He'd started taking risks, making mistakes ? letting hasty violence take the place of carefully measured plans. Time was running short, so he'd taken one too many chances and-

He couldn't remember them capturing him. The whole encounter was a blank spot ? one of many. He could remember torture, being tied down, beaten. It was nothing that hadn't happened to him before, and he'd had worse. They were nervous about capturing a Guardsman, for some reason, afraid that there would be a backlash about it. They didn't want anything too suspicious to be found when his body showed up in the River ? things that might bring questions, like missing fingers and toes.

And then... another blank spot. He shook his head and his stride broke for a moment as his legs suddenly went weak. He staggered across the stand, raising a hand to his head ? his fingers dripped sweat. He blinked at the droplets ? he wasn't exerting himself that hard, was he?

There was... a fight. There was always a fight. He shook his head again, scattering sweat drops like rain onto the gray sand of this not-desert, and scowled. The air felt humid, still cool but somehow thicker than it had when he started, like he was swimming through a thin soup. He looked down at his clothes, charcoal shirt and midnight cargo pants, both torn and bloodied. It didn't look like all the blood was his, although it was hard to tell with his body patching itself up so quickly... although slower than it might have, if he'd been in the best of shape. No doubt that very recuperation was the cause of this lingering weariness that crept over him, the lethargy that pooled in his muscles if he hesitated a moment too long in his stride; he longed to lie down, and sleep a while, but there was no place in sight to rest, nothing but flat gray sand.

And somehow, he thought, I feel that I've slept too long already... confident, cocky, careless, dead. He shook his head again, resuming his pace with an effort. But how did I get from there to here?

And just where the hell was 'here', anyway?

3. At the Vesper Bell

Death hadn't made Anastasia any more pleasant.

For one thing, she was easily bored, and - as Paladin had commented upon earlier - entirely too in love with the sound of her own voice. When she'd run dry of curses and insults, there had been a blessed few minutes of silence before she'd launched into lurid speculations of just how he was likely to meet his fate. He'd hoped that he might get some forewarning of just what kind of nasties might be lurking in the desert around him, but he quickly realized that she had no idea, either. She was but newly come to this land of twilight, drawn by his presence somehow.

But not knowing in now way prevented her from speculating, and so she droned on - her tone changing without warning from the dulcet, seductive sweetness of Anastasia - Queen's maid, flirt, naively charming - to that of Lady Ermine, terrorist assassin of the Revolution, snarling and vicious. The contrast put his edge, and made it impossible to ignore her chatter, find that state of no-mind that in turn would allow him to push aside hunger and thirst, pain and exhaustion, and make the miles blur by under his boots.

Not for the first time in his life, he wondered if this was what it felt like, to go mad.

When she started singing - again - about how his blood on the sand would gleam as bright as a red, red rose, he knew he had to do something to distract her. Unfortunately, he wasn't the kind of guy who could justify hitting a woman, even a murderous and obnoxious one, and he wasn't particularly sure it would work on her anyway. That left a conversational gambit, and he'd never been one for small talk. Still, there was always their shared history - she'd tried to kill him, and he'd succeeded in killing her. When she paused - to martial her thoughts, he suspected, since she didn't seem to have any need for breath - he changed the subject quickly.

"So, we never did figure it out. How the hell did you infiltrate the Queen's coterie? You passed every background check, truth spell, and loyalty test the Gray Cats could come up with. How did such a notorious spy and assassin as the Lady Ermine manage that?"

She laughed, like a child delighted at having played a trick on her tutors. "Oh, silly Paladin. The Ermine comes as she is needed, when the soul of the Revolution calls; and she takes whoever is most, mmm, shall we say convenient to the cause. Anastasia was a maid long before the Ermine had need of her, and the King's Eyes couldn't tell the difference because there was none. I am she and she is me and together makes us we."

Paladin's lip curled. "You're a soul eater, then. You possessed people and used them as weapons. Were you ever someone real, or just a weapon created by the People for the cause?"

Anastasia pouted. "Of course I was real. I had a life - I had a hundred of them, born again and again in the People's service, for the glory of the Revolution. I remain each and every one of those people - although, obviously, Ana dear holds more sway over others, being the final incarnation and all."

Paladin shook his head. "No, you stole a hundred lives - not even counting the poor bastards you killed because your precious Revolution demanded it, or the ones who got in your way. I wanted to know if there was anyone real at the core of you - if the Ermine was a spell construct or a daemon, a person or a simulacrum."

"Why don't you read my mind? Cast a spell, perhaps, to peer into the very heart of me?"

"I don't do that anymore."

"That's so adorable. You don't... or you can't?"

Paladin shot her an annoyed glance. "You're asking questions you already know the answer to." Anastasia did a graceful pirouette without losing her place next to him, her laughter tinkling musically.

"Oh yes, oh yes, I know. But it gives me such thrills to hear you admit how much you're less than what you were."

Paladin shrugged. "Less of what I was, more of who I am. Nobody is who or what they were, anymore, and sometimes that's a good thing. You being dead, for example - I'd call that a marked improvement."

She sprang on him from behind, wrapping her arms around his neck and cooing like a lovesick pigeon. She felt all too solid - and deathly, burning cold. "Oh, you do have feelings for me! I knew it!"

Paladin gasped for breath. "Agh! Get off me, you psychotic, undead she-bitch from Hell! What is it with all these murderous chicks? Between you, Raven, and Morgan, one of you is going to be the death of me!"

"That's kind of the idea, isn't it?" she purred in his ear. "But tell me true, Paladin, does the thought of me being some kind of soul-construct make it easier with you to live with killing me?"

"Are you kidding? I'm planning to do it again."

She stiffened, suddenly, as if shot - her arms jerked loose from around his neck, and she slid off his back. He rubbed his throat and muttered, "Damn solid for a ghost," before realizing that the ringing sound wasn't in his head. Or, at least, not just in his head.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled - long and mournful, it's solemn knell carrying through the still air. Like everything else in this cursed place, it was indistinct - one moment as soft as whispers, the next loud as thunder, clear and sharp and then fuzzy and faded, split with static like the reception on a bad radio. Like the light, it came from everywhere and nowhere.

"What is that?" Anastasia whispered. Paladin cocked his head and listened, and then shrugged. The sand crunched softly under his feet as he started walking again.

"Vespers," he said dismissively. He felt rather than heard her start moving again, the sick chill of her presence goose-pimpling his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.

"What?"

"Well, look at the time. What other service could it be?" He risked a glance over his shoulder, allowed himself a slight smirk at the bewildered expression on her face. "Light the candles John; daylight is almost gone. The birds have sung their last; the bells call all to Mass..." He couldn't match McKennitt's sweet tones for obvious reasons, his own singing voice huskier and deeper, but he could carry a tune well enough.

A look of dawning horror crossed Anastasia's face. "I'm lost in the desert with a crazy person." Paladin scowled in annoyance.

"I thought that was my line."

"You're the one talking to a dead person."

"...touche."

If he'd been looking where he was going, he probably wouldn't have tripped over the wreckage.

II. Village of the Lost
1. Mushroom Stomp

He awoke with a cry from an uneasy sleep filled with restless, fragmentary dreams. That was nothing new; he never slept well in the light, even such gloom as this, and the soft sand made for a poor bed. He'd hollowed out a nest and used his rucksack as a pillow, and it had been far from the worse lair he'd had. Not that that stopped him grumpily wishing for better. His muscles protested as he sat up and dug a water pouch out of the bag, and after a moment's hesitation, a ration cube as well. There weren't too many of either - a Union pilot was expected to be rescued within a few days of their crash, or else use their SERE training to establish a more reliable source of supplies. Still, the range finder assured him that the far distant mountains were becoming slowly less so, and with any luck he'd find water and shelter among them soon.

Assuming the range finder wasn't broken, or being mislead. Assuming the mountains didn't just pick up and move when he got close enough to touch them. Assuming the moon - which had changed again while he slept, and was now a sharp, silver crescent as thin as a sword blade - didn't grow sick of hanging around, and decide to drop from the sky onto his head, like a cartoon anvil.

So many doubts, so little time - he finished his water pouch, eight ounces barely more than a sip no matter how he tried to sip and savor it, and reluctantly peeled the ration cube. It was a miracle of modern technology and nutritional science, two thousand calories and all the necessary vitamins and minerals crammed into something not much larger than a chunk of Bazooka Joe - and about as filling, too. The designers had made it extremely chewy, rationalizing that if pilots had to work harder to eat it, then it might seem more like a real meal. Common wit among the Union pilots had been that the ration cubes had been made as unappetizing as possible, even downright disgusting in some cases, to reduce pilferage from stores and to ensure that all other available options were exhausted before resorting to the emergency supplies. There'd been more than one case of a pilot being rescued after a week's furlough on some godforsaken hellhole, with his rations still intact.

Things were certainly bleak, Paladin reflected with wry humor, when you began to miss MREs. Meals-Ready-to-Eat was the official parlance, but combat troopers over the decades had come up with their own definitions. Meals, Rarely Edible. Meals Rejected by Ethiopians. Mostly Rat Entrails. "Three lies for the price of one; it ain't a meal, it ain't ready, and you damn sure can't eat it." Everyone had their favorite entrees, or at least, their least-disliked, and there were some things that were universally regarded as untouchable - the chicken fajita, for example. That meant there was always brisk trading going on, every meal break. What Paladin really missed, though, was the little packet of 'extras' that came in every pouch. A tea bag, usually Lipton's, but occasionally green tea as the Army grew more health-conscious. A tiny bottle of Tabasco, which could make even the intestinal nightmare of creamed chicken palatable. The 'corpse candies', a roll of sugary hard suckers that alleged to be 'fruit flavored', although it wasn't a fruit that Paladin had ever run across in all his wanderings - urban legend had it that it was bad luck to eat them, a surefire way to win a ticket home. Usually in a body bag. Salt, pepper, alcohol wipes, chewing gum to wipe out the flavor of whatever you just ate - little comforts, that almost reminded you of being civilized. No matter how much the grunts bitched about them, Paladin knew it was a far cry from the salt pork and twice-baked biscuit of an earlier era of soldiering.

Although, honestly, Paladin would have preferred that, too, to what he had.

Just as far from MREs as MREs were from hard tack and salt horse, the Union had its survival pack. The 'water' was so packed with vitamins and electrolytes that he was occasionally surprised the package didn't have to come with a spoon.The brass always swore up and down that you couldn't taste the additives, that the fortified stuff was indistinguishable from vapor-distilled water, but he always fancied that he could taste a faint chemical tang to it. Maybe it was psychosomatic. Or maybe the brass just always lied.

And then there was the 'meat gum'. And the less said about that, the better.

And with that in mind, Paladin sighed, the sooner done, the sooner done with. He popped the cube into his mouth, wincing as the taste of some Union lab egghead's approximation of barbecue flavor filled his mouth, sweet and cloying. Not for the first time since landing in this darkened land, he thought longingly of his rucksack - usually quick to heel to his unspoken call, its seemingly endless pouches bulging with all the supplies and luxuries someone living on the road might ever want or desire. Food, fresh water... coffee. The thought of fresh brewed coffee made his mouth water, which only made the reality of meat-gum that much more unpleasant. How long had it been since he'd had a fresh cuppa? Even if there was a way to count the days here in the desert, his blurry memories of his captivity and the days prior would have queered the measure.

The ration cube was even chewier and less appetizing than he remembered them being; who knew how long the fight had lain there, dug into the desert sand? He gnawed at it reluctantly, trying to ignore the sticky flavor of overdone meat, and the way his heartbeat instantly quickened. The brass had a 'neither confirm nor deny' policy on whether or not the ration cubes had been spiked with some form of stimulant, but comparing notes with other folks who'd had to resort to them laid out a convincing pattern. Or the 'jolt' might have been psychosomatic, placebo effect, or just the result of being jammed into the stressful position that forced you to eat one of the damn things. That was the problem with Dame Rumor, she usually had only the loosest grip on the facts before she went running her mouth. Of course, scuttlebutt had also hinted about battle-drugs being slipped into some ration packs, something intended to give the ground troops a little edge. There had been all sorts of mess deck horror stories about companies gone berserk on campaign, tales of madness and murder. Paladin had mostly discounted them; he'd heard the same stories while marching in the Sun King's armies across France, only then it had been ergot in the hardtack. The same tale again in Vietnam, where an infantry company had gotten hold of a bag of flour used in heroin smuggling. Rumor, gossip, tall tales and 'no sh!t' stories - these were the staples of the fighting man, no matter the time, no matter the place. Paladin shrugged and decided he'd wasted enough time daydreaming. Still chewing absently at the ration cube, he straightened up out of his makeshift nest.

He was surrounded.

Sometime during the scant few hours he'd slept - or the past few minutes he'd spent woolgathering - or the split second when he'd straightened up - a small forest had sprung up, a half-dozen mushrooms forming a loose fairy ring around his foxhole. He chewed in silence for a moment; each fungus was easily eight feet tall, their stems as thick as a burly man, flesh a sickly pale and the underside of their caps thickly frilled with gills. He wondered what design or pattern might decorate the tops of those caps.

"Funny," he said at last. "I don't recall it raining last night." It was dangerous to be in the center of a ring, and he shifted his feet casually to a ready position, resting the flat of his sword against his shoulder. The mushrooms swayed, as if stirred by a wind he couldn't feel; Paladin tilted his head to one side and spat out the ration cube. He couldn't explain the odd feeling of tension that hung in the air, that dreadful waiting like a hushed Coliseum audience in the moment before the kill. The soil felt loose beneath his feet, shifting and unsteady...

He threw himself backwards half a second before the trap sprang, barely avoiding the dead white tendrils boiling up out of the ground. One found the discarded ration cube and swallowed it eagerly, bulging slightly as the resilient protein was absorbed into the slimy flesh. Paladin landed next to one of the mushrooms and swayed back just in time as an arm appeared on either side of the thing's 'stalk' and swiped at him. The bottom of the stalk split into legs, and the mushroom-man followed after him, lashing out with powerful but clumsy strikes that he easily avoided, slipping around them with catlike grace. Another mushroom joined the fray, lunging at him from behind - he spun around it like a dancer on a ballroom floor, leaving the two to crash together, and slid under a blow from a third. He rolled backwards, clear of the brawl, and spun his blade around him idly as he came to his feet.

"We're not going to be reasonable about this, are we?" he asked mournfully. The mushrooms replied with a silent rush, heavy feet pounding in the sand, and he sprang to meet them. Faster and more nimble, he danced through their line with ease, sword flickering like silver lightning as he swung, barely visible to the eye. Every motion connected to the next, a cut here and a thrust there, dealing a quick, lethal wound to each opponent and moving on to the next before the first could react. He wasn't even breathing hard as he slid past the last in line, finishing it off with a flourish that left his blade raised in salute. He waited for the crescendo of falling bodies, that familiar rain like feet stomping in applause.

It didn't come.

He turned slowly. The line of mushrooms was just straightening, realizing that he'd gone past them. As they turned, he beheld the wounds that would have been lethal on human opponents - horizontal cuts across 'throats', stab wounds through 'hearts', great gaping slashes that would have left a man clutching at his exposed entrails and screaming for his mother. Here, instead, there was none of the grue and gore - merely cuts across spongy white flesh that opened as they moved, exposing more spongy white flesh and maybe a little weeping clear fluid. Paladin rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "Right. Mushrooms." Confident, cocky, careless, dead...

The closest mushroom took a swing and hit him with a left hook that felt like an express train, launching him backwards. He rolled in the air and landed on his feet, keeping his balance on the soft sand through a combination of natural balance and sheer stubbornness. It felt like the 'shroom had cracked ribs with that hit; every breath stung and wheezed.

Okay, time for a new situational analysis. The fungi-men spread out, slowly, in a half circle. They're tough, they're strong, they learn from mistakes. But they're slow - I could outrun them... That stuck in his craw. He'd been running too much lately - the shadows in the city, that thing in the sewers. The hell with that. I make a crappy track and field star. Besides, run where? He still had a "day's" travel to reach the mountains, considering the same provisos from before, and running on the soft sand would quickly rob him of his endurance - something these guys seemed to have in spades being, well, fungi. One of the mushrooms made a shuffling approach, partially stooped, arms outstretched like a wrestler. Paladin feinted with his sword and it fell back, but another one moved in on his other side. Looks like we do this the hard way... He reached to touch the fire inside and cried out in pain and shock as light flashed through his head, a sensation too excruciating to be summed up as mere agony - the piercing needles of a thousand migraines all at once, gone after less than a heartbeat but leaving his head ringing. It rang more when the mushroom connected with a hammer-hand, knocking him sprawling. He tasted blood as he rolled to his feet again, and his words sounded slurred to his ears when he spoke.

"Thass it - I'm sick of playing everyone's punching bag." He gripped his sword tight with both hands and severed the next fist to swing at him. The mushroom drew back, but he didn't give it a chance to withdraw - he followed close, dipping to cut its legs off at the knee. It fell back and he spun, catching the next one across the waist as it tried to close. The sword caught in the middle and Paladin twisted as the wounded mushroom rained blows on him. He managed to catch most of them on his shoulders, but one or two made it through to strike his head and blur his vision - he doggedly refused to release his sword, working it back and forth in the wound until it severed through in a rush. The others moved in on him, fists flailing, and he rolled between their legs to get away.

There was none of the confusion he'd hoped for, none of the chaotic flailing or mistaken identity that human opponents would have displayed. Even the legless mushrooms were dragging themselves towards him, and their more intact compatriots spread out to flank him as they charged. "A piece at a time, if I must." Paladin shook his head to clear it, throwing off a fine spray of sweat and blood. The throbbing in his head was receding, and he pushed his concern about his failing pyrokinesis to one side - as he had before, he recalled ruefully, when Anastasia's arrival had prompted him to forget it all together.

The lead mushroom man dove low, trying to tackle him - he used it as a springboard, pushing it further along its way and launching himself at the next. He flipped and landed feet first, boots impacting with enough force to shatter ribs on anything with a skeletal system. It left dents in the soft flesh, and the mushroom staggered as Paladin pushed off it in a backflip, landing on the legless one and crushing its cap. It spasmed once and stopped moving.

Paladin rested his sword on his shoulder, ignoring the sticky sap that clung to the blade and gave the body under his feet a speculative look. "Is that your vulnerable point, then? How very droll." His grin was wolfish as the mushrooms hesitated. When they rushed him again, his blade was waiting.

2.3 Under The Dragon's Bones

The two riders called themselves the ?Uru?, and obviously ?not far to their village? was a relative term. Perhaps it was just impatience, eagerness at having finally found someone in this desert who wasn't actively trying to kill him, but the trip seemed to take hours. Neither of the two ? Paladin never did find out their names ? spoke much on the trip, and both were always careful to keep him a spear length away from their mounts. Not that it would have done either much good, if he'd needed to reach them, but he saw no reason to deprive them of their illusions.

They gave him water and bread that, despite their earlier quip, contained no trace of mushroom whatsoever. He wasn't entirely sure just what it was made of, but it tasted better ? and was more filling ? than his lost ration cubes, so he wasn't about to complain. It had a tough, gritty texture, and chewing on it served to occupy his mind for a while. Pretty soon, though, it was gone, and there was nothing left to but walk and study his companions.

The more talkative of the two, the one who seemed to be the leader, kept glancing at something that Paladin at first thought was a compass. After a little while, though, he managed to get a better look and realized that it was some sort of a lodestone ? only, instead of a magnetic rock on a string, it was some sort of bone, or claw. It shifted slightly as they moved, spinning on its own, as though their target was moving. Sure, why not? Paladin thought wryly. Everything else moved around in this place. Some distant voice in the back of his mind recognized that he was, in a way, blaming the mountains for abandoning him to his fortunes. He pushed the irrationality of that way and concentrated on walking.

What is time, in a land with neither sun nor stars, on a world that may not even spin? What is distance, in a desert without noticeable landmarks, without any means to tell one place apart from the next? All Paladin knew, when they finally reached the Uru camp, was that his legs had acquired the not unpleasant burn that, under normal circumstances, he would enjoy for a few miles longer and then stop for water and a stretch. The two Uru looked both worn and relieved as they crested a slight rise and looked, not down on another sea of dunes, but to a dozen or so mismatched hide pavilions, arrayed around a watering hole. But the tents, and even the small, uneven rows of crops and orchard trees, were not what first took Paladin's attention.

No, that was reserved for the bones.

The skeleton was huge, serpentine, its ribs like petrified tree trunks emerging from the sand. For a moment, he thought they were tree trunks ? then he recognized the pattern, and perhaps more importantly, saw the skull. Jagged teeth and hollow eye sockets, but he could still recognize what great creature had once worn these bones under its hide and muscles. Dragon. The bones dwarfed the camp, and in a way, defined it. They held back the sands in a half crescent around the tents, and kept the sand from smothering the plants or choking the oasis. Paladin hadn't noticed much wind in his wanderings so far, but he realized, for the first time, that all of the dunes leaned in the same direction ? the mark of prevailing winds. He wasn't sure what that meant, to him. Maybe this place had a windy season, and he just hadn't arrived in it. Or maybe different sections of the desert had winds, and others didn't...

He caught himself with a chuckle. Was he really trying to apply logic to a place like this? That way lay madness... and he'd already ventured down that road a little further than he liked. The two Uru and their kangarats crested the rise and started towards a paddock set up on the outskirts of the camp. Small figures - most likely, children, though the general tininess of the Uru made that a questionable guess ? were hard at work gathering the droppings from the small herd of kangarats corralled in the paddock, and Paladin nodded to himself. It was the same with any farming culture ? one man's crap became another man's dinner, along down the line.

Became everyone's dinner, really, if you thought about it... which he did as little as possible. He shook himself out of the momentary reverie and caught up with the two riders. They left their mounts with the stable boys - or so Paladin assumed they were, since they took the reins without hesitation and with all signs of competence - and escorted him to the largest of the pavilions. He'd thought at first that it was their version of a town hall, or perhaps the residence of the shaman they'd mentioned, but a familiar hubbub of conversation and laughter dispelled that idea.

"You can wait here, stranger," one of the Uru said politely. "There are other outlanders there, so you'll be in familiar company. Banjin should send for you shortly." They both turned away, and Paladin shrugged and pushed through the tent flap.

It was, as he'd expected from the noise of conversation, a bar. A fairly crowded one at that, lit by half a dozen braziers that hissed and fizzed and produced a sputtering light, but little smoke or heat. There were a dozen people in the room, from as many races and cultures - an elven ranger swapping tales with a Roman centurion, a man in the torn rags of what was once a Starfleet uniform drinking alone, leonines and wolfen and races Paladin couldn't hope to recognize or even describe. Although the mugs were leather and hide and the tables low to the ground, forcing everyone to squat or sit on rugs and cushions, Paladin suddenly found himself awash in deja vu. The place reminded him so much of the Red Dragon that he had to struggle not to crane his head looking for familiar faces - Eva at the bar exchanging sidelong glances with Tucker, Izira next to D'Mourir, the 'Zilla on the counter with a Badsider in her hand, trading girl talk with the Empress...

It took him a moment to recover his equilibrium, to realize that the knot in his chest was homesickness. It had been a long time since he'd felt comfortable enough in one place to refer to it as home, felt like he'd really belonged - even Delila and Aden's temple-mansion hadn't felt like home, as much as he cared for the lovely ladies living within. He would never have expected Rhydin, with all its petty cruelties and outright atrocities, its melodrama and farce, its insane residents and bemused visitors, to have become 'home' to him. He quashed the longing as best he could, but still found himself looking for Kacey in her carpenter's jeans and tool belt, the dust of Esperance still on her shoulders, or that green-haired elf, or his 'little sister' Gem, or that girl with the cybernetic arm...

"Ho, stranger!" The 'bar' was just a longer table than the others, placed at the rear of the tent. The man behind it sat on a cask, raising him higher than the other patrons, like a king on a throne, and he raised an arm in salute as he noticed Paladin. At his words, the murmur of conversation stilled and everyone turned to look at the newcomer in their midst. "Ho, wanderer in the sands of time, that beleaguered gloom of night outside our little patch of daylight." His gesture at the tent was wholly ironic; the braziers couldn't match even the half light outside. "We're a misfit bunch and a motley crew, the scatterings and leavings of a dozen lands, worlds, and times, but between ourselves and our savagely noble hosts we're the closest thing to civilization in this dreary waste."

"Unless you count the Dead!" snarled a leonine, shaking his golden mane and raising his mug in a mocking toast. The wolfen across from him snuffled into his own mug and laughed.

"Or the Black Harpies."

"Or the Mushrooms," the Starfleet officer said in a dead voice, draining his own mug. "Seventeen men I had when we wrecked here..."

"Yes, yes," the bartender cut off what was evidently a much repeated lament by pouring another round from a wineskin. "We could count all those, it's true. And true, too, they're rapacious beasts that ravage the desert, killing and eating all in their path, leaving only embers and ashes in their wake. But truly, brethren, does that alone make a civilization? What about all the other things it provides, like music and culture, intelligent conversation and art?"

"Beer!" Someone in the crowd said, and they all roared agreement. Paladin noticed that, even in drunken enthusiasm, they all seemed peculiarly beat down - only the bartender had any real life to him, and that seemed more caught up in his mocking cynicism than any real passion. The rest of the room was dull and lifeless, as if the desert had drained everything good about living out of each of them. The Starfleet officer looked down into his fresh mug and silently began to weep, tears trickling down his blue cheeks.

"Ah, yes, now there we have the mark of a true civilization, my friends. Beer! The finest achievement of humans, demihumans, humanoids and any other truly civilized race. The ability to remove ourselves from whatever our current circumstance by the liberal application of the intoxicant of choice, the most holy of which is our Lady Ethanol." The bartender hoisted his own mug and drank, and the others did the same. Paladin shook his head and stepped further into the common room, picking his way between the tables with his customary grace until he could kneel down at the bar. "So, what about you, stranger? What's your name, what's your story? Don't be shy, we've all heard each other's tales."

?My name is Paladin,? he said carefully. ?I am, as you said, a wanderer. Even before I found myself in this land of sand and gloom, the way of the road was the way of my life. Of late, I've been a Guardsman in the service of the city of Rhydin.? He saw recognition in some eyes, but most of them remained bland. They'd heard a thousand stories before, no doubt, and they all ended the same ? here in the desert, beneath the dragon's bones. ?I don't know how I came here. I was captured by criminals; there was a fight...? Memory stirred, dimly. ?In a warehouse... there was some sort of mirror...? He shook his head. ?It broke, I think. And then... I woke up here.? He shrugged eloquently, wishing he had his coat to shield him from all those flat stares, somehow malevolent in their very lack of passion, as though their apathy and ennui might drag him down. ?I've been walking across the desert since, trying to stay alive. Looks like I did a decent enough job of that.?

?I suppose you did,? the man behind the counter did, standing up from his cask. ?Well, I'm Grayson Morrow by birth, but most of these fine reprobates simply call me Frost.? He bowed courteously, the gesture both simple and elegant. ?An adventurer and treasure seeker by trade, though it looks like my story has the same end as yours; a mission gone wrong, a task should not have attempted to undertake, and so I end up here.?

In the dim, flickering light of the braziers, the man's face seemed somehow familiar; he wasn't particularly tall, though he would still tower over the diminuitive Uru, nor was he especially skinny or especially broad. He was deceptively average ? mouse brown hair, unremarkable features, the kind of man who would vanish instantly in a crowd. You could see him every day and still not be sure if you remembered him; you could meet him for the first time, and swear you'd met before. He was both armed and armored, which set him out from this crowd, though not from that of most Inns of Paladin's acquaintance; a short sword at his side, the butt of a crossbow protruding from over his shoulder, with a scarred leather breastplate to protect his torso. Paladin frowned slightly at his words.

?Would you perhaps, in rougher company, be referred to as a thief?? he asked bluntly. ?Expert treasure hunter? had been a euphemism for the more roguish sort of tomb raider and grave robber for more years and on more worlds than he could count. Far from taking offense, Frost threw back his head and laughed.

?How like a Guardsman, direct and to the point, and automatically suspecting everyone! Yes, my good Constable Paladin, I have been known to occasionally walk away with things that did not, originally, belong to me. It's this flaw I have, and I've always tried so hard to overcome it...? He posed like a hero in a tragedy, downcast and forlorn and then dismissed it with another laugh. ?But that's neither here nor there, is it? You, sir, are far from the streets and the city you Guarded, and there is nothing of value to be found in this whole world, save perhaps the water, food, and wine provided free of charge by our generous hosts. Thus, there is nothing for the two of us to be at loggerheads about, is there??

?Perhaps not.? Paladin said in an agreeable tone, although he was far from being sure he agreed. ?Why do they call you 'Frost', anyway??

Morrow smiled. ?Well, perhaps I exaggerated when I said that the Uru provided us so well 'free of charge'. We all have services we provide to the camp, as a whole, although for the most part they are so easily accomplished that it hardly seems a labor to do so. For myself...? He spread his hands, and a bridge of ice suddenly linked them, sparkling rainbow colors. ?Well, I have also been known as a student of the mystic arts. Not a particularly talented student, sadly, but I do seem to have some affinity with the elements of winter.? He dropped the chunk of ice in a bucket on the counter, sending up a splash as the wine within accepted it begrudgingly. ?The Uru value my contribution to their food preservation, and the gentlemen here at the Bones welcome my skill at making the best cocktails in the desert.? He held a hand to his mouth in a stage whispered aside, ?It was a pretty weak contest, to tell the truth.? The room murmured a mixture of praise and jeers.

?So, stranger, shall I buy you a drink??

Paladin was interrupted before he could reply ? fortunate, as he wasn't entirely sure what his choice would have been, polite refusal or relieved acceptance. One of the Uru entered the tent, remaining within arm's reach of the flap, and peered around. When he spotted Paladin at the 'bar', his expression brightened, just a touch. It took Paladin a moment to recognize him as one of the riders who'd led him to town.

?Well, stranger, it seems Banjin really is interested in seeing you. I'll take you to his tent, now.?

There was a murmur of discontent through the gathered outlanders at the prospect of their diversion departing, but Frost had a glimmer of interest in his eyes as Paladin stood up. ?Banjin himself, eh? Well, now... I guess you're hardly a simple Guardsman, if the Uru shaman wants to meet with you ten minutes after you crawl out of the desert.?

Paladin shrugged. ?Nobody's ever as they appear, Messer Grayson.? The two traded measuring glances, and Frost slowly nodded.

?Well, lad, best of luck with the shaman. I'll tell you one thing, on the house since you didn't get your drink ? these Uru seem placid fellows, content to stay in the desert and wait for their prophecy to be fulfilled, but you'll find them mighty tenacious indeed if you show them something they want. If Banjin's so eager to meet you, it means he thinks you have ? or you are ? something vital to the tribe. You'd better watch yourself.?

?I always do.? Paladin turned on the ball of one foot and walked towards the tent flap. The kangarat rider smiled in relief as Paladin moved towards him, and quickly ducked out of the tent. ?Thanks for the advice.?

III. The Dead City
1. Boon Companion

Frost was waiting outside when Paladin exited Banjin's tent, far enough away that it wasn't immediately apparent if he'd been eavesdropping. Paladin had his suspicions, although he also figured that Banjin would have his own ways of keeping nosy ears from overhearing things they shouldn't.

"Interesting conversation?" Frost asked. His tone was elaborately casual, as though he were asking about the weather. Paladin cocked an eyebrow at him but didn't slow.

"Must have been. It's brought you off your throne and out of your castle."

Frost shrugged modestly. "Not a castle... just a caravanserai. I haven't given up the search, even if so many of my fellows have lost hope in the Tower and started looking for Paradise in a wineskin." He fell into step next to Paladin, hustling a little to keep up with the wanderer's lanky stride.

"You're a Questor," Paladin observed, weaving his way through the camp. Banjin had sent word to have a tent made up for him; he didn't feel particularly tired, but after a 'day' walking across the desert, he supposed he should rest. He was back on the road in the 'morning', after all, though he wasn't sure how he would tell - the camp showed just as much activity as when he'd entered, and he wasn't sure what schedule the Uru were following. Maybe they had water clocks or hourglasses tucked away in their tents. Lady knew, there was enough sand around here.

"And you have a keen eye for the obvious," Frost said agreeably. "But I won't hold it against you. I suppose it probably wasn't so obvious to you, not being a Questor and all."

There was the tent; marked, as Banjin had indicated, by a human-sized belt resting on a stick by the entrance. Paladin picked up the belt and considered it, and the sheath hanging from it - the belt was a little large, and he could probably wrap it twice around his slim hips. The sheath, on the other hand, was sized perfectly for his curved sword. He wasn't entirely sure how they'd managed that, but he was grateful they'd gone to the effort. Carrying a naked sword around in his belt was starting to make him nervous, and the belt was fraying besides. "What makes you so sure I'm not a Questor?" He peeked inside the tent, nodded. A linen bedroll, a pillow, a backpack. The backpack would have food and water in it, enough for a 'week' - and more importantly, the keystones. Without those, he was back to wandering the desert like a damned soul, until he died... or something ate him. From what Banjin had said, the two weren't necessarily one and the same.

"You're not the type," Frost shrugged again. "And you're not Marked, so it's a moot point." Paladin turned around to face him and raised an eyebrow at that. In response, he rolled up one shirt sleeve. The 'mark' was a tattoo, circling his arm at the bicep - twisting figures that at first resembled runes, then hieroglypics, then Chinese pictograms swam back and forth. It made Paladin's eyes hurt to watch, and he was relieved when Frost dropped his shirt sleeve back over it. "Questors recognize Questors. We can see the sign, even through clothes or armor - it's how we know our own." Paladin looked around, noticing that the Uru were keeping their distance - his tent was actually set up a little ways off from the rest of the camp. It hadn't been obvious at first, but upon closer inspection he saw that there was a pretty clear demarcation. Us and you. I get a tent, but I'm not part of the tribe. Roger that.

"That's pretty handy," Paladin let the tent flap fall back and turned to squarely regard the other man. "What's this about, Frost? What're you up to?"

Frost chuckled. "You're a blunt one. I have to have an ulterior motive to want to talk to the new kid in town?" Paladin fixed him with a flat stare, and he sighed and held his hands up. "Alright, alright, I figured it was silly to try to play the innocent with you. Old habits die hard, you know? I want to know what you and Banjin were talking about. The Desert Mage doesn't generally condescend to talk to us outlanders, you know?" He turned his head and spat. "So, we're stuck here - if we leave, we don't get a keystone to come back, and the desert eats people, in case you missed it. So it's either a quick death by exposure and violence out there, or a slow death from boredom and stagnation in here, and neither of those get any of us closer to the Tower. But Banjin wanted to talk to you, and I'm willing to bet that's got something to do with getting out of the desert. So, what does he want in return?"

Paladin chuckled. "You have been here a while... yes, he's offered me a path out of the desert. He wants me to get a book for him first, though."

"A book?" Frost raised an eyebrow. "From what, the shop down the block? Where in Nine Hells are you going to get a book out here?"

Paladin let the other shoe drop. "From the City of the Dead." Frost stared at him blankly for a second then let out a low whistle.

"That's... I thought that was a myth. You hear people talking about it sometime, but always second or third hand... I've never met anyone that's really seen it."

"Well, I've got a carved chunk of rock with a skull on it that says it is." Banjin had explained keystones very carefully to him - they were the only way to find anything, in the shifting sands of the desert, acting like a lodestone to the place they'd been taken from. There was a chunk of bone, too, that was supposed to lead Paladin back to the Uru camp beneath the dragon's skeleton. It could be an elaborate deception, a means of tricking him into killing himself out in the desert, but he didn't think so. For one thing, Banjin had seemed pretty damn eager to get his hands on that book - for another, it was really a Rube Goldberg way of going about murdering someone, when the Uru could just as easily have left him back with the Mushrooms. "Anyway, I've got a pretty long morning ahead of me, so I better get some beauty rest." He ducked to go into the tent, but Frost grabbed his shoulder.

"Wait!" Paladin looked at the hand on his shoulder, then at Frost. The shorter man took the hint and released him quickly, flushing a little.

"I want to go with you."

Paladin raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"Look, the way out of the desert has to lead to the next level of the Tower. Maybe there's something else for you, a way to get back to where you came from-" Frost avoided using the word 'home'. At the time, Paladin didn't notice. "-but that's the way every other one of these challenges has worked. The only way out is through. Banjin'll leave us here to rot while he goes about fulfilling his precious prophecy. I want to be on the next level before the Uru are gone."

"So, you'll accompany me now to make sure you get a train ticket out of here?"

"So, I'll accompany you now to keep you alive long enough to bring that damn book back here." Frost's gaze was the direct, unflinching stare of the fanatic. After a moment, Paladin nodded.

"I'm leaving as soon as I wake up. I'll make sure someone lets you know."

Frost nodded, slowly, in reply. "I'll be here." Paladin watched him go as he walked away, then sighed and slipped into the tent. Looked like it was gonna be a long day.

3. Breach The Walls

It was later that 'day', for neither were much in the mood for sleep, that the two reached the city of the dead. It was not, as Paladin had expected, a necropolis in the classic sense ? an above ground graveyard of tombs, mausoleums, temples and pyramids, of which the ancient Egyptians had been so fond. This was a walled city built on the ramparts of a rocky hill, rising from the sands of the desert like a cancerous growth. There were ranks of houses visible beyond the walls, not laid out in organized rows as a planned city would be but in the fits and clusters of a town that had grown organically, with cobbled streets springing from animal paths and houses and homesteads fixated around the source of water.

Despite that, it was not a living town ? no smoke rose from the jagged skyline of chimneys thrusting into the violet sky like raised spears, no clamor from a crowded market, no stink from too many living things kept confined in too close proximity. Even had there not been more of the outriders on the broken and ruined highway that led to the city, that thin ribbon of paved flagstones emerging now from the desert beneath them, even if there had not been more of the twisted products of bone and sorcery stalking the dunes they slipped through as silent as ghosts, both men would have known that this was a dead place, unclean, hostile to life in even its barest form. A cloud hung over the city, though the sky remained as clear as Paladin had seen it since first entering the desert, a near tangible aura of darkness and bleak despair. I am the end, it seemed to say. I am the fate of all things; entropy made manifest.

?Before me, all things created were eternal; and eternal will I stand.? Paladin murmured softly. They crouched behind a dune, looking at the city through hooded eyes. The walls were stark and bare, with no sign of sentries or protections; now that they were closer, it was plain to see places where the stones had crumbled and given way beneath the simple weight of time, opening gaps in the perimeter. Most of them had been patched with bones, mortared together like some sort of grim suture; some still gaped open, waiting to be attended to.

?What?? Frost gave his companion a sidelong look. It was rare enough to hear Paladin speak, rarer still to hear him say something that made sense.

?Nothing. Quoting again.? Paladin shook his head and slid back behind the dune. ?Well, we can try to sneak around and make it through one of those gaps, or we can go up and knock on the front door. Doesn't look like they're expecting company.?

?What do you think we should do?? Frost asked. Paladin gave him a flat look. ?No, that'll never work. Let's sneak through a gap instead.? Despite himself, the wanderer snorted in amusement.

?Well, normally I'd suggest waiting for the cover of darkness. Guess that's not really an option around here...?

?Wouldn't do much good, even if it was.? Frost frowned at a distant mote of movement stalking through the city streets. ?In case you missed it, it's not like they're using eyes to see.?

?Right.? Paladin frowned in thought. ?Getting by the sentries is going to be tricky.?

?Sentries? What sentries?? Frost peered over the top of the dune with a matching frown. ?Those walls are bare.? Paladin shook his head and pointed at one of the rounded guard towers, careful to keep his head or hand from the view of the walls.

?Look again. Those gargoyles? They've been moving... and I'm willing to bet they've been watching, too.? Frost looked and swore under his breath.

?Clever bastards. Those are Black Harpies... or what's left of them, at any rate.?

?The enemy of my enemy is my friend?? Paladin asked.

?Not bloody likely. The Dead and the Black Harpies will gleefully butcher each other, of course, but they'll butcher anyone they find wandering the desert. Equal opportunity murderers, the both of them.? Frost hawked and spat in disgust.

?I was afraid of that. It's never that simple in real life.? Paladin craned his neck to look at the walls again, then shook his head. ?Well, either we need a distraction, or it's back to knocking on the front door ? we might as well do that as try to run up to the walls under the view of those sentries. Unfortunately, I'm fresh out of my bag of tricks, so unless you've got a spell to conjure up an army or something, we might be humped.?

?Well...? Frost pondered the question for a moment, then smirked. ?I think I might have something handy.?

?You have an army conjuring spell?? Paladin blinked once, twice. ?So... what are we sitting around here for?? Frost held up a hand, worried Paladin might immediately charge off.

?Not a real one. I've got a pretty powerful illusion spell, though, one that might get their attention for a bit.? He gnawed his lower lip. ?I don't know if it'll fool their eyes, though... I mean, they're dead.?

?As you said, it's not like those are eyes they're seeing with.? Paladin nodded grimly, looking at the wall again. ?Well, it's not like we've got anything else going for us... give it a shot." Frost nodded and began to murmur, the hissing words of magic - like water on hot stones, sounds that could only be heard and forgotten by those lacking the talent for spellcasting. Once upon a time, Paladin had understood them, too - given that his sanity had been the reward for giving all that up, he couldn't be too bitter about the trade. Frost made a short, jerking gesture with his hands and opened his eyes again. Paladin looked at the city, then at the mage, and then back at the city. "Well?"

"Give it a moment. It'll take a second to warm up."

A piercing shriek filled the air, as if on cue, and a horde of screaming figures poured from over one a dune not far distant - dark as night in the twilight air, their bird-like bodies brandishing claws as long as daggers, they could only be the Black Harpies that Paladin had heard so much of. He whistled low as troops began to rush from guard posts and the sentries on the walls sprang into the air to meet them. "Nice distraction. We'll be in trouble when they realize those things aren't real, though."

Frost was pale. "That's... not my spell."

"Wait, what?" Paladin gave him a dumbfounded look... and it began to snow. Frost looked at the twilight sky and shrugged as the snowfall increased, whipping into a blizzard. Paladin tried to catch some flakes in his hand suspiciously, ?and had to laugh when his hand passed through without so much as a cold feeling. "You're a magnificent bastard. We'd better get moving while we can still see the walls - we don't want to get caught up in the rest of this cluster." They darted out from behind their dune and ran full tilt at the crack in the city walls, now a barely seen shadow through the blur. The armies crashing together could only be heard, a confused clamour of the Harpies' shrieks and the dry clatter of the skeletal Dead crashing into their opponents.

3.5 Showdown with the King of the Dead

Across the cobblestones, through the winding streets that twisted and turned, tangled as entrails, organically grown over the passage of centuries. The hordes of the Dead showed no signs of thinning; to the contrary, their numbers only increased the deeper the two adventurers plunged into the city.

"It's funny," Paladin observed as he crushed another skull beneath one of his combat boots, his spinning sword forming a shield of flickering silver around him to ward off stabbing spears and slashing blades. "How all of our playmates here are of a most bony persuasion. Can't they afford any fleshy minions around here?"

"The Dead have been so for longer than even the memories of the Uru stretch." Frost wasn't sure where he found the breath to reply; every movement was agony, his body decorated with shallow slashes and cuts, his arms and legs leaden with exhaustion. His sword had been wrenched from his grasp what felt like hours ago, and a captured pike made a more than adequate replacement. "Skin cracks and flesh rots, and only the bones endure."

"But if they don't increase their numbers from living taken from the desert, however do they continue to thrive?" Every movement as graceful as a dance step, Paladin flowed from one opponent to the next, leaving only scattered bones in his wake. Frost kept up as best he could, trying to guard their rear. "Stagnation equals death - or, in the case of these fine dancers of the grim fandango, cessation."

"Oh, they increase their numbers all right," Frost leaned on the pike as the last skeleton present met a steel toed boot, its skull describing a long, gentle arc off into the distance. "It's just that the only thing they're interested in are the foundations, the core. Everything's got a skeleton - Uru, Black Harpies, Questors, even you, you crazy sod. About the only thing in the desert worthless for their purposes - and, therefore, dangerous to them - are the Mushrooms, and even they know better than to charge headfirst into this city." Unlike us, he decided not to add. The words hung unspoken but still present between them, and Paladin's answering glance spoke just as clearly.

You're the berk who decided to follow me.

A dry clicking heralded the approach of another swarm, and Paladin shook his head. "Well, so much for this rest stop." He took a quick swig from his waterskin and looked up. The keep towered over their heads, blocking out the crescent moon and much of the violet sky, omnipresent and implacable as a storm cloud. Frost had long ago started to hate the sight of it, the snatches and glimpses caught as the streets wound and twisted on themselves. Now, there was no escaping the sight of it, brooding and forbidding, its spires and crenelations black and ominous, as though the fortress was somehow aware of their presence, and was waiting for them, breathless and hungry.

Paladin tosses his head like a racehorse eager to loose from its traces. "How're you holding up?"

"Not well," Frost admitted shortly. "Laying down and letting these bastards take me would be a blessing."

"What happened to 'the only way out is through?'" Paladin's wolfish grin was almost mocking. Frost couldn't spare the energy for a rude gesture.

"What happened to, 'shouldn't we be running right about now'?" The horde of the Dead burst from around the corner like a breaking wave. Paladin shrugged eloquently.

"I suppose. Looks like we're just about there, though... if they didn't leave the gates open, we could be in a pickle."

"This isn't a pickle?"

"This isn't even a cucumber." The wanderer grabbed Frost's wrist and hoisted him over his shoulder in one smooth jerk before the Questor had so much as a chance to cry out. "Hold tight for a second." Frost's stomach twisted queasily as he watched the street suddenly pull away from them in a series of dizzying jerks, Paladin leaping from ground to the top of a fence, to a balcony, to the roof as though the extra twelve stone of burden were no more than a feather's weight. As it had before, watching Paladin scatter and break skeletal soldiers like a child breaking reeds, his mind quailed from the evidence of just how strong the deceptively frail young man really was - an ogre's brawny might hidden in a whipcord lean body.

What in the nine hells are you, Paladin?

"It'll be a little quicker from up here, I thin- whoops!" Paladin hit the ground, a spear whizzing dangerously close to the space his head had previously occupied. "Looks like we're attracting the more talented members of the village now. Guess we've gone up in the world, hey?"

"Lucky us," Frost muttered under his breath, slithering to his belly to embrace the rooftop.

"Cheer up, little buckaroo." Paladin said cheerfully, crawling to the edge of the building and peeking over. "It's an unbroken line between us and the plaza in front of the keep from here, and the more of them throw their spears at us, the less we have to worry about stabbing us when we get there."

"You're a very disturbing man, did you know that?" Frost inched forward to the edge, grateful of the chance to rest and maybe plan. It was the first real breather they'd gotten since the rocks outside of town, staring at the walls and pondering how to slip in - if only he'd known then what a disaster this whole mess would turn out to be! Even better, if only he'd thought things through a little more thoroughly back in the Uru village, before cornering Paladin outside of Banjin's tent. Maybe then he wouldn't be in this situation.

No, that treacherous inner voice whispered somewhere in the back of his mind. You'd still be sitting back in the village, drinking yourself to death and looking for Paradise in the bottom of a wine bottle.

"Better to die on your feet than live on your arse, huh?" Paladin asked sympathetically. Frost jerked as though one of the flying spears had found its mark and gave Paladin a wide-eyed, terrified stare. "You're muttering under your breath, bright eyes, I didn't suddenly develop telepathy." The wanderer grinned, a surprisingly boyish expression, and peeked over the edge again. "I think we've got our chance coming up. Think you can make the gap on your own, or should I throw you?"