The Abdication of Eternos

by Graphonaut

After 10 years of bloody internecine warfare between the City of Eternos and allied tribes against Skeletor, Adam has reached a new depth of despair. The deaths of friends, the erosion of Eternian security and wealth, the strain of keeping his secret, and the terrible psychological effects of battle and mistrust have broken Adam's will to continue.

War of Attrition: I - Beginning of the End (part 1)

I am Adam, no longer Prince of Eternia….

Adam eased his aching body into the cold window seat and stared out at the dusk. His weakened frame cast a thin shadow beside him, distorted and warped as it bled out into the low, dark ceiling. It was night-fall and though the young man shuddered he was not consciously aware of the cold aura that seeped through the glass and prickled the hairs on his skin. Though his skin bore very few warrior's scars, he no longer appeared youthful or vigorous. His flesh seemed to sag from his bones and he had the strained appearance of a sick and desperate man. Years of worry and tension had taken their physical toll, shrinking his appetite, ruining his sleep and threatening his health. Adam's feeble yet unscathed body was an intense source of shame for him. While He-Man received the people's adoration and loyalty, only scorn and contempt were heaped upon Adam.

He focused his attention outside the window, watching as the shuffling peasants returned from the dark fields beyond the walls. An inadequate and apprehensive armed Guard were their only company, while a single, wan searchlight guided them to their homes. The peasants did not seem to notice the Eternian soldiers as they, like Adam, were wrapped up in their worries and cares - heads bowed, shoulders stooped, fatigue written heavily on their frail bodies.

Poor people, thought Adam, tied forever to their relentless toils... to the faltering, infertile soil, bound to sick and dying children and terrible privations of war... He turned from the window, his sunken features gouged by the flitting shadows of the pale candle light. All of this they must bear now, without one single, reliable hope...

He tried to pity them, but instead felt the stirrings of bitterness once more - toward them, toward everyone. Adam squeezed his eyes shut to be rid of the thought. My heart aches, but surely these are no longer my people? Skeletor has made wretched animals of us all. We only continue to live because the walls do not fall. He shuddered - was he terrified for their fate? Or for his own?

The Night-time - a black and bodiless beast with a thousand twinkling eyes... These silvery pupils glared down with freezing light from the depths of the unshakable cloak that descended to wrap Eternos City in darkness. It chilled and blinded, voraciously devouring everything in sight - invisible itself, but omnipresent.

Until recently Adam could welcome the Night's cloak and how it would deaden the City's frenetic sounds while masking the miserable sights of the daily world. But of late, he could not forget this everyday world of dilapidated buildings and cratered streets. Something like sickness or insanity forced him to remember the cellars and tunnels beneath these shattered buildings, crowded with dirty refugees and wailing children, grimacing and contorted with illness. Amongst them were people so sickly and starved that one could no longer tell whether they were men or women. He saw the marked faces of the old looking on with helpless indifference, only to turn away and limp to their own end.

All of this should vanish before his eyes under the unstoppable spell of the Night - yet he could not forget these visions in his mind-sight. Nor did the Night offer any longer the blessed oblivion of sleep - there was no getting away from the pains of memory and fatigue that jarred and stung his weary frame throughout the lightless hours - and then into the next day and every day after. He groaned, reaching for his head to stem the onslaught of blows - it was a gesture that was in vain.

Beginning of the End (part 2)

Adam let go of his head and lifted it once more towards the window, blinking at the scene of the exhausted peasants before him. Their pains are distressing, and yet they are simple... pains of hunger and the daily struggle to survive... My own hunger, though, has never been for food or drink. Even here, cloistered in the Old Temple, silenced by vows and my birth-right abdicated, my mother still ensures that I have the basic necessities. And this I resent. There is no escaping my royal inheritance and the fawning concern of the courtiers, masking their suspicious questions and surreptitious stares of contempt...

The Night-time deepened rapidly and the peasants felt the dark lurking mountainously behind them, weighing on their bent backs - they hurried on to their shoddy homes. The Guards were already behind the gates... barring them now... manning the parapets now. Beyond them, beyond the cracked walls and toppled battlements, the lone searchlight washed the smashed and pitted road in pools and lines of shadow, evoking a patchwork of black and white. This final beam of light swung left and right of the road-way that had once brought traders, entertainers, and news into Eternos. It shone remote and alone over the rutted and muddy fields that were once farmland and orchard, now a wasteland of smashed weapons and concealed bodies. These unrecovered dead lay under mud and within wet holes, beneath slain horses and crushed war-machines - each unknowingly awaiting their chance to twitch and quiver with treacherous new life under the necromantic command of Skeletor's sorcery. With secretive purpose, the Night thickened, hiding this brutal reality with a dream-like illusion of stillness, cut only by the vacant to and fro of the last electric-lantern Eternos had.

It had been thus for years now. Eternos had become cowed, defensive, and within its deteriorating walls the royal subjects - man, woman, and child, whether peasant or merchant, devotee or scoundrel, royalty or beggar - prayed to the venerable gods for protection during these long, Night-hours. Adam heard their prayers in his mind, sensed the question upon dried and pale lips: "Great gods, will the walls fall tonight? Or can He-Man end this long war?" In the silence he waited for his heart's answer, but the silence was broken only by the spit and crackle of his solitary candle as the flame burned low and then went out.

Within his cell, Adam fell into darkness as Night suddenly flowed inside through the window. It emerged from the shadows from where it had hid in corners, to slide down from the black ceiling above, slithering over his flesh and sinking into his outline... until he had vanished, leaving the room bare, solitary and still - as if he were gone forever.

His heart measured the silence with irregular and anxious beats, but offered nothing more.

Beginning of the End (part 3)

Coward!

The thought hurt like grief and provoked like an insult. Fighting no longer cleared her head, but instead brought back terrible memories.

Teela had spent so many years listening to her father's reasonings, to Orko's stupid suggestions, and to Adam's own feeble excuses. At first she had been prepared to forgive, to help the Prince find the courage that she felt was in his soul. As his body-guard, Teela had worked hard with him to build his martial prowess and reach a mastery of the discipline. And as the Captain of the Guard it was her duty to ensure that he was primed to lead his people into a life or death struggle, as their world was a dangerous one. Every territory was beset with tribal wars and prey to ravenous monsters - even before Skeletor had emerged from myth.

Teela's teaching had honed Adam's body to be ready as a weapon of tribal war, so that by the time he came of age, he could defend his kingdom. But by the time Adam was old enough to spill blood on the battle-ground, Skeletor had begun his merciless war of despoliation. Adam had refused to face Skeletor, and when Teela had pressed him, he would use intellectual arguments and spiritual justifications of pacifism and purity to explain the staying of his hand. Such ideas did not earn the respect of the militant royal court or its allies of harsh warrior peoples.

Did she blame herself for Adam's fall anymore? It was true that she now felt that she, like her father Man-at-Arms, had done her duty in giving her life in service to the Prince - to teach him war-craft and strategy, weapons-smithing and honourable combat. A great deal had been given to that boy - and much more sacrificed. For what!?

With a furious ululation she swung her metal pole-ax from her warhorse, smashing open the head of the automated Manikin. As the warhorse's hooves thudded to a stop Teela leapt, using the armoured beast's momentum, towards another Manikin with her sword; it defended itself with surprising alacrity. Teela landed a destructive counter-blow, but her seething mind was not focused on the fight - instead she battled old resentments against Adam.

Killing blows, crippling throws and lethal weapons were at his command, but what had she ever seen Adam do when he couldn't avoid a fight? Only holds, throws and blocks that stunned or disabled, disarmed or frightened. No, there was no occasion when he had willingly shed blood for his kingdom.

And though when Skeletor first appeared upon Eternian soil and Eternos thus lost its warrior-prince, the City had at the same time gained the aid of a powerful warrior - the Sorceress of Castle Greyskull had sent He-Man to fight against Skeletor for King Randor. It was a strange and inspiring turn of events. He-Man was a foreigner and had never before been seen outside the Castle, for he was thought to be the defender of the forbidden Secrets hidden deep within - and it was a mystery as to why the powerful and solitary Sorceress would send her champion to help Eternos. She was well known to be above the constant warring between the humanoid tribes throughout the vast lands of Eternia. She and her vassal, He-man, had no need for allies, being known as too frightening and powerful to attack. But then, when Skeletor tipped the local balance of power between the tribes and gathered a vast army, He-Man had let it be understood that his aid to King Randor was secondary only to Greyskull. When Eternos finally faced the new threat and He-Man fought alongside them all, the Sorceress would summon the Castle's terrifying defences. In all of the time He-Man had fought for Eternos he would return to Greyskull only if the awesome power of the Sorceress faltered and Greyskull itself was threatened.

But ten years had since passed and He-man's devotion to Eternos seemed to be at an end. These days, the Messengers of the City to Greyskull saw no signs of life therein. He-Man no longer arrived at the critical moment during the night-time assaults, but remained absent. No-one knew why. Had the Sorceress sent him to another world? Or had he succumbed to some horror that they were yet to learn of? During these cryptic latter days, Teela herself had beseeched the great Jawbridge to open - but the Castle remained shut, while around the massive walls of blackened stone silence reigned and the fathomless eyes of Greyskull stayed blind to her entreaties. A wretched feeling of abandonment had sunk into the hearts of her warriors, while the kings of the lesser tribes of Eternia demanded explanation from Randor. Of course Adam did not take up the sword to rally the allies. He had become a pariah from the fractious court and had drifted away from real life into a pitiful isolation.

Beginning of the End (part 4)

Through all of the years that He-Man had fought for Eternos, the
Prince had become more enervated. Adam's compassion had fallen into
weariness, his loyalties turned to skeptical wavering, and his sharp
mind degenerated into a dulled muddle of philosophical uncertainty and self-doubt.
Teela knew well that years of continuous warfare had worn on everyone,
but despite the trials and tragedies, Adam should have endured - his
failure to lead could have easily brought Skeletor's tyrannical rule
upon his people.

But not only did Adam fail to provide leadership
throughout this broken decade of war, he had this past week finally
turned his back for good. Adam was now no longer a Prince, having
dealt his father one final humiliation by abdicating and withdrawing
into the Temple for a life of prayer, meditation, and charity. It
seemed he had chosen the Temple in particular because the brothers
therein took vows of non-violence, silence, chastity and alms. They
were withdrawn from life, except where the sick and aged were
concerned, and even then she had heard rumour that Adam had taken the
vow of solitude... perhaps even to withdraw into the desolate caves in
the hilly wilds beyond Greyskull. Teela held the monks he had joined in scorn for their naive belief that their prayers for peace would be heard, for the gods themselves were said to be at war.

"It's just like you!" she raged, jabbing the artificial
Manikin-warrior with her weapon, "A selfish boy in every way!" She
landed a blow the archaic Manikin failed to calculate and smashed it
down onto the pitted and cracked courtyard. There was a tinkling, then
silence. The Eternian Sun was falling into darkness, the late Autumn
day drawing near to the time when Skeletor's slaves might mount
another attack. For some time to come, these nights would get longer and longer.

"Have you slain another Prince, Captain?"

Teela started in surprise and quickly twisted towards the gentle voice
that sounded as grey and smooth as the gathering twilight. Manefred,
known to his audiences and patrons as Man-E-Faces, looked at her with
sad eyes and an uncertain, sympathetic smile as he stooped to pick up
the Manikin's rolling, robotic eye-ball. Man-E's appearance had
startled her all the more because, of late, there was an ominous
tension about him that could erupt into brief but frightening rages.

"I have no Prince, Man-E," she growled, her heart pounding as she
wiped the rolling sweat from her face, afraid that it might lend her
the appearance of weeping.

"No, not now that he's…" and he dangled the eye-ball, "...out of sight."

Teela did not look at him and Manefred closed his hand around the orb
of metal, saying nothing for a few moments. The Captain bent down and
set to the task of picking up pieces of the smashed body of the robot
fighter, ignoring Man-E's comment. The actor decided to change the
subject, and cleared his throat. "...Should we really be using such
valuable resources for -" and then just as suddenly stopped himself.

Angry eyes glowered up at him. "These Manikins may well be of the
Ancients, but I'm not going to have these few tools locked away, no
matter how venerated. We need to use them, so they will sometimes get
broken. Must you question me so?" she hissed.

Manefred had sought Teela out, anxious to prevent her from
over-exerting herself. He was afraid that grief and demanding duties
were weakening her. With affectionate concern, he started to reach
towards her in an attempt to forestall a predictable spiral of angry
exchanges - but the rigidity of her muscles and quick, violent
movements were like armour that repelled his touch. Like his comment,
his hand faltered in mid-air and then he withdrew it. He bent over the
stone ground instead, working with her to pick up the pieces.

"You know less about these machines than me…" she muttered.

"You and Duncan have taught me a few things. I feel that we all should
learn what we can now."

She remained distant. "I've told you before to leave me alone when I
am training," she said flatly.

With a keen sense of sadness Man-E-Faces realized that he was only
aggravating Teela's bellicose mood in referring to Man-At-Arms. "It is
almost dark - you must finish here and take your post." Teela did not
respond, and Man-E fell silent. In that moment he was suddenly caught
off-guard by the potent, creeping sensation that burgeoned up from
inside him. Man-E shook his head, but failed to completely rid himself
of the growing feeling of wrath.

"Headache again?" It was the first time Teela's tone had changed and
now she paused briefly to look at him before returning to her task. It
was just a slight change, with nothing of the usual softness of a
woman, or the care of a lover, but it was enough encouragement to
prevent Man-E from bidding her goodnight.

"Not exactly." Man-E ground his teeth while scowling heavily.

Teela, noting his tension, reconsidered her harsh manner with a frown.
She had to be more mindful of herself and avoid these petty
confrontations with Man-E - a recurring fear that he might
unexpectedly lose his will to Skeletor's old curse had made her
suddenly uneasy. "You've done well without the potion these last few
months," she said, attempting to encourage him.

But his anger did not
subside in being reminded that he must go without it. He felt
resentful of the certainty of shame if he failed to control his
moments of violent rages. For many a year, Man-E had felt bitterly
towards his fate, and raged at Skeletor for cursing him. Too often he
felt himself to be cold, a persistently disconnected machine, and it
was alienating. It seemed he would never be rid of his curse.

Teela ceased her furious gathering of Manikin pieces, but still
without looking at him said, "You are no longer relying on it." Then
she turned to face the man beside her, trying to hold his gaze.

Man-E's eyes fell. His feelings hardened in his defense, and his voice
was barely even. "The addiction could not be helped. The Sorceress
warned me. It was either addiction or.. or I would remain a threat."

"But now you've proven that you don't need it." Teela looked away.
"You have been monstrously enraged only once since the your medicament
ran out. Your sickness is one of spirit, and so the cure is one of
will, not potions. Can you not see that now?"

"I... " Man-E made a vague gesture, as if to elaborate, but paused.
Aren't sorcery and willpower much the same? he thought, but
aware that he did not know magic. Then before he could put his
thoughts into words Teela sighed and turned earnest eyes upon him.

"Man-E, if you don't believe that it is up to you to control your
curse, then you will always be afraid that others will take control of
it, you will always depend on this alchemical crutch. Doesn't all of
this time without the potion show you that? I still trust that you
will not succumb to the curse."

Man-E's eyes wavered around hers, ashamed and uncertain.

Beginning of the End (part 5)

The moons and stars shone through his small window, glinting with a
cold, distant light that Adam knew to be the long dead eyes of the
Night. Silhouetted within the window frame, he turned and groped in
the darkness towards his low, hard mat. It was not the discomfort of
this new life that wearied him, but rather, the endless nightmares -
the nightmares and the memory of battles. He could not go on like
this, struggling against sleep while the Night pressed downward its
smothering cloak. It was time to lie down and give in - yet once
seated on his mat, he made no move to do so. Some time passed, his
head hanging in darkness. He swooned as a wave of fatigue pulled down
at his body.

Once, almost 10 years ago now, nothing could have shaken Adam's
resolve to be victor, to repel Skeletor and safeguard Eternia under
the rule of justice and the King. A decade ago, he had felt no
disconnect between himself and He-Man. They were as one, with the
power of Greyskull suffused into Adam's soul to make him He-Man. If he
was not respected for his unknown efforts, it did not matter - he
embraced the sacrifice of Prince Adam's life and posterity. But after
the brief, glorious beginning as a demigod, Adam had felt himself grow
slowly and steadily more aged, eroded, spent through his experience,
while Skeletor remained not only ageless and powerful as ever, but
more canny and perspicacious, learning his weaknesses.

Skeletor had had many years to assail Adam's flesh and spirit, to torment him, to grind down his mind and strength of will with the incessant conflicts against He-Man that fueled the young man's nightmares. The fell sorcerer summoned, bound and bribed the foulest daemons of the Universe to annihilate He-Man, or created lethal servitors and weapons to attempt to slay him. He mounted waves of invasions by enslaving the nearby tribal-kingdoms, then raising all of the fallen as unquiet dead, driven only by killer
instinct, to burn and spread plague among surviving towns and settlements. He-Man resisted and defeated them all, but every success bore more heavy a price - a life-long burden of loss and pain for Adam.

The Power that was so potently imbued within Adam inevitably
returned to Greyskull - for the Power belonged to Greyskull - and Adam
was left with nothing but his own inner resources to heal himself of his
experiences - those experiences designed to rend He-Man, the most powerful
of all men, guardian of the most profound mysteries. Will my
nemesis simply keep up the struggle until I am too old and weak, or
finally insane? With a sick and dizzying feeling, Adam suddenly
felt that this Night had conclusively brought along that very time of
reckoning... insidiously at first, but now starkly revealed to him,
swiftly and pitilessly. My life truly ended when He-Man's was begun
- yet I am still alive, it seems.

Adam had not stirred from his comfortless mat, a vanished form in the
darkness of his small cell. Slowly and quietly within the lucubratory
silence of the Temple, Adam took up the ominous short-sword beside
him, where it lay unsheathed as if readied. This instrument he
dreaded, yet it alone offered him protection and some measure of
comfort and familiarity. The edge was as keen as ever and the sheen of
the metal - pale as water in the moons-light - had never dulled.
Here is evidence of perfection.... He laid it
across his lap. This weapon, the Sword of Power, was never far away.
At its touch, Adam shuddered - a shred of possibility, portending
regeneration - the greatest power was only moments away, words away.

But the transformation itself took its toll and had become an almost
unbearable process. Now when the awesome Power struck down upon him,
he felt that he would not be able to stand it - only to be saved
moments later by the very same Power that threatened to shatter him.
His thoughts would cool and steady as he became He-Man - his body
would no longer be weary, his spirit would be refreshed and
invigorated. This evocation of god-life seemed each time to sustain
him, to provide him enough strength to continue. Like a drug, it
augmented him temporarily, then beckoned to him when he was once more
vulnerable, a mere man.

Beginning of the End (part 6)

He could exist without fear, without
nightmares if only he could remain He-Man and truly allow Adam to
perish. But no such being could be long contained within a mortal
vessel. He-Man is not a man all of himself but needs me to exist. I
have only to give up the Sword and end my struggle. But who else would
fulfill my destiny? My life has no value without the power to protect
my people. I am no longer a Prince, He-Man is all that I have left,
yet I am not strong enough to keep what good of me remains...

Adam clenched his fists and brought them together, face knotted with
tension, guilt, his skin discolored with exhaustion. Who would face
the devils and monsters I have faced? Who would survive the battles,
bear the sight of mangled limbs, smashed faces, spilled innards, all
strewn over battlefields? His desperate appeals to justify his
defeat could never reassure him - instead his thoughts suddenly
spiraled into hideous, involuntary flashbacks: again in his mind's eye
he watched as mad-men launched their devastating weapons and marched
their relentless, bestial armies, laying waste to the terrorised,
fleeing huddles of women clutching tight their ashen children… again
he beheld the towering daemon, rippling with the faces of a thousand
murderers, victims, teeth gnashing, howling with rage, terror… again
he recalled the impossible fiends devouring innocent children before
his eyes, growing more vicious on their young blood... again he stood
before the voracious aliens without conscience nor fear, summoned from
the stars, descending like a plague upon his people and the riven
kingdoms of Eternia…

Adam was gasping and trembling as the rapid series of memories
atrophied into a warped and blurred phantasmagoria, leaving disjointed
images in their wake and a clamorous sense of fatality and despair.
This double-life was destroying him - he could no longer live with the
traumatic memories of the endless wars nor amongst the people who
unwittingly vilified him as a weakling though he willingly suffered so
grievously to save them. He felt a harried compulsion towards some
decisive act. Would he finally summon the will to force the Sword's
point through his heart, this Night? But to die without returning such
a potent weapon would be an irredeemable betrayal of his sacred oath
to the Sorceress. Adam's body shook with the foretaste of disaster -
what would become of Eternia without its champion?

He did not move. The Sword of Power lay upon his lap, the round pommel
glinting like a veiled eye behind a gauze of moon-beam, open but
visionless. He had not dared to confess his defeat, his failure to
fight on, to the remote and alien Sorceress of Greyskull. Instead he
had fled, abdicated his blood-right and hid himself within the Temple,
clutching at, but not raising, the Sword. He had heard no word from her, no sound nor call from Greyskull, no visitation from Zoar. Could Adam ever go to
her, pleading final release from his suffering? Might she end the
secret life that had torn the royal family apart, a life that had
borne him such intolerable disgrace and self-doubt? Guilt and shame
sapped him, for that difficult life was his most solemn duty. The
sense of the cold, hard blade forced question after question to the
fore of his mind, creating a confusion of feeling and another
shuddering wave of nausea. Could he ever be rid of this blade, this
oath, his duties?

If only he could put these questions to a friend who could advise him.
He was lost and now so alone without Duncan, more alone than ever
before. Adam rose, shaking with tension and now wet with feverish
sweat, the questions beating at his head. With torpid, fumbling
movements, he dressed himself in his thick monk's robes and his
warrior's harness, feeling the weight of his unsheathed blade pulling
down at him, still bound to him, forever upon his back. He touched the
winking pommel of the Sword, fingers flinching as if burned - few
people had ever held this sword and none had spoken the eldritch words
that enacted the spell of transformation. It was his burden alone.

Standing in the darkness of his monk's cell, silent moments passed in
stillness, disturbed only by his ragged breath. Then he stumbled on
trembling legs towards the door, compelled yet dreading his passage
into the looming Night outside. Finally, he must face the Sorceress -
in truth there had never been any other choice.

Edging beyond the threshold, Adam turned to quietly shut his small,
dark cell behind him, feeling increasingly resolved to leave, his
uncertainties urging him on to seek some route of escape from his
double-life. But despite the resolve that drove Adam from the
cloister, he hung his head. So it is true,, he told himself,
I am a coward. But even this humiliation would not stop him
from beginning his long and arduous journey to Greyskull.
Beginning of the End (part 7)

"Why did he do it?" Her question was not one to answer, but an
expression of her sorrow, her anger, and her hatred.

He'd listened to these words before, offered explanations, but she had
attacked him, armed as she was with wild confusion and brutal
accusation. Man-E was not sure what to say this time, and so held a
needle between his lips as an excuse for silence. Carefully, he
re-threaded another and tenderly continued to stitch the re-opened
wound on Teela's shoulder. Wiping away her blood, a familiar thought
entered his mind – I seem to know many things, but I am only a
master of illusion – and not even a master of myself, nor of my decisions.

"You should be more careful," he murmured, barely audible, knowing his
advice would not be accepted.

"Aye, and you shouldn't avoid questions."

Man-E sighed, "I don't want to argue with you again."

Teela turned her tightly-bound head of red hair around to her
companion. "Nor I you. I'm sorry - "

Man-E had leaned forward quickly to catch her lips on his. When he
drew back he said, "I've already forgiven you. Now try not to move."

She looked back out of the window into the dark courtyard. "Forgiving
me may get harder and harder." Across the way, beyond the palatial
buildings of the Royal grounds, beyond the new litter of ruins and
under the lightless sky of the blacked-out City, Teela imagined the
Temple. "You can only forgive so much."

"This is why you want explanations Teela. You do want to forgive him."

She said nothing and Man-E sensed that this silence was filled with
her noisy, embattled thoughts.

He finished the last stitch in her skin. Then carefully, quietly, he
said, "You've lost your father..." She didn't react badly and so he
went on, "and now you do not want to lose a brother."

"Aye." Her voice was soft, but for a moment. "But he is lost!" she
twisted around suddenly to face him, her face alight with anger. "Even
if I understand, if I forgive, he has taken life-time vows. Only exile
would free him from his monkish servitude, and then he would be even
more of a disgrace!" and she smacked her palm with the back of her
hand for emphasis.

Man-E sighed and put the needle and thread down. Could he make it
easier for her if he told her what he suspected? Should he? Was
it not a very dangerous knowledge? "I think he wanted to end his
failings, to find success in his life in some other way."

"Life!?" Teela let out a bitter laugh and glanced outside again at the
embattled City. Then after a moment's reflection she turned back to
Man-E. "You're saying I was too hard on him."

"It is your job to be hard. He was a brother, but also a student, and
a poor one."

"Is it his fault? Can I blame a man for the heart he was born with?
But what of the head he decides with?" Again she looked out of the
window while Man-E addressed the back of her head.

"He is ashamed, Teela. Afraid too. How could he look to the future as
a King who - for reasons that seem strange to us - would not bare
arms?"

"He was not a poor student - in theory he is a great fighter. He has
skill. Yet he is misguided by his exotic philosophies and muddled old books."

"But truly, he is also a spiritual man and a caring one. And with a
subtle and incisive mind. You are both drawn to the wisdom of the
Ancients, but your eye is for their technological treasures - his is
for their ideas of peace and harmony. He must have realized that the
Temple was a better place for him and -."

"A better place for him, no doubt - the boy never even took to
hunting! Did he ever shed a drop of blood for food if not honour? Why
could he not see that great Kings are not made in libraries?"

"Adam is… he feels the pain of others keenly. Too keenly you'd say."

He'd stopped her short, guessing her response, so she added: "For a Prince."

"For the Prince you and everyone wanted him to be." Man-E remained
sitting behind her as she looked away. He took hold of his own hands
and squeezed them to try to release the tension that tightened his
innards.

"Had to be! Not even the greatest warrior loves war! But we have to
fight it! Have to! And he knows how!" Teela gestured, becoming more
impassioned, her voice rising as she spoke.

Man-E could not help but think on his inferior sword-skill compared to
Teela's. Unlike her, he had become strong and acrobatic for the
tumbling and dancing he did on stage, and his showy and flamboyant use
of weapons was much lacking in real skill. "Not everyone can fight!"
he suddenly snarled back.

"Then they die!" she rounded on him and stood up.

"No..." Man-E paused to wrest control of his temper "...then we
protect them." Man-E-Faces said nothing more and only concentrated on
relaxing his body, on cooling his mind.

Teela understood she'd made a mistake, and rested an apologetic hand
upon his. "You are right. And you have better control of your anger
than I."

"Because I must." His stomach churned as he spoke - she
would not turn into a psychotic abomination if she failed to remain
reasonable. How terrible that his beloved was the person who most
sorely provoked his curse to manifestation!

"Aye – then you understand what we 'must' do and what we 'must' not do."

Man-E thought about her statement and frowned. "You'd rather Adam had
died than fled?"

"Aye!" she hissed with conviction. "He has no honour – and that is a
living death, Man-E." She paused, then said, "My father died with
honour - and so he will be remembered. Adam is trying to make us
forget him, even while he still lives."

"But Teela, there are still those who love him." Man-E asserted.

"Are there?" Teela glared at him.

"Yes," he said.

"Well! It is not enough! Kings do not need love, but obediance and
loyalty. Kings make sacrifices - including of themselves."

He held her gaze. "Isn't love enough?" Saying nothing, she looked away.
"Honour," he went on, "is that all that matters?" But Teela said
nothing more. Man-E stood and stepped towards her. "The wars have
scarred you deeply." His fingers grazed the closed wound on her
shoulder.

"You'd rather I weep like a maiden?" She tried to sound scornful.

"Sometimes."

Teela flushed hotly and opened her mouth, intending to justify herself
and her unyielding stand against the Prince. Before her, she caught a
glimpse of Man-E, stiff with tension, mouth tight with uncertainty. As
he waited for her response, his tension was palpable - she watched him
fidgeting with anxious anticipation, his brow creased with cares, eyes
staring, sincere. Suddenly feeling compassion for him, she took hold of
her own passions - admiring his self-control, even grateful for his
forgiveness. Then she said softly, "Man-E - you must know something
more, to feel such loyalty for him still - why do you defend him so?"

Man-E paused cautiously. "Am I so easy to read, my love?"

"You are a great actor, but also one with a curse... When we last
spoke of Adam," She moved closer, holding his gaze in the flickering
torch-light, "I saw a glimmer of metal behind your eyes. As though you
didn't want to feel…"

It was true, he had felt his body grow resistant to feeling, to touch,
as his mind had withdrawn from hers, as he had sought to protect the
dangerous thoughts he had entertained. "Aye my betrothed," he sighed
as her words hung in the air, "the machine within sometimes catches
the man up in its wheels and drags him inside its shell - "

" - 'to clamp down the mouth and solder the eyes so that there is
nothing more to tell.' Oh, Manefred, I know well your rhymes and
reasons. I know well that when you want to retreat into your own
silence, you seek out the cursed cold metal within you and embrace it
and feel encased... untouchable and unseen. But will you not come out
of your armoured shell and tell me what you have been trying to guard
with your emotionless tone and blank face?"

Man-E stood, trembling a little. He had controlled his Monstrous
temper, but only in assuming the emotional deadness and disconnection
of the Robot - and with that, all of its limitations. Man-E asserted
himself, meditating upon his loving commitment to Teela, allowing his
feeling to pierce the metal plate closing around his heart.

Teela moved closer again, touching him. "What do you wish to tell me?"

"I – I do not know for certain."

"Then tell me what you think you know."

For a few moments, Man-E said nothing. Then he turned careful eyes
upon hers. "So many years the same pattern… you say Adam is a coward,
but his thoughts are not cowardly. His arguments are not cowardly. He
has fought against the whole court so as to make his own ideas heard
and believed in... They may be ideas of non-violence and purity, but
these are brave ideas in any time of war - or peace. We have all seen
Adam act cowardly... but though he may have fled battle time
and again, never did I feel him to be a coward – I sensed him running
towards something, not away. His mind, his look… they were not craven.
When he runs, it is with a determined look, as if toward a solution.
Aye..." Man-E murmered and nodded to himself. "And when he is not
there when he is needed, only your father or Orko have been able to
account for him." Man-E sighed. "I think I understand the look in the
eyes of a person when… when they are split. Divided. Do you
understand?"

"No Man-E... I don't understand. Are you saying he is cursed like you?"

"Aye Teela, but a curse that is like mine and not at all like mine…
not a curse but a… a… well - words fail me."

She took hold of both his hands, startled by the depth of his empathy
for Adam, confused at the heavy and confused thoughts he was trying to
impart. "You are an orator, a poet. You have words – come, let me
understand you. I will hear you." Man-E took heart at her concern and
the softness of her countenance. He drew a breath. "I think Adam has
led a double-life. I think... I think - AH!"

A sonic thundering and
white flash momentarily saturated the room, bursting through the dark
Night from beyond the palace grounds.

Teela ran to the window and cried, "The Temple site!" She turned and
punched at the old, worn intercom by the door, her voice rising as the
alarm-bells began to toll. "This is Captain Teela! Mekanek, what is
our situation?"

"Captain! A single, massive blast at the Temple but no foe, no machine
sighted beyond our walls... I see Snout-Spout leading a team to the
fire."

"Keep me informed!" she yelled as she grabbed Man-E. "COME!"

War of Attrition: II - the Witch of Snake Mountain

The previous night...

Hot, humid winds screamed down the mountain tunnels and shafts of Snake Mountain. At times, the wind was so loud it was the only thing that could be heard. Snake Mountain was riddled with a labyrinth of dusty conduits and corridors that channeled the winds – some of these were seemingly carved out, while others bore a less artificial appearance, as if some great wyrm had eaten its way through the stone. Evil-Lyn knew that these latter passage-ways were the true routes to power - that they were indeed the work of a great wyrm; according to a forgotten legend these passages were the final path of the Snake-God after it was banished from Greyskull for attempting to force its way in. It was now petrified in its final throes around and about the mountain and held in place by a continual flow of lava through its body.

From the top of Snake Mountain the serpentine path of the Snake-God led underground and from there deeper under the mountain range over which the Mountain towered... and then onwards, away from the ranges of violent volcanoes and sudden ravines of the Darklands. This long underground route was sinuous and confusing, but Skeletor believed it twisted and twined all the way into the ancient catacombs upon which Greyskull had been built, where Serpantos had been gnawing at the foundations before it was cast out to writhe in agony, eatings its way through the rock beneath the surface of Eternia, to escape the punishment of fires flowing through its tormented body and a growing skin of stone it could not shed. This venerable underpass was the royal-road to power - yet He-Man and the Sorceress did not seem to know about it, making it the weakest point in their defenses. It was for the true route to Greyskull through this chthonic labyrinth that Evil-Lyn and Skeletor had cast their many divinations, hoping that the answer to the endless puzzle of the snaking passageways would be revealed and that they would find the place where Serpantos had first attacked the foundations of the Castle.

But dead-ends and blind-alleys kept their eyes closed, their hands empty. For a decade they had circled around this frustration: no spirit guide could lead them, no scrying mirror would reflect the truth, no sign would form in the entrails of dragons, the cast teeth of wyrms, nor in the smoke of the burning skins of sea-serpents. Not even these sacred monsters of Serpantos would be read to determine the Snake-god's final path – it was as if some greater power was thwarting every effort.

How to put aside the writhing, churning paths and routes that she had studied and memorized? Evil-Lyn focalized her attention as Eternia's vast Great Moon began to rise - for it was the Night of Bethinking and she, old as she was, needed to extirpate the useless memories and experiences of the last 10 years while retaining those of use – otherwise her magically enhanced memory would become an overloaded jumble and collapse into chaos. But here, as the blue glow of the Great Moon shed its cold skin of light upon her raised hands, she felt a sense of constriction in mind and movement. Now unmoving, her thoughts arrested, she felt nearly trapped as she recalled the numerous myriad turns and coils of Serpantos' final route.

What of this vast maze to forget? What to keep in memory? Without knowing the true way, could she dare to discard any knowledge of the subterranean network that she had learned and memorised henceforth? A confusion of questions weakened her concentration, and a shot of fear left the taste of bile within her pale, shapely mouth. There was not much time left... She had lived for so long, terrorizing Eternians as a consequence of her ambition to enter Greyskull, yet all the while time was running out - time was her true enemy. Though Skeletor had brought her closer than ever to the forbidden knowledge of Greyskull, she still had not discovered the secret ritual spell which would free her; for Evil-Lyn was bound by a secret pact she had made with one of the Olden Gods of the Outer Worlds - a pact that magically extended her life but did not maintain her youth and vigour. At that time, long ago, she was weak and naïve - neither what she must sacrifice nor the length of her new life were clear to her then: she had not understood the Olden God's riddles and vagaries. Evil-Lyn had thus spent many difficult years studying more and more magic to divine how this Olden God had behaved in the past, and what manner of loop-hole she might use to escape the ultimate fate that she herself had sealed.

Of course it had also been necessary to study magic to make her strong and to defend herself from the locals on her home world who had persecuted her and loathed her for her witchcraft. That throng, that vile morass of ignorant and worthless peasants, had already shattered her mortal life, and so they had deserved the terrible revenge she had wrought upon them, long ago. After that, she had needed to attain yet more power to defend herself in future, and yet more spells to rejuvenate her body as it began to age and disintegrate under the dead weight of past years. All the while, Evil-Lyn summoned fearful demons, parlayed with the dead, and plundered sacred libraries so as to uncover the route to Eternia - for there, on that strange world, the mythical Castle Greyskull could be sought - and perhaps entered. Only within this virtually impenetrable fortress could she reach the critical secret that would finally release her from the horrific pact she had made. With Eternia as her home, Evil-Lyn relentlessly pursued her studies and research so that she might penetrate the mystic defenses of the Castle and so discover the secret means by which to escape the Third Olden God. Now, with so many years passed, she was keenly aware that the urgent need for more power would never allow rest or cessation. From with-out amassed her mortal enemies; from within, age and insanity threatened to enfeeble and crush her. Evil-Lyn could never end this exhausting struggle and this night, she sensed, she must somehow re-double her efforts to achieve the breakthrough and save her soul.

"Hold!"

Her blue-bathed hands had been manipulating some invisible force that felt cold and viscous against her palms, but now her hands fell still and hung limply at her sides. The sound of her command, which continued to echo around the chamber, was suddenly obliterated by a shriek of wind. The spell was paused momentarily as Evil-Lyn drew upon new reserves of mental effort, her face grimacing with fatigue, her black cloak flapping about her like a broken bat's wing - she once more drew up her thin arms.

The witch continued to ponder the vast underground labyrinth between Snake Mountain and Greyskull. If this grueling exploration went on for another ten years, her mind would be filled to over-flowing with the knowledge of these underground contortions. But ten years from now would not matter - she would have surely ran out of time by then. Without the secret spell that would free her, the Third Olden God of the Outer Worlds would move through the dimensions of space and time to claim her. It had been many, many years since this fate had been decided. There was no biding her time like Skeletor could. Now she could no longer dare to assume she had that much time left - though it was impossible to tell exactly how many days or months remained. Whatever the plans of Skeletor, she had to make her own move soon and finally enter Greyskull.

Could she trust the maps of the labyrinth that Skeletor had drawn up? No – she could trust nothing he shared with her. Only her enchanted memory, which gifted her with clarity of photographic remembrance, could be relied upon. But it was a burden too – in this last decade, her over-crowded mind had worked harder than ever before.

There was so much she must remember – the subtle signs of plot and intrigue against her; the lessons learned from defeat; the grimoires stolen and destroyed - except in her own memory. What, then, could she forget? She cast her mind back to the beginnings of this decade, looking for memories she could erase... The Ritual of Bethinking had begun in earnest.

Ten years ago...

"Kneel!"

Evil-Lyn savage bark went ringing down the halls of Snake Mountain. She drew herself up after her sorcerous exertions. "You will now swear-" the witch caught her breath "-swear your loyalty upon this enchanted memento-mori!" With a graceful sweep she grasped an object from a nearby shelf and held it out towards the vanquished men - a skull, its eyes burning liquid witch-light.

Filled with a sense of triumph she paused but for a moment to savor the mortal fear of the two before her. Trap-Jaw's agony and the iron smell of his blood was an aphrodisiac to her and she thrilled at her victory. The criminal lay prone, holding the stump of his arm and gasping with shock through his metal mandibles. His ally, the barbarian swordsmaster Tri-Klops, knelt over him but made no more movements – he had been stunned and disarmed by the suddenness of her vicious counter-attack and was now disarmed and afraid.

"You came to me as wanted men, begging for the protection of the Witch of Snake Mountain!" she hissed as she prowled a circle around them. "But now I see your true aim." She paused, glowering with menace and suspicion. "You will never usurp me – you can take nothing from me! No-one can. Now – swear your life-long fealty and become my thralls – or else I will send your souls screaming into the demon world and feed what remains of your mortal shells to my wolves!"

Tri-Klops said nothing for a moment, then rose. "No more harm will come to us?" his thick voice was heavy with the foreign accent of the Northern Tribes.

Evil-Lyn laughed, "That I cannot guarantee! You can no longer bargain with me – there is no hope for your future except in service to me! Now place your hand upon the skull, warrior, and be sure that I am watching you - targeting me! Do not dare to blast me with your second eye again – you have been warned!" Evil-Lyn's eyes melted into blue-light, the orb of her wand glowed the same. Without further hesitation, Tri-Klops placed his hand upon the burning bone, his angular face all grimacing with rage and steeled against pain.

The hot eyes of the memento-mori suddenly sputtered and were consumed by black oily smoke that billowed about the powerful form of the Eternian barbarian. Tri-Klops let go of the skull and staggered back, choking and wheezing. With sadistic pleasure, the witch laughed. "Now you!" she struck a boney finger out at the shivering Trap-Jaw. This mass-murderer was now as helpless as a child, as feeble as an old woman and all covered in his own blood.

She glanced at the dismembered blue arm, at the hand that had strangled, shot and stabbed – a hand steeped in the gore of past murders. The desperado staggered to his feet while Tri-Klops gagged, now careless of his accomplice and muttering curses. Trap-Jaws artificial voice struggled out of his bullish throat "My arm… what of my arm!?"

"Kneel and swear fealty unto death fool! Accept the loss of your arm –unless you want to lose your life too!"

"What is my life if I am in chains!?"

Evil-Lyn laughed "You are brave to be so reluctant. You will be in no dungeon – you will still have that freedom. Now choose – death, or thralldom!"

Trap-Jaw laid a heavy, quivering hand upon the hot skull – again it extinguished and exhaled smoke leaving the killer to reel away, spluttering and spitting.

The witch of Snake Mountain sneered with satisfaction, her eyes fading back to human colours. "I will protect you from those who are chasing you down. They will not dare to set foot here, and when they learn that you are my thralls, they will not dare to put chains upon you again. Is that not why you made this journey?"

The two men made helpless gestures of agreement and Tri-Klops, who had recovered his composure, suddenly asked "You are confident that you can stop Rio-Blast? He is the Frontier-Sheriff - more machine than man – perhaps built by the Ancients themselves."

Evil-Lyn placed the skull back onto the shelf and walked calmly towards a brazier that stood among the sorcerous paraphernalia of the ritual-chamber. "The Frontier-Sheriff? Tell me more" she purred, calmly interested. One of Tri-Klops' eyes seemed to glance at the groaning Trap-Jaw who stood hunched, his muscular blue baulk quivering in struggle against unconsciousness. Noticing, Evil-Lyn barked "Go on!"

Tri-Klops drew breath between his meaty lips and said "He enforces laws among planets beyond Eternia. Trap-Jaw has been wanted for piracy and murder for years… So finally they sent Rio Blast after him. Whichever law-enforcer that rides the stars-skies and does the bravest work receives the honour of having his head transplanted. They put the head onto a headless cybernetic body, "the Blast". The Blast is a fast machine, heavily armed and probably very venerable. Once they'd changed him, Rio managed to catch Trap-Jaw once, but Trap's crew broke him out of Prison Star, so Rio ended up on their trail again. But during that chase the pirates got caught up in a vortex that sent them crash-landing to Eternia. Trap-Jaw was the only survivor."

"Have no fear of this law-man. Eternia is a hidden world, cut-off from the remnants of the Galactic culture the Ancients built – we have little commerce or communication with the peoples of other world, except by exceptional or well-guarded means. Most non-Eternians understand their technology as poorly as most Eternians do. Only a sorcerer or technomancer could find their way here."

"Like you?"

Evil-Lyn smiled with self-satisfaction "Trap-Jaw's crash-landing was a cosmic happenstance. He should be safe from all but the warring Kings of Eternia. The most powerful is Randor – but if Trap-Jaw has broken no law here, he has nothing left to fear – but me." The witch smiled in such a way as to reveal her perfect teeth, but no mirth.

Then Trap-Jaw toppled to his armoured knees only to crash completely upon the floor, a strange metallic groan escaping his deadly, jagged mouth.

Evil-Lyn turned to Tri-Klops "He is strong and will outlive this injury. I know that you are well versed in the arts of Ancient technology – you wear a helmet that proves it. So you can fashion him a new arm!"

Tri-Klops' face hardened with anger "I only know what I learned in Royal Service as part of the tribal alliance. My own tribe knows little of these treasures. Man-At-Arms never taught me how to implant these cybernetic limbs. That is difficult and well-guarded knowledge that even he admits to not truly understanding. And as for building him an arm - !"

"We will find a way" she interrupted, and moved from behind the now burning brazier... the memory was beginning to falter and fade… and her thoughts from that past time echoed into the distance... kidnap Man-At-Arms? ...Ancient manuscripts… her store of ancient cybernetic treasures…

The memory was gone, and she was returned to the present.

Evil-Lyn was still standing, arms raised and bathed in the Moon's blue glow, stiffly upright within the magic circle. These long years had begun with this triumph – two new and useful thralls to do her work had presented such opportunities... Trap-Jaw was merciless and lethal in combat, psychotically bloodthirsty and made all the more dangerous by the ancient cybernetic arm that had been fitted to him. Tri-Klops was the more skilled and controlled, and a technomancer too, who had been induced as a trusted ally into those ancient arts by the Master, Man-At-Arms himself. But then he'd turned traitor, usurping the king of his tribe and using his stolen three-eyed helmet against Eternos and their Guards.

They should have been able to help her break into Greyskull – but they could not. And it was not long thereafter that she was indeed dethroned and made a slave herself.

Bethink you fool, she told herself, there is little time left and this opportunity may not come again! She cleared her mind of the useless and rotten, taking each memory that still mattered – shaped like a bright jewel in her mind's eye – and stored it within her long-term memory. In her mind's-eye she watched the image of her arm, her true arm, withered and pocked with age, holding the bright memory of her victory over Tri-Klops and Trap-Jaw, to be placed in a dark alcove set among rows and rows of other glimmering jewels that represented her retained memories. But there were not many alcoves left, her magical memory had to be re-ordered and purged.

Beyond this alcove where her victory had been stored, her minds-eye moved back, further back, and down, deeper down, to the oldest recesses where memories of mortal times lay. Perhaps she could make space in her mind by ridding herself of the painful reminders that represented her youth, emptying these alcoves for more useful experiences?

For a moment, the clawed and darkened hand in her mind reached out for one of the oldest shining jewels, and touched it for the shortest time…

No! It was not necessary to linger over that pain, the pain of powerlessness, of torment and terror as a helpless young woman. Humans were cruel and disgusting beasts, worse than the miscegenations and mutants she had to deal with, and she was glad to no longer count herself amongst their number - should she now destroy the bitter remembrance of her own victimisation?

The blue light of the Moon touched her face, smooth with the illusion of seductive beauty and youth. It fell upon her lips as they moved "No, it would destroy me" she whispered. Evil-Lyn knew that she could not jettison her sorrowful past, she did not wish to truly forget the miseries that had forged her. These formative memories must remain undisturbed and so she barred these alcoves with a thought, observing black metal closing like a grill around the opening of the oldest recess in her mind, to prevent future temptation. There they were now, memories of mortal times secured against future plunder – had she not just saved herself?

But perhaps it was a mistake, there was weakness there, weakness that Evil-Lyn had worked hard to expunge. That work had made her cruel and selfish by their standards, but what did they know? By her own standards humanoids were ignorant and limited, blind to any greater purpose beyond what they were told to believe, stupid for any real ambition within a universe that presented amazing opportunities – for all of them were frightened and cowed by the worldly authorities that exploited them with one hand - and then petted them with the other!

They cursed her, and they had attacked first. They deserved her wrath – it was a justice cleaner than their corrupt courts, and more fitting.

And besides, without some idea of who she had been, some contact with the experience of mortal humanity, she could lose herself in her pursuit of power. It would become the end, not the means, and with that she would become like Skeletor – unable to empathise with common experience, hungering only for absolute power, a limited and empty existence devoid of the pleasures of mind and flesh, of the satisfactions of being alive - and was it not her desire to live, and to live freely by her own will, that had brought her this far? This was the only real edge she now maintained over the Liche that ruled her – this memory of human understanding, of human desire for life. It leant her the ability to manipulate her enemies without the crude coercions that Skeletor resorted to.

The giant Great Moon of Eternia was high now, criss-crossed with canal-like lines and dented with vast craters. Its watery light bathed her svelte body, harnessed and bound as it was in her black armour.

There was no-one in the chamber with Evil-Lyn, but had there been, they would have seen the Moon's light shining through the illusion of supple, youthful skin. They would have seen it illumining the skeletal and withered frame beneath, they would have seen the ghastly and crumpled face of the Witch of Snake Mountain, deep in reverie as she reviewed the experience of her long life, beginning again with the start of this long decade of struggle...

Tri-Klops, Trap-Jaw, triumph...

… But it was not long thereafter that she was indeed dethroned and made a slave herself.

It appeared outside Snake Mountain, far down the black, serrated paths that lead up the trecherous cliff-side routes to the ante-chambers of Evil-Lyn's lair. One of the witch's guardian familiars, bound to her service, had sighted the approach of a baleful creature, and sped to the witch's library where she was deep in research. "The intruder defies all magical wards and guards my mistress" the ghost whispered to Evil-Lyn "the very sight of it brings mortal fear to me, me who no longer has need for, or true feeling of, such fear..."

What manner of creature could put fear of death into the dead? Sudden, explosive rage burned up through Evil-Lyn's throat and the witch snarled as she rose, her hands clawed and flashing with aggressive magic. Controlling her destructive urge, she swept past the sentinal-spirit, out of her study, and hurried up the stone stairs to the look-out tower. Her magic should prevent any instrusion - only some being, more powerful than she, could manage to approach this far.

Outside was a dim daylight filtering through the ash clouds that hung overhead. There! - she sighted a smudged shape of the thing as she aimed her old and baroque looking tool known as a telescope, mounted upon a heavy tripod. She turned the dial to lend the image accuracy. Then, when the figure's outlines lost their blur and were cut with clarity in the lens, she reeled back in fright - the figure was bowed and haggard, looking mummified within the ragged and dirty cloak it had pulled about itself, yet it moved with machine-like determination and speed - a tireless carriage that suggested inhumanity. This skeletal shade carried a rams-headed staff that glared with enchanted life.

Evil-Lyn looked beyond the scope with her own eyes, blinking as they were dried by chilly blasts that forced their way into the appature of the look-out tower through which the telescope pointed. There, far below on the winding path-way, she could discern the small, vague shadow caught in the foggy light as it climbed the heights of the mountain with inexorable intent. This creature must be stopped! she thought, hurrying to prepare her emergency defenses.

The ritual chamber - a dangerous room where powerful magics could be controlled to summon daemons and commune with the dead. Across the jagged walls and the dusty floor were written mysterous sigils and patterns in the dried blood and ichor of once living creatures. Brimstone burned in ornate braziers and a stack of shelves creaked under the weight of magical ingredients stored in heavy jars, each carefully label to avoid error – for any error in these rituals would prove worse than fatal. Evil-Lyn dashed from her lecturn (beside which a pile of grimoires, heavy metal tablets and rolls of delicate scrolls were gathered) to the smoking braziers in which the materials for her ritual would be burnt. She must make haste!

Time was of the essence, no attack that her guards had flung at the spectre had slowed its confident march towards the heights where she was barricaded. She had watched her Orcs and Goblins warriors lay in ambush for the intruder, only to be burnt in a terrible, magical conflagration as they surged down the mountain-side waving their brutal weapons. And so she had sent powerful winged monsters, some that had taken her years to tame, down from the sky to tear the intruder apart. But lo, these magnificant beast were beaten back by flashing jolts of energy from the ramsheaded staff - they had fallen away or spiralled out of the sky to meet their doom on the jagged rocks below.

Anticipating this failure, the witch of Snake Mountain had already contrived an avalanche to crash down on the cloaked fiend as it held its staff aloft. No sooner had her flying monsters fallen, massive black rocks were moved by her magic into a devastating rock-fall. The black shade suddenly vanished beneath the collapse of obsidian rock and black dust. For sometime she watched as the air cleared and stillness fell like death over the mountain pathway, now a wall of tons and tons of rubble. For a moment, Evil-Lyn had considered victory to be hers, but as she made to leave the look-out tower, a door of energy was cut through the rocks closest to the remainder of the path - and from within the rock pile, the terrible shade strode out of the magical exit, streaming dust behind it - unharmed.

The creature was unstoppable. And so she had hurried to her ritual chamber - hoping she had time to summon one of the most foul and violent demons at her command: Gorgagoth the undefiable - a many armed giant, each powerful limb wielding a cruel weapon of war, it's body fused to iron-plates that were streaked with the blood of a million and one victims. Gorgagoth the Undefeated, the Bloody, the Slayer.

"Great Gorgagoth! Murderer-supreme! Hear my plea and come to me!"

The unstoppable invader had entered the lower dungeons of the mountains chambers - no sentry had slowed it, nothing could dare to stand in its path and none could match it when they brought their arms to bear.

"I offer gallons of blood. I promise a mighty battle. I beseech thee!"

Ghostly messengers and squirming animal familiars fled from the lower caves to their Mistress - they spoke of the skull-faced wizard moving through the chambers of Snake Mountain, moving upwards, higher towards her position...

"You slay the weak, you slay the mighty. Kingdoms and planets are smashed beneath your hammer, gods and daemons are cleft in twain by your sword. Follow this scent of gore, come to my world and bring us war!"

It blasted its way through the lower caverns that were filled with Orcs and Goblins, Ogres and Trolls - none of these violent and cruel creatures dared to face it. It seared the ranks of guardian spirits that haunted the upper passageways, releasing them from their enslavement through its' means of annihilation. It clambered the worn-smooth Uncounted Steps from the upper passageways, and moved with knowing purpose through the towering Inner Gates where it dispelled the magical Wards and broke through Evil-Lyn's sorcerous barriers. It saw through the mystic blanket of darkness where all were blinded. It navigated the winding tunnels of Serpantos without hesitation or error. It penetrated the higher-caves, passing through the Witch's laboratory where human captives lay bound to operating tables or cowed in filthy dungeons terrified of the tortures to come.

It came towards her without pause - nothing could slow its inexorable march. The dread-creature came closer and closer while Evil-Lyn fervedly carried out her ritual summons of the daemon that might save her.

"Gorgagoth, killer! Gorgagoth, hither! Your blade will never fail, to you I cry my hail. I offer great sacrifice to be honoured by your charge - charge into my domain, destroy my enemy, let my plea not be in vain!"

But Evil-Lyn's plan was not to be - Gorgagoth was only partially manifested by the time the dark invader arrived. Evil-Lyn had spilled gallons of blood, stored in the freezing cellars of her fortress, carefully kept for just such an emergency. The whole ritual room was awash with a sticky mess of black and coagulating liquid while the sigils of summoning burned bright white light in devilish patterns through the turged blood. Gagging with the stench, Evil-Lyn forced herself to bellow the daemon-call, but her body shook uncontrollably with terror as she sensed the intruder's approach.

The incantation fell dead from her lips...

The black form, corpse thin and jerking like an insect as it moved, was preceeded by a terrible cold. The spirit guardians that she had gathered around her were suddenly taken up by a powerful spell and blasted into the hell-world. As their keening screams faded from the room, Evil-Lyn grabbed her Orb wand, the crystal upon it now held in the fleshless hand of the mass-murderer Trap-Jaw, to lend it his merciless power.

But it was too late - the fiend struck with a lightening movement she could not expect from a creature so decayed and foul. The rams-head dealt her a magical blow that bowled her over into the pool of blood that covered the floor of the chamber. Gasping, she stared up with growing horror at the fell thing that stood before her -indominable and terrifying!

The creature wore a heavy hood over its emaciated head. The fire-light cast a deep shadow across its face. As it turned ts head, the dark shadows trickled away in rippling pieces, as dark water does when draining from an uneven surface. Before the dim light of the braziers, features of bone jutted out – skinless cheek-bones and a fleshless jaw thrust forward grimacing teeth - teeth caught snapped shut in a rictus smile of [i]mortis[i]... No lips moved as it spoke - the sound emerged from the jaws that remained clamped closed. Above that terrible visage were two empty sockets, devoid of any feature but a deep blackness that seemed to swallow up Evil-Lyn's defiance and freeze her soul with profound fear. Around the edges of the skull face, peeling flesh hung as dead leaves do on a decayed tree.

Her heart beat like trapped prey, and she could only gasp while trying to plead for mercy. She had read in rare and lost tomes of this creature – the most terrible of vampires and a fearsome necromancer – before her stood a Liche.

Yet no killing blow came, though a heavy sense of threat hung over the room, like a corpse shroud dragged in by this undead thing, to smother the resistance of the living. The creature surveyed the chamber in silence, observing the dematerialising form of Gorgagoth. She should attack now while she still could - but she could not!

Eyeless eyes fell upon her and she felt the power of will that animated this creature in the mortal world, a world that shuddered in its passing, sensing the terrible blasphemy that its very existence personified. This was a creature that no mortal thing could face without some manner of mutilation, without some loss of sanity. Even gods trembled at the approach of this perverse miscreation.

The witch could only weakly raised her arms in her defence, but then the Liche suddenly collapsed into black dust and this in turn seemed to drain away into some central hole, leaving nothing behind but a vague stench of decay and a long, drawn out howling...

...The next time Evil-Lyn met Skeletor he would reappear in the exact spot from which he had vanished, his successful incursion into her domain having allowed him to establish a magical route directly into the Mountain. But he would be changed, transformed and strengthened in body, powerfully built like a living man, energized and invigorated and without any apparent need to drink blood as her tomes told her a Liche should. In short, Skeletor had freed himself of the weaknesses of his sorcerous undeath and had become something more and worse than the fearsome Liche.

Later, she would discover how this had come to pass. Sometime after invading snake Mountain, Skeletor would also enter Castle Greyskull before He-Man had arisen to defend it – this was the only time he would commit such an occult larceny - and he would do it without her, without anyone. In doing so, the fiend had made certain that she would never sit upon the throne of Snake Mountain in the years of struggle to come, and that the response of Greyskull was to bring forth He-Man, to ensure such a theft could not happen again... She placed this memory in another alcove and barred it...

This she could never forget.

War of Attrition: III - Storm Waves

As Brother Adam hurried away from the old Temple, cloaked in rough monk's robes and cold darkness, the image of his old sailing boat drifted into his confused and tired mind. It was a boat always associated with peace and calm for him; but the image began to change to include Duncan... He was standing at the prow, now sailing with him on the vessel. There, on the boat in his minds-eye, Adam watched Duncan's noble profile - his high, intelligent forehead and broad features lending a strong appearance to his mouth and nose. He was standing still, despite the waves beneath them, his arms crossed in a characteristic stance that indicated he was both contemplative and ready. Duncan's penetrating gaze was cast out to the sea, the water as grey as his eyes... as the sky above... as the dull metal hanging from his belt... For a time, Duncan remained, watching the swelling waves as they rolled away forever into the sky. Then the steely grey colour of the vision seems to cloud in upon Duncan as he finally turned to look Adam in the eye...

A familiar feeling made Adam's stomach churn and spam and his face redden with the hot blood that boiled up from his constricted and enflamed heart. The dream-like image of Duncan on the old sailing boat was now gone, but the feeling of shame grew in Adam, and he felt as if he were suddenly suspended over a great depth into which he could instantly drop and sink like a lump of iron.

Peace and calm are sunk beneath storm waves went the old saying For both man and boat there is nothing that saves.

Not even He-Man can bring back the dead.

Shame and regret were now Adam's fore and aft – shame was an ugly figurehead that moved before him, something people felt once his presence was expected, something they experienced before he even entered a room. Regret was something he left in his wake, casting ripples of discontent through the bitter sea of tears he moved in - the uncomfortable and destructive passage of a man who could not be completely removed from the elite of Eternos, yet one who could not be accepted within it either. So he had scuttled his own vessel and had since clung to what was left - now he was adrift, far away from Royal courts and duties, and tonight, he felt like he had lost what was keeping him afloat; he had begun to drown in the misery that had long threatened to swollow him.

No longer a Prince, he was not expected to fight, yet this Night was the scene of one of his most difficult battles – and there was no Royal Bodyguard and Captain who was a sister, no Man-At-Arms who was a father, no loyal and brave friends – his vows had cut him off from them all; deliberately, hurtfully. He had even left Cringer behind at the Palace, as the Order did not allow animals in the Temple. And yet, mere days after speaking his monk's vows with all due solemnity, he was breaking them and running away again. And yet… what did his word matter any more? Did he not choose to join the Order knowing that his choice was a farce? A mere cover? Aye, and in so doing he had expressed his contempt for the kindly and spiritual monks, using them for his own purposes, to escape his torment and disgrace while inflicting yet more on his suffering parents.

Come the morning, they would find him gone and the King's court would make attempts to track him down, bring him back, regardless of his new, lowly rank and status; officially he was not worth more than any other commoner. My old friends should be relieved that I am no longer their burden, that I am now the concern of the High Priest – they should be glad and not try to find me.

No, this was no battle, but a retreat, and Adam used all of his faded strength to prevent it from turning into a rout. He was tempted to steal one of the few remaining and precious sky-sleds to reach his goal, but again, he resolved to go alone his own way, without inconveniencing others - that way, no more ill could be said of him. He must desert the Order, but he would not stoop to stealing from the beleaguered City.

He-Man had won this final battle, the battle between him and Prince Adam. Prince Adam no longer existed - he was now merely Adam - whereas He-Man would probably always exist, as long as Greyskull needed a champion - and Greyskull must always endure, until the very end of time. This night, Adam's time was finished - it was now only left for him to return the Sword in submission and beg the Sorceress for release from his most solemn oath. If his intuitions were correct, the terrible Sword of Power should pass on to a new man of greater worth and bravery, for surely there were many throughout the Universe much better than he.

Aye, they called me the kind Prince, but also the cowardly Prince. And I am that coward, now that kindness is sunken under the prow of my degradation and turned to bitterness. I renege on my sacred oath Sorceress… Sorceress! Don't you hear these thoughts!? Sorceress – I blame you! I blame you for choosing me! You will hear me!

Adam made his way towards the edge of the Temple grounds, having avoided any confrontation with his fellow monks, his face all twisted with misery. No-one but Guards upon the walls could be seen - the rest of Eternos was cowed behind trembling walls and trapped beneath the infinite weight of Night. Adam crossed the dark street when, with no warning, the silence of the City was shattered by a mighty blast behind him that blew a column of fire towards the distant, twinkling stars, carrying hundreds of burning souls with it.

It was here that Adam, once Prince of Eternia, was flung down amidst the falling debris and the flame, and could ponder no more his fate.

The silhouette of a monstrous and mechanistic elephantine head blotted the blazing inferno behind it. Snout Spout stood facing the fire, his powerful body held rigid as a great jet of water fired out from his twisting cybernetic trunk and into the conflagration. Spout was simultaneously directing the Guardsmen on fire-duty as they arrived on the scene, their grey helmets and yellow shoulder pads striped with red to indicate their work. These helmets bobbed as the fighters pushed their faces behind the make-shift smoke-masks attached to their throat-guards – but only the cyborg Spout could breathe the thick smoke as the dark wind turned to fling it into their faces.

The Captain stopped her sprint as she reached Spout's side. She took in the scene with typical alacrity and precision – Spout didn't need help and so she wondered what the chances were of anyone inside the Temple, where Adam was cloistered. Man-E caught up with her as she stopped, both of them coughing as the ashen smoke filtered into their lungs. "Why is no-one going in!?" she yelled to Spout and looking toward the teetering Temple as it burned and creaked.

Spout's voice was deep and metallic as he spoke. "It's not just a fire, but an explosion. Your eyes can't see the structure like mine can, but I can tell you it is ruined and ready to collapse." Teela looked at the flames burning red against the brightly polished metal of Spout's
helmet, and then the burning debris about herself – the firemen were arming themselves with great hooks on long poles.

"You're going to tear it down?"

"Best way to stop the fire Captain – it could spread to nearby roof-tops in this wind. We need a controlled collapse." Spout was brief and to the point.

"What about the people inside?"

"They are already dead or doomed."

"Spout! What fear do you have with your fire-resistant armour? Your enhanced vision and invulnerabilities to smoke!? What do you fear!? Why aren't you in there after the Prince!? He is inside!"

"Captain, there is no Prince inside. There is no Prince."

"No, curse it all! He is not just another monk. Go in there and find him!"

The robotic eyes of the mastodon face were red with reflected fire as they gazed impassively for a moment at Teela. Then the great metal head turned to command his firemen as the mammoth fire-fighter moved away. Aghast at Spout's flagrant disobediance, Teela watched as the Guards began to push their poles up to hook onto the consumed Temple building. Spout continued away from her, directing the fire-fight and blasting water into the burning, teetering building.

Man-E had a hold of Teela and was surprised to feel her give in to his gentle tug – she allowed him to lead her away. He realized that even to her the situation was clearly hopeless – yet she had ordered Spout to needlessly risk his life for a man she held in contempt. Man-E was only relieved that Spout had maintained his characteristic stubbornness and had held his ground - Teela must be already regretting her rash outburst.

Now Spout's giant, glowing red figure was shouting at them and waving. "This way! It's going to completely collapse this way! Move! Move!" The Temple began to crumble, throwing out billowing embers, clouds of smoke and shards of masonry.

Teela fled with Man-E out of the area, scorched and littered as it was with shattered and burning wood, stone fragments, and scattered wreckage that might have been blackened idols and tools, or the immolated heads and limbs of holy men. By all that is Good! See to it that Adam has escaped! Man-E prayed silently as they ran. Then, thinking of the others inside the Temple, he added: Gods! - We beg that you allow them all peace, whoever they are.

Behind them were louder and louder thunderous crashings and a sense of great force behind them, and with it, a sense of Adam's passing into death. Man-E staggered under the weight of this thought and the looming spectre of grief that the burning Temple promised them. Teela half-dragged him beyond the fire-fight and into the gloom surrounding the scene. Only a few people stood in the street to watch – most were afraid that this was the beginning of a new and terrible bombardment – but she could see Guards still in surveillance positions while other mobile units searched the City for the saboteur – Mekanek had not yet reported any foe or threatening activity beyond the walls. She guessed that the saboteur was alone, highly mobile, and very skilled. Teela crushed a hand into a fist and grabbed at her communicator, demanding updates, as she swore to herself that this murderous and sacriligeous act would be avenged with the worst punishments.

Man-E breathed hard, though he had not really exerted himself during the run. He tried to reassure himself - until Adam's body was found, there was still hope he lived. "This is it?"

"Aye." Teela watched the last of the Temple building fall. "This attack is all that has been reported for now. Perhaps an isolated incident. Oh! But what a grievous and disgusting blow to our people and to our gods!" But this time she spoke nothing of Adam.

Man-E coughed and slid his back down a wall to sit in the street and he shivered, the cold wind seeping under his long courtier's coat. Adam was in the Temple - that Temple is now destroyed – falling into rubble before my eyes. So what now, if I am right? Man-E had never wished for such a terrible test of his suspicion. Suddenly he began to wonder and turned to Teela – but she was already discussing the implications with Mekanek on her radio.

"Are you sure?" she was saying "Why attack just this location? A blow to morale? No-body but non-combatants, holy men and mystics -"

Man-E suddenly grabbed her arm. "Assassination!" He hissed.

"Mek – hold on. What's that?"

"Teela! Skeletor's spies are everywhere – "

"It doesn't make sense Man-E" she whispered back "why assassinate a Prince who just abdicated and has no strategic value? Who-ever did this went to a lot of effort to build or find and plant this bomb. Such explosions can only be made with the old technologies. It could have been used with greater effect against the armory, the workshops, the - "

"There's no suspect? Not one of Skeletor's suicide-robots?"

"I have my suspects, but the blast is too big for Blast-Attack robots, there's some other – "

"Sir! Captain!"

It was Spout, addressing them formally as usual. Laying in his gargantuan arms was a shrunken figure, robes billowing amidst the acrid smoke. The two ran over to their comrade and kept pace as Spout hurried to a Guard cart for the wounded. As he lay the crumpled form down, Teela exclaimed: "Adam! You rescued him after all!"

Spout turned to her, his vast metal head inscrutable and vaguely menacing. "No – we found him outside, just beyond the monastic garden, lying in the street and covered in debris."

"Man-E!" Teela grabbed his arm and shook him out of his surprise. "Get on board and guard the Pri-, guard him. If you are right, he will need a guard - but I'm still not sure why you'd be right." For a moment her face hovered over Adam's. His expression was mask-like and unaware, while hers was animated with a mess of conflicting emotions. Her forehead wrinkled as if she were to weep, but she kept her mouth shut with a tight grimace and the characteristic deep frown that had permanently furrowed her forehead. Then she turned and hurry away, barking orders into her radio without even looking at Man-E.

Man-E climbed aboard the Guard's rickety medi-cart, Spout showing him where to hold the gauzy dressing over Adam's exposed and lightly burnt hands. For a moment, Man-E wondered whether Spout had made a mistake and had picked up someone else. Adam lay prone in the bottom of the cart, all covered in scorched and dusty Holy Order robes, looking small, almost withered. He did not look like the young man Man-E knew. Upon Adam's back was his sword. It was not the same as He-Man's, but perhaps it transformed too?

The horses whinneyed at the nearby flames as the cart lurched away. Man-E watched his beloved and the fire-fighter return to the flickering scene of flames and ruin. There was no knowing whether this explosion would herald further misery and mayhem this night, but it was now important to be sure of one thing – no-one else should learn that Adam had survived. If Skeletor suspected what he, Man-E-Faces did, this could be the perfect chance to fool the enemy. He called Teela's radio while holding on to Adam, to demand secrecy from herself, Spout, and any others who had seen Adam.

As Man-E watched over Adam, he silently prayed again: May this secret be as well protected as all of those within Greyskull...

Sorceress…. You chose me. Was it not because I would never kill? Aye, only accidental blood has stained the Sword of Power… Unintentional slayings and manslaughters... But narry a drop in self-defense… "An edge keen with regret and sheathed in mercy", you once said. "The Sword is a shield", you once said. What then, would happen to us were I to murder in cold-blood..? Is there any peace? Any end to this!? Release me..!

"... Let me go!"

Man-E stepped back from Adam's cot as he flung out his arms, crying aloud. Man-E tried again to gently awake his friend. "You are dreaming!"

Adam's eyes opened, but vision only filled them seconds later and a sense of numbness dulled each colour and blurred every line. He felt adrift, floating in some white ocean, the sun clashing against his sore head with white-hot cymbols. His mouth opened as if to speak, but instead he slowly gathered himself upwards, feeling the hospital gown on his body, the symbol of Healing sewn upon its chest, the anointed bandages tight around his numb hands. "My Sword!"

"It is here. I would let no-one touch it." Man-E patted the ascetic looking scabbard across his lap, the hilt of Adam's sword jutting out, the plain, carefully weighted pommel on the end glinting like a falling star. "Here" he handed it to Adam "I know it is special to you. It is a strong and faithful metal, surprisingly sharp and superbly balanced – a beautiful weapon for an ugly business."

Adam looked at his old friend carefully for a moment and then cast his eyes back down to the simple looking short-sword and pondered: Why did he examine the Sword? For a few moments, Adam did not move nor speak, uncertain as to how to act, still confused and trying to remember what had happened. "I don't... I didn't expect this" he murmured to himself, hoping Man-E would feel a little more at ease if he said something.

"Do you want to know what happened?"

"Aye." He spoke quietly without raising his eyes. "Tell me Manefred... Are many dead?"

"Aye... Aye, Adam. The entire Temple is gone. A massive explosion almost took you into the Otherworld with it." He paused with a small and serious smile as he said "I'm glad it didn't." When Adam did not reply he continued "We have not found the saboteur yet and I doubt we will. Teela thinks it was a timed explosion which gave our enemy a chance to flee. And despite the blow, there is no enemy in sight outside. It does not seem to be the opening shot of an assault, but something else..."

Adam let go a ragged sigh. "The monks were kind and learned men. They did not scorn me."

"Our enemies were trying to kill you. I think." Man-E said. Again, Adam said nothing in response. "It is why you are alone in this room with this unnecessary dressing on your face" Man-E prompted, hoping for a conversation with his outcast friend. Adam nodded and only sighed heavily when the actor added: "I think this was an assassination attempt."

"Then you are keeping my escape, my life, a secret."

"Very."

"This won't do old friend. Faking my death is no way to escape my dishonour." Adam tried shakily to rise, but felt like he was on a boat caught in a storm and fell heavily back down, tasting rising bile, and groaned.

"Please" Man-E rested a restraining hand on the patient "That is not the reason. They say you will take some time to heal."

"I have no time. There is no… no…"

"Healing?" Man-E paused, searching Adam's face, which was all a-frown behind white gauze. "You are split in two..." Man-E's heart leapt as he spoke the words. For almost an hour he had sat with Adam, waiting for him to recover, listening to his feverish mutterings about his sword and the Sorceress. For that long time he had debated with himself whether, once Adam awoke, he would allude to the secret he suspected Adam of keeping. The debate had raged within Man-E unlike any normal introspection. In stressful times, Man-E could hear the other voices inside himself: emotionless and rational, the voice he called 'Robot' suggested he wait for more evidence and keep his counsel, while the voice he called 'Monster' urged speedy action: there was no time to lose, and if he were right, it was time Adam was relieved of his terrible burden. And if he were wrong, so what? Neither voice had prevailed.

Adam's blue eyes were the only clear thing to be seen on his bandaged visage. They stared hard and cold for a moment at Man-E, no longer looking lost and empty. Then his eyes quickly fell away and he tugged for emphasis at the bandages on his face, changing the subject. "Nice disguise."

"I know disguises - " The Monster growled inside Man-E – there is no time, he said as much himself, you must act, you must ask - do it now!

"You were always a clever friend." Adam interrupted with a whisper.

Man-E smiled self-depreciatingly "I have Skeletor and the Sorceress to thank for a boost to my rational thinking. But not for my decision making and temper… Listen Adam - !"

"We are alike, aren't we?" Adam interrupted again and Man-E nodded, his eyes furtively searching to match Adam's distant, down-cast gaze. Adam went on "We enjoy the arts... Give aid to the poor… We are self-humbling - "

"Adam - !" Man-E sensed his friend was deliberately drifting away from what he had hinted at.

But Adam suddenly lurched, grabbing his friend's arm and breathed. "I am dead, remember? Prince Adam is more dead than ever. It pays not to speak… clearly." Man-E nodded, Adam's eyes finally meeting his again. Did Adam realize what Man-E was saying to him? Was this confidential air the confirmation of what he suspected?

Adam leaned in closer still, smelling of pungent healing herbs, dust and burnt hair. "Help me" he whispered. "I was to go alone... Just beyond the walls, passed the Guards... It is all I need from you. I will ask no more." Man-E opened his mouth to ask a question, but Adam anticipated it. "I am dead to all Man-E. But I now know I can rely on you for help. And in helping me you help us all – swear it to me."

Man-E gently held onto his friend's burnt hand, uncertain of exactly what Adam was asking of him, but determined to be true to him as his only friend. "I swear it."

"Then we leave here now."

War of Attrition: IV - Beyond the Walls

Earlier that Night...

A scuttling figure hidden by the long robes of the Night clambered over a battered rock-wall beyond the blasted wastelands that were once the farms and homesteads of Eternos. For a moment the shadow paused, resting its hand on an old brown blood-stain upon the wall… and was reminded of its thirst... and of times-past...

Walls and trenches like this had served as initial defensive positions for Randor's armies when the first siege began years ago, led by Hordak. The attempted invasion had been long and bloody and the fleeting shade remembers when it was almost caught and forced back into the ranks of the Horde - back into submission.

For a moment, the black-form could be glimpsed moving within the moons-light that sliced through the trees above like shards of ice in dark-water. In that moment of pale light, the flat, arachnid face of Webstor almost smiled with self-congratulation for his fore-sight and abilities that had enabled him to escape the galactic tyrant Hordak for a second time. But the deformed smirk on the spider-like face hardened into concentration again as Webstor vanished back into darkness, moving swiftly towards where his waiting mount was hidden.

This hunger of his could be distracting at these times, and it took his austere willpower not to stop and search among the nomad tribes further north for their fresh blood. Humanoid blood was the most satisfying and he would not stoop to the common herds of animals that his prey husbanded, unless he was desperate.

This man-spider was akin to Hordak's other lieutenants – a vampire who needed blood to survive, a creature of the Night made all the more powerful when the Sun went down. Like the others, Webstor's vampirism had wrought thaumaturgical changes upon his once human body - Leech had assumed his particular, grotesque form which enabled him to drain more than just blood. Grizzlor had become viciously bestial, requiring his blood to come from fresh flesh torn from the bones – a vampire that had to murder to live. The parasitical Mosquitor flew through the air and sucked blood through a diseased proboscis, spreading a more insidious misery. Hordak himself had gained the aspect of the vampire bat – unless, perhaps, he had always been thus. He, Webstor, had that of the spider, granting his silent agility, malleability, and speed. He had often wondered what form of blood-sucker Skeletor had been before he had changed into a Liche and then again into the creature he was today, free from Hordak's control and from the need for blood, darkness and a lair.

Would he ever be able to gain that boon himself? Probably not while Skeletor continued his long unlife. Yet, though he wished for Skeletor's destruction he had nonetheless taken advantage of a deal the ancient creature had offered, a deal that continually threatened to bring him under Skeletor's control - for control was Skeletor's obsession.

There! His steed stood waiting, a well trained and loyal creature that did not need to be tethered. As Webstor flung himself over the horse's saddle, he reflected on the irony of his life on Eternia. His subtle mind had enabled him to navigate the maze-like dimensions that surrounded this world and hid it from the sight of sorcerers and space-farers who attempted to find the mythical planet. The strange, cacooning reality that obscured Eternia was a labyrinth of time and space, a vast puzzle that continually directed you back from the way you had arrived – or else far away into even stranger territory. But Webstor, whose mind was as intricate as the webs he wove, excelled at puzzling over paradoxes and complexities. It was with Hordak's occult guidance that he had found his way to this hidden planet and left a long, magical thread behind himself which Hordak had eventually followed, bringing his Horde armies with him.

Years ago, when he had arrived on Eternia by this method, Webstor's purpose had been to hunt down Skeletor and either kill him, catch him, or return him to Hordak. But Hordak had under-estimated the old Liche - Skeletor had changed into something more powerful during his time on Eternia. Webstor was almost destroyed during the confrontation and it was only when Skeletor learned that Webstor could betray Hordak by cutting the magical thread, did he decide to offer Webstor a deal. On that baleful night, many years ago, Skeletor had promised him freedom from the blood-thirst, but Webstor had known such oaths meant nothing – it had been a ploy to buy his loyalty, to trap him in a sorcerous pact that would rob his autonomy. He had rejected the offer, but pledged comradeship in the fight against He-Man and against Hordak, who would surely find some new route to Eternia - and then he had escaped.

Webstor did not believe Skeletor would share any of the power he promised. He believed that every other being in the Universe was nothing but a disposable tool to Skeletor – this sorcerer was a megalomaniacal as the tyrant Hordak. Yet, Webstor could not return to Hordak, nor escape Eternia having severed his route out and back to the Horde. But neither could he wish He-Man to be the victor in this long war, as neither victor would serve him any better. Webstor had long since vowed to himself that he had to play off both sides until they wore each other down - and so sometimes he had also worked for He-Man and Randor, sometimes without them even knowing it.

Hordak's incursion had been welcome when it came (other than the danger it had presented to himself), weakening both sides in the conflict and sowing discord and terror throughout the numerous barbarian tribes of Eternia - tribes that sometimes fought for Randor, for Skeletor or some other power. But even to this day, Skeletor and He-Man continued to be dead-locked, neither of them gaining the upper-hand for long while the barbarians and techno-savages switched sides, betrayed each other, and hedged their bets, dividing their loyalties and slaughtering each other for politics, power and religion. All sides had lost loyal and strong followers, wasted and despoiled resources, and failed to deliver a desicive blow - until tonight.

Having observed the fortunes of despots like Hordak and Skeletor, Webstor had reached the conclusion that earthly conquest was useless, and that what truly mattered was within the walls of Greyskull - which even now remained unshaken, impenetrable, monstrous…. Holy and dreadful. So he had surmised that tonights coming detonation was no mere act of terrorism, but a new move by Skeletor calculated to have far reaching effects. But Webstor knew not what, so it was time to draw closer to Skeletor to see what he could espy...

Both sides had quickly under-stood that Webstor worked towards his own ends. And yet, after years of threats, Skeletor had respectfully commisioned this recent work from Webstor, he, the only creature on Eternia that might could creep unknown in and out of Eternos, guarded by Man-At-Arm's technology and the enchantments of the Sorceress, while carrying such a heavy and unique explosive. For a moment, Webstor wondered whether he had made a mistake - perhaps it was not time to enable Skeletor's victory and leave him too powerful. But Skeletor had to be strong enough to enter Greyskull so that he, Webstor, could follow him into the breech and free himself of the vampiric limitations, just as Skeletor had. Perhaps this Night heralded Skeletor's most determined invasion of the Castle?

Again Webstor wondered why He-Man was so inflexible - had He-Man allowed him to enter Greyskull in search of what he needed, he would not have made an enemy of him. Webstor could only conclude that the Sorceress was greedy enough to want all of the secrets for herself - he could not believe that she was merely their Guardian - such talk was a ploy, a trick. Could He-Man and the Sorceress give nothing to no-one? He knew from his experience as a spy that even one so trustworthy as Man-At-Arms had wondered how the secrets inside could benefit people for the good, and whether they could be shared. Greyskull was a vast temptation to anyone with any ambition or intelligence. Webstor felt no guilt in seeking to steal the knowledge he needed from the power-hungry and selfish Sorceress.

Here, not far from the outlying woodland, Webstor remained seated on his steed, neither vampire nor beast moving in the silent Night-time. The explosion should be happening soon and he wanted to verify his success before he fled in earnest. Six small, black and convex eyes slid in their sockets to stare behind to the outline of the blacked-out City, frozen and still beneath tthe moons'-light, it's tall, studry minarets looking wasted and feeble at this distance. Tension gripped Webstor's innards and anxiety nudged his thoughts to refreshing, invigorating blood – but then it happened: he had not been thwarted!

The explosion illumined the focal point which continued to flicker as the Temple burned, venting smoke towards a sky filled with glowering stars and the seven moons, each in their varied states of waxing or waning.

The blast was beyond Webstor's expectations - the bomb must have been from Ancient times. Who-ever Skeletor had wanted dead must be truly destroyed – and now he must make all haste, for he expected to see Randor's allies, the Avionians, to take flight as a surveillance unit at any moment now. He spured his steed into a gallop towards the Dark Lands, towards Skeletor.

An explosion! At his post, Tropos trembled in anticipation for the call to arms. This was his first mission, only days after being sent to Eternos to relieve the dying Mesos, shot down on the wing during Tri-Klops' last lightening attack.

The call came: "Spread wings!"

He put his hand up to his blue, streamlined helmet as he heard Stratos' command come through, as if he couldn't quite believe it was time. He stepped onto the balcony, from which he had been watching the sudden column of fire rising into the sky, and leapt gracefully into the night-air.

The young Avionian fell in a dive as if spring-boarding into water. The decorative feathers on his arms rippled as he fell and were then pushed flat with sudden force when the flight-pack on his back burst to life, the half gauntlet fixed upon his left hand and fingers manipulating the digital controls. He flew in a broad and twisting sweep designed to make him a hard target for enemy sharp-shooters who might be waiting for the Avionians to suddenly take-off. Rolling in the air as he turned upwards for a steep climb, he brought in his wirey arms and legs only to fling them back out again, his body a small, black cruciform shape against the distant stars and bright circular moons above. Beneath him, there were no flashes of fire, nor shouts of command to take aim. As he flew at speed on the defensive, he was quick to see there was no army at the gates.

Tropos ceased his evasive moves - he had expected another attempted invasion, but it was not so. Stratos' voice came through again, to issue initial orders:

"Big fire at the Temple. No enemy. Navigate your surveillance circumference as per s-pattern 8. Ready lances and warn if enemy sighted. Out."

Tropos started - his mind had blanked. What was his circumference arc in s-pattern 8!? Tropos' helmet contained a neural interface which allowed him and the others to follow Eternia's magnetic fields to navigate through the skies. But he realized he wasn't sure which sky-path to take, and in combat circumstances there was no time to ask. Through his protective goggles he could see a few comrades shooting away from the City in great arcs or spinning, tight spirals. If he didn't get this right he might miss the signs of hidden enemy below in his line of vision. Not that he could see much in this darkness, but this was something he must get used to. Skeletor had been attacking by night for years to take advantage of the cover it leant his slaves, and of the fear and fatigue his night-attacks instilled in a population that relied on day-time to work and farm. Only the human-periscope Mekanek wore the rare night-vision technology that would prove advantageous in these circumstances.

During a few moments of confusion, fearful thoughts flashed through the young Tropos' mind as he began to panic.

The others were relying on him. Had he not proved himself? Like any other sky-warrior, he wore arm bands made of the feathers of the dangerous birds and sky-beasts he had personally hunted and brought down by himself. These alone showed everyone that he was mature enough to fight and kill. More importantly, Stratos had deemed him worthy to wear the rare and unique flight-pack and helmet that bestowed the prestige and power that a skillful Avion-warrior deserved. He had passed all of the tests and proven his mettle fighting on the ground.

But with this honour of sky-warrior-hood and martial prowess came grave duties – if ever the pack or helmet were lost or irreparably damaged, he would be expected to forfeit his own life or go into exile. Luckily these sacred artifacts were very durable, but over the few centuries
since writtens records began in Avion, there had been irreplaceable losses – losses which ate into the very fibre of the warrior-class Tropos now found himself a part of, reducing the maximum limit of their number and weakening the defenses of Avion with each irreplaceable blow.

One day, when all of these holy gifts, these war-gear of flight and honour, were exhausted, the mountain-top city of Avion will be home to grounded men and women, forced to walk the land like all of the other Eternian tribes, with nothing to distinguish them but their bows for hunting birds, their furry skin and lithe, light builds – the genetic inheritance of their forefathers from the ancient days of wisdom. But in this dark future, Avionians would have become a lost and weakened people, forced to submit to the earth, and only soaring to the sky in death.

Of course, most people in Avion did not fly like the warrior and ruling classes – there were not enough helmets and packs for every Avionian – but this was widely accepted as necessary and everyone shared in the pride of the warriors when they flew out to battle. The privation of "wings" (as the helm and pack were together known) had even driven innovation, with imaginative Avionians attempting flight by other means – though these experiments had thus far failed.

All of these thoughts, half-formed and hasty, fled through Tropos' mind as he felt the terror of being humiliated as a failed warrior - publically stripped of his "wings", his feather trophies, shorn of his manly beard, and spat upon by the watching crowd. This was his first mission, he must not fail, and yet he could still not remember what his part in surveillance pattern 8 was.

In the Night-time, he hovered aloft trying to locate Stratos, who would surely head East in the direction of Snake Mountain in the Dark Lands, where the bomber would have probably fled. If there's nothing I can do here,Tropos thought, I might do well to lend Stratos aid... and with that he lurched East, his nimble hand directing the delicate finger-controls of the pack, while his other arm held his lance steady against the air-pressure.

Thick-fur protected Stratos from the freezing Night-air as he sped up and high above Eternos, viewing the black mass of buildings from above, illuminated orange towards the centre of it all, by the blasted Temple. He adjusted his goggles with one hand, the great feather of the Golden Hawk brushing the side of his face and beard as he did so.

For a moment, it was a reminder of previous success: adding the feather of this legendary, man-eating bird to his decorative arm-braces had leant him the prestige and confidence he had needed to rally and unite his people against dissention and schism. Years ago, Hordak had offered to leave them in peace, in return for neutrality. But as was his design, the Tyrant had almost caused a civil war over the ensuing disagreement as to whether or not Avion should remain allied to Eternos. Yet this Night, because of Stratos' leadership, Avion now continued to fight alongside Randor and He-Man.

Around him, his fellow sky-warriors raced through the heavily hanging Night-sky to detect the bomber. Teela had advised him to act as if this were a hit and run, and to look for the bomber outside of the City. But Stratos could not shake the disturbing questions that the attack evoked: Would more deadly, massive explosions follow? What might be the next target? Regardless, he trusted Teela's advice and ordered s-pattern 8, to cover the most ground.

With their feather-trophies rippling against their arms in the wind, their densely furred bodies bared to the elements, the brave and savage Avionians deployed in circles – some wide and others tight – to cover every possible direction of escape over-land. Stratos suspected that the perpetrators would flee East, towards the Dark Lands, and so he opted to follow that direction himself, zig-zagging to cover ground, while moving his fingers within the control gauntlet to force his ancient flight-pack into full throttle.

Unfortunately, other technology of the kind that enabled men to see in the dark was not common, and even he had not been outfitted with such a relic. But Stratos would rely on his own skill and enhanced vision to find his prey and then plunge earthward for the kill.

He screwed up his mouth as the air tried to force a way inside, pushing at his lips and revealling his ritually chipped teeth, jagged as knives. But like a swimmer, he turned his head to breathe. He was flying so fast that the ruined farmlands of Eternos were already behind him - and then he glimpsed a fleeting shadow at speed on horseback, flitting through the blue Great Moon's light, under the withered trees below. He slowed so that he could surprise the black-clad villain from behind, still staying high so that his pack could not be heard. Then he readied his lance and prepared to call on his warriors – if this was the bomber, Stratos swore, his body would soon be hanging in the gibbet. He bared his sharpened teeth, ready to attack.

Now he suddenly stopped the power to his flight-pack to avoid being heard as he dived down for the kill. The characteristic thrumming and hissing of the twin jets on his back cut out as he plunged head-long in silent free-fall towards the trees, arms by his sides, guiding his descent by twisting his body, while holding the lance forward alongside his arm for a killing blow. At this speed his weapon would tear a man in two – but if he did not strike his enemy true, he himself might also take a fall from the rebound of the blow – or worse. It was a difficult, but deadly, line of attack...

But Webstor had been watching for him. The vampire lept suddenly from his galloping horse and landed almost silently in the brush. There he crouched as if about to pounce. His steed sped away from him, crashing and whinnying through the undergrowth. The Avionians had acted predictably, fanning out to find him, their attacker, while their leader headed in the most obvious route. Webstor had led his steed into the nearby wood away from the scoured landscape, and stayed unmoving in the blackness, his trap set. The six round eyes on his elongated head swiveled skyward and his deformed mouth twitched with tension...

Falling, Stratos neared the tree-tops and switched the pack back on at the last moment. The element of surprise would be lost as he crashed through the branches towards the fleeing rider, so the additional noise of his flight-pack would not matter – besides, he had to control his fall and aim the blow. Stratos grinned – the noise would be enough warning for his foe to turn and be witness to his killer – this would be the only satisfaction Stratos would draw from tonight.

As he controlled his final drop, he sped under and over heavy branches, avoiding getting smashed by the solid Eternian oaks. Then, he had but a moment to glimpse the horse ahead of him - it was now rider-less! - before near invisible strands stretched between the trees slowed him, hampered him, then caught and tangled him. It was too late to stop – suddenly he was caught in a thick and giant web. It was one of several that hung from the trees in this area, glinting in the moonslight. But Stratos did not have time to take note of this – tough strands of clinging web had jarred and jerked his body, taken him by surprise and left him defenseless as he crashed into the tangling trap of web.

Though it was a relatively soft stop, it was a sudden one, and now Stratos hung dazed and almost upside down, his limbs twisted and strained, feathers all askew, arms tangled in the sticky bonds of glistening spider-thread. His head reeled as he tried to find his lance, torn from his hand when he hit the webs. He couldn't see it. His lightly gloved hand manipulated the controls and he surged – just a little – towards the sky. But the viscous coating on the web held him so tight he felt himself being crushed by the pressure the pack was exerting against the strands that bound him with suffocating force within the web.

Webstor could not help but gloat as he carefully stepped out from the undergrowth. "Stratos..." his voice rattled with breathless mirth through boney mandibles as he slowly reached a long black arm across a branch that supported part of the web. Webstor crawled on all-fours, black eyes focused and determined, and moved lightly upon a glutinous
web-strand. Stratos stared in horror at the vampire and again he strained with all of his might with the pack still on – if the pack could not tear him entirely free, he might be able to at least rip his arm free to touch his helmet and turn on the radio to send a final message.

"You cannot escape." The creature's sibilant voice advised flatly as it crept closer still. Stratos almost choked against the squeezing, steely strands as his frantic thoughts buzzed on the edge of consciousness - if he kept trying to fly away like this, the force would crush him against the unbreakable strands wrapped tightly around him.

Webstor's sinewy body was driven with methodic and inhuman hunger towards the helpless sky-warrior - the creature exposed long fangs as he opened his arachnid maw, drawing his thin, purple lips back in a mock smile.

The muscles on Stratos' left arm bulged, trying to reach his helmet again as he gagged for breath, hissing out: "There are more Avionians.. to follow... to revenge!"

"Aye Stratos." Webstor crept up towards Stratos' prone body without a change of pace. "Let them come." Webstor lingered before his prey, almost enjoying the empty feeling within himself that would soon be satiated. Then the vampire leapt and held onto the web right besides Stratos in one graceful movement, his taut body hanging from dark, lithe arms.

With the deliberate patience of a spider, Webstor plucked the brass-coloured half-gauntlet from Stratos' knuckles and fingers, letting it dangle on the thin cable that connected it to the flight-pack. The pack stopped hissing but the strain of struggle did not leave Stratos' shuddering body. The vampire then pulled away Stratos' helm, examining it for a moment. Webstor then cast it aside and drew back his mishapen arachnoid head to drive needle-like fangs into Stratos hairy throat. Webstor groaned and shuddered with perverse pleasure as the mortal's blood began to flow, carrying away his life while Stratos fell limp upon the web, paralyzed with Webstor's venom, to await mummification or death.

Tropos had caught up with his leaders' flight-path and, upon seeing the movement below and hearing no response from Stratos, cut out his flight-pack to dive down in a controlled fall towards the trees. As he crashed through he switched back on, lance leveled before him as he
swooped parallel to the earth.

Webstor leapt up with sudden alarm, an arc of blood spurting from between his thin lips and Strato's neck, but it was too late. Tropos's blow was miscalculated and glanced off the top of Webstor's shoulder, but it was enough to send the vampire tumbling from the web to smack down on the hard earth - dark, thick blood erupting from the deep wound. Webstor resisted the instinctive urge to curl up and lay still, instead springing up and plunging deeper into the undergrowth, into darkness, hissing and disoriented by the sudden nausea and pain caused by the blow, scattering his precious, undead blood everywhere.

Tropos spun around and hovered, his feet almost touching the lowly soil, his hand smarting and the lance torn from his grasp when it hit. He drew the dirk at his belt, searching the thick darkness beneath the branches. Stratos groaned, dangling from the web, blood flowing from his throat. Then, a sudden whinny put fear into Tropos who turned again, raising his blade to fend off the blow. But no blow came – he could hear a horse smashing through the foliage and then whinny again before thundering away.

Tropos too care to avoid the thin strands of web that hung from the branches like deadly hairs, cutting at those that stuck to him. Then he hacked his leader free and scrambled to pick up Stratos' helmet while hauling his leaders' heavy and still tangled body across his shoulder. Flight-packs could not normally carry more than one person for very long, but Stratos still had his, though the controls dangled uselessly from his side. Tropos, by now covered in Stratos' blood and Webstor's web, his senses straining to detect further danger, hurried to turn on the pack that would help him to lift Stratos into the air.

"Stratos felled." He cried into his helmet-radio as they lifted off. "Serious wound on the neck. On way to Eternos. Need a healer immediately. Out." The young Avionian warrior, his beard barely thickened, nerves not yet fully tested, stared down with disbelief at his defeated and dying leader who now lay in his arms as he sped towards the City.

Far behind them, stuck upon Webstor's web, was the long and brilliant feather of the slain Golden Hawk.

War of Attrition: V - A Reunion, A Farewell

It was now almost two hours passed since the Temple was destroyed. Man-E had spent the last hour smuggling Adam, who had been officially declared dead, out of the hospital and beyond the Palace walls, using all of his authority and influence to return alone, without questions being asked. Meanwhile Teela was at work preparing for the coming assault - the Avionians had sighted a vast warband moving towards the City, the numerous banners it displayed attesting to its size and its many, usually conflicting elements, now joined beneath the leadership of Skeletor.

Beyond the City walls in a nearby wood, the injured and weakened Adam was waiting for Man-E in the cold and darkness, while the actor looked for Cringer inside the Palace. All the while Man-E felt the pressure of time against him: Adam cannot stay alone for long with such impending danger, he thought, and without Cringer, he will have to reach Greyskull by foot.

As Man-E searched, his thoughts clashed about in his head, vying for attention. He had learned that the bomber-assassin was most likely Webstor, who had almost killed Stratos, having readied a trap far beyond the farm-lands of Eternos. Man-E had wondered again if he was not the only one who suspected Adam's secret identity. Surely the attack had been aimed at Adam, rather than non-combatant monks? And was it Webstor, the spy-supreme, who know the secret, or was he acting for Skeletor this time?

Man-E moved through the heavily guarded Royal Family quarters, where all of the torches remained lit through-out the night, burning in their alcoves, shedding hot, flickering light over the sand-coloured walls. He had passed the court of King Randor, where discussions with the representatives of the kings of other tribes had continued, having been drawn out for hours already. The sounds from that imposing room were clamourous and argumentative - no doubt the apparent death of Adam had caused a stir. This was news that would be of no help Randor as he strove to convince the other kings of Eternian tribes to keep fighting or at least to remain neutral. These days, the tribal alliance was unstable and riven with self-interest, suspicion, and posturing. Against this background, the King had feared that Skeletor would be able to unify a great many of the tribes if he himself could not - a fear that was now confirmed by the sighting of the army moving towards them.

But Randor already had enough difficulty keeping the confidence of the tribes currently on his side due to his resistance against sharing any of the techno-arcana his tribe of Eternos was so wealthy with. All Eternian warlords were greedy for powerful artificats like laser-guns and machines, but so few of them could keep them in working order, never-mind fully comprehend their use. And now with the master technomancer Man-At-Arms dead, Randor was questioned more fiercely about when he would share his powerful weapons and ancient - though incomplete - knowledge. The King's reluctance made him appear as if he were monopolising his power, and it was probably only his special relationship with He-Man that prevented the alliance from dissolving into internal dispute and perhaps more war.

All the while Skeletor's agents attempted to sow discord and mistrust between the peoples of the Eternian lands that pledged loyalty to Randor - for without the united front of the tribes, it would be easier for Skeletor to conquer the enfeebled people of Eternos. And now, on this darkest Night, Randor had to find some explanation as to why He-Man had still not come to their aid, after so many weeks, as he always had in the past. Man-E wondered what would happen if the other kings refused to let more of their warriors die defending a City they had little share in. Now, in the light of recent events, Man-E was pessimistic that Randor could maintain unity against their tireless enemy. The tense voices of the court faded behind Man-E - he was relieved to remind himself that he was not an politicking aristocract, but an artist and a warrior.

He had searched a long time for Cringer, expecting to find him in the familiar places - near the fireplace in the royal drawing room, in the kitchen, beneath Adam's bed. But he was no-where to be seen. Finally, Man-E knocked on Orko's room - perhaps the little Trollan would know where to find the domesticated tiger?

Orko's door opened just a little, and two human-looking eyes peered out from beneath his red wide-brimmed hat. "Man-E!" Orko's shrill voice exclaimed with relief as he flung open the door. "Come on in old friend, close the door. I'd like some company. Haven't been able to sleep since that blast..." Orko cast down his eyes and though he'd done well to sound brave, his tone was horribly forced and it pained Man-E to hear the creature's grief.

Man-E hesitated, then said, "You're alone? But you know what happened..."

"Y-yes. The Queen... She is in mourning... ah, she is torn with terrible grief and appears very afraid. But the King... He said his son was already dead. I didn't want to... I didn't feel like.. I- I-" and with that Orko could no longer control himself and burst into child-like sobbing.

Man-E approached his friend and placed a comforting hand on the jester's thin shoulder. With a heavy-heart, he lied "I'm sorry too, little friend."

"Oh Manefred! It is much, much worse than you think! If Adam is dead..! If Adam is dead... There's no, no... Oh no! It's so much worse than that!" Orko let out an eerie wail of the likes Man-E had never heard him make before. He stepped back to look into the alien's eyes. "Orko? What do you mean?"

Whimpering with despair Orko shook his head, the wide brim flopping as he did so, his ethereal body shaking uncontrollably. "I can't tell you. But it's so terrible! I have to tell someone! Who can I tell - who!? Oh, oh... Man-At-Arms would have known what to do..."

Orko wrung his boney blue hands, hovering to and fro.

"You can tell me my friend... I know you're not worried about the royal line, are you? The question of succession has already been-"

"No! Oh no, it's much worse!"

Man-E looked about the room, uneasy. "Orko - do you know... if it is safe to talk here?"

Orko sniffed and looked about himself, whispering: "No-where is safe Man-E... But I don't think it would be easy for spies to get inside the Palace. And who would spy on me? I'm just a stupid jester."

"The jesters of old were not stupid. They advised their kings with their satires and lampoons in ways that other vizors never dared... Some were privy to secrets that their foolery hid. You know your Eternian history, do you not?"

"W-well y-y-yes, b-but I don't know any - any s-secrets..."

Man-E listened quietly to the sounds of the room and then turned his grave face to the creature. "Orko - no-one would say what you have said unless... Unless they know what I think I know."

Orko hestiated. "I - I..."

"There's no time for this! Tell me Orko -" he lowered his voice to a whisper "- is Adam... He-Man?"

Orko withdrew, pulling his long sleeve from Man-E's grasp. He hesitated for a long time, shivering with emotion. Then, just as Man-E was about to speak again Orko quietly said: "All that I can tell you Man-E, is that we will not see He-Man again. Not now."

Man-E started: "How do you know this Orko!?"

"That's all I can say!" the jester shrieked. "I've advised the King, but he doesn't believe it. But with Adam gone... He-Man only came because - because of Adam!"

"Indeed! They are one and the same!" Man-E hissed, almost inaudiably.

Orko seemed suddenly panicked and he laughed dismissively. "How can that be when they have been seen together? Tell me that?" he leaned towards Man-E, seemingly eager for his response.

"Magical illusions Orko. Or even another robot, like Faker. Or an actor - one as good at disguises as I."

Orko's eyes were hidden in the shadow of his hat and mask, but Man-E could see that the creature was weeping, his shoulders shaking. "Orko," he said gently, "You did not betray your secret. I've suspected this... Despite the precautions taken, I suspected. Now my doubts are gone, and I thank you."

Orko just shook his head and drifted away to settle upon his bed, looking something like a lump of rumpled red clothes that shivered and shook with heartfelt emotion.

"Orko - I have to find Cringer."

"W-why?" Orko's tone was pitiful and Man-E felt aggrieved to have to deceive his lonely friend.

"I just do. I cannot... I cannot tell you."

Orko's weeping stopped and he turned his strangely human eyes upon the actor. "You can't? I can't think of any reasons why you'd want Cringer..."

"But I'd wager you can think of at least one. Have faith and hope little friend."

Orko gulped and nodded his head, letting out a shuddering, child-like sigh. He seemed about to speak, but for once he held his tongue. Then he drifted noiselessly from the bed and lifted the sheet that hung over the edge. Beneath the bed, his eyes glinting discs in the candle-light, lay Cringer.

Man-E put his face level to the strange beast "Come, pet. Come with me."

Cringer uncurled his fat, lazy body and slowly crept out from the darkness. It was characteristic for this animal, no matter how craven it appeared, to trust what it was being told. Though the cat's limbs trembled, it silently followed Man-E to the door. Man-E turned to Orko, who had wrapped his thin blue arms around his insubstantial body. "Don't try to follow me, friend. But do trust me."

Orko nodded and cast down his eyes. Man-E closed the door, and left the little wizard with his grief and loneliness.

Cringer made no sound as he left the Palace behind Man-E, who was a trusted member of the Guard and of the Court. Because most of the people in the Palace were busy with preparations for defence, no-one questioned the actor as to why he was leading Adam's pet away - only a few puzzled and curious glances followed them out.

Man-E knew that it would not be long until the warband would be at the gates of Eternos and so he hurried, urging the tiger to follow faster.

Adam shivered in the cold, despite the thick blanket Man-E had wrapped him in and the warm drink he had pressed into Adam's hand. He felt hungry now, as well as enfeebled by exhaustion, by pain - by the despair he had been wrapped in for so long. The feeling had sunk deep into his bones, leaving him feeling brittle and ephemeral. Around him were the solid shapes of ancient oaks, birches and elms, their branches stripped of leaves by the autumnal cold. They looked skeletal and foreboding in the moons' light and offered him no comfort - though before this Night, Adam had loved to sit amongst them his whole life. The slow, peaceful life of trees was a solace to him, serving as a reminder that life could be gentle, beautiful, and silent. This old wood was very familiar to him, though it was now greatly deforested and wrecked by violence; trees cut and burnt and torn down, the ground harrowed with the wheels of war-machines, the chruned-up mud hiding stinking cadavers that attracted vermin, scavengers and disease...

Yet, despite the changes to the old wood, Adam sat against the tree's trunk and upon its roots and fell into a troubled half-sleep and a sort of dreaming...

It was in this wood that he would play games of hide and seek with his little friends while the older Teela watched from close by. Sometimes, Adam would flee from these games entirely, trying his best to use the opportunity shake off Teela's surveillance and spend some time in solitude... It was among these trees that, as youth, he had chased laughing maidens from the nearby villages, only to turn away from their smiling lips when they had allowed themselves to be caught. Then, he would race back to the solutide he had found here, in this wood, and dream of real love... It was in this wood that he had first refused to kill - and upon that thought a vivid memory intruded, forcing itself upon his consciousness...

"There he is son. Take a steady aim."

I take the arrow from my quiver, feeling the wind against my face, smelling the green and earthy odour of the woodland. The stag does not notice us downwind. I am afraid he will not notice us until I have let fly the fatal arrow.

"Careful now." Even in a whisper my father's voice is deep and authoritative."No sudden movements."

The stag is beautiful, his body powerful and graceful, eyes serene as he eats, unaware that his proud life will soon come to a pointless end. What foals has his strong body sired? What worship have his antlers inspired? What wisdom is contained in this animal mind that knows not the deceit of humans, but the true laws of life? This is no mere target practice, no block of unfeeling wood. The stag will shudder with agony, with fear and confusion. Why must he die this day, by my own hand?

I notch the arrow and raise the deadly point... I sense my father's tension - we hardly dare to breathe. There - my arrow is pointed true I know, I have only to let it go and this living being will be pierced, his blood will flow and he will be gone forever and ever.

"There!" hisses father - his eyes shine with excitment, he imagines the clean kill, the lightening skill of his son, the strong antlers as a trophy for them both to share.

But I do not see this feeling in his eyes - instead, I see the pulsing life of the stag, I see the creature drawing breath from the same air as me, standing upon the same soil, drinking from the same river. I see it - the stag demands that I see it. I am pointing the arrow - I have only to twitch my fingers...

For what? Simply to please the Court? I have no wish to kill this being for their pleasure, nor my father's.

Sun-beams, cut by the branches over-head, dapple yellow light upon his glossy, brown coat. We feel the warm light on our backs.

"Son..." my father cautions, I am taking too long. The stag is still, ears quivering, straining to understand the danger he senses. I have the power to stay my hand, but the real power is before me, in the life of the stag. He wins.

I let my arms droop to the floor, the bow no longer taut like my heart. And as the bow sinks, so too this drawn, tightened heart. "No" I say aloud, and the stag, hearing me, flees away - forever.

And so begins my father's long disappointment.

Silent tears are running down Adam's cheeks when he suddenly hears the a foot-fall snapping amidst the undergrowth. In the semi-darkness of the moons-lit Night, Adam strains to recognise the shapes edging towards him, and makes a move for the Sword.

"Adam!" the shape hisses and a moment later, a fat green tiger at its heels lumbers through the brush and throws himself into Adam's outstretched arms, knocking him over. Man-E stands back, watching Adam's bitter tears turn to joy while his shaking arms embrace the warm feline body of Cringer.

Cringer nuzzles Adam, rubbing his face up and down against him, tickling his body with the vibration of his overjoyed purring. Here in the wood, holding his companion, Adam briefly remembers the sense of peace he once felt among animals and plants - living beings that did not judge him, lie to him, nor mock and condemn him. Their expectations are of nought, their existences are simple, their presences an embodied reflection of the Green Goddess - in them and through them the Universe lives.

But he had never fought for them - instead the long war had reduced the forests and wilderness about Eternos, reduced the glory of life and beauty. It had left animals as so many corpses killed in crossfires and slaughtered for food or sport by Skeletor's demoniacal slaves, their homes burnt or poisoned, the innocence patterns of their lives despoiled by the gore and explosives of supposedly more intelligent creatures.

Adam's joy is short-lived and as he stands, he uses the tiger's back for support. "Well met", he mutters and Cringer stops his nuzzling to look up at his master, feline eyes flashing in the Night-time, reflecting the strange kinship and wordless understanding that they both share.

Man-E ponders to himself as he watches the reunion, feeling an outsider to the intimacy he observes, while the suspicion that Cringer is Battle-Cat grows into near-certainty. "So..." he says, unsure of how to continue. "This is where you want to bid me farewell?"

Adam looks to his friend. "Yes. This is all I needed from you Manefred, my dear friend."

Man-E casts down his eyes for a moment, but then fixes them upon Adam. "I know your secret."

For a moment, Adam does not move and then, without looking at Man-E he says softly, "Of course. And so, it seems, do our enemies. It could not be hidden forever. And so now I am truly resolved..."

"What do you mean Adam?"

But Adam only shook his head in refusal. Man-E paused - could he press Adam to elaborate? "But what now Adam? Skeletor's warband is marching through our fields to assault the City again."

Adam continues to remain motionless, as if rooted to the spot beneath the bare tree, Cringer beside him. "Eternos will repel them."

"Without He-Man?"

"Yes." There was something so final and sombre in Adam's quiet voice that Man-E felt stunned - it could only mean that Adam was refusing to become the Defender of Greyskull and Champion of Eternos.

"How can you be so sure we will prevail?"

"You've all done it before, many times, without me."

"Yes Adam, but this time - this time I believe that Skeletor is not expecting He-Man to come. The warband is known to be huge, the biggest we've seen. Somehow Skeletor has unified a great many of our warring enemies - those who are not with us are now under his banner. I'm sure the fiend believes he killed He-Man - killed you - in the Temple. Don't you think he is now going to throw everything he has at us? Without He-Man, he clearly aims to crush us completely. Skeletor has prepared for the final battle. Eternos needs you more than ever."

Adam sighs but would not meet Man-E's gaze. "Perhaps."

"You know I'm right, Adam. Are you telling me you will not help us? Why else did I bring Cringer to you? Is he not to become Battle-Cat?"

But Adam's eyes flash with resentment as he turns them upon his friend: "Have I not given you all enough!?"

Man-E falters and his face is drawn with pain. "You have... You have indeed. I can only begin-"

"No more." Adam whispers and begins to move away. "I wanted your help, to this point only - I asked for no pity, no thanks, no speeches - and I ask for nothing more now."

"But what about now, this night?"

"Now, this Night," Adam turns, "...I bid you farewell." And he walks away towards the edge of the wood, Cringer at his heels.

Man-E pauses, his innards tight with sadness and grief and pity, unsure of whether he should follow, should protest, whether he should beg for help in the coming battle. He opens his mouth to call, but Adam and the tiger are already lost in the darkness.

Are we thus abandoned? Man-E asks himself. In this greatest hour of need, are we without our greatest ally?

With an invisible smile, the Night provides the answer of silence and darkness.

His heart heavy, Man-E-Faces turns back to the City, only to turn around in Adam's direction and then to turn back again to the City once more. The Monster roars through Man-E's nerves and muscles as the feeling of abandonment grips him again, only to be replaced by a aching sense of pity for Adam. How can I ask more of him? How can I not?

Rooted to the spot, the conflicting voices in his mind reducing him to immobility, Man-E stars unseeing at the solid, ancient trees, with dead-metal eyes.

War of Attrition: VI - Fight and Flight

Orko turned about and around, circling his cluttered room noiselessly, listening to the foot-steps of Man-E-Faces fade. With each passing step he felt more and more alone and bereaved. To break the overwhelming silence he ran his thin blue fingers over the strings of his lyre. The musical sound tinkled mournfully, and then faded away too.

Does everything have to fade, to vanish? The death of Man-At-Arms still pained him – how could he face this new loss? Doubts nagged at his thoughts. He was sure Man-At-Arms was dead, but he was not sure of Adam's passing. No – this room for doubt left him with hope. But yet he still sighed and the sound seemed to shrink within the broad emptiness of the room, swollowed up by the pressing sense of aloneness.

"I'm of no use to anyone," he wept, self-pityingly, his quavering voice filling the void around him. "I can't comfort the Queen… There's no-one to visit. With Cringer gone… oh my…" The little alien heaved another heavy sigh. "No-one but me and my own voice! Huh!" He tried to laugh, as if to shake off the heavy atmosphere of sadness that oppressed him, but the same thoughts returned and resumed the relentless crushing of his childish heart.

Orko could not stop thinking of the time he'd first met Adam shortly after his chance arrival upon Eternia. Orko, disoriented and afraid, had called for help, only for his cry to be met by another cry for help. Then he'd seen the young Prince Adam, clutching hold of the kitten Cringer, while sinking to their doom in the tar-swamp. But he'd saved their lives, hadn't he? And for that, all of Eternos had been grateful to him, a lost and trapped little alien, the victim of a freak inter-dimensional event.

So did he save the boy Adam just so that he could be blown to pieces years later? Was this how He-Man was to die – not on the field of battle, wielding arms, but in the silence of the Night by a cowardly assassin? Have hope, Man-E had told him. Surely the actor was hinting at something, something which Man-E couldn't tell him.

"After all," Orko speculated out loud again to fill the room with his shrill voice, "I know what it is like to have to keep a - " He stopped, lips paused as if frozen to the purple scarf tied around his face. "It's no good," he muttered. "I can't do this, I just can't." The little wizard shuddered with trepidation. "I'm sorry Man-E...". Orko floated towards his door and out and down the corridor, to secretly follow Man-E and Cringer.

I can keep secrets, he thought, excitement building up in him, including this one... whatever it is!.

Skeletor's huge army had picked up speed - their arrival was imminent.

Teela hurried across the ramparts of the City walls, flashing a mirror-concentrated light from a shuttered lantern at each City Guard manning the ballistae on the battlements, while an Avion warrior flying above shone a hand-crack flashlight at the Guards in the court-yard by the catapults - the warmachines were being given the signal to make ready for firing.

As Teela rushed around to ready the soldiers grouped behind arrow slits or in defensive phalanxes, the stink of boiling oil around them made the air thick and nauseating as the dense liquid bubbled over the fires. These cauldrons of oil were located just behind hideously carved mouths that jutted beyond the City walls, allowing the Guards to pour burning oil on the enemy when they attempted to climb the walls.

With each unit of Guards in their defensive positions, Teela took her horse and galloped towards the second, inner defensive wall that protected the Palace, to give the order for final mobilisation of special units, including the Avionian sky-warriors. She avoided radioing her last minute instructions which could be intercepted by Skeletor's forces. Teela remained focused and alert, every effort she now made was to ensure the success of their defenses. As always, though she dared not admit it, impending battle brought out the best in her abilities - Teela had a terrible love of war.

High above her, standing in the look-out tower of the Palace-Keep she could see the glint of Mekanek's neck in the moons-light as he stood poised to report on the current position of the warband - she wondered how he avoided ever getting his head shot off. Around him, on top of the towering Keep of the Palace, she knew that the Avionians remained grounded, clutching bombs of Greek-fire while just a few of them flew high above the City to act as spotters for the catapults.

She stopped her horse suddenly and turned as she saw Man-E shuffling aimlessly through a court-yard. Teela was surprised to see him so confused and lacking in any sense of urgency. She dismounted and hurried towards him, calling out his name. Man-E turned towards his betrothed, jerked out of his thoughts. Suddenly the sounds and sights of the world impressed themselves on his deranged mind. No subject of Eternos other than the Guards could be seen in the streets and courtyards. Men and women in green and orange armour rushed about to their positions, faces drawn with anxiety or fixed with stern determination. Already Skeletor's vociferous warband could be heard in the distance, the sound coming in on a strong, cold northern wind - they clashed their arms, beat their drums and bellowed inhuman cries, marching towards the looming combat with merciless and confident carriage.

When Man-E heard that sound on the wind, he felt the terrifying sense of abandonment more than ever. "Teela?" Man-E paused, a point of stillness in the centre of a storm of clanking legs, flashing shields and shouts. He stood as ann illusion of calm that masked the maelstrom of conflicting feeling that raged within him, threatening to goad him to action.

The Captain reached his side. "Where were you? Where is Adam? I daren't radio you - no channels are absolutely secure."

"I -" Man-E faltered, suddenly realising he had no cover story, no explanation. Teela did not know - no-one knew - that he'd just helped Adam escape unseen from the hospital to the woodlands beyond the western wall.

"Manefred!" Teela grasped him, as if to shake him. "Where are your arms and armour? Where are your senses? What is ailing you!?"

"I left straight from our chambers after the blast at the Temp-"

"But since then? Manefred - where is Adam!?"

He was speechless and made a vague gesture.

"Tell me... I order you!"

"H-he, he's gone. He's outside - left the City."

Teela stood before him stunned, her mouth open, eyes wide. "Wha-at!? Why didn't you stop him?"

Man-E's thoughts fell into confusion - he'd given too much away already, he had nothing prepared to tell her. He'd spent all of this time struggling over whether he should turn around and run back after Adam, to beg and plead or cajole and force him to stay with them and fight - convince him that they need him. All the while his inner demons - the Monster and the Robot - tugged his thoughts and feelings to and fro, almost paralysing him with uncertainty, torn between action and calculation. It had taken all of his willpower not to lose himself to one of their voices, and the need for his regular medicant was painfully ovverwhelming. He could not stop shaking, nor turn his thoughts from that powerful need. Even now he could hear the Robot's mechanical buzzing, the Monster's growling, intermingling, mixing with his own feelings - they were waiting for him to drop his guard, they were waiting to take away his soul, to thrust it deep down into the inner-space where he was lost and memoryless, trapped in a dream-time until someone else could help him - or control him. No, he could not let that happen, not now, not here -

But he had not expected to be questioned like this, he had not been able to think beyond his profound confusion and despair, for what bothered Man-E most of all was that Adam was He-Man, yet Adam had rejected his alter-ego and left - and without hanks, without recompense... There were so many memories to re-visit and re-asses in this light... so many feelings... now that he knew the truth... and they overwhelmed his weakened mind.

"What are you hiding?"

Man-E was started by Teela's sudden aggression and growled back: "You'd court-marshal me for disobeying you? Why do you care!? He is dead to you!"

Teela's bewildered anger turning into outraged amazement. "But not to the Queen! It is to the Royals that we owe our loyalty!"

"But you were sworn to secrecy!"

"Aye, but I was called to see her and she demanded that I tell her of anything I knew. My oath of loyalty to her is greater than any other. Why keep his life a secret from her? She will find out once this Night is over anyway - we're not going to keep Adam's survival secret forever."

"Unbelievable! Would you break our wedding vows if the Queen demanded it!"

"I would fall on my sword if she commanded it. But enough! There is no time!" She hissed. "What are you hiding!? Manefred! Skeletor's warband is almost at the gates!"

"I hear them-!"

"Then in the name of every good god - where is Adam!? Has he gone to get He-Man?"

Her hopeful question was horrible to his ears. He could not lie to her, even if he had wanted to. Finally he murmured, "I helped him to leave."

Teela's response was fierocious. "What!? Why!? He will die out there! I don't understand you! Have you lost your grip on your mind!?"

Man-E's heart felt smothered and faded. He touched the sadness that hung in his heart and it quenched the rage of the Monster. He croaked, "He-Man will not come now. Adam said so. He wanted to go and be gone."

Teela moved away from her betrothed, her face a mask of confusion and anger. "Get to your post." Then she turned and fled.

With her face aflame with rage and her red hair streaming behind her, Teela had the look of a fiery demon, ablaze with fury - what was Manefred thinking!? Adam was weak and despairing - helping him to leave the City might not only reveal that he was still alive, but it could likely lead him to a bloody death at the hands of the scouts Skeletor would have sent ahead of his warband. And what was Man-E hiding about all of this? He-Man will not come, he said… And what was it they had been discussing before all of this had happened? She tried to recall Manefred's words, his palpable despondency, but she couldn't remember what he was driving at - there was too much to think about as she raced towards one of the last operating sky-sleds.

Even though she was no longer the official Royal Bodyguard to the Prince, she still strongly felt that she had to find Adam and protect him and bring him home to safety - for the Queen's sake at least. But had she questioned her actions further, she would have understood that her feelings did not arise just from her strong sense of duty. Yet - there was no time for reflection - if she were to leave the City to find Adam, she had to assign her duties as Captain of the Guard during the impending crisis.

"Battle Fist!" She called in the frequency of her second-in-command.

"Captain? Radio silence is-"

"You are now Captain in my absence."

"Absence-?"

"Do it!"

"Yes M'Lady!"

Teela threw herself upon the sky-sled, snapped on her safety belt and fired it up – the ancient machine sent her skyward so quickly her body was pushed downwards by the force, her stomach lurching sickeningly, her muscles straining to keep a firm hold of the delicate controls. The menacing gargoyle-like head at the front of the ancient machine cut through the air, a gruesome figure-head to put fear into her enemies, while the engines roared like a battle-cry, before quieting down to a hum no longer audable over the clamour of warriors beneath her. Teela stayed as small and crouched upon the machine as possible - she would soon be seen and draw fire from the warband that was now pouring through the farm-lands towards the City, their amassed weapons glittering in the distant moonslight as they let roar their battle-cries.

Tri-Klops stood on his war-chariot as chief above a throng of brutal barbarians from his tribe. Each of them were clad in studded leather armour, shaggy loin-cloths of fur, strapped with belts and scabbards to lug their crudely serrated swords, their exposed flesh a mass of rippling muscle and criss-crossed scars. They marched to the ominous beating of the drum leading them, bellowing war-cries into the backs of their curved shields, the sound re-bounding, resonating through the Night, a threatening roar of blood-lust, a brutal foreshadowing of the savagery to come.

Above them, Tri-Klops' personal standard fluttered, depicting three eyes that glared down from a stylized circular crown. He turned his bulky body, solid muscles sliding beneath his exposed skin, veins bulging with the throb of his wicked life. He was a giant figure, large and heavy like most of the northerners around him, with a thick, simian face and crushing hands.

But his coarse frame was not poised for battle – instead his head was turned to the Night-sky, one of his three eyes whirring in and out of his helmet, telescopically focusing in on the fleeting form of a sky-sled as it vanished behind the walls. "Teela!" his harsh voice roared - he had seen her.

Fist's frown was solemn as he received Teela's orders. Moments later he saw a sky-sled take-off – it could only be the Captain, for she was one of the few persons with authority to use this machine, one which was almost a sacred object to the people of the City, as were all of the Ancients' creations. Then he mounted his own steed, Stridor, another relic from the forgotten and learned Golden Age of Eternia, and sent out a radio message to each unit leader: "Acting Captain Fist has received command." In response, Tropos, one of the Avionian spotters, radioed back: "Front units of the warband are now in long-bow range!"

Fist called the archers. "Take aim! Ready on Tropos' signal!" He guided Stridor towards the Keep from where he would co-ordinate the defenses. Through-out Eternos the booming, clashing sound of Skeletor's looming army could be heard, as if surrounding them in a closing trap of impending violence. Through his ear-piece he then heard the Avionian shout and each unit captain immediately echo the signal as if with one voice –

Fire!

The radio popped on and hissed in his ear: "Beastman!"

Beastman turned to look over the spears and helmets of the misshapen hybrids around him towards Tri-Klops on the warband's flank, his massive bulk standing rigid upon his chariot. The three-eyed chieften was pointing to a sky-sled vanishing beyond the opposite side of the City walls. Beastman obeyed the signal with a guttural acknowledgment and lunged with surprising speed and agility up and on to the griffon laying before him. The creature had remained folded all this time, cat-like, upon the wagon his mongrels had been straining to pull over the shattered City road.

Beastman landed heavily in the saddle upon its feathered back, and it reared up with a wild bird-like screech, sweeping it's powerful wings down to lift its monstrous body high into the cold Night air. Now beneath him, a hissing storm of arrows from behind the City walls suddenly fell upon the deformed half-men at his command, and upon Skeletor's army around them. Beastman laughed at the carnage, the falling bodies, the sprays of blood and howls of pain from below. Killing was all the same to him - an exhileration, a predator's satisfaction, it did not matter whose flesh was mortally torn.

He hung onto the reins, but his demonic telepathy is what truly controlled the beast. He employed this hellish power once more, to reach out and grasp the will of Harpies that had flocked after the warband, keen to pick at the dead and the dying of the coming battlefield - he drew them behind him, urging them to a braver form of murder, under his command. Beastman grimaced with effort as he hung on to the speeding griffon as it hurtled through the sky, drawing thick lips back over long yellow fangs and letting out a howl of blood-lust as the griffon continued its arc upwards and over the ancient City, only then to plunge down towards the speeding sky-sled flying over a nearby wood. His inhuman eyes glinted with anticipation - he was the faster and the stronger!

Now she had to be fast - if she were spotted landing in the western woods she could lead her enemies straight to where Adam was. Teela wheeled the machine about and flew low, vanishing behind the walls of Eternos, out of sight of the vast warband she had sighted as it rolled towards the City walls from the north, a terrible juggernaut of violence and destruction. Though she did not have the chance to see much, Teela had noticed that the warband was streamlined for speed and power – there were war-machines but nothing, it seemed, was prepared for the usual siege. Hideous creatures writhed among the ranks of humanoid tribal warriors, undead soldiers and chaotic groups of savage, semi-human creatures. Giant beasts and a few glittering machines made up special units among the heaving crowds. Skeletor had planned a full-scale invasion.

This came as a surprise to her - normally, Skeletor's attacks did not aim to crush them, they were not made for a decisive blow, but to erode their strength, eating away at them like a dripping acid or slowly spreading disease. Perhaps, with so many Guards now dead or wounded, their morale low and weapon-stocks depleted, this attack might be the crucial one that would make the fatal break-through.

She shook the thoughts from her mind as her leather boots skimmed the tree tops beneath her, empty branches clawing at and whipping the bottom of her antique vehicle. She could not be seen now, the walls were higher than the top of this wood, but neither would she be able to see Adam below in the darkness. What direction had he taken? It was impossible to know, so instead she followed an instinct that rose up in her and directed her machine towards Castle Greyskull, hoping to head him off.

Adam moved painfully through the wood towards the distant Greyskull, cursing the wounds that slowed him down.

All the while he could hear the warband on the wind and knew the direction it marched from.

If he could only hurry, he could make it to the hill-forests and would not be seen. Then he only need continue through the hills and wasteland beyond to eventually reach Greyskull positioned upon a rock that jutted from within the Great Abyss.

Again he resisted the temptation to transform into He-Man so that he could ride Battle-Cat and shorten the journey time. No, he told himself I cannot do that. As He-Man I would feel more confident and – he could hardly bare to admit to himself - and I would feel the need to turn back… Let me be this weakened coward, let me run – or crawl if I must – to the fate I have chosen for my true self, Adam. For I am not He-Man! I must not let his thoughts, his will conquer what remains of my own!

And so Adam and Cringer limped onwards towards where the abandoned farmlands met the hills and forests, hugging the dark cover of the decimated woodland along the way, leaving behind the City of Eternos as the first hail of arrows struck the foul legions of Skeletor.

Adam was alive!

The thought continued to sing in Orko's breast and he trembled with the effort of controlling his joy. Having seen Man-E taking Cringer to Adam he had understood Man-E's words and now – now he could barely contain himself, continually resisting the urge to fly over to his friend and fling his arms around his blond head - but he couldn't, that would give his secret away.

Nervously, Orko suppressed a titter as he drifted after Adam, through the wood. He's moving so slowly! he thought. He's hurt! What can I do? Those monsters on the other side of the City – what if they slither and slink around here and see him? Oh gods, I can't even let Adam see me, can I? Or can I? Can't I? Orko tugged nervously at his scarf, ducking behind a tree when he saw Adam turn about, to look cautiously through the dark wood. Perhaps Adam had sensed that he was being followed?

Then Orko gulped when he heard the whining engine of the sky-sled overhead – Adam had heard it coming first and had remained turned to look up to the Night sky for it. Orko also scanned beyond the twisted, empty branches above them. Was it one of Skeletor's scouts? Did he have a few sky-sleds of his own left? Orko trembled: Now's the time to help Adam! They can't be allowed see him out here like this, they'll mow him down! Lucky I followed him... Time for some magic!

The little creature shook with fear as he drew upon his psychic resources. "It has to work right this time, it has to!" he whispered, and turned and focused his thoughts and his will upon the abdicated Prince, hiding with Cringer in the shadows. Magical energies concentrated in the veins and arteries of his being, his heart thudded hard and his throat tightened as the magical power took on the form of Orko's desires, made manifest by words, carried by the rush of living blood:

"Magic of mine aid us for this fight!
Make Prince Adam disappear from sight!
Covered in a cloak as white as light – uh! I mean black as night!
Black as night!"

Adam turned and drew his sword as he felt the hot and tingling blanket of energy envelop his skin - some-one else had been hiding in the wood! – but the spell had taken effect and it was too late to deflect. Cringer yowled as Adam burst into a halo of burning white light, piercing the Night, a clear beacon to his enemies.

Just above the trees, Teela saw the sudden flash and a white, sustained glow beneath her.

And behind her, Beastman drove the griffon closer, the monster flexing its' claws as it fixed the warrior-woman in its' stare.

War of Attrition: VII - The Aerie

The brief passage of opportunity that marked the Night of Bethinking had ended last night - the moons and stars were no longer properly aligned, the ritual had been finished. Evil-Lyn had rested during the light hours and then, this night, she followed her new orders.

What memories, what remembrances that Evil-Lyn had no use for were now expunged, forgotten forever... Evil-Lyn no longer recalled the look of pain and horror on the faces of the peasant families as she had swept through their arid southern villages to kidnap the first born of each farm-stead - what use was there in remembering their weakness? Only the success of the following hecatomb had mattered... So too the failure to control the daemon Azagtet - the terrifying and humiliating consequences of that failure, the sense of violation and defeat - that too was now, thankfully, gone. Why allow such a memory to plague her, to eat away at her confidence and sanity? Also gone was the remembrance of endless days spent lost in the equatorial jungle, searching for the Lost City and its mythical libraries of thin gold sheets engraved with ancient knowledge - a futile waste of time. These memories and others like them could no longer be known by Evil-Lyn except through the records she kept, like her journal, her horoscopes and her research notes.

And, this next night, her mind felt lighter, faster, and less muddied with the daily details of the last ten years. Refreshed and re-invigorated, Evil-Lyn had flown from Snake-Mountain on one of Beastman's reptilian wyverns to reach her secret aerie. The Aerie was an old Torg bunker that she had made her own, carefully fortified and hidden by brush and illusions, located atop the highest hill in the foot-hills, not far from the bottomless Great Abyss.

The Aerie was her observational post for the coming battle. From its heights, Evil-Lyn could see Castle Greyskull and far beyond the forest below the hills she could also espy Eternos on the fertile plains, held up high upon a sturdy hill-top. Greyskull itself sat upon a shelf of rock that jutted from the cliff-side of the fathomless crevasse that was the Great Abyss. The organic architecture of the Castle squatted ominously, as if it were ready to stir, to unfold and spring forward - this hulking and decayed monstrosity that defied all invaders!

The direct visual connection to each location would now empower her scrying magics, making it easier for her to follow the fortunes of the warhost sent by Skeletor. From here, she would follow the development of his plan - a plan that only in recent times had she understood. To Evil-Lyn, Skeletor's obsession with the barbarian tribe of Eternos had seemed like a symptom of madness - it was not clear why he wanted to destroy this particular people. At first she thought it was for the prestige - to be the overlord of all of the Eternian kings that paid fealty to Randor. But it became clear to her that humanoid politics did not matter to Skeletor - he was not interested in temporal power nor the ruling of the herd-like masses of stupid peasants that scratched an existence from the dirt.

The old witch threw a look at herself in a mirror as if looking to the face of another for reassurance. The aged mirror hung near her large bed where she sometimes slept during the days. This mirror was one of the few feminine accouterments she had kept all these years, and she found its handsome frame still pleasing. Inside the looking glass was a face so familiar she no longer really needed the mirror - it was a face that had not changed for a long, long time, a face that disguised the wizened and distorted features of a woman who would continue to live and age but never die through natural means. Such were the blessings of the Olden God. But why keep such a beautiful mask in the forlorn Aerie? Was it not so that she might manipulate the pathetic humanoids around her, who lusted after her cold and fiercesome beauty, her youthful and lithe body? Beauty and youth which did not exist!

Evil-Lyn smiled a reptilian smile into the looking-glass and found it amazing that the features she now found boring still enchanted the mortals that eked out their primitive existences around her. Yes - it pleased her to fool the lecherous filth that sought to possess her. Men were disgusting no matter what century or world one lived in! She reserved special revenges for those that she had needed to lure into the silken bed that squatted beside the mirror - for seduction and murder were a witches occupations, and these acts could empower wicked spells and rituals. She had no other reason to be close to any man or woman. Evil-Lyn found other people nothing but repulsive and crude.

She returned to her preparations and ruminations over Skeletor's motives. Evil-Lyn had once figured that the City itself was his aim. Eternos was ancient, built to withstand lasercannon, plasma blasts, bombs and age - hence the name, which meant "Eternal City". It was no wonder that the primitive humans that had made their home there and plundered the City's technological treasures, have not been defeated.

At first, Evil-Lyn had thought that it was this mighty citadel alone that attracted Skeletor - perhaps he had decided it would make a good base for offensives against the nearby Greyskull. But during this night, before she had left for the Aerie, she had discovered what she thought to be the truth: in reviewing her maps of the underground labyrinth between Greyskull and Snake Mountain, Evil-Lyn had made a surprise connection. The subterranean world of tunnels and basements that lay carved beneath these lands might well extend beyond these locations, though no route had yet been found. Could it not be that some secret and forgotten tunnel might lead from beneath Eternos to Greyskull? And wouldn't this explain the special patronage of the Sorceress towards that tribe? There was nothing special about these particular humans - they were just as brutal, greedy, and ignorant as any other humanoid tribe. They probably had no idea that Eternos might well sit upon a weak point in the defenses of Greyskull.

Why else would Skeletor bombard, batter, and harry this venerable City - though it may be built by the illuminated minds of an extinct race of technomantic experts? Why else would the Sorceress and He-Man lend their aid to Randor, even when Greyskull did not appear to be at stake? If she was right, the path of Serpentos may be nothing but an elaborate distraction, designed to fool any aggressor who held power in the ancient court of Snake Mountain - a mere story designed to keep invaders looking for the elusive path to Greyskull from the wrong direction! The very thought enraged her - she had still kept memories of that labyrinth - yet perhaps it was just a clever ploy, likely created by the Ancient architects of Greyskull themselves. It would not be the first myth that was nothing more than an old and elaborate lie!

She felt her anger and frustration begin to overwhelm her, to move her to violent impulses. Evil-Lyn immediately began to practice the techniques of control that had proven so necessary in her life-time. Her hot and vicious temper had almost brought her to her death in the past, so she had long ago learned how to remain cool and aloof - whatever the provocation - when she chose to.

It took a short time to clear her mind and still the angry hammer of her heart. Now she could prepare her scrying pool to observe the location of the warband marching from the north; within the next hour this battle-host would be upon Eternos to spill more futile blood and ichor against its implacable walls.

Noticing the sensation as she moved, Evil-Lyn brushed clinging wyvern scales from her thighs and boots - she found any sort of flesh repulsive - and glided over with uncanny grace towards her scrying pool, centrally located in the low-ceilinged main-chamber. The pool was empty, as it should be. Beside the pool was a clean jug of fresh water she had drawn from the spring that bubbled up from a well within her small fortress. She poured the clear and pure water into the pool, filling it. For a moment, the cyphers carved around the lip of the small stone pool glittered, holding fluid magical energy just as the pool held the water: the ritual had commenced!. The same magical energies flowed with her blood through her body, quickening her heart-beat and filling her mind, giving a real shape and presence to her hidden thoughts, forming them into pseudo-objects that had their own form of eldritch causality. The witch began her incantation:

"Oracular powers of sight and seeing
Open this eye! Reflect what is seeming
Turn your gaze herein and here-out
Lend clear vision without any doubt

Let fly these eyes, o'er sea and land, o'er skies
Be broad this visual, take in usual and unusual
Be narrow this stare, a laser-light that shows me where
What is here and what is there, let mine eyes penetrate any lair
Any castle, any keep, any house and all I seek
There is no hiding from these eyes, no place and no disguise
This vision will grant me all I need for my design!"

Control!

- control is the aim of any sorcerer, control of cosmic energies and of the individual will. Without will, one could be consumed by the forces one tried to manipulate. Evil-Lyn focalized - into the rippling waters fell potent herbs of purification, followed by dried and powdered eagle eyes and tiny shards taken from a single mirror. As these components plopped into the pool she made signs in the air over the disturbed surface, watching the ripples for significant patterns or any hint of interference. Then with her Orb staff she mixed the brew and the cyphers carved around the pool flashed once more. She then intoned arcane words of an alien tongue drawn from a memorised grimoire written in the Golden Age as she passed her hand over the waters three times... In doing so the witch felt a sense of some space, some place, opening, widening, manifesting as a visualisation that shimmered like dry ice above the surface of the pool, as thin as parchment.

The opaque, gaseous vision settled, floating downward, and the water seemed to absorb the ghostly image, becoming one with it. The liquid now was flat and glassy, not a ripple disturbed its surface. Upon it, the dreadful visage of a fleshless skull, hooded by darkness, drifted upon the water, becoming increasingly clear. Then, breaking the stillness of the circle of water, the fleshless face began to emerge three-dimensionally, growing out of the metallic surface of the water until a liquid figure stood, ripples cascading down it's muscular form as if a thin sheet of water continually bathed the shape from head to toe.

"Skeletor!" Evil-Lyn exclaimed in surprise at the vision standing incongruously before her.

Her master spoke, his jaw unmoving. From the empty sockets and cavernous mouth, more water seemed to pour. "Evil-Lyn! This night you observe the battle - and no ordinary battle. It is time that you understand what is at stake."

Was he going to admit to her what she had already discovered herself? Would Skeletor tell her the truth about Eternos?

"Tonight, I expect He-Man to have been vanquished, for He-Man is not a real man at all. He-Man is a daemon of Castle Greyskull, an embodiment of its Power!". Skeletor paused to allow this understanding to sink in. Evil-Lyn had not expected to learn of this! A daemon? Could it be true that He-Man was a spirit? Her master continued: "He-Man is summoned to possess the body of the wielder of the Sword of Power - this is why that great warrior is so elusive! This is why our scryings failed to find him. I do not know how this daemon came to be, nor how the Sorceress was able to bind such a force, but I have suspected for sometime that the weakling Prince Adam is the vassal of this daemon and the barer of the mystic Sword of Power that summons He-Man! He is the true defender of the secrets of Castle Greyskull."

"How did you reveal such a secret!?"

"It is enough to say that my own Sword, taken from Greyskull, held the key."

"And it is the Prince that you have had destroyed tonight?"

"Yes Evil-Lyn. I have been destroying the Prince for years... Suspecting his part in this, I knew that no human, no matter how strong, could survive in the face of all the cruel trials and torments I can muster. Yes, I have watched the Prince more closely than any other, watched him slowly falter, weaken, and despair, observed the connections between his failing and my own attacks. I have watched a human mind crushed under the weight of inhuman experience, just as is to be expected. This blade of mine is the source of my patience! And of my own bodily eternity. And now my army will show me if I am indeed right. If He-Man fails to come to the aid of the City, I can be sure that Adam's death was well calculated. Then it will only be a matter of time before I can enter Greyskull."

So - He-Man was not even human! If it were true that Adam were possessed by this power, did that not mean that someone else in possession of the Sword could find a way to summon He-Man themselves, and use that power?

"But what of the Sorceress? Even without He-Man she is formidable!"

Energy blazed deep inside Skeletor's empty eyes, like a flash of highly-polished iron or two immolated stars collapsing into voids. Then he laughed a mocking, scornful laugh: "You have watched the stars and the planets carefully Evil-Lyn, but for the wrong reasons. Instead of looking for weakness in our enemies, you concerned yourself with your own! You may have undertaken your own ritual with success, but there is a greater cosmic change at hand..."

Evil-Lyn's mind raced to understand, not willing to be ignorant. The last time Skeletor spoke of a cosmic change was after the Triumvirate had destroyed Zodac. Skeletor, King Hiss, and Hordak had finally forged an alliance which brought them to the gates of Greyskull. It was only Zodac's intervention which had allowed He-Man and the Sorceress to fling them back, but it had been at the cost of Zodac's existence. The Triumvirate did not last beyond the defeat, but Skeletor had been consoled that the Cosmic Balance no longer had an Enforcer - since then Skeletor could rely on there being no interference from beyond Eternia if he were to attack Greyskull again.

The witch shook her head and lowered her eyes. "I have not seen the signs..."

Skeletor snarled in response: "You have other concerns! Ha! Be assured that the Sorceress is weak on this Night. There is reason why I have waited this long to force the Eternian tribes together under my banner and then move to kill the Prince..."

Skeletor's empty sockets seemed to bore into her very soul as the implications unfolded in Evil-Lyn's mind. When she turned her eyes back upon the dread figure standing in the pool, the fleshless face did not move. Manifested through the scrying waters, his presence was spectral, unholy and elemental. Like a force of nature he stood, seemingly indomitable and unmovable, without human feeling, but with much inhuman ambition. Before her was the nemesis of her enemies and the only creature that could help to liberate her. Skeletor continued to direct his empty face at Evil-Lyn until she felt weak at heart and cowed before his malignant presence. Averting her eyes and head in submission, she shuddered as she felt the terrible weight of Skeletor's inscrutable stare upon her.

War of Attrition: VIII - Recantations (part1)

Adam burned bright with Orko's magic, enveloped in the brilliance of a source-less spotlight as Teela sped over him and the trees above. She didn't know how this had suddenly happened, nor was she entirely sure that the source of the light was Adam, but it seemed to her that Adam could be under attack or at least close to danger. The light, so suddenly blazing, was so bright it could probably be seen for miles, even though Adam was deep inside the leafless wood. She banked the sky-sled hard to her left to describe a tight circle that took her back towards Adam's position, making ready to fire.

The maneouver took her in an arc that was higher than the City wall just beyond the wood and so she glanced north, to the direction of the warband's approach. From that seething mass of warriors and weapons, she saw that three winged creatures had broken from their ranks and were speeding towards her - she was surprised to see how close they already were. She'd have to rid herself of them before making a landing, otherwise she and Adam would be vulnerable to their aerial attack. Teela flew the sky-sled around in another tight arc as if to flee, but it was a move designed to confuse the enemy and allow them to close in on her. Teela brought the sled around full circle – the beasts were closer now, thrust forward on long feathered wings, their grotesquely humanoid bodies dangled naked and outstretched as if they were ready to embrace her – she recognised them as harpies.

Teela took aim as they closed in, pointing the single blaster that jutted from beneath the ugly and snarling metal head of the frontispiece. Bolts of burning energy found their mark, sending one harpy tumbling out of the sky with a wing shorn away, while another took a direct hit and exploded in a mess of flesh and bone, burning up and snapping branches as it hit the tree-tops. Teela pulled the sled up to a stop and sat upon it as it hovered above the wood, bare branches beneath her scraping at the metal. The third harpy had avoided the blasts and took a steep dive towards her out of the blaster's range, the daggers in its hands glinting in the moons-light. Teela adjusted the controls, dropping the sled into the uppermost branches below while drawing her sword. The harpy fell towards Teela at the wrong angle now, putting it at a disadvantage as Teela's upraised sword swung to slice open one of the creatures thighs, sending a sudden jet of arterial blood through the air. Teela turned to watch the creature attempt to turn and fly higher, but it was bleeding profusely and weakened within moments, falling upon a tree, wailing as it bled to death.

Beastman clung to the griffon with clawed, brutish hands, growling deep in his chest as he directed the monster to remain above and behind Teela, so as to wheel around as she changed direction and stopped to hover... then they fell into a dive towards her. As Beastman guided his steed, he summoned the birds and bats of the trees in the wood below. With a sudden, angry shrieking and trilling, these winged animals awoke and took to the air in a noise-some swarm.

As Teela swung back round to sheath her bloodied sword and sit down, she saw movement against torch-light from the walls – it was a Guard on the parapet, some distance away. The Guard was waving frantically – a warning. Suddenly, birds by the dozen burst up from their roosts below and about her, crowding around, crowing, flapping and screaming...

Beastman roared with bloodlust as Teela, buffeted by the sudden cloud of bats and birds, drew closer to the outstretched claws of the griffon. But at this final moment, Teela - aware of the Guards warning - spotted the danger overhead, and so she leapt from the hovering sky-sled and fell into the tree below.

This move sent her falling into the slapping and scratching branches of the trees. As she fell, she was caught just under her ribs against a branch. She bounced off, bared twigs cutting all over her skin, the lower branches beneath her flexing or snapping as they absorbed her fall. Tumbling like this, her fall was slowed, but she was twisted and disoriented without any hope of controlling her landing - she hit the ground hard, and lay winded and vulnerable.

Behind her, the griffon's claws smashed against the sky-sled, sending it crashing into the tree, shattering more branches and send wooden debris down upon the prone Teela. The sky-sled itself barely missed her, crunching upon the ground on its' side. Beastman willed the griffon into an awkward landing on its back feline claws and front eagle's talons while it's baulk crashed through the same foliage Teela had fallen through. Having landed, the monster folded its great wings and prowled towards Teela, it's purple tongue pointing from between it's long, sharp beak. The Captain lay crumpled on the cold earth not far away, while running towards to her was a brightly glowing figure. Above the trees, a swarm of enraged birds and bats gathered, shrieking and colliding frenziedly into each other.

Adam heard rather than saw the sky-sled overhead, moments after the bright light consumed him. He could barely see beyond the magic blaze that shone about him - it was like holding a lantern aloft in a dark room, the light being too close to see by. Cringer was whimpering as they heard the shrieks of the harpies overhead and then the sudden cry of some great flying monster mingled with a heavy sounding impact in a tree close to Adam. A series of sounds like a fall crashed through the branches of the tree which shook and waved violently. Still mostly blind, Adam made to move towards the sound, hearing a great swooping noise whooshing from above, while a gathering of wings flapped higher in the other direction, clouding together to make a cacophony of noise.

"Adam! Be careful!" It was Orko, his small shape in the dark drifted ghost-like beyond the bubble of light, only to suddenly vanish out of sight when, between Adam and Teela's prone form, a looming feathered beast strode, it's head long and sleek, ending in a viciously curved beak, it's winged folded back around a bulky, red-furred rider. A moment too late, Orko had finished muttering another spell, and suddenly the blazing glow around Adam was gone. Now Adam could be seen, standing clearly before the hybrid bird-cat and its savage rider.

For a moment, Beastman wasn't sure of who he saw. "You!?" his guttural voice snarled, heavy-lidded eyes wide, their human appearance belied by the surprised gape of his fanged jaws. Then he slavered excitedly, "Prince Adam! Out here, alone with the Captain!" One of his large, lumpen hands let go of the rigid feathers on the griffon's neck as he laughed. But the griffon was not so taken-aback and it's head twitched in Teela's direction as she edged away from her spot upon the floor. Beastman noticed the motion. "Be still!" he bellowed, his laughter cut short, while the beast raised a dagger-sized claw above her. In a second she could be dead. Above them, the birds continued to shriek and distant battle-cries could be heard. Very soon, Skeletor's warband would be moving to encircle the City. The wood would soon be filled with marauders and their warmachines.

Orko shivered behind a nearby tree, staring at the scene in the clearing among the dark trees, the unnatural swarm of flying animals whistling maniacally overhead. Cringer cowered behind Adam's legs, while Adam stared blankly at the rider upon the heavily breathing griffon. To Beastman, Adam looked like he was ready to fall over dead from exhaustion. He chuckled, "Weakling…!" His eyes glittered sadistically, savouring the moment, mirrored by the glint of the multi-pointed star pendant upon his chest, the daemon-sigil that represented the lawless, unpredictable Wild.

Poised above the helpless Teela were the griffon's curved claws, ready to slice down and tear her open. Orko gaped in horror at the scene. Adam can't transform in this situation, it would give away his secret! – so it's up to me to do something. But could Orko dare to cast another spell to give Adam time? His thoughts were racing, what if he made another mistake?

There is no time. Adam stared at the gloating servant of Skeletor. This hunched and rippling goliath was one of the worst of Skeletor's slaves, being some sort of human-animal composite, purportedly created by Skeletor himself and completely devoted to his will. The Sorceress believed that Beastman was possessed of a daemon that enabled his mastery of animals, but regardless of the truth, Beastman was responsible for some of the most bestial and inhuman atrocities against the people of Eternia; he was a rapacious predator for whom the only right was might, who glorified in torture and waste. Adam knew that upon the back of the griffon crouched a killer who would now no longer hesitate to slay his old enemy Teela, and then him. Why would there be any mercy? He was already supposed to have been assassinated, and Beastman's surprise had given that fact away.

"I submit!" Adam cried out weakly to the red-daemon. Teela looked up as Adam reached back to his sword. "No Adam!" she choked.

Beastman roared to silence her as Adam slowly held up his Sword, as if he were giving it up.

Adam looked up as he stretched his sword-arm high. Above him the Night sky was framed by the waving fingers of Autumnal trees. A heaving swarm of wings danced above the tree-tops, while pin-points of star-light flickered momentarily between the speeding bodies of the bats and birds. He drew breath, holding aloft his magic Sword and said…

"By the Power of Greyskull!"

The elegant short-sword in Adam's hand appeared to distort, the dark air around it wavering as if hot. Teela stared at Adam, his broken-down figure bound in a burnt monk's robe while bandages hung around his hands and face, covering parts of his scorched hair. For that single second, he looked small, grim, and fragile.

Then – a sudden blast of light filled the area only to vanish as a golden bolt of energy fell from the sky in a jagged-line towards the point of the Sword. For a moment, stroboscopic flashes ripped around Adam's figure, momentarily blinding the on-lookers. The blaze of burning golden energy tore down the sword and it glowed as if white-hot. Adam's face distorted, his mouth open, as if in a scream - yet no sound but a mighty thunder could be heard, rolling endlessly over and over, an avalanche of pounding noise. Adam's weak body all of a sudden jolted and thrashed, he seemed to struggle to hold high the incandescent Sword and keep his footing. Though he managed to keep his sword arm straight, the rest of his body was tossed and shaken about, his feet scrambling for purchase on the ground. He had every appearance of being electrocuted or suffering a violent seizure. In horror at this sight, Teela screamed soundlessly – it was as if Adam were about to be torn apart by some terrible magic. Then without warning, a nimbus of cold blue light arced in a pattern within the golden flame that blazed an aura around Adam's tortured body. The thin prick of blue light raced over Adam's flesh, needling him in a thousand places and forcing his body to expand and grow into a powerfully muscular form; broad, heavy, and bursting with colossal tension. Around the growing, hulking body was strapped a small breast-plate baring a scarlet, square cross that glowed a volcanic red throughout the transformation.

He-Man stood before them as he lowered the glowing sword to take a hold of it horizontally across his titanic chest. Then he bellowed:

"I – have – The Power!"

He-Man's deep voice boomed at one with the thunderous rolling that echoed all around. Curtains of incandescent energy fell in layers around He-Man's giant figure - and to Teela's eyes, these glaring ribbons of energy momentarily formed in the image of Greyskull, looming silently behind He-Man.

He let go of his sword and pointed it at Cringer, who was shaking pitifully. A blast of curling light threw the cat up onto its hind legs, but rather than toppling him over, Cringer's legs and body magnified into powerful proportions. The green and yellow striped body of the beast whipped back to tear at the ground with its iron claws. Battle-Cat threw back his head and roared monstrously – amidst the pouring columns of smoke and fire, heavy armour materialized upon the Cat's body and head, while intense electric flashing consumed He-Man and Cat until it suddenly flickered and faded back into the darkness of the moons-light…

The transformation was over within seconds, though for Teela and Beastman, they had been immersed in a timeless moment of awesome potency and terrifying majesty. Just before Adam began the transformation, Orko had turned, but for a moment, to float to a better vantage point while summoning his own magic. For those few seconds, trees and heavy brush obscured his sight. He had seen Adam draw his Sword and then, a few seconds later, when he could next see the confrontation, it was He-Man and Battle Cat that stood facing the griffon. Orko knew that unless you could directly see the transformation with your own eyes, nothing of the climactic spell would be seen, heard, nor otherwise perceived. There was never any sign, from any other perspective or any kind of instrument, that could reveal the change – it was a mystery of that magic that he and Adam had discovered early - you had to stand before Adam to see it happen. Knowing this, Orko was stunned – for Teela and Beastman must now know the truth.

He-Man did not waste a moment, using the stunning display of power to his advantage against the reeling Beastman and his griffon. He urged Battle Cat into a high leap - up and at the griffon. With a roar, Cat thrust forward and pounced over the shoulder of the winged monster, his heavy paws thudding against the mounted Beastman who fell back from the blow, with Cat falling with him, his great claws digging into thick red fur. He-Man leapt from Battle Cat to land upon the griffon's saddle as Cat dismounted Beastman and took him overboard to the ground. Battle Cat landed behind the griffon, with Beastman smacked down and pinned, winded and dazed, beneath Cat. He-Man grasped the griffon's feathery neck and gave it a painful tug around the throat. The monster, no longer controlled by the punch-drunk Beastman, let out an enrage shriek and took to the air, leaving Teela, Beastman and Cat smothered in a sudden blast of dust, dead-leaves and shattered branches.

He-Man turned as the beast took them higher and above the trees. Flying about in crazy abandon were bats and birds – some of them smacked against the side of the griffon and tumbled earth-wards, broken. From this rapidly rising vantage point, He-Man saw beyond the wood and the City itself, a vast warband on the opposite side, spilling around the City walls like a black stain upon the land. He-Man tore more huge handfuls of feather's from the griffon's throat to further goad and scare it into fleeing, then he let the enrage beast fly away as he dropped from its back towards the ground where he was needed.

He rolled as he hit the packed earth and bounded up again - He-Man had landed within earshot of Cat and Teela, but closer to the first wave of scouts who had rounded the City wall. Under the moons light he could see groups of them coming towards him, using the trees as cover to blur their approach as they crashed through the undergrowth, snarling and crying oaths and curses - they had seen him. He-Man lifted up his free arm and cried: "For Greyskull!" In that moment lightening flashed upon his arm, coalescing into glinting metal - his arm now bore his round shield and held his battle-ax, still flecked with sparks of magic.

The enemy were upon him, but He-Man was faster, better. Using their impetus against them, he swept over the first group, ducking their charge and pummeling at their backs as they rushed by him, or he swept at their feet with the edge of his shield. Then he rose and brought his ax to bear upon the legs of his assailants, cleaving them off in effortless strokes, sending gouts of blood over the quiet vegetation as the enemy fell, mutilated and screaming, but still alive. His sword smashed other weapons as it struck them, disarmed or came down hard, the flat of the blade breaking arms, crushing ribs, while the shield struck faces and pounded the charging warriors of Skeletor as they rushed and parted around him - a wave against a solid breaker.

He-Man moved with the dynamism of a dancer - despite his great heft he was fast on his feet, spinning and turning this way and that, diving and rolling, leaping and twisting as he rounded, chopped and thrust his weapons. The kinetic display of energy alone was awesome to behold and when backed with his brute strength, none could land a single blow. Eventually, none dared to try. Broken and impotent bodies clutched their crushed arms or their shattered faces, screaming and lolling at He-Man's feet, upon the soggy ground now soaking up blood. He-Man paused to survey the scene, his broad chest heaving up and down, sweat rolling down his bared, vein-riddled skin, picking up the spattered blood of the enemy upon his skin and pooling in dark clots upon the thick fur of his loin-cloth.

He-Man's every blow was well aimed and controlled, for it was not his martial power that gave him such skill, but his martial control and exactitude, his ability to land a blow with just the right force and in the right place - despite the turmoil of combat - to create maximum damage without endangering the lives of those he fought. And so the vanquished now lay about him in great pain, but they would all live if their wounds were not aggravated by further fighting or neglect. Yet more warriors came, but upon seeing He-Man and the litter of mangled bodies around him, they fled.

With the immediate danger passed, the battle-ax and shield collapsed into smoky outlines and faded away while he sheathed his blade. With a yell of effort, He-Man turned and bounded at speed towards the cacophony of twittering and yelling coming from deeper inside the wood.

A cloud of frenzied birds, some of them large and predatory with cruel beaks and talons, were launching themselves with suicidal violence into Cat's flanks, or they swarmed around his face, pecking and clawing. Scattered about the clearing were shredded bird bodies and bloodied feathers. Blood poured from multiples wounds across Cat's powerful body. Beastman was gone and could be heard crashing through the trees, gibbering with terrified abandon. He-Man leapt towards Teela's writhing form, covered in flapping wings, her cries lost among the insane squawks of the birds driven to this destructive aggression by Beastman's will. She was almost lost among the flurry of feather's and snapping beaks, but no sooner had He-Man arrived did the birds suddenly take wing, like a flock startled by a noisy approach. Those that were not crushed and broken – flapping and twitching upon the grass, twittering sadly – were all gone back into the sky or into their roosts, freed from Beastman's daemonic control.

"Is she ok!?" It was Orko, his shrill voice quivering with fear as he glided over. He-Man carefully lifted Teela up, glancing at Battle Cat who slunk towards them, as if ashamed that mere birds had foiled him. A long rivulet of blood flowed from a ghastly gouge where one of Cat's eyes had been, but other than that, the wounds across his muscular frame and under the thick green fur were superficial. He-Man came to the same conclusion about Teela, though unlike Cat, she could not transform into a previous, unharmed, form like he and Cat could.

"Aye warrior-woman," he said as he tended to her, "your wounds will need attention." He listened to Teela wheeze – she was trying to speak. "I think you've bruised your ribs," he continued. Teela gritted her teeth and shook her head with frustration. "You-", she gasped. "You-!"

But He-Man interrupted. "From the way you're holding your wrist I'd wager that were sprained too." He-Man carried her to Battle-Cat. "Listen Orko, can you hear the Guards?"

Orko pricked up a long and shriveled blue ear. "Yes! From the City Wall over there, just through the wood."

"Aye, we're not far from the side-gate I left through. It'll be barred now, but our fight certainly drew attention. Float up above the trees and signal to the Guards – we need to get Teela inside the walls before this wood starts crawling with the enemy – there's sure to be more any moment now."

Orko repeatedly agreed as he drifted upwards. "Oh gods, I hear them coming!" he hissed, but Battle Cat was already crashing through the undergrowth towards the City, He-Man astride him while gently holding Teela against his broad chest.

"Who goes there!?"

"It's me! The royal jester!" Orko yelped up at the Guard on the parapet as he sped over the tree-tops and upward toward the wall. Below him the wood suddenly vanished and turned to mud and smashed trees. Much of it had been cut down or burnt during the battles that raged against the City wall. It was a small miracle that there was any of the wood left. "It's me, Orko! I'm with He-Man, he has Teela, and she's wounded!" Orko drew level to the parapet, watching the Guards hurriedly making preparations to receive their Captain.

The wood thinned suddenly as Cat raced over stumps and trenches, carrying Teela and He-Man. Teela had been struggling for words, looking up from He-Man's chest to his wide jaw above her. His straggling blond hair whipped about her face and each thrusting bound of Cat's pushed more breathless pain into her ribs. He-Man felt her scrabbling against him with some urgency. "A-Adam!" she gasped and he looked down to see her, wondering what expression he might see. It was no longer a secret – He-Man was Adam.

"Aye", he replied, his deep blue eyes arrested by hers. Teela's eyes quivered and ran tears, her face a pained mask of confusion, regret – and, most terrible of all, hope.

Again she tried to speak, but the pain and jolting stole her voice. Her thoughts returned again and again to this latest revelation. It makes sense now, of course! Adam the coward, the weakling! These epithets were nothing but a disguise – and what a painful, shameful and unjust disguise! I have treated my great friend with such contempt - and hatred! Oh my misery! My friend, my student and my charge – he is He-Man! How can all of this be undone! Teela wept in He-Man's arms, her tears bitter and agonized. Each jarring shake sent jolts of pain through her chest and arm. All over she could feel the sticky mess of blood as it hardened over the slashes on her skin.

"A-Ah-Adam," she tried again, "I-I'm s-so-sor-ry…" Grief and terrible regret overwhelmed her and she began to shake with broken, wheezing sobs. Questions crowded her thoughts – why had He-Man not come to them of late? What could Adam explain to her now that she knew the truth? And why had he not told her!?

He-Man was looking down at her, the moons-light over-head blazing their eerie glows across his hard, expressionless features. But his eyes were two small points of compassion – they seemed to dance with the tension of grief that sent them suddenly fluttering, squeezing shut. Then rolling, heavy tears slid down He-Man's granite-chiseled face, landing in wet drops in Teela's hair, salty on her lips, stinging her grazes, wetting her own face, mingling with her own weeping.

He-Man shook his head just once, as if to deny or refuse something, while his face crumbled and cracked with sorrow. I laboured so many years to avoid inflicting this grief and now, at the end, I was forced to expose myself... Deep down I have given new life to the dying hope in her – must I now kill that new hope?

Alarmed at his tears, Teela reached a bloody hand up to He-Man's wet cheek. Gently, she rested it there and took hold of his chin so that the jolting ride would not throw off her touch. She tried to ask – what is it that could make He-Man cry? - but the pain stole her breath again.

The Guard were lugging a roll of rope ladder just as He-Man reached the bottom of the wall, exposed on the muddy ground beyond the blasted remains of the wood they had left. Teela lay curled against him, her hand clinging to his face, her eyes fixed upon his, trying to compel He-Man to speak. Orko floated downward to make a positive gesture of encouragement and He-Man looked up as he felt Cat stop.

"They're ready!" the jester yelped.

He-Man nodded at Orko in thanks and could see the Guard on the parapet. He over-heard them saying his name, their voices hopeful and awed. The rope-ladder dropped beside them and He-Man took hold while one arm cradled Teela. Using his free arm and legs, He-Man climbed the ladder at speed. Orko, drifting alongside, suddenly squealed, "He-Man! Down below!" There, down at the bottom of the wall, He-Man could see groups of Orcs and men racing over the mud and blasted tree stumps to reach them. On the ground, Cat's haunches raised and he roared in their direction. But the Guards had also seen the enemy, and began to pelt them with rocks that sat heavily upon the parapet, or take aim with their crossbows. At the top, He-Man carefully handed Teela over – but she clung to him.

"H-He-Man!" Her urgent tone demanded patience from him, but he could not remain a target standing atop the wrong side of the wall. For a moment, he looked at her uncertainly, but then drew away her arms around him and was gone, falling back down the wall towards where Cat was waiting in the mud.

No. I cannot let He-Man do this! Adam's thoughts burst into He-Man's consciousness like a scream. I will not stay here. Teela is safe now, and I can go on. For I am now revealed - now there is yet more reason to leave.

He-Man leapt upon Battle Cat, splashing the dark mud around, and rode him towards Skeletor's charging vanguard. A group of head-hunting cannibals stood their ground and brought their spears to bear upon He-Man's steed. But Cat was no warhorse - he leapt high over the lethal points, landing heavily upon the warriors. Those who escaped broken bones met with Cat's slashing fangs and pulverising jaw - for Cat did not have the same qualms about killing that He-Man did. In his saddle, He-Man turned to land flat-bladed blows upon the arms of his enemies, crushing them. A group of auxiliaries, a curious mixture of Snakemen and Torgs, turned and fled, despite the punishments Skeletor was known to mete out upon cowards.

He-Man continued to move away from the City, back into the wood, scattering the warriors before him, slicing arrows from the air in a blur of cutting and chopping. A massively muscular Ogre, his face horribly burnt, lunged with drunken bravado towards He-Man, swinging a heavy club at his chest. He-Man cut the club in two with his Sword as Cat suddenly changed direction, moving from a run into a sudden leap, taking them behind the Ogre. With his free arm He-Man swung out at the Ogre and landed a heavy blow upon its back, throwing it down upon the mud, paralysed. Cat turned again and took up his run. None dared to block their path as the ravening Battle Cat bore down upon them.

They were now deep into the woods again, the sounds of the skirmishers being beaten back by the Guard could be hear through the trees, made distorted and horrible as the battled resounded around the area.

"Onward to Greyskull!" He-Man called into Cat's ear as they moved deeper into the wood.

"What!?" It was Orko again, hovering down toward them. "Can't you see that battle is now joined! And the Captain is down! He-Man, Skeletor's army is huge!"

"Orko!" He-Man turned with surprise to the little alien, who flew beside them as fast as he could. "I'm sorry friend. I'm…" he paused. "Orko," he began in a gentler tone, "if you hadn't been here..."

"None of this would have happened! I know! I know! But isn't that the point? Isn't that why I'm here? None of this would have happened if I hadn't been there to pull you both out of the tar swamp!" The wood grew thicker around them as they continued their flight from the City.

"Aye little friend." He-Man frowned, taken aback by the allusion. "But not everything you do has such a fateful effect. This Night... you will not... you must not change my mind. No, no. You have only interfered."

"He-Man!" Orko admonished, but was interrupted.

A look of pain crossed He-Man's face and he shook his head. "I am not... I am not He-Man!" the barbarian roared back and drew his Sword while clinging to the jolting saddle. "Let the Power return!"

Orko shielded his eyes from the brief blast of energy that consumed He-Man's body as the light traveled skyward in a shower of sparks and fits of energy bolts. Upon the saddle, He-Man appeared to wither and fade while wisps of smoke lay upon the shrunken form, coalescing into clothes.

Cat began to slow down, so Orko moved closer to prod the shrunken figure of Adam, now slumped heavily in his seat upon Cat as if unconscious. Cat had not changed back into Cringer and growling uneasily, slowed to a halt. But then Adam lifted his face, twisted with anger, as he recovered his senses. "Go away!" he hissed at the little jester flitting anxiously around him. "Be gone Orko!" And with that he spurred Battle Cat on and away toward Greyskull, as fast as he could go.

Orko trembled as he drifted on the spot, watching Adam vanish into the Night beyond the wood. Miserable tears stained the purple scarf around his face. There was nothing he could do - He-Man was gone.

War of Attrition: IX - Warmachine

Tri-Klop's hulking figure stood rigid upon his war-chariot, his hard face focused upon the defiant Walls of Eternos before him. His characteristic tri-helm rotated, the glassy eyes upon it swivelling, reducing the need to turn his head and giving him a statue-like aura, seemingly unmoving, as still as a watching predator. His eyes clicked into place as he changed his vision from telescopic to infra-red and back again, surveying the situation before him in greater detail. This night, he was once again Skeletor's martial right-hand, entrusted with the execution of his Lord's strategy. Already the plan had begun to unfold around him as the army moved into positions and began the inital bombardment from those catapults that had not stuck fast in the mud, left further behind them in the cratered and boggy fields.

The weakest point in the City's defenses had always been the gate - it was not made of the solid materials of Ancient times, but was a crude replacement, built by Man-At-Arms and heavily fortified. Yet, it was not as solid as the Inner Palace Wall and Outer Gate Walls, which had so often proven themselves unbreakable. Powerful laser-cannons only managed to sear the Wall. Mighty beasts and giants could barely dent and scratch it before they were shot down. Many a ruse and stratagem had failed in showers of blood and wasted wargear before these impassable walls. These Walls had thus protected the Tribe of Randor for decades now, ensuring their supremacy across the country, from sea to sea. Tri-Klop's own tribe had been forced to submit to the King of Eternos - and had begrudged and resented it ever since. Now was the time to shift the balance of power.

Tri-Klops knew Skeletor had no interest in ruling over any humanoid kingdom - this power and wealth was Tri-Klop's own ambition - a reward now within his reach. So why not swear fealty to Skeletor? What made him any worse than the warring kings of Eternia? They were all capable of diabolical cruelty and treachery, all them being power-hungry and ruthless when it came to the expansion of their own kingdoms, the honour of their own tribes. Skeletor was only the most cruel, the most merciless, and this unflinching pursuit of power had drawn Tri-Klops to the Lord of Destruction. This night, he felt that he had been proven right in bringing his own tribe to the feet of Skeletor. Aye - he was no longer an independent chieftain, but plenty of those who swore an oath to Skeletor now owed allegiance to Tri-Klops as Skeletor's vassal and general! Those countrymen of his that had baulked at giving sacrifice to the inhuman sorcerer were shown to be weak at heart and feeble of stomach. The blood and daemonism, the endless battles and harrying of humanoid settlements, the thefts and maneuverings, the running war against Eternos... all had drawn Tri-Klops to this great moment, here and now, as he directed Skeletor's vast army, united under Skeletor's eye-less sight, by his iron fist and lipless command.

Tri-Klops watched the units and ranks move forward as ordered. There were many banners a-flutter in the night-wind, each proclaiming their loyalty and honour. Clustered around them were the cold blades and spikes of warfare, held high by warriors who were determined to break through the gate or scale the walls that could not be brought down. There were so many siege ladders to be seen - the City of Eternos must surely be overwhelmed by such a massive and purposeful invasion force. This was no blow aimed to weaken and dishearten, no hit and run designed to grind these people to a halt - the assault Tri-Klops now directed would be the ultimate coup-de-grace that would finish this arrogant and greedy tribe forever!

Tri-Klops raised up his long-sword and bellowed out to the warriors around him, gloating and flush with the expectation of the coming combat. "We fear not the enemy! He-Man has abandoned Eternos to it's final fate! Let no man, woman, babe nor beast stand in our way! No mercy to young or old! Fight fearlessly! Kill them all! Let this bloody war be unleashed!"

Around him, the savage throng roared their accord and charged.

While the Guard took their Captain to the hospital, the northern part of the Outer Wall felt the initial brunt of the assault. Some units of barbarian men, but mostly undisciplined Orcs, drugged and pain-maddened slave-warriors, and war-frenzied man-beasts, had thrown themselves in a fierce wave against the wall, using siege ladders in an attempt to scale it. But many were pierced by or crushed under the Guards' counter-attack. Volley upon volley of arrows had been flung at the invaders, followed by burning pitch, great ballistae bolts and heavy stones from catapults. Yet, the aggressors merely stepped over the fallen, to charge again at the walls, hefting their siege ladders up against the smooth stone, or pulling the siege towers closer to meet the Wall's height - for the will of Skeletor was more terrifying to them than violent death.

Behind Skeletor's forces, war-machines flung heavy boulders to smash into the buildings and soldiers beyond or to sometimes throw lumps of corpses to splatter across the court-yards and streets of Eternos, spreading disease and despair. The missile battle was also joined within the skies: the invaders fired burning arrows into the City while above them the Avionians dropped Greek fire bombs and potash to neutralize their missile attacks while battling the harpies and wyvern-riders sent to counter them. The Guards were afforded much cover from the barbed arrow-heads of their enemy, and most flaming arrows fell dead against stone or ruin – Eternos had little combustible roof-tops left. This flickering exchange of missiles, both the small burning heads or the massive, spinning rocks, made the sky a dynamic patchwork of shadows, lending an extra dimension to the combat that took place below. All around was the sense that no space was safe from sudden battery or intrusion.

As the battle commenced, what shook the Guards terribly were the screams of their comrades, nailed to giant wooden shields that sections of Skeletor's warband held before them. The Guards were then forced to launch their own missiles against these shields and thus kill their captured comrades so as penetrate the barriers and injure the enemy behind. But worse than that was hearing news of He-Man's arrival, only to be followed by his persistent and conspicuous absence, and the rumour that he had fled. It seemed to them all that He-Man still lived, yet, would not fight with them. Fist insisted to his unit leaders that the rumour was a lie spread by Skeletor's agents and held fast to the claim that He-Man would surely hear of their plight and lend aid.

Yet, as wyverns dropped from the skies to harry Mekanek and the Avionians or to tear at the war-machines, He-Man did not come. As the Guardsmen exhausted their burning pitch and catapult rocks, and the siege-ladders found their niche and carried the invaders to the ramparts, He-Man did not come. As a great iron battering ram was brought to bare against the City's main gate to crack and smash it ever inward, He-Man still did not come.

Man-E peered from behind a parapet and took aim again with his relic laser gun, the sweat clinging to his brows threatening to roll into his eyes. Skeletor has indeed thrown his full weight against us this Night. Eternos is being surrounded on all sides by a great press of warriors and we do not have enough men and women to keep them back from the gate and the walls... Is this Adam's revenge?

Trap-Jaw laughed with sadistic abandon. His laser-cannon mowed Guards down by the dozen, and it pleased him all the more when they pitched forward from the wall into the surging mass of invaders below. As the Guards fell to their deaths, he felt contempt for their weakness while contemplating their fate: if they lived they would be torn apart in the melee, or perhaps captured to be pressed into Skeletor's service as combat-slaves, or as sacrifice to the dark gods, or mere meat for the Orcs and Ogres. It was so easy to kill these miserable wretches.

His jaw opened and closed repetitively, mechanically, as if he were tasting blood.

Despite the hideous carnage before him, Trap-Jaw felt no sense of pity, repulsion, or violation – for him, there was nothing unusual or horrifying in his part in this - his life was steeped in blood and massacre. After all, he was the destroyer, not the destroyed. Those that died proved their weakness and thus the justice of their end - killing them was the very essence of power, something no god nor king had ever stopped him from exercising.

Trap-Jaw's only purpose was to destroy the enemy, to take the spoils of final victory, to feed and inflate his psychotic ego, an ego that would not tolerate denial. From time to time, he would fear for his own safety as an Avionian swooped low or a catapulted stone shook the earth as it impacted by his side. But his cannon afforded a longer-range than any of the missiles that were flung from behind the City walls, and so he stood alone on a hillock, blasting from a distance at the City battlements, strafing down the desperate defenders, taking pot-shots at Avionians.

As he listened to Tri-Klops' radioed commands and watched the units and ranks gain ground, the tide began to turn in the favour of Skeletor - more and more siege ladders were smacking against the wall, and each wave of attacker climbed higher and higher. The old space-pirate began to take a more careful, tactical aim now...

Fist sat upon Stridor while the bionic-beast pawed the ground mechanically and snorted smoke, imitating life. Boom. The battering-ram outside met the tough City gates once more. Boom. But the gates would not hold forever, being built of wood by the ignorant men of today's world. Fist turned, an almost casual gesture, as he reviewed the position of his horsemen in the court-yard and then the Guards at the gate.

There was little option – what he had planned was a calculated risk but it could herald the fall of Eternos: "Open the gates!" he bellowed nonetheless, raising his sword as a signal. Before him, the gates swung open with a ponderous creaking that could be heard above the clamorous enemy outside the walls. Skeletor's forces were barely kept at arms length – but now he was inviting them in.

The bearers of the battering-ram burst inside, ramming through thin-air. They stumbled in, following their momentum, surprised and looking a little ridiculous as a result of their sudden entry. But they were over-whelmed by armoured bodies that surged forwards from behind them, uttering victorious cries and shrieks: mail-clad humans, a gaggle of leather bound goblins and Orcs, and a rank of stern Torg's, all came crashing inside.

"Pour!" Fist bellowed out with his deep, resonant voice and brought his sword down from aloft. Behind the horde of yelling invaders, burning tar from the gate-gargoyles splashed down on the ranks of those streaming through behind them. The gap in their ranks and the pool of impassable burning tar gave the Guards at the gates time to close it, preventing more invaders from charging into the City behind the battering ram.

Fist lifted his sword again, observing that the remaining enemy were now cut off from the ranks behind them and had stumbled to a surprised halt. The gates clanged shut behind the trapped invaders who turned about and saw themselves in a court-yard, flanked on one side by horsemen, lances ready. Fist swung his sword in a horizontal cleft through the air. "Charge!".

Stridor powered forward on its great robotic limbs, crashing into the ranks of the hemmed-in enemy. They were cut down within minutes, pushed up against the court-yard wall, crushed by the warhorses and impaled by the lances. Stridor's terrible hooves battered heads, bludgeoning them into explosive messes, collapsing chests and pummeling the armoured bodies which had barely a chance of scratching the machine's highly-polished metal. Hot fumes burnt from its flared nostrils as it let out an eerie, mechanical whinnying. Fist had not even fired a shot from the beasts shoulder-mounted lasers, but his body-covering field-armour was already drenched in steaming gore.

The Acting-Captain had lured in and encircled the first mass of Skeletor's shock-troops – but it was a trick he could not repeat again - now it was time for another stratagem.

Skeletor's catapults launched thick mats of cushioning straw that burst open on impact as they hit the main court-yard of Eternos. Out of the padding crawled the undead – old comrades slain on the war-ground, most still wearing their once proud armour, but with their clothes shamefully torn, exposing their rotted human vulnerabilities. They moaned with the long, drawn-out pain of undeath. A few gibbered names, as if trying to communicate, or simply screamed incoherently. All of them shuffled and limped along murderous paths towards the living who trembled before them, their arms at the ready – for they must now strike at the torn and putrid faces of their dead comrades, smash at their liquid brains, being the only way to completely stop them.

This was just one of Skeletor's fiendish attacks, designed mostly for its psychological impact. The zombies stood little chance of making any kills - unless a Guard found himself mobbed and torn apart. Their presence always plunged the blade of mortal terror into the beleaguered Guardsmen and it was never certain whether any zombie might be outfitted to Blast-Attack - those heavily armoured undead, laden down with metal and rock shards, their putrescent chest cavities stuffed with explosive, ready to go off.

Clamp-Champ was not deterred by the arrival of the undead - these were creatures he did not have to attack with any care. When he saw them, he holstered his clamp-stave and drew a repeater cross-bow, firing bolts at the heads of the zombies, their decayed brains spattering through the Night-air. Around him, Guards finished off the rest and so he moved on to reinforce a line of Guards upon the City wall. As he saw the living creatures that pushed over the parapets he took his clamp-stave back up into his skilled hands and under his breath repeated the mantra of peace. Clamp was one of the few King's men who had found Adam's philosophies inspiring and over the last ten years he had been a student of Adam "the Scholar-Prince", sitting with a few others to study the old ideas of the Ancients, ideas that condemned killing and preached peaceful resistance.

But where Adam had refused to fight and preached total pacificism bolstered by faith in the gods, Clamp had put the philosophy to practical use in a martial sense, and developed non-lethal combat to a high art-form, becoming a teacher himself. Clamp and his students could wound and disable an assailant without killing them - and like Adam, even in self-defence they refused to kill.

Clamp would find his non-lethal art and philosophy of fighting validated by He-Man when he had arisen to defend Greyskull. Over the past ten years other soldiers had followed the example of Clamp and then even more of them had followed He-Man, trying their best to avoid unnecessary death and learn how to control their blows, all the while respecting Adam, "the Prince of Peace", and attending his discussions and reading his writings. But in recent times, that following of warriors had become disillusioned. Adam's disgrace and He-Man's prolonged absence had discouraged Clamp's fellow-travelers and only a few of the Guards now practiced Clamp's fighting-style.

Clamp tightened his grip on his clamp-stave - he would die before he committed the atrocity of murder, even against the foulest Orc, for even that creature was born of the Green Goddess, mother of all life. The first man climbing up the ladder was a swarthy Easterner from a unit lead by Ju-Jitsu, who could be seen below. The Easterner took a heavy smack in the face from the clamp, sending him reeling back into the mob at the foot of the siege ladder. Clamp's second attack was against the siege ladder itself. His weapon bit into the top of the ladder where the Easterner had been, snapping shut around it, and crushing it. For a few seconds, the remainder of the ladder no longer touched the wall and it lurched forward to smack hard against the wall further down. At the same time, Clamp dealt one side of the ladder a heavy blow and what with the great weight of clambering bodies upon it, the wooden structure snapped in several places, sending the entire ladder upon which a line of the enemy clung, back down into the throng below.

Clamp leapt back from the wall, dodging a spray of arrows. It had been a small victory, but by now more ladders had gained purchase upon the walls. He kept moving, lending aid where he could as a unit of black skinned Southerners, perhaps men from his own tribe, threw themselves over the battlements. It was clear to him now - Eternos was seriously outnumbered. There were no longer enough Guards left to defend every parapet of the Wall and those that had survived these long years were exhausted and afraid. Anytime now the enemy would achieve a break-through and the Outer Wall would surely be lost...

I am a cookcoo, laid in the wrong nest... Fragile shell breaks under my little hands - What have I killed in these moments after birth?... A great bird holds a writhing serpent in its beak... There is a call to me, coiled around the mountain... I miss her, like I miss a part of myself... The circle is joined, the snake eating its tail, lava in the belly, iron at the core... Take up the iron scale-mail, the iron blade, for to let them rest is to let them rust... These are the first and last things: forged in stars, quenched in our blood, eternal spheres of iron at the end of time... The metal of war and of life... The soil is hungry for fertile blood... There at the world's centre, the many-armed Procrustus holds together a world pulling itself apart, his great arms bound by iron, his throne of iron, all drenched in our blood...I am... I am...

"Teela!" Man-E pushed past the attentive nurses bending over the wounded on their pallets. Teela lay on a bloodstained cot, but she was sitting up and turned her cut and bruised face from the mug of water in her hands. When she saw Man-E she carefully placed the cup down, her hands shaking as they embraced her beloved. "Manefred!"

"Teela!" He held her gently and then drew back to scrutinize her. "He-Man rescued you!?"

She quietly asked the pressing group of people around them to leave. Once her attendants and aides had departed, she nodded. "But he is gone."

Man-E stared at her. "It is as expected..." he said quietly.

Teela wanted to speak of Adam, but the current situation was more pressing, so she quickly asked, "How goes the battle?"

Beyond the walls, distant cries muted by the crashing of arms and a reverberating thudding could be heard, mingling with the closer moans and sobbings of pain in the ward. "We're taking advantage of every error they make. They seem over-confident, swaggering with their numbers. But we're just holding our ground - we can't push them back... I think we will be overwhelmed. This time, there are just too many. I do not know how Skeletor was able to bring so many of the tribes together..."

"You must return to battle quickly."

"Aye. But Teela –"

She began to rise. "I'm coming too."

"But you - !"

"It looks worse than it is", she cut in. "Our healers are skilled in numbing pain. I won't be on the front. But I am needed. They've done everything that can be done for me here. These are not serious wounds." She pushed herself up and on to the floor while Man-E supported her. "Let me help you, you still have a limp." Then he said: "I'll carry you – we'll move faster." And with that he picked her up and took long strides out of the infirmary and towards the Palace Wall - where Fist was commanding.

Behind this Inner Wall, all of the non-combatant subjects of Eternos had, by now, retreated – it was the second and last line of defence should the Outer Wall fall, surrounding the Palace itself. This Wall was the barrier that the defenseless young and old prayed would never be scaled.

Again Teela was carried close against a loved-ones breast and she momentarily felt a sense of the heart-beat therein. "Man-E..." she spoke softly "...I now understand what you were trying to tell me. About Adam, I mean. I saw him - he held up his sword and said... And then, and then there was an awesome explosion... He changed into..." Teela looked around herself cautiously. "He changed Man-E! Oh, Man-E, how did you know?"

Man-E looked down at the dirty and tear streaked face of the Captain. "I just guessed." He said tonelessly. "There were clues." Teela looked at him carefully, expecting more, but Man-E just shrugged. "That is all. You saw how such a thing can be yourself. It sounds like great magic." Man-E sighed heavily.

"Where is he, Man-E?" Teela breathed hard, sobs threatening to shake her bruised chest.

"Gone. And why not? We did reject him. Even hated him." He hurried down a wide Palace corridor abuzz with a confusion of healers and the wounded.

"Oh, aye! Oh!" Tears threatened to overwhelm her and she struggled to drive them back.

"I understand your guilt my beloved, but your treatment of Adam was a result of your duty. The King had you honour-bound to make him a man, a warrior. Adam always fought against you. You cannot blame yourself for that."

"But I can blame myself for not acknowledging his nobility of spirit! He is indeed a fighter - he fought us all. All of us who said his pacificism was cowardice! His life bookish and weak! We mocked him, derided him - him, our Prince, our future King!"

"You felt that he had no future."

"But look at us! I"ve heard Fist's reports - we are losing fast! Has Randor's way saved our day?"

"We are not defeated yet. Besides, had Adam been King, we would have been conquered long since."

"Not so Man-E! He-Man came to us - I mean, Adam became He-Man only a year or so after he had preached the way of peace. Adam could have lead with the word and the sword. He-Man has never been a killer, yet he has always driven back our foes. Don't you see? We should have trusted Adam - he knew the truth."

"We did not know. It was kept a secret."

"It doesn't matter. We owed our Prince our faith and loyalty unto death. Instead - "

" - We treated him as our King did. With contempt and dismay, for the Prince is not the King."

"But Man-E, even up until today you helped him! You remained true." Teela let out an agonised groan of regret. "I am such a fool!"

"You are no fool. It is past and the present is greatly pressing... I should have tried harder… No, but I did try... But he is determined."

"Determined to do what? To run away?"

"Aye, and for the first time too!" whispered Man-E, a little vindictively. "And now he has truly abdicated his destiny."

Teela's mouth twisted downward with pain. "Oh gods… What have we done to him? What recompense could there be?"

Man-E glanced back down at Teela in his arms as he chose the fastest route to Fist's postion. "I doubt Adam would wish for recompense for his heroism. Yet it must indeed be terrible for him. We cannot ask him to fight anymore - can we?"

"He-Man would never leave - there's no need to ask… He will always fight!"

"But Teela He-Man is Adam - and he has left!" Man-E skirted around a gurney carrying a screaming, burnt man. "Left us to this!"

"Stop! I don't believe it… I can only think of one other place he'd go to, and there have been good reasons why he has remained there and not helped us before." She clung to his shoulders harder, as if for emphasis – but truly and for the first time she needed his reassurances.

"Then you believe Greyskull is under attack?"

Teela look up again to her betrothed. "Skeletor tried to kill Adam, a mere monk, so he surely knows what we know. In believing he has succeeded, and with He-Man no-where in sight, he will surely now march on Greyskull, believing it to be defended by the Sorceress alone!" She paused, flicking her tongue over torn lips. "But if Beastman has found his way through the chaos to a long-range radio, Skeletor will soon know he failed, for Beastman and I both saw Adam become He-Man..."

"Beastman! But he - ! Oh aye! And that knowledge might lead Skeletor to call off the assault."

"Aye, and his attack on Greyskull."

"Then let's just radio Skeletor ourselves! We have the only long-range known amongst the allied tribes."

"Manefred! You think he'd believe us!? Especially when He-Man is no-where to be seen. No – you have to find Beastman and help him tell Skeletor what he saw in the wood by taking our long-range radio to him."

Man-E said nothing for a moment as he considered the idea. They were moving closer to Fist's position of command. Then he said "The only way to do that would be to disguise myself."

"Aye Man-E." Teela's voice was laden with gravity. "But that news might be enough to stop this – so long as we maintain our defences. Skeletor's action seems to spring from the supposed success of the assassination."

"I hope so."

"No - not that way - this way."

Man-E breathed hard as he paused. "But Fist is commanding from the Inner - "

"Then let him! Here, put me down. Man-E, you have to get ready to infiltrate their ranks and get the radio to Beastman." She stared into his eyes, willing him to be strong. "You know the easiest way to do that."

Man-E understood. An edge of fear nudged at his nerves. "I understand." His best disguise was his own curse. He had controlled his monstrous aspect in the past to his advantage, but he had never forced that transformation without the Sorceress' medicant to hand so that he could change back without any danger of losing complete control and remaining the Monster or Robot, leaving him vulnerable to Skeletor's control and at the mercy of the Sorceress' aid.

Teela began to limp away from him. "Good fortune and all of the gods' blessings, my love."

Man-E looked around the Palace corridor. "But where are you going!?"

"I will take the last remaining sky-sled. If Adam is riding to Greyskull, I'm going to catch up with him." She moved away, the empty corridor ahead of her strangely silent and devoid of the rush and noise further behind them.

"You think you can convince him to help us?" Man-E began to walk away, but called after her.

"Only if leaving us is his choice and not that of the Sorceress." Teela tried to smile. "Have faith. I love you. Fight fearlessly."

Man-E stopped walking and gazed at her, so uncommon were these tender words. "I love you too, and wish to follow you, my wife-to-be. Yet, I honour you also as my Captain, and I must obey your command. Fare thee well my love." And with that he turned on his heel and hurried to requisition a radio.

Teela half jumped and limped on, hurrying her own way, holding her bandaged wrist high so as not to jar it. For a moment, she felt a pang at their parting and turned to look back, exepcting to see Man-E watching her - but he was gone.

If Adam has abandoned us, then will the Sorceress not help? she thought as she entered the hanger. If victory is ours this night, is it not only a temporary measure if Adam will not return?

Nevertheless, she had to try.

Evil-Lyn stared intently at the scrying pool, now as flat and still as a mirror. Upon the surface, a heaving legion of humanoids, undead and chimerical beasts marched to the reverberating beats of large drums, or otherwise they shambled and scuttled in mobs, driven forward by Skeletor's unstoppable will, or the scourges of his slave-masters. The army had reached the City walls. This Night, with He-Man dead, Skeletor would succeed.

She must maintain her observance - Skeletor had given her the task to look for He-Man or Adam to ensure that they were truly gone. Paranoia had saved Skeletor in the past, and he had good reason to fear Webstor's failure, so his success was not entirely certain. Skeletor had sent every force he could bring to assail Eternos, while he himself was doubtlessly preparing to use all of his own sorcerous might to enter Greyskull. Were He-Man to arrive, he would catch Skeletor at his weakest moment. But Evil-Lyn saw no hint of their enemy.

Again she looked to Castle Greyskull - a sight that at once frustrated and inspired her. It gave her some comfort to feel that the secret that would free her, hidden deep therein, was not far from her grasp. A thrill of excitement and fear tightened her skin with goose-flesh, sending her insides aflutter. Could it be that she was now close to the end? That she could live her long life free of the pact with the Olden God and free of her servitude to Skeletor or any other? It was now time to make her own move.

Chapter X - Journey to Greyskull

Panthor growled as Skeletor paused, reaching the end of the sorcerous ritual that would assure him maximum magical energy and focus. The warlord gazed up at the dread Castle, set against the backdrop of the Great Moon that had begun to set. This vast, pock-marked disc was now touching the uneven horizon that stretched out behind and below Greyskull, held high as it was on the pedastal of rock that jutted up from some depth of the Abyss. The Moon's edge had met the line of pale pre-dawn fire that snaked over the expanse of horizon, defining the rocky landscape that encompassed Greyskull. The Moon's vast surface reflected those same colours; deep purple at the very bottom through reds and to yellow atop the disc, as if touching the horizon's light had set it aflame. The time had come - it had been measured in the skies.

As Skeletor watched, both Moon and dawn slowly began to vanish under gathering storm clouds. He looked up at the black walls of the Castle. The Jawbridge was closed fast, denying him any advance, as if it were a vast cliff-face. It was the Door of Denial, the Gate of Keeping and the very First Barrier, beyond which was awesome power. For a few moments, Skeletor stood unmoving before the edge of the Abyss, as if straining to reach the entrance.

With a slow, tense movement of resolve, the Lord of Destruction drew himself up to his full height, clutching the Havoc Staff before him. His void-deep eyes stared inscrutably at the black craters of the eyes of Greyskull – between both pairs of eye-sockets it was as if two great black-holes vied for supremacy until one consumed the other, only to increase in size. But there was no easy conclusion to this contest, and so Skeletor summoned his terrifying will, absorbing magical energies through the occult conduit that was his staff, concentrating on the pattern of energy flow he could glimpse within his mind's-eye. He then took a firm hold of the staff and drove it into the slice of ground before him. Then, becoming bloated with cosmic energies, Skeletor held up his arms as they began to burn with searing witch-light.

The dread mage turned his dead face upward as if to address the great skull-faced carving before him. Where this stone skull was a dark, dark green, Skeletor's own corpse-visage was of a polished bone, white and clean with no trace of rot. It gleamed in contrast with his dark blue skin under which living muscles slid effortlessly, as he drew invisible signs in the air that would focalize the magic.

Then he faced Greyskull again and intoned: "Your defender is dead! I have plundered your depths and entered your sacred chambers before! I now know your weakness! I hold the key: knowledge of the Four Manifest Elements and the Four Hidden Forces. My success is now fated – your Sorceress alone is no match for me... And so it shall be!" He roared and as the very sky itself trembled, a light rain was shook out of the clouds and began to fall. Skeletor then lowered his glowing arms and drew his blade from its sheath. He took hold of the Second Sword and balanced it horizontally between the horns of the ram's head of his Staff. As the point of the blade was directed at Greyskull, the aura around his arms flowed down onto the sword, which itself then hung in place as Skeletor let it go.

"Commanded!" Skeletor reached together his clawed hands, to form a square between his index fingers and thumbs and held up this sign behind the pommel of the pointing sword, his talon-like fingers splayed outward.

"The Four Elements are not yours to keep!" He cried at Greyskull, and a sudden jet of water, spouting like a typhoon and black with thick blocks of ice, burst from within the square of Skeletor's digits, flowing up the blade and flying outward from its point to batter the Jawbridge with tidal wave force, causing it to shake.

"I curse the arrogance of all gods! The Four Elements are of the cosmos – not yours to hide!" A second blast flew from Skeletor's hands and up the blade - whirl-winds twisted and raged against the Jawbridge – it groaned and shuddered against the pressure, an explosive cracking could be heard.

"I demand knowledge! I demand the sacred and the profane! By the Four Elements – you are not the keeper of secrets, but a bastion of ignorance and tyranny!" A terrible rush of fire raced from Skeletor and up the blade, consuming the Jawbridge in a spiral of a molten conflagration. The magical barrier began to burn.

"I am the liberator of truth and untruth, the coming Master of all that is written, thought, felt, and spoken, of all words and deeds, known and unknown and not yet conceived. Omnipotence is my claim and my right – you who rob reality of that power, you who jealously guard the Potential of All – you crush the life I have shed, you bring the death I have fled! I, Skeletor, have proven myself – by the Four!" And there, the final blast flew forth, a massive column of lumpen rock and solid, packed earth, shot up the blade and shattered the burning and twisted Jawbridge.

But it was not enough - Skeletor perceived that the barrier had not yet been completely annihilated - for he knew that the tattered Jawbridge must be completely obliterated, down to the last wooden splinter and metal bolt, down to each and every particle and all the invisible motes of dust. "By the Four Forces! By gravity and electro-magnetism, by weak and strong nuclear force - unbind the substance of the Jawbridge, crush the Barrier, twist and turn the Gate, destroy this Blockade - for this destruction is my creation! Commanded - by the Four Manifest Elements and the Four Hidden Forces!" With the spell complete, the Jawbridge shrunk in upon itself, burning, smoking, spilling water, surrounded by a wind of debris, smoke and fog, twisting, shimmering, warping and collapsing in upon itself until it was reduced to a tiny white point...

And then it was gone.

Exhausted, Skeletor leans heavily upon his staff and slides his sword into its scabbard. He would normally never allow himself to be so enfeebled, would never leave any contingency unplanned for - but tonight, this hour, he is more vulnerable than he has been in a thousand years. Yet, the gambit has paid off, for there is no defense, no He-Man, no Sorceress - nothing to stop him now.

The mouth of Greyskull hangs open, gaping and empty as if abandoned to lunacy. The eyes stare out, hollow and deep, upon the improbable creature of unlife and undeath that has defeated it. The end is here!

Yet there is still the long barrier of the bottomless drop between the cliff-side and the Castle jaws, into the endless Abyss. Turning, Skeletor's terrible visage affixes on his feline familiar. Upon seeing the empty face, Panthor cowers.

"You have served your purpose, daemon!" And with that Skeletor turns and grasps hold of the throat and hindquarters of his hell-steed and with sudden, sorcerous violence, tears the creature in half. Quivering, stinking entrails pour out of the spasming beast, bones black with blood hang like shadows from the rended flesh. But no sooner is the blood spilt, Skeletor flings the carnage across the Abyss, his gory hands imitating an arc as they follow the stream of cast innards; the mess of Panthor's corpse is suddenly suspended in its fall, and so it hangs in the space between precipice and Jaw.

As Skeletor stands on the precipice before the smashed mouth of Greyskull, a long white spine emerges from the corpse of Panthor as it hangs over the Abyss. The emerging spine elongates across the gap, ribs and twitching limbs provide structure, guts and muscle build the bridge up, solid and sturdy. With growing confidence, Skeletor strides down the magical bridge and enters Greyskull to claim the spoils of his terrible victory, while behind him, the improvised bridge collapses.

Inside Castle Greyskull, the eternal secrets of the gods and all the profound mysteries of the cosmos beyond even their ken are hidden, guarded, and enshrined. Yet, with every step, Skeletor moves closer to laying claim to them all.

An ominous shudder ripples across the face of the Universe.

The Night wind hunted Adam as he fled over the grassy plains beyond the kingdom of Eternos toward the foothills cleft by the Great Abyss. Here the land is cold and silent, yet the Night acts as messenger, carrying the distant shouts and calls of battle in fragments to his ears. He hears the resonant thudding at the gates, explosions of laser cannons, the bellowing of deformed monsters and the beating of drums. He has had to travel far and fast upon Battle Cat to put the wastelands of ravaged farms and fields behind them, and all the sounds of the murder of his countrymen. But finally, Eternos vanishes into the Night – even the lights from the fires fade - until the trees and hills swallow it all whole.

Nevertheless, the battle raged on in Adam's enervated mind - and it would never stop.

Under the Night sky he hangs limply in his saddle, Cat's uneven running across the difficult ground keeps him from sleep with jolts and jerks, while simultaneously lulling him - his warn-out body sunk deep and heavy into the padded, ornate seat Cat carries.

Thoughts crash through his mind. He sees a pair of green eyes, red-rimmed with sadness, stare from the face of his sister... No, his teacher, his bodyguard. Teela was never a sister for long - too soon she became an instructor, a Captain, all devoted to her many duties. But he had resisted her - out of envy and mischief - until that day he had spent wondering through the library, ignoring the crude parchment scrolls of his own people, instead drawn to the nearly illegible tomes of the Ancients, their pages disintegrating with age. She could not find him here, she could not touch his reasoning, his intellect, like she could his limbs. Throw him down, tongue-lash him, criticise and condemn, aye, she could do these, but there was nothing she could say in argument against peace. These arguments she always lost - and then she stopped trying. She hated to lose and hated more to have her code of honour questioned, her duties doubted.

So – Teela was sorry. But it was too late for that. Was there anything else? Had those snake-green eyes confessed a love more than that between siblings? Adam was not blind to her admiration for He-Man, but she had almost always been subtle enough to never let him be sure what kind of desires her admiration involved - and certainly, Adam had never felt that Teela had loved him more than a brother. Regardless – she would never see He-Man again, at least, not as a part of himself, Adam. Someone else, surely, could take up the Sword of Power? Someone else should endure all of this.

No feeling grew in his breast – Adam felt cold and dead, emptied of any care. So - he did not love Teela back - or rather, he no longer could. He was exhausted. The world was drained of all meaning. Adam's consciousness began to falter and fall apart.

Then, for a short time, a sort of hallucinatory sleep claimed him and his mind drifted in and out of memory...

Duncan paced the broad, sturdy balcony that overlooked the lush Palace gardens, all filled with carefully cultivated rows of vegitation; bright plants and tall trees, medicinal herbs and exotic fruits. This was one of Adam's favourite views and would whet his appetite for the study of what Duncan called 'botony'.

Behind Duncan, inside the room, Adam sat with his head in his hands upon a plain chair. Like the chair, the other furnishings were serious and unornamented, but were all built with such quality and care that they were leant a simple beauty while avoiding any austerity. This was Adam's study, where much of his recent thinking had been developed into a sophisticated philosophy. The room had none of the garishness and multiple patterns and colours found in the fashions among the court - instead it reflected his clear, tasteful, and orderly mind.

While Adam remained unmoved and deflated with sadness, Duncan had been deep in thought for sometime, unable to keep still as if the thoughts themselves demanded some sort of expression. Finally, he stood motionless a while with his arms folded and his chin drawn down - as was his habit - giving him that meditative look that always came before a difficult decision. Then he looked up at the bright purple Eternian sky, only to turn his back on the outside, taking a few strides toward his Prince. Then Duncan spoke softly, knowing well that Adam's feelings were still deeply hurt by what had just happened.

"I believe that you are interpreting the Ancients too strictly. You are seeing things as you want to see them. This is because you wish to make a strong point."

Adam looked up blinking, his young face vigourous with intellect and health, all flush with passion. "My translations are accurate. The Codex of Harmony is clear - look at the third verse here: 'refuse the use of weaponry' it says - very clearly! And so I refuse! I don't care how much Teela shouts or my father scowls. He can rage like a drunk for all I care. Theirs is not the same wisdom. The Ancients were the Masters of the Universe - how can we question their teaching?"

Duncan took a long breath through his nose and then said "But the King is also wise nonetheless." He turned to the Codex and the notes laying neatly upon the pages opened on the broad desk. After a moment he said "Look Adam, this word you translated as 'use' could also be interpreted as 'raise'. If you go with a different translation like 'raise' then you are in a more ambiguous situation... What I mean, Adam, is: what do they mean by 'raise'?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, it is not. If it were, my question would be pointless and I would not have asked. If by 'raise' they more specifically mean 'attack', then you are not prohibited from defending with a weapon." Duncan paused, allowing his point to take shape in Adam's mind, for the implications to begin to unfold. "My Prince - if you insist that a weapon must never be used at all, then you are indeed counselling the abolishion of all arms. You are teaching that defencelessness is the true way to peace."

"That it seems to be. Peace has greater power and potential that bloodshed does not."

"Why then, did the Ancients build so many weapons? Did they build them for war? Or did they build them to defend themselves from aggressors?"

Adam's eyes dropped away from Duncan's. They looked beyond him, out at the piercing purple sky.

"I do not expect a response from you yet Adam - only for you to recognise that there are many ways to interpret these texts. Neither of us have a proper grasp of the language of the Golden Age and none of these books and scrolls are complete. Even the memories and knowledge of the Ancients stored in my helmet are not easily accessable or understandable. There is much I still have to learn from my communications with it. Simply putting it on and letting it connect to my brain is no good, just as simply sticking to your own interpetation of this forgotten language is no good either. Learning these things is a process for us both."

Adam said nothing, but looked back to his mentor and momentarily cast his eye over Duncan's fabled helmet, filled with strange circuitry and connected to Duncan's brain via short, laser-thin needles only seen on the inside. There had been no other find like it amid the treasures recovered from the forgotten dungeons beneath Eternos - a vast labyrinth that Duncan had explored in his youth, many years ago. The find had propelled him into a whole new world of knowledge. After years of experimentation and confusion, Duncan had managed to develop an almost symbiotic relationship with the techno-helm and struggled with the messages and images it sent to his mind. When he was able to understand the helm it lent his already forbiddable intellect a wealth of ancient lore accessible only to him, but allowing him to teach others and to fix and tinker with the techno-relics that were found in the dark beneath Eternos. Thus the Master Technomancer, Man-At-Arms, had been born and the tribe of Eternos had grown in great wealth and power.

Duncan continued. "If you are willing to doubt your own certainty and accuracy, if you are willing to look beyond the text to other evidence, you might compromise on this matter and allow Teela to teach you how to fight with a warrior's weapons. Remember - the Ancients may only be asking us never to attack, never to aggress. Yet you must still learn the way of the sword if you want to defend yourself. Peace can be naked or armoured. In our times though, not being able to defend yourself, to have to rely on others, will be seen as cowardly."

"Aye..." Adam murmered. "...If I accept your understanding, I can do everything my father demands. I can still be a warrior - but a warrior for peace alone. My sword can be a shield."

Duncan allowed himself a brief feeling of satisfaction. He could see that the Prince had been keen to find a compromise, but was terribly torn between his deeply held convictions based on the authority of the Ancients, versus the obligations and commands that were pressed upon him by his nobility. Quietly, he left the room, leaving Adam deep in thought...

...leaving Adam alone...

Forever alone. Adam awoke, but he was far from refreshed and his thoughts fell back into incoherence as he clung tightly to the seat upon Cat.

Then he remembered his vision. Grief tore tears from his eyes. Duncan! Can you hear me, shade? I was wrong. There is no Peace, it is a mere word, an idea, and such things need not correspond to anything real at all. That is why they built their weapons, weapons still used to this very day... Ah, my friend, I am glad you are not here to see my failure - it is my only consolation. Aye, if I be wrong and there is Peace it can surely only be found in Death.

But in response to his thoughts there was only the silence of the wasteland undercover of Night. All around him, everything seemed to loom and glower with menace.

He looked about blearily upon the moons-lit landscape of rocks curved like talons, a hilly landscape dotted with a geology of jaws and claws, as if the very stone of the world was trying to gouge its way through the soft covering of soil that smothered and tamed it.

Did rocky world beneath mean to rend apart the life that lived precariously above? Would it open up the cracks of its mineral jaws, sending the animals and plants tumbling into the boiling belly deep down below? Would the rock smash everything down with a shrug of its mountainous shoulders, burying living things beneath mounds of solid rubble? At any time the whole of Eternia might heave, might rebel, and fold, collapse and smash everything that clung so desperately, wretchedly, to the paper-thin surface around him. Adam sensed threat clinging to everything, not just the tooth-like rocks, but everything his troubled eye fell upon - the silent, staring trees, the flattened, finger-like grass, the stillness and tension of nocturnal animals, the screaming bats tumbling overhead.

Perhaps this life he saw, punctuated by the grasping, cutting rocks, was fading away from the rock-skeleton of the world, washed off by rivers of blood and supernatural storms, revealing the organic twists to the ancient rock below, muddling the sense of things, the inorganic a macabre echo of the organic – or the other way around. The landscape was a jumble where one day, perhaps this day, Teela – and everyone else – would be at one with this crumbling soil and then eventually crushed into the very rock itself.

Time was forever, and this pain, this failure of his, was nothing at all – mere moments, particles of sand in the wind to be strewn across the blank, rock face of the Universe. The Universe – silent, impregnable, indifferent – was not the Castle the perfect place for its' secrets? Castle Greyskull, at the centre of the Universe itself; timeless, immobile, vast – and he – the only defender of this monumentally significance place. The weight of all things rested so heavily upon his shoulders he was terrified it would soon obliterate him.

Sleep and dreams claimed him again, then released him. They toyed with him as a cat would a poor mouse, batting him this way into wakefulness, then clawing him that way, back into unconsciousness. All the while the liminal horizon stretched out about him, its own world, while harpies of sensation swooped down to jerk his nerves, twist his guts, or jolt him with a burst of fear and disorientation.

The fatally smashed machine of Adam's body began to break-down, dragging his spirit into the twisted wreckage. He felt that he must be dying, but there was no lethal wound.

What strange worlds, what fearful places and insane dimensions have I been sent to, been trapped within? And not just by Skeletor, but by the Sorceress too. Was she not – he shuddered to think – was she not just as bad as Skeletor in her own way? Both of them would do anything for Greyskull's secrets. Anything at all. And I, I will give it all nothing, no, nothing more at all.

He awoke with a painful jolt, smelling bilious vomit. The liquid dribbled down his tattered and dirty monk's robes. Cat had stopped, and his single remaining eye was turned upon him, questioningly. "Keep going" Adam croaked, then spat, his steed continuing, bounding tirelessly up the jagged hills. Adam fell back into delerium and illness, into memory and nightmare.

Eternia… A hidden world at the cross-roads of time and space, the perfect location for Greyskull, the Secret Castle. Yet the space-faring Horde located Eternia after centuries of searching, and they launched their invasion fleet.

At that time Skeletor had taken full advantage and mounted a furious attack against Greyskull. It had been a telling test. While the Horde cut down the people, both young and old, where had He-Man been? When Duncan had called, the United Eternian Armies had been in full retreat and the massacres went on, where had He-Man been? Lost inside Greyskull, searching for Skeletor, and unable to leave even if she had allowed it.

But she had not allowed it! And it had not been the last time innocents had died when the Sorceress had kept him to defend Greyskull instead.

A distorted face flung itself at his eyes – it was about to scream, it was his father's rage, his mother's shame, it was Teela's contempt and Duncan's sadness – No, it was neither man nor woman, it was the face of distant Greyskull – silent and bleak, towering upon the little precipice it claimed from the Abyss' cliff-side - there all the secrets of the Universe teetered upon the edge of the infinite Abyss, ready to fall into utter oblivion. Above it, the Great Moon was sinking down the sky, as if to land upon the Castle's battlements.

Fingers brushed his face. No, not fingers, but dead twigs. Blocking the path ahead was a tall tree, cut in twain by a fork of lightening and set ablaze to burn black so that all that remained was a split form, empty of life, and without the shelter of claw-like rocks or thick brush - even its' dark roots were exposed. Adam stared at the black, skeletal plant and then he shuddered. He saw no beauty in it - the tree's stark and solitary placing merely reminded him of his own loneliness and bareness, unprotected by anyone, the fruitlessness of it all - the splitting in two of his life. He and the tree were one and the same - caught on a single path that lead to the jaws of mystery and final destruction.

"It's not long Cat. We can see it now. It will be over soon." Adam wept quietly, for there were so many reasons to weep now. Still sobbing, Adam rested his head, his chin against his wasted chest.

The Night drew up it's victim again and forced the black cloak of nightmares down his throat... Adam continued his journey in the solitude of sleep, tormented by the memories of all the evil days he had been witness to... and would be witness to once more.

War of Attrition: XI - The Battle for Eternos

The Outer Wall did not fall, but rather, was swamped and over-run by the heaving masses of invaders. The outnumbered Guards, despite the solid defensive Outer Wall of the Ancients, could not keep every siege ladder or siege tower away from their barrier. Once solid beach-heads were established, the enemy poured into the City from various points around the Wall, an unstoppable stream of vicious warriors that promised to over-run the mightiest human kingdom of all Eternia.

The fall of Eternos was at hand.

Man-E suddenly found himself amidst a swirling melee of fleeing Guardsmen and victorious enemy – the Outer Wall had fallen and Skeletor's creatures now stormed with abandon into the Grand Courtyard, the streets, the squares. He brought his sword up to fend off a blow, but more and more bodies pressed about him, threatening him on all sides.

"Tropos!" he called into his radio "Where is Beastman now?"

The young man's voice crackled back: "Directing a wolf pack through the central market-place. Trying to out-flank our - "

"Wait! That's not far from where I am." But then he heard the Guards sounding a retreat. As they fell back to the Palace Wall, Man-E would be left behind among enemy ranks. Perhaps getting the radio to Beastman no longer mattered, but Man-E did not know what else to do but flee - and this he would never do.

Around him, the standards of the Guards were falling from sight, swamped by the streaming invaders who continued to pour over the Outer Wall and into the City to rush towards the Inner Wall, hampered here and there by Guards who had formed a sacrificial rearguard to allow the remainder of their comrades to flee to the Inner Gate and the final barrier between them and the Palace. They were fighting well, carefully directed over radio by Fist and the other leaders, using defenses, like trenches and barricades, which had been well prepared.

But no amount of strategy and tactics would keep the overwhelming enemy back for long. Man-E was already cut off, having pushed towards the enemy, using his knowledge of the City to take short-cuts through dark back-alleys and over walls, over roof-tops and through the shells of buildings. His sword in one hand and lazer in the other, he continued his careful advance in this way, blasting any who might come too close and cutting into those he surprised. Alone, he could quickly hide from the riotous mobs that surged pasted him, oblivious to the stealthy intruder amongst them, all overly keen with bloodlust to reach their goal. Too soon they thought themselves victorious, and those closest to Man-E were felled by him.

But it was slow progress towards Beastman's reported position and the strain of combat wore at Man-E's soul. It was not the deaths of the enemy that moved him, but the bodies of his fellow subjects found here and there as he stalked through the City. At the mouth of one alley, too slow to hide, lay a young woman, clothes and flesh torn from her body, reduced to a bloody mess - and beneath her, a tiny hand protruded - was the child alive!? But as Man-E moved the body, he found the babe beneath the woman was untouched, yet still dead, suffocated by the heavy corpse that had laid upon the child protectively. As he moved further behind enemy ranks more horrors of this kind met his eye and sickened his soul. Despite them all, he could not rid himself of the vision of the clean, tiny pink hand reaching from beneath the corpse as if for help - help that never came.

It had been many, many days without the Sorceress' medicant and he could no longer control the shaking of his limbs. The taste of adrenalin stuck in his throat and mouth and deep inside himself he could not be rid of the monstrous roaring, Skeletor's curse of rage and hate that for years he had struggled to keep at bay... it could no longer be silenced. It was now only a matter of time before he transformed, whether he found Beastman or not.

Spout blasted jets of water at the humanoids that scaled up the Palace Wall, sending great waves of bodies spilling back down upon the glittering spikes and blades of the thronging army below. They were fighting on a small front now, the Inner Palace Wall being a smaller, concentric circle to the Outer Gate Wall. The Guards had been over-run and Spout was shocked at how few of them were manning posts as they fell back from the Outer Wall to the Palace Wall. There might be less wall to defend, but now there were so fewer defenders - perhaps they were still no better off.

Fist was still sounding the retreat across all radio frequencies. "Fall back to the Palace Wall! Send the old and young in to hiding! Leaders - or anyone who is left - stay at the final Wall! Do not leave under any circumstances! If they breach our final defence, there will be only rout and massacre! This is our final stand! Fight to the last - FIGHT TO THE LAST I SAY! FOR THE KING AND FOR GREYSKULL!"

Spout passed his metallic eyes over the scene - brave Guardsman were still fighting, some with horrible wounds, others with broken weapons, but the numbers of the enemy were much greater. Despite the small gains and victories, Skeletor's warband moved with unstoppable force and direction. Down below, he could see that the enemies' numbers were still so great that some units had begun to fight each other, so as to be the first to storm the Inner Wall. Fist's words had now driven home the truth - here was a fight to the death. There would be no quarter from either side, for Skeletor had never been this close to victory.

Then a shadow passed over him, blocking the multiple beams of moonslight overhead. Spout looked up to see the saurian shape of a wyvern, ropey and tense with bestial strength, descending upon him. Around his position, siege ladders clanked against the walls and shook as Skelcons, Orcs, Snakemen, Torgs, and barbarians clambered up them. Then just before him, a laser shot seared the battlements - it was Trap-Jaw taking aim. Spout turned his monstrous, metal head, looking about himself at the enemies closing in on him from above, around, and afar. He hefted up his axe and - now that his water was exhausted - attached a heavy spiked ball from his belt to the end of his long metal trunk. Then he silently vowed that his own blood would cost Skeletor dearly as he watched the wyvern draw closer, the fingers curing over the top of the battlements, the sound of another laser-shot...

Beyond the walls, Orko stared from within a skeletal tree-top. It had been too dangerous to try to fly over and back into the City. He had been trapped outside, abandoned, and now forgotten. Reflecting in his child-like stare was the final scene of the tribe of Eternos – their supremacy was at end. Murder, slavery and torture would be the fate of the survivors.

Orko did not have magic strong enough to affect the inexorable tide of defeat. Nevertheless he finally resolved to help his friends. I've learned my lesson, he wept, Even the smallest can change the history of the greatest! Having thus reassured himself, he drifted as fast as he could toward the walls, determined to do whatever he could and to give everything he had.

Man-E pressed his back against the wall of an empty room. Outside he can hear the melee and felt such despair that he could not fight his way through to Beastman. Where was He-Man now? Adam was gone, he already knew this, and yet he kept asking himself where He-Man was, as if he was still ignorant of the truth - as if wishing would make any difference.

And Teela was gone too. For a moment, an insane thought flashed through his mind: had she gone after He-Man for reasons beyond what was pressing? Could she be capable of that?

A series of memories flashed through his consciousness, memories he had mulled over before, memories that threatened his belief in their love for each other.

"I am He-Man" boomed the goliath as he took a humble bow. "Defender of the Secrets of Castle Greyskull. I am honoured to have fought alongside such worthy warriors."

King Randor observed the bronzed barbarian carefully, a deep frown upon his forehead. Then he said "Rise, He-Man. We know of the legend that tells of you - but only now do we know it to be true. Eternos thanks you for your service."

Man-E watched the scene unfold within the throne room as the King and He-Man continued to speak before the Court. He glances at the faces of his battle-wearied comrades, wondering what they make of the giant standing before them. His eyes fall upon the beautiful Teela, who he secretly desires. With surprise and dismay he watches her eyes travel along the muscular body of He-Man and he sees the brief blush of red upon her cheeks.

She did not lose her composure for long, but Man-E had always had a keen sense of others' feelings. A sickening sense of jealousy tangled up and squeezed his viscera and pounded at his mind. This huge warrior, so obvious skilled in combat, had overshadowed him without even looking at the Captain. All of his anonymous love letters and night-time songs beyond Teela's balcony, all of his unsigned poetry and his delicate fantasies... they were nothing compared to this steely flesh, this gargantuan warrior who fought with the grace of a dancer, the skill of a great master and - so he was told - the mercifulness of a Prince.

Man-E growled, trying to suppress the intensity of his thoughts. But the explosions and screams outside seemed muffled, the past cast a shadow over his mind as the darkness deep inside him arose, gnashing with wrath, roaring with envy...

Man-E is watching Teela and He-Man together. He-Man has consented to dual with her, for she is curious about his non-lethal style. But unlike Clamp who wishes to learn, she is skeptical and intends to prove a point. The pair do not see Man-E as they exchange and parry blows. Teela quickly learns that He-Man is so strong she cannot block any blow - instead she must dodge, side-step, leap away. Her defence is her speed and small size, her agility. She has already lost her sword to a shattering blow. She fights with her other hand, a smaller weapon, but He-Man turns it out of her hand, disarming her and then locking her arm behind her. Their bodies are close and unarmoured, skin touching, Teela is panting hard. He-Man holds her firmly, but not painfully. She turns to him, her eyes shining - and she laughs.

Teela never laughs when she is beaten! When He-Man lets her go, she turns standing as close to him as if he still held her. For a moment, they say nothing, then, all serious again, she steps away, congratulating him.

This time, though, Man-E has suffered the curse and fought He-Man himself, only to be defeated and saved by the Sorceress after being almost torn in two - the pawn in a magical conflict between her and their new enemy Skeletor. This time, the rage and envy held against He-Man boils up. Fuming, he storms away, seeking a drop of medicant, feeling the Monster shifting restlessly beneath his skin...

"No!" he yells. "This is insane!" Man-E shakes his head, but his mind is rebelling. What is he doing here? Outside he hears, he feels, the flood of violence. The City! It is over-run. Teela gave him an order - what was it!?

The radio at his hip crackles: "Man-E! Man-E-Faces come in!"

For a moment, he stares at the speaker then touches the receiver - he remembers. "Tropos!"

"I've lost sight of you. You were getting close."

"I - I can't make it to him! He's on the other side of the plaza and there's no cover, nothing but the enemy."

"Aye. He's on the move. You don't have time to find another way to him. Man-E! The Captain has given me orders to help you. She has told me - "

"Blast it! I know what I need to do!" Man-E clicks off the radio, his breath coming hard and ragged. There are no choices left. There will be no glorious death on the battlefield like any other Eternian warrior - his end will come at his own hand, through the failure of his soul.

"Cursed! I am accursed! Then so it must be!" Confusion crashes down into Manefred's mind. His sensitive heart is stricken with the foul emotion the Monster embodies as it rises up from his diseased soul. His mission becomes tangled in a struggle for personal survival. The past and present collide in a storm of contradiction - he must let the Monster win this time, against himself, against the Robot, for it is the only way to send Skeletor the news that He-Man still lives... but to give in is to be lost, is to die... No glorious death awaits, only a half-life as a bestial creature born of Skeletor's evil...

Tri-Klops led his countrymen in a headlong charge towards the Palace walls, leaping over debris and trembling, dying bodies, his massive figure carrying the momentum of a juggernaut. Where-ever he looked, a fatal laser-blast shot away the faces of his victims, scattering their brains to the winds as they lurched back, flailing like miserable, beheaded chickens.

Running to catch the fleeing Guards ahead of him, he sliced into their backs with his blade, killing more like a butcher than the skilled swordsman he really was. Yet Tri-Klops did not enjoy war as Trap-Jaw did, and normally he approached combat with more caution - but the exhilaration of their victory moved him and now guided his every action. He had become less calculating in leading the assault, and besides, he had lost the vantage point that granted him vision over the army. There could now be little centralized direction – each group would have to force its own way to final victory – a final victory he could virtually taste. This was the day he had fought long and hard for - he felt unstoppable!

Surrounded by the green cloaks and shaggy loins-cloths of his men, there was little else to differentiate him but his fabled tri-helm. No-one at the Palace Wall were aiming for him in particular, but in the chaos of the pitch battle, an arrow tore it's way through his emerald breastplate and into his heart. Suddenly he lurched forward, his breath snatched away as a wave of pain hurtled through his body. This was no flesh wound, the arrow-head had found a lethal mark. The constant sickening pain was a testament to the sudden, unlucky blow against him.

Tri Klops quickly fell to his knees – he could not breathe! Somehow, the charging warriors around him missed knocking him over and he was left behind, clutching the arrow that stuck so incongruously from above his muscular abdomen. A single eye stared in disbelief at the missile. There was barely any blood, but it was sunk deep, almost up to the flight. Tri-Klops shuddered as an awful weakness pushed his head towards the floor. He could still barely breathe as blackness hovered around his enhanced vision. His helm switched from eye to eye, clicking as it went, as if Tri-Klops were trying to find some use from his three visors, something that could save him from the death that was rushing towards him. But Tri-Klops had devoted no efforts to healing, nor to life.

Death rested heavily upon him - patient and intimate. He had fallen on the bloodstained dirt with so many other slain humanoids around him. Tri-Klops had, but for a moment, experienced the victory he had suffered and craved for, for so long for. But now it was stolen from him. As he began to die, rasping for breath, he realised he had fallen before a monument. As he stared up towards it, he tore away his helm, his purloined relic from civilized times. He no longer felt fit to wear it as he gazed up with his own two eyes at the stone face of the raised statue before him. The inscription upon the pedestal read:

"To the Master himself – may your wisdom and our love for you outlast this stone in which your noble form is cast"

From that stone face above him, the dead eyes of Man-At-Arms stared back. A terrible fear jarred Tri-Klops and a sudden shame crushed his spirit. Who would care to remember him, Tri-Klops?

Then he fell forward, into the sudden emptiness of death, and was forever gone from this world.

It is too late!

Around Man-E the tragedy of mortal struggle expresses itself in battle-cries and screams of pain. The clash of arms reverberates against the sickness in his soul, goading it into cruel manifestation. He hears the boom of explosions, the whinnying of warhorses, he hears the tramping of heavy boots, charging mailed bodies, the shrieking of the slaughtered. He sees the little pink hand reaching from beneath the dead body. The tiny fingers move - impossible! He feels the battle running over his skin, through his eyes, his ears, poisoning his willpower with its violence. He lets loose the hatred, envy and anger he daily holds at bay. This Night, it is easy to finally stop struggling and let go...

Where is He-Man!? Why does he let us die!? Man-E lets out a roar of pain and rage, his jaw cracking, teeth painfully splitting through his bubbling gums, sharp as stiletto blades. His whole body trembles as the transformation takes hold - his muscles bulge with brutal power, his face distends into an inhuman snarl, discolouring green in spreading blotches. His swirling thoughts burn with pain. Where is Teela!? Convulsing, Man-E lets out a robotic whine of denial as he panics in the face of the rapid loss of control – No! Don't let go!. But his body continues to ripple with agonizing spasms as claws tear through the empty sheaths of his human hands. "I cannot control... Sorceress help me!... I must not... No! But I must! Ah-ah-argh! Please! Where is my medicaAANT!?" he roars.

He can not control the curse alone: he has been abandoned by all whom he needs, having now goaded his own devolution into a psychotic beast, the embodiment of Skeletor's murderous curse upon him.

A maelstrom of despair and anger pours like seething oil through Man-E's being, clinging to every thought and feeling, searing it in destructive energy, clogging it all into a formless morass. Every resentment and fear, every terrible thought and disappointment, all of the hurt and confusion trapped within Manefred's soul bursts upon him as a tumult - he feels himself battered and crushed under an avalanche of his own psychic sickness, his own weaknesses and flaws. His true self appears worthless, contemptible and low.

The Monster arises from within his poisoned heart and strangles the pathetic man it finds cowering in the dark, spinning out of control. The massacre outside feeds the foreign creature inside Man-E, giving it power and drawing it out to manifest completely upon Manefred's stolen body. "No! I... I... Am... Man-Ma-Aaah! - AaaahhhgGGGRRR!"

It pauses, panting in the gloomy room, the sounds of the battle at once distant and close-by, clamouring around it, through its being like a vibration. The change is complete, there is nothing human left upon this face, nor in this mind - nothing but a single impulse. Bellowing with murderous hatred the Monster storms out of the building, its hideous visage gnashing with loathing, to be welcomed by the rushing throng of Skeletor's army...

...While deep inside the nightmare of his mind, Manefred screams with despair, for he is now lost...

Fist fired Stridor's shoulder mounted laser-cannons at the heaving mass of the enemy - the furious electronic sound of laser fire momentarily obliterating the frantic voice coming through his ear-piece. He was listening to the situation of a Guard unit who were escorting subjects, mostly elders and children who had not fallen back fast enough, towards his current position. The Palace Gate lay open behind Fist, heavily guarded by a rearguard who held the Gate, preventing any intrusion, while the escort Fist was concerned with slowly made its way towards them, delaying the completion of the retreat behind the Palace Wall.

Fist roared: "Curse it all! They'll be overwhelmed!" The escort were not moving fast enough to reach the Gate, being constantly hampered by enemy attacks and slowed by the people they were protecting. Fist looked to his units still outside the Palace Wall, fighting the rearguard in loose groups between ruined buildings or in more organised rank-formations in the squares and plazas. They were defending desperately on all sides around them, their backs to the Wall or to each other. They would not be able to hold the Gate open for much longer without risking a breakthrough, and that would doom everyone who were already behind the final Wall. Fist listened to his unit leaders as they co-ordinated the retreat - there was no one to spare, nothing else that could be done to aid the lagging people and their escort.

But Fist could not order the Gates closed, he could not face such a failure when there was so little left to salvage. His pride called to his heart for sacrifice. He looked again to the thick ranks of Goblins, man-beast hybrids, and humans of all tribes unified beneath the banner of Skeletor. The enemy could not be slowed at this point and he doubted that they could be thrown back either. Within moments, the escort will run out of impetus and be overtaken by the enemy, with no escape.

Not much time, this final defense before the Gates would be costly - there was only one choice. Before Fist's eyes, the retreat - he felt - was the result of his personal failure. There was no plan left, only an all-or-nothing defensive action, and so his own future began to shrink before his eyes until it reached the tip of his sword point as he brought it to bear, pointing before himself.

"Stridor! Charge!"

The massive mechanical beast reared up with a deafening robotic cry and lunched itself forward with a mighty bound of pistons and spinning gears. Long, thick legs thudded, rolling thunder across the flagstones, carrying its tank like body over the chaotic battlefield. Fist roared as he met the first wall of bodies clattering towards the Palace Wall, putting himself between them and the faltering escort. Every drop of blood and sweat shed would now buy time for the Guard escort moving toward the Palace Gate. Fist had resolved to die gloriously. "For the King!" he bellowed, his resounding voice heard clearly over the uproar of battle around him.

Stridor's charge did not slow as Stridor impacted upon the first rank of men and their hobgoblin and half-Orc brothers racing towards Fist. Great metal hooves cleaved their bodies in twain, shattered heads and chests to pulp with single, explosive blows. They were scattered and smashed, seeming fragile and light as they were flung about, torn and broken, unreal echoes of the enemy who, moments before, were animated in full fury by their battle-charge. Fist continued to fire the laser-cannons as they cut through Skeletor's army, blades skittering over Stridor's shining plate-armoured, or from Fist's full-battle armour. Bodies around him were nothing but litter, cast aside behind Stridor's unstoppable mechanical charge. Fist roared with exhilaration and tasted the blood that had matted his thick beard. His eyes shone with elation and he felt a strange sense of harmony with the machine he rode as he felt the pounding body of Stridor carry him along this long, final path of destruction. Left and right the enemy fled or fell before his crushing charge.

Stridor stopped as they cut through the ranks to reach an impassable mound of blackened rubble - Fist realised this was where the Temple had stood, earlier this Night. He looked back and saw how deep into the enemy's army he had come. The Palace Wall was far behind, but he heard through his radio the escort clearing the gate, and a panicked voice calling his name. "Close the Gate!" he roared back into his microphone, knowing that his doom was now sealed.

The path of smashed bodies that had fallen under Stridor's hooves was like a carpet tracing their route from the Gate to this point. Fist saw the path vanishing as the enemy turned, closed ranks, stepped upon the dead, aimed their weapons - all around him. It no longer mattered which way to charge now, any direction would do. He set the laser-cannon to auto, allowing it to fire at whatever came close until it over-heated. Stridor leapt forward, crushing the legs of a hulking Ogre as it lunged ahead. Fist brought his sword to bare, swinging the long, heavy blade around to cut deep across the shoulders of the nearest blue-skinned barbarian. Fist guided Stridor is a slow circle as he cleft the enemy left and right with his blade. As Stridor turned clockwise, the lasers blasted away assailants before Fist, while he hacked at the enemy on his flanks and Stridor covered the rear by bringing up its back legs to deliver brutal kicks, pulverising those unlucky enough to be standing behind. As Fist fought, he felt more and more energised and did not tire - this was his final and glorious stand! The blood and cries and the constant motion, all under threat of sudden death, spurred him into a killing-fury - the future no longer mattered, his own pain, his own life, were now merely the means for maximum destruction. Soon Stridor stood atop a small mound of shattered bodies while more of the enemy were forced to clamber over the fallen.

No missile had found a weak point in Fist's full battle-armour that covered him from head to toe. But as he raised his sword to deliver another killing blow it was thrust from his hand by a well aimed spear jab. Yet Fist was undeterred and without concern, he gripped Stridor's leather reins, and took to leaning over one side of the bionic-horse, sweeping down at the enemy with his metal gauntlet, splattering their faces open, breaking their spears, ripping apart their bodies with lethal blows, tearing heads from their throats with a well-aimed clout, fighting on and on with berserker energy.

From the Palace Walls, Fist could be seen far back behind the enemy's front, surrounded by bloodthirsty warriors baying for vengeance and their chance to fell the war-frenzied Acting-Captain, prodding at him with spears and pikes. The heaving bodies of the enemy pressed around Stridor, hampering each other, wild with rage. Fighting alone so far out, and certainly doomed, Fist was an inspiring sight to those who saw his worthy self-sacrifice.

Finally, a heavy mace struck at Fist's leg, smashing the armour painfully inward. He let out a roar and now, sensing the end was near, he redoubled his efforts. A well-aimed blow with a pikestaff then caught him in the chest, puncturing his breast-plate, stabbing his body. "For Greyskull!" he cried, bringing his fist down hard upon the helmeted crown of yet another of Skeletor's soldiers. "For Eternia!" he roared as his armour was gouged open, his leg bludgeoned again. Stridor slowed, hemmed in by the sheer weight of bodies pressed against its legs, laser-cannons burning hot and empty from all of the firing.

Stridor's huge legs trampled up and down, the warriors around it beaten and battered by the equine vehicle of war. But where Stridor did not tire nor wince with pain, Fist - though mighty - was still only a man. Awash with sweat and blood, his muscles and eyes bulging, he tried to deny his defeat with every nerve and sinew. Yet he nonetheless succumbed with a final roar, dragged down from the saddle with hooks and pikes by the braying masses around him, held and stabbed and torn apart into a bloodied mess by the crowd, his limbs tossed far over the heads of the amassed warriors, his pulped head stuck atop a primitive spear. Stridor fought on, rider less, thick smoke pouring from its metal nostrils, great dents marking its body, until the warriors around it were able to tangle its legs with ropes and weigh it down with chains to be pulled to the ground and smashed and battered by the heavy clubs of Ogres.

The last of the resistance outside the Palace Walls is vanquished. The enemy now holds the City and crowds the Inner Wall that borders the Palace, the tribe of Eternos' final defence.

Underneath the Palace in hidden tunnels and dungeons, the old and young, wounded and sick, all tremble and pray. A conclusion to the bloodshed will soon be reached.

Tropos watched Man-E below, the man who'd written numerous plays, poems and songs about the tribe of Eternos and their enemies and allies. Man-E's works were so well-known that they were enacted almost every holiday or festival, and the names that he had dubbed the Eternian warriors with had proven so popular that even some of Skeletor's creatures knew their enemies by them. This is how, for example, Duncan had become Man-At-Arms, and how the witch Lyn became known as Evil-Lyn, even to her own allies.

This poetic and sensitive man, who could move people to tears or to joy with his arts, had burst out of a nearby building and was now running amok, now barely human at all, slaying left and right indiscriminately.

The Monster scuttled amongst the half-human wretches that Skeletor had pressed into battle. In this guise Man-E moved with inhuman speed and agility – it must have been terrifying for the King and Queen when Man-E's curse had first taken hold years ago, for he had tried to slay them both. Now Tropos saw why Man-E was said to be afraid of this dark-side – the Monster was powerful, fast, and Man-E seemed to delight in that power as he barged his way through the seething ranks of the warband as it overwhelmed the Eternos Guard.

Did he no longer recall the aim of his transformation?

High above the war-zone, Tropos' flight had been almost peaceful – he was not an easy target and now that his Greek fire bombs had run out and the catapults had been overrun, he only had his bow, lance, and dirk to attack with – he was no longer seen as an important target. Around him the Autumnal wind was blowing hard and dead leaves, all grey in the Night, were spiraling everywhere across the City, crushed under boots or blown high into the air. Silent thunderclouds raced across the sky above him, consuming the wan light of Night, seemingly intent on blanketing the opposite horizon, where the first faint image of dawn had lain a band of dim colour above the land. A light rain began to shower, slanting across the battleground, weighing down the scattered leaves. Around the struggling humanoids, the men and women, the wind whirred louder and louder.

The Palace walls were now crawling with vicious insects – Tropos soared downward in a graceful curve – the insects became men, goblinoids, Torgs, and foul teratoids climbing ladders. He descended further still, closer to Man-E, enabling the Monster's route towards Beastman with a few well aimed arrows into the press of bodies that slowed him down. There! The red-devil had turned to Man-E who offered his radio. Beastman took it up and yammered into the microphone. Success!

But wait! Tropos watched the Monster drop away from Beastman, seemingly uninterested in the outcome. The Monster continued to push through the heaving ranks towards the back of the mob where the wounded and dead lay trampled. Man-E forced a way through and headed directly for the smashed gates. Nothing dared to stop him – and out he fled, away from the defeated City.

Circling aimlessly, his last arrow spent, Tropos pondered raising up his lance to make a final charge at the mass of invaders below. What remained but to kill as many as he could and die a glorious warrior's death? What else could Tropos do to fling back the enemy?

Far away towards the faint band of dawn-light, Tropos knew Greyskull lay. At top-speed he would be faster than a heavier, fully-equipped jet-sled or any other vehicle or beast. If He-Man lived and was not fighting here, he could only be at Greyskull, where he was known to have been kept before during a crisis - for defending Greyskull was more important than the fortune of any kingdom. And Fist's final order had made it clear - there was no more strategy, just a fight for survival.

So once more, Tropos flew away from the City, carrying the diminishing hope that he might be able to convince He-Man to come to their aid, as the final hour of the Eternal City drew to a bloody close.

Randor remained seated, staring at the vastness of the empty court-room as the muffled sounds of explosions and the clash of arms reverberated from beyond the Palace. His courtiers had fled, rushing to the dead-end dungeons and catacombs beneath the City, or drawing their weapons to face the final onslaught outside. The King's face hung, grave and despairing, eyes dulled and sunken - it was as if he had aged and then turned to stone. Standing beneath him, pacing below the raised twin thrones was Marlena. Again she turned to him, addressing him with entreaty as if she were no longer a Queen.

"Sire, you have devoted your life to your people, given them the blood of your very soul. You have not failed at this hour - a man does not fail when he is crushed by an avalanche." But this time her firm voice wavered, previously so steady in reassuring and supporting her husband.

The momentary change in her tone seemed to be enough to make the King stir and he lowered his gaze, ashamed, as he spoke. "I failed in choosing a path that led beneath an unstable cliff. I cannot be absolved... I should have given the allied tribes ancient weapons, technology..."

"Nay sire, nay! Each and every representative of every king, queen and petty prince fled once the warhost were sighted. None would have stood by you, so armed or otherwise. Indeed, some have turned traitor - their banners have been seen amidst the enemy! Your were wise to not share the power of our artifacts. It would have made the local wars more bloody, the old feuds more lengthy, and this night they would have been used against us!"

"Aye... Even Ulthric and Aethelred turned tail... But what alliance was left? When the Horde came, He-Man was not here. Then Faker further destroyed the deep bonds I had created... All those years of fighting - but the deepest wounds never healed. No - I have fooled myself. Skeletor has somehow turned the tribes against us - they once more fight in unity, but not with us..."

"They are cowards!" Marlena swept up her cloak with a gesture of contempt. "They side with the stronger, not the good!"

"Aye, and the strongest man in the Universe is gone. He-Man was always the Defender of Greyskull first. I lay no blame upon him. We relied too much on him - I should have learned that when the Horde came. And now the ancient treasures I refused to share are nothing but plunder. Eternos is forsaken!"

"Nay my King - " the Queen said quietly "we are still here."

An explosion, louder and closer than any heard yet, shook the room, sending debris from the ceiling as it cracked.

The Queen wiped away a tear, suddenly shed. "Every man, woman and child becomes a corpse. But the Green Goddess sees to it that life will bloom again upon that flesh. Life goes on." She stepped up towards Randor upon his throne on the dais, taking his cold, calloused hand to look upon him tenderly. "Ah! Even in this hour, I love you!"

Randors eyes softened. "Please be seated by my side, my wife and Queen."

Beyond the Court room, a commotion could be heard and then an uproar from the Royal Guard - the enemy were within!

"Our time has come, Marlena." Randor's voice was even, his eyes firmly set upon the barred great doors before them, that opened upon the Court.

"Then know this" the Queen said, still holding his hand. "I believe that He-Man did not come today because he is dead. I believe he died when our son did on this night. I have long suspected that they are one and the same."

Randor turned to look at his wife as the doors before them began to thunder, the Royal Guard pushed back against them. Their screams could be heard as they fell. Randor said nothing, his face was ashen, his mouth flinched.

The Queen spoke "The magic of Greyskull is the explanation you seek my love. I know nothing more, only what a mother's love and knowing can tell. I do believe it."

"Ah!" Randor groaned with grief, his arm trembling as he gripped the Queen's hand, his face twisted with agony as thoughts rushed through his mind. "Oh...! You have prepared me well for the blows ahead! I will not feel that pain now, not compared to this!"

Before them the doors were smashed open and the foul legionnaires of Skeletor entered, roaring and barking their triumph, covered in blood and shielded with black armour.

Randor stood with a bellow of hate and drew his sword from his side "For Greyskull!" he cried. But Marlena gripped his shoulder "Wait! Die with me at your side!" she drew the cermonial sword she used to dub honoured warriors, taking it carefully in her hand. "They will have to drag us from our thrones!"

"Dear Queen" Randor breathed as he looked at her, his eyes running rivers of tears "It is my honour and blessing to have had you as my wife."

Together they turned towards the onrushing mob, their blades held ready, and prepared to die.

Evil-Lyn's face remained mask-like, death-like, and betrayed no sense of triumph as she watched the walls of Eternos over-run. The warband surged over the Guards, just as the storm clouds moved to further deepen the darkness of the Night sky – black, heavy and portending doom, swallowing up the stars and moons, consuming the last of the light of the worlds that all shone their weak photons here upon this planet, the centre of the Universe.

Darkness had fallen upon the tribe of Eternos. The effect would soon be felt throughout all Eternia.

But what does it matter now!? She spun around from the glassy scrying pool and hurried over to stare out at Greyskull from her Aerie. Lo! She could see the flashing of light and arcs of annihilating energy unleashed by the Lord of Destruction. Again he was attacking the Jawbridge and had still met with no resistance. What did Eternos matter if Skeletor entered Greyskull directly!? A rushing fear pummeled her innards – If Skeletor succeeds, I will be nothing to him. He will not allow me to enter after him, neither via the Jawbridge nor Eternos – if indeed Eternos does guard an underground route to Greyskull! No – his success is imminent, I have to strike at him now, to walk the path he has cleared!

The witch jumped when her long-range radio crackled and a brute voice, distorted by the primitive dimensions of its mouth, bellowed through the speaker. "Arh! Evil-Lyn! Urgent news!"

She snatched up the microphone from her ornate escritoire, knocking over a bottle of ink in her haste. She was surprised to hear the voice, knowing that only a very few short-range radios were available to the warhost for battlefield communications - long-range radios were unheard of - except one known to be available to Eternos City, another tool of Randor's technological power.

"Beastman! You have taken their long-range communication already? Then your news is of final victory?"

The distant voice grunted and slavered from the radio-speaker: "He-Man! He-Man lives! I saw Prince Adam change into He-Man in the woods outside the Ci-" a loud noise masked Beastman's voice for a moment, but it returned, insisting: "-rue, it's true! It just took me a time to take the radio."

For a moment, Evil-Lyn calculated her response and said, "Then where is he!?"

"Arh! I don't know - "

Evil-Lyn paused. He-Man must already be on his way to Greyskull, leaving the City - his own City! - to its fate. "I believe you Beastman! But leave it to me to inform Skeletor. This is a crucial moment in his assault! Concentrate on your own task! Victory is at hand!"

"Aye Evil-Lyn!" The speaker went dead with a click. Evil-Lyn placed the microphone back on the desk, next to the radio. The spreading puddle of spilled ink on the surface clinged to the connecting wire, wetting and staining it with a red colour.

Looking beyond her window again, she beheld the dread Castle once more - only this time, the Jawbridge had gone, and so too, Skeletor. She caught her breath at the sight! Only a bridge of bones and flesh remained, spanning the gap between Greyskull's teeth and the precipice before it. Around the strange, bloody bridge, giant claws formed of magic flashed, emanating from the Castle itself - slowly, these shimmering claws tore away the structure Skeletor had employed to gain entry.

The witch threw back her head, bursting into a vicious laugh, an edge of hysteria heightening the sound. Then she wiped the fearful tears of sweat from her brow. So! Skeletor is using all of his power to assail Greyskull, ignorant that Webstor has failed! And he can remain ignorant! She plucked up her Orb wand. I will be there at the mouth of Greyskull to see He-Man defeat the fiend again. With that thought in mind she turned and fled the room, making haste to the dread Castle.

Behind her the ink began to drip from the edge of her escritoire onto the bear-skin rug beneath it, slowly, drop by drop, like so much wasted blood.

Adam stirred upon his steed as he was carried to Greyskull, slumped deep in the high-back saddle. Despite his pains and the terrors that rage through his shattered mind, he does not yet awaken, but dreams of past agonies...

The mighty Ancient Zodac is gone from the Universe, fallen alongside King Hiss. But the ending of the Triumvirate is in vain, for the Cosmic Enforcer & Watcher of Greyskull failed to also fell the remaining two tyrants...

Prince Adam has awoken to a sickening jolt of pain. It is unclear to him what has caused it, as his blood-clotted eyelids struggle to force themselves open against the brown crust of blood matting them together. Multiple sites of pain and discomfort flare up through-out his body as if his sudden waking has set him aflame with a fire of agony. Through the disorientation and numbness of his twisted limbs he realises he is hanging somehow, suspended from his clamped arms, legs, barely able to move. An involuntary cry escapes his lips - and that breath drifts over to the unliving creature watching him in the shadows.

"Prince Adam..." it whispers with mocking invitation, it's voice grating with a metallic timbre. "I finally have you, too."

Adam winces as he moves his stiffened neck, lifting his head in the direction of the hollow voice. As his eyes adjust to the near-darkness, he makes out rough forms and shapes, outlines, and amongst them - a hulking blackness, crowned and heavily armoured. The very presence of the being is an imposition, something about the creature imbues it with a sense of might, of the capability of sudden, lethal force. The tall, broad shadow exudes malice - despite the darkness, the lack of detail, Adam recognises that the being that has caught him is one of the most foul. The Prince gags in reaction to what he perceives, terror shaking his limbs to the marrow, his heart and guts contracting in horror then pulsating violently, as if in struggle. But he strives to drive down his fear and ignore his many pains, employing all of his mental strength and immense will - and then he remembers how he was caught.

The fiend towering beyond him moves slightly into a patch of red light. Its bulbous, horned forehead glints like metal and beneath the heavy brows are two smoldering red eyes, two windows into a burning hell. A snout cut like a grill squats above a broad, jagged mouth completing the monsterous face of Hordak.

The ruthless leader of the Horde steps closer to the defenceless Prince, bringing one of his powerful arms up towards the young man's face. As he does so, the gloved fingers upon his hand begin to melt and bubble like a thick molten metal, little scales rippling across the liquid-like surface, re-shaping the appendage into the form of several small cutting tools and needles. Adam trembles with tension but closes his eyes to draw on his resolve and fights the nausea weakening his lean, wiry body. He no longer sees Hordak, this demented creature, a seeming composite of bone and metal, a creature that has no heart and no human feeling.

"We have your Roboto too, Prince. Rest assured that your torments to come will not be in vain."

Thus began Adam's tribulation of imprisonment and relentless torture.

It was sometime until Adam learned what Hordak had meant. His torment at the hands of the arch-vampire had almost broken him, but he was to finally understand why he had been taken apart, almost piece by piece, by the time "He-Man" had rescued him. On that day, deep in the inter-dimensional Fright-Zone, his rescuer filled Adam with such confusion and the beginnings of a dangerous question - had his missing sword of Power been taken and then given to another? Was he no longer He-Man?

Adam's rescue had followed Hordak's vanquishment at the hands of Faker and the trecherous Skeletor - who had needed Hordak's help in building the fake robot. Faker's body was a hybrid of Roboto and, coincidentally, Adam's own flesh and blood, taken during Hordak's tortures. The daemon that animated the Faker-machine had been taken by Skeletor and Hordak from Greyskull during the time Adam had been imprisoned and He-Man was no-where to be found. The Sorceress had been so exhausted in her fight to expulse the two that she was never to recover her full strength, having used magics that were forbidden even to her. For a while, unbeknownst to Hordak and Skeletor, Greyskull's defenses were dangerously weak: He-Man had seemingly vanished, Zodac was destroyed, and the Sorceress lay enervated - and perhaps even corrupted.

The daemon had been held captive deep within the Castle, for it was the very embodiment of the negative aspect of He-Man - it was the corruption of the Power, it was the violent, murderous potential of He-Man's might that Adam held in check. Long ago, this anti-He-Man had been separated and sloughed off from He-Man, leaving his essence pure and good, but in doing so creating something foul and monstrous that had remained in the deepest oubliette of Greyskull.

The anti-He-Man had been a great prize for Hordak and Skeletor - though the Sorceress had finally driven them out of the Castle, away from yet more terrible secrets. The machine they built to house this daemon was an excellent complement to it, being mostly made from the remains of the Ancient's relic, Roboto. The resultant creation, Faker, had then been released into the most distant lands of Eternia to blacken the legend surrounding He-Man, to create discord and war while Faker seemed to do good. Soon, Hordak and Skeletor realised that He-Man had not been seen, had not even responded to the threat, and so they moved their pawn Faker closer to Eternos and Greyskull, and there the true test of Faker's power had begun.

Faker proved his righteousness to Eternia by finally driving Hordak and his Horde vanguard from the planet, with the secret and treacherous aid of Skeletor, who closed the portals leading to the Fright-Zone and the Horde Empire beyond Eternia. Faker and his hidden ally Skeletor then carefully destroyed so many of the alliances Randor had worked long and hard to forge, bringing constant inter-tribal warfare back to Eternia, warfare made all the worse by the powerful (and stolen) Horde technologies Skeletor provided to the power-hungry Kings and Queens of the barbaric tribes.

For Adam, there had been no knowledge of this time, not until Faker rescued him, to the acclaim and welcome of King Randor and Eternos. Yet Man-At-Arms and his supporters were outcast for their disbelief, outrage and opposition to Randor's acceptance of Faker, swayed by the successful rescue. Ridding Eternia of Hordak and saving Prince Adam had given Faker access to the very Palace itself, placing the whole of Eternos in jeopardy.

But with Adam rescued and aware of the ruse, the true He-Man had prevented the planned massacre and take-over by Skeletor's forces when Man-At-Arms delivered the missing Power Sword at the final moment. The clash between He-Man and Faker had brought the truth of Faker to light, and the robot transformed, revealing its inner daemonism - only then was He-Man joined by his allies to drive Faker and Skeletor back from victory.

And with that victory, Skeletor's suspicions of Adam were proven correct.

Adam is still dreaming of the hideous torments he endured at Hordak's hands - at the hands of a vampiric creature that fed on blood and the suffering of others, hands that could meld into the equipment of torment, into blades, needles, and teeth. It had been a crucial turning point in his life. Hordak had taken something from him, some strength or resolve, and so Adam had been pushed to asked the questions - Can I endure this? Why must it be me?

Since that time, such questions had been thrust aside, only to return in nightmares.

It is the way of all flesh... Your fate is to be born into panic and pain, thrust from the foetid little world of your mother... A maggot writhing from within the excrement... Yes, all flesh is filth, a transient thing from which mindless molds and feasting rats will live upon. Make no mistake, the maggot and rat are much greater than man - they are older and wiser. They have no need for secrets, no lust for power, they merely await their chance to take what is their due. You think that you are special, but you are a mere automaton, subject to your biochemicals, your instincts, your quivering brains filled with the illusion of self-importance - and of course, to the machinations of your Sorceress. You are a Prince for sure, but for how long? Not long, not long at all when measured against the movement of the rock, the burning of a star... No - your place is brief, insignificant, a momentary pawn in a vast galactic plan. ..

This pain you feel, it reaches down to your depths. You are composed of it and shattered by it at the same time. But it is only nerves and brains - all so much water - a mere chemical. You believe in higher things, yet you do not stop your farmers from beating and slaughtering their beasts. You are to me as those beasts are to them. You have no right to exist except as how I define it. I define it thus -

No Prince, your pleas for mercy are more power-play. But I feel no pity and so you have no power.

Laws and morality, all fine ideas masking the brutal fist of power. You think your histories have ever been shaped by anything greater than force? If only you could see the worlds held under my yoke. The endless columns of marching troops. The death camps. The war factories. The torture chambers. All evidence of my victory, and so it must never end for my triumph to continue. Your screams join theirs - it is the only sound that rings true. Words lie.

Does the predator pity its prey? Pity - another human contraption made to make you obey. You couldn't all go around indulging your every impulse as you truly desire - unless you are King or a god - beings you all worship. You worship power, prostrate yourself before it, hoping to be granted its gains and boons. Then worship me, oh pathetic creature, for there is none greater than I, Hordak.

The Prince had been healed, cared for, but his mind had been more deeply scarred than his ravaged body. Even though the disfiguring and debilitating scars all over his body had been blurred away by lengthy healing magics, no-one had been able to truly reach Adam's shattered soul. Hordak had opened a lethal wound that would ultimately led to this Night of questions, of doubts - and his secret forever cut him off from others.

Adam then had to face a world that mistrusted his heroic identity and so soon after, Duncan was killed. His descent into the darkness of this Night had begun in earnest in those black days. Now, his whole existence was now nothing but the faint pulse of misery, the culmination of years of horrors - he was alive, yet damned.

Before his closed eyes, Castle Greyskull loomed.

A sense of panic, jaws, hot-breath, a rough rubbing across his nose and mouth - suffocation...!

But it was only the Battle Cat licking at his face. He'd fallen from the saddle – had he lain unconscious? For how long!?

"No!" he murmured angrily to himself, "make haste Cat!" He crawled back into his saddle and took off his belt to lash it around his arm and through a leather-strap that bound the saddle to Cat. This precaution should prevent him falling from the saddle again. His steed ran once more towards the hulking Castle, now not far away, squatting like some half-rotten corpse upon the edge of a fathomless grave.

Of course the Sorceress is right. I cannot blame her, stern and otherworldly though she may be, for any of my suffering – for I was the defender of Castle Greyskull, and only of Eternia by association. I've always known that she would let everyone in the whole world die if it meant that Greyskull would remain secure... But at what point would I ever say no to this? Could I? I have never disobeyed her – is it even possible?

Will she now turn me away?

"Please," he pleaded to her, his eyes closed, his mouth barely moving, "please heed my call. Have I ever asked for anything from you?"

Adam sank into a saddle designed for a colossus. He felt like a child sitting in his father's throne. The belt bound him to his destination, though a few times he had struggled against it in his half-sleep, thinking it a snake or a snare. Almost dreamily, Adam's pains drifted away, distant and numb, and the cold no longer made him shiver. His mind fell into memory again, of the childhood stories he was told - his suken eyes flicker as the visions the old stories evoked drift through his mind...

There was a time when fathers protected their children… A time before the City became more important than familial love. So I was never willing to defend it? Aye, it was never ours to take. Truly I remember the stories of our ancestors, fathers of fathers, leading our sorry tribe over desolate plains. Divine inspiration or human fumblings? In any case my people were lucky that bygone day they found the ruins of Eternos. But unlike other ruins, Eternos was mostly whole, so solidly built, so fortified and tough were the materials of its make. The Ancients built it, like they did all of our scavenged and misunderstood wealth of technology. And we took it, defended it jealously, and studied the spoils of science and engineering while the farmers built their huts of wattle and daub.

We are no great people – we merely took for our own a great place.

From there we conquered and reigned supreme. The other tribes were forced into alliances to bring peace and trade to the scattered kingdoms. The tribe of Eternos tried to be just, but we are only human. Perhaps we did better than others might. But we remained selfish with our gifts and even now my father struggles to maintain his hold over our antique machines, our technoccult knowledge, our stolen "inheritance". He does not admit that this inheritance is not "ours", but for all. The Ancients did not become enlightened by manipulating others. Is this all truly a curse on my tribe?

A sudden blast of wind almost choked Adam – his leaden eyes opened to dusty air and he coughed violently for a few moments. The Great Abyss lay ahead, and upon a disconnected shelf of rock, Castle Greyskull stood astride the fathomless pit, staring straight at any who dared walk beneath the crumbling, boney arch-ways that defined the approach.

It stared at Adam, the skull-face facade deepened & obscured by the blackness of the Night. His confusion and fatigue fled his mind. Now that he was here at the threshold, a desperate energy galvanised him, the hallucinations and flashbacks ceased to plague him. Inside were his answers - and release.

...Beyond the skull-facade were gigantic walls thicker than any defensive wall found in the whole world. The stone was a deep, dark green that appeared black in the Night. Though each massive stone looked worn with age, the blocks themselves seem to have been carved and laid-down by giants, the whole edifice having the appearance of familiarity, but on an alien scale that would be impossible for mere humans to construct. The massive stones of the battlements above the walls had the same quality - and though etched in cracks and pitted with blows, each stone had an aura of indestructibility, of solidity and reality which were so imposing that you almost felt crushed by them if you approached too close, as if they took up your own space.

The Castle itself was an imposition, an intrusion, for it was a powerfully magical barrier - reality flowed around it just as running water would around a stolid rock. The Castle was a bedrock, it was fundamental, and like bone beneath skin it distorted whatever lay around it, shaping it and pushing it away. Adam had wondered if the Castle ever fell, whether the fragile Universe around it would just crumple into the gaping hole it would leave, and drain away into empty eternity.

Further behind the cyclopean walls and imposing turrets, the Castle warped into an organic shape, its walls shaped like ribs, its battlements joining to form a spine - at the back of the Castle the whole structure suddenly seemed to plunge into the ground as if it were frozen solid while being born from out of a subterranean world of volcanic rock and burning blackness, a faceless thing that served as a vault for the most precious & awesome mysteries of the Universe.

Adam shuddered - every inch of Greyskull was a threat, a hulking slab of stone that warned away every living thing. Nothing grew nearby, no birds roosted therein, no animal looked upon it. But he had to go inside. The only way across the bottomless moat around the Castle was the Jawbridge. In the darkness and the rain, Adam could not see the Castle clearly. Darkness pooled within the mouth and eyes of Greyskull.

Cat stood with Adam on the Abyss-edge as Adam pondered the deaths-head façade of the Castle, heedless of the wet and cold rain.

What is the power of Greyskull? Do I truly remain myself, only augmented by the magic, or am I actually possessed by some force that is not and could never be me, that drives my puppeteered body to the fight? An answer stirred in Adam's memory – Had not the Sorceress told me that Skeletor had entered Greyskull and stolen one of its secrets, before she had given me the Sword, before anyone in Eternia really knew of Skeletor or He-Man – before Greyskull could be properly defended? Aye, Skeletor had taken a secret in the shape of another Sword, and it had changed him too, so the Sorceress said. Was the villain also possessed of some force from the Castle, some force that might be related to the power of He-Man?

Questions, so many questions he had never dared to ask before, questions that lead to the secrets he should not know, only defend. Would she grant him the answers he ached for? Would she release him from the torments of this life? Was he ever destined to know and be free, or be bound to an ignorance she called secrecy?

Cat growled and tossed his head, brown with matted blood, while Adam unbound himself from the saddle, but remained seated. The sight of the dread Castle invigourated him. "There is not much further to go Cat. You will have your rest too." He muttered, pulling himself up and drawing his Sword to open the Jawbridge.

Inside I will have my answers. The Sorceress owes me that much, surely. I have endured for so long, but now, as my soul admits itself spent, I come to return what was given to me, but does not belong to me.

But Cat growled again, his head held aloft. "Adam!" The sudden voice from above snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked up to see an Avion warrior descending from the stormy sky that hung pendulously above. "Prince Adam! I am Tropos, a friend! My eyes are amazed that you still live - and that you ride Battle Cat!"

"It is not common knowledge." Adam murdered in response, wondering why he had been arrested at this point, on the very threshold of release. Then louder and impatiently he snapped, "Why are you here!?"

But Tropos had already begun to speak as his feet touched the ground: "Is He-Man here? Do you know why he does not come to defend Eternos & the King?"

"He is here. But he does not come for he is unworthy!"

Tropos took a step back in surprise. "Sire! I am no villain - I come here seeking his aid - "

"I am no Prince, and no hero."

"I fail to understand you. But there is no time! The fall of Eternos is at hand! The Outer Wall is over-run, Skeletor has sent the greatest battle-host we have ever seen! This night, he seems confident of success. Already his army climbs the Palace Wall. Your people will be massacred and the survivors used for sport and slavery. So tell me, please! - where is He-Man!?"

For a moment, Adam paused while he imagined what Tropos had said. "Eternos is invaded - over-run?"

"Aye! It is the last hour of your tribe, your kingdom! Does the Sorceress detain He-Man? Is there no hope?"

Adam turned to look behind himself for the first time. The storm had raced overhead and nothing could be seen of the City in this darkness, now deeper than the Night.

"Why do you hesitate!?" Tropos yelled above the rising wind. "Do you know the answer to my question!?"

Adam stared up at the raining clouds, a sense of desolation sweeping his soul. At this final moment of submission he had been called back by the ultimate cry for help. He must fight one more time - he could not abandon his people to their doom, in spite of everything - he needn't even be hear, for the Sorceress had not called him, had remained utterly silent...

"I am fated to keep fighting", he murmured, and realised he still held the Sword, having been ready to call the Jawbridge open.

Adam sat upon Cat before the glowering Castle as the wind howled up from the chasm below, tearing at his clothes and freezing his numb body. He turned to Tropos, summoning the will to hold his Sword aloft, to show this man that there was hope, to use the last of his strength to save the King and his subjects - his own people, his friends and family. In his heart he had almost abandoned them, but now they were at the jaws of death he found the strength and wish to save them - He-Man must return!

He stared at the Castle and opened his mouth to speak the magic words, but as he did so, sudden lightening flashed overhead, illumining the dark entrance of Greyskull - revealing to him that the Jawbridge was gone!

As the thunder pounded above their heads, Adam understood in that moment what had happened this Night: Skeletor, believing him dead, had amassed all of his strength and gambled that one mighty push would finally crush the enervated Eternos City, while in the meantime he concentrated every energy on entering the defenceless Castle. Was the Sorceress also his victim? She was as absent as the Jawbridge - and now the dread Castle lay open to any invader - and now Skeletor was therein!

The choice was no longer whether he should turn his back on his own final quest so as to save his kingdom and home - the choice was now between his home and the mystic treasures of the Universe itself. So, it was no choice at all! - even if he could save Eternos, everything else would be forfeit, and his victory short-lived. Today not only would he be a sacrifice, so too the greatest of Eternian tribes and everyone he loved - for it was Greyskull he must always defend - and it was Greyskull for which he tribe now died with each passing moment.

With a roar of agony, Adam dug his heels into Cat's sides. The great beast leapt across the Abyss and into Greyskull, leaving Tropos behind.

Chapter XIII - Master of the Universe

"Get me the combat drugs!" Stratos roared for the umpteenth time, grabbing at a passing medic, his frustration at being incapacitated during the battle reaching a point of fury.

"Here it is, here it is!" came the fearful response as another medic rushed to the side of the injured warrior. All around them was bedlam, shouts and clattering, as the infirmary was cleared of screaming wounded while the smoke grew thicker from beyond and the fires came closer. Injured warriors were being carried, some even dragged, out of the area and down towards the dead-end tunnels where the subjects of Eternos had taken flight. There they cowered, praying to their deaf gods.

Stratos held out his shaking, muscular arm as the medic parted the thick hair upon it to jab in the needle. "You know these are dangerous" the medic cried, but Stratos snatched away his thick limb impatiently. "Look around you man!" he bellowed. "We're dying! What does it matter!?"

"Your blood transfusion, it's - "

"Run you fool!" Stratos shoved the stammering man towards the back of the room where a couple of orderlies were still struggling to move a badly wounded man out of his cot. Stratos' head swam momentarily as he stood, but he could already feel the stimulant effects of Duncan's experimental combat drugs as his jaw began to tighten with tension and the muscles over his body twitched and bulged. Frantic energy coursed through him and, having had his wish as an Avion warrior respected, his wings and other weapons had not been removed from him - he was ready for the fight.

Protected by his goggles, his eyes could stand to look through the thickening, acrid smoke to see the dark shadows yelling their war-cries. A moment later, enemy warriors burst screaming into the infirmary and Stratos took flight a half-foot from the ground. He sped vertically towards the enemy with an offensive posture, his pointed teeth bared and grinding, a throaty cry like a bark bursting from him as he moved at speed. Just before he reached the first warrior he suddenly spun around, still hovering in the air, and - with a shot of speed from his flight-pack - brought about a heavy round-house kick at the head of the blue-skinned savage before him, only to be followed by a sudden, brutal stomp as Stratos landed at high speed upon the savage's back as he fell prone. He sprang off his vanquished opponant, taking into the air again by a half-foot, biceps rolling as he brought his arms up for more fighting, waiting for his next opponent to come charging in from outside, where the smoke was pouring. Behind him, the rushed evacuation continued while Stratos ground his teeth in disgust and his hair stood on end, making him appear all the more larger - Skeletor's allies had no honour, no code, and were willing to put the wounded and the young and old to the sword and flame.

Like any Avion warrior, Stratos' martial-art was aided by his flight-pack, while his feet were covered by a fine mesh of armour, like cesti, all studded with little hooks. These helped a warrior to find a grip upon landing on difficult or precarious ground, but they also doubled as a cutting weapon.

Southern barbarians bulldozed their way in, their crude weapons carried high, white teeth flashing in contrast with their black skin. Stratos moved with deadly control and accuracy through the air, each flurry of attacks he unleashed perfectly timed with the control of his hovering flight, smashing them down as they charged in; crushing a throat with a foot-blow, eviscerating another with a deep, long, slash from his dirk, picking another up with a sudden, surprise move, and breaking his back across his knees, falling briefly downwards at high-speed.

Another warrior, a bulky teratoid with the face of a deformed pig, thought herself ready for Stratos and brought her sword around at him with a broad sweep. But hovering in the air, Stratos was much faster and his flight-pack let out a brief shriek as Stratos turned up the power to dodge the blow, his whole body flung outward beyond the sword point and then shooting back towards his enemy. Before the warrior had recovered from the swing, Stratos had already plunged his dirk deep into her neck, spraying a high arc of blood as he yanked it out and ducked, spinning around like a hovering ball of muscle, only to fling out his limbs again at more warriors who had entered around him - his flight-control fist, covered with a small knuckle-duster, smacked on the back of a neck, cracking vertebrae. His mailed foot swept about to catch another assailant across the nose, tearing it off with a sickening snap and an explosion of bright red blood. Stratos screamed a chilling call - in his mind he felt himself to be the Great Bird of Prey - an unstoppable legend of scintillating claws and murderous, blade-like beak.

The Lord of Avion fought on tirelessly, frenzied despite his serious injury and the thickening smoke, on wings of fury. He never touched the ground, distaining the need to connect to the lesser world of earth and soil, using his greater height and speed to lethal advantage, chopping and beating with his armoured fist and feet, slashing with his ornamented dirk. Mostly he dealt painful and debilitating blows, knowing that there was little need to slay the crowd of enemy streaming in, instead fighting a rearguard action to give the wounded behind him time to flee deep into the underground, as the injured piled around him, creating a further obstacle to the enemy.

But Stratos also sought revenge, and he sought honour - his defeat at the hands of Webstor would likely have humiliating consequences back in Avion, should he live to see his city again. Once more he attacked, flying at a large Ogre that stumbled in, his powerful leg held rigid to deliver a flying kick at jet-speed, shattering the head of the creature so that bone fragments shrapnalled outward with such force they embedded themselves in the surrounding wood. By now Stratos' bristling fur was drenched in blood, but he showed no signs of relenting. Instead he roared, bestial and enraged, instinctively knowing he was witness to final defeat, aware that he now had to flee the smoke-choked infirmary.

Stratos could no longer breathe well enough to keep fighting with such energy and power. He suddenly set himself into flight position and shot out of the building, a blur. Then, climbing so steeply that his weakened body protested with shaking and a dizzy spell from the g-force, he was momentarily in a position to see exactly what was happening beyond the burning complex of buildings he had escaped.

High in the sky, above the seething warground, Stratos was witness to a City aflame & brought under the crushing heel of Skeletor - the Outer & Inner Walls were over-run, he did not recognise any friendly banner - though perhaps he could make out a desperate last-stand on the battlements of the central towers of the Palace.

He stared at the burning, heaving, scene of defeat with disbelief as the storm rain lashed down upon him. The heavy waters soaked his blood-drenched fur, carrying a steady stream of blood-reddened water down towards the distant ground, a scarlet ribbon from his lone figure, hanging as if from the gallows, an empty shadow in the blackened sky.

Marlena was a warrior Queen, born to a tribe of barbarian warlords and married to Randor as part of a diplomatic agreement to ally her tribe with Eternos. Like her husband, she knew how to fight and kill. Yet her true sphere of power was the life of Eternos City, its art and culture, industry & trade, domestic affairs and, most importantly, it's seasonal fertility rituals. The deaths dealt for the City, as in war and criminal punishment, were Randor's proper domain, along with diplomacy. But she had not often been involved in true battlefield combat, and now as the enemy rushed toward her, she cursed her arrogance, her belief that it would never come to this - that their rule could prevent the bloodshed and slaughters that defined the history of the Eternian tribes of humanoids.

But before the enemy reached the foot of their throne-dais, an awesome crash shattered through the wall to her right, beyond Randor at her side. Through the billowing dust, a heavy, broad figure charged ahead of a group of cloaked Royal Guard. Marlena's heart leapt, their elite corp had not been so easily beaten!

At the head of the charge, having smashed a hole through the wall, was Ram-Man. He carried forward his momentum on Ancient robotic legs, a juggernaut of thick, heavy muscle and cybernetic implants, crushing the enemy, smashing them aside with his helmeted head and armoured shoulders that flashed with destructive energies. Around him, the Royal Guard protected his flanks. Ram-Man fought as he had since the days he was an amnesiac freelancer who took tolls on the trade-routes from all he defeated - he gave no inch, no respite, blugeoning his enemy with unstoppable inhuman strength.

Then he stopped before he mowed his way too far into the enemy ranks, drawing his broad body to its full height, then hefting up to his shoulder one of Randor's Ancient treasures - a multi-laser. No sooner had Ram-Man pointed the weapon, did it burst into lethal life, multiple lines of energy erupting from the barrels, the beams slicing through the onrushing warriors of Skeletor, cutting them down by the dozen as he swept it through the crowd in a wide arc and reducing the victorious crowd into a paniced mob fighting each other to get away, even as the laser beams cut them to pieces.

Randor had grasped her and they fled towards the hole in the wall behind Ram-Man and his flanking Guard. One of the Royal Guards waved them on, but the look in his eye did not lend Marlena reassurance. Beyond the dust, the broad corridor shook with the clamour of war from outside. "Highnesses! This way!" cried another Royal Guard further ahead, waving them towards her. Randor threw a glance at Marlena as they fled and she saw his face burning with shame. Randor had always hated to run, to back down from a mortal struggle, and today he had been forced to flee more than once, allowing death to catch at his heels.

It had been Teela and Fist who had led the Guard Command, not Randor, for he had recently agreed that because of his influence over the tribes, he should not risk his life on the battle-field. If he were killed, the new but tenous and unstable alliances he had brokered over the years since Faker's wars, would fail. The old warrior had become a symbolic figurehead of new Eternian unity, which necessitiated his removal from the danger of battle. Now that more than only his own tribe depended upon him, he had agreed to rise above warfare. But Marlena knew that for Randor, the only true test and validation of his leadership was found there, outside and below them, on the bloody warground. To him, his skills as a negotiator and peace-maker were ephemeral - for he defined peace as the pauses between war. Unlike her, Randor had never believed that the unity of the tribes against Skeletor, or against each other, could exist for very long - it never had, even under his father Miro during the Great Unrest. This night she saw that he had been right - and worse, they had even been betrayed by some of those they thought allies.

Though they had been confined by the rush of events to the well fortified Throne Room, they now had opportunity to escape - if the King and Queen of Eternos lived, then there would be greater support to take back the City. Not far from here was the landing pad where the Wind-Raider was commonly left - surely the Ancients who had built the City intentionally created such a convenient escape route from the Throne Room to the skies? However, that old machine was still not fully combat-operational, not since Duncan's death which had left so much unfinished, and so Marlena wondered why they were running up the steep, spiralling stairs towards what was a dead-end - a launch pad to no-where.

The truth soon became clear as they entered the small hanger. Gathered around the delapidated winder-raider, under a wan beam of lantern-light, was a small swarm of Insect-People. Their leader, a one-time traitor, presented himself.

"Buzov!" Randor exclaimed, throwing an arm protectively before Marlena as they stumbled to a surprise halt.

"King Randor and Queen Marlena!" Buzov trilled, his inhuman face impossible to read, defined as it was by plates of exoskeleton and lipless mandibles "We come as allies in your most desperate hour. There is no time for reassurances - please - you must hurry so that we can get-away. If Eternos is to survive, then so must you and your powerful treasures!"

The Royal Guardsman leading them had stepped aside, but without invitation, she offered her own thoughts. "Highnesses! They came at this final hour, offering to escort you beyond the carnage you see and on to safety. We bade them welcome, having no other means to ensure your flight and survival. Mekanek sighted them first and arranged to have everything we could gathered from the vaults, armory, and the lab to ensure as few Ancient artifacts fell into the enemies hands as possible. They are now stowed here on the Winder-Raider, which is flight-ready."

Randor addressed Buzov directly: "How could I dare to accept an offer from one whose loyalties are still questionable?"

Buzov's multifaceted eyes glittered as he inclined his head with a twitch. "You have but to say the word and we will leave you to your fate. Otherwise, our Great Queen has offered you asylum. As you can see, none of my forces have partaken in this invasion. My people will not benefit from the new order - we made the mistake of trying to remain neutral. Come with us, bring your wealth and reputation, give your kingdom a chance to be reborn!"

Marlena turned to Randor. "It is one last gamble. What choice do we have? Let us take flight and let not the fallen die in vain."

Randor paused but for a moment, then held his wife's hand as they stepped up to flee, in the company of traitors.

Battle Cat's heavy, iron-clawed paws echoed around the gloomy tunnels inside the baleful walls of Castle Greyskull. The great beast panted underneath Adam - Cat had travelled as fast as he was able to Greyskull, taking no rest nor water. Now that he was in the cool semi-darkness within the Castle, this solid slab of feline muscle seemed more at ease, as his affinity with this sacred and terrible structure had revived him a little - unlike Adam, Cat had no troubled thoughts, existing only to serve the commands of his master.

What was it, then, that caused the great green tiger to pause for a moment, eye flashing in the gloom, to inspect a crude metalwork embossment of a powerfully built man, naked but for a loin-cloth and square-cross talisman around his neck, standing astride a slain dragon? The dragon was so vast it formed the border of the embossment and stretched out to the horizon it depicted, while behind the warrior, a mortally wounded sabre-tooth tiger, lay writhing behind him, almost as an after-thought.

Adam did not notice the pause, instead he was focusing intently ahead, willing the Castle to allow him straight and true passage. But he suspected that, without the guidance of the Sorceress, he might be lead into a trap, or assailed by a group of Sentinels. The Castle had never been his home, only rarely a place in which he was allowed to enter, and even then, he had a sense that it was somehow trying to force him out, feeling a strain on his mind and body that weighed heavily upon him, dense and cold, once he had passed beyond the gothic, wrought-iron portcullis set behind the Jawbridge - a portcullis now destroyed. Anyone entering Greyskull experienced this dread, pressing weight - it was as if the secrets contain herein were so vast and profound in scope that they strained at the walls and barriers that bound them herein and promised to crush any who dared to tread so close. This whole vast edifice was an ominous threat, a heavy and ponderous place where nothing could be comfortable or predictable, not even to He-Man, the Defender of the Secrets, who roamed abroad and beyond, unlike the Guardian Sorceress, who was confined inside forever, only able to leave in the vastly weaker incarnation of Zoar.

The looming passageways that Adam passed through flickered in and out of the darkness according to the whim of burning torches, revealing an interior that was simple and ascetic, the blankness of the walls were reminiscent of a vast, empty desert or the far reaches of deep space. The few decorations that adorned the columns holding up the high, dark ceilings and the buttresses against the walls were primitive – some of them repeated the ancient symbol of the Four Elements and Four Forces – a square cross overlaid with another square cross inside of the first, of the kind that adorned He-Man's breast-plate. Other, more complex designs twisted and turned in serpentine mazes or circled around to join completely – these represented infinity and re-birth, destruction and creation - the twin aspects of reality, a timeless cycle that had been suspended by the petrification of Ouroboros-Serpantos around Snake Mountain.

Adam spurred Cat towards the Sorceress' chambers, passing a number of exquisitely carved caryatids on either side of him. Each of these female figures were melded with a different animal and each one took a part in holding up a vast stone bas-relief, in-laid with precious metals and stones, all set in the high ceiling and lighted by ensconced lanterns, joined with smoking theribals on long, creaking chains. The bas-relief above Adam depicted Eternia in the centre and the wider Universe, in symbolic forms. Each caryatid he knew to be the image of each successive Sorceress throughout the ages – here was a statuesque woman wearing a wolfs-head and baring canine fangs, there, a bigger woman bore the winter horns of a reindeer, – the last spread her eagle's wings from a slender, bird-like body – this was his Sorceress. Beside her, as always, was the empty pedestal that implied a successor. It then struck Adam that there were no further pedestals - was this not something he had questioned before? No, it was not - the Sorceress had always encouraged him not to ask questions, to trust her - and so he had. Were the questions beating in his brain the sign that this trust was over?

The image hanging above him spurred Adam on. "Faster Cat!" he whispered, yet his voice still echoed loudly, intrusively, down the chambers that led away from him. Barely perceptible, there was an response of sorts, a distant rumbling that came from far below in the deepest catacombs, more ancient than the Castle itself. But Adam did not pause to realise it – instead he hurried on, deeper into the tenebrific fortress. Waste no time. Hurry! If she still lives, she will be waiting for me, as always, in the Throne Room. She will know I am here. She must answer me. Perhaps she holds Skeletor back from her door!? If so, then now is the time to end this long war!

Having finally arrived at the Castle, the urgent desire to plead with the Sorceress to release him of his oath had been conjoined with the desire to finally vanquish Skeletor, and thus make his life as He-Man no longer necessary - why else should she keep him if their nemesis was gone?

But fear was driven into the gut of his stomach, squeezing his heart, and now, where-ever he looked, the daemonic architecture of the Castle hung over him hungrily, imposing and vast. Alien designs now covered the archways, complex and ornamental, leaving no space bare, a pattern of inchoate shapes and forms, hypnotic and disorienting – he had been led, somehow, down an unfamiliar route, covered in strange sigils that seemed to buzz and writhe with hidden life. How could this be? Did Skeletor already command the Castle?

"Sorceress!" He should have been at the Throne Room by now. "Sorceress! I am lost!"

His last word echoed with preternatural speed and increasing, ear-blasting volume "Lossst. Lossst! Lossst! LOSSST!" Adam clutched at his head, crying out against the blaring voice, Battle Cat writhed and yowled, shaking his head. Then in the sudden silence, his ears ringing, Adam felt sickened by a horrible sense of despair. He had reached his destination, willing to give up the Sword – but the Castle was thwarting him – in fact, the Castle was accusing him of losing his way!

"I am not lost!" he cried into the dark tunnel ahead of him. "I, Adam, am here - here to defeat the fiend and put an end to this struggle, so that I can finally give back what can no longer be mine!"

"Be mine, be mine, BE MINE" the Castle roared back. But this time a faint light winked on at the end of the tunnel before Adam. He was unsure whether this was a concession or a trap. Nevertheless, with little other choice, he took up the Sword and spurred Cat towards the light, to find himself suddenly entering his destination: the Throne Room, the seat of power - alight with a huge candelabrum that hung from a high, dark ceiling.

He looked about himself – the throne high upon the steps before him was empty – the Sorceress was not here! But neither was Skeletor.

Adam began to shake uncontrollably, overcome with emotion, and cried out pitifully in frustration and despair. "Sorceress! Sorceress, where are you!?" This time, there was no reply, no echo – no sound at all but Battle Cat's panting. He dismounted, stumbling around as he called down the corridors that lead from the great chamber. "Sorceress!" Finally, his voice broke and exhaustion pushed him to his knees. "Sorceress please! Sorceress, come, I beg of you! The Castle is breached! I am here to defend - and to understand!" He clutched at his heart, beating fast and painfully against his thin chest. His breath came in gasps as he waited for an answer...

But there was only the heavy stone, and the silence.

Teela flew high over the rocky, pitted landscape that surrounded Castle Greyskull. As she had flown from Eternos, the radio communications she had been listening to faded out and her worry grew - there had been no good news, indeed, the last that she heard was Fist's command to retreat to the Palace Wall. Top-speed was not fast enough for her, a terrible fear was driven deep down her throat and she felt an awful prescience boding defeat. Flying alone with nothing to do but watch the skies was a torment, for she feared powerlessness and by now an oppressive sense of futility threatened to drain her energies.

Beneath her was difficult ground, impossible for any army to march in speedy and orderly fashion towards Greyskull. Upon the clawing, grasping, rocks and gaping cravasses, few plants survived and those that did were tough and thorny. Closer to Greyskull, she knew that nothing grew at all...

Now she could see signs that Greyskull was very near - the cratered landscape was dominated by huge black megaliths, carved with strange animistic symbols that represented faces, animals, life and death, and other natural forces, hewn from volcanic rock and dragged here from hundreds of miles away. Teela had seen them before upon approaching Greyskull and she did not look to them again this time. Instead, in the silence of her flight, her short-range radio no longer picking up communications, an old memory came to mind.

[i]"Do you trust him Man-At-Arms?" Manefred's handsome face is furrowed with concern. The arrival of the legendary He-Man has caused a great stir at Court. "I mean, if this giant can defeat our new enemy Skeletor, does that not make him an even greater threat?"

Father glances for a moment at the Prince and then says "I believe He-Man. Perhaps all of my reasons are not rational, but I have a good feeling about him. If you want reasons, look to his martial skill - it is merciful. Look to his alliance with the Sorceress, who is not known to be an evil force, despite the times she has been misunderstood. Indeed, some think that on occasion it is she who has thwarted the ambitions of the Witch of Snake Mountain. Aye, we have even made offerings to the Sorceress that she has accepted. Look to the legends about this doughty barbarian. They speak of a wise and controlled warrior - "

"Why are you so sure Duncan? I have looked to those legends only hours ago. They predict the coming of great warriors with mighty steeds in the service of Greyskull, but is he that warrior? The translations you and Adam have made leave room for ambiguity."

Adam looks up, his tone moderate and careful but his face reveals some tension. As usual, I wonder what he is thinking, but I cannot really discern his subtle, carefully guarded thoughts. "How so my friend?"

Manefred stands so that he can address us all. He uses his best voice - considered and forceful - trying to convince us, gesticulating firmly to emphasize his points. "How can your translations not be ambiguous? No-one understand the Ancients' language well. Their legends foretell of warriors who will come during times of dire need, once the Ancients have passed on. Were their predications true? Who can say? The Golden Age is passed and now we continue to live in the Dark Age, uncertain of anything that has since been said or done. Do you know of any records that scholars can agree upon as accurate or reliable? Aye, I know the stories and songs of local tribes that do mention nameless warriors of supreme strength, warriors who made brief appearances in their histories. But perhaps they refer only to their own kings or to fantasies? Nay! What do we truly know!?

"This He-Man, he says he is the Defender of the Secrets of Castle Greyskull. He has asked us to help him with that destiny, for those Secrets are now seriously threatened. But what if we refuse? Why should we help guard treasures that we cannot be privy to? No-one knows what lies inside the Castle. Perhaps it is a domain of evil! How could we know? We will never know - and it seems, [/i]must[i] never know!"

"Aye, we do not - cannot - know," replies Father, who remains seated, almost subdued, as if he is uncomfortable. "You are right Manefred, we cannot be too trusting yet. But we have a common enemy, one who almost destroyed our kingdom. One who has certainly shattered the tenuous peace our King has worked so hard to broker between the Eternian tribes of North and South, East and West. Though we are safe for now, there is a new war in the making. Skeletor is not dead, only thrown-back. He will return."

Manefred threw off a casual gesture of scorn, scowling. But momentarily, his eyes glance at mine, his scowl fades, and I sense the great feeling behind them. But again he turns to address us "Having an enemy in common is hardly the basis for a firm alliance. This "He-Man" may have sworn an oath to the King, but it is also clear that the fearsome and eldritch Sorceress is his [/i]true[i] master. And where is she? No - if Greyskull comes first for him, he does not share our love and loyalty for Eternos and our Tribe. Aye, we cannot - [/i]dare not[i] - make an enemy of him! But rue the day that we have to, for perhaps it is close!"[/i]

Teela flew high over the rocky, pitted landscape that surrounded Castle Greyskull. As she had flown from Eternos, the radio communications she had been listening to faded out and her worry grew - there had been no good news, indeed, the last that she heard was Fist's command to retreat to the Palace Wall. Top-speed was not fast enough for her, a terrible fear was driven deep down her throat and she felt an awful prescience boding defeat. Flying alone with nothing to do but watch the skies was a torment, for she feared powerlessness and by now an oppressive sense of futility threatened to drain her energies.

Beneath her was difficult ground, impossible for any army to march in speedy and orderly fashion towards Greyskull. Upon the clawing, grasping, rocks and gaping cravasses, few plants survived and those that did were tough and thorny. Closer to Greyskull, she knew that nothing grew at all...

Now she could see signs that Greyskull was very near - the cratered landscape was dominated by huge black megaliths, carved with strange animistic symbols that represented faces, animals, life and death, and other natural forces, hewn from volcanic rock and dragged here from hundreds of miles away. Teela had seen them before upon approaching Greyskull and she did not look to them again this time. Instead, in the silence of her flight, her short-range radio no longer picking up communications, an old memory came to mind.

[i]"Do you trust him Man-At-Arms?" Manefred's handsome face is furrowed with concern. The arrival of the legendary He-Man has caused a great stir at Court. "I mean, if this giant can defeat our new enemy Skeletor, does that not make him an even greater threat?"

Father glances for a moment at the Prince and then says "I believe He-Man. Perhaps all of my reasons are not rational, but I have a good feeling about him. If you want reasons, look to his martial skill - it is merciful. Look to his alliance with the Sorceress, who is not known to be an evil force, despite the times she has been misunderstood. Indeed, some think that on occasion it is she who has thwarted the ambitions of the Witch of Snake Mountain. Aye, we have even made offerings to the Sorceress that she has accepted. Look to the legends about this doughty barbarian. They speak of a wise and controlled warrior - "

"Why are you so sure Duncan? I have looked to those legends only hours ago. They predict the coming of great warriors with mighty steeds in the service of Greyskull, but is he that warrior? The translations you and Adam have made leave room for ambiguity."

Adam looks up, his tone moderate and careful but his face reveals some tension. As usual, I wonder what he is thinking, but I cannot really discern his subtle, carefully guarded thoughts. "How so my friend?"

Manefred stands so that he can address us all. He uses his best voice - considered and forceful - trying to convince us, gesticulating firmly to emphasize his points. "How can your translations not be ambiguous? No-one understand the Ancients' language well. Their legends foretell of warriors who will come during times of dire need, once the Ancients have passed on. Were their predications true? Who can say? The Golden Age is passed and now we continue to live in the Dark Age, uncertain of anything that has since been said or done. Do you know of any records that scholars can agree upon as accurate or reliable? Aye, I know the stories and songs of local tribes that do mention nameless warriors of supreme strength, warriors who made brief appearances in their histories. But perhaps they refer only to their own kings or to fantasies? Nay! What do we truly know!?

"This He-Man, he says he is the Defender of the Secrets of Castle Greyskull. He has asked us to help him with that destiny, for those Secrets are now seriously threatened. But what if we refuse? Why should we help guard treasures that we cannot be privy to? No-one knows what lies inside the Castle. Perhaps it is a domain of evil! How could we know? We will never know - and it seems, [/i]must[i] never know!"

"Aye, we do not - cannot - know," replies Father, who remains seated, almost subdued, as if he is uncomfortable. "You are right Manefred, we cannot be too trusting yet. But we have a common enemy, one who almost destroyed our kingdom. One who has certainly shattered the tenuous peace our King has worked so hard to broker between the Eternian tribes of North and South, East and West. Though we are safe for now, there is a new war in the making. Skeletor is not dead, only thrown-back. He will return."

Manefred threw off a casual gesture of scorn, scowling. But momentarily, his eyes glance at mine, his scowl fades, and I sense the great feeling behind them. But again he turns to address us "Having an enemy in common is hardly the basis for a firm alliance. This "He-Man" may have sworn an oath to the King, but it is also clear that the fearsome and eldritch Sorceress is his [/i]true[i] master. And where is she? No - if Greyskull comes first for him, he does not share our love and loyalty for Eternos and our Tribe. Aye, we cannot - [/i]dare not[i] - make an enemy of him! But rue the day that we have to, for perhaps it is close!"[/i]

Teela pondered this scene that faded slowly from her mind. [i]What had brought this memory to light, so rarely reflected upon? Ten years ago, just before he was cursed, before so much had happened, Manefred had a sense of the crisis that has on this Night has unfolded. The Sorceress is He-Man's true master. Is it she who, once again, allows Eternos to burn? Yet, surely Adam is torn between Greyskull and the City?

And then, wouldn't we all be worse off if we had not accepted He-Man's aid, even though he does not come now? [/i]

Teela shook her head - such thoughts had continued to distract and hound her through-out her flight. She gritted her teeth against the freezing night-wind - characteristically her mind reflected transparently upon her body. She was torn between her post at the City and her hopes for Adam. [i]Fist is a great tactician[/i] she thought again [i]But we just can't hold against such a vast army. We need He-Man… Oh Adam! Oh my poor Adam![/i]

Teela's face twisted with misery and a thousand regrets. She was a harsh, unforgiving woman. Adam had received so many unjust attacks, pierced again and again by her judgmental tongue – flailed by the torrent of her punishing words! She was surely one of the reasons why he had become so broken. Her constant argument with him, her stern lecturings on duty and valour – yet she had been attacking the very man who had saved them, and could save them again! She cursed herself, then she cursed her father.

[i]Any child can lay some blame at the door of their parents – dead or alive! And you, father, you never provided me with a mother who could teach me tenderness and sensitivity. Oh, how I love you father – but you were just one man! A wise man no doubt, one who taught his daughter how to fight and kill and how to die – but who taught me to nourish and love? No-one! So hard am I, so brutal – even my betrothed must be wondering if he is mad to marry me!

Ah, father, did you know the truth about Adam? Is that why you resisted Faker when so many were convinced? You knew more than we, and for that you went into exile, only to bring back He-Man - Adam's sword... Oh father, could you not trust me!?[/i]

Teela groaned - this feeling, this moment, was the truth. She only felt more guilty when blaming her father for her own grievous errors, and guilty again when she thought of her betrothal to Man-E.

As the sky-sled sped her towards Greyskull, she turned to look up at the moon of Phantos, associated in legend with womanhood. [i]What evil fate decided I would never have a mother's love? Would I not have been more forgiving of Adam's apparent failings, just as the Queen is? Even this pain of mine is filled with rage![/i]

Not far ahead now was Greyskull, it's bottomless eyes searching the sky for her form. It saw her and soundlessly provided the answer.

[i]There it is![/i]

Teela sensed a terrible danger as she stared at the deathly face of the Castle, as it rose monumentally before her. The whole structure had an aura of defiance, of [b]brute solidity[/b], like a giant, impassable cliff-face. But for Teela, there was a greater, more profound feeling associated with the Castle - it is as if it belonged to its own space, its very own place, that implied a great depth within it, of the kind one might sense when standing before the black mouth of a large, deep cavern.

It has a presence that draws her to it - a gravitational force that now truly held her in its grip.

[i]It is you to whom I have flown, is it not?[/i]

Her mind honed to a point of clarity - an insight crystallized upon the ugly, rough hewn rock of the Castle's visage... here, again, was the truth...

...and then she gasped in shocked realisation as the head-light from her machine swept over Greyskull's leering face. The Jawbridge was gone – Castle Greyskull lay wide open to all enemies, while behind her Eternos was embroiled in battle! It could not be worse.

As Teela adjusted her flight to enter the Jaws, a call from above her turned her head. "Captain Teela!" came the salutation of the Avion warrior flying down towards her. She slowed, hovering not far from the edge of the Abyss. Who was this? Was it a trick?

"Halt!" she stopped and aimed the sky-sled's blaster. "Are you friend or foe?" It was a coded question and Teela's warriors each knew the answer.

Tropos repeated it correctly: "I am a friend of Eternos and a foe of her enemies. My blood is willingly shed! By our victory my soul is fed!"

Teela adjusted the machine, the blasters no longer taking aim. "What are you doing here, winged warrior!?"

"I am Tropos. I came to find He-Man to save Eternos, for it is over-run."

"Over-run!? It cannot be - !" Her mind raced - who was dead? who was alive? could the City be re-taken? But there was no time, she had left Eternos in the hands of others. Her own fate was now before her.

"But it is! And I arrived here to find Prince Adam upon Battle Cat. He was nothing but vague, and then upon seeing the Castle penetrated, he leapt inside! I - I am ashamed, for I dared not follow. And so I remained as a guard, hoping that He-Man might emerge."

Teela's mind quickly assessed the possibilities - [i]He must have been called here to defend the Castle.[/i] "Only the Lord of Destruction could have destroyed the Jawbridge. They must be both inside." Now the situation was clear: this was the terrible duty that led Adam to abandon them all, just as He-Man had been forced to do so when the Horde invaded. Grief and guilt tore at her insides as she let out a groan. Then she turned to Tropos as she guided the sky-sled over the Abyss. "Remain out here, you are a worthy guard - defend this threshold to the death! And may the gods rouse from their long sleep to protect you!"

Tropos nodded his assent and took back to the air. Teela looked ahead, hovering upon the sky-sled, readying herself for the mortal struggle to come. Then, for just a moment, she glanced back at the world behind her, a world she suddenly and strongly felt that she would never see again. But she shook off the heavy feeling with a cry of determination and plunged into the mouth of the Castle, weapons primed, ready to prevail and willing to die fighting.

Evil-Lyn had flown upon her wyvern from her Aerie toward Castle Greyskull. Fearing that Skeletor would see her, she had planned to land some distance away, but when she drew close, Skeletor was gone and so was the Jawbridge - he had succeeded in entering the great Castle once more! For a moment her heart fluttered with terror, her yellow skin crawling with the horrid sense of mortality. But Evil-Lyn's hatred and ambition were more powerful than this fear.

Perhaps she was too late, now that he was inside, nevertheless the thought pummeled at her brains: [i]He must be stopped![/i]

She guided her wyvern closer, but she did so with a pounding heart – was He-Man waiting inside, or had he yet to catch up with Skeletor? She reflected bitterly on this reliance upon her enemy – who-ever won the struggle between those two, she had to be sure to be close enough to strike down the victor herself. This might only be possible after a long, enervating struggle between them. Of course, circumstances might not afford such an advantage – there was no guarantee she would find them inside the labyrinth she knew lay within the Castle. Perhaps she could take what she sought and escape without confronting either of them?

She landed and dismounted not far from Greyskull, brushing away wyvern scales as she did so. Clearly, her opportunity was now, it would be too dangerous to wait to see if He-Man or more of his allies had yet to arrive – furthermore, the Castle itself would surely use it's awesome resources to repair the breach, sooner or later? She had seen the Castle defend itself before.

Her leather boots crunched on the gravely rock as she approached the precipice before the empty Jaws, and a light rain fell upon her deceptively smooth skin and her ornate, ritual costume. Then, standing before Greyskull, she stared into the deep, black pit of the mouth before her.

[i]Here [b]I[/b] am! On the threshold of the most dreadful and promising place in the Universe – the centre of the Universe itself, the Vault of all Secrets! How much have I suffered to reach this mystic entrance? But why, then, does this victory leave me with this weighty sense of foreboding?[/i] The winds from the Abyss howled a warning, but Evil-Lyn ignored its' spectral voice, and turned from the petrifying gaze of the empty eyes of Greyskull. "[i]I[/i] am here to defy you!" she cried, shaking her fist.

Then the witch turned to her wyvern and tried to mount it. Several times it made the move difficult - the monster seemed edgy and skittish, like a frightened horse, but finally she was in the saddle, holding its reigns.

"Up beast!" Evil-Lyn commanded "Fly me over the Abyss!" and she thumped the monster upon its' muscular flank with her Orb wand.

With that the creature took off, but as she guided it toward the Castle it suddenly gave a shriek of fear, and almost threw her into the bottomless crevasse below, as it twisted and flipped back towards the side opposite the Jaw, terrified by the awesomeness of the ancient fortification - and in that moment she had but a second to make a decision.

Evil-Lyn turned towards the Castle as her mount bent backward and flung herself from the saddle - a moment later it let out another ear-splitting shriek from behind her. Her leap was a daring move that saved her life. Though she landed painfully upon the rocky entrance of Greyskull, her eyes caught the wyvern as it plunged into the Abyss, leaving a drifting bloom of blood in the air above it.

Instinctively she thrust out her Orb wand - and not a moment too soon - as a winged Avion warrior bearing his jagged dirk was almost upon her. But she, the canny witch, had only to [i]will[/i] her attack. The Orb wand flashed but once and Tropos collided at speed with a blast of crushing energy. The consequences were dire. Like a broken bird he was thrust back and away from Evil-Lyn, to tumble after the wyvern into the endless drop below.

Evil-Lyn quickly picked herself and turned towards her fate, a sneer of contempt for the defeated warrior upon her face. [i]There is no mortal hand that can stop my success! Now there will be no turning back. My end may be nigh, but this is my choosing at least.[/i] The Abyss now behind her, she stood upon the lower mandible of the entry-way and paused beside a tooth-like stalagmite. Her skin puckered and a sudden shudder shook her old body. Inside were the deepest secrets – yet only one was necessary for her to learn - and so be free. Would the Castle grant her this one wish? She did not come as a conqueror, but in desperation - a beggar. The Castle held the key to the prison of her divine pact – but could it not become yet another prison itself? She had to resist the fell guardians therein and beware of the traps set – the consequences of her failure were unknown to her. Truly, there would be no bargaining and no mercy here – the ancient stronghold would be as implacable as the Third Olden God she wished to evade. If she had not the strength to force her entry as Skeletor had, what made her think she could continue through further, stronger barriers therein? How could she believe that she had the strength to take what she needed?

The impalpable darkness within offered no insight – it was a wall itself, a wall of total ignorance and mystery. No – she hesitated out of animal instinct alone. She had determined her course long ago. She may never return, but there was no-where else left to run to, no more time to devote to research, no more allies and no other hope - any day, perhaps even within hours, the Olden God would come to claim her - her divinations had revealed this without ambiguity.

Her whole body hummed with magical energies she had saturated herself with in preparation for this offensive. Any moment she expected the Castle to launch its devastating defences, to fight it tooth and nail to take this last step beyond the threshold that the Jawbridge had protected. But nothing happened. There was no sense, no sign that the Castle had marshaled any occult force. It was as if the defenses of the Castle were down - surely a temporary situation?

Evil-Lyn mustered her strength - she must make the first move. Had she not laboured and feared every waking hour, for so many centuries, so as to fortify herself for this crucial moment?

And those that [i]must[/i] now follow...

Her first step was hesitating her Orb wand flashing and ready, leaking energy like slowly spilt thick-liquid. Her second step was more firm, her angular face was set like a jagged rock. Her third step was solid with determined fatalism as the enormous weight of the Castle began to descend upon her, promising doom...

Evil-Lyn entered the deepest shadow through the mouth of Greyskull, and was then gone from the world...

To be inside Greyskull is to be witness to the potential of all things – Greyskull contains every microcosm and every macrocosm, everything great and small, all things known and unknown, the very detail and scope of both reality and dreams, of the mundane and magical, of elements and forces - [i]the true and exact essences of materialis and immaterialis[/i]. Castle Greyskull stands upon and surrounds the exact centre of all reality and thus creates a paradox - for it contains itself, and that in turn contains itself, and so on... like two mirrors facing each other. There is no other structure like it in the entire Universe and indeed, what is seen of Greyskull by any Eternian daring to approach is merely the tip of a vast iceberg - for that which is hidden is the most important aspect of a Castle designed to defend cosmic secrets of ultimate power.

The interior walls are charged with cryptic clues as to what lies ahead, behind, and besides; the designs and architecture of the archways and colonnades are part of the puzzle, each leading to another occult clue or dead-end. The whole structure exists to deny, prevent, and obstruct any interloper, any army, any being who dares to defy the order of things, any being that attempts to violate the deepest secrets of the Universe. The fortifications ultimate purpose is to entrap and to jail those who have remained within and those who invade from thereout.

Skeletor already understood that one did not simply walk through Greyskull – the mind had to attend to its signs and symbols, one had to be guided by one's intuition and understanding or play the sorcerous game of breaking the seals that barred each path. Each turn tested his strength and physical prowess, or challenged his intelligence or magical potential. These devious devices were never explicit – like the Castle, they came to his mind as insinuations, suggestions, or a noiseless challenge. This experience of the Castle can not be understood by anyone outside – it is a dream-like experience where ones strength of will determines ones degree of lucidity.

But Skeletor has the advantage that no other invader had ever possessed – [i]he had lain down the foundation stone of the Castle, he who, along with the other Ancients, had agreed to bury and contain the knowledge and power that had brought them to the very brink of divinity and a war of reckoning with the gods themselves. [/i]

Before the building of Greyskull, before that time of self-denial and abjuration, the gods had shrank as mere ghosts before the Ancients. The worlds and stars were glinting orbs in their palms – they were then the Masters of the Universe, at the height of their power. But when a cataclysmic civil-war among the Ancients threatened the very fabric of reality, it was Skeletor, then known as Vidar, who had wisely counseled a truce. He knew of a primeval catacomb, older than any burial place on Eternia. Therein were people who were said to have never truly died – they would serve as the first guardians of the knowledge the Ancients had agreed to hide and protect, the Sentinals. Upon their resting place, he proposed that the Ancients then build a mighty and impregnable fortification that would guard the catacombs and serve as a stronghold for all of their power. Each of the Ancients was to help to build the Castle and then to give unto it all of their mystic strength and understanding, to reduce themselves to mortality and to quietly allow the Universe to continue, and thus admit their destructive hubris to the gods and prevent the Ragnorok.

In that aeon there was good reason to trust Vidar, for he had not yet trodden the dark path of vampirism that would lead him to a millennia of unlife as a Liche. Once Vidar and the other surviving Ancients had divested their power and immortality into the walls and halls and treasures of Greyskull itself, they then banished each other to the four corners of the cosmos, swearing never to return. And so it was - for a time.

Only Zodac remained close to Eternia, as Cosmic Enforcer, the Watcher of the Castle. Though greatly reduced in power, he had never chosen any side nor partaken in any conflict and so he was allowed to be the strongest surviving Ancient. In weilding this power, it was hoped that Zodac might maintain the balance between any opposing forces intending to reach Greyskull and so prevent any who dared attempt to take the Castle for themselves. He himself then appointed a Guardian, the first Sorceress, who would forever remain sequestered within the Castle, and only able to influence the outside world through others. Each successive Sorceress would be empowered to draw upon some of Greyskull's collective pool of power and knowledge - [i]some[/i] of that power, but not all, for even the Sorceress was bound by oaths and duties that promised pitiless consequences for temptation and failure. Even this fey Guardian could never be privy to the powerful knowledge of Greyskull that must forever remain secret if the truce between the Ancients and gods were to be maintained.

Finally, Zodac ensured that any Sorceress could summon a Defender of the Secrets, in times of dire need; a Defender armed with two swords - one for mighty strength, the other for timeless endurance. The Defender was the very essence of the martial power of the Ancients, one that was pure and merciful, potent and unbreakable.

Then Zodac retired to distant orbit to watch Greyskull and the struggles amongst the worlds from his Cosmic-Dais. And so it was - for a time.

Vidar did not return to Eternia for many thousands of years - as for centuries over this time he had slept, as the other survivors like him had chosen to do, keeping their promise to end their reign. During these long ages, most of the surviving Ancient vanished, died, or were destroyed.

But eventually Vidar awoke and looked upon the Universe anew, being truly and terribly afraid of his return to morality. A change came upon him and he regretted his decision to strip himself of such vast power and cursed the gods. Vidar then looked to how he might recoup his losses and eventually that quest made him a monster, a vampire. This state of affairs proved to be nothing but a curse and so Vidar's solution was further damnation as the Liche, Skeletor.

Now finally, after so many sunsets, Skeletor has come to lay claim to a venerable inheritance on this Night – and that inheritence is the collected power of his allies and foes from long-ago; the prehistoric Ancients, once the Masters of the Universe.

He now moves deeper into the Castle, defeating its guards and eluding its traps, seeing beyond its illusions and casting aside blockades of fire, water, earth, wind. Skeletor moves down deeper, closer to where the Great Mysteries will be revealed amid vast galactic chambers; here, in the perilous interior infinitum, where the very stars are born between the endless corridors within which time was is and shall be indelibly written. His void eyes drink in the omens of his impending success, voracious blackholes with no end in sight...

And yet, the Castle now draws upon the last defense that had long ago been gifted to it without Skeletor's knowledge...

Adam, fallen down in a foetal crouch, wept his despair upon the dry, cold stone at the foot of the Sorceress' throne. His empty soul choked up his throat and his breast beat with stubborn and shameful life. [i]The Sorceress is gone... Yet there is no sign of Skeletor. How now can I leave? There is no-one to give the Sword of Power to, no-one to replace me, and no enemy. I am doomed to go on. Yet I refuse...[/i] He turned to look at Cat who had placed a claw upon the abandoned Sword. In a flash of ebbing power, Cat began to shrink, his armour vanishing into smoke, his wounds healing, the torn eye filling the bloody socket like water in a bowl.

"Cringer…" Adam sighed, holding and pitying the trembling animal as it crawled towards him. At least he, Adam, could understand some of the reasons for the endless war and the suffering, but this mute, timid beast could never grasp the esoteric reasons for all of their struggles.

Indeed, Adam doubted that any living thing could understand the meaning of so much pain. The world appeared to him as a torture chamber for so many living things – animals that were hunted for sport and gobbled up by people, just as an ogre eats the bones of babes - gluttonous and cruel, unnecessary and power-mad. Dearly loved children died of disease, or were never loved and sickened from neglect and violence. The good were obliterated by pointless accidents, the dim-witted were terrorized and exploited. Men and women across all the worlds toiled as chattels beneath warring kings and empires. Life tore apart life, a blood-thirsty spectacle that ravaged the dumb vegetation around it, to leave nothing but torn fibres s and ugly fungus living in the corpses left behind.

It was all so repulsive – whatever god first launched the Universe into existence must have been blind and insane - Adam cursed whatever name it had and spat upon the obsidian flag-stones of the throne-room, a terrible hatred boiling upon his face, snapping at every sinew, churning his viscera. He sat upon his knees and, raising his white fists, pounded upon the black stone, letting out a terrible scream of frustration, pain, and despair.

But Cringer suddenly let out a loud mewl - Adam quickly raised his head and whipped it around, alerted to the sound of the heavy foot-fall coming from the main entry-way to the Throne room. Standing beneath the archway, illumined by the burning light of the candelabra, was the taut frame of Skeletor, shrouded in a hooded cape, the iron armour upon his forearms, shins and breast-plate glinting in the dim light; upon it the old Horde bat-sign gleaming dimly in a faded red colour, set above his own crossed-bones heraldry.

"You?" he hissed. But though his cowled skull face, glinting like white stone, was unmoving, expressionless, it did not hide the surprise in his spectral voice.

Adam stumbled to his feet, instinctively grasping his Sword's hilt as Cringer fled. The Sorceress was gone, and in her place, intending to take the Throne, was Skeletor - the instigator of this long war, the overlord of pain and suffering. Adam accepted this final offering of fate - to thwart Skeletor in his moment of triumph. He resolved that he would not be slain by this fiend. "I am Adam," he replied, drawing himself up, "Prince of Eternia, and defender of the Secrets of Castle Greyskull."

"No child... You are a mere puppet manipulated by the Sorceress and hated by your own people." Skeletor paused at the threshold of the room, holding the Havoc Staff erect, his body stiff with tension.

"I swore an oath to protect the Secrets herein. That does not make me a puppet. My word has armed and shielded me while my people only revile me because they are necessarily ignorant."

"Is that really so boy? Your efforts as an unwitting slave to the Sorceress have brought you to this - utter despair. I heard you pleading with her to come. But she will not, for she has used you and sacrificed your countrymen and allies to protect her own power." Skeletor's empty eyes flashed with energy, the only hint of emotion on his dead face.

Adam's face hardened. "The Secrets are not hers to use - she only protects them, as I do. She is a custodian of that power."

"Of course she is privy to the Secrets! How else should she know to give you the Sword? You have been fooled. The Sorceress is part of a conspiracy that connives to keep humanoids ignorant and cowed. You are the sop of a tyrant, all controlled by the vile crowd of gods above us." Skeletor took a step forwards. "She has abandoned you and her throne!"

"It is too late for you to pretend to be a liberator now Skeletor. You would never share what you wish to steal from here!" Adam thrust out an accusing finger and a warning. "Your plans are conquest and self-glorification. The Castle was built to prevent a creature like you from becoming more destructive and self-aggrandising."

"No. [i]I[/i] know why it was built - truly, it was designed as a test. Whoever could penetrate it would be deserving of its spoils. It is the only true way for any being to prove himself and become the deserving [b]Master of the Universe[/b]... Ah, Adam - I see some glimmer of understanding on your face, some intuition on your part - you [i]know[/i] that the Castle's purpose is to hide these Secrets, but you also [i]feel[/i] that the Secrets can be sought! You ask questions, the first route to [i]intrusion[/i]... Look around you! Remind yourself of how this galactic dungeon really makes you feel - this place invites invasion as much as it repels it. Don't lie to yourself!"

Adam shook his head and bared his teeth, trying to deny the force of Skeletor's terrible conviction.

"Yes, it is omnipotent leadership that the Universe cries out for! [i]I[/i] will put an end to chaos and war, an end to disease and death, an end to accident and discord. The Universe is a wild place, a vast torture chamber - and [i]I[/i] intend to tame it and pacify it. I understand what living creatures seek [i]and only I can provide peace[/i]." Skeletor was a still as stone as he spoke, his lipless voice echoing through Adam's head, staring blackly at him.

Adam stepped back, his skin freezing as he heard his nemesis utter the same thoughts as his own. Deep inside his soul, he felt that Skeletor had a persuasive argument. Could there by any truth in what he claimed? "You are dead, and a warmonger - what do you know of the living or of peace?"

"Dead? No, I am beyond life and death. There is much more I understand about your kind than the wisest of you do. Of course no-one in Eternia but the Sorceress could understand [i]my[/i] aim and method. You think me violent, destructive - but these are only [i]tools[/i]. Destruction leads to creation, violence to healing. I have a vision far greater than any of you. You only see the methods I employ, but you do not see the greater goal. You are too small and ignorant to see the greatness of my actions - the possibilities that lay ahead!" Skeletor thumped his staff down upon the black, tiled floor.

"There is nothing you say that can be trusted Skeletor. You are a liar, a mass-murderer - a monster."

"And you are but one human being, not yet in his third decade, who knows much less than he thinks. You expect me to explain the outcome of my success in your [i]language[/i] - one so limited and primitive that it has no words to describe the destiny before me. You! - You think in such simple terms. You see our struggle as a battle of good and evil, white and black. Yet, you admit to yourself your own evil - your selfish urge of self-preservation, your greedy wish to see your tribe reign supreme, and the sense that [i]you are owed something[/i] and that you must be [i]freed[/i]!

"But you deny that, and so you fail to see the good that results from [i]my[/i] own actions. Your reality is a simple one - you play the role of defender, but you fail to realise what you are defending... We are both here inside a prison - a prison which keeps Enlightenment from humanity and all of the other living things that suffer throughout this star-lit cosmos, so that the gods might be safe from us all! But they are not worth this misery Adam - be sure of it!" As Skeletor spoke, he gained more time to recover his energies. Without a hint of what he had planned, he suddenly leveled the Havoc staff, sending a bolt of lethal energy towards Adam.

But slow and weak though he was, Adam had held himself ready, and he brought up the Power Sword to bear and deflected the blow. Then he held aloft his magic Sword and said –

[B]"By the Power of Greyskull!"[/B]

Wavering sheets of pure potency immediately crashed around him, directing flashes of numenal might down his Sword and across his physical being. He convulsed as if wracked with pain, his frail body shaking to and fro with terrific violence. White lightening ripped through the crashing air towards the edges of his blade, sending whirling sparks cascading out from his figure. Blue arcs of energy flashed over his flesh, forming a nimbus of light around him, forcing it into painful rippling, bones cracking and aching as they grew. A great veil of coruscating beams surrounded his expanding figure and the air boomed with thunderous uproar: [B]"I – have – [I]the Power!"[/I][/B]

After a moment frozen in horror before this spectacle of raw power, power he felt to be an echo of his very own, Skeletor had drawn his own Sword and lunged towards He-Man as he transformed. He-Man had no time to direct the energy blast to Cringer, instead bringing his Sword down and around to meet the killing blow Skeletor aimed at him.

The Power Sword was still seething with blistering energy when the Swords clashed. With an almighty explosion, a vortex of energy radiated from the point of contact – and in that moment He-Man understood what Skeletor had stolen from Greyskull - and indeed, from him, the Defender - over ten years ago.

Evil-Lyn raised her Orb wand once more, blasting at the formidable Sentinal that barred her path. The heavily armoured humanoid, it's face concealed by a mechanical visor, held up a magical shield that absorbed the blow. She was by now so tired from the constant battles and magical wardings, her mind wavered - for but a moment - and she could no longer concentrate upon her desire - a desire that was her only guide through the mind-trap that was Greyskull. The Sentinal stepped forward, it's black and gold baroque armour clanking, raising a burning sword of light that seared her eyes. She let out a cry, threw her cloak around herself, her shape collapsing into a burning ball of flame that shot away from her enemy, down a long, dark hall, into retreat...

To retreat in a place of no retreat, no rest, no respite, only struggle... She knew from Skeletor what kind of mental stamina and concentration she could need inside this doom-laden place, and she knew she would be tested until she succeeded or was destroyed - but never did she expect her erosion and destruction to happen so quickly...

With the Sentinal behind her, she resumed her human form, as the fireball around her collapsed into heavy smoke, leaving her curled-up body behind, frail as burnt wood. Now weak, her legs buckled, and she fell upon the ground. But the ground was so black, she had a sense that it was insubstantial. With sudden alarm she felt herself twisting, turning, as if she were falling through the black stone beneath her while being warped out of all proportion. As she fell, she had the sensation that her legs were left behind her, her spine elongated, and - as she reached out - her fingers and arms reaching unnaturally beyond her... The sensation reminded her of inter-dimensional travel but with no sense of direction or control.

The darkness was now all around, the deepest darkness she had seen. No, not seen, it was now a darkness [i]felt[/i].

Evil-Lyn was utterly confounded, unsure of what she could touch upon her hands or beneath her boots. Terrifyingly, she felt herself suddenly flung into a void, far from her chosen path through the Castle. In panic, she clawed at her own skin, the only thing of substance that was at hand, but under her nails she felt only a cold powder like ash... Somehow, the darkness grew even deeper, yet more intense, a substance unto itself, and she felt as if she were sinking into her own body from the centre, as if it were collapsing like sand falling through an hour-glass, an implosion... no longer any falling, it could be floating, soaring - no direction, no space or time... There was nothing... nothing... nothing...

[i]Who am I!?

Who asks the question?

If there is a questioner, isn't there myself?[/i]

She thought herself prepared for the devious traps and tombs of Greyskull, but the sheer horror of the darkness that had suddenly consumed her enveloped her whole being.

Once, years ago, she had herself repeatedly exposed to the terrible light of Scareglow, subjecting herself to such fear that she gambled with her own sanity... But the process worked - she overcame that fiercesome, spectral glow and finally learned to control and suppress even her most deepest, primal fear. Then she had felt that nothing could horrify her any more, so long as she exerted her will to the utmost. But she was wrong - what was here, inside the tenebrific Castle, was worse than anything she had ever experienced or imaged.

Despite her thaumaturgical might, her utter determination to succeed, the Castle was slowly beating her. The voiceless challenge was issued as Evil-Lyn vanished into the amorphous blackness that had snared her:

WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO SAVE?

Somehow, the unbounded void seemed to deepen, become yet more vast - she felt herself plunged into an icy ocean of fathomless depth, all covered over by the thickest cloud, where not a droplet of light or warmth could be found. Here, in this lightless limbo, the arch-witch could somehow perceive spinning shapes, some sort of [i]dynamic[/i], and was reminded of her memories, shielded and stowed away in her mind, memories she retained of her potted past, memories that - it seemed - were now set free of their alcoves, their cages, and flew about and around her, fallen stars hurtling to some distant, unknown horizon. Slowly, her mind began to disintegrate. She tried to scream, but there was no breath and nothing to breathe with...

[i]Who am I!?[/i] The question was her only connection to any sense of reality. That she could pose such a question was the only life-line to her mind. If there were no more questioning, what else could there be?

"Myself!"

AND [i]WHO[/i] IS LEFT OF YOU AFTER SO MANY CENTURIES?

There, somewhere, she could see herself, the mortal she used to be. How could that girl be here? Aye, there was a beginning, trapped amidst the dangerous, stupid apes called humans, all of them grasping, devouring, defiling, spreading their waste across the land, sea and air, frantically creating excess to spoil themselves with, or toiling as pathetic maggots under some crushing, unquestioned law or authority. They all still existed - how she wished to wipe them all out! It would be blessing to every other living thing...

But where is the young woman? Is she nothing but a memory now? Dead, in essence, somehow remembered by magical means - even her body does not truly remain. Is she then dead? So who exists, screaming for yet more life, at this very moment?

Every hair, every flake of skin, the very face and voice, all the painfully sensitive feelings and depth of emotion, each of these aspects of the young Lyn have proven ephemeral, have vanished, a vapour trail of ashes, scattered behind the old and evil witch - she has become nonsensical... Only the hatred and rage and determination survived, the consequences of a beautiful being twisted by torments, made bitter and black by the foul experience of a world gone mad...

[i]She[/i] is dead, yet her revenge lives on - am I only the after-thought of a dead girl who once loved and laughed? What then is to be saved here in Greyskull? It is already gone, dust scattered across the face of the cosmos, burning invisible lines to infinity...

WHAT CHANGES THESE YEARS BRING. WHAT CHANCES YOU HAD TO EVEN EXIST.

...Those millions of seed-cells of man she had once espied under the old microscope, were they not her own competitors, long ago? What then were her chances of reaching the warm womb of her long dead mother? And what then the chances of success against attempted abortions or the trials her mother lived through when Lyn was still unborn? Nevermind her father's father and his, and his father too - all of their excess seed, sown in whatever way it was, but only one lucky, squirming seed being granted life in a womb, all so many million to one chances that reached far back to the Beginning.

What were her chances of life, taking all of that into account, not to mention the very chances that defined each life, each narrow brush with death, each lucky accident and decision to take a woman...? The possibility that she was alive now, after so great an expanse of time from Beginning to present, to the Dark Age and of this night, it was all so vast, incomprehensible, but yet laid out before her, stars set in the pores of her vanished face, and each star a twinkling jewel with a million facets and each and every facet reflecting each grain of sand from the clock of time smashed down upon it all, breaking the face, shattering the image... nothing to keep it all comprehensible, nothing but... but...

- what continues? What is left of an old, old life suspended in time by memory or artifact? It corrodes, but there is still a consequence staring back...

[i]What has sustained me!?[/i]

THERE IS NOTHING TO SAVE, NOTHING TO PROLONGUE BUT AN ILLUSION

...Then, the overwhelming force that threatened to consume her somehow parted, and an even greater space beyond it was revealed. There, hanging in that infiniteness blackness, a face the size of a galaxy, one that she had seen only once before - the incredible and terrible visage of the Third Olden God!

It parted it lips, each the size of blazing nebulae, the mouth a darkly flashing vortex of lightlessness...

[i]What has sustained me!?[/i]

...And then, between her and the colossal image, dangled a thin, silvery thread.

Evil-Lyn knew that much of what occurred in the Castle did not appear in literal form, but as a symbol, a dream... Perhaps here was her [i]thread of hope[/i] - what else was left?

Aye, the answer is here, still beating - [I]My HATRED[/i]

She took a hold of the silvery thread, her hatred -

Yes! to my success!

and

[i]No! to any other![/i]

She was the ultimate denier, the negative, she could blast through this image with her negation. No! [i]This vision could not be![/i] An impossibility - the Olden God could not be here! It was only a symptom of her hatred!

She had long ago called the Olden God using the very essence of her hatred - and it was this core of loathing that she was once again reunited with. This insurmountable feeling was the machine of her evil, the very power with which she could destroy without pity or regret [i]and also to continue to exist in spite of all![/i] - once more she gained control over the Castle's hideous trap.

She would not be beaten - never!

Then, she felt herself drifting lightly upward, still clinging to the fragile, silver thread.

Cold hardness.

After a few moments of wild disorientation, she felt the unforgiving stone floor once more, and heard the echo of the hall-way, then felt the hot-breath upon the nape of her neck, and looked up - to see the jagged, jutting face of Webstor, his six eyes glistening as they stared at her with a predator's fixation.

He opened his vampire's mouth of needles:

"Now we have a bargain" he whispered.

The Castle was exposed, open to any invader – Teela had to hurry and find Adam or the Sorceress – but it was not clear where she should run to. She slowed the last sky-sled to a halt and dismounted when it met the ground. It was impossible to fly at speed inside Greyskull – it was too dark and too easy to miss details beyond the narrow beam of the head-light that shone from the scowling eyes of the sled's frontispiece.

Deciding to go on foot, she dismounted the Ancient machine, and heard another distant rumble in the sky from outside. She could still smell the wetness of the heavy rain upon the sky-sled's dented metal. Soon it would be dawn, but the climbing thunderclouds had threatened to smother the first light and prolongue the darkness.

Teela limped down the throat-like corridor beyond the shattered portcullis behind where the Jawbridge used to be. The curved, rib-like columns either side of her stretched high over-head and the path sloped sharply downward, giving her the sense that she was about to be swollowed and consumed by a titanic creature. Shortly, she arrived within an antechamber that offered various exits. There was nothing fmailiar about them, despite her previous visits herein, and she knew that the Castle's architecture was magical, dynamic, and dependant on the contents of the mind of any interloper - not on what their body did.

Concentrating on Adam and the Sorceress, she heaved open the nearest door, seemingly at random. It was heavy and thick, designed to be locked against invaders. Slamming it behind her, she found another chamber, poorly-lit by burning torches, like the rest of the Castle. Teela had rarely seen the inside of this mysterious acropolis and she had no sense of where she should go. A nervous fear prevented her from calling out to Adam or the Sorceress – she had a strong sense that something menacing was listening for her. She controlled her breathing and carefully drew her well oiled sword - then she continued on, deeper and deeper into Greyskull.

She passed from chamber to chamber hissing Adam's name – many of these rooms had the appearance of a dungeon, and were barred, or hung with chains and collars, heavy balls and manicles, as if Greyskull were nothing more than a vast jail. Occasionally a door would be of different design or be inlaid and plated with different materials – but there was little here that was consistent or even recognizable. In the air was a stale smell – there was no hint that any part of the Castle was used to live in. There was even no sign of vermin nor bats – no smell and no sound of these common animals. She took down a torch and for a short-time she paused a number of seconds, investigating a few nooks and crannies – she did not find a single spider, nor any insect. The inside was not only a maze of empty corridors and vaults, it was lifeless and barren.

The silence and emptiness gnawed more on her nerves than the sense that she was wasting time - she hurried on, feeling desperate. How to find anyone in this maze? She maintained the focus of her mind, imagining her thoughts reaching out like a siren alarm or search-light.

The urgency that propelled her through this labyrinth in search for He-Man was beginning to transform into a running fear – increasingly she felt trapped and heavily oppressed as if under some slowly crushing weight - clearly she was already lost and in utter solitude. She feared she might wander around until exhaustion forced her to the cold floor, where starvation would then take hold. Perhaps all of this dust was what was left of the skeletons of the Castle's victims. Teela felt ashamed of the fears that kept assailing her, one after the other like a hail of arrows. This was indeed a dark and testing place, more terrible than she had ever realised.

Yet torches burnt in their alcoves as if someone cared to light these barren cells. They must be magically maintained, which implied that the Sorceress was here somewhere. Surely the Castle would not attend to this detail – it only needed a Guardian and a Defender. Why aid any invader with light, while leaving every door unbarred? No - The Sorceress must be here, Teela suddenly had a strong sense of that, and she carried this with her, her sole comfort.

For a while, it was hard to know how much time had passed. She had stopped looking at each braced or plated door and down each hall. She now moved guided by instinct, gaining an intuitive sense of direction that at once surprised her, but was also familiar - even as a youth she always felt that she knew her way, and was rarely worried when lost.

Then she realised that perhaps the torches were lit and the portals unlocked for her own sake...

Then she realised that the torches were lit and the portals unlocked, just for herself.

Teela moved through the gloom, still on an incline. From above, she thought she heard the distant sound of thunder, but discarded the idea - surely she would not be able to hear the storm down here?

The deeper and further she continued, the greater was her sense that something terrible was about to happen - and yet, it was a terror she was drawn to, compelled to discover, and so she embraced her fate and clung to her sword, intending to fight, regardless of the destiny that beckoned her on into the darkness beneath Greyskull.

Imposing double-doors before her swung open into a large, sunken chamber, a short flight of steps before her took her further down. She looked around the crypt she had entered. It was the largest room she had seen yet, but the air was hot as if she were deep underground. The ceiling vanished into darkness, and four exits led out at the cardinal points of this circular room. Elegant, stone sarcophagi lined the walls, leaving the centre wide and spacious, other than a thick chimney column hanging high over the crypt's central area. The bricks of the chimney rose up into the invisible ceiling, providing a vent for a huge pit of a fireplace that was cold and empty.

The sense of watchful menace still hung over her, but it was time to challenge that – she had wasted too much valuable time searching this forbidden place.

"Adam!" she yelled, her sense of urgency overtaking her. "Sorceress!" Her voice distorted in multiple echoes down the passageways around her. For a few moments she waited, tense and ready to respond to threat. From above was the sound of rumbling, muffled crashing and, as she looked up toward the distant sound, she heard a falcon's cry and the hiss of wings.

The brightly coloured Zoar slowed as she entered the chamber, flitting by the huge chimney stack, to come to rest upon a sarcophagus beside Teela. The bird's long feathers of darkly burning ocher and summer-sky azure shimmered. The warrior woman sheathed her blade and hung her torch up on the wall to see the avian clearly.

"Zoar? Sorceress – " she began, puzzled as to why the Sorceress came to her in the form she was forced to adopt beyond Greyskull, where her power was weak.

Yes, Teela, it is I. The bird inclined it's head so that one small eye stared at Teela. Remain where you are! resounded the Sorceresses' smooth, ethereal voice within her head. You have brought us both to this special place by yourself, by your own inner direction and sense of becoming... and having called me here now, you must look around you and forget your urgency, for everything beyond these sacred walls is ephemeral, and even now is passing away...

Teela stopped and looked around the room. From above came more rumbling, distant thunder, the sense of vibration. She turned to Zoar "Has the danger passed?"

You will soon see that for yourself. But here you must think of other things. Inside these sarcophagi around you are the remains of every Sorceress before me. Look upon them now. You are now deep inside the ancient catacombs of Greyskull. I myself will soon enter this resting place and continue to remain - forever.

Teela stared at the bird and asked quietly, fearfully, "You are dying?"

Teela - we do not die, you and I. We are one and the same, we who are gathered here in this room.

Teela looked around herself again, slowly aware of other presences here, vague forms that hung as outlines in the darkness beyond the torch-light. Here she saw a silver fang flash, there an onyx claw unsheathed, hither and thither the flinch of tense muscle or the glint of an eye. But the gathered beings did not move, nor did they reveal themselves and her attention quickly returned to the Sorceress.

"You and I?"

Yes Teela. Your wish is granted here.

Teela stared at the eye of the falcon, ringed with a golden disc. Within the black-bright pupil, she saw her own face reflected, but it was not her face, rather, it was that of the Sorceress. Then her heart, rather than her eyes, brought the truth to her mind.

"You are my mother." She stated softly, her voice quivering while her heart leapt, knowing the words to be true, as a fleeting joy swept over her.

Yes Teela! Ah, my child, I could not care for you as a mortal woman could, my duties as Sorceress allow no other. You were born to me beyond these walls, for no small mind could exist for long in here.

"But my father said - "

Daughter, Man-At-Arms was not your father. Over thirty years ago he heard my call and found you in my nest among the egg-shell. You had hatched, but you were helpless. I warmed you with my feathers, but could give you no milk. He cared for you as your father, and swore an oath of faith to me.

Tears flickered along the bottom lid of Teela's eyes. "And so he never took a wife... Oh!... But then, who is my father?"

You have none. You are born of woman alone, like all those here before you, in a pure and unbroken continuity... Come, let your tears fall quickly, for it is now time! Zoar took to the air, only to land a little further away, upon the lip of the chimney that hung like a mouth over the deep fire-pit. The distant pounding Teela had been aware of was channeled down this chimney and now she heard it distinctly - rumbling and crashing.

"Time?" Teela hurried over to Zoar, afraid she might suddenly take wing. "Wait! Sorceress! You must help us! The Castle is - !"

Dear daughter, it matters not! A greater fate and a greater danger awaits you now!

Boom, boom, boom

Around them, the walls seemed to shudder.

Teela stared at the bird, seemingly unmoved. Her eyes fell upon the night-black fire-pit, her ears heard the distant howling of the shades gathered around them. Despite the cloying heat, she shivered and her stomach sank as if filled with rocks. Holding her shaking hands together she drew a deep, shuddering breath. The truth was terrible.

She said somberly "Yes... I - I do indeed understand..." She looked back to Zoar again, her face furrowed with fear. For a moment, her lips parted to cry out for time, for postponement of the inevitable she felt rushing towards her, like a giant mountain suddenly unmoored from the range and flying towards her through a tumultuous sky. She was caught in a maelstrom of terror and precognition. No - she would not wound herself, debase herself, by screaming for mercy. She held the bird's inhuman gaze and accepted what now must be.

Then we are finished - and begun anew cried Zoar's voice in her mind, as clear and clean as sharpened steel.

Above them, the distant sound of crashing and rumbling continued, a sound like the gods waking from their long sleep - the sound of ruin and heavenly warfare.

The great bird then spread forth her giant wings of burnished orange and azure blue, edged with the darkness of Night. She thrust her sharp beak into the air and emitted a single, long, cry. As the sound echoed throughout the crypt it gathered a chorus of faded animal calls that grew in momentum and force. Within moments, a great voice resounded throughout the room, as if the Green Goddess herself had gathered all of Nature together in solemn dirge.

The layered sound grew until it was unbearable, Teela clasped her hands to her ears and joined the cry with her own scream. All of a sudden, blistering flames engulfed the feathered being before her. Zoar's wings burnt as bright and fierce as the Sun. The inferno covered the bird within moments as an eldritch smoke poured from the fire, twisting and turning like enchained and broken limbs.

Teela cried out in heart-wrenching terror and flung her arms across her face to protect herself from the blistering blast of heat. Fearful questions raced through her mind – who had attacked the Sorceress?

But when the bird took to the air, the answer was clear – Zoar was not under-attack.

The great falcon swooped down, blazing a fiery trail behind it. Teela shrieked again as the bird landed upon her raised arms, its talons cutting deep into her flesh, her muscle, locking in a terrible grip and burning with hellish fire that spread rapidly over Teela's arms, her body, her face. For a moment, Teela screamed and struggled, but then she stopped -

- and stepped forward into the fire-pit. The flames grew with sudden intensity -

- and there she embraced the flame as she became a shadow, hidden deep inside the fire...

Within moments, Teela was completely ablaze with the same furious fire, a human torch. Inside the crypt, the light and shadow of the conflagration cavorted madly across the walls, joined in dance by the watchful shades as they leapt and curled within the patterns of light and dark, their fangs and claws flashing.

The immolated body of bird and woman, locked together, became still, only to shake and tremble as the fat of their bodies crackled and spat, releasing a foul smelling, oily smoke. Zoar's wings remained outstretched until they burned away, while against the terrible agony Teela held out her arms in supplication, clutched by the bird, until their bodies were both blackened and skeletal, caught in a black net of smoke.

There they stood, two burnt outlines wreathed in curling, spinning smoke, Zoar's skeletal wings spread around them both like a ruined sheltered. Then, the torches of the Castle slowly fell into darkness as the two interlocked skeletons, looking like a conjoined statue, suddenly collapsed into ashes.

Their fire was finally exhausted and dead. The walls glistened with burnt flesh as the room vanished into a deep, deep, blackness.

Extinguished.

And from high above the crypt, the sound of collapse and destruction suddenly ceased -

(SILENCE)

The bone of Skeletor's face seemed to glitter in the burning torch light of the great Throne room. "He-Man..."

"That Sword is mine!" He-Man cried, and launched into brutally hammering at his fell enemy with a flurry of blows.

Skeletor absorbed and deflected the attacks with his stolen blade and sneered. "No, it is mine. All of this I lay claim to - as Vidar, the last of the Ancients!"

Their Swords clashed again, sparks of energy shot around the room and climbed up and down the walls where-ever they landed. A strange, distant groaning could now be heard, like the sound of a building under great pressure. At their feet, the stone floor began to vibrate. Outside, invisible to them, the storm raged. For a moment, the combatants sprang apart.

"Don't you see, Adam?" Skeletor hissed. "You have shown yourself to be unworthy, you had crawled here to give up your Power, to give up your struggling against me! Deep in your heart, you know that I have won against you - and this can only mean that the Sorceress had made a mistake in choosing you! She is wrong Adam. She was wrong to have chosen you and wrong to have denied me! And if the Guardian of Greyskull cannot correctly keep-safe the Secrets herein, then she and her Defender must give way to whomever can penetrate the ultimate barrier. I am he! I am the redeemer who will unlock the great power that is trapped here, jealously guarded by a Sorceress who cannot see beyond her own, small, purpose. You understand that this life you suffer is one of misery and pain - but all of that can change when Greyskull's Secrets are understood! In defying me, you condemn all living things to the life you have suffered, to war and hunger and greed. To all of the agonies of the flesh. So step aside! Allow me to prove all of this to you! Allow me to show you the answers you yearn for, to tell you the truths that the Sorceress will always and forever with-hold from you!"

He-Man's eyes narrowed – it was cunning of Skeletor to address his true self, to perceive what had moved him to this point, to play upon his deepest weakness: his thirst to finally understand and be released of the mysteries that commanded him. For a moment, He-Man wavered in his heart - his faith in the Sorceress was almost gone, yet his own will was not quite broken - despite it all. Skeletor spoke not only with the voice of a creature that exploited human weakness, but as a warlock whose magical speech could turn the thoughts of the mind and feelings of the heart, regardless of the truth of it all.

What was left of Adam's purity of heart, his determination and loyalty, shuddered and withdrew from Skeletor's offer - the offer of freedom that he had come here to beseech of the Sorceress!

"Never! I cannot believe you - you! The master of lies! Greyskull protects the cosmos from its deepest mystery. Greyskull holds all knowledge of creation and destruction. There is wise and good reason to deny you! I am he - who will deny you!" He-Man lunged forward with a surprise move and smacked Skeletor over. The evil wizard suddenly vanished into a black blur, only to re-appear seconds later behind He-Man, who ducked the coming blow just in time, then turned to lash out with his fist. The counter-attack knocked Skeletor backward, but the Havoc Staff glowed with evil energy and sent a killing bolt of energy roaring towards He-Man. He thrust out the Sword of Power to deflect it, but Skeletor won time to recover and dodged another blow He-Man then aimed at him.

He-Man bellowed with frustration, it had always been thus - despite his great strength that would normally break the arm or blade of an opponent, Skeletor maintained a magical advantage, that he could never overcome. He-Man's body bulged with the effort to force his enemy to submit, sweat flew from him with every move, his veins throbbed with his pure blood, his young, hard face set with determination. "You are doomed to lose! Soon, the Sorceress will be here and you cannot fight us both. There is no escaping here, and I will never tire!"

Skeletor screamed an evil laugh, a daemonic mockery of real human mirth. "I wouldn't wager on your Sorceress coming at all!"

"I have what I need to crush you Skeletor." He-Man slashed the Sword at his enemy, cutting down columns of stone that got in the way as Skeletor dodged and leapt, gouging out slashes of rock from the walls as Skeletor turned this way and that - but the warlord was losing ground. Here and there, Skeletor attempted to flee through one of the exits, unable to teleport from within the barrier-walls of the Castle. Each time He-Man blocked his escape, collapsing the archways with massive blows, or throwing great mounds of debris in the way. Greyskull would be the perfect place to entomb the villian forever, if only he could be ground-down and caught, now that he was weak!

He-Man pressed his advantage, his pure force and might, but Skeletor dodged and parried his titanic blows. Around and around the Throne-Room they fought, neither willing to give ground, neither of them able to tire like any mortal. Energy flashed from Skeletor's staff, raining magical bolts down upon the Defender. But He-Man's shield appeared upon his arm in a flash of lightening and he hid behind it, only then to tear up one of the many statues in the room, throwing it into the ceiling above Skeletor's head. Skeletor vanished under a cloud of rubble and dust, only to re-appear, unscathed, upon the steps of the Throne.

Boom, boom, boom went the walls, as the columns and statues fell.

Around them both, the Throne room was ruined, choked with black dust, shuddering, threatening collapse. The floor and walls vibrated, under pressure, and great cracks split with deafening violence up and down the walls, more dust filled the air and a deep, low groaning could be heard all around them.

The two stared at each other as small chunks of masonry fell from above into the shadows around them.

"You cannot defeat me." Skeletor hissed again, his dead face set in a rictus grin.

He-Man stepped forward, ready to attack once more. "No. With Zodac gone," he panted, "there can now be a victor!" He leapt, and once more the Swords clashed with explosive force, the air resounding with a crack as it burnt around the blade edges. This time, there could be no stalemate.

Skeletor's empty eye-sockets flashed. "Hah! Fool - you have chosen to die an ignorant animal. In that you will join your entire kingdom, for it falls before my army even now. Yes - I have a sense of them, the King and Queen - ah! - what terrible torments and humiliations await your parents!"

"No! There will be no more, Skeletor! This war will end here and now!"

With renewed vigour, He-Man pressed on with the new advantage he now felt – his utter hatred of Skeletor and the terrible despair that he had wrought on Adam's life, and those of all of Skeletor's countless victims. He-Man had never felt this dreadful loathing before and it burst into his pure and compassionate consciousness, a scream from the depths of Adam's exhausted soul - a soul bound to him, just as Adam's body was. He struck harder and harder at the sorcerer, feeling himself driven by all of the rage and grief and despair of the years past. He showed no mercy, striking again and again while Skeletor slowly fell back, jumping a low sword sweep, side-stepping the jabs, ducking and parrying He-Man's thrusts and blows. All the while Skeletor's Sword trailed a faint vapour of magic - and He-Man felt a kinship to that energy.

The Sword of Potence and the Sword of Endurance spat magical energies as they were pitted against each other in unnatural combat. He-Man's great strength could not easily smash aside Skeletor's sword-arm, held steady by his own undead strength coupled with the magical durability leant to him by the Sword of Endurance. For a moment, the two were locked together, their massive bodies straining against forces barely under their control, heaving backwards and forwards upon the steps that led up to the Throne, as they both sought the upper-hand.

"I will tear down Greyskull if it will be enough to keep you entombed forever!" He-Man roared. He smashed his foot down upon the steps, forcing a hole through the carved rock, sending the two of them falling to the floor.

Instantly they sprang up and apart, heedless of the weight of rocks that had fallen upon and around them. The force-field from He-Man's chest-harness absorbed most of the damage and Skeletor's sword ensured that he too was mostly unscathed.

"You understand now that you cannot defeat me, just as you could not destroy Faker. Your very essence, your Power, is turned against you!"

"Faker is defeated, if not destroyed. None of us are invincible."

"Yes, indeed He-Man!"

Again they clashed, running head-long into each other with such force that the air boomed like thunder. Their swords twisted and turned, each trying to find some flaw in the other's defense, some gap through which the blade could sink, some mistake which they could exploit. But the match was equal and around them, the unstable structure of the Throne room let fall bricks, gargoyles, debris. A massive, ornate spandrel following an enormous abutment from an archway above crashed close by, sending stone shrapnel spinning towards them, smashing in the floor and knocking the two from their feet. Again they leapt up, circling each other, swords blazing...

And then, from below them came a great roaring, the sound of a fireball rushing down a tunnel and consuming everything in its path - but no fire could be seen.

Then suddenly, every torch and flame in the Castle was snuffed out, the roaring ceased, and the two arch-rivals were plunged into pitch blackness.

But it was only He-Man who could not see...

Outside, the grim fortress of Castle Greyskull, squatting ominously upon the edge of an infinite fall, was lashed by rain, wind and lighting. Fireballs began to fall in sparkling, iridescent chunks from the heavens, crashing down into the wasteland around the Castle, throwing up clods of earth and leaving steaming craters upon impact. Water, air, fire, earth; all of the elements rocked and broiled, a storm of enchantment and upheaval. The thunder grew yet louder, crashing through the air while the earth mirrored the trembling, shuddering as lightening pierced it, exploding as fireballs smashed it. All the while the rain poured over the lands, pooling into the craters, washing over the sandy soil, hissing as it fell into the fires.

All around the Castle the laws of nature were in turmoil, a great tempest of energy that could create or destroy according to the hand that might guide it. At the centre of it all, the black eyes of Greyskull stared across the distance lands below.

Then, from a jutting chimney stack placed between the spine-like battlements of the Castle and set centrally behind the watchful skull-face of the Castle's facade, came a gigantic blast of energy. The explosion was not natural, though it might have looked something like an vertical aurora borealis or a tortured rainbow, and it blew upwards at great speed towards the black, black sky. The energy beam reached up high into the clouds, burning them away, revealing the vast, multi-cratered face of the Great Moon hanging low in the sky behind the Castle, almost vanished beneath the horizon. Then the energy beam was followed by another blast, this time of fire, a fire so bright that as it spread through the remaining clouds overhead and these too were burned away with much thundering, and for a few moments in a radius of hundreds of miles, the Night was as bright as noon-day and the sky roared with a continuous, defeaning, explosion.

All around the Castle the Night melted away into the brief day-light, illuminated by the spreading sky-inferno that rushed out of the huge chimney. The fire grew in intensity as it took the shape of a great bird, spreading flaming wings over the sky, a great beak drawn upwards and open towards the blue dome above, as if it intended to swallow the infinite bredth of the stars.

But the dawn-song of the great fire-bird never came - instead, it let out cry of pain...

Inside the deep, dark Throne Room, Skeletor looks up, as if to the sky outside. He-Man sees nothing, but hears in the darkness his deathly voice clearly: "Foolish mortal! Now it is time!" Invisibly, the warlock lifts his hands heavenward, uttering words of hellish and alien origin. He-Man turns this way and that, tending towards where he remembered one of the few remaining entryways to be, his Shield and Axe at the ready, full-armed, expecting an attack from any direction.

But it was of no use - the room burst into sudden illumination. A terrible flame, a nuclear fire, flowed down from the ceiling and into the eyes of Skeletor, the Lord of Destruction. His hands reached towards He-Man and they burnt with an incredible intensity.

High above them both, the great, fiery Zoar cried out in agony and sorrow - this was not meant to be!

Skeletor lowered his burning hands, the fire in his eyes still reaching down from the blackness above, like two ropes of flame. "Creation is destruction! This rebirth is my own empowerment! These energies - your death!"

He-Man could only make some sense of what the warlord had to say, but there was no time to understand. The terrible flames shot towards him from Skeletor's outstretched hands and open mouth, forcing him to crouch behind his shield.

But the shield, as solid and impenetrable as the walls of Greyskull, began to grow hot - the flames made the metal buckle and glow – metal that had before resisted all heat, even the breath of dragons! He-Man leapt into the darkness above him, casting the shield aside, the jets of flame lighting him in the dark, following him in a murderous trail. Instinctively, He-Man knew that what Skeletor had said was true - here and now he could be destroyed.

He landed in darkness upon rubble, falling clumsily, still clutching his Sword. Skeletor brought the flames to bare. He-Man held the Power Sword before him, but even this barrier was not enough. It began to glow, growing too hot to hold, the leather strap on the hilt smoking, burning his hands.

Skeletor moved closer to He-Man, sadistically intending to watch his enemy burn before him. He-Man could barely hold the Power Sword, his hands blistered, the flesh ran off in fatty bubbles, he roared with agony, the pain as much in his heart as in his blistering, hands and forearms. [i]How could the Power Sword fail to deflect magic? How could this flame alone overcome the Four Elements and Forces, held in balance by Greyskull, the very energies that give me my Power? Did the Sorceress lie to me? How can this be!?[/i]

As if reading his mind, Skeletor, still human in his desire to enjoy suffering, cried out over the flame with his fleshless voice: "This is the fire of the cosmos! The very explosive flame that gave birth to the stars! There is nothing more destructive, more powerful than the inferno I now command! I HAVE WON - NOW YOU DIE!"

He-Man bellowed his pain and rage, his skin beginning to burn with flame, the Sword white-hot and now barely a barrier between him and complete immolation. His strength had quickly vanished before the onslaught, his very Power burned away. [i]How could this end this way? From where did Skeletor suddenly find this great power?[/i]

From behind him, his strength about to fail, the flames setting his hair alight, He-Man felt a sharp point stab at his heel. He turned and saw two small cat-eyes flash in the darkness. Behind his foot now lay a Sword - Skeletor's sword - which, along with his Staff, he had discarded to avoid their destruction, as the annihilating flames had burst from his hands.

He-Man turned and grasped the proffered Sword, then he leapt up and above Skeletor, his faded power returning as he felt the unfamiliar hilt in his other hand send a regenerative chill through his body. As he somersaulted over his enemy's head, he cut at the flame pouring into Skeletor's eyes, using both blades.

"No!" Skeletor cried out, the jets of fire suddenly ending.

The connection was gone, the terrible fire faded from Skeletor's hands and face. He-Man landed, stumbled and, breathing raggedly, turned to face his foe, who was now empty-handed. But as the fire vanished, so too did the light, and once more He-Man, weak, agonised, and horribly burned, was almost blinded by near darkness within the ruined Throne Room. The only light that remained glowed from the Sword of Power, still white-hot and still burning into his hand.

"It matters not" came Skeletor's sepulchral voice. "The Phoenix has reinvigorated me and itself remains weakened... I have rarely felt so filled with magical power! And you... You are almost burnt away."

He-Man kept moving in the darkness, both swords in hand, the second sword easing the pain, building up his energies - but he was not strong enough to resist the sudden telekinetic theft of the Sword of Endurance, suddenly pulled from his fist.

Skeletor laughed as he plucked the Sword from He-Man, catching it. "You can barely lift the Sword of Potence, He-Man. It did not take long to nearly finish you. But now that you have some sense of what good my Sword will do you, I must be sure to end your wretched life."

He-Man gripped his Sword. Skeletor could not rob him of this weapon, no magic could touch it, and the hideous burning sensation goaded him on. Should he try to run, deeper into the Castle? No - Skeletor was too fast, his magic instantaneous - there was little choice but to fight him. Yet, even as he moved his burnt skin tore, his muscles gave in, and the pain was tremendous.

As Skeletor advanced, his Havoc Staff flew with magical life into his other, outstretched hand, He-Man knew he did not have the strength to beat his foe, so bloated with magical force that smoke from the Phoenix fire still poured from his eyes and mouth, wreathing his deathly face in twisting smog.

Skeletor, still hot with the terrible power of the Phoenix, drew together his magical might and aimed a flurry of attacks against He-Man as he strode towards the broken warrior. He-Man held the Sword of Power steady, allowing it to shield him from Skeletor. But it was only a shield as good as its bearer, who no longer had the skill and strength to use it. A sneak attack came from behind He-Man who was too weakened and slow to realise - a burst of debilitating magical energy unleashed by Skeletor cast him down upon the rubble-strewn flagstones.

He-Man could barely move as the evil mage rained down torturous magical attacks upon his heaving body, his dead face watching the slow death of Eternia's champion as he shot violent spells into the shaking and roaring barbarian beneath him.

Skeletor's hollow visage stared down at the vanquished hero. As he spoke, he held his regained staff above He-Man, sending waves of violent energy crashing into his shaking baulk, forcing him into throes of pain and misery. "The Lord of Destruction knows of a million ways to destroy your flesh and bone... Cell by cell... Inch by inch... Moment by moment. I can pluck the strings of your sinew to make you fall apart. I can darken the flash of every synapse to obliterate your brain. There is no resisting my power, for it is in the very nature of mortal beings to succumb to my domain..."

12

[i]I can barely lift the Sword, the Power is truly burned away... So what is this Phoenix? Is it yet another secret that Skeletor has discovered without my knowledge? A secret like Faker, or the Four Elements and Four Forces? Ah! I am the first to suffer, but the last to understand. The Sword of Endurance... it heals wounds, protects from harm... Could it have protected my mind these long years? Would it have refreshed me and kept back the insanity? He stole it, it was the first thing he stole... And so he had already destroyed me...already won... I was fated to suffer, to fall apart, to fail...[/i]

His head bowed, body crumpled into a shaking mass, He-Man could sense, rather than see, Skeletor advance. His enemy entered the aura of light cast by the white-hot Power Sword, a Sword He-Man could barely feel. The nerves of his sword-hand were destroyed by the temperature, but Skeletor brought pain down upon him once more - and then again and again. Skeletor seemed almost swollen with magical power, as he must have been before the Jawbridge - his muscles bulged, he moved with ease and force, and smoke poured from his gaping mouth and nocturnal eyes as he flung each vicious spell upon He-Man's massive, shuddering frame.

In his mind's eye, Adam suddenly remembered an image of a farmer by the road-side, beating an old ox who could no longer pull an over-loaded wagon. The man only had a walking stick, but he beat the ox all over, beat the creature upon the head and face, beating and beating the beast until he, Adam, was able to intervene. The creature, though old, was still strong, yet the attack had gone on for so long, the beast of burden did not move again, as if in protest - and so it died of indignity.

Skeletor was tormenting him, pummeling him with small, stick-like blows, wearing him slowly away, keeping him just moments away from death, just as he had been for these long, bloody years - prolonging every blow. Even He-Man, with only part of his True Sword, will be worn away, just as light rain erodes the rock. Skeletor, the destroyer, knows how to obliterate even the most powerful man - and perhaps even the invincible Castle.

Once more He-Man was crouched at Skeletor's clawed feet, the agony from the attacks and the burning Power Sword reaching a pitch that only Hordak, in his hidden torture chamber, had been able to best.

Above him, the spectral face of Skeletor glared down, uttering oaths. "...There is no resisting my power, for it is in the very nature of mortal beings to succumb to my domain..."

He-Man watches Skeletor lift the other Sword, [i]his[/i] Sword, the second half. There is no Power, no strength left in He-Man. The Phoenix fire, still burning, and the endless, pitiless assault from Skeletor, has reduced him to a smoldering, quivering mass of useless muscle. He looks up from beneath his bloodied brow to watch the Sword swoop down - down to cleave away his head.

[i]Evil-Lyn and Webstor commit to their bargain - yet they are lost deep within Greyskull, too far gone to betray their master. For there is no Cosmic Enforcer to turn their path towards the Throne Room.

(Elsewhere in the Castle depths, just as the Phoenix bursts into life, a re-born dead man opens his eyes and looks to his weapons in confusion, for he knows he has died. But he is not to be found entering the Throne Room. For there is no Cosmic Enforcer to bring him forth.)

Stratos speeds into Greyskull, the dark corridors threaten to surround him. He is determined, but lost. For there is no Cosmic Enforcer to point the way!

Opportunities, possibilities, surround and abound. Yet - there is now more Chance than Fate in the Cosmos - the battle in the Throne Room goes undisturbed. The fatal end must takes its course as the Universe hurtles towards Imbalance and spins away from its axis, into the eternal Abyss...[/i]

The sheer agony of these moments send terrible flashbacks racing through He-Man's mind... All of the pain he had suffered over the years had - like a poison or infection – had become Adam's. All of the terrors and shocks that he had seen and fought through and braved, finally fell upon Adam. In those days as a Prince, rather than the Defender, Adam had only his own mortal strength, his young mind, with which to resist the fatigue and the terror and the memories of madness and suffering - and he was to do it alone, as a pariah. He-Man felt an awful rage boiling inside his pure and merciful soul, one entwined with Adam's and with the Second Sword, not properly partitioned. Rage and loathing screamed up from Adam's crushed spirit, a supernova of trauma, bitterness and grief that touched every nerve, moving He-Man to sudden self-defence.

Skeletor's Sword came down, but He-Man's came up and held the edge mere inches from his neck. The white-hot Sword of Power met the Sword of Endurance with a resounding smash. For a moment, the two enemies paused in mutual surprise, but as they withdrew, the Swords remained fused together by the heat, locked, crisscrossed.

In that same second, He-Man tugged the Sword from Skeletor's claw and hefting himself up to his feet, grasping the hilt of the second Sword, the blades still fused, forming a cross that he brought to bear against Skeletor, against his throat -

The fiery bird above Greyskull began to implode, bright sparks flying out from it to fall all across the land, as it collapsed quickly in on itself from the centre, flames rushing in a circular pattern as if draining away. The whole shape of the bird began to elongate, twist and distort into a long, rapidly turning spiral, falling into smoke, thick and oily. The serpentine tube of fumes shrank as it drained back down into the chimney, the heavy clouds above rushing to fill the gap left behind, until finally the tail-end of the smoke column faded from sight, and darkness hung over Greyskull once more.

The eyeless face of the Castle stared unblinkingly across the vast distances before it, beyond Eternia, beyond the stars and the galaxies. Like a glaring dragon hunched over its treasure horde, it guarded the Ultimate Secrets beneath it. In the darkness, it sat on the very edge of the eternal Abyss, as if ready to suddenly tip and fall forever into final oblivion.

The maelstrom around it has died down. The Phoenix was gone. A strange stillness and silence prevailed as the fires faded and the waters ceased to drip. Nothing moved - it was as if everything was paused, holding its breath, awaiting the climactic moment that would decide the course of the future.

Menacing, dominating, Castle Greyskull clung to the precipice, awaiting the manifestation of what may or may not be.

- He-Man roared with Adam's pain and hatred as he brought the two Swords from Skeletor's grasp and up toward the sorcerer's neck - he knew that within moments, Skeletor would vanish, or deploy some new spell, and he, He-Man would not be strong enough to stop him, and that the war of attrition would continue. Adam's pain still screamed through his every sinew, shook every bone, moved him. For his sake, there must be no holding back now.

With no mercy in his heart now, no room for other options, sheer loathing moved the great weight of muscle of He-Man's arms as he thrust the two conjoined Swords through Skeletor's his neck.

In that moment of beheading, of murder, He-Man felt a sense that the two halves of his power, of the inner and outer crosses of Strength and Fortitude he carried upon his breastplate, were finally joined, where once Skeletor had sundered them. But the joining was only momentary - though He-Man now carried both Swords, both Powers, he had bloodied them in a murderous rage.

Skeletor's skull, empty of the oily black darkness that normally lurked therein, rolled out of his torn hood and across the dark stones. His powerful body crumpled, the physical form no longer held together by the Power of Fortitude, rapidly decaying into dust as a jet of thick, black blood shot up from his withering neck. Only his old, iron Horde armour, upon which was wrought his personal crossed-bones heraldry, remained. He-Man could barely stand as he turned and brought his heavy boot down upon the bleached white skull with a crunch, crying aloud in agony as he did so.

Skeletor was dead. And He-Man had killed him.

...Breathing heavily, He-Man abruptly screamed out and doubled over - a terrible pain lanced through his body, again and again without respite. He arced backward, his head lashed from side-to-side, saliva spraying from his quivering lips. Then, as if struck, he fell forward and upon all fours, gasping for breath, his mighty limbs shaking, throwing his flesh up in waves as an earthquake does to the earth. He could not breathe! It was as if all of the wind had been knocked from him - he felt it, the air rushing from his wide-open mouth, as if under pressure. His flesh, hard and thick like rock, continued to ripple, almost as if it were about to split open, tear apart. Sweat poured from the pores of his flesh, his eyes streamed tears of pain, of grief and regret, his tongue lolled from his mouth, drooling a river of liquid, threatening to desiccate his wracked body. Then an awful sense of burning rushed over his body, white flame from the burning Sword flowing over him, filling him inside, consuming him in a torment every much as horrendous as the Phoenix flame. But this time, it could not be endured.

A terrible storm of wind, rain, fire and dust briefly materialised over He-Man's body, ripping at his flesh, lightening jabbing at his shrinking, burning body. The torment tore the Crossed Powers from Adam's soul, as the body of He-Man withered away.

He-Man, too, was now gone. And Adam had killed him.

13

Somehow, Adam survived.

The Throne Room was now dimly lighted and all around were scattered ruins: smashed walls that no warmachine could normally breach; fallen statues, their faces saddened with cracks, their limbs shattered; and columns taller and thicker than millennia old trees, now so many pebbles to be washed away by the sea of time; great holes in the floor, revealing the darker dungeons far below; and dust still hanging in the area, carrying the stink of burnt and dead flesh.

As consciousness flung itself upon Adam, he cried out in pain and lifted his hand to his face - as normal, his wounds were healed by the transformation – except that his hand was burnt black. An overwhelming sense of exhaustion swept over him, his heart was palpitating, hard and frantic, against his thin chest. His breath came in difficult wheezes -

[i]But haven't I now won? With Skeletor dead, the war must now be over? And here, in the Throne Room, isn't there a chance I will now find the answers I seek?[/i]

Clutching his blackened hand, he was barely able to stand and, blinking, he saw at his feet that the Sword of Endurance lay shattered like fragile glass, all bloodstained shards, while only the out-line of the Sword of Potence remained, burned into the stone, the ashes having been scattered in the vortex that claimed He-Man.

Unlike Skeletor – who had left the Havoc Staff & his armour behind - nothing of He-Man remained.

Only then did Adam understand what had happened, what he had done - how complete his failure.

[i]My consuming hatred, my deep disgust, they had given He-Man an advantage over Skeletor, an advantage that had never been before... But it lead to murder, and in thus destroying Skeletor, I have also destroyed my own purity of heart - the very reason [/i]she[i] chose me - for such a heart is necessary for He-Man, the Defender of Greyskull, to manifest. I can no longer be He-Man. I am a killer with a heart poisoned by revenge and despair![/i]

He hadn't the energy to weep. As the awful understanding tumbled through his mind, a terrifying voice made him start as it boomed:

"GO!"

Yet - the voice was familiar - it came from the Sorceress's Throne above and behind him. He turned in sudden, painful surprise as his blood-shot eyes followed the series of high, shattered, stone steps that led to the giant, ornate Throne. Upon it, his bleary vision cleared to reveal a tall woman.

She is wearing the head of a great serpent as a crown, her face emerging from between its open jaws as if she has crawled out from inside its belly. The points of the upper fangs are driven into her forehead above the eye-brows, its own green eyes staring accusingly from just above hers. Her arms and legs are bared and decorated, her body is covered by a long breast-plate of brown scales, covered with an iridescent sheen, from throat to loins. There, sitting up high on the throne, was Teela.

"BEGONE!" she stood as she commanded once again. "This is Castle Greyskull and your presence is forbidden!"

Adam stared in disbelief. "Teela! But I - !"

She cut him off, her voice blaring as she took up a serpent-headed staff and raised it high: "I am the Sorceress! You are an intruder - you have now been warned!"

"But Teela! I have so many quest- ARGH!" Adam fell back as the Sorceress let out a hissing shriek. Her own eyes bulged, turning green and reptilian, her mouth distending into a serpent snarl, all fangs and opened jaws, forked tongue lashing. As she transformed, her lower body melted and grew together into a long, coiled snake-tail that sprang her humanoid trunk up into the air, raising her aloft as she pointed her serpent-headed staff.

It felt like he had been bitten - pains twisted inside of him, a hundred venomous snakes, the sensation a close reminder of the horrors he had been through, driving him to utter fear of reliving such impossible torments again.

The re-born Sorceress watched with cold, reptilian satisfaction as Adam dragged himself up from the floor, shaking, a sickening terror urging him on, jolting him into exhausting motion. As he reached the doorway, Cringer almost knocked him down as he also fled. The sight of the running animal spurred Adam on and they rushed blindly down a vaulted, empty hallway, filled with a mindless terror that emanated from the Sorceress.

They somehow reached the mouth of the Castle, gasping with fear and totally spent. The Jawbridge was now whole and laid over the Abyss, and so they hurried across, feeling impelled by the awesome weight of fright upon their backs. When they reached the cliff-side, the Jawbridge began to close, chains clanking. Adam then regained some measure of composure, his terror not so consuming, and he spun around as if to leap back onto the Jawbridge in desperation.

"Teela!" he called to the Castle, "Sorceress!" But he knew in his heart that it was too late. The Jawbridge slammed shut – it's denial, absolute. The empty eyes of Greyskull bared down upon him accusingly. The walls towered – impenetrable! Adam could hardly dare to turn his back on the terrifying skull-face and so he half-crouchingly backed away, his hands covering his head as if expecting a blow, until some distance lay between him and the Castle. Cringer stuck by him, making no sound, shaking all over like his master.

Despite his great need to understand, to be released of the questions tormenting him, he did not dare to turn back to the Castle, knowing in his heart that he could no longer command an entry, or be granted any audience with the Sorceress. What choice did he have now but to go home?

Finally, with the Castle some distance away, Adam dared to turn around, his back to the imposing skull-face that dominated the surrounding, jagged land. He stopped, standing still in the freezing downpour of rain, surveying the hillsides and, down below, the great and once fertile plains. In the centre of it was Eternos - there a dark column of smoke climbed up to blacken the low-hanging clouds. From where he stood, Adam could see no indication of who might be the victor.

The rain had quickly soaked his ragged, monkish clothes and he could not stop shivering. Behind him, behind the Castle, the dawn light had been smothered, leaving only a thick grey sky, heavy and oppressive with rain-clouds. Fatigue and cold were crushing him. For a short while he stumbled on, down the hills, through the woods, his pet alongside him - but where were they going?

Behind him, the ancient Castle glared. He was now a mere mortal, and no Defender of Secrets at all – only the ignorant beast that Skeletor had seen. While ahead of him Eternos burned, its people put to the sword, and he was no Prince of Eternia either.

He fell down on the damp earth and then crawled a little until he reached a burned and blackened tree, cut in two by a thunderbolt, standing alone out of the rocky wilderness. Slowly, he understood that he had seen this tree before, on his way to the Sorceress. It offered no protection from the cold, rainy wind - he and the tree both were at the mercy of all the elements. Above him, the Sun remained extinguished by the deep grey clouds. He felt numb all over and so heavy he could no longer move. His breath emerged as a tight wheeze, his thoughts came to him in confusion, every limb trembled painfully, and his heart hammered hard and arhythmical between his lungs. Cringer lay down beside him, trembling, cold wet fur offering him no warmth, his eyes glassy and blank.

Adam's thoughts made no sense as they crashed through his mind in despair and confusion. He rested his spinning head against the ashen bark. He tried to fight the sense of sleep that overcame him, the feeling that he was suddenly being choked by a blanket of heat. He pulled at his soaked robes, grasped out at the tree for support - he must go on!

But he could not go on.

His ragged lips parted, letting out one final sigh. Knowing that he did not have the strength to rise again, Adam slowly lay down under the empty branches that framed the oppressive sky, his head upon a wet, black root. No more tears fell from his eyes. He no longer had the energy to suffer.

He muttered allowed to Cringer, barely able to make sense to himself as his speech fell into incoherence: "But was I not granted my wish? Aye... Aye... I am released of the burden that was destroying me... Teela...! The Swords are gone. He-Man is gone... Skeletor... it was you who has now brought me peace..!"

Finally, he lay unmoving, numb and silent, in the freezing cold upon the desolate plain as the rain washed down from the overcast skies.

As darkness rushed in, Adam's empty eyes still stared up, as if searching for the vanished light of the Sun.

[CENTER]

THE END

****[/CENTER]

[u]War of Attrition: XIV - Epilogue[/u]

Drip...

Drip...

Drip...

Cold - Silence.

[i]I'm finished coughing and spluttering... picking myself up from the hard floor I fell upon, having heaved my naked self out from this viscous bath. The convulsions and feel of constriction are gone - but my heart still beats hard and I hear the blood loud in my ears. I'm still leaning over now, shaking, feeling the hot pain aching with a dull beat in my chest, throbbing in time with my solid, lumpen head. My throat burns closed, my body having purged this liquid from my lungs, my breath narrowly passing through. My limbs feel heavy and weak - and as I stumble to move away, I clutch back at the cold stone of the bath's edge. Cold and hard - like life. Since when was pain so intolerable? I feel... vulnerable. Weak. Where's my fortitude to shield me? Disgusting.

I step back, disoriented, taking some time to look at what I am leaning against in this small, closed room. It is like a canopy bed, only filled with steaming, thick and pink liquid penetrated by wires that dip down into it from some sort of machine I can not make out well in the darkness above, held aloft by four ornate posts. I move closer to examine the carved posts - they are of metal. Upon one of them is some sort of digital-interface, but I can not understand the symbols coded to it. I shudder, the stone floor has made me cold and the liquid that clings to me all over is thicker than water, and cools me down in the chilly air. All around me is silence and gloom. Shivering, I turn to look for clothing and - for some sense of where I am.

Or who I am...!

Some moments pass in panic, I'm looking to and fro for... something... searching my memory for images, for the story of my life, keeping this narrative in my head - a life line to sanity. Slowly, painfully, my story returns in brief glimpses...

A king... He had brought peace through trade and negotiation backed by iron resolve - and yet he is deeply troubled. A young woman, who could be beautiful if she wasn't as hard as an old berserker. She's commanding, cold. Yet she loves me - but not as a lover. And who are these other faces? I see them - the savage who flies and has always been true. The pacifist Southerner, most honourable and brave. The monster, with the mastodon head. The warmonger with the great gauntlet, once defeated, now a friend. But none, not one, has a name... And I know I am forgetting others, others even closer to my heart... Yet, I know them all to be friends: a great bard turned warrior, cursed - cursed by... by...

The face of death, jutting bone from a dark hood; this hideous creature - flames of war in his eyes. Terrible victories and worse defeats, I've seen them. I thought the wars of youth were cruel and wanton. But now, with this fiend's arrival...! Alas, what an awful fate handed down to us, here on this wretch world... Bodies cut up, slaughtered like pigs, I'm wading knee deep in blood, children have drowned in it. Can people do this to each other? But there's more, many years, so much death - it became meaningless for a while and I - I engineer my own mechanisms of annihilation!

And then the monsters, the unstoppable daemons... Is this my life? My memories are all covered in blood, the sky rains a torrent of red, the earth soaks it up but is never sated, the winds carry the stink of putrification, fires leave behind bones - more reminders of death - you can't get rid of the corpses so easily, they moan from beyond, in dreams. I am smashing the foe with my weapons - but they keep coming, an endless assault.

Gods, oh gods, am I really a soul about to begin the torments of hell? But I have I not fallen in battle? And so my soul should be honoured - or did the priests fool us?

Where is my pride! Let these sudden tears cease!

Yet more - there is a terrible place, monumental, overwhelming. I fear it. Inside it, is a woman, a god. I fear her more. And yet.. there is more than fear. I am bound to her. Bound and... Yes, that lonesome sense, that sad aching. No - I do not allow myself such feeling! Ah... I am discovering a strange person within. I have spoken solemn oaths. Terrible oaths.

Still... I still can not find my own name in my mind - it is as if I am not me, not there, this is not my mind, my inner voice. Surely there had been a beginning? There are memories here, though it is hard to remember joyful times. There! - I remember the sweet taste of berries in a sunlit garden. They are my favourite food. I wish for simplicity, but my mind buzzes with complexities unknown to most men.

Oh! But am I not now dead?

The liquid upon me has dried quickly and begins to flake away as I stumbled around the dimly lit chamber, heart thudding with anxiety. The dull red lighting hampers my vision, though I feel pain in my sensitive eyes as I look upon the bulbs set in alcoves. My skin feels sensitive too, and my movements both loud and intrusive. I do not remember experiencing life in this way - there is a discontinuity here.

Why am I here? Where is this place?[/i]

He clings to the questions that swims up from his darkened mind, hoping that he might have the answers himself, that more memories might be prompted. He turns back to the bath and peering in, catches a glimpse of fading light as the pool darkens under his face, deformed with ripples. Dipping in a finger, he feels the liquid resist - it is beginning to harden into a husk. Still feeling the cold and hearing no movement nor sound but his own, he moves closer to the stone walls, searching for a way out.

Behind a thick, long drape he finds one and, still shivering, he steps through.

P2

The storm whips dust, ash and sooty-rain against the deformed grimace of its face. The pattern of rain slashes tears down the gnarled skin - but no sadness can be found in the yellow, bestial eyes of the Monster.

Its visage twists while watching the carnage on the rain-swept plains below. A slaughter of iron against flesh - but it mattered not of whom, by whom.

It licked its lips, tasting the sweat of invasion, the blood of defeat, the electric shock of life torn from bone and the fluid soaked void that lingers behind. A feast for a creature such as this.

Bodies fell, mangled, and torn, scattered among bricks as the buildings collapsed, smashed, burned. The streams of blood and endless screaming made little impression on a creature devoted to rending and killing - a creature that revelled in the destruction of flesh, that existed only for that purpose, a parasite deep inside the body of a man - a parasite on the ascendant.

Then what was it about this scene that captured the attention of this abomination? Why did it stop on the muddy hill-side, having flung itself as fast as it could away from the rubble and smoke and screams? It did not ask itself these questions, but nonetheless it paused, turned, and watched. The trembling human bodies within the City, subject to the annihilating power of stone, iron, and fire tumbling about them, did not see him. The victorious army, busily vanquishing their foe with glee, did not see him.

The little birds above flew away to shelter from the winds. The mighty Sun still cowered behind the ponderous and indifferent clouds - there had been a false dawn of fire - then the new day was darkened at its birth.

The wind carries away the sound of the massacre while a strange stillness prevails beyond the scene below. The Eternian plains hold their breath, the distant hills slowly turn their backs...

Then the moment is passed and the monstrosity continues at speed on its original course - what vestigal memory spurs it on? Where was it going - and why?

Somewhere, in the back of it's psychotic, inhuman mind, it sees a little pink hand reaching up... up... up...

"Triumph! I have willed an eternity of freedom - my self-salvation!"

Evil-Lyn gloated, her arms raised, as she stood before what she instinctively believed to be the final barrier between her and the secret knowledge that would save her from the Third Olden God. Her mental discipline was stretched to breaking, her endurance severly tested, but as she faced the dread, shimmering portal before her, she marshalled the last of her energies -

- and the mystic lock was broken, shattered, the shards flying out beyond and behind her.

An undeniable sense of accomplishment filled her soul. [i]My magic is proven more powerful than Greyskull.[/i] Stepping forwards, she pushed at what now appeared as a massive door that reached so high she must be deep down within Greyskull.

How long had she been inside the Castle? There was no clear time here, not even a clear space. The biology that ruled her - ruled any living thing - had itself been called into question. There had been no sleep, no thirst - only fatigue. Greyskull had worn against her, slowly crushing her like a massive rock carried upon a slow-moving glacier. Slowly, slowly, it had been freezing and pulverising her into oblivion. Every victory had been turned against her until she was almost gone.

So then how - ?

There was a moment of confusion: [i]How could it be then, that I stand here now?[/i]. Webstor was gone - they had been seperated by a battle against Sentinals within a laboratory littered with bubbling, fuming chemicals within bottles and channels set upon large, sturdy tables. He was gone, gone to his own fate.

Nevertheless, the witch crossed the threshold before her, her whole body tingling, shaking, and she peered about the black room she had entered. For a moment she scrabbled at her eyes with her fingers to be sure that they had not been quickly and painlessly torn out. Her trembing hands found her eyes and her fingers pressed her face.

But she was in utter darkness, surrounding her like a void. Behind her, the door was gone. Now she was unsure of her direction and for a moment felt that she might be shrinking, spinning, fading. Eaten alive! Absorbed.

She screamed - she was trapped once again and her mind sunk into a confusion of images and sensation - she had been robbed of her victory! Once more the darkness within the Castle had come to rob her of enlightenment, blind her and to trap her spirit as an insect is trapped within amber. She was back her in this lightless place, back here again - had she ever even escaped?

Whatever will she had, whatever resource had brought her so far - deals with a forgotten god, with banished demons, a journey to a hidden world, her enslavement to Skeletor - everything she had survived was pitted against her. And the Castle laughed at her hubris.

YOU MUST DIE

"No" she screamed "No! I must endure!" and she screamed her denial and her wrath once again.

ENDURE? THEN TAKE THE KEY TO UNLOCK YOUR PACT

An explosion of light sent her reeling - before her something was tumbling, spinning, falling towards her from above.

She felt herself to be down, deep down inside a hole. The light seeemd to some from the object itself. What could she do but reach out and catch it?

It was a sword - Skeletor's Sword.

MAA revival, new youth, from "bath" fully equippped-spark of life given by the Pheonix. as he leaves, disoriented, and 1 yr behind events, fights Webstor

[U]War of Attrition: XIV - Epilogue - Part 4[/U]

[i]The room beyond the curtained alcove is cold, colder than the room previous with its strange bed, and more lonely, despite the carefully carved trappings of humanity that furnish it - a large, sturdy table, a single chair with a high back and cushioned arms, some utensils and cup of water besides plates of fresh fruit and vegetables. I feel the hunger and thirst in my throat, but my distrust stays the goading of my appetites - more proof that I am somehow alive, and yet in control.

The light is brighter and as I squint, my eyes feel swollen. I touch my face - it is puffy and my skin is still wrinkled - I must have been in the liquid for some time... What time? What time has passed? Was I sleeping? This is too much like life to be death - the cold stone on my feet, the passing of breath and rhythm of heart and innards. No - I am too familiar with this harsh existence of flesh and blood to believe it is over, here, in this dungeon, lighted only by these flickering yellow lanterns. It is now too real. I have not fallen with honour, there is no Valkyrie to feast and drink with me, drink into final oblivion. And yet - I feel well, if weak.

Looking around this place with its draped walls and deep set alcoves, the glint of metal catches my tired eyes. I move over to a weapons rack, set back in the gloom. Beside it is a suit of armour and a helm - both very familiar to me. I run my hand through my long hair, feeling strange, tiny holes pitted into my skull. Then I hurry to dress in the simple uniform laid out - for me no doubt - strapping on my fur boots, belting up my loincloth, and then working on the full suit of armour. It should be damaged, but it is not. And neither am I - I see and feel no wounds as I move and dress. After a struggle, I manage to get it all on with no helping hand.

I feel warmer now and more confident. I am armoured and ready - but yet to pick up any weapon or the helm. Why do I hesitate? Aye, perhaps because it is so strange to pick up a weapon you know you fought your last with. Then - was I rescued?

My body shudders with sudden dread and blood rushes to my muscles - but I daren't think of why this is, though in the back of my mind[/i] I know it!

[i]Slowly, I load the weapons onto my belt and back, taking care that they are well oiled and loaded. Then - as I turn - I grab my pistol with a sudden reflex and point it at the figure before me. I almost pull the trigger, but it is only my own reflection - yet, it is strange. Is this me?

I take up my helm as I step closer, putting away my pistol and staring deeper into the face floating upon the glass, rubbing my smooth, youthful face in disbelief. Scars and hair, wrinkles and moles, all gone from my face. I attach the helm to my head and feel the familiar invasion of wires through my skull -

A rush of images cascades down through my opened mind - the recollections of a man who has lived long and dangerous years...[/i]

Adam comes to me, across the Abyss, his young face distorted with fear, lips shaking. He reaches out and holds a plain but elegant short-sword before him. 'Take it!' he suddenly yells. He has just left the cave beneath Greyskull. He has been is the presence of the Sorceress, that awesome woman, terrifying... and beautiful... He yells because he is frightened.

'She chose you.' I say, grave and troubled, refusing the Sword.

'No!' he yells back at me.

'I had no choice, I was oath bound to bring you here,' I say as we stand before the Jawbridge.

'But what of my oaths!? How do I use this blade to protect the - the [i]Secrets[/i]' he hisses the last word, a whisper. He is more afraid than I realised. The weight of the Universe rests upon him, but I don't understand this yet. He is shaking as we stand before the death's-head facade of the Castle.

'I do not know. Your previous oaths of non-violence are to the Ancient culture, to deaf gods, to a time and values long passed - '

'Do not belittle them!'

'Prince, I do not, you are upset - '

'How do I make a life of peace as a [i]warrior of Greyskull[/i]?'

'Did you not speak with her?'

'Aye, but she answers questions with questions...'

[i]They rush through my mind, these scenes of a life once lived... How can it be? I was a sick man, old and tired. I had to die with honour and so I left to find battle...[/i]

He-Man stands upon the cliff's edge, his long golden hair caught in the hot wind as it blows sand and dust up and around us. The blazing Sun beats down a terrible heat, but far in the distance I see quenching clouds filled with rain and lightning, blown hard on a storm wind. The great round fire in the sky reflects from the Sword held strong in his fist, that terrible burden, catching me in the eye. He is some ways away from us, alone, staring out across the blank desert, at the rolling, sifting dunes torn open by great slabs of rock. His powerful form is outlined against all of this, the heaving, crushing elements - so solid is he that he seems a bulwark against the turmoil. Should this storm smash into us, I believe he could fight it off, resist it, defeat it. Should the sands hiss and howl and rise up to choke us, swallow us, make us yet nothing but more sand, I believe he could cast it all away, blow it all away, every speck. We are so proud to fight by his side, our feeling fills us to the very tips of our fingers. We burn with a passion to live and fight and to have him honour us with praise. Even I - an old veteran, well aware of who He-Man really is, wish to be blessed by a word of his praise. The gods may be gone, but here, on Eternia this day, is the closest thing we have to a heavenly protector.

Aye! His Sword burns like the Sun, his muscle stands as strong as the prehistoric rock, and his eyes - his eyes are oceans of infinite depth, filled with the feeling of a Prince...

He appears like a god to me and to the warriors gathered around me - they have not yet lost their faith in him and they follow him, though they know their lives might be forfeit. And here I am, staring at this man-god who might could tear down mountains and I know that deep inside that colossal body is a young man, barely a man, who will emerge once the blood and smoke has cleared and re-live the terrors he has confronted. Aye, He-Man protects us all, all but him...

...She amazes me and again, I wish she were truly mine, the fruit of my loins, but instead she is a cook-coo, laid in the wrong nest, and I - I was chosen to shape her body as a weapon, her mind as that of a warrior. I am silently pleased to see how right the Sorceress was to choose me - there are few satisfactions in this world, but I have taught her well. We stand together as our swords meet the enemy, the tribesmen fooled by Skeletor into siding with him, the tribesmen who believe that they can conquer the impenetrable Walls of Eternos. They are Easterners, schooled in a different fighting style to the local tribes - and yet, Teela adjusts her technique, and quickly finds the weaknesses in their armour. She is killing them as a machine would - cold, fast, and efficient. I am afraid of the reptilian look in her gaze - it seems inhuman. There is blood on her face, sweat shining upon her body and her eye glints with emotionless determination. I pray that she has not come to enjoy the killing, yet she takes such pride in her ability, how can she not derive some pleasure from her success? We're winning, feeling intoxicated, roaring our battle cry - until Shogun Jitsu charges into the fry upon a robot horse, an Ancient treasure! The laser cannons blazing... I'm hit...!

...The sky begins to darken as the star-ships crowd overhead, flying low, but out of missile range. The Grand Eternian Army waits for them to come, standing on the plain as if this were some ordinary war - but I am dumbfounded. How do we fight such an enemy? The ships open up and men in grey suits emblazoned with the Horde Bat slide down their ropes to land some distance before us, quickly crowding into battle formations, each holding long halberds. Then the ships leave - but behind them come the bombers... When they are finished with us, I do not know the positions of my units. So many of my leaders are already dead. The Horde Troopers charge us, scattering my weakened ranks, pushing us back before we've even fired a shot. I have never felt such fear and desperation. Unwounded men are screaming, the explosions still in their heads. Some of these enemy Troopers may have been pressed into service, forced to done their armour, but they fight like fanatics - the vampires that lead them do not tolerate fear or failure. My army of united tribes - tribes united and led by the King himself - is melting away under the assault - and He-Man is gone. It is the last time I will see an Eternian army of such strength and purpose - an army quickly defeated by the technological power of the Horde. The fear from this day forever sticks into my heart, a festering splinter...

...Faker has put the whole world to the sword. He-Man's fame and honour is turned against him. The tribes need little excuse to fight, but Faker's lies have returned them to their blood feuds, their old ways. There is no more trade, no more exchange, the Eternian kingdoms have fallen apart- tribe against tribe, brother against brother. And I - I am here deep in the Southern jungle, a jungle so hostile to life that most of my fellow exiles are dead - and still we have not found the Fright-Zone the Prince is trapped within... But finally Clamp finds the way - we are close... I see the fiend himself, extracting every inch of pain from every nerve, every cell. Hordak is an exemplar of sadism, his technology designed to drain every spasm of agony from any living thing. It is a necessity - without it, he will die. And so the Horde spread their dominion over the galaxy and he - he is plugged in to almost every death camp, every prison cell, leeching the woes and pains from his countless victims. A vampire like him needs more than blood - it needs pain itself, it needs more and more as the centuries go by. The Horde Empire is nothing but his dinner plate, used to sustain his ancient and foul existence. Is this, then, all he wanted with my Prince...? I take aim at the beast and pray to the dead gods that it is enough...

...Ah! Adam is like a son to me! Yet now he is rescued he barely speaks. It is not only pain that was taken from him in those months, those hideous months of torment. Something is broken, lost, some determination or hope - his very soul seems mutilated. Even Teela reserve her harsh judgments now and the King's disappointment is now an awful sadness. He speaks not of his burden to me and once he allowed me to see him weeping, suffering - a shameful thing for men like us. But my comforts are nothing - there can be no comforting my Prince. The Universe weighs heavily upon this boy, more heavily than any other duty could. No one but Adam could have come this far... And yet, can he go further?

...I am afraid. How do I tell him I do not think I will be by his side in another month? The pains in my chest grow daily and I weaken. It must soon be time to die with my sword in hand. I do not fear this death, only dishonour. I cannot allow myself to die any other way...

….The Orcs, they surprise me, these mere, filthy, stupid Orcs... but I am no longer fast enough, strong enough, I feel their blades, their blunt weapons... The terrible pain fades as it lifts me up, up! - does the Valkyrie have my soul...? Take me on to Udin!

[i]I'm still staring into the mirror as the overwhelming memories, all so real and vivid, fade from my mind. I see my face clearly - I am Duncan. Man-At-Arms to King Randor. But I am a young man again - and somehow alive![/i]

"How can this be!?"

[i]Only moments after I let out this cry, does my whole body contract and sink in horror. I can only be in one place - the dread [B]Castle Greyskull[/B][/i].

Part 5

Reality. reduced to raw energies - the very essence of things revealed… nameless forms shifted, re-formed, melted away again. Nothing stable or solid and yet, the gaseous feeling provided no sense of movement or freedom. She was caught between waves of muscular spasm, of a re-birthing through some pocket of reality. Her skin was pink and fresh, it was black and shriveled, it was yellow and smooth. The moons, one by one, fell into the furnace of the Sun - mighty meteoric iron was re-forged. She felt no solidity, saw no clear space, but yet she heard a firm voice throbbing through her adrift consciousness:

[i]This is the Secret you sought - you now hold it by the hilt.[/i]

Evil-Lyn cried out in fear, but needed answers more urgently. "The pact is severed?" She felt the hard leather of some sacrificed beast in her hand, a weight pulling down upon it.

"No." The voice rang clearly now, close, loud, domineering - "You only hold the means of the severing. You must wait to be claimed by the Olden God before you can take back your soul."

"How is this!?" Hard stone against her bones, air rushing through her blood, her voice vibrating upon her half-real lips. [i]"How is this!?" [/i]

"You sought a means - it was provided. [i]The Castle keeps the answers[/i] - and so this is your route to freedom."

"A route taken in chains!" A blast of body heat, a shower of tears, particles of salt, of iron.

"No." The figure before her took shape - it was seated up high - she was no longer blinded and the room had ceased moving, shifting, her body no longer subject to these strange distortions. But she was naked, and frighteningly vulnerable with nothing to hand but Skeletor's sword. And yet, her defiance and wrath erupted through her shaking body, a primal force that drove her on through the centuries.

"Sorceress!?" Evil-Lyn rose and shook her fist, teeth clenched to breaking, her mind rushing through the possibilities, the chances of escape - But around the room was all ruin, the great archways smashed closed, leaving only massive rents in the floor and ceiling through which to flee. "Curse you! I did not come here for this!" How quickly could she dive through the closest pit?

"Yes you did, for it is the only way. Without the Sword of Endurance, you will not last and your soul will be forfeit. Only in the service of Greyskull can you slay the Third Olden God of the Outer Worlds and survive."

Evil-Lyn could now perceive the room with increasingly greater clarity. High steps led upwards to an ornate throne of beautiful stonework, all abstract designs and labyrinthine patterns of snakes eating stars, dancing figures, and strange, tentacular lines that hinted at a deep and alien existence, hidden in darkness beyond the narrow confines of ordinary perception. The witch felt awestruck before the seat of power before her - but mere moments later that awe turned into envy and her envy was bolstered by her psychotic belief in her own sense of entitlement - what authority could any other being dare to claim over her? Even Skeletor had once been nothing but a man, a babe in arms - and even the gods had eventually rejected all their claims to authority! No - there was [i]nothing[/i] she should bow to, nothing she should respect but her own ambitions! Why bend a knee to ridiculous ideas born of human fear? If this Castle could be built, it could be torn down...

Upon the golden throne, resplendent in power, sat the Sorceress, her cold eyes glaring at the miserable human who was rejecting her destiny. "I see you clearly now!" Evil-Lyn jabbed a finger up at the figure. "Despite the changes wrought upon you, I can see that you are Teela! Another trick of this accursed place!"

The Sorceress watched the witch howl with rage, her frustration, her calamity, made her writhe as if she were in chains, as if she could shake off the trap she were in. "I was once that woman - but I am now the Sorceress. The balance of power upon Eternia is changed. The Sword of Power is gone - with it went the great will that was required to weild it. Only the Sword of Endurance remains - with it comes the way to resist harm and erosion. It was stolen and now it is returned. You will learn to use it in my name. Otherwise - you must leave here or be vanquished!"

Evil-Lyn took up the familiar Sword again - it stood as the symbol of further slavery to some new power. [i]"Where is Skeletor? Where is He-Man?"[/i]

The Sorceress rose from her throne, her scaly armour glinting facets of colour as the torch-lights caught it. Her figure was strong and lithe, while something in her movements revealed a predatory purpose and an underlying tension, like a coil loaded to spring. Evil-Lyn flinched, resisting the instinct to cower - what sickening weakness! To fear this woman! "Gone!" barked the Sorceress. "But be accustomed to asking questions that receive no answer or no further elaboration. I have told you what you must do - you can be one of the Defenders of the Secrets of Castle Greyskull. The Sword of Endurance will protect you so long as you keep it and obey me. It will lend you some martial prowess. It will allow your wounds to regenerate and your ageing will truly cease - your soul hanging in stasis. Most of all, it will fortify your mind against terror, against despair and fatigue. No part of you can truly be harmed while you wield it - but be warned of being parted from it. You will heed my call, you will use all of your power to prevent any invader into Castle Greyskull - and that, for now, is all... Do you accept?"

Still holding the Sword, Evil-Lyn stared hard at the reptilian face of the Sorceress, stared into the face of the Guardian of Castle Greyskull, where the most terrible secrets of the Universe, secrets that could make and unmake all things, were hidden and guarded, kept away from all lesser creatures... and to what end?

[i]I'm ready with my weapons - who knows whether the Sentinels from beneath Greyskull will view me as hostile? Though only the Sorceress could have saved me, brought me here, placed me within the cyber-womb, I have seen nor heard no sign from her. (Cyber-womb!? Aye! - that strange bed, an artifact of the Ancients! But it was once not functional... See, my memory is slowly returning... Yet what yet remains missing of it?)

Someone had attended to my needs upon being… re-born… the food and drink, my repaired armour. Yet, as I pass through the portals and halls of Greyskull, there is no sense of any inhabitant – yet it must be her!

So what am I afraid of? The answer to my question - why did she save me? A shameful thought passes through my mind - could it be that she loves me? - but I dismiss it. She chose me to raise her daughter and to bring Adam to her due to my skills and integrity and nothing more. No, no, nothing more. Yet, now, she has also given me life... But why else would a woman love a man if not for his strength of character? Though it is also true that I am not a tender man and a woman as sublime and majestic as the Sorceress would surely not seek romance? Again I shake these recurring thoughts from my mind - the thoughts of a young man, hot blooded - this young man that I am now! Must I struggle with the chastity and loneliness she imposed upon me, once again?

Ah! My youth torments me - I do not feel the calm control of age, but the burnings of lust - lust for life! My forefathers' wisdom is proven once more – [i]any blessing can become a curse[/i]. But my lofty thoughts are interrupted - not by a present danger, not even by fear of these hallowed halls, but by the image of another beauty, a dangerous beauty. She comes to my mind unbidden, unwanted; the harsh lines of her face, her strong nose and broad, devouring mouth, those piercing eyes, her lovely yellow skin and long, strong, supple limbs. I try to summon some sense of disgust, but my body denies it. Did not my brief death release me from the humiliating consequences of her love philter? No - I have the same body and it denies the course of my mind; blood rushing, my manliness conquers my spirit of denial. Desire moves me and I ache, ache for the evil witch of Snake Mountain. Evil! I remind myself of her terrible, merciless power - I have and will drive her from my mind once more. Aye, there is conflict in my heart, it hurts me now - the love and disgust, intermingled, painful - but it is still the only way to fight the power of that spell. Ambivalence is written all over my feelings for her - love and hate meet in a turmoil of hissing cloud, as fire and ice do, fogging my mind...Ah! How I have wished for death!

Alas… I am tormented by these powerful women, their pawn. Did I offend some sleeping goddess? Yet I recall that the witch failed to control the effects of that sorcerous drug upon herself. For a moment I wish her dead, but I sigh and then withdraw the wish. Aye, our love affair is over, but the grief and uncertainty and desire is not.

I cannot help but suddenly wonder - Does she still live? For how long have I been re-gestating?

I shake my head. I am [i]Man-At-Arms[/i], warrior lord! - There is no room for these yearnings! If I cannot control these boyish impulses, I should wish myself slain once more! Sick, I am sick to my heart! I am not rid of the burdens of life - but yet forced to live it all over again! And yet, whatever reason I am resurrected haunts me - for what purpose is this!? Life already torments me with its burning desires, here, deep in the terrifying corridors of this indestructible fortress. It reminds me of war-time, when one dreams of women after a day of slaughter... I should offer a prayer of penance to the Green Goddess -

But what is that? A slight sound - and then silence. My flesh is all raised like the haunches of a dog - some threat is close. Let it not be a Sentinel, those strange and prehistoric automatons that some how continue to exist within these crushing walls!

I pause for some time, waiting, watching, but nothing comes of it. I must be too nervous, or else the Castle plays tricks with my mind. I am lost. Greyskull is an oubliette. I do not understand why I am allowed to wander about in this way. Nothing has barred my path, nothing hampers me but my memory, and the burning rush of feelings as my soul keeps creeping through my tingling nerves... I put my hand to my helmet, the exo-cortex, so famous that the Eternos Guard styled their helms after it… I feel incomplete... and I recall that, upon discovering it in my youth, the symbiotic process of adjusting to wearing it took time... Took all my life! Aye, it is a store of such wisdom – too much wisdom! A interior space of demented dimensions...!

And yet, the crushing weight of the Castle continues to bare down upon me - this fortress is the most terrifying place... And yet again, I should be thankful for this new life. Should I call out her name? Surely she is aware of me?

There! Another scraping sound, slight and brief. My back is to the wall and I look for cover as I draw my pistol. The stalker cannot be far. I edge over toward an alcove and press myself into it. In the gloom I cannot make out what shadows moves from the flicker of the torches, and what shadows move with a purpose. Again, nothing comes of it but I wait for longer now, controlling my breathing, primed for sudden attack...

It must be an illusion of this place, keeping me fearful, on edge. I must find a way out! The weight of this place, I feel suffocated, a pressure on my chest, my head!

Oh, I know, I know! This place, it is sacred, it is here that the Secrets that almost brought the Ancients to war with the gods are held... It is here that tyrants throw their armies, their explosives, their sorcery - and so fail! How could anyone [i]bare[/i] to be in this oppressive place for long? It warps the mind, distorts perception - and what a terrible temptation of power!

Another pang of love - I feel sorrow for the Sorceress, trapped within these mountainous walls, with no escape and no end, until… Until what!? I don't recall…

I still my thoughts. I watch and listen as the shadows wave about me, like seaweed within an ocean lit by the twilight. Waiting.

I've waited along time now and if I am prey, it is to a creature more silent and black than the darkness itself. Carefully I move on, but as I go I begin to hurry, resisting the urge to run. Endless halls, tunnels, passageways - surely I was not brought to life, only to be lost down here? Gods! It is harder and harder to draw breath... I am a maggot pressed under a boot... I feel small, insignificant - ignorant! I have felt death before and now I sense it clawing at my throat again, squeezing my heart - Finally, my nerve gives in and I hear my voice cry out:[/i]

"Sorceress!"

[i]Instantly I hear her voice in my oppressed mind -[/i]

Behind you!

[i]I turn and pull the trigger, hitting my attacker point blank in the face. The body flips back from the blast, lands heavily, several long, thin limbs twitching spasmodically, smoke rising from the burnt-off flesh of its face. The stink of laser-scorched skin is sickening, I step closer, still ready, but the creature looks finished - I see bone where the face used to be. Ah! I see who it is now! And I can only wonder how Webstor managed to enter this place!

I spit upon the corpse and hurry away at random. If Webstor is herein, Skeletor must be close - and where is He-Man?[/i] "Sorceress!" [i]I whisper, hoping that she will hear me again. But this time, my reply is the melting away of darkness into light. Before me, at the end of the vaulted hall, a door begins to open and I rush to it, ready to do battle.[/i]

Webstor gargles in pain, his shaking hands reach up to his face, exploring the tattered muscle and smooth, bloody bone. Slowly he rises. [i]Somehow, I live![/i] Carefully he shuffles forwards, his eyeless eyes still seeing. [i]This is my new unlife? Ah! And now I understand...[/i]

In the darkness of the Castle of Secrets, Webstor follows the light at the end of the hall...

Man-At-Arms rushes through the lighted portal before him, feeling the crushing weight of the mace in his grasp, the smooth and elegant metal of the pistol, and the rush of pride – this mace has always been a symbol of authority amongst his tribe, while his pistol must be over 4,000 years old, at least. He must prevail – the stakes are so high – his body rushes with blood and adrenalin, hard and ready for mortal combat.

Inside, he finds himself within the hallowed Throne Room of the Sorceress – and yet, despite the great, burning candelabra, there is no-one seated upon her splendid Throne. The emptiness sends a shudder through him – it is a sign of danger, of vulnerability, and confirms his fears – Skeletor is herein! Yet there is some relief – he has not yet taken the Throne. Perhaps the struggle is not yet over?

Surrounding the smashed stair-case leading up to the Throne are piles of rubble, pieces of statues, rolls of cracked and shattered columns, great holes in the floor and rents in the walls. All entrances to this cavernous room are blocked with debris – all except the partially collapsed door-way through which he entered – and along with this, an overpowering stink of burning.

Man-At-Arms pauses – in this room he feels that he should sheath his weapons as an act of submission and respect for the Sorceress – but who knows what has become of her?

[i]What is this fear? Is it of the Sorceress, or of Skeletor? Or… or is it fear of my dark desire – a desire that threatens to break my oath to her, an oath more binding than marriage?[/i]

From the shadows she watches him enter. He moves with the ease of a youth – it is impossible to miss his vitality. He no longer bares the wise marks of a mature man – the furrowed brow, lined cheeks, and full, bristling moutache. Now he appears to her as he did many years ago – years that have little meaning now. The clock seems turned back, and the impassable obstacles of the past are now removed!

He has not seen her – cannot see her – and so she watches his strong body between the plates of his armour, a body she longs to hold and caress. Yes – she cannot deny it, can never deny it. Love such as this is burnt into the soul and only the dark flood of death [i]might[/i] quench it. He is everything a man [i]should[/i] be – a being she once thought impossible.

She can no longer resist – her aching body calls out to him as her sinews stretch, her nerves tingle, and the gentle, irresistable rush of lust claims her limbs, pushing them into movement, as strong and undeniable as gravity.

"Duncan."

The low, feminine voice runs him through, a murderous blade sunk with an assassin's touch into his heart. Of course she is here – this Castle has always been her ultimate aim. He turns to see the lithe figure step out from unnatural shadow, into the burning light.

"Lyn…"

She smiles back at him, glinting teeth softened by full lips – what temptation! "Aye my love – "

"No!" Duncan's shoulders hunch as he lowers his voice, as if afraid of being over-heard. "You must leave! You will be destroyed!"

She laughs as she edges towards him, her movements seductive, almost playful. "That is no longer possible."

"Back witch!" Up comes his laser pistol, pointing at her withered heart.

She feigns hurt. "It is so hard for you, isn't it? But I know you would never kill me. You proved it, when you saved me."

"It was my duty – I owed you my own life."

"No. We foiled the deaths hanging over each other not for duty, but for love." She is closer now, her hips swaying with every step, her calves hard and strong as she moves.

"And you feel no disgust for me?"

"Of course. But it does not matter." Her breast is heaving as if she is breathless.

He lowers his gun, no longer able to threaten the black heart of the woman he is doomed and spell-bound to love - and hate. "You cannot change me, as you wish to."

"Perhaps not – but you have already changed, it seems. And so have I. Do you still hate me so?" Her question is mocking, for his weapons are now stowed and she sees the longing in his eyes.

"What has happened!? What is it that you know!?" Duncan cannot summon the hate that keeps her away. It is his only defence, but it has been so long…

Evil-Lyn laughs. "Knowledge comes with a price. And my price is but a kiss. A mere brushing of flesh…"

"You are a fool! A harlot! We are [i]here[/i] in Castle Greyskull!" Again the look of fear as he searches for the Sorceress, as his eyes race across the rubble strewn room, wondering what titanic battle took place here. There are no laser burns or bullet holes, but plenty of cuts in the stone of the kind only He-Man could make, and reeking black evidence of a great fire. But what he is witness to does not tell him enough, and so what he needs to know must come from the witch of Snake Mountain.

Yet, even talking to Lyn feels like a betrayal while at the same time his heart leaps with a joy he cannot suppress upon seeing her wickedly carved face.

She smiles mockingly, but also with genuine happiness at the sight before her – Duncan lives! And despite his refusal of her help in curing his sickness – on offer even He-Man urged him to take! And despite his wandering into the wilderness to die honourably! Somehow he lives! It is obvious to her that Duncan himself does not understand, and that his youth must be as a result of the resurrection he has somehow undergone. Castle Greyskull contains many secrets, and her evil heart soars skyward to discover this secret!

Duncan stares back at his smiling beloved. He tries to summon the memory of her real face, a face so withered with age and hatred that it appears deformed, twisted, gauged. But as he tries, the love in her eyes burns through the thin veil of his memory. Again there is nothing – as there will forever be nothing! – that he sees before him that can break the love he feels in return. And yet, he must deny this feeling – a denial he has had much time to practice throughout his chaste life.

Her broad smile is an invitation to clasp hold of her supple body, to press his lips hard against hers, to run his strong hands under her clothing and tear them away to take hold of the yielding body beneath. But he steps back from her, his heart aching with pain.

"No woman…" he tries to explain himself, but his voice chokes.

Evil-Lyn's smile vanishes. "Few men refuse me, but you have done so time and again." Then the smile returns, but just a little. "Yet I know you are bound to me with love as strong as death – "

"I have proven death none too strong – "

"And your love outlasted it with you!" she cries victoriously. "This is a place of denial, but only [i]beyond[/i] these walls! Herein, you can have anything you please! Everything is inside… You can have me, for I love you – I would do anything for you." Her tone turns to beseeching, the faltering step taken towards him is like a flinch of pain.

Duncan lets out a sigh. "Then do this – leave me be."

"Anything but that. Our love is stronger than your will Duncan!"

She is smiling, vicious, lusting, while he aches with misery.

iThis is how it is for us/i he sighs iFor her I am something to be conquered, yet another battle, another imposition of her desire. Aye, I know my refusal pains her, and yet she is so confident of finally winning. And I almost believe that too. But here I am, I must suffer the turning away of temptation, of a love created with the power of magic and driven into our souls, bringing us together with a purity and force beyond normal loving./i There is nothing he can say or do to ruin that feeling – and he has tried many more times before this.

Duncan looks away from her face, her eyes alight with passion and fury. He cannot answer, cannot keep up this painful game. "What has happened here!?" he suddenly roars. "Where is Skeletor!? [i]Where is He-Man!?[/i]"

[i]I, too, have stolen from Greyskull.[/i]

Webstor has reached the inner chambers of Snake Mountain - from there he cowed the remainder of Skeletor's forces, a small armed-force held back to defend this territory. But they were no match for the creature he has become. Now he stands before a small window that stares out from the fortress across the mountainous landscape. The creatures of the Dark Lands would all soon learn to bow to their new master.

[i]I am freed, as I wished.[/i] The vampire no longer felt the terrible thirst for blood nor the draw of his webbed lair. The pale daytime beyond the ash clogged clouds above did not weaken him. He turned from the window and moved towards the libraries and laboratories where he could work on the many traps and guards that presently prevented his plunder of Skeletor's knowledge and weaponry.

As he entered the first of these chambers, he was immediately met with a mirror. It was strange to see such a device set within a place that devoted little space to ordinary human needs. Perhaps the mirror had a magic purpose. He drew close to it and stared at his reflection.

His deformed, man-spider head had gaping holes where his six eyes had been. The knobbled crest upon his head ran clearly down the middle of his fleshless skull. His jaws were empty, his nose gone, dead skin clung in green folds around his neck. But it was no surprise - Webstor knew he had become a Liche.

Auraboras! The great, twisting snake, it's long tail stream light and flashes of psychic energy as it coils around the throne… coloured scales shimmering prismatic beams, a mouth deadly with venomous fangs... Her body is so long, it winds around and around the seat of power and trails down the flight of steps. Lidless eyes afix the two before her, with a hypnotic stare - all the more compelling in its human shape and colour – Teela's eyes.

"Mighty Auboras!" Evil-Lyn cries, and drops to one knee, head bowed, so used is she to slavery – to flattering the egos of powerful daemons, of expressing her will to submission – despite her burning desire to dominate.

But Man-At-Arms does not bow, he does not kneel – he only stares at this great snake… "Auraboras?"

And the great snake stares back at him.

"Teela…" he whispers, and that is enough.

[i]Yes[/i] the creature before him stirs, coils sliding like sandpaper across the smooth stone, the cracked steps. The voice of Auraboras appears as a sudden thought in his mind. [i]We are each reborn[/i]

Duncan squints before the blazing form, but a burning response leaps from his lips. "And who else has died!?"

[i]Your enemy and your friend. The two destroyed each other, here in this room.[/i]

Duncan staggers back a step, as if struck – "He-Man - is dead?"

[i]No, only gone. He-Man is still here, within Castle Greyskull.[/i]

"So, then, it is Adam who has died." Guilt is more powerful than grief in Duncan's wretched heart. But did he not do all that he could? Never did he waver in his duty. He fulfilled every oath. But doubt gnaws at him, a worm hidden deep in the core of his heart.

Evil-Lyn looks to her love as he speaks. "Be proud now! I look to him for my inspiration."

"What!?" Anger quickens his amazement. "You – [i]you[/i] look to the Prince of Peace? You who have slain countless men – and women and babes! You who have brought plagues, daemons, and all manner of disasters and miseries. You who have tortured, who has made heinous promises to evil powers upon altars reeking of sacrifice! – and been true only to them!"

"Aye, I have done all of those things and more. I, Lyn! – who stands before you now as a Defender of Greyskull, Weilder of the Sword of Fortitude!" She draws Skeletor's blade. "What was stolen, is now taken back. What was given, is now returned."

"What!? And what of the Sword of Power?" He turns back to Auraboras.

[i]No-one holds it. It is a rare soul who can, one who is able to make war with a heart of peace. That time is passed, for in this coming time, there will be only war.[/i]

"But why do I now live? What purpose is there for me now? Adam…. And your own great destiny…. It is fulfilled – "

Lyn answers him: "And yet Castle Greyskull remains – always remains. I understand now…" Yet her voice trails off, unwilling to continue.

Duncan looks from Auraboras to Evil-Lyn, his own understanding furrowing his face with frowns and denial. "You want me to help you defend these sacred walls, Evil-Lyn?"

[i]Help us. I am here now, in Greyskull itself, in my weakest form. I need time to gather my powers, having already spent so much. Even now the enemy lurks within. Your attack did not rid us of Webstor, who is now transformed into a creature of great power.[/i]

"Then where is he!?"

[i]He has fled as we speak. Let him be, his intentions now are only to escape. He too, is enervated by his ordeal here, despite his greater potential, despite what he has stolen.[/i]

"Then I swear he is my enemy." Lyn hisses and looks to Duncan, for confirmation.

But Duncan ignores her. "[i]My[/i] oaths are fulfilled. But the end result is not what I had wished!"

[i]Your wishes are irrelevant. Your new life was not my decision, but the one before me. A spark of the Pheonix flame was the final component to your resurrection.[/i]

"But I thought there would be an end to all of this! Where is justice? Peace? Where is mercy?"

Evil-Lyn smiles with a cynical curve of her lips, like a scythe.

[i]Your perceptions are limited. There is a great misery abroad. Eternos has fallen, the Tribal Alliance, broken. Look to your fellow men and women for justice, to death for peace, and inward for mercy. The true balance of things lies here, within Castle Greyskull. But this is not a place for your wishes and dreams, only of the greatest Secrets.[/i]

"Then I am misled."

[i]No, you listened to and you believed in Adam and fought beside him as an avatar of He-Man. But He-Man is not Castle Greyskull – this place is much greater than any ideal and cannot be swayed by any promise or dream, even those of its Defenders.[/i]

Duncan growls, caught under a sense of defeat heavier than any lost battle. "Then my life has been wasted!"

[i]No, you have accomplished what was required.[/i]

"And now!?" He stares up at her, from amidst the burnt and shattered ruins of the Throne Room.

[i]I do not know why she brought you back. I see no purpose in it.[/i]

"You do not speak as my daughter did."

[i]I was never your daughter, in truth.[/i]

"In your heart, you are a simple warrior, Duncan – despite the complexity of your mind. Listen - !" Lyn throws out her arm to him, grasping.

But Duncan is already leaving.

"Duncan!" Lyn moves to catch him, but Auraboras, the Serpent form of the Sorceress, lets out a hiss.

[i]Let him be! Any Defender must be willing. For now, he is an intruder![/i]

The old women, hidden by her youthful skin, stares at the back of her true love as he walks away. The chains that bound her are now stronger than ever.

12

Duncan looks back at the massive, dark walls of the dense Castle behind him, the death's-head façade gazing out towards the light of the setting Sun as it bleeds away behind the staunching fabric of cloud.

This great and ancient stronghold is the reason why he fought so long and hard, but the Castle does not guard the ideals Adam espoused – and never did. No, its mysteries are much greater than him, greater than He-Man, beyond the understanding of mere men, leaving Duncan lost, betrayed, and bitter. He turns away from this alien place, inhuman and uncaring, a brute prison of secrets…

He doubts again that such a place could exist to be solely in the service of humanity – Teela, the Sorceress, hinted at that… And Skeletor too.

How could he spend a second life in the defense of this monstrous domain, fighting alongside the Witch of Snake Mountain? It would be a grave dishonour – and for what? Not for justice or valour, not for peace and honour, but for Secrets forever with-held.

But then, how can he let the woman he loves – who perhaps now he [i]can[/i] love - fight such a dangerous battle alone?

And now, he can no longer hold back the questions he strove never to think – what Secrets are protected by Greyskull? Clearly, secrets that can bring a man to life. So, then, where is the body of Adam? If there is any debt he still owes, it is to that great man, who should be King!

But his grief is not so simple, for he grieves for the living, as well as the dead. His daughter has become transformed, strange, and as unapproachable as the old Sorceress. What a wicked existence this is!

Man-At-Arms drags himself on, but he does not know his destination. Perhaps he should look for his countrymen, for refugees, for Guardsmen...

On the dusty road before him he sees a black tree, torn into two halves by a lightning bolt.

He too is split in two, torn between his old life and loves and his new life of pain and dejection. Looking out over the plains below the hills he descends, he thinks he sees the ruins of Eternos in the twilight. What more terrible news is there to discover?

Perhaps he is in fact in Hell.

How he wishes he had been left in peace... And there, behind the broken tree, he sees a dirty, travel-worn boot...

13

The incursions into Greyskull and the failures of Adam had proven the need for a revival, for a new vision. But there was much to learn - rebirth was as much discontinuity as it was continuity. Time still flowed here, where the Sorceress must make her abode, as it did outside, and so the new enemy required a counter, a new champion - a matter that could not be delayed. Now, with this defence partly in place, there could be opportunity for some recuperation and research.

The Sorceress spent some time scrying for the friends He-Man had made, wondering if they could be rallied around the cause of Greyskull again, wondering whether any were worthy to champion Greyskull alongside "Eva-Lyn". Upon the surface of the great, moiré patterned Looking-Glass standing in her Throne Room, she observed familiar faces, all now changed from the time she knew them as she pushed her second-sight forward into the future, to ascertain the most likely possibilities...

[i]Stratos looked back over his shoulder to the great mountain-top city of Avion, high up on the freezing peak. There civil-war raged again, but he was an exile. His hairy body was almost naked before the harsh elements, but he did not feel winter's chill as it blew the snow up into his face. His beard was shorn in disgrace, his feather-bands stripped and his flight-pack confiscated.

He was three times a failure: A young warrior, Tropos, had saved him from the vampire Webstor. He had been caught in a simple trap and then humiliated by Tropos' own courage. It would have been better to have died in the fight where his afterlife would have been glorious. But he had not died. His second failing was the fear that he now instilled in his people, who knew that the vampire had taken his blood. For this they called him "Fellwing" and considered him cursed, perhaps even one of the undead. This, coupled with his third failing - the loss of the Great Hawk's feather and his absence of successful leadership when Eternos fell, had robbed the Avionians of their confidence in him. Such a loss was a bad omen to a superstitious people. The alliance he had forged with Randor was over, nothing he had done and nothing more he said could be trusted.

He donned a simple helmet and gripped his quarterstaff, his face grim and hard as he set off alone - aimless and bitter...[/i]

The second-sight of the Sorceress moved on, beyond Avion City towards an obsidian cave deep in the Dark Lands.

[i]The massive baulk of a powerfully built man could be seen through a heat-wave clouded with smoke. His shoulders were hunched forward, his enlarged, horribly deformed head bowed, deep in thought. Red eyes flashed, reflecting the flames around him, but he did not seem discomforted by the intense heat or poisonous, acidic air choked with soot. Long shreds of metal hung limply and useless at various lengths and intervals from the sides of his head, as it could be glimpsed through the smoke. A shortened and battered tentacular device hung, twisted and dented, from the middle of his face, twisting and turning like a dismembered worm. Torn metal cut deep lines and hollows upon the armoured, faceless-face of this top-heavy cybernetic visage.

He was a monstrous sight. The whole form of this elephant-man - the tension upon his giant body, the unblinking stare of his inhuman eyes, the hellish flames licking at his ash-blackened armour - created a cloud of grave danger and ponderous planning around the figure; a planning that was hell-bent and brimming-over with a violent hunger for a bloody vengeance...[/i]

Her vision left the Dark Lands behind for the plains of Eternos…

[i]...The warmachine rumbles on, the preparations for killing never ends. Udin may sleep, but the wars continue; souls torn from their rightful bodies, cities smashed back into the rock, promises betrayed. The new lord of ruins, of enslaved tribes, sits upon Randor's throne, a beaten whore by his side in mockery of Queenship. This lord's heavily scarred body bares witness to the tortures he once suffered at the hands of Horde vampires, feeding from his pain. They reduced him, tore away his legs, his jaw - but now he stands triumphant and no longer a slave to Skeletor - now once more a captain, a King!

Trap-Jaw's mouth opens like a grate over Hell as he laughs at the condemned, the rebels caught and brought before him - and points his laser to blast them into Hades. He is more powerful than ever, free to exercise his murderous whim. His warriors are re-armed, refreshed by their plunders and violations. Trap-Jaw does not sit upon the throne for long - new battles are ready to commence upon this beleaguered world... His armies now march…[/i]

Another image bled through the Glass' golden surface:

[i]He was wounded in multiple places, and not yet being able to tell if he would die of thirst or infection. Clamp Champ pauses again, puts down a heavy bag, and moves to tend to a make-shift bandage upon his thigh, wincing as he tightens it once more. Overhead, the bluish Sun sends waves of heat down from the purple sky and the whole desert around him wavers with mirage. Where else can he go now but back to his arid homeland? There was a safe place there, a place he knows that he might hide and keep safe the valuable burden he bares upon his bruised back.

Sweat cuts clear-lines through the dirt and dried blood upon his a face, all knotted with tension and pain. Clamp hobbles as he bends towards the bag, but upon lifting it, some of the contents spill out. The warrior lets out a grunt of frustration and slowly stoops to pick up the tomes that have fallen open upon the sand. Slowly, painfully, he gathers them up again, his face set with stoic determination. The Prince's message must live on!

Clamp turns once more to face his distant destination and seems to wonder if the sand will claim him and his precious cargo first.[/i]

The vision sweeps onward towards the brutal icy lands north of Eternos…

[i]A new face, young and bold, but set like a mask hiding torment. His strong arms hold aloft a bloodied visor of green. Inlaid upon the visor are 3 eyes, moving with strange life, but dulled and glassy in the housing of their metal sockets. Each eye blinks, cold and wet, staring blindly outward as the youth shouts before a crowd of hulking barbarians, clothed in their green tribal colours, collective voices rumbling with impatience, disbelief, consternation:

"Look at me! I stand before you triumphant, the blood of enemies still upon my hands! Aye, shame has befallen my family name, and this blood is still not enough to wash it clean! My father – your King! – an oath-breaker! My father – your King! - lies dead on the warplain. His body – robbed and left to the diseased dogs!"

The crowd murmurs, a few angry shouts, calls for revenge.

"I am the avenger! See! I have sought and slain those desecraters, buried the bones, and taken back what is [/i]my[i] right! See! I hold the symbol of his power – now my power! See! I am ready, I am the one, to bring honour back to our tribe, to right the wrong of having obeyed and cowered before the fell Skeletor! Are you ready to follow me?"

There is tension in the crowd, the youth is an upstart, not fully trusted, older men still have loyalties to the old alliance with Skeletor, they are not prepared to be swayed by this display. The young man plays a dangerous game.

And yet, this son of Tri-Klops, takes up a ceremonial dagger before them all, holds it to his face barely covered in a beard, and carves out his eyes, his teeth clenching back his cries as the living orbs burst and let run their fluids. The Tri-Visor is lifted and placed like a crown upon his sweating and bloodied head. The mechanism, under its own Ancient intelligence, fits upon the bloodied sockets, seeks the optic nerves, and the three eyes see again once more, focusing on the watchful faces… the vast grey skies surrounded by icy mountains… the future before them…

"Does any dare doubt or defy me now..!?" the young man shrieks. The red eye upon his head turns with a whirr to glare at the crowd, blazing…. "Onward to conquest!" and his cry is met with a great roar…[/i]

And now the Glass appeared to ripple, as if under some great tension, a multitude of vague and conflicting images spilled over and down the surface, mixing and blending, reflecting the confusion in the mind of its subject, the great uncertainty of his future.

[i]He[/i] is at a cross-roads in his mind; and so for the Sorceress, the future is most difficult to see….:

[i]…He turns his helmeted head, his face vigorous with youth and hardened with determination. At war again, Man-At-Arms fights at the right hand of Randor, no more a King, but a pretender to Trap-Jaw's crown. This time, they face the Walls of Eternos themselves, various tribes unified behind the miraculously revived General Duncan, insect people buzzing over-head, a newly discovered and re-outfitted weapon of war spraying its deadly missiles over the Walls.

Yet victory is not foretold, only the endless shedding of blood, the race between greater and greater killing machines, the old cycle of barbarian wars of vengeance and prestige… while in the distance, Greyskull stands in obscurity, as if forgotten, abandoned for the pursuit of worldly power and vengeance… Blood runs down the Walls, through the streets, the gutters, soaked up by a vast graveyard called Eternia with no clear end, no upper-hand gained, only the deadlock of equally matched and equally stubborn forces…

…The same young face looks up, this time to a long and yellow feminine hand, outstretched and waiting (hiding claws). He moves toward it, a strange smile upon his face (an ache in his heart). His armour is blackened with paint and adorned with ancient sigils of power that hang from beaded chains (naming daemons, praising gods).

He ascends the steps of [b]Point Dread[/b] towards Eva-Lyn, who stands astride the mystic structure before an altar in flames. This hallowed place is the only mobile part of Castle Greyskull, the fortification that supports the Defender who rides the vehicular gift of the Sorceress – an outpost to transport the fight where-ever it may be. Here - behind Eva-Lyn stands a flying machine, but it is not the Talon Fighter (now burned at the Point's altar). Instead it has the appearance of a winged missile, its head shaped like a serpent (its belly filled with destruction).

Atop the transporting Point, he speaks a promise to keep, and thinks of the old allies who might join in the defence of Greyskull (of Secrets). But who would fight alongside this feared and hated woman, regardless of the pressing need..?

…He is alone in the third vision, in some dark place, shrouded in secrecy. The vision blurs, as if momentarily interrupted. Upon a surgical table before him lies a withered body surrounded by ice. He applies his instruments, his occult medicines, attaches weird devices. Duncan's face is corpse-like itself, all sunken and haunted with atrocious memories - what has he done to bring himself to this?

In his mind, the Jawbridge hangs open, the Secrets therein defiled. His design began with an honorable impulse, only to be perverted by the price of its execution. And yet, he owes this dead man, and seeks to lead him to the truth they sought. Eternia needs Adam, and he knows the means to bring him back, to take the Throne, to take the Sword…

Behind him, hangs a silky web…[/i]

The Sorceress concentrates once more, this time on a name she could not deny. Has Manefred survived? Has their love?

No, now is not the right time for this. Her old life is an open wound, close to her and still bleeding. She should resist the temptation to acknowledge it and treat Man-E as she would any other potential Defender. Aye, there would be more opportunity to look towards her old friends and with a stronger head - but first there was something more important that she had to understand.

The Sorceress reaches the caryatids. She looks upon them, one by one. Then, beyond Zoar-Sorceress, beside her own snake-like image, she sees a final, empty pedestal. [i]So the future has been secured,[/i] she muses [i]and does that not mean He-Man must one day return?[/i]

She slides down the walls, through the floors via secret conduits and tunnels, her long, limbless body slithering in the darkness. She reaches the Armoury where the smashed Sword of Power lies, denying manifestation to the great daimon Defender, the spirit of heroes, He-Man.

[i]What has drawn me here?[/i]

For a moment she looks about herself, confused. No pure heart with peaceful and noble soul had yet been found in her divinations - there is yet no replacement for Adam. For now, she – and the rest of Eternia - can only wait.

Much later, the Sorceress pauses in her reading of a great and rare tome. Her mind is fatigued with absorbing so much new wisdom. For a moment she wishes for rest, but knows that such a wish could never be granted. It is almost night-fall, but sleep will now never come to her lidless eyes, only occasional, recuperative stillness.

Is she feeling lonely already?

She raises her head and turns to the narrow window through which the dying light filters from beyond. Though the Season of Storms has begun, there is only a light, drizzling rain across the land, which seems to magnify the sense of stillness outside.

Beyond the barren rock-land that surrounds the Abyss of Greyskull, are collections of old, twisted trees that lead down the hills and on to the plains. The air is misty with rain and she cannot see very far - yet, for a moment she thinks she has seen the shadow of a man beside one of the old trees.

But when she looks again, he is gone.

FIN