21st Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Underneath Drachen Keep, The Aerie, The Pomarj

We never had a chance.

The thought invaded Elrohir's mind, pushing out all others as the party leader closed his eyes in grief.

They knew we were coming. I don't know how, but they did. Sure our chances of success were always slim- but this? Defeated before we even reached our quarry? What have I done? To my wife, to my friends? I even let Aslan bring back people here who had no personal stake in this mission. I've doomed us all. I- I've failed my father.

"Errohir-sama."

The ranger opened his eyes. Tojo was gazing benignly at his friend with that same blank expression he used so often.

"Samurai do not surrender, Errorhir-sama."

This was a distraction he didn't need. Elrohir tried to fight the exhaustion that was settling over his body like a shroud.

"I know, Tojo," he replied wearily. "I know."

And then, unbelievably- Yanigasawa Tojo smiled.

"I speak of you, Errohir-sama."

Elrohir just stared at him. Stared into those violet orbs.

And suddenly he understood, and the enormity of it hit him.

The suffix Tojo was using.

Before he even realized it, Elrohir had bowed as low as his plate mail would allow.

"Thank you, Tojo-sama, but I do not deserve that honor."

Tojo raised an eyebrow.

"I not stand with you if that be case, Errohir-sama."

He then turned to the others.

"I would not stand with any of you."

Tojo spoke nothing else but ended with his gaze locked squarely on Nesco Cynewine's face.

After a few moments, Aslan spoke up.

"Don't worry, Tojo. We have no plans to surrender."

Despite his squeaky voice, no one laughed or even smiled at the pixie this time. The faint buzz of the sprite's wings, like a hummingbird, was the only sound until the paladin turned his gaze to the members of Dorbin and Wainold's men.

"Am I correct in thinking I speak for all of us?"

Five humans and one half-human regarded each other, then turned their faces upwards and nodded soberly.

"It's as much logic as courage," Talass put in, as much to bolster their morale as anything else. "The Slave Lords have no reason to let us live. Surrendering might delay our deaths for a few days, but eventually we'd wind up swinging on some gallows or sacrificed to that obscene god of theirs," the cleric finished with a scowl.

"I've got an idea," Cygnus said. "If we-"

Ajakstu's glamoured voice abruptly sounded again.

"This is directed to Aslan. If you are currently in any form other than your true one, return to it immediately. Otherwise, your surrender will not be accepted."

The silence returned. The others looked up at Aslan, wondering if he would comply and stepping back a few paces to make room for him if he did.

But the person's voice that broke the quiet was that of Argo Bigfellow Junior.

"They can't see us!"

Elrohir frowned at his fellow ranger. "What?"

"Whatever scrying powers this Ajakstu might have, he's not using them right now!" Argo continued excitedly. "Don't you see? He said If you are currently in another form!"

"That's right!" Nesco exclaimed. "He wouldn't have said that if he could see us right now- he would have said Aslan, return to your true form now or something like that."

Cygnus frowned at the big ranger. "Yes, but how do you know he can't hear us?"

Argo smiled at the mage. "You've already answered that question for us, Cygnus. You were about to unveil your latest master plan for us- and Mr. Wizard interrupted you. As evil as The Nine are, they're not stupid. If you were this Ajakstu and could hear us, wouldn't you wait to find out what tactics your enemies might be discussing before making your pronouncements?"

Cygnus considered. "Can't find fault with that."

"Forgive me not leaping with joy," Sir Menn's face showed the skepticism of his voice, "but how exactly can these facts aid us? From what you've told me, if we charge through this door with weapons raised, they'll obliterate us in an instant."

"And if we delay here any longer, they'll just come and annihilate us anyway," added Thorimund gloomily.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense then, Scarecrow!" said Zantac. "What's the plan?"

Cygnus caught Bigfellow's eye. The ranger gave him his pained smile.

"This is one of those one percent plans, isn't it, Cygnus?" Argo asked.

Cygnus' return smile was just as pained. "Probably half that at best. Still, as I always told Thorin- you work with what you've got."

"And what do we have?' asked Unru.

Cygnus turned to eye the illusionist, and his smile relaxed just a bit.

"Triangle illusion."

Unru stared at the tall mage for a moment, and then his cocky grin split that tanned face.

"Not bad, Cygnus, not bad. You'd have made a fair illusionist."

Cygnus shook his head but returned the grin in full. "Thanks, but I like to have as many options available to me as possible."

"What in the Nine Hells are you people talking about?" Arwald asked.

It was Zantac who answered. "Disguising members of our party as each other- three in this case. I'm sure the Slave Lords have information on at least some of our capabilities. If they're going to tailor their attacks to that- and I certainly would- this may throw them off balance for a few seconds."

"And at this point," Nesco added grimly, "every additional second might-"

Ajakstu broke in again.

"Your time is running out, Furyondans. Come forth in one minute, or our offer is withdrawn. Be assured that in that case, we will show no quarter."

"Let's see if I can give us a few more of those precious seconds," muttered Elrohir.

The ranger then raised his voice to a shout.

"This is Elrohir, leader of the Furyondans! If you are as knowledgeable of us as you think you are, then you know we will not be easy prey! We have triumphed in the past over enemies greater than you- including a lich!"

He took a deep breath and continued.

"We seek parley with you, to discuss a means of avoiding a battle that may well spell doom for both sides!"

There was no immediate reply.

Unru looked up at the paladin hovering overhead.

"Aslan," the illusionist hissed, "polymorph into me! Zantac, use the hat to turn into Aslan, and I'll glamour myself to appear as you!"

Several seconds later, it was done.

Cygnus turned to the others. "Anyone with spells or prayers, shine yourselves up now- you won't get another chance!"

"Nothing visible, though," Talass cut in.

Eyes turned towards the priestess. "They may interpret any obvious defensive spells as a sign we intend to attack," she explained.

As this was being done, Ajakstu's voice returned.

"Your offer of parley is accepted but be forewarned; your surrender is non-negotiable. Your time is up- come forth now!"

"We're coming!" responded Elrohir as his hand tightened on the doorknob. As he was about to push inwards, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Talass was smiling at him.

"We do seem to enjoy being in these situations, don't we, dearest?"

He smiled back at his wife. It hadn't merely been an affectionate gesture.

The ranger and all around him felt the comfortable feeling of the cleric's bless prayer settle over them.

"The Valkyries await," Elrohir replied. "Who wants to live forever, anyway?"

"Um- I wouldn't mind," came Unru's voice out of Zantac's body.

Zantac-as-Aslan pointed at him. "Hey, don't disgrace that body you're copying."

"Yeah? Well, don't let looking like a stiff-ass turn you into one!"

"And exactly who are you calling a stiff-ass?" queried Aslan-as-Unru.

Elrohir rolled his eyes.

"My friends," he muttered and pushed the door open.

The first thing he noticed was the brilliant blue sky.

Elrohir blinked twice, trying to reconcile his mind with what his eyes were telling him.

Then he realized what it was. All four walls of this square room, from floor to ceiling, were painted in a mural; a panoramic view looking down at Suderham and Drachen Keep from what the ranger supposed was the summit of Mount Flamenblut.

It was not a static tableau, either. As Elrohir slowly stepped forward, he saw painted eagles soaring against painted, puffy clouds slowly moving along the walls.

The temperature in here was comfortable as well; a contrast to the dank of chill of the catacombs they had just passed through. The ranger was even sure he could feel a light, intermittent breeze against his face.

The floor and the ceiling, about thirty feet overhead, seemed more conventional; made from grey stone. A large, freestanding spiral staircase located by the near right corner wound its way towards the ceiling.

A Slave Lord lieutenant, clad in chainmail, was climbing the staircase. Without even glancing at the fourteen visitors, he reached the top and tapped the ceiling. A panel in the ceiling slid aside and the guard vanished out of sight, the panel closing behind him.

"Spread out a little, everyone," came Aslan's voice near him, speaking as softly as he dared. "Don't let them take us all out with one well-placed spell."

The others obeyed, although Elrohir was surprised to hear such a piece of tactical advice coming from the paladin as opposed to-

Oh, that's right, Elrohir remembered. That's actually Zantac. By the Aesir, I hope the Slave Lords will be half as confused by this as I am.

The party leader knew they were there, but some part of him- perhaps the tactical fighter, perhaps apprehension, perhaps something else- tried to take in all the aspects of this room before returning his gaze forward.

Elrohir looked upon the faces of the men who just possibly might be the murderers of them all.

What had begun on a cold evening five months ago when Sir Hallien of Chendl walked through the door of the Brass Dragon was going to end right here.

This was the group behind all the pain and suffering they had endured- and the broken lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of people carried off into slavery.

The nine lords in shadow, pulling the strings behind Blucholtz and his operation in Highport; behind the twisted Markessa and her wretched creations.

The true rulers of Suderham.

The Slave Lords.

The first thing the ranger noticed was that there were only five of them.

A half-moon platform about one foot high rested on the floor. It was very large, almost sixty feet long along its straight edge, leaving only a five-foot gap on either side to the chamber walls. Elrohir, Aslan-as-Unru, Argo, Cygnus, Zantac-as-Aslan and Unru-as-Zantac had advanced to within five feet of the platform before halting. The other eight members of their party stood scattered behind them, Hengist placing himself squarely in the doorway that they had entered from.

Nine chairs rested on the platform, arranged facing the party in a semi-circle. They were luxurious affairs, open-backed and made of fine wood with gold gilt and soft cushions.

On the first chair sat who could only be Mordrammo.

The High Priest of the Earth Dragon looked as if he might just have stepped out of the mosaic of Olarek's court they had seen in the tunnels approaching Wimpell Frump's hall of pillars. He wore the same brown robes as the figure Tojo had called a shugenja, with the gem-encrusted design of a coiled and wingless dragon upon them. The robes were open in front and cinched with a black leather belt. Beneath them could be seen the glint of chainmail armor.

Mordrammo wore a helm fashioned from the bronzed skull of a young dragon- Elrohir wasn't sure what kind, only that it was neither from a blue or brass- which had its jaws propped opened wide. This kept most of his face in shadow, although the ranger could faintly make out the light brown face of a man with a long, thin moustache. Dark-colored eyes studied Elrohir as keenly as he was being studied himself.

Resting against Mordrammo's chair was a pick, but it wasn't a mining implement. The ranger could see the reinforced tip and thicker grip. This was a weapon, not a tool.

To Mordrammo's left, on the third chair sat an arcanist.

Unlike his fellow Slave Lord, a small table was positioned in front of this man's chair, blocking some of the view, but Elrohir could still see the man was wearing light green robes. They were of a more current style than Cygnus'- wider below the waist and tighter on top- tight enough to reveal the hint of chest and abdominal muscles. Whoever this was, he was not the stereotypical weakling wizard.

The man's sleeves were cut very short but very wide, with white trim. He somewhat resembled Karzalin the Master Elementalist with his long beard, pointed hat and piercing gaze. In his right hand, the man grasped a six-foot staff carved from a yew branch.

Elrohir instinctively looked over to Cygnus to catch his reaction.

It wasn't good. Cygnus could tell at a glance that the staff this man wielded was no quarterstaff- it was some kind of magical weapon.

And it was enough to make him worried.

On the table in front of this man were a variety of objects- in fact, some seemed perilously close to falling off of it. A crystal sphere, currently dim, was the most enticing object to any arcanist, but there were odds and ends piled all around it. Bits of torn or burnt clothing, a few fragmants of armor, some-

Cygnus stiffened. Those are ours, he realized. They're from our first trip to Markessa's stockade! She must have had them sent here to aid The Nine in scrying on us!

The wizard's eyes narrowed. Which makes this Ajakstu.

As alluring an item as the crystal ball was, Cygnus was still most interested in the very large brown rat which was currently sniffing around the detritus on the table. Cygnus caught a whiff of the unpleasant odor of damp fur.

Aslan-as-Unru and Zantac-as-Aslan glanced at each other.

That's the same rat I saw in the lake, the former thought . Damn it- it never occurred to me it might be a mage's familiar- no wonder they knew exactly when we reached their doorstep!

His companion was mentally kicking himself as well.

That rat- it was following me and Unru at least part of the way when we walked to The Rose! How long have The Nine been ahead of us? If only I'd been more observant and not thinking so much about getting some-

On the right side of the chamber, the man sitting on the seventh chair cleared his throat.

It didn't seem to be a gesture designed to draw attention to himself. Zantac-as-Aslan, about the closest party member to him, shifted his attention, however.

He somewhat reminded the Willip wizard of Zelhile. About thirty-five or so, this man had a chiseled face and strong jaw, and the same straight black hair as Zantac's guildmaster. He wore leather armor dyed a rich bronze color, and made no attempt to hide it, although a wide grey cloak did drape over his shoulders, fastened with a bronze amulet. On each of the man's bare arms was a light green, metallic bracer, and at his side was a sheathed longsword.

Zantac-as-Aslan looked back at Cygnus. He knew the Aardian mage had cast detect magic right before they had entered this chamber and should shortly be able to detect individual enchantments- or at least he underlying mana behind them. Deciphering that input was a matter of skill; not a function of the spell- despite what non-magic-users always seemed to believe. The problem was, the Slave Lords were probably brimming with magic- it could take Cygnus a long time to gather any useful information.

Possibly longer than they had to live.

To Argo Bigfellow, it seemed like the strong-jawed man was gazing at the party with a calculated look of neutrality. It was the face of someone who has trained himself to hold their emotions in check.

It was, Argo thought with a sick feeling in his stomach, the look of a professional killer.

The ninth chair, at the far end from Mordrammo, held a man who no one had any doubt about naming in their mind as Brother Milerjoi.

He wasn't very tall as far as anyone could guess- perhaps two inches or so over Aslan's height. His light grey robes were similar in style to Tojo's old ones; a piece of which currently lay on Ajakstu's table. They were designed to allow maximum flexibility.

Brother Milerjoi was bald save for one tightly-wound braid extending down perhaps to his shoulders. He was clearly, to Zantac-as-Aslan's eyes anyway, pure Suloise- pale in skin tone, and blonde-haired. At least the braid was- the man had no visible body hair anywhere else on him. Even his eyebrows had been plucked, and the overall effect was almost an effeminate one.

He had no weapons on him and bore a look of serenity on his ageless face- not a designed façade like his nearby companion, but a calmness borne of ceaseless hours of meditation. It was a look they all knew from Tojo all too well.

But the strangest Slave Lord of the five present was sitting in the center of the room, in the fifth chair. It was not however, his appearance that made him unique.

It was the fact that he was straddling his chair backwards, facing away from them all.

A table identical to Ajakstu's was placed in front of this man, although it only held a standard drinking mug. The table, combined with his odd posture, made it hard to see much of him, but Elrohir guessed him to be tall- perhaps Argo or Cygnus' height. At least, that was according to the undyed turban the man wore on top of his head. Turbans were a traditional if not common Baklunish adornment, so that gave at least a partial clue to the man's race.

As best as could be determined, this sturdy-looking man was wearing a light leather jacket and trousers, completely lined with maroon-dyed fur. A large kite shield sat propped up against the man's chair. It bore a yellow horizontal stripe at top and bottom, a maroon field and the black outline of a rat salient upon it.

Without even realizing it, Argo's hands began to clench into fists.

Modrammo spoke first.

"Welcome, Furyondans," the High Priest said in the clear voice of one who had spent many hours speaking to large crowds. Mordrammo indicated the chamber around them.

"Welcome to our own private Aerie. It is one of several such rooms that we use to gather in and discuss topics of import; and I think this is indeed a matter of great import."

He was speaking to everybody but facing Elrohir. The ranger decided not to reply for the moment.

Mordrammo frowned.

"You wished parley. I would advise you not to waste what little time you have, although in truth, since it cannot change the preordained outcome it is as good as wasted already. Speak your piece though and let us have done with it."

Zantac-as-Aslan spoke up first. "Where are the others?" he asked, indicating the four empty chairs.

The cleric may have smiled, although it was difficult to tell behind that skull.

"They are engaged in other matters right now. Do not concern yourselves with them." His voice turned harder. "Neither take false hope from their absence. Without even calling from aid from our soldiers, two hundred strong," Mordrammo titled his head upwards for a moment, "we five are more than capable of slaying you all in battle, should it come to that. I would hope that you do not make me prove the truth of that statement."

"I take it as given you already know who we are," announced Sir Menn. "Noble courtesy demands an introduction from yourselves, as well."

A brief chuckle emerged from within the dragon skull. "So be it. I am Modrammo, Voice of the Sacred Scaly One. To my left is Ajakstu, whom I'm sure you have heard tales of. On the far side is Neralas and Brother Milerjoi." The priest gazed at the knight. "Does that satisfy protocol for you?"

"And what about him?" Bigfellow asked, indicating the man still facing away from them in the center chair. "Does he have a problem utilizing furniture, or are we already looking at his best side?"

Elrohir was about to chide Argo for his impertinence- antagonizing the Slave Lords was the last thing he wanted to do right now- when the man in question suddenly pumped his fist into the air.

"Yes!" the man shouted.

Nesco heard Elrohir, Cygnus, Tojo, Aslan-as-Unru and Talass suddenly suck in their breath.

"That's what I've been waiting to hear," the center Slave Lord continued. "The dulcet tones of Argo Pigfellow Junior!"

And he swung himself off his chair, stood and whirled around.

Argo Bigfellow looked to Nesco as if he might never make another joke in his entire life. The ranger's auburn eyes locked on the man as his mouth drew into a taut, thin line.

"I knew it," Argo said.