25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj

Her blood was warm and sticky.

Zantac made several attempts to rub Slippery Ketta's blood off his face as he staggered away, only now opening his eyes.

He did not look back.

It all still seemed so unreal. Unable to bear Ketta's eyes upon him any longer, Zantac had kept his eyes closed as he had pressed his dagger against the Slave Lord's soft, unprotected throat. He had felt the tip of his dagger pressing against her skin.

And then a hot blast of fluid had sprayed itself all over the mage's face, forcing him to press his eyes even more tightly closed against it. Zantac knew that he had plunged the blade in but, even though it had occurred only seconds ago, the act already seemed like a faint and distant memory. Held as she was, there had been no sound from Ketta; only a dull thump as her body had crumpled to the grass.

It seemed like her blood had somehow seeped inside Zantac as well. The wizard's brain felt numbed, as if it were coated with something that prevented it from functioning normally. There were yells and screams going on all around him, yet even with his eyes now open, nothing he was seeing seemed to register.

For one, he didn't know where all the animals had come from.

Cygnus, still clutching his scroll of telekinesis, was backed up to the very edge of the lake, facing a gigantic weasel, easily ten feet in length. Just as Zantac was trying to comprehend what he was seeing, the beast sprang at Cygnus; but then vanished in a manner that Zantac's spellcraft instantly recognized as that of an illusion.

Cygnus turned to his left, towards the Water Dragon, and shouted something, but Zantac didn't catch it. He was now staring about fifteen feet past Cygnus and slightly further inland, where the knot of Slave Lord mercenaries were.

They were covered. Not in blood, but in bats.

A brown, furry cloud seemed to envelop the guardsmen, causing them to shriek and swing their swords wildly through the air while trying to fend off the flying mammals with their free hands. Judging from the way in which several of the bats had attached themselves to the men, Zantac guessed that they were vampire bats.

Again the mage struggled to comprehend. It didn't make sense. Bats were nocturnal creatures. It was true that the sky, now almost completely covered by clouds of volcanic ash, was now as dark as twilight, but surely a volcanic eruption less than two miles away would have driven all the animals in the vicinity far away. Hadn't all the bats in the cave fisher cavern taken wing at the tremors which had preceded the awakening of Mount Flamenblut?

Unless…

But before Zantac's befuddled brain could arrive at a conclusion, there was a roar and an explosion near him. Again, it was only that part of his mind that contained an instinctive knowledge of magic that had recognized the detonation of a fireball and caused Zantac to hurl himself off to the side and to the ground, covering his head with his hands.

A roar and a wave of heat passed over him, but Zantac knew he had been outside the fireball's blast radius. He was uninjured, if one did not count the searing pain in his left shoulder where Slippery Ketta had stabbed him, and Zantac was very definitely counting that, especially as the impact with the grass had caused the pain to flare up even worse.

Intermixing swears and cries of suppressed agony, the Willip wizard laboriously clambered back to his feet- and then gasped.

Smoke still rising from his body, Cygnus lay on a patch of smoldering grass. He was not moving.

Zantac began to run towards his friend, but then another movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked up at the Water Dragon just in time to see someone crash into Lamonsten the Lazy, sending the Slave Lord wizard crashing through the ship's railing and onto the dock, where he also lay motionless in a crumpled heap.

The sight of one of their enemies down, or at least temporarily incapacitated, raised Zantac's spirits, but then he saw the figure the figure that had collided into Lamonsten, and his heart sank again.

It was Elrohir. Their team leader, blood dripping from his body, lay dangling over the edge of the Water Dragon's deck.

Zantac went cold. How had that happened? The last he had seen, the ranger was battling the svartalf, Edralve, on the pier. A quick glance around revealed no sign of the black elf, although there was a slowly subsiding bubbling on the surface of the lake nearby, along with what might have been bloodstains floating on the water.

Then Zantac realized that Elrohir was starting to slide forward. He cried out and began to rush forward, even though he knew full well he would not be in time, when suddenly a pair of arms grabbed Elrohir around the waist from behind and clumsily hauled him back onto the deck and out of sight.

The mage tried, yet again, to think.

Argo?

Possibly. Zantac knew the big ranger had climbed onto the Water Dragon to engage Scurvy John. He could neither see nor hear any sign of the pirate. Had both Elrohir and Argo managed to triumph over the opponents? But if so, at what cost? Zantac had no idea if Elrohir was dead or merely unconscious, but at this point Argo could do as much, or as little, for him as Zantac could. He would be better served by-

"Cygnus!"

The name was torn from Zantac's lips as he wheeled around, already cursing himself for his thick-headedness in forgetting his fellow arcanist. His friend.

But there was an armored figure already leaning over the fallen mage, his hand on his throat.

Zantac cried out in an attempt to distract his new opponent while clutching his bloodstained dagger tightly and getting ready to attack when the man looked up at him.

With a shock, Zantac realized it was Aslan.

The paladin looked a mess. While not as covered with blood as most of them seemed to be right now, it looked as if every inch of Aslan's body that was not covered by his leather armor was covered with angry-looking red, blue or purplish bruises. He looked as if he had engaged in a fisticuffs match with an ogre.

Zantac also belatedly realized that what Aslan was doing was checking Cygnus for a pulse.

The Willip wizard sank to his knees beside them, grateful for the fact that he hadn't had to take more a few steps. His legs had given out from shock. Aslan's eyes looked somehow brighter than usual, and Zantac realized that the paladin was no doubt trying once again to utilize his Talent to heal, as if by sheer grit and determination he could overcome the cursed metal band encircling his neck.

Zantac opened his mouth, but no words came out; but then Cygnus stirred.

The tall mage didn't look quite as bad as when Zantac had first seen his horribly burned head and face emerge from the trapdoor in Markessa's stockade, but it was still a terrible sight. Most of Cygnus' short brown hair was gone and burns covered his skin; perhaps even more than last time, since Cygnus had been wearing only a loincloth this time, which had now been completely burned away.

Zantac couldn't help but close his eyes again to shut out the sight. He felt the tears burning behind his closed lids. He had known that this final battle was likely to result in the death of them all, but now that it was actually happening, he-

Zantac felt something gently brush his arm. He opened his eyes to see Cygnus already staring into them.

"I want…" the Aardian wizard croaked, his voice barely audible. "I want…"

"Yes, Cygnus?" Zantac asked, bending down closer, his own voice trembling. "What do you want?"

Aslan had grasped one of Cygnus' hands in his own and was holding it now. Cygnus' eyes flickered over to the paladin before returning his gaze to meet that of his fellow magic-user.

And then, incredibly, Cygnus gave a feeble smile.

"I want," the tall wizard repeated, "Argo's ring."

Now Zantac knew why Aslan's eyes had appeared so bright. He knew his own tears; tears of both of grief and joy, must be visible.

"Resist Fire," Zantac told him, his own voice sounding nearly as strained to his own ears as Cygnus's. "It's a simple first-tier abjuration. Even a lunkhead like you must know that one."

Cygnus smiled again. He tried to sit up, but a spasm of pain shot through his body, his face contorted, and he sank back down again.

"I'll do what I can for him, Zantac." Aslan's voice was now low and measured. "I'll get some water from the lake for his burns, but you've got to finish off Lamonsten." The paladin's eyes now met Zantac's. "I'm in no shape to do it."

Distracted as he had been by Cygnus, it was only then that Zantac could see that every moment Aslan made was causing his body more pain. That monk must have inflicted a terrible beating upon him.

He turned his head around. Lamonsten was starting to stir.

"Zantac," Cygnus half-whispered. "He's hasted himself."

"I don't have a single spell left!" Zantac shouted without really meaning to. "I already used my scroll!"

Cygnus' arm came slowly up. His hand brushed against Zantac's cheek.

"You can kill without magic, Zantac."

The Willip wizard stared down at his friend and then over at Aslan. The same look resided in those light blue eyes that was in the brown ones of Zantac's fellow mage.

Without another word, Zantac rose to his feet and headed towards the Water Dragon.

There was nothing to impede him. The mercenaries had run off into the woods, still trailed by a number of bats. Unru's fog cloud had dispersed to the point where it was no longer an impediment to vision, and Cygnus caught a glimpse of Sir Menn and Sitdale still flanking Theg Narlot as their melee continued. Swords were flashing everywhere, but Zantac could not tell at a glance who was winning, and he did not have time for a closer look.

By the time Zantac had gained the edge of the pier, Lamonsten had already raised himself up on his elbows. His snail shell's hat had fallen off, and blood was dripping down from his head, onto his face and staining his white beard, but the illusionist ignored this as he stared at the approaching wizard.

And then he was casting, his right arm moving with unnatural speed even as Zantac advanced.

Suddenly, a towering column of ominous shadows appeared, encircling Lamonsten, hiding him from view. Zantac rushed at the cylindrical wall- and then stopped.

A sharp stab of fear had suddenly shot through him. He felt like his heart had dropped into his stomach. Plunging headfirst into those shadows, as he had been about to do, suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

Zantac bit his lip. He knew this was no mere fog cloud, although what it might be he had no idea. He knew of no such spell. The smoke-like shadows formed a half-cylinder with a radius of about fifteen feet, with Lamonsten no doubt at the center. The sides of the cloud touched the hull of the Water Dragon, so there was no way to bypass it. The cloud seemed to rise up at least twenty feet, so even if Zantac had boarded the ship, he still couldn't drop down on Lamonsten without passing through the shadows.

He never remembered thinking, or debating, or even feeling anything but fear, but as everything turned grey in front of him, Zantac realized that he must have entered the cloud.

One step and he was awash in terror.

The shadows couldn't be more than a few feet thick, but it might as well been miles. The wisplike smoke seemed to tear at Zantac, trying to stop him not only physically but mentally as well. The mage could hear his heart pounding wildly in his chest. A cold sweat broke out on his face, mingling with the drying blood still caked to it.

Another step.

Zantac's knees began to wobble. He wanted to scream, to flee; anything that would get him out of here. He tried to focus on some positive thought to help him combat the feeling on dread that was now threatening to strangle him, but none came.

Then Zantac felt keenly the dagger which he still clutched, white-knuckled, in his hand, and though the thought which pierced his brain was by no means a happy one, it was still at complete odds with the fear swirling all around him.

It was the knowledge that he had killed and had to kill again. Would kill again.

Another step and he was clear.

Lamonsten had regained his feet and was steadying himself against the hull of the Water Dragon. His face was full of rage as he glared at his foe.

But he didn't shout. Instead, he incanted again.

Zantac, all fear having departed the instant he had left that wall of gloom, rushed towards Lamonsten, but the illusionist was still too quick. Zantac had a brief glimpse of red, blue and yellow sand flying out of Lamonsten's right hand before a vivid cone of lights composed of those same colors struck him.

Anger pouring into Zantac's breast more and more with each passing instant, the Willip wizard came right through the color spray as if it didn't exist and charged the Slave Lord mage, his dagger poised to strike. He saw Lamonsten's eyes widen in fear.

The illusionist began to cast yet again, but this time, hasted or not, he wasn't quick enough.

Zantac slammed his dagger into Lamonsten's chest so hard and so deep he thought he must surely have pinned him to the ship's hull beyond.

Blood oozed from the illusionist, but Zantac didn't notice it. The rage he was feeling, far from abating with his successful attack on Lamonsten, was in fact increasing.

Lamonsten gasped, and then gurgled, a thin trickle of blood coming from between his lips. His right hand dipped beneath his robes and came out holding a dagger of his own.

Zantac left his own dagger embedded in the Slave Lord's chest, grabbed Lamonsten's hand in both of his and twisted until he was able to wrench the weapon from his hand.

And as Zantac stabbed Lamonsten again and again with his own weapon, he suddenly knew why he was so very angry.

Zantac was a wizard. He had always wanted to be a wizard. The knowledge, the brotherhood of his fellow mages; men and women bonded by the secret language of arcana that no other people could ever hope to understand. The feeling of discovery; no, of delight, that he experienced every time his mind wrapped itself around some new discovery after days or even weeks of hard toil and studying. This was what made him happy.

It wasn't using that power to kill people. It had never been. Zantac had never killed a person in his life until he had accompanied Cygnus and his friends down to Highport. He hadn't been naive. He knew it would happen. Indeed, he knew that many arcane spells had been researched for just that purpose in mind. But at least it was still magic. He had still been a wizard, not a murderer.

But no longer.

Now Zantac was a killer, plain and simple. There was no magic involved as he plunged the dagger again and again into Lamonsten's flesh. He knew he was screaming at his foe even as the illusionist's body began to slide down against the Water Dragon's hull, his eyes growing glassy and unfocused.

Zantac slumped down beside the body of his enemy. An enemy, and yet a fellow wizard.

Slowly, Zantac's rage gave way to sorrow, and his eyes gave way to tears. He felt, and he knew, that nothing would ever be the same again.

The roar jerked him back to reality.

Zantac hadn't even noticed the cylinder of shadows had vanished as he staggered to his feet. Before even looking, he knew that it had come from down where the party had first engaged the Slave Lords.

It had been the roar of the ogre mage, Blackthorn.

And it had sounded like a roar of triumph.