Two thousand years ago, the Reman Empire had been at the height of its power. In those days, the great powers of the Fairworld did not meddle in the affairs of men in quite the same way as they do today, and the Reman Empire was left to expand untempered and unchecked until it had eclipsed all other nations of men. From the western shores of Ursiland in the north to the heart of Meridiana in the south, the Empire in its glory had spanned two continents, driven to heights unrivaled on ancient Earth by the engines of human discipline magnified through the lens of an enchanted world. In the efficiency of the Reman bureaucratic machine, the arts of magic had been set to order and subordinated to the service of the state. Scryers, augurs and magicians were trained in state run academies to augment every aspect of the imperial system. Wightbeasts were legally integrated into society and regimented alongside men as citizens and defenders of the empire, and from one end of the empire to the other the Imperial Eagle soared through the skies as a literal manifestation of the eyes, ears and lips of the Empire. With such resources at their command the Reman Empire had expanded to unparalleled size and remained under stable and effective rule for generations. Yet despite all this, the Empire could not avert its own demise.

The great intractable deserts of the east had long thwarted even the vaunted might of the Remans, while to the west a new desert of unnatural character had appeared. The Empire of Witches had emerged to rival the empire of the Remans, and bit by bit the Spreaders of the Desert consumed the lifeblood of the very land beneath them as their dark enchantments grew and swallowed up whole kingdoms, slaying or enslaving the inhabitants and leaving behind naught but naked rock and sand. Buffeted by hostile nations in the east and a bleak wasteland of expanding black magic in the west, the Reman Empire became pinched in the middle like the shadow of an hourglass on the map, it’s time steadily running out. At long last Reme itself fell, its avenues and houses emptied and the marble pillars of its vacant palaces haunted by the ghosts of the fallen as the darkness of the witches reigned supreme over a lifeless land. Yet in that hour new forces were awakened, mustered against the darkness by fairy whispers from all parts of the former Reman Empire and beyond. For three hundred years war raged over the land, until at long last the witches were at last crushed and their once great and terrible empire was reduced to little more than an unpleasant memory.

Until now.

Far to the south of the Kingdom of Linster, beyond the last verges of the Hinterlands, there lie the Marklands. Once a backwater of the former Reman Empire, these eastern marches became the last remaining stronghold in the heart of the crumbling empire. In the centuries that followed the fragments which survived the tumult slowly grew from a few scattered forts and motley prefectures into a collection of small independent states ruled by dukes and counts who were descended from the old Reman military elite. Situated between the Hinterlands in the north, the continent of Meridiana in the south and the trackless deserts of the east, the Marklands were a place where the peoples of two continents mingled and mixed, traded and bickered, lived their best and died their best. In a world where the migration of man was manipulated and managed by unseen forces, the Marklands were something of an exception, a true cultural crossroads, either for good or for ill.

Along a dusty road winding amidst a dry and rocky landscape dotted with patches of scrubby cypress and cedars, a column of Zard marched in cadence to the of harsh rap of leather drums. Their hoods and robes were cast back as the light of the afternoon sun warmed the cool scaley surfaces of their semi-warm blooded bodies, for the Zard were originally created from common reptiles long ago. Keen witchcraft had transformed them from simple creatures into elite warriors, and though bred by their creators to be capable soldiers in all sorts of weather they nonetheless remained far more dependent on their surroundings than any proper warm blooded creature.

Just ahead of the Zard were the gates of the Duchy of Skora, one of the prominent city states of the Marklands. For many years now the Marklands had lived under the shadow of the the witches, and in recent months that shadow had materialized into an iron shod boot. Virtually every state had been reduced to a tributary, and those who resisted were repressed with cold blooded brutality. The Duchy of Skora had been one of the last holdouts, and two weeks ago it too had fallen, buckling under the irresistible engine of witchcraft with hardly a single arrow shot. Having spurned the degradation of subservience to the witches, Skora had instead been reduced to a puppet, saved from total annihilation only by swift acquiescence in the face of imminent occupation. And even so, the cost had been high.

From the battlements of the Reman portico at the city gates there hung a sorrowful collection of tattered and bloody surcoats bearing the livery of the Knights Invictus, sworn protectors of the Marklands and enemies of all witches. Beside these were more gruesome trophies, the severed heads the the knights themselves, displayed together with their livery as a warning to all who would resist the might of the witches. Down below a number of Zard were loafing in the sunlight, languidly curating a long line of merchants and travelers who were gathered doggedly before the city gates beneath the mournful exhibition. Even under the yoke of oppression the economy carried on as best it could, and the roads which passed through Skora reached long and far. Hinterlanders, Marklanders and easterners mingled together amidst their wagons and goods, trying not to grumble as they stood aside and awaited their turn to enter the city, while through the gates a wretched procession of shackled slaves were being led out of the city on their way to the dark lands of the witches.

Tucked in discreetly among the line of itinerants there was a small ox-drawn cart filled with a consignment of quartz, tended by two nondescript looking men and what appeared to be a teenage boy.

Lindsey stood next to the cart full of crystals, trying not to look nervous as she waited alongside Dackery and Falknir at the gates of Skora in plain sight of their enemies. She was still disguised in boy’s clothes, though her ensemble was something the worse for wear and bore the marks of many long miles on unforgiving roads. For several weeks now, Lindsey and Dackery had been traveling in the company of Falknir while posing as gem merchants, complete with a cart full of good quality quartz provided by their outlaw allies. In doing so they had been able to utilize some of the established routes which the outlaws regularly employed to mask their comings and goings, and thus far their journey had been tolerably smooth and uneventful, though not without its hardships. They usually managed to eat and sleep well, yet it was tough going all the same and they pressed an aggressive march, knowing that with each passing day their route would become ever the more dangerous. And it didn’t help matters that her company was at times less than harmonious. The man Falknir had proved to be a capable and resourceful individual, with a good knowledge of the local geography. But equally so, he proved also to be a man of independent and assertive disposition and an outspoken turn of mind. In many ways he was very much like Dackery himself, with just enough similarities and differences between them to make a potentially volatile combination, and the two men frequently clashed with one another. At times it had left Lindsey feeling as though she were being treated like a child, left out of the decisions upon which her own fate rested as two men quarrelled with one another. And it had finally gotten under her skin. She was angry and frustrated with the both of them, but also with herself as well for putting up with it all. She kept reminding herself that both men were risking their lives for her and her mission, but it was hard to keep focused on her own goal when her comrades could be such perfect asses at times. And things were starting to get serious. Day by day the iron fist of the witches closed ever more tightly on the Marklands, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for Lindsey and her fellows to avoid passing through the places which were under occupation. The tide of war had beaten them to Skora, and now they were forced to creep through the city under the very noses of the witches and their reptilian servants.

The wretched procession of slaves had finally passed through the gates, and the sluggish Zard now lurched into action to try and process some of the line of merchants before the approaching column of Zard soldiery arrived from the opposite direction. Lindsey was getting nervous. The Zard were questioning everyone who came through. Their inquiries were rather cursory and they didn’t seem particularly aggressive about the matter, but just one stroke of misfortune could prove utterly disastrous. Lindsey’s group were only second from the front now. Ahead of them were a group of itinerant miners, Dwarves with extravagant bristling beards and dispositions to match. Their spokesman had paused to take great pleasure in explaining to the Zard their reasons for passing through, that being that the witches were a load of worthless gits who were ruining everything, and that he and his brothers were returning to their homeland to take up arms in order to give the witches and their Zardish thralls a proper thrashing should they ever dare to turn up in Dwarven lands. Lindsey had no way of reading Zard expressions, but she had the feeling that they were getting irritated, if not actually provoked by the puny braggarts. By the time the Zard had heard enough and shoved the still blustering Dwarves through the gates, the lizards were plainly in a foul mood indeed.

At that point, Falknir stepped up. Lindsey was scared. The Zard glared menacingly at Falknir as he approached, and at any moment Lindsey felt that everything could fall apart. But Falknir walked straight up to the Zard without a tremor, and began to explain in excruciating detail his business in Skora as a dealer in fine quartz, bombarding the simmering Zard with a barrage of spurious and irrelevant information. He had just offered to empty their entire cart out on the ground so that the Zard could inspect the all gems at once when the captain barked that he had heard sufficient and ordered Falknir and his companions to get out of the way and pass through. Blathering a few needless apologies, Falknir quickly hustled his comrades through the gates. They had passed the first test, and Lindsey heaved a sigh of relief as they entered the city, even as she knew that further dangers awaited them ahead.

The great marketplace of Skora was a veritable arena of commerce with people, carts, animals and stalls all jumbled together in a wide cobblestone square enclosed by rows of arched galleries beneath great houses and towers of dun colored stone and stucco. Even under foreign occupation the character of the city could not be wholly erased, and life went on as best it could. People went about their business with as much autonomy and grace as circumstances would allow, and the spirit of rebellion mixed indistinguishably with the murk of collaboration.

he sea of humanity which surrounded Lindsey as she and her comrades made their way through the market was a sort of kaleidoscope of complexions and features. The Marklands were a unique melting pot of peoples, both transient and resident, drawn to cities like Skora and its neighbors by the singular opportunities afforded in this exceptional land. People from as far as Zhongyang itself lived side by side with dark skinned men from the plains of Mahali, blonde Hinterlanders from the far north, and many wanderers from the eastern deserts of Al Hajiz and beyond. There was even a small population of dwarves. Indeed, the very landscape of the city was a reflection of this variety. Rising high above the clay tiled rooftops of the common boroughs were the minarets and spires of churches, mosques and temples of many varied traditions, silhouetted on top of each other amidst the fortified towers and vaunted manors of the once sovereign metropolis.

As Lindsey and her companions progressed along the perimeter of the square they came upon one of these places of worship which was adjacent to the market itself. Smaller and less grand than the soaring edifices which loomed above the rooftops elsewhere in the city, it was a squarish, plain sort of building with a domed roof and a six pointed star painted in blue upon its facade. Yet despite its humility it seemed to be the recipient of an unusual degree of attention, which piqued Lindsey’s curiosity. Falknir had paused briefly to make inquiries about lodgings for the night, and Lindsey took a moment to examine the building more closely. The area around it was more clear than the rest of the marketplace, and all the nearby stalls were filled with an all manner of trinkets, charms, and votives of every description. Outside the building there was a long line of people, apparently waiting to gain entrance. Yet they were not gathered at the great double doors of the temple, but rather at a smaller side door which was set low into the ground at the base of a small stairway which descended a little way into the earth. Yet no one was either entering or leaving, for the way was barred by Zard soldiery, and as she watched Lindsey saw the the visitors being turned back one by one.

Suddenly, Lindsey realized that Dackery was standing beside her. He too was watching the events at the temple with rather a keen expression on his face.

Falknir had apparently finished his inquiries, and now came up to where Lindsey and Dackery stood and addressed them in a discreetly muted tone.

“Well, I think I’ve found a good option for us. The Bronze Camel is located on the far side of the city near the north gates, which is very convenient as I would prefer that we left as soon as the gates open again in the morning.”

Dackery nodded.

“I agree. Tell me Falknir, what is that temple over there?”

Falknir squinted a bit at the structure across from them, apparently taken aback slightly by the sudden change of subject.

“That would the Great Synagogue of Skora, I believe. It’s rather a famous shrine actually.”

“What’s so important about it?”

“There’s a natural cavern underneath the building, which contains The Rock of Skora. Supposedly the rock has all sorts of curative powers. People come here from all over the Marklands and beyond in search of healing.”

“Does it really work?”

“For the local economy, it’s positively miraculous. The traffic from all the pilgrims brings in a fortune every year. As for the people who come to it looking for actual healing, I couldn’t say myself, I’ve never tried it. But the reputation seems to be well earned. I know a fellow who swears that his second cousin’s nephew grew back a lost foot immediately after touching it, and grew three extra toes on his other foot as well in the bargain (although I may not be remembering the details quite correctly). Why do you ask?”

Dackery made no reply. He was instead looking intently at the door.

“I don’t suppose we could take a quick look inside? It would be interesting to see.”

“Eh? Surely not! We don’t have time for sightseeing, Dackery. I for one would much prefer to be out of the city as soon as possible. Besides, it looks like the Zard have closed the place.”

As Falknir spoke Lindsey was looking keenly at Dackery. There was an inscrutable sort of expression on his face, and Lindsey’s mind was cast back to Dackery’s odd behavior in the past. She felt certain had had been hiding something from her, but up to now she had been willing to accept that it wasn’t any of her business.

Abruptly Dackery snapped out of his reverie.

“Of course, you’re quite correct. Perhaps I shall have another opportunity to come this way again.”

“So long as the Zard don’t take the whole place apart and cart it off in pieces, that is. It wouldn’t be the first time. Come, we should go to the inn.”

The Bronze Camel was indeed close to the outer gates. It was a small place, since under normal circumstances most visitors preferred lodgings closer to the city center where they would be conducting their business. But today, business at the hostel was booming. Falknir’s desire to depart with the opening of the city gates reflected popular sentiment, and the inn was overrun with transitory persons anxious to spend as little time in the occupied city as possible. This suited Falknir’s plans well, as it meant that in the morning there would be a large crowd waiting at the gates to leave, and one more cart would hardly be noticed. The downside of course was that accomodations were rather lacking, and Falknir’s party was obliged to spend the night in the stables.

Lindsey collapsed gratefully onto a bed of fresh straw, laid out in suitable places away from the draftier parts of the stables for the convenience of the inn’s surplus guests. She was tired. They had been marching since early morning to reach Skora, after many long weeks of making such daily marches. They were now on the edge of the witches’ expanding umbrella of control. Once they left Skora, they would soon be ahead of their enemies and would be able to make the final push to Linster in relative security, or so at least Falknir believed. And Lindsey could only hope that Falknir’s wisdom could be trusted.

Outside, the last glimmers of twilight were fading into darkness. To one side of her was the great frame of Dackery lying with his back to her, motionless like a mountain. To the other, Falknir was stretched out serenely on his back, his hands folded over his chest like a funeral effigy which had taken to twiddling its thumbs. His eyes were opened and he was staring blankly at the roof and mumbling to himself, perhaps considering the routes they would be taking on the morrow. Lindsey had gotten used to bunking nearby these two characters, and the discomfort of such close association had long since worn off. At this point, she was happy to have allies around her. If something should happen during the night, at least they were all together. Lindsey’s hand stole up to her chest, feeling for the medallion which lay there next to her skin. Soon she would be in Linster, and would be able to deliver the dratted thing and hopefully break the curse. What would happen after that she couldn’t guess. At least she was still with Dackery. He at least could take her back to her own world, as for all she knew she might never lay eyes on Hae-jin, Joan, or that stupid Bird ever again. For all she knew they could all be dead. For all she knew she would never find out one way or the other. She gripped the medallion between the fabric of her tunic just a bit tighter. She’d spent weeks being strong and focused, but right now all she wanted to do was just have a good cry.

Lindsey’s eyes snapped open. Had she fallen asleep? Apparently so. The room around her was completely dark, save for a few rays of moonlight which filtered in through the windows of the barn.

Something had happened to wake her up. But what was it?

Lindsey looked around herself. To one side, Falknir was sound asleep, snoring gently. To the other, there was an empty bed of straw.

Dackery was gone.

Lindsey pulled herself up on her elbows. Maybe Dackery had just gone to relieve himself. But maybe he hadn’t. Lindsey rolled onto her knees and quietly pulled herself to her feet. There was no need to wake Falknir up too.

Lindsey crept to the door of the stable. Outside, the moonlight was flooding the deserted street. Almost deserted that is, for as Lindsey looked out in the the street she spotted a lone figure walking away from her. And the silhouette was unmistakable.

It was Dackery.

Apparently he wasn’t headed to the loo after all. What the hell did he think he was doing? Dackery was just rounding the corner ahead, and would be out of sight in a moment. Lindsey darted out of the door after him, and began to follow discreetly in his wake.

Dackery’s path was taking him straight back to the city center. Everyone so often he would duck into cover somewhere as the cries of night watchmen echoed through the streets. At length he took a turn, and for a moment Lindsey lost sight of him. Lindsey ran to catch up. Rounding the corner, she found herself back at the great market of Skora.

There was a particular sort of eerines about the empty marketplace in the dead of night. The crowded throng was long gone, and in its place was a dark maze of vacant stalls and covered carts. On the far side of the great avenue she could just make out the yellow glow of a lantern, probably that of a night watchman on the lookout for people like herself sneaking around among the closed shops. What the hell did Dackery think he was doing coming here?

Lindsey could only think of one thing which might have brought Dackery back to the market at this time of night, but she couldn’t fathom why. Wary of the lights from the watch, Lindsey kept her head low as she threaded her way between the deserted stalls, and headed for the Synagogue.

The area around the Synagogue was equally deserted. There were no guards present, but there was a wrought iron gate across the doorway which presumably led to the underground shrine. It looked like it was closed, but Lindsey felt sure that Dackery must have been headed this way. With a last look to make sure the coast was clear, Lindsey darted across the cobbles to the Synagogue and crept up to the side door.

The door was closed alright. But looking closely at the lock, Lindsey could see that something was not right about it. It was a mess, in fact. All warped and covered with a green-ish white crust, as if it had been partially eaten through by some powerful corrosive. Lindsey reached out to the bars, and tried giving the door a gentle push. It swung open freely before her without a sound. Apparently Dackery had also taken the time to oil the hinges as well. The man was thorough, that was for sure. With a last look back behind her, Lindsey slipped through the doorway and closed the gate behind her.

The passage before her took a sharp turn to the left and began winding its way down into the heart of the earth. The steps were carved out of the living rock and were just a bit slippery. Every few feet a wooden post had been mounted in the center of a step, supporting a thick rope which divided the entire stairway into two lanes, apparently for the purposes of separating the incoming and outgoing flow of people. But now, the rope served as Lindsey’s only guide, for the moonlight coming through the door did not illuminate far down the twisting passage, and soon enough Lindsey was making her way in total darkness. Or rather, nearly total darkness, for as she wound her way down underground Lindsey had the vague idea that there was a faint glow of light coming from further ahead.

Abruptly, the passage came to an end, and Lindsey found herself inside a sizable cave filled with red light from a single candelabra which was set into the wall nearby. The ceiling was like a firmament of tiny stalactites which pierced the roof like stone roots of some monstrous tree, while along the walls were deposits of calcium stacked in rounded terraces like great stone fungi. The floor was rocky and uneven and piled high will all manner of bric-a-brac, votive offerings and cheap charms left behind by a myriad of visitors. But there was a decent path going through the center of it it, worn into the rock over the centuries by the tread of countless pilgrims. And in the center of the chamber there was a great stone pillar.

And standing at the base of the pillar, was Horatio Dackery.

The pillar was almost completely black, soiled and discolored from centuries of touch by the hands of pilgrims. Only the top of the pillar was left clean, and Lindsey had a vague idea that it was made of some kind of clear crystal, though in the scant light it was difficult to tell. Dackery appeared to be examining the stone closely. He stood with his back to the door, and apparently hadn’t noticed that anyone had come in. And Lindsey wasn’t about to let him know she was here. Not yet anyway. Dackery was up to something, and Lindsey wanted to know what it was.

Dackery continued to examine the stone for a while. Then, he reached out and pressed his palm against it, muttering some inaudible words as he did so. He then waited a moment, almost as if he were expecting something to happen. Then, he pressed his palm to the stone again, this time muttering something else. Again he waited, but nothing seemed to happen. Dackery appeared to be getting frustrated. Lindsey though she heard him mutter something uncharacteristically indelicate, after which he pressed his palm to the stone for a third time, and muttered yet another incantation.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a subtle humming noise, just barely audible. At the same time, Lindsey noticed that some color was starting to appear on the clean portion of the stone, almost as if it were emanating from within the crystal itself. And while this was happening, a change seemed to come over the person of Horatio Dackery.

It was subtle, but at the same time unmistakable. His posture straightened, and his bearing somehow became more animated. It almost as if he suddenly looked younger. Much, much younger in fact. It was as though he had always been terribly old and frail by comparison, in a way which Lindsey had never really noticed before now.

Suddenly, Lindsey thought she heard a sound behind her.

She whirled around to see a terrible reptilian visage towering above her in the gloom of the passage behind her.

“What are you doing in here, human?”, the Zard hissed, “The shrine is closed. No one is permitted to enter. How did you get in here?”

Lindsey replied by ducking down under the Zard’s arm and making a dive past him. But the Zard was too quick, and as she scrambled past she felt a pair of scaly arms envelop her body and crush her under an iron grip.

And then, just as suddenly, the claws went slack, the arms fell away, and the Zard fell to the ground with Linsey tumbling down with it. Lindsey scrambled to her feet and looked around.

The Zard was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, its throat split open with a great wide gash which was gushing forth blood, while to one side Horatio Dackery stood panting, a bloody dagger still clenched in his hand. Lindsey felt sick.

Dackery looked at Lindsey. Lindsey looked at Dackery. For a moment neither of them spoke.

Dackery then gestured to the Zard corpse before him. “I will do my best to conceal this. Hopefully no one will discover it until tomorrow. Go back to the inn, and wait for me there. We will leave tomorrow as planned as soon as the gates open.”

“No, let me stay and help you.”

“No, just go to the inn, and stay out of sight. There may be other Zard patrolling the streets.”

Lindsey decided it wasn’t worth arguing anymore. She wanted answers, but now wasn’t the time. With a last look at the broken body of the Zard, she fled the shrine.

She made it back to the inn without incident, managing to avoid the night watch on the way. There she lay breathless on the straw, hoping and praying that Dackery would make it back safely also. Finally, after what seemed like an eon a dark shape loomed up beside her, and Dackery returned to his own place on the straw.

In the morning, a small crowd of travelers were gathered at the north gates of Skora, cooling their heels restlessly as the waited for the portcullis to open for the day. Among them was a group of gem merchants, who stood silently together without speaking. By now Falknir had realized that something must have gone terribly wrong during the night and was positively fuming. But he kept his peace, waiting until they were all safely out of the city before giving vent to his wrath. At long last the trumpets were sounded, the gates were opened, and one by one the travelers were passed through.

It wasn’t until noon that the missing Zard’s body was discovered, buried under a pile of votives in one corner of the shrine. Troops were then dispatched throughout the city streets, questioning all passersby and hauling anyone of interest before their captains for interrogation. The order was dispatched to secure the city, and guards were doubled at every gate. No one was to be allowed out, and all who came in were to be thoroughly questioned. The gates soon became clogged with people, those trying to leave were turned away while those coming in were being processed at a snail’s pace.

At the southern gate, the line was far worse than it had been when on the previous afternoon when Lindsey and her comrades had come the same way. Everyone was questioned thoroughly, and every cart was now inspected and searched.

A scruffy looking man with close cropped hair had now come to the head of the line.

For weeks now, Kren had been following the trail of Dackery and Lindsey. Long weary years of living in hiding had taken its toll. Kren had had enough, and Horatio Dackery had at last given him a chance to reverse his fortunes and redeem himself before his former masters. All would surely be forgotten and forgiven if Kren could deliver the girl Lindsey to them. He knew he was on the right trail. Indeed Dackery was probably less than a day ahead of him at this point. But up to now he hadn’t been prepared to take any chances. It wouldn’t be enough just to inform his masters of Lindsey’s whereabouts, he had to make sure the girl was delivered straight into their hands. Otherwise, it might instead be Kren himself who wound up at the wrong end of a witch’s dagger.

But now, it looked like he was running out of options. The Zard at the gates were questioning everyone closely. And beside the Zard captain there now stood a man in dark robes with the hood pulled low over his eyes. Apparently the witches were taking direct oversight over the security of Skora. For all he knew, the face behind it could be a former acquaintance.

It was now Kren’s turn. He trembled a little as he approached the Zard, and glanced furtively to one side at the dark robed man.

The Zard captain gazed at Kren with a cold, piercing eye.

“Name?”

Kren hesitated. The man in the robe was looking straight at him now, and Kren could almost imagine a hint of familiarity to the visage which was just visible from beneath the hood.

“Name?”, the Zard demanded.

Suddenly, Kren felt his spirit give way. He was sure he was going to be caught, if not now then soon enough. It was now or never.

“My name is Kren.”

“And what is your business in Skora?”

Kren took a deep breath and straightened. It was time to assume a role which he had long since forsaken.

“I am on an errand of great importance to the Empire. I have vital information which must be dispatched to the Black Speakers immediately. Take me to your commanding officer.”