The cotton sky appeared soft and delicate. The sun pushed its orange glow through a host of puffy white clouds as the sun often did during the winter. It would hover low in the sky as it would before descending below the horizon line, but it would pause there for hours. Gentle winds swept through the wild hills and flowing grasses of Weptswur. The grass had faded from its usual bright green hue to a mix between yellow and brown now.

The clacking of hooves was the only thought that would be running through Fintan's head. He knew the course he traversed so well that he could have spurred the horse on with his eyes closed. He was fortunate that his horse was loyal to his unknown rider.

Sweat rolled down Fintan's temples despite the bitter cold. He was bundled up in his cloak and heavy furs. He had added a layer of furs from Gerd's house on his way out. He would have to return at some point to give him a proper Magi burial, but time was of the essence. Vince's next move would be pivotal. He may still be laying half dead, or he could be halfway across the continent. One thing was for sure, Fintan would have to respect his abilities now—he no longer knew the ways that Vince was learning. It was a way of magic that was thought of as dark. Magi Knights were trained in that way—it was an unstable form of magic. One was susceptible to the ways of the Ral'tor and his influence when accessing magic through an unknown medium.

This was different though...a horn? Where would a horn have come from? Some creature...some beast. Fintan knew there were many, many creatures that could have crept out of the shadows of Mestrane ever since the curse was lifted. Creatures that had been dormant for hundreds and hundreds of years, but many were far too afraid to speak of the possibility. People of the Old Ages had been haunted by those creatures, and in turn most kingdoms had a Hunting Guard—solely meant to hunt down nearby creatures of Ral'tor and take them out with their arrows and their hunting spears to keep their own castle walls void of such vile creatures.

One such creature crossed Fintan's mind now as he rode. The grimmest and mysterious-most tales of such were the tales of such were involving dragons of the south—but they were likely extinct. Or so people say for comfort's sake. Fintan knew somewhere inside him that couldn't be true. The tales of dragons were so scattered and varied greatly that no one of the modern era could be sure what to believe—other than that they had existed at one point. From what he had heard from his masters when he was young, Fintan always believed dragons were isolated beings. They did not prefer to live amongst the rest of civilization unless provoked or controlled. The tales of old always tell of the mountains of gold they guard, but his own masters had laughed at the foolish tale. "Don't be daft, young one. Dragons want nothing to do with the realm. They guard the Decaying Pits of Ralvorth in the rotted far reaches of Mestrane. You travel that far, and I won't be the only one to tell ya that you've reached the end of the world. Not even Ral'tors bravest minions travel there except for banishing men who have turned on Ral'tor or his greatest adversaries." The words of Master Eldmar all those years ago echoed inside Fintan's head, leaving him pondering what had come of his old master. He knew there was talk of some old foe rising on a continent beyond that needed addressing but he speculated it was just a way out—seeing as though the world was on the brink of war. Such thoughts clouded his busy mind as he travelled, nothing but miles and miles of dying grass and dry winds.

The hooves of his horse continued its clackity-clack across the frozen ground of yellow grasses. Various rock forms and structures littered the deserted plains ahead. It was the Weptswur wastelands, the awkward stretch of nothingness between Weptswur and Ulthrak. He dreaded his return to Ulthrak. It was such an unwelcome and cut throat place. Magnar the Madman had been one of the nicer inhabitants of the lands. The lesser inviting tribes would be found much deeper within those lands, he knew.

He found it hard to avoid thoughts of condemnation as he rode. With nothing but his thoughts, feelings of regret and empathy towards Vince flooded his mind. He had needed his help, and he had pushed him away and left him to rot. He had broken Magi code regardless as to whether he had deliberately chosen the way of dark magic or not. And for that he could pay a high price. I'm a terrible master. I was trained and raised better than this by the Order...Why must I be the Magi who is left to this task? Those foolish Magi fled the continent as soon as the Temple was crushed. Fintan let out a bellow across the empty lands as he rode, spurring his horse on faster who had begun to slow since Fintan had eased up on the reins in the midst of his thinking.

Thoughts of Randor Redcloak came to him. What has come of him? Is he still alive? Surely, I would have felt it within our bond if something had happened...Randor had always been the more composed of the two of them. Witty, intelligent. He had found a way to raise up Egalo in a much more experience-oriented way. With Vince, he had decided it was best If he teach by explaining on a case by case basis—and it seemed to have been failing at the moment. These were different times though; the realm was in upheaval. Curse that selfish King Steed. He has no claim to the realm despite his history before the curse.

His stallion set his course through the thicket of a thin forest full of pine trees and thick trunks. He imagined what state Vince would be in when he found him. Just as he left him, or would he be dead now? There were too many possibilities and the thoughts of what would potentially have happened were causing stress upon him, so he forced the thought aside. It had occurred to him that he could try to reach him through his Ertorin stone, but it was dangerous to try and reach a dark magic user with light magic. If there was one rule of magic, it was that dangerous things happen when the light and dark magic are crossed. But what separates the two at times can be a very blurry line. Yet it was engrained in me from a child that dark magic comes from the desires of self, but light magic is done for the good of the One Creator.

The Magi Knight ducked below a branch, and then another. It was another ten minutes before he emerged from the pine trees and out into the vast expanse of dead lands that signaled his arrival at the border between Weptswur and Ulthrak.

Alarm bells rang in his head when he saw a large host of Weptswur knights setting up camp along the border where the two treacherous crests of the valleys met to provide the only sure-footed passage from Weptswur into Ulthrak.

I've never been afraid to do things the hard way. It won't stop me now. The host of Weptswurians had their sigil hoisted high and one large fire burning in the center of camp. There were around five tents set up around the bon fire that ascended smoke high into the sky above. Fintan estimated there were about twenty men in total standing around the warm aura of the fire, but they appeared barely larger than ants from how far his stallion trotted now. He began a meandering path from a wider approach to the nearer of the two crests to try to remain out of view from the knights.

The winds gnawed at him as he leaned over his horse to try and hide from the wind. The cold air made his teeth hurt though, and his eyes blurred with tears from the biting wind. He couldn't tell if the Weptswurians had seen him yet, it was too hard to tell. But as of yet, they did not make for their horses. They obviously did not want foreigners entering Weptswur, but he was fairly certain they would allow for those to leave who wished as much. He could not risk being held up, and he knew all too well the negative dispositions of many wealthy Weptswurians—and it never favored a Magi Knight. A narcissistic wielder of magic had no warm welcoming in the kingdom of wealth and prosperity. They didn't want the help of outsiders, nor had they needed in years past. They'll have to get over that by the time I return. Mere swords and castle walls won't keep out the orcs of Mestrane, and who knows what other beasts roam the other side of the Meadows.

Not looking down, his horse neighed nervously and anxiously as it teetered across the thin crest of the tall, jagged ridge line. The ground had sharply inclined as the crest went along—almost forming a sort of high mountain at its middle, and the rescinding into a smaller valley side again at the end of the four-mile crest. The drop below was well over a couple hundred feet, but patience and calmness would grant those with courage fair passage over the narrow crest, at least Fintan believed so. His horse had needed convincing, but the calm talk of a Magi Knight was enough for most horses to obey its master.

The camp below had certainly seen him now. They moved out onto the flat, wide open passage below where the ground was safe and flat. They seemed to stare more out of curiosity than animosity. He could see one broad man in dark chainmail and plated armor pointing with one hand over his eyes to the shield the awkward sun as it continued its soft radiance through the puffy clouds above. He was out of range of an archer, and he was nearly halfway now so there was no turning back. I dare them to meet me at the other end. I'll be in Ulthrak by then anyways. Fintan's heart twisted into a knot for a second when he looked down and his horse almost swayed in response, the hundred-foot drop beckoning to him as he steadied himself. He firmed his grip on the reins and onward they went.

Rocks and pebbles bounced off the narrow path under the thundering hooves of Fintan's stallion, but by the time they reached the back end of the crest the stallion was travelling as fast as it possibly could, and Fintan knew he was in the clear. Only a couple hundred yards and he would be descending down the wider portion of the crest and towards the flat plains of Ulthrak below. He glanced back at the Weptswurian knights and a few had ridden on horseback to about the halfway point across the middle ground between the two crests, but they sat on their still horses, and watched as he rode away. I'll deal with them on the way back.

The sun had finally become bored of waiting low in the clouds and it continued its journey downward below the horizon. The winds and chills of the night began to set in, and Fintan felt his warmth begin to escape the trappings of his cloak and furs. He tightened his hood around his head and huddled closer to the mane of his stallion as they travelled. There was no time to stop. He could reach Vince by dawn, he knew. Judging by the terrain which he knew well, he wasn't more than eight hours ride from where he had left Vince. Finding exactly where Vince was, was an entirely different matter, however. He'd worry about that when he got there.

By time that Fintan had arrived at the vicinity in which he had last seen Vince there was nothing to be seen except overgrown weeds and lonely oak trees. He didn't know what he expected; it had been many days since he had left Vince here. This was Ulthrak now, though. Vince couldn't expect friendly company, especially after what had happened the last time they had joined company with the Ulthrakis. Fintan ran a finger through the dirt and gathered a sample of sand onto his index finger. Withdrawing his Ertorin stone, he sprinkled the sand over it and whispered into it, "locatado eno Vince elado." Fintan hated speaking the old tongue, and he wasn't sure he even believed there was power in its words in the current age, but he had heard stories of the wonders it had worked for others.

The stone's properties shifted from a murky, green glow to more of a transparent, clear crystal. Something seemed to be working, the crystal let off a thin beam of light that ascended upwards and into the atmosphere. Fintan grasped the stone tightly in his palm. Warmth radiated from the stone into his hands and he closed his eyes. Where might I find him? Where is the one, they call Vince? Fintan felt the world spinning around him as he clutched the stone. The ground beneath felt as though it was disappearing from under him and he was just floating, but he didn't dare open his eyes to break the feeling.

He was sitting amongst a group of men around a fire, but they couldn't see him. They were Ulthrakis, he knew for sure. At least ten men were congregated around the fire, seated on logs that were placed intentionally. The smell of smoke from the fire and cooked rabbit drifted over his nose. He didn't recognize the faces around him, but they bore the stolen chainmail and crude rusted swords and pikes of Ulthrakis. There was one man who was talking but for some reason Fintan couldn't hear anything. His lips were moving, and others were listening intently, but he couldn't hear a thing. Maybe I'm meant to observe and not to hear.

Fintan stole a glance behind him, and the scene seemed to light up to allow him to see. There were hundreds of Ulthrakis gathered. Some wondered in and out of tents. Others had laid out their beddings for the night right on the flat ground. A few were sound asleep despite the busy hustle and bustle amongst the men. Clearly there were multiple tribes involved here, as Fintan knew Ulthraki tribes prefer to keep small. This must be some sort of banding together.

He had almost forgotten why he was here, although he wasn't actually here in body—but rather in spirit. He swiveled his head across the entire landscape, and nothing stood out to him as a Magi Knight. He knew a Magi would stick out like a sore thumb amongst these brute savages. Most of them were well over a foot taller and had scraggly beards longer than his hair on his head. No sign of Vince.

Turning back to the meeting around the fire, the man who was doing the talking was beckoning someone to come forward from the tent behind him. Two larger-than-life men came forward with a prisoner bound at the wrists with a bag made of strewn patches of cloak over his head. His garments had been stripped to one thin layer in the cold night and his body convulsed and shivered. Fintan tried to rise from his seat alongside the other men, but he didn't have a body. He was merely a spectator. The talking man wore an ugly metal plate across his face that covered only the front of his face. He was not wanting his identity known to these men he is meeting with. Or he is simply scum and he picked it off a man he murdered along the way. He stood now. He was bulky but he carried it well. He wore heavy layers. The flickering flames of the fire illuminated him in the dark night sky. Small flies and moths fluttered up around him now that he was standing but he didn't seem to mind. He grabbed a rusty, dull blade of iron that was laying down by the log he sat on and held it out before him.

The stones wouldn't show me this is if I couldn't do anything about it, would they? Fintan struggled to find his physical form but inwardly he knew, this was happening far from where he stood. The other men were cheering and encouraging the stalky leader on. His metal plate covered only his central features down to his chin, but soot and sweat sprinkled around the outside of his face were shimmering in the fire light. He stood before the prisoner and raised the sword above his head. The prisoner squirmed and danced but the two giants held him firmly still before the leader. His beefy arms pulled back and smashed the piece of iron rod against the side of his head. He faltered but the giants refused to let him go down. His head was hung now, but the blows weren't finished. Another blow to the top of the head and Fintan could only imagine the sound it would make. Why in the burning bashings of Mestrane can I not hear? He would have felt tears running down his cheeks if he was physically present, he was sure. But he could only watch from the outside, a mere spectator.

Four blows later and the leader looked backward towards a scrawnier man who was sat beside him. The scrawnier man with a rat-like face grabbed a sword that was still in its scabbard from behind him and handed it to the Plate-Faced leader. He unsheathed the blade and the weapon was a fine piece of work. Fintan cried out but no sound was made. That was Gerd's sword—that is Vince's blade! Surely that is him underneath that vile piece of cloth. Fintan desperately wanted to escape the vision but there was no way to do it, he was forced to watch. He could not even turn away now. His head was locked forward towards the Plated-Faced behemoth of a man who stood two feet above the prisoner with a bag over his head. He raised the stolen blade and sliced it cleanly across the neck of the prisoner and his head toppled to the ground and rolled towards the fire. A man seated on the log picked it up, still with the bag on its head and tossed it into the fire.

Fintan fell to the ground in a heap, his heart was beating too fast and he could feel his chest tightening. Tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Anger took hold, and his bitterness tasted foul in his mouth. There was still plenty of light in the day, and Fintan's mission had changed drastically. He was coming for them, whoever they were. He only had one mission now. Weptswur could take care of itself—it would have to. The Ulthrakis were his enemies now. He planned on killing every single of them. The stone raged hot in his hand and Fintan squeezed it without a flinch, as he rode upon his fine stallion.