A decade of farm labor had earned Kendrell a hardy, well-muscled frame, but the frantic flight and constant travel of the last three days had worn on him. Yet when he found his footsteps flagging, he recalled the feeling of despair, confusion, and betrayal when the guards of Vorck retreated into their master's keep, and steeled his resolve. The Malachite Mizer would set this right, or Kendrell Harrows would know the reason why.

It turned out to be the second thing, of course. But I shouldn't get ahead of myself this early in the story; I have a hard enough time keeping up with myself as it is.

The road from Vorck to Grand Tower was a dusty, little-traveled path, muddy from the recent rains. Rather than complain, Kendrell thanked the ancestors that he wasn't traveling in a thunderstorm this time. They were skirting dangerously near the wilds of the northern mountains, but even in the oddly neglected Malachite Fief, the roads this close to the capitol ought to be well-patrolled.

"Ought" being the operative term, of course.

Kendrell had other worries than bandits or wandering beasts, though. Their ostensible guide, Mel Spelloyal, was in a right mood. For the last hour, he had alternated between teeth-gritted silence and outbursts of cursing so inventive that even Granny Elisa would have balked. And only about a quarter of the oaths were plant-related. Was he swearing in Sulpinian? How well-traveled was this guy?

Presently, the older Makspool ground out something that might charitably be interpreted as an intention to scout ahead. Given the barbarian's current mood, Kendrell didn't envy anything unfortunate enough to be a) hostile and b) in his way. Come to think of it, (a) might be optional. Kendrell kept his mouth shut as Mel set out on his own.

"So," began Thoros, after Mel had trundled off to ruin something's day. "Kendrell, huh?"

Kendrell blinked. Yes, that was his name, why was - oh. Right. He fought down a surge of panic. Such a short-lived outlawship he'd had, it was nice while it lasted, well no actually it was utterly horrible, maybe he should just come clean, or maybe he could somehow spin this into not-being-wholly-outed, okay Kendrell you got this hang on and just tell him you misspoke -

What he actually said was: "Oh, goosefarts."

(This particular bit of Red Sands street invective is a much worse oath than it sounds. Geese are mean. Kendrell himself did not pick up that much fowl language before leaving the farm).

Thoros snickered. "That's what I thought. You wanna tell me why you lied about your name?" His tone was light, but Kendrell could hear the warning in it.

Kendrell sighed. His mother had once said he could talk the horns off a charging bull, but he couldn't lie to save his life. Apparently, this was true not only in spirit but in literal fact. Nothing for it but to come clean. "Sorry. I, um, was trying not to get noticed."

"Good job," remarked the Makspool, his face neutral. "What with the lightning and all. Nice and subtle."

Kendrell shot him a sour glare. "That was an accident."

"Pretty effective accident," noted Thoros. "Convenient, even."

"I zap things when I'm nervous, okay? It just - usually - doesn't get out of hand like that."

"Well, the good news is you probably won't have to worry about it for a while. Whatever spell that was is probably phased out for at least an octule, right?"

Kendrell gaped at Thoros. The tribesman shrugged. "What? I know how structured magic works. Hard to be a proper guard when you're ignorant of an entire class of possible threat. You cast a spell, you lose it. You get it back after you wait a while. The stronger the spell, the longer the wait. Shortest one's forty-eight days, or one octule."

"They get a bit shorter," Kendrell corrected absently, remembering his brother's letters. Then he fell silent, remembering his brother.

"Oh right, yeah, there's whajacallem's, chant riffs. And weaker mages wait longer." Thoros kicked a rock, thoughtfully. Then he raised an eyebrow at Kendrell. "But you still haven't answered my question. Aside from electrical incontinence, what else are you hiding?"

Despite himself, Kendrell snorted. "That's, uh, one way to put it. I..." he gulped. This was gonna be hard, wasn't it. "I killed someone. Back home."

Thoros nodded pensively. "They deserve it?"

"No!" Kendrell protested, before he caught himself. "Well, yes. Maybe?"

"Very through," chuckled Thoros.

"I'm serious! I am a murderer and I didn't mean to but now someone is dead and I might never see my family again!" Kendrell's scalp prickled.

He didn't notice the faint shocks running up his hair. Thoros did, and it sobered the tribesman. "Alright. My bad, sorry. I still need to know what happened, though, if we're gonna work together. You want to take it from the beginning?"

Kendrell took a deep breath. "Okay. So, my family's from the Emerald Fief, out east." He paused, worrying. Was it safe to tell Thoros of the Ilvorn raids? Surely the tribesman knew what made most of the Emerald Fief fear his people. It wouldn't be wise to bring up that ancient hostility now. Kendrell stuck to the simple version. "There's been a terrible drought, you might have heard about it -" Thoros nodded. "- our crops dried up, we were nearly starving. We packed up a few months ago, my family and I, and moved to Red Sands looking for work. We'd heard they were short on labor since the Red and Black War."

Thoros grimaced at that. Kendrell wondered why. But he didn't think it wise to ask, just yet. Lots of people lost family in the war.

Come to think of it...where was the barbarian's mother? Kendrell put that thought aside, for now. "My older sister took us in - she's married to a judge in Red Sands, nice guy but not terribly popular. They had a place we could stay, at least.

"It was...hard. The Ruby Mizer arranged for cleanup work and brought in grain from around the city, and some decent officials manage and distribute it. But most of her soldiers are still out clearing the northern fields of roaming undead, and there's just not enough in Red Sands. When we first showed up, a local clan of robbers shook us down for what little we had, and threatened us to make us turn over some of the food we earned."

Kendrell clenched his fists, recalling the fear and helplessness of those first days.

"I guess I should explain the clans - there were two major groups in the underground, the Blue and the Green. Uncle Tamry - he's the judge - warned us before we arrived. The Blue was supposedly led by an arcane expert who coveted magical trinkets, and they went out of their way to steal and extort anything magical they could get their grubby hands on. The Green were a more straightforward bunch of robbers and assassins with connections among the tengu in Down Town. They hated each other, but that didn't stop them from robbing us.

"They got what they wanted. We had barely enough to survive. Ma and Da started cutting meals just so the kids could eat..." he trailed off. "It was a bad few months, for us all. Then..." His hand touched his chest, briefly, clutching at something hanging from a thin chain inside his clothes.

"So, a few years before I moved to Red Sands, my brother Nikolas died in Denlare. Before he died, he left an amulet for me. I carried it everywhere, a way to remember him.

"I was visiting a local pawnshop, trying to sell a few things to make ends meet. The shopkeep, he...I didn't know it at the time, but he must have been with the Blue Clan. He saw my amulet and, it must have been magical, that's why he wanted it so much. He tried to shake me down for it. Threatened me. I got scared, and..."

Kendrell closed his eyes and shuddered. The bang and flash of lightning, the stench of burned flesh and bad air. "I...killed him. With my magic. I don't know how, just, one minute he had grabbed the amulet, the next..." A corpse, marred by black jagged lines, faintly smoking.

"So I ran. I didn't know what else to do."

Thoros nodded, face grim and pensive. They walked in silence, for a time.

Eventually, Thoros remarked, "Sounds like he did deserve -"

He was rudely interrupted when a spider the size of a large dog slammed into him from the side, knocking him over.

Kendrell stood, slack-jawed, in numb startlement.

Thoros swore profusely from beneath the beast, flipping onto his stomach just in time for the spider's fangs to embed themselves in the wooden shield on his back. "Augh! Little help here!"

"I-I don't know what to do -"

"Zap it or something!" roared Thoros, awkwardly grabbing for his sword, which was pinned between his body and the hard-packed ground. The spider yanked free of his shield, lifting him a good six inches off the ground in the process; Thoros pulled his sword free, nearly impaling himself when he hit the ground.

The thing atop Thoros was monstrous, and long-limbed even for a giant spider. Its legs and torso were spined like a sea creature's and covered in a hard shell, innumerable stabbing points threatening to eviscerate the prone barbarian.

"I can't do it at will -" sputtered Kendrell, panicking.

"Get more nervous then!" This was punctuated by a practiced jab upwards, with enough force that it wedged the sword through the monster's carapace. Thoros braced both feet against the underside of the thing and shoved it off, pulling his blade free in the process.

Kendrell noticed a thrumming sensation, and looked down. Small arcs of lightning leaped from his feet to the ground. He had the power but it needed an outlet. Seeing a stone on the ground, he seized it and tried to will the lightning into it. He'd had a decent arm back home; maybe he could throw a shocky rock at the thing?

Nothing happened.

Panic choked Kendrell's breath, and the rush of emotions made his hair stand on end. A detached part of his brain noted, in ironic amusement, that his hair was standing on end, literally, all of it; the top of his head prickled like a rubbed woolen blanket.

Without knowing exactly what he was doing, Kendrell seized the prickling and pushed it down through his arm and into the stone. He saw a flash of lightning run down his arm, and the stone crackled with the energy of it. He cocked his arm and hurled it at the creature.

He missed.

The spider, ignoring this ineffectual assault, remained intent on Thoros. It quickly recovered its balance and scuttled forward to bite at his midsection. Thoros barely managed to block it with his shield, and, off-balance, his wild counter-swing went wide. The spider followed up, pouncing on him and nearly knocking him over again, legs scrabbling at his shield and mandibles clicking against metal and wood.

Kendrell's rock landed wide, and somewhat to his surprise, released a tendril of lightning into the ground with a loud crackle. It worked; he just needed to aim. He grabbed another rock and repeated the effort, pushing raw lightning into the stone. He hurled it at the spider while it was distracted trying to eat Thoros' face.

This time, the stone struck true. A horrid smell of cooked meat assailed Kendrell's nostrils as the monster twitched.

Despite himself, Kendrell grinned.

That was when the second spider bit him in the thigh.

Kendrell gripped Thoros' spare dagger in a white-knuckled hand and winced. He'd forgotten to let go of it after they killed the spiders. That had been terrifyingly close. He stood, heart in his throat, and tried to process what had happened.

Beside him, Thoros groaned. "Giant spiders," he muttered, half to himself. "We were almost killed by giant spiders. I'll never be able to live this down."

This shook Kendrell out of his reverie, and his eyes fell to the wound in his thigh - the worst of his several injuries. "Are they -"

"I don't think this species is venomous, no," grimaced Thoros. "Just wash it with your waterskin and bandage it with clean cloth. It'll heal in time."

How can he be so calm? Kendrell found himself wondering. Wounds didn't heal so easily; they festered or worse, he'd seen it back home. And where had these spiders come from? Who was patrolling the roads here? There shouldn't be monsters this aggressive within five miles of any official road, much less the one leading to the capital. What was happening in the Malachite Fief?

Shaking, he dropped the dagger in the dirt of the path - making Thoros wince - and began dressing his own wounds. Luckily, he'd cared for enough injured animals to know how to produce a makeshift bandage.

They took the better part of a half-hour to patch up, clean up, and (somewhat to Kendrell's surprise) strip the carcasses for stringy meat. "Better than trail rations," explained Thoros, though Kendrell still doubted.

After some discussion, they agreed it was more important to meet up with Mel than to take their chances going back to Vorck alone. Thus resolved, they set off limping along the road north. Their pace was slowed a bit, but they managed to progress reasonably far before the sun began to set along the western treeline.

Dusk tinged the sky a brilliant rose-orange, making the alpine foliage appear for a time to be alight with flame. A pity Kendrell was too tired and hurting to admire it. All he could think about was how he wasn't looking forward to a night in the mountains with Giant Freaky Spiders.

Something crunched, and Kendrell's head whipped around in a near-panic. But his alarm proved unfounded, as the squat tribesman Mel rounded a bend in the path, sauntering in their direction. He stopped when he noticed their wounds. "Aw, lad, tell me I didn't miss a fight, Thoros, you know I hate missing fights."

"We took care of it," replied Thoros sourly.

The tribesman, in better spirits than before his scouting, observed them with a look almost approaching amusement on his squashed pumpkin of a face. "Aw now, don't be like that. What happened? You boys look like hell."

Kendrel started to explain. "We were attacked by - "

"Don't ask," grunted Thoros, face twisted in a frustrated half-snarl.

"Really?" grinned Mel. "'Cos it sounds like an interesting story. Beating from a rogue tree? I hear there are some right monster brawlpines in the mountains. Or jumped by saurians, maybe, they're pretty common up in these hills, they come in hungry packs of twelve or so -"

"DON'T. ASK."

Evening of the next day saw the small group halfway up the switchback paths in the mountains. A chill had fallen, and Kendrell shivered. He was dressed for the warm and humid streets of Red Sands, not the cold mountain air.

Mel and Thoros seemed to agree, for they cast about looking for firewood. With their swords drawn. Nothing concerning about that, thought Kendrell dryly, no sirree. Must just be a bit of that hillman paranoia at work.

Kendrell noticed, with a bit of surprise, that Mel used his claymore to chop firewood. "Sir - uh, I mean, Mel" - the barbarian had made it quite clear earlier in the journey that calling him "Sir Spelloyal" or anything of the sort was an invitation for a swift kick in the pants - "won't that dull the blade?"

"It's a magic - hrah! - sword, boy," Mel grunted, between swings. "Can't nothing but stronger magic dull it. Handy for chopping a lot of things. Wood, brush, grass, vines, zombies, raptors, bone, flesh - "

"Thanks, I think I get the picture," Kendrell interjected hurriedly, feeling a bit queasy.

Mel chuckled. "If you wanna help out, check around for some more deadwood. Thoros, you best go with him so he don't get strung up by an assassin vine or something."

"A what now?" asked Kendrell.

"Dad, we don't even know if those exist this far west of the Wilds," answered Thoros, exasperated. "But sure, I'll go too."

"What if we get attacked by more giant - " Kendrell paused at a wince from Thoros " - uh, monsters?"

"Oh, just yell," waved the tribesman vaguely. "If I don't make it in time to save you, I'll at least avenge what's left."

Thoros took Kendrell by the arm and led him towards the woods. "He's joking," Thoros explained quietly, as they left. Then he paused. "I think."

The faint crack of a twig was all the warning they got.

This time, though, Kendrell was ready. He spun about, borrowed dagger in hand, brandishing it at the interloper. Thoros had the same idea; despite his injuries, he had his shield up and his sword out in an instant.

Bulbous eyes blinked at them both.

"Helowm," said the frog.

"Frog" was Kendrell's first impression of the creature. It had the same bulbous eyes, wide mouth, and mottled green-brown skin as the Ilvorn river frogs, and its limbs were unmistakably amphibian. There, however, the resemblance ended. The creature stood some three feet tall, clad only in short breeches and a long-sleeved shirt of some oddly flexible material. It wore a thin knife at its belt, wrapped in an equally thin makeshift sheath of some curiously lumpy fabric. It stared at Kendrel and Thoros, motionless save for the slow pulsing of a membrane at its throat.

Parch and burn it, thought Kendrell. That scared me.

"What - " Thoros began, voice an octave higher than usual. He coughed and tried again. "Who. Are you."

"Rubalog Taggle, of firzt cludch of Orglog, grolm," the creature replied, speaking with slow care. Its flat voice gurgled and slurped like thick mud. "Pleagsed to meed youhw."

"Uh, you too?" Kendrell tentatively offered a hand. Rubalog's lean arms terminated in webbed hands, he saw; four long-fingered digits on each. Rubalog did not raise them to shake, and Kendrell, feeling utterly inadequate, lowered his own.

I probably look like a tall stiff ape to him, Kendrell's inner monologue offered helpfully. Shut up, suggested Kendrell's self-respect. In the end he compromised with himself, offering Rubalog what he hoped was a polite nod. Thoros kept his sword in hand, eyeing the creature warily. It blinked - not vertically, but horizontally, with a set of translucent membranes - and Kendrell jumped.

If Rubalog noticed, it did not react. "I'b looging ford da Bizer," Rubalog went on, throat-membrane puffing in and out. "Do youhw gnow where I gan find him, grolm?"

Kendrell caught his drift before Thoros did. "You want to see the Mizer?"

"You and me both, pal," muttered Thoros. The creature - Rubalog - swiveled its head slightly to look at him.

"Yes, I do," answered the newcomer in its gargling accent. (Henceforth, dear reader, you can use your imagination in the rendering thereof. I'll be smeared if I'm going to transcribe twenty pages of Grippli-accented Common for the convenience of posterity. It's a veritable nightmare to render a proper croque, anyway. Why, the troubles it gave to the renowned sixth-century gnomish linguist Snifwhill the Utterly Sane - )

"Do you know where I can find him?" the newcomer repeated in the same tone.

(The nerve! Any civilized protagonist knows better than to interrupt the narrator so rudely. And in the middle of a delightful expository digression, no less. Now, thanks to Rubalog, you will never know what sequence of grammatical mishaps drove poor Snifwhill to hang himself with a set of stolen elven lingerie. Fortunately, Rubalog is a mere side character - you needn't grow attached or anything. At any rate, back to our heroes.)

Thoros, still wary of the newcomer, did not lower his sword. "And just why do you want to see him?" he demanded. His tone, like his person, managed an impressive union of pointed, sharp, and blunt.

Rubalog remained silent, throat-membrane pulsing.

"What business," insisted Thoros, "does a Grippli have with the Malachite Mizer? I thought you all lived in the swamp near Red Sands."

Realization dawned on Kendrell, late as a Jotenaugr sunrise. He had heard of the Grippli - a race of swamp-dwellers, they largely kept to themselves. A wealthy landowner from Wheatfields had once boasted of owning an expensive Grippli cloak, dribbling water on its surface to showcase its superior waterproofing. So presumably they had at least some contact with the outside world, even if it were just a bit of trade. But he had never seen one in Red Sands, and if even the more well-traveled Thoros seemed taken aback at its presence...

"We do," confirmed Rubalog. "Most of us, grolm." Then he fell silent, blinking.

"You are a long way from home," Kendrell pointed out, more gently. "And in strange country."

Blink. "Yes."

It was Kendrell's turn to blink, at this. Okay. "Has the Mizer dealt you or your people some injury, perhaps?"

This time, Rubalog hesitated before answering. His throat pulsed more widely. "I do not know."

Kendrell what to tell the creature. Honesty was best, he decided - ancestors knew he hadn't much success with lying. "We're looking for the Malachite Mizer too," he explained. "We're headed north to Grand Tower to ask him about...uh...an incident in Vorck."

Rubalog peered at him. "You know the way?"

"...sort of. He's probably in Grand Tower. Maybe if we knew what exactly you were looking for, we could help you?" Kendrell tried.

"I am looking for my..." there was a pause and a blink, while the newcomer seemingly searched for a word. "Father," it continued. "He came here many..." blink, "weeks ago, to ask something of the Mizer. He did not come back." Rubalog's long tongue snaked out to lick his enlarged eyeballs.

It was hard for Kendrell to judge the unfamiliar body language, but he guessed the Grippli was worried. It wasn't hard to imagine why. Kendrell thought of his own family, near-starving in Red Sands, and felt a pang of sympathy.

"What was it that brought your father here?" he inquired. As he did, he made a calming gesture at Thoros. Rubalog didn't seem hostile. Grugingly, the hillman relaxed, but did not lower his weapon.

"I am sorry," blink, "but I should not speak of it to strangers." Blink. "It is...Grippli business, grolm."

Horizontal eyelids flicked again, perhaps in acknowledgment. (They are called nictitating membranes by stuffy scholars with too much time on their hands, and gloorblagwollom or glorlls in Grippli, not that Kendrell knew either term).

The conversation continued in the same vein for several minutes, Kendrell and Thoros attempting to elicit more than a few words at a time from the Grippli, mostly without success. It was Kendrell who broke the awkward impasse by suggesting that Rubalog travel with them to the castle. After a pause, the Grippli agreed; and so the three supplicants became four.

The name "Grand Tower" was something of a misgnomer.

Non-gnomish linguists, incidentally, may tell you the proper spelling is "misnomer," but they, as usual, overlook the historical significance of the word. In fact, it was the gnomish habit of naming their pet cats such things as "Fish," their dogs "Owl," and their parrots "Babbling Brooke" that engendered the word in the first place. Gnomish contributions to literature are, alas, frequently overlooked by those of narrow vision. Gnomes manage, however; for obvious reasons, they have grown accustomed to being overlooked.

Where was I? Oh yes, Grand Tower. The title was something of a misgnomer, you see, because while its size and ostentation may earn the adjective "Grand" (at least among the tasteless and easily impressed), it was really a walled city surrounding a sizable castle.

Mel, on being introduced to Rubalog, had spared little more than a suspicious grunt of acquiescence to the Grippli's unexpected presence. He now glowered up at the Malachite Mizer's fortress as though contemplating how best to convert it to a large pile of rubble.

They stood at a walled crevice, little more than a hole in the sheer cliff guarding the winding deathtrap of an approach trail to Grand Tower proper. During the War of the Seventeen Gates, it was said this particular path had rendered the term "murder holes" a profound understatement. As an elf, the Malachite Mizer may have been eccentric in his adoption of Dwarven hyper-defensible architecture, but no one could say he did it badly.

Far in the distance, just barely visible above the foreboding Foreguard Peaks, a massive tower stood contemptuous watch of the valleys below. Beneath its disdainful spire, a dizzying labyrinth of elven architecture huddled in the protection of magic-wicking sinkstone walls, every block imported at titanic expense from the mines of Sulpinia. Beyond the southern city gate, a carved path of switchbacks rimmed and split by fortifications, crenelations, and machicolations wound its way to the base of the mountains below. There, yet another gatehouse stood impassive guard; tall, thick, and very, very closed.

At the base of the western wall beside the gatehouse, a small but thick messenger-door could be seen; and in front of that door stood two bored and gleaming elves.

They had been watching the small, travel-stained quartet clamber up the steep road for the past quarter hour. This was the first interesting thing to happen to them in at least a fortnight, and they, being elves, hated it already.

"Halt, and state your business!" the guard intoned, gesturing - sharply, as it were - with the point of an elaborately functional polearm.

"Here to petition" Mel spat the word out like a foul-tasting morsel "his grandness the Malachite Mizer."

"The Mizer is not taking petitioners at this time."

"Is that so," growled Mel, in a tone flat enough to level buildings. In response, the guards leveled pikes.

Kendrell sensed trouble brewing. Struck by inspiration, he interjected quickly, "What about messengers? We bring news of an attack on his...er...grandness' fiefdoms."

This gave the guards only the briefest of pause. "Messengers," drawled the second, "are known to the guard, or carry writs of passage. Have you such a writ?"

"Not officially," Kendrell temporized, "but our news may nevertheless be of interest to His Grandness." He consciously added the capital letters this time, trying to match the guards' formality. By their unconvinced sneers, he doubted his success, but plowed on anyway. "It concerns his nephew, the Lord Protector of Vorck."

"And the Lord Protector," sneered the second, "possessed by urgent need to contact his eminent uncle the Malachite Mizer, sent a ragged thief, two uncouth barbarians, and a frog."

"The Lord Protector," snarled an irate Thoros, "was, last we saw him, cowering in his fortress with the entire city guard, while bandits robbed his town of their winter stores. And weapons," he added. "They'll be even more trouble next time, if His Grandness chooses not to act."

"Astounding though it may seem to your provincial minds," countered the elf coldly, "His Grandness the Malachite Mizer has no use for the counsel of rabble, and even less for their criticism. He will handle the bandit problem in his own time...and all who trouble his demesnes," the elf gave their party a meaningful glance, "will be suitably punished."

Kendrell spared a sidelong glance at his companions, concerned. Rubalog remained unreadable, blinking and throat-pulsing in silence. Thoros was red with barely-suppressed fury, but it was Mel who made Kendrell's hair stand on end. The elder Makspool's eyes were narrow and his voice was cold. "And would His Grandness deign to see an emissary of the Citrine Fief, one bearing the title of Spelloyal?"

The first guard's eyes widened at that, and he drew in a breath, looking to his companion. But the second gave a barely-perceptible headshake, and the first guard's gaze hardened once more. "The Malachite Mizer is seeing neither visitors nor diplomats at this time."

"Please," inquired Rubalog, "Have you seen -"

"And he certainly," interrupted the first guard, "has no use for muckwades like you." (The insult was lost on Kendrell, but Thoros emitted a wordless snarl and Mel's squint deepened.)

"Please, grolm," Rubalog pleaded, "I only come to seek news of," blink, "family. My father Orglog passed near Grand Tower not long ago," blink, "do you know what happened to him?"

"Keep nosing about and you'll find out," snapped the first guard. The second shot him a quelling shut-up-you-blithering-idiot look, and he fell silent.

Rubalog's pulsing throat stilled, and he stared unblinking at the guard. The implications weren't lost on Kendrell, either, and he frowned. They were not given long to ponder, however, as the second guard quickly recovered his wits and growled, "And now, I think, it is time for you to leave."

"So it is," growled Mel in reply. His tone bore an ominous finality. "So it is."