Once there was a strange and wizardic tower, magnificent and terrifying, outdoing any of Nystol’s great spires both in reputation and design. It was known as the Tower Wyrdd, and those who lived to see it spoke of it in the tones of dread, describing a most ingenious and disturbing construction of seeming impossible magnitude. A certain “Zenops the wizard” designed it, employing the many-handed anthrai to build it. Long did he haunt its chambers, living far beyond mortal span. Even more disturbing was the fact that he never once bothered to explain its purpose.

At some point in the reports of men he acquired the appellation of a creature, the grith-wyrdiung, or “The Tower-weird.” This is not disputed, for it was widely known that only a wizard of his renown and ability could have contrived such architecture. Not only is it of gargantuan proportion, but it is intricately buttressed and spiraled. The most amazing thing about this tower is that its greater part lay in a narrow gorge whose steep cliffs encircle it, and whose profound depth reaches even down to the mystically flowing intermundane waterways.

How the feat was accomplished is part of the mystery that this account investigates, but let it be done through an eyewitness’ words.

I, Epinanaus, record for you here the adventure reported of one sadly mistaken soul, Hepthe, who told of his journey with the dwarf lord Nergalfin, in the days not long after his escape from the slaver-Centaurs of the Mahanaxaran plains and how misadventure brought them into that place, and into many ordeals, the claws of many horrors, even to the maw of the wizardic monsters which lurk below.

Over the centuries, many over-confident adventurers had broken into the colossal tower hoping to seize the loot rumoured deep within. Only a few have ever returned. I, a mere wandering historian, traveled as far as the remote eastern town of Khnum to obtain a hearing of this account.

I located my old friend Hepthe, the once irrepressible youth. He would sit every day on the porch of his little shack in the wilderness “awaiting the consummation of ages.”

As I recorded the continuous account he gave, sitting on his cabin porch, I became more and more convinced that Hepthe had truly been inside Zenops’ tower. I have captured most of his own words and phrases.

So hear you then this entire journey of Hepthe and learn of the deep worlds...

“Know that I am Hepthe, a man of enough years who now but keeps to his garden. I have not always been this way. I was an energetic and strapping lad like you once, in the days when there were no realms safe from the terrible Nergalfin, a masterful dwarf-champion and the conqueror of many kingdoms. Stay for a time and let me teach you about the world of those days.

Hermius the Great, first lord of all the Aideen empire, did not keep his admiral Nergalfin from the inheritance of the golden oak leaves, thusly by default bestowing upon him also the empire in its entirety.

Nergalfin came to rule all the Archonate with strict justice, satisfying himself on all wealth and power, tyrannizing over the many provinces of the Aideen. To his clever rule he joined not frivolity or entertainments, but jaded pranks and cruel combats.

At the arena he took part in the games himself, changing the rules to suite his mood. It was not long before the people correctly perceived him to be beyond help.

I will describe for you, friend, my encounter with this unsavory being, who, for a time, not only led us into grand folly, but by some strange twist of destiny revealed to me the nature of realities about which I cannot easily speak.

In those days there were few who had not already heard many songs of his exploits. Nergalfin had been a famous general. In fact that is why he became the principle successor of the Aideen hegemony and Archonate, as if so favored by the great founder himself. You see, Hermius the Conqueror had no child of his own and needed a successor. Suspecting his last martial expedition might soon be undertaken, he trusted the diadem and Orb of Dominion into clever Nergalfin’s keeping before he marched out. Some of the lesser generals secretly protested.

The generous Hermius at last came to the end of his days and parted from the world, dying in that famous combat on the mysterious Island of Harpies.

At once it seemed the entire creation became silent, not only with foreboding, but with worried anticipation. The bloody work of Nergalfin’s malchus, his short sword, (not a dwarven axe, mind you, as many paintings depict), was already infamous. It was not long before his reputation, of the dwarven blade in one hand and the Orb in the other, had the effect of keeping the Empire Aideen in fearful obedience for a nearly decade.

The new ruler did not assume the title hegemax, for he cleverly announced that only godly Hermius could be worthy of an imperial title. Instead he titled himself god hero of Aideen and the “divine son” of Hermius, by adoption, and thus, also ignoring the Great Patriarch, virtually bestowed upon himself both the miter and the diadem.

In subsequent years when the world hoped to rid herself of this baneful tyrant, I myself and a few companions had joined the war-parties assembling against Nergalfin. We were hoping for glory, and the prince of Ulthuring had allowed me to enter the conscription, eventhough I had only seen seventeen winters and did not yet fit properly into my ancestral hauberk of chainmail.

Our forces had met the loyalists on the plain of Gederon in Arahom, ancientmost field of war, to decide the matter. The battle was a terrific one, and it seemed the earth shook while the sun was obscured by swelling dark clouds. Amidst the gore and screams of fatal demise, our arrows hissed down upon the enemy, blackening the sky and reddening the plain. Twenty thousand fell that day.

Nergalfin could be seen in the distance riding on a war elephant, its tower-saddle bobbing to and fro as he kept shouting instructions to his captains. Finally, realizing that the battle was dead locked, the man dwarf dismounted, letting down from the tower a rope and descending. He leapt forth in order to cut his way to the thick. He brandished his sword in bloodlust and disappeared into the fray himself.

Overcome with folly at that moment was he; the folly of supposing that all his loyals were convinced of his invincibility and immortality. He thought that they would never doubt of victory, be he visible to his troops or not. It was an unexpected turn, and no longer could his war captains look back to see him standing on the elephant with exalted horn or pointing with his sword. The imperial ranks began to weaken, and very quickly most of the spear took flight, supposing their champion lord fallen.

In the end, we routed and scattered Nergalfin’s entire imperial host, tracking the enemy into the swamps. His great and loyal champions lay in purple heaps upon the cruel plain of war. Eventhough the grim dukes of Kargiwall had backed him and remained loyal, their heart was not in the fight. They had been no match for the divinely ordained kings of Whitehawk the Ammouric confederacy. Nergalfin was nowhere to be found.

Tidings of Nergalfin’s defeat and an end to his iron misrule would spread quickly throughout the lands. I myself was celebrating with my companions in our pavilion upon the dusty plains, not far from the scene of victory.

Nergalfin, it was reported, had fled East, but this was a deception or a mistaken intelligence. In reality the dwarf somehow had been separated from his small band of survivors, and had been traveling South, to reach the backroads of Kargiwall, perhaps in an attempt to bypass the allied forces and make the Ebberhar. There, reaching his ancestral stone halls within the Lessarlik Mountains, he would escape justice, disappearing into the volumes of rock, the Northernmost end of the Antelynk chain.

None of us soldiers perceived any of the things which were transpiring that evening after the battle. Instead we were drinking our victory wine and contriving exaggerations of martial exploit.

To my dismay, looking up from the couch, I thought I saw the felonius dwarf himself standing at the entrance of our lieges’ own tent. Impossible, I thought. The cold rain outside mixed with wine and excitement was causing me to be mistaking what I saw.

I looked again. It was surely a dwarf.

Was the shadowy figure enticed by the savor of the smoke from the fat of the boar we had been roasting? Watching closely I recognized his profile immediately, since he was larger than most dwarves and his eyes were distinctive. My companions, playfully filling their drinking horns and singing lowly songs, did not heed anything else but their own joviality. At first I could not say anything. Perhaps I had been stunned speechless at the mere suspicion of so infamous a figure so near, or perhaps I did not believe my eyes.

The grim dwarf stood in shadow watching us, and only I noticed him and could not or would not act. A moment passed and then he spoke in loud voice to all.

“What? Some noble company filling victory horns! Here, here, righteous crew, to celebrate the high news, greet a gladsome ally arriving, a friend with tired limbs.”

Our field captain, Sir Dunstaark, the company commander, was also an Ammouric Ranger. Now someone was interrupting him and keeping him from gulping his victory wine. Being turned away, he did not look back to see. He spoke, irritated.

“Who is it? Not another stray, another renegade without?”

“A stranger, a soldier,” I answered. “Perhaps some dwarf lord, wounded.”

“Who goes there?” the captain barked. “Declare your liege and rank, if you cannot salute.”

The dwarf made no answer.

“You dare refuse? Has he a mouth left? If he does not salute at once, we shall seize him. Are you an escaped cur of the old hegemony...fated to join many others who are hanging from ropes today?”

“Now now, keep in good cheer, friends,” The dwarf said. ‘How proven in war you all must now surely be...( he was ignoring the command!) “but please...help a miserable soldier of noble company, invite me in, a poor dwarf. I was struck on the head in the havoc of war and have lost me-companions...I think mine memory has quit me...but let me out of the wind and rain...if only for a spell. See, it is pouring something fierce and I am near starved, faint from the long ordeal of the day.”

“Your kind is not welcome here...dwarf!” warned one of our men.

“Is it possible that you are not wise to what I just required of you?” warned Dunnstark, turning around with dismay. “By my life you will not stand a moment longer. Declare your liege and rank!”

“I am Alfir, a dwarf who has no place to hide from the cruel elements. Please, do not mistake me, good soldiers. I know that your crew saw part of the battle. I am not so fortunate. I was separated from my dwarf lord Vorta when Kargiwall came about and surprised us, scattering our lines. We were all separated when we took to pursuing the enemy in the swampy forest, Maboloth, aye; it is some dark in there. But now I come across this company of heroes! Were it not for this reckless crew, our confederacy would have lost the day.”

“Something is not sincere in that account,” replied Sir Dunnstark. “I recall nothing heard of there being any dwarf lord “Vorta” upon the field. You seem to me, by the trim and hue of your beard, to be the kind allied with the Red Dwarves or with the house of Eberrhark. You are Nergalfin’s kin no doubt, trying to make it back to your mountain. Arrest him!”

We, five of us ready yeomen, sprung to our feet and darted across the tent. At once we grabbed the uninvited guest. The tired dwarf was easily overcome. He was armed with a dagger and short sword, which he did motion upon both to unsheathe. Those we quickly snatched away. We held him fast.

“I wonder...” Dunnstark asked. “Has this soldier given a true report? What say you, lieutenant? He is too weary to resist and take action to counter my men.”

Our lieutenant, Perigraunce, answered. “He must be interrogated.”

“Why, I’ll be!” I exclaimed. “Lieutenant, look, it’s no dwarf soldier. I say it is the Emperor. –Emperor Nergalfin himself in flesh and blood!” We were enclosed around him, each having held fast of one of his limbs. Holding him up, we carried him into the middle of the tent. He did not struggle.

“What? Can that be?” replied Dunstaark. “Out of the way, let me take a look!” The Ranger peered down at the dwarf who lay now feigning helplessness on his back upon the floor of our pavilion. “Be gads! It is in sooth the Emperor! We should have recognized him!” Immediately Dunstaark darted over to his long sword resting in the corner and, taking aggressive posture, he readied his arm for combat.

“We have good hold of him,” I said, “he will not escape us.”

“You do not know about him like I do...Nergalfin has been in stronger bonds before and escaped having many heads tied to his belt. Are you wise to the strength and speed those little limbs hide? They don’t call him “Hermius’ Vengeance” for nothing.”

“Unhand me, I say...ye foolish. I am not Nergalfin, no. I am a cousin of his, of passing semblance. I will not hurt any of you. It is true, I did fight for him once, in the old days when Hermius was great, but not here today at Gederon. I would never fight for that wreck Nergalfin. Everyone knows the old bastard’s fate was fixed. He is all done in for. All announce that Nergalfin is slain. ’Twas an arrow I heard...his body stolen away by pit-borne devils for punishment, no doubt. None of us care anything at all about the Archonate. It will fall apart. It’s all over. All be done with all. Let us celebrate an end to wicked killing and fearful days.”

“The dwarf deceives us.” said Haroun, another of our company. This soldier was a lancer from Gohha, a determined fighter, swart skinned, gangly, and tall, perhaps even descended from the legendary Egyptians themselves. The Gohhans, it was said, had long known about tyranny before ever Nergalfin touched the world: they had known centuries of oppression by the Kalar Empire and its Cult of the Veiled One. Nevertheless, eventhough Nergalfin had freed them from one tyrrany, they were not satisfied to exchange it for the new yoke of the Archonate. Many Gohhans had come to join in the alliance against Nergalfin, making the long dangerous trek through regions patrolled by the Atalur and Kutaal. Haroun had deep suspicion.

“We must bring him to the field marshal for interrogation.”

“Did you not hear?” asked Dunstaark, “The field marshal lay dead upon the plain. We must hang him ourselves.”

“It may be the Emperor as you say, but it is perhaps not, and we may end snatching the life of an innocent man.” said Perigraunce.

“Many innocent died today, it is the way of war.” said Dunstaark darkly. “Can anyone identify him with certitude?”

“Is not Nergalfin’s profile imprinted on silver coins mint from Hermius’ second triarchate?” I asked.

“It is so. Does anyone have a quotid?”

“I do...here...” said Haroun. He passed over a coin. “See, it is the same man... dwarf rather: Nergalfin when he was commander of Hermius’ fourth legion, before he became heir to the Eastern Empire, the last lips who ever spoke to Hermius. It is him, who would later become the Butcher of Namaliel, city of Ymmin’s laughing shores.”

“No, no...(the dwarf chuckled)...I should have just come out and said it, it’s a common mistake...I said: I am one of his several half-brothers, being a rather harmless dwarf.”

“We shall see.” said Dunstaark in a foreboding tone. “It is known that Nergalfin, before Hermius purchased the work of his butchering hands, operated with the sand pirates of the Dry Blood Sea. Like all the others, his shoulder was painted with the triple mark of the snake patterned ophis. So if this dwarf has the mark, we will know certainly that it is Nergalfin. Strip him off the shoulders!”

We began to roughly handle and unstrap the dwarf’s shoulder piece. He began resisting by twisting out of our grasp. Indeed he was mighty.

“Now there is no need to strip me of my leather!” he shouted, almost free of us. “Very well then, I do have the mark and I am Nergalfin, Master of all the Archonate!”

“Master no longer...!” said Dunstaark standing ready with lifted blade. At this, in trepidation for our lives, we all took our hands off him and instead drew our weapons. By this time, with all the ruckus in the tent, some of the drinking cups and horns had spilled over. Now we watched like frightened dogs as Nergalfin bent down and lazily picked up a wine skin. Ignoring us entirely, the bloodthirsty warlord did not pour into a horn, but putting the pigskin to his lips sucked down red wine unafraid of us, letting the blood-red liquid run down his lips into his beard.

We were surrounding him, too uncertain to move against him, but ready for combat.

“Those weapons will supply ye scant defense against me, humans.” he said. “I could snatch all yer lives right quick, together in a heap, if I so wished it. Were I really a churlish spirit, like so many claim, I should put down each one of you in a few moves, with my bare hands. But what would that avail anyone? Now the fates have doused my burning pride. My empire is broken and I am without an army. My Will is spent. I have no mundane struggle left in me, no more thirst for blood. –wine rather, to drown my sorrows. Aye, a dark cloud has for many years hung over my soul.”

“And yet you must still pay for your crimes.” I said. “These soldiers will make sure of that.”

At that he drank even more, as if to deeply soak his soul. After he finished swallowing the wine he spoke more.

“Do you really think it so important to relieve the fears of a few fattened kings by the killing of a forsaken dwarf?” he asked. “Mark ye instead this revelation: what they and the many “distorters” have called crimes, I know to be right justice. Take for example the title I have been burdened with these past years, “Butcher of Namaliel.” It is true that a better leader would have found a more peaceful solution, but with The Cult of the Veiled One so entrenched in that city, I was forced to employ torture in order to find the whereabouts of their evil clerics. When the people revolted against me, it quickly became apparent to myself, and to all the army, that the entire populus had been secretly initiated into the wicked rites, and that they were planning to offer us up as blood sacrifices to their evil version of God. We tried our best to spare a few women and children. Perhaps a few innocent men died, but that is war, as your captain remarked. So I have already payed for what they claim are my crimes, at least in part. I paid not only by the woes and scandal that false religion harvests, necessitating us to blood, but also by the immense shame of this defeat.”

“We have heard that story before, Nergalfin,” replied Dunstaark. “But your record shows a grievous history of war crimes even before you took the diadem. Hermius himself had to rein you in many times. After he was dead, any restraint flew away with the birds.”

“So do my accusers claim. But they themselves are decievers druelling for power. You may not realize that many of those so called “righteous” and “divinely ordained kings” to whom you have vowed loyalty are actually scions of the underworld conspiracies which have plagued men since of old. They are experts in making the just seem wicked and the wicked just. The subterrene orders and their evil confreres the Sorcerers, and that wicked city, Nystol, are to blame.”

“Nystol...that old city lost in the desert? How so? It is a forgotten place.”

“It is not forgotten. The Nystoli Arcanes, those liars among others betrayed me at Gederon, never sent the wizard Anherm and his crew, as promised, to my aid. They assured me that they would remain loyal. So they lied. I know why. My own allies, the dukes of Atalur, had become too much a threat to them... Had the wizards come and used their magic, the battle would have been mine. If only I had spent my troops trying to conquer Nystol instead, that harlot of a city. Fool that I was, I trusted Nystol, foolishly overlooking how they treated my ancestors. That city must pay for its evils, I intend to see it come to ruin.”

“Can you never cease to think of war, Nergalfin? Nystol is impregnable.” said Dunstaark. “No one can enter it by force of arms. Not even Duke Ikonn of old, maurader of worlds, could have led an army through that merciless desert to the Sardu mesa. The thought itself is a vain imagining. Nor even Hermius, popular as he was, would have been able to raise an army for that purpose. So unforgiving is the way there, and so dreaded are its unholy towers, that no man would so risk the loss of his own soul.

“But come now, offer your neck. Your days of conquests are over anyway, bloody handed dwarf. At best you will spend the remainder of your span shamefully in the Othgog prison, a fate worse than death. The place is, if you have’nt heard, like a strange reverse brother to Nystol, a massive prison city on the isle of Cranit from which no one can escape.”

“That is what you imagine shall be my end...” The dwarf replied with wry confidence. “It is true that no one has ever made it through the merciless desert to Nystol, but many have made it there by a secret route, an underground passage.” Again he drank down more wine. “How else do you suppose the cunning wizards and worldly princes exchanged potions for power? No females are allowed up there, so be assured that no one born of woman suckled at the breasts of that city.”

“An underground route?”

“Aye, and hear this: I have found a map drawn by the gnome Kruthendel himself. This rarity is highly valued. It is nothing less than a subterrene chart of the tunnels and underworld waterways ‘neath the desert which, twisting in silence, lead to Nystol. This is a high prize indeed, from the original gnome horde, Kruthendel’s de itinere caverneo ad nystulum. If I could enlist a band of reckless warriors to accompany me into the deeps, we could find the shadowy trade route and acquire magics and wealth untold.”

This word caused great stir among the soldiers. Several indicated that such a booty would make up for our lack of glory upon the field, nor were the captains adverse.

“It is a fool’s legend...” I said, “the whispers about “Gulconda,” an underground route. Besides, even if such tunnels exist, it is unlawful to awaken the dwellers beneath. Even if it were lawful, and we did pass through the lower world, no commoners have entered Nystol for decades. Now be done with such talk, for you only seek to delay the just punishment that awaits you.” So I spake. If only those placed above me had the common sense to heed it, but Dunstaark bade otherwise.

“No, let the captive finish his proposal, Hepthe. You men put aside your weapons.”

“Surely you do not entertain this folly?” remarked Perigraunce. “Although it is a curious tale, I admit.”

“Aye, my liege.” I dared to interrupt again. “May I first warn you of deception, for I too am lore wise.”

“You are indeed lore wise, Hepthe, but young and stupid. This dwarf is clever indeed. But I give you leave to speak a little...quickly say what counter lore you have in mind, boy.”

“The dwarf thinks we can pass through Astodan, the complex of tombs beneath Nystol where the wicked Arcanes of old are buried. There they stir, restless, for it is right law that the ashes of the wicked generation would not be placed at the top of Nystol’s towers, in funeral urns, not like the others, righteous of old. So think on this: the legends say that dwelling in the necropolis Astodan are many a terrifying lich, not asleep, but awake, the undead of Sorcerers jealous to guard their lairs.

“Say a group did get past them, and into the upper city somehow, and even were to capture some magical things from Nystol, they could not use them without right knowledge. Nor could magics avail the waning world in any way, for everyone knows that magic is no longer touched in all the civil lands. It is against the old laws as well as the new.”

“Is that a fact?” Nergalfin interjected. “Then teach us how the princes of Hyrcanth and Kargiwall acquired their strange spells. For many years, against the universal decrees, they have taken viziers secretly trained in Nystol, and have even been smuggling potions and arcane scrolls. All these years it was a mystery to your confederacy: they have been using the same deeply delving route since the times of their grandfathers!

“I myself shall lead a fearsome troop through Gulconda and up into the Astodan. We shall sack Nystol, putting and end to the wickedness that is brewing there. They shall drink the foaming cup of my wrath!”

Nergalfin seemed to foam at the mouth, his veins turning the colour of the wine. “You enrage a dwarf, anything can happen.” I thought to myself. “That sort of avenging hate can only end sour. It is a dangerous state of mind you are in, dwarf. Where shall that consuming wrath lead you? It will never end well, only in more death...I did not much like him and I was determined to expose him as false.

“Can’t you reckon how things are out your hands now? ” I said to him. “Better to let old hatreds rest, sparing yourself the miseries of a godless labour. To loose your soul is much worse than to loose your empire. The ambition of someone like you, who has nothing to lose, is doomed. Accept your fate and let those old Arcanes be...the waning world does not harken to them much anymore these days.”

“Not so...rather I am one partial to the idea.” remarked the fellow soldier, Shu Kurgoman, a Kath. He was one highly respected for his skill even among the knights. “Why do the civil lands not band against the unclean city? Should righteous kingdoms let a nameless fear of weird invocations and curses rule over them, and over us all? Must every land continue to send them sacrifices, many hecatombs, the fattest cattle? What will the Arcanes demand next, your virgin daughters, your first born? We should take up cause with the dwarf. Nor can the Nystoli be thought innocent by repute of distant forefathers: many slaves did those early mages once burden, working them to death. It is time for retribution.”

“The old magic is useless and does nothing now.” I said. “Nystol is powerless, as I heard it, and she is just going on her reputation. That is the real reason why Anherm the wizard never came to aid the Emperor yesterday. He had no war-magic to offer. We should spend our effort convincing the kings of this. The demon gods have been expelled from the temples. A new hope is upon the earth, the voice of the Man god crucified. We should be done with wars and hatreds now. Time for penance and bitter tears worshipping God, lest avenging angels harass our tormented minds.”

“You foolish humans never cease to talk of angels as of late.” Nergalfin said mockingly. “I don’t ever remember an angel following my orders for battle, or cooking up a fat dinner for me. But who is this soft skinned hand, this Waffle, farting so much talk here, an overgrown sprout?”

“I am the son of Barnas, Hepthe of Ulthorc, war vassal to Dunstaark who has arrested you. I am ready to do his bidding come hell or highwater.”

“This lad is nothing but a lowly lugger, no warrior, certainly not of a chivalrous stalk. Can he even grow a full beard? Wherefore does he dare censure my wit? What lands has he conquered?”

There was a silence.

“Conquer thyself.” I replied, frowning.

“Ha..ha... conquer thyself, what profound wisdom. Save your wisdom to the monks, Waffle, for unless you consider the wealth that I offer, you will end up locked away in some monastery on your knees with them.”

It was at this time that I began to secretly desire a like share of the cleverness and advantage of matching words that this oversized dwarf displayed. Nergalfin, the kind of being who did not dwell completely within mountains or underground, was really only half dwarf, a demi dwarf in whose ancestry there was some human blood intermixed. He had the desirable qualities of both races. The keen and stamina of dwarven kind, and the ingenuity and gracefulness of men.

I resented the way he mocked me and scoffed at my youth and inexperience. He had made me seem the fool. But yet I craved to be as great a warlord as he, to inspire others like he did, change minds, and be an accomplished adventurer.

I had been trained by my brothers in sword-craft and had exceled in fencing and the joust. In my home town I had achieved notoriety and even been enrolled in the feudal militia. At some point, I had resolved to make fighting and skillful military accomplishment my career, so I left for greater kingdoms.

For years I had tried to distinguish myself and had finally been noticed by the grand knight of the Ammouric order. He promised that in time, if I survived the war and distinguished myself in battle, that although certainly by birth not eligible for knighthood, I might be eligible for captaincy in the yeoman’s brigade and someday have a hope for fiefdom and feudal title.

In the engagement I marched at the trope of the lines, and everyone saw how I routed many of the foe, recklessly leading the charge. They had remembered my effort and declared me worthy of commendation. However, the grand knight, who had watched me, and from whom I received those hints of hopeful elevation, now lay dead upon the gory field.

Now was that dwarf come.

Only someone with the skill of this Nergalfin could simply walk into an enemy tent and persuade them to his cause. It was then that I realized how clever diplomacy and planning could advance a man even more than the sword, but neither did I have that skill. So I prided myself in supposing that I must be at least be equal to Nergalfin in fencing. I soon came to a resolve of proving this and causing the arrogant dwarf some dismay, for certainly, if we followed him, we would be confronted by the underworld army of darkness, as all the old sagas describe.

Nergalf turned to Dunstaark and continued.

“It is your brutal squadron, knight, that now is given the opportunity, the first offer of sharing in the work, and therefore in its bounty. Help me reach Nystol and we shall put to the stake those wicked necromancers and seize their most valued treasures!”

“The dangers of such a diversion are too great.” warned my brother who also was with us, having come to fight in the wars, (at last meeting up with me on the plain of Gederon after so many years). “...Nergalfin is a defeated world tyrant, a high criminal. You,” he added turning to the dwarf, “should be swinging at the end of a chain! Your capture is worth coin enough.”

“Is it? What are a few bags of copper and silver compared to priceless magic scrolls, potions, precious stones, gold, perhaps even the Nagamaud Amulet itself? What is more, I hear that the Spear of Destiny, a priceless holy relic, the lance that pierced the side of the crucified God, lay in a king’s tomb, somewhere in the intermundane caverns. Not all treasure is silver and gold, my friend.”

“It is unlawful to steal from the dead.” Perigraunce warned.

“What is it that you want with such a relic anyway?”

Nergalfin did not answer, so I, knowing the legend, explained it: “The army of he who holds the Spear and lifts it, for the conquest, that army cannot be defeated in battle.”

“It is the vain and useless legend of a shattered god.” Dunstaark remarked.

“Vain, perhaps for some,” said Nergalfin, “but not useless. Armies can be persuaded by legends. The legend of Nystol’s power herself has been enough to keep would be conquerors from raising armies against her. We must present an equally potent counter legend.”

Let me treat on those years a bit more for you. When he ruled, Nergalfin had sought to increase imperial sway in far places of the furthreaches. When some of Hermius’ eastern governors, generals in the Arahom princedoms and the eastern lands of Arraf, heard that Hermius was dead, that the legend himself turned out to be mortal, they boldly endeavored to cut out hegemonies for themselves. They even began neglecting tribute and raising their own militias. Even some of the Ammouric kings allied with them.

Nergalfin, having long before perceived their lying flatteries and hidden arrogance in the years when he had stood next to Hermius receiving the submission of kings to the empire, had cleverly anticipated their moves. He would act with a severity that would put a decisive end to their plans and secure his megalomaniacal threat over all.

After the return of the necrophylactoi, the burial wardens of Hermius, a month after the secretive interment, the ruthless dwarf immediately held an enthronement ceremony. He invited several of the suspect generals and captains.

Having the doors locked behind them, Nergalfin hinted little by little at his grim intentions. They feasted unsuspectingly, and he gave a speech, likening them to the very game upon which they were dining. Now his reign of terror began. One by one he himself brutally with his own hands decapitated each suspect in the feast hall of Hermius, while in their very seats, in sight of all the guests.

Unleashed with violence, he struck fear into all legionaries and caused them to swear oaths of loyalty to him alone. He lifted his sword and went forth with his legions across every land. He quashed rebellion and mutiny in northern frontiers and made devastating war with the Durgoth barbarians in the northern Arahom, for they alone among men first dared defy his new rule. He punished them severely and their kind has never recovered. From there he pushed into mountainous Thasos and established permanent garrisons, even demanding tribute from the gigantic races. Then, with the assistance of the feudal Barons of Kargiwall, he gathered an even greater army.

He marched all the way down to Kutaal and put an end to uprisings among the nomads. A year later he marched East and seized the twelve mountain-forts of Atalur. He conscripted their warriors and invaded Kalar, (a vengeance in honor of Hermius who had died at their hands) and he put to the sword the Emperor Bamusk I and all the arrogant princes of the Succon and Gohha, sparing only the eldest province Sarnas out of superstition of the accursed land. He re established the fortress of Ptur and the ring of strongholds in the Valaghir mountains, at last forcing the entire Eastern isthmus into submission. His loyal army next penetrated as far as Xasbur cutting out that same dark region beyond the Eastern Mountains, the same into which Hermius, years before, dared not venture. He had become the new legend, celebrated even by opposing armies, and so percieve how this living legend could even now persuade any soldier, like Mahegal of the Lay of Illystra.

His ambitious conquests however exhausted the treasuries of the Aideen Archonate. Soon the long humiliated princes in the Western feudatories began to imagine themselves strong again while Nergalfin spent years occupied in the east quelling all the Arraf tongue.

So the Western princes and senators came out of hiding and revolted against Nergalfin’s reckless and overbearing dictatorship. The Maceonid kings, who had saved themselves by becoming his client kings, “obedient friends of the divine hero,” being too long relegated to a mere honorary role, now banded together in a fearsome alliance against him.

Now the war was over. Gederon had decided the issue, the storm was abating. The rain outside had died down.

My brother’s warning (and my cautious words too) rung hollow as thoughts of glory and untold riches filled the minds of the other soldiers. They had only seen scant action and nothing of glory while fighting for Ulthork, and now an enterprise of merit touched their ears.

The right thing for us to do would have been to conduct that criminal warlord to the general council. Just trial could rightly gauge his guilt, and so off to execution or the inescapable Othgog.

However, as is common among men, the worse counsel guided vain hearts and untrained minds. Most of our crew spoke up in favor of such an expedition, fearful of returning home with no booty from the war.

“It is not a disagreeable ambition to me,” said Dunstaark, “and in truth, I think it a grand strategy. I too am quite curious as to what places brood beneath our feet. You, dwarf, will be our ungracious guide, though in your mania you still speak of conquering the world by lifting a magic spear. Perhaps it is an entertaining last hope for such as you. As for me, I am certain that a diety who could not hinder the Romani from nailing him up, surely would not offer much in the way of world conquering relics.”

“You underestimate the new deity,” said Perigraunce, interrupting. “His spirit waxes more powerful since his passing from this world. Even Hermius fell under his influence, though you are right in this: the king of kings has no need of magical spears.”

“The gods are mysterious.” replied Dunstaark “and I am satisfied enough with that saying, but now let us look to the mysterious things that are at hand: you men have sworn oaths to me and are obliged to follow my adventure. Therefore strike we upon waters of the deep at once with this dwarf, or return home in poverty. And there is a further reason to do it. You all know this: that I am envied and hated by the other captains because, unlike they, I did not inherit this. I am not a Maceonid. On that account, the noble houses would not even give our banner an honorable position in the lines.

“Now that the uprising is over and Dunstaark no longer needed, the princes will try to eliminate me in a bid for power among themselves, for they will accept only one leader. Nor will the kings protect me. If we turn over this dwarf to law, I have no doubt that they will accuse us of harboring him, and since they will wish to erase every witness of wrong doing, the entire platoon will be put to death, charged for having made conversation with the enemy. It happened to my cousin Urlash and his red star shields after the Battle of Longhairs. That is how much they want our kind out of their way.

“Nergalfin speaks the truth when he says that some of the Maceonid dynasties have become embroiled in power struggles, scions of deeper conspiracies. They accepted the white robes of the Ammouri and raised the banner of the lamb, but it is now become a lie. Inwardly they are ravenous wolves.”

“Even so, as you say captain, but let us not dare go into the deepearth.” my brother said, urging caution, “It is unlawful to awaken the dwellers beneath!. . .The doom writ must not be transgressed. It would be better to die at the hands of men than in the jaws of whatever lay down there.”

I knew that they would not heed my brother. However I myself actually began to desire this journey, since I had not really proved myself in either war or adventure. I cleverly protested in order that I might not be able to blame myself if things went wrong.

“Aye, the law forbids it,” said another soldier, huge Hakkarl the fearless, sounding even more gravely, “the dwellers beneath must not be awoken!”

“Then you will not mind being executed with me tomorrow for treason?” said Dunstaark. “Very well, it is an honorable end in the eyes of the gods. However your families will only hear that you went to a shameful end. So I shall go and inform the next tent, and have them come bring away the captive, this dwarf, to appear in chains before the kings.”

At this there was a great outcry by all the soldiers standing there. The commander was clever and effectively silenced the warnings of the cautious. (They might have saved their breath, for they seemed not to have even spoken).

“So then, yield your minds to it. . .let us no longer waver. Hark ye all,” continued Dunstaark, “We will do this...as you have all consented by cheers, not for mere loot alone...nor only to save our own necks from the rope. . .rather unto a higher cause: the dwarf, though he is doomed, convinces. Does any of us not foresee that the evil of Nystol will soon prosper? Everyone confesses that its dark influence has grown these past years. No cunning general or even ambitious foreign prince would dare lead an army against Nystol.”

“Tis true...time increases their knowledge, their power.” Nergalfin said, adding fuel to his flames, “...and her Mages laugh about it loudly in their ivory towers.”

“It is not right that such an indolent city should yet stand.” Dunstaark continued. “This dread work is for a select few. Now may be the only chance that the civil lands will be given to put an end to the vain magics of their ill omened towers. The prophecies say that Nystol shall someday wax mighty in her sorceries and take dominion of all the furth. I, for one, must stand against the witchery.”

(Who can judge what hidden desire for glory or wealth my captain’s heart had secretly coveted. It were true that the princes were plotting against him, but this path too would go ill for him, as for the rest of us under his command).

“First, mind ye...all ye,” announced the bloody dwarf, “the key to our success lay close. It is the chart drawn by Kruthendel Eloniah, that prudish gnome who seems to get involved in every manner of mysterious dealings. We must first acquire the copy of his subterraneous chart. Zenops, vizier of the King of Kargiwall, had several copies of it drawn three quarters of a century ago, in the years when I was still with the sand pirates of the Dry Blood Sea. One copy was sold to a prince of Ayrs, another to that devilish queen of Hyrcanth, yet another to unknown buyers, and the last to the Ammouric Divines, the clerics of Vesulum, the holy city, adversaries of Nystol.

“After I was elevated to Admiral in Hermius’ army,” the dwarf continued, “I came across the copy that is kept in Vesulum. As a conqueror beside Hermius, when I visited the holy cliff city of the deeply-carved canyon, I had easily required the lesser clerics to admit me into their library, forbidden to all others. I came upon it almost by seeming chance, for none of the monk librarians could right sure identify what regions the map scroll represented.

“The linework of the chart was an amazing piece of artistry, drawn on the featherless wing of the Acquavarian bat of Setet. But was it dependable or at all accurate? To gain the edge, I thereupon sent a letter to Kruthendel himself in Whigg, for the gnome never lies. He replied, as he usually does, with annoying enigmatic phrases, assuring that he could not remember how accurately drawn was the chart. Only its copyist, Zenops, could right say. The gnome explained that the map identifies the proper route of those traveling through the labyrinths of many passages. It is the only chart able to navigate one through Gulconda. However the magic does not last for indefinite years, but persists in accord with the experiential power of the preparer. Only Zenops, whom the Nystoli trained, could reckon its duration and activate its magic. The gnome then added that, at any rate, me-self and everyone else should keep clear of those nether regions.

“I requisitioned the chart in the name of the Emperor and sent it north to Zenops for verification, not being able to make the journey myself. I had to stay there in Vesulum with Emperor Hermius and continually console him, for my master Hermius was in a dreadful state of lover’s perplexity over that demon queen in Hyrcanth, sometimes acting maniacal, even suicidal. It was not so bad for me, At least the acolytes of that holy city treat their guests rather well. Hermius however was not even able to enjoy the benefits of the imperial quarters in which they housed us, for he was all a fluster about that fair queen and could think of nothing else.

“It was a foolish risk to let the magic map part from my hands, but who would ever imagine that some low magician might dare meddle in the affairs of Hermius the Conqueror and me his Field Admiral?

“The day that my messenger arrived in Ironport carrying the letter and chart for the wizard was a fateful day. It happened to be the very same day that the king’s vizier Zenops, a wizard, had been implicated in his famous plot against the throne.

“In order to preserve his own life from the mad throng of townsmen who expected to burn him at the stake, Zenops, always an opportunist, at dagger point, seized my messenger Alember, bearer of the chart. Retreating into the milltower just outside Ironport, the nasty wizard held Alember and the map hostage. He was claiming that if the people tried to smoke him out of the milltower, then his new hostage the very ambassador of Hermius would perish as well. It would be an act of war that would call down the fury of the greatest commander the world had ever known.

“The old king, Valherc, was too delirious from Zenop’s spell craft to take the matter into his own hands. So the people of Kargiwall and of the town Ironport, remembering the strength and authority of my master Hermius, Conqueror of Worlds, feared to smoke him out. They let the tower be.

“It was only after several months that we got news of these occurrences. By then Zenops had finished his excavations and disappeared, escaping through the basements of the milltower into the vast connections of intermundane caverns below, taking with him the precious chart.”

“Did he then go to Nystol?” I asked.

“No, silly...word is that Zenops did not like to travel, and besides, not only did he have enemies in Nystol, but he was unable to gain blade mastering allies to protect him on any proposed expedition. Not even his personal guards would agree to such perilous work with an accursed traitor. So for a time he lay low, having it published abroad that he had perished at the hands of those famous raiders of saga, The Bladetongue. It is said that he himself is the author of that famous saga, a hexameter poem whose description of horrors he hoped would deter nobles from leading expeditions into his new tower, and it has. He also arranged for spreading rumour that his tormented spirit wanders about the lower tower. Meanwhile he garrisoned the lower roots of his tower with mercenary centaurs and drow elves, waiting until King Valherc above passed away.

“Afterwards, iron and other material became available to him again, and he resumed construction on the cyclopean walls of his deep rooted tower. These walls are extended many fathoms downward until they come to rest on floor of the intermundane caverns, by the Rathsurge. It is the only tower known to pass through two worlds!”

“And so what of it? Must we descend below Zenops’ tower and look for the map down there?”

“That is our prize. Once we have the map we shall take the river Rathsurge to where it re emerges and joins into the river Alph that flows at the very bottom of Hermius’ Canyon, far to the south of Vesulum. From there by foot it is only eight leagues South and East through the wilderness of Kedemoth to the Sardu plateau and the cavernous entrance of the lost Gulconda route.”

“That is a harsh land.” I said. “Even though our journey overland might be short, I fear the bands of a brutal hyena tribe known to be in that area, they might easily track us down.”

“What worry if you have the feared sword of Nergalfin with you? I know that on your own you all would die, but I myself know well their tactics, having slain many of them when I was with the sand pirates. They are the least of our concerns.”

Nergalfin confidently dismissed my concerns. How unnecessary was the boasting of the dwarf.

“And what of the Mages and Wizards of Nystol?” I asked. “How can we hope to sack their city, the few of us, if they can cast their enchantments upon us and bring to ruin our spell bound souls?! The wands and rings still work!”

“Gird your loins for the daring! We will not be making an overt attack, since all such attempts have failed anyway. Instead my plan is a clever one: but heed now closely and know that when ye hear this ye may not repeat it or pull out of the pact. My words must now enter oathbound confidence. Agreed? Swear ye.”

We all swore an oath, like heathens, not to betray his plan.

“We shall go up past the necropolis Astodan, make our way through the corridors of the collegium and find the famous tower of Hennsooth, a library where the most powerful of magical scrolls and tomes are kept. Advancing by stealth into the tower we shall alight embers and bring forth flame, burning the scrolls in their cases and the books in their bindings, though saving anything precious for ourselves. With flames arisen from each of us placed in different areas, the inferno will shortly consume the great tower withall. The unholy power of mortal magics shall be forever crippled. Nystol will never recover. If that is my last act, I shall end a happy dwarf, both avenging myself on them for the betrayal of my army today at Gederon, and for betraying my ancestors in days of old, righteous dwarves who engineered the city itself.”

“Betraying your ancestors?” Someone asked.

“Do you think that old wizards raised those monuments of stone in Nystol by their own primitive magics?” Nergalfin asked. “Let me refresh your history. It were dwarves, no other race, that aided in the designing and raising up of those colossal towers, in an age forever past. But our dwarf fathers also built many secret passages and chambers in the mesa beneath, wherein to hide their own treasures and forbidden tomes.

“But suspicion and jealousy for power subjects even the wise. In fear that the dwarves themselves might use their secret knowledge against them, some of the Arcanes, wary of our race, plotted against my ancestors, who only sought to obtain a labourer’s wage from them. When the great Elkomenon, first Archmage of Nystol, was dying, the Arcanes conspired and made a plan. They hired the dwarves to engineer a huge tower tomb for him.

“When my ancestors had at last finished the construction and the old mage had died, the Arcanes held the burial ceremony of Elkomenon there in the new “Mausoleum of Elkomenon,” the Tomb of High Rest. Even before the ancient rites were completed, they cruelly tricked my forefathers, eagerly locking the engineers within, permanently sealing them in their own artistry. So did they pay the dwarves for their labours with treachery, and keep the vast monies for themselves. It was an abomination that has cursed the city ever since.”

“Wizards and such are of clever mind.” said one soldier, “But what about us, we do not wish to die in the corridors of Nystol, cut down by furious guards. Accursed be he who dies in an accursed land.”

“Oh ye who know so little! Have you not heard how overconfident that accursed city has become?”

“Overconfident?”

“Even now they tolerate the likes of Sorcerers in their midst, Arcanes who have resorted to the practice of summoning of demons. The Arcanes are call down wrath upon themselves. Their overconfidence is there undoing. For over an hundred years now there has not been armed guards in Nystol, so seclusive has been the protection of the impenetrable desert. These fools (who claim to be sages), fancy themselves to have designed a city of peace and tolerance, yet they will not even tolerate the Soothfold or the embassadors of Argunizial. What is more, a very ancient and venerable order of sooths, the Eldark, not long ago, prophesied against the new tolerance laws of Nystol, and against permitting Sorcery. So the Arcanes, indignant, expelled the old men into the desert! Those old men cannot strike back, so let it be us who are the tool of divine judgement upon them!”

Such a speech went over rather well among the crew of eager warriors with whom I had become involved. With the war over, and having barely even gotten taste of battle, they were now most willing adventurers.

First there was our chivalric commander, a man of heroical seed, Dunstaark, a strong earl recently girded with the sword, and a man of honour, worldly, but not averse to risk. It was he who made the final decision that we join with Nergalfin, though he regretted it ever after.

And there was another captain, Sir Perigraunce. It seemed that many years had left him too slight of build to become battle hardened, but he was faithful in all things. His grizzle hair was long and uncombed, his armour old, like mine, and he wielded a footman’s mace rather than a sword. I never heard him speak well of Nystol.

Hakkarl was next, the sergeant at arms, a huge man of Ulthork, a reliable spear in a close fight.

Also came Raffing of Kithom who enjoyed many pranks, quick with the dagger.

Then Haroun the Gohhan, a dreamer and a hothead, but who knew many things about reconnaissance and infiltration. Such men were well trained and ready for anything.

Shu Kurgoman, descendent of the famous Urius of the sagas, a hycman from distant Vath. He was swiftest among us men when delivering doom by deliberate swordstroke, and though filled with curiosity and lively interest, he rarely ever spoke. It was he who was the first to support Nergalfin, for their race also bore a great grudge against Nystol.

My brother Hercil, a man of hidden talents and mind, had some years of training by the physicians of Vesulum, and was greatly valued by the company.

As for me, my only skill was to fight, and since that skill was unproven, I was usually consigned to any considerable gruntwork, but I had my iron swords and yew hewn bow always at hand.

That very day we readied ourselves to follow the reckless dwarf into the netherworld, equiping ourselves with ropes, hooks, and many other unusual supplies that the dwarf brought forth out of his packs. We fit all our rations as well in the rucksacks and grip bags, being well outfit with various leather paddings and straps, breathing tubes and sacks, special hides, and various torches and lanterns. For all that, there was no doubt in all our thoughts that we were undertaking the expedition blind, consulting with no one other than that devilish dwarf.

There was a cavern entrance not but a day’s march, which Nergalfin claimed somehow connected with the river Rathsurge and would take us beneath Ironport and, running further down, land us at the gloomy base of Zenops’ tower.

We left at the crack of dawn, armed to the teeth, slipping out of the perimeter before the rest of the army awakened (heads pulsating on account of the festivity of victory wine). No authority would count us as absent, for many had fallen the day before and chaos had won the fields even more than had the alliance. It was an easy cheat. No one could learn for certain which battalions had survived or which had perished, nor had any authority gathered a count of soldiers and knights from every different land.

We carried one of the long wooden skiffs which Ulthork had supplied to our platoon (for crossing the swamps of Aramthe to meet the enemy on the plain of Gederon). Now it had a new, more questionable purpose. As a joke, we named it Hell breaker. It was a long boat with iron bracers and reinforcements, fitting just eight men prow to stern, (with an eighth and perhaps a ninth man to be squeezed in) rather heavy for its size, especially for the grunts like me who had to break backs for portage, but her girth was sufficient.

Although Kargiwall is an infamously desolate land of rusty dirt, rocky crags, crevices, and awful storms, we encountered no problems from weather or even Kargiwall’s militia. Some took this to be a sign of divine favour of our mission. I was not so foolish as to think Allfather approved, only foolish enough to submit to the enterprise in the first place.

At last, weary from carrying that heavy boat, we arrived at the cave entrance. We set “Hell breaker” down and sat upon the stones of the massive entrance. Saying one last prayer we begged forgiveness and prepared to enter, sealing our doom. How knavish are those who pray to avoid evil while purposely stepping into its very den! I should have fled right then, slipping away after they had all went ahead.

It seemed to have at one time been some sort of mine, perhaps quarried in ancient times by the giants, its threshold reaching some forty feet high.

“It is a mighty heavy boat for only three men to bear,” I commented, rubbing my shoulders.

“Rest up a while then.” said Dunnstark.

“The day has not yet even reached midward and we have a ways to go before we reach the river.” observed Nergalfin, standing on a boulder. “We must hurry. Order your men to work. I would never let my soldiers rest.”

“Perhaps that is why you are in your present unseemly position.” Added Perigraunce, with a chuckle.

“Ye dare address Nergalfin so!’ the dwarf said angrily, “Had I my sword I might teach you what respect is owed the empire!”

“That is why you must remain unarmed, at least until we return from Nystol.” snapped Dunstaark.

“That will not do.” argued Nergalfin. “There are horrors down there, the winding passages of Gulconda, from which only I can protect you.”

“We shall see.” replied Dunstaark “As of yet there is no reason to trust you, and every reason to put you in chains. How even do you know of what’s in there?”

We all peered into the huge mouth of the cavern which was lit up in the still morning by a diffuse light of overcast brilliance, a rare thing in stormy Kargiwall. We could hear the drip of water and faint echoes of hollow places far below. Massy slabs of broken stone, many cast down by earthquake, lay in hazardous barrier which faded into the diminishing blue illumination.

“You had best not have any knowledge withheld.” Haroun added. “If you are leading us into some deadly trap in the dark, dwarf lord, or some weird enchanting, ye will witness much spillage of blood.

After the resting of our sore shoulders from the load of that Hell breaker, we began again. The two feudal lords, Dunnstark and Perigraunce, marched us further, navigating us around the huge slabs blocking the entrance cavern. We followed a path of high vaulted shafts into the hill and the morning light began to fade away behind us. We at last came to a place where a grand shaft descended sharply and the refracted light was cut off.

“Now, ye man kin,” said Nergalfin in an eerie tone, “take one last look at the light from above. I cannot safeguard you in the dark below, some of you will not return. It is your choice!”

The descending shafts were comfortably wide and unrestricted, and fortunately no wild beasts were inhabiting its cozy dens as we hurriedly passed through. The huge corridor slanted downward at a sharp angle and on several occasions we were forced to use ropes to lower ourselves. The most difficult moments occurred when the boat had to be steadied by ropes but near rolled over upon us several times.

We knew that we had reached the appropriate depth when we heard the tumult of rushing water near. Soon the dwarf led us through several rocky and dim chambers as the noise of splashing increased. As we approached the shores of the great and turbulent river and spotted its vast ceiling, it soon became apparent that we would not be needing bright lanterns. An eerie green and brownish glow of the subterraneous lichen on the walls and on stalactites gave off ample light, but not enough for the eye to penetrate the depth of the swirling black water. A dank odor of mud and limestone permeated the subterraneous air.

There on that sandy narrow shore we embarked upon the cold waters of the Rathsurge. I sat in the front, just behind Hakkarl at the prow seat whose keen eyes could spot rocks. There was barely enough room in that narrow little vessel for all of us.

Soon entering a vast waterway we let the swift current take us into places unknown, undreamt of.

Perhaps an hour passed in this alien environ, Eastward flowing, massive halls of stone, water, and shadows. As we drifted I had much time to contemplate my possibly obscure death. The only satisfaction I could take was that my own townsfolk would imagine I had perished fighting in the war against Nergalfin. They would never learn the weird truth of my fate. I imagined my bleeding head adorning the end of some hobgoblin’s pike.

Here I was, still a wiry beardless youth in oversized chainmail tunic, cutting my life short to satisfy the dreams of a mad dwarf and curious captain. I could not imagine how a few warriors could possibly

penetrate the notorious tower of Zenops, filled, they say, as it is with heavily armoured Wyrmlords and bolgs, trolls and goblin, or worse. Who knows but that Zenops himself might still be alive with his unholy magic to hurl at us.

Then, even more insanely, we imagined that we were going to raid Nystol, a city of Arcane masters.

While lost in my dreadful and melancholy thoughts, I stared into the hypnotic whirlpools that slipped by just beneath my arm resting on the boat’s rim. I noticed that presently no rower was causing this churning by a paddle, for only Nergalfin steering at the rear had his rudder in the wake. What then was causing the swirls passing by? I leaned over slightly to examine more closely.

“Gaze not into the waters.” warned Nergalfin, gravely. Surprised and alarmed at this admonition I tried to look back at him seeking an explanation, but I could not turn round fully in the cramped space.

Now a strange mist at once arose over us and covered us about.

The sound of crashing waters came up swiftly, and soon we found ourselves in tumultuous rapids.

“Hold fast, yeomen!” cried Nergalfin. “This torrent is the final descent into the intermundane level!” The current rushed the vessel onwards, at times nearly tipping us. The greatest terror was when the craft was propelled swiftly into swaths of complete blackness and several times smashed against rocks unseen. How is it possible that this boat, even with the reinforced metal, did not shatter?

It seemed our skiff was hurled into the air several times over a series of cataracts. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, save perhaps Nergalfin, that the final moments had come.

We finally came to the terminus of raging and swift flowing waters, and slowing down the boat no longer drifted. I began to perceive, by the many echoes and distant glow of underlichen, that we had entered a vast subterraneous lake of some sort. A misty cold rain released from some unseeable ceiling high above constantly showered us. Nergalfin began to chant in some strange but familiar rhythm in his native dwarf tongue, by which the rowers could pull sequenced oarage.

I soon noticed that the soldier who was positioned in front of me, in the prow, Hakkarl of Ulthork, a huge man and good soldier, had somehow fallen asleep. I shook his shoulder and his head fell back. It was split apart horribly. Somehow in the raging chaos and darkness the strap of his metal cap must have popped. Hakkarl of Ulthork was dead. I had known him only four weeks.\

“First sign of ill omen!” cried Haroun, his fellow,“We will all perish down here. Sunk down so deep into the earth, too far to climb out, where no sunlight can ever penetrate, and where unspeakable volumes of rock hang over our heads to crush us at any moment! It was a fool’s bargain!’

“Restrain your dreading and any more like haver, get hold of yourself.” demanded Kurgoman, the hycman from Vath, a sturdy man at arms. These hyc are close to the human, perhaps even human. Bad spirited folk with impunity name them half orcs, as if they be the whelps of vile orcans. It is a slight against a wholesome old race, an insult born of cruel pusillanimity, a sinful ignorance. Such a be mixture of the corporeal spindle with troll-kin is an impossibility, as it is written, there is one flesh of baalites and fey, but another of men.

“No,” cried Raffing, “we should cry out for help, we are lost, in hopeless darknesses upon darknesses! faint and airless under threat of crushing rock!”

“Havering knave! Who now will come save you? Any more of that kind of talk,” Nergalfin warned, “and I will crush you with my own dreadful hands before ever the rocks come falling through the dark. Now keep silent. We shall lay out the good soldier and prayers over him when we attain an undershore.”

Now much time passed in this dark underworld lake, the good part of a day, if there be such things as days down there. It were impossible to measure distance or direction, therefore we were entirely at the mercy of Nergalfin’s dwarf keen.

After a while Dunnstark spoke.

“Perigraunce, you have not said much, and you are long silent. Say what thoughts you are secretly thinking, for though you are of insufficient bloodlust, there is no one who can match your perceptions and wise council.”

After some pause he gave reply.

“Unwise were we to tumble down here into this gloom, to heed such impulsive suggestion and rashly hurl ourselves into the bowels of earth. It might well be our undoing. Every hand among us should fold for the saying of suppliant prayers.”

“It is true.” I added “We did not even think to bring an Ammouric priest with the proper rites for the dead and for prayers against spirits.”

“Who needs prayers of a priest?” Dunstaark commented, “Men should accept their fate.”

“A priest would never have followed the likes of Nergalfin into this anyway.” observed Raffing.

“True, and we should have reached the roots of Zenops’ tower by now, Nergalfin.” said Dunstaark. “We should be all the way to the waters beneath Ulthork by my reckoning. You cannot fool an Ammouric Ranger. One soldier is already dead. So cherish thou well that we also are a grim company with whom you must reckon, lest you risk our necks unnecessarily. Answer then or be wary of our wrath: whither are you steering us?!”

Nergalfin did not answer right away. There were several moments of silence as we listened to the water droplets hitting the black surface of the waters. Then at last he spoke in a loud whisper.

“Be silent and listen close to what sounds may drift to your ears on the ripples of this vast pond. We are not wise to travel these waters, and we are not given leave, not without a tablet of passage from the elf queen. Therefore first we go to her castle, since if her elf sailors should ever come upon us, they will send their shafts without polite introduction. If her navy does intercept us before we get there, they must attack, not expecting the likes of armed men down this far. I have heard from my cousins that she is at war.”

“At war? With whom?”

Many long moments passed by. Again Nergalfin did not answer, but only softly intoned a long “Shhhhhh. We will guess it if we spot them. We don’t want to attract any attention.”

Another unmeasured span of time in silences and shadows passed.

III

How it was that Nergalfin had been able to steer the boat through such sightless tunnels I could not fathom. I whispered a question to my brother.

“How did that mad dwarf have the keen to steer us through? It is incredible that only one man was knocked dead in that torrent.”

“Dwarves and other elphim” he replied, “they have a racial power of what we physicians call the infravision, and which the elves call darksight, the faculty of perception at lowest levels of light.”

“I fear we have already attracted attention.” said Nergalfin suddenly. Cover your heads down, some enemy ship hither approaches. We can still conceal, mayhap at a distance they should mistake us for some log or rock!”

“Who should?”

Nergalfin pointed to a vague shape barely discernable at a distance in the darkness and mist. It was a ship of most alien design, a sort of grizzly shaped galley decorated with horns and threatening jawlike shapes.

“Curses...it be the Wyrmlords already,” Nergalfin whispered loudly. “They must be patrolling. Their ears must have heard us. But their eyesight is not the best, at least not anymore, its not even as powerful as your own. I think we can fool them.”

“Wyrmlords?”

“Warriors of Chaos: berserks, possessed by the drakodemon, their humanity consumed. They are instead like men soulwise being of dragon’s seed, and of unmatched fury!”

“How many?” asked Dunstaark.

“Can we escape these demoniacs?” asked Raffing.

“Not a fair chance.”

“If we make the ship look like a log, if we crouch down, might they pass us by?”

“That’s what I was hoping. But no, not likely, too late for that now. See, they come about toward us. We cannot out manuever them.”

“Carry arms!” ordered Dunstaark. “Give no quarter!”

Within moments the horrendous dragonship was bearing down upon us.

“Our vessel is too small for them to board and offer their bladework.” said Nergalfin, as the grisly dragon ship closed in on us. “So our boat’s size might yet be advantageous, but we must keep clear of their flaming darts!”

Soon we lost any hope to escape the onslaught of those berserking “knights of Chaos.” As they neared I could see more clearly perhaps twenty of them, most of whom were occupied rowing. Their helmets were of dreadful horn and their armour scaley red dragon fins, while their shining red eyes betrayed how possessed they were with unholy power. Their weird galley of bristling spikes and grimacing shields bore down upon us like a hawk upon a duck.

The first thing they hurled at us, when they came in range, was a grappling hook, and this was lobbed through the volumes of air. This great claw, a many pronged grappling hook, struck the corpse of Hakkarl, still bent over in front of me, and lodged its iron talons deep in the dead flesh of his back. The corpse’s weight, since he was a well armoured man and was wedged into the narrow prow and his legs under the thwart, enabled them to begin pulling us in quite easily. The hook claw was right in front of me, in arm’s reach.

“Sever that line!” cried Nergalfin.

I lunged forward and began to work at the taut line with my knife. Next a volley of flaming arrows rained down upon us, most of which passed into the black water. A burning shaft passed by my head, of terrifying speed and fury, and struck inside of the skiff, catching its fire to the canvas that covered our supplies.

The dagger was of no avail, for the line was especially strong.

“Try this tool!” said Raffing behind me, handing me a small hand axe. Still, the axe did not accomplish it, and I could not swing at a sidewards stroke properly without tipping the boat, since the corpses’ weight and tug of the enemy had unbalanced us enough.

“Dump that soldier’s body!” yelled Nergalfin.

‘That is sacrilege!” I cried.

“Not if it spares our lives!” retorted Nergalfin. “Go ahead, do it.”

There was no other choice in this engagement. I do not regret the decision to obey, heeding even that dwarf, and I do pray every day that the man’s spirit learns not to hold it against me. Hakkarl’s corpse sunk down swiftly, vanishing into watery darkness under the weight of his armour.

The fire from the arrow was not easily extinguished, for they had used some sort of burning jelly to spread the flames. The battlehand Brodain of Yahoros was struck and much effort was made to put out the burning of his leg. It did not spread easily however, since everything was still rather drenched from the cataracts.

Once free of the grappling hook we hoped to evade them, escaping into the mist, but they still further pursued us even though they were slowed by the line dragging the corpse through the water. The body weighed their ship down. Such iron instruments as those sizable hooks, I later learned, are expensive and highly valued in the underworld. The dragon men would not sever the line and part with it, but found it necessary to slowly dredge up Hakkarl’s heavy body and armour. Nevertheless they were soon in close pursuit again.

“They have terrifying speed on land, in hand to hand combat, and at sea their ships are swift, though they have some disadvantage when lacking of fighting space.” said Nergalfin.

We paddled sternly and were running out of breath. Surely if they caught us we would be all been slain either in combat or, having surrendered, summarily executed. Though we ourselves had some training in battle, it was quite obvious that these warriors were of a skill quite beyond our understanding.

“My limbs will soon weary of this race,” said Duunstaark, “it is most met that we resolve the issue. Come about...and attack these demoniacs...head on.” In broken phrases this was ordered, for he was out of breath from rowing with hard push. (There was heard no assent of “aye” from any of us).

“Did no oathbound hand hear me? There will be no more of this cowardly straining. Let us not live without honour! You all know how to meet edge with steely edge and hazard defiant force against them. Will you yield your own ground?”

“What ground? There are but pools. Respect and honour mean little in this deep world.” warned Nergalfin. “All your men would wastefully perish in a frontal assault. No pitched battle be necessary. Even one Wyrmlord is a miserable fight for an experienced swordsman like you. Besides, ye are bound by word to destroy Nystol.”

“I’ll not lose honour doing so! Not by my ancestors!”

“Yes you will.” retorted Nergalfin. “One thing all my years of striving in vain warfare has taught me: honour among men is no safely kept thing. It fades away as quickly as it is won. Look at all my victories. Did it hinder the loathsome gossips and lying scibes from spoiling my name? Did it even teach lesser kings not to band against me in betrayal?”

“I have the charge of these men, Nergalfin, but you are my hostage and have no say.”

“Men,” said Perigraunce, “we must obey the commanding lord, paddle hard on the port to come about and make ready to match aggression.”

The black dragon ship was breathing down upon us, just barely in range for them to use the grappling hook again. The splash of the paddling was quickly drowned out by the increasing noise of the enemy’s beaked prow cutting the water close behind.

Before we could come about, all of a sudden the horror ship turned away, rushing from our port side in a direction quarterwise of our bearing. It vanished moments later into the mists.

“Tartar ship is gone off.” someone said.

We let the boat drift for a few moments and recovered ourselves.

“You are, in my esteem, a dullard and haughty crown, sir...” said Nergalfin with admonishing gravity, “to make such a claim of authority in these deep waters. It seems you barked those orders out of a sorely hurt pride. It is best to divest yourself of that honourable title here, for in the vast jaws of these enchanted places, your sword and buckle are no more than a child’s rattle.”

“As my prisoner and my guide you should overlook the fault, Dunstaark retorted, “lest you soon learn the chastisement of my dullard’s fist.”

“...you hope for treasure? Then you must hark to my word.”

“The great emperor, in royal robe of borrel, ragged, speaks!”

(Dunstaark was mocking Nergalfin’s cloak, which he had taken from the armed peasantry and covered over his fancy armour for disguise).

“Your jest will savor of shallow wit when all your warriors lay in purple heaps by the hands of devil men, for selfish purpose of chivalric display.”

“Both ye: still your tongues!” Perigraunce interrupted, (he was the kind of man in whose voice was wisdom, and whom everyone, even those ranked above, carefully heeded). “Take care not to gainsay each other or exchange contentious words in dark places, or else, like condemned souls, we be overwhelmed by it, lost in this watery abyss.”

Suddenly we heard a great uproar of voices, a great clashing of weapons at some distance, where the Wyrmlord’s ship should have gone. There were deathly screams echoing and the sound of victory pipes and drum, sword and buckler, the hurtling thud of darts hitting their targets. Some merciless sea battle was unfolding. Nergalfin steered the ship about. After the clangor began to pass we slowly made our way toward where the sounds had been made.

It took some pass of many moments to find it, since there were many echoes down there. The mist revealed a drifting ship on our starboard. First noticing the bright burning and smoke of flames, it soon became apparent that this was the same tartar ship of the Wyrmlords. The bodies of the Wyrmlords were strewn about, their dragon armour now fraught with arrows. There were no survivors left on that inferno boat.

“Nergalfin, who did this?” Dunstaark asked.

“The fighters of the Elf queen, mayhap, or the karythar devoted to her. They can strike with just as much ferocity, obviously even more so. They may have been stealthily following the Wyrmlords for some time, biding for the right moment, and thanks to how we diverted the pace of the horror ship, the right moment they had needed came. The Elf queen does not bother to take hostages, especially not the fanatical dragon men.”

“What now, mad dwarf?” asked Dunstaark

“Now we row to the queen herself, and if we too encounter her navy, take care, and on no account vaunt or act with foolish aggression.”

“The ship is sizable.” I said. “Let us check her for their supply, before the minor fires become major.”

“That is right wise,” said Nergalfin. “Come, let us do so quickly.”

Upon entering the strange horny boat we examined the corpses of the Wyrmlords that lay about here and there on the boards, or doubled over the side. They had most unusual flesh, which seemed ashen and drained of blood, and yet some how also reptilian in texture. It was obvious that they had once been fully humans. Their armour was a most amazing craft of what might be horny dragon scales, but on closer inspection it became obvious that the scaley armour was actually bodily, a sort of chiton attaches to their very flesh, as one might see on insects or other animals such as a turtle.

“What strange metamorphosis these men have undergone!” I exclaimed. What shall we do with their mortal shells?”

“We must bury them at sea.” replied Dunstaark, “We cannot row the extra weight, since this ship is too large for three rowers as it is. We must put them over.”

“Shall we say funeral rites?”

“Not even elves know funeral rites for such as these.” said Nergalfin.

“Let them go to the grim halls of their fathers as they are.” commented Dunstaark.

As we began to take up the corpses, I spotted one of the bodies still breathing. There was an arrow in his side, but it looked as if he had been feigning death. I turned him over.

“This one is still quick, lungs still breathing.” I said.

“Then cut his throat.” snapped Nergalfin.

“No. It is not right that we take no prisoners.”

“We are at sea, we need not take prisoners.” Nergalfin retorted.

The Wyrmlord opened his bulbous eyes and looked at me. His eyes were hideous to behold, for it were a far less then a human stare he offered. The pupils were not round like our eyes, but rather creaturely slits, vertical such as a serpent’s. It were a dreadful sight that caused me to jerk backwards recoiling in horror.

He was too overwhelmed by wounds to re attempt combat. The others left what they were doing and stepped over to see the half man draconian creature alive.

“Had we brought along an Ammouric Priest we might have performed an exorcism on him.” Said Haroun. “Now however, in the name of the Most High, I will end the life of this abomination. Stand away!”

Haroun unsheathed his Gohhan scimitar and positioned it to make a clean cut of the Wyrmlord’s throat. His face was red with rage, ready to exact his own retribution for their attack.

“Wait, Haroun.” said Perigraunce, who was standing just behind watching. “Stay your hand, lower your blade. Do not strike. There may be a way to free him of the evil spirit.”

“How so?” I asked, as all were wondering.

“I have not been entirely forthright with this company.”

“Not forthright, not true?” asked Sir Dunstaark. “What mean you, lord.”

“I tell you this, and fail not to believe it: I am a priest, a man of the cloth, and I have the power to work an exorcism.”

“You jest at an awkward moment, Perigraunce. You are clearly not a priest, though you might dream of it. There is not any way...” Dunstaark wondered, astounded and baffled.

“It is so. When I was a youth I spent many years training for the knighthood, but hear this: I am not a knight. In the year that I grew my first beard I realized that I did not wish to live a knight’s world weary life, of ring taking and the keeping of fiefs. I began to sense that Allfather was calling me to make sacrifices, so I went to live with the monks. After a year they considered me too undisciplined and dismissed me. I wandered, but was soon taken in by Proclus, an aged priest who trained me in sacerdotal wisdom and practice.”

“That is preposterous.” said Dunstaark. “And how did you come to enlist among us?”