"Adzel Chapter V" by John H. Blackham

Chapter V

            Caradoc was not a man to be trifled with, one could see upon first glance. He certainly did not appear incredibly muscular, neither was he overly tall, yet his race was enough to drive most folk away. He was an Omrigian man, and looked quite the part: fine, pale skin which contrasted quite starkly with the swarthy Lendalans; and silvery white hair which he quite wisely kept tied back and hidden beneath his hood. These alone would not alarm a Gomthuli, but then Gomthul had not received the curses of dead men rising from their graves and hunting down caravans and travelers, nor had Gomthul ever had to defend their villages by digging up their cemeteries and burning them.

            The Omrigian tactics in the War had been simple: reanimate dead flesh to spur the population into a panic, and in the confusion, order their tiny war bands to claim the land that the farmers left behind in their flight. As a result, they had since received ill repute for their cowardice, ironically countered by their chilling efficiency in conflict. Anyone who angered an Omrigian, legend had it, slowly went mad from unexplainable terror: the effect of the Omrigians on a man’s mind was decidedly their best weapon.

            It was for this reason he sat alone in a remote corner of the inn, and why the serving girls rarely tended to him, avoiding his eyes when they did. He had been sitting there the better part of the day, waiting for someone or something that the other guests were not particularly eager to think about. In truth, he was not entirely sure whom he was waiting for. His instructions had been to watch for a man and a woman, neither of whom had previously entered the inn that day. They would be likely to enter separately, but both would ask Kane behind the counter about a man named Dirhem, and if he was staying here. After this, he was to secure the inn -- that is, inform the man behind the counter that the meeting as about to begin, and then wake up the real Kane to resume his job. The man had already been in, and was currently in the back rooms with Dirhem and his companions; it was a simple matter of waiting for the girl to enter.

            He was quite shocked when it was not a woman, but another man, hooded and cloaked, who threw open the doors of the inn, and traversed the room to the man posing as Kane, who he asked for the whereabouts of Dirhem. The impersonator did not, thankfully, give him any such directions, but rather misinformed him that no such man was staying here, and asked if he would like a drink. Caradoc knew that trouble was brewing, and chose that moment to steal away to the backrooms, hoping that no one, particularly this new arrival, would notice, when in that precise moment a woman stepped through the doors.

            She saw the man talking to the innkeeper and froze: she had obviously encountered him not too long ago, and it had apparently been terrifying. Caradoc motioned at her from the stairwell where he stood, beckoning her to come quickly, and when she finally noticed his silent summons, she obeyed with as much calm as she could muster, never looking directly at the man if she could help it.

            The man was becoming angry, claiming that he had seen a man he knew to be Dirhem walk into this very establishment, not an hour ago! His voice was unpleasant, as was the manner in which he spoke; arrogant and haughty, as one who was used to having his way. Aeronwyn managed to avoid both him and his gaze, which was spreading slowly and suspiciously about the inn as he spoke, and climbed the stairwell to a safe distance from Caradoc, who naturally beckoned her to come closer, which she did gingerly.

            “He’s in the backrooms,” whispered Caradoc to her when she was near enough, “And he’s waiting for you. His room is down the hall, around the back and to the right.” He slipped her a key which would presumably grant her access to Dirhem’s room, and continued speaking: “Tell him that we have an unexpected guest, and I’ll be in with him as soon as it’s safe. Now go, hurry!” She took the key and opened the old wooden door to the back rooms, sparing one final glance at the Omrigian man on whose word she would have to trust. She was hesitant of course, but she felt a need to trust him despite her misgivings about him: he was clearly an enemy of the man who was clearly an enemy of her own, and besides, he was presenting her with a means by which to escape their mutual enemy. Wasting no more time, she stepped into the corridor beyond and eased the door shut with a satisfactory click.

            “Really now,” said Malagent to Dirhem, who was sitting across from him on his bed, “What is this all about? You have two men in the common room acting as spies, you’ve bribed the innkeeper, and we’re holding a secret meeting: this sounds very much like the actions of a criminal. You had best explain yourself.”

            “I hate to admit it,” said Swagg in a slur, having downed a pitcher of brandy upon arriving at the inn, “but I think the good man has a point there. Exactly what are you about, exactly?” Sanadred remained silent throughout this exchange, brooding in the corner of the room, sitting upon an empty wooden chest. The room was of a fine, redwood finish, lit and warmed by a fire on the far side of the room, where Malagent sat in a chair. Swagg waited near the window, where the moonlight was playing across the glass; and the newly arrived man, introduced by Dirhem as a relative of the King of Lendala by the name of Ceadmon, waited patiently standing by Malagent’s side at the fire. They had been waiting for about an hour, passing the time with idle conversation, which everyone save Dirhem seemed to be relentlessly tired of.

            “May I inquire,” Dirhem said abruptly, after a moment of awkward silence, “Why I would direct the attention of the King’s cousin to a criminal conspiracy?” Silence, of course, followed this statement as well, at which point Sanadred spoke for the first time that night.

            “You wouldn’t” he said, hesitantly, “unless…” But what criminal act a royal would commit was never said, for at that moment, the sound of a key unlocking the door resounded throughout the room. The door opened to admit the young woman who they had encountered at the city gates earlier that day. Dirhem stood as she approached, and the man called Ceadmon regarded her as well, though not with respect. She was obviously not a savoury type: her torn tailcoat and her faded clothes, torn and muddied, matched her dirty face and greasy hair, all of which suggested correctly that she was lower in class than the lowest farmer or labourer.

            Ceadmon quickly averted his eyes and straightened his own high-collared, red velvet coat, and contented himself with fingering the three golden rings on his left hand. This…bit of refuse…could not possibly have any relevance in this meeting, could she? He looked to Dirhem with ridicule, who only smiled in return before greeting the girl.

            “So you have arrived at last,” he said, tossing his unkempt hair out of his eyes, “Glad to see that you made the wise choice. Now, if you don’t mind, would you please deliver the letter in your pocket to my friend here?” She stared at him for a moment before realising what he had asked, at which point she let out an “Oh!” and quickly produced the letter from somewhere within her tailcoat. She walked directly up to Ceadmon and held it out to him, though he regarded her hand like a chamber pot, and his nose wrinkled. He took the paper from her as a man plucking a berry from a thorny bush, opened it, and began busying himself with it.

            “The man in the common room,” Aeronwyn said, turning to Dirhem, “Told me to tell you that we have an unexpected guest, or some rot like that, and that he’ll be with us when it’s safe.” Dirhem responded to this with alarm, and his eyes widened.

            “What? What did he say?” he asked with intensity. His eyes burned into hers, causing her to shrink back. This was all happening too quickly, she thought, and making too little sense.

            “That…I don’t know!” she retorted, her mind racing, “All I know is that there was a man following me around about an hour ago, and he’s in the common room now. An Omrigian man near the stairs told me to find you and say that he would be with us when it was safe!”

            “That is to suggest,” Malagent spat from the fireplace, “That it is not safe now. What is this all about, Dirhem, I demand an explanation! You were just a boy during the War, what kind of trouble could you possibly have gotten into since?”

            “It’s because of the War that this is happening!” Dirhem shouted, now thoroughly distraught. “Do you remember what you were protecting my village from?” Silence filled the room at this. Swagg’s bloodshot eyes were now wide open and alert, and Malagent froze. The fireplace crackled a bit more, and a small pattering began to beat upon the window. The moonlight had become obscured by many dark clouds, and the pattering grew louder. It was beginning to rain.

            “Tom Hollingshead,” said Swagg, his voice more steady: apparently, Dirhem’s words had been sobering. “The others…the dead were chasing us…I thought I had gone mad.” Aeronwyn turned at hearing these words and stared at him in amazement and alarm.

            “As did I,” Malagent said, frowning, “Yet we were evidently wrong. And that thing that was with them…”

            “You saw that as well?” cried Swagg, turning to him, “You also saw that floating cloak?”

            “But it was not a cloak!” Malagent replied, amazed with the discovery, “I don’t know what it was, but I could swear, it had a face. A mouth, at least.” Throughout all of this, Aeronwyn watched in horror: these men were mad. Seeing empty cloaks flying after them, the obsession with the dead chasing them…it all sounded like a bad nightmare to her. Dirhem, it seemed, was on the verge of saying something else, but before he could, Caradoc opened the door. All eyes turned to him, and Dirhem looked a great deal relieved.

            “All is well,” Caradoc assured everyone, “It was a messenger.” Dirhem’s eyebrows rose.

            “A messenger?” he asked. Caradoc nodded, and produced a cream envelope, sealed with white wax, and printed upon it was the King’s seal, recognised by all. Ceadmon glanced at it from above his letter, which he was studying with intensity, and then looked up again at it, this time focusing on it with great interest, as if trying to spot a detail that would prove it a false signature. After a moment of this, he folded up his own letter and sighed.

            “It’s certainly from my cousin, without a doubt” he said. Aeronwyn then turned to watch him with equal horror and amazement: she was in the presence of royalty. She began to bow, but Ceadmon lazily motioned for her to remain at ease, rolling his eyes. Without further ado, Caradoc began to break the seal, but Dirhem stopped him. Taking it into his hands, Dirhem slowly bent the paper at the seal, and expertly peeled the white wax from it, leaving the letter open and the wax completely undamaged. He smiled, and placed the seal in one of the pockets in his overcoat.

            “That will come in handy later,” he said with confidence, “But presently, I’ll keep it safe. As to the letter,” he drew it from the envelope, and unfolded the paper, which he read aloud:

            “To the man who has required my cousin’s presence at Medredydd’s Folly:

I have been informed by my cousin, Ceadmon, that the subject of your meeting together is one of grave importance, involving the loss of a village within my borders. So grave, in fact, that action on my part may be required to prevent the deaths of my citizens. Dire tidings, indeed, to come from a blacksmith, particularly one who did so much to secure my position as King after the rebellion; it would seem that a threat has arisen, and one to be reckoned with. On this assumption, I must request a meeting with you myself, especially since the threat has already been carried out in a small portion, upon the town of Narthazel. Upon the conclusion of your meetings together, I hereby order you and any companions you may have gathered in your travels to my palace in the Great Halls of the city.

                                                                                    Do not take long,

King Penrith,

Lord of the Castles Lendala, Esst, Aga-Soll, and Teretalos, Ruler of the lands of Narthazel, Arcateele, and the inhabitants therein, and Lieutenant of the Good King Gomthul IX”

            When he finished, the room was once again silent. Silence seemed to dominate the conversation that night, and quite unsurprisingly, considering the strange events therein. At length, Aeronwyn spoke.

            “I do hate to be a nuisance,” she began nervously, “but really, what role do I play in this?” Dirhem turned sharply to her, but his face bore a soft expression.

            “You, love,” he said sweetly, “Are perhaps the most valuable asset we have at present. You, unlike the rest of us, are a street urchin to boot, and as such, you can penetrate that which the rest of us cannot. Thieves do not try to rob you, nor do criminals view you as a threat. As such, you will join us as an information gatherer, of sorts.” She sniffed at this, and retorted.

            “Of course, I risk my neck for the lot of your noble-like, and for what? Why don’t I just return to the streets to be haunted by King’s messengers?” she said all of this in a quite upset string, nearly unintelligible, and pondered when she finished. “Precisely,” she continued, “What was his lot doing in the streets, looking after me? And he broke into my cache!” She said as though remembering suddenly, “Scared me half to death, he did! I locked my door and bolted it shut, and he opened the lock -- without a key!--, and then undid the bolt from outside the door! What kind of messenger is he, anyways?” Dirhem had been watching her throughout this description of events, and his expression hardened when he heard it.

            “Not what he claimed to be,” he said, and pulled the white seal back out of his pocket. He studied it with great care, bringing it closely to his face. He examined every tiny crevice in the fine wax, and could not find anything false about it; he then flipped it over and examined the smooth underside. Again, he studied it very carefully, but this time, he saw something that he had missed previously: he had peeled it off the letter in such a way that no paper could have torn off and stuck to the wax, yet there was a tiny field of paper flecks embedded in the smooth surface. Satisfied, he placed it within his pockets again.

            “It is a true seal,” he said, “but it was born originally by a different document.” He waved the letter, and continued, “This is an ambush. They will have the palace filled with assassins, but that is not the worst.”

            “If an unknown enemy is laying a trap for us and there is worse news,” Malagent inquired sharply, “Then do please enlighten us.”

            “The enemy you mention,” Dirhem said to him, “is aware that we are taking action against him. The good news is that this brings us to the meaning of this meeting: the enemy. Now, let’s start at the beginning. Malagent, Swagg: describe the Knights of the Robe, and what their role was in the War of Nations.” Neither spoke immediately, until Malagent rose from his seat near the fire and began to tell his tale.

            “The War of Nations was never much of an open war,” he started, “As it was the nation of Gomthul attempting to control the Upper World. Gomthul was a small country, founded upon the great ruins of the cities of the Ancients. The boundaries of the country were never defined or agreed upon by any of the nations of the Upper World, and the King, Gomthul IX, believed that the Upper World should be ruled by him. There were many reasons for this, though the greatest was simply arrogance, which he soon paid for. He mustered his armies together and with them, he seized the country directly south of his own, Nartha, without warning or provocation.

            “Nartha was, however, not as most countries were. It had originally been a colony of pilgrims, who had formed a cult which worshipped the Wyrm, a being which, according to legend, resided in the mountains of Pel-Andrig. The colony in time became a powerful nation, until Gomthul crushed her. The Cult of the Wyrm, however, had spread to Nartha’s neighbor, Arcateele, and Arcateele was greatly angered by the apparently unprovoked invasion of Nartha. It was then that King Gomthul established the Knights of the Robe.

            “The Knights were a circle of noblemen in the Court of Gomthul, all of whom had been chosen by King Gomthul himself because of their family histories: each of us descended from long lines of great warriors, which could be traced back to the Ancients themselves. They were sent in secret to Arcateele, where rumours of rebellion were beginning to spread, for the country had been victim to raids from the Omrigians, and the Regent was neither protecting them nor negotiating with Omrig to end the raids.

             Their purpose was to spur the peasantry into a full rebellion, and to aid them in their campaign. To gain their trust, the Knights of the Robe fought off the raiders, which were proven to be little more than hordes on animated corpses, very easily defeated…when they were scattered and without command, that is. In the end, the Dead united to form the Legion of the Dead, who soon became too powerful for the Omrigian sorcerers to control: they united, and bade the Knights of the Robe to negotiate with them. In the end, the vowed never again to trouble the citizens of Arcateele, and retreated to the Forests of Nading, where they currently reside, or at least they were last reported to reside there.

            “The Knights successfully led the Arcas into rebellion, and hanged the Regent. They also persuaded the rebels to allow their newly won country to be governed by Gomthul. As a reward, King Gomthul granted the Knights of the Robe whatever boon they would ask of him, and they all agreed on a single reward: a village of their own, in a part of the world that the war had not reached. So it was that the village of Narthazel was formed. The Knights of the Robe, known among the simple folk as the Robesmen, retired there, where they hoped to live out the rest of their lives happily, and never take up arms again.

            “Swagg, Kithrus, Sanadred’s father Ivan Hroll, and I were among these Knights. Now, Dirhem, do tell us what this has to do with the destruction of my home, slaughtering of my friends -- the Knights you insisted I provide an account of -- the King’s cousin, and an Omrigian.” He finished, watching Dirhem and waiting for an answer.

            Dirhem sat quite calmly, and removed his overcoat for the first time since he had reintroduced himself to Malagent, Swagg, and Sanadred. Beneath, he wore a surprisingly clean silk coat and a white shirt. He reached under his rented bed, and from it pulled one of the many swords that he had gathered and carried about with him, still in the leather sheath that he had crafted for each.

            “Actually,” Dirhem said, “You neglected to mention these swords. I crafted the swords, all those years ago, when I was in my seventh year. A great rock of ore had fallen from the skies a year prior to the beginning of King Gomthul’s campaign, and my cruel master had been using the celestial ore for the smithy since. When the Robesmen realised my talents at the smithy, they paid me generously to craft them these blades. When the Omrigian sorcerers saw how frail their undead were, they began to bring sentient spirits back into this world from the World Beyond, the spectral realm. Nothing from this world could harm them.

            “This metal, however, is not of this world. As I said, it came from the skies, a meteor, as the scholars in Gomthul call such things. These swords alone could slay the fleshless Dead, and do harm to the beings of the netherworld. Unfortunately, I was too ambitious, and too arrogant. After the War was over, Kithrus returned to me. He was different somehow, though I could not say exactly what had changed. I had, since the war, studied the arcane arts mastered by the Omrigians, with the aid of my friend Caradoc, here,” he gestured vaguely to the pale man sulking in the shadows behind him, “and Kithrus had been in some way informed of this. He asked me to modify his blade, asked me to infuse the spirit of an Ancient -- one of his forefathers -- of the netherworld within it, enchant it so that none save the descendant of that Ancient could wield it, and any who tried would find their spirit trapped within the blade as well. This was as much a curse as a blessing on the blade, though I knew not what I was doing at the time.

            “He directed the incantations, doing most of the actual enchanting himself. My innate talents provided him with aid in the most difficult of these enchantments, and my smithy work provided him with the correct re-crafting of the blade so as to channel the arcane forces down it and into whatever it struck.”

            “Aha!” exclaimed Sanadred, “So that is why Kithrus gave it to me--so I would be…absorbed…into the sword! But I did draw it, and nothing happened to me…would that mean, then, that I am his kinsman?”

            “But what of the enemy you spoke?” Aeronwyn cried, “Was it this…Kithrus that you talk about so often?”

            “No,” Sanadred said, though his voice was suddenly cold, and deeper than any could recall his voice being. It was loud, though he had not raised his voice. Swagg watched him in alarm, remembering the battle at the village, when the same had happened. “It was the Black Traveler; the cloaked thing that tried to drown me on the night of the feast, back at the village -- the thing that burned the…the forest…while Swagg and I were off looking for it.” Dread filled Swagg as he recalled the tree suddenly erupting in flame…that hellish, unearthly flame…and the laughing, he could not forget the insane laughing that had filled his ears. It had called his name, whispering into his ears of his doom…and it had laughed. He reached within his pockets with haste, and pulled out a wineskin, holding it to his lips and drinking deeply. That was better, he thought: he felt a good deal better now, and he relaxed a bit.

            “Aye,” he said, “The same as the empty cloak that followed us the night we met up with you, Dirhem. The…what did you call it…Black Traveler?”

            “Do not speak his name!” cried Sanadred suddenly, his eyes filled with fire, and his lips drawn back. The canine teeth were sharp, like those of a wolf. It seemed strange to Malagent and Swagg exactly how different he suddenly appeared: he no longer looked the fat boy they had set out with, but a slender man, sharp teeth glinting.

            “Get away from him!” Dirhem yelled suddenly, pointing at Sanadred with a half-gloved finger. Swagg, who was nearest to him, leapt away in alarm, as though burned; the others took a step backward. Sanadred was standing, now, still baring his wolf-like teeth in a snarl. Caradoc drew from his left side a small, single edged knife, and produced a vial of a translucent, silvery liquid from the other. Sanadred regarded him with his burning eyes, and he sealed his lips, hiding the canine fangs from view. Caradoc pulled the stopper from the vial and dripped some of its contents down the short blade of his knife, and then replaced the stopper, slipping the vial back into a pouch on his belt.

            “Easy does it,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone in particular, and advanced upon Sanadred bearing the wet blade before him, as one would approach a dangerous animal.

            “Don’t come any closer,” Sanadred told him, though his lips barely moved. The voice coming from his lips was not his own.

            “Sanadred, what’s gotten into you?” Swagg cried from the opposite side of the room. Upon hearing Swagg’s voice, Sanadred’s face softened, and he seemed himself again, though dizzy and in a daze.

            “You are all mad,” Aeronwyn said in a wavering, unsure voice, “And I’m not keen to join you on your way to the asylums. I’ll be going now.”

            “Stay where you are!” Dirhem hissed at her, standing as motionless as he could himself. She regarded him for a moment, and then remained where she was, though she fingered the knives inside her collar, ready to fling them out at a moment’s notice. Sanadred seemed quite faint, and in a moment or so, he did just that. With a sigh or a moan -- they were all unsure which -- he fell to the ground and landed roughly upon the polished wooden surface.

            Caradoc stepped closer now, less cautiously, the blade still in his hands. He bent down to feel Sanadred’s forehead, but he did not see that upon Sanadred’s face appeared a diabolical smile. As the room watched in silence, Caradoc reached lower yet with his hand, just as Sanadred’s eyes flitted open and he leapt up, seizing the Omrigian man’s hand with his own, and smiling as he did so, eyes fixed on Caradoc’s, burning again like the fire that had so long ago consumed the Tree.

            “You,” Sanadred said, in the voice that was not his. Caradoc’s unarmed hand was fighting its way to Sanadred’s throat, but to no avail. Dirhem began to approach, apparently unnoticed by the maddened Sanadred.

            “Will,” he continued, drawing the word out as he breathed out, the word being more air than voice.

            “Sanadred has gone mad,” Malagent muttered in awe. Dirhem drew nearer, a similar dagger produced from his own belt. Caradoc struggled further for Sanadred’s throat, though he held the blade down at his waist, where Sanadred’s hand was holding it, though with less strength than the one preventing Caradoc’s attempt to throttle him.

            “Die,” finished Sanadred, grin widening and eyes widening as he spoke. Precisely then, he let go of Caradoc’s hand and reached for the man’s throat with his own hand, and Caradoc put all his strength into the hand holding the knife, scoring Sanadred’s chest with it. The grin never faded from his face, though the flame did. In this last bout of struggling, Caradoc fell backward in his desperate thrust, and landed with Sanadred’s motionless body next to his own. Aeronwyn would have thought him dead, but she had seen the liquid that Caradoc had dripped upon the blade: a sleeping draught.

            Throughout this struggle, none took any notice of Ceadmon, who slipped out of the room and bolted down the hall. This was madness, he thought. They were all mad. He had trusted Dirhem for so long, but this was utter insanity, and he would take no part in it. He made it out into the common room of the inn, untouched by the calamity of Dirhem’s room, and glared at the false innkeeper, who grinned back at him. He shook his head in disgust and opened the door to the inn, leaving the building into the night, where small raindrops assaulted his person.

            Anything was better than being in that madhouse, he thought to himself as he walked down the slick, wet cobblestone streets. He walked with complete security and confidence that few royalty would unguarded at night in a city, completely unaware of the danger that stalked his footsteps. Close behind him, there walked three silent figures, clothed in black coats and black hats with great, black plumes, their faces pale and hair paler. Three Omrigian men, in such odd dress, should have drawn quite a crowd, but they walked unnoticed, and were regarded with almost as little expression as they bore on their motionless faces.

            “What made him do that?” Aeronwyn screamed at Dirhem: the situation within the room had become a great deal worse since Ceadmon’s departure. Aeronwyn had gone into hysterics at Sanadred’s strange behaviour, and presently had to be subdued herself. Caradoc was quite exhausted holding her back, and she relentlessly continued to cry out at Dirhem, asking over and over again why everyone was so mad, begging him to let her go. He had retired to the chair by the fire, placing a hand over his head and massaging his temples. This was quite a distressing night, he thought to himself. The enemy had somehow touched Sanadred physically to have affected him so, and this presented great difficulties to his plan. If the spirits could physically touch those who opposed them, then they possessed a weapon that he was not yet prepared to fight. At least, he thought bitterly, Sanadred would provide a decent subject for studying the effects of the spectral matter infecting a mortal body, which would prove invaluable to discovering a cure.

            Malagent had done nothing but crouch over Sanadred’s unconscious body, trying rather unwisely to revive him and Swagg had responded by leaving the room and heading straight for the tap. Eventually, Kithrus sat up suddenly and approached Aeronwyn.

            “Having seen all that you have,” he informed her, “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave our company within the foreseeable future.”

            “What?” she screeched at him, any calm she may have mustered subsiding at these words. Dirhem sighed: he had not wanted any of this to happen, but he could not let her go along her merry way, not when she knew all that she did.

            “From all you have seen,” he said to her, “you are too dangerous to leave behind. If any word of the happenings within this room were to spread, then not only would the lives of my companions and I be in danger, but yours would as well. You would be taken by the Enemy as Sanadred here has been, but I doubt you would be as fortunate as he had been: I doubt you would find a way to escape the Enemy’s fate for you.”

            Apparently, the thought of becoming anything like Sanadred was enough to raise the level of her hysteria, and she collapsed, eyes rolling into the back of her head. Caradoc grunted with the sudden reversal of his efforts, from keeping her away from Dirhem to preventing her from falling on her back. Malagent finally stopped attempting to revive Sanadred, realising quite suddenly and unpleasantly the possible consequences of doing so, if whatever power that had seized Sanadred had not yet left him. Instead, he resigned himself to finding Swagg so as to prevent him from doing something disastrously idiotic after all the drinking he undoubtedly had indulged in.

            This left Caradoc, Dirhem, and the blissfully unconscious Aeronwyn alone together in the room, at which point Dirhem’s mood was very much darkened from the already dreadful state it was in, and he moaned in exasperation.

            “What is it?” Caradoc asked him, striding over to the bed and collapsing upon it in exhaustion, leaving Aeronwyn to herself on the floor.

            “Ceadmon,” Dirhem said. That was all he needed to say to cause Caradoc to leap back up to his feet and curse quite profoundly, grabbing one of the swords lying under the bed and strapping it to his belt as he sprinted out the door to find the unsettled royal. Dirhem held his silence, and sat in the chair that Malagent had abandoned. A new plan would have to be formed, one that could save Sanadred and at the same time stop the enemy’s schemes before they progressed so far as to be unstoppable.

            He pondered and ran many thoughts and plans through his mind, abandoning one when it became too ludicrous or involved the death of Sanadred, Malagent, Caradoc, or himself. The four of us, he thought, were essential to any success. Malagent was a born leader, and still retained his physique (well, mostly) from the War, despite his skeptical attitude and dislike of Dirhem. Caradoc was their source of Omrigian knowledge and intelligence, and he alone knew the incantations to animate the dead and summon spirits from the netherworld to this one. His knowledge of these skills would prove invaluable to the defeat of their Enemy. Sanadred, having been touched by the Enemy himself, would also prove his use when Dirhem found what he needed: a way to communicate with the Enemy himself. Of course, for any of this to succeed, he would need to oversee the plan’s progress and ensure its success.

            It was then that the perfect plan came to him. It was the only way, he thought, and as such, he could only hope that all went according to the plan. It would involve his return to the Village with Swagg, to find the location of Kithrus’s lair, but it would also entail Malagent and Sanadred to make for the city of Alast, the residence of the King Gomthul himself, where they would plead there cause and find help for Sanadred. Caradoc and Aeronwyn, too, would travel to Alast, though Caradoc could not show his face, being an Omrigian. Therefore, Dirhem thought to himself, Caradoc and Aeronwyn would have to travel to Omrig upon arriving at Alast, where they would attempt to plead their cause to the Omrigian King. Ceadmon would have to stay here (provided that he was unhurt when Caradoc found him) and persuade the King to go along with the plan as well. With the three countries united, the Enemy could rightfully be stopped, though it would require an agreement among the three Kings. This was not the easiest thing to do, he thought to himself, but it was nowhere near as difficult as what he would have to do: penetrate the Enemy’s kingdom himself, and sabotage his immediate plans to give the others the time they needed.