Epilogue - The Hydra's Rise

Jacob Kilburn, Viashislov Shuisky, and Edwin Rass stood and watched the sunrise over the construction site. The facility--its inorganic parts, at least--was approximately two-thirds complete.

"Gentlemen, we are making history." said Shuisky. "Biomancy, architecture, and mechanical engineering, all integrated into the same wonderous living device."

"The Sons of Thunder are ecstatic with the results." said Rass. "They're sending more materials and workers then even I'd thought they'd be willing to cough up. Of course, there's the problem that we still don't have a name."

"We have 'The Hybrid Project' up to now. But it does not roll off thee tongue." said Shuisky.

"I've been thinking about that." said Kilburn. The Reaper had dropped him off a few weeks earlier. He didn't know what had happened to the other laborers and didn't want to think about it. The only change in his appearance was that he cropped his hair close--it had started to turn black from the ears down, so he'd cut it off in shame. "I broke away from Chimaera. That should have been my doom. But it looks as though this new facility is going to put Chimaera to shame. What should have killed this project has made it stronger. So I came up with a name for this place."

"What is it?" asked Rass.

"Hydra. Hydra Laboratory. Cut off its head, and two more grow back."

"I like it. I like it a lot." said Rass. "Doctor Shuisky?"

"I could get used to it." said Shuisky, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Hydra it is, then." said Kilburn.

Chapter Eleven - The Chimaera's Fall

The autumn shadows stretched long over Ulgotha as Savant Viggo Helmsman walked through the evening light. He took the long way home to Chimaera Estate, past the new Stronghold that was under construction in Keystone's Comfort. The reinforced dome was already taking shape, only six months into the project. Crossing through Bright Lace Park, the Savant took in the bright panorama of the changing leaves, one of the few places the turning of the trees could be seen inside the city.

Helmsman didn't normally come home except during the weekend any longer. Without a need for food or sleep, he spent his nights revising blueprints, doing paperwork, or mapping out one-man jobs. Today was a Thursday, but it was a special one--Agnes' sixtieth birthday. He'd let everyone out at five and given them Friday and Saturday off. This was to be nothing less than a celebration--he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a vacation.

He knew it had been more than eighteen months. He'd been undead for that long, and had been working constantly. Of course, there was quite a demand for Chimaera's construction aids and home appliances since the Battle of Ulgotha--there was still a lot of the city left to replace. Most estimates said it would take upwards of fifteen years to fully heal the city. There had been a lot of people killed--nearly a hundred thousand--but there were new immigrants to the city every day.

One face he'd seen less often lately was William Rainsford. He'd been taking time off lately due to declining health. Helmsman decided it was understandable--the man was in his fifties now, and had been working hard for more than thirty years with barely a break for all that time.

Helmsman reached the gate to his home, Chimaera Estate. He unlocked the gate and strode across the green lawn, admiring the few trees out front as they turned to vibrant red. He strode into the front hall, past the mithril alloy Chimaeric Guardian* and up the stairs.

"Agnes, I'm home early! And I've brought you something!" he called down the hallway.

"Just a moment, Viggo!" he heard her call back. "I didn't expect you home today! Give me a chance to put my face on, dear!"

"Nonsense, darling!" he said, throwing the door the bedroom open. "I love you no matter what you--"

The hand holding the flowers dropped to his side. The Savant's head drooped forward, and he retreated into the hall, shutting the door behind him. A moment later, a figure followed him.

"Well, Bill." said Helmsman. "I suppose this was inevitable."

"Viggo, I--" said Rainsford.

"No, I understand. She's a widow and you're a widower. And of course you've been spending a lot of time around here, ever since I stopped coming home during the week. It's only natural."

"I'm so sorry, Viggo--"

"And after all, there's things I can't do for her anymore." continued the Savant. "Since I'm a corpse."

"I didn't mean to--"

"Dammit, Bill!" shouted the Savant. "She's my goddamn wife! And you're my best friend! How did you think this would end!? Did you honestly think I would never notice!? You've known me for more than thirty years, Bill! The only things that have ever mattered to me were my laboratory and my family! And no matter how much time I may be devoting to one, I will never forsake the other! Get out of my house! Both of you! You can carry on all you like, but dammit, you will not do it under my roof!"

"Viggo--" said Agnes, coming to the door.

"Quiet, Agnes! Get out! And take that lout of a son of yours with you! You're not welcome here any longer!"

*

The sun set on Ulgotha, and Viggo Helmsman stood on the top of Chimara Estate's tower. He'd thought briefly about jumping, but decided all it would do was break some bones and require a housecall from a biomancer. Instead, he looked out at the sun going down over the spires of the city.

"Damn, how things have changed." he said to the city. "Damn, how things have changed."

*A gift given to Helmsman some years ago, it had been given a prominent place in the entryway of the Estate once the main building had been constructed. Constructed of Celestian mithril, the silvery statue of Chimaera Estate's namesake was said to bear an enchantment that would bring it to life if Chimaera estate were ever threatened. Though it had never been observed to move, the servants had reported that the statue grew noticeably warmer than usual during the Battle of Ulgotha.

Final Interlude - Vibrant Meadows

Imperator Michael Meadows and a group of adviors were waiting in Helmsman's office when he returned.

"Savant, I apologize for the imposition, but my Stronghold is much the worse for wear and your facility was the closest facility with acceptable fortification." said the Imperator from Helmsman's desk. Time had not been kind to Imperator Meadows; he looked every one of his seventy-five years. Meadows had a scar running across his forehead from a botched assassination attempt twenty years previous and his cheeks were covered in pockmarks, the remains of a childhood bout of Lupus that had been driven out by biomancy when he was a teenager. His eyes were pale blue, but bright as ever. Though his hair had gone completely white, it was still thick, another indication of Meadows' stubborn refusal to die.

"So I've seen, sir." said Helmsman. "It's an honor to serve Sardipa."

"Glad to hear it." said the Imperator. "Now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to throw you out of your own office, Savant, as we need to use it as a War Room at present."

"I understand, but I have bad news. Consul Cross is dead."

"Unfortunate, but not unexpected. It's just as well; his ambition was beginning to interfere with his duties."

Helmsman hesitated.

"Is there more, Savant?" asked the Imperator.

Before Meadows had passed off most of his meetings to Cross, Helmsman had met with Meadows a number of times. The two men generally got along well, though both were conscious that Meadows' rank was not the only thing that made him superior to Helmsman. Cross had told Helmsman that Meadows' health was in decline, but the man before him looked unchanged since the last time they had met.


"Sir, I was told that your health was in decline." said Helmsman.

"Cross told you that, because it was a lie I wanted him to believe. He was useful, but would have gotten uppity without the feeling he could take over soon. So I led him to believe that I was getting senile to keep him productive. As Diocletian himself once said, 'Weakness is greatest veil for strength.'"

"I see." With that, Helmsman left. There would be time to explain the circumstances of Cross' demise later.

"All right, men." said Michaels, calling his advisors back around the desk. A map of the city was lain across it with an army of red and blue figures. A black circle had been drawn across the area surrounding the docks. "There are two remaining Totem Ships on the water." He gestured to a pair of blue ships placed on the river. "What have we got to get rid of them?"

"A pair of heavy cannon companies from Garrison Twelve are moving in here." said the newly-appointed Grand Marshall Cuthbert. "And a squad of anti-magic projectors are meeting them at the intersection of Scullery Lane and Red Brick Avenue. The plan is to fire the antimagic at the first Totem Ship and then follow with a bombardment from the cannons. All they have to do is knock down one mast and her rune configuration will collapse; she'll be defenseless. Then the crews do the same thing to the other Totem Ship."

"Good." said Meadows. "Now, we've got reports of six squads of Hoplites with Spellslinger backup* moving through the Middle Barrens and Keystone's Comfort. What are the Militia and the Army doing about it?"

"I've got four regiments blocking their advance through Keystone's Comfort and are equipped with Mage-Breakers to take down their magic," said Brigadier General Birmingham, "but the Army Depot in the Stronghold basement was annihilated. Troops from Ralston's Ferry, Lower Barrens, and the Gray Knell are on their way--the meteors didn't reach that far and the Depots are untouched."

"And the Militia?" said the Imperator.

"In shambles." said Militia Commander Gruff. "The base of operations in the Stronghold was utterly destroyed along with fully half of the installations around the city. To make matters worse, our Mage-Breakers were based in Installation twenty, of which there are no reported survivors. What forces my officers have been able to marshall have congregated at the edge of the blast radius on what was the intersection between West 17th Street and Commodore Boulevard, but we have too little antimagic to be effective against the Palosians."

The Imperator looked up from the map. "Understood. General Birmingham, I'm giving you full jurisdiction over the Imperator's Militia. Use them to supplement your own forces as you deem necessary.

"Gentleman, this is the greatest city in the world, and we are under siege. I will do what I need to in order to see that it survives."


*The Hoplite and Spellslinger were Palosia's signature military units. The Hoplite was a heavy infantryman equipped with a long spear, a broadsword, full plate mail, and a tower shield. Hoplites also used numerous Auras and encahntments to elevate their fighting skills and endurance to superhuman levels. Spellslingers were the ranged equivalent of Hoplites, using enchanting crossbows with exploding bolts. Both were hated by Sardipan Regulars, as they were extremely difficult to deal with without the use of an antimagic field to neutralize their various enhancements.

Chapter Ten - Ironclaws

The demon's meteors had wrecked a huge portion of the city and a greater portion of the Palosian fleet. In both cases, significant pieces remained. It took more than a meteor shower to sink a Totem Ship.

The Sardipans had gotten lucky; one of the ships had been caught unaware--its mast had snapped under the weight of the first meteor, disrupting the fragile configuration of the runes etched all over the hull. Its enchantments collapsed and the ship sank. The remaining pair of Totem Ships were battered but still floating, pulling up to the crushed rubble along the dockside. They disgorged more troops than could possibly have fit within a mere two ships, then pulled back into the water to deliver support at range.

On shore, the what remained of the Sardipan defenders rallied. This time, numbers were on their side.

Meanwhile, a pair of gray figures crawled out from a hole beneath a freshly demolished building.

"'Nevermind, Savant,' you said!" one figure yelled to the other. "'He does this all the time,' you said!"

"I fail to see what yelling at me is going to accomplish, Savant." said Daniel Talon. "Now I suggest we get to someplace safe. I can hear gunshots in the distance, so it seems the fight is still on."

"Damn, what happened here?" said Savant Viggo Helmsman, looking around. "Everything's been levelled from here to the docks."

"I'm not sure, but it would account for the thunderous roar we heard up here. Let's see...this used to connect Abyss section nine...which would put us on--"

"Imperium Street." said Helmsman, a piece of crushed statuary in his hand. "The West end. This was a piece of the Statue of Henry XVII on the corner of Imperium and 329th Street."

"Impossible. We'd be able to see the Imperator's Stronghold from there."

Helmsman turned slowly. "Who says we can't?"

Indeed, part of the fortress' granite dome still stood, but it lay gutted by the meteors, an empty shell. That was when they noticed the Wight.

It was standing atop a pile of ruined stonework, looking intently at a man who seemed to have survived the collapse. Bloody and battered, the man lie on his back with a piece of rubble half his size on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The Wight loomed over him--it had to be seven feet tall. It was wearing a long leather coat and an iron mask, but it was the hands that caught Helmsman's attention. The leather sleeves ended above the elbow when they were encased by the same black iron of the mask. The guantlets looked to be a part of the Wight's body, as they extended into fingers nearly two feet long. Each one ended in a pointed talon. A dusk cloud surroundeded the Wight, pulsating regularly. The Wight stood at the center of the swirling dust, otherwise motionless.

Helmsman had never had much of a drive for personal survival. It had been either the efforts of others or blind luck that had let him last for sixty-two years. Without a heartbeat, any sense of self-preservation in the Savant was long gone. His curiosity beckoned him to the Wight, and he followed.

"Friend of yours?" he called to Talon, pointing to the Wight.

"I've seen him before, but only recently. They call him Ironclaws." said Talon, jogging alongside Helmsman.

As Helmsman drew up, he could hear a regular hissing noise coming from the Wight. Each time he heard the hiss, the cloud of dust pulsated. When he got within a few feet, he could hear the man groaning. Helmsman looked down at the man and started in recognition as he looked down into the bloody face of Nathan Cross. Cross' eyes opened wide when he saw Helmsman.

"Savant." he coughed. "Get this rock off me...that...thing...I think it wants...to take me to hell."

Helmsman looked at the Wight. From his new vantage point, he could see the front of the Wight; its face resembled an iron gas mask. Beneath the eye holes came a red light, sending two trails of crimson into the surrounding cloud of dust. Aside from the regular swirling of the dust, the Wight hadn't moved.

"What are you doing, then?" Helmsman asked the Wight.

The Wight's movement was unexpectedly fluid, given its bulky appearance. It didn't speak, but lowered its head and raised a talon, tapping its neck. Helmsman noticed that the Wight was tapping the head of a screw.

"I think he wants you to unscrew that." said Talon.

Ironclaws nodded and went down on one knee, putting the screw at eye level.

"What are you...doing?" gasped Cross. "I'll die if you don't...help me!"

Helmsman rummaged in his pockets until he found a screwdriver. The screw was stubborn at first, but came open without too much fuss. The Wight turned, exposing an identical screw on the opposite side. Helmsman took it out with barely a word.

"Do you want to keep these, then?" he asked, holding out the screws.

The exaggerated talons reached up and pulled the front of the mask. It gave and unfolded from the top. The face beneath was that of a man about Helmsman's age, with long, flowing hair that came loose from the helmet unfettered by sweat. The face was normal, if slightly oversized, except for the eyes; the irises glowed red, casting a light. The hissing sound continued, and dust swam out from the mouth and nose.

"No." it said in a whispery voice. "I don't think I'll need them any longer." Ironclaws turned to Cross. "As for you. I'm not here to drag you down to hell; I just want to be here when it happens." Ironclaws paced around to the other side of Cross. "And it looks like I won't have much longer to wait."

"Helmsman, please." rasped Cross. His voice was getting fainter.

Viggo Helmsman hardly considered himself a hero. But when it came down to a scenario like this, he didn't see where he had a choice. Cross had been a power hungry bastard, but he couldn't leave him to die like this.

"So, you want me to try and save you from a slow, painful death?"

"I beg of you."

"Well, all right then, but only because you begged." Helmsman put his hand into his pocket. It came out holding the revolver that had killed King Rarc. He shot Cross in the head--the death was instant.

Talon looked on, stunned.

"I've seen things like this before." said Helmsman. "And they always wind up bleeding internally. It's a slow, unpleasant way to die. It would take a hell of a biomancer to bring him back from where he was, and I don't think we'd be able to find one." He blew the smoke coming from the end of the barrel and put the revolver back in his pocket. "What about you? Did you get what you came for?"

"This man," said Ironclaws. "Is the reason I am a Wight. I served him loyally for nearly a decade, and he killed me in cold blood to keep me silent. He rewarded my loyalty with death; I merely wanted to see justice delivered."

"Then justice is done." said Talon. "Now come on. Those gunshots are getting closer, and I don't want to spend any more time out in the open. We can get back to the Abyss--"

"Forget the Abyss. This looks like the edge of the blast radius. My facility is a few miles down whats left of this street, and if it's still standing, there won't be a safer place in what's left of the city."

Ninth Interlude - The Battle of Ulgotha

The alarm bells of Keystone's Comfort rang out through the pre-dawn air. A pair of yellow lanterns hung side-by-side in the signal towers, beneath a single red one. The signal was clear: the Palosians are coming by water.

Upstream, framed by the rising sun, dozens of masts were visible, moving quickly down the Magginoth River. A blue-and-white pennant flew from each; the Palosian flag. The fast, agile Corsairs cut through the front of the fleet, with the larger Battleships behind. A discerning eye could even pick out a handful of the dreaded Totem Ships, semi-sentient vessels with unparalleled magical ordinance. A Totem Ship could sink anything short of a Dreadnaught in a one-on-one battle without taking a hit. The combined fleet was enormous--possibly enough to take Ulgotha.

Sardipan riders departed from the guardhouses, shouting the news to the city.

"To arm! To arms! The Palosians are coming! To arms!"

Ulgotha's marine defenders roared to life--a pair of Ironclads and Dreadnaught stoked their engines and pulled free of their moorings. Any hope they might have had was dashed as an enormous fireball leapt from the lead Totem Ship and burned out the docks around a third Ironclad. The second and third Dreadnaughts managed to clear their docks, but the defenders were aware that even with the last ironclad they were sorely outmatched. The Ironclads were more durable than the Palosian Corsairs, but the extra armor was unlikely to be helpful against the sheer numbers they faced. Likewise, the Dreadnaught's powerful cannons would be likely to sink a few Battleships, but would be nearly worthless against the magically shielded Totem Ships.

On land, the Sardipan Army and Imperator's Militia mobilized. As cannonballs flew from the Sardipans ships and cannonshot returned with fire and lightning from the Palosians, the soldiers on the shore loaded flint-lock rifles and prepared artillery. One of the Sardipan Ironclads was hit by a solid bolt of force and began to sink; in response, a rocket launched from the shore struck the main deck of one of the Palosian Battleships and set it ablaze.

Jacob Kilburn raised to the roof of his apartment building in the Middle Barrens to see the harbor battle in greater detail. As he watched, the waters behind the Dreadnaughts began to churn and crackled with magical energy. Suddenly, the waters parted as a creature the size of a several city block erupted from the river.

"A Leviathan." Kilburn whispered in awe.

The massive wurm cleared the water and opened its tooth-encrusted mouth. A fireball hurled forth and engulfed one of the Dreadnaughts. The ship was heavily armored, but wasn't airtight, meaning most of the crew was burned alive in a matter of seconds. The ship drifted forward as its engines used up what fuel remained, careening into the docks and nearly running ashore. The Leviathan's open jaws landed on the remaining ironclad and shattered it. The waves generated by its landing sent a Dreadnaught and two Corsairs crashing into the dockside. The Leviathan seemed to vanish after hitting the water.

The lone Dreadnaught stabilized on the open water, facing down eight Corsairs, four Battleships, and all three Totem Ships. Only now could Kilburn see past the warships to the troop transports behind them. There were at least eight, and they had begun to land. The Totem Ships were bombarding the docks with chain lightning, making sure the troops would have a safe landing. Ulgotha maintained a strong military presence, but this was a full scale invasion and the defenders were left unprepared.

Kilburn took a deep breath. Ulgotha had no chance. No chance except one.

"Reaper of Souls! If you can hear me, now is the time!" Kilburn yelled to the rooftop.

A familiar shadow swept across Kilburn, ending in two three-lobed wings. "Ready to negotiate, are we?"

Kilburn turned. The Reaper of Souls stood on the peek of the roof, framed by the sun. "Okay, I want all of it. Eternal youth, the regeneration thing, but you have to up the ante."

"How so?"

Kilburn pointed to the docks, where the last Dreadnaught was being pummeled with Palosian cannonfire. "We can't hold them. The city will fall something isn't done. I want you to save Ulgotha."

"And you will build the constructs I desire?" pressed the demon.

Kilburn took another deep breath. This was it, do or die. "Yes."

"Excellent. Sign." A contract was passed to Kilburn. "Place your hand on bottom portion."

Kilburn glanced over it, but could barely make out the writing. Every second he wasted, more people were dying. Kilburn pressed his palm on the bottom of the paper. A white hot bolt of pain shot across his hand and he dropped the paper. The Reaper of Souls snatched it back before it hit the ground. As he did so, Kilburn felt as though a weight had been lifted from him. Upon examining his hand, Kilburn found it unharmed.

The Reaper of Souls held up the contract, now emblazoned with Kilburn's handprint. "The pact is sealed. I will deliver."

Suddenly, the sky grew dark. Kilburn heard a high pitch screeching sound, then another, and another.

The first meteor took out a clock tower down the road. The next cascaded into the water of the Magginoth, barely missing the Dreadnaught. More and more meteors fell from the sky, pummeling every surface within a mile of the docks, falling in greater and greater numbers.

When it ended, Kilburn felt thick fingers squeeze across his shoulders. "We will gather you some laborers, and we will go." said the Reaper of Souls.

An hour later, Jacob Kilburn flew away from Ulgotha on the wings of demon, looking down on the perfect circle of destruction the Reaper's meteor shower had left on the center of the city. The Palosian fleet had been devastated, but everything from the Imperator's Stronghold to the Bridge of Sighs had been wiped off the map.

Chapter Nine - A Place Without Seasons

The Abyss was certainly more elaborate than Helmsman had expected. The parts of it he'd seen had been areas where the city had collapsed above them and revealed little more than semi-collapsed rooms and a few wretched undead.

The place that Talon had taken him resembled Shyster's Market in the Lower Barrens more than anyplace else. Droves of--well, Helmsman supposed he'd better call them "people"--milled about throughout the place. It had been a long walk here (Helmsman estimate about three miles, putting them somewhere beneath Malachi Village), but he and Talon had passed dozens of undead on the way. Everyone down here seemed to be corporeal, as Helmsman hadn't seen even a single Spectre anywhere in the Abyss.

He had seen Wights, for the first time at close range. Wights typically loathed sunlight, but Helmsman had encountered one or two of the warped creatures in his time, but had spotted more of them in the past few hours than in his sixty-two years as a living man.

No one was quite sure what made a Wight. They were corporeal undead like Revenants, but their physical features were horribly warped, making them walking grotesques. Some said that Wights were created by magic, others by raw emotion--neither theory had been ruled out or even decided as mutually exclusive to the other. Each one was unique and unmistakeably bizarre.

One thing Helmsman had noticed in his months as a Revenant was that darkness didn't affect him as much as it had. The occassional light shone in the Abyss--again, magical in nature--but there wasn't nearly enough illumination for him to be seeing as clearly as he had. He ruled that, much like the Strenght of Undeath, it was a side effect of being undead.

"Talon, what is this place?" asked Helmsman.

"This is the King's Court." said Talon, grinning. "This is where the King of the Abyss rules from."

"The Abyss has a King?"

"Oh, yes. He is, in fact, King Henry the Third, ancestor to the current Sardipan king, Henry the Twenty-Sixth."

"Henry the Third...but he would be over a thousand years old! Not even an expertly preserved corpse could last that long."

"You're right, it couldn't. But Henry is a Wight, and they don't follow the normal rules. In fact, follow me, and we might catch a glance of him; he's taking supplications today."

The wheels in Helmsman's mind slid into place. "You had this planned, didn't you? From the moment I walked into your office, you were hellbent on my meeting this King of yours, weren't you?"

"That is a distinct possibility." said Talon. "Now come on. He's over there, by those lights in the distance."

Helmsman surveyed the chamber--it was hundreds of feet across, with a vaulted ceiling covered with the decayed remains of an ancient fresco. Helmsman recognised a familiar symbol at the center of the fresco.

"Wait just a moment. Up on the ceiling, that's the seal of the Sardipan Royal Family, isn't it?"

"That's correct." said Talon, his grin widening.

"This is the original Grand Palais, isn't it? The one that the Diocletian* sent below ground?"

"Excellent guess, Savant. This is all that remains of the Grand Palais, the King being all that remains of the Sardipan Kings. That fool on the throne means nothing anymore."

"Yes, well, politics really isn't my area of expertise, but shouldn't nine centuries of erosion have reduced this place to rubble?"

"The Palais was built with runic magic from the North, making it resistant to any physical force--that's why Diocletian sunk it in the first place, instead of just destroying it. As long as the glyphs are kept intact, they keep the water out. And believe me, those glyphs have been watched constantly since the sun last shone on this place.

"Ah, here we are."

Helmsman looked forward, and saw that the light Talon had mentioned was not for the King, but rather from the King. A sphere of light that was perhaps three feet across maintained a lazy orbit above the King's head. The light sparkled across shining gold armor and decadent clothing. The emperor seemed more or less human except for the small sun above him and that his eyes were enormous, each nearly six inches across--his head distorted accordingly to accomodate them beneath his golden crown.

"Now," whispered Helmsman, "I'm not too up on my history, but was Henry III the one referred to as 'The Sun King?'"

"Most definitely." replied Talon. "Now listen, he seems to be making an announcement."

"My children," said the King, "a great darkness is approaching, I can feel it."

Talon sighed. "Nevermind, Savant. We'd best move on."

"What do you mean?" asked Helmsman, perplexed.

"He does this from time to time, belting out a prophecy so cryptic as to be useless. He'll finish that and then go back to his private chambers."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me, it's nothing."



*Imperator Silus Diocletian, first of the true Imperators. Diocletian was formerly an aide to King Henry VI who eventually initiated a coup in 412 SR that deposed the King to a role of figurehead. Over the course of the battle, Diocletian's magewrights loosened the foundations of the Grand Palais, sinking it and most of King Henry VI's loved ones into the bed of the Magginoth, effectively destroying one Ulgotha's biggest landmarks. After Diocletian took power, he had new pavement laid over the Palais, sealing it off as "a relic of a time that has passed and shall never return. Let it remain buried with the decadence it signifies."

Eighth Interlude - Field Promotion

Though it was the second week of March, snow still fell on Geon.

Lieutenant-General Izikiel Brask sat at his desk in Rarc's commandeered palace, working by the light of a candle. He stopped writing when he heard footsteps behind him.

"There's no window on that wall, so I'm quite at a loss as to how you got in." he said, without looking up. "But I'm assuming that, since you managed it, you could have approached without letting me hear you, and so it is by design that I am still alive."

"You Sardipans." said a voice like black velvet, "You've got no flare for the dramatic."

As the intruder stepped around to the front of the desk, Brask saw that he had flare for something, at least. The man's costume was bright red with black highlights, and he had thick dreadlocks hanging down his back.

"Apparently not. Now, why have you come here?" asked Brask. Brask had started as a lieutenant in the field, and had enough brushes with death that he no longer feared it.

"General Brask, you are the second-in-command here in Geon, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you are, in fact, the fourth-highest in rank in all of the Sardipan military, yes?"

"Yes."

"I am here to inform you," the man withdrew a jar from his coat and placed it on the table. "That you are now the third."

With that, the man retreated into the shadows, and was gone.

Brask picked up the jar. It was filled with water, tinged slightly red from the pair of eyes floating in it. Brask calmly stood and went to the door, where he called over the guards outside his office.

"Sergeant, check in on Field Marshall Holland's quarters. And his office. Report to me as soon as you find him."

"Yes, sir. Shall I deliver a message, sir?"

"No. Just find him."

The message that Ishmael Shinnik had sent him couldn't have been any clearer.

Chapter Eight - Surface Level

Social class in Ulgotha was denoted in a literal sense--one's placement along the River Leshrac. Though Ulgotha stood at the intersection between the Leshrac and Magginoth, the banks of the Magginoth were primarily occupied by commerce and government, with very little residential areas to speak of. The Leshrac, however, teemed with life. The upper class neighborhoods were furthest upstream, where the water was fresh in its long descent from the Worldspawn Mountains in the east. Centuries ago, Ulgotha had been divided into the Upper Barrens, Malachi Village, and the Lower Barrens, but by this time a number of small towns had been enveloped by the city's sprawl, forging the city into nine boroughs, most of which were named for their original villages.

The very last borough was the Gray Knell, so named because of what the River Leshrac looked like after passing through the industrial districts upstream. The Gray Knell's most famous neighborhood was Spectre's Barrow.

Savant Viggo Helmsman stepped off the carriage and gave Troy Powell the signal to move along. The stagehand drove away without hesitation--even during the daytime, Spectre's Barrow was nowhere a living man wanted to be. The Savant set his shoulders and strolled down Crypt Street to the main office of the Sardipan Alliance of Extended Humanity.

The secretary behind the main desk would have been attractive if not for the line of heavy stitches running the left side of her face. In his line of work, Helmsman was injured frequently, but had found discovered that his biomancers could heal dead flesh just as accurately as living, albeit a bit more slowly. The Savant decided to keep his native curiousity at bay and not ask about the stitches.

"Can I help you?" asked the ghoulish secretary.

"Yes, I'm Savant Helmsman. I have an appointment with Mister Talon."

"I'll go and get him for you, Savant." The secretary went through a door behind her.

Helmsman took stock of the office. It was nice enough, not even the slightest bit reminiscent of a tomb. He noticed that the large front window had a heavy leather curtain tied up above it--he'd heard that some Wights were photosensitive. The other strange thing was that there were no lamps in the place--instead, magical lights were embedded in the ceiling. Using magic when there was a mundane alternative was a very un-Sardipan thing to do.

"Savant, please come in." said a male voice. Helmsman looked up to see Talon beckoning him into his office.

After Helmsman had been seated, Talon asked the Savant what his purpose was today.

"Ever since I became a Revenant, I've been doing research on the undead in general." said Helmsman. "By my own assessment, I'm a Taxim. The thing is, I personally killed the man who took my life, and the man who ordered him to do it, yet here I stand."

Talon steepled his fingers. "Savant, I'm well acquainted with Taxims, and frankly, you don't fit the description. While it's true that you came back to life after being murdered, you lack many of the other characteristics of a Taxim. First, Taxims must return to their graves during the day. Your presence hear illustrates that you are not bound by such a stricture. Next, you show the capacity for rational thought. Taxims think only of revenge--it is the purpose of their resistance. Last, you have, as you noted, obtained your vengeance, and it has not altered your state.

"It would seem that a fate has befallen you that plagues many of us. We know that we have died, we know that we have returned, but we do not know why."

"I came here for answers, not mysticism. Where do I find out what's going to happen to me?"

Talon answered without hesitation. "I would suggest the Abyss."

"The Abyss? It's full of horrors of freaks!" said Helmsman. "There's no way I'm going into that death trap."

"I really think you should. Most of the denizens are completely amiable towards other undead, and even if you can't find the answers you're looking for, you'll certainly learn a lot about what it means to be a Revenant."

"That's not what I'm looking for."

"It's the best option I can give you. In fact, I'll accompany you, if you like; my agenda is clear for the rest of the day. As you can imagine, we don't get too much traffic through here."

Helmsman turned the idea over in his mind.

"Dammit, what choice do I have?"

Seventh Interlude - Hell of a Night

Jacob Kilburn slept until nearly noon. He had a supplier to meet with at four in the afternoon, but his agenda was blank until then. He was in a rather nice accomodation in a hotel in Dunlin, a few days travel south of Ulgotha on a half vacation, half supply run on the Sons of Thunder's bankroll. Dunlin was Sardipa's second-largest iron smelting town, after Ulgotha itself, but without the capital city's heavy local industry. Hence, material would be much cheaper in Dunlin than it would have been in Ulgotha. Kilburn was glad for the change of scenery.

After he met with the supplier and negotiated an acceptable rate, he secured a delivery service. In the evening, he went out to dinner and danced with a few lovely ladies. He'd been spending so much time on the job lately, he'd forgotten how much of his life he'd been missing. Though he went back to his lodging alone, he went with a smile on his face.

The smile evaporated after he locked the door. He was certain he heard someone breathing.

"Who's there?" he asked the darkness.

"You will have your answer when you light the lamp." came a deep voice from across the room. "But know that it is not my mission here harm you."

Kilburn lit the lamp, and immediately wished he hadn't. The creature across from him was clearly not human; it was six-and-a-half feet tall, and wore what Kilburn couldn't tell was skin-like armor or armor-like skin. A pair of leathery wings came within inches of the ceiling, their tips splitting into three lobes. Movement behind the creature suggested a tail, but Kilburn couldn't see clearly it in the dimness. The head and shoulders were covered by a leathery black hood and cloak, but the creature's fanged mouth was visible. Just then, it opened its eyes, letting out a dim, red light from each.

"What the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" Kilburn demanded, feeling very vulnerable indeed.

"Tell me, what else could I be but a demon?" asked the creature, beginning to pace back and forth in the darkness. "Men call me the Reaper of Souls. As for why I am here, I propose a deal."

"Forget it. I've heard about bargains with demons before, and I'm not interested." Kilburn was terrified of the creature, noticing that its tail bore what looked like a stinger. At least he knew that if he resisted, he'd probably only end up dead; making a deal with a demon could bring him to worse ends.

"Nonetheless, I shall make my offer. There a place to the East of here, a long canyon called the Scar. You have heard of it, perhaps?"

"Get out."

The demon stopped pacing and looked Kilburn in the eye. "Answer the question."

Kilburn hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "Yes. It's hundreds of miles long and is straight as an arrow. No one knows why."

"Good. Inside the Scar is a door with but one side. This door is called Hell's Gate, and it is the link between Chona and Apollyon--your world and mine. It is at this place I require your services.

"The minions of Celestia have long since learned the location of Hell's Gate. There has been many a bloody battle as our ancient enemies try to wrest control of the Gate from us, its rightfully custodians. We require a stronger defensive position, which we have learned can be produced by artifacts you are capable of fabricating."

Kilburn stood for a moment, taking in the information. "You want me to build you cannons to fire at angels with?"

"Precisely. In return, I will grant you eternal life, and see to it that whatever else you need comes your way."

Kilburn shook his head. "My answer is still no."

"Think about it. You would have the whole of eternity to continue your studies--no question would need go unanswered. And it need not merely be eternal life--I can make it so that your body does not age, that your damaged flesh can repair itself with ease--"

"I said I'm not interested." said Kilburn. "Now get out."

What Kilburn could see of the demon's face sneered. "Very well. But should you change your mind, call out for me, and I will return."

"What part of 'get out,' didn't you understand?"

Kilburn felt a rush of air and then a blast of cold. The demon had flown out through the window, leaving Kilborn alone with the snow drifting in.

Chapter Seven - A Dish Served Cold

It had been eight months since Savant Viggo Helmsman had set foot in the city of Geon, and much had changed. There was the chill February wind, the lightly falling snow, the icicles hanging from the eaves. Of course, there was also the scattered debris, shattered city walls, and thirty foot burn marks crisscrossing the pavement.

"They say revenge is a dish best served cold." said Field Marshall Holland, standing to the Savant's left.

"Well, your men certainly burnt the hell out of 'em, but I'm not complaining." Helmsman replied.

The siege of Geon would have been incredibly difficult, due to the anti-siege engines Helmsman had been hired to install the previous fall. With the Savant and his knowledge of the devices' weaknesses on their side, the Sardipan military had made short work of the engines. King Rarc had drawn his own forces in from the outlying provinces, but Bellaraphon was barely a tenth the size of Sardipa, and Holland's force had trounced the defenders with ease.

Not much of Geon's exterior remained, but Rarc's palace still stood and had been converted into the base of operations for the Sardipan occupying force. A Sardipan flag flew above Geon now, and the paperwork for the official annexation of the entirety of Bellaraphon had begun. A single city in the South still stood against Sardipan interested, but the King's crushing defeat at Geon had inspired compliance on the parts of the remaining feudal lords of Bellaraphon.

The Savant, Holland, and a few officers stood on the balcony outside the throne room. Inside, the tribunal was being prepared. Two men were waiting to be tried: King Rarc II, and Hector Antilles. They waited in chains.

"By the way, Field Marshall, I appreciate the effort you went to to track down that damn assassin." said the Savant.

"It was hardly trouble. His fellows sold him out in exchange for mercy rather quickly." said Holland.

A soldier stepped out onto the balcony. "Sir, we are prepared. You and the Savant need only take your seats, sir."

A clocktower across the city chimed three times as the Field Marshall took his seat. The time was just after two in the afternoon--the tower was being tested to see how much damage it had sustained by errant cannon fire during the assault.

"This military tribunal is now at order." said Holland. "To be tried are Hector Antilles, on charge of homocide, and former King Rarc Desamides II, on charge of conspiracy to commit homocide, and obstruction of justice. We shall begin with Mr. Antilles. Mr. Antilles, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty!" said the less dejected of the two chained men.

"The defendent has plead not guilty. Let this tribunal commence with its first witness, Savant Viggo Helmsman."

Helmsman stepped up to Antilles. As he did so, he felt rage overwhelm him. When he came close to the bound man, his vision became clouded with the pure hatred coarsing through him.

"Savant Helmsman, is this the man that killed you?" asked Holland.

"There is no doubt in my mind." spat Helmsman. "It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from wringing his neck right here and now."

"But how can you say that?" called out Antilles. "You were shot from behind! You don't have any idea what your assassin looked like!"

Helmsman looked Antilles straight in the eye, and Antilles drew back. "You filthy cur. You have perhaps never heard of Taximification? I know I hadn't heard of it until a few months ago, as I carried out research about my condition. Taximification is what happens when a man is killed under the most unjust of circumstances. His need for revenge becomes so great that he crawls out of his tomb and seeks bloody satisfaction against the man who wronged him.

"Mr. Antilles, I am a Taxim. I don't need to know what my assassin looked like, I can feel it. And I've never felt anything stronger than what I'm feeling from you right now. If you didn't shoot me through the heart with a crossbow bolt last April, may any god listening strike me down!"

The court waited for a few stunned seconds.

"The prosecution rests." said Helmsman, stalking away from Antilles.

"You are certain of this feeling, and it is documented in previous cases?" Holland asked Helmsman.

"I have all the relevant documentation waiting in your office in Ulgotha, Field Marshall. And yes, I am certain."

"Then I, with the power vested in me by the State of Sardipa, declare the Savant's testimony to be sufficient evidence of guilt."

Antilles tried to cry out, but a soldier gagged him before anything comprehensible came out.

"Now, then, King Rarc." said Holland, turning to the defeated king. "You are aware that, as a conquered king, you have no rights here. I will ask you only once, did you hire this man or any other man to kill the Savant in the hopes of keeping the secrets of your defense engines' weaknesses from leaving Geon?"

Rarc said nothing.

"A refusal to defend oneself can be interpreted as an admission of guilt under tribunal procedure, sir. Answer the question, and I may be lenient. I will not ask you a second time. Now is your only chance." said Holland.

Rarc sighed, utterly defeated. "I did."

"Evidence stands. King Rarc, you have admitted to your role in the murder of the Savant Viggo Helmsman. In addition, you are a conquered king and are not required mercy under Sardipan law. In light of your crimes, I sentence you and Mr. Antilles to death, to be carried out immediately." said Holland, cold as ever.

Rarc said nothing, merely slumping forward. Antilles squirmed.

"Field Marshall, may I make a special request?" asked Helmsman.

"Speak." replied Holland.

"In my research regarding Taximification, I fear my condition may become irreversible if I am not able to obtain my revenge. As such, I request permission to kill these two men myself. It is reasonable to assume that, as the mind and hand that slew me, their destruction will free me from undeath."

"Your request is granted. Let the record show that Savant Helmsman has no previous recorded incidents of violence on his record, and this action can be considered reasonable within the context of the situation." said Holland. "Savant, you may dispense your justice."

Helmsman reached into his pocket and took out a large-calibre revolver. He stepped up to Antilles first.

"Ten months ago, you shot me through the heart with a crossbow." he said, gesticulating with the gun. "You're a Bellaraphonian, so you use a crossbow. Let me show you what Sardipa has to offer a man like yourself."

Antilles' eyes begged for mercy, while his mouth screamed behind the gag. Helmsman fired from twelve inches away--Antilles' heart was shattered, and his death was nearly instant.

The Savant strolled leisurely down to the stricken king. He said only one word before pulling the trigger:

"Checkmate."

Sixth Interlude - Declaration of War

Official Declaration
of Imperator Michael Meadows
Imperator of Sardipa

September the Eleventh, One-Thousand Three Hundred and Thirty, Sardipan Reckoning

Most esteemed King Rarc II of the Sovereign nation of Bellaraphon, this letter is to inform you of the grievances levelled toward you by the great nation of Sardipa and the consequences you have incured.
In previous correspondence, your government has denied allegations that it is directly responsible for the death of the Sardipan national hero, Savant Viggo Helmsman, on the fourth of April, One-Thousand Three Hundred and Thirty SR, in your capital city of Geon.
In addition, you have declined the following reparation demands:
25% of Bellaraphonian national income sent as tribute to Sardipa for twenty years.
Ceding of all lands from the Sardipan border to the Ersted River.
Abdication of King Rarc II and following trial for conspiracy and homocide.

Due to your refusal to meet the most reasonable demands of our great nation in the field of diplomacy, you shall face Sardipa on the field of battle.

From this point forward, negotiations shall only be conducted under the conditions of wartime parley. Do not expect our great nation to be as lenient at this time.

Signed,
Michael Meadows, Imperator
Nathan Cross, Chief Consul
King Henry XXVI

Chapter Six - Darkness Descending

Night fell on Ulgotha, in some places harder than others. Market stalls closed up, doors were locked, lanterns were lit. Elsewhere in the city, knives were drawn, skulls were cracked, and the dead crawled up from their subterrainean lairs. One particular Revenant had been in his lair for the past several hours and was showing no signs of going anywhere.

Viggo Helmsman's pocketwatch ticked away in his pocket while the wall clock did the same across the room. Behind him was a window that opened into Chimaera's interior, especially the gigantic clock that dominated the North wall. Helmsman's office had been constructed so that the desk lined up with the clock, producing an intimidating effect from the office door.

Though it was barely visible in the light from the small lamp on the Savant's desk, the room was as eccentric as its occupant. There was a raised portion in front of the desk that Kilburn had dubbed "The Bridge" for its resemblance to a sailing ship. The walls were mostly lined with bookcases, although there was a portrait of the Savant on the West wall, painted by his only son, Darien. Darien wasn't an artificer, he was a painter. While Viggo considered himself too dumb for art on the whole, he had recognised Darien's talent, and decided to support his son's career. Darien lived in a city far to the south, call Crown of Ri'Chess, where he'd gone to art school, but had come home to visit a year before, and painted the portrait as a gift to his father.

A few other scattered items were on the shelves, most of them old prototypes that had been of some note in their day. In a glass case above the door sat a mousetrap made of plywood and cheap pig iron--it was the Savant's oldest surviving invention, made more than five decades earlier.

The late Savant was going through his inbox, which was rather full after his long absence. He finished up the revisions on the schematic in his hand and moved on to the night. To his surprise, it looked more like a medical diagram than a mechanical plan.

"What the..." he muttered, looking it over in detail. Sure enough, it was filled with valves, gears, and cogwheels, but it appeared to be embedded inside a man. Confused, he looked at the summary box in the lower right.
PART NAME: Endoskeleton
DESCRIPTION: Artificial organ, augments heart, liver, guards against disease.
DESIGNER: Jacob Kilburn
"Well, that's a bit..." muttered Helmsman. He stared at the diagram long and hard, then passed judgment.

A good twenty years ago, a religious zealot named Winston Chandler had become Imperator and begun scouring Ulgotha for anything "impure." To keep some of Chimaera's more unconventional designs from being subjected to the witch-hunt, Helmsman had had one of the top floor room reinforced with iron walls and a vault door, christening it "Chandler's Vault." Chandler himself had been assassinated a mere eight months into his reign, but the vault had been kept on as a repository for potentially controversial designs. Helmsman believed that there were no bad ideas, only bad times for certain ideas to see the light of day.

He rolled up the Endoskeleton design and walked across the catwalks, taking his lantern with him. He entered the combination to Chandler's vault, slipped the schematic onto the Yellow Rack (Yellow Rack--Acceptable in Times of Great Need), and sealed the door behind him. Kilburn had left Chimaera visibly downcast around sunset. Helmsman felt sorry for his assistant, but there was nothing he could do--as long as he was upright, he belonged here.

Helmsman lingered a moment, staring down at the blackness beneath him, where the prototype had fallen through the floor. The mason's guild, like Chimaera's own employees, had all gone home for the night. Sadly, the driver, Robert MacKenzie, hadn't survived the fall, but no one had been surprised. Rainsford had gone out to see his family earlier in the evening. The hole to the abyss had been sealed, at least.

Helmsman shook his head. It was difficult for him to believe, but he had more in common with the wretch that Kilburn had torched today than he did with the rest of his workforce. This would take some getting used to.

Behind him, the Chimaera clock struck two.

"Dammit! Is it that late already?" he went back to his office and locked up. He should have been home hours ago. Without the need to sleep, none of his usual cues to return home had triggered.

This would definitely take some getting used to.

Fifth Interlude - Life and Death

Jacob Kilburn walked slowly down the dark, rainy street. If he hadn't had an appointment to keep, he would have gone straight home.

Earlier that day, he'd lost his future. The Savant had made an announcement to all of Chimaera's personnel about his current status. He planned to retain control of Chimaera from now on. With a boss who would never die off, Kilburn realized he had lost his status as Helmsman's heir-apparent. He seriously wondered what he was going to do with his life--apparently, the last fifteen years had been for nothing.

By the time he pushed open the door to the Golden Drum Saloon, his hair and clothing were soaked. He made his way to the agreed upon booth in the back.

"You're late." said Edwin Rass.

"It's been a trying day." said Kilburn, sitting down. Only then did he notice the third man in the booth. He had a long, shaggy beard and a face full of lines. He didn't look old, but rather like he had many years of hard labor behind him. His teeth were so white that they sparkled, even in the Drum's dim light. He wore a dark, heavily embroidered coat that Kilburn recognised as being from the Worldspawn Mountains in the North. Kilburn guessed the man to be about forty years old. "Rass, who's our friend?"

"This is the gentleman I told you about. Jacob Kilburn, meet Doctor Viashislov Shuisky." said Rass.

The two men shook hands, and Shuisky spoke with his mountain accent. "Mister Kilburn it is a playsure to meet you. Mister Rass has told me much about you."

"I haven't much about your skills, Doctor. All I know is that you're a biomancer with some unorthodox ideas."

Shuisky laughed. It was the thick, loud laugh of a bearded, heavyset extrovert. "I suppose 'unorthodox' is a very polit-ical way of putting it, Mister Kilburn. To put things simply, most biomancers only heal. They restore what nature has built. I, on the other hand, am willing to improve upon the first draft provided at birth."

Kilburn looked sidelong at Rass. "Is he for real?"

"You'd better believe it. He rode here on a six-legged horse that's as smart as a man. It's not tied up outside; it's gone for shelter and will be here at midnight." said Rass, smiling.

"Well, how will it know when it's midnight?" asked Kilburn.

"Why, he will use his pocketwatch, of course." said Shuisky, not even a glimmer of sarcasm in his voice. "If I am going to make an intelligent steed, I will make one that is punctual, of course."

"So...why are we here, Rass?" said Kilburn. "What do the number two man in the premiere facility for mechanical innovation and a miracle-working biomancer have in common?"

Rass rubbed his moustache. "I believe that we may be able to create a partnership between the three of us, to defeat an opponent no man has ever stood against."

Shuisky and Kilburn looked on expectantly.

"It is my belief," continued Rass, "that, between magic and machine, it may be possible for us to defeat death itself. I have been able to secure a grant from the Sons of Thunder to found a facility dedicated to the integration of man and machine. I believe that Mister Kilburn's gadgetry can be installed in the human body, with Doctor Shuisky's skills keeping the patient from rejecting those devices.

"All that I need is your participation, gentlemen. So tell me, are you ready to change history? Are you in?"

Thunder rolled outside. History was born.

Chapter Five - Collapse

Though Chimaera Estate was Helmsman's official residence, it was Chimaera Laboratory that he thought of as home. The building's name had originally been a joke describing the country of Sardipa itself--ugly, mean, and made of leftover pieces, but something that no one wants to be on the bad side of. The building had taken on its namesake; originally little more than a large warehouse, a dozen odd spires and balconies had been constructed, with two sub-basements reclaimed* since Helmsman had moved in.

Helmsman sighed as he walked across the threshold and made for the stairs to his office, a large glass-and-iron construction hanging from the ceiling. He made it halfway there and found the stairs blocked off, with a handpainted sign reading "use elevator" in front of them.

"What the hell?" growled Helmsman. He looked at Rainsford, who shrugged.

"Sorry, Viggo, I forgot to mention that. Kilburn and Bowerston finished the elevator design and implimented a prototype while we were in Bellaraphon. It's just past the staircase, I'll show you how it works."

Rainsford led Helmsman to a steel platform beyond the stairs and threw a switch on a panel built into it. A compressor hummed, pressure valves fire, and the platform began to rise.

"Ingenius, eh?" said Rainsford.

"Not bad, not bad." replied the Savant. "But why aren't the stairs available?"

"We've been meaning to reroute them for a few years now, to make room for another forge along the West wall. This elevator also solves the problem of getting prototypes to and from Heavy Vehicle Testing on the third story. We don't have to use the taskmages anymore."

"Ah." Helmsman thought for a moment. "Bill, why is Heavy Vehicle Testing on the third floor? Wouldn't it make more sense on the ground floor?"

"I don't remember specifically...I think we put it up there because we needed the floor space for the old master lathe."

"Which we scrapped six years ago. We should probably relocate Heavy Vehicle Testing to the ground floor sometime soon, before there's an accident." This was probably a good idea; everything except the ground floor and basement levels had been added to the building's original shell by mechanical engineers, machinists, and day laborers, with varying results.

Sardipa itself was hardly a bastion of magic; this was traditionally the domain of Palosia, and so anything enchanted was viewed with suspicion by the average Sardipan. Ulgotha, however, was a city so large and so crowded that its accumulation of a magical field was inevitable. Magical fields will allow for some unusual events, such as rains of fish, electrical storms amid snow, not to mention the city's disproportionate population of undead.

That said, sometimes strange coincidences have nothing to do with magic.

Just as the elevator clicked into position at the top of its track, there was the sound that everyone in Chimaera Laboratory feared most, coming from the ceiling--metal creaking, bending, and breaking. As Helmsman and Rainsford watched, the bottom of Heavy Vehicle Testing ruptured, dropping a wheeled vehicle through the breach and onto the laboratory floor below.

Because of Chimaera's piecemeal construction, there was no second floor besides a steel framework beneath Heavy Vehicle Testing, but the Executive Lounge lay directly beneath it on the first floor. Sputtering steam and spilling burning coals as it fell, the derelect machine crashed into the Executive Lounge and kept going, crashing straight through the concrete floor and into the basement below. At this point, Helmsman and Rainsford lost sight of it, but heard it smash through another floor, and then another.

Helmsman's shock passed faster than Rainsford's. "Bill, get this thing back on the ground. Now!"

The elevator descended slowly, picking up passengers during its descent through Chimaera's five levels. Below, workers were swarming around the holes the falling vehicle had created and rushing down in the lowest level, making their way to where the heap had come to rest.

"How many do you think were killed?" asked Helmsman.

"At this time of day the sub-basements are mostly empty, and you're the only one with a key to the Executive Lounge, Savant--" said one of the workers behind Helmsman. Helmsman realized he had no idea that he'd had the key to the Executive Lounge. "--so if the pilot's all right, the damage might just be structural."

"How likely is that?" asked a voice Helmsman recognised.

"When was the last time you saw someone fifty feet through four floors and walk it off, Jones?" he replied.

Just then, there was a bloodcurdling shriek from the hole, followed by screams. The upper levels went silent. The first shriek hadn't sounded human.

"Well, they've hit the Abyss, then." muttered Helmsman. "Wonderful. Simply wonderful."

Once on the floor, Helmsman jostled his way to the ground floor opening. Once his voice was recognised, the workers moved aside. Helmsman peered over the edge at the scene below; unpleasant didn't begin to cover it.

The creature standing triumphantly atop the ruined prototype was certainly undead and certainly female; anything else was pure speculation. She might have been a Wight, or perhaps just a badly decomposed Revenant. She was howling like a banshee and trying to pry the cockpit open.

Helmsman was about to bark an order when he heard another voice already doing so. He recognised it as belonging to Jacob Kilburn.

Kilburn pulled his goggles over his eyes and fastened the buckles the machine he was shouldering. Two glass tanks were mounted on his back, each one containing semivolatile chemicals. He lit a match and held it to the wick at the end of the pipe in his hand, a tube connecting it to the tanks on his back.

"All of you, take the rope and lower me--now!" he yelled. He slipped over the side, dangling from the rope around his waste. The team holding the rope lowered him to the ancient floor. Very little light filtered through from the floors above, but Kilburn planned to brighten the area very shortly. To his left Angus MacGregor was lowered by the same means, equipped with an identical device.

"All right, you!" he yelled at the screeching creature. "Get the hell out of here, or Turash help me, there will be nothing left of you to bury!"

The creature looked up, and deemed Kilburn to be a better target than what was left of the prototype's driver. She leapt toward Kilburn, her claw-like hands spread wide.

Kilburn raised the pipe and squeezed the trigger. The chemicals mixed in the tube, creating a flammable gas as they combined. The pressure of the reaction shot the gas out at high speed, across the burning wick. The result was a twenty-foot column of flame. Kilburn raked it over the lunging undead.

The burners had been developed a decade ago for use in mine shafts to ignite gas pockets that proved lethal to miners. They had taken up use in Ulgotha as a means to control those undead who were less civilized than the members of the Alliance of Extended Humanity. They'd seen brief military use, but had too strong of a backdraft to be effective outdoors.

The banshee cried one last time as the sheer force of the torrent of fire threw her across the ancient room. MacGregor turned and engulfed a creature skulking in the corner, behind Kilburn. This place hadn't seen the sun in a century; Chimaera's burner's made it a new one, if only for a brief moment. What undead remained ran from the flames, retreating into the darkness of the Abyss.

"Jacob!" called the Savant's voice from above.

Kilburn looked up, pulling back his goggles. "Boss, is that you?"

"None other! Well done, Jacob!"

"You bet! We fried those rotwalkers good!"

The Savant hesitated for a second. "Get yourself cleaned up, I need to speak to you personally! The rest of you, get to work getting this place back in order!" he turned to Rainsford. "Send a messenger to the Mason's guild, tell them it's urgent and we can pay up front. I'll be in my office. See to it that Kilburn gets up there as soon as possible."

Although, thought Helmsman, I have to wonder if this is the best time to break the news.


*Ulgotha had been around in one form or another for more than two thousand years. The city had originally been built on the muddy banks of the River Leshrac, but had burned down and been rebuilt so many times that it was largely built on its own ruins. In some areas of the city, primarily the older districts such as the Upper Barrens and Ralston's Ferry, hard work and decent structural reinforcement could lead to the reclamation of as many as seven sub-basements by refurbishing the ancient architecture beneath the streets, though this was generally discouraged. It was said that one could move from the Marble Gate at the Northernmost edge of the city to the Bridge of Sighs that crossed the southern end of the River Leshrac without coming within twenty feet of the surface. The ruins of the undercity were referred to as "The Abyss" and rumor had it that the Abyss was filled with malevolent undead and other creatures who found a complete lack of sunlight hospitable.

Fourth Interlude - Red Eyes

Chris was transferring the memo to official stationery when a very unusual looking man entered the outer office. He was about five feet, ten inches tall and was very muscular. The coat he wore looked expensive and was a vibrant crimson, with black leather boots coming out from beneath it. His face was most peculiar; his skin was pale enough to make Chris wonder if he was another Revenant. His hair was in a style popular in the Taurenmire swamplands--long dreadlocks that hung down to his waste, partially restrained by a metal clip behind his head. Most unsettling of all were his eyes--they appeared to be red. Worst of all was an intangible sense of...something about the man. It was as if a barely noticeable aura of dread hung about him.

"Can I help you?" asked Chris. Part of the job description to be the Chief Consul's secretary was the ability to maintain apathy to any visitor, regardless of how threatening.

"I'm here to see the Chief Consul. I have an appointment." The man's voice was the auditory equivalent of black velvet--soft, expensive, mysterious, but the slightest bit strained.

"Name, please?"

"Shinnik. Ishmael Shinnik."

Chris consulted the Chief Consul's schedule and found the name "Shinnik" in the appropriate space. Chris let the man into the Chief Consul's office.

"Chris." said Cross. "Shut the door behind you. This meeting is private."

Once the two men were alone, Cross focused on the paperwork on his desk, not making eye contact with Shinnik. "So, we're meeting openly now, are we?"

"I apologize, but I had no other way to reach you." said Shinnik, pacing back and forth, his hands crossed behind him. "There have been some complications."

"How so?"

"It seems that the Grand Marshall may have plans of his own."

"Hardly surprising. What do you mean, specifically."

Cross heard the sound of a glass jar being placed on his desk. He looked up to see Shinnik's hand, a pentagram tattooed on its back, holding a jar that contained a pair of human eyes floating in a clear liquid tinted slightly red.

"I took these," said Shinnik, "from a man who was observing your office through a telescope from the other side of Imperium Square. Under duress, he admitted he'd been working for Holland."

"What did you do with the rest of him?" Cross' voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

"Suffice it to say that blindness won't be the only thing that keeps him from spying on you." said Shinnik, tucking the jar back into the folds of his coat.

Cross sat back from a moment. "Be that as it may, assassination is a very clumsy way to handle things. If I take power through blood, that is inevitably how I will lose it. For now, keep your distance from Holland. I'll give you further orders if I think the situation warrants it. In the meantime, keep me informed of any other...developments."

"Of course." said Shinnik. "Will that be all."

Cross waved the other man out. Shinnik left the office; Chris was glad to see him go.

Chapter Four - A Corpse and a Cross

Ulgotha was a city of nearly two million. Each night, dozens of people died and dozens more were born. The metropolis' ebb and flow never ceased as dreams were born, lost, made real, and forgotten every minute of every day.

Despite all of this, the sun managed to rise each morning. On this particular day, Nathan Cross was in his office before it had done so.

Cross heard his secretary enter the room and looked up. "Yes, Chris?"

"Savant Helmsman and his Administrative Director to see you, sir." said the secretary.

"Send him in." said Cross' mouth. His mind asked Chris if the Savant was here to make another blusterous demand for an increase in his Imperial grant, or if he wanted to persecute the Sons of Thunder again, or if the Luddites had been bothering his laboratory again, or if his grievance this time was something new.

Helmsman shuffled in behind a fiftyish man in full formal attire, uncharacteristically quiet and, Cross admitted silently, looking like he might keep his voice down this time. Cross had been Chief Consul for the past three years and had seen enough of the Savant for the two to have been on a first-name basis if Cross hadn't found Helmsman so irritating.

The other man extended his hand to Cross. "William Rainsford, Administrative Director of Chimaera Laboratory. No disrespect meant, sir, but I was told we would be meeting with the Imperator."

Cross shook the outstretched hand without getting up. "The Imperator's health is declinining, and so he is rarely ready for his duties before noon. As such, his meeting schedule is somewhat backed up, and the runner who set up this meeting insisted that it was quite urgent. Unless you would like to wait until--Chris!"

"--The twenty-fourth of November--" called the secretary.

"The twenty-fourth of November, I would advise you to sit down." finished Cross.

Rainsford glanced at Helmsman, who nodded. The pair sat.

From his seat, Rainsford realized that the Chief Consul's office had been constructed with the deliberate intention of being intimidating. When the sun set, the large window behind Cross would frame him with light, surely an impressive effect. The architect had clearly had late-running meetings in mind over morning meetings like this one; the morning sun was so poorly positioned that gloom hung around the half of the room beyond the Chief Consul's desk on overcast days like this one.

"What," asked Cross, straightening the paper's on his desk, "brings you gentlemen to my office this morning?"

"The Savant was doing some contract work in Bellaraphon," said Rainsford. This was the tricky part. The code of Sardipan law was murky, but there was a chance the defense work Chimaera had been doing in Bellaraphon could be considered treason. Cross didn't bat an eye. "We met with some...difficulties upon the completion of our project."

"They failed to pay, am I correct?" asked Cross, crossing his arms. "And now you want us to put the Bellaraphonian's under duress, I suppose."

That was when the implications of the architecture struck Rainsford. Cross' view of Helmsman was obscured by the lingering darkness of the overcast dawn. Considering that the color of his skin was the only indication of his status as legally dead and that Helmsman was wearing a scarf over his face, the darkness made all the difference.

"Cross, you've always been one to jump to conclusions." growled Helmsman. "And don't worry, I'm sure one day you'll reach the right one."

Rainsford glared at Helmsman, then looked nervously at Cross. "I apologize, sir, but the Savant has had a very trying week."

"Just spit it out, William." said Helmsman. "It's obvious our Chief Consul hasn't figured it out."

"You see, sir, Savant Helmsman was shot through the heart by a Bellaraphonian sniper on his way out of the city."

Cross' mind began to move in several directions at once. The first was puzzlement that Helmsman had survived the shot. The second was the idea that he might have the justification for military action he'd been looking for. The third was that he hadn't examined Helmsman since he had entered the office. The fourth was him doing so, searching for some trace of his injury. The fifth train of thought left the station a few moments after the others, and it was an answer to the first.

"So...you're telling me that the Savant has become a rotwalker?" asked Cross.

"I believe the term they prefer is 'Revenant.'" said Rainsford.

"Regardless, I am to believe that Viggo Helmsman, after his death, returned to Chona as a corporeal undead being?"

"Just look for yourself." said Helmsman, pulling the scarf from his face and showing Cross the dead flesh beneath. "See? I'm not breathing. The only reason it doesn't smell like rot is because Rainsford here had the foresight to have me mummified before we left Geon."

Cross leaned back in his chair, pushing away from the vision of death looming out of the darkness before him. "I can see that. Now please sit back, Savant."

Helmsman sat back down and replaced the scarf.

"I can see that the Savant's...condition...is verifiable. Now, what do you expect me to do about it?" asked Cross, regaining his composure.

"Revenge." said Helmsman, clenching his fists. "I did everything that spoiled brat of a usurper told me to, and he rewarded me with betrayal. I want to watch that bastard die while his palace burns."

"Savant, I will promise you nothing." said Cross. "But I'll bring your demands to the Imperator, and you will be the first civilian to know if and when we go to war with Bellaraphon."

Helmsman extended a hand across the table. "Then you have my thanks, Chief Consul Cross."

Cross shook the room temperature hand offered him, and breathed a sigh of relief as the two men left his office. Once the door to the waiting room had closed, he called for his secretary.

"Chris, I need you to take down a memo."

"Addressed to who, sir?"

"Imperator Meadows and Grand Marshall Holland." said Cross. "Title it, 'In Regards to the Continuing Economic Downturn.'"

"Yes, sir." said the secretary.

Third Interlude - The Sons of Thunder

From the outside, the Assembly Hall of the Sons of Thunder (Ulgotha Chapter) looked like a simple--if unusually clean--factory. Inside was another matter.

The devices that lined the wall didn't accomplish much other than looking orderly and mechanical. Edwin Rass assumed that was more or less the idea.

Rass stood on one of the catwalks that lined the ceiling, shrouded in gloom, his cigarette glowing in the darkness. The enchanted lights of the Hall below were looked upon as an unfortunate necessity by the Sons of Thunder. Rass blew smoke out into the eight story void beneath him. There was a rally going on beneath him, but Rass was barely a Son of Thunder, anyway.

To say that the Sons of Thunder were a valued part of Ulgothan society would be heartily agreed with by most of the city. That they were competent artificers and had members in the upper echelons of nearly every manufacturing plant in the city was quickly noted before the conversation moved nervously to the next subject. That the Sons of Thunder were a cult that worshipped machines was an item of conversation that would receive awkward glances but no outright denials.

Rass strode down the catwalk to the elevator and threw the down switch. The elevator extended its hitch into the building's already mobile framework and descended to the ground floor. Being situated in the manufacturing capital of the world, this Assembly Hall was understandibly the largest in both membership and physical dimensions.

Rass stepped into the light, the artificial glow playing against his blonde hair and luxurious moustache. As a board member of the Greater Sardipan Ironworks, he wore the upper class suit and coat that was expected of him, though he forsook the top hat whenever possible. The sounds of the rally carried to Rass' position.

"...And soon, none will doubt the sanctity of order, the perfection of the mechanical!"

Rass very much doubted it. Rass didn't so much worship machines as believe in them. As far as Rass could tell, machines could greatly improve the quality of human life. Unlike most Sons of Thunder, he had his doubts about what benefits machines could bestow after a human life had ended.

It was just such an issue that sent him out of the Assembly hall on that cold October night. The rain had turned to sleet as Rass stepped out onto the street and called for his coach.

"Where to, sir?" asked the driver.

"Imperium Street. Chimaera Laboratory." said Rass.

"Very good sir." said the driver. "Off to speak with the Savant, then?"

"Actually, it is his assistant that I plan to call on tonight." said Rass, shutting the coach door.

"Jacob Kilburn." he muttered to himself.

Chapter Three - Homecoming

Rain fell across the gothic spires of Ulgotha, home of more than two million souls and as many people, give or take a few thousand. Agnes Helmsman had once enjoyed the rain, but in recent years the smoke from Slag Valley had given the city's precipitation an unpleasant smell. She stood on the covered entryway to Chimaera Estate, while the water syphoned out through a half-dozen gargoyles in the shape of the building's namesake. A coach she recognised as belonging to her husband had pulled in a few moments earlier, though its side had been painted white, completely erasing the Chimaera Laboratory logo.

"I really don't see why I have to be here, mother." said her son, Roger Blithe. Roger was Agnes' child from her first marriage, and hadn't held a job since his mother had married the wealthy Savant. Viggo couldn't stand the man; the feeling was mutual.

"Because he's your father." said Agnes.

"My father is dead." said Roger.

Agnes was about reprimand her son when a pair of figures came out of the coach. Agnes recognised the shorter of the two as her husband and the other as William Rainsford. Viggo wore a large cloak over his usual work coat, an unusual thing indeed.

"Mrs. Helmsman." called Rainsford. "I have some bad news to report."

"The bastard's still alive, how bad can it be." muttered Blithe.

The two men ascended to the covered entryway. Viggo remained silent, not even making eye contact, far from his usual greeting of a warm hug to his third wife and a gruff scowl at his stepson.

"Perhaps we could go inside." said Rainsford.

"Of course." said Agnes. "Viggo?"

Helmsman merely nodded. Agnes could see that he was wearing the red scarf she'd given him over his face.

They retired to the front room of Chimaera Estate, but Viggo didn't remove his cloak, hood, or scarf. Blithe seemed maliciously curious about what had gone on in Geon that had left his stepfather so visibly broken. At threshold to the room, Viggo put out his arm, barring Blithe's way.

"No." said Viggo. "This is not information for you."

Blithe stalked off with a snort and Viggo shut the door behind him, taking a seat next to Rainsford.

"Mrs. Helmsman," Rainsford began. "This is going to be difficult to comprehend. To be sure, it is a very complicated matter.

"It seems that King Rarc had plan for Geon, only some of which we were told. He desired for his capital to be impregnable, and had heard about your husband's defensive engines that had been installed in Ulgotha. He sent the communique to Ulgotha that he solicited the Savant's services, offering a very generous wage for overseeing the installation of the same engines at Geon."

"Yes, I know." said Agnes. "He also said that part of the pay was with the stipulation that Viggo appear personally. That's why the two of you left. Mr. Rainsford, I dont' know if you're aware that he asked me to accompany him, but I stayed here because my arthritis bothers me on long trips like that."

"Be that as it may, his reasons for requesting the Savant's personal presence were never explained, but in the face of such a lucrative contract the stipulation seemed acceptable. Little were we to know what would unfold in Geon. We spent three weeks installing the apparatus. The day they were finished, we learned of King Rarc's true goals.

"When Rarc decided to make his city invincible, he knew that the Savant understood how to wreck the engines he was installing. Rarc's solution to the problem was to have the Savant assassinated. Nine days ago, your husband was shot with a single bolt, straight in the chest."

Agnes was taken aback. "Well, Viggo, it looks like you're recovering quite well."

Viggo's shoulder's slumped, though no sigh could be heard. "That's just it, dear. I only look like I've recovered."

Rainsford hesitated under Agnes' inquisitive gaze, then continued. "You see, Mrs. Helmsman, the shot was fatal. I saw the Savant fall with my own eyes. The bolt went straight through his heart and came halfway out again. He was dead practically before he hit the ground."

"--But he's right here!" cried Agnes.

"--Let me finish, Mrs. Helmsman. With the Savant dead, I was in command of the employees of Chimaera Laboratory. Because he was clearly dead, I had your husband's body mummified in Geon, with the idea of keeping it preserved long enough for a public funeral back here in Ulgotha. To keep the body safe, I had it temporarily interred in a mausoleum and posted watchmen for the night. We had planned to leave the next day."

"That's when I woke up." said Helmsman. "But I wasn't the man I used to be."

With that, he lowered the hood and slowly undid the scarf. His face was the same it as it had been when he left, but pail as, well, death. Only then did Agnes notice that Viggo's chest didn't rise and fall. Though he sat right there, clearly conscious, he took no breath.

"I...I..." stammered Agnes. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I." said Helmsman. "I don't even remember dying. I was just standing in a market square, and the next thing I knew I was lying in a mausoleum vault."

"As it turned out," said Rainsford. "King Rarc found out about the Savant's return fairly quickly. We managed to escape the city without incident, but by the time we reached the borders a few days later they were looking for us. We'd painted over the coaches to hide the Chimaera insignia, but even so we lost four men and a coach to the Bellaraphonian authorities before we were safely back in Sardipan territory. Turash only knows what's become of them."

Rainsford stopped when he noticed Helmsman clenching his fist in anger. " I don't know what's happened here, but I do know one thing--Rarc has to pay. I say we should burn his god-forsaken country to the ground."

"I've already made an appointment with the Imperator for tomorrow." said Rainsford. "His schedule was full, but being a national hero like your husband makes for special allowances."

"So the Imperator knows about this...condition?" asked Agnes.

"No, not yet." said Helmsman. "It will become public knowledge then. I only hope that being chaired by a dead man doesn't drive Chimaera Laboratory under."

Outside, the rain picked up.

Second Interlude - Strangler's Bridge

The city of Ulgotha was separated into nine boroughs, each of varying quality of life. The general rule was that the further down the course of the River Leshrac, the worse the neighborhoods got as even the water supply became rebellious. Only one borough lie beyond the industrial district known as Slag Valley; by the point the River Leshrac made its way through the borough called Specter's Barrow, it didn't so much flow as ooze. The economic output of the budding factories was more important to the city as a whole than keeping the water potable so far downstream, and so nothing had been done about the industrial dumping that made the River Leshrac undrinkable for the rest of its span.

Not that the denizens of Specter's Barrow particularly minded. It was said that the Middle Barrens was the best part of Ulgotha to raise a family in. It was simply known that Specter's Barrow was the best place to raise the dead.

A tall, gaunt figure strode through the night, trailing white hair. The only noticeable eccentricity about him was that his skin was just a bit too gray. The man walking next to him was decidedly short on skin.

"It's disgusting. It's like they think we're not human!" muttered the gray one.

"Daniel, I've had to put up with their attitudes for nearly a hundred years, and I'm telling you, no amount of diplomacy is going to give us social acceptance." replied his decayed companion.

"So what should we do, start killing them all and eating their flesh? Just what we need, more stereotype reinforcement!"

The pair were Daniel Talon and Roger Maize, two of the top-ranking members of the Sardipan Alliance of Extended Humanity, the premier advocates of undead rights in Sardipa.

"Well, it gets 'em moving." chuckled Maize, his bare jawbones rocking.

"Not funny." he said, crossing a small stone bridge and crossing into the Lower Barrens. A small city-issued sign next to it read "Strangler's Bridge." No sooner had Talon's boots touched the cobblestones then he heard a derisive call directed at him.

"Hey, rotwalkers! Get back in the ground!" yelled a young man standing in front of several others. "Rotwalker" was a slur for the corporeal undead.

"That's uncalled for!" hissed Talon, approaching the men. "If you have an issue with me, you'd best raise it now."

The man pushed Talon back. "My issue is that you don't belong up here. Get out of my city and back in the graveyards where you belong!"

All corporeal undead exhibit the strange phenomenon known as the Strength of Undeath, wherein their decayed limbs show superhuman strength. If he had wanted, Talon could have cracked the insolent bastard's head in half with one strike. However, Talon knew this would only reinforce the idea of undead as monsters, an idea Talon fought against every day.

"So, in other words, you're entirely full of shit. As I thought." Talon turned on his heel and started to walk back to Specter's Barrow. Suddenly, he felt heat on his back.

When Talon turned, he saw the gang of thugs had a pair of torches they had just lit. Being very dry and unable to heal, there were few things the corporeal undead hated more than fire. Refusing to be intimidated, Talon moved quickly for the bridge. Seeing what was unfolding, Maize retreated back across the bridge.

"Hey!" called the thug. "I ain't done with you yet, rotwalker! Get back here!"

Talon heard them approach and quickened his pace. He was nearly across the bridge when they began to run. He stepped onto the cobblestones of Specter's Barrow and waited for his ace in the hole to kick in. They called this place "Strangler's Bridge" for a reason.

As the thugs were halfway across the bridge, a monstrous, waterlogged hand splashed out of the river. It loomed over the startled men for a moment before sweeping down and clutching them all, then dragged them below the surface.

"Interesting fact," said Maize. "No one knows where that Wight came from or why it hates the living so much. Most of them would just as soon go after the undead, but this one only likes 'em warm, only at night, and only if the stars are out. Funny, eh?"

"Funny how they never learn, maybe." spat Talon.

Chapter Two - Late Night at the Bluebird Inn

There were three knocks on William Rainsford's door, waking him from a fitful slumber. He crawled from the unfamiliar bed and came to the door to see a very shaken coachman before him.

"Powell, what are you doing here?" he said. "You're supposed to be watching the Savant's body."

"I...I am." said the boy, nervously tugging his hair. "He came with me."

Rainsford's sleeply mind tried to make sense of what Troy was saying. "Did you...exhume him?"

"No." said another voice. "I exhumed myself."

Standing in the gloom behind Troy was the earthly remains of Savant Viggo Helmsman, still wearing the dress uniform he'd been buried in. Rainsford retreated to his room, lit a lamp and returned to the cold, dark hallway. Holding the lantern up to Helmsman's face, he saw that it was indeed the Savant.

"Viggo, you're alive!" said Rainsford.

"Bill, look at me." said Helmsman. "It's cold in here--you can see Troy's breath and your own. Would you care to guess why mine is curiously absent? Now come on, let us inside and we'll try to work out what's going on here."

Troy lit a fire in the room's fireplace while Helmsman and Rainsford pulled the room's two chairs up to the table. Rainsford was fifty years old and had been in Helmsman's employ since the founding of Chimaera Laboratory thirty years ago. Rainsford had initially been a machinist, but had proven to be more valuable as an administrator, handling most of the public relations of Chimaera Laboratory. He still ran his lathe from time to time, and was in excellent shape as a result of operating the physically demanding machine for so much of his life. Rainsford had a full head of hair that had gone gray before he was thirty but had stuck around, crowning the leathery skin of his face. Though he looked to be purely a muscle man, his pale blue eyes hinted at the intelligence that danced behind them.

"Viggo, I saw you shot down this morning, but now you're here, walking and talking. How is this possible?" asked Rainsford.

"I don't know. I think that...that I am dead. I'm not breathing, I don't have a pulse. I can feel that it's a cold night, but the cold doesn't bother me. I can smell the embalming fluid, and Troy tells that I was mummified...and I don't think I could have survived that. I think I've become one of those dregs from Specter's Barrow." Helmsman's shoulders shrugged as if to sigh, though no air moved.

Rainsford's mind spun. "You may be right. I'm sure we can consult a necromancer from Specter's Barrow if we can get back to Ulgotha, but I'm worried. You were assassinated, Viggo. That much was clear--one shot was fired, and it killed you. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing. I'm afraid that whoever decided you were worth killing will try again if they find out that death hasn't stopped you. I think we should wake the others and sneak out of Geon tonight, and make for Ulgotha."

"You want to just run away?" asked Helmsman, his voice indignant. "Somebody bloody well kills me and you want to let them get away with it?"

"Viggo, we are in the hornet's nest. You're a national hero--the Imperator will not react kindly to you execution. I say we head back to Sardipa and convince Imperator Meadows to launch an investigation into what happened here."

"Damn...I hate it when you make sense." Helmsman turned to Troy. "Troy! Go wake the others, tell them there's an emergency and we're leaving the city right now."

"Yes, Savant." Troy picked up a lantern and left the room.

"Now, how do you propose to smuggle me out?" Helmsman asked Rainsford.

"Simple enough. They're expecting us to be bearing a dead body. Let them be right; just hold still and stay silent, and they'll have no idea you're more than they expect."

Helmsman scratched his chin. "Something...something doesn't seem right...there's something important I'm forgetting."

Rainsford thought for a moment. "Did anyone see you like this?"

Helmsman smacked his forehead in frustration. "Yes! Dammit, that was it! There were Guardsmen at the crypt wearing Bellaraphonian insignias! The King must know about it by now. That should ease our progress."

"No, it won't.." said Rainsford. "The assassin shot you in broad daylight with a single bolt. That tells me that someone had to see him and do nothing. They didn't catch him, either. I suspect King Rarc had a hand in this."

"The rat bastard..." muttered Helmsman. "I wouldn't put it past him. Come on, pack up what you have to, we need to move, now!"

"Agreed." said Rainsford, hurriedly dressing.

"I'll meet you at my coach. I'll play dead until we're clear to keep any of the men from getting hysterical." said Helmsman, heading for the stables.

First Interlude - The Power Behind the Throne

The Sardipan Throne Room was different from most Throne Rooms in that it had three thrones. Two were noticeably more ornate and were set back from the floor. They were made of gold and satin, the thrones of King and Queen of Sardipa; figureheads with no more power than a rural peasant. They technically had a great fortune, but were restricted from using it, designating the wealth as an important relic, much like the crown jewels. Closer and lower to the audience chamber sat another throne, this one made of silver and carved ebony--the Throne of the Imperator. On the Western wall was a balcony with seats reserved for the Supreme Administrator and the Chief Consul.

Of the five seats of honor, only two represented any real power. The Supreme Administrator was an impressive title with an extravagant wage that had no actual duties--the position existed so that the ruling Imperator had a position to use as a reward to those who had helped him to achieve power. Due to the relatively rapid overturn of the Imperator's office, this kept the entire system of government from collapsing.

The Chief Consul, however, was the second-highest ranking position in the Sardipan government. He acted as the Imperator's right hand and chief advisor, and only the Imperator could veto his orders. Of the five seats, only the Chief Consul's chair was currently filled.

Nathan Cross, Chief Consul to Imperator Michael Meadows, was accustomed to working nights. Meadows had been fiercely intelligent when he'd come to power fourteen years ago, but had since been worn down by his experiences and was rapidly losing his touch. Meadows was seventy-four years old, and Cross, himself a mere forty-two, was growing increasingly concerned that the old man would die soon, by assassination or no.

Gradually, Cross had taken control of most of the Sardipan government, much to the chagrin of Grand Marshall Victor Holland, head of the Sardipan Army and the number three man in Sardipa.

"I believe I've worked it out." said Cross to his secretary. The secretary looked tired. "The economic slump continues, but I believe I can fix it. All we need is something to create a demand for anything we can manufacture--tools, housing, weapons, it doesn't matter. Anything to increase demand on Sardipan goods will get the money flowing again, and bring the economy back where it belongs."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure it will." sighed the secretary.

"A war will be the easiest way." Cross continued. "A quick one that we can win easily, ideally against one of the Broken Kingdoms...the trick will be to invent a reason that seems justified, so the other Kingdoms won't retaliate."

The secretary yawned. The bell tower of the Stronghold struck two.

"Very well." said Cross, looking at his exhausted secondary. "I suppose I must continue along this train of thought tomorrow. You may go."

"Thank you, sir." said the secretary, shuffling off.

Cross leaned back for a moment, considering the possibilities. The Savant Viggo Helmsman had been sent to Bellaraphon recently...perhaps securing an alliance with a few Broken Kingdoms before instigating a war would give Sardipa the edge it needed to frighten the rest of the Kingdoms into inaction. The last thing Cross needed was to start a full-blown war--no doubt the Palosian devils would take action against Sardipa if that was allowed to happen.

No, he'd have to be more subtle...