Terjal's eyes grew wide in spite of himself as Graznod flung the linen off the covered figure lying on the marble slab.

Seeing the burnt and partially dismembered body stretched before him brought back memories of the hideous slaughter of the villagers. Like the others, this corpse was indistinguishable as to gender or specific age--save that it was obviously an adult. The blackened mouth of the corpse gaped in a silent, frozen scream of agony. The stump of its right forearm, covered with darkly gelled blood like melted wax dripping down a candlestick, twisted over empty eye sockets as if to protect them from harm.

With some effort, Terjal wrenched his gaze from the scorched body and looked at Graznod's impassive face. There seemed to be a fragment of disappointment tugging down the corners of the Redeemer's mouth, but Terjal did not see any genuine sympathy for the corpse's plight. This must have been, Terjal thought, reading the open chagrin on Graznod's face, yet another ruined 'customer'--a potential Redeemed sacrificed to the creature. It was just as I'd suspected when Strandholt's mother advised us through her feverdream to seek out the Redeemer--that Graznod might have been a witness to some of the direspawn's plundering.

Graznod seemed to perceive Terjal's musings. "If this is the work of some craven beast, it has been very busy. I cannot redeem those who have been butchered so thoroughly; armless, legless and burnt servants can be of no use to me."

Servants: Graznod's attempt at sentimentality toward those desperate few who required his services to save them from certain death. Better to die early, Terjal thought bitterly, than to merely exist in the mindless state of a zombie for ages more once you've died a second time.

Terjal discreetly studied again the blank, unreadable faces of Graznod's Redeemed as they stood at their master's side. Their thoughts are his thoughts, for they can't have thoughts of their own anymore. Terjal couldn't--and wouldn't--argue against the ethics of Graznod's practice, for these people had given their consent willingly even after learning of the dire consequences of such a choice. Terjal's heart shivered a little, nevertheless.

"The sight of this useless shell frightens you," Graznod said as he flung the linen back over the corpse, appearing to have read Terjal's thoughts.

"It's just that I've seen so much of it on our journey...here." Heart's hope! Terjal berated himself. I almost told Graznod about our visit with the Outsiders. He doesn't need to know about that. I can't afford to show weakness--the Redeemer preys on the weak and faint-hearted. Graznod the Redeemer was expert at manipulating those he suspected of being weak--Terjal had seen the results. "So," Terjal released a quick exhale, "'business' has been bad, of late I take it?"

Graznod's expression grew more cautious. It was obvious that he didn't like talking about his "craft" even to a conjurer such as Terjal Rakmir. "I've lost nine potential servants in the last week or so. If they'd died intact, then I would have had a boon; but when I came to collect each body, I found a mutilated corpse instead. If I could create a potion or philter to make them whole and usable, I would do it. But alas, such is beyond even my ken." Graznod released a weary sigh. "You came, I suppose, to ask if I've seen this creature. Well, I have not seen with my own eyes the creature that has wrought this destruction. But I have heard rumors that something has been attacking the sporadic merchant trains and utterly destroying them. The 'good' citizens of Quitonne," smiling sardonically, "are not interested in the mayhem aspect of the attacks, only that their market tables are becoming bare."

"Do you know how recently the creature has been sighted?"

"My most recent sources have reported sighting a bear-like creature three days ago, just northeast of Quitonne." Graznod's voice became irritated. "Apparently it has shown no inclination of leaving the immediate area, even though there must be little left for it to destroy."

Terjal let his face relax a little. Graznod wasn't going to like the next question; but it had to be asked. "Would it be possible to interview these 'sources' of yours?"

The Redeemer's jaw became taut and a muscle began to quiver restlessly. "I would prefer to keep those 'sources' to myself. That is why they remain so reliable: they report only to me."

"Would you at least ask a few questions in my--"

"Enough!" Graznod chopped a long-fingered hand through the air. "I will not jeopardize their goodwill by allowing them to be questioned. You will have to gather the details you need elsewhere." Then, suddenly smiling, the Redeemer added, "Let us conclude our meeting peacefully and without further argument. If I should hear anything more concerning this creature, I shall contact you immediately."

"Perhaps I could contact you at regular intervals?"

Graznod's face took on the mien of one who has tired of entertaining his guests and wishes to send them on their way. It was Terjal's cue to formally take his leave. Through that blasted liquid portal again.

###

Old Sandor Centlanth was dreaming--as he did each time his eyelids fell closed. For there was nothing more for an old man, withered of bone and muscle, to do in his remaining years, but to chase past glories in dreams.

Sandor was dreaming of the old days long past, now noted only in the scratchings on parchment by scribes barely old enough to have documented the events with their own eyes.

He saw himself, the eldest son of a poor sheepherder, and now older himself, standing in the young warrior-duke's court, garbed in a flowing robe set with jewels along the collar. Haughty courtiers surrounded him, eyeing him with suspicion, for they knew the youthful duke trusted him implicitly.

He sighed raggedly in his sleep.

Sandor saw the warrior-duke in his dreams now: Lord Vaukmond, barely turned twenty and his sword already bloodied time and time again, battle after battle. Sandor now saw himself gazing, awestruck, at the youthful warrior seated uneasily upon his new throne, freshly titled by virtue of his battle acumen. The previous rulers had only been recently routed from the city, which had had a different name then, after having controlled it and the lands surrounding for a full century. Windemere hadn't really belonged to those early foreign plunderers, for they had bullied their way toward Ryndorhn's largest city from Charaine, a land across the Sea of Sovereigns.

Sandor had been plucked from his clerical duties to serve the House of El'Haia as a translator--for most in that foreign court were too proud to learn the language of Ryndorhn. Sandor stifled his own pride, for the new position paid very well.

His first meeting with the young Vaukmond had been abrupt.

Sandor's restless mind shifted again as he saw his delegation journeying down a mist-dampened road miles from Windemere's gates. Suddenly he watched as the young warrior and his men shimmered behind the mists in their bright armor, quickly surrounding Sandor and his startled companions.

Vaukmond nearly dashed Sandor's head from his shoulders. His sword frozen in mid-swoop, the warrior stared deeply into the translator's eyes. The slow smile upon Vaukmond's face told Sandor that the warrior had seen a kindred spirit of defiance in the elder's eyes. Sandor gladly agreed, to the horror of his companions, to assist the young warrior in toppling the cruel House of El'Haia; for he'd seen one too many whippings administered to those who'd done nothing to deserve such punishment.

Vaukmond, once he had the House of El'Haia tumbled asunder, the necks of its own butcherous aristocracy beneath his blade, he called upon Sandor once again to witness this triumph. The expression upon Lord Vaukmond's face had been like that of a cat who has caught a mouse and lain it proudly before its master. But Sandor had not been pleased to see the beaten and overthrown rulers kneeling pitifully before their executioner. Sandor had looked into the surprised eyes of the young Duke of Windemere and had shaken his head slowly, sadly. Would they never learn? he had asked himself wearily.

Sandor frowned in his sleep as his lips mashed together and he turned feverishly in his bed.

He had always abhorred violence and so when he saw the members of the House of El'Haia lined elbow to elbow, their heads bent to receive a sword's stroke in their turn, he protested. Better to turn them out of the city and banish them into exile to their homeland, he'd told the young ruler, than to slaughter them and invite certain retribution from their native land.

To prove this, Sandor had volunteered to set sail for Charaine, bringing the exiles with him. The ruling council of Charaine had received Sandor and his captives warily; but they nevertheless listened intently to his brilliant oratory. Before he'd left their shores, Sandor had struck a trade deal that would eventually make Lord Vaukmond and himself quite wealthy. Those days had been glorious--and so too was the journey upon the seas back home to Ryndorhn. The cool, moist winds exhilarating, gilding him with unseen luminous veils--

--he felt his body begin to roll as if he were on the high seas watching the twisting, churning waves as they slapped against the ship's hull--

"Sir, sir--you must wake up," a servant called in Sandor's ear as if from a distance. "There are guests waiting in the main chamber who wish urgently to speak with you."

Sandor slowly opened eyes still glazed heavily with the daze of sleep. Blinking up at the hovering face of the servant standing above him, Sandor wondered: had these guests come to listen to his stories?

###

Aiya glanced about the opulently decorated Great Hall of Sandor Centlanth's keep. Expensive hand-painted wall hangings were draped from ceiling to floor almost defiantly, as if daring visitors to gauge their value. The furniture was similarly as rich. Aiya brushed her palm along the velvet backrest of a chaise before looking up to meet Arjas's amused face.

"Your old friend has done very well for himself," the Blade said as he looked about, more curious than impressed. "He's living in the best burg in all of Quitonne surrounded by still more opulence. A true politician, I own."

"He was successful, true," Aiya replied, "but I'd never realized to what extent."

They turned, with startled embarrassment for their scrutiny, as they heard the slow susurrus of footsteps whispering down the stone stairwell.

Aiya tried to keep her face free of any trace of astonishment as Sandor Centlanth stepped carefully into the Great Hall, leaning heavily upon two servants as if they were human crutches.

Had he seemed this frail when I saw him last? Aiya thought sadly to herself. Could six years have etched their mark upon him so deeply?

Sandor's mouth sagged open to release a ragged gasp as the placid-faced servants eased the elderly man carefully into a cushioned chair. When Sandor raised his face weakly to meet hers, Aiya noted with relief that his eyes were still as sharp and bright as faceted gemstones. Still, those keen eyes were ringed with the loose, dry flesh of one who has aged with marked rapidity. Red blotches puddled upon the pocked skin of his nose and cheeks; his mouth, the lips dry and wafer-thin, dragged down at one corner as if it were being swallowed. The waxy and blotched skin of his scalp gleamed eerily through the thinned, white down of his hair.

"Please," the ancient-sounding voice cracked; then, finding the right timbre, continued, "please sit down. I am not fond of looking up." The mobile side of Sandor's mouth crept upward in a smile of affection. "How long has it been, Aiya Lindsmund, since I last saw you stand at the Duke of Windemere's side?"

Aiya sat down across from the old man. "It has been nearly six years since you left Honor's Start and Windemere. I am sorry that I've not visited you more often in that time, but you know as well as I the constraints put upon those of us in such service."

"Ah, I know them only too well," Sandor said as he gave her a trembling wink, "and that is why I never faulted you for it. I would have been more worried if you had been able to visit frequently, for it would have meant Lord Vaukmond had too little to keep you busy." Sandor's feeble chuckle shuddered into a rattling cough. A servant standing at his side held a soft white cloth to the old politician's mouth and he pushed it away fiercely. "Out with you both," he said harshly, his open palms brushing the air in front of him. "I don't need the lot of you hovering over me while I entertain my guests."

Aiya marveled at the calmness maintained upon the servants' faces as they exchanged knowing glances at each other above the old politician's head. They're obviously accustomed to Sandor's tirades, which are no different from when he served Lord Vaukmond. "Let me introduce my guard, Arjas; he serves Terjal Rakmir of Cloudreach. Terjal is attempting to arrange a meeting later with a fellow called 'The Redeemer.' I must say, that from what little I know of him, I'm looking forward to the meeting with a mixture of curiosity and foreboding."

At the mention of the Redeemer's name, Sandor's eyes blinked rapidly, ignoring Arjas's silent nod of greeting. "It's a good thing Terjal is a conjurer--and a healthy one, I would hope. The Redeemer has a penchant for dealing with those who are not well--and better yet, those lying upon their deathbeds."

"You've had dealings with the Redeemer?"

"Well..." Sandor paused warily, "I have met with him on a number of occasions." The old man licked his lips nervously and winced. "And what do you know of the Redeemer?"

"For one thing, I know that no one likes to talk about him. The other is that he deals in 'death,' which is most likely why no one wishes to speak of him."

Sandor took a deep breath. Aiya heard the trembling rattle in his breath as he exhaled slowly. This time it didn't sound like ill health. It sounded like fear. Fear well-coated and deeply imbedded in every cell of the old man's body. Fear that stood up and shook itself off at the simple mention of a name. "Then I count myself as one who does not enjoy speaking of the Redeemer," Sandor said, "However, if information on the man is what you seek, then I shall tell you all that I know. Only," his voice grave, "avoid any contact with him. He can be quite...persuasive."

"Persuasive?"

Sandor grimaced, seemingly not from physical pain--but from the discomfort of discussing such a grim subject. "The Redeemer doesn't like waiting for his customers to drag themselves to his door--he likes to snare them before they might be in need of his...services." Brushing his grooved forehead with a darkly freckled hand, he continued, "You see, his title of 'Redeemer' is somewhat contradictory. It is true that he heals his patients--unorthodox concoctions aside--in order to 'redeem' them from the bony clutches of death. For that is where the Redeemer's true 'talent' lies: he can bring back to health those teetering on the brink of death's steep ledge. If no other healer can help you, the Redeemer can. For a price. And that price is one only the truly desperate will agree to pay. It is a price that does not only involve the exchange of gold sovereigns, but of everlasting, mindless solitude when death comes calling a second--and final--time."

Aiya felt her stomach flatten against her spine, as the implications of what Sandor had just said mingled with what little Terjal had told her. "He doesn't believe in second chances?"

Sandor shook his head. A bemused twinkle seemed to push the dark fear from his eyes temporarily as he favored Aiya with a lopsided smile. "Oh, that's where the contradictions of his title begin to ooze into the story of the Redeemer. He never saves his customer a second time. It is not his policy to delay payment." Sandor settled a serious gaze upon his former protégé. "In order to pay your debt to the Redeemer for saving you the first time, you pledge to become one of his Redeemed after death succeeds in snatching you the second." Pausing. "The Redeemed are zombies pressed into everlasting servitude by their new master--after he fetches their corpses, that is."

Aiya swallowed. "I don't think I'd be so desperate as to request the Redeemer's service, knowing such was the price."

"You say that now," Sandor's face seemed to cloud with a mild anger that puzzled Aiya. "You have a strong and healthy body--now. But what if you were dying hopelessly from a disease no legitimate healer could cure and you didn't want to lose everything you..." Sandor snapped his mouth shut abruptly, then smiled with forced geniality. "Surely you did not visit me to talk exclusively of the Redeemer?"

Aiya felt the unease wedged between Sandor's words. He was hiding something from her and was using all of his diplomatic skills to keep it concealed. I'm no match for his adroit tact; if he doesn't want to talk about something, he just won't--and there's nothing I can do to convince him otherwise. At least he's given me more information about the Redeemer than Terjal has.

Aiya cleared her throat. "Actually, I had just come from a meeting with Vice-Mayor Turste a few hours ago. You see, Terjal and I are attempting to track a beast that has been ravaging the countryside; I was hoping that the Vice-Mayor might provide me with some useful information."

Sandor's smile widened, deep creases fanning the corners of his eyes. "And you were unsuccessful, I take it? Well, I must say that I am not surprised."

Aiya's eyebrows slanted quizzically. "Do you think that Vice-Mayor Turste is deliberately withholding information from me?"

Sandor shook his head slowly and chuckled softly. "He might be. Then again, he might not. He's been feeling quite imperious since Mayor D'Orrn disappeared rather abruptly." Sandor rolled his frail shoulders in a slow shrug. "It's simply that if this creature doesn't directly affect Quitonne and its profit margins, then it should be of little concern to him. Oh, the trade routes have been...disrupted...or so I've been told. But remember, Quitonne receives goods from other lands and hawks them to all of Ryndorhn. Because this creature hasn't attacked any ships, the foreign goods are safe. So far, Quitonne's merchants have been able to increase the prices because of the demand from the other provinces." Sandor's grin lessened to a wry smile. "But the good vice-mayor will become concerned when his customers can't reach the marketplace. Only then will he be interested in helping you."

Aiya cupped her chin pensively with her palm. "I can't help thinking that there might be a connection between the beast and the vanished mayor." She shook her head, frowning. "The Vice-Mayor clearly didn't want to discuss the subject."

"Turste," Sandor began, shaking his own head gently, "may be a grasping ladder--climber, but I don't think he'd have arranged for D'Orrn's abduction. Unless..."

"Unless," Aiya finished, holding a slender forefinger aloft, "Turste and his fellows knew of the creature's whereabouts and arranged for the mayor to be in the wrong place at the right time."

Sandor paused, closing his eyes wearily to consider the suggestion. When he opened his eyes, he shook his head. "Turste just isn't savvy enough to carry out such a plan--nor to have such connections." Chuckling softly he added, "Besides, I don't think he's brave or smart enough to concoct such a plot."

Aiya's lips stretched into a taut smile. "Turste seems smart enough to have risen as far as he has. From the looks of him, his coffers must be ample--by Quitonne standards."

Sandor wheezed a short, choked laugh. "Turste is smart at selecting the right people to make him rich; he couldn't have done it by himself."

"Which brings me back," Aiya sighed wearily, "to the original reason why I came to visit you." At his open look of sad disappointment she added quickly, "Besides the social reason, of course."

"You mustn't resort to lying," Sandor chided her, sparkles of light skidding off his dark eyes. "I would never expect you to make such a journey just to visit a querulous old man. Now what is it that you think I can tell you about this beast? I know no more than Turste."

Should I believe him? Aiya wondered to herself, feeling slightly ashamed at having such doubts about her old mentor. I never could accurately read Sandor's mien, only when he wanted me to--or so I always thought. She didn't like the idea of Sandor deliberately secreting information from her; she valued the trust they'd established while she had served under his tutelage. If I can't trust my oldest friend--

Suddenly Aiya's thoughts were bitten off by sounds of splintering wood, shouts and the clatter of metal upon metal. Arjas was at her side in a heartbeat, both scimitar and short sword drawn and ready, the Blade's dark eyes squinting, waiting for the adversary.

They didn't have long to wait.

Five, then seven--now ten--blank-faced, grey-garbed men strode into the chamber, their gait almost languid, not at all like men who'd just left a battle. Their swords, seamed with dripping blood as they held the weapons before them, seemed the only indication of struggle.

Aiya's widening eyes caught the dull wink of burnished brass as it flashed from each man's right eye. A brass plug in place of an eye? Aiya thought, astonished. What could it possibly mean...?

Just then, two of Sandor's guards burst into the chamber and lunged, without preamble, at their impassive foes, but fell quickly under the precise stroke of each opponent's sword blade instead. One mortally-wounded guard managed to fling himself against an attacker. The dying guard grimaced in pain as he reached a trembling hand toward the glinting plug. The somber foe offered no resistance as the guard grasped the ring and pulled. Hard.

The guard's eyes opened wide for a second as he mouthed a silent scream, for the doomed man began suddenly to unravel as a golden wind rose from his blank-faced opponent like dust shaken from a pillow, enveloping the guard in a tendril of energy before quickly erasing him from existence. No sooner had the golden wind rushed from the prison within its host, than the shell that had encased it began to crumble into a pile of khaki-colored dust. No looks of vengeance at the loss of their comrade crossed the faces of the remaining grey-garbed men; they seemed not even to notice at all, only pressed forward, their faces stone.

Aiya and Arjas exchanged quick, puzzling looks before turning back to the fray. "Well," Arjas called out, "I guess that leaves out removing things from their faces." Then as the Blade leapt forward, scimitar brandished for a diagonal slice, he grunted, "Let's see what lopping their heads off will do."

Arjas spun round, the sharply curved blade of the scimitar cutting the air with a soft hiss, and meeting solidly with the neck of the man nearest him. With its head half severed, the advancing ghoul continued to hack at Arjas, who deftly blocked each blow. In one quick movement, Arjas brought the scimitar in a powerful arc from the other direction, slicing through to the exposed gristle of the other side of the wound on the ghoul's neck. Head and neck sprang in opposite directions, as Arjas repeated the strategy upon another ghoul. Still the ghoul continued to advance, slashing the air blindly in its wake. Arjas deftly feinted each blow, but the force of the zombie's swings were so powerful, the air rushed at him nearly caused him to topple over. "I can't get a decent slice at the bugger!" Arjas cursed between grunts, continuing to dodge the unnaturally forceful strokes.

Aiya, quickly turning her attention away from Arjas's plight, pulled a broadsword from the rigid grasp of dead guard, and began slashing at the ghouls as if she were clearing brush. With all of her strength, the grip of the sword pressed hard by the fingers of both hands, she swung the blade in a smooth horizontal vault toward the neck of an advancing ghoul. For a brief moment she felt a sickening tug as the sharp metal cut into the mottled flesh of her foe, then watched as the head was torn away from the ghoul's body, thudding upon the floor toward a corner of the chamber. In horror she watched as the ghoul seemed to straighten, headless, before her, its sword in hand reached high for a sturdy chop.

Before the zombie's arm came down upon her own neck, Aiya plunged the heavy tip of the broadsword directly into her opponent's belly. The sword ripped quickly through the dusty fabric of the ghoul's tunic, then sliced open a sheath of grey, mottled flesh only to reveal a square of brass gleaming amid the spoiled tissue. Luckily Aiya's surprise didn't prevent her from backing away just as the zombie's sword swished the air before her, nearly causing her to land on her backside.

What the--? the words were bitten off in her mind as Aiya scrambled backward, splitting the air before her with her own sword. There's got to be a way...

Aiya spun around, dodging another air-slicing blow, her long black hair suddenly tossed round her face, a strand pasting itself to her lips. With every bit of strength, struggling to keep upright in the wake of the pressing wind of the zombie's blows, Aiya swung her sword--hard--against her opponent's flank, slicing through to its spine and once again feeling the sickening tug as it cut through rotted muscles and tendons.

Suddenly a plume of dun-colored dust blew from the gaping wound, filling Aiya's nostrils with a pungent slaughterhouse smell. Gasping, choking and with her free arm lain across her closed eyes, she backed quickly away, remembering the unfortunate fate of the guard as he'd been swept away from this plane in the same cloud of dust.

Once she realized that she had remained whole despite the lingering smell clogging her nostrils, Aiya opened her eyes.

Where the madly slashing ghoul had stood, a pile of grey ash now lay as if waiting to be poured into an urn. Aiya, without turning, shouted, "Arjas--don't lop off their heads--cut them in the back!"

Aiya heard Arjas's irritated grunt, "I've already figured that out!" Turning now, she saw that Arjas had done just that for he was busily dispatching each ghoul--the ones he got close enough to-handily from behind. Aiya heard a sudden shout and felt a gust of cool wind at her back. More of Sandor's guards had arrived to join the melee. Turning in their direction, Aiya shouted at them, "Don't meet the zombies from the front--slice into their backs through to the spine."

The guards, looking from the ghouls to Aiya then back again, launched themselves toward the remaining zombies, their heavy swords meeting the flesh of their opponents solidly. Soon there were ten piles of grey ash upon the tiled floor of the main chamber, some wet with droplets of blood from the guards who hadn't been able to escape the cut of a ghoul's blade.

Aiya and Arjas exchanged shrugs as they both gazed at what had been wrought. Arjas shook his head slowly. "I've fought just about everything: from long-boned giants to craven beasts, but never something that still moved toward me while missing its head." Then, smiling, he added, "You fought well--good bladework."

Aiya felt color steaming beneath her cheeks. "Lord Vaukmond makes everyone practice at being battle--ready--even his advisors are not exempt." Then, her eyes narrowing into a pensive squint as she studied the reeking piles of powder, she added as she inclined her head, "You don't think these belong to the Redeemer, do you?"

Before Arjas had a chance to reply a thin wail rose from a corner of the room. Aiya turned sharply to find the elderly politician cowering beside a chaise, trembling so violently that he had to grip the armrest to keep upright. Aiya scurried to Sandor's side and placed a palm against his neck, feeling the pulse beat fast as a bird's. His eyes appeared blind and unfocused and his lips trembled. "What are you trying to tell me?" Aiya urged gently.

Finally Sandor's lips began to form words, though the voice that emerged tottered on the edge of hysteria, the tone quavering violently. "They--" the old man spat, gesturing a shivering hand toward the slain ghouls. "They belong to the Redeemer! They are his Redeemed, his everlasting undead; he's sent them to me at last!"

Like a heavy hand, a single thought slapped at Aiya's mind. Sandor is obviously linked to the Redeemer in some manner. Yet, it didn't seem possible that Sandor, a man of high principles and high tastes, would stoop to even the slightest involvement with someone of the Redeemer's notoriety. Unless... she thought wonderingly, unless Sandor had become so gravely ill long ago that he'd eventually found himself balanced upon the fine line between life and death, with the only one guarding the gateway to both states the Redeemer himself.

The look upon the old man's face was one of extreme, open anguish: a look of mental, rather than physical, pain. Aiya gently grasped Sandor's quaking shoulders and brought his stricken face closer to hers. "You must tell me everything so that I can help you!"

Sandor turned his face away from hers, his eyes squeezed shut against the glare of her plea. "I cannot!" he gasped. "I mustn't involve you in this..."

"It's too late," Aiya shook her head slowly. "I am involved now; Arjas and I have just helped your guards slay some of the Redeemer's minions." Then, seizing the old man's chin between thumb and forefinger and bringing his face close to hers, Aiya continued, her voice calm and measured, "You had need of the Redeemer's services long ago, didn't you? The miraculous recovery you made from the Hanolyn poison slipped you by a rival was the work of this Redeemer, wasn't it?"

"Yes!" The answer burst from Sandor's thin, trembling lips. "There is no known antidote for the Hanolyn poison--I knew I had but a few days before it would finally kill me. I couldn't die just when I'd attained the wealth and station I'd so longed for; and I couldn't let my assassin benefit from this heinous deed. Do you know what would have happened to Lord Vaukmond's throne had my assassin succeeded? There would have been chaos! The Duke was at a very tenuous juncture in his reign: many evil men challenged him on the battlefield and at the bargaining table. You know well that Lord Vaukmond is no diplomat; he needed my counsel and his enemies knew this: strike me down and you strike Vaukmond as well."

In desperation, Sandor rolled his head away from Aiya's grasp; Aiya let him turn his face away, for the pain within them needled her own in kind. "You see," the old man continued, "it wasn't only that I wanted to hold onto my new-found wealth, but I had my duty to the Duke of Windemere to think about. Vaukmond has been the strongest duke so far, as well as the most just. You know--"

Sandor's words were slashed away before he could finish as one of his servants, a young girl, rushed into the chamber shrieking hysterically, her hands pressed upon her cheeks in anguish. "They took them, milord! Oh, by the gods above, they took them both!"

The old man tried to scramble to his feet, his thin legs scissoring the air as if he were swimming. "Rhenae and Tallan? Gone?" Sandor's eyes clouded with shock and a corner of his mouth began to twitch violently. Soon the palsy spread to both cheeks, the eyes and the forehead, the trauma beating beneath the flesh as if the very heart of all the pain in his life throbbed there now. Then the old man crumpled within Aiya's grasp as if sucked down from below.

No more words came from Sandor's mouth. He wasn't dead, Aiya saw, but in a coma.

Aiya looked up to find Arjas peering down at her. The puzzled look upon the Blade's face gave her no solutions and no comfort.

###

"Graznod had to have planned the attack long before we talked," Terjal said after hearing Aiya's account of the melee with the Redeemed.

They had rendezvoused back at their guest quarters, Darman and Strandholt assembled the horses and pack animals outside. Arjas stood at Aiya's side, unusually sober. "Sandor must have decided to cut his ties with Graznod and underestimated the Redeemer's mettle. You say that Sandor's wife and son were kidnapped?"

Terjal had reluctantly been forced by news of the melee to reveal Graznod the Redeemer's true identity to Aiya. He hadn't wanted to tell her so soon--perhaps not at all, for he'd hoped he might keep Graznod's participation in the quest a limited one.

Aiya nodded, frowning. "We found no sign of them anywhere--only signs of struggle."

"Did you inform Turste of these events?"

Aiya shook her head and rolled her eyes. "That was an exercise in futility! As soon as I mentioned the Redeemer in the same breath as 'kidnapped', they shrank away from me." Then her tone shifted, serious. "I realize that the hunt for the creature takes precedence over the abduction of Sandor's family, but..."

Terjal shook his head slowly but decisively. "We have a mission to complete first; if we go off in another direction we'll never locate our quarry. Rest assured," Terjal wanted, longed, to put his hand on Aiya's shoulder, "Graznod won't harm them; Sandor's wife and child are his insurance and bargaining tools. As long as they're alive and safe, he's got manipulating room with Sandor. Besides, Sandor knew full well what he was getting into when he struck a bargain with the Redeemer." But when one is on the brink of certain death, who stops to consider consequences?

Aiya nodded her head silently, stoically. Terjal thought he saw a brief trace of disappointment--regret?--on her impassive face. It flickered briefly in her eyes like the beginnings of stillborn storm. Still ever the adjutant, Terjal thought as he studied the remarkably smooth calmness in the planes of her face. Never dispute the decisions of your superior: that's what she's learned after nearly eight years at Lord Vaukmond's side. But it's good to know that she sometimes removes that mask, and still, it's unfortunate that she is so hasty to put it back on. "How is Sandor?"

"We took him to infirmary," Aiya answered, worry pleating lines into the space between her eyes. "He fell into a coma; I doubt he'll be able to tell us anything more."

Terjal sighed deeply into the sudden stillness. He wondered now if the information Graznod gave him could be trusted; although, according to what Sandor had told Aiya, the Redeemer hadn't really lied. Graznod's actions had to be motivated by another cause: one solely directed at Sandor. How will Graznod react, Terjal thought grimly, when he finds out that members of my party assisted in the thwarting of his plan? He tried to hide a prickling shiver as it traveled up his spine.

"We leave at first light," Terjal announced abruptly, "after a good night's sleep."

A good night's sleep will be unlikely, he thought, if we all dream of Graznod the Redeemer.

###

The plan had worked.

But then again, it hadn't worked very well.

Graznod the Redeemer eased his long-boned frame into a high backed chair lined with threadbare brocade, and assessed his minimal gain and considerable losses. He'd succeeded in abducting Sandor Centlanth's wife and son, but at a cost he couldn't afford. He'd expected to lose a few of his servants--but not all ten members of his strike force! Had he underestimated Sandor's guards?

Leaning forward, he looked squarely at the four Redeemed standing stiffly before him. "I had thought," he spoke to their blank, staring faces, "that old Sandor had a stronger constitution. Who could have predicted that the old man would slip into catatonia? Now I'll have to discover a way to bring him out of it when I need him," Graznod loosed a bitter laugh. "That, unfortunately, is not the only gnat in my poultice, though." He traced a sharp, ragged fingernail along the bridge of his narrow nose, then tapped his forefinger upon his upper lip. "The other," he frowned, "is that I do not know who helped Sandor's guards slay my servants. I know the guards well; their presence is merely cosmetic--they've no more fighting skill than children playing in the streets."

Then he stood up, the joints in his knees singing with a dull ache, but he ignored the pain as he walked idly up to one of his Redeemed and placed a hand upon a dry, dusty shoulder, feeling the body sway slightly under his touch. "Ah, my Redeemed servants--now I must conserve you. You are all good as gold now--better, even!"

Then the hand that had lain upon the zombie's shoulder lifted and clenched into a fist, now pounding against the dry, acrid air of the chamber. "Somehow Terjal Rakmir is connected--his visit to Quitonne is too much of a coincidence," Graznod spoke to the arid stillness. "I will have my proof of his involvement soon. And as for Sandor, I will deliver him from this convenient palsy of his, for he will learn how very patient I can be. If he dreams in his catatonia, I will visit him and remind him that he will have to deal with me once more. And this time the bargain will be sealed and remuneration paid to my satisfaction."

Then, pivoting on his heel, Graznod turned toward the only spoils of his assault. Lying in wooden coffins, the lids removed, were Sandor's wife and young son. They weren't dead, but in an induced stasis; he'd had a difficult time getting the syrupy liquid into their mouths and down their throats. He'd had a servant hold each captive's head in a vise grip, while another yanked their mouths open. The wife had tried to bite the servant holding her mouth open, but to no avail. For as her small, perfect teeth sank into the dry flesh, it had no effect upon the zombie holding her. The undead, Graznod informed the struggling woman, an amused smile upon his gaunt face, are beyond feeling pain.

"The potion won't harm you," Graznod had crooned to Sandor's wife with false gentleness. "It will only make you sleep so that your presence will be...unobtrusive." Then he'd chuckled dryly, and reached a hand to touch the woman's hennaed curls. The hair of a woman still alive, her skin warm and moist with life.

Now, gazing down at the sleeping woman, Graznod reached out to touch again the soft hair, the dewy cream of her skin, the full pink lips. How long has it been since I've touched a beautiful woman nowhere near the clutches of death? he wondered once more. The young seldom call for my services. Only the middle-aged and the old fear death more; they are misers with time.

Then, clearing his mind of the cloying thoughts, he walked back to his chair and sat down, once again finding comfort in the impassive stares of his servants.

"I will help the Master of Cloudreach," Graznod the Redeemer spoke to the vacant faces, "and then he will help me--quite unwittingly."

The dry, dusty chamber echoed again with the Redeemer's hoarse laughter.

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