Terjal heard the shrill calls of Thrasher's falcons as they flew high overhead. As he turned to look at the Outsider, Terjal's eyebrows raised hopefully. "Have they found the spellcaster's stronghold then?"

Thrasher nodded before gazing up at his circling peregrines. "Yea, that they have! Not far, yet. Only a few more yards and we may be able to see the keep."

Despite the birds' success, Terjal's smile was grim as he peered through the thick vines and shrubs. The rogue spellcaster's keep was near--which meant that it would be guarded by creatures more fierce than those they had encountered along their journey. And, of course, as that spellcaster desired and planned, Terjal and the other conjurers would be forced to expend precious spell energy in defeating those guardians.

Terjal turned to Aiya, "This spellcaster must know of our advance upon his keep." He glanced warily at Arjas; the Blade still sat upon his horse even as the others had dismounted.

Aiya's gaze followed Terjal's and she nodded. "And it's possible this spellcaster has surmised by now what we have guessed. He'll use it to his advantage. In the meantime, we should approach the stronghold on foot since the keep is so near. The horses would be more nuisance than help, anyway."

"We'll leave the horses and mules here then--it seems to be as safe a spot as we'll ever find. And in this swamp, that's not much of a comfort."

Terjal motioned the others to gather round him. Aiya remained at his side, occasionally sneaking sidelong glances at Arjas as the Blade slid cautiously from his saddle, minding his injured knee.

Once he had everyone's attention, Terjal spoke, "Since we are not far from the rogue spellcaster's keep, we will approach on foot. I don't want all of us to rush the keep at once, so we'll split up thus: Strandholt, Thrasher, Arjas and Shankal will make a frontal attack upon the keep; Aiya, Darman and myself will enter the keep from behind."

The others nodded their approval and separated to tether the animals. As he wound the reigns of Aiya's mount about the trunk of a tree, Terjal watched Arjas from the corner of his eye. The young Blade had grown sullen once again--the only one of their party who hadn't nodded in acknowledgment of Terjal's orders. He's being prodded by the spellcaster again, Terjal thought somberly. Of all the travails they'd endured, this surely was the worst. It pained Terjal to watch one of his men manipulated like an empty, vacuous puppet, but somehow, he promised himself, the young man had to survive. By the gods, Terjal thought as he tightened the last knot with a sharp tug, I'll see that he does.

###

Reghar the Fang was still in the summoning chamber. But he was no longer staring at his newest creation, Creeping Lust.

The Fang lay prostrate upon the cool tiles of the chamber, runnels of sweat coursing down either side of his temples as he concentrated. He'd located White Rage, but the direspawn was so far away from the Grip that Reghar's grasp upon the creature kept slipping. The direspawn had been left to wander too long; it barely recognized Reghar's mind-voice, flicking it away as it would a pestering insect.

Reghar had managed to summon enough rage within himself to offer up to the beast. Surely as he writhed upon the floor, his brain feeling as if it would explode within his skull, was enough to bring his anger to a quick boil. But he could not seem to infuse the wandering beast with that fury and wrath. White Rage simply refused to accept it. But the Fang continued to wrestle with the beast's recalcitrance, determined to crack its stubborn resolve.

As a low moan escaped his lips, Reghar felt a cool breeze slip across his damp face. Then he heard the wooden door to the chamber explode shut and he sat bolt upright, all attempts to control the beast lost in the fragment of a heartbeat. Reghar turned to find a fuming Grafter standing above him. The Fang quickly pushed himself to his feet, his arms and legs trembling slightly with the effort.

Reghar had never seen the Ageless One display his rage so openly--indeed, the Fang had never witnessed any emotion stronger than high disappointment upon the ancient, yet unseamed, face. Grafter's visage fairly boiled with anger: thick, bristled eyebrows writhed upon his forehead like restless grey worms and the corners of his mouth quivered in a palsy of barely controlled rage.

Reghar knew what was coming next. He fairly expected it.

"I suppose," Grafter drew the sentence out in a long hiss, "that you have completely lost White Rage? And with Rakmir and the others about to storm Pedistal, this is not welcome news. And," pointing at the caged Creeping Lust, "I want that misbegotten creature returned to its home plane as soon as White Rage does arrive."

Reghar began to tremble inside with renewed anger, though he hoped it did not show. "I will not return my creature--it may prove useful against--"

Grafter halted the Fang's words with a quick wave of his hand. "You have no idea how to unleash your direspawn, and I've no time to school you in motivating it."

"But I did the same for White Rage!"

Grafter shook his head ruefully. "I was going pospone the telling of this--but now I have little choice since you are bent upon having your way." Grafter sighed deeply, his anger visibly beginning to ebb. "You see, it was not you who activated White Rage; instead it was I, using your own spell energy as a conduit. True, White Rage is sustained by your own repressed anger and emotions--and I needed you for this as well. Make no mistake, my young apprentice: you have not the expertise, nor do I have the time to properly instruct you in such things."

So, it was as Reghar expected all along: the old man had merely used him for the forces he held within himself, for his youth. Reghar wished suddenly to take the old man's slender, time-grooved neck in his fists and crush the life from him--the Ageless One's immortality would spare him from the pillage of Time, but it would not save him from violence. The Fang took a menacing step forward.

Grafter held an arm out before him, palm turned toward Reghar. "I wouldn't were I you, my young pupil. You need me more than I need you; your training is incomplete and, as I recall when first we met, you hadn't any offers from other mages to school you in the ways of sorcery."

Loathe to admit it, Reghar knew the old man was right. "No matter how hard I try, White Rage will not arrive in time for your plans. You must use Creeping Lust instead."

Grafter shook his head firmly. "I haven't the time to direct the creature myself. I--" Suddenly the Ageless One stopped in mid-sentence, his chin raised slightly, eyes closing for a moment then opening wide.

"They've reached the stronghold."

###

From the aegis of swamp foliage Terjal saw the main entrance of the keep looming before him in the distance: a single, unremarkable slab of dun-colored mortar.

Shankal moved to Terjal's side, inclining his head toward a small stream nearby. "I'm ready for you and Aiya."

Terjal nodded and followed the aquamancer toward the stream where Aiya stood waiting. The others had clustered about, curiously peering from Shankal to Terjal to Aiya and back again.

The aquamancer, unmindful of his audience, drew a bowlful of thick powder from a small leather pouch. He first sprinkled a generous amount of the powder into the stream's unusually clear water. Next he dusted both Terjal and Aiya with the powder as if he were decorating two elaborate pieces of pastry. Once satisfied that both conjurers were sufficiently covered with the powder, Shankal began to motion the powdered water toward Terjal and Aiya.

Terjal kept his eyes closed and tried not to sneeze as he felt the water swirling and lapping at his feet, his ankles, his calves. Next, he felt the glassy coolness of the water circling his waist; soon it was traveling up his chest. When he felt the water reach his chin, he held his breath.

Suddenly the world around him winked black.

Then brightness seared through the blackness and he was opening his eyes to see...

Himself. A perfect replica fashioned of water. And beside "himself" stood a shimmering Aiya.

Terjal turned to find the fleshed Aiya grinning at him. "Striking likenesses, don't you think?" she said. "Let's hope these apparitions are precise enough to fool the rogue spellcaster."

Terjal nodded as he moved around the two water-statues, marveling at the detail. "Shankal, you are truly an artist. When you suggested this, I must admit that I didn't think it possible."

Shankal smirked as he surveyed his own handiwork. "Oh, this is nothing--in Shammerkath, exhibitions of water sculpture are held each month. My own talent for it is considered...well...mediocre at best."

Terjal turned toward the aquamancer, his eyebrows raised in incredulity. "Well, if this is an example of 'mediocre' talent, then the best examples must be truly exceptional."

"It's possible that my talents have been improved courtesy of the seriousness of our situation."

Terjal looked at Aiya. "Now it's our turn to instill these statues with something of ourselves. Are you ready, Aiya?" At Aiya's nod, the two conjurers began to imbue their likenesses with an element more: spell power.

###

Reghar stood beside Grafter as their foes burst through the double wooden door of the main chamber.

Grafter had insisted that the door not be bolted. "This way, we'll be ready for them, yet they will not be expecting us to face them so early." Reghar had thought it a foolish plan at first--better to lay in wait, he'd suggested. The Ageless One had sniffed, "Once again, an example of youthful perfidy. When your life has half the span of my own, I will gladly lend an ear to your suggestions. Until then, only mine are to be counted."

There were four of them at first, brandishing weapons held high above their heads. Reghar saw that one of them, a stocky young man with black hair, seemed to hang back from the others, limping. The one with the injured knee, Reghar thought. Grafter's unwitting ally.

Before the men could set upon the two spellcasters, Grafter sent pulses of blinding energy from his fingertips at them and the Blades fell back, shielding their eyes from the light. Reghar in his turn hurled gouts of spell energy from his own fingertips, chuckling with glee as they hit their targets, laughed still harder when the men shouted in pain. He watched as the warriors broke away to find protection behind the scattered furniture of the chamber.

Reghar's laughter ended abruptly when he saw two figures emerge from the split ranks of the men.

Terjal Rakmir and Aiya Lindsmund. Coming toward him!

With a strangled, animal-like cry, Reghar launched a flood of spell energy with all the force his anger would allow. The released power struck the two conjurers with blinding force as Reghar felt the spell energy siphon from him in throbbing bursts. He turned his head briefly to see that Grafter was no longer at his side.

Then he knew. Knew even before the two figures standing before him blasted outward in a blaze of white, shimmering light. He'd been tricked. It hadn't been the flesh and bone Terjal and Aiya he'd struck, but mere wraiths fashioned to resemble his enemies.

A rebound of energy struck the Fang with such force that he felt himself lifted and shot through time and space. A light blinded him and he loosed a long and anguished scream. When he at last opened his eyes, streaks of shimmering worms rushed him, wrapping their stringy bodies round him, hauling the conjurer through another corridor of light.

Suddenly the light began to ebb and his motion slowed. As the brightness was leached from his vision, Reghar sat up, shaking his head vigorously.

His heart sank as he looked about.

He was outside the keep.

###

Grafter, shielded from the blast of spell energy, had watched his apprentice swallowed by the bright light and hurled away into seeming nothingness. But that was the least of his concerns at the moment. He'd known as soon as he'd seen the two enemy conjurers that their images were merely spectral. Grafter had also expected a backlash of energy once struck--and Reghar had allowed his youthful recklessness to give Rakmir an opportunity to destroy him.

With the energy from the spell blast dissipated, Grafter stepped away from his shield and loosed more bolts of spell energy upon the warriors as they crawled cautiously from their own shelters. He now realized that one of their number was not a warrior, but an aquamancer. Away from his element at the moment, Grafter thought with a smile. With no water nearby to manipulate, the aquamancer was of little threat.

Grafter knew he must eliminate at least one of them--and quickly.

The Ageless one turned his attention to his limping ally, giving the warrior just one order before slipping away to one last place of safety.

###

Strandholt, from the protection of a large chaise, watched the slim grey--haired man's movements. As the spellweaver released random bolts of energy, Strandholt felt the thump of each bolt's force upon the piece of furniture he crouched behind, and smelled the odor of seared fabric in its wake.

Strandholt couldn't chance rushing the spellweaver unless he was certain the man's spell energy had waned--or gone from the room entirely. The Blade had already taken a stinging shot to his upper thigh and the cloth of his breeches was still smoldering from that blast of energy. Gingerly, he parted the splayed and burnt cloth, revealing a bruised welt upon his flesh.

He looked at the others and saw that Arjas and Thrasher were pressed behind an upturned oak table. Shankal was just behind him, peering from behind a tumbled armoire.

Suddenly, the sizzling whispers above his head ceased. And a new sound rent the air.

A scream of mortal pain: Thrasher.

Strandholt turned in time to see Arjas withdraw his sword from the middle of Thrasher's upper back. The Outsider slumped forward, then sideways, pierced through to the heart, blood spurting against the underside of the table in a thick stream.

Unmindful that the enemy spellweaver might still be in the chamber, Strandholt got to his feet and ran toward the two men, Shankal following close behind.

Arjas dropped his sword and stared numbly at the fallen Outsider. When he looked up at Strandholt, the young Blade's face was a mask of anguish and misery, his lips trembling. "I swear by the gods above, it was not of my doing! I swear! It was another who controlled my sword! The scratching in my head! Oh gods above...!"

For the first time since he'd known him, Strandholt watched as Arjas began to weep.

###

Terjal stared into Arjas's unblinking face. The Blade looked up at the conjurer and his face began to crumble, the lower lip still quivering with the remembered pain of his deed.

Terjal, Aiya and Darman, having heard the explosion in the main chamber, had rushed into the room to find Strandholt and Shankal kneeling beside a prone Thrasher. Arjas sat cross-legged apart from other two men, his face buried in his hands, a bloodied sword lying beside him.

Now, as Terjal knelt before Arjas, he turned to Aiya. "Perhaps a mind-delve would lend a clue to the spellcaster's identity." Terjal regretted that he hadn't seen either rogue conjurer with his own eyes.

Aiya shook her head. "Useless now--it's obvious that Arjas couldn't have killed Thrasher of his own volition. He would have been instructed by the spellcaster to do this bidding. No spellcaster with such skills would have revealed anything of himself to an unwitting minion."

"Still, a mind delve might reveal where the spellcaster has fled."

Again, Aiya shook her head. "No, this rogue couldn't have been so careless. Besides, he's done with Arjas now. All that's left is to completely search the keep itself for any clues."

Terjal nodded as he returned his attention to Arjas. "Do you remember anything at all?" he asked the Blade gently.

Arjas shook his head, viciously swiping the tears from his eyes with his fingertips. "The bastard left me only with the memory of sinking my sword into a comrade's back. That's all he's left me with." Then sighing heavily, added, "And my knee is healed. My 'reward' I suppose." Arjas extended his right leg to reveal a healthy, intact kneecap--though it bore deep scars across it.

Strandholt, his brow wrinkling in a frown, stepped beside Terjal. "There were two of them: spellweavers. But I suspect the younger of them may have been killed in the spell blast."

Terjal and Aiya exchanged quick, worried looks. Terjal spoke, "We'll definitely have to do a thorough search then. Gods help us if there are two spellcasters to track."

###

Before they commenced their search of the keep, Terjal granted Strandholt's wish to see to the proper disposition of Thrasher's body.

Strandholt gathered what dry wood he could scrounge and began to construct a pyre with it, clucking his tongue sadly because he could not build the pyre up to the proper height. When at last Thrasher's body was lain across it, Strandholt lit a torch he'd fashioned from a small tree branch topped with a few handfuls of dried moss. Before he set the pyre ablaze, Strandholt murmured a brief eulogy in the ancient tongue of the Wanderers of the World--the only one he knew from rote.

From a nearby tree, Thrasher's remaining falcons watched the fire consume their master. One by one the birds lifted into the air. Terjal and the others watched as the peregrines circled once, then twice, in their own tribute to their dead master.

Then they were gone.

###

They found a simulacrum in a remote section of the keep.

And an empty, battered cage.

Terjal first knelt before the cage. He saw that the bars had been pummeled from the inside, then pushed outward as if whatever the cage had imprisoned had suddenly grown too large to be contained by it. Terjal touched the twisted bars; his fingers came away moist with a viscous liquid. Now he noticed in the light of torchglow that a trail glistened from the splayed bars, stopping abruptly before it reached the door.

Aiya came beside Terjal, bending to inspect the trail. "Another direspawn?"

Terjal nodded soberly. "It must be. The spell blast would have freed it somehow, thrusting it to another location. Now the questions become: What is it and where did it go?"

"And is someone controlling it?"

"Well," Terjal said as he stood up, "perhaps we can begin with this." He tapped the simulacrum's metal surface with a fingertip. "The spellcaster must have placed a part of his consciousness within it--and I doubt that he had time to absorb it back into himself before he made his escape. Darman and the others are still searching the keep?"

"They haven't reported back yet."

Terjal inspected the simulacrum closely before adding, "Does this likeness appear...familiar...to you?" Terjal felt the unease of some distant recognition as he gazed up at the square-jawed countenance. The figure's dark glower seemed to berate him for not remembering.

Aiya squinted up at the figure, then nodded slightly. "I do sense something...something from long ago..." Then she shook her head roughly. "Ah! I just can't remember!"

"Well," Terjal answered, "we can't leave this simulacrum intact."

Aiya grinned. "Shall we smash it to rubble?"

Terjal returned her grin. "I have just enough spell energy to do the task. Care to join me?"

Together both conjurers aimed their fingertips at the metal statue. Soon the simulacrum was twined with circlets of golden beams. Then in an explosion of light and fragments of metal, the simulacrum burst apart.

Terjal felt a sudden backlash of energy soak into his flesh. He turned quickly to look at Aiya: her legs seemed mired in a dervish of spun golden light. Then he looked down at his own feet and saw that he, too, was being swallowed in the same manner.

He had just enough time to mouth "A trap!" before both he and Aiya were swept away.

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