Much, he suspected, as his kingdom was soon to be gone.

Even if the black ships never came in to attack, the fish were gone and the stores of supplies were wearing thin. A lot of his people had left their homes and fled to the north, seeking aid from the Emperor or at least a place to stay where the air did not stink of death. The erupting mountain in the ocean was not going away and the cloud of filth that belched from it was not leaving either.

It seemed likely to him that they had the right idea. It might well be time to move on soon. His needs were few, but keeping his family and his people safe definitely qualified as something the king wanted to accomplish in his lifetime. And for the first time since he had taken residence on the throne, he had doubts that he could accomplish that task to his satisfaction.

Outside a barrage of lightning danced through the clouds in the distance. The flares were bright enough to let him see the ships in the water.

They were next to the shore, close enough to let him see them clearly in the brief light of the storm.

"Turrae!" he bellowed his assistant's name and as always the man responded in moments, slipping through the door as if he had been standing just outside and waiting for hours for the first call of his king.

"How may I help you, my Lord?"

"The ships, Turrae! They are at the shore. They are so much closer than they were before. Sound the horns and light the signal fires. It is time!"

The man stared at him with wide eyes in the near darkness of the room. For just one moment the fear was clear on his assistant's face. Then it vanished, replaced by his usual calm. "Of course, King Marsfel." Turrae vanished from sight and Marsfel stalked across his room, his hands fluttering nervously as he reached for his weapons. He had armor, but despite having worn in several times for the fittings, he really didn't much know how to put it on, not without help. And there wasn't time. The ships were too close and his daughters had to be protected. His kingdom needed defending. He would not stand by and wait for the enemy to come to him. Not here, not now when so much was at stake.

The Ghurnae blade was long and curved, heavy with one sharp edge and a jagged point that could gut a man with ease. He had been trained with them since he was a child and while he was heavier than he had been before taking the throne, Marsfel remembered well the lessons he'd had. He slid the sword and hilt over his shoulder and took two long daggers as well. The set was matched and had been presented to him many years ago by his father when he came of age. They were well tended and well used over the years.

Marsfel was many things and while a few would disagree with his personal assessment, he was capable as a leader and as a fighter alike.

Still, his hands shook and his heart raced.

By the time he left his personal chambers the call had gone out. Several of the watch still called out on the great bone horns and as he strode toward the front entrance of the keep the way was lit by two of the great signal fires. His soldiers would come.

He would lead them into battle and they would live or die together. Turrae stepped next to him, carrying his own Ghurnae blade and daggers. A small shield was strapped across his back, but otherwise there was no armor.

The guards were a different matter. They always wore their armor; it was a part of their duty. They stepped with him, falling into loose formation. At another time he might have demanded a closer step, a better pacing, but that was not a consideration. They would fight.

Fires lighted the paved road leading toward the shoreline, and as he progressed, the mercenaries he had hired to bolster his soldiers came forward, most of them riding horses. He hadn't thought about that. Hadn't considered having the horses readied.

Marsfel shook his head and swallowed harshly, his throat a tight, dry lump. He hadn't thought of so many things. He'd known this was coming and yet he was ill prepared.

The leader of the mercenaries stared at him. He couldn't think of the man's name. Turrae mumbled, "Jepphers" under his breath and Marsfel could have kissed him.

"Captain Jepphers. It is time."

"Do you lead this fight yourself, Majesty? Or do I lead with my soldiers?"

A damned good question. The mercenaries were there to fight for him.

"Lead the way, Captain, and we shall follow." He shook his head. "I have no horses."

Jepphers nodded his head. He could see the man was well aware of the situation and that he was also keeping his tongue. The captain had brought a good number of mercenaries with him. Turrae could have said exactly how many, but Marsfel couldn't hope to guess.

Jepphers blew a loud whistling note between two fingers and his hired men turned their attention to him and followed as he led them in a charge toward the beach and the ships that had settled near the shore.

The winds were harsh and hot and the clouds over the waters were as dark as a sinner's thoughts. The ships that had seemed large before were enormous as he and his troops marched up the road toward the beach. The waves crashed against the vessels, which rocked in the waters and occasionally groaned a soft protest.

He saw the mercenaries riding hard and felt a grim satisfaction in his choice to hire them. He'd hoped for help from the Empire, but prepared for whatever might come his way. The sword felt good in his hand and despite his fears, he believed he was prepared to defend his people and his kingdom.

How many people could the ships hold? Marsfel had no notion. The boats his people used were much smaller and even the largest would be dwarfed by the black shapes. They seemed nearly impossible and he couldn't see them well enough in the rough weather to determine much beyond their size.

Turrae coughed into his hand and shivered as the winds picked up. The air was warm and his condition had nothing to do with the breeze. "They are so damned large...." It was the only time Marsfel had ever heard the man curse.

He was trying to find the right encouraging words when the flurry of arrows rose from the ships and plummeted toward the approaching riders. Had he wondered how many people could hide on the vast structures? It was hard to say with any certainty but most definitely enough to kill fifty men with the first volley. The arrows rose silently and dropped in graceful arcs. They stopped in the bodies of mercenaries and horses alike, some peppering the shoreline, but most landing in flesh and crippling or killing.

The soldiers were far enough ahead that it took a moment to hear their screams. But he could see them as they fell, some dropping to the ground and others clinging to their horses even as their mounts collapsed or bucked and tried to escape the unexpected pain.

A second volley of arrows rose and fell, missing more targets as the animals bolted and took a number of fighters with them. But the respite was brief. When Marsfel looked to the ships he saw silhouettes in the shape of archers moving to the edges of the vessels, bracing themselves and taking careful aim. Several riders tried to break away, but the assault seemed nearly endless and most died with arrows in the backs of their heads or lower.

He had meant to lead his men into glorious battle. He'd told himself that this would be an easy thing, a certainty, really, because so much was at stake, but as the men he'd hired to fight for him were cut down by archers, he felt his courage blowing away with the ashes in the wind.

How could this be? How could this happen?

Turrae said something, but Marsfel did not hear him. The sound of the dying and wounded was too close and too loud.

Turrae screamed this time and struck him on the shoulder roughly to get his attention. Part of him wanted to turn and lash out at the man but he resisted.

His assistant's voice rang clearly enough. "They're coming! They are leaving the ships!"

The shadows were dropping from the side of the ships into the rough, shallow waters. He knew they must surely be on ropes but he couldn't see the lines and as a result it looked more like man-sized spiders scaling down the sides of the great vessels than anything else. The notion sent shivers through his body.

The forms nearly flowed down the sides of the boats and into the turbulent waters, but they did not hesitate to move toward the shore, swimming, walking or carried by the waves he could not say. He could only see them coming, see the odd gray glow of light where their eyes should have been and wonder if the Guntha who claimed demons pursued them had been telling the truth.

He had seen the Sa'ba Taalor, had seen their odd eyes in the daylight and in a well-lit room, but this was different. The light seemed stronger and it unsettled him.

He wanted to run. Oh, how he wanted to leave as quickly as he could, because the shapes coming toward him were fast, and even moving through the water they were intimidating.

Kings are not allowed to be afraid.

"Come then! Let's kill a few enemies!" Marsfel roared the words and moved, sweeping the heavy Ghurnae sword in a few wide arcs to test the feel of the weapon. His men followed. He could feel them moving with him and that knowledge gave him strength. A king leads. That is what a king must do.

The ashes in the wind whipped through the air and stung at his eyes but Marsfel did not care. It was time to teach these fools a lesson. Time to show the Empire that he was a king to be respected.

Before he knew it he was running, charging on thick legs and driving toward the surf, a feral grin pulling at his lips. He was a king! He was a warrior!

The woman who met with him wore leather and carried two thin swords. Her hair was wrapped and pulled away from her brow by a thick blue length of cloth.

Marsfel swept his blade toward her head. It would make a fine prize to show his enemies when this was over.

His hand fell away from his body. The sword he carried flipped through the air with his hand and landed in the sand and surf.

The woman crouched and whipped one of the swords at his knees and fire ripped through his legs where metal met flesh.

Marsfel could not keep his stance. He fell forward and landed on his good left arm and his bleeding right stump.

The pain was immediate and ripped away all hints of confidence he had sported.

She stood over him and for the first time he saw the face of the demon that had crippled him with ease. The Sa'ba Taalor had worn veils. This creature did not. The eyes were fine. The nose long and elegant despite a heavy scar that ran from below the left eye and down to the right cheekbone.

But below the nose? Oh, truly, there must be demons in this universe!

"What are you?"

Rather than answer his question the demon spoke, her words carrying the odd echoing sibilance he'd heard from the Sa'ba Taalor before. "You are King Marsfell of Roathes?" Her eyes regarded him coldly and her twin blades glimmered.

Turrae tried to come to his aid. The man ran silently, but his words broke that silence. "I am Marsfel," Turrae hissed.

Marsfel looked to his second. The man came in proper stance, his sword held before him to guard against possible strokes, the heavy tip at the right level to easily gut a foolish opponent.

The woman was not a fool. Her arms moved, the left sword struck against Turrae's blade and sent that deadly tip to the side. She stepped closer, close enough to let Marsfel count the heavy laces on her boot, and then her right sword drove through Turrae's mouth and opened the side of his face all the way back to his left ear. The left sword whickered through the air a second time and cleaved into his neck from the other side. When she stepped back only a trail of gristle kept Turrae's head from falling completely away from his body.

She looked back to the king. "You are Marsfel?"

His mind wanted to lie. His heart would not allow it.

"Aye. I am Marsfel, I am the king."

Her voice remained calm through the exchange. Around her, beside her and to her flanks more of the demons came out of the waters and attacked the people who ran with Marsfel. They did not leave survivors. His men were brave at first and then they were afraid. It seemed they did not fight humans. Nothing should have been as savage as the things that came ashore and killed.

"I am Donaie Swarl, Chosen of the Forge of Wheklam and King in Lead. This is my fleet. Do you surrender your lands to me?"

"Will you show my people mercy if I surrender?"

"I will offer the same mercy I gave the Guntha if you do not." Her hand gestured to the waters behind her, where the column of flame and ash and smoke continued to roar into the skies.

"Spare the people in my palace then, and I will surrender."

"I do not negotiate." Her swords barely seemed to move, but the points found themselves in either side of his neck just the same and the movement cut through to bone with ease.

His death was fast, but Marsfel died just the same.

The cold was an old friend now. It wrapped itself around Andover Lashk and wove its spell through his skin and muscles alike. He did not shiver. Shivering took energy. Instead he walked, one foot forward and then the other.

The perpetual twilight was no better than it had been, but now the sky above was bloody and clearly showed the silhouettes of the great mountains he had heard so much about.

The Seven Forges were before him and Andover found the cold hardly mattered at all. His exhaustion was still there, but that too seemed a trifling thing in comparison. The mountains were enormous. So much larger than he'd have thought possible before.

Delil walked next to him and he saw her eyes looking at the vast black surface facing them. The only highlights he could see were the places where the reddish light from the clouds accented the more prominent edges of stone.

"You face Durhallem," Drask spoke from directly behind him. When last he'd looked the man had been almost a hundred feet to his left and now he was only a foot away. How a man that large could move so quickly, so quietly, still unsettled him.

"That is the mountain? Where is the tunnel you spoke of?" Andover looked but could see no sign of the gate he was supposed to pass through in order to enter the valley of the Taalor.

Drask chuckled. "We are not close enough for you to see it yet."

He looked away from the mountain and stared hard at Drask. "We're not?"

"Not nearly. We have two more days of traveling before we reach the passage."

"Two more days?" He looked back at the mountain, which already consumed most of the horizon. "We're still two days away?"

"Durhallem is a very large mountain, Andover Lashk. We have at least two more days of walking before we are there."

Andover shook his head.

Bromt walked closer and without and preamble he swung one massive fist at the side of Andover's head. Andover worked on reflex alone and ducked under the blow, skittering back and staring hard at the man.

Drask spoke as if nothing had happened. "That is two more days to make sure you are ready for whatever you face in the Pass."

Bromt came for him again, his eyes the only sign of features in the darkness.

Look to any map of Fellein and at the very southern edge is the Corinta Ocean and on some of the more sophisticated and detailed maps there is an indication of the Brellar below that.

There were people who had come from Brellar and a few of them had made it as far as Roathes in their time, but most of them were stopped long before they planned on ending their journeys. Roathians were not known for their tolerance of anyone with knowledge of the seas.

Still, it happened. There were tales written of the Brellar and a few of the older books at the Imperial Academy had illustrations of the Brellar and careful depictions of the scars they placed on the their bodies.

In total there were seventeen recorded situations determined to be historically accurate of the Brellar making it to Fellein and living to tell their tales.

So this time around Desh Krohan sent a representative to find them and talk them first hand. Because she was particularly good at dealing with sensitive issues, he sent Tataya across the ocean. She went with his blessings, a rather large supply of gold and gems, and a ship full of men who knew how to behave themselves around sorcerers.

There are maps that are more detailed than those most commonly found. Most of them belonged to Desh Krohan. The man who had paid several fortunes over the years to find and map the Seven Forges was not new to the notion of learning all he could about the world around him.

Tataya and Captain Callan were standing together on the prow of his ship, a sleek, fast affair that bore no name, when the lookout called "Land ahead, Captain!"

Captain Callan was a lean man with wind-tanned skin and an abundance of freckles. His hair was a dark auburn and he sported a thick mustache and a grin that was always eager and just a little bit ravenous. Tataya liked him immediately. He claimed to have encountered the Brellar before, thought there was little to prove it. Still, as he was exactly the sort of man who tended to ignore the rules he did not agree with, she could easily believe that he might have had a run in or two in his time.

He managed to take his eyes off of her for a moment and looked to where the young man crawling along the top of the sails was pointing.

"Well now, looks like we might just be in luck this day, milady." His voice was cheerful and his grin stayed in place.

"That would be a lovely thing, Captain." Far to the north the ocean was a foul mess of ash and dead fish. Here the skies were calmer and the waters were a clear and lovely shade of blue. The air was pleasant and the wind whipped a few stray strands of her hair around. Most of her locks were bound with a leather tie, but some escaped, almost inevitably. The captain kept staring at her hair as if it might be the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. At least he was good enough not to speak directly to her breasts, which was more than could be said for several of his crew.

"Do you want to set into a port if there is one?"

"'If there is one?' I thought you said you'd met the Brellar before."

His grin grew larger. "I have. Our ship met theirs. We waved and I managed to purchase a few trinkets and several crates of fruit from them."

To be fair, that did actually qualify as an encounter. "And that is the only time you have run across them?"

"I have never had a reason to go this far south before, milady."