"I think not," the Ghost said, a slight smile peeking out from the bottom of his helm. "While mystical weapons are enchanted and bear powers a normal blade can't hope to match, a godly weapon is of a whole different caliber. A mystical weapon can help a man hold off an army; a godly weapon can help him carve through said army, leaving nothing behind but a bloody swath." Alaric stared at the sword and reached out for it, taking it when Cyrus proffered it to him. "This is a fine mystical blade, and it bears the touch of the Lord of the Dark, but it's no godly weapon; his weapon is-"

"Noctus, the Battle Axe of Darkness," Cyrus whispered in memory. Alaric raised an eyebrow and nodded. "I saw it last year when we were in Yartraak's Realm."

Alaric handed the weapon back to him. "I will accompany you to Traegon," the Ghost said without preamble.

Cyrus kept his composure but inside he felt a curiosity; the Ghost rarely left Sanctuary. "You and everyone else, it seems."

A hint of amusement drifted across the visible portion of Alaric's features. "Curatio and Vara are going as well, I take it?"

"I assumed Curatio would have told you."

"He didn't need to," the Ghost said. "Now that he is aware of the Hand of Fear's interest in him, you would be hard pressed to keep him away from them. Knowing that they sought him as well as Vara, he feels responsible for Niamh's death, and he'll pursue this until the truth comes out about their leader." The Guildmaster of Sanctuary's lips faded from a smile into a hard line. "And I would not care to be this 'master' when Curatio finds out who he is."

"Curatio is a healer," Cyrus said. "They're not renowned for their offensive abilities."

Alaric's eyebrow cocked at Cyrus. "Healer or not, he is a fearsome foe, and you would do well not to underestimate him. I assure you he did not survive to the age he has by being unskilled in the arts of war." A memory made its way forward, a vision of a long ago incursion into the halls of the goblins under the mountain of Enterra-of Curatio with a mace in hand, killing goblins as the Sanctuary force was overwhelmed and destroyed. Alaric stared at Cyrus, apparently aware of his being lost in thought. "What?"

"The first time we went to Enterra." Cyrus licked his lips, which felt suddenly dry. "Do you remember it? When you had to come and rescue us?"

"I do." The Ghost was quiet. "You speak of the night we lost your friend, Narstron."

"Yes." Cyrus felt the sting of the memory, but pushed it away. "Did Curatio die that night as well?"

"Yes; there were no survivors among you save for Niamh, who teleported out. Make no mistake, he may be immortal, but only in the natural sense. He can still be killed by weapons and spells." The Ghost smiled. "He's just more difficult to kill for being so damnably canny."

"I can hear you," came Curatio's voice from across the foyer.

"There was never any doubt," Alaric said. "I meant every word of it."

"Did you know he was an old one?" Cyrus honed in on Alaric's eye, which did not dodge away from him.

"Of course. Curatio and I have known each other for a long time; there are no secrets between us."

"But plenty between you and the rest of the Council," Cyrus said with a great sigh.

The Ghost's eye glittered. "Perhaps. Know me for as long as Curatio has and that will change."

"How long would that be, exactly?"

A chuckle came forth from Alaric. "I am human, brother. Whatever skills and abilities I may possess, I am still a man. Be assured of that."

"I believe you," Cyrus said. "But that doesn't really answer the question, does it?"

Alaric chuckled again. "I suppose not."

Any further inquiries that Cyrus might have put forth to press the issue were put aside when the blast of a teleportation spell brought a red robed wizard into view. Nyad's blond hair tumbled down as she shook off the effects of the travel and looked around, her eyes alighting on Cyrus and Alaric. With a single nod, she told them all.

"Time to leave," Alaric said, voice almost a whisper. "Time to end this hunt." Without a word said by Cyrus, the men and women he had placed on his list were already moving toward the center of the foyer, ready.

"Gods, I hope so," Cyrus replied, following his Guildmaster to the heart of the raiding party.

Chapter 43.

They appeared outside the city after dark. Snow was falling and the roads were already covered. The crisp air flooded Cyrus's nose and lungs, helping him stave off the desire to sleep. When challenged by the guards at the gate, Vara rode forward to speak with them, her stallion seeming to have more spring in its step than when last he had seen it. He patted Windrider and turned to Alaric. "Who do I owe thanks to for retrieving my horse from elven territory?"

"I believe it was Ryin Ayend. After you had gone to the palace, he teleported into the Kingdom and retrieved them from the Priestesses of Vidara." Alaric coaxed his horse along with minimal effort.

"I have a hard time getting a read on him," Cyrus said. "He takes positions that I find indefensible-like not wanting to help Vara or get involved in the war-and yet he still assists in the oddest and most useful ways."

"He's quite the contrarian," Alaric said. "You may not like or agree with him, but you can't argue with his loyalty."

"Aye," Cyrus said, grudging. "I find it easier to see the world in absolutes-either someone is on my side or they're not."

Alaric laughed. "I can't say I haven't seen the world from the same perspective myself, in my youth. But Arkaria is a complex place. To try and label people good or evil is futile and a simplistic way to look at the world."

Cyrus looked down at Windrider, who trudged along the snowy road without any urging from him. "I wish it was that simple. Good guys and bad guys, and obvious which is which."

They passed through the gates, opened by the guards at Vara's behest. The Traegon guards watched them warily. "Did you explain why we're here?" Cyrus asked Vara, who nodded. "Did they say anything?"

"They asked to see the King's letter, then requested that we try not to burn down the city in our efforts to apprehend the assassins."

"Burn down the city?" Cyrus frowned. "Why would they think we would do that?"

She ran a hand along the side of her horse's neck. "The King's letter was explicit in that it required them to stand aside and allow us to do anything to capture our quarry, even if it involved burning the city to the ground."

"You can see how high in regard the monarchy holds the cities of the common people," Andren said from off to the side. "Whole damned Kingdom tilts to corruption on the side of the royals."

"Now you're part of the status quo, Sir Andren, in case you've forgotten." Vaste graced the healer with a smile. "Do be vigilant, watching from your mansion as the royals continue to do all the things you've bitterly railed about for years."

"Never should have taken that title," Andren mumbled.

"What about the gold?" Vaste smiled, a wicked one that exposed his teeth.

"Well I wasn't going to pass that up, was I?"

The town was much smaller than Pharesia or Termina, but almost every building possessed a tower capped by a minaret. Following Terian's instruction, they made their way to a warehouse on the far edge of town. The building was made of bleached sandstone, and even in the dark Cyrus could see it would appear near-white in the light of day.

Cyrus dismounted and studied the sides of the building. "No windows to speak of," he said, thinking out loud. "They won't see us coming." He pointed to a nearby door. "Since we have no idea what's inside, one door is as good as another. We might as well come crashing through that one."

"You have a strategy in mind for this, I assume?" Vara climbed down from her horse with athletic ease as Cyrus crossed the ground to the warehouse at a trot. He did not slow as he approached the door but sped up, crashing through shoulder-first, filling the air with a horrible cracking noise as he plunged into the darkness. "I should have bloody well known it would be something as stupid as that," he heard her mutter.

She climbed through the wreckage of the door behind him, sword drawn. They were in a lamplit room with no one in sight. He moved forward to allow the others to join them, and the room began to fill as he moved around. There were paintings on the wall, furniture of a typical elven style with red silk cushions, and a smell of incense filled the air.

"I'd tell you to be on your guard," Cyrus said in a whisper, "but if you weren't already, you wouldn't be here. Split into two groups. One with me, going this way, and the other goes with-" he glanced back and saw Alaric, sword in the paladin's hand-"with Lord Garaunt, going that way. Take them alive if you can, kill them if there's any possibility they might escape."

He led the way through a door to his left, keeping his sword in hand in front of him, ready to block. The glow of the blade allowed him to see slightly better in the dimness. He heard Vara's soft breathing a step behind him, and heavier breathing following her at a distance, punctuated by an occasional snort that told him that Vaste was in his procession. He walked down a long hallway, weaving around tables placed on the sides of the hall, filled with candles and statuary.

A noise ahead caught his attention. He swept forward, careful to muffle the sound of his boots by staying on the plush carpeting that ran down the middle of the hall. Another noise came and he crept forward with a single finger pressed to his lips in warning for quiet. The noise came from a door on the left.

He reached it and found it closed, and heard another sound from within, a creaking noise that caused a chill to run through him as he leaned against the wall and started to move his hand toward the knob. Vara took up position on the other side of the door, a line of others behind her starting with Terian and J'anda and followed by Vaste. Cyrus held up his hand with three fingers extended. Two...one...He opened the door with his shoulder, sword in hand as he charged into the room.

Cyrus came to a halt as he determined the source of the noise. Behind him Vara stopped before running into his back, but Terian did not, causing her to bump forward into him. The source of the creaking was obvious now. A rope hung from the rafters, looped around the neck of the only assassin in the room, and his body swung in a slow, lazy circle hanging before an altar with a massive statue on it that looked familiar.

"Cut him down," Cyrus said, still focused on the dead man. The body was clothed in red robes, a more ornate version of the garb the other assassins had worn. A twang was followed by an arrow streaking through the air and cutting the rope in its flight. With a snap it broke and the body tumbled to the floor.

"Why would he kill himself?" Terian said.

Cyrus leaned over the corpse. It was an old elven man under the hood, eyes clouded with near-blindness even before he had died, the warrior realized. His hands were gnarled and the stiffness of death had begun to set in. "He was infirm. Blind, crippled hands, who knows what other kinds of ailments." Cyrus reached down and closed the old man's eyes, then felt down to the belt, where he removed a blade from a scabbard. It was a familiar dagger, one with the blade of black and the eight-sided pommel that held the circular snake emblem he had seen from every assassin of the Hand of Fear thus far.

"You think maybe he was the master?" Andren's voice punctuated the silence.

"No," Cyrus said. "I think he was the last of their order, and that he killed himself to atone for their failure."

"Really?" Terian's voice carried skepticism. "After all these attempts, one relentless assault after another, you think they finally reached the end of their numbers and this guy just gave up?"

"I'd ask him, but he's already cold." Cyrus pushed back to his feet. "I think if you've got a secret order and you're sending initiates to fulfill your mission, you're running low on people."

The dark knight looked around the room. "Yeah. Maybe. But if this guy's not the master, how do we find out who ordered Curatio and Vara's deaths? It's not like Alaric is gonna let me torture anyone else to get the answer."

"You won't need to." Curatio's voice came from the doorway behind them. "Alaric sent me to tell you that we've swept the rest of the building; there's no one else here."

"So they're all dead?" Vaste wondered aloud.

"We should be on our guard for a while," Cyrus said. "They may have a few more making their way toward Sanctuary, or in hiding, but other than that I think...they're done." He looked back to the body of the old man lying on the floor, and he caught sight of an overturned stool that the assassin must have stood on while preparing for his demise. "Without knowing who the master is, I don't see how we can't truly put an end to this."

"Simple enough," Curatio said. "The answer resides here-in this room."

Terian's head whirled around. Cyrus kept his turn more reserved, scanning for signs before coming to rest on the statuary of the altar. Vara stepped in front of him, fixated on the same thing he was, and he followed her up the small steps.

The altar was wooden, with two wide, sturdy legs parallel to each other. It was big enough to support the statue, which looked to weigh a few hundred pounds. From where he hung, and the way he was facing, it was almost as though he was sacrificing himself to...

"I don't get it." Longwell's voice came from behind Cyrus. "What? The statue was the master?"

"A representation of him, at least." Vara's words came out in breaths, low and hushed.

The figure carved in stone had eight arms, radiating around him and jutting from his shoulders, back and torso. At the torso his legs split into four muscular supports for an oversized thorax. The head perching at the top of the long neck was beaked, like a bird, but open-mouthed to show fangs, and the statue was detailed enough that there were a hundred or more of them visible. The eyes were dead and lifeless in the stone, but large. It was an alien thing, and the expression was of pure malice.

"This is ridiculous," Longwell said, stepping up to the altar. "This? They serve this...this thing?" He shook his head. "I mean...what is it?"

"Mortus," Cyrus said. "It's Mortus."

"Mort-what?" Longwell placed a mailed fist on the statue and slid it across derisively. "Is it a creature? A beast? A monster? A ruler? A greengrocer in Reikonos? What?"

"No," Curatio said, still quiet. "Not a creature, nor beast, nor ruler, not of these lands, at least not of late. It's Mortus. And of all the masters they could possibly serve, this is...by far, the worst I can imagine."

Longwell threw his arms up in despair, still looking at the healer. For answer, Curatio looked back at the dragoon, stared into his eyes, and spoke in a voice that cracked with terror and dread, so frightening in a normal voice, but one that drove sheer terror into Cyrus's soul knowing that it came from a being 23,000 years old. "Mortus is a God.

"The God of Death."

Chapter 44.

"I'm afraid," Longwell's voice rang across the Council Chamber after they had returned to Sanctuary, "all this talk of gods runs right over me like so much water in a stream. I don't believe it, I don't understand it, and I'm surprised any of you, who seem so reasonable in all else, could buy into it." The dragoon shook his head, his hair wisping as it fell on either cheek. "They're not real."

"Oh, they're real enough," Curatio said. The healer wore a traveling cloak still fastened around his neck. They had returned from Traegon and immediately gone to Council. "The gods are real enough to touch you if you should get in their way, real enough to kill you if you should cross them."

Longwell snorted. "I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but from an outsider's perspective, the idea of gods sounds... ridiculous. Forces, beyond our sight, manipulating people? Ludicrous. They tell similar fairytales in my own lands, but only the peasants believe them."

"It's no myth," Terian said, causing Longwell to roll his eyes. "The Gods of Arkaria are quite real, not some imaginary figment. Many of them have been seen in the last few hundred years, and interfere in the affairs of mortals to this day."

Cyrus leaned forward and looked to Longwell, who was still shaking his head. "Weren't you with us in the Realm of Darkness last year?"

"Aye, I was. But I didn't see a god in that place; just a hell of a lot of darkness, and some creatures that-while extraordinary-don't require a god to exist any more than any of us do."

"Putting aside the question of whether deities exist," Erith broke in, "why would Mortus want Vara and Curatio dead?"

"He has good cause to want me dead," Curatio said, his voice ragged. "I have no idea why he would want Vara to die."

"What did you do to piss off the God of Death?" Terian looked at the healer with barely concealed awe.

Curatio smiled, a wan, sad curve of his lips. "You are aware that the vast majority of the Elven Kingdom worships Vidara?"

Terian nodded. "I've heard that, yes."

"I brought her word into the Kingdom." He paused. "I evangelized for her thoughout Elvendom until she was the widest accepted deity."

"Mortus hates Vidara," Cyrus said. "I haven't heard you speak out for Vidara since I've been here. Do you not believe in her any longer?"

Curatio shrugged, and it gave the effect of making him seem even more resigned. "I still believe in her in the same way I believe in anything I can see with my own eyes and feel with my own hands. I just don't worship her as I once did. All my evangelism was after the War of the Gods, 10,000 years ago, when the beliefs were still spreading..." He hesitated. "...among the disbelievers and those who followed the...old ways."

"Supporting the opposing god would be reason enough to make you an enemy, I suppose," Vaste said. "But again, we come back to the other questions-why Vara and why the other old ones?"

"Vara is a symbol in the Kingdom, yes?" J'anda looked around the table. "Perhaps it was an attempt to destabilize the elves?"