"Arydni, the High Priestess of Vidara, told me that Vara was a gift from the Goddess of Life; the only hope since the curse began," Cyrus said. "If Mortus and Vidara are bitter enemies, locked in perpetual struggle over mortals, then would that make one of the battlegrounds the Elven Kingdom?"

Alaric cleared his throat. "The biggest, actually. The original elves were near-immortal. Can you imagine any greater affront to the God of Death?"

"Six thousand years? I imagine he might be offended by a lifespan of such length," J'anda said.

"Indeed," Alaric continued, "the God of Death has long hungered for more souls from the elves than he receives. In addition, his tools are not limited to death, but also the means of fear."

"Hand of Fear," Cyrus murmured. "What greater is there to fear than death?"

"Quite a bit." The Ghost placed a hand on the top of his helm, which was resting on the table. "That said, there is something that might cast this entire situation in a different light."

"And that is?" Terian spoke after Alaric had paused for a moment.

"Since none of you but the elves among us have had cause to know of this curse that afflicts their people, you would not have had cause to ask yourself from whence this curse came." Alaric's face had resumed its harder resolve; his eye was a gleaming gray.

"I thought of it for a while last night," Vaste said, clicking his staff against the ground. "But I assumed that if anyone knew for certain who had done it, we'd have been told."

"No one knows." Vara's voice was scratchy, a choked whisper, as though she were straining to speak. "It has been the greatest mystery of the last millenium, and the secret in general precluded too much idle searching for the answer outside the Kingdom."

"Cursing every male in the Kingdom with infertility?" Erith broke her silence. "What sort of spellcaster could even muster such a spell? Even if there was such a thing, who could cast it?"

"No one person," Nyad said. "My father's counselors suspected an army of dark elven wizards, traveling throughout the Kingdom, over the course of a hundred years-"

"No," Alaric said. "Not the dark elves. It was Mortus."

"You sound certain." Vaste eyed the Ghost.

Alaric's demeanor left no room for doubt. "I am."

"Told you himself, did he?" Terian quipped.

"No," Alaric said. "He did not. Yet I know that he did it."

"What kind of spell could even do that?" Longwell looked at Alaric. "I don't buy into this idea of gods-he'd have to be using the same magic as everyone else, so what kind of spell does such a thing?"

Alaric laughed, but it was hollow and mirthless. "He does not use the same magic as anyone else. The gods have powers of their own, things beyond the knowledge of mortals, and this is one of them."

Cyrus stared straight ahead. "Beyond the knowledge of mortals...but are they beyond the use of mortals?" His eyes flicked up to catch Alaric's gaze, and the Ghost did not look away quickly enough. "Could a mortal use a spell that the gods use, like we would use one of their weapons?"

Alaric hesitated and looked to Curatio, who for once remained cooler in his disposition than Alaric. The healer looked to the Guildmaster, and in a resigned voice, almost devoid of any emotion but a hint of accusation, said, "You didn't tell me it was him."

Alaric looked to Curatio and something passed between them, something so subtle Cyrus could not quite interpret it. "I was sworn."

Curatio nodded, his jaw jutted out, as though he were chewing on the inside of his lip, and turned back to Cyrus. "Yes, but with some qualifications. Some mortals could use some magics that that gods wield, but only the most powerful spellcasters, and the spells would drain them, being somewhat more energy intensive than a simple healing spell, for example."

"Heresy," Ryin Ayend said in a low, hissing voice.

"If a cure to the curse existed and we found it in the Realm of Death, could you use it?" Cyrus stared down Curatio. "You, who have the ability to burn through more magical energy than any mortal."

Curatio did not speak for a long moment, nor did he break from Cyrus's gaze. "Yes. I likely could."

"Assuming such a thing existed," Ryin Ayend said, his eyes aflame with shock, "what you speak of is heresy, and reason enough for the Leagues to hunt you across Arkaria to the end of your days."

"Which would be quite the merry chase," Curatio said. "I daresay I'd just outrun them until they died, then go on living my life."

"Even if you did such a thing, how would this help you and Vara?" Ayend looked from the healer to the shelas'akur. "Mortus sent assassins after you; stealing a spell to heal your people after he cursed them is hardly going to endear you further."

"Since he already means to kill us," Vara said, her response icy, "I don't see how things could get worse if we further offend him."

"Perhaps they wouldn't for you," Ryin said with a hint of exasperation, "but they would for us-as in Sanctuary. We have enemies enough without adding the God of Death to our list."

"Speak for yourself," Terian said. "I'm always willing to take on new candidates if they're worthy, and I think the God of Death would be a pleasant enough challenge." Terian looked down the table, his long nose seeming to point at Cyrus. "What are you proposing?"

"Nothing that radical." Cyrus balled his fists inside their metal shells. "We've been on expeditions to Mortus's domain in the past, while he's absent. I say we do so again, only this time with the specific purpose of finding something that would help us break the curse inflicted on the elves." He looked at Vara with a sidelong glance and saw her watching him. "If we save the elven people from this calamity, perhaps it will give the God of Death something else to focus on."

"I still have no idea why this so-called God of Death would cast a curse on the elves like this," Longwell said, shaking his head as if he could make the whole situation disappear. "And I've yet to hear any genuine, empirical evidence that convinces me that he is real, so if you want to raid his realm looking for something that doesn't exist, why not? What's the worst that can happen?"

"We could be caught by Mortus and smashed to a juicy pulp," Vaste said.

"If we find and use some forbidden magic of the gods, we can be declared heretics and become the enemies of everyone in Arkaria from now to the end of our days." Ryin Ayend had his hand over his eyes as though massaging a headache away, but his words were clear.

"I'll take the dishonor of heresy upon myself," Curatio said. "None of you need fear it, since none of you could use the spell anyway. But I doubt we'd find a cure; what we need is the curse itself, because with it I have a starting point for deriving a cure."

"Branching off from accepted, League-taught magics," Ryin Ayend said. "That's more heresy. Will it ever cease?"

"Your Leagues have a great many rules," Longwell said with a shake of the head. "I say we have nothing to fear in this Realm of Death and if the rewards are anything like what we found in Darkness's Realm, it will be worth it."

"Other than being mashed by a god," Vaste said, "I'm inclined to agree. We've fought through the Realm of Death before. If we can do what every guild before us that's assaulted a god's realm has done and find a time that Mortus won't be home, I vote we do it."

Nyad spoke with a gasp. "Yes." The wizard looked haunted.

Curatio smiled. "I see no reason why not; the God of Death has never before troubled himself when these things have happened to him in the past."

One by one, around the table was a slow series of nods of assent. "This is madness," Ryin Ayend said with a heavy sigh, "but as I see no more direct harm coming to us than we are already in line for, I vote 'aye'."

Vara was in a daze, but blinked out of it when her turn came to speak. "I do not know if this will help Curatio and I or not, but should we find the spell, and should he be able to cure the curse, it will help my people." She bowed her head and closed her eyes. "And that is all I have left to care about."

Alaric tore his gaze from her. "I would echo the sentiments of others in my words of caution. Gods are not to be trifled with. Were we to achieve this, it might distract the God of Death from our friends; but that is mere hope. He is not known for being a forgiving sort, nor of a mind to relinquish a goal once set. While the Hand of Fear may be destroyed, he has other servants who will take up the fight and follow his commands." With sorrow he looked to Vara. "I do not know that this will end your torment, but I will give everything in me to attempt to make it so."

Vara was sickly white when she answered, but it was with a mechanical voice. "I thank you. All of you."

"I leave it to our general to work out the details," Alaric said, nodding to Cyrus. "With that, let us adjourn."

Cyrus remained in his chair while almost everyone else beat a hasty path to the exit. Vara looked back at him as though she were about to say something, then turned away, disappearing through the door behind Nyad. Cyrus turned to find Curatio staring down Alaric.

"You should have told me," the healer said.

"I should have." The Ghost looked back at him. "But I was sworn to secrecy."

"And you violate it now?" Curatio's words came out low and accusatory, harsher than anything Cyrus had heard from him.

"Lives are at stake, and you know this may be part of a larger plan by Mortus." Alaric stood facing Curatio. "I am sorry I did not reveal..." His eyes flitted around the room to find Cyrus watching, as well as Terian. "...what I know...sooner. I did not wish to-"

"I know what you didn't wish to do," Curatio said, voice rising. "I know damned well what you didn't want to admit to. To hell with it, Alaric. It was always you anyway. I thought I made my peace with..." An agonized grunt came from Curatio, and he shook his head, face awash in unexpressed emotions. "Damn it all. I'm 23,000 years old, I shouldn't..."

"You are a man," Alaric said, soothing. "Regardless of age, you share the same flaws as the rest of us, tempered only by greater wisdom than any other."

Curatio stared back at him for a moment before reaching out in a fit of pique and knocking the Ghost's helm from the table to the floor. "To hell with wisdom. To hell with tempering. And to hell with you." With a snarl, the healer swept from the room, his cloak trailing behind him.

Alaric stooped to retrieve his helm and placed it upon his head. "I am sorry you had to witness that."

"It's kind of like watching Mommy and Daddy fight," Terian said with a sadistic chuckle. "I've never seen even a hint of discord between the two of you before."

"Yes," Alaric said with a sigh. "I'm afraid there's much more to it than my witholding information. But that is a story-"

"For another time," Cyrus and Terian chorused.

A flicker of amusement made its way across the Ghost's face, but did not reach his eye. "What can I do for the two of you?"

"Nothing for me," Terian said. "I need to talk to Cyrus."

Cyrus stared at the Ghost, who, after the argument with Curatio, seemed somehow smaller than he had ever looked before. "I...I have nothing that can't wait."

Alaric nodded. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I feel the ether calling." He took a deep breath, and Cyrus watched his armor rise with the inhalation. As it began to sink with his exhalation, the lines of the Ghost's armor began to fade, and the streaks that ran down the plate of his mail blurred and became insubstantial, a thin mist filling the room around his feet, as Alaric became the Ghost in deed as well as name, and the fog disappeared from the room.

"Of all the weird things he does, that's the weirdest," Terian said with a shake of the head.

"What do you need?" Cyrus leaned against the table, watching the dark knight.

"Ah," Terian said with a smile, "I need nothing. In fact, I come to you with assistance." He straightened. "I can help you with invading the Realm of Death."

Chapter 45.

The light was dim in the Brutal Hole, a bar in the slums of Reikonos. Though he had seen it when living there, Cyrus had never trod in the establishment, which was for dark elven laborers that worked on the waterfront. The patrons were surly, protective and quarrelsome when standing outside, thus he had never been motivated to find out if the interior was as shabby as the broken down wooden facade.

Until now, he thought. It matches. Terian had dragged him here with the assistance of Nyad, who was waiting for them at the old Kings of Reikonos Guildhall only a few blocks away. The bar had a dim mirror stretched behind it, the edges scarred and blackened from age and poor use. The whole place had a smell he associated with unwashed garments mixed with saltwater. I'm used to smelling the death and horror of battles, and this place has a scent that makes me ill. What does that say about it?

Terian took a deep sniff. "Smells like home," he said with a serene smile.

"Remind me never to visit Saekaj," Cyrus said, taking a sip of the green ale in front of him. He kept his head hidden under his cloak, less worried that the patrons might start a fight with him than he'd end up killing all of them and have to answer to the Reikonos authorities. He looked around the motley crowd shouting crass comments at the woman behind the bar; she matched every one of the dock workers profanity for profanity, causing them to laugh even more.

"It's no worse than here," the dark knight assured him. With a slug of his ale, Terian looked back at him. "Aren't you pleased to see that your city is still standing?"

Cyrus was reminded of the discomfort in his belly as they teleported into the main square. As it appeared before him, he let out a slight yet obvious sigh of relief. They were stopped by Reikonos guards that were stationed around the square and detained because of Terian's presence. Once Cyrus's identity had been established, the guards had let them pass with a glare at the dark knight, who shrugged the whole thing off. "If my city was under siege by humans, they'd kill any of you trying to teleport in." He grinned. "Your people are far too merciful."

"Let's hope it doesn't cost us the war," Cyrus had said without amusement.

In spite of the frigid Reikonos winter, the hearth was empty of a fire, with only the faintest embers still burning within it. "Wood is worth more than gold right now," the woman behind the bar had said when she brought their drinks. She looked with suspicion on Cyrus's downed hood, but didn't press the issue. Terian had thrown extra coins her way to expedite her retreat, which she took without question and returned to the bar and the rowdy longshoremen gathered around it.

"How much longer?" Cyrus kept his voice low, in spite of the fact that it would be near impossible to be heard over the din the drunks were causing, another peal of raucous laughter filling the air.

"Now, I think," Terian said as the door opened, allowing a sliver of sunlight to cross the floor. The obnoxious laughter of the crowd at the bar stopped as a figure entered, also hooded, and swooped past them with a shuffle, drawing the attention of the dock workers as it passed. After a moment, the laughter returned; a choice comment in dark elvish reached Cyrus's ears, which he didn't fully understand but grasped enough of to shake his head at the crudity.

The figure approached them with caution, shuffling on a leg that appeared unsteady. When it reached them, Cyrus was struck by the trailing stench that came in its wake, overwhelming any of the horrible fragrances of the bar. It smelled of the decay Cy had pondered earlier, overwhelming and gutwrenching. With a nod, it sat, and the lamplight caught features that were gray as a stormy sky.

With a sudden sense of revulsion, Cyrus pushed back against the chair. Terian's hand gripped his, holding him down as he reached for his sword. "Don't," the dark knight said.

"It's...it's a..." Cyrus reached again for his sword but Terian blocked him with a gauntlet, clanking metal against metal.

"A wendigo?" The creature slid forward into the light, revealing a wreck of face. His eyes were sunken in the skull and a skeletal hand that reminded Cyrus of Malpravus slid across the table and picked up a gold coin from a stack in front of Terian. Its mouth was mangled, twisted with jagged teeth, and when it breathed on him Cyrus felt a need to vomit. "I am, a creature of Mortus that has long since fled the master's realm."

Cyrus yanked his hand away from Terian and held it in front of his nose. "What brings a foul servant of a foul god to Reikonos?"

"A foul place." The wendigo's mouth twisted into a smile, giving it a more grotesque look than before. "I come here to meet you, to treat with you, to offer you information for coin-are insults all I am to receive?"

"Don't act so offended," Terian said, sliding the stack of coins off the table and into his hand. "You're a wendigo; your skin is rotted and you smell like a troll brothel on Sunday morning. Hrent, this is Cyrus Davidon. He's faced your kind before."

"You've fought the footsoldiers of death?" Hrent reached across the table, emaciated gray hand facing up, pointed toward Terian. "Then you know most of what you'll be up against if you're planning on going to the Realm of Mortus."

"Aye," Cyrus said, holding his breath. "Is there still a hydra and demon knights?"

The rotted face of the wendigo twisted again. Milky white eyes stared back at him from beneath the hood. "Perhaps. Perhaps there's more. I find gold helps me recall."

Terian shared a look with Cyrus, then dropped a half dozen coins on the table. "Start talking. If what you say sounds good, more may follow."

Hrent reached out and grasped at each of the coins, bringing them up to his teeth and biting them one by one. "All right," he said when finished. "Yes, there's a hydra and a host of demon knights; nothing different about them. But there's more now."

"Such as?" Cyrus said from behind his gauntlet.

The gray finger beckoned, and two more gold pieces were tossed upon the table. "Might be skeletons. I can't recall." Another gold piece clinked in front of the wendigo. "Yeah, skeletons. A whole army of them. Not particularly strong, but a nuisance when coupled with the demon knights and my brothers." The thin fingers came up to Hrent's face and scratched the skin, long claw digging into dead flesh, leaving a mark but no blood welled up within. "Something else, too." He nodded at the small but growing pile of gold in front of him and two more pieces landed upon it. He nodded again and Terian threw two more. "They've changed their strategy. They don't hide anymore; everything waits in the fields of Paxis by the portal. Except the hydra. You won't have to face him unless you go looking for him."

Cyrus exchanged a glance with Terian. "Anything else? A dragon skeleton or anything like that?"

The sunken eyes watched him. "No. Nothing like that. All that's left is the time."

"When?"

The long claws clicked on the gold, and Terian poured five more pieces out of his coinpurse and slid them across the table one at a time as Hrent bit them, his long teeth leaving little flaws in the face of the metal. "Tomorrow," he said, scooping them all off the table. "He'll be gone for three days; has a meeting with Bellarum in the Realm of War. Those two...they do go on and on," Hrent said with a smile that made Cyrus's stomach turn.

"Anything else you'd like to tell us?" Terian watched him expectantly.