Descent into Magery
By Peter Hug

Chapter 1

	The alley he crouched in was dark and dank, but then, so was much of the rest of the city. It had been a bad season so far, with much rain that had washed away the better part of the harvests, food would be very dear in the coming winter. With the council in a state of war they had levied troops, and the troops needed to be fed, this made food even more dear. And the misery that the rain had caused did not end there. Most of the city, if you could even call it that, was of thatched roofed buildings, mostly wooden buildings, and they were beginning to mold. The musty scent of decaying roofing and the moldy odor of the rough timbers nearest him were almost overpowering. He eased himself into a position that was not so much more comfortable as less uncomfortable; nearly every thing was uncomfortable these days. And the pain in his stomach was no more bearable than the scent of the buildings. However, he could, would and was about to do something about that. He simply had to wait for a trader with a suitably fat purse to pass the edge of the alley in whose shadows he hid.
	
	“Damn troops!” he murmured to himself, knowing all the while that what he said would do no good, or make a difference for that matter. He was not particularly worried about doing good just then. The twilight was already fading, and the lamplighters were already coming out, what few there were, since the council had since decided that that was one of the things that they could safely save coins on. Though Derrl did not mind so much the council's frugality, it was only going to make what he had to do all that much simpler.
	
	Yet another bell had sounded, sounding faint and hopeless as if it could no longer struggle to make itself heard in these times of hardness. If he was lucky there would still be a few unlucky traders heading home from their warehouses; heading towards homes that bordered more on palaces, for of all the people, only the traders still seemed to be well off. 
	
	He could hear footsteps coming along down the dark passage between the fronts of the houses: he seemed to be having some luck tonight. There was only one set of footsteps in the quiet night, although he heard an extra thunk, almost as if an extra foot was walking down the same lane along with whoever it was. A thought occurred to Derrl, more luck, if his guess was right, the extra thunk meant a cane or walking stick. He corrected himself for a moment, good luck for him, but not nearly so wonderful for whoever the other person happened to be, for if they needed a cane just to walk, what possible defence could they put up against him? He had his dagger with him, and was fairly sure of his abilities with it. He had won his fair share of knife fights, though he knew that against a patrol he would have no chance. But that meant nothing just then, as it was not a patrol he was about to face. From what he could tell, it was a fragile old man. He was guessing that it was a man, for the footsteps seemed to be a bit heavier than what he would associate with a woman, tough and not nearly as heavy as that of a trained soldier.
	
	Derrl cautiously worked his way to the end of his dark alley, careful not to make any noise, lest he give himself away. There was a rustling by his feet, then a squeak as something shot off past his right foot. He stood there breathing hard. Normally he would not have been so frightened by that, but his nerves seemed frayed to the point of snapping. He was nervous about what he was about to do. He was not a cold-hearted murderer, he knew that, but he had to have some food. And unfortunately the more he thought about what he was about to do, the more nervous it made him feel. He could almost smell the stench of fear emanating from himself and his clothes. He waited as the footsteps and accompanying cane came nearer.
	
	He paused to lean his head against the cool timber of the wall. Though the rain had let up, he was still thoroughly sodden from the downpour earlier in the day. The puddles in the lane and lying across the cracked and missing cobblestones were a reminder that the rain would probably return. Sweat was beading on his forehead, though he did not notice. As the sweat accumulated, it began to drip off the point of his nose, which was crooked. It had been crooked since he had gotten drunk that evening and had started a tavern brawl. The Barman had quickly ended the excitement when he knocked Derrl across the face with a light club that was always kept beside the tankards. The footsteps were getting closer now and were almost upon him. He took a few moments to gather himself, check his dagger, run his thumb along the edge of the blade to test it. He grimaced when he realized that it needed to be sharpened badly. It had more than its share of nicks on the blade, but it would have to suffice for tonight. He quickly stepped out of the darkness of the alley to stand in front of whoever it was, desperately hoping that it would be some incompetent trader. Everyone knew that none of them had any skill with weapons. That was why they all hired out guards for their wagons, well… the traders with enough coins at least, and yet none would hire Derrl. Serves them right if I kill one them tonight, they pushed me to it he thought to himself quietly. As he took in the street ahead of him he groaned softly. It was old Kevesk, the oldest man that anyone in the surrounding city knew, one of the strangest people that anyone knew. The man wouldn't eat any kind of meat, did most of his business at night, and always had a long walking stick that more closely resembled a staff, with iron caps at either end. Pity, he thought, not much sense in killing the man… yet still, he was a trader, and traders did have coin, though this one might have less than most. He would have to do.
	
	“Go away before you get hurt, Derrl. You don't really want to hurt me,” Kevesk said calmly as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. His voice was calm and even, and even good-natured, almost that of a grandfather warning his favourite grandchild not to play by the stove, knowing full well that the child could get hurt, but that the child would not heed his warning. They never learn until they get burned do they? The old trader thought to himself. He did not really expect Derrl to listen to him, none ever did. Pity, he thought. 
	
	Derrl was more than a bit nervous now that the old trader knew who he was.
	
	“Hand over the purse and no one gets hurt, trader!” he managed to snarl through teeth clenched with what was now fear bordering on panic. His eyes were frantically searching for an avenue of escape. However, his own planning had outdone him; the only way for the old man to get away was past him, and vice versa. He supposed that he could just run now, and hope to get away. For some reason he was inordinately afraid of the frail old man. For a brief moment, what he thought was his better judgement took over, and he charged the old man with his knife. The moment he stepped towards Kevesk he regretted it, but not for long, at least not for a little while anyway. The flicker in Derrl's eyes warned Kevesk, and his staff came up quickly with a twirl in the fingers of his right hand. The butt end of the staff with its textured and patterned iron caps collided with the side of Derrl's head with a resounding blow.

THWACK!
	
	The sound of the impact echoed off the rough-hewn timbers of the encroaching buildings. Though he was not terribly worried, he had had enough practice with people of Derrl's type to know just the right amount of force to use. The most that Derrl would suffer from when he woke up would be a mild headache, well, not quite so mild, and a pretty little design on the side of his head near the temple. In the meantime, Kevesk figured that he had better take Derrl home and keep an eye on him. Kevesk bent over, still leaning on the staff, picked up the knife by the point of the blade with his thumb and forefinger and flicked it off into the darkness of the alley. He heard a quick screech and the skittering of rats through the refuse as they were disturbed.
	
	“Sorry 'bout that,” he murmured quietly to no one in particular, though had anyone been there they would have thought he was apologizing to the rodents. He remained stooped over for a short while, still leaning on his staff that was more like a long walking stick. And with an act of surprising agility for someone for old and frail, he slung the unconscious youth over his shoulder as he hobbled down the lane back toward his residence. He had no intention of returning Derrl to his home, because he knew that he had no home, the main reason he had foolishly tried to attack him for a paltry few coins. Kevesk hobbled with his ungainly pack until he reached what most simply thought of as the home of the eccentric trader.
	
	Kevesk stood watch over Derrl for most of the night as he writhed on the pallet until well past the midmorning bell. As he watched, the print on Derrl's right temple began to glow an unearthly white. It was a light that seemed to be faint and yet filled the room. The glow seemed to flare quietly, then subsided, finally ceasing to glow at all. The pattern was still there, but somehow it was different. There was no longer any evidence of the pattern having been caused by a blow. It now seemed to be no more than an intricate birthmark (though it was far too regular to be so) or perhaps a freeze brand. And while the design had been incomplete, the light had completed it. As Kevesk stared at the young man while he slept, he was reminded of his days among his brethren. They were far gone.
	
	There was the sound of faint stirring in the corner that held Derrl's pallet. The sun was near its peak already, and nigh the midday bell. He could not understand why he had slept so late. As he gathered his wits about him slowly, he began to ask himself some questions. Where did that old man get to? I could have sworn that I didn't let him out of my sight. Wha…! Huh? Where in the demon's names am I? He spared a quick glance around the room, which was obviously not his, as he had none. The roomed seemed empty enough. His head was throbbing; why did his head hurt so badly? He didn't recall doing any heavy drinking the night before. Faint from the headache, he put his head back down on the pallet, looked at the room with its high narrow windows and bare walls, and closed his eyes. It was otherwise empty, except for the old trader in the corner, apparently asleep in a chair with his walking stick across his lap. He wondered briefly about how the old man had gotten him here, wherever here was. Well, no matter, he would find out soon enough. The old fool had left him untied. It was simply a matter of giving the old man a quick blow across the back of the head, taking his purse, and leaving. He was only a little bit worried about where his knife had gone. 
	
	“I do hope that you don't intend to leave,” the old man murmured, eyes still closed, “you could hurt yourself as well as others.”
	
	A bit rattled by this last remark, Derrl asked “What are you talking about, trader? Are you more daft than I thought?”
	
	“No,” he answered with a surprisingly sharp smile, one that had all of its teeth, “just wise beyond your years.”
	
	“What do you mean I could hurt myself?”
	
	“You have talent, young Derrl, but you do not know how to control it. Had you not attacked me last night, I would not even have known that you had any talent. When I struck you with my staff, your will reacted. An ordinary person would merely have suffered a splitting headache, but you, my friend, are marked. Everyone with the talent has a mark, left there by their first encounter with, or use of, the talent. Take this glass, and take a look at where I hit you last night. I am sorry about that, but you were insistent on having my purse.” Kevesk handed him a small glass. Derrl took it, jaw hanging like some village idiot. He had heard rumours about those with talent, but they were wives' tales, not to be paid attention to. “You'll notice that there is no pain there anymore. Here, take my knife, try the blade against the mark.” He was still numbed from the shocks that he had received in the past days, so he complied with Kevesk's wishes. He could feel the pressure of the contact of the blade with the bleached skin, but could feel no pain. He pulled the knife away from his head, knowing that with the force he had applied he should have drawn blood, and yet the blade was clean, at least no dirtier than it had been. 
	
	“You see?” the old trader grinned, “ Pass me the knife please.” Derrl could see no harm in doing so, and lightly tossed the weapon to the trader.
	
	“Now watch closely,” said the trader as he raised the knife up in his fist. Before Derrl fully understood what he was about to do, the old man brought down his fist, along with the knife, aiming it directly at Derrl's marked temple, point first.
	
	“Demon's blood!” he yelled as the knife hit him in the side of the head, not fully realizing what had happened. He had not felt any pain, nor was there the brief spurt of blood before he collapsed. In fact, he was still sitting on his pallet, much as before, only swearing violently at the old man, who was bent over double on his chair, apparently laughing.
	
	“What in Lucifer's name do you think you are doing? You senile old fart!” In response to this, the old man, still chuckling to himself, reached out his hand to Derrl, as if to offer him the knife for inspection. The first inch of the point had been flattened, and Derrl could see traces of the pattern on the blade, the same pattern on his temple and the staff. 
	
	“What in the good spirits' names?!” Derrl exclaimed, staring incredulously at the once sharp knife, which was now good for little more than scrap metal.
	
	“That's just one of the advantages that your talent offers you, the least of which, by the way. The others will require some learning on your part, and there are not many who can help you with that, my friend. And most you probably wouldn't recognize if they hit you over the head. Fortunately for you, one of them did just last night.”

Chapter 2

	“Wait, what are you trying to tell me?” said Derrl, a genuinely confused look on his face, “Am I invulnerable or something? How in the demon's pits did that work? I should have been killed almost instantly by that blow. I know a knife well enough to know that that should have killed any man.”
	
	“Ah, but you see, friend Derrl, you are no longer just any man. When I struck you, you began your trek down the path to being a wielder of will and runes. To answer your innumerable questions, No, you are not invulnerable; however, your physical and spiritual self now react to certain runes and patterns in ways that can harm, or protect you. The rune on my staff, and consequently the one on your temple, is a rune that strengthens the natural substance on which it is marked, as it is, the skin over your temple, as well as the bone beneath it, is nearly as resistant as the iron which caps the ends of my staff. As for how it worked, you are not quite ready to understand that yet.” Somehow, the old man slowly looked wiser to Derrl, for a time. After a time, the pain subsided. He hazarded another look about the room. In the room that he had thought empty moments before, slowly he began to see another person underneath the image that he cast forth, yet somehow that image eluded him.
	
	“This isn't the way you really look is it?”
	
	“I have to admit that it isn't,” Kevesk said with a grin. “Although I am pleasantly surprised that you were able to puzzle that out so quickly. Although I shouldn't really say puzzle, it is merely the brute strength that lies within you as your will that has revealed it to you.”

	All that Derrl could manage was a quizzical grunt.
	
	“I can see that you need me to explain it a bit more,” he said while a smile crept onto his face. He turned his face to catch the sunlight as it streamed in through one of the high windows. Dust motes filtered through the sunbeam as they continued on their path. “All people have some form of the will. Though that term is not quite correct, it will suffice until you can understand it properly, in which case it will not matter much how you term it. For most, their will is so weak that it is almost as if it is not there. For others, their will is faint, but there. They often get premonitions or insights into things. And for others still, like you and I, the will is strong enough to assert its own presence, in which case it can actively change its surroundings. Sometimes a person's Will will remain dormant until confronted with another Will, in which case it actively asserts itself rather quickly. This is by far the most dangerous situation.” He nodded gravely to himself, as if Derrl was barely there.
	
	“Dangerous? How so? It's not painful, is it?”
	
	“It's not painful except in odd situations, although it can be. Without learning to control it properly, your Will will make itself useful at times, and this can be dangerous sometimes. Take this for example, I seem to remember an instance where a fellow stumbled upon a rune for an explosive fireball, however he had forgotten to define his target, or his range. Before he knew it he had a ball of flame sitting calmly in his hand, at first it only burned him, and then it blew his body to shreds. The advantages of the gift are many, but it must be used with caution, for your well-being, and that of others.”
	
	“Why are you telling me this?” 
	
	“Because if you are to control it, you must first understand it. Whether you use your gift or not is something entirely other, but learning about it and learning to restrain it are paramount. Such as it is, you are to remain with me until you can control your abilities. You are not to leave here without me to accompany you.”
	
	Derrl's mind was swimming in strange circles. He shut his eyes only to see the swirling patterns and vortexes that came with the feeling that the contents of his head were being shuffled and rearranged. It was the same headache that he had had since his waking. He was very nervous. He had not had any headaches that were quite like this one; this particular headache felt surreal in its unique pain. With every new jolt of pain, he gained a new insight to the world around him. As the pain became more and more unbearable, he tried to focus on the trader's face. A sudden stab of pain struck Derrl and his vision blurred briefly. His vision cleared long enough for him to see the old trader's face as it fell away to reveal the person behind the mask. All was blackness and void as he struck the pallet unconscious.
	
	Thus are the truly powerful born, thought the trader with a rueful smile. He shall have more power than most, yet find himself unable to use it. It is a true shame that the powerful are always struck down by their own power when first they discover it.

Chapter 3

	Just before the headache had struck him down all that he could sense were swirling, ever changing patterns, patterns that were somehow linked with the headache. As he awoke, he lay there on the hard pallet, ignoring the discomfort as he sorted through the past few days with his eyes tightly shut against the insistent light of the sun. Against the black background of his eyelids, he could see the patterns still. They were intricate and complex, and in their finesse of design they were fragile yet continued to swirl in a dizzying dance, and yet they were not morphing as quickly as they had. The patterns slowly began to take a more final shape. Finally, the images stopped shifting. Whether he had lain there ten minutes or ten days he did not know. He did not care, for the shifting pattern had been replaced by another pattern that was steady, constant and reliable, and along with the pattern, the pain had subsided. What had been an excruciating pain that should only have been known in the deepest of the pits run by the demons, was not, and began to throb in a slow and patient pulse, that was more reminder than anything else. He felt almost as if something had been etched into his mind. He opened his eyes briefly and then shut them tight against the advancing light of day. 
	
	“Ah! You are awake after all,” the old man said from the corner on the far side of the room. “I should expect that you did not sleep well. No one has ever completely escaped the pain of having their mind reforged by their will. Some are lucky enough that they feel only a very bad headache, but a select few others are struck down as their mind is born anew. But we shall not dwell on this matter right now.” There was a brief pause, and yet Derrl knew that the trader was not yet finished, “You must pull your senses together and pull yourself awake for the moment. These lessons will do you no good if you insist on sleeping through them.”
	
	Derrl grunted.  Not only could he not get any rest with this old man rambling on as such, but the pallet seemed determined to leave its mark on him, and there was a sharp splinter that was working its way through his clothes to stab him in the rear. He had best get up lest things get worse, and apparently they could, since the day had only just begun. For the moment, the pattern hung before his shuttered gaze. It was as close as he could be to himself and yet it stretched out to infinity. It seemed to hold some strange meaning in and of itself, a meaning that was tantalizingly close to understanding, but forever just out of reach. He sat up on the pallet, feet out to the side, eyes still closed against the light. Kevesk poked him lightly in the side of his head with the end of the staff, as if reminding him to open his eyes. He obeyed, only to find that he could not remember any line of the pattern. Though he knew there was one, he could not recall the pattern itself. The puzzle of the pattern took up the better part of three minutes before Kevesk intruded.
	
	“You're trying to remember what the pattern was. You know it's there, don't you? You just can't recall what it looked like. I wouldn't advise trying any harder, or much longer. You'll find out when you are ready, not a day sooner, and having me hit you in the head with my staff won't help much either.”
	
	As Derrl finally looked over to the trader, he couldn't help but feel that something was out of place. His eyes skipped over the trader a few times before he realized that the trader did not look the same. Although that is not to say that the trader's face looked as if it were someone else's. The trader's face looked completely different from what it had the day before. As it was, it seemed almost as if what he saw now was the true image, and anything from before had been an elaborate façade. What had been the face of a simple old trader, was now a wise, almost kindly, humorous face, with a kind of half smile twisted in at the corner of the mouth. The eyes behind the face however remained the same. They were a steel gray that reflected the observer's curiosity. There was a glint to the eyes that betrayed vast amounts of wisdom in the archives of an ancient mind. A mind that, while ancient, could still appreciate a boyhood prank.
	
	“I'm guessing by the look on your face,” Kevesk said as the smile twisted the corner of his mouth up further, “that you've seen through my childish disguises.”
	
	“How long have you been doing that? Hiding your real face I mean,” Derrl asked with a sort of innocent curiosity.
	
	“If I told you, I'm not sure you would believe me. Let's just say that I've been at it so long I've forgotten when exactly I started.” The corner twisted farther.
	
	“If you won't tell me how long, will you at least tell me how?”
	
	“This much, I can tell you, it is one of the simplest tricks that a mage can perform. It's all simply confusing the minds of your audience. Which is even easier to do when your audience doesn't know what to look for. It's what one of those street 'magicians' “ he said the word with disgust, “call diversion. Any man can direct someone's attention away from something to show them what they want to see. But to able to direct someone's attention to the thing that you are trying to show them, and only let them see what you want them to see is truly a skill. A mage can direct the flow of thought as it defines a situation to the mind. That being the least of a mage's skills, and yet one of the most useful, I think that we shall start you off on that.” Although he would not have believed it possible, he saw the corner of the mouth tweak even farther up, defying what would seem to be natural law. “Do not let yourself be fooled. What seems, and what is, are often two very different things,” the mage in the corner said.
	
	Somehow, over the course of the morning, Derrl had come to think of the old man as less the trader but more the mage. This marked an important transition for him, because until that point he had not truly been able to say that he believed that there even was such a thing.
	
	“Oh wise and great mage, what would you have this lowly rat do to earn your wisdom?” He said in a voice dripping with sheer concentrated sarcasm.
	
	“First you can scrap that act. I find it insulting to the rats.” His voice took on the merest hint of edge, which was set off by the smirk on his lined face. “I find it funny that you remind me of myself when I was your age, only … a little bit more brute force … and less cunning,” he said with a grin that threatened to split his face. 

Chapter 4 

	A few days had passed since the mage's mask had fallen away. The mage had seen Derrl prove himself somewhat trustworthy as he had helped keep the warehouse tidy. The mage had gone out hours before dawn, stating that he had some affairs to arrange that day. Derrl had woken up before the mage left, trying to puzzle out the nature of the pattern. Having failed to do so, he had set himself the task of memorizing the patterns in his hands, that he might be able to memorize the one that seemed branded to the inside of his eyelids. Derrl held his hand a few spans away from his face, continually turning it over slowly, first looking at the palm, and then the back of his hand, and then back to the palm again. As he sat there contemplating his hand, tracing the network of veins that he could see, as they lay there, just below the skin. The veins that he could not see themselves, and yet knew that they were there by the effect that they had on their surroundings. His veins were covered over by layers of skin and flesh, hidden, but made their presence known by the bulges on the surface above them. He had been sitting there the better part of the morning, making an attempt to memorize the pattern of the veins in his hand. He was so utterly engrossed by the effort that he had forgotten to eat. Derrl figured that if he could memorize the pattern of veins, he would perhaps be able to remember the pattern that he saw on the stark black background of his mind. Kevesk had told him that he was going to go arrange a few things that were necessary, although he did not say what they were necessary for. Derrl had long since forgotten that Kevesk had said anything, or that he had gone anywhere. He was to intent on capturing the pattern to even bother to remember who the mage was just then. Outside the building in the portside market the various traders and factors were calling out to prospective customers, trying to fetch themselves a better price for their wares. On any other day, Derrl could have easily spent the day listening to the by-play of the market as interesting people sold, or tried to sell, interesting things. Today, all that went unnoticed, as did the midday bell, as well as all the other various sounds that mark life in the city. Outside, the sun was setting, cascading wondrous shades of crimson red, bright oranges, vivid yellows, as well as pinks and shades of purple as the evening sky rolled in to cover the city. Outside, the last of the traders in the market were packing up their unsold merchandise in various bits of scrap cloth of all shades of pink, green, blue, violet, red, yellow, as well as a few striped patches that must have come from someone's trading tent damaged beyond salvage in a storm or simply worn through in too many places. The sound of wheels, both iron and wooden, as they rattled past along the cobblestone street fell upon unhearing ears inside the building.  He was still trying to slowly gain insight into the nature of the hidden pattern. His face looked almost gaunt, and there were dark, deep circles under his eyes that had appeared there earlier. Sweat stood out on his forehead in beads, such was the effort he was pouring into concentrating on his hand. He had been straining himself as hard as he could since before daybreak. The accumulated sweat had drenched his clothes, making them sodden in some places, and in others, where it had dried, making them stiff and unyielding. His eyes had not blinked in the past hour, he had almost had them open continuously since before dawn. His eyes were bloodshot, and lined with the patterns of red blood vessels on the whites of his eyes. Though it was now well past the midnight bell, and the mage had not yet returned from his errands, Derrl was unconcerned. In his world right now there was no mage, there was only the hand and his awareness. His awareness enfolded his hand, seeping into it somehow, divining the nature and pattern of all the veins in his hand, including the most minute capillaries. Footsteps rang out across the cobblestones in the otherwise silent street, accompanied by the familiar tapping of and iron-shod staff. The door opened quietly and the mage stepped in. Derrl looked up to see what it was that had caused the only sound that he had heard that day. He saw the mage, who was taking in the destruction that he had brought upon himself, a destruction born of neglect. His eyes widened. A strange, crooked grin of self-contentment crept across Derrl's face. His eyes glazed over as his head hit the floor beside the pallet. He had found what he had sought. All was not dark as he slammed into unconsciousness. He saw before him the now familiar lines of the pattern that had been born in his mind. In his sleep his smile became one of bliss and self-enlightenment. As he slept, his reshaped mind was lovingly caressing the wonderful details of the pattern which he came to realize was his and his alone; it was in fact him. His mind roved over the pattern one last time before sinking into restful oblivion until morning. Having accomplished what it had set out to do, his mind would now let itself rest.

Chapter 5

	The mage crossed the room quickly in three great strides, demonstrating surprising agility for such an old man. He was not however quick enough to catch the unconscious youth as his head hit the floor. Demons damn him! What did he think he was doing? He repositioned the prone figure onto the pallet and covered him over with one the thick wool blankets that he had drawn from one of the crates nearby. He paused in his actions as a smile crept onto the face of the slumbering youth. As the smile planted itself firmly, Derrl's face took on a state of blissful joy. MY GOD! Can it be? Has he done what I think he has? If he has, then the demons had better look over their shoulders: there is a new power walking the continents now. He finished repositioning the sleeping body before he went over to the other side of the room the fetch a waterskin from a hook on the door by the wall. The hook had been put into the wall awkwardly, it was at an odd angle, and was such that you had to be careful how you placed things on it or they would fall off. The planks of the wall were the same rough cut as most of the wood around, with the inevitable splinter or two of wood sticking out to be plucked at by idle hands or to catch in unsuspecting flesh to cause discomfort and misery. He carried the waterskin over to the prone form on the pallet, pouring a few drops between the parted lips of the smile. He could tell that Derrl had neglected himself in his mental quest. Most likely, he had started the moment he had gotten up. He slipped some more much needed water into the mouth of the unconscious youth who instinctively swallowed. He could tell that there would be no lasting physical harm. He might be more tired than usual for the next few days, maybe a bit weak, but that would be the extent of it. The mental changes would have unforeseen results however. Damn, I should have warned him against trying to do that! Why didn't I realize that he would try that too? After all, I tried, when I was picked off the street by old Megensk. Or perhaps I should have coached him on the proper way to approach it. Damn it all, Demons damn it all to the pits! I was careless; I should have known. He continued to berate himself for his uselessness for most of the evening until he fell asleep in his chair in the corner. He did not have a bed for himself, because he almost never slept; it was one of the gifts that came soon after the discovery of the talent. Or perhaps it was a curse. Soon enough, though, Derrl would find that he had little use for the pallet. Or perhaps he would continue to use it while he rested his mind as some did. Both slept deeply until late in the morning of the following day.

Chapter 6

	Derrl spent several days after the incident lying on his pallet convalescing. He had drained his resources in his attempt to pin the pattern down where he could keep it and hold on to it. He lay there for three days after, exhausted, mentally as well as physically. At times he stirred in his sleep, mumbling incoherently, something about, “… The pattern is me. I am the pattern…” All the while the mage stood watch over the prone form that was struck with bouts of restlessness. At times he cried out in his sleep. At times Kevesk could not bear to listen, for the keening had a painful edge to it. And yet he felt it his self-imposed punishment for not having forewarned the youth. The day passed with no change, except perhaps less frequent outcries. Morning was near, and the false-dawn crept in through the high windows. The mage had collapsed into a fitful sleep a few hours before, when he could no longer bear watch over the sleeping youth. As the light from the sun entered through the narrow windows, Derrl stirred on his pallet. His face still bore traces of the smile that had planted itself on his face when he collapsed. He opened his eyes. The smile grew broader still. He had done it. It was his, he had it now. He sat up and saw the exhausted mage collapsed on his chair by the pallet. He murmured a quiet “thank you” to the mage, though he did not wake him. He knew that the mage must have kept watch over him throughout the ordeal. He scrawled a crude message on the dirt floor, in letters that were barely recognizable as such. “I leaft, I will cumm beck.” He did not know where he was going, he only knew that he was going somewhere where he could be alone, and where there would be no distractions. He strode out the door, and quietly closed it behind him. He glanced down the street at the traders who were bringing their carts to the square in order to sell their wares. He could faintly hear the voices of the first bargainers, those who had found the traders who already had their stalls set up. This would not do; he would have to find a nice secluded spot. Wait, he thought to himself, this is a port town, I should have no problem finding myself a quiet beach. He walked toward the port end of town with determination in his stride. He knew where he was going now.

	The sands of the beach were almost a pure white and were warming in the morning sun. No doubt by noon they would be uncomfortably hot. As he walked, his boots kicked up large amounts of the fine sand. He spotted a large driftwood log that had once been a piece of the mast of some vessel. It had once been a deep rich brown, but now was bleached by the sun to a white closely matching the sands. He sat down on it, wincing at the splinters sticking out of the log, splinters that seemed determined to pierce his soft posterior. He thought to himself, It could be worse, as he took off his heavy boots. He noticed that he would have to get a new pair soon, since he was wearing the soles out of these ones quickly.  He set the boots down beside the log and stepped down to the high water line and sorted through the various debris there. He picked his way through the driftwood and bracken until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a long, narrow stick that was as long as his leg. He walked up the beach a ways, until he found a relatively clear patch of sand, about three yards across. He swept aside what was left on the patch with his feet. He stuck the point of his stick into the sand and walked around the patch of white sand. When he had completed his turn around it, he retrieved his stick from the sand and began to trace lines in the clear area. The design was essentially a large circle with four or five smaller ones inside it, criss-crossed by various smaller lines as they worked their ways across the outer circle. It was a very intricate pattern. As Derrl traced his lines, he couldn't help but notice that the wind seemed to be kicking up more and more sand. The sun had also disappeared behind a cloudbank that had not been there before. In all, it looked as if a large storm was brewing. He finished the last line of his pattern as a sudden downpour drenched him with massive water drops that made little craters in the fine sand around him. He found it odd that the section with the design got wet, but did not show signs of the little pockmarks that dotted the rest of the beach. Large waves began to crash on the beach, going far past the high water line, though it was low tide. As a Massive wave crashed on the beach it swept over the design in the sand. For a moment Derrl was annoyed that his effort had gone to waste, yet as the water receded he saw that the design lay untouched, if a little wet.

	He heard a huge crashing sound from out by the mouth of the port where the shipping lanes were. At this he dashed over to the patch of sand and kicked his pattern into oblivion. As suddenly as it had been born, the storm died, leaving skies that were blue, if blotched by the retreating clouds. He could almost have believed that it had been a dream, until he walked back to fetch his boots and found them full to the tops with rainwater. Also, he was soaked. As much as he disliked doing so, he put on his sodden boots after emptying them and walked up the beach to the top of a dune. As he looked over to the port he saw a large trading vessel that had run aground and now sported a large hole in its hull, presumably a result of beaching itself.

Chapter 7

	Inside the dimly lit warehouse, as the first of the storm appeared, Kevesk shot out of his chair, instantly awake. His eyes rapidly searched the confines of the room, finding no sign of the youth. “Damn it to the pits! Where is he?” He began to pace the room, waving his arms furiously about the room. As he gesticulated about the room, his wide sleeves fell back to his elbows, revealing densely tattooed forearms. The air around his arms seemed to crackle with power that was at least as intense as his anger. The tattoos were done in various colours: there was crimson, teal, sand brown and white that showed against his lightly tanned skin, as well as dark grays that seemed to border on black. As he began to pace the warehouse, racking his brains, hoping for some insight as to where he might be, he noticed something out of the ordinary.

	As he bent over to get a closer look, he noticed that it was actually writing scratched onto the dirt floor. The boy's education was a matter that would require some looking into. The chicken scratch on the floor was barely recognizable as anything legible. He sighed, asking himself why Derrl couldn't just take things as they came, instead of going out to them. There was not much that the old mage could do at this point. He pushed the pallet into a corner, pulled a cloak off a hook on the wall as protection against the wall of water that was drumming on the planks of the walls. He pulled the door open, being careful not to let too much of the deluge of rain inside. This rain was not making him comfortable, there was something about it that bothered him on a subconscious level. It just didn't seem natural. For some odd reason, his mind seemed to be trying to associate the storm with Derrl. Well, he was getting old, even for a mage. Guess I can't rely on my mind holding together forever.

Chapter 8

	There was a great rending sound that filled the air, accompanied by the sound of tortured wooden planks. The sodden streets were full of milling townsfolk who seemed to all be rushing in the direction of the port. Kevesk felt himself get sucked along with the flowing tide of humanity that clogged the streets. He had nowhere else to go in particular, so he didn't much care where he was going. The rain beat down senselessly upon the people crammed into the streets like so many sardines. He heard one passer-by yelp as he slipped in the rain, and then the storm was gone. Except for a few scudding clouds in the sky as they raced off to the far corners of the earth, nothing remained of the massive storm which had overshadowed the city two minutes prior. As the mob of warm, sodden people wormed itself around the last bend in the inevitably crooked streets, there was a sudden collective intake of air, as the mass registered shock at what they saw. The “Pribe of Portsend” lay beached on its side on the sandbar a little further out to sea, a great wound in its side. It seemed that it had ripped a hole in its hull as it ran aground, presumably during the storm. The townsfolk were dismayed to see the end of this ship loom so near, not particularly because it was a great ship, but because it had brought them such entertainment from its beginning. The “Pribe of Portsend” was the ragged mutt that everyone in the town looked after because it made them laugh. The day it was christened was a laughable disaster. The ship had been meant to be named the “Pride of Portsend,” but as luck would have it, the man in charge of painting the name on its hull was very drunk when he finished his job less than a quarter of an hour before the ship was put to sea. And due to a lack of funds, and any real motivation, the ship's captain had never repainted the name. “'Twould be a shame to repaint it, 'twould take away me ship's character!” he would say. The local townsfolk usually ran out to watch the ship as it came in after a run, generally because they would find some reason to laugh at it. And now their favourite mutt lay dashed on the rocks, sides heaving, threatening to roll over and die.

Chapter 9

	As he was pressed along the piers with the rest of the seething mass of people, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, almost as if it wasn't there, but it was. Something moving of by the headland of the bay, what bothered him was that he couldn't figure out what it was.

	Somehow this is my fault. Derrl thought to himself as he made his way along the headland of the bay towards the sandbar that had struck down the “Pribe of Portsend.”  He recognized the ship now, though it was hard to read the name at the angle upon which the ship lay. He kicked his way through the low sand-grass towards the crashing breakers. The water was cold for this time of year, as he felt it through his boots as he walked along the sandbar towards the beached hull. He couldn't help but feel sorry for his poor boots; this day was taking its toll on the leather. Sure, the outside had been oiled against the rain, but the inside wasn't waterproofed. He was going to have to do some hard work if he was going to save these boots from dying.

	“Hello, the Captain of the ship!” He called over the waves hoping to catch the attention of the ship's master. A weathered man in his mid-forties walked over to the wildly canted side of the ship and leaned on the railing, looking as his he was about to pitch himself over the rail into the surf below.

	“What would ye be wantin' bucko? Can ye no' see that I be a wee bit busy?”

	Strange accent he has. Wonder where he's from?

	“I was wondering if there was something I could offer in the way of help. I don't have much, but I can carry things.” Derrl said earnestly, he had, after all, once had an honest job, carting barrels and whatnot for a local tavern, before he decided that old men with twigs were a better source of income. That was a sorry mistake if he ever saw one. 

	“I thanks you sir, don't mind if you do.” He leaned even farther over the railing and extended his hand to Derrl, threatening to topple. A bit apprehensive about the situation, Derrl hung back a bit. Sensing that something was amiss, the weather-beaten man waved with his outstretched hand.

	“I be not about to fall over bucko, if that be what gnaws at you. Come here, I'll give ye a hand up.”

	The angle of the ship combined with the length of the man's arms and the faint rolling of the ship, timed well enough, enabled Derrl to scrambled up over the railing in time for a large wave to barrel past where he had just been standing. Feeling fortunate from having missed getting drenched, he sauntered over a few paces to watch what the crew were busying themselves about. Unfortunately, he wasn't watching closely enough, since one of the wooden crates that was being passed along a chain of men from the hold to the end of the ship nearest the port to a waiting barge came through the air towards him. The crew near him dropped their jaws. They all knew how hard they threw those things, and how little the man knew about what was happening. A major incident was inevitable.

Chapter 10

	He felt a jolt of sorts, from the general direction of the side of his head, took a step, shook his head and kept walking, all this in the space of seconds. He then heard a loud, heavy thump, off near where he had been standing. He turned around to see a large wooden case still settling as it hit the wooden deck. Someone had scrawled “nails” across one side.

	“Careful guys, that could hurt someone, looks heavy.” At this point Derrl realized that just about every single crewmember, captain included, was staring slack-jawed at him. “What?” He took this opportunity to pick up the case, which was nearly as heavy as it looked, and toss it to the nearest member of the human chain.

	The captain laid a thickly callused hand on his shoulder. “K'mere bucko.” He led the way slowly to the foredeck of the sharply tilted ship, away from the cargo hatches.

	“What just happened?” Derrl inquired, feeling just a little bit left out of the information loop.

	“'What jist happened?'” the captain laughed, still not quite believing it himself. “Ye, sir, just got hit smack in the broadside of yer hed with the corner of that yon case of nails, then ye picked it up, calm as ye like, tell everyone to be careful, cuz someone could get hurt, and toss the case lightly to me second, who can barely carry it. And ye be askin' me what jist happened. I might be the one askin' ye what jist happened, but ye be looking as if ye be knowin' less than me.”

	Derrl raised his hand to the left side of his head, to his temple, where apparently the corner had struck. The temple with the pattern, the same one that had ruined the knife blade weeks earlier, it would seem had saved his life. He turned to face the crashing water, then turned back.

	“Don't mind me asking this, but what happened to get you aground?” he asked the captain, feeling a little bit guilty.

	“Aye, It be that demon-damned inclement weather. Didn't give no warnin', none at all, jist sprung up at me out in the approach t'the bay. Wasn't ready for't at all. I lost control of me ship, it be a sad thing, and now she lies here gutted on the sand. It be a shame, but I don't think I'll be getting' her off this sandy grave of hers.”

	“I'm feeling a mite uncomfortable with this incident, do you suppose that there is something we can do right now, to keep both our minds occupied? It's not everyday that you get hit in the head like that, or lose your ship.”

	“Certainly bucko!” The Captain said with a grin on his face. “Old Sneth! Get over here!” An old man slowly thumped his way across the deck to where they were. He thumped by way of a wooden leg and crutches. “Would ye be so kind as to fetch two mugs of ale? One for me self, and one far me good friend… What was it again friend?” he asked sideways.

	“Derrl.” He shook the captain's callused hand.

	“Pleased to be makin' yer aquaintence, good ser Derrl.” He smiled, showing a lack of a few teeth. “Yerril. Sneth, why haven't ye left to get our ales? Get gone with ye.”

Chapter 11

	“What do you suppose will happen to her now?” said Derrl, nursing his mug of ale.

	“Wal… supposin' she don't break up sooner or later,” He took a long pull from his mug, ”she'll be sitting out here fer a long while. She don't look like much but she be built well, she'll hold t'gether. I'd be havin' to give her up for lost now, unless ye be knowin' of a miracle worker who kin float her off this thing. Which I be heartily doubtin' bucko.” His face had been a sad one, but the nature of the jovial captain-no-longer got the better of him, and he found himself laughing at his misfortune.

	“I wouldn't be so sure.” Muttered Derrl under his breath. He handed Sneth the half-empty mug, and turned to the gap-toothed captain. “I'm sorry I didn't help you much earlier, anything I can do now? Perhaps carry something to a client in the city? I'm sorry I can't stay much longer, but I have something I need to do, and it won't be easy.” He leaned closer to the captain, “Can I make a request of you?”

	“Certainly bucko!” He said with a gap-toothed grin.

	“I know this sounds odd, but could you patch up the hole so that she won't get water filling her holds? I have an idea, but otherwise it won't work.”

	“What would ye be plannin' on doin' bucko?” 

	Derrl smiled and shook his head. “If I told you you wouldn't believe me, and anyway, I don't know myself, yet. Need me to carry anything in for you? Any trader clients?”

	“I might believe ye at that, but, Aye, I be havin' somethin' ye could be carrying for me.” At that he turned, and walked along the deck to the ladder leading to his cabin. “Be back afore ye know it,” he called over his shoulder. Shortly thereafter his head peeked up above the deck again. He climbed the rest of the way up, and walked over Derrl with the rolling gait of someone long at sea, bearing a small package that he carried gently, knowing that it was something fragile. “Here it be, now best be careful with it bucko. I be needin' this to find its way to “The Pint Alehouse” give it t'the barkeep there, he be knowin' who to give it to.”

	“No sooner said than done my friend. I'll be off then. Pass it to me once I've gotten over the railing.” He smiled and hopped down to the sand and water below, thinking of the cost of new boots. He had gone barefoot all year once, because his boots had been stolen when he'd had no money. He hoped he could find a new pair soon.

Chapter 12

	“Pass it down. I'll make sure it gets there.”

	“I'm sure ye will bucko.” He smiled and passed down the small, intricate box that held something that was evidently important. “Be sure ye remember bucko, 'The Pint Alehouse', give it t'the barkeep there and he'll know what to do.”

	“How could I forget? It's the second time you've told me.” Derrl said with a grin. “Well, if I'm gonna get it there I have to leave. I'm off then.” He waved over his shoulder as he carried the small wooden box with its carved lid through the low waves to the beach. Yerril looked on as the crew continued to unload the cargo behind him. He smiled and turned back to supervise his men.

	Derrl trudged up the sand of the beach to a large driftwood log and put the box down on it. He sat down on a patch of sand that the warm sun had dried and took off his boots. There was water in them and it was irritating him. He took off and wrung out his socks, and then put them back on. He put back on his left boot before he stopped, absentmindedly wondering what was in the box, but he couldn't bring himself to open the box, as it wasn't right for him to do that. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts, and quickly put on the other damp boot. Nothing to do but deliver it, and then find out if he could figure out where Kevesk was. He hoped he would be able to find him when he was done running this errand. As for the errand, it would be a simple matter to find it, for it was where he had worked for his brief stint of honest work. He knew the barkeep and was fairly sure that he could find out something about the box, or at least its owner.

	“The Pint Alehouse” was not far from the warehouse that he had been occupying lately. He walked past the old trader's building on his way to the tavern. He could not shake a weird sensation about the box, or perhaps it was the contents. He could almost feel pure good resonating from the box, as if it had been conceived for pure purposes. But that was silly, how could something not alive be good or evil? It was strange, but he couldn't help thinking that, oddly enough he had been thinking of things in terms of good and evil lately, perhaps it was a side effect of his will. He couldn't be bothered with this right now though. In his reverie, he had almost walked past the tavern. He backtracked a few steps and walked in through the heavy door. Unlike many other alehouses in the area, the owner of this one felt that most alehouses were too close, too confining to make you fell comfortable. So he'd had this one built with large windows in the front wall that let the sun stream in as it looked across the harbour. The ceiling was high with bare rafters running across the room, though it was plain and on the small side. It was neat, warm and comfortable, with a brick fireplace on the other side. There were a few townsmen at the bar and scattered around the room in various booths and tables, singly and in groups of two or more. There was maybe one group of four, but that was the largest. All in all, with maybe a score and a half people in the tavern, business was pretty good. And the back room would have more people, though not the same type as these. It was a good tavern, not grubby, but not too high class, though the back room did cater to somewhat more distinguished tastes. He sauntered over to the bar where the barman was serving an older man who was greying, but ageing fairly well, if anyone could be said to do such.

	“Ho, Mensk! How are you? I trust business is doing well.” As he looked over the bar he could tell that Mensk was feeling his years, he had his walking stick back there. Though he looked rather young, he was older than most thought, his hair had been silver since birth, so that didn't give him away. He was a man with a smiling face, but the only lines on it were caused by joy.

	“Ho Derrl! I'm well, though my bones don't seem to agree with me on that one.” He smiled at Derrl, and laughed, a laugh that welled up from his growing beer-gut. He wasn't fat, but the line of work he was in was affecting his aversely. “I trust you've been busy. So what brings you here? You don't love me so much that you just came to see me. Out with it boy,” he said with a laugh. During the short time that Derrl had worked here, they had developed a close kinship. Derrl almost thought of him as a father figure, as he was certainly old enough to be his father. Most people thought that they knew Mensk.

 	How little they knew. Few people knew Mensk very well, but Derrl was one of them. Mensk was a man of odd humour. He treated his workers well, almost as if they were family. He had been an only son, and now that his parents had passed away of old age he had no family other than those that worked for him at the tavern he called home. He was ageing, had no children and no wife, but seemed happy anyway, and he spread around what love he had to his barmaids and other employees. He treated Derrl almost as if he were his son. He would even have given Derrl a place to stay when he had been roaming, but he wouldn't have taken it if he could avoid it. Derrl didn't like to feel as if he were imposing on people; it made him feel as if he owed them something. Mensk filled a mug with cold ale and passed it across the bar to Derrl who took it and swigged some down.

	“'S good! As always of course,” Derrl said. He put down the mug and reached into his overcoat to pull the box out from where he had tucked it and presented it with a flourish. “This is what brings me here, Mensk my friend. My friend Yerril ran into a mishap that required his attention so he asked me to deliver this here. He told me you would know what to do with it.”

	“Yerill?… Yerril… Yerril… Name sounds familiar enough? Who did you say it was again?”

	“Yerril, captain of “The Pribe,” you're getting old, friend Mensk.” He reached over and poked him in the ribs. “You're not the same young snip you used to be,” he said with a smile for the kindly old man.

	“Oh!… right, right! Yerril! Oh now I'm sure, that belongs to the lovely young lady in the corner booth there, the one in green. Why don't you take it over there to her?” He said it with a grin.

	Derrl turned around on the barstool he had appropriated and to see who his friend was referring to and did a double take. He was shocked, stunned. She was absolutely ravishing. She was dressed in somber greens that looked alive on her, and had blonde hair streaked with darker browns. Fortunately for Derrl she was looking the other way

	“Put your tongue away and put your eyes back in your head where they belong, son,” he said with a grin, poking him back in the ribs with his walking stick for good measure. “Now take that box and bring it over to her, she's been waiting for it for a week now, she comes in here everyday anyway. That way people looking for her can find her. When you're a healer, people like to know where they can find you. Don't stand there gawking, boy! Go over there and say hello, she won't bite.” Derrl glared at him, but the smile on his faced ruined an otherwise perfectly good glare.

	“All right, have it your way, OLD MAN.” At that point they both started laughing. Mensk shooed him over to the booth where she was sitting.

	“I'm going, I'm going! Keep your pants on.” He said over his shoulder with a grin. He walked over to the booth where she was sitting with a glass of springbrew in hand. She looked up at him and smiled.

	“Is there anything that I can do for you?” That smile was melting Derrl where he stood.

	“M-may I sit down?” he asked lamely. She smiled again.

	“I don't see why not. Have a seat …?” She was trying to ask him what his name was, and he was too nervous to realize what was going on. Fortunately for him, Mensk was paying attention to what was going on in the corner.

	“His name's Derrl,” he supplied with a grin. “Ask him what's in the box, Leylau.” He was grinning from ear to ear, laughing at Derrl's predicament. He never had been terribly good with women, always freezing up when he got to near and they started talking.

	“Thank you!” she called out, with a smile for the old barkeep. “So, Derrl, what's in the box?” At this point Derrl realized what he was doing and slapped himself in the head for being so stupid. He should have realized what would happen. Mensk made a fool of him again and he knew it.

	“Pardon me for a moment”

	“Certainly!” She said it with that smile, and a light, rippling laugh. He got up, took a step outside of the booth and shook a good-natured fist at Mensk. The smile on his face was there for everyone to see, and the room burst laughing as Mensk chuckled, his belly shaking. He smiled and steeped back into the booth to reclaim his seat across from Leylau. He produced the box from his overcoat once more with a flourish, and held it out for her.

	“I believe you've been waiting for this. My friend Yerril is a bit tied up right now, so he had me deliver this for you here. My silly friend at the bar was supposed to take care of it, instead he sends me to do his dirty work.” He was grinning. “Although I am sort of glad he did.” She held the box lightly as she took it from him.

Chapter 13

	Her face lit up as she opened the box. Her smile was blinding. She let out a squeal of delight as she saw what was in the box. She squealed some more, and then she giggled, followed by more giggling, immediately followed by profuse thanks, and then more squealing and giggling. Needless to say, she was happy. She leaned over the table, put the box to the side, and put her hands on both of his cheeks, and planted a kiss on him by way of thanks. And then she sat back down with the box to squeal some more. By this time she had quieted down a bit, she had after all just done two solid minutes of squealing. Derrl just sat there, beet red, stock still, afraid to move, with no clue as to what had just happened. All he had done was give her a box that Yerril was sending her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just barely see Mensk coming over to the booth.

	“What has he done to you, Leylau?” He asked with a badly covered grin.

	“Oh! Oh, oh, oh oh, oh my goodness! He brought me my healerstone! I can't believe it's here!” She jumped up and gave Mensk a massive hug, well, as massive as she could manage, as she was, after all, a very petite woman. 

	“Calm down, girl. We're not all going to die now. I'm glad for you that you have your stone now, but that just means that everyone's going to be calling on you now. You're the only healer hereabouts with a stone; that makes you a prize commodity. You'll be busier than you ever imagined now.”

	“Oh!” She squealed again, “I know, but this means I can help heal so many more people now, and my garden will get better too. I can help strengthen my spices now. I'm just so incredibly happy. I can't believe it's here.”

	"I think you'd better. It's sitting right in front of you in that there box.” His grin was out in the open now.
	
	Derrl sat there with a dazed and confused look full on his face. Mensk could see it clearly, and it just made him laugh.

	“Derrl, boy, you've been out of the information loop since you left here. You have no clue as to what is going on do you?”

	Derrl shook his head, “Absolutely none.”

	“Don't worry,” said the elderly barman. “It'll be that way for most of the rest your life if you intend on dealing with women. It's perfectly natural. In fact, if you understood what just happened, I would think you weren't normal.” He was laughing strongly at this point, his protruding gut shaking mightily. He was having a good time at Derrl's expense, but he didn't mean anything by it, and Derrl knew it.
	
	“Um, at risk of sounding stupid, what is it? What is a healerstone?” he asked both of the people at the table. Mensk was the first to answer.

	“Well, son, you know of course that some people are born naturally with the ability to heal others, right? And of course some are stronger than others. Our Leylau is one of the stronger ones. It seems to have something to do with the strength of their conviction and will to help others. But no matter how strong you are there are ways to make you stronger. There are certain mages who will custom tailor a rune for a healer and carve it on water-rounded crystal. When the healer focuses their power through the crystal, it gets amplified, something like the way that light gets focused in a lens.”

	“Wait a minute! If Leylau's the healer, why are you answering me? Shouldn't she know better how it works?”

	“She certainly will if she starts to use it and practices, but as it is, I have lots of time on my hands, so I've done lots of reading, just about anything that I can get my hands on really, always have been that way. In fact, I'm the one who suggested that she try this in order to help her out. One day, she had come in here bawling her eyes out and wanting to get drunk, which is odd for two reasons: ladies shouldn't drink that much, and healers are especially un-fond of the stuff.” He was starting to get gushy about days past. Derrl knew that this happened to him, but he knew just how to avoid it. Either change the subject, or interrupt him so he couldn't talk anymore. He did the latter.

	“Leylau? I hope you don't mind me asking, but why were you so upset?” He was as sincere as anyone could possibly be. He had only met her this afternoon, but could already feel strong urges to protect her. He wanted to shield her almost. What could he say? He a chivalrous kind of guy.

	“In a moment.” She answered, finishing off the last of her springbrew, which was not a brew at all, it was most of a sweet decoction, he watched her throat as she swallowed the last of her drink and set down the mug. “I had just been devastated, I had been trying to save a poor family's cow. They had brought me to it asking if I could do anything. They normally wouldn't have brought a cow to a healer, but times have been hard lately and food scarce. Their cow seemed to have gotten an infection, and they were worried, as the cow was the family's livelihood, and if it died they wouldn't be able to pay the taxes or eat for that matter.” She wiped back a tear that was glistening. Derrl felt a strong urge to go around the table and hug her reassuringly, but he felt awkward and didn't know how she would take it. He was forced to make himself sit still as she finished her story. He hadn't been paying as close attention as he could have and had missed some of what she said. “… In the end, I was forced to realize that I just wasn't strong enough and the cow too far gone, but I just felt so helpless. I was ready to give up on healing because of that cow. I was willing to settle for piss drunk though, and since I knew Mensk, I came here. That's when he stopped me. He had the suggestion about the healerstone. I asked my father if he could arrange for a mage to make me one. They don't need much to make it; a piece of clothing is really all they need. And daddy had lots of old scraps. Daddy's a trader over in Havenfair, and he loves me so much, he couldn't bear to see me the way I was. So he got it commissioned as soon as he could, but then it had to be carved, and shipped here, which took longer than thought.” Derrl nodded as she finished her sob story, and he couldn't help but notice when Mensk wiped at his eyes with his apron, and nearly blew his nose. He was more emotional than most people knew, or than he was willing to admit.

Chapter 14

	“I'm glad to have been able to meet you, Leylau,” said Derrl with a smile. He felt just a little bit giddy, as she'd just kissed him again. He felt ready to melt. “But I really have to get going. I owe a friend a favor, and I have to arrange a couple things before I can do it. I'm sorry, but I really do have to go.” He managed a half-smile for her benefit.

	“I understand, but… Oh! I feel so silly trying to ask you this, Derrl. But, would you walk me home? I understand if you can't.” She was looking away shyly by this point. It was apparent that this was not the sort of thing that she did often. He was ready to melt instantly, and he very nearly did.

	“What? No! What I mean is… Oh, to the pits with all of it, Leylau! I'd love to! I wouldn't miss it for the demon's throne.” He picked her up by the waist and swirled her around before he realized what he was doing. Apparently he could be just as gushy as old Mensk. He blushed furiously and quickly put her down. She saw his face and his reactions and couldn't help but giggle. This served only to make him try to hide his face as it took on a deeper shade of crimson and spread down his neck. Mensk was watching the whole incident and decided to step in on Derrl's behalf at this point.

	“Just a moment if you please, Derrl.” He was self-consciously mopping his forehead and neck with a serving towel, as he often did when he felt uncomfortable. He didn't usually do this. “Um… well, I've been a little low on help lately and… Well, the stable boy left, and the workers are mostly gone… Oh! To the pits with it all! Do you want a job or not?” He was not happy when he couldn't speak his mind properly, but he felt a little uncomfortable.

	“You want me to come work for you, Mensk?” asked Derrl incredulously.

	“Well, yes,” he quickly tried to cover up his emotional side. “I need workers, and I can't pay you much, and you would have to do some work in the storage shed and stable before you can leave,” he said gruffly, or as gruffly as he could manage. He really did care for Derrl.

	“Thank you very much, Mensk, or should I call you ser? I'd like to work for you.” He turned to the healer, “I'm sorry, Leylau. Could I postpone walking you home until another day? It's not every day that you get an offer like this, and work is becoming more scarce these days.” He started to frown. He felt badly about the way this was coming out. Once again Mensk leapt to his rescue, because he couldn't stand to see his two favourite youths in such evident discomfort.

	“It's ok. I only need you to stack ten cases of ale. It shouldn't take you too long, the hoist helps get things along. I'm sure Leylau can wait fifteen minutes or so, can't you, Leylau?” She was bubbling at this point, it was all she could do to nod and keep herself from bursting out into flurries of giggles. She was immensely content with the way things were turning out. “Ok, so go out to the main shed out back, you've done this before, so it shouldn't take you too long. Since you left we installed a hoist so that one person could do the job better by himself.” Derrl nodded and sauntered out through the back door to the tavern and walked into the dingy shed. It was dull and grey. The near-constant rain turned all wood in the area grey before its time, though the shed was solid and well built. Mensk had built it himself, and there was no faulting Mensk's work. He might not do things the same way others did, but that was because he was smart enough to figure out ways that would allow him to do more of the work himself. He walked into the barn and saw the cases of ale on the other side in the dim light. He started to cross the building and due to the lack of lighting he tripped over a shovel that had been thrown carelessly on the floor. He stumbled, tripped and started to fall, but managed to catch himself momentarily with his right hand on something that moved easily, but just enough to regain his footing. He stood up and began brushing off his clothes in order to regain his composure. He heard a faint creaking, as of ropes, and looked up just as the heavy wood and metal the hoist came swinging back to collide with the right side of his head. It managed to hit him square on the right temple. The pain was mind-shattering. Derrl saw a momentary blinding flash of light and then all went black. He could vaguely sense something warm and sticky on the side of his head.

Chapter 15

	As he floated there in the darkness, he felt calm, serene, as though nothing could touch him. He saw one single point of light appear in front of him, although how it could do that he wasn't sure, because he couldn't even be sure that he was there. He couldn't tell if he had a body at all. Although logic and common sense suggested that he still had a body, he didn't feel dead, and there was no other way that he should be without a body. The point of light started to move, or perhaps it was him. No, since the point of light now seemed to be leaving a trail of light behind it, he was going to assume that it was moving and he wasn't. So far, that logic seemed to be holding. At first, the point of light tried out the most familiar of patterns for him, the one that had caused the storm. He got a vague sensation of moisture thick in the air that wasn't there, followed by the almost subliminal sound of thunder rolling in from far away. The point stopped, and the trail cleared away, leaving only the single solitary point to shine by itself. The rumble, and the sensation of thick air was gone. The dot quivered a little and then resumed its trek. It then began to form the only other pattern it knew, that which adorned the side of his head. As it completed the path it wished to follow, he felt odd. He felt as if he were somehow beyond the reach of the rest of the world. The pattern vanished, as did the feeling that had come with it. The dot seemed to spread out, then contracted, swirled and started trying patterns, which seemed hauntingly familiar, but escaped him nonetheless. At last, he recognized the pattern that the point of light was completing now. It seemed to be a part of the initial pattern that had called forth the storm. It had somewhat jagged edges, and divided itself over and over in random sequences until it met up with itself. As this design finished, he could feel himself and the void around him seething with raw energy, volatile, pure energy. Almost as soon as it had completed it vanished, leaving only a point of light. A sudden image of another pattern appeared before him, seeming to radiate softness, and a soothing air exuded from it. His mind wiped the pattern from view and began to trace another pattern. It was the essentially the same pattern, and yet subtly different. He could feel a perceptible change in the quality of the void around him. He could sense some things more clearly now, there was someone sitting beside him.

Chapter 16

	Mensk had gone out to the back shortly after Derrl had gone out to stack the barrels. He had intended to tell him to leave the work and go home with the girl that he so obviously liked. He walked towards the outbuilding and something seemed odd. He didn't hear any sounds of anything moving around out in the shed. It's not like Derrl to just run off and leave a job unfinished, especially when someone is waiting for him. It's just not the way he acts. He walked into the dimly lit building, and then opened the door wider to let the light in. He saw Derrl and the growing pool of blood beside him. He acted almost without thinking. He picked up the prone form, wracked with worries, and carried it in his arms back to the tavern. Once in the door, he called to Leylau.

	“Leylau! I need your help!” She came rounding a corner. ”Help me get him upstairs.” He grunted, as the weight was becoming more than he could handle by himself.

	“What happened to him?” Her face was fretful. She was worried for the man that she had just recently met, hoping that nothing serious had happened.

	“I couldn't tell you if I knew.” The old man replied. “Now help me get him to my room. You can take care of him there. You are the healer after all. It looks like you'll be getting a chance to try out your healerstone today. I don't intend to lose him now, when I only just got him back. He's like a son to me.” Leylau was visibly crying now; her emotions were getting the best of her.

“Do you think I don't care for him too?” She sobbed. “Let's get him to a bed so I can help him.” She had her wits about her now and was mopping away the tears that had rolled down her cheeks. She was in near mental anguish. Mensk got Derrl's unconscious body into the bed in the plain room at the top of the stairs. He didn't have much furniture in his room, but what there was was made plainly, though not to say without skill. He had to leave the room. He couldn't stand to see the youth as he was, with blood over the side of his face. Leylau fetched the half-full washbasin off the stand in the corner. There was a clean washcloth as well; she grabbed it too. She carried it all over to beside the bed and began to wash the blood of the right side of his head with the wet cloth. The blood had already begun to clot on its own, and began to flow a little. It was only after she had cleaned the wound that she saw the jagged wooden splinter that was embedded in the skin in the side of his head. She lifted his eyelids and looked at his eyes. He had a concussion. Things could be worse however; his temple could have been smashed. It happened all too frequently with a blow to the side of the head. She stopped to observe him as he was momentarily, pale as he lay on the clean white sheets of the bartender's bed. She knew then how much she actually cared for him. She had known him for a very short time, but knew that she would be hard pressed to live without him now. She was distracted by a sudden downpour that was accompanied by rolling booms of thunder. Odd, she thought, I could have sworn that those skies were clear less than a minute ago. The storm receded as quickly as it had come. The weather was odd today. It was the second such storm so far. She nodded to herself as she told herself that she would have to cut out the splinter very soon, before the wound became infected. She generally carried basic tools with her, and almost always a small but very sharp knife, almost a razor in fact. She pulled it out and decided where she ought best to place the cut that would enable her to remove the wooden barb. She selected her point of attack and tilted his head to the left so that she would be better able to excise the splinter. She applied the knife, only to have it pull across the skin harmlessly, without so much as a mark. She absently tested the blade, wondering how she could be so careless as to allow it to get dull. Blood welled up from the thumb that she was testing the edge on. She yelped, and quickly washed off her thumb and bandaged it. Fortunately, it was a clean cut. What was going on? She was about to attempt again with the knife, but as she neared his prone form the air around it began to crackle. The air seemed almost alive. It was filled with sheer electric power. She dared not approach any closer, for fear of being hurt herself. As soon as the air charged itself, it resumed its normal state. Only then did she notice the ashes on the bed beside his head that had been the wooden barb. There was no need for the knife now. She cleaned off the blade briefly and stowed it in her satchel. Almost as an afterthought, she removed the box that held her healerstone. She brought it closer to the bed and opened it. As the lid of the box lifted, she saw Derrl stir out of the corner of her eye. He was still unconscious. She brought the clear, engraved crystal towards him, and even as she did so his eyes shot open and he bolted upright. This day was not going anything like the way it should. She gave up trying to understand and threw herself at Derrl, hugging him as hard as she could, not prepared to let go. She was sobbing as she held him.
	
Chapter 17

	He sat up and was immediately assaulted by a tumult of sobs and embraces from the distraught little healer. He couldn't deny that he enjoyed it; the growing tightness in his pants was attesting to that. But he couldn't understand why it was happening. He remembered a jolt, followed by blackness, and then the patterns, and then he was awake, in no obvious pain, with a beautiful young woman literally throwing herself at, if not on him. He looked down at her face, and she looked up. He took her chin in his hand.

	“Why the sobbing? What happened to all my happy little giggles?” He said compassionately.

	“Your giggles?” she hiccuped, swallowed and then smiled.

	“Well, I was kind of hoping that they were for me,” he admitted. She reached up and pulled his face down to meet hers. She kissed him soundly on the lips. There was a certain restrained passion in that kiss. And yet there was something that hinted at more to come. She had a twinkle in her eye and a grin on her face.

	“Which do you prefer? Giggles? Or that?” She knew she had him hooked. He knew it too, but he couldn't care less. He was as happy as a rabbit in a carrot patch.
	“I think I'll have more some of the first and a little bit more of the second. I like to have my cake and eat it too.” At this, he winked outrageously and they both set about giggling and kissing and embracing each other with a passion. They wrestled briefly on the narrow bed, but then one of them had the unnaturally common sense to fall off and pull the other with them. There were two very large thuds. They lay there on the floor, out of breath and as contented as possible. They stared at the ceiling a short while, still giggling, before they were interrupted by a set of footsteps outside the door to the room, followed by a brief knock and immediate entry. Mensk stood just inside the door, incredulous. He scowled at them briefly before he burst out laughing as the two lay there on the floor, too content to bother with moving. 

	“I should have known that you two were at it. Never should leave you kids alone these days, all these unnatural notions in your heads.” He was laughing a hard as ever now. Both Leylau and Derrl blushed furiously, which only made Mensk laugh harder. He was enjoying himself. Things calmed down as they all took hold of themselves. Leylau and Derrl now sat on the bed side-by-side, hands intertwined. Mensk leaned against the washstand at the far wall. There was a brief awkward silence that gave Derrl time to think. A furrow creased his forehead, and Leylau smoothed it with her soft finger.

	“What are you thinking of, my dearest?” She inquired.

	“I'm not entirely sure what happened there.” He was obviously slightly confused.

	“You got hit in the head by the hoist that I installed in the shed,” supplied Mensk. “You did a very good job of it too.” He couldn't pass up a chance to kid Derrl.

	“No, I mean after that, when I had blacked out, at first I felt without a body. Then there was a point of light tracing out patterns, and each pattern was accompanied by a vague feeling, as if something was happening to my body and I was detached from it. The first pattern brought a low rumbling and a moisture to air that wasn't there, but I knew about anyway. And then I felt isolated and untouchable with the second. With the third there was a sensation of raw power. The next simply flashed in front of me, and didn't do anything. Then it disappeared, and there was a new one that drew itself out. It was like the last one but different and I woke up to find her crushing the life back out of me.” He was not holding anything back. Leylau felt that she had to tell him everything she could.

	“As soon as we got you up here it started to rain, the same way it did earlier today with thunder and lightning, and then as soon as it came up, it vanished. Then I saw the splinter from the hoist, so I tried to cut it out but I couldn't cut the skin. At first I thought I had let my knife get dull, but then I cut myself with it. I still am having a hard time believing I could be so careless.” She looked at her bandaged finger. This was the first that Derrl or Mensk noticed it. Derrl picked up her hand and kissed it lightly. He smiled.

	“All better.” They both just smiled. She continued with her story.

	“Right after I cut myself, the air around you was completely charged with energy. Raw, seething energy. If I hadn't seen it crackling around you I would have been hurt.” A brief frown crossed Derrl's face but she continued. “Then I pulled out my healerstone to try it and attempt to heal you. But before I could use it, you woke up.” Derrl almost jumped. He hadn't thought of that; there was a rune on the healerstone after all. All doubt vanished from his face.

	“Wait, may I see it?” He asked her tentatively. She nodded and reached over to where she had forgotten the stone when he woke up. She handed it to him gently, as if being careful of him, the stone, or both. He turned it over until he saw the rune. It didn't look quite right, but it did look familiar. Then he had a glimpse of genius, and turned it the other way up. Now it looked familiar, he could tell that it was a perfect match for the second to last rune that he had seen. He handed her back the stone.

	“Do you think that you can explain the parts of the rune to me?” He asked nervously.

	“I don't know much about it,” she replied, “only that there is the part which is the spell, and the part which represents me, that's why no one but me can use this particular stone.” The gears were grinding inside his head now. He was jumping from point of logic to point of logic.

	“Can you show me which part is you?” He wasn't being particularly eloquent, he was only trying to get answers. She showed him the section of the rune. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “When the last rune appeared, that's what had changed. I changed the name of the person using the spell. I healed myself!?” He almost didn't believe it himself, but the facts were in front of him. “I'm sorry Leylau, I wish I could walk you home, but I really need to go find a friend of mine who can help me with this. I wish it could be otherwise, but it's something that is vitally important.” She nodded, tears beginning to form in her eyes. He got up, and then saw the tears. He gently kissed them away, as he stroked her soft blonde hair. She hiccuped and then quieted. “Mensk? When do you need me in to work?” Mensk stood against the far wall trying to take in the situation.

	“I suppose you could come in by the tenth bell. There's not much that I need you to do tomorrow.” He was a bit quiet now. Derrl turned back to Leylau.

	“Can I see you after work tomorrow then? Oh, but I don't know where you live.” He slapped himself in the head, although being careful to slap the left side. She smiled, and let out a short giggle.

	“It's all right. I'll come get you.” She was in high spirits now. Derrl smiled, kissed her and went out the door to find Kevesk. He waved to Mensk as he left.

	“I'll see you both tomorrow.”

Chapter 18

	The sun was no longer in the sky as Derrl tread his way down the damp side streets back towards the warehouse.  The cobblestones of the street were old and worn, missing in some places, cracked in others. The lane was almost as much puddle as it was stone paved. He spent a great deal of attention on threading his way between the sodden stretches of street. He was not paying entirely too much attention to where he was going, and though he had heard the sounds of booted feet, he had not altered his direction, save to avoid puddles. His boots had been taking a beating lately. He was definitely going to have to get a new pair, these two were beyond redemption. He didn't look up as the sound drew nearer and he bumped into the owner of the feet. 

	“Sorry…” He mumbled, continuing on his way. He had a lot on his mind and wasn't about to stop in his tracks; after all, the other man hadn't fallen. What he hadn't counted on was the fact that the man was a drunken mercenary who had just been strongly rejected by a young barmaid. He was in bad spirits. The mercenary grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around to face him. His speech was slightly slurred by too much hard ale, although not by much.

	“Where'd youu think youu were going? I'm not thru… with… youu yet! HEY! Listen to me when I yell at you!” His old and ill-maintained sword rang as it slid out of a scabbard in a state of equal disrepair. Though he was drunk, he was still good enough with his sword to do some damage. He waved it about threateningly in front of Derrl's face. The young mage almost subconsciously drew up the strengthening rune on the background of his mind. He knew what to expect from this type.

	“Please don't do that. You'll probably get yourself hurt, there is easier prey out right now. You don't have to pick me.” He tried to step past the drunk but didn't take more than a step before the mercenary swung his sword. The sword tip shrieked as it whistled through the air to land on Derrl's bare skull. The solitary sound of the sword practically rang out off the close walls. The blow landed and struck Derrl near the base of the skull. The shock nearly buckled his knees but he remained standing with a little effort.
	
	“Hell!… Hell and more!” The drunk exclaimed as his sword fell to the street with a resounding sound, almost like that of a small bell, slightly off-key. The mercenary was shaking his sword hand. The vibrations had gone through the sword to his arm, something akin to trying to chop through a boulder with a sword. It's very hard on the arm; the jolt is more than enough pain to make most people give up in pain. The mercenary swore. He had rather colourful language, most of it not from anywhere near here. It was almost as if he had a talent for swearing, at least after the initial shock wore off. Derrl had a slight ringing in his ears from that blow. Rune or no rune, he might have a concussion now. No use worrying about that now.

	“Next time you swing that sword at me things will be a lot worse,” he rasped dryly. His head now ached and his throat was raw for some reason. He began to trace another pattern. It was the abortive variation on the storm rune, but with the final line left out, the one that had sheathed him in raw energy but done him no apparent damage. The mercenary gave an obscene laugh, followed by a few choice oaths that he had probably picked up somewhere afar. He was recovering from his bout of drunkenness. Apparently he was always belligerent. He jumped for his sword where it lay on the wet cobblestones. He grasped it with one hand as he used the other to help himself roll and come up in what was obviously a fighting stance. Low, feet apart, sword low and weaving in front of him. He had a glint in his eye that Derrl was positive was his intent to kill. The mercenary was in worse spirits than before and was ready to prove it. He began to advance on the young wizardling. Derrl frowned; he had wished things would not come to this. At least he would not feel bad about using his abilities, modest as they were, on the soldier for hire. It was self-defence after all.

	“I'm telling you this is really not a good idea.” He quickly traced the last line in his head. He was ready for the attack. He did not have to wait very long for it. It came almost at once. He concentrated more on the second rune, and the sheath of energy surrounding him seemed to stretch out further. There was another screeching whistle as the blade swung down to lodge itself where Derrl's neck met his shoulders. There was a blinding flash of light that reflected of the dirty walls of the nearby houses and lit the sky briefly. The sword hit his shoulder and bounced off to fall harmlessly to the cobbles. It had lost the driving force behind it. The mercenary who had been bent on killing the young mage earlier had disappeared, replaced by a pile of sodden ashes in the middle of a puddle. He had been wrong. He did feel bad about this. Although the man had been trying to kill him, he had had an unfair advantage, to put it mildly. What chance did a man with a blade have against a wizard, even an inexperienced one? The sword lay on the ground, steaming in the light mist that had settled over the street. The puddle that the metal hilt lay in seethed and bubbled where it came in contact with the metal. It was evidently still hot, and Derrl was about to leave it there instead of waiting for it to cool. Before he forgot about it, he erased the energy sheath rune, but he left the strengthening rune in place. He wasn't able to feel things very well, through the spell, and he wouldn't be harmed, even by excessive heat. He picked up the steaming sword. Though he was able to tell that the sword was hot, he didn't feel any pain. He found a nearby rain barrel, (They were almost always full this time of year.) and plunged the sword into the barrel to quench it, soaking his arm up to the elbow in the process. Steam and bubbles rose in the barrel briefly then stopped. He released the remaining rune and felt the hilt. It was still warm but not painfully hot to the touch. He pulled it out of the barrel and examined it briefly. From what he knew of swords, he could tell that this one was of good quality. He was considering selling it at the weekend market where it might fetch a decent price, and he could stand to have a little more money. On second thought, I have work now, and I need some visible means of defence, if only to keep others at bay that might attack me. Otherwise I would have to kill more of them. He slid the sword into his belt and trudged the rest of the way to the warehouse in the rain that had sprung from the mist. So many things that I have to do now, and I barely know where to start.

Chapter 19

	He opened the door of the warehouse and stepped inside. There was no light, there were no candles in the wall sconces, and no lamps either. He stepped in warily now. 

	“Kevesk? Are you here?” He paused, waiting for any sign that he might be here. He called out, slightly louder, hoping that the old mage was just sound asleep on his chair. “Kevesk! Wake up!” His guess had been correct, or at least judging by the startled yelp and the following crash of a body and a chair.
	
	“Hell! Boy, don't sneak up on me like that! I'm not as young as I used to be.” The old mage's voice was slightly slurred by a suddenly interrupted nap. “Where did you get the sword?” He was idly curious. Suddenly his brain kicked in with a jolt. “Where have you been!?” he roared. Derrl was nonplussed.

	“Give me some light and maybe I'll tell you!” he said irritably. He had a headache from being whacked over the head with a cold iron sword and wasn't appreciating being yelled at. Kevesk had stood up and brushed himself off a bit. He bent over for his staff and it began to glow with a subdued light that, while not particularly bright, lit up the warehouse enough for Derrl to see. The elder mage propped his staff against his chair and continued to brush himself off. Derrl found himself noticing new details. Until now he hadn't paid much attention to Kevesk's chair. It was old and a bit spindly, and while it had been varnished at some previous time, it was dearly in need of a new treatment. The seat of the chair had an impression that had been worn into it, presumably from years of use by the equally spindly old mage. The chair gave the impression that it should have snapped a long time ago. He wondered why the old mage didn't use runes to strengthen it. Of course, he thought, if he did that, he'd have to cover the entire thing with runes, their ability only extends to the rune's borders. He was shook out of his reverie by a sharp remark from Kevesk that made his head throb.

	“Do you plan on answering me, Derrl?” The old mage's voice rang out sharply. Derrl jolted momentarily before regaining his senses. He shook his head to clear it before he answered.

	“As for the sword, I got it from a drunk mercenary who hit me over the head with it. He was persistent. He insisted on trying to cut me up with it. Things didn't work out too well for him.” While he was trying his best to act nonchalant about the whole thing, he still felt bad about it. “And to answer your other question, I've been down to the beach, then out to help out Yerril, then I went to “The Pint” and got a job working for Mensk, and met Leylau. Does that answer your question?” His words felt raw as he forced them out at the mage. Kevesk shook his head.

	“You answered both my questions, but now I just have more. What happened to the mercenary? You couldn't defend yourself against me, and all I had was a staff, and unless you were hit on the left side of the head, you wouldn't have even stood a chance.”

	“Actually, he didn't hit me on the side of the head at all. He tried to split my head in two from top to bottom. And then the next time he attacked he ended up as a pile of ash in a puddle.”

	“How did you do that? Last I checked, you didn't have any tattoos, or any knowledge of any runes other than the one I used for strengthening my staff.” Derrl sighed and walked over to where the staff lay propped against the chair. He picked it up and tossed it to the mage. He drew in a deep breath and then released it. He spread his feet to shoulder width as if expecting a blow. He began to trace the strengthening rune in his mind.

	“Take your staff and hit me with it as hard as you can. Hit me anywhere. Don't worry; this will probably hurt you a bit more than it will hurt me.”

	“What?! Have you gone mad? Have the demons released you of your senses? I'm not going to hit you.” His words sounded final. Derrl shook his head again.

	“You want to know how I defended myself against that mercenary, don't you?” Kevesk nodded. “Then hit me! Or be demon damned!” This blew Kevesk's fuse. He shifted his grip on his staff, so that he was holding it more like a two handed longsword. He swung as hard as he could to bring down the butt of his staff on Derrl's shoulder, slightly at an angle, but not quite so it would cripple him or break his neck. The sickening whistle that they both heard was now getting on Derrl's nerves. He had heard it too often today. There was no sickening crunch of bone as the older mage expected to hear.  Instead it was replaced by a solid thud, a yelp from Kevesk, and the sound of the staff bouncing of the shoulder and hitting a nearby wall as he left go of it because of the vibrations along the length of the shaft. He stood there flapping his hands about, trying to relieve some of the pain. Derrl cleared the rune from his mind, and strode over to the corner where the staff had fallen. He picked it up and propped it up against the chair. He stepped over to the older mage and took his hands. He closed his eyes and drew another rune. Kevesk's eyes widened. He took his hands back from the youth and flexed them experimentally. His face showed shock. He had heard that it was possible, but hadn't met anyone who had ever been able to.

Chapter 20

	Kevesk sat down on his spindly chair and just sat there shaking and holding his head. This was amazing. The theory was sound. It had always been around. The various circles of mages that were part of the brotherhood had always agreed that it was not the nature of the physical rune that affected whether or not it would work. Drawing the rune was only a method of enabling the mind to draw the connections and call upon its powers. Every one had read the brotherhood's guide. It stated clearly that such was the case. However, that was one of the few things that it said clearly. And for all its clarity, no one had been able to achieve that level of mental clarity and use it as a conduit for their will. Derrl was looking at him, with a rather questioning look in his eyes and on his face. He had a question that he wanted to ask, and Kevesk could tell that it might not be in Derrl's best interest to tell him. But whether that was the case or not, chances are he would end up telling him anyway. Might as well get on with it. 

	“I need you to teach me about the runes, and how to use them. I need you to teach me all the runes possible. All the ones that you know exist, and even the ones you only think might exist.” The endless questions flowed out of his mouth. 

	“Don't worry. Even though it may be against my better judgement, I will help you.” He turned and headed for the corner of the warehouse where he kept his chest of personals. “I have something that will help you understand more about what we can do. Unfortunately, it will probably raise more questions than it answers.” He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. It was a dark-covered book, which seemed to be leather bound, although there was an odd quality to it. The front had the strengthening rune on it and the back had another. The two runes were linked by a tracework of lines that outlined the greater part of the area of the cover, seeming to concentrate on the areas that would normally have the most stress: the bindings for example. The cover read, “Guide to the use of runes.” Kevesk handed him the guide and wished him luck with it. “ Never did read the whole thing through. I think you'll get more use of it. It's yours. You'll get more use out of it now than I ever did before. I strongly advise you to spend a lot of time reading it and contemplating the meaning behind the words.” Derrl took the book with a mumbled thank you and sat down on his pallet with the intention of reading it. He didn't get the chance. Before he got it open he was asleep.

Chapter 21

	Derrl woke up early enough to see the first signs of morning creeping in through the high windows. The guide was across his lap, where he had let it fall the night before. Kevesk had cleared a circular section of floor and was running through some exercises using his staff. He was stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat. He was remarkably well muscled for someone who was as old as Derrl thought he was. The tattoos stood out in vivid contrast to his skin. The lines of the runes rippled and twisted as his muscles flexed. He was definitely in good form.

	“You do realize that I want you to teach me the runes, don't you?” he inquired a bit sheepishly. He felt sort of silly, talking to the mage this way. Kevesk stopped his exercises and paused for a moment, leaning with the butt end of his staff on the ground. He propped the staff against the chair and walked over to Derrl. He walked over to the pallet and squatted. His knees began to protest so he gave up and sat cross-legged on the dirt floor.

	“Judging by what you did to me yesterday, I would say that you are more adept at using the runes than I am. The only thing holding you back now is knowledge of the various runes in the known world. Oh, there are a few hundred or so, but don't let that number frighten you. The number that should frighten you is the number of runes that we haven't even guessed at. That number is, at the very least, a thousand times greater than that of what we know. With each new mage, a new rune is discovered, call it a freebie if you will. It is knowledge that is gained with almost no mental effort. The brain's malleability as it is being reformed allows it to imprint the rune with the most influence near the newly born mageling.” He reclined on the dirt floor and began to stretch out his rangy muscles. He was alarmingly agile for someone of his age. He was wearing little more than a pair of loose fitting pants and his tattoos, which rippled along with his muscles. “For most mages, it takes years of work on their own to learn of, let alone how to use other runes. And then there are the occasional few who are born to it, whose minds can adapt and modify existing runes to create new ones. Mages whose minds will take it upon themselves to seek out new runes that are around them.” He was standing on one leg now, pulling the other up behind him, with it practically pressing the calf against his back. He could not possibly be as old as he looked. “Anything in particular that you would like to know? This conversation is for your benefit after all. It's only fitting that you have an interest in what part you learn.” He released the leg and grunted with mild pain. He switched his weight from one leg to the other and began to stretch the one he had been standing on. As he lifted the leg, Derrl caught sight of a tattoo on the bottom of his foot. He was guessing that there was probably a similar one on the bottom of the other, as well as all the way up to his thighs. He was an oddly surprising man. He only nodded to himself. Then he thought better of it.

	“I think I'd rather like to know the reason for the tattoos,” he said quietly. The mage frowned at this, almost as if puzzled, at a loss for how to explain it. He opened his mouth slightly as if the say something, his grimace grew more puzzled still, and his mouth closed again, all without making a sound. He thought about it for a moment longer. He was ready to say something.

	“Close your eyes and try to cast your senses in my general direction.” Derrl closed his eyes as told and then opened them widely. He hadn't a clue what the mage meant by that. A clearly perplexed look crossed his face. Kevesk looked up and caught a glimpse of the youth's expression. “Don't worry, if you can do even a fraction of what I think that you can, you'll have no problems figuring out the art to casting your senses. Now, close your eyes again, and try to sense me.” Derrl closed his eyes and obeyed as best he could, after a moment of pure black, he noticed a sudden change. There were suddenly a hundred or more points of light concentrated in a vaguely humanoid shape. The image grew closer, and the dots grew and bloomed into various runes. He was now almost in the center of the hollow figure of runes, staring from the inside out.

Chapter 22

	Derrl opened his eyes. They were bright with curiosity. He looked over to the elder mage, his questions were visible on his face.

	“What do you need to know?” He said almost irritably.

	“Why were there some that were shifting, others that weren't, and many that just weren't at all there?” His questions were honest and important, to him at least.

	“Those that shift do so because of their constant interplay with the world. Those are the runes that are always at work to accomplish what you told them to do. If you look at the rune on your temple, you would see that it shifts. It is not simply an impenetrable barrier. If it were simply that, you would not be able to move your jaw, the skin would not be elastic any more. So, as you shift, even minutely, the energies must re-adjust themselves. Even if they are only adjusting to a slight breeze, they still shift.” He held his head with his lined hands, let them fall and continued his explanation. “As for those that are still, they are simple runes that need not be affected by their surroundings. They are often runes that would enchant a weapon, an arrow perhaps, that must be able to pierce anything. It is a constant, there are no varying elements.” He paused. “As for those runes that are not there when you sense for them, it is because they are not truly runes, but more precisely pictures, or drawings if you will. They are tattoos, when they were placed there was no effort or concentration other than that of drawing them accurately. If there is no effort to use it, a rune is still only a line of ink.” He kneaded his upper legs with his knuckles. He was not as flexible as he once was, and his muscles protested even at the morning's exercises. His pause indicated that the youth could add any further questions. Apparently the other understood, because his mouth opened to ask another question.

	“If they aren't actually runes and don't do anything, why bother with them at all? Seems almost stupid to me.” His tone had a slight edge. He was not even certain why it was like that. He was slightly tired. It could be that he is just a teensy bit cranky from sleep deprivation. But that was beside the issue at hand, which was the theoretic and practical aspects of magery.

	Kevesk chuckled and shook his head. He remembered feeling like that all too well. He was going to have to lead the boy through it slowly. 

	“Well, Derrl, you must remember, I'm not as spry as you, and my memory is not as it used to be. That sort of thing does happen as you get older. And even so, with all the different variations of runes, it helps to have a reminder as to which ones are which of the more useful ones. You can get unexpected and frequently unpleasant results when you make even the tiniest error in calling forth energies with a rune.” He laughed out loud now. Derrl nodded. He understood what the old man was saying. A bell sounded the hour outside and he realized that he had spent most of the morning sitting in talk. His eyes grew wide as he jumped up off the pallet and dashed out the door.

	“SHIT! I'm late! Mensk will have my hide for this.” He was halfway to the door as he called over his shoulder, “I'm at 'The Pint Alehouse' if you need me, that's where I am. Don't know when I'll be back.” The words drifted to the mage as the sprinting form disappeared.

Chapter 23

	Derrl strolled down the cobblestone street towards the warehouse that served as his home. He had had a full day stocking barrels for Mensk. He had nearly gotten another concussion when he toppled a cask of ale from a top shelf. However, thankfully, he had decided to try out an idea of his that morning. Before he even started storing the ale, he had drawn up the strengthening rune in his mind, just to see how much it worked. Apparently, it not only strengthened his body to resist harm, but it increased the amount of weight that his muscles could cope with easily. 

	As the barrel had begun to fall, he had reacted instinctively by throwing his arms up palms out-thrust, in order to stop the barrel. His logical mind then kicked in, reminding him that his wrists were likely to be snapped, and the barrel would continue its path and crush him, heedless of any effort on his part. As a result of the rune, his wrists did not break as they should have, and he was able to lift the barrel manually. He then decided that he would ignore the pulley that Mensk had rigged for him. It simply took too long to rig it up and then unhook the barrels. There was no ladder. Instead, there was a sloping gangplank that led up to the top layer of storage. As a result of his accidental discovery, he had managed to finish up several hours before Mensk had expected him to. The old barman had decided to give him the rest of the afternoon off. And had he been able to, he would have spent the rest of his day with Leylau. However, this was not an option, as she was busy with a patient who was suffering from the “Demon's plague.” The plague itself wasn't as bad as it sounded. It was essentially a very high fever accompanied by a harsh stomach bug. It was incredibly adaptable and spread rapidly. It passed from one end of the continent to the other, sweeping along with speed. Very few escaped it completely. However, the only who were seriously threatened by it were the old and weak. A close friend of her father's had fallen ill, and was not recovering very well.

	Might as well spend the afternoon learning what I can from Kevesk. He added a mental shrug. He pushed open the door in time to see the old mage concluding some exercises. The white-haired man leaned on his staff and looked up. He smiled at the youth. What was surprising was that all of his teeth seemed to be intact. He had a seemingly perfect mouth of teeth. Must be another advantage to being a mage, Derrl thought to himself.

	“What had you in such a hurry this morning?” He seemed to be chuckling at him.

	“Late for work,” he mumbled almost inaudibly. He was staring at the floor with a rather sheepish look on his face. “Almost completely forgot about it.”

	“No matter. What do you say we get back to your lessons that you so rudely ran away from this morning?” He was laughing unrestrainedly now. His smile threatened to cut his face in two if it grew any broader.

Chapter 24

	“First things first,” said Derrl before Kevesk could add anything more. “I need you to do something for me. You know how I have this pattern over my temple? I need a matching one on the other side. I need to have my weakest points protected without thinking about it. Will you do it? Or do I have to try it myself?” His face was set. He was serious about doing this. He had no clue how hard it was for Kevesk not to laugh just then. The old mage held out both hands palm down in a gesture of acquiescence. 

	“Calm down, I'll do it. And it won't hurt nearly as much this time, I promise.” He fetched his staff and a small hammer. Staff in one hand and the hammer in the other he walked over to his chair and pulled a crate closer to it. “Come over here and put your head down on the box sideways, so I can put the rune on for you.” He motioned for him to come closer. Derrl walked over to him, and dropped to a knee beside the box and put his head down sideways on the rough wood surface. Oddly enough, the only thing that he could think about right then was getting another splinter. He saw Kevesk place the staff on the side of his head, and he felt the comforting coolness of the capped end. He almost didn't even feel it as the older mage brought down the hammer sharply on the staff to imprint the rune. Although there was probably a reason for why it hurt so little, it was probably because almost as soon as the hammer struck the staff he was unconscious again.

Chapter 25
	As Derrl woke up, he touched a hand to each temple and could sense that the runes were where they should be. He sat up, and noticed how unpleasant a hard wooden pallet could be for sitting on. His eyes roved the room for a moment, not setting down on anything in particular, and he stood up to stretch. He had slept a fair amount by the looks of the light filtering in through the windows, it was noon of the day after he had had Kevesk put on the rune. I was a good thing that Mensk hadn't told him to come in today. And he didn't have to be there until the mid-afternoon wagon needed offloading. As he stood in his shorts, the door opened, letting more of the sunlight in. The old mage walked into the room with his staff in one hand. He had a satchel thrown over one shoulder. It had two rather large lumps in it. He looked up to see Derrl standing there in his shorts. He grinned.

	“Sleep well?” Derrl nodded “Hope so. Hope you're hungry, I brought some food, not much, but still.” Derrl realized how hungry he was as his stomach growled, almost telling him that if he didn't fill it soon it would get mean. Kevesk reached into the brown leather satchel with one hand and fumbled momentarily until he came out with a pomegranate, which he tossed across the room to Derrl, who reached out and deftly snatched the fruit out of the air. He split it open, as the old mage fumbled for the other pomegranate in the satchel. He started plucking out the small edible bits and popping them into his mouth one after another. As he ate his, the wizard contented himself with his. They ate in silence for a while, not saying anything as they filled their stomachs with the juicy fruits. The rumbling in Derrl's stomach subsided after a little while, though he knew he would have to get some real food rather soon. Derrl was the first to speak.

	“I don't suppose you could show me some runes right now, could you?” He sounded eager. Kevesk had nearly finished with his pomegranate and placed the remainder on the top of a crate that he was standing near. He sat down on his chair and leaned his staff against the nearby wall. His forehead creased momentarily, as if in thought, but it passed quickly. 

	“Don't see why not.” He shrugged. “Pull up one of those small crates and have a seat. I'll see how much of my vast store of knowledge I can impart to you, young mageling.” A look of annoyance crossed Derrl's face. At this, he grinned and broke into a laugh. His laughter was infectious, and Derrl quickly found him laughing along. 

	“Just try and see if you can get anything through my thick skull, you old doddering fool.” They both laughed at this one.

	“Let's get settled down and teach you something before anything else gets in our way. I've told you about how runes are invoked, right?” Derrl nodded affirmatively. “Good, in that case, judging by the ease in which you have drawn on the runes in the past, I think we only really need to build up your mental catalogue of the runes. Every mage ever born has tried to build the largest library of runes. There is a simple reason for this. The more runes you know, the more power you can draw on. To put it simply, the more runes you know, the more powerful you are. Although in some instances, it doesn't matter how much you know, but what you know.” Derrl sat there with a contemplative frown on his face. There was an interval before he nodded his dubious understanding of the concept. It seemed simple, and yet it was filled with some contradictions. He would set that aside and puzzle it out later. Kevesk spent the next few hours tracing runes in the dirt floor and explaining their uses including which ones could be permanent active runes. One of the first runes that the old mage showed Derrl was a firelance. It resulted in a focus of blazing energy that could be directed in any direction and redirected as needed. When he showed Derrl the rune, he got up and put a small clay pot with a chipped lip in the center of the floor and told him to try to hit it. Derrl held his arms out, the heels of his hands together, palms outward and directed them towards the pot as Kevesk had shown him. He drew up the rune in his mind's eye. He felt an enormous pressure build up and release in a strong pulsating flow. There was a shattering boom. He was thrown against the wall behind him, and the rune cleared. His vision blurred, and when it cleared, the pot was still there, untouched. The floor beside it, however, had a crater three feet across. Kevesk appeared dazed, but he shook himself and walked over to help Derrl up from the floor. He shook his head again, though not to clear his vision.  

	“I've never seen anyone able to put that much force into a firelance before. It's usually not very powerful, useful for getting rid of litter and offal. You, however, lend an entirely new concept to the uses of a firelance. Let's try it again, only this time, turn it down a notch will you? And try to hit the pot please. I don't know how much more my poor floor can take.”

	Derrl nodded, and braced himself firmly with both feet spread wide apart. He thrust out his arms, palms outward, and slowly released energy as he drew the rune and concentrated on keeping it within limits. A small ray of intense light stretched out from his palms. He corrected his aim, and placed the shaft of light squarely on the pot. He let go of some of the restraint that he was placing on the power. Even more intense light pulsed down the beam, towards the pot and obliterated it. There were no flying shards, only a fine dust that seemed to fill the air. Somewhat belatedly, he cleared the rune from his mind. He was far more exhausted than he would have believed, and sat down heavily on the small crate that he had pulled up earlier. He was certain of one thing now. It was time for some food.

Chapter 26

	He still didn't have to be at the tavern until mid-afternoon tomorrow. He had plans for today. He threw on some breeches, a shirt and tunic and headed out the door. It's time to pay Yerril a visit and tell him what I have in mind. He walked out the door with a shovel in hand and runes aplenty in his head. He had asked Kevesk about as many as he could once he had filled his stomach a bit. “The Pribe” was still in port, that much he knew. It wasn't going anywhere fast, stuck as it was, with a hole in its bottom. But then again, maybe it was stuck with a patch over its hole. Either way, since Yerril didn't have another ship, or a homeport other than this, he was likely to be around. Derrl figured that if he checked enough waterfront taverns, he would find the gap-toothed captain eventually. He was almost to the docks before he started paying attention again. He stopped for a moment, deciding which way to go, when he looked up the waterfront street and saw a hanging sign with a painted tankard on it. He decided to go look in there for the captain of the Pribe. The alehouse was rather dark, even though the sun was shining away outside. Most of the occupants squinted and averted their eyes as the open door let a shaft of brilliant light into the gloomy room. The air was filled with a haze of smoke that stung the eyes. He walked over to the barkeep, stepping over the prone form of a sailor who had passed out and fallen of the bench. No one had thought to move him. He stepped up to the counter and leaned on it. He regretted it after seeing the man next to him vomit onto it and hearing the barkeep's response

	“… ass threw up three times onto the bar today.” He looked up at the mageling leaning onto the reeking counter. “Any thing I can be doing for you ser?”

	Derrl glanced sideways at the retching customer, who thankfully was now puking onto the straw-covered floor.  

	“Uh… yes,” he said, still looking at the poor sop. “ I'm looking for Yerril, the captain of the Pribe. Do you know where I would be able to find him?” He formed a rune in his mind and brushed his finger against the man beside him after a renewed fit of vomiting. The fellow stood up somewhat shakily and walked outside to stick his head in a rain barrel.

	“You wouldn't be finding the likes of him in a place like this, ser. He wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. He likes his taverns properlike, not like this place here, ser. He don't particularly care how much the ale costs so long as he has good company.” He absently wiped the countertop with a grimy rag and tossed it into a bucket in the corner behind the bar. “If you really want to find him, he'll be at the Pint. He likes the sun more than most of this lot. It's a shame he lost the Pribe. She was good to him.” He picked up a slightly less rancid cloth and began wiping the inside of a tankard with it.

	“Thanks.” Derrl looked at the room once more. Someone coughed in a dark corner and then again. He shook his head and walked out the door, causing cries of anguish as the light shone in the clientele's eyes. It looked like he was going to be going in to work today after all

Chapter 27

	“Ho, Derrl! What are you doing here? I thought I told you that you didn't have to come into work until tomorrow.” Mensk was standing behind the bar with a clean rag wiping down the bar. He was in his element and enjoying himself. Pleasant conversation filled the air around them. Oddly enough, it was pleasant days like this that seemed to fill up the tables at his tavern the most, not to mention his coffers.

	“You did tell me not to come in until tomorrow. I'm not exactly here to work, but if you have anything for me to do I'd be glad to get it out of the way before tomorrow.” He was always glad to see Mensk. He was the closest thing he had to a family, and Derrl had been remiss in his familial responsibilities until recently.

	“Sorry Derrl, haven't got any work for you to do until those barrels come in tomorrow. I'm sure that you're terribly disappointed that I haven't got anything heavy for you to stack in the shed.” He was grinning now. He enjoyed having Derrl around, and they were comfortable around each other. “So if you're not here to work, why are you here? If it won't strain you too much to answer.” 

	“Actually, I'm here to see if I could find Yerril. I was told I could find him here. It's funny though, I don't remember him coming here back when I worked here before.”

	“He didn't start coming here until the Flowing Barrel burnt down. He knew the fellow who owned it. But you can't drink out of a wooden tankard that's caught fire now can you? Not unless you don't mind losing your beard. You need Yerril? He's over in the corner where Leylau usually sits. Mind you she hasn't been in today. Wait, bring him this; it looks likes he's due for a refill. And have a mug yourself.” He handed over a pitcher to refill the captain's mug and an extra mug for Derrl. He picked them up and wove his way through the tables and seated customers towards the corner and Yerril. The captain was in a half-doze, staring at the wall directly across from him when the mug and pitcher landed on the table simultaneously with a thunk. The eyes of the slightly inebriated captain brightened instantly when they focused on Derrl. He grinned at the youth with enough force to split an anvil and refilled his tankard with ale. He downed half of the tankard in one gulp, topped off the large wooden mug and filled Derrl's as well.

	“What brings ye here, bucko?” His gap-toothed grin was warm and comforting. He was a man that you could easily get along with. He gestured for Derrl to have a seat across from him. Derrl took a sip of ale as he sat down on the comfortable bench. Mensk was one of the few who purchased padded benches and stools for his customers. Thoughtful old man. 

	“Actually, it's about the Pribe.” At the mention of his stranded ship the tipsy captain's eyes moistened. “I needed to talk to you about an idea that I have for getting her off that sandbar. But you'll need to agree and be open-minded about the whole process. It's not exactly your conventional methods.” His eyes were on the verge of tears, yet he nodded.

	“Sorry, did I say something?” 

	“Nay bucko, it's just that when I be getting' to thinking 'bout me ship, and all the times she's served me good, I feel sad-like when I think of her, sittin' out there all lonesome-like. At least she don't be havin' that hole in her side no more. I fixed that up like ye asked me to.” He was still slightly misty eyed, but the worst had passed. “There was the time we'd been runnin' away from a privateer…” Yerril slipped into a reverie that was likely to last for a while. Derrl was already having difficulty paying attention: his mind kept wandering off in other directions, most frequently though, he kept on coming back to an image of two runes tied together somehow, but not with any earthly substance. The captain's eyes were watery again as he reminisced about times with the Pribe. “… And now she be sittin' out there all by her lonesome without me.” Suddenly Derrl was assaulted by an image of two strengthening runes linked to each other by long flowing lines of pulsating light. He leaped up from the bench and nearly spilled the rest of his tankard.
	
	“Follow me, I think I have just eliminated the only problem I had with my plans for floating the Pribe off the bar.” He quickly ran to the bar and asked a quick question to Mensk, who handed him an old beaten-up staff from behind the bar. There was an assortment of blunt objects that Mensk kept behind the bar to subdue the rowdies. He was still rather powerful for his age. Derrl ran out to the back by the shed with Yerril following quickly behind. 

Chapter 28

	Derrl's hands flew in a flurry of activity as he went over the staff with a quill. His deft fingers drew the elaborate pattern of the rune on the end of the staff. As he finished the rune on one end, his pen flowed over the length of the staff, drawing an elaborate, crossing pattern that enclosed the staff in a net of ink. When he reached the other end, he capped it with a similar rune, still part of the same line that he had begun with, effectively closing the line and making it meet up with its tail end. His concentration was so intense throughout the ordeal that his face was drenched with sweat, as he worked feverishly to complete it. Yerril was standing over his shoulder throughout. He set down the quill and picked up the staff from the table that Mensk used for record-keeping and logging the inventory that they kept.

	“Follow me, and grab those sawhorses. I've got the axe. Don't worry, I'm almost positive I know what I'm doing.” He picked up a rather large axe that he routinely used to help chop wood for the stoves and the fireplace, either for cooking food or keeping warm. He was by no means a weakling and was able to split most logs with one hit. “Set those up here,” he said, pointing, “and here.” When the two sawhorses were set up, he placed the staff firmly in them so that there was three feet of space between them “Yerril, would you like to do this, or would you rather I do it?” he asked, extending the axe handle towards him. Thoroughly confused, Yerril passed on the offer. “I'm not sure if this will work, but here goes.” He hefted the large wood-axe over his head a brought it down in a double-handed stroke. The axe head landed squarely on the center of the staff. The staff did not so mush as flex. One of the sawhorses, however, did break, attesting to the strength behind the blow. Derrl dropped the axe nearly as soon as he hit the staff and began shaking his hands, in obvious pain. It felt like hitting a two-foot thick stone wall with a large club as hard as you can. He began to curse as he shook his hands. The jolt had gone all the way up his arms. Yerril picked up the axe and examined the blade, finding a very dull curved section. The curve was concave, as opposed to convex, as it should have been. He picked up the staff and held it crosswise against the axe blade, matching up the curve of the staff with the shallow notch on the blade. He tossed the damaged axe aside and fell to work examining the staff, ignoring the steady flow of invective from the young man behind him. Damn'd to th' pits bucko! Was wood! She feels like wood, Weighs th' same as wood, looks like wood. Bucko, that thar ain't wood no more. 

	“… demon damned! Should have known that was going to hurt! Stupid…” His swearing became less vocal now, as he calmed down and the pain subsided. He could have drawn up a rune to relieve the pain, but he wasn't thinking clearly. All he knew was one thing: that his plans for floating off the Pribe were going to work. “Well, I'm guessing we can start work on the Pribe tomorrow, if we want to float her free anytime soon.” 

	Yerril stood up, jaw hanging. His slack jaw quickly changed into a grin. “I don't know what ye did, bucko. Don't want to know either. Let's go buy ye a drink, and celebrate th' rebirth of me Pribe.”

Chapter 29

	Derrl set down his empty tankard on the table in front of him. Yerril had been free with coin as long as it was for a good cause, namely, ale. It was shortly past the fourth evening bell, and while that was not particularly late, Derrl needed to get some sleep soon if he intended to wake up with the sun bell to go work on the Pribe. And to top it off, he actually had to go in to work tomorrow. Not that work was horrible, but it just meant more tiring work after an early morning of hard labour. He looked across at Yerril who was near tears with joy. Apparently, when matters concerned his ship, he was very emotional. It would seem that he had been through much with the Pribe and was not prepared to let her slide silently into the surf to be swallowed by the waters that she rode.

	“Yerril, I need to get some sleep if we're to wake up with the sun bell to fix up your beauty. I have to get going.” The more than slightly drunk Yerril nodded, smiled, and went back to drinking. He would probably be here until the last bell of the day tolled. Derrl started to walk towards the door, and then paused, turned and caught Mensk's attention. He waved at the ageing barman.

	“Don't worry Mensk, I'll be here tomorrow, mid-afternoon, just like you said. I wouldn't leave you to stack those things all by yourself. Wouldn't do to have such a frail, old man, such as yourself straining himself too hard. ” He grinned as Mensk threw a slightly sodden, balled-up rag at his head and easily caught it. He tossed it into the bin behind the bar where they tossed rags in need of cleaning. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there and was rewarded by a sodden sounding splat as he hit his mark. He and Mensk both grinned.

	“See you tomorrow, Derrl.” Mensk now had a clean rag and was back to wiping down his countertop. Derrl turned and walked to what was now his home, whistling tunelessly. Life was working his way now. Oddly enough, there wasn't much that anyone heard about the war anymore. You often forgot that even was a war because of the way life moved along. Most of the soldiers had returned home. It seemed that the war was dying out. This didn't mean that it was over yet with any amount of certainty. It was as if their ruler had a way of resuscitating dead wars, much to everyone's displeasure. Eventually though, someone was bound to depose the war necromancer one way or another.

Chapter 30

	Derrl was up early and out at the Pribe with the tools he thought he would need. It would be another half bell until Yerril was there. He had spent most of his morning so far, if you classified morning as anytime after the last bell, finding things that would serve as the tools he needed. Derrl took a short metal pole that had a sharp tip that was curved at almost a ninety-degree angle out of the bundle of tools. This was what he would be using to carve the runes into the ship's hull. As he sat down on the dry sand of the beach looking at the Pribe, contemplating the best design to place the runes in, Yerril sauntered up the beach.

	“What be ye doin' here so early, bucko?” He quickly crossed the remaining sand between them.

	“I'm trying to figure out the best way to put these runes onto her. Only I'm confused; I need to get a solid line onto her. The only real way to do that would be to paint it onto her, but if I do that it won't be permanent. And to make it permanent, it would have to carved, and that would leave small cracks whenever two boards joined, which would mean it's not solid. It's frustrating.” He was holding his head in his hands while he was trying to puzzle out how to get this done. The day before, he thought he had the whole project figured out. He thought he knew how he was getting her off the sand. But every time he came up with a solution for something, several more problems arose. 

	“Do you have some small spare planks and some nails? I think that the only way to find out what will work is to try it and find out.”

	“Aye, I be havin' those, bucko. There be some on the Pribe. I'll be getting' them for ye.” The captain scrambled up the side of the stranded ship and disappeared suddenly. He returned shortly with several small planks and a pouch of nails. He dropped them on the sand in front of the youthful mage. “Now what would ye be doin' with them?” Derrl only smiled as he laid two planks on the sand and then placed the others across the top of them. As he nailed the planks together, fitting them tightly in beside each other, he had a sudden feeling that no matter what he used to draw the runes, it would work. He practically didn't have to draw the runes at all. They worked even if he only used a mental image. He did, however, feel that the effect would be more permanent if there was a solid manifestation of the rune.

Chapter 31

	 “Duck!” yelled Derrl as he let loose with a firelance at the planks. The lance of fire struck the planks and Derrl turned his head, flinching away from the expected explosion. It did not come. Puzzled, he threw another, yet more powerful firelance at the planks, straining to see past the blinding flash of light as it struck the dry wood. He did not flinch as it struck; he needed to see what happened. Once more it splashed and died out. He was trying not to get his hopes too far up. He spotted a large rock slightly farther away than the planks and unleashed a firelance as equally powerful as the previous. The blazing lance of flame hurtled toward the unsuspecting rock. The unoffending piece of waterfront was instantly obliterated.  

	“All right, we can start on the Pribe now. I think she gets a new look today,” said Derrl, holding up a can of black paint to the side of the ship. “I think black suits her, don't you?” He cracked a grin, and his humour spread contagiously to Yerril, who was caught up in the excitement of what he had just witnessed. His face became serious for a brief moment.
	“Ye be a wizard, bucko,” he said with a certain amount of awe creeping into his voice. “Ye be a powerful mage bucko.” The full import of what he had just witnessed had just dawned on him. The smile quickly disappeared from Derrl's face. 

	“No,” he said with a perfectly straight face, “just an all around bucko.” His face split into a grin as soon as he had spit out those words. “Let's get to work. She's not going to put her paint on herself.” He picked up a piece of paper and began to sketch out his plans for the runes on the Pribe.

Chapter 32

	The sun beat down unmercifully as the two toiled relentlessly to finish giving the Pribe her new look. Derrl put the final line on her hull and stood back to gaze upon the ship. He stood there, leaning back slightly, resting with his hands at the small of his back, looking up over the hull at the sky beyond. He couldn't help but think that something was amiss. It was a particular nagging feeling that he could not shake, no matter how he tried. Seagulls had begun to converge on the ship, wheeling and dipping as they flew around and passed the poor ship as she lay there listlessly. No, she wasn't quite listless. There was something about her that bespoke of something inside aching to do something, being ready to face the world in the teeth of the gale. A particularly large seagull with perfect black wingtips slid gracefully along on the air around the mast, circling gracefully, knowing that he was dominant in this area. Then it hit him.

	“That's why it looks so wrong!” he shouted, startling Yerril, who fell backwards off the deck railing he was sitting on and landed unceremoniously on the beach. His humour did not improve as a result.

	“What is it ye be goin' on about? And warn me next time ye be about to holler like that. I can't take it no more.” He was grumbling irritably under his breath about something or other, evidently not a happy camper, or seaman rather.

	“That mast has not been altered by any runes, get this ship in a good strong gale, the hull will hold together all right, but the mast will snap off before long. I need to get up there. We have to fix that before we put canvas on her. And then of course, once we get her off the beach, we'll have to do the underside of the hull with runes as well. Hope you can afford a little bit of dry-docking. Have you got a seat on a pulley? I don't like heights too much, but I don't see how you can do this instead.” Yerril grumbled something once more under his breath and clambered aboard the Pribe. Derrl only heard one solitary snippet of his monologue.

	“… arse hurts…”

Chapter 33

	He got off the bucket seat as soon as Yerril had lowered it enough that he felt he could drop off safely. He stood there shaking. 

	“Don't ever ask me to go up there again! There is no way in the demon's pits that I am ever going up in that thing again! It's not fit for man nor beast!” The job of tracing the runes for the rigging and such had been an ordeal for Derrl, whose barely contained fear of heights was not aided at all by the swaying caused by the wind against the seat on the rope. Thankfully, that task was finished, and he could begin blasting away the sand that held the Pribe in place. Yerril was sympathetic for him. He had seen many good sailors ruined because they could not handle the height when they were changing the rigging. And a few who gave up on their fear and let themselves be given up to the unrelenting power that pulled them back to earth, so strong was the urge. Derrl was left shaking as he stood on the decking on the ship. He disliked the sickening sensation in the very pit of his soul as he swayed far above his only friend, solid ground. Should he let go to return to his friend, it would instantly be the enemy, no longer offering comfort to his soul from the fearful sky, no longer offering its comforting embrace. He would meet it head on with a sickening impact that was worse than the fall itself. Once he had sat in a tavern listening to an old cripple who had once been a seaman until he lost the use of his legs falling from the mast and colliding with the deck. He could recall the old man's exact words.  “The fall was otherworldly. For an instant, I felt free, and then it ended. Now, I know that I am not afraid of falling. It's the sudden stop that scares the life out of me.” Derrl executed a leap over the rail, and hit the sand in a roll. He got up, brushed off the sand and cleared his mind. He began to fill it once more, but with purpose. He stretched his hands out, almost as if beckoning to something to come to him. Opening his arms to welcome and embrace whatever it was he could see behind his closed lids. He could not see the ship with his eyes closed, but he did not need too. He stretched his senses out and saw the entirety of the massive rune that was now the ship. The entire image filled the vast reaches of the limitless expanse of his mind. It radiated solidity. It beamed reassurances of stability. It had an extraordinary calming effect on him, but what surprised him was not that. It was that he had almost expected it to. His arms were motionless in the air, out to his sides, with the palms of his hands facing upward and forward, almost in a sign of blessing. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hands came together in front of his chest as he traced a complex rune around the stability that was the Pribe. He had an inspiration that enabled him to envision a variation of the firelance that was so completely unlike a firelance as to be said that they had no connection, but he saw the connection, for he had made it. He had done away with the beam of tightly harnessed energy hurtling towards the intended target with impossible speed. He had conserved the initial reaction with the target, which was to create a concussion that would hurtle objects in all directions. He had made it more efficient almost. It no longer lost any energy in the travel to the target, because it originated at the target. He could sense it build in force, and he began to trace another rune in his mind. It was unlike anything he had encountered, but he knew it would suit his need. In his mind, he had extended the runes that covered the Pribe to enclose the bottom of the craft. But even below that, just slightly below that, he formed his new rune, he could sense an ordering of elements under the ship, a solidifying of something that was not solid. It was as if he was making something tangible out of something that did not even exist in his real world. He was about to unleash the forces that he had pent up, and released the runes that held it back. He could sense the forces slipping their bindings and knew there was no holding them back anymore. And as the detonation spread out, it was as if the world had slowed, or he had sped up. In an instant, without any conscious thought, or any volition of his own, he had thrown up a protective barrier, the instant before the wave of debris hit him.
	The horrid sound of earth shaking loose its bonds and coming just shy of tearing itself apart reached the warehouse along with the muted, but somehow not, sound of a subterranean explosion. This was not the only place to be hit by the incredible wave of sound. It reached the farthest ends of the city, and persisted off into the countryside for leagues more, where it was heard by human ears. Beyond that, there were no human ears to hear it, because the domain of the water-breathing denizens of the world cut off the land of men abruptly. People on a nearby island were far enough away that they did not hear it, but they felt that something had just happened as a subconscious thought. But it was reinforced by odd and frightening behaviour on the part of the schools of fish that some were following. And on another beach, a family of small grey coloured whales beached themselves, which was viewed by the locals as a powerful omen. They both feared and respected the large creatures of the sea. They knew their cunning and their intelligence, and more than a few locals had heard of old tales of sailors rescued by such creatures. They knew that something tremendous must have happened to cause such behaviour in these lords of the waters.

Chapter 34

	Yerril was standing near the railing, looking at the young mage standing calmly on the sand. He stood with his arms apart for a while, and began to bring them together. As he watched him bring his hands together, he could feel energy coursing through the air and his veins. He could feel the energy racing along the runes on the hull through the soles of his feet. For an instant, the energy vanished, but reappeared when a wall of sand flew out from under the Pribe. Time seemed to slow down for Yerril as well, who saw the wave of sand and debris hurtle towards the mage on the sand only meters away. In moments, the young wizard was lost in the sea of airborne particles. He felt a shock through the decking, and clutched the railing as the ship shifted unexpectedly. It began to fall over, but something prevented it. The air was choked with sand and bits of driftwood. Heavier particles had shot across the bay to the port, while lighter particles hung in the air for a time before settling. With an unobstructed view from the waterfront, some of the customers at the Pint were frightened out of their wits when, as they sat calmly contemplating the water of the bay, they were presented with a fountain of sand and dirt across the water where the beached hull of the Pribe once had stood. Fortunately for them, the combined effects of being drunk, the dreadful shock of what they had seen, and the concussion of sound combined to knock them off their stools. Moments later, an object whipped through the window, zeroing in on an empty tankard that Mensk had just knocked over by accident. The wooden container absorbed some of the force of the object, but it continued along its way. The combination hit Mensk in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and replacing his calm face with a grimace of pain combined with surprise. As he began to regain his breath, he reached inside the mug and pulled out a rounded object. It was a knot of wood that had been scoured smooth by time, sand and its path through the suddenly abrasive air. He stared at it with a look of wonder, and then seeing the plume of sand, walked to the window and looked across the bay. Nothing was visible on the other side of the bay, and sand could be seen sifting out of the air, covering everything in town and on the other side of the bay as well. 

	Sand was drifting down on Yerril as he stood on the deck. His mind was still overwhelmed by the recent events as he stood on the deck in shock. He stood staring out at the beach, more than half-hidden from view. He began to see images and forms in the swirling sand-filled air. Some of the sand seemed to coalesce into a more solid, darker mass that looked to be moving toward the Pribe. The mass became more solid, and parted to reveal the mage striding calmly out of the chaos, with sand drifting down around him. He approached the ship, but didn't cross the final distance. 

	“Get off the ship and go get your crew. We're towing her out of here. And watch your step.” Yerril was still dumbstruck, but couldn't think of anything to do other than what he had just been told. He vaulted over the railing and expected to hit the beach. Instead he landed in water that was over his head. He gasped involuntarily and swallowed water. 

Chapter 35

	Derrl started to walk down the beach towards town, but stopped, turned and gestured at the ship as he undid the rune that held it supported. The Pribe, with her supports knocked out, lowered herself in the water abruptly, causing a disturbance that sent a wave of water over the sand to soak Derrl's boots. He made a face as if disgusted, shrugged, and took off his boots. Sodden leather footwear in hand, he trod along the beach towards the Pint. He still had to show up for work. 

	“Have your crew get her over to the docks and get her dry-docked.” He called over his shoulder. “Once you've got that done, send someone to Mensk; he'll know where I am.” It was at this point that he realized that he was going to be late for work, since he had to go around the bay the length of the beach. He thought to himself for a moment. I don't have to go around, I can cut across. I'm starting to like being a wizard. His thoughts led him to form a rune in his mind, similar to the one that held up Yerril and the Pribe. In his mind's eye, he could see it stretch out into the distance ahead of him as he faced the water. His steps led him out across the water using the Pint as a point of reference, as he could not see the path without closing his eyes.  The path lay mere inches above the water's surface, in such a way that occasionally a wave graced the bottoms of his feet as he serenely made his way to work. It seemed absurd really. His abilities seemed rather mundane. After all, his new use for it was to avoid being late for work. As he traversed the expanse of water, looking down, he saw schools of small fish scatter as they were pursued by some larger predator. He glanced at the sun momentarily, and hearing bells echoing faintly across the water, he knew that there was no way that he would be on time at this rate. He began to run along the runes he had laid for himself. As he went along, he unravelled the runes that lay behind him, so that the path was only solid to a few paces behind him. Running barefoot along a trail made of magic was an invigorating experience for him. It was solid, and yet it felt as if it gave every time he stepped upon it. There was no shock every time he set his foot, as there would have been on a paved street were he barefoot. But there was no loss of traction as on sand, just a pleasant sensation, like running barefoot on a well-kept lawn.

Chapter 36

	He approached the water's edge, only to be confronted by a mob of people who had just seen him walk across open water. The wall of people pressed in on him. They wanted to know his secret. Was he a wizard? It was known that there were wizards in the world, but no one ever met one. But they had just seen him commit an act of magic. Some wanted to question him, others wanted to ask favours of him, and others simply wanted to touch him, in hopes that some of his magic would imbue them with its power. The crush of people was overwhelming to Derrl, whose mind began to race frantically in circles for a means of escape. His eyes began to roll as he panicked. The wall of humanity grew ever closer, pressing in on him, crushing him, sealing him off from the air. He needed room but knew not how to procure it. Panicking and frantic, his mind raced in circles about runes as he curled into a ball near the shoreline, trying to close himself off from the overwhelming tide of life. Eyes closed, he could see lines forming, changing, vanishing, reappearing, shifting, disappearing as it searched desperately for some way to get away. The lines faltered in their ever-changing dance, flickered, solidified, and locked on one pattern. The panic-stricken young mage felt himself rise above the ground as he stayed closed off from the outside world. The mob strained to retain their hold on him, but the power of the runes lifted him inexorably upward. One desperate member of the mob had gained purchase by clinging with his life to the hem of his tunic, but as Derrl rose higher above the crowd, the lone member of the mob began to lose his grip. He struggled and kicked in order to shift his weight, that he might regain a firm grip on the garment. He succeeded in retaining his hold, and as he did so, he felt a jerk. He heard a ripping noise over the tumult of the crowd. Hanging on with both hands he looked upward at his handhold. A small tear had appeared along one edge above where his hands gripped the cloth. Derrl had continued rising up and he and the one fanatic were now twenty feet above the crowd's heads. The filthy man hanging onto Derrl struggled and kicked that he might change his handhold but in doing so placed the extra strain on the cloth, finishing the tear, and dropping him to the crowd below. He fell heavily atop the people in the mob, bringing down several members of the mob with him as he fell to the ground.

	Opening his eyes, Derrl could see the mob below him. He was still hugging his knees in his fear. Below him he heard someone yell for a rope, with which to pull him down, and as the idea was picked up by the general mob, he lay out runes before him and fled. He ran swiftly along his aerial path, unencumbered by the necessity of going around buildings. He knew not where he fled, only that he fled away from the mob.

Chapter 37

	His flight led him in the direction of the Pint. He fled, not knowing where he went, not knowing where he was, only knowing that he had to get away from the horrid mass that would not relent. As he ran along his wizardly path, he vaguely heard the mob as they poured down the streets in pursuit of him. If anything, his mind only raced even faster. And as quickly as his mind raced, his feet raced even more so. His inordinate fear was triggered by past events in his life that hovered on the verge of memory. But he would not allow himself the recollection. He had locked away those traumatizing moments long ago and did not wish to look upon his frightening past. As he tore down along the runes, tearing them down behind him as he went, he quickly lost his pursuers, such was his fear-fuelled speed. The terrain below his began to slope gradually up, as it neared to elevation upon which sat the Pint. The roadway had risen to within a few feet of his path as he stumbled. In his fear, he had incessantly looked back over his shoulder behind him in search of the pursuing mob. As he tired, he tripped over his own feet and fell to the roadway below. He landed on the cobblestones with a resounding thud, rolling as he struck the lane, crashing into a rain barrel. The water soaked him completely. As he stood and made his way up the slope, his footing was less than adequate because of the wet leather of the boots. He stumbled up the hill toward the tavern, unable to make out anything clearly, his mind in utter turmoil. His flight led him further. As he approached a busy street, he veered off into a side lane. His only wish was to avoid other people. 

	The alley he stumbled into alone seemed vaguely familiar. Some strange trick of fate had led him into the same alley that he had once occupied, lying in wait for some unwary passer-by. Rats protested wildly as he staggered and lurched through the alley that they occupied. Three thugs stepped out of recessed doorways and interrupted his escape from his fear. One of the three stopped him with a fist in the gut. His face was one of the more vulgar things that he had seen. The nose was crooked and flattened, one nostril having been torn, probably as a result of someone not liking his nose ring. His face was pockmarked, scarred from the pox, with evidence of it still on his face. And open festering cut crossed his cheek, with pus dribbling from it. His ears were rat-bitten, standing straight out from his head. His hair was brown, or appeared to be, with splotches of white.

	“Hey where do youse think yer goin'? Youse gots to pay the toll. I want yer boots. Give 'em to me. Now!”

Chapter 38

	There was an indescribable mass of people in front of him, nearly all were completely featureless, all but three. Three led the mob that had pinned him in. One punched him. His face was horrid, scarred, torn, patched hair. Derrl was shaking vigorously. He was doubled up from the pain of the blow. He could not focus on anything properly. Only one thing pierced his perceptions: a vulgar voice demanding something from him. He did not hear all of it.

	“I want yer boots. Give 'em to me. Now!” was all he heard. Suddenly he was lying in snow. He seemed to recall having done this all before. He was bruised and cut, barely fourteen, but with a build of almost an adult. He had lain there for some time, the blood from the cuts had stopped flowing, largely due to the fact that it had frozen in place. His nose had been broken, and his leg as well, though not shattered. He had been mugged, mugged for his boots, because some poor bastard had thought that he could get some money for them. He lay there stunned, feet completely blue and numb. He had been in pain, but the cold was so intense that it soon relieved him of that burden by numbing all sensation. He would soon give up, and give himself into the cold. As his sight faded, he saw a light go past the end of the alley. It disappeared, then reappeared briefly before he lost all sight. Unconsciousness overtook him.

	The intense pain brought him back to consciousness. A healer was setting his leg so that it would heal, but that was not the cause of his pain. The searing pain that wracked his frame was from his feet. The numbness no longer shielded him. The sheer pain from his frostbitten limbs was overwhelming. Staggering, the pain shot through him as the blood began to flow through extremities deprived of blood by being frozen. His vision cleared, and as the pain sharpened he saw that it wasn't a healer, it was the cobbler. He was the closest thing that they had to a healer. Not much of a healer, but he was what there was. In the corner, a figure was seated. He could not make out the face, but he could see a sword leaning against the wall in its leather scabbard. The cobbler he finished setting his leg and was splinting his leg so that it would not move.

	Through teeth clenched in pain he managed to spit out 6 words, punctuated by gasps of pain at intervals. “I… need…gasp… a pair… AH!… of boots!” The look of fear and pain on his face concerned the quasi-healer.

	“Look, you can't put boots on those feet. You'll never be able to with the pain, and you're not going anywhere.” He couldn't understand the child's need for boots.

	“Please!… I need boots!” He said through clenched teeth, “I need… them.”

	The figure in the chair spoke. “Just get him a pair of boots. The trauma is too much. He can't handle this. Give him what he wants.” The cobbler nodded, left and returned with a pair of boots and placed them on a table near the head of the bed on which Derrl rested. Derrl mumbled a relieved “Thank …you!” and succumbed to unconsciousness once again.

His eyes opened to see the mob, still led by those three figures. The one who had struck him advanced.

	“Gimme yer boots now!” He punched Derrl once more, felling him. He rained blow after blow on him, as Derrl curled into a ball, drawing in upon himself. He was mumbling something or other under his breath.

	“…My boots… they're my boots… boots… not getting them… no… no….” He rocked back and forth as he hugged himself. His mind began to race as it searched for a way to protect him. As the other two thugs joined in to help get his boots, all he could say was “no…no...no no…no! my boots…” As one of the brutes reached for his boots, the stricken mage's mind hit one rune, and as it did, his eyes flashed open. His mouth opened. Protected by the rune, his voice now amplified by magical sources, he stood, eyes blazing. “THEY'RE MY BOOTS!” The sheer volume of sound staggered the three, and the mob disappeared from Derrl's sight. Only three muggers were in his sight now. His mind struck a rune once more. He screamed, unleashing the power of the rune. “MY BOOTS!” The violence of the rune hurled the three out of the alley with such force that one had a split skull when he hit the cobblestone street and another had a broken neck. All were unconscious. He couldn't handle himself. His mind still raced. As it struck another rune, he crumpled to the floor, huddling in a corner of the shed behind the Pint, rocking himself, and humming tunelessly.

Chapter 39

	Resigned to the fact that he was going to end up doing Derrl's work because he hadn't shown up and nor was likely to, as he was already two hours late, Mensk walked out to the shed to put away the stock that had been delivered that afternoon. Grumbling to himself about hard work and being a frail old man (even though he wasn't all that frail) he rounded the corner of the shed, not particularly paying attention to where he was walking. His lack of attention caused him to fall over the huddled, shaking mass that was Derrl and hit the ground with a thud. He swore, not something he usually did, at least, not without good reason. He turned himself over to get a good luck at the gibbering mass that was currently Derrl. Now on his feet, he reached out and tried to place one hand on Derrl's shoulder, but was unable to due to the violent reaction of his employee and essentially adopted family.

	“We'll fix you up. Don't worry about it.” He said, knowing full well that Derrl most likely hadn't heard him. Having said this, he left the shed to fetch someone to help him carry Derrl inside. As a result, he didn't notice that the youth was suddenly somewhat calmer having heard his words.

	Mensk returned shortly with two large men who had been drinking in the tavern. He directed them into the shed, and as he spoke reassuring words to Derrl, he instructed them to carry him up to his room. As they made their way up the stairs, Mensk couldn't help but wonder what was wrong with the boy. As soon as he had Derrl comfortably installed, he would send someone to get Leylau and bring her here. If anyone could help him, she was probably that person. He was worried nearly out of his mind. He had no clue what to do, or even remotely what was wrong. As soon as Derrl was set down on the bed, he immediately assumed a fetal position and began to shake again, mumbling incoherently with only one word or two that were recognizable escaping his lips.

	Leylau burst through the tavern doors, eyes wild, hair in disarray, nearly screaming, her voice almost shrill with the emotion that rocked her foundations at that very moment. She had never been so frightfully worried at any other time.

	“Where is he? I need to see him now!” She ran to the bar reached over to grab Mensk by the collar of his tunic and practically hauled him bodily over the counter. 

	Now upstairs and sitting beside Derrl's huddled form, she was calmer but no less worried. She had tried everything she could think of and nothing had worked. She had attempted all the treatments she knew of that she thought would work in this situation. In desperation, she had tried those that she knew wouldn't do anything but that she hoped would. And having failed to succor him from his self imposed prison, she began to rack her brain to come up with new treatments in the hope that she would somehow think of something that would be able to retrieve him from wherever he was. As it was, she felt completely helpless. But still, she refused to give up. She sat, holding his hand, murmuring soothing words to him, and quickly forgot the time. She did not consciously notice anything until she woke to see Yerril standing over them both as she slept, curled around Derrl. He smiled sympathetically at her, and pulled up a stool so that he could sit near her as she sat on the bed. 

	“I had no clue.” He spoke quietly, and sadly. He spoke almost as if he were already dead and gone. Oddly, his speech had altered. He no longer spoke with the accent of a seaman. “And to think that I had come here, looking for him, to tell him that we could do more work on the Pribe.” He smiled sadly, “She'll wait until he's better, and if he doesn't get better, I don't think I'll ever let her sail again. Without him, she'd be a dead hull sitting on the beach. I'll see to that.” 

Chapter 40

	Kevesk stalked into the pub, staff in hand, face showing annoyance and a little worry. It was now well after the last bell, and Derrl, who had insisted on learning from him, had assured him that he would return for lessons immediately after the evening meal. Much earlier, Kevesk had seen a brief vision of something that unsettled him. That he could not recall what he had seen, but that he knew he hadn't been able to make any sense of it, unsettled him all the more. He figured that if he could find Derrl, he would most likely be here, and if not, he would most likely be able to find some hint as to where he might be.

	Across the counter from him stood an old man with graying hair who had a worried and haggard look about him. Obviously something troubled him deeply. But since he was the one serving people, he was evidently the one to ask.

	“I don't know if you can help me.” He leaned against the counter, and said in a quiet tone, “I'm looking for a friend of mine. We were supposed to meet a long time ago, and I thought I might find out where he was if I asked around here.” He tried to put a smile on his face, but succeeded only in producing something that revealed his true feelings of worry and restlessness. The barkeep stared at him briefly, then shook his head.

	“I don't know what you expect to find here, or why you expect me to know about your friend.” He shook his head, in his own mind his words seemed a tad harsh. After all, he was trying to look out for a friend. “I'm sorry, I just have been having a bad day. What makes you think that I would be able to tell you where your friend was, even if I had seen him.”

	“I'm sorry to have bothered you, it's just that he told me he was going to work. His name's Derrl. I've sort of developed an attachment to him.” He began to turn and started thumping his way to the door with his staff. He seemed to be letting his age catch up to him now. As he made his way to the door, the tavern owner recovered from the shock that had been dealt him. He rose suddenly, upsetting his seat. Kevesk turned to see what had happened.

	“Wait!” The words shot from his mouth, but they had the tone of a plea almost, “Please, follow me.” He gestured for the man with the staff to follow him. He led the way up the stairs and to his room, which was currently occupied by the unfortunate Derrl. He opened the door to let in Derrl's friend. As he looked in, he saw Leylau and Yerril deep in conversation. He stepped in quietly behind the stranger, and closed the door softly with a gentle click that nevertheless attracted the two's attentions and elicited a brief spurt of incomprehensible babble from the prone figure that was once Derrl lying on the bed.

Chapter 41

	As Kevesk entered the room, he knew immediately that something was definitely wrong, furthermore, he knew what was wrong. He had seen it once before, in Megensk, his tutor, mentor, and everything. At one point in his training, his mentor Megensk had suffered a traumatic experience, that had resulted in the painful, and psychosis inducing dementia as repressed memories were wrenched unexpectedly to the foreground. At first Kevesk had panicked, then, thinking clearly for the first time in his life, he retreated into the vast tomes of his mentors diaries, logs, and notes. It was in this vast library of stored intellectual experiences that a young Kevesk had stumbled across the particular nodule of knowledge that was to save Megensk's life, and coincidentally Derrl's.

	“Please,” He motioned the others toward the door, “I know what's wrong with him, and I can help him, but I need to be alone with him so that I can concentrate.”

	Their reluctance to leave was understandable, but if he was to help the youth he had little choice. In his haste to assist Derrl in his flight from his own frantic mind he all but shoved the girl and two men out the door, essentially slamming it in their faces. The resonance from the heavy hardwood door was just subsiding as Kevesk knelt on the floor or the bed, near the youth's head. He searched his mind for the intricate runes for which he sought, and finding them, he began to weave his fingers and hands, and arms, in a dance that was seducing to the mind, subversive to the spirit, and left any possible watchers mesmerized. Its beauty lay in its deceptive simpleness, for while each individual move was simple, the combined choreography of the several hundred motions boggled the mind. Only with long and hard practice had he been able to produce this rune. The rune that had enabled him to prevent his mentor's brain from being little more than an overwrought pile of liquefied goo. 

Chapter 42

	Terribly alone was the way Derrl felt, trapped in the vast chaotic emptiness of his gibbering mind. All was in motion, excepting him, his entire world was vast swirling images of barely recognizable patterns as they rumbled past. As their chaotic paths changed and altered, following no logic, it was a wonder that no one of them collided, though it seemed that they came impossibly close. The shapes came closer, even, to colliding with Derrl than they did with themselves. But he was locked in place, there was no way to move, no way to control his actions, no way to avoid the hulking masses. He could only pray that they would not hit him.

	As he concentrated more on the nearer passing masses of patterns, he could make out a figure, sitting cross-legged in the center. The masses forming a spherical cage of light and lines around him, or her, or it even. Another of these huge rumbling cages of the netherworld of his mind rumbled impossibly close to him. As it moved past, he got one clear look into the center of the whirling object, and found himself staring back at him. His mind had been conquered, and divided, chained as it were, separate from one another, but close enough that the possibility of joining together the divided pieces was so tantalizing that it drove the mind insane. 

	The gap between the prisons was empty, but full of some unimaginable power. As he stared at it, hoping for some comprehension of it's nature, a loud, rumbling, grinding sound reached his ears, though he could not even know if he had any just then. I caught his attention and held it. 

	As his attention focused, he directed his sight to the direction from which the stone like grinding emanated. Dead center in his field of view was a rapidly solidifying, but rolling mass of runes, that grew larger as the sound grew. It expanded, and he began to make out patterns that looked like gears, the way they interacted with their neighboring runes and caused them to move also. As it moved, it picked up speed, colliding with, and devastating the comparatively insubstantial cages that imprisoned his mind. With each cage it destroyed it pulsed, and grew larger. It fed off the destruction of the barriers in Derrl's mind. It grew in leaps and bounds, it now often took out two or more of the mystical cells at a time, making it grow only that much faster. As it descended on Derrl, he was reminded of a sight he had once seen, when standing perhaps thirty feet away from the door of a burning building, the door has blown out, providing a route of escape for a roiling ball of flame that had spewed fifteen feet out straight out the door at Derrl. The sheer force behind that fireball had been apparent and was akin to what he felt now. However, the ball of flame had receded, this ball of destruction was not receding, it was gaining speed and would soon cross the remaining space between it and him.

	This massive orb had crossed the gap and collision was imminent. As it had moved along smashing the cells, it had picked up their prisoners, and all now rode in the center of the mass. He was the only one still in a cage of runes. The orb struck the cage, shattering it in a horrific howl of destruction, and slammed full force into Derrl. His mind was struck down by the sheer massive force of the mental impact as his mind was recompiled, not piece by piece, but pureed and put as if into a gelatin mould of sorts. As he was struck by the roiling mass, he was momentarily aware of his surroundings, of the room, the bed, immediately after which he choked on the blood which was seeping out of his nose, and sliding down his throat, and was dragged into unconsciousness, true unconsciousness.

Chapter 43

	Kevesk left the room and went downstairs in search of Leylau. He'd finished doing what he needed to do, and now what Derrl needed most was rest, and care from a real healer, someone like Leylau. He found her downstairs sitting across the bar from Mensk. She was bent over a mug of springbrew. Judging by the level in the mug, she hadn't touched it at all. He approached her quietly and tapped her gently on the shoulder. She turned in her seat and looked up at Kevesk. Her eyes were red and glistening, evidence that she had recently been crying, no doubt for Derrl's sake.

	“You can go up and see him now.” The words came out gentle and soft. Leylau reminded him very much of the woman that he had once loved. No, that wasn't quite right, he still loved her, but she had passed away many, many, years ago. Her soul had been at rest for some time now, and Kevesk wanted to let her memory rest in peace. But the resemblance that Leylau bore her was striking, uncanny. They were both very small women, both healers, same tendency to react strongly to emotion, it seemed to go with the profession. Oddly enough, both of them had that beautiful flax-coloured hair, and a proclivity for the darker, hunter greens. Same small, pointed chin and vaguely elfin face, but no distortion of the ears that would have evidenced elvish ancestry. Enough, he thought to himself, I've got to leave her behind, in the past, where she belongs. All of his reminiscing had dampened his eyes. He scrubbed at them momentarily to chase away the tears that threatened. Leylau looked up at him inquiringly, though now with more compassion for the old, wrinkled, tattooed man. That she was a healer seemed to lend her abilities that verged on empathic. Thus, people's emotions were clearer to her. As she looked up at the stranger she sensed feelings of great loss, sorrow, and longing emanating from him.

	“He needs you now, he needs your care, especially as a healer but also as someone who I can see cares a great deal about him. Go on, go see him. He needs you.” He could feel a tear rolling down his cheek, but he didn't care anymore. She smiled up at him, embraced him, kissed him gently on the cheek, and went quietly upstairs to keep an eye on Derrl. Once she was on her way up the stairs the lonely old mage gathered up his things, and left quietly for his home. It seemed that the general tone of the evening was rather subdued and silent.

	She opened the door softly and stepped lightly over to the bed, closing the door behind her. The young, blonde-haired healer sat on the edge of the bed beside the somnolent form of the man she now knew she loved. As she sat, she laid the back of her hand gently across his forehead. She saw the bloodstains on the pillow by his nose and reached for the washcloth from the basin. She tilted his face towards her and began to clean him up.

	She rinsed out the rag in the washbasin, wrung it out, and folded it over the edge of the basin. She cleaned herself up a little, and then lay down and curled up alongside Derrl. She tried to stay up and keep watch over him, but the combination of warmth, comfort, lack of sleep, and emotional exhaustion caused her to drift into slumber shortly after she had lain down.

Chapter 44

	Derrl awoke to find himself being comforted by Leylau. He lay there, with her hand stroking his head as if it lay in her lap. He attempted to feign sleep and enjoy her touch longer, but the smile that crept onto his face gave him away much earlier than he would have wished.

	“How long have you been awake?” he opened his eyes to see a grin on her face as she reached down and lightly pinched his nose. “Have you been making a fool out of me for long?” He reached up and pulled her head closer to his. He stretched up and kissed her soundly. He grinned as he pulled away.

	“No, not for very long.” He stretched for another kiss, but she evaded it and pinched his nose again grinning as she did so. She suddenly changed her mind and kissed him soundly, and then pinched his nose again.

	“Allright, just how long have you been making fun of me?”

	“Oh, maybe a bell, … two” he lied. He managed to steal other kiss from her. As he lay there, immensely conformable with his head resting in her lap a sudden thought crossed his mind. “Do you know how long I have to stay in bed to recuperate? Or have you yet to decide and pronounce me fit for little more than bedrest? I really do want to get up. I never knew that a soft bed could make my rear protest like this.”

	She began to poke and prod him, check his reflexes, and then examine his pulse. She began to suddenly tickle him ruthlessly, at which point he began to chuckle in response, then protest, and finally defend himself with a vicious counter attack. As they laughed and tousled on the bed, he suddenly stopped tickling Leylau and embraced her tightly instead. As she responded to his embrace she lost her balance, falling off the bed backwards, dragging Derrl with her.

	They hit the floor in an intertwined laughing lump. Shortly after having heard a loud thump through the ceiling, Mensk was up the stairs and through the door.

	“Leylau, are you alright? What happened? I head something from downstairs.” He had only gotten the door halfway open by the time he had finished saying this.

	“No, don't worry Mensk, she's fine, I won't let her hurt herself too badly.” He poked her in the stomach eliciting a giggle from the blonde.

	“I should have known better than to leave you two alone. I should have learned that the first time you two fell off that bad together. Next time I'm going to keep a closer eye on you young couple when you're up here.” He began to turn around, and then looked over his shoulder at the two, a massive grin upon his face. “…If only for the sake of my poor floor.” He added with a wink.

	Mensk then left, promising to return with food and drink, closing the door behind him, so that Derrl and Leylau could steal each other's kisses in privacy, and so that she could giggle as much as she wanted to without being overheard.

Chapter 45

	Derrl lost his grip on the barrel that he was putting away when Yerril startled him in the shed out behind the Pint. He had been confined to his bed for a few days when Leylau had decided that he needed rest to recover. She had released him today and pronounced him fit as an ox. Unfortunately, Mensk overheard her when she said this and immediately put him to work out in the shed. The barrels had kept coming in without being put away properly, and now Derrl had to deal with the backlog of work left undone.
	
	As he lost his grip and the barrel began to fall he was hard pressed to call up the appropriate rune and catch the barrel in time. As it was, he managed not to get himself crushed, or the barrel broken. He set the barrel down and sat on it facing Yerril.
“It would probably be a good idea if you were a bit more careful around me an heavy objects, they have a tendency to do the unexpected around me.” He took a pull from a nearby mug of cold water. He generally kept one around when he was working out in the shed, since it was mostly hot and sweaty work.
	
	“Well I was inside having an ale or two when I asked Mensk how you were.” Yerril opened his mouth to say more but Derrl stopped him.

	“Wait a minute, one demon's hour if you please. You don't have an accent, would you kindly explain?”

	Yerril looked somewhat uncomfortable after that question. He shifted uneasily under Derrl's gaze.

	“I don't suppose you'd let me explain a little later would you? I really came to tell you that the Pribe is dry-docked right now, just like you asked. I would have told you earlier, but, well… you see… You were rather incapacitated the last time I saw you. Babbling something or other about some boots of yours, didn't understand a word, but then again, I don't suppose you did at that time either, now did you? I guess we both have some questions that we'd probably like to have answered.” He put a hand on Derrl's shoulder as he stood beside the barrel.

	“Tell you what Yerril, we'll talk while you and I work on the underside of the Pribe. We'll have time enough to talk as we work on her. Just help me put the rest of these barrels away. I'll go talk to Mensk, and we'll go down and put it away up there. You might try using the hoist there if you're having a bit of trouble.”

	Yerril took his shirt off in preparation for moving barrels.

Chapter 46

	Yerril carved the runes on the hull rapidly, having gotten much practice a few days earlier. He now knew the patterns by heart, and could not have made an error had he even tried. Derrl followed closely behind him and painted the runes in the carved depressions, infusing them and activating them as he went along. They worked steadily and quickly, but they occupied their minds by talking to each other, in an attempt to relieve the boredom. All traces of Yerril's accent had vanished long since.

	“So do you think you could explain the accent thing to me?” Derrl asked as he applied another brushstroke.

	“Sure, don't see any reason why not,” Yerril shrugged, without missing a step as he carved along the hull, “It starts out with my family. We're a somewhat substantial clan in the noble circles. As it was, I was the youngest son, I never would have inherited much, or had a place of importance in the government. Didn't really want one. Now, our family often took vacations in port cities, and ever since I can remember seeing a sailing ship running in front of a strong wind, I have been in love with the idea of being a captain of one.”

	The two continued working as they talked, they had completed a substantial area so far.

	“My father was sympathetic, but my mother would have nothing of it. If I were a ship's captain, the rest of the nobility would associate our family with unkempt sailors. The other wives would ridicule her, and she would simply die of humiliation. There was no way that she would let me do this.

	“My father, however was a much more practical person, and suggested that I might become a sailing man under an assumed name. Thus leaving the family reputation untarnished. I did this and had this ship commissioned, but when I tried to get a crew put together, I quickly found something that I had overlooked. I had neglected to take into account that while I had changed my name, I was still quite obviously a member of the lazy nobility, for whom sailors have little respect. As a result, I became determined that I would gain their respect. I changed my name once more, became “Yerril”, a person with no last name, and enlisted myself as ship's crew for the next two years. When I finished those two years I found myself quite the competent sailor. So the old me sold the ship to the new me, who had no trouble whatsoever getting a crew together.

	“While I was on as a crew member I picked up the speech patterns. It was necessary, if you look like a sailor, and work like a sailor, but don't talk like a sailor, you're still not a sailor. They know each other well, and can spot another sailor from two hundred paces.

	“There's also a certain rolling gait that all seamen tend to develop. At any rate, we're here, let me introduce myself. I am Yen of Rillburgh, as you can see, I'm not very imaginative to have come up with “Yerril”. Well, I've explained myself, I think it's your turn now.” While he waited for Derrl's reply he continued carving the runes on the underside of the Pribe. Derrl was silent for a moment, and even stopped painting, such was the effort it took for him to figure out how to explain to Yerril his babbling of nights past.

	“Well,” he began, “I'm not sure how much you'll get out of this explanation, let alone believe it. I'm not sure I even completely believe my explanation, but it's the best I can come up with. Unless I miss my mark, I think it has to do with something that happened several years back.  I remember, I was much younger, and it was much younger. It was a bitter winter night, cold, and I was returning to my lodgings with a distant relative. I was doing an apprenticeship at the time with a carpenter. I was taking a back lane, since I was late and I could get back faster that way. I was stopped by a couple of guys and was beaten. They took my boots and left me stunned, lying barefoot and broken on the snow covered floor of the alleyway. Sooner or later someone found me. I nearly lost my toes to frostbite. The pain was excruciating. I kept asking for a pair of boots, when I finally got a pair, I blanked out. It's been something of a repressed memory, but lately it's almost as if I've re-lived it. It's somewhat painful to remember.” His forehead was furrowed with remembered pain. He resumed his task of completing the runes in paint and infusing them. Yerril felt uncomfortable, with his new information about his friend. It was a new side of Derrl that he hadn't known about.
	
	“I'm sorry I asked you to remember something that painful, I didn't realize that it would hurt you that much.”

	“No, don't be sorry, it's probably better that I talked about it to someone. Let's finish this girl. Afterwards I'd like to introduce you to Kevesk, he's a friend of mine who might have some ideas for the Pribe.”

	They finished the runes in silence together. Having finished, they stored the tools and paint midships and then went to the harbour master's office to notify them that the Pribe was finished and would only need a little drying time, and then she was to be put back into the water. They arranged a time to have the Pribe put back into the harbor, and then made their way out of the office. Yerril then followed Derrl to Kevesk's warehouse.

	“I'm considering having her re-christened. Tomorrow she begins a new life, she was given another chance largely thanks to you. She'll be renamed, you know. This time she'll get the name she was born to have. In this life, she'll be known as “The Pride.””

Chapter 47
	
	Kevesk, Mensk, Yerril, Leylau, and Derrl were gathered in the corner booth at the Pint. Each had a tankard of ale, excluding Leylau, who had spring brew. Derrl and Yerril had finished working on the hull of the Pribe the afternoon prior. She was now sitting in the port, awaiting the arrival of her newly commissioned sails and rigging. After having told Kevesk about what he had done to the Pride, he had suggested that Derrl do the same thing with the rigging, so that it would be able to withstand the same forces as the hull and mast. Derrl complained bitterly about the work involved of putting the runes on all the canvas and cord, however upon further discussion with Yerril aboard the ship, they had agreed to commission new rigging, custom made for the Pride, with the runes stitched and woven into the fabric, so that all that remained for Derrl to do was infuse the runes, which Kevesk had agreed to assist in doing. Leylau did her part to help, by using the influence of her father she had managed a much lower price for Yerril, as well as a very speedy completion and delivery. If the delivery arrived as scheduled, it would be in their hands by early morning, and the Pride would be ready for her maiden voyage my afternoon. Yerril also intended to have her renamed to the Pride, as she now deserved the name. The name was being repainted as they spoke.

	Yerril, or rather Yen of Rillburgh, was the first to speak.

	“Derrl, I'd like you to be with me on the Pride when she makes her maiden voyage. If it weren't for you, she would have never gotten off that sandbar.”
	
	“Yen, what you really mean,” Derrl laughed, “is that you wouldn't mind having me along to deal with anything that comes up that you don't know how to handle. In which case you'd better bring along Kevesk, he knows a lot more about this than I do.” He paused for a moment. “And as for me helping getting her off the beach, I'm not entirely certain that I didn't help you put her there in the first place. That's really part of why I offered to help you out in the first place. Because I felt it was my fault that she was there at all. Though I don't regret making that delivery for you.” He smiled and squeezed Leylau's hand as she sat beside him. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

	“Why did you call him Yen? And why do you say that it's your fault that the Pride got stuck there?” She asked curiously.

	“As for why I called him Yen, I'll let him explain that one to you. Once he's done that, I'll explain why I think I helped him put the Pride there.”

	Yerril, Yen, whichever, told his story as Leylau listened raptly. While they were occupied, Derrl began to figure out what had happened that day. His attention was diverted, and Leylau had to call his attention back to her first question.

	“So why did you say that you helped wreck the Pride?” She inquired gently.

	“Well, to put it simply, I was newly come into my wizardly inheritance. It was my first venture out of Kevesk's lodgings since the incident and I wanted somewhere quite and secluded to think for a bit. I wandered my way out to the beach on the other side of the arm of the bay over where the Pride was beached later. This odd pattern had been plaguing my thoughts for the past few days, so I cleared a section of sand and started tracing the rune in the white sand. Once I'd finished, this incredibly vicious storm kicked up. It was the same storm that beached the Pride. Shortly I head a tortured sound from the bay. I destroyed the pattern and the storm receded.”

	His forehead furrowed as he recalled the events of that day. Leylau reached over and gently smoothed the creases with a gentle finger.

	“I knew there was something odd about the pattern when the waves started crashing over it. The waves pulled back, and every time, the pattern was perfectly untouched. I think that that storm was my fault. I feel bad about it Yerril.” He frowned, he really did feel bad about it. Leylau squeezed his hand and told him she was sure it was all right and that Yen wasn't angry.

	“Tell you what Derrl, you come with me on her maiden voyage. If she performs well, without any problems, we'll consider your debt to the Pride repaid. If not, you'll agree to do what's necessary for her to run in front of the wind, like she should. Does that sound fair enough to you?”

	Derrl nodded his assent. They finished their drinks quietly. Upon having drained his mug Derrl spoke.

	“I'll be here working for Mensk in the morning. If the rigging arrives, make sure she's afloat and set to go with the crew on board. Come get me and I'll round up Kevesk. Then we'll take her on a quick tour.”

	Throughout the entire discussion, both Mensk and Kevesk looked on, and listened to the younger fol. They couldn't help but smile at the plans they had.

	Kevesk had already exited, because it would seem that he was going to be allowed to take part in an adventure that rivaled, even surpassed those of his youth. He thought that he would be able to judge the ships capabilities when he saw her out in calm water. If she did indeed perform as expected, he intended to push her farther, and really see what she could do. He knew of a few choice runes that would help him with those plans. One rune in particular would be able to summon up gale force winds in an instant. However, the other runes would be far more interesting.

Chapter 48

	Kevesk lay at the base of the mast, dozing as far as anyone could tell. Derrl and Yerril had watched as the crew hoisted the sails to the top of the mast. There was a gasp of indrawn breath from Derrl as he saw the canvas unfurl. The runes were on the sails exactly as he had imagined it: picture perfect. He stood on the decking facing the mast. As he reached out to the canvas with his mind, his arms reached out also. He was immobile, standing there for several long minutes as he infused the runes with power. He lowered his arms and opened his eyes. Kevesk was grinning at him, his eyes still closed. Apparently he hadn't been sleeping just then. Derrl would definitely have to be more observant of him.

	“Good trick there Derrl, it comes in handy fairly often. I'm proud of you, I don't even remember teaching you that one.” He shifted his position against the mast and slouched more, if it was even possible.

	“That's probably because you never did teach me that one. I figured that one out on my own, oh wise and absent minded teacher.” He grinned evilly and called forth a small bucket full of water directly over Kevesk's head, he didn't bother to support it. The lazy old mage started spattering as soon as it felt he was sufficiently soaked. “I learned that rune from the book you gave me. You were right, it did come in handy.”

	A steady flow of rich, but rather mild invective flowed forth from Kevesk, directed at the young mageling.

	“Well, I can't call you scatterbrained if you can keep a handle like that on such a large vocabulary.  Your wits seem about you, so there's no reason why you can't help out.” Kevesk muttered something or other that didn't sound entirely too pleasant and started working his way up off the desk.

	“Fine, I'll get up, but I'm only doing it so that I can enjoy criticizing your work. Understood?” He stood and surveyed the ship, and then he scowled. “Now you've gone and spoiled my fun. I can't find anything you did wrong. You're a very nasty person, Derrl. Did you know that? Not nice at all, didn't leave me anything to do.” He stumped back down to the mast and slouched purposefully at the base like a sulking child. He began grinning madly all of a sudden.

	“You know, it's been so long since I've done that. I'd forgotten how much fun it is.” He promptly closed his eyes and went to sleep, or at least appeared to. It also sounded like he was asleep, he was snoring ferociously, though you never could be sure with Kevesk.

	As luck would have it, there was an offshore breeze that they would be able to use if they moved quickly enough. Yerril shouted the orders to his crew and they scrambled through the rigging like so many nimble apes. They cast off the lines that held them in place and the Pride pulled away gracefully. As she moved out towards the center of the bay, a strong seaward breeze kicked up, that had the Pride skimming over the water at a brisk pace. Yerril was more than al little pleased with the way the Pride was performing.

	They were far enough out to sea that there wasn't much of a chance that they could run aground. They'd had more than enough depth to be safe from that a long time ago. The only thing that posed any threat to them was the Honite Reef, however Yerril intended to give it a wide berth. Kevesk however, had something else in mind, and he hadn't shared it with anyone else yet.

	Yerril had given over the helm to his second and was strolling the foredeck with Derrl. Kevesk was, of course, still slouched at the base of the mast, asleep as far as anyone could tell.

	“Well, I can't fault the way she's holding up, and she's even more responsive in her youth. Though I am considering making one alteration to her design.”

	Yerril grunted suddenly as he tripped over an uncoiled line that was lying across the deck. His face was red with anger. He began to bellow aft.

	“Bring me the bucko what's on deck duty!” Apparently the accent that had disappeared in his dealings with Derrl was back in full swing when he dealt with his crew. Shortly, a breathless youth appeared in front of the captain of the Pride. His face was red as he stood in front of Yerril, obviously wanting to hide his face, but dared not for fear of incurring the further wrath of an irate captain.

	“Now I don't mean t'be yellin at ye, young bucko.” He began calmly, but quickly lost control of the tone of his voice. “But what in th'demon's pots did ye think ye were doing leaving this cable lying here. Ye best be coillin' that now bucko, else ye be on held pay. Do I make meself understood bucko?”

	The shamefaced could do little more than nod in assent. He immediately fell to coiling the line with meticulous care, lest the captain be wrath with him again. They continued down the deck.

	“Now as I was saying Derrl. I'd like to make the rudder a shade longer, so she bites into the water strongly. She'll be able to turn sharper. Now I can see two problems that this might cause. The first,” he counted it off on the gnarled fingers of his right hand, “being that she'll take a mighty strong man at the helm to wrestle with her like the tiller. The second,” He counted this of the fingers of his hand as well “being that she'll be canting awfully far over. Now I don't want to change anything about her after all.” He stood leaning against the bowsprit in contemplation. “No, I don't think Ill change anything about her. I like her fine just the way she is. “There was a visible darkening on the horizon, that seemed to be rapidly approaching. Yen murmured about how the last storm his ship had been in had been none too good for the ship.

	“I think we'd best be trying to get to port before that storm catches us.” He and Derrl turned and found themselves face to face with Kevesk. He was there with an odd smile on his face.

	“That storm is there for a good reason, she's there to let us test out just how well our dear Pride performs. Tell your crew to get ready for a bad blow, we are riding this storm.”

Chapter 49

	Yerril was standing at the helm, with Kevesk and Derrl at his sides, as the storm bore down on them, directly astern. The wind had kicked up to near gale force winds and the ship seemed to skim the crests of the waves as it flew in front of the oncoming squall. The lines were stretched wire taut and the sheets bellied out. They flew directly before the wind, partly to find out just how fast she could go and how she would hold up. But also because it was all Yerril could do the keep her on a straight course let alone turn her head. Yerril was worried, and he had just cause, since they were barreling straight down on the Honite reef. The wind howled about their ears as they stood on the deck. Fortunately for the crew, the fact that they were not changing course and the wind not shifting, combined to make it so that they would not have to climb the rigging, for had they done so, the wind would have surely torn them off the mast and ropes. Essentially everyone but the three at the helm were below decks, sheltered from the wind.

	Yerril shouted something but his words were ripped away by the howling, ravaging wind. Kevesk cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned over to shout into Yerril's ear.
	
	“What?” his question barely made it to the captain's ear before being ripped to shreds. He leaned to put his ear beside Yerril's mouth as he turned his hand to speak.
	
	“We're coming up to the Honite reef, we need to turn away!” Kevesk nodded understanding of Yerril’s words then shook his head “no”. He once more made a megaphone of his hands and leaned into Yerril's ear.

	“No, don't turn her away. Keep her straight. We're going through that reef. I think the Pride can take it. If she starts to break up I'll take care of it.” The sounds of ropes swinging in the gale force winds, and sheets snapping in the same gale nearly drowned out his words. Nevertheless, Yerril understood his meaning but didn't want to believe. What kind of madman would take a ship through the reef, let alone at this reckless speed. The jagged reef would tear out the ship's bottom at the very least. He shook his head in an exaggerated gesture and mouthed the word “no” at the elder wizard. Kevesk shook his head. He rapidly traced a rune in front of himself with his hands. He spoke once more, not bothering to cup his hands around his mouth, but the wind did not tear away the words. Instead his amplified voice boomed over the noise of the racing wind.

	“We will take her through the reef!” The awesome sound of his voice reverberated over the wind with a note of finality. “You can cooperate, or not, but one way or another this ship is going through that reef.”

	Overwhelmed and awed by this god-like voice of power, Yerril could do little more than nod in assent and keep the Pride before the wind on a course for the reef. While they drew closer to the reef, the elder mage twitched his fingers rapidly, to form a rune. He began tracing other runes in the air with his index finger, leaving a trail of blazing energy that hung in the air as flaming lines of new runes. Two of the runes were completely unfamiliar to Derrl, though one bore a resemblance to the one he had used in his trek across water and air. He closed his eyes and searched for the presence of the runes but found nothing, as of yet they were not runes, only lines of energy in the air, they remained to be infused with energy when they were needed. Derrl guessed that Kevesk had done this in order to not waste time tracing them when they were needed.
The distance between them and the reef was only now nearly crossed, and it loomed dark, sharp and angry before them. Yerril only knew that in moments his ship would be torn asunder, and he and crew would shortly be dashed upon the sharp rocks of the reef.
	
	The crew braced themselves against whatever was handy, bulkheads, mess tables that were bolted to the floor below decks. Water streamed down the hatchways and poured down the ladders from the deck above. Water sloshed around most of the crewmember's feet as they waited for the impact and the incoming rush of water. A few stalwart men stayed on the deck, covered in their oilskins but drenched to the bone nonetheless. They stood braced against the mast and railings, braving the fury of the storm that followed them like a large, brooding, black hound as it chased them, growling and snarling like something out of hell. Those few that stayed above decks did so for fear of being trapped should water fill the hull rapidly as she sank. Some huddled in sodden heaps, others were lonely humps on the deck as the sea washed over them and the rain covered them in sheets.
	
	The ship lurched suddenly, as it struck the reef. The sounds of continuous thunder, accompanied by the howling wind nearly drowned out the bone wrenching tearing sound that assailed the crew's ears, both above and below decks. The water bucketing out of the sky made all sight more than a hand's breadth away ineffectual. Though the crew knew that they had struck the reef, though they ran frantically below decks, they could not find the breach in the hull. They could not simply look for signs of water, for the rain had filtered down through everything, coming in through the hatchways, leaving water swirling and splashing around feet as they sludged along in search of the breach. What few crewmembers looked over the side of the Pride saw nothing through the spray and rain. Nor could anything be heard over the howls and screams of the wind.

	Derrl waved his hands directly in front of Kevesk's face in order to get his attention. He cupped his hands around his mouth, placed them beside the grizzled, rain-beaten, mage's ear and shouted.

	“You've got to call off the storm. I think there might be a break in the hull. We need to be able to find it.” The anxiety that showed on his face was mirrored on Yerril's.

	In response to his shouted request the sodden mage obliterated the sizzling lines of light in front of him and the runes that held the storm in place, all the while smiling oddly. “I think that you won't find the hole no matter how hard you look.” While this made Derrl puzzled, it alarmed the captain, and his reaction showed clearly on his face. The wind and the rain were dying down rapidly, and they were no longer forced to yell to be heard from less than a pace away. 

	“Kevesk, we absolutely have to find that hole and patch it now! This ship is in danger of sinking!” The excitement showed on his face, and the look on Yerril's face escalated from alarm to fear, for his ship and crew, and beyond. His emotions made themselves evident in his voice as he shook the older mage by the front of his tunic. Kevesk extricated himself from his grip, still smiling.

	“You won't find the hole,” His grin grew perceptibly wider, “because there is no hole to find.”

	“What do you mean?! No hole? How is that possible? What do you mean no hole?” The captain was stammering frightfully.

	“No need to repeat yourself, I simply mean that our friend Derrl's work held up well. Quite well indeed.”

	The storm clouds and the wind had retreated, leaving a pleasant breeze that pointed astern of them, in the direction of the Honite reef. Yerril leaned against the railing and looked back the way they had come, gazing thoughtfully one moment, staring slack jawed the next. As Derrl moved to ask him what the matter was, he, too, saw it. Two neat rows of coral, sticking out of the water parallel to each other, with a gap, gentle, ocean swells the only thing between them. Kevesk stood grinning like a half-mad idiot.

	“You, my friends, have quite literally carved out a new passage through that reef.”

	Yerril grinned, showing a few missing teeth. The wind had since shifted and was once more blowing the length of the ship from stern to bow. “Ho! Me buckos, we'll be putting her on a windward tack now!” He bellowed his orders out to the crew. Kevesk placed a hand on the captain's shoulder and grinned.

	“Why put her on a tack, when we can put the wind behind us? You forget, we have two mages at our disposal who can manipulate the wind. You may travel any which way you wish with the wind at your back.

	“The winds are at your, and your ship's disposal while we are on board. Suffice to tell me which port you wish to reach and we shall make all speed toward it.”

Chapter 50

	Mensk stood in the frame of the back door of the pint wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his belt. He heard sounds from the shed where Derrl had finished racking the supplies that Mensk had ordered and was now exercising. Mensk didn't mind in the least bit, the work was done, and it kept his help in good shape. This was good for two reasons, the most important for Mensk was that it meant that Derrl was able to do more work, as for the other reason, it was a combination of two things, or people rather. Kevesk wanted him to do these specific exercises as he claimed they built the mind as well as the body. However, as Mensk suspected, it was probably because Leylau didn't mind the feel of strong muscles, not in the least bit.

	“Derrl, there's someone at the bar who says he wants to have a word with you, I never seen him before. Do you want to talk to him or should I ask him to leave.” The sounds of movement died down as he said this. The was the sound of a brief splash, then Derrl rounded the corner of the shed, wiping himself off with a towel before he put his shirt on. He dried his hair briefly with the towel before throwing it over a piece of wood clamped in two sawhorses. He dumped the last few drops of water out of his mug on his way to the door. He stopped, handed the mug to Mensk and put his shirt on in a swift movement.

	“I'll see him, don't see what harm it can do really, don't know who it is.” He glanced at the mug in Mensk's hands now, and paused briefly. ”You know, this is kind of hard work, thirsty work too… do you think you could… you know?…” Mensk mumbled and threw his rag at Derrl before going inside to fill a mug with ale for him. Derrl followed him in and Mensk pointed out the man at the bar to Derrl, though the man stood out like a sore thumb among the regular clientele. He was far too rigid, and gave off a sense of military style that was clearly evident to Derrl. As he approached the bar the man stood up quickly and faced him to offer him a firm handclasp. Definitely military, he thought to himself. His appearance was far too uniform and neat, it wasn't realistic, he bordered on inhuman in his perfection. But in that perfection there was a youthful inexperience and anxiety.

	“Hello Ser, Darrl… I believe it is?” His behavior made Derrl feel almost as if he was trying his utmost to avoid offending him, and nearly failing in the attempt. 
	“Er… no… Actually it's Derrl, but I suppose mistakes will be made.” The man winced almost imperceptibly, he knew things weren't going well quite yet, and trying not to let Derrl know this.

	“Well, you see Derrl, the Arch Council has since heard of the run your friend Yerril's,” Point to the man there, at least he got Yerril's name right, “ ship, the Pribe I believe it's called now, made a month or so ago. They were suitably impressed and sent me to see your friend to see if it would be possible to get similar vessels commissioned for the government. He told me he wasn't the one behind the ship and sent me to you.” Derrl took a sip from the mug as Mensk place it quietly on the bar beside him. He settled in to listen. “They've essentially sent me to purchase your time and skills, and they have promised the full cost of materials and labour, yours and whomever you may need to assist you in the construction or design. Also, the military shipyards would be at your full disposal as well as their shipwrights and any other experts that you may need to consult.”
He paused for a short while, to let all the information sink into Derrl's mind. He had almost tripped over it all coming out in his haste to get the information to Derrl and now sat impatiently as Derrl mulled over the idea in his head as he drank. Mensk leaned on an elbow listening intently to the silence.

	“Now you say I can hire anyone whose help I feel is needed? And is this project to have a high priority?

	“Yes Ser, it is a project that is high on their agenda. Ser?” He waited for Derrl's response before continuing. He nodded. “They also wished me to convey to you how highly they value your skills and you.” 

	Derrl calmly finished what was left in his mug, handed it to Mensk to be refilled and conversed quietly with him so that the government clerk, or whatever he was would not be able to overhear. He listened to Mensk's response, took the mug back and slowly drained it. He set it down on the counter. 

	“S'good as always Mensk, don't lose that touch.” He turned to face the man and gave him a dubious look. After a pause he smiled and extended his hand. “I accept on condition that all those terms are accepted.”

	“Oh they will be Ser, I can assure you.” His smile was so eager that he seemed a simpleton who had just been given a treat by some favourite aunt that he could not remember. Derrl lifted the mug to his lips to take a pull from it only to sip on air instead of the expected air. The awkward young officer was fussing with various papers and parchments, seals, waxes, and stamps. Derrl handed the mug to Yerril wordlessly. It was returned quickly with just as many words passing between them. He took a pull from the tankard.

	“I've just been thinking, was it military shipyards you said I had access to were I to take on this project of yours?” His expression was calm, composed, but it made the young officer squirm uneasily.

	“Oh no, Ser! Not mine, the council's. And yes, Ser, the military shipyards are to be at your disposal.” He was now wringing his hands. What just moments ago was a sure promotion for him could now ruin him. A few of the councils advisors had warned that he might not want to contribute to the war effort, not many people would, only the professional soldiers who knew nothing else, and the mercenaries, who knew nothing but profit and saving their hides. He had accidentally let it slip that the military was particularly interested in him and his ships. He had been hoping that Darll… no, Derrl… would overlook his slipup, thinking it natural that the military would take interest in anything that the council did. Just when success had been in sight it was torn away from him with a few extra words that had already escaped past his lips.

	“The military is going to want to be able to use this in their war effort. I think you should know that I don't like this war. I'm not very inclined to help you make it get bloodier.” He shook his head, the officer was in visible distress now. It was obvious that the officer had said something that he now knew that he should not have.

Chapter 51

	Derrl glimpsed movement near the doorway, out of his range of vision, but just barely. He turned his head to see who it was. At this point he had been cornered by the officer for so long that he would resort to striking up a conversation with a complete and total stranger if only to have an excuse to get away from the council's henchman. Yerril was making his way across the room, apparently to talk to him. He carried a large roll of papers under his arm. Derrl was thankful for the opportunity to get away without having to resort to making small talk with someone he didn't know in order to do so. He waved to Yerril before turning to Mensk, who handed him a pitcher of ale and two empty tankards.

	Ale in hand, he wound his way through the sea of tables towards the booth in the corner. As he passed Yen the captain fell into step behind him. He set down the pitcher and mugs on the end of the table and took a seat while Yerril took a seat across from him and set down the roll he carried. He looked over to the bar and saw a very disconcerted, stiff-backed, young man sitting on a barstool next to where Derrl had been when he came in.

	“So who's yer friend thar?” Derrl noticed that the captain had started to slip into his adopted drawl even when he wasn't around his crew. It had probably become ingrained in him during his years at sea, and since the Pride was truly now what her name suggested he had been spending much more time afloat. He made the occasional cargo run. He still had a crew to pay, so the profit was needed, but he also just enjoyed being at sea on his ship. He often decided to make his trips without Kevesk or Derrl's help. Instead of flying with the wind directly behind him all the time, which he sometimes grew tired of, he struggled to bend the gales to his ends the normal way. He had returned from another such a day or two before and given Leylau a gift of dark green Pernaidan silks. She had been dumbstruck by the gift, as they were nearly impossible to get, outside of Pernaida, and when they were found, the prices were such that almost none were able to afford them. The only place where they could be got, at a reasonable price was the Isle of Pernaida, they were in fact rather cheap, despite the quality. The people of Pernaida weren't dangerous, or hostile for that matter, it's just that the waters off the coast of their island are plagued by a series of reefs and shallows, among other sailors favorites, extending several leagues away from Pernaida in all directions. Many shipmen would not go near the island for this reason, and those who did had the market cornered on Pernaidan silks. 

	“I need to talk to you about something, Yerril.” As he leaned forward to speak to him, the seaman filled a tankard from the pitcher of ale. He sipped out of it appreciatively and then set it aside where he used it as a weight to hold down one end of the sheaf of paper that he was unrolling. “That man…” He looked up to see the papers that Yerril had unrolled on the tabletop, being careful to avoid getting them wet. He stared at the lines on the parchment.
	
	Yerril looked up when he noticed the silence. He tried to fill the empty air.

	“Designs… I wanted to take advantage of the full potential of what we can do. It's just a silly idea of mine.” He paused and tilted the papers so that Derrl could better see the sleek lines of the new hull. He pointed out various sections of the design that he thought deserved notice. “So what do you think?” The tone in his voice made Derrl think that he was asking for approval, which seemed odd to him, partly because Yerril was easily half again as old as he.

	“It looks very nice, she's got smooth strong lines. She'll do well.” He nodded to himself.

	“What was it ye were goin' t' say? Somethin' about tha' fellow over there?”

	“Well he offered the uses of certain facilities, on the behalf of a certain agency. Now, I have the option to have them employ whoever I deem necessary. Basically, the government wants me to build a ship based on the Pride. They provide the military shipyards, the supplies, workmen, and cover the costs. They'll hire the people I want working on the project. In other words, they'll hire you if I tell them to. I wasn't certain whether I would take them up on their offer, so I was asking you.” He paused briefly. “But I'm guessing that I allready know what your answer would have been. Should I go over and agree to the offer?”

	Yerril sat silently, causing an awkward lull in the conversation, and replaced the words in his throat with ale. He glanced down at his designs, and then looked at Derrl inquiringly. All Derrl did was nod before he got up to go talk to the young officer.

	When Leylau and Kevesk found out about Derrl's plans they both asked to go. Leylau's excuse was that Derrl's seemed to be accident prone, and that he needed someone to be able to take care of him. Kevesk, on the other hand, thought that it would probably be the most fun that he would have since Derrl tried to mug him that one night. Though, to be truthful, his main motive for going along was to further instruct Derrl, and prevent him from blowing himself up or some such.

	There had been a carriage sent to bring Derrl to the yards as soon as possible. Since they had more personal effects, the others would follow slightly after. Yerril was of the mind to sail the Pride to their destination and had offered to give passage to Leylau and Kevesk.

	The interior of the carriage was dark, grainy wood. The windows had dark brown curtains, almost black. They could easily be pushed back to allow more light, though this allowed more dust to enter through the window.

	The man at the leads was not much of a man for conversation. Most of anything that Derrl said got no more than a grunt in reply. Obviously, sitting up front with the driver was not much of an option. This left Derrl to read from the small book that Kevesk had given him a while back. He felt slightly ashamed when he realized how long it had been since he'd even opened it. The curtains, however, kept out the light nearly as well as they kept out the dust from the road. This led Derrl to make a decision, either he died of boredom in a dark wooden box, or he died choking on the dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves.

	He pushed back one of the curtains to allow the light in. He fumbled in a leather that sat on the seat across from him and eventually found what he was looking for: a small, leather bound book, covered in a tracework of lines and runes. The title was in lettering that teased the eye. The print appeared simple, but something nagged at you until you looked more carefully. Upon closer inspection, the letters that made up the words “Guide to the Use of Runes” were actually many tiny runes that were so densely packed as to appear to form solid images. He ran his fingertips lightly over the design on the cover before opening the book.

	Kevesk had once told him to simply skim through the text, flipping through pages until something caught his eye. More often than not it would be something useful that got his attention. He mentioned that this had something to do with the way that the book had actually been made. And while the books were still made, and still worked, the older that your copy was, the more effectively it helped you. Though they knew how to make them, and reproduce the effect, they no longer fully understood it, and the art was almost completely lost.

	He sat down on the narrow leather bench, calmly coughing away as the dust tickled his throat, thumbing through the book. Midway through the sections on barriers a passage caught his eye.

	"Barriers are of many types, and exist in a multitude of varieties. While some are impervious to everything, some only present an obstacle to certain people or things, others still, will only allow a select few things to pass through.

	"Water barriers, as well as wizard's doors are prime examples of selective barriers. The first prevents only water from passing through the barrier, while the second prevents all but mages from entering. Some are of the mind that Toothed Gates are impassable, unfortunately, this is not so. Those that are permitted to penetrate the Toothed Gates, when such an occurrence happens, are, for the most part, well endowed with teeth, among other potentially painful attributes. These gates or doors should be used sparingly, and with caution. They are effective at keeping nearly anything out, however that which they allow in is often worse than what you would keep out. The formation of..." The text went on, but it no longer drew and held his attention. He flipped to the beginning of the section on barriers and began to read it through. His grasp of the complexities of simple barriers was such that he was willing to make a cautious attempt.

	He built up the tracework of lines in his mind that would form the runes. The complex twists and turns grew confusing as the intricate symbol progressed. A sense of accomplishment and pride overwhelmed him as he started to draw the last line. He began to laugh at a private joke. No longer would he ever end up making a meal of road dust. He finished the last line of the rune...

	...And found himself in complete and utter darkness. It was a deep darkness unlike any that he had ever encountered thus far. Darker by far than the inside of the carriage with the curtains pulled tightly shut. Darker still than the darkest night. The darkness of a world that had never known light. The experience was novel and exciting but he rapidly grew anxious as the self-imposed night around him grew malicious and drew in on its creator. His breathing grew strained as fear tightened his chest. Each breath coming more reluctantly than the last, struggling to avoid being pulled into him. His chest constricted until he was not able to draw a breath any more. He flailed his arms and screamed silently and wordlessly as he eradicated the lines in his head. The darkness retreated and he was left to swallow oddly comforting amounts of dust as he sat in the sunlight, breathing hard, sitting with his heart pounding in his throat.

	He sat reading in an attempt to calm himself down. As it was, it was much later before he thought about trying to escape the dust, let alone do something about it. His experience was no longer fresh in his mind and the dust suffocating, combining to urge him onwards in another attempt to succeed. He knew the guide was an essential tool when using runes and intended to follow his own logic.

	The runes began to form in his mind. He breathed a sigh of relief as he completed the rune and the light remained. Within a minute the dust settled, a pleasant breeze filtered through the now open windows but carried no dust along with it.

	He settled in to read for the remainder of the trip to the Arch Council's shipyards. Every so often pausing in his reading to put his head through the window into the dusty air. But he would allways return to reading the guide.

Chapter 52

	His reading led to various discoveries. No matter what problem he was trying to solve, he found that if he thumbed his way through the pages of the guide, whatever he needed would be found. A passage would leap out and grab his attention, no matter if it seemed to apply to the situation at hand. Once found, and with some creative thinking, the problem was allways solved.

	The nature of these bound sheets of wisdom, inspiration, and information was unlike any normal book. The runes in the lettering intrigued him still. He drew shut the dark hangings and shut out the light. Holding the guide out at arms length he closed his eyes and slowly reached out towards it with his mind. It was a faint mist of myriad colours. Colours that swirled and changed and shifted. Colours that were more elusive than the tiniest most of dust. The colours were indescribable at first, and the moment that you drew near to pinning a description on them they had shifted and phased into something completely other.

	As he peered deeper into the mist a solid form began to take shape. No less colourful than the mist itself, but defined from it by elements that remained constant. A rectangle of neutral light and energy, upon the surface of which he could now make out individual runes, so small as to be jumbles of lines, and each one overlapped by at least on, and overlapping another two or more.

	His mind began formulating a question. As he did, the runes swirled with more energy and fervor. His mind raced, asking questions, trying to explain it. The more questions he asked himself, the faster the runes moved in the mist of colour. The light from the runes became blinding, and his skull felt as if it would split. He did not see how to get rid of the headache short of dropping the guide and stopping his mind from looking at it. He swayed in a bout of indecision, wanting to be rid of the pounding in his head, but felling compelled to look at the runes longer still. He resolved to continue his efforts but still wanted the anvil between his ears to stop ringing from the repeating hammer blows.

	Slowly a rune began to take shape, and as it did his mind began to trace it immediately. As the tracework completed itself and he finished tracing it, his headache began to recede. The pounding grew lesser and lesser. It subsided until it was no longer painful. It became a steady, soft sort of tapping noise, as of fingertips on leather. He could count them easily but they did not intrude on any of his thinking. He listened to the beating intently for several minutes. As he realized that the repetition was rather hypnotizing his eyelids had already grown too heavy to keep open. He awoke well rested, puzzled, slightly worried, and at his destination, which was three days travel at the last time he had asked. The beat was now faint, but it remained. Once more he started to listen to the sound, but shook himself free of its hold as he began to fall into sleep.

	A barrage of sounds assaulted his ears and he turned to catch sight of the cause of the noise. The shipyards filed his field of vision almost entirely. The sheer number of people that he could see working at various tasks on and about the hulls of ships in various stages of completion or repair was boggling to the mind. The driver of the carriage that had brought him to his destination grunted as he deposited his items and pulled the door open, a signal to Derrl that he should step out into the daylight and activity.

	He reached over across the seats to get his things. He buckled a sword in a simple scabbard around his waist. He had decided not to sell it in the long run. It was, after all, something of a momento from that late night encounter with the unfortunate drunk mercenary. He had prudently decided not to wear it during his trip. Otherwise he would have been incredibly sore from sitting on a sharp hunk of metal. The only noticeable difference in its condition since the night of the encounter and now was a series of runes painstakingly etched into the blade, hilt, and handle. He Reached out into the leather bag near him and was assured that the Guide was still there. The colours flashed at him briefly. He stepped away from the carriage as he was directed in the general direction of a large building by a grunt from the driver as he climbed back into his seat.

	He had been amazed by the size of, and activity surrounding the shipyards. This didn’t compare to the massive white marble edifice that loomed ahead of him. If it wasn’t physically larger than the shipyards, it didn’t matter. The sheer overpowering sense of insignificance that the white, stoic, monster instilled more than, made up for any difference in size. The massive pillars that made up part of the front of the marble mountain flared at the top, acting as unworldly pedestals, atop which sat a most discomforting collective of creatures.

	While it was true that buildings often had one or two representations of monstrous creatures, in order to frighten away the creatures from the pits, most were tame. In the case of some buildings where they did not want to be able to see these hideous objects they were still present. Often buried in the foundation, beneath the building, so that their presence would serve to ward off the demons of the pits.

	The artist who had been hired for the sculpting of these must have been inspired by some visitation of a creature out of a nightmare. They were possibly the most gruesome, most frightening creatures that anyone here had seen. At least one horror sat atop each of the eight pillars our front. The combinations of parts were more unnatural than anything. The two situated directly above the entrance were the most elaborate and horrifying. The one on the left had the torso of a giant, deformed, hairless hound out of hell. Its gaping maw had a lower jaw that was split down the middle and was spread apart. The gruesome mouth was filled with teeth that pointed rearward. Oddly, the statue had not been given any eyes. On closer inspection he later saw that none of the figures, in fact, had any eyes. The statue’s counterpart looked like some feline with leathery skin and wings sprouting from its shoulder blades. The ears swept back and had sagged edges. As he stared at them, held in place by the appearance of these monstrosities, he was in the path of many people who began to mutter and curse as they passed him. He was jolted into movement again as someone knocked him off balance as they walked past. He barely managed to retrieve his things. Which fortunately weren’t too many. He threw a large satchel over his back and headed slightly closer to the sculpted mountain.

	There was no activity in the area immediately surrounding the white building. But looking past the two guards standing to either side of the massive entrance the bustle of people on the other side was plainly visible through the open doors. He approached the guards slowly, assuming that he was being expected somewhere within, but not all that certain of the validity of his conclusion.

Chapter 53

	As he approached the guardsmen, a small, slim, and surprisingly pale man stepped out from the shade at the base of one of the pillars. Shadow was a more accurate description of what he had stepped out of, dark enough to make any sight slightly more than obscured. As he walked up to Derrl he folded and tucked away a sheet of parchment that he seemed to have been studying only moments before.
	"You would be Derrl." More of a statement of fact than anything, and most certainly not a question, not with the amount of confidence that backed it up. "I've been expecting you. Please follow me." He led the way beteen the two now-glaring guards without so much as a backwards glance to make certain that Derrl was following. What the two guards were glaring at, Derrl couldn't uite figure out, they just seemed to be glaring a everything in general.
	As he followed the man, he found it odd that the slim clerk, or whatever he was, walked with a starnge precision, and that there was something else not quite right, but that he couldn't quite place his finger on. It nagged somewhere in the back of his mind, but wouldn't make itself known quite yet.
	Derrl allowed himself to be led down seemingly endless corridors, not seeing what good anything would do or why he would do it. He had long since given up on trying to follow the twists and turns of the path they took. No amount of effort at this point would allow him to find his way out unaided, save several unending hours of wandering.that would, more likely than not, leave him more lost than he allready was. It seemed to him that the path they took had as many turns as it was long. His legs had long since gotten tired of walking, and he still did not know exactly here he was going.
	He opened his mouth to ask how much further they would be walking when his pale guide turned abuptly about in front of a pale, white, completely unremarkable doorway that matched any number of identical white doors lining their path.