The blistering cold wind smashed against the thin frame of the man like a wave of silvery needles, relentless in their punishment. The man's jaw knotted from the warmth being ripped away from his body, yet he continued climbing toward his goal, now in sight. He moved with the grace of a cat, and no tumbling rocks betrayed his silent passage. Hands stretched upward to grasp another hold after his foot found secure placement. Hand over foot over hand, the man continued to climb until at last a vent leading into the bowels of the Agni-Haidar fortress lay within reach.

Fingers clutched at the edge of the vent, only to be snatched back with a sharp hiss. Jagged corners of glass like obsidian ripped the flesh of a careless hand. Blood and grit soiled the wound, but was already forgotten as the man turned his attention toward a sound building within the depths of the mountain. Like a whisper it began. The whisper grew into a howl, then escaped the vent in a rush of warm air. The mountain's breath lingered, then was stolen away by the next wave of icy needles smashing against the mountainside. The intruder lingered, as if reconsidering his charge, then warily crept into the fortress's only accessible entrance.

A tight fit, even for as small a man as he. Headfirst he crawled, inching his way into the bowels of the most monstrous mountain in Aether, the Throne of Fire. Every jagged obsidian edge tore and tugged at his flesh, his loose garments affording him no protection. For an eternity, he struggled through the black pipe of rock, a tomb waiting only for death to visit him.

At last, a faint warm light beckoned the intruder forward, the end in sight. Fingers siezed the rim of the vent, and with a final heave, the man spilled out into the stone corridor of the vaunted Agni-Haidar stronghold. Light blossoming brilliantly from the torch stationed beside the vent drove the intruder into a fit of squints as he struggled to regain his footing. Once clad in fine black silks, the remains of his garments lay in tatters, the rips revealing ruined flesh beneath.

Quick, darting looks shot down each end of the corridor revealed little save for the few torches struggling to shed light into the bleak darkness of the stone hallway. With pained steps, the man disappeared into the nearby shadows. Here he would remain, gathering his breath before proceeding further.

Not for the first time, he paused to consider the madness of his contract: 20,000 gold dinars for the location of the legendary training grounds of the Atarvani. Foolish to search for such a thing, but madness to search for it in the stronghold of the Agni-Haidar. Yet if he lived to unearth such an ancient secret, the Warlord of Clan Akhran would line his pockets with dinars and he would be known as the greatest thief among the Varati. Not a thief of treasures, but of --

The thought died with a faint rasping wind that rose from the corridor's end. It trickled through the stone hallway, setting the torches a'flicker and tickling the hair upon his neck's nape. Bitterly cold and merciless, it carried with it a dark tune. Hidden in shadow, the eyes of the man fervently searched the passageway again... and found nothing. The torches flickered a last time, and then were silent. The ensuing quiet that gripped the corridor was almost suffocating. Still, one sound echoed strong against the ominous bleakness of silence: a heartbeat. Deafening, rapid, it raced like that of an animal desperately seeking escape from the jaws of a predator, stalking close behind.

Weary, cold, and frightened, the man still managed a half-hearted smile. Nothing but a simple draft. It was nothing. With great reluctance, the racing heart slowly settled as did excited breaths. When calm at last, the shadow among shadows crept across the walls. In the darkness, the thief used his hands to feel along the stone. Oftentimes, his hand found nothing as they passed over a murderhole. There were many of them, in both the ceiling and walls. They looked on like the eyes of the fortress, watching the intruder with a dead gaze. Yet no alarm did they sound, they watched only.

Nothing! The man almost cursed at himself for letting fantasies run wild. He quashed the thought. Not eyes, murderholes! Just shapes in the wall! Teeth threatened to grind against one another, but he schooled himself to stillness once again. He would not make such a foolish mistake.

The man continued his stalking, dancing among the shadows of the corridors with ease, silent in his movements. Turn after turn he took until at last a sound borne of man reached his ears. Grating and harsh, it was the voice of a man ground to ruin by the wheels of time. It echoed through the hallway from a tiny window, near the floor. A vent. From this small opening, a dim light shone. Light splashed the man's face with color as he bent towards it, drinking in the sight of the scene below.

The merciless voice belonged to a man who dared time and death to claim him. His hair, whiter than that of snow, fell below broad shoulders in stringy waves. Covering an aged frame, a robe the color of his brilliant hair dangled to the pitted stone floor. Fingers, gnarled and strong, held a wicked cane as eyes dark with death's grim stare watched twelve young boys arrayed before him.

Not boys, but the initiates of the Agni-Haidar. Stripped to the waist and brandishing the symbol of Atar's property upon their backs, they stood rigid, wooden practice swords at their sides. Their faces held no mirth, no laughter as the faces of children their years should. What stared back at the aged instructor was an abomination: the smooth, rounded features of the young boys were locked into an expression of ravenously grim determination, as if death were their pleasure, and their welcome fate.

At a sharp word from the instructor, the room erupted into a ruthlessly violent melee. Children jerked their wooden blades free and savagely turned upon one another. With the grace of cats and the skill of accomplished swordsmen, they struck down their brethren. None fell easily, but the numbers of those still standing gradually thinned until at last one remained, a lone figure amid a sea of rent, childish bodies. With a crown of warm blood to pronounce his victory, this one survivor turned towards the instructor and bowed low, ignoring the odd angle at which his arm now hung.

The ivory-garnished instructor soundlessly watched the child before him, then finally nodded. At the gesture, a solitary, crimson-robed figure emerged from the shadow behind him. The thief's breath halted at the prize he now beheld: Atarvani. Cowled to hide his face, the crimson-clad priest knelt beside each limp boy to place his hands upon him. After a few moments, each boy stirred, and then finally rose. When all twelve stood rigid once again, healed of their wounds, the Atarvani retreated back into the shadows.

Atarvani! They are --

The man's eyes jerked towards the distant end of the corridor he now huddled in. The icy breath returned, leaving the flames of torches aggravated in its wake as it approached. When at least its cold touch reached the man, he could not fight the shudder that erupted. As it washed over his body, leaving him devoid of any warmth, the dark tune had become a whispering promise of death... and then was gone.

The man shuddered a last time in the ensuing silence before drawing his lips back into a snarl. He would not be frightened by such fantasies! Not him! Eyes turned downward toward the vent and the shadow that the Atarvani hid in. One Atarvani still did not mean their training grounds were here. His work was not finished. Gathering himself, he crept further along the wall, following the turns wherever they took him. A narrow stairway he found, and followed, then another. Into the bowels of the Throne of Fire he crept.

A child's shrill cry ripped his attention to a door nearby. Light blossomed brilliantly from beneath the door's edge and through its wooden cracks. So fierce was the light that escaped, it bathed the hallway with a soft luminesence. Immediately, the thief thought of his safety. Clinging desperately to the wall, he struggled to sink further into shadow, forcing himself to melt with stone.

With tortured shrieks, the voice of the child assailed his ears. The tormented sound beckoned the man to investigation despite the brilliance of the light. Closer he did creep until at last he could peer through the crack of the door into the room beyond.

A young boy of not more than five summers lay with belly down upon a stone table. The child struggled with feeble strength against bonds that held him firm. Above him, a foreboding figure clad in crimson stood with a solitary hand outstretched toward the boy's back. From this hand, threads of black and gold fire attacked the fragile skin of the child, burning. Tears welled and fell uselessly upon the floor as the boy shrieked again, shuddering from the agony of his branding. The smell of burning flesh, wafting in smoky tendrils through the air, jerked the thief from his horrifed stupor. He shrank away from the door, both petrified and elated.

Two Atarvani! Their training grounds must be here...

The thought fled from his mind as bitterly cold fingers engulfed the thief in their wispy grasp. A whispering, unreal shriek assailed his ears with a promise he had heard before. His own hand reached for the small knife he carried, jerked it free, and whirled to face his assailant.

Nothing. Torches flickered, playing with the shadows that danced upon the wall. Nothing.

The prey remained motionless save for the fit of shakes that now wracked his limbs. A tongue flickered out to lick at lips suddenly parched. An echo of the promise tickled his ears from behind and he whirled again, eyes rapidly searching the opposite direction. Only the playful flames of torches did he find, mocking him with their delighted dance. The knife-wielding hand shook uncontrollably as the thief let escape a little giggle, a chuckle only half-filled with sanity.

Slowly, and with great effort, he guided the knife back into its sheath. As it clicked home, he could not help but giggling softly once again. Nothing! It's only the drafts pouring through vents from above. He looked at his hands still quivering, and quelled it with a fist, promising to himself: it's only the drafts.

The man ripped his gaze away from the still-quaking limb and turned it toward the end of the distant corridor, and the stairwell that led downward. Ducking back into the protection of the dark shadows, the thief crept toward that goal, and then followed the stairs into the stone depths of the Mountain. The stairway grew only darker as he descended, but when the last turn of the curving staircase he made, light assaulted him from every angle.

He stood in a doorway to a monstrous cavern, brilliantly lit. No longer were the floors and walls of poorly-hewn stone. Here, both were of finely polished marble, veins of black and gold twisting through a backdrop of whites and grays. More impressive, before him stood a sea of columns, stretching from the floor to the ceiling a hundred meters distant. He stood immobilized with awe, for none of the Varas could boast such feats of wonder that he now beheld. Yet amid silent reverence, the purpose of his presence intervened. He darted toward the nearest column and began to slither forward, taking advantage of what few shadows lingered between the stone monoliths.

The forest of stone began to thin, and then vanished altogether, leaving the intruder an unobstructed view of the hold's center. Upon an simply worked dais, a figure swathed in the blood-red attire of a senior Atarvani priest presided over endless rows of Atarvani initiates. The young students, all garbed in red-trimmed white, sat with legs crossed and upturned hands outstretched. Upon these small palms, a flame danced. For those practiced few, the flame danced easily, passing from fingertip to fingertip. For those newly inducted, the flame oftentimes flickered and vanished with frustrating frequency.

They were here. He had...

Needles of ice shreeded his clothes and pierced his flesh as the cold draft that stalked him returned. A small, icy breeze ruffled his hair and whispered darkly into uncovered ears, its muffled promise now a chorus of faintly shrieking voices chanting the same, "die... die..." His clothes began to ripple more, aggravated by the persistent wind that tormented him with its biting touch.

Draft! He thought. It's just a Draft!

"Die... Die... Die..." It howled furiously.

The quivering returned. Every limb resonated with the words shrieking in his ears. Coldness gripped him, a frigid hand growing only colder. He fled. Footsteps betrayed his retreat, but he cared not. Racing, he reached the stairwell leading upward into the bleaker levels of the Agni-Haidar stronghold. One step, two, three at a time he ran on.

The frigid wind pursued like a wrathful winter tempest, its frozen voice forever screaming into the ears of the prey, "DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE..." and then fell silent as the man spilled out of the stairwell onto the callous, pitted stone floor of the upper level. A shaking hand steeled long enough to jerk the belt-knife free. The thief whirled to face his tormentor, only to see darkness lead into the depths of the stairwell below, the scene untroubled.

A soft laugh erupted from his shaking mouth, devoid of any sanity. The outstretched knife wavered, ready to be used against... nothing. Still quaking, his limbs frozen, he laughed with maddening recklessness, uncaring of whose ears that laugh fell upon. That laugh echoed down the stairwell, and was returned faintly with a different laugh, not of his own making.

Sobriety struggled to wrest control from madness. Random thoughts invaded - Run! The man turned and froze.

Before him stood the master of madness, death itself. Towering fully a head and a half above him, the nightmarish visage was clad in a lifeless black haik. No face did he have, only slits cut into a mask of cold steel. Behind that mask, golden eyes drank in the glow of nearby torches to shine with grisly intent.

The thief cackled once more as sanity slipped below the surface of the sea of madness, forever drowned. He thrust at the midsection of the ebon nightmare, but accomplished nothing. The night surrounding the figure swallowed the knife as it struck steel beneath. For eternal seconds after, death moved not at all. Shattering eternity, a hand slowly rose from inky-black depths to sieze the blade-wielding wrist in a vise-like grasp.

The man giggled, helpless, as if watching the scene unfold from a distance.

With a sickening crack, bone splintered viciously as his arm was wrenched apart at the elbow. Pain shot through his shield of insanity to strike him, and he howled. Another black hand reached up to grasp the front of the man's tattered tunic. Fingers clenched ruined silk a moment before death launched him through the air toward the distant stone wall. He crashed against it violently, another lance of pain battering his shield of madness. The fruit of his pain, tears trickled unnoticed down cheeks locked in a tortured smile. He laughed again as he cast his eyes upon the hallway stretching to either side. Down each length, shadows pulled themselves from against the wall and took the form of wrathful, night-made men. The black clad figures approached the first until all stood abreast, mirror images of one another.

Prying his attention from the terrible sight, the man glanced down at his arm and let loose another insane cackle when he saw the knife still laying in the palm of his hand. Useless. Below the elbow, his bone shone white amidst a shroud of blood as it jutted from ruined flesh. Tears flowed anew at the sight, but the laughter continued.

Joining the five black warriors, the time-worn figure of the Agni-Haidar instructor and a man clad in the blood-red robes of an Atarvani appeared. Both siezed upon the thief with unfeeling eyes. The Atarvani spoke....

"Who sent you?"

The Warlord of Clan Akhran languished upon the pillows scattered across the floor of his Seraglio. A pleased smile curled the lips of the powerful eastern Warlord. Pleased from being so newly spent by his favorite concubine, and pleased at the prospect of plans coming to fruition. The next month would bring him power unseen since the rise of Khalid Atar, for he would have control over the entire Eastern Empire this side of the Sky Bridge.

Power.

The thought pleased him so much that the entrance of the servant bringing food hardly intruded upon his imaginative reverie.

Power.

The smells of roasted meat tickled his nose and finally caused him to rise. Even the next Eastern Pasha must eat. Jeweled fingers grasped the handle of the platter's lid and pulled it free of its base. A cloud of steam broiled thick in the absence of the lid, bringing with it a dank, fetid smell.

Akhran's eyes flared in shocked outrage at what accosted his sight. The head of the thief sat amid a platter of his own flesh, turned inside out. Bowels and blood steamed as if newly prepared while the mad, smiling face of the man looked upward with lifeless eyes.

The Warlord howled his outrage, "Who has done this! Who..." It was then that Akhran's eyes siezed upon an unnanounced trio filling the doorway of the Seraglio. Two Agni-Haidar Janizars clad in lifeless black looked on with dispassionate eyes. Between them, a diminutive, crimson-garbed figure slowly lifted hands to toss back the blood-red cowl hiding the face beneath. Her face. A Shechah of the Atarvani managed an amused smile before delivering her pronouncement.

"You are called to kneel before Amir-al and..." The slender eyebrow lifted faintly with the following words, echoing ominously, "...explain yourself."

With the words spoken, the nightmarish figures of the Agni-Haidar strode forward, their intent plain. Before their ebon hands siezed him, the Warlord of Akhran used his final free moment to roar, "Noooooooo!"

FIN  

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