Monasteries, Monuments, and Mysteries

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Illustration by Tadas Sidluahskas

Gen Con lands a little earlier each year, and while that ambitious publication schedule means there's tons of new material that arrives in early August, it means nearly two months before the next scenarios arrive in late September. The long wait is nearly over! The team's been working on a variety of Pathfinder Society Roleplaying Guild scenarios that highlight northwestern Avistan in dramatically different ways. Let's hear from the developers who worked on each one.

Linda Zayas-Palmer (Organized Play Developer): What better way to celebrate the approach of Halloween than with some spooky scenarios? This month, we're kicking off a new Tier 3-7 two-part series with Pathfinder Society Scenario #10-05: Mysteries Under Moonlight Part 1: Testament of Souls, by Alex Augunas. The city of Magnimar is well known for its monuments and the blessings they provide to those who perform the proper rituals before them. Now, however, several of the monuments have been corrupted by necromantic energy from an unknown source. Out-of-control flames and the eerie moans of lost spirits haunt Magnimar's people. Magnimar's Lord-Mayor Grobaras has hired an investigator—illustrated below by Tadas Sidluahskas—but with the situation worsening rapidly, the Varisian Council has asked the Pathfinder Society to step in and put an end to the corruption. If the PCs succeed here, they'll receive a unique blessing that they can use to be particularly awesome in Mysteries Under Moonlight, Part 2!

Illustration by Dion Harris

Michael Sayre (Organized Play Developer): I'm really excited to talk about this month's Tier 7-11 adventure Pathfinder Society Scenario #10-04: Reaver's Roar from Steven Hammond. Reaver's Roar takes the PCs to the town of Roslar's Coffer in Lastwall, where local legend has it a magical helm blessed by Sarenrae lies in the heart of an ancient temple known as the Bastion of Light, guarded by a fearsome beast. Will the PCs survive the Reaver of Roslar's Coffer, or will someone beat them to the prize? And who exactly is this individual illustrated by Dion Harris, and what does he have to do with the mysteries hidden within the Bastion?

John Compton (Organized Play Lead Developer): Normally we'd have just two Pathfinder Society scenarios per month, but with the ongoing Pathfinder Playtest, we wanted to ensure that there would be plenty of playtest material. This month we release the fourth and final Pathfinder Playtest scenario: The Frozen Oath, a Tier 10 adventure written by Ron Lundeen. The Pathfinder Society's increasingly reached out to freelance explorers to map areas, survey regions, and perform other long-term studies. Although goblins aren't renowned for their scholarly rigor, an increasing number of them have sought out work with the Society. A group of Frostfur goblins recently set out into the chilly Crown of the World, and only one has returned, carrying a stone tablet that suggests the group found a large monument tied to the legendary explorer Aganhei! With the summer solstice over, the PCs need to move swiftly to reach the site while the warm weather lasts.

Illustration by Tom Ventre

Unlike the previous three Pathfinder Playtest adventures, this scenario DOES NOT include pregenerated characters. As you schedule this scenario, it is important that you either include enough time for your players to build characters or have them create characters ahead of time.

Speaking of pregenerated characters, the team's been continually revising the pregenerated character format with the help of our senior graphic designer Emily Crowell. She's created several different styles that prioritize different features, such as grouping similar information together, presenting an overview of a character's abilities on the front page, using a vertical or landscape format, and more. Our aim's to get the pregenerated character survey done soon, including some of these pregenerated character formats as visuals to get your feedback on the current formats, the changes we've explored, and what else you'd like to see.

In the meantime, be sure you're continuing to playtest Pathfinder's second edition and provide us your feedback through the surveys.

John Compton, Michael Sayre, and Linda Zayas-Palmer
Organized Play Developers

Adventures Along the Arcadian Ocean

Wednesday, December 20, 2017

The approaching solstice marks the point at which the Paizo office starts to look a little emptier for a few weeks. Just because a bunch of folks are taking some time off, though, doesn't signal any break in scenario production. We have two new scenarios coming out tomorrow, December 20th. Consider the early release our holiday gift to you!

If you're looking for a frigid adventure to commemorate a northern hemisphere's winter, look no further than Pathfinder Society Scenario #9-11: The Jarlsblood Witch Saga by Nathan King. This Tier 5-9 adventure returns us to the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, where it's the PCs' job to dissect—and possibly debunk—a centuries-old legend of a local bogeyman. The truth carries the PCs to a dying town and into the desolate taiga, and what the PCs find could change the fate of another nation thousands of miles away.

I'm pleased with how this adventure turned out. First, this continues the ongoing Sovereign Court faction's storyline in Season 9, and although The Jarlsblood Witch Saga is not a true sequel to Pathfinder Society Scenario #9-08: Birthright Betrayed, they both play key roles in setting up Pathfinder Society Scenario #9-13: The Lion's Justice (Tier 7-11) that's coming out in January. Second, I'm pleased to note that this scenario includes access to some fun gear from Pathfinder Player Companion: Adventurer's Armory 2. Third, this scenario involves a major Lands of the Linnorm Kings adventure trope that I've wanted to see in print for a long, long time.

Finally, this scenario introduces our newest venture-captain, Bjersig Torrsen. It's bothered me for a while that the Pathfinder Society's presence in northwest Avistan is limited to Sheila Heidmarch in southern Varisia (and wherever her husband Canayven has wandered that week). Linda and I have also been trying to expand our roster of non-human venture-captains, and Bjersig brings the list of regularly featured half-orcs to two (the other being the popular Calisro Benarry). What's more Bjersig has a canine pal named Mahki (modeled off one of the Pets of Paizo, a handsome husky named Ajax) who helps the very competent and unabashedly deaf venture-captain navigate the hearing world.

And that's only half of December's new releases. Linda Zayas-Palmer, the development lead, takes over from here.

The Pathfinder Society may have struck a truce of sorts with the Aspis Consortium in Season 7, but that doesn't mean that the Pathfinder Society will never again be at odds with their old foes. The Aspis Consortium has recently launched a mysterious mining operation in the Mwangi Expanse. Ever since this operation started, however, locals have been connecting it to all manner of sinister incidents. However, the Aspis Consortium's entrenched influence in the region makes opposing them a difficult proposition. If the Society hopes to uncover the truth without destroying the truce, they'll need allies.

Illustrations by Dion Harris

In Pathfinder Society Scenario #9-10: Signs in Senghor, a Tier 1-5 scenario by Kris Leonard, the Pathfinder Society seeks allies in the city of Senghor, a flourishing port that has long resisted Aspis influence. Fortunately for the Society, the mining operation isn't the only suspicious business linked to the Consortium. Hushed whispers on the streets of Senghor speak of Aspis agents lurking among the ruins of the forbidden and accursed city of Boali, whose mere mention is taboo. One brave group of Pathfinders is about to get a taste of the unknown perils that lurk on its uncharted soil, and in the process discover what drew the Consortium to its perilous shores in the first place.

Signs in Senghor also kicks off the Exchange faction's pursuits in Season 9. They may begin the season desiring stronger regional ties to Senghor and other cities along western Garund, yet as we look ahead, the faction will see more opportunities to wield its economic might less for personal enrichment but more to avert a disaster and effect lasting change.

What's more, we have illustrated another great venture-captain, Finze Bellaugh of Eledir, Sargava. I was delighted to see Finze portrayed in Pathfinder Tales novels such as Through the Gate in the Sea by Howard Andrew Jones, and the venture-captain's a consummate scholar who exudes curiosity and understanding. We're excited to give him a proper introduction.

Have a lovely rest of December!

John Compton
Organized Play Lead Developer

Adventures Worth Holding Your Breath For

Monday, April 24, 2017

Before we jump into John's preview of this month's Pathfinder Society Roleplaying Guild Scenarios, I'd like to announce the results of the "OPC Needs a New Character" contest. Drumroll, please...

The winner is... *dramatic pause*

Gwinn Jeggare, phantom thief! The author of my new character is Michael Eshleman (greysector)—Congratulations to Michael on the success of his entry!

Kudos to our two finalists, Douglas MacIntyre (for Brenda "Brackish" Hardy, the undine shaman of the deep) and Brent Strom (for Perth)! Hip, hip huzzah!

—Tonya Woldridge, Organized Play Coordinator

Illustration by Jeffrey Lai

Just as the Seattle area transitions from chilly and wet to "sunny yet inexplicably still raining," so too is the Pathfinder Society Roleplaying Guild team eager to get outside and explore some exciting locations. We're also pleased to have an exciting Season 9 schedule in place along with the name and logo, much of which we'll announce at PaizoCon 2017, so be sure to attend the PaizoCon Preview Banquet and the organized play panel the following day to ask any questions you have. In the meantime, let me share a few more secrets about this month's scenarios—both of which lead into our PaizoCon releases!

We kick off the race into convention season with an infamous race in Garund: the famous Sargava Chalice, a survival footrace through the unforgiving wilderness just south of the Mwangi Expanse. In recent years, the race has become increasingly deadly, and the Pathfinder Society has proposed allowing teams to compete as a way to revitalize the contest. The PCs are representing the Pathfinder Society in the race, and if they can brave the traceless frontier while fending off both beasts and rival competitors, they might walk away with the chalice itself—a relic with which the Society can unlock a cyclops ruin from antiquity. Lace up your racing shoes in Pathfinder Society Scenario #8-18: Champion's Chalice, Part 1: Blazing Dangerous Trails by Benjamin Bruck, bravely treaded new ground by adapting a simplified version of Ultimate Intrigue's pursuit rules to track the PCs' progress. Just be warned that one rule hasn't changed: contestants begin the race with nothing but themselves and the cloths on their backs. Time is of the essence in this Tier 1-5 adventure!

Illustrations by Dion Harris and Tom Ventre

Thus far the Pathfinder Society has traveled the elemental planes, compiling what it needs to shatter the Untouchable Opal. We're yet to visit the Plane of Water, and that ends this month as the Society is in pursuit of a crucial tool to realize its goal. Many years ago, the ingenious Pathfinder Zahra was investigating the unforgiving ruins of Koor, and she has since shifted her sights to the magnificent metropolis of Vialesk, a hub for visitors to the Plane of Water. Tragic circumstances ruined the first expedition and tarnished her reputation, but she suspects foul play and has recruited the PCs to find out what really happened. Pathfinder Society Scenario #8-19: Treacherous Waters is an exciting urban adventure set in the underwater city of Vialesk, full of strange environments and even stranger characters. Its author, Eleanor Ferron, not only contributed to Pathfinder Quests: Honor's Echo, but she also made the Plane of Water come alive in Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Planes of Power, making this Tier 3-7 adventure a real testament to her abilities and knowledge of the setting.

As a note for Treacherous Waters, keep in mind that its events tie closely to Pathfinder Society Scenario #8-20: Torrent's Last Will, a Tier 7-11 adventure coming out next month. It's not necessary to play these with the same character, though I do recommend playing them in order.

John Compton
Organized Play Lead Developer

So Much New Material!

Monday, July 25, 2016

Gen Con is in less than two weeks, and Paizo always pulls out the stops with new publications to wow the crowds in Indianapolis. This year we're bringing a big pile of exciting titles, including Pathfinder Roleplaying Game: Horror Adventures, Pathfinder Player Companion: Legacy of Dragons, and of course the much-anticipated Pathfinder Society Pawn Collection. You'll see even more at the end of August, with Pathfinder Player Companion: Haunted Heroes Handbook, as well as Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Planes of Power, which serves as a key sourcebook for the upcoming Season of the Stolen Storm!

Illustrations by Hannah Boving

But why stop there? Gen Con's traditionally the Pathfinder Society Roleplaying Guild's opportunity to release a few extra adventures. This year, thanks to the July release date being so close to the convention itself, it's almost as though they were one and the same—at least that's how it's felt around here! As a result, we have 11 exciting adventures we're featuring at the convention. Let's take a look!

Nearly six years ago, the Pathfinder Society traveled to a promising archaeological site known as Azlant Ridge outside Bloodcove at the edge of the Mwangi Expanse. Ever since then, I've heard players ask what became of that site and if the Society had uncovered more of its mysteries. At long last, we've returned, guided by contributor and veteran Pathfinder Society author Ron Lundeen, taking your Tier 3-7 characters deeper into the Terwa Uplands in Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-27: Beyond Azlant Ridge! This was also our opportunity to depict the unflappable Juliet Dias, the expedition's manager shown below.

Something's rotten in the state of Thuvia, and although the Pathfinder Society has uncovered a vile plot and helped thwart it, the mastermind is still on the loose. Thankfully, a key member of the plot has reconsidered her loyalties and has reached out to the Society for help, as she has learned that the villains intend to cast the Thuvian city-states into civil war in a bid for personal power. Political intervention isn't the Society's standard practice, but if a band of elite agents can thwart this conspiracy, avert disaster, and also eliminate the ringleader of the Korholm Agenda, it's worth entering hostile territory. Luis Loza brings Season 8 to a climatic, Tier 7-11 close in Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-28: Ageless Ambitions in Aspenthar, domain of the ambitious Prince Zinlo (pictured below)!

In April we began a grand undertaking with Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-20: All for Immortality, Part 1: First Taste of Eternity: the reintroduction of dedicated, high-level content in the Pathfinder Society Roleplaying Guild. So far the feedback we've received has been really encouraging—certainly making us consider more Tier 12-15 content in the future—and working on the series (including some ludicrous hard mode options) has been a lot of fun. Of course, high-level content benefits from high-level settings, and what better place is there for a Pathfinder to go than the heart of the Aspis Consortium. I've left the fate of the Consortium is in your hands in Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-29: All for Immortality, Part 3: Serpents Fall!

And because I'm a glutton for punishment, I took on a second adventure during this busy time: an exciting sequel to last season's Pathfinder Society Special #6-98: Serpents Rise that sends a motley band of 8th-level Aspis agents and misfit hirelings deep into Nidal to infiltrate a threat to the Consortium's authority. We debuted Pathfinder Society Special #7-98: Serpents' Ire at PaizoCon 2016, and it's undergone some polishing since then to trim its run-time, making it a great fit for Gen Con this year.

The pregenerated character adventure model has proven an exciting way to tell stories happening outside the Grand Lodge—especially when showing what's in store for the campaign's next season. Developer Linda Zayas-Palmer has also worked behind the scenes on many of our best scenarios and the Campaign Clarifications document, and this time the stars aligned for her to apply her narrative mastery and author the spectacular Pathfinder Society Special #7-99: Through Maelstrom Rift. An organization known as the Concordance of Elements has sensed a dangerous anomaly on the Plane of Air, and the ruling council (including one of its representatives pictured below) has dispatched an eclectic team representing the united elemental forces to avert the looming disaster and discover its cause. If the idea of playing a proud genie, a miniature dragon, or an elemental serpent made of living lava strikes your fancy, don't miss this great adventure for 6th-level pregenerated characters.

Phew! Time to catch my breath for a moment.

Illustrations by Sebastian Rodriguez and Dion Harris

In Season 4 of the campaign, the Society spent a lot of time in Varisia. We've taken an extended break in the years since, but with the imminent release of the updated Pathfinder Adventure Path: Curse of the Crimson Throne, the prospect of visiting Korvosa again was just too good to pass up. You may recall that the Society has a good friend, Zeeva Foxglove, who runs the nearby Green Market, and she's contacted Venture-Captain Sheila Heidmarch with a desperate plea for assistance. Scott Sharplin spins us an engaging urban adventure with mysteries, plots, and just a hint of pseudodragons in the Tier 1-5 Pathfinder Society Scenario #8-01: Portent's Peril.

One of the greatest strengths of Pathfinder Society scenarios as a medium is that they allow us to explore such a wide variety of places in the course of a year. I'm always looking for more ways to feature Tian Xia, and we planted a pretty significant plot hook near the end of Season 6 in the hope of traveling to the sorcerer kingdom of Dtang Ma. An unlikely ally (the friendly disembodied head pictured below) has pointed the Society to an abandoned temple that still contains historical records dating back a millennium or more. The PCs tread on sacred ground, though, and they must watch their step if they are to scale a mountain, study this lost site, and save a lost soul. Contributor Mikko Kallio shows off his story-telling talents in Pathfinder Society Scenario #8-02: Ward Asunder, a Tier 3-7 adventure.

Two years ago, hundreds of Pathfinders gathered in the halls of the sky citadel Jormurdun to reclaim it for study. The Society turned control of it over to the dwarves of the Five Kings Mountains shortly thereafter, and they have industriously worked to restore their ancestral home. The duergar of the nearby Darklands are none to thrilled about this development, and in a recent attack, they captured a host of dwarves, put them in chains, and began driving them south toward a future of slavery or sacrifice. Jormurdun has asked the Society to intercept the duergar before they escape, but taking on such a large force won't be easy. Mike Kimmel takes the PCs deep underground to gather allies and launch a daring rescue in Pathfinder Society Scenario #8-03: Captives of Toil, which has special opportunities for members of the Liberty's Edge faction.

Wait, you want more? Sure, I've got three more gems for you.

We're debuting a new set of six 1st-level quests by Eleanor Ferron, and Jenny Jarzabski, and Landon Winkler. In Honor's Echo, the PCs assist a disenfranchised Taldan nobleman, the descendant of the heroic Honaria Alcasti whom the empire used as a scapegoat centuries ago. In order to restore the family's name, he and the PCs search Taldor, Andoran, and Qadira for evidence of Honaria's good deeds and make a case before one of Taldor's most influential figures. Like past quest series, Honor's Echo is for 1st-level pregenerated characters, but we are decoupling past quest series (i.e. The Silverhex Chronicles and Phantom Phenomena) from the pregenerated character requirement.

Gen Con is also the debut of Pathfinder Academy, an extension of previous years' Kids Track program. This year we're adding a five-quest series dubbed Transitions that teach players key lessons—attacks of opportunity, splash weapons, combat maneuvers, conditions, and more—as they graduate from the Beginner Box to the full Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. After each short lesson is an adventure that highlights those rules and follows the story of the heroes tracking down villainous Aspis agents who have stolen holy relics from Magnimar. By the end, the players are ready to participate in some Pathfinder Society adventures. In fact, we've dedicated several tables to kid-friendly games—some even run by young GMs! Seth Brummond, Andrew Hoskins, Bob Jonquet, Nathan King, Lucas Servideo, and Michael VonHasseln contributed a combination of adventures, lessons, and wisdom to make this project a reality.

Finally, there's the big interactive event: Pathfinder Society Special #8-00: The Cosmic Captive by Matt Duval! The asteroid known as Aucturn's Tear flies through the solar system every 56 years, but strangely it has begun glowing brightly in the night sky while opening portals to another realm as it passes by planets. Hmmm... the more I talk about the story, though, the more I spoil the adventure. Let's boil it down to a few key points. First, we're exploring new design territory for interactive adventures, combining both traditional aspects of the interactive experience with a host of new ways to affect other tables. Second, it's loaded with elemental goodness—and not just the “I'm immune to critical hits” elementals, but also fun elemental themes and locations. Third, it's the first interactive adventure to combine the Roleplaying Guild and Adventure Card Guild into one giant event. Finally, it's a stellar debut to an incredible new season: The Season of the Stolen Storm!

We'll see you at the Best Four Days in Gaming!

John Compton
Pathfinder Society Lead Developer

OPC Log—4 Erastus 4716

Monday, July 4, 2016

Hello Pathfinders! I hope this blog finds you hale and hearty, having enjoyed a weekend of sun, and fun. Hopefully, the fun involved some roleplaying, particularly the next installment of the Seeker Arc, #7-26 All for Immortality, Part 2: All the God's Beyond. We are currently busy in the office wrapping up July's adventures, prepping for Gen Con, and generally surviving the chaos of the con season in full gear.

Necessary Headgear

At the PaizoCon banquet, I had the pleasure of modeling a knitted cap with the Year of the Stolen Storm logo. Lead Editor Extraordinaire Judy Bauer developed the pattern and knitted me a cap. An awesome gift from Judy, as my knitting skills don't extend past holding the needles and looking at the yarn. It is our pleasure to share the pattern with you. Please, if you do make one, remember to give creative credit to Judy!

Download the Hat of the Stolen Storm Knitting Pattern— 163kb zip/PDF

For those that weren't at the banquet, here you go:

Gen Con Events Going Fast!

For those that haven't decided yet whether to attend Gen Con in Indianapolis, Indiana, from August 4-8, I'll add an incentive to the pot. You can still purchase tickets for Pathfinder Society events.

Pathfinder Society Roleplaying Guild offers quite a few of the Season 7 scenarios, as well as premiers of two special events and the first three scenarios in Season 8's Year of the Stolen Storm. As an incentive for getting up early, anyone attending the first session of Pathfinder Society game every day (8:00 AM on Thursday/Friday/Saturday and 9:00 AM Sunday) will get an extra token to use at the prize table. Prizes this year include gift certificates to paizo.com, hardcover rulebooks, Map Packs, boons, and a few surprises.

Some of our early morning offerings:

• Thursday—#7-21: The Sun Orchid Scheme (Tier 1-5)
• Friday—#7-13: Captive in Crystal (Tier 5-9)
• Saturday—#7-15: The Deepmarket Deception (Tier 3-7)
• Sunday—#7-22 Bid for Alabastrine (Tier 1-5)

Or check out Pathfinder Society Adventure Card Guild's Season of the Runelords. Grab some tickets, start first thing Thursday morning, and play through the ENTIRE season's adventures in one go. To help you out, click here to see the event event on the Gen Con website.

Also on offer, lots of seminars and panels featuring Paizo staffers. A list of these can be found by searching "Paizo" on the Gen Con website. Featured events include Pathfinder Adventure Path Q&A, The Art of Pathfinder, Aunty Lisa's Story Hour(s) and Pathfinder in Space (Starfinder Panel).

Upcoming Pathfinder Society Pawn Set

The Pathfinder Society Pawns Collection releases at Gen Con and includes art for many of the character archetypes for the Pathfinder Adventure Card Game Class Decks, as well as frequently occurring monsters in the Roleplaying Guild scenarios. A few of the pawns are for NPCs and monsters that haven't had art before.

Illustration by Ekaterina Burmak

My favorite pawn is Raheli, the samsaran witch from the Adventure Card Game Witch Deck. With her flowing gowns and blue skin, she presents an otherworldly creature with awesome power. Go team witch!

Illustration by Ekaterina Burmak

Tanis' favorite is Angban, from the upcoming Gunslinger Deck. In her words, "He's dope. He is a portable turret and the ultimate expression of dwarves artifice."

Illustration by Dion Harris

Linda's favorite is Valais Durant, a memorable character from two different Pathfinder Society scenarios. I don't want to spoil anything, but her personality is as eclectic as her appearance. She's one of my all-time favorite NPCs, and with the new art on this pawn, she's sure to make a memorable entrance.

What pawn do you want to see most?

Until next time—Explore, Report, Cooperate!

Tonya Woldridge
Organized Play Coordinator

PaizoCon Brings Out the Best

Monday, May 23, 2016

Illustrations by Marko Horvatin

Convention season for us is a lot like hosting a large gathering of family and friends for a major holiday: preparing way more dishes than usual, aiming for more spectacular fare than we would otherwise cook, and fretting about whether great-aunt Matilda will critique how we made the pie crust. From dicing the first onion to the moment where everyone sits down and takes the first bite of food, there's always the question of whether everything turned out just right. Sometimes, though, you can just tell that everything's fallen into place before even seeing your guests' expressions. In my extended analogy, while Tonya, Todd Morgan, and Bob Jonquet have handled our seating arrangements and sending out invitations, I think my co-chefs Linda, Thurston Hillman, and Jason Keeley can agree that the menu this year turned out great.

Illustration by Dion Harris

One year ago, I ran an increasingly infamous session of Pathfinder Society Special #6-98: Serpents Rise at PaizoCon for a handful of noteworthy hooligans. One of the chief takeaways from this event was the tradition of shouting "Druma Lodge" whenever somebody mentioned Druma, lodges, money, or a host of other keywords that we have developed since then. The esteemed contributor and Pathfinder Society author Thurston Hillman was among the more...rambunctious participants, and after the game we got to talking about how the Society had done so little in Druma and what a Druman adventure [Druma Lodge!] might look like. Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-22: Bid for Alabastrine has grown and evolved in really amazing ways since then, including the incorporation of some Serpents Rise metaplot, so if you have a Spoils of the Siege boon, it might pay to have it on hand to show the GM during this adventure. As fair warning, this Tier 1-5 adventure features both roleplaying and dealing with people whose outfits cost more than your PC might earn by 10th level. Be prepared to hobnob with the high'n'mighty—including these two kalistocrats depicted by Marko Horvatin—but keep an eye out for danger!

The uninitiated might assume that I invite editors to write adventures because their manuscripts are pristine and a delight to develop. Although that's true, I've also found that Paizo's editors—including Justin Juan with #5-21: "The Merchant's Wake" and Joe Homes in #6-17: "Fires of Karamoss"—are among the more creative narrators and insightful creators to work on the campaign. This time I was especially familiar with editor Jason Keeley's work on the Pathfinder Comics backmatter and his discerning feedback while editing scenarios, so I felt that this was the guy who could handle a high-level adventure set on another plane. I have since confirmed how delightfully inventive he can be, especially in portraying otherworldly NPCs. Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-23: Abducted in Aether concludes the Master of Spells mini-arc of Season 7 and features several popular NPCs, including the commanding night hag depicted here by Dion Harris (who has also created the excellent artwork for the earlier parts of this story).

Illustration by Javier Charro

PaizoCon's not complete without a special event. In addition to Pathfinder Society Special #6-97: Siege of Serpents, last year players had the special opportunity in Pathfinder Society Scenario #6-98: Serpents Rise to portray capable Aspis Consortium agents who got to (figuratively and literally) punch Pathfinders in the face. I've really enjoyed hearing from players about their experience with the accompanying pregenerated characters and how they hoped to see those characters appear again in the organized play storyline. Over the course of Season 7, authors have helped us incorporate this motley cast into several more adventures, and it only made sense to get the gang back together for one more epic heist in Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-98: Serpents' Ire. And epic it is. Even if you're not terribly familiar with the campaign setting, there's a lot of action, a splash of intrigue, and hefty serving of the unexpected. If you enjoy the organized play metaplot, keep an eye out for all sorts of extras that might hint at what's happening elsewhere in the world and what is to come. This was an absolute blast to write (including the *ahem* lovable Iaovin Ratarion, depicted here by Javier Charro), and I hope folks enjoy playing and GMing it.

In fact, I might need to assemble another group of yahoos to do just that. You'll know it's us because while everyone else in the room is signing Chronicle sheets, we'll still be stuck on the first scene thanks to having spent hours designing a team uniform, hiding bodies, and coming up with elaborate plans to attack buildings that have nothing to do with the adventure. PaizoCon is great like that.

John Compton
Pathfinder Society Lead Developer

Looking Back and Looking Ahead

Monday, December 28, 2015

2015 has been a good year for Pathfinder Society Roleplaying Guild adventures. We set some ambitious goals, including doubling the number of interactive special events and providing several new exclusive scenarios that let players portray Aspis Consortium agents and the kobolds that live below Absalom—far more ways for aspiring 5-star GMs to run their 10 special adventures. We reassembled the powerful Sky Key and activated it to see what would happen. We have since struck back against the Aspis Consortium for its unprovoked (okay, only somewhat provoked) attack on the Grand Lodge in this first half of the Year of the Serpent, and there's more excitement to come in 2016.

It's also been a great year for new talent, whether that's the four new authors I learned about through the Open Call program or the 21 other authors (both familiar and new) whose names have appeared on the 31 adventures we've published over the past twelve months. Perhaps most significantly of all, Linda Zayas-Palmer joined the development team, greatly helping us not only give each scenario the development time that it deserves but also providing us additional time to plan out the rest of Season 7 and Season 8.

Illustration by Dion Harris

That's not to say that we've accomplished quite everything that we had hoped. There are still some sanctioning projects on the back burner, but I look forward to the long flights to and from seeing family to catch up on my Pathfinder Tales reading list. I've also packed the last few volumes of the Iron Gods Adventure Path to work on those Chronicle sheets.

So let's look at what's coming out right before your New Year's celebrations—both of which take us to uncharted territory. In fact, despite neither one being terribly Christmas-y at first glance, both of them promote the virtue of helping someone in need.

In Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-12: The Twisted Circle by Jon Cazares, the Pathfinders set out from Katapesh in order to investigate the disappearance of an Osiriani researcher who has spent the last several years studying the Mana Wastes. The trail leads to a tight-knit community south of Alkenstar, where the proud villagers endure and thrive despite the bizarre magical events that sweep through the area. I'm really looking forward to stories about this Tier 1-5 scenario, as it really lends itself well to building atmosphere, fun dialogue, and uncovering one of the spell-scarred region's secrets.

We can also look forward to Pathfinder Society Scenario #7-13: Captive in Crystal by Monica Marlowe (RPG Superstar 2015). In this Tier 5-9 adventure, the Society needs a team to track down whatever remains of five Pathfinders who disappeared years ago while using a strange wayfinder. Chief among those missing in action was Sorrina Westyr, the Society's former Master of Spells until a decade ago, when Aram Zey filled the vacancy. I've wondered for a long time who preceded the current three Masters of Scrolls, Spells, and Swords, and I had an opportunity to explore one of them while writing an entry in Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Lost Treasures. Now at last we get to follow up on that loose thread and learn what befell Sorrina Westyr and her team. I'll give you one hint in the form of an art preview: an imposing shaitan genie with the kind of muscles that cause Seltyiel to weep with envy and drive Sajan to make a new year's resolution to do more crunches. If you want your Pathfinder Society character to look this cool, take heart! This scenario also revisits one of the boons I've received the most questions about in the past year, and as a special gift to you, you don't need to have it on the same character who plays this adventure.

I'd love to share more of the art, but there's some major spoiler material among them; I want to give folks a month or so to play through the adventures before I add it to a blog. After all, 'tis the season for avoiding spoilers, thanks to the new Star Wars movie's release. As of writing this blog, I still haven't seen it, but no doubt that will have changed by the time this goes live.

May your 2015 conclude peacefully, safely, and with some great gaming memories!

John Compton
Developer

There is No Certainty, Only Adventure!

Monday, August 3, 2015

Last week the Year of the Serpent kicked off at Gen Con 2015! Along with the Pathfinder Society Specials that tie into the new season, we ran tables of the latest releases: #7-01: Between the Lines, #7-02: Six Seconds to Midnight, and #7-03: The Bronze House Reprisal. These adventures have Pathfinder Society agents scouring the streets of Katapesh, on a crunch mission for rare reagents, and sending the Aspis Consortium the message that no act of aggression is going to go unnoticed. And since our Pathfinder Society team is still on the road heading back home, let's take this opportunity to show off some of characters you'll face at the start of the Year of the Serpent!

Illustrations by Marek Madej, John Derek Murphy, and Dion Harris

In addition to the new season, we ran tables of various quests and demos, including the new Pathfinder Society Quest: Phantom Phenomena. This new quest includes 6 new 1-hour adventures for 1st-level characters. And guess what? You can grab it to download right now!

And of course, adventures are exciting, but the outpouring of support and the efforts by our volunteers are what truly make Pathfinder Society successful. This weekend Mike Brock awarded a total of 15 new campaign service awards. Please join us in congratulating the recipients in either the Friday night announcement thread or Saturday night announcement thread!

Chris Lambertz
Community & Digital Content Director

A Case of Disappearing Persons

Monday, July 6, 2015

The last of the Season 6 scenarios are out the door, meaning Gen Con is right around the corner. Linda Zayas-Palmer and I are keeping our noses to the grindstone as we develop the huge amount of adventure content that's on its way, including three new scenarios, six new quests, a new Special that features kobolds, and a new interactive special. But the important thing is that we're still here, which is more than we can say for several VIPs the Society dearly wishes to find in this month's adventures!

Illustrations by Marko Horvatin and Dion Harris

When a Chelish blockade closed up the town of Pezzack, the Pathfinder Society could do little to stop it. As rumors stir of dissent and rebellion in Cheliax, venture-captains have learned that one of the Society's top informants still resides in Pezzack. Extracting him should be a simple matter, right? It's only a matter of sneaking past one of the strongest armadas, finding one person in the ramshackle ruins of a dying town, and then smuggling him out—easy! When I created this outline, I knew it needed someone who could juggle a whole lot of canon to weave an intricate and exciting story, and freelance editor and frequent Pathfinder Wiki contributor Garrett Guillotte was a top pick. He's done a stellar job of presenting Pezzack in all of its politically twisted, war-weary glory in Pathfinder Society Scenario #6-22: Out of Anarchy. In commissioning art, it was hard to resist depicting the gnome professor at the Academy of Applied Magic who helps the PCs navigate Pezzack's strange politics.

Our other adventure returns to a country that Pathfinder Society has not visited in a long time—Ustalav—in Pathfinder Society Scenario #6-23: The Darkest Abduction. The Society's never been popular in Ustalav, and Venture-Captain Basia Kalistoff has done what she can to fight the stereotypes of grave robbing, underhanded tactics, and general seediness. When noteworthy citizens began disappearing in Karcau, Kalistoff saw her chance and offered her lodge's services to Countess Sasandra Livgrace. I knew returning author Jerome Virnich would be the right author for the job, especially given his work on Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Occult Mysteries and his credits in the upcoming Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Hell Unleashed. This adventure was also an opportunity to depict Venture-Captain Basia Kalistoff, whom we last met in Season 1.

Back to work for me!

John Compton
Developer

Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter Four: No Love Like Gold

Sunlight dripped from a tiny window into her cell. Brea lay on her doublet atop the cold ground and tried to remember how many days had passed. Four? Seven? A dozen or more? She had seen no one, heard only the moans of distant neighbors, and received no nourishment of any kind. The dungeons of Deagan's Hold were not a place to keep prisoners for questioning or before a trial, but a place to forget they had ever existed.

The brigand's face flashed in Brea's mind. His words that the dungeon offered a death worse than a sword lingered in her ears. His hollow cheeks lifted in laughter, his sunken eyes watching over her. She could not shake his image nor the inescapable knowledge that without food or water, she would lose her mind shortly before she died.

But Brea had taken precautions. Months in encampments with limited supplies had taught her how to survive. And in his arrogance, Deagan had left her fully armored. Her cuirass lay against the wall of her cell, its curve deep enough to catch a dribble of water that snaked down the stone. Those few drops of moisture had kept her alive, hoping that an opportunity to escape might present itself. She'd stayed quiet and calm, tried to conserve as much energy as possible, but another sunset slipped below the window and nothing changed.

Hope became a fleeting, foolish memory. Like love.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Brea lifted her head as torchlight flickered along the dank dungeon walls. The light grew closer, and she squinted. The resounding steps stopped in front of her cell.

"It's me, Captain," Etrim whispered and settled her torch in a nearby sconce.

Brea pushed herself to her feet. She wobbled, but steadied herself against the wall.

"I brought food and water, sir," Etrim said and shoved a hunk of bread through the barred window of the door. "And keys, most importantly, I have the gaoler's keys."

Brea considered it might be a trap. Etrim might have been the traitor in her own ranks, reporting to Deagan on her plan to stage a coup. But the lure of food and water made Brea’s stomach grumble in protest to her thoughts, and she accepted the bread.

"How's that?" she asked. The bread made her mouth water with what little moisture remained in her body. She took a tentative bite, chewed, and tore into the rest with all the ferocity of a starving animal.

Etrim fumbled with the keys, testing each one on the heavy gaoler's loop, and cursing under her breath as each failed to turn the lock. "Things have been bad, Captain, ever since Lieutenant..."

Her words died as she peered through the small window, meeting Brea's eyes. Farnick was truly dead then. Her old friend, hanged by her lover. The bread turned heavy in her stomach.

"The squadron," Etrim continued, "it's mutiny, sir. The lieutenant's death was a clear violation of our contract. No trial. Not even the slightest evidence. There."

The lock clicked. She pulled the door open with a creak, and Brea stumbled out.

"Let me, sir." Etrim slung Brea's arm over her shoulder and grabbed her torch.

"Thank you."

Etrim managed to smile the same overeager grin she'd always had. Only now, in this wretched place, Brea found it comforting.

"So who planned my rescue?" Brea asked.

Etrim blushed. "I couldn't let you rot down here, Captain."

Brea squeezed the younger woman's shoulder as Etrim led them up and into Deagan's keep.

The great hall, which normally bustled with servants, sat empty save for the Blackjackets guarding the doors. They straightened as they saw Brea and saluted.

"Sir," one of them said, "Lord Callimedes has barricaded himself in his office with his personal guard."

Etrim helped Brea into a chair at a long, wooden table. A meager plate of jerky and parsnips was laid before her.

"How many?" Brea asked and reached for Etrim's waterskin.

"Four or five."

She nodded, nibbling on a bit of jerky. "And how many have taken arms against our lord?"

The man shrugged. "Maybe twice that. Most are staying out of it, sticking to the barracks or taverns until they see who wins."

"No doubt Deagan has sought outside help. He must realize he can't quell his soldiers on his own," she said.

"We've stopped any messengers from coming or going, sir."

Etrim's steafast loyalty outweighs her inexperience.

Brea considered as she finished her first meal in so many days. "He'll find a way, if he hasn't already. I need to deal with him quickly."

She struggled to stand, and Etrim helped her to her feet.

"Captain," Etrim started, but didn't need to finish.

Brea knew she was too weak to face him. And perhaps she had always been, too weak and blinded by feelings she should never have possessed. None of that mattered now. She would finish this.

Something in her eyes must have told Etrim that her Captain would not back down today, for the young trooper nodded and said, "I'll get your sword and armor, sir."

"No," Brea said. "Leave the armor in the dungeon where it belongs. My sword will be enough. I will no longer bear the blackjacket."

∗ ∗ ∗

The climb up the stairs to Deagan's office was longer and more arduous than Brea remembered, even lacking the weight of her armor. Her legs ached nearly as much as her heart.

Etrim and two other Blackjackets flanked her. They carried a portable battering ram, but Brea paused outside the double-doors to knock. It seemed ridiculous, to announce herself before breaking in, but she wanted to hear what her former lord had to say.

"Deagan," she called. "Open the doors and surrender. Your troops might yet spare you."

Silence greeted her.

She sighed and nodded to her soldiers. "Break it down."

The slam of the ram pounded in time with her heart. Whatever affection she had for Deagan had died with Farnick and rotted in that cell, but there was a sadness there, a remorse over losing the possibility of something better. When the doors finally gave way, the tearing of timber became the scream Brea could not herself release.

She stepped over the threshold. Deagan stood with his back to the window from which he'd watched Farnick swing. Four Blackjackets formed a semicircle in front of him, their swords drawn. Among them stood Soltez, sword in hand despite his injury.

Brea frowned. She wondered if his injury had been staged, purposeful so he might scout ahead and lead them to the hobgoblin trap instead of remaining among her ranks.

"It's over," she said. "Don't risk your lives for a lord who has used your brothers like fodder for a few coins. Lay down your weapons."

She approached warily, her sword held before her. The men guarding Deagan hesitated a fraction at her words. Their posture turned unsure.

For his part, Prophet Deagan Callimedes looked regal in his white robes and jewels. He also appeared shocked and scared. In all their time together, Brea had never seen him lose his composure. Now he seemed an arrogant child, unwilling to admit defeat.

"Kill her," he ordered his men. Their hesitation disappeared, and they charged.

Brea moved faster without the weight of her armor, but she was also exposed and weary from her time in the dungeon. She sidestepped the blow and twisted awkwardly to dodge another. She caught sight of Etrim and the others who’d accompanied her from the corner of her eye. They danced with their own opponents.

Brea lifted her sword to parry as Soltez advanced on her. The block was well timed, and the clash of steel rang down her arms. She didn't want to kill him, this brother who’d abandoned her to remain loyal to his lord. Her reservations and weakened state would cost her, she knew.

As she spun to avoid another thrust and place herself behind Soltez, pain flared hot and violent across her hip. He’d caught her, but it was shallow enough for her to ignore. She brought the pommel of her sword down on the back of his head.

Soltez staggered.

“Don’t do this,” she said.

The scout turned to face her, too slow by half. He swung his sword awkwardly, and Brea easily parried it.

“Our lord has betrayed us,” she said. She kept a low guard, waiting for the inexperienced soldier to make his decision.

“You’re the traitor.” Soltez’s words were slurred. He touched the back of his head with one hand as if to slow the dizziness her blow had delivered him. “The High Prophet will come, and he will reward my loyalty.”

Brea sighed. She almost admired his devotion. Years ago, she had been just like him, fanatical in her loyalty to the Kalistocrats. But war and sacrifice, love and betrayal had changed her. The Prophets were but men and women, nestled atop their piles of gold, sending their soldiers to die for scraps of power. They hid their bloodstained hands inside white gloves. Soltez was now part of their machinations, and his actions had caused her friend’s execution.

Soltez lunged at her. She stepped away with ease and drove her blade cleanly through the gap between his armor and lagging sword arm. It was precise, deep, and killed him instantly.

“I’m sorry, brother,” she said as he crumpled to the floor.

The other Blackjackets were occupied among themselves. She scanned the room for Deagan.

She would not have noticed him if it wasn't for the flash of golden embroidery trailing from under his desk. The hem of his robe peeked at her, beckoning her.

She marched around the desk and lifted his cowering form by his bejeweled lapels.

"Coward," she said, dragging him to face her.

He squirmed and tried to push her away. His hands were familiar, almost comforting, but his eyes shone with a cold fury.

"I am your lord," he said. "You can’t do this."

"You lost that title when you murdered my friend." She shoved him against the wall. The tapestry of the Prophecies draped overhead.

"You should have hanged me. If you couldn’t love me, you should have let me go," she said. “Instead you killed an innocent man. A good man.”

Something in his eyes softened. The sounds of battle around them melted. Deagan smiled, a small laugh escaping his lips.

"I did," he said. “For you. Had you but left then instead of attacking your lord...”

His voice drew her closer, the pain in his expression weakening her further. She could barely lift her longsword, and her muscles quivered with exhaustion.

"I loved you despite everything." He reached for her face.

A white-gloved hand cupped her cheek. She let herself fall into it, close her eyes, and sigh. In that moment, she realized he was telling to truth.

Brea turned her grip and thrust her longsword up through her lord's body.

"I loved Farnick like a brother," she said, watching his eyes widen in shock then empty of life. She followed him to the floor, slumping next to him and laying her head against his shoulder. His freehand released the dagger he'd palmed, and she watched it splatter into the pool of blood gathering around them.

Her hip throbbed. Her head swam from blood loss and exhaustion. But she could no more lie down and die now than she could've in her cell. She would survive.

"Captain?" Etrim stood over her, her hand extended in offering.

Brea grasped the young warrior’s bloodstained hand and staggered to her feet.

"No longer," Brea said. "I need to leave."

"I don't understand, sir?"

"Take what you can from his holdings and distribute it among our soldiers. Other Kalistocrats and their Blackjackets will arrive soon, and they'll claim whatever remains."

"Where will you go?" Etrim asked.

"I am a traitor. They’ll hunt me across Druma, and you will let them," she said, meeting Etrim’s gaze.

Hope glimmered in the young woman’s eyes. She recognized it from her own reflection, before Deagan, before the Goblinblood Wars.

"For all of this,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “I am to blame. I’ll run until they find me, or I become too expensive to chase."

"I could go with you."

Brea smiled and shook her head. "I need you here, Etrim, to set things right. You're a fine trooper, and you'll make a fine Captain."

Even smeared in the blood of her fellow soldiers, Etrim's armor seemed clean. There were no golden etchings in the black, no magic from a lord to sully it. She wore her blackjacket with pride, and Brea hoped she would always keep her body armored, as well as her heart.

Coming Soon: An unexpected knight in an all-new Pathfinder Tales serial by Dylan Birtolo.

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter Three: There Lies the Gallows

The pyre burned for hours. Its flames seemed to lick the sky, and Brea turned her horse and troopers away from the carnage. They rode for home, though she wasn't sure what that meant anymore. Smoke rose behind them, a dark reminder of her lord's betrayal.

Twenty-one cuirasses dangled along the flanks of the remaining horses. They would carry those and the blackjackets of their fallen to Deagan's Hold, a hollow shell of the soldiers who had died in their lord's service. The armor clanked and rattled like a discordant dirge.

"He betrayed me," she whispered to Farnick. "He betrayed us all."

Her friend grunted and shifted his weight atop his borrowed horse. "One hob's word and a few coins won't be enough."

"What will it take?"

"You speak of mutiny, sir," he said. "A clear violation of contract be needed for treachery."

"Yet the Prophets can be as perfidious as they like."

He was silent a moment, then said, "And now you speak blasphemy."

Brea sighed. "You won't help me."

It wasn't a question, and Farnick did not grace her with a response.

"How long then, how long until you brand me a traitor, old friend?" she asked.

"You have done nothing yet, sir. And when you do, I'll give you a day and a night to seek your proof." His voice was flat, but she read the sadness in the slump of his shoulders.

She didn’t know why Deagan had stooped so low as to hire hobgoblins. Was it to be rid of her? He would consider the deaths of her troopers acceptable losses, so long as his goals were achieved. She had witnessed her lord sacrifice soldiers and citizens in pursuit of a few leagues of land for his hold. To Deagan, they were but resources for him to manipulate, control, and do away with at his whim.

She had thought she was an exception.

"Why didn't he just have me hanged? Concoct some story. Why the deception?" she asked, almost absently.

Farnick shrugged. "I don't claim to understand the ways of Kalistocrats, but your squadron is loyal to you. I'm not the only one who remembers your deeds in the Goblinblood Wars, and many have served years under your command, sir. We would follow you."

"But not in mutiny."

"Aye." He paused, and then added, “Not yet."

She smiled at him and nodded her understanding. She would need to acquire proof beyond any doubt that Deagan had violated their contract. And considering how meticulous her lord was with his recordkeeping, she knew there would be something in his office. Some ledger or receipt of payment. Some scrap of paper where he signed away her squadron's lives.

The clatter of Blackjackets heralded their arrival. Soldiers on the battlements saw the empty cuirasses and nodded a sorrowful greeting. Citizens going about their daily chores stopped to stare. Brea's remaining troopers marched like a funeral procession. Nine of thirty: the numbers resounded in her mind alongside the faces of the fallen.

They rode straight to her lord’s keep and collected a crowd of onlookers who followed their bedraggled band. The commotion drew citizen and soldier alike, and Brea led them to the square below Deagan's balcony.

"My lord Callimedes," she called, loud enough for all to hear. She wasn't sure if Deagan would respond. Perhaps he might be too shocked that she yet lived. Perhaps he was too cowardly to face her in such a public display. Perhaps her audacity would see her hanged, her love be damned.

Two Blackjackets, whom Brea recognized as her lord's personal guards, stepped onto the balcony. They peered around and squinted knowingly at Brea below them.

After a moment, Lord Deagan Callimedes slid into view between his Blackjackets. Gold embroidery lined his elegant robes and sparkled in the afternoon sun. Jewels at his throat and fingers glittered. Though he seemed a bright star hovering above Brea's gloomy procession, she saw the dark cast of his features, the anger that hardened his eyes to chips of ice. Deagan's white-gloved hands gripped the balustrade tight enough she heard the wood creak.

Still, her breath caught at the sight of him, her heart giving a painful lurch.

"Captain." His voice rang across the square.

"An ambush, my lord. Twenty-one of your finest troopers taken at the hands of hobgoblins." She wanted all of the Mercenary League to hear of the dead, to know of their fallen brothers. Once she had proof, what was left of her squadron would not be enough. She needed every Blackjacket in Deagan's Hold to turn against him.

Her lord was silent a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, and Brea couldn't tell if the gentleness there was for her or for show.

"Then we mourn tonight," he said, "but we also celebrate the safe return of those who live to serve Kalistrade another day. Come, give your report Captain, and let us prepare a memorial for my fallen Blackjackets."

With that he turned and disappeared into his keep.

For Farnick, duty rises above all.

Brea sighed and dismounted her horse. She nodded to Farnick and whispered, "A day and a night, old friend."

He inclined his head, saying nothing. He led her soldiers toward the barracks, while she climbed the steps toward her lord once more and wondered if that would be the last she saw of Farnick. If in the morning he would brand her a traitor and hunt her down.

Perhaps, she thought, it was no more than she deserved.

∗ ∗ ∗

Hot water soothed her battered body. A page had intercepted her and instructed that she should make herself presentable. It seemed no one was too happy with the muddy bootprints she'd left on her last visit, least of all her lord. He'd lent her use of his own bathing chambers, though she'd seen no sign of the man himself since her arrival.

She relaxed against the porcelain tub. Every once in a while, a page would enter, remove a bucket of stale water, and pour fresh, steaming water into her bath. Jasmine and white rose petals floated on the surface, scenting the air along with her skin. A decanter of chilled wine and a glass were placed on a table nearby.

"It's good to be a Prophet," she mused.

Though she avoided the wine for fear of poison, least of all a dulling of her wits, she delighted in the comfort of Deagan’s chambers. If he intended to manipulate her before killing her, she might as well enjoy herself. And if she planned to peruse his office for proof of his treachery, then she would need to employ the same cleverness and subtlety of a Kalistocrat. She would need to use whatever love he once had for her as a weapon. He had said her heart would be his undoing, and Brea needed to make that prophecy come true.

When her olive skin turned pink from scrubbing, she wrapped herself in a robe and padded to the door that led to Deagan's office. She paused to listen and, hearing no one on the other side, opened it.

Leather-bound books and papers were stacked with care atop his desk. Gold trinkets and statuettes carved from ivory decorated his shelves. A tapestry woven with the Prophecies of Kalistrade hung above the hearth. They had once laughed with devilish delight at that tapestry, tangled together below it before the hearth.

Now the fireplace stood empty and cold. Not even the plush carpets warmed her bare feet as she moved to his desk.

Dates marked the binding of each ledger. Every paper was labeled in his intricate script. Deagan was a man who enjoyed details. He memorized the annual harvests of each province in the same meticulous way his fingers knew the delicate slope of her jaw, the column of her throat, and the slow curve of her hips.

She opened the newest ledger and scanned row upon row of transactions. Most of the accounts were lost on her, but she knew enough to understand Deagan's wealth was far greater than she'd expected. If he was conducting the amount and volume of sales the ledger indicated, then he was amassing enough power to draw the eyes of other Prophets, perhaps even the High Prophet himself.

If any of the Kalistocrats looked too closely, they would discover her relationship with Deagan. Because it was a violation of the Prophecies for a Kalistocrat to have liaisons that might result in illegitimate heirs, they would strip her of her blackjacket and Deagan of his title. It was a risk she and Deagan had known, but his hold had been beneath the notice of his betters, a small keep on the border of dwarven territory. Inconsequential, until now.

His efforts to stamp her out of existence suddenly made all too much sense.

She flipped pages, seeking anything that might indicate the hiring of hobgoblins or his attempt to remove her without sullying his own hands. She found nothing.

"Looking for something, Captain?" Deagan's voice sounded from the bathing chambers. He leaned against the doorframe, swirling a glass of wine.

Brea had no answer for him, no clever excuse that would spare her. She longed for the clarity of war and a simple sword in her hand, for an opponent whose eyes she could meet, for whom her heart did not ache. In that moment, she feared her lord more than any murderous hobgoblin.

"Come, I wish to show you something," he said and turned his back to her.

She had no blade hidden in her robe, and even if she did, she wasn't sure she could use it on her lord. She followed him into his chambers, her heart dying a little with every step.

He motioned to the foot of his bed, where her armor lay atop her doublet and clothes. It had been cleaned and polished, oiled to a fine shine that reflected the evening sun that blazed through his chamber's window. The gold etchings seemed brilliant on the dark armor, and she wondered if the magical blessings had also been restored. Her new gorget had been scrubbed. The scratch where it had turned the hobgoblin's blade and saved her life was no more than a dimple she had to feel with her fingers to sense.

"You'll want to be clean and in full regalia for the memorial service," he said. "Go on."

Brea had never been shy, not during the months in battlefield encampments surrounded by hardened soldiers, nor in the presence of her lord. Shyness was a trait for noble ladies and their handmaidens, of which she was neither. But now when she grasped the cinch of her robe, she hesitated.

"What game is this?" she asked, the words leaving her throat before she could stop them.

He shook his head and sipped from his glass. "Dress, Captain."

As she removed her robe, Deagan went to his window and stared at the setting sun. Brea slipped on her clothing and pulled her arming doublet over her head. When she began strapping down the plate armor, her lord came to her.

"Allow me," he said and knelt before her. His elegant hands fastened the buckles of her greaves with ease. As he rose to assist with her gorget, she met his bloodshot eyes.

"Why?" she whispered.

He did not answer. Leaving her gauntlets on the bed, he took her hand and led her toward the window.

"There is talk of mutiny in your squadron, Captain," he said.

So he knew, had known before he caught her snooping in his study. For the first time, Brea considered the possibility of a spy among her ranks. Someone new whom Deagan had paid to report on her. She didn't want to believe in such a betrayal, but if her lord could break her heart, one of her brothers could easily break her trust.

"Some believe I have violated my contract with the Mercenary League," he continued, standing behind her as she faced the square below. A gallows had been erected, and townsfolk were gathering around it.

"So this is it then," she said, thankful that at least he had allowed her to dress as a soldier. The weight of the armor that had long protected her would now drag her to a quicker death.

"I cannot have betrayal in my ranks, Captain. It must be dealt with swiftly."

"Did you ever love me?"

His breath warmed the shell of her ear. A black-masked executioner stepped onto the gallows, tying the rope securely between the uprights. Brea saw her troopers interspersed with the crowd, Etrim's blond head next to Soltez's dark curls. Both were young and stupid enough to be her lord's lap dog. They came to watch her die.

"An example must be made," Deagan said. "Your squadron must know I do not tolerate treachery in my officers."

She nodded. "I would have died for you on the field. This will only be a little different."

"Watch. And then you must go...go far away." His breathing was labored now, and he took a step back from her.

She furrowed her brow and did as her lord ordered.

From the keep strode two of Deagan's personal Blackjackets carrying a short, struggling figure between them. The bald head and missing ear of her old friend were unmistakable.

"Farnick?" She whirled on Deagan, her stomach roiling with sickness. "No, it's me you want. Hang me."

His eyes glimmered, his face lined with pain. "You understand nothing."

She lunged at him, knocking him to the ground. Her hands clamped on his shoulders and rapped his head against the floor. "Release Farnick!"

Her lord whispered a single word, and the gorget closed around her throat. She let him go to fumble at the clasp, but it would not open.

Staggering to his feet, Deagan coughed and said, "Someone must be responsible for the threat of mutiny. Someone must pay. But not you..."

Brea rolled on the ground, fighting for air. The world around her became fuzzy and disjointed.

"I'd hoped you would violate your contract,” he continued, “and leave after the brigands...and when you didn’t, I steeled myself and sent you to the hobs to die. But didn’t die, and I knew couldn't bear to go through it all again, to see you swinging from a rope." He laughed. "You keep coming back. My weakness. My albatross."

He crouched before her. Spots colored her vision, but she could see tears streaking his beautiful face. From the square below, she heard the crowd murmur before going silent.

Farnick's gruff voice boomed with his final words. "'Tis been my honor to serve with the finest soldiers, the finest Captain, I have known."

A crack sounded as the trapdoor under his feet opened and the crossbeam bore his weight.

Brea felt her own tears roll down her face, felt Deagan catch one with a gentle fingertip. Then the world disappeared.

Coming Next Week: A friend in need in Chapter Four of Stephanie Lorée's "Armored."

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter Two: My Brother, My Blade

Farnick rode at her side, the squadron of troopers behind them. His head was cleanly shaved. No trace of stubble lined his chin. Brea's armor hung heavy on her shoulders, the gorget tight against her throat. All was as it should be.

"Goblins," Farnick spat. "There be no goblins this close to Prophet's Home and dwarven lands."

"Let us hope not," Brea said.

"I pray there are. My steel's sharp and overdue for a taste of goblin blood."

She smiled, remembering the moment their friendship was forged during the war. In truth, she had thought him mad when he dived in front of a blow that would have killed her and, instead, shattered his helm and left his ear a tattered mess. A stranger and a dwarf, willing to give his life for no other reason than she was his superior officer, and he'd been assigned to her command. Several days later, Brea had offered a daring tactic to route the enemy, and Farnick was the first to volunteer. His trust in her and her bold strategies had saved them both more times than she could recall.

There was no warrior she would rather have at her side.

"Eager for glory, old friend?" she asked.

"Aye, sir, been too little glory in recent years."

"Peace times are not the place for glory."

He frowned. "Nor soldiers, I fear."

The land was hilly and thick with scrubgrass. Mountains loomed before them like great shadows on the horizon. The closer they traveled to the Five Kings, the more the ground dipped and rose. She'd ordered a loose formation and doubled the eyes along either side of her squadron.

Brea had sent Soltez ahead of the group; despite his lingering injury he was her best scout. He would not need his sword arm if he remained unseen. And in truth, she had never needed his sword, considering how unskilled he was in battle, but his eyes were sharp and his intellect honed finer than any blade. She knew he moved somewhere in the distance, though she saw only the occasional wave of high grasses, which might have been the wind.

Thus far there had been no sign of unusual goblin activity. There were always some greenies, prowling in packs for wayward travelers. But no goblin warband would attack an armed squadron like Brea's. Goblins were crazy, but not entirely stupid.

"Will we see greenies today, Captain?" Etrim spoke from behind her. The eagerness in the younger woman's voice made Brea feel ancient.

"Perhaps," she said.

The fresh leather of Etrim's saddle creaked. She held the reigns of Soltez's horse and guided it alongside of her.

"It will be an honor to fight at your side," Etrim said.

Farnick chuckled. "Glory and honor both, then. ’Tis a good day for dreams."

Brea said nothing. Her glory had faded with the end of the war, and she'd sacrificed any honor she once had the moment she laid her heart bare for her lord.

The grasses beside her stirred. She reached for her longsword and had almost unsheathed it when she noticed the unmistakable cap of dark curls that belonged to Soltez.

"One or two leagues north." Soltez paused to salute her, almost as an afterthought. "A settlement in the clearing of some trees. Seemed empty to me."

"Seemed empty or is empty?" Brea asked.

"Is, sir. Abandoned."

She nodded and motioned to the extra horse that Etrim led. "Mount up, soldier. You've done well."

Brea knows all too well the price of royalty.

Soltez struggled to seat his horse one-handed, and Etrim paused to help him. They fell back in the formation, two other troopers seamlessly taking their places.

The scrubgrass gave way to thick underbrush and tall trees. Brea was about to call for a dismount to hack a suitable path for the horses, but Soltez assured her the clearing was just ahead. They picked their way carefully through the brush, mindful of the horses' footing. Then the trees parted like a lover’s welcoming arms.

"This is no settlement," Brea murmured as she passed a lonely, cold campfire. A few logs and thatches of leaves were scattered nearby that could have been the remains of crude shelters. But those had fallen ages ago.

"’Tis quiet, sir," Farnick whispered beside her.

She took a breath and let her ears register what was missing. The wind had died, and no birds chirped in the trees. Something foul and familiar drifted in the still air, the rank stench of an old enemy.

"Goblins," she said, drawing her longsword. "Ambush! To arms! Ambush!"

From the dark depths of the trees, the creatures emerged.

∗ ∗ ∗

They were losing. Brea could sense it in the ebb and flow of battle. They'd been caught unawares and had no time to form a defensive line. Blackjackets collapsed around her. For every trooper that died, several enemies went with him. Still, the hobgoblins poured from the shadows, seemingly endless in their numbers.

She spotted not a single goblin among the ranks, only hobs. Scarred, gray-skinned beings that stood of a height to her and fought with a brutal single-mindedness. Their arms and armor were not the scavenged mish-mash their shorter cousins preferred, but as finely made as those of any regiment of soldiers.

Of all the vile creatures in the world, Brea hated and feared hobgoblins the most.

To her left, she heard Farnick grunt as he cut down another hob, only to have a new one take its place. The rest of her troopers were scattered throughout the clearing, lost in the blur of battle.

"To me!" she called, slicing a hobgoblin in front of her across the throat and urging her horse to trample the next. "Form rank!"

Horses screamed and toppled, throwing troopers to the ground. Metal clanged, and soldiers wailed. The stink of hobgoblins and death filled the air.

One hob lunged at Brea's mare, and she batted his sword aside. The creature growled, cursing in its native tongue, and leaped. It caught hold of her horse's mane, attempting to swing itself at Brea and dismount her. She kicked it in the chest, but that only gave the hobgoblin pause. Her mount bucked, and she struggled to keep the mare under control as the hob wrenched the poor thing’s neck with one hand, while the other raised a sword to strike.

The hob’s blade descended toward Brea’s face. Unable to bring her sword up quickly enough to block, she managed only to shift her weight. The sword missed her face by a breath and landed squarely upon her throat.

The gorget sang with the screech of steel scraping steel. A spark hit her chin and sizzled. But the blade turned. Her head rattled from the impact, though it remained attached to her shoulders.

Brea rotated her too-slow parry into a slash and stuck the hob in the side. Blood splattered both her and her mare. The hob’s grip slackened, and the creature tumbled to the ground.

She didn't have time to check the gorget for damage or to murmur thanks to Deagan for his well-considered gift. Her old friend appeared at her side, a comforting presence as her troopers finally made their way toward her.

"Just like the old days, sir," Farnick shouted over the chaos. He laughed as he blocked a blow and kicked a hobgoblin in the head, sending the creature sprawling under his horse's hooves.

Other troopers gathered slowly in a loose crown formation with Brea. Surrounded by her brothers, she could think of no better way to die.

The hobgoblin swarm blocked them in, swiping at their horses. It was not the first time she and Farnick had been outnumbered by goblin infantry, and she smiled as a plan formed.

"Farnick, do you remember the battle along the Keld?" she yelled.

"Which one, sir?"

"The one we rode away from, rather than crawled."

A knowing grin spread across his face. He gave a whoop and spurred his horse. Though smaller than the other warhorses in Brea's squadron, Farnick's mare barreled through the hobs, parting them like water. Without hesitation, she followed in his wake, the other troopers behind her. They sliced a path through their enemy. Even a swarm of hobgoblins was no match for heavy cavalry.

When they reached the end of the hobs, they turned at the tree line. Farnick fanned to the left, and Brea went opposite. Another swath of creatures fell under their horse's hooves.

Finally, a horn sounded. It bleated for the hobgoblins’ retreat.

"Ride them down!" Brea ordered her squadron. Still, a few hobs managed to disappear into the woods.

When it was over, she counted her remaining people.

"Nine," she said. "Nine of thirty."

Farnick limped over to her, his horse lost among the carnage. Aside from the gouge across his thigh, he seemed unharmed.

"Three score of hobs, I'd wager," he said. He stepped on a body, and it grunted. He raised his sword to strike. "An ugly one here, still breathing."

"Wait." Brea dismounted and stood over the hobgoblin. Both of his legs were broken, and a jagged wound across his brow wept blood. She crouched before his hideous face, studying it.

"Is you," the creature said in guttural Common.

"Do you know me?" Brea asked.

The hobgoblin laughed, his eyes black pinpricks in a bulbous face. "The female captain. Said you would come. Said you were fierce."

She inclined her head, suppressing her surprise. "Who said?"

He grew quiet. Only his labored breathing and the movements of her soldiers as they gathered the dead echoed through the clearing.

Brea grabbed a broken leg and squeezed. The hobgoblin howled.

"You were waiting for us," she said. "Who sent you?"

"Gold man," the hob wailed. He reached for his belt, and Brea leaned on his leg.

"Stay still," she said and grabbed the pouch near his hand. She handed it to Farnick so she could keep her attention on the hob.

"Gold man," he repeated. "Please."

"Captain?" Farnick held out his hand.

A flash of gold drew her eye, and Brea turned to see bloody coins in her friend's palm. The face she knew too well, the lines she had traced with her lips and fingertips, stared back at her in mockery. Stamped clearly on each coin was the stoic profile of her lord, Deagan Callimedes, stained with her brothers' lives.

Coming Next Week: A room with a view in Chapter Three of Stephanie Lorée's "Armored."

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Armored

by Stephanie Lorée

Chapter One: Wine Like Blood, Blood Like Water

The tip of her longsword carved a channel along the beachhead of Lake Encarthan. She dragged the weapon, held it listlessly in her hand. Hers were dark, dirtied hands that knew the weight of good steel, the heft of a man's heart. She remembered a time when she was clean, though she could not recall the feeling of pristine boot soles, nor of a soul unstained.

The slope of the sands made her stagger. To an observer, she might have appeared a poorly crafted iron golem, a lurching, jerky warrior inside a black-plated shell. As she reached the shoreline, she stumbled to her knees.

Rays of sunlight glinted off the lake. Ripples rolled slow and heavy around her calves. It was too beautiful a sight, too bright a day for what lay behind her, for what she and her squadron had done. But that was the way of Druma, to dress atrocity in finery and call it good business. She supposed the weather should be no different than the Prophets.

The surf whispered over her legs, soaking the padding underneath through the gaps in her armor. She stayed there as though in supplication to the lake, but did not pray to any god. For a servant of the Kalistocrats, there was no god above the High Prophet, and no one who cared to hear her pleas.

She breathed evenly to slow the thrum of her heart. The air tasted of fish and copper and death. It lay thick on her tongue like bad wine, but Brea drank it down, allowed it to fill her.

"I did this," she said.

The water washed the blood from her greaves. Tendrils of red slipped through the blue, snaking away from her like streamers in one of her lord's parades.

Her lord, Prophet Deagan Callimedes, would be home now, toiling behind his desk. She imagined Deagan's smooth, tawny cheek lifted in a grin. His wide-set eyes, bright as winter's sky and just as cold. White-gloved hands cupping her face, twined in her hair. The smell of jasmine and rose petals. The faint taste of blackberry wine. His mouth.

Brea unbuckled her mail. Each section splashed as it fell. The sword—forgotten by her busy fingers—sank at her side like an offering to a wishing well. When only the arming doublet remained, she slumped forward on her hands and watched the blood stain the rhythmic tide. The lives she had taken danced in the water's reflection. Her victim's pain echoed in the bruises yellowing her olive skin, in the burn of her muscles.

They'd overridden the so-called brigands at first light. Her heavy cavalry had crushed bone and spirit before she called the dismount and began the slaughter. She swung her sword like an automaton, slicing through meager armor and severing frail limbs. When her arms had wearied, Brea used her armored body as a weapon, trampling any in her path.

Segments of that mail lingered around her now. The black cuirass still glowed a pale gold with the dying embers of magic.

It, too, had started clean, gleaming fiercely with her lord's blessings. When she'd received her promotion to Captain, Brea had been honored to receive his gift. The cuirass comforted her, protected her. Through it, Deagan had finally demonstrated his love for her.

It was her blackjacket. Her albatross.

"I did this for you," she told the lake in place of her lord.

Behind her, a man cleared his throat. "Captain?"

Brea recognized Farnick's gruff voice. He had been her lieutenant since the Goblinblood Wars, where he lost an ear saving her life. Older than her by two score and half her height, Farnick was the only dwarf in her squadron and likely her only friend.

"He'll be pleased, sir." His round face drew down despite his words, and the ruddy stubble coating his jaw only darkened his expression. In spite of his heritage, Farnick kept his head and face shaved. Those whiskers were a testament to their hard march to Lake Encarthan.

"He is never pleased," she said.

Farnick grunted. "We're fortunate then, to focus on battle and damned the results. We'll be receiving his ire either way."

A slow smile fought its way to her lips. "How are the troops?"

For Deagan Callimedes, no god is above the High Prophet.

"Soltez was wounded, bucked from his horse by his own idiocy. He'll live. The rest are uninjured and gathering a pyre."

"Morale?" she asked.

He hesitated and shifted the helm he carried from one arm to the other. "As well as can be expected, sir. We've never run down peasants before, think they're not taking well to the idea."

"They're not alone." She pulled herself to her feet and stood before him, drenched and drained of will. They exchanged a look that said they understood one another as only those who have spilled blood together might. "I will speak to Lord Callimedes."

Farnick grunted again. "No, then I doubt he'll be pleased."

Brea nodded. Remaining in her soaked doublet and riding boots, she strode from the water toward her squadron, toward the silent dead. She did not witness the final magic fade from her blackjacket, nor hear the sorrowful sigh of its passing, but in her bones she felt it die among the waves.

∗ ∗ ∗

They arrived to silence, not fanfare. The procession of her bedraggled squadron was nothing for the citizens of Deagan's Hold to celebrate, for the dark armor of the Mercenary League heralded only death. Above them, the guards manning the battlements nodded in greeting. They, too, knew the cold will and hot lash her lord favored. Only the scent of baker's morning bread comforted Brea as she led her soldiers home.

"I'll handle the squadron," Farnick told her as they rode. He had gathered her discarded armor, dried it by the pyre, and strapped it securely to Brea's horse. Though the thought of wearing the blackjacket again didn't make her happy, she knew it was for the best.

Deagan would not tolerate such a disregard for his gifts.

"Have Etrim see to the horses," she said. "She has a way with them."

"Aye. The lass will make a fine trooper one day."

Brea unhooked her belt pouch and tossed it at Farnick. "Have both the soldiers and horses fed well tonight."

He weighed the pouch in his hand, then reached in to withdraw a single coin. It was perfectly round and stamped on the front with the profile of their lord.

"He looks nicer in gold," Farnick said. "Softer, almost motherly, aye?"

She laughed, but said nothing in response. He slipped the coin in the bag and stuck it under his breastplate.

"I swear I'll only buy a bit of ale, sir," he said. "For the horses, of course."

They rode the rest of the way in companionable quiet, only the clack of horseshoes sounding over the cobblestone street. When they neared the barracks, Brea split from her squadron and turned toward her lord's keep. She was dirty with grime, her doublet still damp and smelling of mildew. Her boots left muddy footprints on priceless rugs as she walked, uncontested, to Deagan's office.

He did not look up from his desk as she entered, but said, "Is it done?"

A strange sadness colored his voice. He stared intently at the stack of papers before him, but Brea noted a rim of red around his eyes.

"It is, my lord," she said.

His head lifted as she spoke, and for a moment an emotion she could not name flickered across his expression. Then a mask smoothed over his face, cold and calm and always assured.

"Brea," he said on a sigh. "Tell me."

She stood stock straight as she gave her report. "The brigands were found and dispatched. They were but ragged men and women, a few families. The wagon taken from your caravan has been returned, but its cargo is rotten. Food, my lord. They stole only food."

"Only food." He rose from his desk. "It is food that feeds my citizens; its sale pays my soldiers. Only food bought you that armor. Only food keeps my hold profitable."

She remained motionless as he approached. He touched her shoulder briefly and inspected his hand. The white glove showed wet and dirty fingertips. His mouth formed a hard line, which only made his beauty more severe.

"What would you suggest, Captain?" he asked. "That I let thieves pillage freely if they are hungry? Let them take what is rightfully mine out of pity?"

"They didn't need to die."

He raised a single dark brow. "I did not kill them, soldier. You did."

Brea closed her eyes, her chin dropping. The screams of the brigands echoed through her mind. They would not suffer the loss of their goods, spoiled or not, nor would they be taken under arrest. A man had shouted that the dungeons were a worse death than the sword. His face was clear in Brea's memory, thinned by starvation yet too stubborn to die. It was he who had drawn the first blade, incited his fellows, but it was her longsword that sank deep in his chest.

"We were under orders," she said to the floor.

"And if you do not like my orders, then violate your contract and leave."

Her heart lurched, her head rising to meet his pale gaze. No love lay in his eyes now, no indication that he had ever looked upon her with more than disdain. Then, he sighed and rested his hands on either side of her face.

"Brea," he whispered as his expression relaxed, the hard planes of his face softening into the features of the man she knew, not the Prophet she served.

"My lord?"

He wiped the soot and blood from her cheeks, ruining his gloves. "You are the best of my Blackjackets. My most loyal soldier."

Instinctively, she tilted into his touch. These were the moments she craved, the rare times when he reminded her of why she loved him. She said nothing, too afraid a word from her might freeze his sudden warmth.

"I shouldn't tolerate your insolence," he said without rancor. "But you are my weakness, you do know that? Your heart will be my undoing."

He kissed her slow, tasting of rich wine and promises he could not keep. She lost herself for a moment, forgot the blood staining her fingernails and the sweat of battle still clinging to her. When he pushed her gently away, she was unsurprised. He went to his desk again and opened a drawer. From it he lifted a gorget, black as her breastplate but too large for her by half. When he placed it around her neck and whispered a word, the armor shrank. It fit snugly against her skin.

"For you," he said. "To keep you safe when you leave in the morning for the Five Kings Mountains."

Brea caressed the sleek steel of the gorget, her brow furrowing. "My squadron's only just returned."

"And they should have a good night's rest before setting out at dawn." He moved away from her, placed his hands on his desk's marble top, and leaned over his papers once more. "There have been reports of goblin settlements. The Five Kings are too close to my territory for us to sit idly and do nothing. My caravans may be at risk."

"Of course, my lord, but there've been no instances of goblins living near our borders for years."

Deagan stared at her. The man disappeared, leaving only the Prophet in his white robes. "I suggest you clean up, sleep, and do not test my generosity again this day."

He dismissed her with a wave, and Brea wandered out of his keep. It was not her place to question, she knew, but she could taste blackberry wine on her tongue and feel the heat of his hands against her skin. She reached for the gorget and unclasped it. It fell open in her palms, still sized perfectly to her, and clean, so much cleaner than the hands that cradled it.

She walked toward the barracks, toward her troopers and the news that there would not be time to recover. They would march at dawn, and she would discover if this new gorget was another way for her lord to show his true affections for her—or if it was little more than a slave's collar.

Coming Next Week: Love and betrayal in Chapter Two of Stephanie Lorée's "Armored."

Stephanie Lorée is an author whose short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online publications, and in 2013, she was a finalist for Writers of the Future. She also works as a freelance editor. Visit her website at stephaniemloree.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Queen Sacrifice

by Steven Savile

Chapter Four: A Burning Love

Caron stumbled as the urdefhan threw her into the cage.

She went sprawling across the ground as the shadow man slammed the cage shut and fired the bolts into place. Pain lanced up her thighs as she landed on her knees and pitched forward.

A voice in the dark. "Caron?"

It was Caleb. The boy scurried forward and threw his arms around her.

She wrapped her arms around him in turn, pulling back for a moment when he winced at her touch. Beyond the cage, a single torch provided enough light to expose the bruising and stains of dried blood where he'd been beaten.

"How bad is it?"

"I'll live," the boy said, firelight reflecting from the tears running down his cheeks. She wanted to tell him he was safe now, that she wouldn't let anything bad happen to him, but she said nothing. There was no point lying to him.

More urdefhans gathered around the bars, watching them intently.

She pushed herself up to her feet, standing protectively in front of Caleb. "Let him go," she said. "Let him go and you can have me."

One of shadow men moved closer to the cage, pressing his face close to the bars. He stood directly in front of her, close enough to reach out and touch, his vile organs bright in the dim light, and inclined his head to one side. "I already have you. You have nothing to bargain with. Nothing I want that I don't already have."

The laugher was accompanied by a strange gurgle as if coming through liquid in the creature's throat. He turned his back on them and walked away. The others followed in his wake, leaving the two alone again in the dark.

Caleb rose slowly to stand beside her. He wasn't steady on his feet.

Caron turned to look into his eyes, only to see the shadow of a ghost.

For a heartbeat it was as if she faced Neve, the boy's mother, but it was different now. Neve was an old ghost. Everyone carried old ghosts. It was how the living moved through the world that was important, not the dead who walked with them.

"It's going to be all right," she said, running her fingers through his hair.

"It's not, is it?"

"You father's waiting for you," she said. "I promised him I'd get you out of here, and I will."

"But how? How do we get out of here?"

She didn't have an answer to that. She hadn't thought that far ahead. "Our chance will come," she said, making another promise she didn't know she could keep. "Can you find your way back to the stairwell?" She couldn't, not without going back through the fissure the tunnel rat had led her down, and she had no idea where that fissure was because she'd been unconscious when the urdefhans dragged her here.

He nodded.

"Good. You have to be ready. No matter happens. When I tell you to run, you run. Promise me. You run and you don't stop running until you're at the top of the stairs." The boy nodded, rubbing away his tears. "Be strong, son."

"Yes, mother."

It was the first time he'd called her that.

She couldn't let it get to her, even though she felt a surge of love for the boy. They both needed to be strong. The darkness weighed heavy on them. There was no easy way of knowing how long they would be alone down here. She could only pray that Keir wouldn't get it into his head to come and save them. She needed to know he was up there, ready to help them get out of this hell if she could work the opportunity to escape.

But that time in the darkness gave her time to think.

She needed a plan, which meant trying to think through her moves, and think how the shadow men would react to them. This was their element. Down here they were kings. For all of her skills, for all that she had dedicated her life to the land, to nurturing it, this, down here, this was a different kind of evil. It existed purely to cause pain.

In the distance, hammers and the grating of stone haunted them as work continued endlessly on the urdefhan outpost.

The cage would have to open soon. They'd want Caleb to work. Would they use her, too? Would she get a chance to fight their overseer and buy Caleb a few precious seconds to run for the stairs? Or would they keep her imprisoned while they worked him into the ground, knowing what she was from the sigil of Erastil on her travel-worn cloak?

She unclasped her cloak and bundled it in the corner of the cell, as though making a pillow to rest her head.

Her one hope came from the possibility of the urdefhans underestimating her. If they saw her as some helpless human, not the warrior she was, then maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to do something.

She thought about huddling at the back of the cage, forcing them to come in and get the boy. It was an option, but not much of one. Since she had no weapons, she needed to turn the environment into her weapon, and that meant using the cage somehow. It was the only thing she had. Of course, she was her own best weapon.

So she waited, leaning against the bars rather than pacing the confines of the cell. She didn't want them to know she was a bundle of pent-up energy. Let them think she was beaten.

The sounds of work continued. She heard screams and what could only be the feeding frenzy that followed a fallen worker.

Then they came for the boy.

"You. Come here," one of them barked, pointing at Caleb while the other opened the lock to release him. Caron pushed herself to her feet and put herself between them and Caleb, ready for the moment the door swung open. He started to move toward the open door. She held out an arm to stop him. "I'll work," she said. "I'm stronger than I look. Let him go. I'll carry his load as well as mine. Just let the boy go." She kept on talking. What she said wasn't important, it was purely meant to keep their eyes on her.

"Quiet, human, your turn will come. Give us the boy."

She stepped aside, seemingly in surrender. The side step took her just out of line with the open door. It was a single step, but it might just save Caleb's life—if the gods were on his side.

With their eyes on him, Caron kicked out hard—not at the urdefhan, but at the door, sending it swinging into the shadow man's face. Metal jarred against bone on both sides of the iron door. The creature staggered backward, momentarily dazed.

Its sword clattered to the floor. The door swung open on rusted hinges.

This was it.

One chance.

Ignoring the pain lancing up her leading leg, Caron threw herself out of the cage, rolling fast and snatching up the two-bladed weapon as she rose. It took all her strength to lift the sword. She screamed as she swung, all of her weight behind the blow. The blade's keen edge sliced into her captor, opening it up before it could raise its own blade to fend her off.

It fell to the ground spilling its lifeblood into a dark pool that quickly surrounded its body.

"Run!" she rasped, knowing that her scream must have alerted others of their kind. The echo of running feet confirmed her fear.

She despatched the stunned urdefhan with its own sword. There was nothing merciful about the action; she couldn't leave an enemy at her back. The scent of blood would only bring on the frenzy, though, drawing them like piranhas.

They had to get out of there.

An urdefhan wants nothing but war and death.

Caleb was already twenty feet ahead of her, running hard, arms and legs pumping in a terrified sprint. She ran after him—as fast as the heavy blade would allow. She couldn't hope to catch him, not carrying the sword, but without it she wasn't getting out of here. That was the grim reality of it. He was thirty feet ahead now, and gaining ground every second they ran. She thought seriously about casting the blade aside and just running, but she knew that she'd never make it.

It was an illusion; a lie of the acoustics. The shadow men circled around them, herding them toward death. Without the weapon, she'd be helpless to make good on her promise to Keir. With it, she had a chance. A small chance, but a chance nonetheless. She'd get the boy to the stairs, and then just pray Erastil was with her for one last time, deep in the darkness of this damned place.

She pushed herself on. She couldn't slow down, even as her lungs burned and the bitter acrid air of this hellish place clawed at the back of her throat. She ran. And she prayed.

Caleb ran close to the scaffolding constructed along the outer walls of the subterranean outpost. Up above, Caron saw slaves watching him run. They were lit by oil burners along the wooden platforms. The flames didn't so much as flicker and the slaves didn't whoop or cheer. The whole thing was eerily quiet. They'd seen others make a run for it, only to be herded like cattle by the urdefhans and then set upon. Every time it happened it only served to drive home the fact that no one got out of this hellish place alive.

Theirs weren't the only eyes watching them run.

She saw the organs of the urdefhans radiating rich spots of color in the dark, like malevolent fireflies swarming around them.

Caleb was fifty feet ahead now, dangerously alone should the shadow men attack.

They were creatures of the dark; they didn't need the oil fires. They lived their entire lives down here, hence the pigmentless nature of their skin. They didn't see light and shade like she did. He mind raced. Did they see by heat? She didn't know, but it was possible, wasn't it? And if that was the case, fire could effectively blind them if it was fierce enough.

If she could reach the bottom of the stairwell they had a chance.

"Run!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, not to urge Caleb on—the boy was flying—but to draw the shadow dwellers to her.

And then the first voice cried out from above.

One of the slaves urging her boy to run for his life.

The cry was taken up by a second slave.

Then a third.

In a few seconds the entire subterranean cavern echoed with that one word called out by first one voice, then a dozen and yet a dozen more, until it swelled into a baying chorus that brought the urdefhans out to silence it.

And then it hit her: down here chaos could be her fiercest ally.

Without thinking, she veered away from Caleb's disappearing light and ran, head down, toward the scaffolds, venting a wild cry as she hefted the double-bladed sword and unleashed a wild swing straight for one of the thick stanchions holding the precarious structure up. She knew even as she did that some of the slaves would be hurt by the collapse—but others could run. And catching one boy in a crowd of frightened, panicked, and desperate slaves running for their lives would be so much more difficult.

With the oil burners toppled, the fire would spread quickly to the wood, consuming it with bright blinding light.

The collapse was fast as it was brutal. And deafening.

Caleb faltered, looking back over his shoulder.

Caron urged him on. They had seconds, not minutes.

The sounds of pursuit came from every direction. Flames moved in the dark space that was the distance. She saw children streaming down from the collapsed platform, bleeding and battered, hobbling toward the lights, each trying to help the other in a bid for freedom. They wouldn't get far, but it was better to die trying to taste freedom than it was to work slavishly to death only to become meat for the beasts. She couldn't save them all, and she couldn't wait for them to climb the stairs; she could only focus on Caleb. If any of them got out, then Erastil be praised, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

She saw her boy standing at the bottom rope of the wooden stairway that led out of the pit, ever upward finally to the sun.

And to Keir.

"Up!" she yelled as he hesitated.

Behind her came the sounds of dying.

The boy was rooted to the spot, staring at the chaos behind her.

"Your father's waiting. Tell him I love him. I love you. Now go!"

He snapped out of it and threw his torch on the ground to light her way, and started to climb.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Half a dozen rag-clothed children ran toward the light. Behind them came countless urdefhans, their vile faces twisted by the firelight. She couldn't wait for the children. But she couldn't damn them, either. She froze, great sword in hand, knowing she couldn't take the first step up toward freedom while they were so close and yet so far away. Her fate was sealed; she was going to die down here. That was the deal she offered the universe. One moment of divine intervention—these lives saved, her life traded.

And it would buy time for her son to flee.

No matter what she'd thought no more than a day ago, he was her son in every way that mattered. Family was about more than blood.

"Faster," she screamed at the children. "Run!"

She looked up to where Caleb was, near the first platform. He still had so far to go. He looked back down at her. She snatched up the torch he'd thrown down, and raised it above her head. Its flame burst into life as she swung it through the air.

He knew what she was about to do. She could see it in his face. She didn't want to look at him anymore. Now it was all about dying.

Queen sacrifice. It felt like forever since Keir had shown the boy the move.

She turned to face the oncoming blackness, holding out the burning brand in one hand, the urdefhan blade in the other, with just one single thought: keep the enemy at bay. Every moment could be precious, every heartbeat increasing the chance for Caleb to climb further out of their reach.

The first of the rag-clothed children reached her. She urged the girl up the stairs. Then the second and the third. But time was running out. The urdefhans were almost on them. The fourth and fifth made it to her together, but the sixth—a young boy clinging onto some childhood toy he couldn't bear to be parted with—was brought down by the first on the savage shadow dwellers. She should have let the child die, but she couldn't. She hurled herself at the creature, thrusting the flame in its face to drive it away from the boy, then dropped the blade to scoop the frail child up, and sweeping the burning brand through the air stepped back and back to the stairs. "Run for your life, little one," she whispered. Tears streaked down her face. One life for seven. That was a good thing. She couldn't think about the children who hadn't made it to the stairs.

The urdefhans gathered around her, coming close to the flame. The nearest released a gurgling cry that revealed its fear of the fire. But the torch wouldn't burn forever.

She dared not turn her back on them. When the flame died, so would she.

The last of the children was only twenty feet above her. "Keep going!" She yelled at them. There was one last weapon she could use, she realized. "Spill the oil from the burners!"

She had no way of knowing if they'd heard her, but a glance up into the shaft confirmed that they were climbing, Caleb lost to sight now as the slowly turning spiral promised to take him to his father.

The horde grew braver as the torch burned lower, looking to surround her. Caron defended the ladder with nothing more than the dying torch. They knew she was not going anywhere. They knew that it was only a matter of time. And they were faster than the children. It was useless to fight them. This was their world.

Caron felt a single drop of oil fall on her face. They'd heard her.

She retreated onto the first wooden step and with her empty hand reached out for the first oil burner, the only one the children had missed. She upended it, the oil splashing over her arm and down her left side.

The urdefhans came on, crowding the stairs, braving the flame.

Caron swept the torch through the air, causing it to ripple with the oil fumes.

She had to hope it was enough.

She had to believe the boy would make it all the way to the top.

She swung again and again, pushing them back until she felt more oil spilling from above. It wasn't a steady flow. She prayed it would be enough and touched the torch to the rope. A gout of flame rose from it and raced up the twisted threads. She dropped the torch to the floor. The wooden treads began to smoulder. It would be enough. It had to be.

"Remember, I love you, son!" she shouted again, not knowing if her voice would carry out of the pit, but needing the boy to know. They wouldn't catch him now. That was all she'd wanted. She'd kept her promise. It had taken everything she had, every ounce of strength was gone.

As though in answer, the flame caught her oil-soaked foot and leg, chasing up her body as she blocked the way to the children, burning bright, and carried on chasing after them up the stairs. The urdefhans howled their frustration.

There was no way past the burning woman.

Coming Next Week: The web fiction is taking a break next week for Gen Con coverage, but it will be back on Wednesday, August 20 with a preview chapter from Tim Pratt's brand-new Pathfinder Tales novel Reign of Stars!

Steven Savile is the internationally best-selling author of almost twenty novels and many more short stories, set in both original worlds and those of Primeval, Stargate SG-1, Warhammer, Torchwood, Dr. Who, and more. He won Writers of the Future in 2002, has been a runner-up for the British Fantasy Award and shortlisted for the Scribe Award for Best Adapted Novel, and won the Scribe Award for Best Young Adult Original Novel. For more information, visit his website at stevensavile.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Queen Sacrifice

by Steven Savile

Chapter Three: The City Under No Stars

Caron braced herself against the uneven rock, staring down at an impossible sight.

She didn't know what she'd expected to find down here—some rat-infested lair, a warren of caves with dripping stalactites, lichen smeared walls, maybe a subterranean river winding through the cavernous space, but not this. Not what looked like the foundations of... of what? She stared down at what looked like some monstrous outpost and for the first time since stepping into the darkness was truly terrified.

Spires of stone rose toward what should have been the sky, the twisted columns supporting the overbearing weight of the cavern's roof. Lights burned in a few windows, like tears on the face of the rock walls where the oil burners lit the workplace. She watched as dozens of shadows swarmed over the scaffolds like ants. She knew where the children had gone; they hadn't been slaughtered for food, but were being used as slave labor down here, worked until they dropped, useless. Only then would they become meat for the shadow men.

It was all of her worst nightmares brought to horrific life.

The pit opened up as it descended, its circumference growing wider and wider as the shaft plunged all the way down into the depths. It was cold, too, colder than she'd ever imagined possible with no wind.

The air was dead in her lungs.

She was still above the outpost, looking down on the slack-skinned slaves as they worked mindlessly carving the stones, lifting, carrying until their knees buckled and the inevitable moment when the shadow men fell upon them. Somewhere among them was Caleb. She prayed that he was, like she'd never prayed for anything before in her life. The fact that they needed the slaves meant she had a chance of fulfilling her promise to her husband.

She crept closer, working her way down.

More than once she had the unshakeable feeling she was being watched.

From one of these openings she caught sight of something glinting; something that could have been a pair of eyes.

The opening was barely wide enough for her to climb inside—not that she wanted to.

She tried not to think about it.

The noises from below grew louder the further she descended, the sound of metal against stone echoing up around her toward the surface. It wasn't fighting she'd heard; it was the sound of industry.

Now she was sure something was watching her as she descended.

Whatever it was, it had to be smaller than the shadow men, but that didn't mean it was any less dangerous.

Caron pressed herself tight against the rock, feeling sharp edges dig into her back, and waited for a moment, no more than an arm's length from the opening.

Another flurry of dust and grit slid from the edge.

She moved quickly, trusting that she wouldn't lose her footing on the wooden slats, and reached into the tunnel with one hand.

Her fingers closed on leathery flesh, her grip causing whatever it was to squeal in surprise.

She clutched the thing tightly and hauled it from the safety of the tunnel, wary of snapping teeth or snatching claws. Looking at the creature's miserable hide, she found it difficult to imagine it posed any kind of threat. It stood less than half of her height, its body a pale leathery gray that had never seen the sunlight. The creature's hands—grubby black hands with clawed fingers—looked good for clawing through the earth. Its eyes blinked hard at her in the feeble light, unused to even this pale brightness. It wasn't a creature at all, she realized. It was a boy, but he'd been down here so long he'd lost almost all semblance of humanity.

"Please," it wheedled in a high-pitched voice loaded with fear.

She pulled it so close she barely needed to whisper: "Did they bring a boy this way?"

"The urdefhans?" he said, stretching out the word. So that's what they were.

She nodded.

Even her worst nightmares come to life won't stop Caron.

The youth nodded rapidly. "I saw them, I saw them."

"Did they have a boy with them?"

"Yes. Yes. Down and down. They took him. Working now. Digging. Digging. Always digging. That's what they do with them. Work, work, until they can't work no more. Then they eat them."

"Show me," she said.

Keeping a tight grip on his hand, she followed the ragged boy down deeper into the pit, struggling to keep an eye on both him and the outpost for signs of danger. She had the urdefhan's two-bladed sword, and was ready to use it if the pathetic thing turned on her. She certainly wasn't about to trust him. Caron had no intention of dying down here. She was going to get Caleb back to his father.

They reached another landing, still high above the outpost, yet to descend below the stone sky. Caron knew she couldn't hope to hold the boy captive all the way down. The climb was impossible. "Don't make a sound," she said.

He nodded eagerly, glancing at the sword in her hand. There was fear etched on his gaunt features, but whether it was of her, the sword, or the urdefhans, she had no way of knowing. All she could hope was that the blade wouldn't be put to the test.

The lights were closer now. This was clearly the last landing before the stairway reached the ground below. From here she could see the shadow men and the slaves moving like a wave of blackness between the lights.

"Stay close." The boy pointed down with a clawlike hand. "This way the urdefhans can't pass. Come with me. Yes. I will take you through an old tunnel. I know the old places. I will take you close to the children. But then"—he shrugged—"I leave you. Where you go is up to you, but I won't walk into that place. I like living."

Caron had to trust him, like it or not, she wasn't getting close to the outpost undetected without him. And if he turned her over to the shadow men, then that was a risk she was just going to have to take. Without his help she had no hope of finding Caleb. It was as simple as that. She'd raised the boy for most of his life, but for the first time she saw him not just as another woman's son, but as her boy.

The bottom of the stairway lay shrouded in shadow.

She could hear the urdefhans moving even above the constant hammering and crashing of metal on stone, barking out orders in their vile tongue, but she couldn't see anyone keeping watch for intruders. Why would they? This was their domain, even if it was only some distant outpost on the far edge of their territory. No one in their right mind would dare enter their nest willingly, especially not the beaten down peasants from the villages along the mountain range. Those souls were broken.

"Here, come, come," he said, keeping her pressed against the wall.

She glanced back upward. The top of the vertical shaft was so far away that it seemed little more than a pinprick in the blackness.

Her fingers ached from the effort of maintaining a grip tight enough to remind the ragged boy he was her captive.

He led the way through narrow gaps in the rock, forcing her to turn side-on and scrape through, knowing he could just as easily be leading her into a trap. She thought of Caleb. That was all she needed to motivate her.

"How much farther?" she whispered.

"Soon there," the boy said. "Just a little further. Come, come."

He motioned below to a narrow opening in the rock. It was barely the size of the tunnel shafts that had lined the walls during their descent. She had no choice but to release the wretched lad and let him crawl ahead of her.

He was fast, much faster than she could possibly be.

She followed him into the rat hole.

The rock closed in on her as she shuffled inch by inch in the dark. Soon she was in total blackness, the tunnel turning and twisting, following the line of least resistance through the rock where the fissure had split it. The boy was out of reach. She was alone in this claustrophobic space. She sent a silent prayer to Erastil and gritted her teeth as she crawled on. In what seemed an almost immediate answer, she caught a glimpse of firelight casting a weak glow into the end of the passageway ahead of her.

The boy was still there, waiting for her.

"Quickly, quickly, quickly," he urged, pushing his head back into the opening. It blocked out the light. She scraped her back against the rock above her, struggling to squeeze through the narrowest of the tunnel with the two-bladed sword in hand. She moved on her hands and knees, eyes forward, focusing on the chinks of light that promised an end to this hell until she was out, the ground in front of her bathed in firelight.

The boy's high-pitched laughter filled the air.

Caron scrambled out of the tunnel, desperately trying to silence him, but she couldn't get close enough.

He clapped his clawed hands together delightedly, squealing at the top of his shrill voice. The sounds echoed around the cavernous space.

"Should have killed me dead, shouldn't you? Too late now. Should have used that big sword. Bye-bye, dead woman. Bye-bye."

Caron realized too late that there was another, markedly smaller fissure in the rock behind the boy, too small for her to be able to follow him as he disappeared out of sight, leaving her alone in this hellish place.

She rushed to the opening, and fell to her knees, vainly reaching inside for the boy that wasn't there.

Hands closed on her shoulders, grabbed at her hair and dragged her to her feet.

How could she have been so stupid? How could she have allowed herself to fall into the hands of the urdefhans so easily?

Because she'd wanted to trust the boy. She'd wanted to believe in the essential goodness of humanity. She hadn't wanted to believe that all this time in the darkness could have made him less than human.

She was turned to face her captors, their internal organs bright in the firelight, their fetid breath causing her to gag. Behind her, off down the fissure, she could hear the echo of the tunnel rat's mocking laughter.

Coming Next Week: A flame in the darkness in the conclusion of Steven Savile's "Queen Sacrifice."

Steven Savile is the internationally best-selling author of almost twenty novels and many more short stories, set in both original worlds and those of Primeval, Stargate SG-1, Warhammer, Torchwood, Dr. Who, and more. He won Writers of the Future in 2002, has been a runner-up for the British Fantasy Award and shortlisted for the Scribe Award for Best Adapted Novel, and won the Scribe Award for Best Young Adult Original Novel. For more information, visit his website at stevensavile.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Queen Sacrifice

by Steven Savile

Chapter Two: Into the Dark

Caron woke in darkness.

Stale smoke had brought her round. The only sound on the entire mountainside was her own breathing. Her hands were tied behind her back. A cloth, damp with her own saliva, was bound across her mouth.

Hands moved behind her head. She felt them tugging at the knot that was caught in her hair. Instinctively, she struggled against them.

"Don't fight me, please." An old woman's voice. Caron couldn't see anything.

Finally, the cloth blinding her was tugged down from over her eyes and the gag was pulled free, leaving Caron's mouth harsh and dry.

An old woman leaned over her.

Caron stiffened, ready to fight for her life, but the woman shook her head and whispered fiercely, "Your husband went after the boy..." She looked up toward the mountain.

The woman struggled with the ropes binding her wrists and feet together. She wasn't working fast enough.

"What were those things?" Caron rasped.

"Shadow men," the woman said. "Daemons to some. Old creatures from the dark." She cut Caron's ties.

Keir had gone after Caleb. He wasn't like her. He wasn't a fighter. He was a good man. A peaceful one. Kindhearted and quiet, thoughtful. And now he'd chased the monsters back into the damned earth they'd crawled out of. He would tear the mountain apart rock by rock if he thought it could save his son, but what he couldn't do was face down the shadow men and win. He would die up there.

She had to stop him before he reached their sanctuary.

Caron could only hope that she could follow them all the way and that they hadn't gone deep into the Darklands yet, because that, surely, was where they had come from. Some crack in the earth or tunnel down into the dark. They would be moving much faster than Keir. They knew where they were going. He was driven by fear and panic. For all she knew, he could be stumbling around in the dark, lost.

That was a better, safer alternative than catching up with them.

"They've taken all our children," the woman said. "They took my son. My niece. They took Jakan's three boys. We were trying to save ourselves..."

That explained the lack of children, but not why they'd offered Keir's child to the daemons.

"Why did you do it?" Caron spat out the words like a curse.

The old woman shook her head. "We have no young men or women of our own left for them to take." She said it as if it was a reasonable explanation. "It's too late to save your son, but if you're fast you might still have a husband. Go, and may your god go with you."

Caron's arms ached from being bound so tightly. She tried to massage the life back into them and get the blood flowing.

"Where are my things?" she asked. "My bow, my sword?"

The woman shook her head again but offered her a rusty knife she'd probably rescued from the communal cooking area. "I have this," she said hopefully.

Caron took the knife, but it was a useless thing, with no balance for throwing, its blade too short to be particularly good for cutting. But it was better than nothing. Barely. She tucked it into her belt and set off.

She moved fast, racing back up what had been the path of light. It had burned out while she'd been unconscious. She saw the dark shadow of the Briar Throne up ahead, and paused, remembering where she'd first seen the so-called shadow men up in the fissures of the mountain above her. She called out Keir's name.

There was no reply.

She pushed on, stopping a couple of times to check the ground for tracks. It was all but impossible to see anything, with dawn still an hour or more away, but the shadow men hadn't been particularly careful when they'd come down from the mountain. She could just make out the trampled undergrowth where they had descended.

Up ahead she saw a light.

It was the faintest glow coming through the dense foliage that clung to the actual rock face. She pushed her way through, bracken cutting her hands and pulling at her trousers. Two burning torches were driven deep into the dirt, between them a wide fissure in the stone. Her breathing slowed, but her heart beat faster.

There was no sign of any of the thin-skinned, ivory-boned creatures, nor of Keir.

She stood at the mouth of the cave, listening to the eerie cry of the rising wind and the shell-like echo as it funneled through the mountain. She knew that Caleb was down there somewhere, and that Keir had plunged into the darkness after him, desperate and unprepared.

The bones of a savaged sheep carcass festered on the threshold, surrounded by the smaller bones of small forest animals with strands of meat still hanging from them. They marked the way. The shadow men weren't picky when it came to their diet: meat was meat, be it sheep or boy.

She was dragged from those dark thoughts by the distant sounds of shouting and the clash of steel.

Then Keir's voice split the night.

Caron pulled the knife from her belt and snatched up one of the guttering torches. Then she plunged into the darkness.

She ducked beneath an overhanging spur of rock, moving over loose stones as she closed the gap between her and the sounds of Keir fighting for his life. The acoustics inside the cavern mouth were disconcerting; all of the sounds seemed so much closer than they really were. Caron had never felt comfortable underground, with the weight of the world just a few feet above her head and pressing down on all sides. She moved as quickly as she dared, the light of her torch seeming all too weak. The place smelled fetid and foul. It reeked of carrion and dead air.

She heard a cry. The sound echoed back to her, seeming to come from all sides at once.

Her heart hammered in her chest as cold sweat broke and ran down her back. She gripped the dagger tighter in her hand and went deeper into the twisting passage, quickly losing her orientation in the darkness. The sound of her own breathing filled the cramped confines.

The passage opened into a wider space. It offered her choices: three tunnels feeding off it. There was no obvious way of knowing which way Keir had gone. She kicked out in frustration at a cairn of stones, sending them skittering across the ground and raising a high-pitched chittering from high up above her. Caron raised the firebrand over her head and saw a chimney that stretched up and up. The flame guttered in a draft and she realized the flue must open out somewhere. The chittering intensified. She felt a sudden surge of air and in seconds the sound transformed into a flurry of wings. Blackness came sweeping down the shaft, swelling until it seemed to fill the entire the cavern. Then she was being beaten and battered on all sides as bats stormed out of the chimney, swooping through the cave back toward the mouth.

Keir will do anything to protect his son.

She stood stock still, letting the bats flitter and flap all around her, until finally they were all gone and any hope of stealth with them.

Caron dropped to her knees at the entrance to the first of the three choices, looking for some sign of disturbance, something to signify that Keir had come this way. There was nothing. She did the same at the middle passage before moving on to the opening on right-hand side, where she saw a single score mark cut into the stone at waist-height, marking the way.

She smiled; even in the heat of the moment Keir knew she wouldn't abandon him.

Caron set off down the tunnel. The ground inclined steeply after a turn and turnabout, with a series of staggered drops taking her down fifty feet in a tight stair.

The air was thicker down here, but not cold. That was peculiar. But then, there was nothing natural about this passage.

The torch in her hand burned low, the fire consuming the reeds woven around the wood. It wouldn't burn forever. She felt the heat against her fingers.

And then a cool breeze touched her face. That shouldn't have been possible this far under the mountain. Suddenly, the walls echoed with a low cry of pain. It was the only sound in the darkness and seemed to fill the entire mountain, as though the rocks themselves were crying out.

At the foot of the stair another series of choices confronted her, but scoring on the stone marked the way ahead. More choices met her, but with each one came another of Keir's marks.

Time lost all meaning in the darkness.

She kept moving, following the occasional cry or clash of steel, not understanding how the sounds could carry so far, or if they could be trusted. Abruptly, she came upon the edge of a vast pit lined by a winding, wood-and-rope stairway. The stair coiled its way down and down, disappearing into the darkness long before it reached the bottom—if there was a bottom.

The pit's walls were lit by shallow bowls of flaming oil set into sconces every so often, creating a spiral of light that corkscrewed its way down into the heart of the earth. From where she stood the sight looked spectacular, but the lamps provided scant light for anyone making the journey down.

Movement caught her eye.

Halfway down the staircase—before shapes lost all meaning to the shadows—she saw her husband fighting for his life.

Caron didn't hesitate. She stepped out onto the first rung of the wooden ladder-stair, gripping the guide rope as the wooden slats swayed alarmingly beneath her weight. Then she was racing down to reach Keir.

The entire construction creaked alarmingly as it took the strain. But it held. She felt the vibrations and impacts of Keir's desperate fight shiver up through the timbers.

One of the shadow men would have been more than a match for a simple man like Keir, no matter how strong his heart, but Keir wasn't facing just one. There were three of the vile creatures down there. He didn't have a prayer. Caron sent a silent entreaty to Erastil, hoping Old Deadeye could hear her from so far deep beneath the land that was his domain, offering up her life in return for Keir's.

Her shoulder scraped against rough stone as she descended deeper and deeper, eyes fixed on the shadows fighting below her. More than once, hugging the stone wall brought her perilously close to toppling one of the oil bowls.

The three black shapes clustered around a fourth one unmoving on the ground. Keir. She had heard no screams. She desperately hoped that the shadow men had feasted before their battle with Keir, but even if they had, the reek of blood and the promise of fresh meat must surely be irresistible to their kind.

The platform lurched precariously beneath her. Keir couldn't defend himself. It was as simple as that; she was his only hope—if he wasn't dead already.

The black shapes looked up at her as she charged down the curving wooden platform, the feeble knife held out before her.

"Keir!" she called, turning his name into a battle cry, desperate for him to respond in some way, any way, even if it were just a sound—anything that meant he was still alive. She refused to believe she was too late. Refused with every bone in her body, every ounce of her being. She used her fear and anger as a font of energy, channeling it into her weapon arm.

She would save him.

Even in the grim half-light she could see Keir had given as good as he got. The three creatures were badly injured, with deep cuts flaying their eerie flesh, the opening folds exposing brightly colored organs beneath. Keir had given everything to try to save his son. But it wasn't enough.

The first of the damned creatures launched itself at her, but Caron was ready for it.

She held the knife as tightly as she could. She couldn't afford to lose the blade if it caught against one of those ivory-white bones visible beneath the shadow man's transparent skin.

The first slice tore through the creature's flesh, slicing its throat and showering her with a fountain of its acidic blood.

The acrid-smelling air burned her lungs, but the shadow man fell, convulsing as it clawed at its own throat, unable to stem the flow of death pouring out of it.

She moved lightning-fast, dropping on the fallen spawn and rising with its vicious, two-bladed weapon in her hand before either of its kin could fall on her.

Caron plunged the blade into the second shadow man's heart, ripping it open with the weapon's serrated edge as she pulled it clear, and turned on the third before it could flee.

She roared her primal rage and launched herself at the thing as it charged at her. Their weapons met, the impact shivering down the length of her arm. The jagged blades ground against each other, slipping hilt to hilt as both combatants refused to break. The creature came in so close she could smell the vile, sulfurous reek of its breath as it bared its teeth and tried to take a chunk out of her neck. She drove a knee up, and its jaws snapped together, forced closed inches from her throat by the body blow. The shadow man loosed a howl that echoed from the rock to the very depths of the pit. She forced it away, but it came back at her twice as hard, twice as fast, driving her back up the unsteady platform, trying to use its momentum to take her over the edge.

Caron felt the wood beneath her shift alarmingly, cracking around her heel, as the shadow man launched himself at her again. She felt something explode inside her, pain threatening to blind her as the creature's clawed hand gouged into the soft meat of her side.

The pain was excruciating—but so much worse when the creature withdrew, pulling at her flesh.

The thought of death, here, beside the man she loved, flashed through her mind, but she clung on to the possibility that Caleb was still alive down there and focused on that instead of the pain. She rammed her borrowed two-bladed weapon up into the multi-colored organs of the beast, and forcing it up until it tore through the creature's throat. Gore and blood spilled forth as the mocking howls of the shadow man went silent.

It was over.

But even in death the thing was still a danger. She fought against its corpse, the cumbersome bulk of which sought to pull her from the platform. After an awkward struggle, she managed to extricate herself from it, but then lost purchase on the corpse and watched as it fell from the platform and was swallowed quickly by the darkness below. The impact came long seconds later. The shadow man's blood dripped from one step to another like something alive.

Keir still hadn't made a sound.

She could not leave him, but she couldn't abandon Caleb either. It was a dreadful choice.

She crouched beside her husband, running her fingertips across his cheek, barely holding back her tears. Her thumb touched his lips, split and caked with blood. She almost pulled it away when one swollen eye flickered open. He groaned. It was the faintest of noises, and she wouldn't have heard if her ear hadn't been so close to his lips. He was alive.

"Caleb," he said. One word. It was all he had the strength to say. It spoke more eloquently to the man he was than a million fancy words could have. Even now his only thought was for his boy.

"I'm going to get him back," Caron said. "Trust me." He didn't argue with her. "You have to go back to the surface. I will get him. I promise you, my love."

He tried to rise, but even in the dim light of the oil lamps she could see the agony etched on his face.

"Promise me," she said, and meant it. She loved him. She would bring his boy back, though it might cost her everything. It was a price she was willing to pay, for him. For them. Because that was what love really was. "Please. Promise me you'll get out of here."

"I need... to come with you... He's my son."

"You'll only slow me down. Trust me. I won't let you down."

It was an impossible promise, but she needed him to believe in her.

With his teeth clenched tight he nodded and took her hand as she helped him to his feet. He had to brace himself against the wall to stay standing.

"Promise me. I need to hear you say it."

Keir looked at her. He knew.

He nodded again. "I promise."

She kissed him then, on those cracked and bloody lips, and said, "I love you."

"I know," he said and turned away, using the guide rope to haul himself step by agonizing step up the winding stairway. When he was thirty feet above her, Keir turned. She wanted to believe he was smiling. "I love you, too," he called down to her. She swallowed. It was the first time he'd said those words to her.

"I'll bring him home," she whispered. It was a promise not just to Keir or herself, but to the world.

She turned her back on the love of her life and descended.

Far below, she saw the glow of more lights. There was nothing welcoming about them.

Coming Next Week: Subterranean pursuit in Chapter Three of Steven Savile's "Queen Sacrifice."

Steven Savile is the internationally best-selling author of almost twenty novels and many more short stories, set in both original worlds and those of Primeval, Stargate SG-1, Warhammer, Torchwood, Dr. Who, and more. He won Writers of the Future in 2002, has been a runner-up for the British Fantasy Award and shortlisted for the Scribe Award for Best Adapted Novel, and won the Scribe Award for Best Young Adult Original Novel. For more information, visit his website at stevensavile.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.

Queen Sacrifice

by Steven Savile

Chapter One: Lord of Summer

Caron looked on as Keir pushed the wooden piece the length of the board. Keir had carved it himself, fashioning the likenesses of kings and queens and knights so he could teach his boy the game, which represented so much in life.

The boy was improving. It wouldn't be long before he beat his old man.

The thought pleased Caron. She wasn't the boy's real mother, but motherhood was about more than just bringing a child into the world, wasn't it?

Keir moved his queen, placing it where it could be taken by Caleb's black knight. The boy looked up at him with a bright smile and took the piece, not suspecting for a moment that his old man was devious enough to set him up for a fall. It would be a lesson, even if it came at the cost of that wonderfully innocent smile.

Caron studied the board. Moving the knight away from its defensive position allowed Keir to push his bishop into place, which in turn would force Caleb to move his king into a position where check mate was only a couple of moves away. It was all about looking ahead, seeing the possibilities and permutations the game presented.

The boy stepped unwittingly into the trap.

Keir was merciful, ending the game in a couple of minutes.

"Lose a fight, win the battle," Keir said.

Caleb nodded. He was a quick learner and wouldn't fall into the same trap twice.

Keir rubbed one of his huge hands through the boy's mop of hair.

Caron felt the familiar prickle at the back of her neck. It was irrational, of course, but she envied them their closeness.

In the morning they would move on. There were miles left to patrol before they rested again. Then, at least she could concentrate on what she had been trained to do, instead of watching the two play and feeling maudlin for a life not lived.

∗ ∗ ∗

Caleb's innocence is outweighed only by his optimism.

It was easy to see why the range was known as the World's Roof. Even here, far from their loftiest heights, the snowcapped peaks were spectacular to behold, intimidating as they clawed up at the sky. Some of the mountains, like the Mhar Massif off to the east, pierced the clouds and kept on climbing until their summits were far out of sight. There was something primal, elemental, about the mountains' presence in the world. They seemed to taunt the fleeting nature of humanity and promise that no matter what, the land would abide.

It had been a long journey skirting the Kodar Mountains along the borders of Varisia and Belkzen. On the way, the travelers had seen things that could never be unseen. But at night it had been the sounds rather than sights that would never leave Caron, especially the gentle, low moaning of the willow-'o-wisps. She knew the dancing lights were the last echoes of the great sacrifice the marsh had seen, and she had been unable to differentiate those ghostlights from the lost soldiers who had given their lives in that desperate blood ritual to deny the orc devastation so long ago. Caleb was both old enough to understand the implications of those flickering lights and impressionable enough to imagine there was some kind of glory to be won through self-sacrifice. The world would batter that out of him in time, but until then it was Keir's and her job to love, nurture, and protect the lad.

She paused, mopping the sweat from her brow, and looked up again through the thick forest lining the lower slope. The trees thinned out as the incline steepened, leaving roots exposed and clinging to the bedrock where the soil had slid away. In a month, the leaves would turn to golden brown, crumple, and fall, but for now the forest was in the last bloom of summer.

They pushed on. Gradually, the trees thinned around them, the sounds of the forest giving way to the whistle of the wind as it swept down through the mountains and the crunch of scree underfoot.

There were risks that went with any patrol, especially one that had lasted as long as this one, but there were rewards, too. One of those was contact—with the world, with the good people and glorious creatures that brought it to life.

She turned the patrol in the direction of the huddle of buildings in the distance.

Smoke rose from the main house.

She was hungry, and she knew Caleb would be, too. The boy was always hungry. He'd inherited his father's larger-than-life appetite.

"One night won't hurt," she told Keir. She knew the road weighed on him more than it did her. It had been her choice to live like this. When his world fell apart, he had fallen in love with her, slowly, one day at a time, but she was never going to be Neve, who would always be his first love. During those first days and weeks on the road, it was painfully obvious that Keir had come with Caron to escape the ghost of his departed love. Neve was everywhere in their old village, in every stone and every window. He'd see her in the river, her reflection bathing even if her memory could never be washed away. So Caron had made the offer: "Come with me. Her ghost will still be here when you return, but maybe you'll be better able to cope with it." That had been so long ago now, and more and more he'd talk to the boy about home, about teaching him skills in the forge, and the life they had waiting for them. Going home wasn't something she looked forward to in the same way. For them it was a beginning; for her it was an end. An end to this life they shared where they were the entire world to each other.

"Then we move on," he agreed, thinking she was as keen to be moving again as he was. "We don't want to be out here when winter arrives."

Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

She nodded.

As they neared, people emerged from their houses. One woman, draped in a thick shawl, leaned in close to a muscular man who stood head and shoulders taller than the others. Her voice didn't carry. Caron put a smile on her face. She took in the people and the surroundings. There were obvious signs of preparation for some sort of celebration, though she couldn't think of any holy days they might be observing. Perhaps it was a coming-of-age ceremony?

A big burly man stepped forward, his arms spread wide. "Welcome, welcome," he said, grinning broadly. "Come, join us. You must be hungry. Thirsty. Please, be welcome."

"Thank you," Keir said. "The promise of a decent meal is music to my ears."

"I'll have beds made up for you. Rest."

Keir took the man's outstretched hand. "There's no need to trouble yourselves."

"It's no trouble," the man said. "What's ours is yours. Today is a good day—the Festival of the Sun. Please. We may not have much to offer, but what we have we will gladly share with you."

Curious faces watched as the newcomers walked between the rundown houses. The locals' clothes were patched and poor, their skin etched with the shapes of the bones beneath. It was painfully obvious these people were living on the edge on starvation, and yet they were willing to share what little they had.

The man showed them to a tiny house that was bare save for the essentials and reeked of cold and damp. It was a small village. An empty house felt like a greater tragedy than it might have in a bigger town. Who had lived here? Why was it empty now? Caron ran her fingers across the wall, wondering what stories the stones might tell.

They were supplied with water and soap to wash themselves, and given time to change out of clothes smeared with the grit and grime of their journey. "I'll send someone to scrub them for you," the man said, and then closed the door behind him.

Caleb, exhausted, was sprawled out on the simple cot that lay in the corner of the room, his eyes closed. Caron admired his unerring warrior's talent of being able to catch a nap whenever and wherever the chance arose.

"The boy's got the right idea," Keir said, and within minutes was fast asleep himself.

For a few minutes, Caron tried to follow suit, but no matter how she tried to let her mind drift, sleep would not come. Reluctantly, she rose and went out for a walk.

"Hello again." It was the man who'd shown them into the house. "I hope you're hungry," he said with a smile.

"You really shouldn't trouble yourselves."

"It's no trouble, really. We don't see many travelers these days, and it would mean the world to us if you'd stay, enjoy the celebration." He looked down at his feet, then up at her, obviously uncomfortable. "You might have noticed when you arrived... We don't have any children of our own. We won't be here much longer. We weren't blessed. Our little community is dying." He raised his hand to fend off Caron's look of sympathy. "It's just a fact of life," he went on, "and no great tragedy to be honest. We've got a good life here. However, and feel free to say no, it just struck me that it would be a great honor if your boy could take part in the festivities?"

"How?"

He smiled softly. "It has been a long time since youthful laughter filled these hills. The feast calls for a Lord of Summer... do you think he would like to be our Lord of Summer?"

"Lord of Summer. I don't think I've come across that before." Her words were not quite a question but invited an answer just the same. The question she really wanted to ask was where had all of the villagers' own children gone—or had none ever been born? An entire barren generation seemed unlikely, even in such a small community. Had the children died? Disease was always a threat. They were a long way from any help. Her mind raced with the possibilities, trying to fasten on the most obvious one that would explain the sadness she felt from the villagers. Something had happened to the children, a sweeping sickness had taken them, something like that. If so, that was a sorrow she could share, and it would explain so much.

"For generations we have celebrated the arrival of autumn," the man said, "and given thanks to the mountains for the shelter and protection they afford us. It goes back to when I was a boy, and when my father was. The Lord of Summer represents the best that the village has to offer. Even though your son is not one of ours, he would still represent so much of what we were and want to be again. All he needs to do is take his place on the Briar Throne and smile."

She'd come across plenty of towns and villages that clung onto long-held beliefs and rituals. Some were no more than explanations of natural phenomena like the rise and falls of river levels, the coming of the new moon, or the changing of the seasons. Giving thanks to the mountains was no stranger than any of those. She smiled. "I'm sure he'd love that."

"Wonderful. Wonderful. We'll need to go through the ceremony with him, of course, practice the few lines he'll need to say, but that'll take only a few minutes. First, we should see about getting you fed." He smiled and led her back to the house.

As he closed the door behind her, she realized she hadn't seen anything of the village.

∗ ∗ ∗

The sun sank lower in the sky, casting a gloom inside the room.

People came and went, bringing with them food and questions about the world outside. Everyone was so friendly. She went outside. She could see Caleb dressed in a costume of leaves and vines. He waved to her, clearly delighted to be the center of attention. So like his mother, Caron thought, and so unlike herself. But that was blood for you: it couldn't be denied.

The man who'd greeted them came over to meet her at the door. He smiled warmly. "Thank you so much for doing this. Your boy is having the time of his life."

"I'm sure he is." Caron looked across at Caleb as he was fussed over by half a dozen women old enough to be his grandmother. By the time they were finished with him he'd be every inch the young, virile Lord of Summer they needed. Looking at him there she didn't see the boy; she saw his father the day she'd lost her heart to him. The boy was his double. She couldn't help but smile, remembering the man who'd stolen her heart. But of course that meant remembering everything else, too: the naming ceremony, and the fact Keir hadn't chosen her no matter how desperately she'd wanted him to just say her name and take her hand and dance together into the sunset.

They followed the man between the houses, to the green in front of the main communal house. The entire village had gathered. She could feel them holding their collective breath as a Caleb stepped forward, dressed in the lush colors of summer. His costume was completed with a crown of leaves that had been picked that morning and were already beginning to brown and curl. The crown was a reminder that summer couldn't last forever, no matter what rituals or ceremonies you performed.

The boy walked slowly, his footsteps caught in the rhythm of a softly beating drum. She hadn't noticed the drummer. The sound seemed to be emanating from within the huddled buildings.

At the edge of the settlement, a path lit by fiery brands led the way up into the mountains. With the sun lowering in the sky, the brands created a path of light. Caleb led the procession, walking slowly up the mountainside.

He didn't look back at them once.

∗ ∗ ∗

The villagers began a slow, rhythmic chant. Their voices rolled across the mountainside. They weren't raised in joy. This was a dirge. Mournful, melancholy, like the mountain itself was grieving.

"This isn't right," she whispered fiercely.

Keir said nothing.

They walked side by side up the path of light, leaving the village far behind on the lower slopes. The path wound up through scree and loose rock toward the bare face of the mountain. She could see dark black scars in the face, deep crevices eroded into the mountainside by centuries of harsh weather. Some of the scars rose high above their heads, but were so narrow it would have been hard for a rat to squeeze through.

The path of light opened out into a broad, flat expanse high above the valley below. In the center, surrounded by more blazing torches and a circle of scuffed footprints, was a wooden throne fashioned from intertwined branches and living vines. This time Caleb did look back for approval before he climbed into the chair. He took his place center stage and waited while the others chanted. The pounding of the drum increased, in volume and tempo, counterpoint to the melancholic song.

And then suddenly it stopped.

There was movement within the cracks of the mountain face.

She stared at the dark fissures in the rock as slowly shadows began to detach from the blackness. There was something wrong about the way they moved—too fluid, too supple, hunched and scuttling almost like spiders rather than walking proudly down the hillside like actors—that twisted her gut.

Only they weren't shadows at all.

They looked almost human in the way they moved; their skin was sickly, almost translucent in the faltering light of the path's torches. She could see the bright, bloody colors of the organs beneath the surface and the hard ridges of ivory bone. In its hand she saw a hideous double-bladed sword that gleamed sickly in the moonlight. The shadow man saw her staring at him, and turned to stare back at her, his wide mouth stretching ear to ear as he bared razor-sharp teeth.

This wasn't a ceremony. It was a sacrifice.

Caleb sat proudly on his throne, the Lord of Summer's crown of leaves firmly in place on his head, the daemon spawn closing in on him, hungry to take the villagers' offering.

"Caleb!" she screamed, reaching for her sword and trying to push and shove her way through the crowd of onlookers. But as fast as she moved, they were faster. The shadow men spilled out of the cracks in the mountain and rushed down the slope.

The entire mountainside was locked in eerie silence.

She felt arms grab at her and hold her tight, then saw the same smiling man who'd gone out of his way to make them feel welcome pull Keir down.

They fought desperately, but it didn't matter. There was no way they could fend off an entire village long enough to reach the boy on his briar throne.

Caron screamed and twisted, bucking and thrashing against the hands holding her, but it didn't matter. The sheer weight of bodies overwhelmed her. Something slammed into the side of her face repeatedly—fist or rock, it made little difference—until she stopped fighting and her entire world grew dark.

Coming Next Week: Into the darkness in Chapter Two of Steven Savile's "Queen Sacrifice."

Steven Savile is the internationally best-selling author of almost twenty novels and many more short stories, set in both original worlds and those of Primeval, Stargate SG-1, Warhammer, Torchwood, Dr. Who, and more. He won Writers of the Future in 2002, has been a runner-up for the British Fantasy Award and shortlisted for the Scribe Award for Best Adapted Novel, and won the Scribe Award for Best Young Adult Original Novel. For more information, visit his website at stevensavile.com.

Illustration by Dion Harris.