Wenceslas gripped the sides of his portable throne, his pale face twisting with livid rage. Melchior paused, the whip swinging in his hand dripping blood onto his fine silken sandals, watching the Shaddai-Trust rally themselves against the Lands-people. Usually they were a peaceful people who sought no feud with anyone, even towards the very people who had thrown them from the eye of decent society, but today there was a wild light in their eyes, something like righteous anger. It sickened Wenceslas and the King could feel not only sweat pouring down his flushed face and being dried by the stinking wind, which smelled absolutely sour that night, but the weak king also felt his new master's power prickle in his mind. He was terrified by the thought of disappointing Northumbrio, the duke whom he himself had exiled. Wenceslas knew the horrible penalties for rebellion given out, sometimes by the master himself. He shuddered to think what might happen to him if he failed to do away with that rebel, that silly boy hanging bloody at the post next to the young Shaddai-Truster. How could those people have so much courage? The King stroked his short beard nervously, his sterling eyes darting about the crowd, hating the trembling coward he had been reduced to. He was wrenched from his thinking when a snapping voice said "Let the innocent go."

"He refused to abide by the King's law," Melchior said coolly, his icy blue eyes kindling bright upon the tall man holding a sword aloft, poised for battle. Young impetuous fool, he would soon learn the weight of the King's power, if Melchior had to show it himself! Yet now it was not only for the King, it was for Northumbrio, that dark spinning power that held everyone in a tight grip, that grasp of pure Evil that was seemed impossible to escape from.

"A man should be able so follow the urgings if his own soul!" shouted the Hinterlander. His eyes blazed fiercely but Melchior merely tossed aside the whip and slowly walked down to stand face-to-face with the man.

"Yet you outcasts yourselves have a leader. Pray explain."

"Gabriel is no leader," the man snarled, "he is a teacher, inspired by the Great One, Who will one day descend and destroy all Evil once and for all and restore His Life back to us!" The crowd muttered at these words. What if they had been wrong all this time? Wenceslas groaned and suddenly slouched down in his throne as a blast of ferocious pain ripped through his head. "Kill them all!" came the sneering command. Wenceslas weakly held up one hand and screamed above the muttering crowd and the choking dark dust rising from the poisoned ground, "K-k-kill them! Kill them all, right now!"

The King could only sit helpless, the pain pounding in his head, as the Fairies slew his guards and gently untied Skerry from the post, bearing him away into the darkness. Melchior screamed "No!" and tried to leap for the retreating Fairy warriors, but he was too late. The Shaddai-Trust ran through the crowd and freed little Timothy. Wenceslas was horrified. His people just stared at the new kind of justice unfolding before them. Had they been wrong all this time?

"Master, I have failed you!" cried Wenceslas.

"Indeed, you have!" roared that terrible smoky voice, and such a pain as Wenceslas had never known exploded throughout his whole body, as if he were enveloped in flames. The Lands-people just stood in the dark and watched their King fall to the ground, dead and heirless. Melchior gasped, his face a deathly ashen pallor, and whirled around, grabbing a bow and arrow from a fallen guard, and wildly aimed into the dark after the sound of running footsteps. But the Shaddai-Trust and the Fairies had disappeared with Timothy and Skerry. Melchior snarled and pushed aside several townsfolk, jumped onto his horse and galloped into the night, for the snowy peaks of his master.

Stara Underwild wrapped the Virthum cloak tighter about Fiddlis's shoulders.

"Thank you," Fiddlis grinned, her teeth chattering, her nose wrinkled against the terrible heathland smell. It had never been as strong, so it seemed. She leaned back into Stara's warm motherly embrace as she rode in front of her on their great black steed. The horse pounded the marshy earth with his powerful hooves as the Fairy and the little girl, piercing the blackness with her wonderfully restored sight and wondering if the little boy named Shaddai from her dream had not had anything to do with it, rode hard through the midnight in the direction of Fiddlis's highland cottage.

Auntie bent her pale cheeks to her roughened palms and sobbed again. How longs would these hot tears persist? Somehow she no longer cared about it, she no longer cared about anything now that her precious adopted niece had been snatched from her, no doubt by the terrible tee-beasts spoken about in hushed voices, the evil Yule. During a rumored attack, only several days ago, Auntie and Fiddlis's shaggy dog, Puppy, had been forced to leave without a glance back. No one even gave little Fiddlis a thought, and no matter how Auntie struggled, she had been unable to tear free of the frenzied crowd. They had traveled far into the highlands and had hid in a cave for many dark, cramped hours until finally the eerie essence seeped away from the fresh highland winds and they felt safe to return to their cottages. Auntie had grabbed Puppy up and had hurried home, fearing the worst. Thankfully their cottages had not been touched by man nor beast, but Fiddlis was nowhere to be found. Many tears had been shed for her since that terrible afternoon when the highlands seemed to echo with the memory of her cheery laughter, when the skies seemed dull without those blank blue eyes staring and yet not seeing into the vast heavens.

Puppy whined and shook his tail, his soft brown eyes fixed to the wooden door. Auntie gasped and looked up as a quiet knock came at her door. She held up her rough homespun skirts above her ankles as she arose and, wiping her red eyes dry of her heart-broken tears on a lacy handkerchief, slowly reached for the knob and turned it.

Fiddlis leaped into her Auntie's arms with a wild happy shout. "I can see!" were her first words back home. The dark night swirled red and black, evil and deadly, above a joy that could only result from love. The winds howled and covered up Puppy, who was yipping after a tall graceful figure riding away to the Riverlands on a great black stallion. Stara had never felt such joy as had been kindled in her heart that night.

Lorn wrapped his arms around a tall white aspen tree as the soft morning lights began to pierce golden through the treetops. His silver earring glinted as the light touched upon it, and his slate gray eyes glittered as the sparkle from the golden rays burning upon the frosted pine needles jumped into them.

What kind of man was he? Weak, broken, lost to hope, without Life. The tears came fast and scalding down his tanned cheeks and Lorn sank to the ground with the weight of all he could have done to resist Evil came crashing down upon him. Suddenly he heard a crack of twigs behind him and huddled inside his green cloak, hoping to blend in with the forests.

"Child, why are you crying?" said a gentle elderly voice. Lorn looked up and saw an old man, carrying a stave and wearing a white homespun garment, one arm about the thin shoulders of a small girl, standing before him. The little girl's hands were bandaged and her hair was straggly, but her face shone with an uncommon light, rarely seen in the Lands for all the suffering the King had brought upon his people.

"I am crying because...because I have failed my creator, whoever that may be."

Gabriel looked down at his daughter and they smiled at each other. "I think we might be able to help you."

"The King is dead!"

The shocking words came as a sharp report through the soldiers' camp. Gorn snorted in his sleep and scrambled to his feet, quickly combing his meaty fingers through his scraggly red beard. The officer came striding from his tent, his eyes frenzied, to stand staring at the breathless messenger.

"The King Wenceslas the Second is dead! We must make ready for battle in the Lands, for now the twin village-kingdoms and their surrounding lands are without a ruler."

Northumbrio paced back and forth. His breath shot flames, his eyes were sharpened to a blazing light, his huge black hands twisted into fists. Conan lay upon a rude wooden table before him, his ankles and wrists shackled to the sides. "My powers..." rasped the exiled duke, "...it seems they are waning in the wake of something...well, greater."

Conan smiled to himself. He knew what power was overtaking the dark master; the Great One was working not only in his personal life but also those of the Lands-people. Northumbrio could feel it and it drove him mad. His power must not be trampled out by some sect of outcasts and fools! Yet here was this minstrel, smiling into his very face, not seeming to notice the heat of his breath nor the flickering red furnace cut into the blackened dungeon walls, adorned with long sharp pokers heating in the flames. He opened his mouth to give a shout of pure rage, hating the sight of the helpless minstrel smiling into the red-lighted shadows. Yet right then the dungeon door crashed open and a tall, spidery man came rushing in.

"Master, you have killed the King!" Melchior shouted. "What is your plan? Now the Lands-people are without a King, they are frenzied with fear! You must access your full powers now, my lord; call up the Yule, gather the King's old soldiers, and do battle against this illegal uprising of...Goodness." Melchior spat the last word upon the floor. His bright icy eyes darted around the interior of the dungeon and he saw Conan shackled to the table.

"Another rebel?" he sighed, suddenly very weary. Northumbrio grunted and turned, towering several feet above the King's old advisor, and said, "You tend to the unfaithful." He leaned closer, his scorching breath searing Melchior's ear, and hissed, "His music is the music of a traitor; assure he will never be able to play it again." Northumbrio turned and stomped from the room, letting the heavy metal door crash behind him. Melchior turned around and sneered down at the minstrel.

"It seems the master has disapproved of your playing," he said. Draconic fire burning in his blue eyes, Melchior picked up the cool part of one of the fire pokers.

Conan lay perfectly still, feeling the heat of the furnace play over his defenseless body, his soul at peace. The Great One knew his faith. New though it was, what Conan had found through the little girl was some wild kind of hope, a sweet, deep joy that could never be stomped from his heart.

Melchior grabbed Conan's hand and pressed the smoking heat to the fire-flame brand upon his fingertip. "You are no longer worthy to bear the master's mark." Conan felt the blaze upon his finger and gritted his teeth. "Praise...praise the Great One, then!" he managed through the pain. "For He and He alone is my new master; everything I am is His." Conan was hit with a wave of Northumbrio's incredible power, but somehow it seemed bearable. The Great One was indeed helping him.

Melchior gave a strangled shout of frustration and grasped Conan's hand. With beast-like strength, he curled the long minstrel's fingers around the searing metal and relished Conan's cry of agony. He would no longer play for anyone, not even his precious Great One.

"Your...will," gasped Conan as his other hand was mangled by the poor twisted soul at his side, "Your will be...done."