A solitary figure sat in a dark corner of the dingy, smoke-filled tavern, his face shrouded in the cowl of his sable robe. The long robe hung loosely, obscuring his features. He observed the crowd without moving, save to occasionally lift the chipped flagon to his lips.

Talk was subdued, unusually quiet for men who should be celebrating the end of another day's toil. Weary shopkeepers sat hunched over and stared into their mugs while sailors leaned their elbows on the counters, faces buried in hands. Those who did speak huddled closely, heads together as they whispered. Still others smoked their way to oblivion, the pungent smell of the potent kahlahk leaf wafting towards the rafters. If it weren’t for the belligerent soldiers, the rouge-painted trulls would have had no laps to straddle.

The dark figure listened to a pair of nearby merchants.

"Aye, I'd drink myself under the table if I could," muttered one, a grimace crossing his dark bearded face. "Times are hard though, and there's meager earnings to be made after the king's taxes are paid and the offering's been given to the temple of Teivos." The merchant fingered his shabby gray tunic as evidence.

The other merchant scowled and nodded, jabbing his friend's chest with a stubby finger. "It's this bloodsuckin' religion of the king that's done it."

The first merchant hissed fearfully. "Don't say that! Those crazy priests have ears everywhere. You'll end up in the High Priest's Room of Education talkin' like that. Keep it to yourself, or at least don't say it around me. I don't want to end up as one of Pranzik's playthings." The merchant rose. "I'll see you again soon, I hope."

The dark figure watched as the merchant scurried to the bar, paid, then hurriedly left, his thin cloak pulled tightly around him. The second merchant gulped down the remainder of his ale and then followed his friend out.

Alerik studied several others in the tavern. He noted their hollow eyes, their furtive movements. The faint odor of decay he'd noticed upon entering the ancient city of Ducor Adta-Hars was stronger here, seeming to match the fear he sensed. As darkness drew in completely, temple bells tolled mournfully throughout the city. The remaining patrons hustled out, stooped over, faces towards the ground. He followed as the last chimes of curfew died, knotting the cord of his robe tightly. A lone seagull screeched in the clear moonless, muggy night as the short lithe man stepped into the refuse-littered street. Breakers crashing on the Eastern Ocean beach could be heard, even from this distance.

Alerik melted quickly into the shadows of old, crumbling buildings with the ease of a thief. Silently he glided towards the center of the city, flitting from shadow to shadow, careful to avoid patrols of soldiers while also keeping clear of the narrow, winding alleyways where he occasionally glimpsed the glint of cold steel or met the cruel slits of hateful eyes.

Soon he could see the glittering golden domes and spiraling alabaster turrets of King Savonna II's opulent palace a good distance away, illuminated by countless torches. Already he could hear the sound of wild revelry, the only sounds other than the tramping of soldiers and chants of wild-eyed priests. He cursed softly at the thought of the wicked king and his abandonment of the gods of Vestal. No doubt he's sacrificing another worshiper of Evesthar the Most High to that evil Teivos. But tonight that blasphemy will end. Tonight, Savonna will die.

Alerik touched his waist lightly. Yes, the knife and vial of poison are still there. I will not fail. The Revolution, well, what's left of it, depends on me.

As he slid into a black doorway to dodge yet another patrol, he spat into the dust. This evil worship of Teivos must stop. No matter how powerful he is, Teivos is still a mortal creature. He might be lord of the Voryaken, he might be a master of the Black Magic, but he is not the keeper of Death. No, this worship of Teivos must end.

He finally reached the ivory palace walls a turn of the glass later. The alabaster walls, taller than ten men, had high narrow windows halfway up; too small for anyone to enter there. His shoulder brushed the wall. There was no crumbling this time where in the city, entire chunks had come off at his touch. Peering more closely, he realized that the wall had recently been replastered. Yet the stink of decay seemed to cling more tightly, a stench of distinct wrongness.

Shuddering, Alerik crept swiftly past the walls surrounding the well-lighted courtyard and the thick iron-strapped gates until he reached the far end. Here the walls had been left unrepaired and weeds and shrubs sprouted unhindered. It was here that Jorin Fenalsson, leader of the Revolution, had told him of a secret entrance. Burrowing his way into the tall thorny bushes that sprouted thickly alongside the walls, he soon discovered a hidden, narrow dirt path. Following the trail to its end, he groped for the small round stone set into the wall four handspans above the ground. It took a few nervous minutes, but finally he found it and pushed. The wall slid softly to the side. Quickly he darted in before the door shut.

It was pitch black inside the tunnel. Reaching his hand out, Alerik brushed it along the damp wall as he cautiously crept forward. He had nothing with which to produce any light, trusting to the instructions Jorin had given him. He silently cursed every time he had to brush another cobweb off his face or soaked his soft-soled sandals in another puddle.

Thirty strides later, he bumped into a spiral stairway. Climbing upwards, his sandals squished with each step. He counted twenty-three stairs before reaching the stairwell's end. Again he felt the wall for a small round stone. Finding it, he hesitated, then took out his knife before pushing the button.

The door opened into a dimly lit corridor. No guards were visible, although Alerik had been warned they regularly patrolled these dark-paneled hallways. After wiping his sandals on his cloak, he stepped out onto plush red carpet, hurrying to the eighth heavy oak door on the left. Muttering a quick prayer to Taren, goddess of dooms, he turned the gold-plated handle. It was unlocked.

Slipping inside the dark apartment, he silently closed the door and replaced the knife. Flickering torchlight from the courtyard shone faintly through a wide curtained opening, dimly outlining a cushioned divan in the center and closets and tables against the walls. The apartment's occupant was gone, as promised, presumably at the raucous ceremony below. Crossing the room, he peered through the silk curtain and saw a terrace overlooking the courtyard.

Stepping through the drapes and onto the balcony, he gazed down with disgust onto the open court three stories below. It was filled with drunken courtiers and gaily-dressed nobles. Naked slave girls hoisted trays of food on one shoulder while refilling empty wineglasses from bottles held in the other hand. In the center was the sight he dreaded but could do nothing about. There a nude young woman lay tied to an altar while people danced with abandon about the huge slab of black marble to the frenzied beat of a karach percussion band. Alerik feared for the young woman, cursing because he was helpless to save her.

But she will be the last rebel to die this way, he swore.

Soon the king approached, his stride swaggering and arrogant. Savonna was a tall, handsome man, his golden hair flowing proudly while his neatly trimmed beard and mustache were touched lightly with gray. He wore naught but a breechcloth, although a gold circlet rested on his head. His muscular body was lean and defined. Yet his eyes were what drew Alerik's attention. Even from this distance he could see the cruel lust burning in the king's cobalt eyes as if the blaze was a reflection of his corrupted soul.

Then a black-robed priest of The Voryaki stepped forward to pour a dark reddish liquid from an earthen vessel over both the king's head and the young woman's body. Alerik could not understand what the priest chanted but he gathered that the king and the victim were being consecrated.

Savonna strutted towards the altar, bronze skin gleaming in the torchlight. He smiled cruelly as the priest handed him a long knife, which he raised with both hands high above the young woman.

Alerik turned away from the actual moment of sacrifice. As the victim's scream pierced the night air, a rope suddenly dropped down along the wall, its end dangling by Alerik's head. At least his accomplice had come through. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and climbed up quickly.

No one will see me, he thought, not during the height of the sacrifice.

Reaching a terrace three floors above, he flipped himself over the rail and yanked the rope back up. As he untied it, another figure in a dark, shapeless cowled robe stepped onto the balcony. Alerik noticed briefly how slight the figure was, guessing that it was a woman. Wordlessly she gestured upwards. Alerik nodded.

Climbing onto the rail, he glanced up. The palace roof was about four handspans above his grasp. With a helping shove from his accomplice, his fingers clenched the gutter of the flat, tile-edged roof. He pulled hard, grunting, and gained the roof.

A brief wave to the accomplice and she was gone. Alerik wondered for a moment who she was and how she'd ever contacted Jorin. He knew only that she lived within the palace itself. Shrugging his shoulders, he scrambled cautiously across the roof until he was above where Savonna's room was supposed to be. For two turns of the glass he lay there, waiting until the only courtyard sounds were the furtive movements of palace servants. To remain alert and prevent cramps, he tightened and relaxed his muscles, waiting another turn for Savonna to retire and fall asleep.

Finally, he decided it was time. Reaching under his cloak, he pulled out the knife and vial. Carefully, so as not to spill on himself, he poured most of the silvery poison onto the blade. The poison hissed and steamed like boiling water for a while before subsiding, seeming to be absorbed by the blade. As Alerik put the vial back into his cloak, he recalled Jorin's warning that the slightest touch would release the deadly poison. What remained in the vial was to be used if he was caught while trying to escape.

The assassin crept slowly to the roof's edge. There he hesitated, lying still for a quarter-turn, listening for any sounds from below before swinging himself over the edge, landing lightly. Creeping furtively to the curtain, he listened until he could hear the steady breathing of someone sleeping. Slowly, he pulled the drape to one side enough to peer in. It was dark, but he could still see the outline of a body under the bed sheets. Slipping through, he immediately sensed a presence. It was an evil presence, filling him with a fear he'd never known before. The dagger in his hand shook.

He tried calming himself by praying to Taren once more. It didn't work but he approached the bed anyway. Something was wrong, he knew it. It was holding him back, keeping him from the bed. Alerik forced himself forward, his breathing ragged and hissing through his teeth. Finally, he reached the edge of the bed and raised his arm for the deathblow.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his wrist, squeezing with sharp nails so hard that he dropped his blade. Trying to whirl, he found himself looking up at the king. A knife tip pointed at his neck a fingerwidth away.

"Move and I'll slit your throat," Savonna snarled. Without turning his head he barked, "Guards! To me!"

As soon as the king shouted, the sleeping figure in the bed rolled over and screamed when she saw the assassin. Seconds later, the double doors to the king's room burst open as four knights ran in, swords drawn, followed by a servant carrying a torch.

"Your highness!" cried the alarmed servant. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine but this bloodsucking rebel swine won't be. Take him to Pranzik's Room of Education and let the High Priest do what he will." As the guards grabbed Alerik, Savonna picked up the fallen dagger, carefully grabbing the hilt. There was a ragged hole in the thick rug where the blade had touched, smoke yet rising from the fringes.

"Poisoned, aye?" he snorted at Alerik. "Don't you know that a demon of Meth protects me in this room? You were doomed from the start!" The king threw his head back and laughed. "Take him from here. It's time he met the one true god!"

*****

Thin wisps of sacrificial smoke curled upwards from golden incense burners surrounding the massive bloodstained stone altar in the High Temple of The Voryaki. Chanting priests danced feverishly as they awaited the arrival of the High Priest and the sacrifice, karach percussionists pounding as if demon-possessed. The leering idol of Teivos, the Voryaki god, towered above them as they praised their master for the knowledge and power he gave them through the Black Magic. Crafted in the image of the monstrous winged lizard, the three ruby eyes of the jade idol gleamed like freshly spilled blood.

The sacrifice gazed despairingly at the High Temple as he staggered up the path. The open-aired, pillared pavilion squatted atop Mt. Ob, a slave-built hill really, but a mountain on the vast delta of the Aria River. In the searing cloudless summer sky the temple, its stones as black as a burned corpse, could be seen from all parts of Ducor Adta-Hars, a grim reminder to the oppressed populace of Lebec's capital city of the god it now served.

Alerik stumbled but the spears of the temple guards quickly prodded him to his feet. He had been warned that any noncompliance or attempt to escape would return him to the High Priest's Room of Education. Having already spent a month there since his capture, the bruises and open wounds covering his body showing the extent of the horror he had suffered, he did not want to go back.

He reminisced as he neared the temple, its pillars close enough now to make out the perverse scarlet-painted carvings honoring Teivos and various demons of Meth.

My family and most of my friends are dead now, he thought. They've all died fighting for Evesthar. Somehow, he no longer felt sorrow for them. It was only a matter of minutes, a turn of the glass at the most, before his spirit would join them in Vestal. Instead, his sorrow was for those few who were left to fight the wickedness of King Savonna.

Remembering the rebels brought back the bitter memories of his capture. It was a foolhardy attempt from the start. A single assassin to bring down the king? Still, Jorin Fenalsson was right. Things were desperate enough now to have tried it. If only I'd had a chance to swallow the remainder of the poison. I never did talk, though. That I can be proud of.

Cool shadow swept soothingly over him as he entered the temple. Grotesque images of intertwining serpents and winged lizards literally swam in the brightly colored tile floor, the images' movements mimicking those of the priests. As Alerik tottered to the rectangular altar, the priests and images ended their dancing, assembling around him in a half-circle facing the idol. The oblates' chanting continued, now painful high-pitched wails accompanied by single karach thuds, like a heartbeat.

A startling flash of fire and smoke from the braziers momentarily blinded him. Opening his eyes, Alerik saw the tall bony High Priest of The Voryaki standing serenely before the altar, hands folded placidly in front of him. Dark eyes gleamed cruelly above hollow cheeks, eyes seemingly devoid of any normal human emotion; instead they appeared consumed by the unnatural lusts that should belong only to the eldritch horrors of Meth. Then the demonic eyes met Alerik's and Pranzik smiled thinly, revealing teeth sharpened to a point. He was esil-headed, as were all the priests, his reddish, hairless scalp oiled so that a bloody aura seemed to hang about him. A long black robe covered his body, a crimson cord knotted about his waist. Hate suddenly surged in Alerik's chest and throat at the sight of the High Priest, although he fought to control his face and body enough to conceal it.

Pranzik. The High Priest had grown so powerful in his ability to wield the Black Magic that he could perform sacrifices in daytime. Not only daytime, but at noon, the hour in which the gods of Vestal were at their strongest. His political power was such that few, even of the king's most loyal supporters, could deny who the real leader of Lebec was. If Pranzik had the charisma and looks of Savonna, it was said, he could rule the world.

Again spears prodded Alerik. A brief prayer to the Most High preceded his final steps.

It's almost futile in this temple, he thought, but no, not even Pranzik is so powerful as to prevent Evesthar from hearing my prayer here in the High Temple of The Voryaki.

Pranzik brought forth a small, ornate gold chalice and a long, well-sharpened knife from his black robe. The chanting halted. Striding to each of the other priests, he offered them first the point of the blade to pierce their scarred palms and then the cup into which they each squeezed several drops of blood. When the chalice was full, the High Priest approached Alerik and uttered a dreadful prayer to both Teivos and the demons of Meth. As the prayer ended, the priests renewed their chanting, now low moans and occasional grunts.

The High Priest spit into the chalice and stirred with his knife. Dipping with his fingers, he splashed the crimson mixture onto the sacrifice. After the initial repulsive shock, Alerik realized that Pranzik was painting demonic symbols of the evil Teivos, the Black Magic, and Meth on his chest and face. He struggled momentarily but once again the spears reminded him of Pranzik's Room of Education.

Then the High Priest was waving his hands over the altar, pouring the remainder of the blood in a thin stripe across the altar top. Moments later, Alerik's guards tossed him roughly onto the stone slab, turning the rebel onto his back. His eyes focused on the ruby eyes of the leering idol seventy handspans above while his arms and legs were yanked painfully towards the corners of the altar top and tied to the goats' horns that curved outwards.

Pranzik spoke to the priests, whose chanting ceased once more. As the High Priest spoke, Alerik discovered his mistake in complying with the ritual. Horror racked his body as he realized the selfishness of his decision and the lives it would cost.

"Priests of The Voryaki, servants of the one true Lord of Power and Magic, the God of all we desire," hissed Pranzik. "I have obtained the necessary blood sacrifice to the Lord God Teivos so that he might reveal to us that which we desire to learn. As you well know, the Lord God Teivos requires the willing sacrifice of a close associate of him whose demise we desire, the wicked Jorin Fenalsson. With this sacrifice, we will gain the knowledge needed to destroy the last of the worshipers of Evesthar."

The priests cackled ecstatically as they realized what their leader was planning. Pranzik lifted his arms to silence them and then turned to face the massive jade idol. Kneeling, he bowed so that his face lightly touched the tiles, his example followed by the other priests. Then he rose and stretched his arms toward the idol, calling out loudly, "Lord God Teivos, we have for thee the sacrifice of blood that thou dost require. Thy servants acknowledge that the sacrifice is an associate of him whom thy servants seek and that he accepted the blood dedication. Therefore we beseech thee, O Lord, to send to thy servants Lord Mangan of Meth, that he might show us the way of thy will."

Knife in hand, Pranzik turned towards the altar. Alerik was struggling now. The High Priest glared at him. "If you resist, your living body shall be devoured by the Lord God Teivos, who shall then give your soul to Mangan, the Lord of Death."

Dear Evesthar, he prayed, forgive me for cooperating with this devil! Please, I beg you to deliver me from Teivos and Mangan!

He was hardly aware of the knife blade's initial cuts in his chest. Then he screamed uncontrollably as his body shuddered with pain. Something cool, possibly liquid, poured over his body, soothing him, reducing the pain so that he merely panted.

The High Priest spoke in a language Alerik did not recognize. The words were harsh and evil sounding. Suddenly something colder than ice filled his body. Frozen tendrils tore madly at his heart as if searching for his soul. Again Pranzik spoke. The tendrils ceased their tearing but maintained a tight grip on the sacrifice's heart.

Panic spawned by the impossibility of the hideous touch threatened to devour his mind and possibly even his soul; it urged him to relinquish his tenuous hold on his sanity to the demon. For long moments he struggled. Then, with sudden revelation, he forced his eyes open and the pain subsided. A pale green mist rose, apparently from his chest. For a moment it seemed the mist would envelop all, but a word from the High Priest and it remained hovering above Alerik, as if caged. He noticed high in the center of the mist a small red glow, like an eye, radiating a malevolence of pure hatred.

The High Priest spoke again, this time in the common tongue. "Mangan, Lord of Death, we have summoned thee to show us how to defeat Jorin Fenalsson. Give us a vision now."

An inhuman howl rent the air and the red eye flared, but the mist swirled as it took shape. Alerik soon recognized the form as that of Jorin. Sword in hand, the rebel leader appeared harried, as if in battle. Suddenly, he crumpled over. The scene shifted and several men stood mournfully around a rock cairn. Alerik tried to cry out but the pain was too much and the sound never left his dry throat.

Again the scene changed, the mist now swirling into the form of two men, with the red eye still hovering at the apex. Alerik recognized one form as that of Jorin's teenage son Keir; the other wore the long robes of a wizard. Keir was kneeling and held an extraordinarily bright sword.

"So!" hissed Pranzik. "The fool Bautista would make a king of Jorin's son, would he? Mangan, show us what that sword is for."

Abruptly, Keir and the wizard faded. A new scene formed. Alerik seemed to see Keir again, holding the glowing sword and circling beneath a great shadow. The shadow gained substance, gathering into a winged lizard.

"Teivos?" exclaimed Pranzik, amazed. "They would send a boy against the Lord God?" The High Priest cackled, the other priests joining until Pranzik hushed them.

"Mangan, how might we prevent the Lord God Teivos from this dishonor? Show us how we might destroy Jorin's son before the insect might irritate our god."

The demon-mist swirled and shifted again. Alerik was horrified. Pranzik can ruin a hope that Keir might kill Teivos? Even if Mangan devours my soul, I would rather be tortured in Meth for eternity than further expose my friends.

"No!" he screamed, his stomach contracting to force the sound out. The searing pain of his open chest engulfed him but the icy tendrils on his heart slipped. "Dear Evesthar, no!" he cried again. His body convulsed violently as the tendrils struggled to maintain their grasp.

"Save me, Lord!" he whispered. The cold grip on his heart vanished as the demon was forced out of his body.

"Quickly! Cut out his tongue!" shouted Pranzik urgently to Alerik's guards. They hesitated momentarily.

"Fools! Do you want to face the wrath of both the Lord God Teivos and Lord Mangan by losing the sacrifice to the Enemy? Do as I say!"

But even as the guards grabbed Alerik, his body sagged and the mist solidified into a new, hideous form. They blanched as the demon's horrible visage stared hungrily at them. Its single red eye glowed and slobber drooled from yellowed fangs. Slime oozed from gnarled, leathery olive skin like pus from an open wound. Veins protruded from the defined muscles of its four arms, arms that ended in a cluster of long, dagger-like claws. The demon crouched atop the altar as if ready to spring at the High Priest with its massive legs, thick tail twitching.

"Lord Mangan!" cried Pranzik. "Surely the soul of the sacrifice lingers still! Therefore we command thee to show us how to destroy the son of Jorin Fenalsson."

The demon's voice was hollow, devoid of life; its breath was rancid, like a rotting corpse. "Thou art a fool, Pranzik. Didst thou not hear the sacrifice call upon the Enemy for salvation? The soul is lost and thou knowest full well that without it, thy spell is broken. Thus I am no longer forced to serve thee but may insist upon payment instead. Therefore I require of thee the souls of those who dared to approach the altar. Stand back, lest I take thee in their place."

Trembling, Pranzik stepped down off the altar's dais, back turned, as the terrified guards screamed. Then, gritting his teeth, he slowly pivoted. Only two large, bloody lumps of flesh lay by the dais, barely recognizable as human remains. Mangan hovered above the altar, the demon's body gradually dissolving into mist once again. Pranzik shuddered fearfully at the sound of the hated voice.

"Those from whom I have obtained eternal pleasure may be given as the physical sacrifice thy god Teivos desires. Do not disappoint me again, Pranzik. Shouldst thou lose another soul, I shalt delight in obtaining eternal pleasure from thee instead." The demon laughed, driving fear into the hearts of the oblates as they collapsed upon the tiled floor. Then the mist dissipated and Mangan was gone.

Minutes later, after Pranzik's trembling had subsided, he faced the other priests. A few were delirious but most merely lay dazed and moaning upon the tiles.

"Rise up, you lazy dogs!" he shouted. "Does the sight of a mere demon terrify priests of The Voryaki that much?" Most of the clerics began to stir.

"Quickly now, some of you call upon the Lord God Teivos to come receive his victims. The rest prepare the offering. It is not often the Lord God has three sacrifices waiting." Pranzik hesitated, then added, "Better yet, bind those who have gone mad. Since they are not worthy of the Lord Mangan, they shall be sacrificed to the Lord God Teivos as well. Then gather your acolytes. Tonight we shall begin hunting Keir Jorinsson."

He turned and gazed up at the jade idol's face, chuckling to himself. "The Lord God shall feast tonight. He will be well pleased with me indeed." Although he dreaded facing the black Voryaken who would come to take the sacrifices to their master, he assured himself that they would never know the truth of how he had failed today, and so, neither would Teivos.