Boots scraped, and Kezlo twitched his head. "We’ve got company, my Mistress," he whispered.

"Very well," she replied. From behind, her smooth voice filled his ear with soft breath. "Leave Caldinar for me. Do not bother him with your strikes," she said, laying her gloved hand upon his shoulder, the warmth conducting through the leather.

He dared not look into her eyes. He never dared to, so he stared straight ahead and into the small pass. "But of course, my Mistress. I’ll take care of his followers."

"Yes, my Kezlo. You are a worthy journeyman." Her approval soothed him more than her warm voice. His knees ached from the long climb, and he wanted to shift his weight, but she counted on his silence, and he would not let his master down.

Around the bend, the crevasse opened to an upward trail, a set of platforms that stood as stairs against the mountainside. It was there that Kezlo watched for old Caldinar, the leader of the council of mages. He would not disappoint his Mistress, not while she stood against Caldinar.

The wind had died, leaving the stench of the mountain’s belch vents to sting his nose. The sky had turned dark with storm clouds, but Kezlo did not expect immediate showers. Still, the air had power, and the rocky hillside, there too; he sensed stored energy from the day’s heat.

His Mistress hummed—not so much an invocation as a harmonic resonance within the geometry of the crevasse in which they waited. Then at last, her power rose above the ambient, above the energy of the wind, and above the sun-drenched heat of the stone. He sensed her familiar signature, for it possessed an indelible groove within his soul, a permanent conduit to his training. Their signatures were different but inseparable; his built upon hers through training.

Kezlo’s Mistress had camouflaged them against the rocky wall.

Caldinar’s scout came first. Dressed in padded leather and a brown cloak, he blended into the rocky crevasse wall. Merely ten paces distant, Kezlo watched as the scrawny man bobbed his head, turning it about, and searching for something he could not possibly see. An easy target, fodder for his first strike. His Mistress tightened her grip on his shoulder, and Kezlo knew he must wait: the scout was nothing.

Then from that opening came Caldinar’s First, Sprig, longsword in hand. Kezlo knew him by his reputation. Sprig, with his thick arm stretched out and yellow cloak draped over it, stopped and scanned the area. Kezlo sensed energy as it seeped out of Sprig’s palm. It touched the rocky walls, likely as he searched for inexplicable variations in the ambient.

Suddenly, Kezlo felt his Mistress’s power fluctuate and mutate into a cool aura and then to nothing. Clever, he thought. Sprig passed his energy right through them, it seemed, and continued his scan. That was the gift of Kezlo’s servitude, untold mysteries revealed before him, so that one day he would wield the power of a Master.

Sprig hesitated. His eyes rested upon the far end, to the carved entrance of an underground and forgotten temple. Beyond the stonework lay cut steps, and the once sealed door lay ripped aside, handy-work of Kezlo and his Mistress. The scout inspected the broken stone, but finally, he motioned quickly with his arm. Caldinar, leaning heavily upon his staff, walked unsteadily to stand beside his First. Yellow robe against yellow cloak, Caldinar leaned upon Sprig, as they watched the scout poke nervously around the dark opening.

His Mistress squeezed Kezlo’s shoulder and then released him with a slight shove. He felt her power. How she called upon it so swiftly he could only hope to one day understand. Around him, the air cracked and flashed. He rolled to his feet and released what he had summoned. It throbbed through his fingers in a single blue orb of energy that arced high. He extended his energy until he found the scout, and then with a sharp hook, the orb found its target.

Caldinar stood with his staff up high and a pale and golden barrier encompassed him. Where had Sprig gone? That was Kezlo’s duty, take out Caldinar’s entourage while his Mistress dealt with the old mage.

A blast from above—mostly pressurized air—knocked him backward against the rocky wall. He stood beside his Mistress. More blasts of air pounded him, but he deflected them easily and located Sprig, who stood upon a ledge above Caldinar.

Intense flashes from the hand of his Mistress bore down upon Caldinar’s barrier. The old mage deflected them into the ground. But Kezlo sensed something else at play, something within those electric flashes. He sensed an unseen battle waging between them. Strikes and counter-measures poked out beyond both as they tangled to reach and breach each other’s barriers.

Above the chaos, Kezlo heard his Mistress. "I will hold Caldinar where he is while you retrieve the Lantern."

"Yes, my Mistress," Kezlo replied.

"I trust in you, my Kezlo. The Lantern must be ours!"

"I won’t fail you!"

"And Kezlo," she said, lowering her voice. "Do not attempt to use its power. Hear me! It is too much for you."

Kezlo nodded once, almost stunned. They had spoken of it since discovering its location only days before. With the power of the Lantern, his Mistress would fear no other mage. How could she leave him to retrieve the Lantern?

Kezlo darted away from his master, not wanting to be entangled in Caldinar’s wrath. He eyed Sprig, who remained above, and encapsulated himself in a simple barrier. Flashes of light reflected from his chain mail. Kezlo’s asset, his speed, he wore only padded armor and hoped that he could outmaneuver Sprig’s size. The temple opening lay just a few paces away. He leapt toward the steps, formed a bright green flash above his head, and stopped for a moment only to concentrate. The green energy wobbled as a bubble and burst at Sprig’s feet, where it soaked into the stone as water on a sponge. The rock below Sprig’s big boots vibrated and broke apart, sending him tumbling down.

Kezlo gathered his power in his hands. Sprig lay so close. His instinct told him to move in for the kill, to finish Sprig. Then he could assist his Mistress. How powerful could the old mage be? His Mistress had instructed him, and she had never before failed him. Caldinar stood so close. By striking down Sprig, Kezlo, for a moment, would be defenseless to the strike of Caldinar. He would not disobey his Mistress, Kezlo decided, not now when they were so close to the Lantern. Kezlo leapt over the dead scout and into the dark opening.

He formed a small light in one hand and after a few paces, released his energy at the opening. Rocks and gravel tumbled down in a small avalanche, and daylight abruptly faded. Dust swooped in, and he covered his mouth. Satisfied he had gained a valuable advantage, he turned about to assess the tunnel.

A blast echoed from the rear, and rocks pelted him in the back, throwing him to the floor. Kezlo scrambled further into the unknown tunnel, the light still lit in his palm. He chanced a glance back to see Sprig digging through what remained of the rubble. He decided that had no time and unsheathed his short sword while he stumbled through the narrow corridor.

But he needed time. The ancient temple, homage to a forgotten and dark demigod, lay beneath a once lively mountain that yet spewed wafts of death. What wicked things were kept sealed beneath such solid and edified doors?

Stone walls, etched and chiseled, confined the passageway straightly. Diagonally tiled with polished marble, the floor spanned white but was covered in dust, making his traction loose and suspect. With intervals of a few paces, statues of a blackish gray stone stood against the wall upon little shelves.

Still Kezlo heard Sprig digging in the rubble as he crept around the first corner.

Here the floor changed to a checkered pattern. It made him stop. Why the change? He had no time to wonder. But he did, and then he sensed a foreign power. His master had taught him well. He searched for the source, but it came from many places. He found each, mapping them in his mind, creating a model. He worked it in his mind, turning it about.

Sprig would come soon, and the big man would wield that longsword. Kezlo could not face him in melee; he would not even attempt it. But neither could he move ahead through the tangle of mish-mashed but hidden wards.

He found something, a pattern, and slipped through the trap by stepping in the right places but stopped after the last. He leaned cautiously over the pattern and blew dust away from two of the wrong tiles. He then got up and stepped behind a large statue, half-man-half-something-else, where he extinguished his light, crouched, waited.

Sprig didn’t take long. He poked around the corner, his sword glowing with blue light. The big man hesitated, searched the floor for a moment, and stepped where Kezlo had stepped until he reached the end. He cussed as he balanced on a single foot.

Kezlo bent the air with a push from his hand. Dust blew up from the floor into Sprig, and then with a final burst, Kezlo propelled a force into him. The big man wobbled and finally set his foot down. A rounded stone released from the wall that flew into him, followed by another. But he was fast enough to avoid a third and stepped beyond the trap.

Anticipating an advantage, Kezlo engaged, but Sprig deflected his blade away with a clean and level sweep. Kezlo scrambled, falling backwards. He felt the sting where his padded leather lay open. Sprig was too good, and Kezlo’s blade was too short. He retreated, scrambling on his seat while Sprig advanced, until his back met the wall at the next corner.

Kezlo watched Sprig’s eyes through the bobbing long blade, waiting. He dodged as the blade came in, rolled, and found a place inside the longsword’s arc. With a quick slash, he darted down the hall, mostly on his hands and knees across the dusty floor.

Another pattern-change in the marble floor stopped him. He raised a barrier, and then extended his mind to find the trap. He did. Far too complicated with many mechanical and energy mechanisms to solve in a hurry, he relaxed and waited. Sprig came, holding his side, where blood dribbled through his hand.

He stopped and leveled his sword. "You are quite finished, Kezlo. I always knew this day would come," he said, panting. "Do not take it personally."

Kezlo sensed Sprig’s barrier. He could disarm it but only at a price. At this range, he would not have enough time before Sprig cleaved off his head. Kezlo held his own ribs--not as much blood.

Sprig moved to advance.

"Wait!" Kezlo yelled.

"Do you wish to beg? Really, I do not want to see that, not from you. Take a knee none-the-less and I will be quick about it."

Kezlo held up his hands. "I’m sure you would, but there’s a trap."

Sprig stopped, blinked a few times, and then shrugged. "I serve only my master. You have nothing to offer."

"Hear me out," Kezlo said.

It seemed to work, for Sprig did stop and wait.

"Can you disarm this trap?" Kezlo asked.

Sprig shrugged. "Your master is surely dead; she is no match for the great Caldinar."

"Then I’m already done in," Kezlo said, "and you’ve got everything to gain."

"You are bargaining from a far weaker position than I."

"How sure are you about this trap?"

"I do not know there is a trap," Sprig said and then smiled. He took a step back, looked around, and then relaxed slightly. "Bargain if you must."

"I figure we could keep hacking at each other, fumble around, set off the trap--and I assure you there is a trap--and then we both can get killed. Or we could disarm the trap, find the Lantern, and then start hacking at each other again."

Sprig frowned. "You only wish to prolong your agony. I am not inclined to trust you." Then he smirked. "And yet there is some merit in what you say."

"Look, I can disarm the trap."

"Yes. I have heard of your prowess. Certainly, if it can be done, you can do it." Sprig retrieved a cloth from a pouch, unfolded it, and began applying it to his wound. "What concerns me is the remainder of your reputation. When exactly do we start anew our struggle?"

Kezlo let the tip of his short sword dip. He then let his weapon dangle in one hand while he retrieved his canteen and took a swig. "How about somewhere between where we find the Lantern and the entrance?" He tossed the canteen to Sprig.

"Hmm…. Yes. That way we may disarm the trap or traps and extract the Lantern." Sprig wiped the spout and then took a mouthful from the canteen. "But who shall hold the Lantern. It would be unwise to yield such power in the halls of one so evil." He tossed the canteen back.

"I don’t plan on invoking it, if that’s what you want to know," said Kezlo. "I’ll leave that to my master."

"If she lives, even yet."

"How about this? After the first corner, we’ll set the damn thing on the floor, take four paces, and square off."

"Hmm…. Agreed, only…" he said. Then he nodded. "If your Mistress lives, I will not inform her of our bargain."

"I see," Kezlo said. He didn’t think his mistress would care—Caldinar may not have thought well of it, though. Sprig wanted to protect his legacy, and his confidence may not have been as strong as his ego would have preferred. Kezlo smiled. "Agreed."

Kezlo went to work, but he had to stop. He said without looking, "You’re breathing on the top of my head."

Sprig did not respond.

"You’re breathing on the top of my head, it’s bothering me, and I’d like you to stop."

"I do not see how this could be so bothersome. How am I to verify that you are keeping your word?"

"I guess you’ll just have to trust me."

"Hmmm…." And Sprig stepped away.

Kezlo applied force in some places and absorbed the energy elsewhere.

Sprig asked, "How long will this take? I grow impatient."

Kezlo hesitated, bemused. "Don’t you see it?"

Sprig failed to answer.

The mechanism, constructed of mechanical parts, wards, and power cells, troubled Kezlo. The releases extended far up the hall, much further than he thought possible. He found simple spikes embedded in the ceiling and walls. But there was something else. He extended his energy beyond the floor tiles and several paces into the hall.

Kezlo then recognized an energy presence around Sprig.

"What do you sense," Kezlo asked.

Sprig answered only after a short pause.

"I sense the evil. The un-dying lie behind those walls." He shuddered. "Make it so we avoid their wrath."

"Oh certainly," Kezlo said and rolled his eyes, "that should be no problem."

"Then you intend not to honor our bargain. Shall I kill you now, or will you reconsider."

"Look Sprig, it’s not that easy."

"If I had expected it were simple, we would not have bargained."

Kezlo had known of Sprig’s matter-of-fact demeanor, but this was too much. "Now I don’t want to stress our blossoming relationship, here, but can’t you see that the trap is separate from the rest of the hallway? I mean, I don’t want to get too technical on a verbal agreement, but we only bargained about this trap."

"So it is that we bargain yet again."

"Yeah, so I have something here I’ve brought just for this sort of situation. You see, we didn’t really expect Caldinar--"

"--Master Caldinar knew of this place long before your Mistress was born. It was she who chose to break the seal. She left my Master little choice but to retrieve the Lantern before her."

"Yes, of course; I get that part. What I’m saying is that I have something that I think will help us with whatever isn’t quite dead on the other side of the walls…. But I’ll need your help."

From inside his shirt, Kezlo retrieved a figurine of a hawk and held it up to the light of Sprig’s sword.

Sprig looked at it for a long moment. "I trust you less, the more we become acquainted…. Tell me what I must do."

Kezlo completed his work with the complicated trap. He then held the hawk figurine above his head.

"If you do not mind, you first," said Sprig.

"Of course," Kezlo replied. "A little more light, please."

Sprig obliged and intensified the radiance from his long sword.

Kezlo generated a protective energy barrier and commenced across the pattern. With the trap disabled, it took but three steps, and he stood beyond it, motioning for Sprig to follow. The light revealed more of the deepening hallway.

Sprig then stepped beyond the checkered floor and stood ready.

They waited in silence, but Kezlo found their negative life forces, which stirred from lazy slumbers, to a murmuring awareness, and then to a lively charge, so much more energy than he had anticipated. Kezlo looked to his figurine, the little statuette of a Red Tailed Hawk. It possessed energy of its own. He felt the floor vibrate and wondered if he had released the trap after all.

Sprig stood tall, longsword ready. Something pounded the walls on each side of the hallway. The pounding increased, and the statues upon their mantles fell and crashed upon the marble floor. Dust rose in a low fog below knee height, where it hung and churned.

The walls gave way to bony fists that emerged from small holes and tore at the stone, chipping and breaking away chunks. Then at once, in several places, the walls gave way in a final burst. From the roiling dust came lumbering, stringy skeletons with strips of cloth—and flesh? There were six of them. A reddish aura enveloped each. Their stench outweighed that of the belching mountain.

It was more gruesome and frightening than Kezlo had expected. "Hold tight," he said.

And Sprig did.

The first of six reached out its arm, and Sprig cut it off. Where that arm had been attached, a red glow wavered and then stabilized, possibly returning to the form it once had as a fleshy thing.

Sprig cleaved again with the same effect, that aura of red, that negative energy reformed into something flesh-like.

"Now!" Kezlo shouted.

Together they pulled at that aura of negative energy, that energy which bound the undead souls to their un-living flesh and bone, pulling it towards the hawk. Stronger than Kezlo had known, the skeletons clawed at the air, resisting all too well. This plan had been designed for his Mistress. Maybe she would have been strong enough.

Bound in the struggle, an intimate thing even if undesired, Kezlo could not help but glimpse at the store of power within Sprig and with that, the man’s and his master's signature. He could no more prevent it than could Sprig. The big man was holding back, but then so was Kezlo. A dangerous calculation, Kezlo needed his power to defeat Sprig, but neither he nor Sprig would live to use it upon each other if they did not vanquish these undead souls.

Kezlo gave in and used his resources, dragging the clawing skeletons towards the hawk figurine. The red aura that seemed to animate the skeletons bent and skewed toward the hawk as though toward a vacuum. Then Sprig at last released more of his power. Holding the figurine in front of him as far as he could, he still felt a sharp claw pierce his padded armor. Sprig cut the hand away, leaving the fleshy part to reform. Instead, it dug into Kezlo’s chest and groped. Would that hand find his heart and squeeze it dry? Had Kezlo miscalculated?

Hollow faces squealed with incomprehensible pain. Kezlo wondered how it would feel to have his soul sucked from his body: living, dead, or undead. They screeched and grasped and clutched at their broken and degraded bodies, trying to hold onto them. Kezlo felt the negative energy in his hand, but the hawk did its job. It sucked at those damned souls until it had one at last, and then another. All the while the hawk too sapped his power directly, and that of Sprig. At last the red glow diminished, absorbed by the figurine, and Kezlo felt spent.

The hawk had grown hot, but the last of the skeletons lay abandoned for the better by those lost souls trapped within Kezlo’s figurine. He slumped against the wall, stuffing the hawk figurine into his shirt.

"And so it goes," Sprig said. "The damned are yours to keep."

It was a question, yet Kezlo did not reply. Other things plagued him: The Lantern resided—trapped—somewhere within the deep temple. Sprig remained powerful while he felt drained. How could he emerge with what his beloved Mistress had demanded?

"Come," Sprig demanded. "There is little time for us."

The hallway sloped down and widened into an octagonal chamber.

Kezlo entered first. In the center, the Lantern was lit. From behind the shine, he could see that it was made of porcelain. The pictures and drawings of the Lantern that he and his Mistress had studied were correct, except did its beauty little justice. It rested peculiarly upon a short obelisk of black stone, and provided ample light for the chamber, all around, up the walls, and even the ceiling, which arched into a dome. A carved stone, large and black, hung from the ceiling or was possibly carved from the same rock as the chamber. The walls, once painted in deep shades of red, portrayed a brooding demon demigod. The dark rock provided a dark canvas for some dark story, a story that Kezlo chose not to decipher.

"So there it resides," said Sprig. "Lit after all this time. I would not have guessed."

"So, why don’t you just grab it?"

"I do not find your suggestion amusing."

Circling the obelisk and walking around the chamber, Kezlo extended his mind and searched for traps and wards. Powerful negative energy filled the chamber, but he could not detect traps or wards. With confidence, he said as much to Sprig.

He stopped on the other side of the lantern, facing Sprig. "I still think you ought to go up and grab it."

"If that is your best suggestion, then I trust you even less."

"Well don’t chant and dance around like you want to worship with it: just go up and grab it."

Kezlo could see that Sprig wanted to object and said, "I don’t have time for this. I’ll just grab it."

"No! No. I would sooner shrivel away than have you touch it with your unclean hands." Sprig stepped forward and tentatively grabbed the handle; it arced over the top. Kezlo stepped in, drawn to the light as a moth. A glowing, reddish ball suspended in the center of it. When he looked more closely, he saw that it pulsated. No glass shielded it.

Sprig began lifting. It came clear of the obelisk point with a scrape. A grumbling groan echoed in the chamber. Kezlo looked up, instinctively, and the ceiling had turned frighteningly black. Amidst the wide black wings, a knobby red face appeared. Its teeth sharp, its tongue forked, it hung from the center of the arched ceiling, grabbing with strong arms and sharp nails. It spread wide and flapped once. Sprig backed against the wall, raising his sword across his.

The demon demigod groaned and gurgled in a raspy voice. Kezlo had not before heard that ancient language spoken. The creature spoke again but more loudly.

With a flap of its wings, it landed on its feet.

Sprig, a big man, looked small.

"I think it said it would like its heart back," Kezlo said.

Sprig thrust his sword into the demon’s side. Black slime splattered across the red walls. Its great wings flapped, and then Sprig emerged from underneath. Lantern in hand, he stumbled toward Kezlo.

"Run!" Kezlo called.

The demon demigod was faster than Kezlo thought possible. With a claw, it grabbed Sprig by his back and held him up. But Sprig held the Lantern clear away.

Kezlo sent forth shards of energy that ripped into the demon’s exposed side. It fell back for a moment, and Sprig came free; still he held the Lantern. Kezlo grabbed at him to hurry him along.

Sprig turned to face the demon and would not budge. He raised his sword over his head and his yellow cloak spread about him. Kezlo immediately sensed new power in the sword and the cloak. The power began rolling off the tip of the sword, flowing as unseen fog, drifting along the floor. The demon reared and spread its wings. Black oozed from its wounded side. Then that fog of power, a power that Kezlo had never before witnessed, swirled around the demon’s feet. Quickly, more quickly, until the floor became as a fluid. Stepping forward, its foot sank into the floor, and it stumbled and toppled until it lay with its wings sapped and its arms stuck. It bellowed so loud that Kezlo held his ears.

Then seemingly at once, the unseen fog, the energy that stirred around the demon, dissipated, leaving it trapped in solid rock.

"Finish it!" Kezlo cried. To kill a beast such as that could only do the world good.

"Death is not enough," Sprig said. "Let it suffer. Surely, it cannot be killed as long as its heart beats within the Lantern." Then he held the Lantern up before the demon. "Watch us depart. Watch your beating heart." He then walked past Kezlo and up the hallway from where they had come.

They returned past the pile of bones, around the corner, and crossed over the first trap, where Kezlo stepped on the correct tiles, followed by Sprig.

Sprig looked back down the hallway and to Kezlo. He held the Lantern before him.

"You can put it down now," Kezlo said.

"Do you not sense its power?"

Kezlo stepped a half step away, turning his back somewhat. "Yeah, put it down just the same."

"How ripe it is. How magnificent." Sprig tilted his head slightly to the side. "With every pulse, I feel the depth of its power. The mages of yesteryear buried the demon here with its heart and soul trapped in such a fragile lamp. How could they not harness this power for themselves?"

"Your eyes are looking a bit glossy. Why don’t you put the thing down?"

But Kezlo did sense the power within the Lantern. He remembered what his Mistress had told him. Could he handle the power? Maybe he could. Maybe Sprig could.

Maybe not.

Sprig blinked rapidly, breaking whatever trance had engulfed him. He set the lamp on the dusty floor and stood silently for a moment. He said, "Four paces, then we shall count to three, and on four, our struggle will continue."

Kezlo was a bit surprised. Would he have done the same? Would he have let the Lantern go? Or was this some trickery? Kezlo could not be sure. The possibilities rattled around in Kezlo’s head. He was quite suddenly not sure he should wait until a count of four. What if Sprig had not intended to wait? What if he wanted to get him away from the Lantern in order not to harm the fragile thing and then blast him with something terrible right around the count of two? Maybe Sprig wouldn’t wait that long at all, performing his treachery while they paced side-by-side up the hallway?

They took their first step. He found a reserve of power, raising a barrier for defense. Together they took the second step. Was it enough to simply rely upon his barrier? They took the third step. Sprig looked straight ahead, concentrating, likely devising a plan of attack. They stopped after the fourth step and faced each other. Sprig’s longsword, that glowing and marvelous blade, hung in his hand at his side. The hilt of Kezlo’s short sword felt grimy and wet in his hand.

"Are you prepared?" Sprig asked, his face as expressionless as the stone walls. He spread his yellow cloak wide with his free arm.

"Yes."

"Then let us begin." There was fire in Sprig’s eyes. He looked confident.

At "one," Kezlo began wondering how to attack this man. Would Sprig even wait until four? Sprig had kept his word while he said that he did not return the trust. But he must have, or he would not have left the Lantern on the floor. He increased power to his barrier.

At "two," he wondered yet how to attack. He had scored once inside the man’s longsword. Could that be the key? Simple was often better. He concentrated and deepened his stance, feeling the weight mostly on his rear leg.

At "three," he raised his short sword to waist level and waited. Sprig had not moved.

At "four," Kezlo surged with enhanced strength, launching from his rear foot. His short sword met Sprig’s barrier, but Kezlo had channeled a barrier breaker to the tip of his sword, just as his mistress had taught him. The blade penetrated the over-padding and raked inside along the chain on Sprig’s chest. Kezlo, off balance from overextending, took a glancing blow on his shoulder, knocking him sideways. Kezlo caught his balance and parried Sprig’s direct jab.

Then Kezlo felt the wall at his back, which he had not expected, so he pressed his attack, using his greater speed, but he felt inexplicably cramped. His feet slipped on the dust-covered marble floor. He scored inside Sprig’s longer blade again; this time resulting in blood, but when he went to retreat, he could not, for the wall had unexpectedly pressed his back, again. This time Sprig did not counter. Instead, Kezlo felt a tug on his arm and searing pain on his skin. He instinctively modified his barrier to protect from the burning. With a firm tug, Kezlo sailed back against the wall. He realized only too late that Sprig had animated the stone into several ropes, which had lashed around his arms and legs. Kezlo’s quick action had kept him from the terrible heat of the malleable stone. But he remained pinned against the wall.

Sprig gave a little salute, grinned, and grabbed the Lantern, pulsating red glow and all.

Kezlo cussed and struggled as he watched Sprig jog away toward the entrance. He could not move his arms and legs, and he felt the stone began to cool. There went the Lantern, a device that could have provided his Mistress the strength to abolish the council of mages. Now it would be Master Caldinar, the elected leader, who would rule them all without refute. Mostly, Kezlo had let her down after she had done so much for him.

Culminating energy before him, he released it to glow green and seep into the stone ropes around his arms and legs. He felt the vibration. But the stone seemed resistant to his power. Sprig vanished out of sight, taking the light of both the Lantern and the longsword, leaving only a faint glow of the green energy as it worked. Would his strength be enough? Would his power fracture and weaken the stone? He had so little time. Had his Mistress fallen as Sprig had predicted? No. She was strong. She had always been strong. She alone had freed the slaves from the heavy hands of the council mages. If not by pure strength, she had done it at least by guile. He owed her so much. Kezlo found renewed strength where he needed it. His arms and then his legs came free as the stone ropes crumbled away. He formed a little light in his palm and fled up the hall after Sprig and the Lantern.

The wind whipped small raindrops into his face. Kezlo sensed his Mistress’s power and found her above the crevasse, standing on the ridge. She leaned heavily upon a boulder. Caldinar, a mere ten paces away from him, stood hunched over the Lantern, his eyes gleamed in the pulsating red light, his white and gray beard soaked with sweat, and his once yellow robe stained brown and singed on the edges. Sprig stood guard beside his master, and Kezlo felt his keen eyes watching.

Kezlo backed away to the far wall. How could he explain it to his Mistress? There would be no excuses. She had done her part and held the old mage at bay, trusting Kezlo to retrieve the Lantern. She had given him the time and tools to complete the job. He had failed, and the disappointment weighed heavily in her weary eyes.

Caldinar held the Lantern up to his face. "Yes! Yes! It is wonderful!" The pulsating red seemed to deepen the wrinkles in his face and transform his nose into a sinister beak. "Sprig, my boy! Do you not feel its power?" And then he laughed. "All of these years I kept secret this place. Had I but known."

Sprig backed away. It had been just a short step. "Be careful Master! Do not."

"Do not!" Caldinar lowered the Lantern. "You do not instruct me. You insignificant fool. Do you not understand? I have the power to smite you. In my hands, I have the power of a demigod." He then raised the lantern again. "Be gone. I’ve no use for you."

Sprig stumbled back, his eyes wide and dazed.

"Kezlo." His Mistress called to him. "We must run." She descended to stand beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "He is too much for me now."

Kezlo knew her forlornness. He felt her signature as she enveloped him within her barrier. Even after his failure, she would protect him. Kezlo looked to Caldinar; the old mage had begun a low chant. Kezlo did not deserve such a master as his beloved Mistress, he thought.

"Where will we go?"

"Come, my Kezlo. We must hurry if we are to gather the others." Then she did look into his eyes. He tried to look away, but for once, she did not scold him for his gaze, and so he remained entreated. "We must flee."

The mountain quaked. Kezlo felt the hand of his Mistress tighten upon his shoulder. Caldinar held the Lantern over his head and the pulsating light brightened. "I call upon you. I speak your name." And Caldinar spoke the true name of the demon demigod. The mountain rumbled yet again, and then with a crumbling burst, the air was filled with stone and mud. Great black wings flapped as the demigod settled before Caldinar.

It kept its wings spread. Its voice groaned. Who calls my name, it asked.

"Kneel before your master!" Caldinar shouted.

And the legs of the demon demigod quavered and shook. It howled and spoke oaths; it bellowed and protested; and finally, mewling, it knelt.

For so long they had run from the council of mages, for so long they had hid away, and for so long they had struck only in the night. Sadly, when his Mistress had built her numbers strong enough--of mostly slaves and outcasts--to challenge the council of mages, Caldinar had gained the power to abolish that very council and rule alone. Caldinar commanded the power of the demigod.

His Mistress reached through Kezlo’s barrier and placed her hand upon his arm. He felt her signature, as it was the core of his own, and so it penetrated easily. He would do her bidding: he would not disappoint her again.

But suddenly, he broke free to stand in the center of the crevasse. He reached into his shirt, while summoning his reserve of power. He held the hawk figurine high above his head. Within, he felt Sprig’s signature, he felt the signature of Caldinar, and he felt the lost souls of the undead. "Fly!" he commanded, throwing it into the air.

And the hawk expanded in a flash of amber and red. It spread its wings as it grew, reaching wide until it flapped once, twice. Then it set its wings. A red glow trailed behind as it sped, diving into the heart of the Lantern.

Caldinar vanished, consumed in a fiery ball. Kezlo covered his face but not completely. The demon demigod cried and fell away, shriveling and disintegrating into ash. A sharp gust of wind whipped through the crevasse, taking the remains onto the wind.

And then all was quiet.

Kezlo knelt where he had stood. Gone at last was Caldinar. Those that had suffered under him would suffer no more.

Again, as his Mistress stood behind him, he felt warm hands through soft leather and upon his shoulder. "We must finish it. The journeyman must not propagate the work of the master."

Sprig sat alone on the far side, tears in his eyes.

Kezlo walked slowly toward him, feeling his master’s presence over his shoulder. Sprig did not move, his face expressionless. Kezlo remembered Sprig’s smirk, that splinter of smugness for his victory. He stopped before him.

"Finish this," his Mistress said.

But Kezlo faced her. He sought her eyes and met them, as he never before had. "No, my Mistress."

As she stared back unfalteringly, he felt her anger, but then it subsided, replaced by unfamiliar warmth. "As you wish, my Kezlo." She looked away and then walked towards the opening in the crevasse. "Come. I am weary."

Kezlo extended his hand, and Sprig took it.