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Morg stood upon the battlements of the topmost tower in his keep in the city of Avorine. The dawn's cool air whipped through his shoulder-length brown hair as he faced east, watching the sun rise up over the southern part of the horizon, poking its way above the hills surrounding the Efanstre River and turning them a ruddy orange hue. Beautiful, as always, for the air this far north was crisp and clear and even somewhat brisk, despite the moderate weather accorded his kingdom due to the will of the gods who slumbered nearby. But the beauty of the sunrise could not entirely clear away the fey mood that had enveloped Morg the past few days, culminating here high upon his own battlements.

To call his mood anxious would be both correct and incorrect, for it was that and more. There was an underlying dread in the air, coupled with an expected melancholia. After all, tomorrow was the Feast of Sacrifice, a solemn rite to commemorate the passing of Khenni, Morg's boon companion who had given his life to save the world. So many dawns missed by Khenni. So much life he had left within his heart. It was said that Khenni's beloved, a woman from Imbar who had a mystical affinity with ravens, had fallen into despair at the news of the loss of her beloved, and had killed herself. At least, that is what the tragic songs the bards sang told.

So certainly, thoughts of Khenni and the coming Feast dampened the one-time mountain man's mood. But it was more than that. There was a foreboding, of danger or dangers that were, even now, incubating, hatching, and developing. When the Deceiver had been defeated and taken into Slumber, the world had rejoiced. Some had even pronounced an end to all evil. The fools! Morg knew that the Deceiver still lived. He could still be worshipped. He could still grant his followers power. What's more, not all of the Maugs, servants of the Deceiver, had been accounted for. Lolth still lurked somewhere in space and time, hiding and licking her wounds and, no doubt, plotting once again. Others were also believed missing. Who could say?

And new challenges arose in the vacuum left by the great War of the Gem. The servants of Lothar, God of Cold, were becoming ever more hostile to the Kingdom of Slumber, determined to return the land to its "pristine and natural" state of barren arctic waste.

And old challenges remained. Many of the lesser servants of the Deceiver survived his downfall. And many of these were angry, at mortal kind in general, and at the Heroes of the Gem in particular. One such, an arcanaloth of immense power and cunning, was especially desirous to see Morg and his family fall into ruin. For Morg had led an army to attack the fortress of that foul being shortly after the fall of the Deceiver, and Morg's forces, with help from others of the Heroes, had cast the structure into ruins and Morg had slain that arcanaloth in single combat and had taken the creature's head for a trophy, mounted above his throne in his grand megaron.

Alas, such beings are not easily slain on the plane of Therra, for they pierce the cosmic barriers surrounding the world in spirit form and then cloak themselves in flesh anew to walk amongst mortals. And when that flesh is destroyed, the spirit simply returns to the netherworld for a time, to regroup and return.

Since his defeat, the arcanaloth had made several attempts to assassinate Morg and members of his family. His wife Avoria, had barely survived the last such attempt, several years ago, but each attempt was more dangerous and more cunning than the last, and Morg saw no way to stop the attacks. Eventually, one of the attacks was going to succeed, and bring ruin upon his family and possibly his kingdom.

Perhaps that was the cause of the remainder of his mood. The arcanaloth had not struck for several years now. He was due. Perhaps even overdue.

With a sigh, the Hero turned from the now risen sun and descended the tower to check on his loved ones.

Later that day, Morg's mood lifted considerably. In grand processions and amid much fanfare the other Heroes of the Gem made their way to Avorine and were welcomed into Morg's castle.

There came the magus Eracuss, Lord Supreme of the Brotherhood of the Rose and one of the most accomplished conjurers in the world. His entourage was small, for he traveled by means arcane that no mundane servants could follow. He rode in upon his magical steed, a phantom called forth from the netherplanes. The townsfolk shied away at the strange, vaguely horse-like apparition, and withered under Eracuss' stern gaze. Two celestial beings walked to either side of the wizard, no doubt summoned by him to keep the worst of the crowds away, though Morg's soldiers were doing that anyways. These beings were clothed in silver raiment and each carried a glowing sword in its right hand and a silver trumpet in its left hand. The latter they sounded every so often, and the notes that rang from their breaths were sweet and strong and could be heard for miles.

Next came Korvar, the war priest, riding upon a destrier. Short and full of beard, many whispered that he had dwarvish blood in his veins, and he counted many of the stout folk as members of his court. Strapped upon his back was the legendary axe Binzerikal ("Blue-Edge" or "Azure-Edge" in Dwarvish) and he looked resplendent in his glowing chainmail, which cast a rainbow aura around him like a glorious halo.

Behind the warpriest was his lieutenant and right hand man, Tirolius. The doughty warrior had an axe of his own strapped to his back and rune-engraved mail upon his chest, but all eyes were turned down to the strange wooden dog that lapped at the heels of the warrior's horse. Everyone in Therra, it seemed, knew of Splinter. Every child in Therra, it seemed, wanted a carved little dog resembling Splinter as a toy. Every new pup born in Therra in the last twenty years, it seemed, was named Splinter. Splinter was a golem, a construct imbued with a magic spirit and given the semblance of life. Most golems were large and fearsome objects designed as guardians or to attack at the whims of their masters. Splinter, all two feet of him, wasn't much of a warrior, but he was imbued with the magic of his creator, the God of Tricks, Flupnir, and his bite could cause even a berserk Thaneeri warrior to fall and roll around in gales of laughter.

Some time later the enigmatic Queequeg the Wise arrived, floating on a magical palanquin and attended by a cadre of halfling wizards and several paladins of Meredros. Strange tattoos covered the wizard's face and arms, and no fewer than three strange gems whirled around his head like moons orbiting a planet. An obsidian crown adorned his brow, and his robes were covered with stylized fireballs and bolts of lightning, and as he proceeded he tossed copper pieces and candy into the crowd by the handful. Many in the crowd begged the evoker to show them some of his magic, but the mage merely continued to smile and toss out favours to the crowd.

Close upon Queequeg's heels was Lord Lancre, attended by a delegation of Mordanti priests. Lancre was the least adorned of all of the Heroes, for he preferred the plain clothing of his order, and upon his tabard was set in silver thread the conglomerate symbol of the Mordanti order, worshippers of all of the gods. As Lancre passed the crowds, some few of the onlookers scowled or murmured disapprovingly, for even now Mordanti were looked down upon by some of the citizens of Slumber. Nonetheless, most of the crowd greeted Lancre warmly, recognizing the part he played in the last War.

Morg welcomed them all, formally on his reception gallery for all to hear, and then privately and less formally in his own apartments, where good friends could catch up and begin to reminisce about old times.

It was not until evening that a messenger arrived seeking an audience with Morg. The messenger was an elf, clad in forester's gear, and he handed Morg a sealed parchment bearing the tracerie of the elf-queen Imerika. Morg quickly read the missive, and then turned to announce to all present that Queen Imerika sent her regrets, but she could not leave her own queendom to attend the solemn Feast of Sacrifice. Urgent matters in the Blanthil Forest required that she stay at her palace. However, she sent her consort, Halithil Anorum, to attend in her stead. At this, the forest-clad elf bowed and was welcomed into Morg's care.

Morg opened his eyes to find himself high above a scene, as if perhaps watching from the second story gallery of a megaron into a throne room below. His vision was blurry at first, as if just awakening from a long slumber, and he couldn't make out whose throneroom he was looking down upon. But soon his vision cleared, and he noted that it was his throne room indeed, and on the steps of the dais surrounding his throne was his wife Avoria in the passionate embrace of another man. They were in the violent throes of lovemaking, and Avoria was lying on the hard cold ground, her face visible to Morg from on high. Her lover was atop her, facing away from Morg, and he was dressed in dark velvet robes, pumping away furiously.

The warrior felt bile rising in his throat and a murderous rage creep upon him. As he did, he heard the man say "Lovely Avoria, you seem distracted…what ails thee?".

Avoria looked at her lover and said "Milord, my husband is awake. I can see him watching me."

A laugh escaped the man. "Indeed! I have willed it so. He was such a bad love maker that I thought it a kindness to allow him to observe a real lover in action…as much a kindness as I thought it would be to thee to allow thee to experience true bed prowess instead of the fakery and disappointment you have had to endure for all these long years."

This Morg could bear no longer. "No!", he cried out and reached for his blade, intending to leap from the gallery and challenge this tableau. But something was horribly wrong! It took Morg a moment to realize that he had no hands. Puzzled, he focused upon himself.

To his horror, Morg realized he had no arms, no legs, and no body. He was merely a head, mounted as a trophy above his own throne. The normally staunch and in-control warrior began to wail, but the figure merely laughed and finished with Avoria, she writhing in ecstasy.

"Why have you done this to me?" Morg cried.

The figure turned then, revealing the wolfish head of an arcanaloth. "Because you did it to me!"

And with that Avoria began to laugh, as did the arcanaloth. And both glanced to the far corner of the chamber. There, under a beam of sunlight streaming in through a window, were the horribly mutilated corpses of Morg's four children, a sodden heap of young bones, torn flesh, and gouts of blood.

Impotent and beyond consolation and quickly losing his grasp upon reason, Morg let out an echoing cry of despair.

The sound of his own voice woke Morg, and he sprang upright in his bed even before the last tattered echoes of his cry had faded away. Indeed, as he heaved in great gasps of air and noted the sweat running down his brow, it came to him that what he heard were not the echoes of his own cry, but the screams and sobbing of others…a great many others. Some were near, others were distant, perhaps even from the city itself outside the grounds of his castle. But the collective lament hung in the air like an icy frost of despair.

At least one such cry came from behind the door in the rear of his own bedchamber….the door that led to the nursery that held the younger of his children. Morg leapt out of bed, grabbing Alastrurial, his blade, from its sheath in one swift, whirling motion, so that he landed on the cold stone floor beyond the carpet surrounding his bed in a crouch, ready to strike out at any danger.

In the cold light of the coming dawn mixed with the embers from his hearth, he saw his wife Avoria, still in bed, trembling and pale, a streak of blood from the crack of her lips where she had obviously bitten through them.

"What is happening my love?" she queried, shivering.

"I know not", answered Morg, his eyes searching the room, "but I think you had a dream as bad as mine."

"No my love", she replied, "nothing could be bad as that which I just dreamed…" She broke off into sobs.

Another scream from the nursery cut short the conversation. As Avoria looked towards the rear door with terror, Morg bounded that way, gave the portal a flying kick, and rolled into the children's chamber with the grace of a wolf, bounding suddenly to his feet with his back to the two cribs and his sword held ready. The room was empty and silent, except for the sleeping form of the children's nanny and the sobs of the children.

Morg crept carefully to the nanny and nudged her, softly calling her name. She did not stir. Slowly the warrior turned the nanny over and saw her eyes wide open and bulging and her tongue severed and awash in blood where she had bitten through it. He placed his palm near her nostrils and felt a shallow breath. She lived.

Next the warrior moved to his children and examined them. Both were trembling and drenched in sweat, but both seemed unharmed beyond that. Morg called for Avoria, who quickly wrapped herself in robes and swept up the babes before taking them back into her bed.

"Stay here and ward them!", Morg commanded, "I will summon aid and go to see what is happening". He tossed a dagger to his wife, though she let it drop onto the bed and refused to stop clutching her children.

"Find the other children my husband…please find them and send them to me so that I know they are safe!"

Morg nodded and left the chamber.

The doorway into the castle hall was flanked by Morg's two guards. Both were slumped on the floor and barely stirring. Bellowing now, the warrior ran through the halls, calling for his troops, calling for his priests, and calling for his magicians. He ran straight to the two rooms that housed his other children, dodging a flurry of activity from others who, like him, were heading to check on loved ones or who were simply trying to figure out what had just happened. A few he passed tried to bow to him or stop him to ask for orders, but the king just waved them off and continued on his way.

When he arrived at the chambers of his other children, he saw that his son Farrastol, was fine, though a bit rattled. But his eldest daughter Camille was lying pale upon her bed, under the ministrations of Morg's high priest Allastir. Morg ran to the bed side and leaned over Allastir's shoulder. Like the nanny, her eyes were bulged wide and though her tongue was not severed, she had several teeth chipped from having clamped down on them so hard for so long.

"What has happened here Allastir? Will she be well?" Morg asked.

The priest clucked his tongue and looked up at his sovereign. Allastir's eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembling. It was clear that he, too, had been the victim of some horrible nightmare. "I know not what has happened milord, beyond to say that it appears as if everyone in the castle has had some terrible nightmare and some few of these have gone into shock. Your daughter is alive, and I believe she will be well again, but as to what has caused this to happen, or how far spread it is I cannot say."

Morg nodded. "I will get to the bottom of this, be certain of that. In the meantime, rouse every priest you can and have them tend to the stricken."

With that, Morg left his daughter's chamber.

For the rest of the morning, Morg took command of the situation. He mustered what guards he could and set them to patrol the castle to search for any sign of intrusion. He also sent runners into the city and learned that the entire city had suffered the same nocturnal affliction. There were few fatalities, though some elderly had died of heart stoppage and at least two souls had bled to death after having bitten through their own tongues. One woman had perished when her husband, in a waking dream, had drawn his sword and slashed at her, thinking her to be a phantom of his nightmare.

Riders were dispatched to see how far this malign influence extended, and perhaps pinpoint its epicenter, though Morg had no doubt that his own city and possibly his own castle would prove to be the heart of the effect. But Morg also knew the best way to get the answers he needed. He strode to the guest chambers and rapped on a door with his sword hilt.

Eracuss opened the door. Unlike the rest of the castle inhabitants, he looked none the worse for wear. "I knew you'd get around to me eventually."

Morg nodded and entered and the two sat down.

"Eracuss, this malady seemed to have stricken everyone in the castle. How is it that you escaped?"

"Hmph!" retorted the mage, "I did not escape. I merely cleaned myself up with magic. A nightmare? Yes I had one. A bad one. But you forget I deal with demons and all other sorts of unsavoury creatures. It takes quite a lot to rattle me badly!"

"Is there any way to find out what happened and why?" asked Morg.

Eracuss nodded and went to his traveling trunk. There he produced a square of cloth, which he unwrapped to reveal an ornate silver mirror. The mage set the mirror down on the table and stood over it, beginning to chant and sway, his eyes rolling up into his head. For several minutes he did this, while Morg grew fidgety with impatience. Suddenly, the wizard grabbed up his dagger and pricked his finger, allowing drops of blood to fall upon the face of the mirror. Instead of pooling up, as blood does, the red liquid streaked across the pane of the mirror, forming veins that ran across the entire face, lending it the impression of having been cracked. Slowly, the blood started to smoke and steam and then bubble as it boiled off the mirror face, until the veins began to thin, first to blade thickness, then hair thickness, and then gone altogether.

When the last bit of blood had boiled away, Eracuss opened his eyes and pointed to the mirror. "Look!".

Morg did then gaze into the mirror. He saw a massive beast, perhaps twenty feet tall at the shoulder if the nearby bushes were any indication. The thing was covered in black leathery skin and loped along on all fours. Two great, sharp tusks sprouted from its maw, and its eyes burned with umber malevolence. The thing was galloping under daylight at a rapid pace, though the limited field of vision provided no clues as to where the beast was or where it was heading. As Morg pondered this, he noted that riding atop the beast, between its shoulders, was a humanoid being about five feet tall and coloured bright orange. It wore a simple vest and pants, and two scimitars were strapped to its back in an 'X'. Small vestigial horns sprouted from its head, and pointed ears crowned a hairless head. The small creature, despite the jostling and rippling muscles of the larger beast, did not cling to the beast's haunches, but stood calmly and nimbly stop its shoulders, effortlessly balancing amid full gallop.

"What is it?" said Morg as he turned to Eracuss.

"Hmmm", said the mage, stroking his beard, "that would explain it. Yes. That would explain it indeed. That great black beast is known as a nightmare beast. A fearsome bundle of evil that is, with malign magic, immense strength, and the uncanny ability to induce nightmares miles around its presence. Yes….I'd say we know exactly what has happened here last night."

Morg nodded in assent. "And the small being that stands upon its shoulders?"

Eracuss continued to ponder, his brows furrowing and unfurrowing has he recalled his vast storehouse of knowledge. "I would not stake it as a surety, but I believe that little guy there may be a kelvezu."

Eracuss folded his arms and waited, as if expecting Morg to recognize the name. When the warrior showed no sign of responding, he sighed. "Kelvezu are tanar'ri. Demons of the netherworld. But these particular demons excel in assassination. I don't mean they are simply adept at it. They excel at it. They are the premiere assassins of the netherworld."

Morg sighed. "And they are coming for me".

"Indeed, it seems that way. Though there is no way of telling exactly how close they are. I don't recall how far a nightmare beast's powers operate, but it is certainly a matter of several leagues at the least."

Morg considered for a moment. "Perhaps we should cancel the Feast…"

Eracuss laughed. "Cancel the Feast? Are you mad? What a surprise for this assassin when he expects to attack a single Hero of the Gem and finds all of us here as well!"

"Do you think this assassin is unaware of the Feast and your presence?"

Eracuss nodded. "Think about it. Why of all times would he come now? It's the worst possible moment to try anything against you. Oh….this should be fun!"

Morg merely turned and left the chuckling mage.

Boom! Boom! The courtier's staff resounded upon the polished marble stone floor of the entryway into the grand Feasting Hall. "Hear ye! Hear ye! I call the sacred Feast of Sacrifice commenced! Attend and listen ye all to the Tale of Khenni, as told by Canaris, the grand bard of the Gem!"

As the courtier repaired to his seat, Morg held up the golden goblet for all to see and toasted the coming festivities. The chamber was crowded with guests, for the Feast of Sacrifice was the most important holiday in the Kingdom of Slumber, and was fast becoming a major holiday around Jerranq and even in the Morakki lands. Despite the horrible events of the morning, Morg had insisted that the Feast go on, indeed he had exhorted his people to continue as normal, noting that the very reason behind the Feast, Khenni's willingness to endure for the greater good, was to provide an example for all of time.

Morg and his wife and the rest of the Heroes of the Gem were seated at the head of the hall, atop a raised wooden platform at a long wooden table. To either side, two great tables were set on the floor, following the hall from the base of the wooden platform out to the marble entryway where the courtier had spoken. Many good folk of the realm, as well as honoured guests, were seated at those tables, and a small army of servants and servers attended them with drink, emerging from the many wooden doors set into the side walls of the place. Braziers and torches provides light and warmth to the hall, which was otherwise unadorned and which ceiling towered forty feet above the revelers.

Two long stone galleries rose from the entryway and ran along the course of the chamber, and two dozen elite archers stood post on the galleries, observing the pleasantries below.

Morg sat down in his throne, as Avoria placed her hand on his and gave it an affectionate squeeze. The buzz of conversation started to assert itself again, but quickly quieted as Canaris appeared on the top step of the entryway, which was serving as an impromptu stage.

The bard was dressed in his usual colourful fashion, blue tights and a puffy maroon and gold blouse topped by a green beret with a yellow feather stuck into it. The bard had his mandolin in his hands, idly plucking at it to make sure it was in tune as he smiled to the assembled. When he had the attention of the seated, he bowed low.

"Your Majesties King Morg and Queen Avoria. Honoured and beloved Heroes of the Gem. Milords and ladies. Honoured Guests. And worthy subjects of the Realm. I welcome you to this annual telling of the Tale of Khenni."

Polite applause rippled around the hall. Even the soldiers in the gallery gave a quiet fanfare to the bard.

"It was during the Great War of the Gem that our tale begins. The forces of the Deceiver had…"

BOOM!

BOOM!

Two great booms drowned out the bard. As he turned to see what had interrupted him, another boom echoed just behind the great double doors that led into the hall. Before anyone could react, the double doors burst open in a shower of metal shards and wooden splinters, driving Canaris to the floor. In strode the nightmare beast, blood already dripping from its tusks. The thing was as Morg had seen it in the scrying mirror, but now that he saw it in person he was even more awestruck. The thing was huge! Its shoulder reached almost halfway from the floor to the ceiling of the Grand Hall, and it looked more like a malevolent boar than anything else. The beast roared and bellowed and thrashed the pieces of wood from its face and tusks.

The feasthall erupted in panic. Chairs scattered and goblets flew through the air as lords and ladies, servants and maids ran for the side doors or flung themselves under the long tables. The Heroes assembled at the head table atop the platform reacted differently, for they had endured years of travail and were inured to even the most awe-inspiring or terrifying attacks.

Morg leapt from his seat and sprang backwards, working a catch hidden on the wall behind his table. A secret door pivoted open, and with his free hand the warrior-king grabbed Avoria and flung her through the opening, quickly depressing the catch as he drew his enchanted blade. The rest of the Heroes bolted from their seats, grabbing what weapons they bore into the Hall. Eracuss took up his staff, while Queequeg began to dig through his spell component pouch.

The warriors in the gallery also held their composure. Led by sergeant Thastum, the men nocked their longbows and shot volleys of arrows at the beast, but none of the missiles could pierce the enchanted hide of the monster.

Amid the din, the nightmare beast suddenly inhaled and let out a blast of noxious, roiling green vapours from its nostrils. This cloud flew across the room, collecting in a mass at the opposite end of the chamber, where the Heroes were assembled. As the Heroes held their breaths, expecting the vapours to be poisonous, a strange series of sparks began to play along the cloud. Suddenly, the entire mass ignited in a flash of flame. Morg, glad that Avoria was safely behind stone, dove under the table and off of the platform, rolling to a stand with the clothing on his back smoldering from the heat behind him. Eracuss merely laughed, for he bore a pearl that made him all but immune to flames. The rest of the Heroes also leapt from the flames. Korvar's beard was singed and Azuredge in his hands, ready to swing. Lancre emerged soot-faced and his robes black with char, but he was remarkably unscathed, for his robes accorded him mystical protection from fire. Tirolius, who was seated at the end of the platform, was barely hurt, for he was able to leap clear of the conflagration. Queequeg and Halithil had both leapt to the opposite side of Tirolius, and while the elf took up his bow, the wizard tossed a bit of guano in the air.

The guano sparked into flame and shot towards the beast, blossoming into a blazing fireball that exploded on contact with its hide. The beast bellowed in pain as the flames scorched its skin, turning portions of its leathery hide into flaking ash. Angered beyond belief now, the thing roared and charged.

Meanwhile, from behind the monstrousity came two more creatures. A griffon with the body of a lion and the front talons and head of an eagle flew in from the hall without. At its side came a salamander, a reptilian creature from the realms of fire, with its humanoid upper body wielding a red hot metal spear and its snaky tail slithering behind it.

The griffon let out a squawk, revealing a forked tongue, and a fell fire burned in its eyes. Vestigial horns grew from various places on its body, marking its torment and conversion from a regal beast of the air into a fiendish minion of evil. The beast lurched forward, flapping its wings, and flew up the left gallery towards the soldiers stationed there. The salamander let out a fiery chuckle and slithered up the stairs leading to the other gallery. Both groups of soldiers let out cries but held their ground, dropping their bows and drawing longswords.

Yet, the attacks on the galleries were drowned out by the thundering progress of the nightmare beast, which lowered its head and charged straight down the Grand Hall. Morg, Korvar, and Tirolius ran forward to meet the charge, while Halithil launched two arrows at the beast, both of which bounced off of its thick hide. The elf sighed resignedly and then noted the trouble on the galleries and began to launch arrow after arrow into the fiendish griffon. As each arrow struck, a jolt of electricity coursed across the wound, causing the griffon to bellow in a mixture of pain and rage.

The nightmare beast thrust its tusks to each side as it came even with the three warriors who dared to stand before it. One tusk caught Tirolius in the side and sent him flying towards the side wall, to land with a crash into the chairs scattered there. But when the beast turned its head to gore the warrior, Korvar struck, Azuredge singing a song of battle in the warpriest's head. The axe chopped into and through the monster's thick hide and a gout of black ichor spurted from the wound.

This caused the beast to stop short, for the platform ahead of it was still ablaze and the wound from Korvar had shocked it, for few had ever been able to pierce its skin. As it turned to face the priest, Morg struck, his sword dancing in his hands like a whirlwind. In an instant the beast was struck by four mighty wounds, and now Morg gripped his sword in two hands and held his blade back to prepare for the next strike.

By this time Lancre had begun to intone a holy chant, sending the blessings of the gods coursing through the Heroes' veins. Queequeg flicked his wrist and a handful of glowing red dots sped towards the beast. A couple of the dots winked out of existence just before they struck the beast, but the remainder left small wounds where they contacted the beast's hide, further enraging and distracting it.

Eracuss was not idle, though he had time for a single spell before turning to other matters. He gestured a complex pattern with his hands and intoned sonorously a chant that began to form a small weave of shadows around his palm. With a final gesture, he flicked his hand towards the floor behind the beast, and suddenly a many-headed hydra appeared behind the nightmare creature, hemming the monster in and preventing it from fleeing or backing up for another charge.

Once his spell was cast, Eracuss turned to the matter he considered more urgent than even the nightmare beast. He cast a spell to see hidden things and intently scanned the chamber, trying to peek amid the smoke and blood and furious melee. There he saw what he was looking for, a being that was crouched behind a portion of one of the tables that had snapped off and fallen on its side. He could only make out the small bald head, pointy ears, and vestigial horns, but he knew that he had found the kelvezu.

"Ware the kelvezu!" he shouted, pointing towards the table. Queequeg caught on immediately and took up his staff and pointed it at the table. The table lurched aside slightly and quivered. Though none but Queequeg and Eracuss could tell, the wizard had erected an invisible wall of force between the kelvezu and the warriors fighting the nightmare beast.

Morg heard Eracuss' warning, but he would not be distracted from the battle at hand. He forced his will into his enchanted blade and bade it to aid his attack. As Korvar dodged and parried the beast's tusks, using every ounce of his warpriest training, Morg hacked into the beast's right foreleg, Alastrurial cutting tendons and muscle cords in the beast's great leg. A wolfish gleam came into the king's eyes and he let out a howl as the vestiges of the wolf spirit took over his body. The beast grunted and now turned towards Morg, but as it did, ten toothy maws attacked it on its flank as the hydra bore in on it. Ten attacks the beast could not ignore, and so it turned to savage the hydra. This allowed both Korvar and Morg to renew their attacks, and both became drenched in ichor and fluids from the monster. At the same time, Queequeg slammed more magic missiles into the thing's head, and although some missiles winked out before hitting the nightmare beast, more got through and speckled the head with wounds.

On the galleries, the griffon had fallen under a hail of arrows from Halithil and a few well-placed sword thrusts from the soldiers and Sergeant Thastum. The salamander, on the other gallery, had slain a man by enveloping him in its fiery coils, but the man's fellows had avenged his death by hacking the flame beast apart with their blades.

As the salamander fell, draped over the edge of the gallery, it disappeared in a puff of smoke. The slain griffon did likewise, returned to the netherplanes from which they were summoned.

Meanwhile, the nightmare beast could endure the multiple onslaughts no longer, and it began to thrash around wildly. Its exertions slashed into and through the hydra, which dissolved into shadow. But before the creature could turn to face its smaller assailants, it let out a plaintive bellow and crashed to the ground.

All was quiet in the chamber for a moment, the cries of the guests mingling with the crackling flames on the platform.

Eracuss began to desperately cast about for a sign of the kelvezu, but he saw it too late. Before he could cry out, the assassin had crept around the wall of force and had snuck up behind Morg. As he rose up behind the warrior, Eracuss saw two scimitars flash up over Morg's head and then slice down in a quick, intersecting arc.

Morg saw nothing. He heard nothing. One moment he was panting aside the unmoving form of the nightmare beast, and the next a searing pain slashed across his back and another across his thigh. He rolled forward more out of instinct than awareness, and saw the kelvezu grin between his crossed and bloodied scimitars before winking into invisibility. Eracuss, his sight magic still active, pointed out the position of the moving demon. Guided by this, Queequeg pointed his staff yet again, this time forming a wall of force to keep the assassin from fleeing or gaining new position. Thus trapped, Morg and Korvar closed in on the invisible foe.

Korvar swung his axe, and although it connected with naught but air, Morg noted a slight sound beneath the axe blade and instantly brought his sword point to the sound. The blade struck flesh and a spurt of greenish-orange blood splattered the marble floor. Morg reacted to the strike quicker than even the eye could follow. He brought the blade up, scouring through flesh, and then pulled the blade out and whipped it into a low swipe, hoping to knock the demon's legs out from under it. But his last swing missed, and Eracuss announced that the demon had leapt over Morg's swing and was rolling behind the two attackers.

Korvar reversed his stance and smashed Azuredge into the marble floor, bringing a sharp rebuke from the axe. But the warpriest kicked out with his foot, seemingly off balance, and drew an attack from the demon, one of its scimitars slashing the priest's hamstring. As he yelped in pain, he drew back, for he was not truly off balance, but had accepted the wound in order to show Morg where the demon was. Morg did not miss the opportunity. Alastrurial sliced down into the neck of the demon, which let out a hissing wail. Morg spun and took his blade right through torso of the kelvezu, then reversed his swing and lopped off its head. The demonic body twitched for a moment as a fountain of ichor sprayed briefly, then flopped unmoving to the floor.

"Are we clear?" he asked Eracuss, wiping the ichor from his blade.

Eracuss scanned the room and then nodded as Lancre hurried over to Tirolius and minister his wounds. Korvar touched his own wounded leg and intoned a short prayer, staunching the bleeding. He then tended to Morg's back and thigh.

Slowly the guests emerged from under the tables and behind serving doors. Canaris the bard went over to the kelvezu's body and kicked the two scimitars. "These are accursed blades", he said, "none should touch them." He then bent over the body and picked up two items, an intricate metal rune and a small device comprised of metal and glass lenses, appearing almost like a mariner's navigational device. The bard pondered these for a moment, then turned and showed them to Morg.

"I do not know what these are milord Morg, but I suggest we take a careful look at them. Perhaps they will tell us something about the nature of this attack."

Morg nodded, and then hurried off to make sure Avoria was well.

"So what are these things?" asked Morg, as he sat around a table in a secluded chamber with Lancre, Eracuss, Canaris, Korvar, and Queequeg. Canaris had laid the metallic rune and the strange device from the kelvezu on the table before them.

"Hmmm…well," said Canaris, playing up a little suspense, "the device was the easier of the two to identify. It is rather unique looking, and it reminded me of a sextant, a navigational device used by mariners to chart sea courses. That reminded me of a tract I had read in the Tome of Lothos the Dismembered, and fortunately your library carried a copy of that tome."

"Will you stop babbling and get on with it!" countered Queequeg, chewing on a piece of imported whale blubber, "I want a reckoning! Someone's gonna eat some fireballs!"

"In any event," continued Canaris, "I found a reference in that tome to a device called a dimensional sextant. It locates magic portals…portals that lead to other dimensions and planes of existence."

Canaris paused for a moment, silently allowing himself accolades, and then, "That led me to believe that the metallic rune, which is the Draconic rune for "wizardry", might be a portal key. You see, many of these dimensional portals are set up so that only if a key…a certain item…is presented to it will the portal open and allow passage through."

Morg nodded in the light cast by the lantern that was set on the table. "Then this assassin and his beast likely came to Therra through a nearby portal. A portal we can now locate by means of the dimensional sextant, and that we can open by means of this portal key."

"Indeed Morg," said Korvar, "but where would such a portal lead?"

"That's easy," interjected Eracuss, "there is little doubt that these beings were sent by Morg's arcanaloth friend. If we are lucky this portal leads to his home demesne. If we can find him in his lair, on his home plane, then we can slay him once and for all. No more will that scoundrel be able to regroup and plague Morg and his family."

"I agree," said Korvar, "it's time to take this fight to the enemy. Tirolius and I will stand with you Morg if you wish to avenge this attack and take the battle to the arcanaloth!"

"And I!" said Eracuss, "you will need my expertise on all matters planar."

"You will not stop me from going," offered Queequeg, "I've got an itch to burn some fiends!"

"Then the band of Heroes will be complete", said Lancre, "for I will go as well."

"Nay," said Halithil, "the band is not complete without milady Imerika. But since she cannot accompany you, I shall try to serve in her stead."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world!" shouted Canaris, but Morg raised his hand in protest.

"No good Canaris. Though this will indeed be a tale to tell, I must have someone to stay and ward my loved ones and manage the Canton in my absence. I beg of thee to stay and make sure that there is home and hearth to return to."

Canaris was downcast, for he dearly wanted to join the Heroes on another adventure, but after a moment he nodded and sighed, assenting to Morg's request.

"Then it is decided," said Morg as he stood and raised his goblet high. The others did likewise. "Tomorrow the Heroes of the Gem shall reassemble, and the walls of heaven and hell shall shake at our passing!"

They all drank then, the tang of coming adventure in their mouths.

The Heroes had traveled for several days, heading steadily southwest along Avore's River following the road to Cache. They were mounted on sturdy but swift riding horses, and the late spring air was calm, with a soothing breeze and no rain. The valley between the Baravast Highlands and the Entremonts was lush and green, with flowers having bloomed and bees and other pollinators zigging here and there.

Once past the small unwalled town, the group turned east, heading up the Argun towards Odriel's Junct. Here they were welcomed by the mayor, a scion of Odriel, and enjoyed a good meal. The nightmare beast had not passed this way, but the townsfolk were aware of the attack at the castle and wanted to hear the tale from those who had witnessed it firsthand.

They then made south straight for Surargun, with the Mironlor Hills looming before them, following the dimensional sextant, which now pointed steadily due south.

On the morning of the fifth day, as the group approached the walls of Surargun, Lancre trotted up next to Morg.

"I know these lands Morg. My Canton is just south of those hills. And I know where we seem to be headed."

Morg nodded. "Yes, we are headed directly towards the arcanaloth's old fortress here on Therra. I had suspected that the portal might be there. It makes sense after all."

"Aye," agreed Lancre, "but as I recall the dungeons beneath the fortress are deep and extensive. No telling what remained hidden within or what has crawled in since we were last there."

Morg nodded his assent but said nothing, staring deliberately ahead.

The Heroes nighted in Surargun and queried the townsfolk there about the ruins of the fortress. Although the place had an unsavoury reputation and the usual tales of hauntings and the like emanated from that place, most of the more educated citizens seemed to discount any activity in the fortress, until last week, when the nightmares had ascended upon the town. The description of the event mirrored the nightmares at Morg's castle, and that confirmed that the nightmare beast had indeed come from the area. After a night of restless sleep, the Heroes left their horses stabled in the town and set off on foot towards the hills, now veering slightly to the southeast.

For a day and a night the Heroes ascended the hills, which were rugged and steep, some of the tallest hills in the Kingdom of Slumber. Winter runoff was still in evidence, as the tops of the highest hills did receive snow during winter. Yet, despite the proximity to the fortress from which all sorts of foulness had issued, the land seemed healthy and untainted. Such was the healing power of nature and the gods.

The next morning, with Halithil in the lead, the Heroes crested a rise and looked down upon a plateau that overlooked a pass between the hills that reached Morg's Canton on its northern end and Lancre's Canton on its southern terminus. The fortress had been set upon that plateau, a strategic position designed to dominate the pass.

But the fortress that had once stood mightily upon that plateau was now a jumbled ruins. Cyclopean stones were knocked asunder, or shattered, or scorched, and no tower stood taller than perhaps three men's height. The outer walls were entirely breached, and the inner bailey and central keep were largely breached, though a few stands of wall remained upright.

The Heroes paused to gaze upon the ruins of the arcanaloth's fortress, those who had been present recalling the titanic battle that had occurred here to cast down the fortress and defeat the arcanaloth. Many good men had perished in that endeavour. Too many.

Morg broke the reverie first. "We should head for the dungeons. I do not think a portal could have been set up in the grounds and have survived our handiwork."

Queequeg smirked, remembering fondly the destructive spells he had rained down on the place in the name of righteousness.

Together the group descended the ridge and entered the shattered grounds of the place, and as they did, it quickly became apparent that there were many good spots for an ambush amongst the collapsed stones and standing foundations. Halithil quickly took up a scouting position, his bow out and an arrow nocked, scampering up steeply angled stones with an agility that only an elf could muster.

Ever alert, the Heroes proceeded further into the ruins, seeking the entrance to the depths below.

Despite Halithil's scouting, it was Tirolius who heard the sound first. It was slight, a merest clatter of stones both behind and above the group. The Aghorriti hissed a warning and spun around, brandishing his great axe while the rest of the Heroes spread out and drew their weapons. Another clatter came, this time closer, and in the light of the high sun, a shadow loomed over the face of a stone block, indicating that the originator of the sound was approaching. The shadow loomed large and monstrous in shape, and the Heroes braced for any manner of horrific beast to round the corner.

"Is this the greeting you give an old friend?" came a voice, and the shadow resolved into a man clad in shining platemail sitting astride an amazing pure white pegasus that was accoutered in barding that sparkled in the way that only mithril could. The man had a bastard sword strapped to his back and held a shield in his left hand and a long lance upright in his right hand, resting against the top of his thigh.

"Who is it that parleys with us?" challenged Korvar, hefting Azuredge.

The man lifted his visor, and the Heroes relaxed. For this was Cromwell, a paladin of great renown who had accompanied many of the group in their early days.

"Cromwell! You old rascal!" bellowed Morg, "how in the heavens did you come to be here?"

As Cromwell's steed descended the slope of the stone block, aided by its wings flapping to keep its balance, Lancre said a short prayer and scanned the paladin and his steed for any taint of evil. As the Mordanti did that, he noted Cromwell doing the same to the group. As each of the two meet the other's gaze, each smirked in recognition of what had just passed.

"Careful as ever! Good. I like that!" said the paladin as he came to sit before Morg. "I intended to attend the Feast of Sacrifice this year, as I wrote to you this last winter, but alas, I was unavoidably detained rooting out a nest of bugbears in Vilgum. But even if I could not make the Feast, I had promised to visit you in the Spring, and my promise is my bond."

"So I came some days late, and learned from Canaris what had transpired. When I queried the bard as to where you were most likely headed, he told me that the contraption you have had pointed to the southwest, and he figured this was the most likely destination. So I flew here as fast as I could to await you. If you hadn't arrived in the next day or two I would have gone down into the dungeons anyways, to see what I could see, but I am glad that I found you instead."

"Then you know our mission?" asked Morg.

"Indeed I do. And I intend to help…if you'll have me. Or even if you'll not. There is a great evil here that shall be destroyed. And I mean to take a part in that!"

Morg laughed. "Of course you are most welcome to join us Sir Cromwell. It will be just like the good old days."

Cromwell laughed heartily and raised his cape over the lower half of his face and shouted "Onward!" The rest of the Heroes, recognizing the gesture from Cromwell's earlier adventures, laughed and began to search for the dungeon entrance.

The portal loomed before them. Set into a mundane wall in a mundane room in the deepest depths of the arcanaloth's old dungeons was a swirling mauve oval large enough for a man to pass through.

The group had drudged its way down six levels of underground hallways and rooms, most of them deserted and musty and home only to rats and small insects, but they had been assailed, at one point, by the ghosts of those who had fallen here in the final battle. These spirits had emerged right from the walls of the place, and greatest amongst them was a massive, incorporeal wormlike creature that seemed to command them. However, after the initial shock of having these beings manifest directly amidst the Heroes from out of the dungeon walls, Korvar had quickly stepped up, brandished his holy symbol to Aghorrit, and sent all but the spirit worm fleeing back to wherever they had come from.

The spirit worm was a tougher customer. Two insubstantial tentacles emerged from its upper body and writhed at the Heroes, and when they touched, a numbing chill spread through the body, causing the victim to go cold and rigid. What was worse, the tentacles were able to pass right through armour and skin, instead attacking the very souls of their targets.

Indeed, one tentacle had wrapped around Eracuss as he tried to step back from the combat, and it was only with the greatest of efforts, through gritting teeth, that the magus was able to keep his wits long enough to invoke a spell of escape from his staff and teleport out of reach of the monstrousity.

The warriors and warpriest hacked at the thing's body, but to no avail, for even enchanted blades simply passed right through the creature. It was not until Queequeg invoked an anti-magic spell that forced the worm to become fully material did the blows of Morg and Korvar, Tirolius and Cromwell tell. As the arrows of Halithil sank to the feathers into the bewildered creature, the worm slowed its writhing, and then fell to the ground. No blood issued forth from the thing, only a syrupy liquid that glowed a silvery green. Ectoplasm pronounced Lancre. The thing was undead. As the anti-magic spell lifted, the worm's carcass faded away to nothing.

Now the group was poised to enter the portal and leave the world of Therra behind them. They had no idea what lay on the other side of the magic portal, but Morg was determined to lead the way. He pulled out the metallic rune and held it up, near to the portal. The metal hummed and vibrated in his hand, and the face of the portal began to cloud and then glow umber, casting the mist in a reddish lining. The smell of parched earth and brimstone wafted into the chamber through the portal. "Stay here," commanded Morg, "I will enter and then try to return to let you know if it is safe."

"Very well," said Cromwell, "but if you do not return in a matter of moments, we shall come in after you anyways!"

Morg smirked and nodded and, holding the key before him, walked right into and through the portal.

Tense moments passed. Brief to an objective observer, but a long time seeming to the assembled. Then Morg's head stuck out through the portal. "Well…it's not exactly the garden spot of the netherworld, but it's safe enough."

As Morg once again disappeared into the portal, the rest of the group made its way through, with the portal actually expanding to accommodate Cromwell's pegasus.

The group emerged into a landscape that can only be described as Hellish. They were in a gully or ditch, possibly ten feet deep and not much more than that in width. It seemed to be a great rent in the earth, and it went on fairly straight and out of sight to their left and their right. The portal, looking back behind them, was situated in a small cave, more a niche, in the side of the gulley, and it glowed blue.

The sky above them was ruddy, the colour of blood or new rust, and was entirely composed of roiling clouds moving at tremendous speed.

Halithil immediately announced he was going to have a look, and he took a running leap and managed to grab the top of the gulley with his hands. He hoisted himself up and gave out a low whistle.

"It's like a wasteland all around, as far as the eye can see", he reported. "Parched, rocky plains run through with small cracks as if by a great heat. There are mountains in the distance, and they are quite tall, but they are strangely steep and needle-like at the top…quite unnatural seeming. I see no other features."

With that he dropped nimbly back into the gulley.

"Well," said Morg, "we either go left or right then. I think we should follow the gulley. Something had to have formed it, and any potential landmark is as good or better than simply setting out in a random direction. Also, traveling inside the gulley will conceal us from casual observation."

The assembled gave their assent, and it was decided to head left, on a whim.

The group traveled for many hours. The way was not too difficult, as no plant life was present in the gulley at all. The temperature was mild, despite the "hot" appearance of the plane, and they encountered no creatures during their travels. In fact, the place was eerily silent and undisturbed. After a time, this preternatural silence began to play on the nerves of the group, and they began to cast about warily, as if expecting some sort of ambush or sudden attack. They spoke little or not at all, and all of them felt a pall settle on their expedition. The continual tenseness and adrenaline eventually began to take its toll, and by the time the gulley began to peter out and rise to the level of the vast plain, most of the group was quite fatigued.

"We must rest," advised Cromwell. "The very air of this place is a miasma that saps my soul." The others agreed.

"Aye", said Morg, "but let's just go a little further, to see if this gulley has led us anywhere."

Grumbling, the group followed Morg out of the gulley.

The plain continued in all directions, with nothing but distant spires and the gulley behind them to mar the landscape. They set out generally in the same direction the gulley had led them, and were just about to turn back, after a mile or so, when Halithil pointed off on one direction.

"There! I see a black stain on the plain floor, perhaps a mile or so distant."

Complementing the elf's keen eyes, the group turned and approached the black spot. As they neared it, the splotch resolved into a strange sight. A metallic statue, humanoid in appearance, though with strange ornamentation, was stuck into the hard ground, so that only its upper half was visible, its arms trapped against its torso and stuck into the ground with the rest of its body. The statue must have been huge, for the portion that stuck above the rocky floor was a good eight feet tall.

As the group approached, warily, the statue moved. Its eyes blinked, and with a sound akin to a dagger blade dragging across a rusty shield, its head slowly turned to the side, to regard the Heroes.

Korvar stepped forward, axe lowered but in his hand. "Greetings O statue of these plains."

The statue blinked again. Then opened its steely mouth. It shut its mouth and then opened it, over and over, as if working out some kinks. Finally, it spoke.

Greetings mortals. I have been a long time here. Many ages I think. I cannot tell. You are the first mortals I have seen here.

"Praytell, how did you come to be here, for this does not seem your natural abode?" asked the war priest.

No mortal, marut am I, enforcer of the will of Mergurr, the lord of the ultimate order of nature…death. Here came I to perform my sacred mission. Here failed I and was cast down, entrapped in the earth of this plane so that I could neither complete my task nor return in death to my maker.

"How can we aid you, if at all?"

You can aid me. If you will. It is a kindness I shall repay. I am too battered to continue my mission. Therefore, I seek only release. Slay me if you please.

"Slay you? Are you sure that is what you desire? We could try to dig you out…"

Nay mortal. Slay me. Please. If you agree I will offer you information. For I know whom you seek.

"Oh", said Korvar, now raising a skeptical eyebrow, "and just how do you know that?"

Allay thy suspicions mortal. There is naught on this plane but the one. So he is whom you seek. Will you release me?

Korvar cast a glance at Cromwell, who was sensing the statue for the presence of any malign intent. The paladin merely nodded to the warpriest, as did Morg.

"Very well. Tell us and we will…release you."

Follow the rift to its other end. There you will come to a tall, steep spire that rises to the sky. Set about its crown is a wreath of vapours, poisonous and toxic they are. Atop the spire is set an iron tower, and within, he whom you seek.

But be wary, for the master has set guards to ward the approaches to his lair. Four great winged devils patrol the mountainside, in groups of two…a lesser along with a greater. The greater possesses a great scourge made of metal chains and wicked spikes. The lesser possesses a sickly green trident fashioned of some malign metal. Both are terrible in combat. And the greater of them is also cunning and daring. I have now told you all. Release me as we bargained.

Korvar paused a moment, perhaps mustering himself, for he did not like to slay the innocent. With a resigned breath, he hefted his axe and brought Azuredge down onto the neck of the construct. Metal parted and glowing blue fluid shot out of the wound. The marut said nothing. Showed no sign of pain. It merely nodded, bidding Korvar to continue the grim work. Again and again the warpriest struck, and Morg and Tirolius advanced to aid him. Finally, after minutes of work, the head toppled from the body, and the fluid stopped flowing, and the marut was released.

With that, the Heroes returned to the gulley and made camp, passing a restless "night" in silence, for there was no period of light or dark on this plane, just perpetual umber twilight.

Two day's travel from the marut found the group staring up at the base of a tall conical peak that rose thousands of feet in the air. It was quite steep, much taller than its diameter, and its sides were unnaturally smooth, except for the jagged and far-too-sharp stone spikes that sprouted from the mountainside at random intervals. High above, obscuring the top of the mount, was a halo of greenish-red vapours that frothed and boiled around the mountaintop.

"I could cast a dweomer of flight upon us," said Queequeg matter-of-factly, "but should those patrolling devils catch us we might be in for quite a fight."

The others agreed, and discussed the matter for a short time, before Lancre spoke up. "I can call upon the Lord of Air to transform most of us into cloud form. In such a form, we can speed up the side of the mountain very quickly…perhaps fast enough to outrun the devils."

"Can you not transform us all?" queried Morg.

"No. Not unless Korvar were to pray with me…to beseech the God of War to aid the God of Air on our behalf. Would you aid me Lord Korvar?"

"Indeed I would Brother Lancre…shall we begin?"

"Aye," said Lancre, "but first a little prayer to shield us from the toxic vapours atop the peak."

Lancre recited a small singsong prayer and performed a quick, somewhat intricate dance. A vaguely discernible bubble of power formed in a hemisphere some few yards around the Mordanti priest.

Once done, Lancre nodded to Korvar. The two priests clasp each other by the wrist, and Lancre began a short chant, swaying from side-to-side as if in a stiff breeze. Soon Korvar caught up the chant, and after a moment, both closed their eyes. The intonations continued for another few seconds, and then both priests suddenly stopped and opened their eyes.

"It is done," pronounced Lancre.

"We are still solid good priest," said Halithil, prodding himself with his finger.

"Yes…you must will yourself to change…like so." And with that, Lancre slowly faded out, first becoming misty, then colouring red, and then his outline blurring away into an amorphous cloud shape. Within half a minute, the priest was gone and in his stead floated a four-foot diameter cloud of ruddy red.

The remaining Heroes stood agape for a moment or two, admiring the transformation. Then they too changed into clouds. At once, Morg's cloud sped upwards at a blistering pace, and the rest followed, hovering mere feet from the slope of the mountain as they ascended. Faster than even the fastest horse, faster even than Cromwell's pegasus, who was also a cloud at the moment, did they climb. Spikes and stone protrusions whizzed by, some of them passing right through the shapeless forms of the cloud-Heroes. Then, before even a minute had passed, the halo of toxic vapours loomed ahead. As it did, the cloud-Heroes noted two large fiends approaching on flapping bat-like wings. But the cloud shapes were far faster than even the nimbler of the fiends, and they howled in frustration as the Heroes shot past them towards the halo of vapours. Just as they plunged into the toxic mists, the cloud-Heroes gathered close, within Lancre's globe-like shield of magic, and all heard the hiss and sizzle of the vapourous toxins as they met and were defeated by Lancre's protection. In a matter of seconds, the red sky reappeared and the cloud-Heroes found themselves face-to-face with the tower of their adversary.

The tower was set upon the top of the mountain, which sharp summit had been sheared off, forming a flat space about 200 feet in diameter. Set upon this plateau was the tower, made entirely of iron. The structure was 150 feet high and 50 feet square and there were no windows or doors anywhere up or down its length, as was confirmed when the cloud-Heroes circumnavigated the base of the place seeking entrance. The top of the tower was battlemented, and adorned with sharp iron spikes set at various angles. Amid these spikes were iron reliefs of demonic and diabolic figures tormenting mortals.

Morg shot straight up in cloud form, and as he crested the top of the tower, he saw a dozen man-sized humanoids, with the faces and body carapaces of insects, standing on the tower roof. Each held a trident, and in their midst a set of stairs descended from the roof into the interior of the tower.

The insect creatures saw the Morg-cloud rise up over the lip of the tower roof. The cloud then shot up quickly hundreds of feet above the tower. Eight more clouds shot up after the first, until they were all barely visible against the cloudy backdrop of the planar sky.

Morg-cloud halted his ascent and waited for his companions to muster near him. Then, he swiftly dropped, plummeting straight for the tower roof. As he did, he willed himself back to solidity. The descent was timed perfectly, such that just as Morg solidified, his feet touched the tower roof. Alastrurial whipped from his sheath as he backed against the battlements. He hoped his companions would not be long in following suit.

They weren't. Tirloius and Korvar dropped down and appeared aside him, as did Halithil, who immediately nocked his bow. Eracuss landed on the other side of Morg, with Lancre warding the archmage from the insectoids on his other flank.

Cromwell and his pegasus steed both materialized away from the roof, but somehow, even in cloud form, the paladin managed to position himself such that both he and his steed appeared in their proper positions, rider upon mount. Sir Cromwell immediately unlimbered his lance and began to intone a blessing of goodness upon it.

Meanwhile, Queequeg had cast flight magic upon himself, so that when he returned to form he remained hovering above the scene. Quickly the mage produced a wad of guano and a bit of bile and intoned a cant. The two objects melded into one and sped from his hand, striking near the stairway and blossoming into a ball of acid that drenched the insect men. A chorus of hissing began, both from the acid bubbling away at the monsters' chitin shells, and from the monsters themselves, obviously in some pain. Queequeg then landed.

The monsters closed, three of them charging Tirolius and while one parried an axe thrust from the warrior, two others came in a well-coordinated flanking maneuver, the first spearing the fighter in his right foot, pinning him to the ground, while the other brought its trident into the man's side, where his armour was split and secured by leather straps. The tri-pronged weapon bit deep and the insectoid creature twisted the shaft, evoking a tortured cry of pain from the stricken Aghorriti, who buckled to his knees.

Morg closed with two of the beasts, slashing through one with his blade and knocking the other aside with his shoulder, enough to squeeze in between that one and one of the creatures savaging Tirolius. As he did, Korvar came in behind the warrior and chopped at the creature that had been knocked off balance, drawing a gout of ichor from its sundered carapace.

One of the insect men hissed a strange sound from its mandibles, and of a sudden a patch of greenish vapours appeared atop the Heroes and their foes. The insect men seemed completely immune to any effect of the cloud, and fortunately, Lancre's spell was still in effect, and the mist buffeted for a short time against the magic warding surrounding the Heroes and then slowly wafted over the battlements and out of the tower to merge with the toxic clouds surrounding the mountaintop.

The impotence of the cloud of vapours seemed to agitate the insect men, who now came upon the Heroes en masse, tridents at the ready. Despite Morg's best efforts, two of them kept to savaging Tirolius, who was now coming near death, but as one of the creatures raised its trident to give a killing blow to the hapless warrior, it suddenly stopped short, hissed in agony, and then stumbled over the fighter's prostrate form as Cromwell and his steed swooped past, leaving his lance shimmering and half buried in the back of his foe. As the pegasus swooped up and over the battlefield, the paladin drew his enchanted sword, which glowed with a divine radiance. The mount suddenly hovered for a moment, losing momentum, and then swung around to begin another charge into the field of conflict.

With pressure off of Tirolius, Morg and Korvar closed ranks. Halithil began to pepper open opponents with arrows, and Lancre began a sing-song chant punctuated by strange laughter that somehow seemed to hearten the Heroes and waver the resolve of the insect men.

Morg now became a whirlwind of steel, his blade whirling in a blurring arc of death, as three of the things fell in rapid succession, gouts of ichor falling in lines on the rooftop floor and steaming with waning heat. Korvar chopped and chopped, and Azuredge began to sing a chorus in the warpriest's head which rhythm matched the warpriest blow for blow. Lancre hastily retreated from a trident thrust, which hooked his cloak and caused him to stumble back, but Korvar intervened and made short work of Lancre's foe.

And still Cromwell flew through the battlefield, chopping and thrusting as his steed flew past and then reversed for yet another pass.

Suddenly, a group of the monsters tried to regroup and form a concentrated charge into the midst of the Heroes. But Queequeg was ready. He took from his pouch a small crystalline cone and evoked the harsh elements of his native lands in the far north of Jerranq. A cone of white ice sprang from his hand and wafted over the group of insect men, which writhed in pain and emerged coated with rapidly melting icicles.

Now, the insect-men thoroughly wounded and disoriented, Morg and Korvar charged the last group and made short work of them, until all twelve of the foul beings lay dead and twitching on the rooftop and the floor was slick with their goo.

As the priests ran to tend to Tirolius and heal his wounds, Morg noted that Eracuss had not taken part in the battle, but was instead scanning the cloud of toxic vapours that surrounded the plateau. "What is amiss Eracuss?"

The mage remained transfixed on the area without the tower, but answered, "those two fiends we passed…I have timed their approach. We have perhaps a minute or two if we are lucky before they arrive. What shall we do?"

At this the Heroes gathered, Tirolius back standing and feeling much better after receiving the healing prayers of Lancre and Korvar. They discussed their predicament for a few brief moments. All were unanimous that they did not wish to enter the tower and perhaps face the arcanaloth with the possibility that, in the midst of that terrible battle, the two fiends could come upon them from the rear. Better, they agreed, to face the fiends now, in open battle when they were prepared.

And prepared they endeavoured to become. The mages produced wands that they waved at the warriors of the group, causing their muscles to ripple with renewed strength and their fatigue to flee. Lancre and Korvar pronounced every godly blessing they could upon the battlefield and the Heroes, beseeching their deities for aid in the coming battle. They cast many wards upon them, wards against many forms of magical and physical attacks, but primarily from fire, for Eracuss knew that diabolic fiends tended to favour the element of flame.

Only had they just finished their preparations when out of the clouds below the tower, like two sea creatures breaching a stormy sea, the two fiends emerged, seemingly as if in slow motion. The first was red in colour, and humanoid in shape, backed by large batlike wings. It was quite large, some nine feet tall, and its body was covered in spikes. It had a long sinuous tail tipped by a barbed spike, and in its hands it wielded a cruel spiked chain of immense size.

The other was black in colour, and larger. It had two long horns thrust up from its head and held a massive trident in its clawed hands, its immense thews rippling with veins and muscles. Large bat wings sprouted from its shoulders, and gaping fangs were revealed as it bellowed.

The two came directly at the Heroes, flying up to roof level. As they did, the Heroes sprang into action.

Eracuss began to intone a chant, and suddenly a great wind began to raise in an area of the roof near to the fiends. After a few seconds, a great column of swirling air stood there, immense and potent with eyes hovering amidst the tempest and two hand like limbs composed solely of air flailing and whipping out of the main body. It was a huge air elemental, a prince of its kind.

Queequeg launched himself skyward, using his flying magic to propel him thusly. From above the two fiends he unleashed one of his most powerful spells, and from out of the clouds above came four massive meteors, each dripping with acid. The stones struck the fiends, two to each, and staggered them back, and as each struck it burst in a gout of acid, which sizzled and ate into the hides of both fiends.

The smaller fiend, which Eracuss knew to be a cornugon and the more powerful of the two, pointed at the Heroes and a ball of fire erupted upon them. The wards the Heroes had cast flared into life. A globe of swirling motes surrounded Queequeg, and he was unharmed by the fire burst. Lancre's cloak partially protected him, and Eracuss' magic pearl absorbed the heat that would have otherwise turned his skin into charred flakes.

When the flash of the fireball subsided, none of the Heroes were much hurt. The cornugon bellowed in frustration, and waved towards the other fiend. It, which Eracuss named a malebranche, lowered its head and charged directly at Morg. The warrior accepted the charge, moving swiftly to the side and slashing with his blade into the shoulder of the fiend. The malebranche wailed in pain, and the cornugon prepared to join the fray, whipping its chain in a whistling arc above its head.

It was then that Eracuss pointed to the air elemental and then to the cornugon. The great whirlwind arose and streaked towards the devil, which noted its approach and lashed its chain at the wind. The elemental ignored the blow and encompassed the fiend, and then began to drag the thing away from the tower, preventing the cornugon from joining the malebranche in battle.

The latter was now engaged in combat with Morg on the rooftop. Halithil pumped arrows at the monster, though most of these bounced off of its thick hide, but a few struck true and sent electricity coursing into the wound. Korvar now advanced and began to chop at the devil's hamstrings, and Tirolius harried the creature from its left flank. Eracuss moved behind Morg and intoned a quick spell. A ray of blue light struck the creature, wavered for a moment, and then flared to life, surrounding the malebranche's head in a nimbus of light that quickly sank into the creature's skull. Suddenly, the beast fought with less cunning, like an angry beast rather than a sinister devil. It's maneuvers now simple and predictable, Morg and Korvar slashed the thing to ribbons.

Meanwhile, Cromwell was not content to merely allow the cornugon to be dragged away for a short while, for the fiend was attacking the air elemental with an amazing fury, and the whirlwind was starting to tatter here and there. The paladin and his steed charged at full speed towards the entrapped cornugon, and though the spiked chain lashed the paladin, drawing blood along his cheek and shoulder, the paladin and his steed remained steadfast, and imbedded his lance deep into the thigh of the devil. On contact, a bright light flared from the lance and the devil howled with pain as holy energy coursed through its body. Cromwell tugged on the lance, which came loose, and the pegasus wheeled around for another pass.

Now the elemental dragged the cornugon towards Morg and Korvar, and though it had lost half of its force to the slashes and attacks of the fiend, the combined attacks of Morg, Korvar, and Cromwell eventually told, and the cornugon flopped onto the floor of the roof, dying.

But there was no chance to celebrate, for up from the stairway floated a monstrousity. It was a globe of flesh and chitin, six feet in diameter, and a great central eye was set above its toothy maw. Atop the globe were ten eyestalks, each writhing independently of its brethren. It was a beholder, and its eyes brought death and destruction to those who dared oppose it.

Strangely, this beholder focused its central eye on Morg and spake "So Morg, the tables you have turned eh? You seek to attack me in my lair the way I have attacked you in yours? So be it. Let this be the final battle!"

And so it was that the Heroes knew that the beholder was actually the arcanaloth in a magically assumed form.

The question as to whether the arcanaloth's form had all of the abilities of a beholder was soon answered, as the creature focused its central eye upon Lancre, Eracuss, and Queequeg, enveloping them in a cone of anti-magic. At the same time, all ten of the eyes erupted in a kaleidoscope of beams and rays.

Two of these struck Morg, and the warrior felt as though every cell in his body was being torn apart. He screamed and clenched his muscles, willing himself to resist the pull of the force and remain intact. Tears streaming from his eyes, Morg endured the effect of the beams and was preserved whole.

Another beam struck Korvar, and the warpriest suddenly was petrified, his skin and equipment transforming to stone before the shocked eyes of the rest of the Heroes. Tirolius cried out for his master and rushed to his side, but still another beam struck him, and he was propelled over the side of the tower. As he began to plummet to his death, Eracuss stepped quickly out of the anti-magic cone and cast a spell that caused the warrior to become light as a feather and waft slowly towards the plateau below.

Several beams struck Halithil, and the elf's mind began to cloud, but elves possess a certain calmness of being in the centre of their souls, and Halithil called upon this calmness to clear his mind. He blinked once and the effect was gone.

More beams struck Cromwell, and a black welt the size of a grapefruit appeared on the thigh of the paladin. The pain was immense, and he fought to remain silent and not cry out.

Eracuss summoned forth another spell, and as the arcanaloth in beholder form hovered at the top of the stairwell, black tentacles erupted from the stairs and began to wrap around the thing's round body. One of these tentacles began to squeeze, and several of the eyes on the eyestalks bulged in pain.

Queequeg also side stepped the anti-magic cone and cast a barrage of magic missiles at the beholder. Most of the missiles veered aside, but a few struck home, adding to the arcanaloth's pain.

Morg hefted his sword in two hands and began to advance towards the arcanaloth, while the air elemental flew around behind the foe, trapping him in between. While Morg approached, Queequeg laid his hands on Korvar's stony shoulders and pronounced a spell to break the enchantment of stone and return the warpriest to his fleshy form. The warpriest gave Queequeg a nod of thanks and charged towards the arcanaloth alongside Morg.

Suddenly, the beholder form wavered and rippled and grew, turning red as it did. It lengthened considerably, and its eyestalks merged and shot out, forming large wings. A tremendous roar leapt from its throat, and in a matter of seconds where there had once been a beholder there now stood an immense, gargantuan red dragon. Still the black tentacles writhed and wrapped around its legs, but the beast reared back and unleashed a searing gout of flame.

Fire hotter than any of the Heroes had ever felt or seen washed over them. The gout fell full upon Lancre, who was burned to a crisp despite his magic cloak, falling to the ground with both of his arms blackened crisps and his eyes and forehead burned away. He became a twitching, charred thing that flopped on the ground and quivered, the ashes of his magic bow flowing between his fingers. The others were also severely wounded, their fiery wards acting to save them from instant annihilation. Despite Lancre's dire condition, the rest of them had survived, but they could not last another.

Korvar pronounced the highest will of his god, and time stopped. The dragon, his allies, everything froze in place…except for him. The priest cast several spells of protection and blessing upon himself and his companions. Just as the time stop thawed, he pronounced another immense word of power, and miraculously, every wound on himself and all of his comrades was instantly healed. Lancre's charred flesh became whole, and the flesh re-knit in an instant. Where before there had been a sorely wounded Hero on the verge of painful death, there was now an angry Lancre standing up and drawing his sword. The Mordanti intoned a word of power and a divine radiance issued from his blade. The radiance burned the dragon, and it howled in pain and snapped at Lancre with his immense maw, causing the priest to step hastily back to avoid yet another unpleasant fate.

Queequeg lurched forward as Korvar's time stop spell released him. He cast a spell of his own…one that pierced and lowered the wards and magic resistance of the arcanaloth-dragon.

Korvar exhorted his comrades to attack before the arcanaloth could breathe again, and Morg now leapt forward, hacking at the impossibly thick hide of the red dragon. Scales snapped off at the strength of Morg's strikes, augmented by Korvar's prayers, but the warrior could not strike a telling blow. Korvar's axe, likewise, seemed impotent against the defenses of the dragon.

With a whimper, Lancre yelled a warning, urging the group to scatter, for the dragon was rearing back once again, drawing in its breath to prepare for another fiery blast. Korvar knew that this blast or the next would spell the doom of several Heroes, for he had no more words of power to heal his allies so quickly and completely. The warpriest brought his shield up and prepared for the worst.

Just then Cromwell attacked. He swooped in on his flying steed and made a mighty chop with his bastard sword. The pegasus also struck with its hooves. This attack did not harm the arcanaloth-dragon, but it did surprise it, and out of instinct, the dragon ducked its head down to avoid the attack.

In an instant, seemingly in slow motion as if Korvar had once again cast his time stop spell, Morg sprang forward at the lowered head, the only vulnerable part of the dragon. The first sword slash cut across the right eye of the beast, shattering it into a pulpy humour. The warrior's blade them whipped back and down in a graceful arc, slashing the other eye in twain. The dragon now bellowed in pain, its mouth opening wide, and Morg spun around a full circle and used that momentum to drive Alastrurial straight into the open maw of the dragon, through the roof of its mouth, and straight into its brain. Blood burst forth everywhere as the immense beast collapsed to the ground. Morg withdrew his sword and prepared to strike again, but suddenly the dragon shrank, its red scales reverting to dusty fur and ornate robes. In no time, the arcanaloth's unmoving form lay on the stairway, still being squeezed by Eracuss' black tentacles. Morg raised up the lupine head of the fiend and lopped it off with his sword.

"And so it ends," Morg stated wearily, "enough is enough!"

In the throneroom of Morg's castle, Avoria lay in bed, watching the arcanaloth head that was mounted as a trophy above the throne. For days she had remained, taking her meals here and even having the servants move her bed into the megaron. Rarely had she slept, and even then she would wake up many times during the night to glance at the head. And seeing it there, she would sigh and fret, for Canaris had informed her that the head mounted above the throne was merely the spirit shell of the arcanaloth's head, one it had lost in a previous attack on Morg, but that if the arcanaloth were slain on its own plane and its head brought back to Therra, then this head would disappear, for two such heads could not exist on the same plane at the same time.

And so Avoria had kept a vigil, praying that the head would fade away, to be replaced by her beloved husband, returned to her safe and victorious, and the attacks on her family ended. But the days had dragged on and the head remained, and Avoria began to worry. What if the head remained? What if her beloved never returned? What if the arcanaloth prevailed? The mere thought brought tears to the rim of her eyes.

"Oh my beloved Morg, sire of our realm and father of our children, please see yourself safely back to my side. And please oh great gods of Therra, bless your servant Morg in his worthy task. And see him safely back to caretake this realm that honours you and your divine slumber."

She closed her eyes and bowed her head as she prayed, alone in the dark of the throneroom, with only a single torch mounted near the head casting a guttering glow over the night. She remained bowed in prayer a moment longer. Then she opened her eyes and glanced up.

The head remained, leering malevolently at her.

As a flood of tears began to build in her eyes, the head quivered, slightly. Avoria blinked and stared again. Was this a trick of her mind? Had the tears in her eyes caused the illusion of movement? No! There it was again. The head shimmered in the silent nighttime of the chamber. It shimmered and began to fade away, turning translucent, then transparent, and then…entirely gone.

With a smile Avoria leapt from bed.

"Children!" she yelled as she ran towards the castle apartments, "father is coming home!"

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