Prologue: The Intruder

...long ago...

The manse was not the largest in the town, but it was by no means the smallest. It looked no different than the dozen or so others that occupied the wealthy section of town, yet it drew attention to itself in a hundred little ways. It sat apart from its neighbors, and rested further back away from the street than was usual. The stone wall that surrounded it was supposedly decorative, yet it did a suspisciously good job of hiding the manse and its grounds from prying eyes. Men and women... mostly men... came and went at odd hours of the night, but hardly ever during the day. There were more servants than there should have been. And far to many guards. Big, burly men armed with swords and crossbows wandered to and fro in the immense yard. Sometimes a passerby would catch a glimpse of them. Sometimes that passerby would find a crossbow pointed at his skull until he decided to look elsewhere.

But, as unusual as these things were, there was never any evidence of any wrongdoing... not that anyone ever bothered to LOOK for any evidence. There was no reason to. It was a free land, where a man could own whatever property he wished and keep it in whatever manner he desired. Patrick Garrisson was simply a man who desired a bit more privacy than most. Quite a bit more.

Tonight, he was not going to get it.

The shadow crouched in the darkness near the corner of the stone wall that marked the estate's boundary. Dressed in all black from head to foot, the intruder was all but invisible on the moonless night. The slender arms and legs... the roundness of the hips... the subdued swelling of the chest marked the intruder as no ordinary man. Or rather, not a man at all. She had climbed the outer wall with all the gracefullness of a jungle cat, then dropped silently to the ground on the other side. Her feet... small and slender... landed deftly amongst the iron spikes and bear-traps that were arranged on the ground. There was no magic or luck involved; she knew they were there. Contrary to what Garrison and his guards thought, this was not her first time here. She paused among the deadly implements, seemingly unconcerned with their existene. She crouched down... she waited... unmoving, save for the delicate rise and fall of her chest. She watched... strangely-colored eyes moved back and forth slowly... smoothly... peering out from the eyeholes in her mask. Studying everything around her.

There were very few trees or shrubs between her and the main door. Almost no place to hide. Almost.

She started to move... then paused. She waited another minute for no reason other than that her instincts told her to do so. Then she moved.

The shadow darted across the lawn. Her soft boots made no sound, even on the dried leaves and grass that had been placed on the ground for just that purpose. She ran silently to the first tree... a scraggly young spruce. She hid in its shadow for only an instant, then sprinted just as silently to the line of low shrubs that lined the main walk. She threw herself to the ground and waited. The shrubs were small, and cast no usable shadow... or at least that was the intent of the person who selected them. The intruder could hide in darkness a quarter of her size. She paused, then pulled herself silently along the ground to the main entrance.

There was a guard. One guard. A large hulk of a man stood by the huge double doors. He clasped a halberd in one hand, and a bastard sword lay strapped across his back. A loaded crossbow hung from his belt.

The intruder crept toward him.

One of the doors opened, and a light spilled out into the yard. A smaller man leaned out and tapped the large man on the shoulder.

"Garrison sprung for some ale. Want me to bring ya a tankard or two?"

The large man nodded, but didn't speak.

"Right back." The other man vanished, closing and locking the door behind him.

Just as the door closed, the large guard leaned to one side... he leaned further... then he toppled over. A long, thin metal spike protruded from the base of his skull. There was suprisingly little blood, yet the man was quite dead. The intruder grabbed him as he fell and gently lowered him to the ground... then dragged him into the bushes. Someone would discover him in a few moments. But by then it wouldn't matter.

The door opened, and the second guard emerged.

"Here ya g-"

The intruder reached out of the shadows, grabbed the man's chin and forhead, then twisted. The guard's neck broke with a muffled wet 'snap.' Both tankards of ale fell from his hands as he joined the other guard in death. The intruder snatched the drinks out of the air and set them down gently, then slipped in through the doorway. She paused long enough to pull the door closed and lock it.

There was a short hallway ahead of her. It emptied into a large ballroom that should have been empty. It wasn't. There were odd scents in the air. Voices. Sounds.

The intruder swore under her breath... then smiled at the new challenge. She stood tall, raising out of her crouching position and drawing up to her full height. She was still shorter than most men, but when she walked with boldness and confidence as she did now, she seamed much larger than she really was. As she walked, she slipped her hands into the hidden pockets on either side of her black pants. Her gloved fingers played across the objects that waited there.

The ballroom had been converted to a guard post. Between the main entrance and the spiral staircase that lead upstairs two large tables. Most of the men that occupied them were so busy playing cards that they didn't notice that it wasn't a guard that entered the room. Not at first.

The intruder waited, grinning beneath her mask.

"THERE SHE IS!" someone shouted.

Guards leapt to their feet. A eight swords came free of their scabbards. Three archers stepped out of the shadows upstairs. They leaned over the balcony and aimed their weapons.

No one gave the order to attack. They just did.

The archers were professionals... the intruder knew this. Like all proffessionals they'd aim for the vital spots and go for the quick kill... this made them much, much easier to deal with.

She was dodging before the first bolt left its crossbow. Two missiles whizzed past her spinning form. A third came an instant later, missing her as she reversed direction and darted toward the guards.

Suddenly the kitchen door flew open. A large, wild looking man stood back from the door as a half-dozen slavering hounds exploded into the room. These were not work dogs or hunting dogs... no, these were killing dogs, hounds born and bred for the sole purpose of killing whoever their master commanded.

"TEAR HER APART!" the houndsman commanded. The hundred-pound beasts galloped toward her... spreading out and then closed in... converging on her from several directions at once. The archers on the balcony had stood back to enjoy the show, as had the guards by the stairs.

The intruder tried to hide her disappointment.

Her hands came free of her pockets, and the torchlight in the room glinted off of the set of inch-long metal claws that adorned her fingertips. She crouched for an instant, then leapt into the air. The first two hounds leapt after her... their powerful jaws seeking her legs. She rotated hard at the waist and kicked one leaping animal right out of the air. A second dog soared toward her... she twisted adn slashed, flaying the dog's flank wide open as it sailed past her. When her boots touched the ground again, she swept her hands in two sideways arcs... one dog yelped as her claws shredded its face. Another dog made no sound as her other hand did the same to its throat. She threw herself backwards onto her back adn lifted her legs... planting them in the fifth beast's chest and shoving it away... it flew through the air, then hit the ground and slid several feet before regaining its balance. The intruder flipped to her feet and twisted to one side and then to the other as two arrows zipped past her from above. She couldn't tell if the archers were actually trying to hit her or merely drawing her attention away from the dogs. It didn't matter.... each was equally futile. Another hound had already leapt for her. Her hands shot out before... not in a defensive position but in a viscious attack. One set of claws piereced its chest as the other ripped into its throat. She spun the dog around

-THWOK-

The third arrow from above sank into the dog's flank, then she twisted

KRUNCH!

And used the dead hound as a bludgeon to pummel a living one. The hound yelped and backed away, then snarled and charged... mouth wide open and ready to clamp down with bone-snapping force. She was more than happy to oblige. She reached into the charging hound's mouth, but the instant before its powerful jaws snapped shut, she jammed her claws into its flesh and yanked her hand back out... shredding the hound's mouth and upper throat from the inside. He severed tongue flopped out of the dog's mouth as it started sputtering and choking on its own blood.

The intruder dispatched the final hound almost as an after thought... grabbing its head and twisting it a full 180 degrees even as the armed guards charged into the fray. She launched into them just as she had done with the hounds. Two men reached her first, one wore leather plate on his upper body... so the intruder spun and crouched down. The clumsly sword-slash passed over her. Then she leapt to her feet while dragging her claws upwards across the man's un-armored crotch.

"AEEEEEEEE!!!" the man howled as she emasculated him.

The second guard never saw what happed to him. He saw the intruder spinning toward him and he moved to impale her with his sword. He felt something slash across his face toward his eyes... then there pain... then there was darkness... then he was dead.

The intruder snatched the man's sword out of his grasp, then disarmed the non-man who lay squirming and bleeding on the floor beside him. She dropped into a fighter's stance, with one sword held high and the other held low. It was an awkward, clumsy-looking style that made the guards think that the woman in black was out-matched.

They were wrong.

The two swords spun and slashed like extentions of the clawed hands that held them. She blocked two men while kicking at a third, her boot crushed his larynx and sent him stumbling back against the card table, where he collapsed. She spun, ducked and made a double-thrust... impaling two guards at once. She abandoned her swords, instead grabbing the weapons from the guards as they fell. She heard someone rushing her from behind... the houndsman. He charged her with a spiked mace held high. She turned and swung both weapons. The houndsman jerked backwards out of their path at the last instant. The intruder let the momentum of her swing spin her around... and around... and around again, gaining speed like a discus thrower. She let one sword go, and it flew from her hand-

"URK!" another guard collapsed... the sword protruding from his chest.

The intruder raised her remaining sword to block the houndsman's downward swing... then she took her free hand and sliced his fat belly open from crotch to sternum. Quickly, she spun and blocked an attack from another guard. He stepped back to attack again, but the intruder stepped suddenly to one side. He spun to keep her in front of him-

-then collapsed as an arrow meant for the intruder pierced his skull. Having seen the archer preparing to fire, the intruder had maneuvered him right into its path. The remaining two guard circled her warilly, weapons held ready. The archers held their fire, but they were ready to shoot as soon as a clear shot presented itself.

It didn't.

The intruder moved like a streak of black lightning, charging one guard with such speed and ferocity that the man was taken by surprise even though he'd been looking right at her. He narrowly avoided the claws that reached for his throat. He backed away and spun to the side as another slash sought his abdomen... but the intruder's hand changed directions in mid-slash-

"AAAA-!"

The guard's weapon hit the stone floor with a loud 'clang'... and his severed fingers made almost no noise as they joined the weapon on the floor.

Screaming for his life, the man abandoned his fight and ran for the front door, leaving a trail of blood behind him. The archers took him out before he made it halfway there. The last remaining guard slashed adn spun his weapon in a display of skill that was supposed to be impressive... but the intruder had wasted enough time with these fools. She slipped between his attacks as easily and gracefully as a dancer. She slid past him, removing his throat as she went... and vanished into the shadows beneath the balcony.

Above the ballroom, the archers peered down at the bloody carnage below them. One kept his eyes fixed on the stairs, for that were the only way up... the only way to get past them.

That guard was the first to die. The intruder's claw-tipped hand reached up from below... from the wall where she hung by her other set of claws like a cat on a tree. She grabbed him by the throat and yanked him over the balcony. As he fell, she hauled herself up and disemboweled the second archer with quick slash. The third archer actually managed to fire his weapon. The bolt clattered harmlessly against the stone where the intruder had been standing an instant before. The archer spun.... saw the light glinting against the claws as they came for him... and managed a frightened yelp before his throat vanished in a spray of blood.

The intruder walked calmly down the hallway toward the large double doors at the end. There were other doors on either side of the hall, but they didn't concern her. The double doors opened suddenly and a man emerged. He was tall adn strong, but not bulky. He wore no armor, but carried an array of knives arranged on his belt. He snatched two of them from their sheaths and went into a classic knife-figher's stance.

The intruder kept walking toward the doors as if he weren't standing there.

The knifeman smiled and nodded, then charged. He screamed a battle cry as he ran... then twisted and jumped and came at her with one leg extended in a flying side-kick. The intruder twisted to one side and jerked her elbow up and back, catching the man in the small of the back as he flew past.

He landed, stumbled, then spun and threw himself at... hands moving like snakes... slicing the air in front of the intruder's face as she backed away from him. The thrusts and slashes and lunges came fast and furious. The intruder avoided each one by an increasingly narrow margain. The man was good... that's why she didn't bother to block. She recognized his fighting style, and blocking his attacks would have been a fatal mistake.

Instead, she took advantage of the wide hallway to move away from him. She backed up, then circled him... her own movements were smooth and fluid... slow and graceful one instant, and then turning lightning quick for a few blurred seconds. Her hands... each finger tipped with a metal claw... danced in front of her face as she stared at the fighter. She moved in for an attack, then changed her mind and backed away. The fighter lunged. She struck at his wrist, but the knife twisted and came up at an arc. The intruder snatched her left hand out of the way even as her left reached for the man's exposed side. The fighter twisted and struck at her fingers. She spun... a spinning side-kick shot toward the man's lower chest. He side-stepped the kick and slashed at her leg... but the intruder's leg was faster than his hands. She twisted quickly-

CRACK!

Her foot broke his nose as it whipped across his face... a harmless, but humiliating blow. The man wasted no time counter attacking, he lunged for her again, then reversed direction suddenly-

WHOOSH!

The intruder's claws missed his bleeding face by a fraction of an inch. He stepped toward her suddenly, one knife jabbing for the kidney, another going for the upper abdomen. She reached for both blades, but the man's hands shifted... exchaning targets in mid-strike. She twisted... one blade sliced through the fabric of her black suit, but didn't break the skin. The instant before the other blade could reach its targed-

CRACK!

She hit him with a powerful back-fist blow to the face and then jerked backwards to avoid the knife. He stumbled backards, and she caught him with a front-snap kick to the chin. Blood poured out of the corner of his mouth, but the man didn't seem to notice. He spun, ducked under a slash to the head, and threw a spinning hook kick at the intruder's temple. She blocked the kick, but he man's leg was gone before she could sink her claws into his ankle. She almost didn't see the second kick... in fact, she DIDN'T see it... but she knew it was coming because that was what SHE would have done. She didn't block it; instead she leaned back out of its path and slashed at the man's leg as it missed her face-

"ARRRGH!"

Metal claws severed the tendons and blood vessels behind the man's ankle, rendering the entire foot useless. His retaliatory knife-thrust barely missed her wrist, but her claws didn't miss HIS. She sliced his wrist open to the bone, then planted her foot on his chin once again with another front kick. He stumbled backwards, almost forgeting that he was now lame... and bleeding to death. The intruder kicked his good leg out from under him. He fell, and her claws followed him down, piercing his neck. The figher's blade came toward her face, but she threw herself back out of its path, ripping the man's throat away as she did. He convulsed and died on the expensive carpet.

She continued down the hallway. The double doors were locked. She slid one claw into the lock and manipulated the mechanism with a twist of her delicate finger.

She yanked the doors open and entered.

Garrison was waiting. The middle-aged man stood behind his desk, flanked on either side by a young guard wielding a crossbow.

The intruder could see the fear in their eyes. She could smell it. She could already tell what they were thinking... it was what they ALWAYS thought. She wasn't supposed to get this far. The dogs... the guards... they were supposed to keep her way. It was never supposed to come to this...

She stepped to the side, away from the door. She held one hand up in front of her, palm facing her face. Blood and bits fo flesh slid down her fingers from tips of her metal claws. Her black gloves were soaked. The sleeves of her shirt glistened. Drops of dark red dripped from her claws and fell onto the rug.

She glared at the guards, her eyes narrowing...

"Leave now," she said.

Both guards bolted for the door.

"COWARDS!" Garrison shouted. He reached for the crossbow he had concealed under his desk. By the time his fingers touched it, the intruder was flying across the desk... her foot struck him in the upper chest, knocking him back against the wall. She grabbed him by the throat and looked into his eyes.

"It is over," she said. Her voice was deep and sensual... smooth and seductive. "You should have sold out when you had the chance. All we wanted was the casino and the trade routes. Only the underground... You could have kept the legitimate businesses."

"And live as your lap-dog?" said Garrison. His hand was easing toward his belt, where a small knife lay concealed. The intruder grabbed his wrist... razor-sharp claws sank into his flesh and remained there, halting his attempt. "You d-don't have to kill me," said Garrison. "I... I can pay you..."

"Not enough."

"Yes... yes... enough. I have things-"

The intruder's claws began to slide into his neck, coming dangerously close to his jugular vein and his windpipe.

"...please... here me out..."

"You have nothing," she said.

"...information... I have information... please..."

Blood poured down Garrison's white silk shirt, turning it red.

"...I... I know things... the traders... from far away... they talk... I listen... I know... I know something... something you might...arrrgh!"

The claws sank deeper

"You lie," said the intruder. "You know nothing. You are a desparate old man, seeking to barter for his life with words and lies."

"... I know... a name... a place...a c- AARRGH!...a... A CURE!..."

Suddenly the metal talons halted their steady advance into his flesh. They did not retreat... but they stopped moving.

"...eh...eheh... I know... you let me go... you let me live... I'll give it to you..."

The intruder said nothing. She looked into his eyes, scowling behind her mask.

"...I know... I know how much it means... worth... worth more than my pitiful life... please..."

"Where?" she said.

"...d-desk... desk drawer..."

The intruder snatched her claws out of Garrison's throat, doing as much damage coming out as they did going in. But nothing fatal. She spun the old man around and threw him down into his chair.

"Open it," she demanded.

Garrison opened the top drawer of his desk under the intruder's watchful eye. There was a scroll. He reached for it... but he intruder's hand reached in and grabbed it before he could get close.

She rested one hand on the back of Garrison's neck while she used the other to unroll the scroll and read it.

"It's all true," said Garrsion. Both of his hands were clamped over his throat, trying to stop the bleeding. "All of it... I swear..."

The intruder took the scroll and stuffed it into her pocket.

"We... we have a deal?"

"Yes..."

The intruder grabbed Garrison's head and twisted it sharply, snapping his neck and killing him instnatly.

"...and the deal has just been broken."

---

She made her way across town, keeping to the shadows even though she didn't need to. It was late... the only peole out on the streets were those who wouldn't be missed if they saw something they shouldn't have. But her mind was on other things now... and the slaughter was best enjoyed when there was nothing to distract from it. She felt the rough scroll rub against her thigh as she walked. It felt heavy... heavy with the words that it contained. Heavy with the importance of those words

IF they were true.

She circled the block twice, then approached the wooden, two-story house with caution. No one was watching. No one had followed her... no one was foolish enough to try. She made her way around to the back, then walked toward the rear door.

There was a sound from above... and then-

-thump-!

"HISSSSSSS!!!"

The thing appeared seemingly from nowhere... dropping down from above and crouching in front of her. The creature was as hideous as it was silent... patches of fur and scales dotted its twisted, humanoid shape. Long, thin arms ended in talons sharp talons that were almost as large as the fangs that jutted from the thing's snarling mouth.

The creature hissed furiously at her, slashing the air with its claws

"I have no time to wrestle with you now, J'Hasp. Perhaps later."

The creature stopped hissing... its face drooped in a sad frown. Mewling in dissappointment, it turned around and climbed up the wall, returning to its perch above the door.

She entered the house unmolested, even though the creature did throw a pebble at her head as she walked under it. She closed the door and locked it, then walked down teh hallway to the living room. As she walked, she grabbed the bottom of her black mask and pulled it off, revealing her pale, almost perfectly white skin. She tossed the mask into a corner, along with the gloves. She ran her delicate fingers through her long flowing white hair, fluffing it out and massaging her scalp at the same time. The cold air in the house felt good against her skin. She smiled. It was good to be home.

She reached the living room and walked over to the lone figure that rested in a chair before the unlit fireplace. She placed her pale fingers on his broad shoulders.

"It is done?" said the man. His voice was deep and resonant... much like hers.

"It is as you wished," she replied. She leaned down, brushing her cheek against his and whispering into his ear "And, I have some interesting news for you... father."

---

Chapter One

The land was a solid expanse of white, stretching from horizon to horizon. Fresh snow as deep as a man's thigh rested atop a hard shell of packed ice. The frozen plane sat on the southern edge of the polar region, bounded by the Driatic Sea to the south and the Dragon's Jaw mountain range to the north. During the warmest part of the year, a river trickled down from teh mountains and wound its way through the tundra toward the sea. That river was solid ice now.

Winter was coming. The over-long days of summer had grown maddeningly short... and cold. Soon the sun would shine for just a few minutes a day. The normally still air was beginning to stir as the devastating polar wind eased down from the mountains, bringing snow and ice with it. In another few weeks, the land would be impassible, at least by anything human. Most of the animals had already moved on. The Mazza hunters had either gone with them, or they were busily making their winter camps... temporary homes that would, hopefully, keep them and their food stores safe during the long months in the dark. Each winter was a challenge for the natives... a test of worth and manhood. Either a man hunted enough food for him and his family during the bountiful summer months... or he didn't. And by the time they found out one or the other, it was too late. Not even the bravest hunters would venture onto the ice during the Long Night. Perhaps in other lands they would, but not here. Not in this place. Starving was better than what awaited a man who wandered out during the winter. Much better.

But the winter was not yet here. There were still a few animals to hunt, and much work to be done. The logging trails were abuzz with activity. Men and equipment streamed to and from the camps that surrounded the massive ironwood forest... the heart and soul of the frozen land. Hard, black and rugged, the northern ironwood tree was almost as durable as the metal for which it was named. It was a stubborn species... short and incredibly thick, allowing it to survive the fierce winter wind unscathed. With bark like stone and pulp that was even harder, ironwood was slow to grow, hard to cut, and nearly impossible to work. Ironwood carpentry was a specialized trade, requiring special tools, complex techniques and expensive magic to force the wood into anything resembling a useable form. Such carpenters were rare... almost as rare as the wood itself. It grew in only a few places, and nowhere was it in as much abundance as it was on this plane. Ironwood had replaced gold as the life's blood of the region. The old mines were long empty, but much of the forest was almost untapped. It would not remain so for long, however. While the loggers knew nothing of ironwood carpentry, they knew how to cut and haul. Some of them had done it their entire lives. The work was hard and dangerous, but it paid well. More than a few men had made several fortunes... only to spend it all on expensive luxuries like whisky and women. But with winter coming, the wages went up dramatically for those willing to brave the cold. Those that didn't left the camps and went south to the border towns where the brothels and gambling houses would siphon their savings and have leave them eager for more logging come summer. Only the hardest men remained in the camps for the winter. The hard, the desperate, and the foolish.

"PULL FASTER!" the crew leader shouted. Medrick's orders were muffled by the layers of fur he wore over his face to protect his skin from the cold. Even though night was still a few hours away, the temperature had already dipped below the previous night's low. "We got another load ta haul before nightfall!"

"We ain't gonna make that and you know it," one of the loggers grumbled. The seven men leaned into their ropes, slowly dragging the huge sled behind them. This load of ironwood was larger than most... the loads always got larger as quitting time approached. Fortunatly, a half-dozen trips earlier in the day had already worn a navigable path through the snow, otherwise they'd be making hardly any progress at all.

"We're gonna make it if we wanna get the bonus."

"Screw the bonus," another man growled. "At this pace it'll be dark before we reach camp with THIS load."

"Screw the bonus?" said a third logger... a young man. He was visibly smaller than the others, but he pulled twice as hard to make up for it. "Speak for yourself! I got plans for the winter and I need all the gold I can get!"

"What plans be those, boy?" said Medrick. "Another trip to the Balthian whorehouses? Or you gonna poker it all away before you even leave town?"

"I'm leavin town tomorra night, I'll have you know!"

"...plenty of time to loose a bonus..."

"Tomorrow night?" Medrick turned to look at the young logger. "Tomorrow night? You can't leave tomorra... hell, it's two more weeks ta winter!"

"And it's already colder than a witch's teat in a brass brassier! I ain't stayin!"

"That'll leave us short," said another logger. "By the time winter hits we'll be down to three crews. Maybe less."

"Phiskom will have twice that many."

"Phiskom pays more," said Medrik. "But he don't give no bonuses."

"Bad enough Hurk makes us haul our own cut," said another man. "But he don't pay SQUAT unless ya kill yerself to get some stupid bonus. I'd rather work for Phiskom!"

"I'd rather have the bonus," said the young logger.

"You're an idiot, Gren."

"I'd say you're ALL idiots," came a muffled voice.

"Eh?" Medrick signalled for the others to stop. "Who said that?"

Six men burst out of the snow on either side of the trail in front of the loggers. They wore masks... white cloth tied tightly around their heads. With the snow clinging to their furs, they looked more like ghostly beasts than men. But these beasts had crossbows, and they aimed them at the loggers.

Medrick reached for the expensive ironwood axe that hung from his belt.

"I wouldn't be doing that, sir," said the leader of the bandits. He was the only one of the men armed with a sword. The others carried either bows or axes. "Unless you think your furs can stop an ironwood bow from turning your heart into a pincushion."

Two of the other bandits leveled their crossbows at Medrick.

"Nobody move," said one of them. "You SEE six men... almost an even fight. But its the ones that you DON'T see that'll put an arrow in your spine of you so much as twitch. Drop those ropes and put your hands up away from yer weapons!"

The loggers reluctantly raised their hands above their heads.

"What's this about!" shouted Medrick.

"You know what the hell it's about, Medrick!" said the bandit leader. "That IS you under all that fur, isn't it?" He walked over to Medrick and snatched the fur cloth from over his face. Medrick was a red-faced man with a bushy, coal-black beard. His face turned even redder when the cold air hit it. "Where's your brother? HE'S supposed to be leading this poor excuse for a logging crew."

"I ain't tellin you nothin!"

"You don't have to. You don't HAVE to tell me who torched the Phiskom caravan yesterday... I already know. Well... you know what they say about payback."

The bandit leader made a quick hand motion, and four more men emerged from the snow. Two held crossbows on the loggers while the other two struggled with large skins of oil, which they proceeded to pour over the sled and its contents.

"You gentlemen look cold," said the bandit leader. "Let's warm you up a bit."

"You can't! Our BONUS!"

"What was it that your brother said to Phiskom's boys yesterday? Oh yeah... 'TOUGH!' LIGHT IT!"

One of the bandits produced a flint and struck it against the ironwood. It threw a spark, ignigting the oil and setting the entire load ablaze. The bandits stood back and watched the precious wood burn.

"The BONUS!" Gren shouted. He grabbed a fist-full of snow and tried to throw it onto the wood. One of the bandits deftly kicked the boy's legs from under him. He hit the ground, and remained there face-down with a bandit's snow-boot planted firmly on the back of his neck. He sputtered and coughed as he tried to breathe through the snow.

"LET HIM UP!" another logger shouted. He started to move-

wzzz-THUK!

A bolt from a crossbow wizzed past his face and sank into a piece of burning ironwood.

"I'll be taking THIS, too," the bandit leader grabbed Medrik's wood-axe. He eyed it the way a jewler might examine a fine gem... then turned and started to walk away.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE THAT!" Medrick charged the man, but the bandit threw a blind back-kick, planting his foot squarely in the crew leader's gut. Medrick staggered back and reached for his knife. The bandit spun around, kicking the blade out of the man's hand, while swinging the sharpe axe in an arc toward Medrick's skull. At teh last instant, teh bandit rotated the axe and arrested his swing-

THUNK!

The flat side of the weapon struck Medrick across the forehead, opening up a deep gushing wound. Medrick fell and rolled over in the snow, leaving splashes of red in his wake. He tried to stand, but was too dizy. Finally he sat up, with one hand clamped to his forehead to stop the bleeding.

"DAMN YOU!" he spat. His words were slighly slurred, and his eyes were barely focused on the bandit that had struck him.

"Remember that little love-tap whenever you get the urge to torch another load of Phiskom's wood. NEXT time, you'll get the SHARP end of the blade. And that goes DOUBLE for your brother! LET'S GET OUTTA HERE!"

The bandits formed a line and slowly backed away from the loggers and their burning sled. They reached a bend in the trail and quickly vanished beyond it. Meanwhile, Glen was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath while the other loggers were seeing to Medrick. No one even bothered to save the wood; the fuel oil burned quick and hot... The bandits had stayed just long enough to see to it that their load was ruined.

"We lost the wood," said a logger that was helping Medrick to his feet. "Whadda we gonna tell Hurk?"

"Leave that to me," Medrick replied. Blood coated one side of his face, and it was beginning to freeze in place. "I'll say that- ULLP!" The crew leader swooned as a wave of nausea overcame him. His stomach lurched violently, causing his lunch to spray out through his mouth and nose. Medreck went limp and collapsed in the filthy snow.

---

Paradise was a frontier town born during the gold rush... one of the few that still remained. The ironwood trade had kept it alive while its sister cities dwindled, died, and slowly faded away. It got its name from the miners who founded it... after days in the darkness of the caves, a warm fire and a strong drink in a dusty old tavern was tanamount to heaven itself. The miners were gone now, as was the gold that had first drawn them. But to the loggers, Paradise was every bit the haven that it had been to their predecessors. It's one main street was like a ghost-town during the day, but shortly after nightfall, the half-dozen taverns that lined it were packed with loggers who still had strength enough after a day's work to stumble in from the camps and partake of some of life's simpler pleasures. Fighting, drinking, gambling and more fighting were the entertainments of choice. There were few women in Paradise, and those that did bless the city with their presence were either too expensive or too manly to approach.

The carriage approached the town from the south just before sunset. A handful of loggers on their way in from the camp were the first to spot it, eyeing it with wary looks that were equal part suspiscion and curiosity. Winter was coming, and extra supplies were arriving constantly... sometimes several shipments a day. But this wasn't a supply wagon. It was too big. The horses were too strong and fresh... not worn out by unending months of hauling heavy loads through snow and ice. The carriage itself looked brand new... and expensive. It was a huge, black monster of a conveyance made of ironwood and brass. The men didn't recognzie the driver, but he wore the furs and boots that marked him as a man who was no stranger to the frontier. He old and short, yet still strong enough to handle the horses. He slowed the carriage to a liesurly pace as he entered the town... slow enough to not be a danger to anyone on the road, but still fast enough that it was obvious that the driver had no intention of stopping any time soon.

The carriage passed the recieving station on the outskirts of town, then continued down the unnamed main street that bisected Paradise. It passed the row of small shops and stores without slowing down. Tavern owners and early patrons watched it roll past. It kept going through the residential area... bypassing the large Phiskom estate and the smaller homes of those brave and/or rich enough to take up permanent residence in Paradise. It didn't stop at any of them. It just kept going, drawing more and curious stares as it continued through town.

"Who is that?" said Paul Phiskom. He and Nathan were approaching the Phiskom estate when they saw the carriage comming toward them. The two yound men had to move to the side of the road in order to keep from being run down... as the carriage apparently had no intention of swerving around them.

"Some rich bastard," Nathan said.

"Why is the word 'rich' always followed out of your mouth by the word 'bastard'?"

"'Cause its true more often than not. Present company excluded, of course."

"Oh, don't exclude ME! I'm as thorougly steeped in rich bastardy as anyone else!"

"But you don't show yours. Most of the time, anyway."

"That still doesn't tell us who that was."

"Whoever it was didn't stop at your father's... so he must be here to see Hurk or Hamilton."

"Or maybe someone else. You KNOW who's at the end of that road."

"That's all we need," Nathan said with a scowl. "Another damned freak."

"PHISKOM!" a voice shouted. A thin weasal of a man was leaning out of the second floor window of the Phikom estate. He was pointing down at Paul. "YOU, BOY! Your father wishes to speak with you AT ONCE!"

"Oh, HO!" Nathan chuckled. "'at once' means there's trouble."

"There's always trouble," Paul replied. "I'd better see what he wants. I'll meet you later at the usual place."

"Come soon and come thirsty... we've got some celebrating ta do! And you're buyin!"

"Thought it was YOUR turn to buy!"

"Well in that case I'm gonna need a loan from ya... ya rich bastard!"

Nathan waved at his friend and jogged off toward the taverns while Paul turned toward home. His longsword slapped gently against his leg as he strolled past the guards.

---

Meanwhile, the carriage continued on its way. The shutters were drawn tight over the windows, but there was just enough of a gap to allow a single eye to peer out at the surroundings.

"We're being watched," said Angel.

"Of course we are," December replied. His low voice reverberated through the carriage. He didn't even glance out of the window; he wasn't the least bit interested in what was going on outside. "This is an isolated town. They recieve few visitors... espescially at this time of year.

"Will they suspect us?"

"There is nothing for them to suspect. For once, we are on legitimate business. I doubt that these people have any idea who we are."

"That's what makes them dangerous," Angel replied.

Angel moved away from the window and sat down across from December. She wore a large black, fur-lined cloak that concealed the shape of her body, but the hood was pulled back to allow her long white hair to fall freelly about her pale face. She sighed, and her breath became a white cloud in the cold air.

"I don't like this," she said. "We shouldn't be here."

"But we are," said December. He said nothing else, leaving the motion of the carriage to fill in the silence. They reached the outskirts of town, passing the last of the larger homes and entering a row of scattered, humble shacks, where loggers often slept nine and ten to a room when not in their camps. The unkept road became rougher, and the carriage began to bounce and jerk from the holes and rocks.

December knocked on the wall that separated him and the driver. A small window slid open.

"Eh?"

"Pause here for a moment, driver."

"S'sir."

The carriage slowed... then stopped. December closed the window and turned to Angel.

"This is where we part, for now" he said. "Explore the town. Discover what intrique and petty conflicts concern these people... and ensure that they do not interfere with my business here."

"With pleasure."

Angel opened the carriage door and got out. She pulled her hood over her head and tightened it by tugging on a small string. With the black hood contrasting with her white face, adn the tuft of white hair that remained visible, Angel looked like a ghost.

"Can I have a little fun, as well?" she said.

"Only if neccessary," December replied.

Angel gave a half-smile, then started walking back toward town. Behind her, the carriage door closed. December and the driver continued out of town.

---

The mansion sat at the far edge of town... not truly a part of Paradise, yet not completely separate from it either. It was a place rarely spoken of outside of rumors and hushed tales told around a campfire. Even then, the loggers referred to it only as 'That Place.' The large dark manse crouched atop a small swell of land that could almost be called a hill. It overlooked Paradise like a vulture hovering over a not-quite-dead meal. The main road ran almost directly toward it, but as it reached the hill it veered sharply to the right. The road circled around the mansion and finally faded away into nothing not far past it. A tiny, narrow tributary was the only piece of it that continued straight... growing smaller and more reluctant as it approached the huge iron gates. The carriage took this path.

The gates opened before it, and the strange conveyance entered the grounds. The brick path was free of ice despite the fact that everything else in the yard was frozen and dead. Trees and shrubs dotted the land like dark skeletons. Shadows seemed to follow the carriage as it moved boldy across the landscape, passing the front of the mansion and pulling around to a small covered courtyard on right side. Once there, it sat quietly. No servants appeared to tend to the driver and passenger.

After a few quiet moments, the carriage door opened and December stepped out into the cold winter air... air that got even colder from his presence. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked toward the door.

There was a loud 'CLUNK,' then a creak... then the mansion's door opened. A single figure stood there, dispelling the shadows with a large lantern. It was an old man. Tall and thin, with a head of unkempt and thinning grey hair. Dark blotches marred his old, yellow skin. Despite his age, the man descended the stairs quite gingerly without the help of a cane or crutch. The lantern he carried was heavy, but his thin fingers held it without the slightest tremble.

"December, I presume," he said. There was a slight warble in his voice. He coughed gently, and cleared his throat.

"I am," December replied.

"A pleasure to meet you at last. I am Khrellin." Khrellin extended his free hand, and December shook it gently. Khrellin maintained his grasp, looking down at December's hand. "Like shaking hands with old man winter himself," he remarked.

"I assume you know the reason for my visit. You read my letters, did you not?"

"Of course," said Khrellin. He studied December's hand, then stood up his toes to get a closer look at December's face. "My, what a deathly pallor you have. Interesting. Very interesting. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. Hmmm..." Khrellin reached up to touch December's face, but December moved back suddenly. "Sorry," said Khrellin. "You'll want to get settled first, naturally."

"Indeed."

"I'm afraid there aren't any servants. My staff is minimal... and usually quite busy. You'll have to see to your own needs, mostly. I hope that isn't a problem."

"I would not wish to impose, doctor."

"Well then, let me show you around." Khrellin started back up the steps, and December followed, pausing only to motion to the carriage driver. The driver began unloading December's belongings, making a pile of several large bags and one medium sized chest on the ground beside the carriage. He went around to unload more bags from the other side, and when he did, the supposedly locked chest opened... the lid pushed upward by a thin, almost-human arm. J'Hasp crept out of the chest and darted into the shadows... vanishing completely just as the driver returned.

---

"What's this about, Drevis," Paul said to the man who'd called him. Drevis was his father's assistant... a thin, timid, and unpleasant man who belonged in Paradise about as much as a rabbit belonged in a wolf's den.

"I'm not at liberty to say, sir," Drevis replied. He preceeded Paul down the hallway to his father's office... as if Paul didn't know the way around his own house. The door was closed. Drevis knocked. "Paul has arrived, sir."

"Enter!" replied a gruff voice from within. Drevis opened the door and then stepped aside.

Sherwood Phiskom sat behind his massive ironwood desk, his ever-present cane leaned against the wall behind him. Sherwood was a thin whisp of a man, who looked much older than he actually was. Were it not for the facial features, he'd pass more easily as Drevis' brother than Paul's father. His stern gaze and rough voice were more suited to a man twice his size and half his age. His cold eyes locked onto Paul as he entered. Paul could read the lines in his father's face as easily as words in a book. Sherwood was upset. But then, upset was Sherwood's usual state... espescially in matters that concerned Paul. This time, however, was different. Perhaps it had something to do with the other two people in the room. The first was Derek Hamilton, a long-time friend and former business partner of Sherwood. Like Sherwood, the prime days of Hamilton's youth were behind him, yet he still boasted that he could still best any two men in a wrestling match. It was a boast that Paul had seen him back up more than a few times. Hamilton stood by Sherwood's desk and nodded at Paul as he entered. The other man was a stranger. He sat in the room's only other chair. Judging from the look and smell of him, he was a Mazza hunter. The man had fresh bruises on his face and neck, and one eye was almost swollen completely shut. Someone had worked him over recently.

"Father. Mr. Hamilton." said Paul. He didn't aknowledge the Mazza's presence at all.

Paul heard the door close. Drevis had silently excused himself... which meant that whatever Sherwood wanted didn't have anything to do with business.

"What can I do for you, father?"

"You can tell me the truth, for once," said Sherwood.

Paul didn't answer. He knew that he wasn't supposed to.

"Do you know this man, Paul? Have you ever seen him before?" Sherwood indicated the man in the chair. The Mazza avoided his gaze, preferring to look at the floor instead.

"I don't believe I have, father."

"Are you quite certain?"

"Yes. Who is he?"

"His name is Luyit. He was a hunter, but now he runs a small store at the edge of town. Sells fuel oil to the loggers."

"Don't see why I would know him, then."

"Earlier today, someone robbed his stand. Stole two barrels of oil and beat him about the face."

"So I see."

"This is very serious, Paul," said Hamilton.

"I didn't say it wasn't," Paul replied.

"Luyit," said Sherwood. "Is this one of the men that robbed you?"

"Father?"

"I tole you," Luyit said in a low, tentative voice. "The men that came... they wear mask."

"Father! What are you trying to-"

"IS this the man that robbed you!"

"I... I cannot say..." said Luyit. "The faces were covered."

"FATHER, are you saying that I robbed this... person?!"

"You said they wore masks," said Sherwood. He pushed back from his desk and grabbed his cane. He hobbled over to Paul. Before Paul could protest, Sherwood's thin hand snaked down into his pocket and retrieved a scrap of white cloth.

"HEY!"

"A mask like THIS!?" Sherwood held up the cloth. It was a white mask, with two holes cut in it for eyes.

"Yes!" the Mazza hissed. "Mask like that!"

"Hmmm..." said Hamilton.

"Father! You can't just-"

"You are MY son and this is MY house! That means I can do whatever I DAMN WELL PLEASE! But the same does NOT apply to YOU!"

"I had NOTHING to do with what happened to his man! How DARE you-"

Paul saw the slap coming, but it was too fast for him to do anything about it. His father's arm twitched, and the next thing Paul knew he was recoiling from teh blow. His jaw hurt and his skin stung... the flat of his father's palm was like a clenched fist.

"You'll not be raising your voice to me again, son," said Sherwood. "Put this on."

Sherwood held the mask out. Paul drew back from it as if it were something disgusting.

"PUT IT ON!"

Paul wanted to say no. He wanted to scream his protest and storm out of the room... but before he could even try to gather the courage, his hands had taken the mask and yanked it down over his head. It was crooked. The eye-holes didn't line up. Sherwood twisted the mask around so that it fit properly, scratching Paul's skin in the process.

"Is THIS one of the men that robbed you, Luyit?"

The Mazza looked at Paul.

"Study carefully," said Sherwood.

The Mazza did as instructed. He took his time and studied Paul.

"Men were bigger," he said finally. "Wear mask like this... but this not one."

"Are you certain?" said Hamilton.

"He SAID I wasn't one of them!" said Paul.

"I sure," said Luyit. "This not one."

Hamilton and Sherwood exchanged glances. Sherwood frowned.

"What about this!" Sherwood grabbed Paul's sword and shook it. "Was one of them wearing a sword like this!"

"FATHER!"

"SHUT UP, BOY!"

"A sword means NOTHING!" Paul protested. "ALL of Hamilton's men carry them! And to a Mazza, they'd all look alike!"

"They have no longblades," Luyit said. "Only bows. And clubs."

"Clubs," said Paul. "The Simon brothers and their goons carry clubs... Hurk's men... THOSE are the people you should be talking to, not ME!"

"You may go now," said Hamilton. Luyit rose from his seat and shuffled out of the room.

"Drevis, show this man out," Sherwood called.

"Yes, sir!"

Drevis met Luyit at the door and escorted him down the hall. Hamilton pulled the door closed after they left.

Paul snatched the mask from his face and held it in his hand.

"Am I excused now, father?" he said with clenched teeth.

"Like HELL you are!"

"The man SAID I wasn't THERE! He was beaten with CLUBS, not a sword! What More do you WANT!"

"I want to know what you were doing with a MASK in your pocket!"

"It's a piece of cloth, father. It doesn't prove anything."

"It proves you had something to do with it. You and your friends."

"No it doesn't! ANYONE can take a piece of cloth and cut eyeholes in it-"

"So why did YOU do it!"

Paul said nothing. He squared his shoulders and looked up at the cieling, determined to not say another word.

"ANSWER ME, BOY!"

Paul maintained his silence.

"You think I'm a fool," said Sherwood. "You think I don't know about you and your little band of vigilantes."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Paul.

"Running around terrorizing the loggers. Vandalism! Fighting! Destruction of property!"

"The SAME thing that Hurk's men do to US!"

"There've been no complaints to me," said Hamilton.

"Why WOULD there be! There's no law outside Paradise! The only rule is the logger's creed: 'What happens on the ice, STAYS on the ice'."

"The Mazza wasn't robbed on the ice," Hamilton replied.

"And he wasn't robbed by ME! You have no witness... no evidence, no NOTHING!"

"Doesn't mean you're innocent, boy," said Sherwood.

"Doesn't mean I'm GUILTY either!"

"Paul," said Hamilton. "Paradise may not have much in the way of laws or men to enforce them, but theft and assault are still wrong. Even here."

"Tell that to HURK'S men! Tell that to the SIMON BROTHERS! THEY'RE the ones starting this! How many loads of your wood have they burned in the last three days, father! How many good men has he frightened off?!"

"That is NONE of your concern!"

"How can you SAY its none of my concern! I'm your son, aren't I? This business will be MINE one day, won't it!? We loose employees and wood to Hurk's vandals every week... the loss is as much MINE as it is YOURS!"

"There is no loss. It's winter... employee's leave because the work season is almost done."

"Like Jeffries?" Paul turned to Hamilton. "How long has that man been doing light work in your recieving post? He's a logger... he needs to be out LOGGING and making a LOGGER'S pay. But Hurk's men BROKE HIS ARM-"

"I pay Jeffries the same pay as a logger," said Hamilton. "And will continue to do so until he's ready to go back to work. Your father would do the same... he isn't some heartless scoundrel-"

"No, not heartless... GUTLESS! Men are leaving because they're FRIGHTENED of Hurk's thugs, and YOU, father, do NOTHING about it!"

"I do nothing because there is no need," said Sherwood. "No matter what Hurk does, we still cut and sell more wood than he ever will."

"And the people he hurts? The wood he destroys?"

"And what would YOU do, eh, boy? Gather together your own group of juvenile thugs and fight fire with fire?"

"Better to FIGHT the fire than let it burn down your house!"

"Business is better than it has ever been, boy. If you'd spend even a LITTLE time learning the trade, you'd know that! But instead, you go wandering out onto the ice to stir up trouble-"

"The trouble has already been stirred!"

"The loggers take care of themselves, Paul," injected Hamilton... the only voice of calm reason in the room. "That's how it is on the ice... if a man isn't willing and able to take care of himself... to defend himself against man or beast... then he has no business being out here. It's part of the job, and they're well compensated for it."

"So that makes it ALL RIGHT for Hurk to TORCH our property week after week!?"

"Property that we can afford to loose, yes. Property that we can easily replace... certainly. It's a damned BIG forest out there, boy. Wood can be replaced. But these petty fights will eventually cost me something that I can't afford to loose!"

"WHAT, then!" said Paul. "WHAT is it that has to be taken from you before you get off your ASS and act on this!"

"My Son!"

Paul met Sherwood's gaze. He didn't say anything.

"Dammit, boy... Hurk is just spitting at the wind! HE knows he can't hurt me OR my business He can't out-cut or out-sell me, so he pokes around looking for a fight. But I won't play that game! I'm too old and too smart for that foolishness! But YOU.... if you THUGS go out there start slapping his hand, he'll know he's found himself an enemy. Then the trouble will start in earnest!"

"I can take care of myself, father! I'm the best fighter and swordsman in this town!"

"Just like I used to be," said Sherwood. The old man had pulled up the leg of his pants, revealing the twisted, misshapen bulge that used to be his right knee. Paul saw the motion, but didn't aknowlege it. He stared straight ahead.

"LOOK AT IT, BOY!"

Paul looked at his father's knee.

"I've seen it before, father. I know the stories and I've seen the scars-"

"And you'll see them AGAIN... only this time they'll be on YOUR body. Drop this nonsense, boy. Drop it NOW! Else you'll end up a CRIPPLE like your old man... or worse!"

"But there's a DIFFERENCE between you and me, father. You and Hamilton... the only people you tried to help were YOURSELVES! You're two of the RICHEST men in town... and you got that way JUMPING CLAIMS during the gold rush! Breaking the Law! Well, I'm doing the SAME THING... only its not for GREED like YOU! It's to HELP the people that you don't seem to give a DAMN ABOU-"

The second slap came without warning, striking so hard that Paul swore that his father had drawn blood. When he touched his stinging cheek he was surprised that his fingertips came away dry.

"Get out of here, boy." Sherwood said calmly. "Get. Out."

"Are you throwing me out of my own house-"

"It's MY house," Sherwood corrected. "You will be welcome here when you'll SWEAR that you'll end this foolishness... and when you give me the names of the other fools in this with you."

"We didn't have anything to do with Luyit," said Paul. "I'll swear you that."

"Not enough," said Sherwood. "Now get out of my sight."

Paul turned to leave.

"Wait," said Sherwood.

Paul heard his father walk up behind him, but he didn't turn around too look at first. He felt something tugging at his belt-

"What are you-"

Sherwood sliced Paul's belt away with a small knife. He removed it, along with the large sword that hung from it.

"My SWORD!"

"Mine," said Sherwood.

"You GAVE it to me!"

"And I'm taking it back. You'll wear it again when you're smart enough to know when and when NOT to use it."

"But-"

"OUT!"

Paul stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

---

It was night. Icy darkness had descended on Paradise, as had the tired, thirsty loggers from the surrounding camps. Drunken songs and arguments spilled out of the taverns into the nearly empty streets. Luyit avoided the taverns, knowing that he was not welcome. He was Mazza. He could buy and sell without too much trouble... but beyond that, the loggers and the natives kept their worlds as separate as possible.

He headed east, away from the main street and from the home of the rich man who tried to help him. Wether the rich man actually HAD helped him remained to be seen. It depended on whether the men with the clubs came back to steal more oil. In the meantime, Luyit would continue as he always had. He work his tiny stand at the edge of town, walk home to his lonely shack, sleep on a bed of furs and dream about the days when he was still young and fit enough to hunt. It hadn't been that long ago. Or had it? A year? Three? Luyit chastised himself for not knowing. A hunter should always remember his last hunt... for that was the day he died. It was the Mazza way. The hunt was life, and everything else was non-life. Everything that wasn't the hunt, was Death. Thus, a true hunter died with his prey at the end of the chase... and lived again when next he tracked prey across the frozen land. For Luyit, that day would never come.

The larger buildings faded into the background as he reached, and then passed the 'proper' edge of town. There were still shacks and shanties scattered about, but the light of Paradise's taverns and street-lamps didn't reach this far. Everything was darkness and shadows. And cold.

And something else.

Luyit heard the thing behind him while it was still several steps away. It was the last flicker of hunter's instinct that warned him. He turned, and heard the the rythmic crunch of something heavy sprinting across on the frozen ground. He saw a shape detach itself from the darkness, move toward him, and then quickly fade away as it realized it had been spotted. Luyit reached for his knife... a simple blade made of bone and dried sinew. He held it ready as he crouched low. His only thought was of his spear, which leaned against the door of his shack... useless to him now.

"Who is there?" he called. He repeated the words in Mazza, then waited.

Nothing.

"I am old man," he said as he backed away from... from something he couldn't see, but was still there nonetheless. "I have nothing. No gold. There is no honor in fighting me-"

Then it came. Luyit saw it, and knew that he was neither a victim nor a conquest to the thing that had followed him from town. He was food.

It made a sound that was part roar, part hiss, and part something else. It came so fast that Luyit barely had time to throw himself to the side. Long-dormant instincts began to surface. He twisted and slashed at the thing. His blade cut air. He ducked and slashed again, backing away quickly as he searched the darkness. He listened. He heard...

Luyit turned and jabbed with his blade. His met resistance, and a warm liquid splashed over his gloves. There was a roar, and then flash of light and pain as the thing struck him. Luyit had never been struck so hard before... not even by the white bear that had broken his ribs and ended his last hunt two seasons ago. There was pain... and a sense of wieghtlessness as he flew backward. He struck something hard... the wall of some poorly-constructed shack collapsed as he slammed into it. He got up, and saw the thing coming for him... fangs bared, claws extended... hideious and evil.
It was fast. Too fast. There was no escape. Knife held at ready, Luyit shouted the Hunter's Challenge as he charged. The challenge died in his throat when the creature ripped it out. The Mazza's hunter's knife flew into the darkness... the hunter's severed hand still clasping the hilt.

There was a grunt... a gurgle... and then cold, icy silence broken only by the sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bones.

 

---

 

Chapter Two

It was called the "Broken Tongue" for a variety of reasons. Most of the small tavern's competitors claimed that only one with such an affected palate could tolerate the 'food' and 'beverages' served there. It was a place frequented by some of the more hardcore loggers, and newcommers who said the wrong thing to the wrong person usually ended up unable to speak... or move... for several weeks. Oddly enough, the fact that the tavern's owner and proprieter was a mute seemed to have no bearing on the establishment's name.

The door's creaking, half-rusted hinges announced Paul Phikom's arrival. Twenty-four pairs of eyes turned to see who the new arrival was. Most of the men smiled and waved and shouted a welcome. Some went back to drinking without aknowledging him... which, for loggers, was as good as a hearty handshake. Though Paul wasn't a logger, he was always welcome here.

"Paul!" Nathan called. He and two other men sat huddled together at the bar. One was Chopper McPhearson, a short bearded man with a jagged scar down one cheek. The scar was still young... red and swollen around the edges. Chopper was older than both Paul and Nathan; there wasn't much he didn't know about logging. The other was Wayne Riverside. This was Wayne's first year in Paradise. Thespeed at which he'd become proficcient at climbing and cutting had spared him most of the usual indignities associated with being a newcomer in the camps.

"C'mon in! We got yer seat for ya right here!" Wayne kicked the rickety stool next to him. Paul sat down with his friends and pounded his fist on the bar. The one-eyed bartender replied by filling a metal tankard with ale and sliding it across to him. Paul reached out to grab it, but Nate snatched the tankard off of the bar as it slid past. He brought it to his own lips and took a long swig. "Aahhhh! THAT'S the drink ya owe me! Thanks, buddy!"

Paul ordered another drink, and this time the bartender handed it to him.

"Hey, don't ya owe ME one, too?" said Chopper. He clapped his large hand on Paul's shoulder, then turned around backwards on the stool so that he could see the door.

"Actually you owe me," said Paul.

"Naaaah, that's not the way I remember it! Have some pity on an old logger now... c'mon..."

"When you GET old, maybe I'll think about it."

"Hell, I'm older than you, boy... that's good enough!"

"So what'd old man Phiskom want?" said Nathan.

"The usual," Paul replied. "Only worse."

"How so?"

Paul pointed to the empty space on his hip where his sword used to hang.

"Oooooo, that's harsh," said Wayne.

"What the hell'd he take yer weapon for?" said Nate. "It aint' like HE'S gonna use it."

"That's just the point," Paul replied. "He doesn't want me using it either. He wanted names, too."

"You didn't-"

"Of COURSE not, Wayne... c'mon, this is ME we're talking about."

"It ain't like he don't already know," said Chopper. "He know's who ya hang out with. He can find out who was missing offa the crews whenever the action goes down."

"It's all a mind-game to him. He wants to hear it from my mouth... figures if I betray my friends then it'll be the end of it. Well, it ain't gonna work. Espescially not now."

"Yeah, you really popped Medrick good-"

"And they got US good, too. Some of Hurk's men dressed up in our masks and robbed a Mazza in town. Stole some oil and roughed him up pretty good. So the next thing I know, I'm standing there in front of Hamilton while my own father accuses me of armed robbery."

"Bastards."

"It was the Simon brothers," said Paul. "I know that much. They ain't happy with burning loads no more... now they're getting personal."

"The Simons are too stupid to come up with something like that," said Nate. "I think we finally got the big man's notice. That little stunt has Warwick Hurk written all over it."

"Well if he wants to take this up a notch, then let's be ready to meet him there."

"What ya got in mind?" said Wayne.

"Nothing yet. We gotta get everybody together and let 'em know what's going on. Where is everybody?"

"Workin a late haul to make up for the loads that Hurk torched," said Chopper. "They should be along shortly. They'll be tired and none too happy about gettin' blamed for some stinkin' Mazza."

"Be glad it was just a Mazza," said Nate. "Else we'd ALL be answering questions."

"I ain't scared of Hamilton," Chopper replied. "He aint no real law. Just a glorified postman-"

The tavern door slowly creaked open, and a gust of cold air sliced through the room.

"HEY!" someone shouted. "CLOSE THE DAMN-... door?"

All eyes turned to the figure that stepped into the tavern. The stranger wore a dark cloak pulled tightly around their small body, with a hood pulled up over their head. The dark figure paused for a moment, then one dainty hand pushed the door closed while the other swept the hood back away from the newcomer's face.

Someone gasped.

The woman's face was the color of snow. The inhuman pallor was made all the more shocking by her eyes... two pink orbs that almost twinkled in the dim light. Her face was petite... small, and almost child-like... with smooth, flawless skin. She was beautiful... both stunning and frightening at the same time. And she seemed to enjoy it. The woman tugged at the fingers of one leather glove, slowly removing it to reveal a hand that was the same color as her face. She ran her bare fingers through her hair, lifting the thick white mane free of her cloak and letting it fall loose, where it hung down to the center of her back. She tossed her head slightly, causing her long hair to dance seductively. She glanced around the room... not seeming to search for anything in particular. Just looking.

No one had moved an inch since she'd entered. Drinks sat forgotten on the tables. Conversations ended in mid-sentence. All mouths were either closed, or were hanging open in empty slack-jawed stares. Paul Phiskom's jaw hung lower than most.

"...who is that..." Paul said. He was whispering, but he had no idea why. No one answered him. No one had even heard him.

The woman walked slowly toward the bar. As she passed one table where a group of loggers sat one man stood up with such enthusiasm that he almost knocked his chair over.

"Are you... uhhh.... lost, ma'am?" he said.

"I don't know?" the woman replied. "Am I?" Her voice was as smooth as her silk. Low and seductive and... beautiful.

The logger started to say something, but he apparently had no words with which to respond. He just stood silently as the woman walked past him.

Paul managed to tear his eyes away from the exotic beauty and glance at the bar. The only empty stools were on the other side of Nathan. She was heading right for them. When she finally lowered herself onto one, Paul was already stepping around his friend...

"Greetings, m'lady," he said. Paul tried to make his voice sound lower and more masuline than it was. After the first two words he realized how ridiculous he sounded, but by then he was committed. He couldn't very well change voices in the middle of a conversation, could he? Of course, that assumed that there WAS a conversation. So far all he'd managed to get was a curious look from the woman. Then she smiled.

"Hello there," she said.

"I don't think I've seen you around town before."

"I wasn't here before. I've only just arrived."

"Bad time of year for a woman to be travelling alone. Winter's coming."

"Is it, now? I hadn't noticed." The slight sarcasm in her voice made Paul's face grow warm. He wanted to kick himself for the remark about winter... he might as well have just called the woman an idiot. "And who said I was travelling alone?"

"Where is your husband, then?"

"Never said I was married, either."

Paul felt a slight twinge in his chest. He hoped the widenning of his smile wasn't too obvious. It was.

"So what brings you to Paradise?"

"Business," the woman replied. "And pleasure."

"More of the latter than the former, I hope. What sort of-" Paul felt a not-too-gentle nudge from behind. When he turned to look, he found himself staring right into Chopper's chin. The large logger was peering over Paul's right shoulder, while Nathan was trying to squeeze past Paul on the left. Wayne crept leaned around Chopper and smiled at the woman.

"Uhhh..." Paul elbowed Chopper in the gut.

"You have curious friends," the woman said.

"Who is this lovely lady?" said Nathan.

"I haven't gotten around to asking her name yet," Paul hissed through the corner of his mouth. He looked back down at the woman. "You'll have to excuse my friends-"

"Name's Chopper."

"Nathan."

"Wayne LaFour. Nice ta meet you, ma'am. You're awful pretty, but I suppose you already knew tha-"

"Don't mind the lad." Chopper grasped Wayne by the shoulder and gently pulled him out of the way. "He gets ta runnin' off at the mouth when its past his bed-time."

"Hey!"

"And who are you?" she said. She was looking right at Paul. He could almost feel her soft, pink eyes caressing his face.

"Uhh... P-Paul. Paul Phiskom. And your name?"

"Angel," she replied.

"...Angel..." Paul repeated... seemingly unaware that he'd repeated it out loud. Angel smiled at the others, then looked around the tavern. She still had the full and undivided attention of every male in the room. She didn't seem to care... or even notice.

"So... who's son are you, Paul?"

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"I can tell by looking that you aren't a working man. And you're too young to be in the business... so that means you must be someone's son."

"Very astute," said Paul. "You've got me all figured out. I'm the son of Sherwood Phiskom... Phiskom Logging."

"Paul here is next in line to be the richest man in the region," said Wayne. Paul shot him a sour look. "...jus' tryin' to help..." Wayne muttered.

"That's very interesting," said Angel.

"Not as interesting as you are," Paul replied. "Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Everywhere."

The tavern door opened once more. It wasn't a slow creep as it was when Angel entered... no, this time someone had kicked the door in with such violence that it hit the wall with a resounding BANG. Three imposing figures stormed into the tavern. Demmik Simon was like a larger version of his brother Medrik. He was taller than than most of the men in the room, but was the smaller than his two companions. Beside him was Grimm, a stone-faced brute of a man. Behind them stood the wide mountain of flesh known as Wall. Wall was by far the biggest, strongest man in town. Grimm was without a doubt the meanest. And they both took their orders from the very unhappy-looking Demmik Simon.

"What the hell you doing in here?" said one of the loggers seated near the door. The man got up, but Grimm quickly stepped in between him and Demmik.

"You got problem?" said Grimm.

"Only Phiskom's men come in here. You ain't welcome."

"Thought this was a free city," said Demmik. "A man can go wherever he pleases."

"A man can get his legs broke, too," said Chopper. "That what you lookin' for? If so... then ya found it."

"Now, now... I'm not here to cause trouble with any of ya," said Demmik. The look on his face made him a liar. "I'm here for one man." He pointed across the room to the bar, where Paul met his gaze with stern defiance.

"S'cuse me while I take care of some minor business," Paul said. He stepped away from the bar. Nathan was right beside him. Chopper and Wayne were two steps behind. "What's the matter, Demmik... tired of doing Hurk's dirty work? Well, I'm sorry, but Phiskom isn't in the market for spineless thugs. We only hire REAL men."

"Real men like the ones who ambushed my brother on the ice earlier today?"

"I don't know anything about that," said Paul.

"The HELL you don't!" Demmik took a few steps toward Paul, but Paul didn't back down. He didn't respond at all. "You and your boys JUMPED him!"

"Even if you could prove that, what happens on the ice stays on the ice. You know that as well as anyone."

"That's for loggers. YOU ain't no loggger!"

There was a general mumbling throughout the room. Some were grunts of agreement, others were growls of protest. Paul paid them no mind.

"I'm ALSO not the one who attacked your brother."

"You're a LIAR! My brother's got a busted SKULL because of you!"

"Why does he think it was me?"

"I know what you been up to, boy! But THIS time ya slipped up! The man had a sword, and YOU'RE the only one-"

"Do you see a sword?" Paul's hand fell to his side, where there was a notable absence of weaponry... swords or otherwise. Demmik wasn't amused. He frowned and stormed toward Paul, who didn't so much as flinch as the heavy logger's boots thumped loudly against the floor. "You think you're a funny man, eh? EH? DO YA!?" Demmik shoved Paul, causing the younger, smaller man to stumble backwards. Nathan and Wayne caught him before he could fall. Chopper had already started to rush Demmick, but Paul thrust his arm out to stop him.

"...easy..." he said. "Let me handle this."

"Little boy wants ta play logger, eh?" said the brutish Demmik. He pointed a thick dirty finger at Paul. "FINE! We're gonna FIGHT this thing out! You and me... right here, right now!"

"Good," Paul said calmly. He stepped away from his friends and stood toe-to-toe with Demmik. The top of Paul's head only came to the middle of the logger's chest, but Paul looked up into Demmik's face and returned the logger's malicious glare without a single twinge of fear. "I been waiting for this for a long time."

"Your friends ain't gonna help ya." Demmik's breath rolled down on Paul like a winter fog. It reeked of stale ale and rotting teeth. "Grimm and Wall will see to that."

"I don't need any help. I don't go down as easily as some old Mazza."

Demmik's scowl deepened. They slooowly separated... moving away from each other small step at a time. Suddenly, Demmik's huge fist came at Paul, sweeping around in an angle toward his head. Paul ducked. The powerful blow sailed over him, as did the one that followed. He threw himself forward and buried both of his fists in opposide sides of Demmik's gut. The logger grunted and grabbed at Paul's exposed back. Paul twisted out of his coat, leaving Demmik holding the the thick fur garment. With a swift spin and kick, he knocked the coat out of Demmik's hand. Demmik came for him, throwing three lunging punches that Paul avoided with ease. On the third punch, Paul turned to the side and stepped into Demmik's reach. He jammed his elbow into the area of Demmik's chest just below the ribcage. Just as the blow to the solar plexus connected, Paul hooked his foot behind the logger's heal and yanked the man off balance.

Demmik staggered backward, but didn't fall. He recovered quickly, rushing Paul in an unexpected charge. Paul threw himself to one side. Demmik twisted to grab him, then jerked backward as Paul's foot sailed past his head in an upward arc. Paul's jump-snap kick missed, but Demmik's punch didn't. The huge logger's fist drove into Paul's chest like a falling tree, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him careening wildly. He bumped into a table, knocking it over with a crash. Demmik was on him instantly, but Paul was ready. He pretended to be stunned until the logger got close, then he leapt into a spinning hook kick that brough the heel of his boot across Demmik's chin.

"UNGH!"

Demmik grunted and backed away, rubbing his jaw. Paul dropped into a crouchingp position, paused briefly, then began to circle his opponent... staying just out of Demmik's reach. Paul's chest felt like it'd been kicked by an angry mule. It would hurt worse tomorrow. Probably even MORE the next day. He couldn't risk taking another hit.

"Quit DANCIN' and FIGHT!" Demmik growled

"I am fighting," said Paul. "YOU'RE the one that's just standing there. You wanted me...here I am. Come and get me if you're man enough!"

"GET 'IM, PAUL!" Wayne shouted.

"He's as good as got, Wayne. Just gimme another minute."

Demmik raised his fists and turned his left side toward Paul. He began shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to the other. He inched cautiously toward Paul-

"You move like a coward, Demmik... creeping around like a man who's scared ta get hit. Come GET me, dammit!"

Demmik threw a two-punch combination. Paul slid in between the logger's deadly fists and threw a spinning ridge-hand strike to Demmik's left kidney. Demmik aborted his third punch in mid-swing, instead turning it into a wild back-fist strike that sailed right over Paul's head. Paul's fist shot out toward Demmik's solar plexus, but the logger grabbed his forearm and twisted it painfully. Before he could snap Paul's wrist or yank his arm out of alignment, Paul punched Demmik in the wrist as hard as he could. The logger's vice-like grasp vanished, and Paul danced out of reach... but only for a second. He made it seem as if he were retreating, but he suddenly drove forward in a series of kicks and punches. None of the attacks were particularly fast or powerful, but then they didn't need to be. Demmek was a brute, and he had no defense other than his sheer size and the thick layer of clothing he wore. A low-kick to the knee got Demmik's attention. Before the pain could reach his brain, a front-snap kick knocked his mouth shut... causing him to bite the tip of his tongue almost completely off. Blood trickled down his jaw as Paul's next kick came arcing toward his right temple. Demmik blocked it with a shrug of his huge arm, then tried to rush Paul... but Paul spun out of his way, ending in a spinning back-kick to the right kidney.

"ARRGH!" Demmik grabbed his side and doubled over in pain-

Paul was about to dislodge a few teeth with another front kick when Grimm slammed into him. The impact carried them both across the room and into another table. The table collapsed and Paul went down with it... with Grimm right on top of him. When he hit the floor, Grimm's knee was lodged right into the joint of Paul's right shoulder.

"AAAAA!" Paul screamed. He felt his shoulder twist in a way that it wasn't meant to. Bolts of pain shot up and down his arm. Grimm grabbed a handful of Paul's hair and yanked his head back... he was about to thrust Paul's head face-first into the table, but Wayne suddenly appeared on Grimm's back... one skinny arm hooked around the huge man's neck while the other punched Grimm repeatedly in the left side of the face.

Grimm got up off of Paul and turned-

WHUMP!

Chopper's fist drove straight into Grimm's gut. Grimm threw a surprisingly fast backfist that caught Chopper squarely on the jaw. Chopper staggered back, right into the waiting arms of Wall. Wall grabbed him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side. Grimm... completely ignoring Wayne... growled gleefully as he pummeled the helpless Chopper. One punch to the gut and two to the face and Chopper was down. Meanwhile, Paul rolled over and hopped to his feet-

CRACK!

Demmik's elbow caught him across the face, just above the bridge of his nose. There was a flash of non-light, and then Paul was on the ground with Demmik's knee on his chest. Nathan slammed into Demmik, intending to knock the much larger man aside. All he did was become a target. Demmik shrugged Nathan aside, then threw a wide, wild punch. Nathan ducked under it and pounded his fist into Demmik's abdomen. Demmik grabbed Nathan's hand and twisted it.

"AAAGH-" A powerful backhand silenced Nathan's cry of pain. The young logger stumbled backward and tripped over a table. The table and its contents joined him on the floor.

"HA!" Demmick laughed. "Not so TOUGH now, eh?"

Paul's roundhouse kick caught Demmick squarely in the mouth. A spinning back-kick to the abdomen doubled the big man over, setting him up nicely for a front snap-kick to the face. Now it was Demmik's turn to trip over a table and hit the floor.

"HELLLLP!!" Wayne cried. Grimm and Wall had Wayne stretched over a table and were gleefully trying to fold the young man in half. Paul snatched an empty tankard from a nearby table and dashed to save his friend. Grimm saw him coming. The rugged logger lunged for Paul, but all he caught was a tankard across the forhead and a hard knee to the groin. That slowed him down long enough for Paul to grab the nearest chair and smash it across the back of Wall's head. The sturdy wooden chair shattered like rotten kindling. Wall lurched forward and fell across Wayne... their combined weight was too much for the table. It collapsed under them. Paul turned just in time to see Demmik charging toward him. Paul had the sharp shaft of a chair-leg in his hand. He prepared to meet Demmik's charge when-

THUK!

A bolt from a crossbow sank into the floor an inch from his foot. An identical bolt zipped past Demmik's head and hit the wall behind him.

"'old it right THERE, boys..." said the bartender. He had one eye and two crossbows. He'd already re-loaded one of them, and the weapon was aimed direclty at Demmik's chest. "Furniture is expensive. You wanna fight? Fine. But you aint' gonna be breakin' one more damned thing in THIS."

"We're solvin' a dispute here, Sonny," said Demmik.

"Solve it outside."

Demmik glared at Paul. Grimm was just staggering to his feet. He spat out one bloody tooth... then another one... then helped get the still-stunned Wall to his feet. He literally had to drag the huge logger off of Wayne, who had turned multiple shades of red from nearly suffocating beneath the man.

"OUT!" The bartender shouted.

"This ain't over," said Demmik.

"Damn right it isn't."

"Heh," said Grimm. "You and your boys'd better watch yer backs from now on. We'll be watchin ya. On the ice. In town. Everywhere."

"Oh? Well it may not LOOK like I'm frightened... but really I am. I'm terrified. Honest."

"See ya 'round, boy," said Demmik. He and Grimm escorted Wall out into the cold while Nathan grabbed Wayne and pulled him to his feet.

"I almost had 'em!" said Wayne between gasps of breath.

"Yeah, I saw ya," said Chopper.

They all joined Paul at the bar, re-claiming their seats under the watchful eye of the bartender.

"Sorry about all that," Paul said to Angel.

"No need to apologize," Angel replied. "I found it quite entertaining."

"Oh did you, now?" Pal smiled.

"I like a man who knows how to handle himself."

"Yeah," Wayne blurted. "If it's one thing Paul knows how to do, its handle himself. Gets lots of practice-" Chopper elbowed the young man in the stomach.

"So was it true?" said Angel.

"Was what true?"

"What Demmik said about you and his brother. Was it true?"

"Ahhhh... well... Truth is such an abstract thing..."

"Only when you want it to be."

"And I want it to be right now. But enough about that. I'm sure you're not the least bit intersted our little tift. I'm sorry we had to fight in front of you-"

Angel laughed. It was sweet, musical laugh... with just the slightest touch of sinister mystery.

"Do that again," Paul said.

"What?"

Paul leaned in close to her.

"You have the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. Tell me what I said to make you laugh... I'll say it again."

"Hey. Loverboy." Paul looked at the bartender. The man's crossbow was now pointed at Paul's forehead. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm having a conversa-"

"I thought I told you to get out."

"Who? Me?"

"You. And him. And him. And the little runt, too. The woman can stay."

"Oh, come on, WE didn't start that fight!"

"You didn't have to fight at all. Not in here. Now unless you want me to send a bill for the broken furniture to your FATHER, I suggest you get out and not come back."

"Until when?"

"Until I feel like lettin' ya back in."

"Come on, Paul," said Nate. "We need to find the rest of the... uhhh..." Nate glanced at Angel. "...boys. Let 'em know what happened."

"We don't want no surprises," Chopper added.

"Right. Well, ma'am... duty calls."

"It takes four of you to go round up a few friends?" Angel whispered. She gave Paul an overtly predatory glance while slipping her arm around his.

"Ummmm... n-not really," said Paul. He waved his friends on ahead.

"Good. The night is young and I'm tired of taverns."

"There's not much else in this town."

"There's you," said Angel.

---

He was an unusual man. December watched Dr. Khrellin carefully as the elderly doctor led him through the maze of dark hallways. Khrellin walked slowly, as would be expected for a man of his age; and he had a slight limp that was only noticeable when December chose to look for it. But there was a certain strength in his stride that made a lie of the doctor's presumed frailty. December took notice of it, as well as a hundred other things about the man he'd travelled so far to see. On the surface, Khrellin seemed a harmless old man. But there was something there. Something in his stride... his voice... in the faint chemical scent that hung closely about him. Khrellin was both more and less than he appeared... an enigma. A man who'd mastered the ability to seem both harmless and sinister at the same time.

December respected that. He couldn't trust Khrellin any more than he could trust any other man, but they did have the one thing in common. They both had their secrets. That one fact greatly simplified things. If what December had heard of Khrellin was true... if the good doctor could do what the stories claimed he could... then it was unavoidable that many of December's secrets would be laid bare. Before he would allow that to happen, December would require a few of Khrellin's secrets. That way, they could reach an understanding should things go arwy... as they inevitably would.

Khrellin made a robust attempt at small-talk as they wandered deeper into the mansion. He the old man asked many question. December's answers were vague and non-committal. He was a trader. He had travelled far. He was from the northlands, although not from the same region as this. Khrellin probed deeper... his questions becoming more direct and probing. December parried them with well-chosen responses... expounding at length about subjects of no consequence, while dancing around the things that he would not have the doctor know just yet. It was a game, and both men knew they were playing it. December was the better player. He asked no questions of Khrellin. He let the lulls in the doctor's polite interrogation go unfilled... using silence to draw out more of the doctor's questions. From those questions, December learned what types information interested the doctor. Travel. Business associates. Family. Curiously enough, there were almost no questions about money. The doctor was more interested in who December knew than how much money he had. December detected a slight edge in Khrellin's voice when he inquired about other pepole. It wasn't fear or concern... merely caution. Eventually, Khrelling seemed to yield. He steered the conversation to the history of the region. The fading Mazza culture. The gold boom... and the lean years that followed. Ironwood. The logging companies. All were things that December knew long before his arrival... a fact of which Khrellin must have certainly been aware. Khrellin said nothing of himself or his mansion, even though both had been here since the early days of the gold rush.

"You have a most unique dwelling," December remarked. He said nothing more... he merely waited to see what information Khrellin would volunteer.

"It has served me well over the years," the doctor replied. "We take good care of each other, this house and I. I've spent many hard winters huddled behind these walls. It used to get unbearably cold, but now... well, your presence is the coldest I've been in quite a while. What do you think of the temperature? Are you warm enough?"

"I do not sense heat the same way you do, doctor."

"No, I would imagine you wouldn't. Radrim will be disappointed... you won't be able to compliment him."

"Radrim?"

"Assistant. Friend. Whatever you wish to call him. An amazing man... he made this contraption that uses fuel oil to heat the entire manse. See these-" The doctor pointed pointed to a small hole in the floor. It had a metal grate over it that was flush with the carpet. A steady gust of air poured out of hole like an invisible fountain. December couldn't 'feel' the heat, but he could sense that the air was much warmer than the surrounding temperature. Several yards down the hall was an identical grate. They were spaced at regular intervals, each one pumping heat into air from some unknown source deep in the bowels of the manse.

"Intriguing," said December.

"And timely. I don't think this old body could take many more winters without it. Espescially one like we're going to have this year."

Khrelling obviously intended for December to ask about the coming winter. December was about to oblige him when someone came down the hall toward them. It was a muscular man of average height. He had a thick, bushy mustache, but no beard to keep the cold winter air from his face. December could tell from a glance that the man had been outside recently... he wore a heavy, fur-lined cloak that was still several degrees cooler than the ambient temperature. He walked like a fighter. No... a hunter. A fighter wouldn't let his eyes betray him as this man did. Whoever he was, he wasn't pleased to see December. He was concerned about something. There was urgency in his walk and his eyes... an urgency he quickly tried to hide when he noticed that Khrellin was not alone.

"I see our guest has arrived," said the newcommer.

"Yes," said Khrellin. "December... allow me to introduce Hemmings. He cares for the house and the grounds. Keeps the vagrants away, that sort of thing."

"Evenin,' sir," said Hemmings. December acknowledged him with a silent nod. He studied the man briefly... jsut long enough for Hemmings to KNOW he was being studied. Whatever Hemmings was, he was no common servant, and December wanted his awareness of that fact to be obvious. "Might I speak with you privately, Khrellin?"

"Can't you see I'm entertaining the guest?" Khrellin replied.

"This..." Hemmings glanced at December. December's cold eyes bored holes into the man's face. Surprisingly, Hemmings didn't shudder or flinch. That told December all he needed to know for now. "this is important."

"I have had a long journey," said December. "If you would be so kind as to show me to my room, you will be free to tend to your affairs while I rest."

"Yes, of course," said Khrellin. "You should rest... you must have had a long and tiring trip. This way-" Khrellin quickly made his way down the hall. Hemmings marched behind them. December noticed how quietly the man walked. Almost totally silent.

There were two rooms at the end of the hall, one on either side. Khrellin unlocked the room to the right with a key he carried in his pocket. The room was small; the furnishings consisted of a bed, a small window, and a simple nightstand. An unused fireplace dominated one wall. December spotted one of the strange metal grates in the floor by the bed.

"I opened the vent earlier," said Khrellin. "But if you wish to light a fire, feel free-"

"That is neither necessary nor possible," said December.

"Have a good night, then," said Khrellin. "Sleep as late as you wish... though I imagine you'll want to get an early start tomorrow."

"Indeed I will."

Khrellin backed out of the room and shut the door quietly. December heard the beginnings of a hushed conversation outside his door, but Khrellin and Hemmings quickly moved down the hall. December wasn't dismayed by their secrecy... whatever they were up to, he would discover it in due time.

December examined the window. The curtain was unusually thick and heavy, and the window itself was nailed shut. There was a tough, rubbery substance around the seams between the glass and the wood. December had never seen anything like it before. The substance served no structural purpose, but juding from the almost complete lack of cold air seeping through the window, it must have been some kind of heat-resistant sealant. December peeled off a small piece and slipped it into his pocket for further study.

Next, he went to the bed. He ran his fingers across every inch of it... the matress, the pillows, the sheets... and discovered nothing unusual. All the while, December listened for the sound of the door being locked. He never heard it. He walked to the door and turned the latch... it opened effortlessly. He hadn't been locked in, and there was no guard waiting outside in the hall. He was apparently free to roam wherever he wished... or at least, that was what Khrellin wanted him to think. December decided not to test the matter tonight. In a few hours, J'Hasp and Angel would discover all that there was to discover and report back to him. In the meantime, December would rest. The trip had indeed been long, and, while he was not sleepy, a few hours of reduced activity would be beneficial. December sat down on the edge of the bed and slowed his normally racing thoughts to a snail's pace. He was not asleep or meditating... he was merely... waiting quietly.

---

"You're a very daring man," said Angel.

"Bah," Paul said, dismissing the compliment with a wave of his hand. "The world is full of such men."

"But very few are so daring when they don't have to be."

The couple had wandered the cold streets of Paradise for almost an hour. They walked arm in arm, in total defiance of the cold. Paul didn't feel it. In fact, being in the presence of such a beautiful woman left him uncomfortably warm despite the temperature. And so far, Angel hadn't said a single word about cold. When they'd left the Broken Tongue, Paul had no idea what he was going to say to the woman who'd captured his attention so completely. There were few women in Paradise; Paul had spent his entire life without seeing more than one or two who weren't prostitutes or toothless Mazza hags. Or both. He knew how to talk ABOUT them... EVERY man knew that. But to actually speak to one... to carry on an actual conversation... Paul had no experience in such things. What was he supposed to say? And more importantly, what was he NOT supposed to say? How would he know when to talk and when to let HER speak? When Paul had awakened that morning, he'd had no idea that he'd be wrestling with such quandries before the day ended. And yet Paul had surprised himself by how much he'd spoken... how much of himself that he'd revealed. Angel seemed to know exactly what questions to ask... what comments to make... She made conversation to her so incredibly easy. He told her so much that even he'd forgotten exactly what he had said... but that was understandible. Angel was so beautiful that it was a wonder that he could form coherent sentences at all.

When Angel asked about the fight at the bar, Paul told her about Hurk and the current one-sided feud between the logging companies... and between him and his father. By the time ten minutes had passed, she knew about the attacks on the Phiskom crews and the subsequent retaliations against Hurk's men. She knew that Paul was at the center of it... it wasn't somthing that he boasted, but it was something that he'd feel less of a man about if he didn't admit. Angel seemed pleased to here it... she apparently liked men of action. She would surely hate his father, then. He told her that, and she laughed.

The laugh.

When Paul heard it, a liquid weakness poured down through his body, almost making him stumble in the street. The beautiful sound made him stare at her like a fool. She smiled and pretended not to notice. He regained control of his expressions, and Angel told him that she thought he was daring.

"But I DO have to be," he said. "If someone doesn't do it, then Hurk will keep picking at us until he finally breaks us."

Angel nodded knowingly.

"A tiny force can shatter the greatest stone," she said. "If it strikes often enough."

"Exactly!" Paul tried not to swoon. What Angel had said... it was exactly how he felt. It expressed his feelings on the matter so perfectly that it was uncanny. She knew how he felt. She understood. She understood! "But stones can't fight back... WE can."

"Your father's thinking is flawed," she continued. "I'm sure he's a wise man otherwise, but on this... on this, he should be glad he has a son who's not afraid to act. He'll realize his mistake soon. He'll welcome you back-"

"I don't want him to welcome me back," said Paul. "I just want him to stand up and fight for what's his. Or at least to let ME do it FOR him. This would be so much easier if I had his blessing and support."

"Sometimes you have to stand on your own."

"Yes, but its as if he doesn't even care about his own men... his own business."

"Perhaps he cares about his son even more."

"But I can take care of myself... as you've seen."

"Yes. But has HE seen?"

"He knows. He knows everything that goes on in this town."

"Knowing and seeing are two different things."

"..." Paul couldn't speak. What the woman had said was so profound that he had a hard time beliving that it was a woman that said it. It was so simple... yet completely true.

"Do what you must," she continued. "Do it well, and with as much skill and pride as you have. If he isn't completley blind, then he'll not doubt you in the futue."

"You are an amazing woman, Angel."

"I know. I'm also a woman who's had a long trip..."

"Oh?" said Paul with instant concern. "Are you tired?"

"A little. Is there somewhere close by that we can rest?"

"Well... there's my... err... that is, Nathan's-"

"Are we close?"

"Two houses down. You must be cold, too. He has a fireplace."

"Sounds very cozy."

"Are you sure-"

"Never ask a woman if she's sure, Paul," said Angel. "It implies we aren't capable of making up our own minds."

"I'm sorry...we, uhh... this way."

Paul led her to the boarding house where Nathan rented a small room on the second floor. The master of the house was long asleep, but he was notorious for being a light sleeper... and for loudly and violently resisting unnanounced guest. Paul and Angel crept up the stairs with hardly a sound.... no sound at all in Angel's case. They found the room and slipped inside. Paul hesitated before closing the door-

"Something wrong?" said Angel.

"No," Paul replied as the door closed. "Not if you don't say so."

"I'm not saying so..." Angel stood behind him. Paul heard her heavy cloak sliding off and hitting the floor. Then he felt her hand caressing him... slipping around him to embrace him from behind. She pulled him back toward her. He felt the swell of her breasts pressing into his back.

"I... sh-sh-should st-start a fire..." he stammered.

"I certainly hope so," Angel whispered in his ear. She pulled him back away from the door, then spun him around and shoved him down onto the unmade bed. Paul sat up, but Angel gently pushed him back down with one hand. She was stronger than she looked... and Paul wasn't resisting all that much.

"Tell me, Paul," said Angel. She began removing the multiple layers of clothing she wore beneath her cloak... revealing more and more of her shape to Paul's urgent eyes. And all the while, she was circling the bed like a vulture. She had a predatory look in her eyes that made Paul's skin burn. His heart was a throbbing cannonball lodged in his throat. "How many women does this little town see?"

"None like you," he said. He sat up again to get a better look at her. She had a scarf wrapped around her neck, and when she pulled it away, more of her white skin came into view. Perhaps Paul was expecting it to be some other color... but it wasn't. She began unbuttoning her shirt... starting at the top and pulling the garment open a little with each button undone. Smooth white skin led down to the swell of her breasts.

Angel climbed onto the bed and pushed him down again. She straddled his waist and continued to undo her shirt. Paul felt her weight settle onto him. He looked up as her curve of her cleavage came into view. With the final button undone, Angel slowly slid her shirt down over her shoulders. Her breasts weren't large; in fact, they were small for her frame. And perfectly white. Paul gasped at the sight of them. It was an involuntary reaction that he couldn't have stopped.

Angel pulled the shirt back into place, quickly covering herself.

"You think I'm a freak," she said, clearly hurt by his reaction. She started to get up, but Paul grabbed her by the hips and held her.

"No," he said. "You're... beautiful. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life... and that I'm ever likely to see as long as I live."

"You're just saying that-"

"-Because its true. You are."

"Some men find me repulsive."

"I'm not 'some' men. If... if I wanted you any more than I do right now, I'd explode."

"Oh," said Angel. She let her shirt fall away again, this time taking it completley off. "We don't want that," she said. Every inch of her skin was the same color... the same exotic, alluring shade of white. Paul's hands rose from her hips and stroked her skin. It was like silk, but with hard muscle underneath.

"What... what kind of woman are you?" he said.

"This kind..." Angel ripped Paul's shirt off with a motion so quick and smooth that it made him jump. Her soft hands stroked his chest. Paul's hands met around her back and pulled her down on top of him. She moved up so that her face was directly over his.

"Angel,... I-"

She pressed her lips to his, and whatever Paul was about to say was lost...

---

Chapter 3 - In the Night

The manor was a maze... not a maze of walls and floors, but of strange scents and bizaare, alternating zones of heat and cold. J'Hasp hung from the ceiling like and insect. Claws on his hands and feet sank deep into the hard wood and held him fast as he paused and studied the hallway below. There was no one there, but there had been in the recent past. J'Hasp could smell them as clearly as if they'd just joined him on the ceiling. Supernaturally sharp eyes scanned the floor and picked up on the minute depressions in the carpet. Footprints J'Hasp knew nothing of weight/depth ratios, centers of gravity or the dozens of other men that men used to judge tracks... his primitive mind performed the analysis instinctively. Without thought or conscious provocation, J'Hasp knew all that he needed to know about those who'd walked the hallway recently. There were two sets of tracks, side by side. One was much heavier than the other... and unbalanced, as if carrying something heavy in one arm. Both were human males, but J'Hasp already knew that from the scents.

A thin blanket of odors hung in the air around him like a weightless curtain floating in some undetectible breeze. Food. Sweat. Blood. Soot and smoke. Three distinct human scents. And a curious mixture of animal scents. The latter were very weak, and were well mingled with the human odors. The animals themselves had not been here, but one of the humans had been in their presence recently. The heavy, unbalanced one. The one who stank of metal. He had blood on him. Old blood. And the unmistakable scent of death that hid underneath the animal scent. He was a hunter. A hunter of strange animals. J'Hasp had no idea how he came to that conclusion... it just rose out of the chaotic mix of impressions and lodged itself into his conscious mind as an immutable fact. Other facts soon joined it. The lighter human reeked of chemicals and blood. A healer. The third scent was older, but more prevelant... from a man who walked these halls often, but not as recently as the other two. HE literally stank of soot, oil, and strange, unknown things. The sharp, acrid smells filled the delicate passages of J'Hasp's nose with each silent breath. J'Hasp's mind sorted and analysed them... and came up with nothing. Some components were familiar, but most were not. All three carried traces of the scent... espesically the hunter... but the third man was either its source or had spent much time in close proximity to it. As curious as the other two were, it was the third human that needed further study. Again, J'Hasp had no idea how he arrived at that decision... he simply turned and followed the third scent without a single thought to the contrary.

Long stretches of narrow hallways passed silently beneath him as he tracked, pausing only to sniff at odd scents or peer into strange shadows, of which there were many. He reached the main stairs, and passed them without a second glance. The scent carried on to a closet door at the opposite end of the manse. J'Hasp climbed down from the ceiling and hung on upside down on the wall next to the door. He reached for the latch, then paused. He withdrew his hand and moved closer, bringing his head so close to the latch that he almost bumped it with his nose. He sniffed... then growled deep in the back of his throat. Magic. The sharp, acrid buzz stung the delicate hairs in his nose. J'Hasp's couldn't tell what kind of magic it was, but he could certainly discern its presence. The spell was fresh, cast not long ago. Probably that very day. Still growling lightly, J'Hasp backed away. He crawled back up the wall and hung from the ceiling above the door, his long tail snaking through the air around him. He examined the various scents that surrounded the door. Squinted at the odd, almost invisible stains on the carpet. He saw the small grate in the floor. There was nothing beyond it but darkness and heat. And scents. Lots of scents.

J'Hasp's upper lip twitched in what would have been a smirk if his face had been a little more human. He scurried down the wall and crouched before the grate. He tapped it with a single claw and listened to the sound it made. He had no idea what he was listening to, but he listened anyway. He pulled lightly on the metal, but it was held tightly in place with screws. J'Hasp undid them. Each hand worked independantly, undoing two screws at a time until the cover came free. The duct beyond it was tight, much too small for a human... even for a child. J'Hasp folded himself into the tiny space with ease. Flexible bones bent at grotesque angles as the creature contorted himself into a shape that could not only squeeze into the duct, but could actually move about within it. Before continuing his explorations, he reached up with his foot and pulled the grating in place behind him.

---

Corgan Hurk was not a happy man. He had been called many things in the decades since he had first come to the frozen wilderness of Paradise... ignorant, brutish, cruel, crude, barbaric, criminal, damnable, foul and dispicable, sadistic, dishonest, greedy... But never happy. And that was with good reason. Corgan considered happiness to be a sign of weakness. A happy man was fat, lazy and content. And a content man was merely a victim in seach of a crime. Corgan Hurk was no victim. He had often been the victimizer... the predator... but even in that, there was no happiness to be had. Entertainment, yes. Laughter, occasionally. But not happiness. Corgan had no delusions about what he was. He considered himself a parasite. A leech that survived from the work of others, siphoning off whatever he needed through various legal and illegal means. But he was a parasite of the highest order. He was a parasite with teeth, claws, and a frequent urge to do things the hard and bloody way just for the practice. He fought and clawed his way into the leadership of a mercenary clan when he was but a boy. It was an insignificant bunch of thugs, but they were HIS thugs and they respected him about as much as one murdering cut-throat could respect another. They honed their skills in the Mazza uprising, convincing the unruly natives that Paradise and its surrounding land was not theirs any longer. He broke them of that notion with the cruel, harsh efficiency that had since become his stock and trade. The mercenaries were supposed to vanish into the wind after that, but Hurk would have none of it. He'd seen what he was fighting for. Gold. He'd gotten his first taste of pure, unadulterated greed. It latched onto his soul and he embraced it. He and his remaining bunch spent years stalking happy fools across the ice and taking whatever they had that interested him. Sometimes they fought back. It didn't matter. The only difference it made to the end result was in whether the fool was alive or dead when Hurk walked off with their gold. But then, like the Mazza warriors, the gold gave out. People left. Towns faded and died. With nothing left to steal, Hurk was well on his way to becoming a nameless frontier cliche.

Then the new boom came.

To Hurk, the thought that trees could be as valuable as gold was absurd, but he couldn't ignore what he saw with his own eyes. The smart men left the frontier for places where the sun shined for more than three hours a day in the winter. But the SMARTER men...the TOUGHER men... they stayed beyind and bought up the land from those who left. Not just any land. Forest land. Ironwood land. Miners became loggers, and rich men became even richer. Hurk was there to see it happen. People that he used to rob monthly became rich enough to buy and sell him and his entire thuggish brood. Not that aging mercenaries would command much of a price anyway. Hurk saw what his former victims had amassed, and he compared it with what HE had. Then he saw that in a few years he'd be too old to play the game that he'd been so good at for so long. His victims were playing a new game, and he wanted to be dealt in now, too. And he got it the same way that he got everything else. A few frightened loggers, a little spilt blood, a kidnapping or two... and Hurk was the proud owner of some prime logging land. From there, it was a simple matter of learning to win a new kind of battle... a battle which was remarkablely like the OLD kind. Pick an easy enemy. Ease into their territory. If they reacted, destroy them. If they didn't, keep moving in until they had nothing left to fight for. Then move on to the next victim and repeat as necessary. Hurk liked this new game. It wasn't as entertaining as the old game, but it wasn't nearly as tiring. His men liked it too. He'd made them all supervisors and given them logging crews to abuse in whatever way they saw fit. They soon discovered what Hurk already knew... workers would endure quite a bit as long as the money kept flowing. And heaven forbid they stumble across a Mazza out there on the ice. Then everybody got in on the fun. Beating a Mazza senseless and burying him in the snow was second only to booze and women in entertainment value. Good, honest fun. Even Hurk enjoyed it on occasion. But not tonight.

Hurk cursed the winter as he tossed another log onto the fire. The foreman's cabin... now HIS cabin for as long as he was there... was already the warmest building in the camp, but a good HOT fire was one of the few indugences that Hurk allowed himself. And the older he got, the bigger the fire. Younger men didn't mind the cold as much. Hurk wasn't young. Specks of grey dotted his dark, scraggly beard, and sometimes his hands and back would ache for no reason. Hurk took them as sure signs that he'd made the right decision. As a thieving rogue, he'd be dead by now... taken out by someone younger and quicker. But as a thieving businessman, he could surround himself with all the hired thugs he needed. He didn't worry about betrayal. He may not be in his prime, but Hurk was still smarter and meaner than anyone in his employ. If anyone seemed on the verge of surpassing him in either trait, they quickly found themselves crushed under a shifting log, impaled by a falling branch, or simply 'lost' and never seen again. No, betrayal was not a problem.

Incompetance, however, was another matter entirely.

Hurk cleared his throat and turned back to the men waiting by the door. The additional log was necessary to counteract the blast of cold air that they'd let in when they entered. Grimm, Wall, and Demmek were all taller than Hurk, but Grimm was the only one of them that dared look him in the eye. Hurk liked Grimm; he was a cohort and fellow rogue from years back... from the OLD business. Unlike most men, Grimm was always in it for the fun and hardly ever for the money. Hurk liked that. Seeing Grimm work over a Mazza was like watching an artist creating a masterpiece. Demmek was no artist. Demmek was an agressive thug... but he was a thug with a tiny spark of ambition that reminded Hurk of himself from years past. That meant that Demmek had to be watched. Closely. The third man, Wall, was about as smart as his namesake. The lummox was fearsome to behold, but had no delusions of ever attempting free thought. He simply did what he was told, no matter how stupid or ridiculous the order. Thus, whatever went wrong was very rarely his fault. Hurk paced back and forth before the trio, trying to decide who besides Wall was going to walk out of the cabin without a fresh scar. He halted in front of Demmek.

"You did what?" Hurk said calmly.

"We, uhhh...." Demmik started.

"Grimm?"

"We was just having a bit o' fun, that's all," said Grimm.

"YOUR kind of fun belongs on the ice, Grimm. Not in Paradise. What's the matter, rolling that Mazza wasn't entertaining enough for you?"

"We did that," Demmik said... ignoring the fact that Hurk wasn't talking to him. "We took care of that just like you said. Left the mask and everything."

"And then you ruined it by picking a fight with Paul Phiskom."

"He started it. My brother-"

"Couldn't fight his way out of a sack of soft butter. He got his skull cracked because he wasn't good enough to keep somebody from cracking it. That's how it is on the ice, Demmik. Grimm knows that-"

"We also take care of our own," said Demmik. "Medrick's my blood.

"No," Hurk's hand flew in an arc across Demmik's face. What would have been a slap turned bloody when the knife hidden up Hurk's sleeve slid down into his palm at the last instant. The blade split Demmek's skin in a long groove that stretched from from his neck to just below his left eye. Demmik hissed and stepped back, slapping his hand to his bleeding face but doing nothing to retaliate. "No, THAT'S your blood," said Hurk. The blade had returned to its place up his sleeve, having only been visible for the instant that it was slicing Demmek's face.

Demmek applied pressure to his face and lowered his gaze. He didn't whimper or whine like his brother would have. Hurk took note of that.

"We just thought we'd bruise up a few more of Phiskom's boys, that's all," said Grimm. "Get 'em fired up."

"So how come YOU'RE the ones with bruises, eh? Don't tell me that a bunch of loggers kicked your asses and tossed you out into the street!"

"Phiskom's a tricky one-"

"The Boy!?" Hurk said. "The BOY!!?"

"Took me by surprise. Hit me with a tankard when DEMMEK was supposed to be takin' care of him."

"Hey-!"

"Unless you want me to carve you another mouth, you'll hold your tongue and only loosen it when I ask ya to."

"Yes sir, Mr. Hurk."

"Get out of here. You and Wall... go."

Demmek grabbed Wall by the arm and lead the old man out. Demmek left a trail of dripping blood , which Wall promptly stepped in and smeared all over the floor. Hurk kicked the door closed behind them.

"Need I remind you what's at stake here, Grimm?" said Hurk. "Or maybe you just don't care... is that it?"

"We was just looking for a good time. But the boy fights like a pro."

"And you ARE a pro. You know better."

"I also know there's only so much I can do in town-"

"Oh, so you're scared of Hamilton now?"

"I didn't say that."

"Now Phiskom thinks we're a bunch of idiots and brawlers. Brawlers who CAN'T FIGHT!"

"Then I suggest we teach 'im otherwise," said Grimm.

"Oh, we will. YOU will. I lost another load of wood today, Grimm. I think we're ready."

"Just say the word."

"I just said it. And one more thing..." Hurk glanced down at the blood that Demmek left behind.

"Ya want me to take care of him?"

"Demmek is a good man," said Hurk.

"Wouldn't last a day back in the old business."

"Neither would you. OR me... not now. Demmek's problem is his loyalty. The bond of blood will cause a man to do stupid, stupid things. It'll cause the people AROUND that man to do stupid things WITH him." Hurk scowled at Grimm.
"Demmek's problem is our problem. Eliminate problem for us, Grimm. Tonight."

---

J'Hasp pulled himself through the manor's duct system with slow, determined movements. His claws weren't much use; he'd puncture the walls if he tried to use them. Instead he flexed his mucles so that his body pressed outward against the duct. Then he relaxed sections of his body rhytmically so that the patter of contractions propelled him forward... with a little assistance from his hands and feet. He could certainly move faster if he wished, but that would create echoes that might alert someone to his presence. That would be bad. Besides, J'Hasp was in no hurry.

The manor's duct system was hot and rank. It stunk of soot, dust, and old, ugly smells. But it also carried scents from every other part of the manor. J'Hasp found the one he was looking for and followed it through the maze of ductwork. Occasionally he passed a grate leading into a room or another hallway. He would pause to peek out for a moment, then continue. He went down. Down to the first floor... and then further. The temperature rose as he descended, the soot in the air became thick and uncomfortable. The grates became fewer and fewer, and soon there was nothing but darkness and metal. J'Hasp was in the basement. He could hear the rumbling of some machine and feel the duct vibrating around him. A short distance later, the small duct emptied out into a much larger one that ran at a downward angle. There was light coming from somewhere. And sound. J'Hasp followed them both to a large grate in the bottom of the duct. He stopped at edge of it and peered down. The third man was there, directly below him.

He had dark hair that was beginning to thin on top. J'Hasp couldn't see his face because the man was bent over a large table over which several strange metal objects sat. The man was picking up the objects one at a time, examining them, then scribbling something in the pages of a large book that lay nearby. J'Hasp could see the words... he could tell that they WERE words, that they meant something... but he couldn't tell what that meaning was.

The man's scent was even stranger in person than it had been in the hallway. He had a subdued animal scent... but not like the hunter. This scent was old and faint, like something that had not washed away after many, many years. His skin bore the same oils and lubricants that covered the metal parts on the table. He was a man that worked constantly with such things... as well as with the dirt, soot, and grime that filled the duct in which J'Hasp hid. All of these scents surrounded the man in an invisible cloud that only a nose as sensitive as J'hasp's could detect. But there was more. Older scents. Blood and chemicals, similar to the healer's scent. Sweat. Fear. Death. And something else. Something very, very faint. A place that the man had been near long ago.

J'Hasp scowled, his face twisting in a mask of rising unease. His muscles tensed, and a slight growl escaped his lips.

"eh?" said the man. He looked up, and his dark brown eyes stared right into the vent separating him from J'Hasp. J'Hasp froze as the man studied the darkness. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. The man reached up and waved his hand in front of the vent... then he frowned. "Damned thing," he muttered as he stepped away from the table. "If this filter's clogged again..." J'Hasp leaned forward and pressed his face against the grate so that he could see what was about to occur.

A large furnace occupied an entire wall of the basement. The giant cylindar rested upright, with a huge door in its side that looked was like the entrance to a metal crypt. The surface surrounding the door was covered with gauges, wheels, and valves that hissed and rattled in an unusual symphony of sound. There was a large captain's wheel on the door itself. Occasinally the rattling would reach such an intensity that it shook the entire mechanism... and the spider-like nest of hot pipes that protruded from its top and extended into the walls. J'Hasp felt the main duct vibrate in time to the machine's noises.

The man stood before the door and tapped one of the dials. He tapped it again, more forcefully the second time.

"...no blockage here.." He moved to another dial, studied it, and mumbled something to himself as he grabbed a nearby wheel and gave it a quarter-turn. J'Hasp felt a blast of heat rush down the duct. Along with it came a short-lived whiff of something unpleasant.

Then a door opened.

"Fire it up!" someone called. There was a dragging sound, and then a door closing. The door made a loud, metallic sound... and it made an audible 'click' as it locked behind whoever had just entered. It took a few seconds for the newcommers scent to filter throughout the room. It was the hunter. And he had something with him. Something big and heavy... something wrapped in an old sheet that was soaked with fresh blood.

"Another one?" said Radrim. "Again!?"

"Again," said Hemmings. As he hauled the thing past Radrim's table, the scent rose into the duct. Human. And animal. Chemicals. Strange. "Open it up."

"Hold on."

Radrim twisted the furnace's wheel, and the heat in the duct dropped off. He then donned a pair of thick cloth gloves and turned the wheel that sealed the door. He yanked the furnace door open. And angry cloud of soot, and heat rushed out into the basement. Radrim quickly hopped to one side, away from the blast. Hemming stopped walking and got a firm grasp on the sheet. He lifted it with his metal arm and tossed it into the furnace. Radrim slammed the door shut, locked it, and returned the temperture wheel up to its maximum level. J'Hasp's skin stiffened against the new wave of heat. The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose for an instant... then it mysteriously vanished.

Meanwhile, Hemmings stood before the metal door and watched nothing. Radrim joined him.

"This one almost made it to town," said Hemmings. "Khrellin was distracted. This is dangerous and I don't like it."

"Ours isn't to like or dislike."

"Is this worth it? Does Khrellin think he can help this man?"

"We won't know until the morning. Maybe not even then. This can be slow work-"

"And meanwhile, other things go unattended. Dangerous things."

"That's why we have you, Hemming. To keep these things in order."

Hemming grunted, then turned and walked back in the direction he came. J'Hasp's eyes followed him. Hemming's feet stepped into the trail of blood that had leaked from the sheet... he walked through it as innocently as water. And he left no prints. His boots left not a single mark or smear in the red fluid that stained the floor. J'Hasp shifted positions in the duct and watched him as he approached a large metal door in the wall opposite the furnace. Hemming paused before the door and stood expectantly-

CLUNK!

The door unlocked and swung open, releasing a wave of magic, animal scents, and cold air. J'Hasp's eyes penetrated the darkness beyond. Metal stairs leading down. Hemming started to descend, and the door closed behind him before he'd taken two steps. It locked automatically.

Radrim made some adjustments to the furnace and then went back to work. J'Hasp left him there, alone. He'd seen enough... for now.

---

Chapter 4

Khrellin's 'study' was a small, unassuming room furnished with a desk, chairs, two beds, and several glass-front cabinets in which many dozens of bottles and flasks were arranged. It hardly seemed a place where one would expect miracles... yet that was exactly what had brought December to the manor. Stories of things that had taken place in this very room, or one like it, had traveled far from this isolated land and made their way to him. Perhaps they were exaggerations, or rumors, or outright falehoods... whatever they were, the stories were the first of their kind that December had encountered. When he found that the man named Khrellin and the town called Paradise did indeed exist, he wasted no time setting in motion the series of events that placed him here... in the study of the only man who could... perhaps... cure him. And if what J'Hasp reported were accurate, even if there were no cure here for December, there WAS something else that may make the effort it took to get here worthwhile. He didn't know what it was yet, but he would discover it soon enough.

"Slept well?" Khrellin inquired as he preceeded December into the study. The old man had 'awakened' December with a polite knock at the chamber door not long ago. December wasn't asleep, and J'Hasp had warned him of Khrellin's approach several minutes before the man knocked. They skipped breakfast at December's request. Khrellin didn't mind at all; in fact, he seemed as eager to get started as December. It was still early morning, and the sun had not yet risen.... not that that could be easily checked... the study had no windows.

"I do not require sleep in the traditional sense," said December. "A few moment's meditation usually suffices on days that I have not exerted myself." It wasn't exactly the truth, but it was as close as he intended to get. "I trust your night was uneventful, doctor?"

"Oh, nothing ever happens here," Khrellin lied. "This is one of the most boring, uneventful places you're ever likely to find. That's why I like it."

"I would disagree, doctor. Every place has its secrets. I am sure this place is no exception."

Khrellin gave him a cautious glance. Then the old man smiled and waved at one of the beds, which was actually a large, elevated table.

"Please, make yourself comfortable."

"I am comfortable standing," December replied.

"Suit yourself. I'll sit... my bones aren't what they used to be." Khrellin sat down at in a chair beside his desk. He produced a book and stylus from his desk. Khrellin pushed a tiny button at the top of the pen, causing it to make a clicking noise. Then he began to write with it, scribbling the date at the top of the book's first page.

"What is that?"

"This?" Khrellin held up the pen. "Interesting device, no? Requires no external ink. Has little ball in the tip to roll the ink onto the page. And spring inside to retract the point... see-" Khrellin pushed the button several more times -click-click-click-click- December saw the pen's point retracting into its cylindrical shaft and then coming back out again with each click. "Much cleaner than having to wipe up spilt ink. Radrim made it for me."

"Your assistant. I would like to meet him."

"Oh, you will. He'd not as inclined to miss breakfast as you or I."

"Food is not as much of a necessity for me as it is for other men."

"I see..." Khrellin scribbled something else in the book. "I take it that your condition isn't natural... not hereditary?"

"As my letters stated, it was thrust upon my long ago. A curse. I have heard that you have some experience is such matters."

"Curses? Oh, yes... if that's what you wish to call them. I prefer more scientific appelations for the varioius conditions I've encountered. Magically-enhanced and induced diseases and mutations. Yes, I have encountered quite a few."

"You have cured them."

"Oh yes. Not all of them... but there aren't very many aflictions... magical or mundane... that the methodical application of logic, science, and medicine cannot undo."

"Even those that magic is unable to treat?"

"ESPESCIALLY those," said Khrellin. "As, hopefully, you will soon see." Khrellin sat his book aside, rose from his seat and approached December. He extended his hand. "May I?"

December allowed the doctor to touch him. The old man's initial touch was light and tentative, as if he expected to be stung. Then he became accustomed to what he was touching. He stroked and probed the skin on the back of December's hand, kneeding and massaging the rigid flesh.

"Your skin is hard," he remarked. "And cold. Colder than room temperature... you almost seem to be-"

"Generating cold," December finished.

"Nooo... that's nonsense. What you're doing is absorbing heat. Draining it right out of my hand... look-" Khrellin held up his hand so that December could see the goosebumps. "Absorbing heat... but not like ice. No, ice just sits there and gets warmer. Aborsbs heat from the surroundings until it melts. YOU, however, do not appear to be melting."

"No."

"But you are certainly absorbing your share of heat. Oh, yes... most definitly. But what FOR, hmmm? What does your body do with all that energy?"

"I am not sure what-"

"How often to you eat?"

"Rarely."

"But you CAN eat, yes? Regular food?"

"Of course."

"What's the longest you've gone without-"

"Seventeen months."

Khrelling blinked a few times. He licked his lips and thought for a moment.

"This may seem an odd question, but are you... stronger... or faster... than a normal man your size would be?"

"Stronger, yes."

"How much stronger?"

"I am not sure," December lied.

"What about stamina? Do you get tired easily?"

"Quite the contrary. I can exert myself beyond what men would consider normal."

There was a long pause as Khrellin thought about what December said.

"Is there a problem, doctor?"

"Problem? No. It's just that your condition is more... unique... than you led me to believe in your letters. Very intersting. Fascinating, actually. I bet if we measured the heat energy you absorbed and compared it to your metabolic expenditures... oh, yes, let's do that." Khrellin opened one of the cabinets and removed a small glass rod from a shelf. The rod was hollow, with a silver substance inside and markings along its length at regular intervals. He returned to December's side and handed him the rod. "Stick this in.... errr... hold this in your hand and let's see what your external temperature us."

"What would you like it to be, doctor?"

"Excuse me?"

"What would you LIKE my temperature to be?"

"You can... adjust your own body temperature?"

"Indeed."

"To what extent? How low?"

December looked at the numbers on the thermometer, which was currently reading just below freezing.

"Lower than this instrument can measure," he said.

"Ingulge me-"

The temperature in the room dropped suddenly. Frost formed on the surface of a nearby table. Khrellin backed away from December as the thermometer shattered in December's hand.

"As I said, this instrument is inadequate."

"Very," Khrellin said. His words were now visible as a white clouds billowing from his mouth with every breath. The old man walked over to the nearest floor vent and stood over it, basking in the warm air. "Egads, man... you could kill someone like that!"

"Could I? The thought never occured to me."

"We won't be doing that again... thermometers are expensive. I'll have Radrim concoct some other method of measuring your temperture."

"So far, you have not said how you intend to cure me, doctor."

"Well, first I have to find out what it is that I'm curing. Some sort of thermic mutation, certainly. Cryokinesis perhaps. Very, very rare."

"Can you cure it? Can you restore me to normal?"

"Too early to tell. But assuming that I can... would you WANT to be cured?"

"Do not be absurd, doctor. If I did not desire a cure then I would not be here."

"True... but have you truly THOUGHT about what you are... how unique and-"

"That is precisely why I wish to be cured, doctor. As you yourself just said... in my current condition, I am a WHAT... not a WHO. I am a curiosity, something to be studied... feared... pitied."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend-"

"Had you offended me, you would know it. Accept the fact that I wish to be cured, and that I am able to compensate you most generously should your efforts succeed."

There was a knock at the door. Khrellin and December both turned toward it, and December's eyes flashed almost imperceptibly as he studied the pattern of heat on the other side.

"Come," Khrellin said. Hemmings opened the door and leaned in.

"Visitor. For him." He nodded at December. "Woman."

"If you will excuse me, doctor."

Hemmings lead December to the manor's receiving room, where the large front doors opened into a wide chamber. Paintings and tapestries should have adorned the walls, but nothing hung there but dust and bare wood. The place had an eerie atmosphere of age and neglect. Angel stood in the center of it, her cloak pulled tightly about her, her pale face peering out of its deep hood. She looked like a ghost that had come to haunt Khrellin's manor.

She smiled when December entered.

"Hello, father," she said. "I hope I didn't arrive at a bad time."

December neither smiled nor frowned. He shook his head and let Angel slip her arm around his.

"Any more on the way?" said Hemmings. "Or is she it?" His displeasure at yet another visitor was clear. December dismissed him with a stern glance. Hemmings disappeared down the hallway leading back to Khrellin's study.

"A man with a metal arm," Angel remarked. "How quaint."

"What have you found?"

"Men and their little squabbles," Angel replied. "Nothing that would interest you."

"Nothing that would interfere?"

"Nothing that I'll let interfere. What about the doctor? Is he what you thought he'd be?"

"He has his secrets, but then, all men do. His are perhaps more interesting than most."

"The two of you should get along quite well, then."

"Certain areas of this manse are protected by magic."

"He's a mage, too?"

"Someone here is."

"Can he give you what you want? A cure."

"Perhaps. He have only begun to discuss the matter."

"Do you need me here, or should I return to the city?"

"Continue as you were," said December. "Return here daily at your liesure. Otherwise, I shall summon you if you are needed."

Angel smiled, her white lips curling upward into a grin.

"Later, then," she said. She turned and walked toward the massive double doors. She eased one of the doors open and stepped outside, pausing only to blow December a kiss as the door shut behind her.

---

Paul hovered in that surreal state between dreams and reality. Flashes of memory mixed with snippets of dreams, creating a confusing, yet comforting collage of sensations... some of them real, most of them not. He didn't know for sure if he was asleep or not, but he didn't actually care. He couldn't yet tell who's bed he was in. It should have been his, but as the events of the previous night fell into place, he realized that it wasn't. And that he wasn't alone. Only...he was alone. Paul's arm rested awkwardly across the blank space where Angel had slept beside him. It took a second to realize that she was gone.

Paul's eyeslids popped open. How long had she been gone? Where did she go? When did she leave?

Would he ever see her again?

Of course he would. Wouldn't he?

"Angel?" Paul murmered. He sat up and shook the remains of the night's dreams from his mind. They were all very good dreams... but not as good as what had come before. "Angel?"

Her clothes were gone. The only sign that she'd ever been there was a recently-stoked fire that burned in the fireplace. But she HAD been there. Paul remembered the feel of her skin against his, her hair across his chest, her breath against his lips. She'd been real, hadn't she?

Paul got out of bed and pulled on his pants. His coat lay on the floor not long away. Where was his shirt? It was under the bed, along with one of his boots. Where was the other one? Paul searched for his clothes and quickly donned them, determined to go out and find Angel. And then find his friends.

Or perhaps that was the wrong order. There'd been trouble last night... he needed to find the others and make sure they were all right. Then they could help him find Angel.

"Right," he mumbled as he pulled on his other boot. "That's exactly what I'll do."

Paul was reaching for the door when he heard something outside in the hall. Something approaching. Boots.... footsteps of several people who didn't particularly care about stealth. Paul stepped back from the door and waited. He saw the knob turn. He saw the door begin to open. Paul grabbed the door and yanked it open, pulling the man holding the other side off balance. Paul jumped back and threw a spinning hook kick that dropped the first man. He charged the second, turning at the last minute and driving his elbow into the second man's upper abdomen. He immdiatly followed with a backfist strike that broke the man's nose. He grabbed the man by the head and yanked him in a downward motion... right onto Paul's upthrusting knee. The man stumbled forward and collapsed. Paul caught a glimpse of something in the third man's hand. He twisted and snatched the crossbow out of his assailant's hand, then gave it right back to him... cracking it across the man's forhead. The archer stumbled backwards into the arms of a fourth man... a man who Paul recognized.

"Hey, what are y- OOUGH!"

The first man through the door had gotten up and tackled Paul from the side. They both went down. Paul thrust the man away just in time to see the butt end of the crossbow coming right for his face. He reacted-... too slow. Less than ten minutes after he'd awakened, Paul was unconscious once more.

---

Paul awoke for the second time. This time, there was no confusion as to whether he was awake or asleep. No remnants of dreams or memories floated across his mind. No warm, comfortable bed to lulled him back toward sleep. No... one instant there was darkness, and the next: pain.

"Unnngh..." Paul rolled over onto his back and lay there for almost a mintue before opening his eyes. He was on the floor. He was cold. He heard people talking not far away. Some of the voices were familiar. He knew where he was.

Paul sat up and saw the row of bars that comprised one wall of the cell. He took a few deep breaths to gather his strength, then shouted:

"HAMILTON!"

The conversation in the hallway ceased. Someone walked toward the cell, and Paul saw Hamilton standing outside, looking down at him.

"Hamilton, what the hell is this?" said Paul.

"It's a cell," Hamilton replied calmly, as if that were actually the answer to Paul's question. "What'd you think it was?"

Paul scowled at Hamilton. He slowly got up off the floor and approached he bars. Hamilton didn't back away; he had no reason to.

"Did my father put you up to this?"

"No, I put me up to this. How's your head?"

"Fine, no thanks to you. What's this about?"

"A fight last night. One where you were involved"

"Since when do bar-fights interest you, Hamilton?"

"From what I hear, this wasn't a bar fight."

"It was a fight. It happened in a bar. It was a bar fight."

"Drunken brawls don't interst me," said Hamilton. "But when A group of men mets another group of men, and they fight with the premeditated intention to do each other harm, that's not a drunken brawl. That's assault. I can't have that kind of thing going on in my town."

"This isn't your town. It isn't yours, and it isn't my father's... that means that I'm free to do whatever I want. AND free to defend myself when I'm attacked."

"So you were in a fight last night?"

"Hell yes. Hurk's thugs came calling, and we answered the door. You got a problem with that?"

"I hear Demmek has a legitimate beef with you."

"And I hear you don't have any jurisdiction over things that happen outside this town. Whatever happened to Demmek's brother-"

"Did I say anything about his brother?"

"Hamilton..." Paul sighed. "You gonna let me out of here or what?"

"I'll have to think about that one."

"Hamilton, come ON! It's ME... Paul! There was a fight, but I didn't START it!"

"The person who starts a fight isn't necessarily the one who throws the first punch."

"In that case, it was Corgan Hurk that started the damned fight. Why don't you go and lock HIM up, eh!"

"Because he hasn't done anything wrong in my town. You have."

"WHAT?! Tell me, Hamilton, WHAT did I do? Why am I in here? A FIGHT!?! Self-defense, Hamilton... using what YOU taught me when I was a boy. If Demmek has a problem with me, then its HURK'S fault, not mine! I'm just a man trying to protect his friends and his business interests-"

"You're a boy stirring up trouble that doesn't need to be stirred. That's not why I taught you to fight, Paul. You and your friends are gonna take this town back to a time that I'd rather not visit again... and you're gonna get yourself killed in the process. You don't know who Corgan Hurk is. You and your friends are too young to remember what he was like during the uprising. You don't know what he's capable of-"

"And he doesn't know what I'M capable of, either!"

"Attacking loggers. Burning shipments. Fights in bars. Real impressive so far, Paul. I'm sure you have that hardened mercenary quaking in his boots and pissing himself 'cause he's so scared."

It had suddenly become uncomfortably hot in the room, even though the temperature hadn't risen one degree.

"You're young, Paul. You don't understand-

"Being young doesn't automatically mean I'm stupid!"

"Actually it does. It means you haven't lived through enough to know how much you DON'T know. That's the worst kind of ignorance, Paul. Thats the kind that'll get you killed quick... espscially when dealing with someone like Hurk. Your little stunts and raids against his men are only-"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Paul folded his arms defiantly across his chest. "I'm ignorant. I don't know anything about it."

"Well..." Hamilton walked over to the edge of the wall. He reached down and grabbed something... a shredded, bloody cloth. It looked like it may have been a shirt at one time. "You know anything about this?"

The sight of the cloth startled Paul. He caught himself trying to think back and see if it was something that Angel was wearing... maybe the woman was dead and he was somehow responsible. But no, the cloth was thick and coarse, made from animal hide. Angel wasn't wearing it. Paul couldn't picture her in anything so... crude.

"Mazza," said Paul.

"Not just any Mazza. Some loggers found this in the fringes north of town. It belonged to the man your father and I spoke with yesterday. Remember?"

"Is he dead?"

"I'd say so. Found his head buried in the snow... well, half of it, anyway. Cracked open and scooped out like a mellon. No body. Just blood, this cloth, and the head."

Paul winced at the image.

"You know anything about it?"

"Why would I? Sounds like the poor guy got attacked by an animal."

"No tracks," said Hamilton. "Snow was clean. You know of any animal that doesn't leave tracks in the snow?"

Paul shook his head.

"Magic," said Hamilton. "And magic means that a man was involved somewhere before, during, or after. And seeing as how this man was talking to us earlier-"

"You don't honestly think I had anything to do with this, do you?"

"No, of course not. You didn't rob his store and you certainly didn't kill him. But somebody did."

"Hurk? Hurk wouldn't-"

"Remember what I said, Paul. You're too young to remember the uprising. You don't know the kinda things he's done."

"But this?" Paul pointed to the cloth.

"A group of miners got lost on their way to camp once. Snow-blind. Wandered around for days... no food. No nothing. Eventually found their way into seeing-distance of Corgan Hurk's camp. By now, they're starving and half-frozen... but they take one look at that camp and they turn back. All but one of 'em died in the snow... frozen and hungry... still within a day's hike of Hurk's campfire. The one that lived, you know what he told the healers when they were treatin' him? He said that Corgan Hurk was the devil... that his camp was surrounded by six-foot wooden pikes, and on top of each pike was a Mazza skull. No men. Just women and children. That's Corgan Hurk. And back then, his second in command was a man by the name of Louis Grimm. I believe you've already met him."

"Stories," said Paul. "Stories and nonsense."

"Yeah, its just a story. You know how stories are... by the time everybody finishes telling it, you've got something that doesn't even resemble what actually happened. So maybe you should ask somebody who was there. The surivor? Go find him and ask him... he's an older fella by the name of Sherwood Phiskom. Maybe you've heard of him."

"He never told me that one," said Paul.

"There's a lot of things he doesn't tell you. Like how Corgan Hurk used to catch Mazza, strip 'em down and leave 'em to freeze to death in the snow. Or how he'd catch him a snowbeast and keep it cage so he could feed Mazza hunters to it. That's how they entertained themselves back then. Now, I'm not saying that Hurk had anything to do with this-" Hamilton shook the bloody cloth. "But if he did, then it was a warning. For you."

"I'm not scared of him," said Paul.

"You don't have to be. Your father isn't... but he's no FOOL, either. You can't beat a man at a game he perfected decades ago. That's what you're trying to do, Paul. You're gonna loose. You and all your friends are going to end up dead in the snow... or worse."

"Are you going to let me go or not?"

"Grimm and Demmek," said Hamilton. "They say anything about where they were going when they left the bar?"

"No," said Paul.

"You happen to notice what direction they went?"

"No."

"Well," Hamilton shrugged. He dug into his pocket and produced the key to the cell. "That's all I had to ask you." Hamilton unlocked the cell door and pulled it open.

"You locked me up for that?" said Paul.

"Boy," said Hamilton. "You keep playing games with Hurk, and this cell will be the only safe place you'll have."

Paul stepped around Hamilton and walked out of the Recieving Office without saying a word.

---

It was mid-morning, which meant that all the loggers would be hard at work. Paradise was almost a ghost-town now... a few merchants minded their empty stores, and grumbling barkeepers were just finishing their clean-up from the night before. Paul hated the town when it was like this. The emptiness was like a sharp splinter in his flesh, a needling reminder of how he'd grown up... a boy in a man's town, friendless and alone. Things were different now, certainly... but when Nathan and Wayne and all the others were at the work-camps, Paul felt as if he were six years old again. Lost in thought, Paul wandered past the row of taverns, seeming to go nowhere in particular. In truth, he was making his rounds of the places that Nathan and the others met. Certain alleys that were unually dark, even in the day. The storage yards of certain stores. The secluded areas near the fringes or behind certain taverns. He found nothing... not even a message from Nathan, the only one of his friends who could write. Paul also kept his eyes open for Angel. He peered into store and tavern window searching for her, but her pale visage was seen only in his memory, where it was hopelessly and indelibly etched.

Unable to return home, Paul headed for Nathan's apartment, where he planned on getting a bit more sleep and then coming back out later. He'd plant himself somewhere conspicuous so that she.... or his friends... could find him when they finally surfaced. He was walking past the carpenter's shop when he heard something behind him. He turned, expecting to see Angel. Instead, he saw Nathan and Wayne. They were practically running toward him, and they weren't slowing down. They grabbed Paul and yanked him into the alley beside the store.

"What's goin-"

"Trouble," said Nathan. "Big, big trouble."

"He hit the camp!" said Wayne.

"Who? What?"

"Desano's camp," said Nathan. "Just outside of town! Hurk hit it! Burned the place to the ground!"