CHAPTER 5

The dragon yawned and stretched. As his great black wings brushed the top of the cavern, he considered once again that it might be time to find a new lair. That, however, would involve a lot of hunting around for a suitable domain and then their was the engergy involved in actually moving all his posessions.

Twisting his head back Trothivyr looked with appreciation at his massive horde of treasure. He marveled at the things that people were willing bargain their puny, worthless lives for. Mountains of gold and silver, piles of flawless gems, more magical weapons than could be counted in one day, rare items of power, and, of course, the occasional long lost artifact. He had even accepted books, scrolls, and manuscripts just for a little variation. The dragon chuckled at the follies of mortals as he exited his great cavern to meet the new challengers.

As he settled himself on a warm ledge to wait, he sent out his sight once again to examine his opposition. One could never be too careful. Recklessness had sent most of his kind to their deaths and Trothivyr was determined that it would not be the same for him.

There were two of them with four more waiting on the outskirts of his valley. He would deal with those later. Focusing his attention on the two, he thought to himself, why do these mortals always break up and travel like this? They should know that if I choose to slay a group, I will slay them all no matter how much they disperse. Oh, that's right. No one has yet lived to learn that lesson.

He leisurely launched into the air and gently winged towards the first duo. Let's see what treasure they have to offer, then I'll decide whether to give them a taste of death.

He circled the pair twice before settling himself before them. He raised himself on his high on his hind legs for a little show and set forth his challenge with a belch of blue fire. Glancing at the Sidhe out of the corner of his eye, Trothivyr was pleased to note a look of fear run across her face. The Trychtari, however, surprised him. The bored and semi-contemptious mask his people usually donned was missing. Instead, the beast bore the appearance of grim defiance and determination. Interesting.

"Who are you, puny mortals, that you dare enter my domain uninvited?" Trothivyr was rather pleased with the way his deep voice reverberated off the mountain sides. Very magistic and certainly awe inspiring. "Face now the wrath of Trothivyr!" Setting the stage for bargaining was always the best part of the game.

The female stepped forward and bowed low. "Mighty Trothivyr, we seek mearly to pass through your homeland. We will cause no harm and will quickly be gone."

Trothivyr waited a few moments more for her obligatory offer of riches beyond his wildest dreams. When the offer did not come, the dragon shifted his great bulk impatiently. Surely they did not expect him to grant them passage from the goodness of his heart? Perhaps some prompting was in order. "And in return?"

The big, ugly man snarled and moved for his glaive. The female put out a restraining hand and the Trychtari subsided. Fascinating. Trothivyr had never met one of his kind that had held his peace after reaching for a weapon. Of course, he had never met a Trychtari that consorted with Sidhe, either.

"In return, we will vow never to cross your lands again." Melinda kept her arm on Trevor's, while struggling to meet the wyrm's gaze.

Trothivyr let out a mighty laugh, "Surely you jest lady, if I want you never to return," he paused to blast a gout of blue flames at a distant boulder, which exploded into nothingness, "you won't survive to have the chance. Now, what do you offer me to spare your puny mortal lives?"

Melinda looked about, searching for inspiration. In truth, they had nothing to give the great wyrm. It would have to be a service, then. But what? What would interest this dragon enough to grant them their lives? She bit her lip and glanced at Trevor and saw a slow grin spreading across his face. Oh no.

Trevor removed his hand from his weapon and bowed low to the dragon. "Mighty Trothivyr, in return for our lives, we would give you a story."

"A Story?" The dragon's laughter rumbled off the mountain sides, sending chill echoes reverberating through the valley. "It had best be a good story, one worth your lives, or you shall feel my breath. Still, you interest me, tiny creature, do tell."

Trevor could not help but smile to himself as he sat down onto the dragon warmed ground. "You see, great dragon, this story begins not very long ago, In the lands very close to here. Where a man named Ranchut was born."

Trothivyr smiled inwardly, he'd heard of Ranchut and hoped the trychtari would spin a good tale. And, although trading a story for their lives was hardly new, Trothivyr much preffered it to all those screeching minstrels who always, always tried to buy their lives with one of their hideous melodies. What humans and their ilk failed to realize was that their music was an acquired taste. Fortunately, their flesh wasn't.

"As a youth, Ranchut was as most human boys are - reckless, feckless, and completely immortal in his own sight. He was the third son of a minor noble under the old reign of the A'Tnari. He respected his mother, fought with his father, and got along passably well with his brothers. There was one sister, however, roughly five years the younger, whom he adored more than anything else on this world. Nalia, for that was her name, was kind, loving, and even more gentle than she was beautiful - and she was very beautiful. She had hair that looked and smelled like fresh poured honey, eyes that rivaled the glitter of the stars in the sky, and skin softer than a rose petal.

Now, it so happened, that there was an evil church in the land. The Cult of K'glorak, and their dark priests sacrificed young maidens unto their dark lord; and the Ranchut's older brother, Gilliam, joined this fell order. His older brother did everything in his power to recuit the young Ranchut. and Ranchut, who did love his brother, finally succumbed to this evil cult. He followed in his brothers shadow, learning all he could. He even, very slowly found himself starting to belive some of the things that the high dark priest said. But not quite everything...

This would all change one fateful day, when Ranchut arrived at the meet of the new moon.

The high priest was chanting away, in very dim light. A dark stone alter stuck up from the muddy earth. Ranchut could see that the sacrifice was already in place. The maiden's legs, kicked uselessly in the air. Ranchut started in suprise, when a boney hand grasped his shoulder.

"You should go fourth and seal your destiny brother. You have been chosen to preform the sacrfice tonight. You are most honored by K'glorak." Gilliam's dessicated voice rasped.

Ranchut looked at his once handsome brother's now skeletal visage, and then at the twisted black dagger clutched in his hands. Ranchut took the dagger, with a dark glimmer in his eye and then towards the black basalt altar of his god.

He climbed the steps and bowed low to the masked highpriest, a trychtari, and then knelt before the altar across from the highpriest and with his back to the gathered congregation.

The priest droned on and on about the glories of K'glorak and the might of his nether-realm army, and of how each of the gathered multitude would have a special place in that unholy host. Finally the sermon climaxed, and Ranchut new it was his turn.

The masked priest annointed Ranchut's head with foul waters and bid him rise. Ranchut stood, and removed the blakc veil which until now had cloaked his victim.

Nalia lay strapped, naked to the blakc stone (but then you already knew it had to be her). Ranchut stared in shock, looking from the priest to Gilliam and back to his bound sister. The congregation was chanting, singing almost, growing louder and faster. He knew that at the crescendo of he was expected to kill his beloved sister.

He looked from the priest to his brother to his sister again, and again. The volume mounted and we raised the dagger high into the air, positioning himself for a clean killing blow, the sleaves of his black robe pooled about his shoulders, revealing his muscular tanned arms, and the hands turned bone white with the effort of clasping the ceremonial dagger. Suddenly the worhippers reached the crescendo and, with a scream of shear mental agony, Ranchut, third son of Moath, plunged the twisted dagger deep into the heart of the hightpriest. Reaching in after the blade he tore the broken organ from the Trychtari and flung the hateful thing into the black flames of a nearby brazier. Shaking in uncontrollable rage, he turned back to his terror filled sister and removed her bonds with the same bloody dagger he had used to murder the highpriest.

"What is this thing you have done, Ranchut?"

Ranchut closed his eyes and shivered at the chill echo in his older brother's voice. "I have sealed my fate, brother." He turned back to his sister and wrapped her carefully in the folds of the dead priest's robes. "My dear Nalia, listen well. You must return to our father and tell him that both of his sons loved him well but neither shall return to see him in this life." He hugged her close and slipped a small charm into one of the great folds of her robe. "Run now, sister. Be fleet of foot and know that I loved you."

So saying, the youthful Ranchut turned to his older brother whom he had once honored and leveled the bloody dagger at him. "Your life is mine."

Gilliam's lips pulled slowly back from his razored teeth in a feral grin. "Stupid little brother. K'glorak has given me his power. You are nothing but a bug to me and I shall smash you as you deserve."

The crowd of dark followers watched in silence as the two brothers grappled, ripping at each other's throats."

Trevor paused and looked again at the position of the sun. He stood and stretched and motioned for Melinda to do the same.

The dragon thrashed his tail hard into the ground. "Just a moment, Trychtari. You have not finished! You must tell me what happened to the brothers!"

Trevor pointed back to where they could see the outlines of Renu and Gan making there way down into the valley. "Promise me that my friends shall pass unmolested."

Trothyvir's forked tongue flicked in and out of his mouth for a moment before he uttered a quick, "Yes, yes, now sit and continue."

Trevor did as the dragon bade. "The two brothers were locked in battle, one with the power of a God behind him and the other with the twisted and murderous weapon of that same god.

In the end Ranchut won, slaying his brother with the fell weapon, whether through the powers of his own dark heart and the trychtari blood which still soiled his hands, or only his own indomitable will he defeated his brother, and all the power of K'glorak when he drew the knife across his brothers throat.

Ranchut stood there, and watched his brother die. Gilliam tried to speak last words, but the blood gurgled through his wounded throat and brought to him a silent death. Then Ranchut turned to face the crowd, only to see that his beloved Nalia still stood before him. "Ranchut! What have you done? You poor fool."

He stared in shock as she took the twice-bloodied dagger from his trembling hands. "If you won't fullfill your obligation to K'glorak, then I will." And with that she plunged the sacrificial knife into her own heart.

Ranchut caught her lifeless body as it fell to the earth. Brushing back a strand of her golden hair, he threw back his head and let loose his anguish with a silent scream. As he lay crumpled and unmoving over his sister, he felt a bony hand come to rest on his shoulder. Instinctively, he jerked away.

"Brother, you feel this too hard. You have done well." The dark member picked up the bloodied knife and turned it over slowly in his hands.

Ranchut brought his tear streaked face to bear on the dark priest. "I am not your brother. That was my brother," he gestured at Gilliam's corpse. "You are a monster."

"Perhaps you may see it as so. Yet we do nothing more than our god asks of us. In return, He grants us power. Here, this blade calls for you." He held the blade out for Ranchut. The youth stared with horror at the weapon and made no move to accept it. "Take it, it is yours. Three times you have blooded it in offering to K'glorak - no longer will the blade allow itself to be wielded by a hand other than yours."

"I did not kill my sister."

The priest smiled. "She was prepared for you. She died by the sacrificial knife. It is the same. You were fortunate that she was strong enough to perform the offering herself. You would be dead at this moment if she was not." He dropped the knife at Ranchut's feet. "Whether you admit it or no, this knife is yours."

"I am not a murderer. I didn't want them dead."

"I see into your heart, brother, and you are wrong. It is a black and twisted thing that beats within your chest. Even so, you are right in one respect - you are no murderer. Your soul could not abide it."

"My soul?"

The priest gestured at his dead superior. "This man was protected by K'glorak. Many and many have tried to see him dead and every one has failed - including a highpreistess of Salanra. Do you know why you have succeeded where all the others have not?" The priest reached out a pale hand and tapped Ranchut on the chest. "It is because of this."

A jolt of pain exploded in Ranchut's chest where the preist had touched him. Fire and ice ran simultaneously through his blood as he struggled to breath. For several minutes, Ranchut thought he was going to die until the pain finally left him.

The priest sighed and raised his eyes to the night sky. "You are an abomination. Your heart beats death and your soul breaths life. Like the lone-wolf you are not a murderer, but a cold and heartless killer. I should have seen this earlier." He shook his head. "But how could I when even the highpriest missed it? Go. Take your knife and leave this place. Do not come back."

"I - I don't understand. I thought you wanted killers. You killed my sister...you've killed others. I've seen...my brother..."

"No. Listen well, boy, I am about to give you a great truth. In this world there is good and there is evil. Most people are a bit of both. Some give themselves up to serve wholey one or the other. Even then...no one is perfect." The priest paused for a moment and bit his lip in thought. "You are different. Neither good nor evil. But certainly not nuetral. You defy the gods yet you have no power. An enigma. I should kill you now but I don't know that I could." Ranchut turned and fled the temple, not knowing what else to do."

Trevor again paused, and leaned back slowly stretching every muscle in his immense body.

Trothivyr flicked his eyes towards the pass's entrance where the last two members of the trychtari's group approached and sighed, "Yes, yes your other two friends may pass as well Trychtari. Now finish the story before I lose my patience."

Trevor nodded and continued, as the amazed Melinda looked on. "Ranchut fled and lost himself in the world for a long time. He made a living as a petty thief and assassin in the imperial capital for a time.

Until he again ran afoul of K'glorak's dark order.

Ranchut was on a special commission. You see, by this time, Ranchut had made quite a name for himself as an assassin. Not only would he kill the named mark but he would do it in whatever manner the client requested. Now, at this particular point in time, his client was a certain Lady Barnet who's brother had been brutally murdered. She had hired Ranchut to find his killer and to make the fiend suffer as the lady's brother had. Ranchut had spent many weeks finding the identity of his mark and another planning his attack.

The night he was going to make his hit was cold and wet, a dark rain fell upon the entire city, driving people from the streets and providing Ranchut with even fewer witnesses than he'd planned. Usually this would be a good thing, but in this case, Ranchut had been told to make sure that many people witnessed the painful death of the mark.

Oh well, improvisation was one of his strong suits. He had to make the death public, which meant that now he would need to find a suitable building, and then lure his mark within. He smiled to himself as he pulled on his mask, a black mask displaying the symbol of K'glorak. He smiled beneath the masks, knowing the populace would blame the order for his mark's untimely demise. About time he started getting some payback. And he knew just the building to use for this hit. He couldnt help but let a maniacal laugh escape his lips, as he peered down at the theater.

Now he just needed a little bait, something to lure the mark into the theatre. He reached into his small bag of murdering implements, and pulled out a small iron ring. He slipped this over a note he had written previously containing instructions to meet him in the third box of the theater during intermission of that evening's production.

Ranchut's eyes glowed as he quietly slipped in through his mark's bedroom window and left the encircled letter behind. If the carefully worded letter did not bring his mark to the theater, the ring alone would do the job. The iron band, you see, belonged to his prey's missing daughter. His mark had been very upset at the daughters disappearance, raising a ruckus, offering a hefty some of cash for any information that could lead to the daughter.

Silently Ranchut returned to the theatre and crept into the box through a carefully constructed trapodoor in the ceiling. He lowered himself gently and swiftly changed his clothes from his bag and prepared for his prey's arrival.

No sooner had the curtain closed on the final scene of the first act, then Ranchut heard the door open to his box. The assassin watched from the shadows with guarded interest as an old and portly man attempted to slip in unnoticed.

"Quite punctual. I appreciate the courtesy."

Thinking the box had been empty, the man jumped at Ranchut's voice. He ran a ragged handkerchief over his bald head and in a husky voice whispered,"Whatever you want is yours. Just tell me where my daughter is."

Ranchut smiled. "That's good. Very considerate of you. What I want is your life. And, if you can manage it, it would be nice if you would go out screaming in agony and proclaiming your guilt in the matter of Lady Barnet's brother. I can, of course, help in the former. The later is up to you."

The portly man's face had gone a ghostly pale and his eyes had grown wide in fear. "You can't...my life...Lord Euloph...but my daughter..."

Ranchut made sure of his mask before emerging from the depths of the box. He took his prey's arm and led him gently to a seat. "Are you faint? Perhaps I could get you something to drink? No? Suit yourself. Now, to the matter at hand; I'm under contract to remove your bowels from your living body but there are ways and ways of doing that. Here's what I suggest; I'll slice open your gut, you shout loud enough for everyone to hear that you killed Lord Euloph, I kill you, and your daughter goes free. Everyone's happy in the end."

The man made an attempt to shake off his fear. "I am the Royal Chancellor to King A'Tnari. How dare you make threats on my life?"

Ranchut sighed. "I see. You plan on being one of those argumentative types. Fine." He pulled a large sheif of papers from the bag still hidden in the shadows. "What I have here is a copy of all the letters you foolishly wrote the Rukan Emperor enviting him to come conquer this land. The originals have been given over to the king. You see, either way you die. I would much prefer it if you would be cooperative. I believe your daughter would prefer it as well."

"Letters? What letters? The Rukan Emperor?"

Ranchut raised a masked eyebrow. "You know, I rather think you are not intelligent enough to have been allowed into any sort of plot against the king. Here I thought you had been an inept henchman and you turn out to be merely a patsy. Not that that has any baring on the situation at hand. Have you decided?"

The portly man made a lumbering dash for the door. Ranchut leaned back and put out one of his long legs and the chancellor went tumbling to the floor. Ranchut quickly subdued his prey and dragged him bound towards the front of the box. Ranchut reached into his leather boot and removed a long black misshapen dagger. Hissing his irritation, he threw the monstrocity from him. Reaching once again into his boot, he removed a more normal appearing dagger.

As the chancellors screams began echoing throughout the theatre, the reassembling audience broke into pandemonium. Ranchut proceeded quickly in his work as sounds of stamping feet, cries of pain as people where trampled underfoot, shouts of horror, and of conflicting orders rose to meet his ears.

"Quickly now - who killed Lord Euloph? Who killed Lady Barnet's brother?" Ranchut leaned close over his mark and hissed in his ear.

"Heaven forfend - I did! I killed him but I didn't mean to! I swear it by Anisis I didn't! He told me to, told me I would regret defying him but I couldn't! Couldn't kill a man but I did." His sobs grew weaker and Ranchut raised his blade for the final blow.

"Shoose ee..."

Ranchut shook his head as a deep fog seemed to fill his mind. "What?"

"Huze me...I thirzz..."

Ranchut looked wildly around but all was still and silent. He stiffened as he realized that not even the sounds of the theatre in turmoil could be heard. Quickly he moved to the balls of his heals and crouched with his back to a wall.

"Dreenk. I thirzt."

Ranchut calmly took stock of the box, reaching his senses to the farthest corner. Nothing. No one. What was the cause of the voice in his head? Looking about again, his eyes came to rest on the malformed dagger he had earlier thrown from his side. The sacrificial blade.

"Yesss. Mee."

"Go away. I don't want you. I don't want K'glorak." He ripped the mask from his face and threw it over the balcony to the theatre isle below.

"Naught Blacck God. Death. Blacck God feerz. Me."

"The Black God fears nothing."

"All theengs fear. Not you."

Ranchut shifted his weight and paused before answering. "If you're going to give me the lone wolf - anti god - abomination thing again, I've heard it and, frankly, don't believe it."

"Drink. Me. I. Drink."

"Forget it. I don't sacrifice to K'glorak."

"Not sacrifice. Not Death God. DRINK."

As Ranchut watched, the blade began to vibrate faintly. "What manner of monstrocity are you?"

"Me. Please need you. Help to drink. Promise not K'glorak. Promise, promise, promise. Ranchut help to drink."

Ranchut watched in horror as the dagger began to twist in upon itself, reforming into something different. The hilt stretched and shrank becoming at once too large to fit into the box and too small to be seen. The blade turned liquid and oozed across the floor until it shattered into thousands of shards. The assassin blinked his eyes furiously to banish the strange images. The world seemed to spin for a moment and Ranchut grabbed wildly for the floor lest he be spun out into the air. The room abruptly halted its gyrations but Ranchut remained where he was, sprawled on the floor. Gathering his wits together, he realized that the blade he held in his right hand was no longer the simple dagger that he had used on the chancellor but the black and twisted cursed blade.

Except that it was no longer the same twisted piece of metal that had been used in the sacrificial ceremony so many years before. Where before, cold iron had jutted from the mangled hilt, a perfectly crafted silver alloy blade now arose. Ranchut ran his thumb down the flat of the blade and it tingled strangely. The hilt and pommel were an incredible piece of craftsmanship, each flowing seamlessly into the other, tipped with a remarkably detaild head of a silver wolf.

"Swatch you thought. Wolf. Me. You. Now drink!"

The tingling sensation he had felt when he ran his thumb over the blade now enveloped his whole hand. Ranchut looked to the wan figure of the chancellor still struggling for life and looked back to the knife. He released the blade and watched it drop, still vibrating, to the ground. "I kill when I want to. Not when some...thing...tells me to. Besides, I have no assurances that you are not a beast of K'glorak's making."

An odd keening sound began to make its way from the dagger. If Ranchut had not known better, he could have sworn that the thing was...crying.

"Not, not, not! Never, never with the Black God! Never, never ANY god! Only Ranchut. To please now..."

Ranchut deliberated. He had no idea what would happen if he were to actually use the thing to complete his job. His years of experience urged caution but something deep inside him very much wanted to know. And that something echoed louder and louder through his mind until it had become a mantra pounding in his brain. Use the knife. Use the knife. Use the knife. He clutched his head in his hands and stared at at the blade. "Stop this at once. I will not be forced into a decision by your mind games."

"I die oh I die. Sorry, sorry but I fear! I told Ranchut it all fears! Not esseption!"

"What do I care if you die? You forget; I trade in death. I drink it when I arise and, when I sleep, it whispers sweet nothings in my ears."

"My name is Anrith."

Something about the name struck a chord with Ranchut. Something...familiar. The way an old chair by a fireplace becomes familiar on cold winter nights. Anrith. Ranchut shrugged. What matter? He had long ago sold whatever soul he may have once possessed. Ranchut reached down and firmly grasped the blade. Quickly and without ceremony, he plunged the dagger deep into the chancellor's heart.

He heard first a sigh, a sound of such supreme satisfaction that he doubted any being had ever heard its like. It was kin to the sound made by a man lost in the desert who, after passing countless mirages, finds the oasis just before his own thirst would've killed him, only the sigh was a thousand times more satiated than that.

The noise seaped through his entire being, echoing within the void where his long vanished soul had dwelled. And then the blissful sound was gone, and so was the blade. But somehow he knew the blade was there within him, from whence he could call it at will. The frozen moment ended, and the sounds of chaos returned, he looked down and idly noticed that all the chancellor's blood was gone, comsumed by the blade he imagined.

Knowing he should flee, the killer instead waited. A guard appeared in the door, he seemed about to shout something, but never had the chance. Ranchut leaped across the intervening space as though it were less than nothing. In a flash the blade was firmle planted in the guards throat. There wasn't even a gurgle.

The blade's voice flowed through his mind, it seemed awash in ecstacy, "Yesss... good is the blood. After. So. Long. But better blood there is... powerful blood. Complete now are we. Fear us... gods do." The ecstacy of the knife's voice filled him, as nothing had in years, and he looked about eagerly for his next victim.

Trevor looked up to meet Trothivyr's gaze, "Ranchut killed all but a handful of people in the theatre, he had to leave a few alive you see to complete the terms of his last contract. He left no longer an assasin, but beast against whom none can stand."

Trevor stood, and motioned for Shera to do likewise. Trothivyr looked at the trychtari carefully, feigning a look of indifference, "You're story was passable, if only barely. I shall let you pass as I hunger now and don't have the time to kill you properly. Do not expect such generosity if you should return.

With that the wyrm launched itself into the air and winged lazily off to the south. Trevor and Shera exchanged only a glance before continuing after their companions.