A view through the compartments (16th day of Earth cy 2141)

Her abductors are swarthy Perren elitists numbering six or seven. With Helena bound and gagged and securely trussed it is difficult to gain a precise figure. They move very quickly and stealthily indeed and it is at dawn that your constant observation pays off. From your vantage point you see the head of the band suddenly begin to flail his arms about recklessly, blood spewing from his throat in a red torrent. Helena is unceremoniously dumped as the remaining Perrenlanders leap to attack their single attacker.

The man wears a dark cloak and carries a short bladed sword. The Perrenlanders are swift in their reply and a deadly, rapid confrontation ensues. The cloaked man lashes left then right with the short blade. The first cut decapitates one and the second stroke slices the jugular of another. Blows rain in at the loan attacker, who seems to swerve away from each blow effortlessly in a mesmerisingly fluent style. He catches one blade with his bare hand, using the momentum to unbalance his attacker and then ram a single finger into his forehead which splits the Perren skull in two. A couple of deadly open hand jabs break the necks of the remaining Perrenlanders and the melee is finished.

The cloaked man quickly unbinds Helena and helps her to her feet.

"Who are you ?" she says, her voice slurred with drugs and fatigue.

"I am Skerrin, my lady," the grim man replies. "I work for King Suliman."

"I am in your debt, Skerrin..."

"Later, my lady," the dark assassin says, "there are many Perren patrols in this region, both human and otherwise. We must make haste back to Shiboleth, before all routes in are blocked by the impending battle."

Without further sound the two disappear into the undergrowth...

The youthful sorcerer has spent more than one week deep beneath the catacombs and sewers of Niole Dra where he currently digs with his bare hands through a seemingly impenetrable wall of anti-magic rock. His single-minded drive is quite impressive and you see the reason clearly why this young man is so successful in his chosen field of the sorcerous arts. He seems to have an unquenchable desire to solve problems, particularly those which have no ready explanation.

The blade is surrounded by smoke, fire and death. The sound of battle fills the air and the screams and moans of the dead and dying resound in the ears. The clash of steel on steel is punctuated by the roar of galloping chargers as they mow down their victims. The wielder stands in an isolated pocket of inactivity, walls of dead bodies around him. Metal-clad knights move up to him, barking their reports of the battle or pleading for help.

"My lord," says one knight, "we are taking heavy losses on the flanks. We need reinforcements or the Perrenlanders will have us surrounded."

"Patience," the wielder says, "the day is young. There will be time for recapitulation later, as the sunlight fades."

"But I need help now !" the knight urges.

"Later," the wielder says implacably, turning almost nonchalantly to cleave a Perren warrior in two with the mighty sword. The complaining knight shakes his head and returns to his post.

Another knight approaches the wielder. "My lord, we have broken through on the east side."

"Good," the wielder replies. "Take every tower within a mile of it and I will advance behind you."

The knight salutes and disappears. The wielder is momentarily alone until a sorcerer materialises next to him, stepping put of the invisible plane to face the wielder. "How fares the battle ?"

The wielder is cautious. "Too early to say, Luhassan, too early yet."

"I have faith in you," the sorcerer grins. "After all, you have yet to lose a battle."

The wielder shrugs. "It must surely happen one day. What news of Shiboleth ?"

"The Perren hordes have struck, even as we speak."

The wielder seems uneasy. "What is Mordred thinking ? Surely he realises that if we break through here he will be cut off from his escape route."

"Who knows the mind of such a savage ?" the sorcerer says.

"He’s no savage, Luhassan, you know that. But I would give my right arm to know what he’s up to."

The dark cloaked Skerrin moves with her stealthily towards a small copse of trees somewhere within the northern territories of Keoland. A lone horseman sits awaiting them. Helena stares at Skerrin who motions her forward to the rider, whose features become slowly visible. Curevar smiles as Helena gasps. She stares at Skerrin who is very calm.

"I am impressed, Skerrin," Curevar says. "It seems you may well be as good as they say."

"I am better, Curvear," he says, "better by far."

"You traitorous scum !" Helena yells at Skerrin.

Skerrin is impassive, yet answers in a tone which contains barely concealed malice. "My lady, you have no idea of the contempt with which I hold the new king and your master. None whatsoever. Before you judge me you should look closely at the people you serve."

Curevar laughs. "Poor, Helena. You really do have no inclination of the fate that will befall Keoland, do you ? Your naiveté is almost touching but I fear you have other worries at present."

"You have no idea of the power of Allius Quaylar. He will never abandon me !"

"That, my dear lady," Curevar says, "is what I am counting on."

Skerrin pulls the cloak around himself and addresses Curevar. "Our business is at an end, Curevar. I have repaid my obligation to you and am free of you. In the course of this struggle we may meet again but it will be as enemies."

"What makes you so sure you will leave here today ?" There is a veiled threat deep within Curevar’s voice and his hand caresses a dagger concealed within his cloak.

Skerrin is very still. His face is like midnight. He speaks slowly and there is a murderous chillness about his words:- "There are but a handful of people in this universe that could carry out that threat, Curevar. You, sadly, are not one of them. If you wish to throw away your life today then you have come to the right man, but be warned, your death would be a sign to others that Skerrin, the Night Wanderer, is abroad. You would not inflict that upon Greyhawk now, would you ?"

There is a cautious healthy fear upon Curevar’s face and his hand slips from the dagger. Skerrin gives an approving nod and disappears into the night.

"Fear, Curevar ?" Helena mocks.

Curevar suddenly regains his composure. "Come on, my lady ! I have a horse waiting."

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