Camulos was something to see.  Those few Myrrans who had visited the vast land called it 'God's Amphitheatre'.  The entire country, 100 leagues from end to end, was shaped in a most unusual way. The fall of the land resembled the steps of a massive arena on three sides looking out upon the stage of the sea.  As one travelled inwards from the northern, eastern and southern borders, each successive crescent moon-shaped plateau fell away to the next.  The width of each plateau was only ten or so leagues across, but hundreds of leagues around the circumference. Each of the seven arciform plateaux had its own capital city, dialect and customs.  At the heart of the country – topographically its lowest point – was the magnificent Kobold city of Sarras where all the land's rivers gathered together before a final push over the Camul Cliffs into the savage seas to the west.

        The Kobolds believed that before time began, the stone gods hewed the massive shelves out of the land so they could sit and watch the beautiful sunsets painted each evening by the sun god Sola.  But as the millennia passed, the earth gods grew bored with the sun god’s displays and left Camulos believing they had seen everything the sun god could possibly do in the sky.  Sola vowed to make sunsets so glorious that the earth gods would beg to return to Camulos. At the end of each day he painted masterpieces with such vibrancy and depth that even the clouds paused to view them. But still the other gods did not return.  Sola’s sunsets took so much effort that he had to lie down to rest, and so he asked his sisters, Aldra, Arma and Colla to stay up waiting for the stone gods' return.  The mountain gods who viewed the situation from afar felt so sorry for Sola that they cried great tears that poured down from plateau to plateau until they came together at the great junction and this area became known as Sarras, the ancient Kobold word for sorrow.  The story, whilst unknown outside of Camulos, did much to explain why its sunsets were always the most striking in the Myr.

 

 

At the northern end of Camulos lay the Briar Patch, although 'patch' was something of a misnomer.  The Patch covered an area of roughly two hundred and fifty square leagues.  It was landscape of hills and gullies covered thickly with Sarras thorns, a tangled mass of prickly, woody vines embellished with large, leathery green leaves.  The Sarras bush grew up to ten yards high and its razor sharp thorns could easily slice the flesh off a man. The savage plant had another unique aspect. Upon it grew boomberries, or Sarrasfruit as the prosaic botanists of Caquix preferred to call them.  Boomberries were purple berries as large as a man’s fist, the juice of which was highly volatile.  Long ago, many Myrrans discovered this in the most unfortunate ways, the explosive nature of the fruit being enough to reduce a person to pulp. Any attempt by outsiders to pick the berries would invariably lead to the loss of limb and life.  A number of early explorers in the region discovered – the hard way – that even walking too close to the bacciferous plants would be enough to set off an explosion.

        The Briar Patch was home to the Mabbits, a floppy-eared, skittish people, who lived in peace within the security of the Patch's prickly walls. Details regarding Mabbit society were manly speculative.  For centuries, the Mabbits were dismissed as dumb beasts but the Kobolds of neighbouring Camulos knew better. Mabbits understood the Myrran common tongue but could not speak it, nor were they inclined to try.  Although very few Myrrans had ever met a Mabbit, they were generally regarded as fairly stupid, foolish creatures. This misapprehension, coupled with the Mabbits' isolation, meant they were left alone to enjoy a happy existence untroubled by war, greed or crime.

        Interestingly, the Mabbits had no problems with the boomberries.  They not only lived in amongst the thorns, but they picked and ate the fruit.  Upon consuming the boomberry the only thing they lost was their appetite.  In fact, the boomberry was the sole constituent ingredient in the diet of the Mabbits, the potent juice from one berry enough to sustain a Mabbit for a week.

 

 

Morning had quietly broken in the sky above but much of the land was still drenched in shadow and would remain so until the sun rose above the formidable Camul Ranges to the east.  Nothing moved.  No sounds could be heard.

        An hour passed and a Mabbit crept from the cover of the thorns to sit upon a rock overlooking Kishe, a small town on the northern border of Camulos.  The Mabbit’s name was Tagtug and as shy and nervous as he was, he was regarded by most of his clan as being the bold, adventurous type.  It had been over a year since he had last visited the border of Camulos from his home deep within the Patch, but he knew he should have been met with more sounds and smells than he experienced that morning.  The Kobolds were an industrious lot and this village was usually steeped in the clanging and thumping of weapon smiths creating swords and spears for the armies of distant realms.  Alongside the percussive sounds of the Kobolds, Tagtug expected to hear the intricately melodic music of the impish Spriggan traders with whom the Kobolds shared their country.  He should have also heard the lowing of the woolly garumphs, the placid beasts of burden indigenous only to Camulos.

        When he sat on the same rock thirteen months before, Tagtug had been delighted by the sight of the airships of the Spriggan traders floating off into the sky in a blaze of garish colours.  He had watched the garumphs pull wooden wagons laden with shatterstone ore for the smithies to shape and bend in the metalworks below.  He had revelled in the smells of the open kitchens where potent brews bubbled deliciously in capacious pots and mountain shelp were roasted on a spit for the people of the town.

        But all was still and quiet.  Camulos was veiled in a creamy mist, and the entire country resembled a gigantic bowl of poddoo soup. Tagtug's breath crystallized in the air before him as he exhaled.  He shivered slightly, his raggedy, brown clothes doing little to keep out the morning chill.

            Tagtug sniffed the cool air and his small snout scrunched up.  He sniffed again and then shook his head.  'Greh!' he muttered to himself. There was a complete absence of familiar odours, as if the village had been evacuated long ago.  The sweet smells Tagtug associated with his last visit were gone and the blank space made his nose twitch uncontrollably.

        The emptiness of noise and activity was enough to encourage him to investigate.  He reached behind him and picked some boomberries which he shoved into a shapeless hempen sack.  Slinging the bag over his back, Tagtug leapt from his rock onto the dusty path beneath, a narrow track that led down into the village.  The boomberries shook but did not explode, neutralized by a pheromone the Mabbits exuded which allowed them to eat and digest the fruit. Tagtug took a deep breath and set off down the path.

            He had never ventured so close to the dwellings.  Whilst he did not fear Kobolds, their manner did not invite others into their world, nor had the Mabbits had any reason to seek them out. Until now.

        Tagtug rounded a bend in the path to see a merchant's wagon sitting in the middle of the way. Kobold wares were sold by the Spriggans, who acted as intermediaries for their reclusive employers.  Whereas the Kobolds were dour and brooding, the Spriggans were social and light-hearted. Their flippant ways often disguised a remarkable intellect beneath.  The Spriggans were adept in dealing with most races and their travels had made them incredibly knowledgeable of the cultural nuances of most of the Myr's peoples.  They were also lovers of language and were articulate to an intimidating degree.  Most Spriggans were quickly-spoken and knew how to play a person in order to get a good price for the Kobold goods they sold.  As a race, the Spriggans had an endearing sense of humour and an infectious love of life, which made the scene Tagtug was about to see all the more appalling.

        He approached the wagon.  The skeletal remains of at least twenty Spriggans lay strewn around the wooden vehicle.  The varying size of the bones suggested that this was a family of traders as was common amongst the Spriggans.  The attackers clearly had no qualms about slaughtering children.  Tagtug felt sick.  The horror before him was a jarring contrast to his memories of this irrepressibly lively race of people.  Last spring he had watched the Spriggans for hours from his rock, entranced by their animated discussions containing long words he didn’t understand.  From the cover of darkness, he had been transfixed by the sight of the Spriggans entertaining themselves when the day's work had ended; their comical performances involving masks and puppets delighted the Mabbit so much that he would bite his fingers to stop himself from laughing out loud.  He wondered who could possibly hate the Spriggans so much to do such a vile deed.

        Tagtug crept across the path.  The skeletons of a pair of garumphs lay in a heap, still tethered to the colourful wagon they had once pulled.  The wagon itself had been plundered, and Tagtug noticed that the ivory horns of the garumphs had been crudely sawn off.  He edged through the dusty remains, carefully avoiding contact with the bones.  His curiousity impelled him down the path towards the domiciles below where he quickly realised that the slaughter at the wagon was only a prelude to a much grander overture of death and devastation.

 

 

The remains of Spriggans littered Kishe.  Many had lost their heads, some had lost limbs and no attempt had been made to hide the crime. Tagtug noticed that some of the skeletons had broken rib cages as if something or someone had torn out their hearts.  A smattering of marrok skeletons nearby revealed the perpetrators of the Spriggans' evisceration.  The marroks often prowled the northern borders of the Patch and Tagtug had seen what they did to their prey. But he had never known the marroks to venture this far south, nor had he ever head of them attacking a town. There had to be others involved.

        The carnage was overwhelming.  Tagtug had never encountered anything remotely associated with death before.  Squatting on his haunches, he vomited uncontrollably in a ditch on the side of the road.

        A gentle westerly wind blew across the plateau and the mist slowly dissipated to reveal a village battered and brutalised.  Walls had been smashed down with such force that rubble lay on the ground like a grey blanket. R oofs and chimney stacks lay amongst broken floorboards and cellar doors.  Intricately carved marble furniture had been shattered into shards of white and black.  Statues once adorning the town square were attacked with unbridled ferocity and scorn.

        Even the small Spriggan church on the edge of town had been desecrated. A statue in the courtyard of the church had been painted in what must have been Spriggan blood.  It had dried to a rusty stain on the white granite. Underneath the statue, the plaque bearing the name 'Cephalus Silenus the Unifier' had a line in blood put through it.  Above it the words 'Caliban the Divider' were scrawled in crude, angular lettering.  The Mabbit could not read, but the intent was unmistakable.  He had stumbled across a brutal incursion that seemed motivated by spite and contempt.  He could not guess who or what could be capable of such hatred, but suddenly the world outside the Briar Patch seemed a very frightening place indeed.

        It wasn't until he had reached the town's centre that Tagtug realized something - he had not seen any Kobold remains.  The Spriggans' clothes were as colourful as their nature, so it wasn’t hard to identify their skeletons, draped as they were in torn silks of countless hues.  Around the spines and collarbones of the Spriggans, necklaces and golden chains with precious jewels lay caked in dark, dry blood.  Tagtug thought it strange that the town had been ransacked but such pretty ornaments had been left behind.  Perhaps the attackers were after something else, he mused. And where were all the Kobolds?  It was not long before he had a fragment of an answer.

        On the far side of the town square, a cobblestone road gently wended its way down to Kishe's main gates. A broken sign creaked on its post, the street’s name carved ornately into the wood. It read The Welcome Way, ironic considering the private nature of the Kobolds.  Tagtug looked upon the road with despair.

        This was where the Kobolds had made their stand, for their bodies lay thick across the road. Quite a few Spriggans lay there too, but the throng of squat bodies indicated that it was here - on the road between the gate and the square - that the Kobolds had made an organized attempt to repel the attackers.  There was no mistaking the remains.  The Kobolds' skin was incredibly thick, and even after many months exposed to the elements and winds of time, it still lay on their bodies, a leathery encasement for broad, proud bones.  And although the corpses were little more than desiccated husks, Tagtug could see on the faces of the dead the grim determination that characterized the Kobolds' reaction to whatever had assailed them.

        It was on the Welcome Way that Tagtug noted something else.  On the ground, on the walls and covering the bodies of many Kobolds, he saw a strange grey mesh of sticky fibres.  He picked up one strand and tried to break it but it was as tough as a Sarras root.  Picking his way down the street, Tagtug drew nearer to the town gate.  Webbing was everywhere, but there was no sign of what had made it.S

Something else puzzled the Mabbit.  As he made his way across the cobblestones, he realized intuitively that there were fewer Kobolds lying in the street than one would expect.  The town was not expansive, but it was home to a fair number of Kobolds, certainly more than were splayed across the road.  Tagtug pondered that matter and decided that they had either deserted their compatriots, or had been taken away.  Perhaps the webbing had something to do with it.

 

 

And then he saw it.  On the dusty plain before the gates, Tagtug came across something extraordinary – the dull blue shell of a beast as large as the town hall in Kishe had been.  It was surrounded by the bodies of at least fifty Kobolds, all of whom seemed caught in webbing that lay on the ground in thick sheets.  The abdomen of the creature had been slashed open in many places.  The innards had long since been devoured by scavengers so all that was left was an empty shell.  Tagtug guessed that this behemoth must have been the source of all the webbing that lay across the bodies of the Kobold dead. The creature's ten legs were cast out around its body, each limb as long as an alleyway.  Lashed to the top of the creature's back, a carriage made of animal hide and bone hung precariously.  From the carriage to the creature's mouth ran what seemed to be reigns.

        Tagtug also spied something else, something equally unfamiliar – the bones of a race he could not identify.  The skeletons were thin and, strangely, seemed to be adorned in other bones.  He knew the skeletons weren't Kobolds, and they definitely weren't Spriggans. These must have been the invaders who had so decimated Kishe.  Obviously the Kobolds' last stand had defeated the huge beast and those who controlled it, but at a terrible cost, for there was no indication that anyone had survived the onslaught.

        Tagtug's curiousity gave way to an unexpected feeling.  Obligation.  The Mabbit felt compelled to pursue the deathly conundrum he had stumbled across.  He did not know why but his heart told him he could not walk away from what he had seen.  There were other villages on the plateau and many more on the plateaux between the Patch and Sarras.

        Sarras.

        Without articulating the thought in his mind, he was bound for Sarras.  He did not know the city’s name, nor did he know where it was, but he knew there was a centre to Camulos and it was there he would probably find some answers.  He looked behind at the soiled remains of Kishe.  Now the town had been razed to the ground, he could see the tips of the Sarras thorns of his beloved Patch beyond it.  Deep inside those thorns, his brothers and sisters played games and picked berries, oblivious to the darkness that had descended upon the world outside.  Tagtug had been irrevocably changed by what he had seen, and because he had changed, the Patch had changed too.  His homeland suddenly seemed much smaller than it had the day before and he realized with unerring certainty that he could not return there until he had followed the road now placed before him.  And so he set out through the broken gates of Kishe, not knowing that he would never see his home again.

 

 

Night was falling tenderly across the land when Tagtug arrived at the tiny village of Koballoh Station.  Running and leaping with a speed few Myrrans could match on foot, he had followed the road across the wide, grassless steppe of Upper Camulos.  Although he saw the occasional flock of horned cranes circling high above, the plain was lifeless.  He had passed a few houses along the way and the horror he had seen that morning had been repeated again and again.  The plateau had been ravaged by an enemy lacking in any respect for life and beauty.

        Silhouetted against the afterglow of the sunken sun, a huge tower stood defiantly.  It was at least a hundred yards high and it stood on the lip of a vast cliff.  On either side of the tower, the edge of the cliff ran off as far as Tagtug could see in the dim light.  Although he did not know it, he had come to the edge of Camulos' outer plateau.

        A wind blew in from the emptiness before him and the tower creaked, a low, cranky growl from architecture that had stood for over a thousand years.  Tagtug stepped tentatively towards the construct.  A closer look revealed that its outer shell had been stripped from the oakean beams making up the tower’s frame.  In a few places, lonely sheets of dark metal remained, peeling away from the tower like diseased skin.  It seemed the invaders required this metal for some reason.

Something dawned on Tagtug. Every Kobold he had seen slain was weaponless. It was a strange realization. The Kobolds were the Myr's greatest weapon smiths and here in defence of their homeland, they fought without weapons. Or their weapons had been taken. It seemed the further into the heart of Camulos he travelled, the more confused the Mabbit became.

        The wide horizon of the world could be seen in the fading light from the west.  Tagtug stood at the base of the Koballoh Station tower looking out across the shadowy panorama before him.  The precipice in front of him sent a vertiginous shiver down his spine.  Had he arrived at Koballoh Station minutes later, he could have walked over the edge in the darkness.  Tagtug reckoned it would have been minutes before he hit the rocky ground beyond, so dramatic was the drop before him.

        He was at an impasse.  The road ended at the tower and there was nothing on either side of it that suggested a way down to the sixth plateau. He craned his head back, scanning the monolithic structure for a clue as to where he should go.  At the very top of the tower a thick line ran out into the empty sky to the south, sloping downwards to some point so far away it could not be seen.  Tagtug knew that this strange metal vine was important and decided to scale the tower.

        On the northern face of the construct, steep wooden stairs crisscrossed their way to a platform halfway up the tower.  Cautiously making his way up the steps, Tagtug felt his heartbeat increase in volume and tempo.  He was unaccustomed to heights and had never climbed stairs before, let alone been more than ten feet above the beloved earth.  After what seemed a lifetime of climbing, he made it to the structure's midpoint, a wide, empty platform which the wind buffeted with taunting blows.

        Tagtug sank to his knees, exhausted by the day's exertions.  His breath was rapid and sweat beaded on his fine grey fur.  His eyes closed as he tried to slow his heartbeat.  His padded feet throbbed from twelve hours of running across the unforgiving, rocky land.  He opened his eyes but the lids slid back down heavily as sleep tried to wrest him away.  But a split-second before his eyelids met, through the gaps in the timber planks making up the platform, he thought he saw something move at the base of the tower.  His eyes shot open as his fatigue was swept away by panic.  He had spent the day running through the gruesome detritus of violent acts and he knew that the perpetrators of such acts would not hesitate to revisit their crimes on the body of a Mabbit.

        Tagtug crept stealthily to the top of the stairs by which he had ascended the tower.  Despite the steadily blowing westerly wind, he detected the individual scents of three strangers wafting up from the base of the tower.  The smells were stale and malodorous, like damp linen.  Above the dull moaning of the wind, he could make out voices.  Standing on the rocky ground before the tower's steps were three individuals the likes of which Tagtug had never seen.  They were adorned in bones and animal hides.  Whilst not particularly large, the three had an intimidating appearance.  In the dull light, Tagtug could make out white knives and swords tucked into their belts.  Their skin was sallow, as if they had never seen the sun and their voices were similarly sunless.  Tagtug knew he was not looking upon a trio who came to Camulos to visit friends.  They would waste no time in separating his head from his neck.

        Fearful of detection, Tagtug rolled back from the stairs.

 

 

The Ghul paused at the base of the tower.

        'We have to finish this tonight or Major Chabriel will have our bones,' insisted a thin, mirthless voice.

        'Never mind Chabriel, it's Caliban we have to fear,' said a slower, deeper voice which belonged to a Ghul sergeant called Gormgut.

        'I have a problem with slaving away for an overworlder,' stated a third, coarse and menacing.

        'He is no more a part of the surface world than you are, Craddock.  He is one of us,' said the first voice.

        'Slither, he is a Myrran.  He is not one of us.  Just because his skin burns in the sun, it don’t mean he's Ghul,' returned Craddock.

        'If you’re not careful Craddock, he'll hear you,' warned Slither nervously.

        'Caliban? I don't think so, Slither.  I don’t see any of Cribella's spying spawn here.  And why would Caliban be watching us anyway? There's nothing left in this land.  Just the bones of Spriggans and Kobolds.'

        'Enough talk Craddock.  Time to get the last few sheets of shatterstone from the top of the tower,' said the dense voice of the sergeant.

        Tagtug almost screamed in panic when he heard the clattering footsteps on the wooden stairs below. His head rang with unfamiliar words: Chabriel, Caliban, Ghul, Cribella, shatterstone.  He understood little of what the three soldiers had said, but one thing was clear – they intended to make their way up to where he was.  They were on the first flight of stairs and he had nowhere to go… but up.  In the centre of the platform, a vertical ladder led up to a hole in a platform high above.  As much as Tagtug hated separating himself further from the ground, he had to climb the ladder – or face these Ghul. His heartbeat quickened – it was unlikely he would escape detection.

        The ladder was missing a number of rungs and it rattled as he moved up it.  He tried to ignore the pounding in his chest.  After long minutes, he pulled himself through the hole only to find that the ladder continued up to another platform.  He wanted to rest, wanted to get off the wobbly ladder, but had to keep going.  There was nowhere to hide on the second platform.

        He scampered up the rungs.  He had almost made it to the third landing when something held him back, almost pulling him off the ladder.  His hempen bag was caught on a wayward nail.  Looking below, through the hole in the second platform, he saw dark shapes gathered around the ladder’s base.  He stopped, peering down, hoping against all hope that the fearsome individuals below would not look up.  But it was not his lucky day and he was discovered.

        'Craddock!  Slither!  There’s something up there!' the one called Gormgut exclaimed.  The other two looked up and Tagtug saw the same expression on the faces of each Ghul – unabated malice.

        A sinister smile smeared itself across Craddock’s face.  'Well looky-here boys!  I'm gonna skin me a Spriggan!'

        'Craddock you fool!' sneered Gormgut.  'That's no Spriggan!  That's something else!'

        'It's an animal!' suggested Slither.

        'It's wearing clothes,' retorted Gormgut.  'What animal wears clothes?'

        'I don't care Sarge.  I'm gonna skin it anyway,' rasped Craddock.  He placed a dirty, stained, white knife between his teeth and clambered up the ladder.

        Tagtug squealed and leapt up the remaining rungs to the third platform.  Unlike the previous two levels, this area was not empty.  Metal sheeting that had been ripped off the outer frame of the tower lay in haphazard piles.  Twenty feet above, a gantry of sorts supported a massive, reinforced wooden beam around which was coiled a cable made of a material Tagtug had never seen before.  It was finely knotted, like the ropes he had seen attached to Spriggan skyshops, but it shone as if it were made of steel.

        The cable was impossibly long, made via a process that the Kobolds had kept secret deep within their foundries.  It reached out into the darkening air connecting the Koballoh Station tower to another tower in the township of Kabaht thirteen leagues away on Camulos' sixth plateau.  The cable and the towers it connected were just one part of a simple contraption built on a scale so extraordinary, it was difficult to comprehend. The cable was a strand of a network the Spriggans had named The Giant’s Web, the greatest engineering feat in the Myr.

        There were three towers on each of the semi-circular plateaux of Camulos.  In the plain-speaking fashion of the Kobolds who had built them, each of the towers had a name based on where the tower was.  Tagtug stood at the top of Seven North.  Beyond sight, far away to the southeast stood Seven East, and even further away, on the far side of the great expanse before him, was Seven South.  The cable's weight was unfathomable and it was a wonder that the beam around which it was tethered could support it.  Scattered about the gantry Tagtug could see golden poles with large hooks at one end and a short horizontal bar at the other.  These poles, known as sliders to the Kobolds, could be found on each of twenty-one identical towers spread out throughout Camulos.  The sliders were the means by which the Kobolds descended to each successive plateau.  Baskets containing everything ranging from farm produce to precious jewels were often attached to the base of the slider and sent to the next town on the line.  But that was long ago, before the rapacious Ghul had broken into the country and destroyed it from within.

        'I told you it weren’t no Spriggan, Craddock!'

        Tagtug wheeled around to see the three Ghul emerging from the lower level, eyes filled with murderous intent.  The Mabbit leapt over the nearest sheet-metal pile, and stood quivering with terror.

        'Come here long-ears. I could use me a fur coat,' snarled Gormgut.  He was the largest of the three and his heavy footsteps thudded on the platform as he strode purposefully towards Tagtug.

        The one called Slither circled around to the left while the boorish Craddock moved right.  They meant to outflank Tagtug, cutting him off from both the ladder and the cable.  Instinctively, Tagtug backed away, but tripped on one of the golden sliders, and tumbled into a pile of metal sheeting.  Slither sprang at him and the terrified Mabbit thrust out with the only object within his reach – a shard of the metal plating that had once covered a small section of the tower's handrail.  Slither had no time to avoid the pointy end of Tagtug's outstretched arm. The shard buried itself under the ribcage of the strange bone armour the attacker wore, a futile defence against the trembling wedge in Tagtug’s hand.  It was the first violent act the Mabbit had ever taken part in and it had unexpected and devastating consequences.  Slither's hands clutched at the shard buried in his chest.  His head jerked spasmodically and his eyes clouded over with a milky film.  He fell backwards, his whole body convulsing uncontrollably and then in a frenetic paroxysm of blood and bones, he exploded.

        Gormgut and Craddock were stopped in their tracks, shocked by the demise of their companion.  Gormgut waved his knife at Tagtug.  'I don't know what you are, but you done it now, long-ears.'

        Deprived of the shatterstone shard that had disappeared in the visceral kaleidoscope of Slither's gruesome end, Tagtug scanned the area for anything that would help keep the other two Ghul at bay.  There was nothing except for the slider he had tripped over.  He dropped down and picked it up, swinging it in a wide arc to ward off his attackers.  Craddock laughed.  'Stupid overworlder.  You think you’re going to hurt us with that pretty pole?'  He pointed his grimy blade at the Mabbit and hissed.  'I'm going to cut your ears off first.  Slowly.  And then I'm going to carve you right open.'

            Tagtug edged away from the blood-spattered area at his feet.  His eyes darted about looking for an avenue of escape.

        'Where are you going to run boy?  You got nowhere to go but down.'

        Craddock was right.  The only way to go was down.  With the pole in hand, Tagtug ran full pelt across the platform to its southern edge and threw himself off the tower.

 

 

As he launched himself out into space, Tagtug swung the metal pole up and managed to catch the hook on the line running out from the gantry.  It was a desperate act that he would not have considered had his heart been beating more slowly.  Somehow, the terror of evisceration at the hands of the Ghul seemed worse than landing in a bloody mess leagues below.  The slider lurched wildly as it connected with the cable and dropped twenty feet before there was any forward movement.  Tagtug pulled his feet up onto the small bar at the base of the pole and in a matter of seconds he was racing away from Seven North and the uppermost plateau of Camulos.

        The Mabbit was not prepared for the speed at which the sliders travelled and screamed as he tore into the night.  The wind rushing past his ears made them stream out horizontally. Above him, the hook made a comforting zinging sound as he slid down the gigantic cable.  Tagtug wrapped his arms around the golden pole and risked a look below. He was outrageously high up.  Although the land beneath him was dark, he could make out a silvery river as Arma, the Myr's largest moon, moved out from behind a cloud.  He could also make out the shapes of villages and settlements, but no lights burned in any windows.  Tagtug rightly assumed that the attacks like the one on the seventh plateau had taken place all over Camulos.

        Suddenly, he felt a slight change in the tension of the line above. He swivelled his head around.  Behind him Seven North was shrinking away in the distance.  For a second, he breathed a sigh of relief; he had effected his escape from the Ghul without losing his ears.  But his feeling of security was short-lived – there on the line, a little over one hundred yards behind him, he could make out a shape.  One of the Ghul had taken a slider and followed him.  Tagtug squinted and a groan of despair crept out his lips – another shape could be seen behind the first.  Gormgut and Craddock had wasted little time in pursuing him.

        After a minute or so, it became clear to Tagtug that the Ghul were not noticeably gaining on him, nor did it seem he was getting any further away.  For the time being, he was relatively safe.  That knowledge did little to put his mind at ease.  Tagtug had no idea how far away the far end of the cable was, but he had to come up with a plan of escape before he reached it.

        Far below him, the land drifted by.  The silvery river brightened as Arma’s sister Aldra broke free from the clouds in the east.  The land seemed to be slowly rising.  The gentle rate at which it rose suggested to Tagtug that he still had a long way to go before the receiving tower would come into view.  His arms ached and a cramp in his left foot threatened to dislodge him from the slider.  He had never felt so exhausted.  He wished with all his might that his pursuers would fall from their perches but it was a futile hope. Tagtug turned his head to look back at the Ghul.  He could make out the nearer of the two.  It was Gormgut.  His pale eyes flared menacingly when he saw the Mabbit facing him and he held up his serrated blade in a gesture that filled Tagtug with despair.  Gormgut bared his teeth with glee when he saw the pure terror on his quarry's face.

        Tagtug looked ahead at the approaching horizon.  A thin shape had appeared in the centre of his vision – it was Six North, the receiving tower at Kabaht.  As the line began to flatten out, Tagtug could feel his speed decline.  Fortunately, so did that of his pursuers; they had only gained on him marginally.  But it would be close.  He would have no time to escape the tower, by stairs or by cable.  And he had to rest.  The Ghul had not run from Kishe to Koballoh Station as he had done.  Tagtug knew he had to end the pursuit at the tower that reared up before him.  He had an idea; a sliver of a chance to stop the chase without losing his life in the process, but he had to time it perfectly.

        As the slider whizzed in over the landing platform, Tagtug sprung from the pole, rolling to his left, pulling his sack around his body so that he did not land on it.  His hand darted inside the sack and pulled out a single boomberry.  It would be enough.  As his more immediate adversary, the one called Gormgut, slid towards the tower's landing platform, Tagtug threw the berry directly at him.  It arced through the night air.  His aim and timing were impeccable.  Gormgut did not see the purple missile until it was too late.  A breath of a moment before the boomberry hit him on the chest, Gormgut saw Tagtug duck behind one of the tower's thick pylons and then it was over.  An explosion of bone and flesh rocked the gantry, and apart from the bloody stain on the tower's upper platform, there was nothing left of the vicious Ghul sergeant who had so wanted to flay the Mabbit alive.  The ancient metal threads of the cable connecting the Six North station to Seven North split apart with great ferocity and the entire line snapped away from the tower like an angry serpent.  It vanished into the night, the release of tension creating a strangely haunting sound.  The metallic scream of the cable drowned out the sharp, piercing cry of Craddock, as the line that held him up rippled, bent and vanished before he had reached the tower.

            Tagtug scampered to the tower’s edge and watched the remaining Ghul’s ignominious fall to the hard rock of the sixth plateau. He could not help feeling a small sense of satisfaction as the cry ended with a dull thud over one hundred yards below.

 

 

Tagtug's heart was still racing. In the space of twelve hours he had experienced more than any Mabbit had ever experienced in a lifetime. 'He realized he was famished and he sat down cross-legged on the top of the Kabaht tower and pulled another boomberry out of his bag.  The sweet juice burst from the fruit as he took a voracious bite.  His eyes closed momentarily as he savoured the taste and for an instant, all the troubles into which he had unwittingly stumbled, vanished.  He let the moment hang and when he opened his eyes again, an hour had passed.  He had dozed off.  The Myr's third moon, Colla, had risen and the night did not seem so terrifying.

        Far, far off into the distance, Tagtug thought he could see a shimmering ribbon on the horizon.  It was the ocean.  He had been told wondrous things about the ocean by his cousin who lived close to the coast in the western provinces of the Briar Patch.  Tagtug had often imagined what it would be like to see such a thing.  Perhaps his journey would take him there, he mused.  If he lived that long.

        Wiping the dried boomberry juice from his face, Tagtug stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder and picked up his slider.  Fortunately, the oakaen beam to which the transit line was suspended had not been damaged in the explosion that had splattered Gormgut over the gantry.  He took a deep breath, hooked the slider over the line running down to the fifth plateau and stepped off the platform.

 

 

Morning was minutes away when Tagtug sped into the city of Sarras.  In the pre-dawn light he could see the shapes of buildings of all sizes.  Cobblestone roads wound their way around unkempt parks and open spaces.  Tagtug could make out sprawling market places and empty tavern beer gardens, broken-steepled churches and wide, squat halls.  Metal foundries and quarries also dotted the landscape of architecture and construction that assaulted and delighted his vision.  Anything he had seen in Kishe, he could find here on a much larger scale. Sadly, that included the seemingly infinite destruction that had taken place.

        Everything was in a state of ruin.  It was a spectacularly poignant sight.  Sarras had been the hub of life in Camulos, a thriving metropolis.  It was not hard for Tagtug to imagine throngs of Spriggans sitting in the city squares listening to the colourful orations of troupes of entertainers.  In his mind’s eye, he could see the Kobolds setting about their business, their hammers ringing to mark the start of a new day. He could see a wagon of ore being pulled by garumphs along the broad streets as Spriggan children danced along in pursuit.  A mental image of a sky filled with multi-coloured skyshops heading off to far-away lands momentarily replaced the dismal sight of rubble and decay that was becoming clearer as the sun climbed over the far slopes of the Camul Ranges over 100 leagues to the east.  The city had died a violent death and was now just a grey corpse lying flat on the dusty slab of Camulos' lowest plateau.

        In all his wildest dreams, Tagtug had never imaged a city so large.  It spread out in every direction.  A wide, dark river carved its way through the metropolis and as he raced above it, the Mabbit could make out the remnants of magnificently adorned bridges crossing the waters.  He could see the city had a circular design, radiating from a point a little further east of a tower that quickly dominated his vision.  This tower, simply called Central, was much taller than all the towers through which he had passed on his high-speed journey to Sarras.  His line was one of three adjoining the tower. His slider slowed down as the line levelled off.  Tagtug could see a similar cable coming in from the east.  His view of the southern line was obstructed by the colossal tower which, like every other transit tower, had its metal outer shell removed.  Tagtug slid to a halt and gingerly stepped off the slider, his muscles taut and aching from hours and hours of concentrated effort.

        He stood on the gantry of the tower, stretching.  His stomach growled.  Reaching around to take another boomberry from his bag, he saw something so wondrous that his hand forgot what it was doing and hung in the air above his shoulder.  The sun had completely escaped the clutches of the mountains and its liberated rays illuminated the sea.  Tagtug sighed.  He had never imagined anything so incredible.  The white caps of waves ornamented sweeping patches of cobalt blue water.  In the clear skies above the water, he recognized the flocks of gillygulls his cousin had told him about.  They hovered in the air, floating this way and that like an indecisive cloud.  Far, far beyond he could make out strange vessels plying the distant waters and beyond their white sails, Tagtug could see the gentle blue curvature of the world.  A calming breeze exquisitely perfumed with a sharp smell Tagtug had never experienced before swept in from the ocean.  Between the city and the sea, the wide dark river he had noticed before, cascaded its way down a ravine before disappearing over the sharp edge of the land.

        The river and the sea supplied a beautiful contrast to the dishevelled city which was now coming into brutal focus as the sunlight painted the rubble. The countless remains of Kobolds and Spriggans repeated the pattern of atrocities he had seen in the other towns.  From high up in the tower, he could see that the attackers had moved across the city sparing nothing.

            Tagtug had never felt so alone. He was hundreds of leagues from home in a country awash in death and for the first time since leaving the security of the Briar Patch, he questioned his actions.

        His stomach growled again. Tagtug pulled out a boomberry from the bag on his shoulder and was just about to take a bite when a long, agonized groan floated up through the beams at his feet.  The noise so startled Tagtug that he dropped his bag.  Before he could do anything, all but one of the remaining boomberries, six in total, spilled out onto the gantry and started rolling towards the edge. Tagtug‘s mind froze as he watched his meal disappear over the edge of the tower.

            The berries plummeted through the air and Tagtug's brain suddenly realized the possible ramifications of dropping the fruit.  He scrambled to the lip of the gantry to see six successive explosions at the base of the tower's northern-western pylon.  Each violent detonation sent reverberations up the spine of the tower and suddenly the entire structure started listing to one side.  The boomberries had completely removed the support of one of the tower’s four vertical columns.  Tagtug turned and ran to the centre of the gantry, but the entire floor pitched forward, throwing him off his feet.

        Tagtug floundered about looking for something to hold on to.  His legs kicked furiously at the gantry floor, futilely trying to grip the timber enough to thrust his body back to the centre of the platform.He was sliding off the edge and his blood boiled with the knowledge that his hazardous journey into the heart of Camulos would be for naught.  He would die of clumsiness and this thought burned in his brain as his fingernails dug deep into the timber beams.  His feet lost contact with the platform as his lower body spilled over the tower’s edge.  Tagtug closed his eyes as his waist and torso hurtled over the side of the platform.

Miraculously, his downward movement halted, and he opened his eyes to find himself swinging out in space, his body tethered to the tower by his long arms.  His fingernails had carved deep channels into the wooden beams and fortunately these grooves ended a couple of inches from the platform's edge.

        Tagtug swung his head around to take in his situation. It was desperate. He was hanging from a tower on the verge of collapse with only his fingernails separating him from certain death. A tremendous sense of space assailed his eyes and he wished forlornly that he were back in the safety of the brambles of the Briar Patch.

            Below him, to his left, he spied something quite unexpected.  He could not miss it because it possessed more colours than Tagtug had seen before – a Spriggan skyshop.  The balloon was deflated and hung from the tower, ensnared by one of the beams that jutted out from the platform below.  Fifty feet below the ragged balloon, a large wooden carriage swung like a pendulum.  The carriage contained none of the wares one would expect to find in a skyshop.  It was empty except for a shivering shape of a Spriggan huddled in the corner.

        The tower lurched and Tagtug's body swung out into the air surrounding him.  His fingernails held him in place, but it would be seconds before either they or the wooden beams broke and sent him to his death.  He could not climb back up onto the platform – it was pitched too steeply.  It seemed the only way available to him was down and therein lay a problem.  Down was a long way to go.

        Tagtug noticed one of the balloon's lines whipping about in the breeze.  He chewed his lip as he stared at it.  He had no choice - he released himself from the edge of the tower and fell spiralling into the air below. 

The dark shape of the tower was replaced by the light blue of the sky, the dark blue of the sea, the grey stone of the ground, the coloured mass of the balloon, the light blue of the sky, the deep brown of skyshop carriage’s underside and for a fleeting second, the dirty yellow of the flapping rope.  Tagtug shot out an arm and caught hold of the line.  His body jolted and his arm felt as if it had been wrenched from its socket, but his grip held.

 

        He was alive and if every decision he made didn't change that status, he was making the right decisions.

A brief glance downward indicated that whilst he was a lot closer to the ground, he would still not survive the fall.  He looked up and saw the flat bottom of the skyshop thirty feet above. Beyond that hung the balloon, long and lean without hot air to fill it, and higher still, the top of the tower which leant out over the city at a sickening angle.

        Tagtug lifted one hand above the other, slowly, steadily making the precarious climb up to the carriage.  Fortunately, the tower did not succumb to any more convulsions and it was not long before he was hauling himself over the side rail of the skyshop.  Gravity had rolled the Spriggan down to the nearest side and as Tagtug collapsed inside the carriage, he almost fell upon its occupant.

        The Spriggan looked as close to death as a living creature could be.  His skin had lost the rich, red pigment common among his race.  Dried mucous was caked around his mouth and his eyes had lolled back so that only the whites were visible.  But the most alarming aspect of the Spriggan's state was the strange two foot long spike that was wedged in his stomach – it seemed to be the gigantic horn of a monstrous animal, a beast Tagtug had never seen nor wanted to see.

        The Spriggan gave a groan. Alarmed by his state, Tagtug slid alongside him and cradled his head in his arms.

            Suddenly, the balloon above gave a thin, whining sound. Tagtug looked up to find the situation was getting worse again.  The balloon had been ripped where it had slammed into the tower and that rent in the fabric was quickly widening.  The carriage dropped ten feet.  It ceased momentarily but Tagtug's added weight in the carriage was taking its toll.  There was nothing for it.  They would be dead if they stayed in the skyshop.  The Spriggan rolled in and out of consciousness and could not be any help, but Tagtug would not leave him where he was.

        The Mabbit quickly pulled up the rope he had just climbed and once the full length of it was in the carriage, used it to lash the near-dead Spriggan to his waist.  Tagtug and the Spriggan were about the same height, but the latter was so malnourished that his emaciated body weighed almost nothing.

Once he was satisfied that the knot would hold, Tagtug checked the other end around the skyshop railing was still secure.  He then lifted the Spriggan to the edge of the skyshop, taking great care not to touch the strange spike that was buried in his stomach.  As tenderly as the situation allowed, he rolled out of the carriage, holding the rope in one hand and the Spriggan in the other.

        A low, creaking sound was all the warning Tagtug had before the tower shifted again, like an ungainly, drunken giant.  He lost his grip of the rope and with the Spriggan lashed to his side fell thirty feet before the rope went taut.  The Spriggan screamed in sheer agony as the sudden jolt sent indescribable pain through his nervous system.  The spike lodged in his belly twisted and the trauma to his body was such that he lost all consciousness.  Tagtug was also in pain but faring considerably better.  He had braced his body in preparation for the sudden snapping of the lifeline. He was not prepared for the sharp cracking of two of his ribs at the moment the rope went taut and he grunted as all the oxygen was expelled from his lungs.

        The tower had given another twenty feet.  Tagtug guessed that its next movement would be its last.  It was at the point of collapse; he had to act quickly. They could not return the way they came and the drop below was only conducive to death.  The situation was dire.  The Spriggan hung lifelessly at Tagtug’s side and the Mabbit knew that he was not long for this world.

        Tagtug's eyes darted around furiously looking for some way to escape what seemed inevitable.  Hundreds of feet below the pavement was a jagged mess of rubble but off to the right a pile of dessicated Kobold bodies hinted at the battle that must have taken place at the base of Central Tower.  He could make out the skeletal remains of Ghul and a few Spriggan bones as well.  He also spied the web netting of the creature whose husk of a body he had seen outside the walls of Kishe.

        The netting.

        It gave him hope.  Under the arches at the bottom of the tower, where the fighting must have been at its thickest, the creature had thrown out many webs.  One was spread on the side of the tower, underneath the first platform.  The webbing was not horizontal, so it was unlikely to hold the pair if they hit it, but Tagtug reckoned that it would be enough to slow their descent.  But it was a long way away. Unfortunately, it was not beneath them, so he would have to swing dramatically to have enough momentum to reach it.  Then there was the problem of aiming – the web was no more that ten foot across, so it would be a miracle to get close, let alone hit it.

        Again, in the absence of alternatives, Tagtug worked quickly to achieve the outcome for which he was hoping.  His hands fumbled about at his waist, trying to loosen the knot, but the jarring impact of their fall had tightened it and there was nothing his shaking hands could do to change that.  Instead, he lifted their weight off the rope, and started chewing.  The fibres were incredibly tough even for the Mabbit's sharp teeth and the strands he did bite through sat uncomfortably on his tongue and between his teeth.  Despite this, he gnawed at the rope as if it were his last meal and just when he thought his arms were about to give way under the weight of their bodies, his teeth sliced through the last remaining strands.

        Clinging desperately to the severed rope, Tagtug set about swinging the pair closer to the tower.  He kicked out with his legs and they started spinning around wildly.  He kicked again and the spinning increased yet they were no closer to their target. He kicked a third time and grunted in frustration as the spinning increased to comic proportions.  Had his life not been on the line – literally – he would have laughed.

        Tagtug's frantic movement at the end of the rope was all the encouragement the balloon needed to begin tearing again.   Tagtug used the sudden shift to swing towards the tower.  He felt the last shreds of the balloon give way and they were falling.  He arched his back in the direction he thought the webbing lay and for what seemed an eternity, he fell through space with the limp body of the wounded Spriggan tied to his waist.  Tagtug grimaced preparing for the rocky impact that would end his life.

        But it never came.  Instead, he felt the sticky embrace of the webbing and it was enough to hold them both.  He closed his eyes, and exhaled. It felt as if he had held his breath from the moment he first let go of the gantry platform almost a thousand feet above.  His eyes shot open when he heard another groan, but it was not the Spriggan this time.  It was the steel and wooden structure above them - the entire tower was about to give way. Fortunately the webbing was over a year old and whilst still sticky, it was not enough to hold them captive.  The beam above them buckled and the webbing and its new occupants were quickly swinging to the ground below.  Tagtug hung on and the Spriggan dangled uselessly at his side.  The platform above was folding in half as the tower started to fall in on itself.  The few strands that held the net stretched and broke.  Tagtug and the Spriggan fell, unable to do anything.

        Fortunately by the time the webbing had torn completely free of the tower, they were only three feet from the ground.  Tagtug, incredulous over their survival kissed the ground he thought he may never walk upon again.  All around him timbers fell whilst iron rivets popped.  The sky rained wood and metal for a minute as Camulos' greatest tower came down.  Clouds of dust, dirt and bone filled the air in the wake of the structure’s dismemberment.  The ground shook and cracked as the other pylons were uprooted.  The skyshop crashed nearby and the rags of the balloon floated gently to the rubble-strewn earth, falling like a shroud over the destruction.  Despite being in the midst of such chaos, Tagtug did not care.  He was exhausted beyond caring.  If he should die at the end of such a hazardous journey then who was he to deny that fate?

        Yet he did not die.  His luck held as debris rained down upon the ground around him.  Tagtug sliced the rope joining them and rested the Spriggan's head on a block of stone.  He put his ear to the broken figure’s chest and detected a heartbeat.  It was faint but it was there. He then lifted the Spriggan up into his arms and walked off into the ruin of the city.

 

 

The Spriggan's name was Mulupo and Tagtug spent the next two months caring for him.  The day following their dramatic escape from Central Tower, Tagtug set about removing the huge spike in Mulupo's stomach.  It was not as difficult a procedure as it could have been.  Incredibly, the spike had not damaged any vital organs and once it was removed, the hole in the Spriggan's stomach healed remarkably quickly.  There was no bleeding, nor was there any infection.  However, the mind of the Spriggan was not so fortunate.  He had been in a toxin-riddled state of hibernation for much of the nine months he had spent in the balloon hanging from the tower.  He had not eaten in all that time and although his metabolism had virtually slowed to a halt, his mind remained active within the prison of his body.  He had fallen into a crazed consciousness where every thought was devoted to the madness he had witnessed last summer.  The day had replayed itself again and again within the confines of his mind...

 

---

 

Mulupo had just put the finishing touches on his balloon. His last journey abroad had taken him over the plains of northern Tamu where his mobile shop had been attacked by the fierce Sedomo tribe. He was saved by a pair of travelling priests who chanced upon his unfortunate situation. The priests helped repair his balloon which managed to limp across the skies all the way back to Sarras.  Fortunately, his adventures in the east had brought in enough money to pay Sarras’ best seamstress to put together a new balloon made from the finest Corran silk.  She was under strict instructions to include every coloured dye she possessed.   The result was a superbly crafted, unquestionably ugly balloon. Mulupo revelled in the fact that it was the talk of Sarras.  He did not care whether anyone liked it.

        A cool late afternoon breeze was fading as he started loading his skyshop with Ablo Bogle's merchandise.  Mulupo's partnership with the Kobold Ablo had lasted some twenty years.  Both had benefitted greatly from the arrangement.  Mulupo sold some of the most beautifully fashioned jewellery to be found in all Camulos, and Ablo had made much money from Mulupo's wealthy contacts in countries as far away as Tuirren and Arnaksak.  One of the few Spriggans willing to cross the Oshalla Ocean by balloon, Mulupo had virtually cornered the market of in the northern regions of the Myr.

        He was planning a relatively short journey to test out the new balloon – south, over the Camul Ranges to the fair cities of Acoran.   He started a slow burn on the Cold engines, inflating the balloon carefully, checking its seams as it slowly billowed and puffed with the hot air being pushed into it. He cast a casual gaze over to Ablo, who in his typically taciturn Kobold manner was methodically finishing loading the last of the stores, unwilling to stop for conversation.  Mulupo often had great fun trying to engage Ablo in small talk.  He knew such trivialities bothered the Kobold no end and his grunting would become increasingly more demonstrative every time Mulupo toyed with him in this way.  This did not reflect a poor relationship between the two.  Although the Kobold would never admit it, he loved Mulupo like a son, albeit a mischievous son who needed a good kick in the pants from time to time.

            Mulupo was similarly fond of the old artisan.  He could not imagine having another business partner.  Ablo's focus upon jewellery suited Mulupo beautifully.  It was better to export expensive jewels, necklaces, bangles and ornaments than swords and armour.  Mulupo's friends in the weapons trade were always complaining about having sore backs and cut fingers.  Besides, he could get a better price for the jewels.  The Acora and Arnakki were canny buyers, but were also extremely wealthy compared to other peoples, so he was guaranteed to get a decent price for the merchandise by specializing in trade with these two races at either end of the known world.

        'I think she’s ready Ablo, my fine capitalistic compatriot,' exclaimed the Spriggan tapping the side of his skyshop with his ornamental walking stick.  'What think you, or is deliberating upon the airworthiness of my tropospheric vessel too diminutive a concern to enter into your ruminations?'

        'As usual, Mulupo,' grunted the Kobold without lifting his head, 'I have no idea what you’re talking about.'

        Mulupo paraded around the skyshop twirling his cane as he walked.  'Extract yourself from your quotidian concerns and take time to note the form of the panels, the clean lines of the gores, the spherical purity exhibited by the envelope and the exquisite crafting of the skirt.  This is no mere vehicle; it is aerial art.  A docile wind is blowing and in the conciliate arms of that entropic zephyr, I will bestride the heavens aboard my dirigible. This is a moliminous occasion.'

        'Moliminus?

        'Significant.  Momentous.'  Mulupo paused, noting the vacant expression on his partner's leathery face.  'Big,' he said slowly in the most condescending voice he could muster.

        Ablo stopped inspecting the small case of silver brooches he had prepared for the Acoran court and held the Spriggan in his gaze.  'Now there's no need to patronize me Mulupo.  I'm just not sure whether anyone cares about your new balloon.'

        Mulupo, a little surprised by the bluntness of this last comment, smoothed his silken waistcoat with formal fastidiousness and stood leaning with both hands on his walking stick, his thin legs spread wide apart.  'Well you should care, my antithalian associate, as it will bring you more fiscal joy than your coriaceous body will be able to contain.'

        Ablo ignored the comment.  'I think it's too colourful.  It gives me a headache just looking at it,' he said giving the balloon a quick glance.

        'Ablo, this skyshop is a declaration of taste, a statement –'

        The merchant just grunted.  'Taste!  Huh!  No wonder those Sedomo threw spears at your last balloon.'

        'Sir, if today is the day that you deem to be loquacious, perhaps you could adopt a less fractious tone.  The Sedomo are a race of savages bereft of any appreciation of tone and hue.  Their attack upon me was typical of their barbarous, recusant ways.  If this trip to Acoran works out well, Ablo, I believe we are ready for another foray into the far east where customers eagerly await the product of your lapidarian labours.'

        Ablo got the gist of Mulupo's diatribe.  'You're going to Susano?' he asked rhetorically.

        Mulupo nodded.  'I think it is time we relieved the Susanese of their gold. In addition, I have not seen my brother Kappo for two years and as far as I know, he still resides in Emperor Kimura's court in Kumoku.  You'd like him Ablo – he's almost as perversely irritable as you are!'

        Ablo put the last of the stock into the carriage and walked off into his workshop mumbling to himself.  Mulupo was sure he heard the phrase 'damned Spriggan' in amongst the Kobold's mutterings.

        'Nettlesome philistine!  How dare he mock the chatoyant silks of my vessel,' Mulupo said aloud, hoping Ablo would overhear him, but the Kobold had slammed shut the door to his workshop.

        Mulupo set about releasing the lines that tethered the skyshop to thick wooden bollards set into the cobblestone yard before Ablo's workshop.  He paused on the last line and gazed upon the balloon, a kaleidoscopic ball of warm air, and stood entranced by shimmering variations of colour as the morning light tried to hold the bobbing sphere in its grip.  He climbed the rope ladder hanging from the side of the carriage, closed the vents and began floating into the Sarras sky.

        Below him, Ablo came rushing out of the workshop.  He craned his head back and shouted anxiously, 'Are you going already?'

        'I will not stay to bear witness to any more of your indurate remarks about my balloon,' Mulupo replied sulkily.

        'But Mulupo, what about the opening ceremony at Mine One?  Today is a…' – he paused – 'moloominus event.'

        Despite his annoyance with Ablo, the Spriggan could not help but smile. He found it hard to hold a grudge. Mulupo knew it was the Kobold way to be rude and offhand.  They were a gruff people, disinterested in anything beyond their country's borders which made them unusual bedfellows for the garrulous, mercurial Spriggans.

        Physically, they were leagues apart too.  Although both races stood no higher than five foot from the ground, this was as far as physical similarities went.  The Kobolds had flat, tanned craggy faces, with eyes as sad as winter and broad floppy ears.  Their hands were gnarled like tree roots, and their legs resembled stumps.  Their fashion sense was completely utilitarian.   Even when they weren’t working, the male Kobolds wore monochromatic overalls and the women – who were not allowed in the mines or the workshops – wore simple aprons and plain dresses. The Spriggans more than made up for this lack of colour by wearing lavish clothes, made of boldly coloured silks emblazoned with gold.  Intricately embroidered waistcoats and velvet cloaks lined with fur covered their thin, lithe bodies like the plume of an exotic bird.

        Although not as worldly-wise as the Spriggans, what the Kobolds did know, they knew with flawless cognition.  They knew how to dig, they understood the structure of the earth intuitively and could craft its minerals into objects as beautiful as the golden sunsets that coloured the city's walls each twilight.  It was said that the Kobolds possessed an uncanny sixth sense for finding precious minerals.  It was also rumoured that they could tell by sound and touch whether a cavern lay beyond a rock wall.  It was incorrectly believed that they could smell where the purest gold lay.

            But whilst gold was prized, it was nothing compared to the glory of shatterstone.  This strange ore was rare to find and difficult to work with, but the Kobolds had found a way to shape it into the strongest metal in the Myr. Swords and shields made from shatterstone were unbreakable and they shone with a dark brilliance rivalled only by a moonless sky. Shatterstone was generally not found anywhere else in the Myr. Scholars in the famed universities of Caquix postulated a theory regarding this fact – millennia ago, when a huge rock falling from the sky created the Worldpool in Lake Erras, a shard of that fiery object broke off and slammed into Camulos, showering the land with the unique mineral.  It was a good theory, but the Kobolds did not care for theories. They cared about the shatterstone and that posed a problem.  Their mines had run dry. The reserves of shatterstone had been exhausted and there was no hole in all Camulos that still yielded the ore.  The Kobolds had been too liberal in their application of the metal.  They had crafted everything from bangles to battering rams from it.  They had even encased the twenty-one towers of the Giant's Web in the metal, and incredibly, many centuries before, they had covered the great tower of Cessair in pure shatterstone as a tribute to the unity of the Myr.

 

 

 

A bell started chiming in the distance. It was the signal bell from Mine One. The city hall bell above the Sarras city square picked up its tintinnabulation and amplified it. Within seconds, plangent relay bells were chiming all across the city.

        'Mulupo!' cried Ablo.  'The ceremony!  It's started!  Come down, or you'll miss it.  They're about to break through.'

        Mulupo had been so preoccupied with the new silks for his balloon he had forgotten all about the important event taking place at the bottom of Sarras' oldest and most productive mine.  The Kobolds were digging deeper than ever before and the new excavation was to commence at day’s end. The Spriggan stuck his head over the sill of the skyshop and said ominously, '"About to break through," you say, Mr Ablo, which raises the question – about to break through to what?'

        Ablo just shook his head and started walking to his front gate.  'Gah! I have no time to waste on you Mulupo!'

        As he strode down his garden path, Ablo could hear something slithering across the stones behind him.  He wheeled around to see the end of one of the skyshop's mooring lines dancing about his brown boots.  Above his head, the Spriggan was laughing.

        'Sir, a gentle wind sits on our hind quarter and our destination lies to our fore.  Deepening blue skies await.  You have permission to come aboard.'

        Ablo gave the faintest hint of a smile and wrapped the rope around his stocky forearms.  Overhead, a mechanical winch started whining and Ablo's feet left his front yard behind.

            A sharp, juddering motion marked the Kobold’s arrival.  Mulupo’s impish face peered over the side of the skyshop.  His thin, ring-adorned hand reached out to take Ablo's thick, calloused hand and heaving with all his might, he pulled the Kobold aboard.

        'Thank-you Mulupo.  We will have the best seat in the house.'

        'Sir, I could not let you walk to Mine One!  With limbs as compendious as yours, the ceremony would be long over by the time your expedition to the eponymous mine had concluded.'

        Ablo had no idea what Mulupo had said, but was happy he would not miss a moment of the ceremony which would herald a new era for Camulos.

 

 

Mine One was old – thousands of years old.  It was a crater, and many generations ago the Kobolds had carved into it a wide road which curled slowly down around its perimeter from the broad city street above to the flat base three hundred feet below.  The area was once a miner's treasure trove.  Running away horizontally from the open crater, branching tunnels and passageways led to a labyrinth of torch-lit rooms where half of Sarras laboured into the night extracting the Myr's riches.

        The tunnel entrances were adorned with beautifully wrought iron gates and intricately frescoed archways.  From the outside, it was hard to believe that Mine One was a mine.  The wealthiest Kobolds had apartments built into the walls of the pit and the most prestigious shops and offices were found on the cobblestone avenue that wound its way around the inside of the crater.  The facades of these dwellings glimpsed at the prosperity of their inhabitants.  Brass door knobs and gilded window frames were complemented by marble friezes above the unnecessarily large doorways.  Even the numbers on the letterboxes outside these dwellings were crafted by Sarras' finest artisans.

        The luxuriant architecture of Mine One was rivalled by the greenery hanging over the walls of the townhouses and shops.  Wide, oily leaves of creeping ivy waved in the breeze, every movement as tender as the dark purple flowers that were sprinkled across the green, like the violet dew on a Nessan meadow.  Wherever the sun shone, there the ivy lay; where there was shadow, only stone.  The creeping ivy snuck around the circumference of Mine One as the day passed by.  It seemed to possess sentience, for it never covered windows, doorways or tunnel entrances. It had no roots and seemed to survive entirely by photosynthesis.  Of all the wonders and riches of Mine One, this was one of the most famous.  Creeping ivy could be found in other remote places in the Myr, but Mine One was the only place where it cohabitated a populated area.  The creeping ivy was Camulos' national symbol and it could be often found in Kobold work, hidden in the delicate filigree of a ring crafted for a royal wedding, or embossed proudly on a six foot long Acoran shield.  Ironically, this plant with no roots, this natural wonder that was never actually found in the earth, had been adopted by the miners as a symbol of their earth-bound work.

        The expansive complexity of the mine was staggering.  It was believed that there were more rooms and passages under Sarras than in the houses and halls of the city itself.  When shatterstone became harder to find, all tunnels and rooms of Mine One were extended.  Shafts were deepened and new rooms were delved but still the precious ore eluded them.  This was considered disastrous by many as shatterstone had made Camulos a prosperous nation.

        There were over one hundred individually owned mines branching off the winding boulevard that made its way towards the bottom of Mine One.  Above the archways that led off to separate rooms where precious metals and jewels were mined, ornately engraved plaques proudly bore the names of each section's owners.  One name appeared regularly above the arches – Corbo Industries.  Kalen Corbo was the brother of Gargo Corbo, the Mayor of Sarras, and there was not a wealthier man in all Camulos.  He owned almost half the deposits in Sarras and when the mines began to run dry of shatterstone, he started putting pressure on his brother to permit extension of Mine One in the only direction it had left to go – down.

        This was not as simple as it sounded as the base of Mine One was the site of one of the Myr's greatest wonders: a majestic botanical garden containing almost every aspect of flora that could be found under the sun.  Sarras Park was a beautifully landscaped garden that had existed on the flat base of the crater for over a thousand years.

            This botanical zoo contained the Myr's most exotic plants and trees including the cherry trees of Morae, the glass poplars of Nessa and a hedge of Sarras Thorns.  It even accommodated the remarkable veganistone.  This peculiar item was not entirely animal, vegetable or mineral.  The veganistone started its cycle as nothing more than a dark green weed, but in late summer a brilliant yellow flower would burst from its stalk.  At the centre of this flower a small grey stone would develop.  As autumn approached the stone would fall from the centre of the flower, landing on the ground with a gentle thud.  Once the veganistone stalk had lost its rocky centre it would wither and die but that death heralded the next stage of its incredible life cycle.  The pebble would crack open and a tiny thorny creature would leave the stony cocoon.  It would find a soft patch of dirt and burrow under the surface where it would stay in a form of stasis like a bulb until the end of winter when a small shoot would break from its spine, force its way to the air above and the cycle would begin again.  It was believed that the pebble at the heart of the veganistone had wondrous medicinal qualities, but the flower was extremely difficult to find and almost impossible to transplant.  It was testimony to the Kobolds' horticultural skill that they had been able to grow a bed of veganistone at the bottom of Mine One, so far from its native soil of Upper Scoriath.

        It was a wonder anything had grown in the botanical garden.  Lying at the bottom of a steep crater, there were parts that did not see the sun.  During late spring when it rained every day in Camulos, water would cascade down the faces of the domiciles lining the mine, and yet not a plant drowned.  Sarras Park broke every gardener's rule and yet it flourished.  Or rather, had flourished, for the botanical park no longer lay at the bottom of Mine One.  It had been relocated to a site on the far side of the city after the Mayor decided that what was under the garden was more important than what lay in it and that the mining of Mine One's floor would be 'good for the economy'.  The economic reality was that when tenders for the land were invited, no-one could match the one put forward by Kalen Corbo.

        After the botanical park had been removed, the Kobolds encountered a layer of stone that mystified them.  The grain and form of the rock was unlike anything found elsewhere in the mine.  It was dense, smooth and flat, as if someone had laid a stone floor under the soil at the base of Mine One.  Strangely, it had seams and cuts as if ancient masons had fashioned the stone into close-fitting blocks.  Kobold geologists were brought in to examine the rock and after weeks of testing, deduced that stone was not indigenous to the area.  It resembled the type of sturdy granite that was common to southern Tethra.  They had no explanation as to how it got there.  The geologists also announced one other interesting piece of news – a cavern lay beneath the slab.  The Kobolds had an uncanny ear for the properties of the earth and the geologists unanimously agreed that a short distance beyond the slab lay empty space.  This news sent Sarras into a frenzy.  Imaginings of vast caverns rich in jewels and minerals floated through the heads of the Sarran miners, and there was none more excited than Kalen Corbo who, after the news had been announced, was often seen walking the Mine One promenade with a satisfied grin upon his face.

        The marble balustrade that had surrounded the botanical park was retained when all the flora was removed and this walkway became a popular spot for the people of Sarras to meet, enticed by the nearness of the city's most likely source of revenue in the years to come.

        At regular intervals along this promenade were situated pedestals upon which stood statues of some of the Myr's greatest figures – musicians and poets stood alongside inventors and scientists.  More statues could be found along the circular road that threaded the inside of the mine. From the lip of the mine to the balustrade around the large patch of dirt where the garden once lay, the statues numbered in the hundreds.  They were made of all sorts of materials: granite, stone, iron, even shatterstone.  What was notable about these statues was that they weren’t solely comprised of chiselled dedications to significant Kobolds.  The statue collection included almost every known race living in the Myr and many of the beasts as well.  There were sculptures of Tuirrenians clad in light armour standing alongside the hulking forms of Sessymirians.  Lithe figures of famous Kompirans could be found next to the ophidian forms of the few Pryderi who had established themselves beyond the borders of Morae.  Many of the statues were figures from history and some of the greatest took pride of place on the marble ring encircling the base of Mine One.

        A collection of stirring-looking pieces lined the broad area where the road from the top of the mine flowed into the wide flat area of the promenade.  Life-sized representations of significant individuals from the island of Caquix stood majestically upon large pedestals.  Some of these statues were over ten feet tall, but in contrast to the warlike Helyans and Sessymrians, the Caquikki held books instead of weapons.  The Caquikki were a physically intimidating people whose lower half consisted of a long-legged hexapedal body but whose muscular torso and head resembled that of a human.  Their heads were shaven except for a long thin mane of fine, dark hair which ran from the top of the head to the base of their torso.  The Caquikki fancied themselves as the intellectual guardians of the Myr so it was not surprising to find engraved into the stone pages of the books their statues held, moments of historical, social and political importance.  It was quite common to find people climbing up onto the Caquikki statues to read the text indelibly carved into the rocky tomes they carried.

        Although the Kobolds rarely travelled abroad, they had recreated much of the world in the statues lining Mine One.  On one level it was strange that a people so reclusive could create such an inclusive statuary, but the Kobolds were as complex as their mines, and they considered the Mine One statues to be among their proudest achievements.  The mine was a very special place. Indeed, if Sarras was the heart of Camulos, then Mine One was its soul.

 

 

 

'Can't this thing go any faster?' complained Ablo as he looked over the edge of the skyshop.  In the streets below he could see crowds of Kobolds and Spriggans surging towards Mine One.  The skyshop by contrast just seemed to be motionless, hanging in a fixed position as if tied to an invisible point in the sky.

        'Mr Ablo, my abdominous friend, I would not expect you to have even a rudimentary understanding of avionics, but let me say that should I make a mistake, our aery platform in the sky will not stay long betwixt the canopy of the heavens and the pertinacious stone below, and your squat body would be little more than a cardinal stain upon our fair city. Worry not, we will be there before gloaming.'

            Dusk – or gloaming as the Kobolds called it – was still an hour away.  The  sun was low in the western sky.  The sunward side of every building and tree below was bathed in the florid afternoon light and even the most ordinary object had a lustrous sheen.  'Look at the lucent sphere,' Mulupo said to Ablo as he gazed westward.  'It is a golden doorway from which an aureate path meanders across the deep blue meadow of the sea.' 

            Ablo grunted pretending to be unimpressed.

        Putting his bloviated description of the sunset aside, Mulupo turned his focus to the large dish that was suspended above the Cold-powered burner.  Although the Spriggan balloons were powered by Cold, the process was not as simple as just heating up a lump of the fuel and sitting back to enjoy the view.  Suspended above the burner a large dish contained an acidic liquid obtained from the swamps of Mag Mel in distant Tuirren.  Into this were mixed highly volatile iron filings Mulupo had bought from an iron mine outside Kabaht. The gas that arose when these two elements were mixed was what lifted the balloon into the sky, but if the amounts were incorrect, the result was usually a flaming ball of silk and a rapidly descending skyshop.  Once Mulupo had gained enough elevation to sail over Sarras’ tallest steeples, he adjusted the burners so that they would remain at that height.  Ablo, frustrated by the delay, just huffed and grumbled on the deck of the skyshop wishing he knew how to pilot the craft himself.

        There were three reasons why air travel had not become the dominant form of transportation across the Myr.  The first was that very few races understood the complex procedure of heating the iron filings.  Secondly, even if they mastered the procedure, the iron filings required to produce the lighter-than-air gas could only be found in northern Camulos and the eremitic nature of the Kobolds did not encourage strangers to their land.  The Kobolds had thought long and hard about exporting the iron filings, but it was decided that it would make Camulos a much more accessible country and the last thing they wanted was a land overflowing with visitors.  The third reason for the empty skies over the Myr was that the airships were very hard to control and only an elaborate understanding of the air currents would permit safe passage through the atmosphere.  Over the years the Spriggans had developed comprehensive air maps, but these they kept to themselves.  They had heard the rumours that scientists on the island of Caquix had been developing their own form of air transportation.  By keeping their air maps secret, the Spriggans hoped to delay the day when they would have to share the skies with other races.

 

 

Mulupo pulled some steel cords to adjust the balloon’s heat-resistant skirts and they were under way.  'You should be content now Ablo,' he said.  'Our state of desuetude has dissolved and we are now en route to Mine One.'

        'About time!' the Kobold muttered.

 

 

For all his skill with language, Mulupo found that he lacked the words to describe the wondrous site that greeted the pair as his skyshop sailed over the huge pit at the centre of Sarras.  Thousands of Spriggans and Kobolds had turned out for the occasion.  Numerous other skyshops floated in and over the mine, but Mulupo noted that none were as colourful as his.  Below, the cobblestone road was abrim with people.  It seemed that everyone in Camulos had turned out for the event.  Although many locals opposed the relocation of the botanical park, there was not a Kobold or Spriggan in all Sarras who was not curious about what lay beneath the floor of Mine One.  Through the minds of many of the onlookers floated images of the 'new era of prosperity' as the Mayor Gargo Korbo had described it.  Fluttering in the mischievous breeze that danced around the pit were flags and banners proudly identifying Corbo Industries as the heralds of this new era. 

On a platform erected at the very base of the mine, on the flat brown earth that was left when the garden was ripped up, the Mayor and his brother enjoyed the anticipative energy the ceremony had given rise to.  They were seated with dignitaries from many of Camulos' cities, all of whom had an interest in the further development of Mine One.  Some wealthy merchants also had seats upon the platform; these Spriggans had outdone themselves in dressing for the occasion, their gaudy clothes rivalling Mulupo's balloon in terms of audacious colour and design.

        Lanterns had been lit throughout the pit in readiness for the darkness to come.  Dusk had already fallen in the crater.  The last rays of sun climbed up ornate facades of the mansions lining the upper eastern side of the mine.  Creeping ivy scaled the marble walls, soaking in the last few minutes of rich, golden sunlight.

        Mulupo could hear the familiar percussive sounds of Spriggan minstrels playing drums over which were arrayed the intricate, melodic patterns of the kora, an instrument few could play well – in the hands of the Spriggans, it was like the insouciance of sunset being reproduced in musical form.  Underscoring this complex arrangement, Mulupo could make out an even more familiar sound – the distinctive note of bottles of ale striking the edges of glasses as the Spriggans celebrated the occasion with customary vim, vigour and alcohol.

        'Quite a sight, Mr Ablo,' remarked Mulupo, turning his head to look at his business partner who was clearly overwhelmed by the occasion. The Kobold was gazing proudly upon the mine, which was glowing in the tender light of countless lanterns.  Reflecting the concordance of the music, Kobolds and Spriggans had come together in a complex, harmonious gathering and everything seemed right in the world, even in the eyes of a grouchy, old Kobold like Ablo.  The air was gravid with expectation and any animosity about the loss of the botanical gardens was forgotten as the people of Sarras looked to the future at the bottom of the mine.  Mulupo noticed a small tear sitting on the edge of one of Ablo's leathery eyelids, but decided not to comment on it.

        The Spriggan swung a large chrome lever around until the sound of the burners faded to a gentle hum.  He then pulled on a line connected to the release valve at the top of the balloon.  This allowed for controlled venting of the hot air that had kept them afloat above the mine.  The skyshop descended into the pit until it was only twenty feet above the crowd that lined the promenade.  Mulupo locked off the burners and shut the release valve and the balloon hovered in the air with such stillness, Ablo momentarily thought they had landed at the base of the mine.  The Spriggan grinned at his companion.  'Here we are, sir - the best seat in the house!'

        Ablo looked down at the ceremonial platform and realised he had a better view than Camulos' most influential and important individuals. The Spriggan had done well. They had arrived in time for the grand opening and they had a vantage point that quickly became the envy of all.

 

 

Mulupo was taking in all the statues lining the promenade.  It had been years since he last frequented Mine One and he had forgotten what a magnificent place it was.  'Ablo, it staggers me that a race so utilitarian in dress and manner can turn a declivity in the earth into something so beautiful.  I think this calls for a drink.'

        Ablo smiled, an action the muscles in his face were not well practised in.  He was amused by Mulupo’s proclivity for using the smallest occasion as a justification for having a drink.  'Mulupo, in your mind, the act of breathing is something to celebrate with a drink!'

        'Ablo, if the ability to breathe is not cause for celebration, I do not know what is!'  Mulupo ducked into the small cabin at the rear of the skyshop and emerged holding a dark brown bottle in triumph.  'It was a fortuitous decision to stop in Garlot on my last trip abroad.  I managed to acquire a crate of Nessan aleberry at a remarkably good price.'

        Although Ablo did not understand what the word 'fortuitous' meant, he knew that it was no happy coincidence that Mulupo had dropped anchor in Garlot, the home of the Myr's finest wines and ales.  No matter where Mulupo went on his long voyages across Myrran skies, he always managed to bring home a crate or two of aleberry from Garlot. 

The Spriggan dragged two stools out from the cabin and motioned to Ablo to take a seat on one of them.  As Ablo sat down on the little round stool Mulupo stepped forward to pass him a glass of the thick umber-coloured liquid.  Unfortunately for the Kobold, Mulupo tripped on an old tarpaulin he had left lying on the deck and the precious aleberry wine sailed through the air, eventually falling like an unexpected summer shower across Ablo's best grey shirt.

        After a stream of apologies interspersed with raucous laughter, Mulupo poured Ablo another drink and managed to hand it over without further incident.  The Spriggan raised his glass.  Ablo joined him, holding his glass as high as his stumpy arm would permit.  'To a long and prosperous tomorrow,' Mulupo toasted, gently hitting his glass against Ablo's.  He then leaned back against one of the crates that filled much of the deck.  The Spriggan put his hooved feet up on the railing on the skyshop and took a deep sip from his glass.  'Now this is living,' he said contentedly, closing his eyes to savour the flavours of the wine.

        When he opened his eyes, Ablo was peering over the side of the skyshop.  His empty glass lay on the deck by his feet. 'Mulupo, when is it going to start?' the Kobold moaned impatiently.  'Everyone's here.'

        Mulupo lazily moved across to the railing.  Directly beneath them, the Mayor was hovering around the ornate gold lectern that had been placed at the front of the stage upon which Sarran dignitaries were seated. 

In front of them, on the darkening flat expanse of dirt that had once been Sarras' verdant botanical garden, large creatures shuffled about, being led by Kobolds wielding long, thin reeds that they snapped across the beasts' snouts from time to time.  The animals were simply known as grouts and they were a crucial part of the Kobolds' mining operation.  An adult grout was the size of a small house.  Its body was a spherical mass of fat and muscle which was dragged about by two incredibly powerful yet relatively small arms.  The grout had no hind legs.  Its ball of a body tapered away to a wide flat tail which seemingly had little use.  By contrast, the other end of the grout made it one of the most wonderful beasts to have at the bottom of a mine – its head was wedge-shaped and there was nothing the grout enjoyed doing more than ramming this head into the earth.  The grout had a seemingly limitless threshold of pain and would drive its snout into the densest rock it could find.  The reasons for this behaviour were not known.  The creature wasn’t in search of food nor was it digging a burrow.  It just seemed to enjoy breaking apart the dirt and rock with its head and this suited the Kobolds perfectly.  In the hands of a master trainer, a team of grouts faced with solid rock could dig a hundred feet in a day.

        It was the grouts that had stripped away the top soil at the bottom of Mine One and had exposed the crust of difficult Tethran rock that lay beneath.  Months ago, they had also dug up an ancient plaque fashioned in brass.  Inscribed into the plaque were the words ‘Magicka fed a tempa’.  No-one in Sarras, not even the Spriggans, knew what it meant, and it had been sent off to Caquix for scholars to examine, but no translation had yet come back from the Caquikki linguists.

        'Look!' exclaimed Ablo more excitably than Mulupo thought possible.  They're bringing in the bloaters!'

        Mulupo cast his eyes over to where Ablo was pointing, grimacing at the use of the word 'bloater'.  'Ablo, I don't know who was foolish enough to bless Kobolds with the gift of speech.  Your crude nomenclature of the Myr's most unique fauna gives me heartburn.  The species’ correct name is immortellis protea.  Furthermore, the Kobold's involvement of the creature in mining is barbaric.'

        Ablo said nothing in reply.  He was well-acquainted with Mulupo's thoughts on the subject. Whilst the grouts were clearly doing something they loved – digging – the same could not be said of the bloaters.  These odd creatures were actually a strange cnidarian that could only be found in the Myr's deserts.  Only the size of a small rock, the bloater lived a small and happy life on its own, siphoning water from even the driest air in order to survive.  The bloater was lived its entire existence rarely seeing another of its kind, except in times of rain.  When water fell upon the adult bloater, it started a physiological reaction of an extraordinary kind.  Its body would immediately go into the throes of labour doubling in size every few seconds as thousands of offspring popped into existence within its belly.  The bloater's outer epidermal layer was cartilaginous and incredibly tough; most bloaters grew to extraordinary proportions before the skin would burst, spilling countless offspring across the land.  Fortunately, it would be years before these offspring had the ability to likewise spawn, giving them enough time to find a patch of sand to call their own.

        If there was one thing more incredible than the existence of such a peculiar creature, it was the Kobolds' ability to find a use for it.

            On the flat expanse of rock directly below the skyshop, three huge mobile frames were being pulled into place by teams of garumphs.  'Is there any animal you are not using for this grand operation?' Mulupo said sarcastically.  Ablo didn't respond; he was too enthralled by the sight of the majestic structures being pulled towards the centre of Mine One's base.  The frames were made from oakaen timber and shatterstone plating.  In the centre of each frame a long thick post was mounted.  The huge lengths of wood had been imported from neighbouring Acoran where trees known as spear-pines grew impossibly tall and perfect.  Capped in black iron, the posts were pile-drivers and would be the tool by which the miners would break through to the cavern below the floor of Mine One.

            The frames were pulled into position.  The garumphs were released from the harnesses that connected them to the frames and led away.

        Mulupo turned his back on from the spectacle below him and poured himself another glass of aleberry which he drank in one gulp.  He then leapt up onto the rail of the skyshop. Holding one of the mooring lines, he jumped over the edge and slid down the rope.

        'Where are you going?' cried Ablo, taken by surprise.

        Mulupo stopped his rapid descent.  He looked up and said, 'Mr Ablo, whilst I delight in the occasion before us, the Kobolds' treatment of the immortellis is unconscionable.  I have said it before and will reiterate myself whilst I hang here betwixt shop and mine – the Kobolds' use of these poor denizens of the desert is exploitation of a most disappointing pedigree.'

        Ablo gazed over to where a Kobold carrying a wooden box walked from frame to frame depositing a single bloater in a tray underneath each suspended pile-driver.  He turned back to the Spriggan.  'Mulupo, they don’t feel any pain,' he said unconvincingly.

 

        'Childbirth is always painful, Ablo.  You don't need to be a Caquikki scholar to know that!' Mulupo shouted back in plain terms.

        'But aren’t you going to watch the ceremony?'

        'Yes, I'll be back when this offensive part has played itself out.'

            'But what are you going to do?' cried Ablo, shouting louder as Mulupo recommenced his slide down the rope.

        'I'm going to read a book or two,' the Spriggan replied impishly.

        From the deck to the skyshop, Ablo caught a glimpse of the brown bottle of aleberry Mulupo had secreted into his coat pocket.  He smiled and returned to gazing across the pit from his vantage point in the air.

 

 

Mulupo landed clumsily in the middle of a picnic rug a family of Kobolds had laid out on the cobblestone promenade.  He accidentally placed one of his hooves into the middle of a shelp pie that was just about to be served for dinner.  Apologising for the mistake, he awkwardly backed his way off the rug, knocking over a carafe of wine as he did so.  'My deepest apologies, madam' he said to the awestruck Kobold woman who had been kneeling over the pie.  He quickly picked up the almost empty carafe and – without thinking – he thrust his nose into the neck of the decanter and sniffed.  His face then contorted into a theatrical show of displeasure.  'Perhaps it was good fortune that my haphazard arrival from above led to the spillage of this carafe’s contents. The bouquet of this wine could only be likened to the fragrance one associates with the excretory product of a diseased bovine.'

        The Kobold woman, infuriated by the incomprehensible and unsolicited review of her selection of beverage picked up one of the few remaining slices of pie and hurled it at the Mulupo.  He ducked and the pie flew over the promenade balcony to land twenty feet below at the feet of one of the garumphs that had brought in the mining frames. The creature sniffed at the pie, licked it tentatively, and then grunted in displeasure at the taste.  It seemed Mulupo wasn’t the only critic at the ceremony.

        Having extricated himself from his predicament, Mulupo made his way through the throngs of Kobolds and Spriggans lining every spare inch of Mine One.  He made his way up the wide steps that led to the broad, bold statues of the Caquikki.  These were his favourite statues in Mine One.  When Mulupo was much younger, his mother would often find him curled up in the huge arms of a Caquikki scholar, reading the engraved text in the books the statue invariably held.

 

 

Gargo Corbo, the Mayor of Sarras, finished his opening speech to thunderous applause.  The speech was everything the Kobolds wanted in a public address – it was simple and it was brief.  By contrast, the ensuing speech made by the Head of the Guild of Merchants, a Spriggan by the name of Muppo, was interminably long.  There were very few Kobolds who had the slightest idea what he was talking about, but the Spriggans gathered throughout Mine One burst into cacophonous bouts of laughter at various points in his bombastic oratory.

        The preliminary speeches were followed by an extraordinarily beautiful performance of a piece of music that had been written for the occasion.  The Spriggan musicians stood on a small stage that had been erected on the flat ground of Mine One, surrounded by grouts and garumphs.  Behind the band, numerous Kobolds made the final preparations on the frames bearing the huge posts that would be used to break through the rocky base of the mine.

 

 

With all heads turned to the platform for the opening speeches, Mulupo used the distraction to acquire a lantern that a family of Kobolds did not seem to need.  He wound his way through a group of Caquikki statues he had not visited since his youth.  Incredibly, some of these pieces were over a thousand years old but gleamed as if they had just been carved, largely due to the devoted care the mine's curators had lavished upon them.

        Mulupo climbed upon the broad back of a white marble statue and swung himself over its shoulders into its thick arms.  He looked up at the statue's powerful face.  It was a man who had a stern, provident countenance.  The eyes of the Caquikki were cast upward, out of the mine, looking to the horizon.  His mouth was open, and it seemed that the sculptor had captured a moment in time when the man had been reading aloud from the book he held in his hands.

        Mulupo placed the lantern's handle in the statue's mouth, uncorked his bottle of aleberry wine and settled down to read.

 

 

On the floor on Mine One, the music and speeches had ended.  Kobolds wound massive cranks at the sides of the pile-driver frames and the huge iron-clad poles in the centre of the frames were lifted a few feet into the air.  At the top of the frames, where the far end of the poles faced the sky, a rubbery belt ran across the opening, fixed to either side of the frame.  The belt was actually made from the sinew of a garumph and was impossible to tear or break.  The top of the poles pushed against this thick strip of sinew, and it stretched as it was prodded by the thick finger of wood beneath it.  Under the lower end of the poles, in a small tray the base of each frame, a small, hapless bloater mewed happily, unaware of what the Kobolds had in store for it.

        A number of Kobolds bearing jugs approached the frames and poured a few drops of water into the trays beneath the posts.  The bloaters were thrust into violent childbirth by the water that had been poured on them.  Within seconds they were ten times their original size and growing.  The poles above them pushed up against the sinewy belt at the top of the frames.  The belt stretched but showed no signs of breaking.  The bloaters continued to grow at a phenomenal rate, as their bellies filled with hundreds of offspring.  Upwards and outwards the bodies of the bloaters expanded, and the frames creaked in unison as the iron-clad poles were forced higher.  The crowd held its breath as the three quarters of the poles were seen above the tops of the frames, the belts stretched to an impossible degree.  The frames resembled the bows of Tuirrenian archers – the garumph sinews were the bowstrings and the poles were the arrows nocked in position, ready to fire into the flesh of the earth.  The tension upon the belts was only rivalled by the tension in the crowd awaiting the moment when the huge, pregnant bodies of the bloaters would explode, bringing thousands of baby bloaters into the world.

 

 

Mulupo was intrigued at what he was reading.  According to the footnote inscribed at the bottom of the stone page, the carved text was taken from parchments that were many centuries old.  The Spriggan leant forward and craned his head over the top of the book to read its cover.  The title engraved upon the spine read: ‘A Short History of the Breaches’ by Professor Shawnessy Fall.  Mulupo sat back, took another swig of aleberry wine and returned to his reading:

        'At the turn of the twelfth century, the Assembly of Nations put in place a mechanism that would keep at bay the growing evil below the Myr.  The Pryderi from Morae were brought in to supply illumination.  Their white light stopped the approach of the Ghul so the Kobold and Sessymirian teams could seal the breaches while battalions of the Myr's finest soldiers drove back the Cabal.  The work continued through the night, with rotating shifts of miners carrying out the masonry just as covens of Pryderi relieved one another to keep the mine bathed in light.

        The sealing of the breaches was a national event. Helyan, Tuathan and Arnakki soldiers brought in granite from Tethra; Sessymirians and Kobolds laid the stone as Tuirrenian and Acoran archers stood guard; and the Caquikki and Morgai managed the entire project from start to finish. Spriggans roamed the mining camp selling wares and Nessan chefs prepared meals all day and night for the thousands of workers involved.

        The entire project took over seven years.  These workers moved across the Myr, wherever a breach was found. When the seal was physically finished, the Morgai descended onto the stone barrier and cast a sealing spell. A brass plaque was placed in the centre of every seal bearing a warning written in the old Morgai tongue: Magicka fed a tempa - magick fades in time.  And lastly, over the Tethran stonework the Morgai poured enough rubble and rock to bury a Colossi.'

        Mulupo sat up and pondered the phrase.  He had heard it before. Two months ago, Ablo had told him of the plaque a grout had unearthed at the bottom of Mine One.  This had to be the very plaque the book made mention of.  His heart-rate quickened when he thought of the coincidence.  He decided a drink was in order as his mind tried to digest what he had just read.

 

 

When the bloaters exploded, they exploded violently. The mother's enceinte body was scattered in a thousand blue pieces as countless offspring broke free from their short-lived prison.  The huge poles that had been pushed upward by the pregnant bloater's expanding body shot downwards at a phenomenal speed, and the impact as it slammed into the ground sent reverberations throughout the entire pit.  The stone beneath all three towers cracked and splintered.  It would not be long before the Kobolds broke through to the cavern underneath.

 

 

Having finished off the last drops of aleberry wine, Mulupo hunched back over the marble book.  There was no more text but there was a rather ornate relief on the facing page.  It was a picture of seven cloaked individuals standing with their arms outstretched, their hands touching, in some arcane ritual.  'Morgai,' Mulupo mused.  Then he noticed something startling.  Although the immediate landscape surrounding the circle of Morgai was unrecognizable, in the background he could make out three distinct mountain peaks.  He lifted his eyes from the stone page and looked out across the empty space before him.  Beyond the far side of Mine One, distant but recognizable, were the same mountains.  They were the three tallest peaks of the Camul Ranges to the east.  It was as if the artist who had etched the picture was standing exactly where the statue had been placed.  A small caption underneath the picture read: 'The Morgai seal the Sarras Breach'.

        Mulupo's head swirled with the potent effects of the Nessan wine. He tried to make sense of what he had read.  The text made mention of creatures called the Ghul and the Cabal.  From what his addled mind could deduce, these creatures were races from a realm beneath the rock under his hooves and they were evil.  So evil in fact, they had been sealed beneath the Myr thousands of years ago by the combined efforts of many nations.  The Morgai – who Mulupo had thought were the stuff of poorly written bedtime stories – had placed a mystical barrier over the physical barrier the Kobolds of old had placed to stop up the breaches.  Lastly, a warning was left in the form of a strange phrase – ‘Magick fades in time’.

        It was enough to catapult Mulupo into sobriety.  The breaches had been sealed to rid the Myr of some terrifying enemy and the Kobolds were attempting to open the seal. Suddenly, it seemed like a distinctly bad idea to break through the base of Mine One.

        Mulupo leapt down from the Caquikki statue and shot through the crowds who had begun cheering manically each time the pile-drivers pounded into Mine One's floor.  The Spriggan was shouting for the mining to stop, but he could hardly hear his own voice above the din.

Whoomp!  Whoomp!  Whoomp!

        The pile-drivers slammed into the cracked stone and large chunks of it broke away.  The crowds jostled to catch a glimpse of the historic moment when the miners broke through to the cavern beneath.  Mulupo tried to push his way through, but the throng had surged forward and in doing so had become an impenetrable mass.  He screamed out his warnings but even if they could hear him, no-one was listening.  He found he could not go forward – the way was blocked by excited Kobolds and Spriggans standing shoulder to shoulder.  He was stuck.

Whoomp!  Whoomp!  Whoomp!

        Again the pile-drivers pounded the rock and thousands of shards and splinters shot out across the floor of Mine One.  Dust from the concussive force of the pile-drivers hung momentarily in the air before descending upon the people like light rain.  No-one seemed to mind.  They all knew that the miners were close to breaking through and a little dust was a small price to pay for a share in the riches that awaited Sarras.

        Something lightly touched Mulupo's shoulder.  It was the rope from his skyshop, still hanging where he left it.

        'Ablo!'

        Mulupo had completely forgotten about the Kobold up in his skyshop.  He had to warn Ablo.  With admirable agility and speed, Mulupo hauled himself hand over hand up the rope to his skyshop.

        As soon as Mulupo's hooves hit the deck of the skyshop, he darted past Ablo and scrambled up the guy ropes to open the burners that would take them out of the pit and away from the danger that lurked beneath.

        'What are you doing?' Ablo barked in a gruff voice, realizing that the Spriggan was preparing to ascend.

        'We must away, Mr Ablo.  I fear we have stumbled into a most dire predicament.'

        Ablo frowned.  'Not for the first time today, I find myself unable to understand you Mulupo  The miners are almost through.  It is the worst time to leave.'

        Mulupo jumped down from the burners and started unfastening the cords that controlled the balloon's skirts.  'Oh, I must take a contrary view, Mr Ablo.  Now would be a most prudent time to depart!  Now do be a good fellow and bring me some Cold.  I'll need it to sustain a maximum rate of ascendancy.'

        'Why do you want to leave the mine?' Ablo grunted infuriated by the Spriggan's erratic behaviour.

        'No, no, no! Not just the mine, Mr Ablo,' Mulupo replied.  'I think it would a very good idea to leave Sarras now.  In fact, perhaps we should leave Camulos altogether.'

        Ablo had reached his limit.  Minutes ago he was enjoying the best view in Mine One, sipping the finest Nessan wine and smiling down at the Kobolds who looked up at his vantage point with undisguised envy.  Now, he was being told he had to leave not just the event, but his country too.  'Mulupo, unless you tell me what is going on, I am going to tie you down –'

Whoomp!  Whoomp!  Whoomp!

        A great cracking noise filled the air, drowning out all other sound.  The cracking was swiftly replaced by a deafening cheer which rose up into the air accompanied by a billowing cloud of dust that swallowed up the light of the lanterns like an esurient beast.  The miners had broken through and the floor beneath the towers fell away.  Large cracks shot out across the ground.  The holes beneath the pile-drivers grew.  Bloaters that had spawned all over the ground were now rapidly disappearing as was the floor of Mine One.

        'Oh dear!' muttered Mulupo as he gazed gingerly over the railing.

        Ablo looked over at the Spriggan and wagged a stumpy finger at him. 'Don't you do anything.  We're staying put.'

        Whether it was curiousity or loyalty to his business partner, Mulupo did not know, but he decided to abandon his attempts to leave.  He watched as the three pile-driver towers toppled into the gaping hole below.  The floor of the mine had been replaced by a vast, empty, black space.  At the base of the promenade wall encircling the chasm, hundreds upon thousands of bloaters huddled around the feet of the garumphs, grouts and Kobolds that had retreated from the growing breach.  Luckily the hole had not enveloped the platform upon which were seated the Mayor, his brother and other VIPs. They all stared out across the chasm before them in stunned silence, not knowing whether to be terrified or elated over what had just transpired.  As the dust settled on the ground, the new mine's owner, Kalen Corbo, stood up and proudly proclaimed, 'We have done it!  A new era has arrived!'

        Without warning, a long thin arrow sailed out of the blackness before the platform and embedded itself in Corbo's throat.  He fell backwards, clutching at his neck, his thick hands fumbling around as his mind tried to comprehend what had just happened to him.  He flopped to the wooden floor of the platform.  The Mayor dropped down to cradle his brother in his arms.  A long, gargling sound lurched out of Kalen’s mouth and he died.

        The crowd held its breath.  Most could not see what had happened on the platform but a feeling of dread swept around the pit like a cold wind.  Then in the gloom, figures could be seen emerging from the hole.  They were bipedal but looked like no race that walked upon the Myr. Their skin was grey, like ashes on the hearth, and each figure was adorned in the unfamiliar bones of monstrous creatures.  They carried long spears, bows, knives and maces, all fashioned from bone.

        Up in the skyshop, Ablo looked incredulously at the scene before him.  'What are these creatures Mulupo?' he asked the Spriggan desperately.

        'At a guess, I would postulate that they are the Ghul.'

        Ablo wasn’t interested in their name.  'But what are they?'

        Mulupo's brow furrowed as he watched a seemingly endless procession of figures exiting the breach.  'They are evil Mr Ablo and we have just opened the door and let them in.'

 

 

Within minutes, the pallid, cadaverous bodies of the Ghul spilled from the womb of the earth.  Most of the miners who had operated the pile-drivers had scampered up the promenade wall and were cowering behind the broad statues which stared impassively at the terrifying army before them.  On the platform by the breach, dignitaries were being held to their seats by the obscene creatures that soon filled the base of Mine One.  Gargo Corbo hovered over the body of his dead brother like an animal protecting its young. The Ghul said nothing, but gazed back at the black opening, waiting for their lord and master to arrive.

        Suddenly, the hordes of Ghul before the platform parted and at the far end of the empty avenue leading from the hole hobbled a tall, thin man.  He looked old, as if life had finished with him but he had kept on living anyway.  His skin was pocked and cratered, a dirty and ugly landscape devoid of life.  Leprosy had made its mark upon his face but the man's eyes burned with iridescent intensity.  His hair was a tousled, monochromatic mess just like his garb, a gown of black furs ripped off the back of some misbegotten subterranean beast.  Despite his ragged appearance and spasmodic motion, the main held himself with an imperious air, a notion reinforced by the subservient behaviour of his underlings.

        Whispers flew around Mine One.  The arrival of the Ghul had shocked the Spriggans and Kobolds but the sight of a man limping out of the hole in the ground was impossible to fathom.

        The man paused and looked up at the sky, drinking in the night air like a deep draught of ale.  He gazed at the stars which shone more radiantly than any jewel he had ever seen in the bowels of the earth.  And when a gentle wind caressed his face, he sighed mournfully, and tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes.  One hand held a bone staff, and when the other arm came up to wipe away the tears with the folds of his cloak, it became apparent to the crowd that this diseased old man was without his left hand.

        The man slowly made his way up the space his soldiers had created for him, his crippled gait a violent, disturbing thing to see.  He paused at the foot of the dignitaries' platform and his lieutenant held out a hand to assist him up the stairs.  He smiled at the Ghul commander but did not take his hand.  'Thank-you Lucetious, but I will take the stage when I am invited.'  His voice was coarse but his diction was refined.  Each syllable was well-rounded and spoken with such precision that it seemed at odds with his roughshod appearance.

        The man looked up at the vast crowd just staring blankly down at him and his strange army.  He smiled, relishing their incredulity.  His teeth looked like loose rubble lying across the floor of a dank quarry.

        'My fellow Myrrans!' he cried, his voice echoing off the walls of the pit.  As he spoke, he turned to gaze upon the entire populace gathered in Mine One.  'It is with a wonderful sense of joy that I stand before you tonight.  My name is Caliban Grayson and my companions are the Ghul.'

 

 

Up in the skyshop, Mulupo and Ablo could see and hear everything transpiring beneath them.  At the mention of the Ghul, Mulupo blanched.  He did not know what atrocities they were capable of inflicting upon the people of Camulos, but if the book in the hands of the marble Caquikki was any indication, they were to be feared absolutely.  The only person who had nothing to fear was Kalen Corbo, lying dead in his brother’s arms.

        'That man - who is he?' whispered Ablo to Mulupo so quietly that the Spriggan barely heard him.

        'That is not knowledge I can lay claim to, but I know where he’s from,' Mulupo replied. 'He’s Pelinese.'

        Ablo said nothing, but a slight furrowing of the brows suggested that he did not understand so Mulupo spelt it out for him.

            'I recognize the accent. That man, Caliban, is from Pelinore.'

        'Where’s Pelinore?'

        'It is a large city to the north-east, in Scoriath.'

        'What’s wrong with his skin?'

        'A rudimentary prognosis based on the visible evidence – the chronic loss of skin pigmentation, the many lesions on the face and hand, and the inflamed nodules beneath the skin – would suggest our uninvited guest’s epidermal layer is severely compromised by a granulomatous disease , specifically erythema nodosum leprosum.'

        Ablo simply stared at Mulupo, waiting for the inevitable simplification to follow.

        'He has leprosy, Mr Ablo. Caliban Grayson is a leper.'

        'And what is he saying?'

        'I’m not sure. My aural abilities are currently divided in their attention.'

        Ablo concentrated hard upon Mulupo’s last comment.  After a pause, he said, 'You want me to be quiet?'

        Mulupo smiled.  'Yes,' he said with uncharacteristic linguistic directness.

 

 

Caliban was enjoying himself. It had been thirty years since he had stood in the open air, and his senses were intoxicated with long-forgotten sensations.

        The Ghul stood to attention, watching him silently.  Their senses were also assaulted with a vast array of stimuli.  Strange smells were borne on the air, odours free of the dirt and clamminess of the subterranean realm they called home.  Rich, thick scents wafted up their nostrils and lay like a carpet across their throats.  Even in the dim grey light of the pit, the Ghul soldiers could perceive colours they had never experienced before.  Sounds from innumerable sources cut into their ears with a clarity that was almost painful to experience.  In the Endless, the name given to their realm millennia ago, most noises were muted and dulled by the rock, but here in the open air everything was sharp and unequivocal.  The intricate ornamentation of stars above the pit captivated the Ghul, shining with a radiance that struck out like shiny pins drawing silver threads across an ebony cloak.

        Despite the beauty of the new experience, or perhaps because of it, the overwhelming sensory stimulation nauseated many of the Ghul, who found neither wonder nor tranquility in the elicitations of this new world.  Some of the soldiers, disturbed by the exotic environment surrounding them, shifted uneasily on their feet and looked about malevolently at the strange people who just stared blankly back.

        'Can you feel it, my friends?' Caliban shouted up into the crowds surrounding him.  All eyes fell upon the old man, even those of the Ghul. 'Can you feel it?'

        The stunned, silent masses of stupefied Spriggans and Kobolds continued to gape at the scene before them, unable to comprehend the arrival of the swarm of strange, skeletal beings and their Myrran leader.

            'The world has changed this night. It has changed irrevocably, for now we share it. Now, after thirty years I can breathe the air again and for the first time in many millennia, the Ghul can witness the majesty of unconfined skies and live as free people.  You have emancipated us, broken the bars of our imprisonment and for that we are truly grateful.'  Caliban Grayson smiled as he bowed generously before his audience.

        Unexpectedly, a Kobold voice rang out shrilly in the thin twilight air.  'Is this how you repay us, then?'  It was Gargo Corbo standing on the platform above Caliban, his dead brother lying across his arms, the bone arrow still sticking out his throat. Gargo stepped down the wooden stairs and slowly walked up to Caliban.  He lay his brother at Caliban's feet.  Blood seeped out around the shaft of the arrow and ran down across Kalen Corbo’s neck until it dripped off to create a grumose, crimson pool around Caliban's feet.  'This does not look like gratitude to me.'

        Suddenly a heavy thud echoed across the pit as Lieutenant Lucetious brought the knotted head of a thick bone club down upon Gargo Corbo's skull.  The club, the femur of some strange subterranean beast, split open the Kobold's dense cranial skin, and the Mayor of Sarras dropped heavily to the dirt where his blood mingled with that of his brother's.

        'Silence!' Lucetious commanded.  'No-one has given you permission to speak.'  He spoke without colour, with little inflection and even less passion - the soulless voice of a soulless race.  Lucetious was taller than the other Ghul.  His macerated skin was characterized by the same deathly pallor as that exhibited by others of his race, but there was something about him that set him apart.

            At his feet, Gargo curled up into a foetal position, groaning with pain, oblivious to the Ghul commander's demand for silence.

        Caliban looked dispassionately at the two Kobold brothers before him.  He then glanced up at the horrified crowd.  The violence that had just taken place was completely alien to them and it seemed they did not know how to respond to it.

        Caliban turned earnestly to his lieutenant and said, 'Lucetious, we have much to do before the sun stains the sky.  Are Cribella's children ready?'

        Lucetious nodded deferentially.  'They are indeed, my lord.'  He then cried shrilly across the pit, 'Bring forth the arachna!'  Within seconds, four mammoth quadrupedal creatures with magnificent thick white horns emerged from the gaping maw.  The beasts pulled equally large leather sacks behind them.  From the skyshop overhead, Mulupo could see that there was something in each of the sacks, writhing furiously in an attempt to free itself from its leathery cell.

        Ablo pointed at the huge beasts of burden that had drawn alongside Lucetious and Caliban.  'Are they arachna?' he whispered to Mulupo, pointing to the horned beasts.

        The Spriggan shook his head.  'Mr Ablo, I am afraid I must confess that my knowledge of the fauna of this secret world beneath our feet is as limited as your own.  However, I would deduce via a crude path of etymology that those bovid animals are hollow-horned ruminants. I imagine the arachna are in the bags.'

        Directly below them the Ghul had stripped off the ropes that had tethered the sacks to the beasts.

        'Release them!' shouted Lucetious, his thin, ashen arms held aloft in a stirring gesture.

        The ropes around the necks of the bags were uncoiled.  In an explosion of gossamer and crystal, thousands upon thousands of tiny bugs filled the air, their crystalline abdomens emanating a soft, warm light that split into countless shards as it shone through their multifaceted, translucent bodies.  The arachna swirled around the pit and then shot out into sky above, flittering stars breaking free from the darkness surrounding them.  Mulupo and Ablo ducked as a cluster of the bugs flew past the skyshop en route to the wide expanses above.

        In the pit below, Caliban was rapturous, wringing his robes with his right hand as he watched the arachna disappear into the darkening sky. 'Fly to faraway lands my pretty things,' he cried elatedly, 'so that I may see again.'

        Sprawled out on the deck of the skyshop Ablo frowned.  'What does that mean, Mulupo?  What does he mean by being able to see again?  Is he blind?'

        'I do not think so Mr Ablo.  I think it is time we expedited our departure post haste.'

        'You think we should leave?'

        'Oh, most certainly Mr Ablo.  It would be a most judicious course of action,' the Spriggan nodded as he made his way over to the centre of the skyshop and surreptitiously climbed up to the burners.

        Mulupo's sense of trepidation was echoed and magnified in the crowd below.  Their incredulity had withered.  Fear now grew in its place and it had sprouted roots and vines that spread quickly.  Kobolds and Spriggans edged back, many of them suggesting similar courses of action to that proposed by Mulupo in the skyshop above.

        Caliban could sense the change in mood and realized it was time to move proceedings along.  'Is there one among you that can be called leader?'  He spoke with absolute confidence and precision.  'Who speaks for you?'

        At his feet, Gargo Corbo lifted his head and stated with as much defiance as his groggy state would allow, 'I do.'

        Lucetious' hands shot out and grabbed the Kobold by the scruff of the neck.  With surprising ease, he lifted Gargo onto his feet, leaving the Mayor’s dead brother sprawled in the dust.  The Kobold stood a little over half Caliban's height.  Caliban's eyes focused upon the Mayor who stared back with a recalcitrant gaze.

        'You rule these people?' Caliban asked casually.

        Gargo sneered.  'I am their elected representative.  Kobolds and Spriggans have no ruler.  I am the Mayor of Sarras.  My name is Gargo Corbo.'

        Caliban nodded, his face a mask to any emotions he was experiencing.  'And this?' he said, prodding the dead body at this feet with the toe of an old leather boot.

        'That was my brother, the owner of this mine,' Gargo stated coldly.

        'Was it his idea to dig so deeply?'

        Gargo looked over at the dark opening that had vomited up the Ghul.  He lifted his eyes and for the first time noticed the terrified faces of the Sarrans who had gathered to celebrate the event.  He looked down at the leper’s dirty boot resting upon his brother's still body.  'These excavations were my idea,' he said flatly.

        Caliban took his foot off the corpse and glanced skyward, noticing for the first time the airships hanging above him.  One of them, the closest, was edging skyward ever so slowly, as if to leave the scene without being noticed.  Caliban noted it and returned to the conversation with the Mayor.  'Why may I ask?  Why did you unearth us?'

        'We had no idea that anyone dwelt beneath the stone.  We are miners.  We unearth precious gems and minerals, not… monsters.'  It was a provocative comment.  Gargo's mind was reeling.  He was experiencing emotions he had never encountered before.  He wanted to flee; he wanted to kill the hideous old man standing over him; he wanted the people of Sarras to be somewhere else, somewhere safe.

        Gargo looked down upon his brother and felt as if his heart had been pierced by the same arrow that had slain Kalen.  Grief swelled up in him and he knelt down to hold his brother once more.

            He was cold. Gargo was stunned at how quickly a body could lose its warmth.  He glared up at Caliban's face, a face riddled with sores and welts, its flesh a horrid salmagundi of pink and white.

        Caliban bent down and lifted Kalen Corbo's head from the crook of Gargo's arm.  'This is a sorry sight.  This is what becomes of greed.' Gargo reeled back and snarled, 'Get your filthy hand off him!'

        Lucetious stepped forward and drew his blade.  Caliban smiled paternally at his lieutenant who was always so quick to show his loyalty.  'It would seem, Lucetious, that diplomatic relations have broken down. You may deploy your units.'

        Gargo looked around frantically as Lucetious strode to the podium and lifted a twisted ivory horn. A single deep, lowing note reverberated across the pit. The soldiers on the floor of Mine One quickly joined their compatriots on the promenade, making space for whatever lay in the darkness at the centre of the pit.

        'We don't want trouble!' implored Gargo Corbo to the one-handed figure standing before him.

        'Perhaps you should have thought of that before you disinterred us,' retorted Caliban, his body turned, his eyes focused on the gaping hole from which he had come.

        'It… it is our way to mine,' said Corbo desperately.

        'Well that is most fortuitous,' smiled Caliban, momentarily turning back to face the forlorn Kobold still clutching his brother to his chest, 'for I have a lot of digging for you to do.'

        It was at this point that Corbo realized that the old man was not someone who would consider any point of view other than his own.  He clearly had absolute control over these frightening beings he called the Ghul.  Whatever the madman intended, it was not something the Kobolds could accept.  'We will not do anything for you,' the Mayor said defiantly.

        Caliban looked curiously at the obstinate Kobold.  The one called Lucetious had returned to stand by his master's side.  'Lieutenant, I do believe we need to make an example of our new friend the Mayor.  If I may have your blade, please.'

        Without hesitation, the Ghul lieutenant handed his sword to Caliban who wasted no time in using it.  The blade cut through the air.  A second later, the Mayor's decapitated body fell to the ground.  His head rolled across the rubble to rest against Caliban's ankles.

        Caliban bent down and picked up the bloody head, holding it high for all to see. His voice rang out across the pit.  'People of Camulos. You will quickly learn that compliance is a virtue and obstinacy a crime.'

        Suddenly new horrors exploded from the dark cavity in the middle of the Mine One.  Countless Ghul riding six-legged, horned arthropods burst across the rock and leapt up into the stands.  The creatures, skitteriks the Ghul called them, moved in pairs and dragged thick grey nets between them.  Screams broke out across Mine One as hundreds of Kobolds and Spriggans tried to escape but were no match for the fleet-footed skitteriks.  A few Kobolds stood their ground but were cut down without any hesitation.  Nothing could stem the terrible tide sweeping up over the pit and into the streets of Sarras.

        Caliban smiled at how easy it all was. Lucetious stood to attention by his side, waiting for additional orders, but his master seemed too absorbed in the moment to be giving thought to his next move.  However, there was never a second where Caliban’s mind was not considering the grander scheme. He turned to his lieutenant and said, ‘The city of Sarras must be taken by morning. The Ghul will take shelter where they can during the day. Tomorrow evening they will spread throughout Camulos.  This land must be emptied before any word gets out of our arrival. As discussed, every living Kobold is to be taken to Succellos. She is quite beside herself in anticipation.

        The lieutenant nodded.  'My lord, we do not have enough nets or skitteriks to catch all the Kobolds . Should we kill those who are not caught?'  He gestured towards a small band of Kobolds cowering in the shadows where the road that wound around the mine met the promenade.

        Caliban made a clicking sound deep in his throat which indicated his disapproval of Lucetious' suggestion.  Lieutenant, I do love you like a brother, but your distinct lack of subtlety is sometimes hard to wear.'

        Lucetious hung his head low as if struck a blow.

        'There are always other ways,' Caliban continued.  'It is strategically foolish to rely upon one course of action.  It is time to place some new pieces on the board.'  Caliban turned to a rather plump, decidedly ugly Ghul soldier to his left.  'Sergeant Gormgut, please bring her ladyship out.'

        'Her… ladyship?' questioned Lucetious, surprised by this unexpected interaction with the Gormgut, a grunt who had done little in Lucetious' eyes to merit any attention.  The lieutenant's eyes glowered as the corpulent sergeant hurried away to the centre of the pit and disappeared into the darkness below.

        Caliban just stood quietly, occasionally glancing up into the upper reaches of Mine One where the Ghul footsoldiers were making their way into the city above.  The cobblestone road was bloodstained.  The Kobolds were a hardy people but they were not warriors. Many had been caught in nets which were now being dragged down into the depths of the earth.  Most of the Ghul cavalry had disappeared over the uppermost lip of the pit, but soon reappeared with twenty to thirty Kobolds caught between each pair of skitteriks.

        The Spriggans were initially a bit luckier than the Kobolds.  They were a lot more sprightly than their stocky countrymen which helped effect their escape from Mine One.  Strangely, the Ghul seemed almost oblivious to their presence.  Only the Spriggans who actively sought out conflict were touched, and dealt with so punitively that others quickly realized that the only way to stay alive was to keep out of the path of the Ghul.

        Up in the skyshop, Mulupo had thrown all caution to the wind.  He had closed all the vents and had turned the burners on full blast.  As the Ghul hordes made their way into the streets of Sarras, Mulupo's balloon cleared the rim of the mine and was entering the safety of the sky.

        'My lord, what of the Spriggans?' asked Lucetious softly as he awaited Sergeant Gormgut's return.

        Caliban shot a glance up at the balloons above and frowned.  'Try as I might,' he mused, 'I can't think of a single use for them.  We'll kill them all.'

            He clicked his hand and two female soldiers to his left stepped forward, one holding a wide bow in her left hand, the other carrying a small drum which hung from her waist alongside a long, coiled whip.  They were sisters, both taller than most Ghul, with long white hair which fell from the crown of their heads to the smalls of their backs.  They were members of Caliban's military elite and held themselves with the pride the Ghul had attached to such a position.

        'Major Chabriel,' said Caliban, 'you may fire when ready.'

        Chabriel slung her drum around so that it sat on her belly.  She took two long, thin bones from her belt and struck the instrument.  'Grenadiers at the ready!' she sang out as she rapped on the drum's leather skin.

        A line of ten Ghul soldiers stepped forward, each holding a large, sharp spike in their hands. The spikes had been torn from the spine of a subterranean beast known as a needleback.  Chabriel struck her drum again. In unison, the grenadiers bent their bodies back, right back so that the spikes rested on the ground behind them.  It seemed impossible that a spine could bend so far backwards without snapping, but the line of Ghul soldiers did not seem to be suffering any significant discomfort.  Chabriel commenced a drum roll that seemed to last an eternity.  The bodies of the grenadiers shook with increasing tension, their sinews quivering beneath their thin, wan skin.  Suddenly the drum roll ceased and Chabriel cried out, 'Fire!'

        The bodies of the grenadiers shot up into an upright position releasing the spikes the way Mulupo had once seen the Arnakki of the north fire catapults at Sessymirian ships that strayed too close to their icy shoreline.  The spikes were flung high and wide covering an incredible distance.  Even more amazing was the unerring marksmanship of the grenadiers.  All ten spikes hit a target. Once the hideous volley was over, ten Spriggans lay writhing on the cobblestones of the Mine One road, each victim with a two foot spike buried in his or her stomach.  The writhing quickly stopped as the paralysing properties of the missiles spread through each Spriggan's body, putting an end to all movement.  Not long after, Ghul footsoldiers put an end to their frozen pain by lopping off their heads.

        'Reload!' Chabriel barked out and her squadron of grenadiers picked up another round of spikes to fling at the retreating Spriggans.

        Caliban's eyes squinted with satisfaction.  The grenadiers had been everything Chabriel had promised they would be.  He glanced over at Drabella who had stood quietly to attention while her sister performed her duties.  'Drabella,' he said softly.

        'My lord?'

        Caliban pointed to the skyshops exiting Mine One hundreds of feet above.  'Drabrella, I don't want a single Spriggan to leave the city.'

        She gave the balloons a haughty gaze and then in a blur nocked three long arrows at once in her long bow.  In the space of a few seconds she had loosed nine arrows into the dark sky.

        Up in his skyshop, Mulupo saw the three balloons around him being hit by the volley of arrows.  The holes in the balloons quickly enlarged as hot air pushed through the perforations into the cool night air and within moments the dirigibles were sinking back into the pit.  Ablo looked over the rails of the skyshop to see, far below, a Ghul soldier pulling back the drawstring of her bow, her eyes fixed on Mulupo's vessel.  Without thinking he shot himself up onto the rail just as the arrows left the bow, throwing his body into the path of the missiles.  The arrows' shafts speared into his chest, and his body toppled over the edge of the skyshop.

        Caliban saw the figure plummeting from the skyshop directly above and stepped to one side.  But the falling body never actually hit the ground.  Ablo was only feet above the dirt when a mass of grey webbing shot across the pit and caught him in its sticky grasp.  The webbing attached itself to the walls of the pit just below the promenade, pinning the hapless Kobold to the stone.  A cry of pain exploded from Ablo's bloody lips.

        The Kobold's scream was drowned out by a deep bellowing sound which filled the pit.  Lucetious, Drabrella and all the remaining Ghul swung about to see a monstrous, blue beast squatting on its haunches at the edge of the breach.  In a carriage strapped to its thorax, the Ghul sergeant Gormgut stood with a smug grin on his bloated face.

        'My lord!' exclaimed Lucetious, clearly surprised at the appearance of the strange animal.  'What is that?'

        The creature rose on its multitudinous legs and swung its abdomen around.  The entire body shook and another sticky net shot out across the pit. The Kobolds cowering under the promenade were pinioned to the wall just as Ablo had been, alive but dazed by the impact of the sticky mass.

        'That, Lucetious, is Fulgora.'

        Lucetious was stunned by the revelation.  'You have found the remaining Cabal?'

        'She is but one of many.  The Kobolds will help us release the others.  They lie deep in the earth, but they are there, and ours to claim if we be so bold.'

        Caliban slowly made his way to the wall under the promenade where Ablo hung like a gruesome ornament with arrows of bone protruding from his chest.  Sticking his hand through the mucilaginous webbing, Caliban lifted the Kobold's head.  A faint groan sounded.  'Witness this Lucetious.  He's alive!'

        'Barely, my lord,' Lucetious observed wryly.

        Caliban ignored the comment.  'They are remarkable creatures these Kobolds.  Tough as shatterstone.  Resourceful.  Dependable.  They will serve us well.'

 

 

Up in the skyshop things weren’t much better for Mulupo.  The Spriggan had dived for Ablo when he fell from the skyshop rail and in the attempt careered into one of the bronze bollards lining the aft of the vessel.  He dropped heavily to the floor of the skyshop as it drifted out over the rim of Mine One.  As the first of Terra's moons rose over the horizon, the last thing he saw that night was the silhouette of Central Tower looming ominously in the distance.  Unfortunately, he never saw the needleback spike lobbed over the rail of his skyshop which came to rest in the soft tissue of his stomach.

 

 

At the newly-made entrance to the Endless, Caliban gave his final orders to his commanding officers. ‘Major Drabella, you and I will return to Succellos and prepare her for the arrival of the Kobolds. When our first team of Kobolds has been prepared, you will take them north to Morae. It is vital to our plans that the Morae breach be opened as soon as possible. Major Chabriel, you will stay above ground.  Take as many units as you need. Scour the country and round up any pockets of resistance.  Take Sergeant Gormgut and his new pet with you.  Make sure Gormgut understands that not a single sliver of shatterstone is to be left in the land. Camulos must be stripped bare. This is crucial to my designs. When this is done, fill this hole we have made then make for Morae. I have work for you there.'

 ‘You want to block this breach, my lord?’

 ‘I am not ready to entertain visitors just yet, Major.  Fill the breach, then head for Morae.  Do you understand your orders?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

        Caliban surveyed his officers proudly. If he had two hands, he would have rubbed them with glee. Everything was unfolding as he purposed. He had positioned his pieces on the board against opponents who were as yet unaware of the game.  'Away you go,' he said, dismissing them with a grin. 'Change the world.'

        The soldiers nodded, bowed in unison and left to perform their respective duties.  Caliban stretched out a mottled arm and placed it on Lucetious' shoulder, indicating to the lieutenant that he had more to say to him.  It was the sort of indulgence Lucetious prized.  Caliban was not one to make grand overtures regarding his plans.  He revealed pieces of the great puzzle when and where it suited him.  No-one but Caliban knew how all the pieces fitted together, but that did not bother the lieutenant.  He was content to serve Caliban.

        'I have a small errand for you, Lucetious,' Caliban whispered.  Lucetious realized instantly that the errand was of great import.  After thirty years of serving Caliban he was well accustomed to the Myrran's fondness for understatement.  'To the east lies the city-state of Cessair. There is one there who will help us. He can bring us information and resources that will be of tremendous benefit to us all. He will understand what we are trying to achieve here.'

        The lieutenant nodded, taking in all the information with a conspiratorial ear.  'Yes, my lord,' he said with quiet confidence.

        'Finding him will not be easy,' Caliban warned.  'One day, we will open a breach to Cessair, but I cannot wait for that.  You will have to travel far, over difficult terrain, before you find yourself in sight of Cessair's great tower. It will be a journey of many days, and I cannot guarantee that you will find shelter from the sun.'

        'I will find shelter and I will complete the mission,' Lucetious replied steadfastly.

        Caliban smiled. He noted how the lieutenant had replaced the word 'errand' with 'mission' and that pleased him.  Lucetious would not fail him.  'Make your way into the city.  It is my hope that you will find my associate there - an Acoran by the name of Maeldune Canna. You must bring him to me.”

        'Maeldune Canna,' Lucetious repeated to himself.

        'No-one else must see you.  The Myrrans must not be alerted to our presence.'

        'I will not be seen,' Lucetious said. Without a moment's hesitation, the lieutenant bowed and made his way across the dirt to the stairs leading up to the promenade above.

 

 

Caliban stood looking over the pit surrounding him with supercilious delight. What was once a uniquely beautiful place had been cast into ruin. Many of the statues had been broken in the Ghul attack.  Nets containing the writhing bodies of terrified Kobolds lay all around.  Countless bodies of slaughtered Spriggans cluttered the cobblestone road winding around Mine One. It had taken less than an hour.  Caliban's face beamed with satisfaction.  Long ago he had promised the Ghul much and he had delivered all he had promised and more.

        Suddenly, his eyes narrowed as they fell upon an object he had not expected to see.  It was a statue.  It took pride of place on the promenade and fortunately had been untouched by the Ghul rampage.  Caliban made his way slowly up the steps and spent a long minute staring at the marble figure.  It was the representation of a man, tall, handsome yet sombre.  A bronze plaque at its base read, ‘Gideon Grayson, Bringer of Peace’.

        Caliban called out to his lieutenant striding his way up the road leading to the city.  'Lucetious,' he called.  'I rather like this statue here. Please bring it back with you when you return.'

        'It will be done, my lord,' the lieutenant responded obediently. 

Caliban hobbled his way back down the steps and soon disappeared in the darkness at the bottom of Mine One.

 

---

 

Nine months had passed since that fateful day in Mine One.  The Ghul overran Camulos with negligible opposition. The Kobolds were quickly corralled as was much of the land's shatterstone.  To add insult to injury, the Ghul made the Kobolds carry the shatterstone into the Endless in chain-gangs that were whipped and beaten at every opportunity.  This done, the opening at the base of Mine One was sealed shut.  Although some troops were left in Camulos to seek out and kill any survivors who had escaped the Ghul’s dragnets, most had returned to the Endless to be redeployed on other assignments.

        As for Mulupo, on the night of the Ghul invasion his skyshop had drifted into one of the beams sticking out of the massive Central Tower.  The searing pain of the needleback spike in his stomach was so intense that his eyes were tightly shut as the paralysing toxins crept through his body.  He was vaguely aware that he was losing all movement in his body but it gave no relief from the pain.  All he wanted to do was end the pain.  He had enough presence of mind to pull an old tarpaulin over his body before his arm fell lifelessly to his side.  There in his skyshop, hanging precariously above the carnage taking place in the city below, with a two foot spike wedged in his abdomen, the Spriggan lay in a paralysed state.  As the metal plating was torn from the tower from which his vessel hung like a discarded toy, Mulupo lay unmoving and unseen.  The skeletal soldiers that ripped the metal skin off the magnificent structure's bones ignored the balloon – they had orders to follow.

 

 

Nine months of hibernation had taken its toll upon Mulupo but Tagtug committed himself to the Spriggan's care and within days witnessed vast improvements in his patient's state.  It was not long before Mulupo was able to talk but Tagtug found it difficult to understand the Spriggan and for a while believed him to be suffering a form of madness brought on from months of isolation.  That may have been true but as the weeks went by, Mulupo's speech did not become any more accessible.

        Although they had both survived their first contact with the Ghul, they were not in the clear.  A week after Tagtug had slid into Sarras, destroying Central Tower and saving Mulupo from probable death, a new form of danger appeared in the city.

        Marroks.

        Mulupo had seen them before on his rare trips to Bregon to the north.  He knew what they were capable of and knew to avoid them. He and Tagtug had taken refuge in Ablo’s workshop, but he knew they could not stay in Camulos for much longer.  Roving bands of Ghul and increasing numbers of sniffing, skulking marroks were all the encouragement they needed to leave.

        'There is a certain preponderance of concern in my mind regarding the appearance of these serpentine beasts so far south,' said Mulupo to an uncomprehending Tagtug one day as they silently watched the movements of a pack of marroks that had gathered in the street outside.  'They’re searching for someone –'

        Suddenly, the air outside became thick with long white arrows.  The pack of marroks dropped in a bloody mass, each body peppered with many shafts.  The sight of the volley sent chills through Mulupo's spine.  In his mind's eye, he could still see the Ghul arrows shooting into the skyshops surrounding him in Mine One the night the Kobolds opened the door to the Endless.  He could still see the arrows burying themselves into Ablo’s chest before he fell to an inevitable death.

        Mulupo dropped to the floor of the workshop, pulling Tagtug down with him.  The thought of Ghul outside the window sent a sickening feeling into the pit of his stomach.  But something was wrong.  Two things, in fact. Mulupo had only seen the Ghul twice since he had come out of his hibernation and on both occasions, it was at night.  It was also nightfall when the Ghul had invaded Sarras.  He had come to the conclusion that the Ghul were nocturnal, and yet it was midday now. Also, the Ghul did not hunt marroks. Mulupo had seen the marroks leading the Ghul through the rubble of Sarras, like hounds before their masters.  They seemed to have created an alliance of sorts, so this sudden slaughter of the pack outside did not seem to make any sense.

        Outside he could hear footsteps but didn’t dare to look out the window.  'Arm yourself,' Mulupo hissed to Tagtug.  'We can avoid ocular detection by hiding in the loft.”

        Tagtug just blinked at the Spriggan.

        'We need to act expeditiously – follow me.'

            The Mabbit followed Mulupo up to the loft and the two hid among the few wooden crates the raptorial Ghul had not smashed when they sacked the house almost a year before.

        The voices outside were replaced by the sound of the door below bursting open in a thousand splinters, followed by the pounding of feet on the wooden steps below.  Mulupo risked a quick look over the crate to find himself staring into the faces of a squad of armed soldiers.

        'At last,' said a voice.  'We've found them.'