J. King - PLANESHIFT

"It is a battle for some of us but not all," Doyenne Tajamin replied. "The Battle of Keld may be done, but there is much to rebuild-whole societies. We have not won back our land only to abandon it. Some of the heroes of Keld must fight our battles here, at hearth and fire. Many of your folk must remain as well." She moved toward the rail and gripped it with powerful fists.

Suddenly understanding, Eladamri came up beside her. "You cannot leap from the ship. The icy flood will kill you."

Tajamin did not smile, but her teeth made a hopeful line. "No. It did not kill me before and will not kill me now. I must plunge into the waters as a sleeper into dream. I will rise on the far bank remembering this ship as if it were but a delusion-I and the thousands with me. We will climb, muddy and shivering, from the flood, and we will turn around to glimpse this ship. We will see it with the same unbelieving eyes as those on shore."

Staring levelly at her, Eladamri said, "If you cannot remember anything else, Doyen Tajamin, remember this. The folk of the Skyshroud are your allies, now and forever."

"Yes, Eladamri, Uniter of Keld," the doyenne said formally, "I will remember."

With that she hurled herself over the rail. She dropped away into the gray flood and was swallowed up. After her went another and a third. Warlord Astor soon followed, and Doyen Olvresk as well, and then more than Eladamri could count. Each one disappeared in the bow waves, each reappeared, drenched and struggling in the cold tide at the ship's stern. All swam for shore and for their folk, who waded in to bring them back to the land of the living.

Eladamri rode on. He, Liin Sivi, some hundred elves, and some ten thousand Keldons rode on. From the banks, their companions watched with bald disbelief.

Only Doyenne Tajamin wore a different look. The forgetful tide had not washed away one memory. She knew.

The sight of it in her eyes gave Eladamri great comfort. His people had found a home in this land. He smiled as the Golden Argosy bore him and the heroes of Keld out into the churning sea.

Commander Grizzlegom emerged from a grim scene. Agnate lay within the tent, unmade by an axe. There wasn't much blood, he had been nearly dead before the weapon fell. The axe strokes-one for Agnate the man and the second for Agnate the undead-had been the only mercy in that awful place. The rest was grimness: the failed philters, the pus-covered bandages, the cot marked with finger-scars, the body that had died weeks ago but rested only now.

These were the foul provisions of a covenant with death.

In his four-fingered grip, Grizzlegom bore the provisions of a new covenant, a covenant with life. Commander Agnate's signed and signeted orders gave the Metathran army to Grizzlegom.

The Metathran guards outside the tent snapped to attention as Grizzlegom appeared. These two towering warriors would have to be his first witnesses, else they would enter, discover the scene within, and spread the wrong story.

"Warriors, stand to. I have something you must see."

The soldiers turned toward him. Starlight shone against their silver hair. One wore shackles at his belt, the equipment of a guard captain.

Grizzlegom presented the orders to him. "Note your master's seal. Open it. Read it."

The soldier's blue eyes studied the seal, seeing the warmth still within the wax. He cracked the wax and read. His face grew grim.

"What has happened to Commander Agnate?"

"He is dead. The plague had destroyed him. He begged me the mercy of ending his pain. I did. My healer is within, preparing the body." Drawing back the tent flap, he allowed the two Metathran to gaze within. "Agnate signed this before I dispatched him."

"This is not written in his hand," the guard captain said.

"No, he was too weak-but this is his signature, and this his signet stamp." Grizzlegom allowed the guard captain a moment before he said, "You now take orders from me. Corporal, close this tent and prevent anyone from entering. Captain, lead me to General Rilgesh."

Nodding, the guard captain said to his comrade, "You heard the commander." Then to Grizzlegom, he said, "Follow me, Commander."

They set out through the night-swathed camp. Old foes-the people of mountain and island-soon would be allies against the forces of death.

Along the near flank of the volcano, Metathran crouched in their dark circles, chewing the rock-hard fare that had come up the supply lines. They needed no fire, no light, and not even the comfort of conversation on that savage slope. These creatures were bred for war, happiest in battle. It was all they needed.

Along the opposite flank of the volcano sat minotaurs at blazing bivouacs. They needed fire and light and stories-and better food. Though they all ate their rations of jerked pork and flat bread, they also feasted on frogs and mushrooms harvested from the swamps below, along with the occasional marsh deer. A small platoon of minotaurs hunted wild game, sending it and firewood to Grizzlegom's troops. Minotaurs loved battle, yes, but they loved life as well.

The gulf between the two armies seemed almost unbridgeable, especially by a slender slip of paper. Still, Agnate had bridged life and death. Perhaps enough of his power remained to unite these old foes. It would have to, or both armies were doomed.

Beyond the camp, Lich Lord Dralnu's forces-ghouls, zombies, revenants-patrolled the outer darkness. No fire, no stories, no food, they needed only unwavering devotion to their master. Though now they guarded the living, in mere hours, they would be slaughtering them.

Grizzlegom clutched Agnate's orders. The Metathran second-in-command, General Rilgesh, dwelt in a tent nearby, among the other generals in the command core. Though Metathran did not need tents, they did need hierarchy, and tents were signs of ascendancy.

Ahead of Grizzlegom, the guard captain approached the soldiers outside Rilgesh's tent. They traded quiet words. The soldiers stood back, holding up the tent flaps and making way for the minotaur.

"Announcing Commander Grizzlegom," the guard captain said solemnly.

Grizzlegom stepped through their midst. Rilgesh was a Metathran general like any other-sleeping on a cot only because his rank required it. There were no adornments in the tent, nothing beyond a cot, a lantern, a small table where the evening's meal lay untouched, and a strip of velvet that held the general's polished and sharpened arms. Rilgesh had cleaned his arms before cleaning himself. He still sat in battle-scarred armor.

Rilgesh stood, wiping his hands on the weapon rag before tossing it away. He bowed his head in greeting to Grizzlegom.

Nodding in return, Grizzlegom handed the slip of paper to Rilgesh. "Commander Agnate issued these orders, to which his guard captain is witness."

The guard captain nodded his confirmation.

Silently, Rilgesh took the sheet, studied the broken seal, opened the page, and read. There was no surprise in his eyes, not a moment of insurrection. He folded the note and handed it back.

"What are your orders, Commander?"

"Guard Captain," Grizzlegom said, gesturing the Metathran farther into the tent, "sit there, upon the floor. General, sit there, upon the cot. The rest of you, leave us."

The two officers found their seats, and the guards withdrew.

Grizzlegom crouched down near the two Metathran leaders and said intently, "At first light, we will attack the troops of Lich Lord Dralnu."

The unflappable warriors showed a moment's hesitation.

General Rilgesh said, "Dralnu is our ally-"

"No longer," Grizzlegom preempted. "Life can never ally with death. Life must ever fight death. We must fight Dralnu and his legions."