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Chapter XXIII - The Frozen Heart's Tale

The Nameless One wandered the wreckage in a fugue of clarity, lost in the detail of every overturned stone, every burnt timber, every corpse shambling and not. He could see the very pores on their skin, distended by death and bloating with pus and frostbite rot. The stones looked like moons, cragged with craters and fissures, some shot through with fascinating lattices of crystals.

Beneath his bare paws, frost crunched, unnoticed in the storm of sensation that came to his eyes and ears and snout. All around him, undead wandered, aimless and listless, following any noise until it turned out to be a fallen bit of masonry from a fire-gutted hostel, or a bird fluttering by overhead. He himself was ignored utterly, except in that none of the dead would brush him as he moved past. They moved away, as if subtly repulsed.

The Nameless One's aimless wandering mirrored theirs; as if neither had a goal or impetus, simply a restless urge to continue moving, to not lie down and sleep forever.

Finally, the Nameless One found himself standing in front of a storefront, somehow un-ravaged in the chaos, its glass front window still standing resolute amidst the wreckage of its neighboring shops. Within, he saw, nothing lived. It was merely a shell now, filled with sewing tools, bolts of cloth, and finished clothes on hanging racks. A laundry, he realized, and likely a tailor's, though he knew not where the knowledge of such things came from.

Then he saw what had truly drawn him there. The glass of the window, precious stuff that it was, showed reflections of the street all around. It did not, however, show him himself, though he stood directly in front of it. The Nameless One's burnt brows furrowed together in puzzlement, as he reached out a furless, skinless paw to touch the glass, feeling its chill smoothness under his fingers. Where his fingers touched, the glass shifted back slightly when pressed, but showed neither shadow nor finger in its reflecting gaze. He saw straight through himself, to the ruined shop across the cobbled way, burnt to a cinder by one of the flaming boulders that had bounced down the street like a monstrous child's toy.

Frost began to draw itself across the glass from where his fingers touched. Dimly, he registered that this made him nervous, though the feeling gave him no impetus to move or flee. It simply fascinated him, as he'd felt no emotion that he could remember in his entire very brief existence. As he thought about it, he realized he remembered nothing more than the last few days of wandering, and even of that he remembered little.

What he did remember was tearing out a shadow's throat with his bare paws and teeth, and eating the somehow gory remains of what had been an incorporeal specter. His paw withdrew from the window glass as the frost continued to scribe itself in beautiful wisping lines, and put fingers to his muzzle, remembering the delicious taste of the squealing, pleading, screaming creature as he'd swallowed its very essence.

The frost's crinkling began to change then, subtly shifting from a natural rhythm to a strange cadence of words.

Nameless One. I have found you at last.

The Nameless One tried to speak, but the words in his throat were croaked, unintelligible. Though he could understand the thing that spoke to him through this rime of frost, he could make no words in response. The thought had him touching his throat, to feel it was also rimed with ice, though it struck him that this had been true for some time now. He registered, then, that his numbed body was feeling the cold as a stiffness in his joints and flesh.

Place your paw upon the frost, and send me your thoughts. You must concentrate, Nameless One, for you have work yet to do before you can fade away into the Never-Was. The Book of the Forgotten is not yet ready for you. Or, more accurately, you are not ready for it.

The Nameless One brought his paws to his face, and scrubbed at the crust of ice there, cracking it away like glaze from a ham, bits of skin falling away with it, un-felt and painless. He did not know why he should trust the strange talking frost, but felt no fear either. Felt little of anything, in fact.

His paw touched the frost, and with difficulty, he focused his thoughts past the swirling fog of sensation that covered him like a great scratchy blanket.

Numb. Cold. Lost. Cold One...What am I?

The Nameless One's thoughts came forth confused, muddled, slow like molasses in winter, and he closed his eyes at a sensation of aching in his skull. It was as if he were using a muscle for the first time in years, one he'd not remembered he possessed. To think, to make sentences, it was almost too much effort, as he felt a wave of exhaustion pass through him so strongly it bent his knees and left him leaning against the glass with his legs immersed in a snow bank.

You are the Nameless One. You are the devourer of the Singing Child. You are the traitor and savior. He who is invisible to Fate.

Dimly, the Nameless One remembered something, a flash that flew by in an instant. His paw, with fur still on it, holding a lever and pulling it. He shook his head, as his skull erupted inside with fiery agony, causing him to croak out. The undead nearby, who would shamble toward any sound, seemed utterly unable to hear him.

The strange voice from the frost spoke into his mind again, as he struggled vainly to comprehend what it was telling him.

Prophecies drive your unknowing allies toward saving the world. But prophecy cannot speak of the Nameless, for you have no name by which your future can be foretold. Will you help them in their war for survival? Or will you become a wandering shell, hungry and mindless as these others?

A dam broke in the Nameless One's mind, and he was suddenly lying in the snow, shrieking with a bloody-throated hoarseness, paws clapped to his head so hard they bruised muscle, as his mind was flooded with a deluge of images and light and pain.

He saw a little rabbit boy lying blank-eyed under a pulpit, hidden from the crowd by the voluminous robes of a venerated cleric favoring a leg bitten by a male dying of the Rising Plague, the priest's cum dripping out of his bloodied tailhole. A priest-turned-monster turning an entire hospital full of wounded and sick soldiers into undead while the priest's superiors sat back and watched through hidden windows, out of morbid curiosity. A young noble lion in his ornamented breech cloth strung up in a tall tree on an arid plain, arms bound behind his back, the noose slowly choking him to death while he clung desperately to life, as his toes were being stripped of flesh by undead who could just barely reach them.

Lastly, he saw himself, rolling into his own pyre only to emerge again, burnt and changed.

Stop! Stop! Go away!

The Nameless One scurried to his feet and ran, as far from the frost as he could as quickly as his paws could carry him.

Two days had passed since Lord Summer had been confirmed in his meeting, and the graying old veteran looked no different than he had before, as the companions departed the Black Tower. He stood on the crenellated balcony above its main entrance, watching them go, raising no paw to wave. Before them, a road descended the steep, winding hill on which the Black Tower was built, and from its apex they could see the expansive tent town of the survivors.

"One in six," muttered Vanyal. He was still bandaged, wrapped around his chest, arms, and paws. He'd healed well enough, though, that he could sit upright in the saddle of the horse he'd been generously gifted.

She was a tall, strong animal, trained for speed and agility, and worth a lord's ransom. Behind him, Cel followed on a true destrier, black and enormous, with an evil look to its war-trained eyes. The woman knight nodded in satisfaction as a biting-cold breeze her fur, having finally decided to let her concealing bandages be removed. They would have gotten in the way of wearing her new helmet, part of the suit of plate and chain armor Summer's smiths had assembled for her.

"More survivors than there would have been without us, Van."

Just behind, struggling with the smallest, cleverest-looking of the bunch of horses, rode Timid, with a look of aggravation on his features as he spoke those words, then continued with a grunt while trying to stay in the saddle as his horse's shifting jostled at the cat.

"Horses are a...Wonderful gift. Bloody wonderful if I knew how to ride one!"

Behind him, bringing up the end of their column, Tomasj and Torye rode double, the lithe tiger's arms wrapped lovingly around his master's middle, cheek pressed to his back and rubbing like a kitten. The black wolf in his leather armor still looked ill, fur dull and skin beneath pale, but had enough fortitude to look aggravated under his wide-brimmed tall hat.

"Horses are a practical gift. If we have to ride across half the damn world, we will say blessings for our saddle-sore asses."

Cel nodded in agreement with Tomasj, and tapped her destrier's flanks, guiding it by her knees as it sped and passed Vanyal. Ahead of them and down, a sprawling makeshift camp was bustling, a hive of activity as Lord Summer's orders were under preparation. Hundreds of movable barriers, built to interlink and detach for quick movement, were being built by dozens of skilled carpenters and their hundreds of new-minted apprentices. Scattered about the camp, sprinkled through the sound of rasping saws, the sound of metal striking metal told her that the smiths were manufacturing weaponry as quickly as they could get raw material.

Amarthane, she thought, was beginning to rebuild itself like saplings rebuilt a felled forest. Amidst the ash, seeds were germinating, growing, guided by the careful and clever paw of a gardener of furs, who stood on a balcony in the tower behind them and brooded on what to do next.

The sky was a brooding grey, snow slowly falling as their unusually rainy fall was turning into what could become a wet, miserable winter, and the eastern horizon was barely light enough to truly call 'sun-up' anything of the sort. Chill wind cut across their steep path, and Cel shivered in her armor as the metal did nothing to stop the biting cold from making her fur ruffle and scalp prickle uncomfortably.

Tomasj spoke, sitting up in the saddle to gaze eastward as best he could with a doting tiger wrapped around his waist. His expression spoke of grim seriousness, a rare enough thing from the wolf that it had the others paying attention, straining to hear over the clopping hooves, when his voice issued forth in a congested whisper.

"The ones we killed will be replaced. There are more than one of the smart type of undead. This city will last until the next arrives...And not long after that. Saving this town means nothing."

Timid twisted in the saddle, clenching down with his legs and his paws in the rolling-gaited horse's mane.

"Tomasj, please. I know you tell the truth, but have some optimism. If we succeed in our journey, we will put a stop to them. I have faith in that fact, at least."

"Heh. If. If that's what the Finder wants you to do, which you do not know. If we are in time. I wasn't in time to save my home."

The sound of guilt in his voice was so brief, so covered in the hoarseness he'd traded for as his pneumonia disappeared, that Timid was almost sure he hadn't heard such an emotion from the wolf.

Timid hunted for any words that would both give comfort and prevent the wolf reacting badly to feeling patronized. Finding little he was sure would help, he merely shrugged, sighed, and spoke what was truly in his thoughts.

"At least if we fail, we will die trying."

Nobody responded but the wind, which blew a dirge-like song through hollow, burnt-out structures, carrying snow in flurries and sprinkles as they descended the hill and passed through the hive of activity at its base.

Some minutes later, they were riding down the main thoroughfare, where small bands of soldiers and recently-armed civilians were clearing piles of re-slain dead, as work crews put up barricade after barricade. Shortly thereafter, they passed through the temporary wall at the end of the fortified road's progress, and were once again in a city dominated by the dead. Distantly, as wisps on the wind, moans seasoned the wind with the chill mindless threat of the undead.

Moving to the front, Cel turned in the saddle to speak.

"When we reach the Cathedral, we will need to move a wagon full of bricks to get the doors open. That done, we fight whatever is gathered at the door, and bring the horses inside so they won't be eaten while we're within. When the Cathedral was barricaded, there were still undead within its halls, so expect a fight to get into the undercroft."

Tomasj coughed again, and Toryen piped up with a chipper tone.

"Master and I will stay by the front! He's not very mobile right now, poor master." To Tomasj's scowl of annoyance, Toryen was rubbing his belly with a paw. The others tried to ignore him, for all their various reasons.

Tomasj spoke then, near-voiceless.

"I'll stay with the horses, and not slow you down. Go down there, find the witching thing, and get what you need from it. Then kill it, if you've half a brain."

Cel shook her head and didn't turn to respond, her voice echoing back off the facades of still-standing buildings as they moved through an area that had been overrun early and not seen much artillery fire.

"I gave it my word that I would return when things were secure. I'm disinclined to harm it, given the aid it's already rendered."

Tomasj snorted, and spat off to their side.

"Soft."

Van snorted right back, and gave him that rude gesture they both seemed to enjoy so much. Tomasj laughed and gave it back, while Timid took a paw off his horse's mane and slapped it over his face.

"Surrounded by bloody children, aren't we Cel?"

Firing from horseback was a new technique, but Van enjoyed the challenge. Posting up in the saddle to create a stable platform as he steered with his knees, he fired a trio of rapid shots into the foreheads of the undead as the group slowed. The dead things fell like string-chopped marionettes.

To their right, the great ornate doors of the Cathedral of Many were blackened by flame. Their art, so many paw-made scenes of toil and justice and decency, was cracked and in many places peeling paint. Blocking the doors to keep the dead inside were a pair of large four-wheeled carts, stacked high with heavy bricks, the two horses at each of their draws dead and dismembered by the unloving. The center of the square was a ruin of shattered timber and burnt rags, all that was left of Summer's original command center.

The dead were thick here, but the undead sparse and wandering aimlessly, only the closest having much response to the sound of clopping hooves and spoken words. Somehow, the fox suspected this blessed lull wouldn't last, as he fired two more arrows and sent two more foes back to the grave. Behind him, he heard Cel's armor give the tell-tale 'shink' sound of an armored knight dismounting.

The knight grunted, and Van heard the sounds of cracking bone as her sword clove through dead horseflesh. Then a yelp as Timid tried to dismount and fell out of the saddle. Meanwhile, Tomasj and Toryen rode up next to Van, and the black wolf leaned over to speak in a choke-throated whisper.

"Watch their backs. Those two fools would give these things a hug if they could."

Van snorted lightly under his breath, calmly lining up another shot and felling a shambler as it wandered in their general direction. His voice was joking, the fox's face half-smiling.

"Is that care I hear in your voice, Tomasj? I could have sworn you didn't like us."

The wolf snarled back at him, which was made comical by Toryen's snickering boyish growl.

"Fuck you, fox. You're sensible enough to kill the enemy. Those two want to save every witch they find."

"Remember to whom you're speaking, wolf," Van retorted, turning his head to give the witch hunter a steely gaze.

"Pah! Surrounded by fools!"

Behind them, the first cart groaned as Cel's destrier dragged its damaged frame. One of the wheels had been broken with hammers to prevent accidental rolling, and the snow was making things no easier. Nonetheless, Van was sure, the door would soon be open and their way into the dark would be revealed.

Cel led by feel through the pitch black, hunting for a torch sconce that she quickly found. Tim's paw rested on her shoulder, his Sight reassuring him that there was nothing nearby to fear.

"We must have killed most of them on the way out, Cel. I only see about a dozen rotten auras, and two of those black patchy ones. All of them are down below, in the undercroft."

"Heartening to know," Van said, his voice in a whisper, as if he expected to be shushed by an angry cleric at any moment.

Cel's paw found the splintery wood of a torch and she pulled it from the sconce, then got to work with flint and steel to light the oil-soaked rags that coated its top. A few moments later, the reddish glow of the burning brand lit the hallway in dancing, flickering shadows, and the trio set off into the dark.

Tomasj, meanwhile, tied the horses to a floor ring set in the ancient stones of the temple floor, and sat down on one of the few remaining pews to look out over the vast entry nave. Lucky, he thought, that the priests trusted their flock about as well as he trusted the undead. The main entry had only one door to the outside, and it was heavy, thick wood that had survived the blazing fires outside well. Atop that, there was only one exit from the room other than the front door, and his companions had gone down it and asked him to close the door behind and wait for their signal.

It would make his job easy, he thought, as he hocked more phlegm out of his slowly-healing lungs, and spat it on the floor. There to clean it up was the obsequious Toryen, bustling and nancing like the male whores the wolf had occasionally used throughout his marriage. Nastasia tapped her foot at him, on the itching edge of his consciousness, tsking at him more for the spitting than for his desire to fuck the boy.

"Oh shut up, woman. As if you never strayed! You fucked a feral goat!"

The tiger blinked at him, still stooped down on the floor in front of his master, head tilting in curiosity as the wolf blurted out something so strange.

"Master? I've...Never fucked a feral goat, but if you like I c-"

"Not you! Her!" The wolf pointed accusingly at his pistol, yellowed teeth bared in a snarl of aggravation, as she spoke in his head in words he couldn't put reason to.

"I caught her fucking a goat! Performing magic!" The wolf raved, eyes suddenly filled with images of it. Of the look of surprise on her face, the tentative smile as the animal had bucked against her, his wife's paws in the dirt drawing scrawls and symbols as she used the rut for her spell.

The look of terror on her face when he'd shot the goat and dragged her back into the house echoed in his eyes, the way her screams echoed in his ears. _It's for the harvest! It's ancient magic of my people, not demon-craft! No! _ He grabbed his ears folding them down in his paws with a grunt, shuddering at the screaming only he could here.

Toryen, meanwhile, stared at him in mounting alarm. Finally, he'd found a master who would give him the cum he wanted, who would strike him if he deserved it but not so cruelly as father. The one who'd helped him kill the Voice for once and good. Now master was clearly suffering from the Voice too, and it made Toryen so angry he balled his fists and stared up at the wolf, shouting.

"No! Tell it no! The voices can't have you, you're MY master!"

When Tomasj's fists went to his head and started to bash into his skull, Toryen's heart leapt into his throat. He knew only one method that could stop things at this point, and doubted Master would much approve. Still, something had to be tried. His paws were on the shaking wolf's crotch, undoing leather lacing, before Tomasj noticed anything. At that point, the wolf just glared down at him, watching Toryen pull his half-flaccid cock free and begin running his delicious scratchy little tongue along its underside.

"Godsdamnit..."

Cel slashed upward with the frost-trailing Nametaker, and the gape-jawed black skinned beast fell backwards, slashed in two from waist to forehead. As it spilled guts and viscera, she stepped forward, reversed her grip on the sword, and plunged the blade into its brain, twisting to make certain it was well and truly dead as fast-growing ice sprung up in bladed crystals all over its ruined face. Behind her, Van fired two more arrows in rapid succession down the hallway, felling two more shamblers with meaty thunk-cracks of metal shredding flesh and penetrating bone.

Ahead, she saw that strange blue-white frost glow, an enlarged mirror of her own blade, and along the floor cold mist had begun to flow.

"We're close."

Timid nodded behind her, and squeezed Cel's shoulder before withdrawing back a pace to give her back swing some room. As they rounded the corner, Cel's snout crinkled at the stink of stale offal, shit and piss from the two furs she'd slan in the hellish black of that cell.

At the end of the hall, chilly light the color of the glaciers that loomed above her hilly homeland roiled and scintillated, like reflections off water. Behind her, she heard Timid's hard swallow of trepidation. Nonetheless, his pace never slowed, as they advanced down the hall, stepping over the slowly decaying corpses of the undead she'd killed here.

Finally, they approached the broken door that ended the hall, what lay beyond swathed in rolling chilly mist that broke around them as they entered, surrounding them in the clammy cold and a vague milky-white light.

Cel strode into that bright-lit blindness without fear, presenting Nametaker in front of her with both paws on its hilt, blade pointed down to the floor in a reversed grip.

"Frozen One, as promised, I have returned to you."

Through the endless white mist that swirled all around them, Timid could swear there were no longer walls. That upon wandering into this forbidden place, they had passed through into another world, a place of utter white and emptiness so profound the mind could not comprehend. The little cat closed his eyes and knelt on the frost-rimed ground, whispering prayers softly under his breath.

A voice came then, swirling through like wind-whipped snow.

Your word was never in question, O Slaughtered Knight. Nor your courage and skill.

Cel didn't wince at the moniker, though she had the first time Tim had told her of the prophecy. She simply closed her eyes so as to be less distracted by their surroundings, and spoke.

"We have done all that we can, here in Amarthane. You told me before that when the fight was done, we should come to you for information and aid. I ask of it now."

The wind chuckled over broken stone, and chilled the companions' even through winter clothes, armor, and their very fur. Vanyal bit his lip and began a shuffling patrol, sliding his footpaws through the frozen snow to be certain he'd not fall afoul of a pit under the ice.

Your journey is but beginning, Quick Companions. Listen now, for I have been left behind as a signpost upon your journey.

Tim raised his head from its bow and stared hard into the frost-crystalled mist. Somewhere, off in that endless white, a chill but radiant light pulsed in tune with the words he heard with his mind and not his ears. Cel moved to his side, and laid her gauntleted paw on his shoulder, squeezing to reassure him.

Prophecy gave you motivation to move forward, to resist death.

Prophecy without wisdom is doom.

Hear now my words.

Van scowled, a black expression, and lowered his bow, sliding the arrow off his string and back into his quiver. He liked this not at all, the lack of visibility making his skills with the bow nearly useless. He only hoped that whatever it was out there that he could sense, crawling at the edge of consciousness, was equally blinded.

By hook or crook or frozen world you will travel West, to the Plain of Jackals.

There, you will find war and unrest. Old feuds given new fuel by a fear with no name.

Give them a name by which to know their fear and they will fight to defeat it.

When that is done, toward the setting sun you will go, until you find great ruins.

Among their scrabble, seek the Master of Secrets. It will tell you Names.

Use them for their power, when the time of times is upon you.

Thence, follow the archer's arrows. They know the way.

He is but the will that lets them go.

Lose not the Star, for within it is salvation.

For it contains His Name.

With a shock, Timid's heart lept into his throat. He looked down at the Star, and held it in is paw, felt the warmth of it like a beating heart. His muzzle went dry, as Cel's paw tightened on his shoulder, and he raised the Star up in front of him.

"The Finder of the Lost hasn't helped us...Because he's trapped in this amulet."

Your understanding is...Imperfect. But in some ways accurate.

The ancient stories are true, and yet lacking in detail. Tauriel did not defeat the Shadow Masters by having too many names for them to control. He defeated them by locking his many names away, and using them for reserves of power when needed. In this way, he could use his Name Power without exposing himself to their insidious counter attacks.

Wise General, Finder of the Lost, cleverest of the Celestial Lords. He left only false names for them to Take. Names of those he had slain, for Tauriel was merely the name of the first of his own that he slew for its corruption.

However, this has left him one weakness. If his divine form is slain, he will be unable to birth himself again. He is, for all intents and purposes, mortal. He will remain so until one of his secret names becomes available again.

If you release it now, its charge will be wasted. You must wait until the proper moment. That is why he has left you prophecy. That is why he left signposts, like myself, in case such a thing should become necessary.

"Then...How do we take you with us?"

A voice laughed across his spine, shivering his bones with a piercing chill that ruffled his fur and made his muzzle dry.

You cannot. You should not.

Van had stared into the chill mist for a time now, toward the gallows-light that hung suspended so far off. His ancient training, old as the earth, had taught him to hone his mind and senses far beyond what his eyes could see.

He saw the creature truly, then, for its magics of obscurement were no match for his spirit's ability to see targets no eye could catch.

It was tall, maybe eight feet in height, and encased in a hard-frozen ice so cold no water condensed on it. If it had once possessed eyes, they were long since replaced with two glowing white-blue motes, the source of all their light int his chill place. Their baleful gleam chilled even the calm-hearted forest warden, shifting to him as it sensed his sight.

Its face was strange, flat and muzzle-less, with only a hole where its nose should be. The teeth were sharpened in front, though not by nature he was sure. Its body was naked, but for a few scraps of cloth that clung to its solid-frozen form, and a long stone staff gripped in one of the clawed hands that crossed its chest.

Around its torso, a pair of bone wings wrapped, like a death shroud wrapped about a corpse.

"That's not an ice block. It's a coffin."

Perceptive fox, your eyes are far less important than your senses. Trust the second before the first.

Timid spoke up again.

"What are you?"

In an age long past, I was a Celestial as well. It was I who helped the one you call Tauriel. He was a great general and greater warrior. I was merely his scribe and scholar. Too corrupted, I was, to fight at his side. So I showed him how to Take our Names, and gave mine to him first. He encased me here, knowing I would some day be of some limited use.

Know this. The Shadow Masters cannot move in this world. It is too bright, too full of Celestial faith. Neither, however, can the Celestial Host move here, for to do so would violate ancient oaths they cannot break any more than you can breathe water and become a fish by your will alone.

The Shadow Masters have created their own minions. The Singing Child was one such, and the Devouring One yet exists, hiding and learning of its nature. More of them will come, for the Shadow Masters are not bound by oaths of non-interference. Tauriel, the Finder of the Lost, is only able to help you because he is a Fallen, as you well know.

Timid swallowed hard and nodded, his mind so blasted by the knowledge of all this that he was certain it would have consumed him, had events not conspired to prove his faith before. He shivered in the cold, and felt tiny in the face of such enormous fate. Then Cel knelt down next to him, ignoring the pain from her leg, and kissed his cheek. As he turned toward her, he felt the fear abate, replaced by a fierce protectiveness that he saw reflected in her eyes, and felt in Van's stance.

That is what united the Companions, he realized. The ferocious desire to protect the world. Van because of his sense of duty, Cel for her honor and chivalry, Tomasj for vengeance and masochism, and Toryen for the thrill and twisted love.

The terrible signpost known as the Frozen One continued, as the world around them turned abruptly a dull blue. Everything stopped, as if frozen, and he knew with certainty that it was speaking solely to him now.

When you have used your magic, you have tapped into two sources of power. The Sarellas, as she calls it, is the soul-force of the world. Its power is subtle, gentle, but strong. You may use it to heal, to strengthen, and to grow things. But beware that its source is your own life force, and that of others. Do not abuse it.

The other type is the magic of Names. You have yelled out what you thought were Tauriel's secret names, and invoked their power. The truth is, those names were of Tauriel's own soldiers, who he killed and subsumed when they went mad with Shadow Taint.

Each name embodies a different sort of energy, or a different sort of use. By stringing them together, you may change their effects. Their power draws upon trapped or consumed entities such as myself. Though it tires you to channel such power through your fragile body, you may develop stronger and stronger resilience over time. The power of Names is brief, potent, and destructive.

You have called to Na'Haln, lord of lightning, and he crushed your enemies at the Gallow Tower. You called to Ari'Eliath, lord of might, who took away Cel's pain for a time so that she could figh, though you later did so again using the Sarellas. You called to Tauriel, the shield-bearer, and he stopped the spells that the Singing Child had left to trap you in that tower.

The Finder of the Lost bid me also give you my Name, and a few others, that you might use them to aid your quest. The world is worth saving, or so he tells me. Prove it.

Timid couldn't move, he realized, when he tried to swallow. Logically, he knew, there couldn't be gorge rising in his throat. Nonetheless, he was frightened by this creature and its magic, and could do nothing but wait for it to finish.

My Names are Narisha and Halciform, and my dominion was over stasis and ice. I give you also the names of Ka-Renna, the shaper and Sorian the expander. Use their names with other spells, to change their effects.

Timid couldn't speak, so he thought as hard as he could towards the strange and terrible form frozen in the ice.

Cel is with child. How are we to fight, when it risks her unborn?

For a moment, he could have sworn the frozen creature tilted its head, or at least somehow showed the idea of doing so. Then it laughed, a dry gusty sound, like frozen tundra wind.

How are you to avoid fighting, when to do so risks her unborn?

That clarifies things, I suppose...

Good.

Abruptly, they were all moving again, Cel giving his shoulder a tight-fingered squeeze, Van frowning into the wind and coughing.

Now go. Travel West, toward the setting sun. You will know you are close to your next goal when you find the Lion Tree.

"Frozen One, what of the sword you lent me?" Cel's words echoed out over the strange white-scape, deadened but returning as disintegrating whispers that gave Tim chills.

I only asked you to return it as a way to make certain you came back. Keep it. Nametaker has shed blood in your name. You are bound to each other.

Cel frowned slightly, but nodded once, firmly, and reached her left paw up to pat the sword's pommel where it rested over her shoulder.

"Very well. Thank you."

With that, they left.

Van trotted out of the hallway, rolling his shoulders to keep the creeping stiffness of constant readiness at bay. Timid had told him, with his Sarellas-sight, that the undead were far away. Van's tingling senses, however, had made him alert anyway, and no one had complained at the heightened state of vigilance.

Still, he was somewhat surprised by the grunting, squelching, yelping sounds that echoed from the room beyond the final hallway. Surprised, then unsurprised, as his mind caught up with instinct, and his sensitive snout scented what the noises had already told him was to be found there.

The forest warden slapped a paw over his eyes in aggravation.

"They are...We may wish to wait here for a few minutes."

A black look from Sir Cel warned him just in time to pull back and let her pass rather than simply be walked over, Tim trailing along behind her shouting for her.

"Cel, please, stay calm!"

The knight was seething, furious, as she turned the corner with clenched fists.

Tomasj was bent over the cat, huffing and grunting, his tall hat discarded carelessly to the side. His fingers were dug into Toryen's skinny hips, and he was thrusting hard into the tiger's arse, enough so that the slapping of thighs drew a flash-memory of the rough fuckings she'd endured from the same horrid creature that now squealed out his ecstacy from the pounding he was receiving.

As Tim's paw wrapped around her wrist, she heard the squelch of Tomasj's canid knot sliding home. She lifted her fist to drive it down on Toryen's exposed, defenseless skull. Then the cat yowled out and blew his seed all over the floor, writhing helplessly on Tomasj's fleshy spike, whispering incoherent words of submission and ecstatic release.

Timid was able to pull her back, as her mind froze, shocked at the reversal she was seeing. Tomasj thrust a few more times, grunted, and flagged his tail with his eyes squeezed shut as his balls jerked and emptied deep inside the smaller fur, much to the tiger's groaned approval.

Abruptly Cel was pulled back around the corner into the hallway, and Timid had her armored back up against his chest and deceptively powerful arms around he middle, holding the staring knight in place.

"Cel, please. I know what he did to you, but right now we need to think of saving the world, not of personal revenge...As much as you deserve to have it."

The knight shook her head slowly, as the world seemed to start making sense again now that they were away from the rutting duo. She wanted to kill Toryen, crush his skull like the insect he was. For that matter, she didn't much care for the rude, gruff, at times crazed wolf that was tied to the tiger's ass at the moment.

But she knew Tim was right, much as she hated it, and let out a shaky breath before speaking in low tones that whispered back at her from the bare stone walls.

"We should wait ten minutes, then set out west...Stop by the Black Tower to tell them where we're going and then leave before the people can beg us to stay."

Timid winced. He knew that leaving now could cause more trouble for Lord Summer, but there was nothing for it - To stay would do little more good than they had already done, and this was but one city in a world full of sorrows.

Their only option, in his mind, was to follow prophecy and hope that their journey to the west, into the wild plains, would lead to something other than death. For them and the world.

End Part 1