The Sceptre of Morgulan (Bk. II: From the Ashes of Ruin)

By Matthew D. Ryan

It is an Artifact of immeasurable power and immense evil. All Coragan knows is that Morgulan is coming to claim it. And when he does, the unholy tyrant from ages past will unleash the powers of Hell and usher in a new era of unquenchable evil.
That cannot be allowed to happen.
But how can Coragan prevent such from occurring? There's no doing battle with demons. Even with his allies at hand, they'll be hard-pressed to take up arms against the very legions of the damned. The powers arrayed against him are vast and unending...
But duty calls.
There is no one else to man the gap.
It's a classic tale of good and evil, struggle and triumph, victory and defeat. Engross yourself and don't look back. Sink into a tale of terror, a world of woe. And with every page you turn the tension builds to a fantastic, soul-blinding climax.
Don't miss out. Buy The Sceptre of Morgulan now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew D. Ryan
• Release date: Nov 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311837271

Matthew D. Ryan

Looking for a vampire that actually kills people? So was I. So, I created one: Lucian val Drasmyr. He's not a teen heart throb. He's a killer. My first novel, Drasmyr, features him as the chief antagonist and a formidable force for darkness. Just in case I was unclear: he is pure evil. Unholy. Diabolical. A true scourge from Hell.I'm Matthew D. Ryan and I'm a fantasy author. My topics of choice include the aforementioned vampires, as well as dragons, wizards, magic ... that sort of thing. I get my inspiration from multiple sources, not least of which is my almost complete immersion in the fantasy genre over many, many years. I've read more fantasy novels than I can remember; I've been playing RPG games like D&D as both Dungeonmaster/Gamemaster and player for nearly forty years; and I've watched innumerable movies and television programs steeped in the fantastic and miraculous. All of that gives me a fertile imagination and a rich background of experience to draw upon. Writing about vampires or dragons is almost second nature for me now.My first novel, Drasmyr, started out as a short story. Then it grew into a stand-alone novel. Then it shifted into the prequel to my dark fantasy series, From the Ashes of Ruin. I've also written several small collections of short stories, a couple novellas, and even a non-fiction book about my struggles with mental illness -- I've unpublished that last for personal reasons. Additionally, I've run a number of web-sites and blogs here and there; and I've also done a couple speaking engagements on both worldbuilding and the writing process.So, if you like vampires or dragons, or are just into the fantasy genre in general, I'm your guy. Download one of my books now. I heartily recommend Drasmyr.Oh, by the way, if you go to my site: The Wizard's Inkwell (link below), I've started writing 5th Edition D & D Adventures (Under the SRD License). If you play D & D, you can download an adventure or two and make a go at it. They're great fun!

Book preview

What the Reviewers are Saying About Drasmyr the stunning prequel to The Children of Lubrochius and The Sceptre of Morgulan.

5-stars—Folks, if you’re looking for  a story that will grab you and hang on tight, for a story that enthralls and leaves you wanting more, then look no farther than Drasmyr. It’s really that good.—Long and Short Reviews: Young Adult

5-stars/flowers—I gobbled this book up, picked my teeth and looked for more.—It’s Raining Books

A blood-curdling 4 stars—It smacks of Arthurian legend, mysticism and magic, monks and monasteries with a mystery running through it. The names of the characters evoke a golden age of dark sorcery. – Belle Marsh of Shardpubs.

THE SCEPTRE OF MORGULAN

Matthew D. Ryan

The Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Matthew D. Ryan

To keep abreast of other books by Matthew D. Ryan

Check out: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/matthewdryan

To join Matthew D. Ryan’s mailing list click here.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Author’s Note: This book is not recommended for children under the age of 13.

Fiction by Matthew D. Ryan

FROM THE ASHES OF RUIN

Drasmyr (The Prequel)

Book I: The Children of Lubrochius

Book II: The Sceptre of Morgulan

Book III: The Citadel*

NOVELLAS

Prism

When Darkness Wins*

SHORT STORY COLLECTION

Of Dragons, Love, and Poison

*Coming soon.

Table of Contents

The Canticle of the Damned

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Glossary

Fiction by Matthew D. Ryan

About the Author

The Canticle of the Damned

Morgulan, Morgulan, curse of the night,

Beware the living darkness and the servant’s might.

Morgulan, Morgulan, priest of our fear,

Beware the singing blood of a thousand years.

When sceptre is changed for demon sword,

When sorrows past return twelve fold,

When the blood of devils feeds the dead,

Then, shall the Man of Wounds from the pit of darkness tread.

Whisper prayers as Hell’s Dread blooms,

Immortal forever, the coming Man of Wounds.

Ignore the whip and fear the rod,

Spitting out poison for the Love of God.

Chapter One

Searing pain lanced across Gaelan’s shoulder. Then, again. Leather parted bare skin leaving bloody tracks from armpit to ribcage. Gaelan choked down a scream—he wouldn’t give in. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction. Not this time.

The strap came down again, cutting across his kidney and parting new flesh. Gaelan clenched his eyes at the pain. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He tried to pull away, but, bound to the support beam in the center of the room, he was all but immobile. Tied to his whipping post, his place of torment, he was as helpless as he’d always been. This was his Hell. The sum of his whole childhood. Whenever he’d done something wrong, he’d been punished here, secured so he couldn’t escape, and then whipped into bloody submission by the man who was supposed to love him. Occasionally, the beatings were brief. But most of the time, they were not. His father, a cruel man at the best of times, was often possessed of strange moods of savage disposition. And in those dark moments, he would whip his son so brutally, Gaelan often fell unconscious. So, it had been his entire life. All fourteen years of it.

Again, the strap came down. This time, despite his efforts otherwise, a sob escaped his lips, pulled from his straining body by a brutal jolt of agony. Like streaks of fire, the pain raged across his bare back.

"What’s that? his father asked, his voice filled with disdain. You cryin’, boy? Can’t take the punishment? Maybe you should have thought of that before you spilled the sugar and broke that jar. Those cost money, you know. Money you don’t have and I don’t have."

"It was an accident!" Gaelan pleaded. But he knew it was useless. His father was in a particularly dark mood, a mood that wouldn’t relent until he’d beaten his son bloody. Gaelan wanted to crawl away and hide, but there was nothing he could do; both his hands were bound to the post. He could kick with his feet, but his father was bigger and stronger than he was; it would be a feeble gesture at best.

"Accident or no, it makes no difference, his father said. You’ve got to be better than that, son. You’re worthless and you’ll never amount to anything unless you straighten up. He swung the strap again; it struck him across his shoulder blades garnering two new welts and a bloody line of damaged flesh. I won’t have myself a worthless son."

Again, the strap came down. Gaelan fell to his knees. The tears flowed freely now; he couldn’t stop them. He felt small and helpless, too weak to defend himself, a victim of pitiful circumstance. People often spoke of the gods, but where were they now? How could such injustice be permitted? Either the gods did not exist, or they did not care. Either way, thought of their so-called mercies did not help him. Mardikkar. Auraria. Neither one was there to stop the pain. He struggled to his feet.

Weak. Helpless. Weak. Helpless. The words formed a grim incantation in his mind. Something to focus on. Something to fight against.

I will not remain a victim, he thought. Not forever. He looked back over his shoulder and saw his father holding the leather strap, preparing to strike yet again. And though his knees quaked and his body bled, he felt a burning anger in his chest. Someday, father, he thought, I will hold the whip, and it will be you begging for mercy. And when that day comes, I will remember this moment and I will give you exactly what you deserve.

His father struck again.

Gaelan awoke in his bed at the guard barracks, his heart beating rapidly, and a curse on his lips for his long-dead father … but the curse slipped away from him and he sat up in bed, suddenly perplexed. His long dead father? Tarrakin Durragonn was the only father he’d ever known. He’d lived in the man’s household since the time he was an infant. And Tarrakin had certainly never treated Gaelan like that!

That dream had been an abomination of the truth. Tarrakin was the kindest man Gaelan had ever known. A gentle soul, he had never struck anybody, least of all his only adopted son. True, he’d been angry at times, as every parent was wont to be, and he’d shouted and yelled, but he’d never hit him. Ever. He was a member of the Order of the Open Palm, a devoted follower of Aspalla who had forsworn all violence against friend and foe alike. And he had lived that oath faithfully.

Gaelan kicked his feet over the side of the bed, wrapped his covers around his shoulders, and glanced toward the window. The golden glow of the smaller moon, Neerie, trickled in through a half-open shutter. He could smell the spring air, cool as it was at this time of night; it still tasted of life and new birth: a far cry from his disturbing dream.

He shuddered.

It hadn’t been a normal nightmare. No, it had been one of those dreams. Those recurring visions that seemed so real, so life-like, that it proved difficult to separate them from reality. Only when he awoke and spent time collecting his wits could he recognize such dreams as the fictions they were. But what terrible fictions! Visions of war and blood and foul deeds that made him cringe inside. Killing and carnage, plunder and death. The worst part of the dreams was the voice that often accompanied them. It had been mostly absent tonight; he had only sensed it at the very fringes of the dream. The cold, sinister presence that took delight in his anguish. He did not know what it was, or what it meant. Indeed, he didn’t know what the dreams meant at all! At one point, he’d thought they were messages from the gods, ones he simply could not discern. But that hardly fit with what he knew of the celestial powers. Surely, they could not be responsible for sending such horrific visions. For the dreams were torments; they plagued his sleeping hours and sometimes even haunted his days. He felt their effects like a poisonous, corruptive elixir he consumed each night that slowly changed him in terrible ways. He’d noticed of late that he was getting more irritable, more quick to anger around others and more prone to violence. As of yet, he had it under control, but he could not be certain it would remain that way. Perhaps it was lack of good sleep. That was one possibility. But it wasn’t what he believed. What he feared. Part of him understood. Part of him knew.

The dreams were consuming him. Slowly. Inevitably. They were breaking him down, and turning him into something he did not want to become.

*

Ambrisia closed the window to her room and flipped the latch in place. It was still early yet. She moved to her vanity, grabbed a brush, and started brushing her hair using long, even strokes as her mother had shown her so many years ago. So many, many years …

She hadn’t thought of her mother for quite some time; the woman had died in Ambrisia’s twenty-first year from a sudden seizure of the heart. Although the pain had been great then, the passing years had dulled the ache considerably. Albranna Augerton had been in her late forties when she died, an age Ambrisia was rapidly approaching.

Ambrisia stopped brushing and looked hard at the mirror, frowning. Her once-beautiful brown hair was beginning to show her age; streaks of grey ran through it in a handful of places, most notably above her right temple. She leaned in to examine her eyes, only to be dismayed by the tiny crow’s feet near the corners. That’s just the beginning, she thought. Ambrisia, my dear, you’re getting old. It was the truth. She was forty-one, now. Nearly a crone.

She laughed. Well, not quite yet, she thought.

She placed the hairbrush back on top of the vanity, grabbed her copy of Morgulan the Mad, the renowned history book by Tulthinon of Skaren, and turned to go. She had a meeting to attend. She descended the stairs of her house to the lower level, and stepped into the street. It was a cool Aprillon morning; the sun shone in a clear blue sky, birds sang, and the scent of new growth hung in the air. Ambrisia drank it all in like a wild woman drinking water from an oasis. Winter had been so bleak!

And so tumultuous.

It seemed the cold months had consisted of entirely one crisis after another. It had started with a simple investigation into the disappearance of her student, Marissa Malavay. An investigation that had cascaded from one thing to another. She’d been unprepared for all the rot that the inquiry had unearthed. First, corruption of the wizards guild guards. Then, the revelation of a secret society that trafficked in death and skullduggery. Followed shortly by the revelation that the vampire, Lucian val Drasmyr, had escaped his seemingly certain destruction; the jar he’d been captured in had never been submerged in the river. Finally, there was the betrayal of her most trusted student, Korina Bolaris. It was that last that troubled her the most. How had she been so blind!?

She maneuvered down the road at a leisurely pace, letting her thoughts drift back over the events of the past few months. But, try as she might, she found no answers.

Soon, she arrived at her destination. Guild Master Regecon’s current residence was a simple enough structure, as far as it went: a large brown building with a cement porch and narrow front yard. A grand bay window in the front wall provided an unrestricted view of the city street from within. A red brick chimney rose into the air from atop the roof on the left. The black shingles on the roof shone in the early light, looking like glistening tar.

Ambrisia climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. Moments later, Regecon’s elderly manservant, Mallor, ushered her inside and pointed to the door that led into the basement. He’s down below, Mallor said.

Ambrisia nodded her head and gestured for Mallor to lead. He opened the door to the stairwell, and she followed him down.

They found Regecon alone in the center of the basement, eight chairs set in a circle around the mahogany table at which he sat. A pitcher of water rested beside him and he gripped a goblet with one hand. He looked up as Ambrisia and Mallor entered, and then waved Mallor away.

When the manservant had left, Ambrisia pulled out a chair opposite Regecon and sat.

Did you bring it? he asked.

Yes, she said, placing Morgulan the Mad onto the table. She opened it to the page she needed and slid it over to Regecon. The picture of the ring is indisputable: We are dealing with the Children of Lubrochius. And the picture of Zarina is disturbing, to say the least.

Regecon positioned the book in front of himself and studiously examined the page. I agree about the ring. But the picture? Yes, it looks like Korina. But that could just be coincidence. I’ve heard of unrelated people looking almost exactly alike. It’s rare, but not unheard of.

But Drasmyr is alive, Ambrisia reminded him. On the day you banished him into that jar, I consigned it to her care to see to his destruction. That gives her opportunity. I’m not sure how she did it—perhaps a fake replica of the original jar—but I believe she spared Drasmyr to serve her own ends. Galladrin agrees with me. According to him, their investigation points to Korina, as well.

Regecon frowned, and nodded several times. That does make sense, he said. He took a quiet sip from his goblet and furrowed his brow. Borak and Galladrin will be here shortly, as will the others. This certainly complicates things.

No sooner had he spoken than the sound of footsteps in the stairwell could be heard. Shortly, Mallor appeared leading the two priests, Agyrra Bloodfang and Gilliad Moldai, and the agnari earth mage, Kurgish Bluntstone. The three individuals entered the room, made brief, but cordial greetings, and took seats around the table.

Mallor, Regecon said. I forgot. Please, bring down some wine for my guests. Mallor disappeared back up the stairs and Regecon glanced around the table, We wait on three more. Then, we can begin.

Several minutes later, Mallor reappeared with a bottle of wine and more guests. Galladrin and Borak followed him into the room and took seats of their own. Lastly, Gaelan Durragonn appeared carrying a tray of crystal goblets. Ambrisia arched an eyebrow at the sight. Apparently, Mallor had given the young guardsman a small task upon his arrival. Carrying goblets. A curse of youth, she supposed, to be bossed about by one’s elders. She was glad she was beyond such worries.

Gaelan placed the tray of goblets on the table, and then pulled up his own chair.

All are now present, Gilliad said. Shall we begin?

Yes, Regecon said, rising. My friends, I brought you here today to discuss a number of things. First: Galladrin and Borak, we have given a name to our enemy. Note the ring. He slid the book across the table to Galladrin.

Galladrin grabbed the corner of the tome and turned it about so that he could view the page right side up. As he did so, he straightened in his chair, scrunched his eyebrows together, and bent down to read the script. The Children of Lubrochius? he said, sounding somewhat unsure of himself. That sounds familiar. Have we mentioned them before?

Perhaps in an earlier discussion of Morgulan, Ambrisia said. Take a look at the woman’s picture.

Galladrin bent over the page again then whistled aloud. Zarina the Black? It looks just like her.

Let me look, Borak said.

Galladrin slid the book to the huge warrior and he, in turn, perused the page. When he was finished, he passed the book on to Agyrra Bloodfang sitting on his left. She glanced at it briefly before passing it on to the others.

So, Korina Bolaris looks exactly like Zarina the Black, Galladrin said. What does that mean? And how is that possible?

We don’t know, Ambrisia said.

There are a number of possibilities, Regecon said. Korina just may be a body double for the woman. It is not unheard of. Alternatively, she could be—

Her reincarnation, Borak completed, grimly.

Ambrisia suppressed a shiver. There’s really no proof of that beyond that picture, she said. But was that true? Zarina the Black had been one of the most gifted natural sorceresses in history. She’d been a prodigy. Much like Korina. She’d also been associated with the Children of Lubrochius. Another match, if Galladrin and Borak’s evidence bore out. Regardless, if Korina was responsible for Drasmyr, as Ambrisia suspected, at the very least she was up to no good. And her natural gifts with sorcery made her a danger to be reckoned with. The connection with Zarina only served to highlight the threat she posed. Possibly raising the stakes.

Forgive me for my interruption, Gilliad said, his arms crossed at his chest as he leaned back in his chair. But who is this Korina Bolaris?

She is one my students, Ambrisia said. Actually a former student. She was promoted to full mage several months ago.

Now she is involved with the Children of Lubrochius? Gilliad asked with a bemused expression on his face. I thought they were extinct. Forgive me, but Agyrra, Kurgish, and I have been busy working on the Blightwell these past few months. Please fill us in.

Of course, Ambrisia said. She proceeded to tell them in detail of the investigation Coragan and his companions had undertaken. She told them of her missing student Marissa, the clues the men had followed, the several dead bodies they now attributed to Drasmyr, and as much else as she could remember. Finally, she stopped and turned to Galladrin. Galladrin, she said, perhaps you should give us your evidence for concluding that Korina is associated with the Hidden Hand—the cult we now believe to be the Children of Lubrochius.

Are you serious? Galladrin asked, eyes widening. I would have thought that Drasmyr’s continued existence was proof enough. Neither Coragan nor I had anything to do with sparing him; we never even touched the jar.

Excellent point, Ambrisia said. But humor me. Please share your other evidence. Surely, there must be more.

Galladrin tapped his fingers on the table and chewed on his lower lip. All right, he said. I’ll fill you in. He reached for the bottle and poured himself a goblet of wine. There were really two clues that led us to Korina, he said, returning the bottle to the center of the table. First, someone stole the city maps of the catacombs beneath the old guild. Gaelan, in his investigations, learned that Korina had access to and had used at least one secret passage beneath the guild house. That implied she might be the one with the maps. He lifted his goblet to emphasize that last point and then, took a sip. Second, when I examined her handwriting and compared it to that on the city ledger, I found that it matched the signature of a certain Sarina Ilspith. So, not only did she visit the Office of City Records, but she did so under an assumed name. Further, from our other inquiries, we learned that the leader of the Hidden Hand—that is, the Children of Lubrochius—was a woman named Sarina. Taken together, it was enough to cast a shadow of suspicion on her. The appearance of Drasmyr at the count’s keep that night sealed it.

Silence descended on the table. Golden-eyed Kurgish lifted a hand to his chin. Gilliad remained with his arms folded. Finally, young Gaelan broke the spell. You really think Korina is Zarina the Black?

The more pertinent question is: What are you going to do about this young woman? Agyrra asked, with her elbows planted on the table; she flexed her delicate brown fingers and gestured toward Ambrisia. She is your charge, is she not? Why not simply bring her in? Question her. And, if necessary … break her.

Are you offering your help in the matter? Gilliad asked. He glanced toward Regecon. You can count on mine regardless.

If it turns out that she is indeed Zarina the Black, then, yes, I shall help, Agyrra said, folding her hands into her lap. Otherwise, it does not concern my church and I will remain focused solely on the Sceptre of Morgulan and its destruction.

Ambrisia quietly gritted her teeth. Dealing with Agyrra could be exasperating some times; the woman simply refused to take sides. She supposed she should be thankful that the woman was at least helping with the sceptre. She turned to Regecon. Perhaps we should do as Agyrra suggested: bring Korina in for questioning.

I am hesitant to do so, Regecon said, earning a muffled choke from Galladrin as the rogue sipped more wine from his goblet.

What? Galladrin asked. Why?

I did not say I won’t, only that we should approach this with care, Regecon said. We might be wise not to play our hand too soon.

I agree. Kurgish said. Prudence is called for here.

Ambrisia scowled; she wanted answers now. The longer Korina remained loose the more damage she could do. She arched a quizzical eyebrow and regarded Kurgish coolly. The agnari looked unusually troubled. Why do you say that? Ambrisia asked.

"Have you heard of The Canticle of the Damned?" Kurgish asked.

I have, Gilliad said. "It’s a prophecy of sorts, or so it is said:

Morgulan, Morgulan, curse of the night,

Beware the living darkness and the servant’s might.

Morgulan, Morgulan, priest of our fear,

Beware the singing blood of a thousand years.

When sceptre is changed for demon sword,

When sorrows past return twelve fold,

When the blood of devils feeds the dead,

Then, shall the Man of Wounds from the pit of darkness tread.

Whisper prayers as Hell’s Dread blooms,

Immortal forever, the coming Man of Wounds.

Ignore the whip and fear the rod,

Spitting out poison for the Love of God.

I’ve heard of it, Regecon said.

It is said to have been sung by the Oracle of Kuthak on the very hour that Morgulan’s Citadel, the last bastion of his strength, fell to the combined forces of the lithlyn, agnari, shaladryn, and windar, Kurgish continued. It is believed by some to foretell the return of Morgulan and the dark forces that he commanded.

Are you saying those prophecies have some validity? Galladrin asked with a hint of alarm. Was Zarina supposed to return as well?

To be truthful, that is unknown, Ambrisia said. She wondered why Kurgish had brought this up. Did he really give credence to the prophecy? If so, did he have some clever interpretation that would help them? Most scholars regard Morgulan and Zarina as virtually inseparable. Where one went, the other followed. If Morgulan was meant to return, it seems likely that Zarina was, too.

What exactly do you mean by ‘return’? Gaelan asked.

That has been a matter of much debate, Kurgish said. He leaned forward and tapped the book on the table. But perhaps that has been answered at last: reincarnation.

Galladrin downed the rest of his wine and then smacked the goblet on the table. "You’re telling me not only that you believe Korina Bolaris is Zarina the Black reborn, but that her rebirth was predicted in this prophecy: The Canticle of the Damned?"

Yes, Kurgish said.

This helps us? How? Regecon asked.

Fine, Galladrin said. Forget questioning her. Let’s just …

What? Ambrisia interjected coldly. Kill her? Are we to stoop to that level: meting out what we think is justice to those we believe deserve it without a trial? She looked meaningfully at the rogue.

He reddened slightly. Well, I’m just sayin’ … But he did not elaborate.

The point I was trying to make, Kurgish stated, before we got sidetracked, is that if this woman is Zarina the Black, and she is foreordained by prophecy, then she enjoys a certain degree of immunity. There is something she is destined to accomplish on this world and trying to thwart her in that regard may not be effective.

Regecon did a double take as did Ambrisia.

So you are going to let her subjugate the world and not lift a finger to stop her? Galladrin asked, drolly. That seems a bit fatalistic.

I agree, Gilliad said with a glance toward Galladrin. We cannot let her evil go unchallenged. Even if we are doomed to fail, it is a poor reflection on us should we choose not to fight.

I only wanted to make you aware of what we may be up against, Kurgish said.

The discussion continued. All of the individuals around the table took some issue with Kurgish’s point of view. No one seemed willing to countenance such a drastic outlook, one that seemed to condemn them to failure before they even started. Gilliad, in particular, was very vocal: he argued that evil should be fought with one’s full capacity, regardless of the likely or even the predetermined outcome. Kurgish, for his part, did not back down, at least not entirely; he kept lifting his hands to calm the dispute only to reignite it with another ill-conceived remark. For some reason or other, he had gotten it in his head that Korina, or Zarina as the case may be, enjoyed quasi-divine protection and, therefore, was almost invincible. Ambrisia took note of Regecon who calmly watched the proceeding, listening, but saying nothing, only drumming his fingers on the table. Finally, Ambrisia snorted in disgust.

Kurgish, are you what passes for a wizard in your land? she said, angrily.

He started and turned in her direction. I only wished to— he began.

These others may not be fully versed on the structure of time, but I am, and so is Regecon, and as a wizard, so should you be, Ambrisia said. "As Galladrin said, you are being fatalistic. The future is not set in stone, prophecy or no, and you should know that."

As Kurgish blushed, Regecon leaned back in his chair and regarded her calmly. He folded his arms before his chest and said, "Calm yourself, Ambrisia. His point has some merit. We do not firmly grasp the full-nature of time. Let our colleague speak."

We should have summoned Porthion to this meeting, Ambrisia said. He could give us a complete lecture on the subject. Still, we spell-casters know enough: the future is only quasi-determinate; it shifts and flows according to the actions taken in the past and present, but it still changes.

The art of divination can be used to peer into the future, Earth Mistress, Kurgish said, politely. "The Canticle of the Damned is no different."

Ambrisia snorted again. I beg to differ, she said. Divination deals with precognition, and that is not the same as prophecy.

What’s the difference? Galladrin asked. The others went silent, listening to the debate between the three wizards. Only the rogue continued to engage. Aren’t they both used to predict the future?

It’s a matter of scope, Ambrisia said. It is a complicated subject. In fact, there are two types of precognition: magically assisted precognition, or divination, and natural precognition, or premonition. Regardless of the type under discussion, they both share a most pertinent trait: the farther into the future one peers, the more unreliable the vision obtained will be. We know this. It has been verified a thousand times. Divination might let you view an event as far distant as a few months. Premonition, perhaps a year, if you are lucky. Beyond that, they are both useless.

Gaelan gave her a puzzled look. The young man sat with his hands flat on the surface of the table, completely focused on the discussion. But what about all those stories of visions and omens of events years before they occur. Are they all false?

No, Ambrisia said. Such visions and omens fall under the purview of prophecy, which we are discussing here. Prophecy can ‘predict’ events far into the distant future; it is generally regarded as the work of the gods, so to that extent, Kurgish here is right: the will of the gods cannot be thwarted by mortals. That said, prophecies, particularly the ones of the most far-reaching scope, can usually only be understood after the fact. Interpreting a prophecy before it has come to pass, and then acting on that interpretation as if it is knowledge, is not only foolish, but often dangerous.

Ambrisia, Regecon began softly.

We don’t know what the prophecy means! she snapped. Acting like we do is an invitation to disaster.

Gilliad nodded his head. She has the right of it, Guild Master. It is also presumptuous to think one understands the will of the gods.

Then what good is a prophecy? Gaelan asked. If one isn’t supposed to change one’s actions accordingly …

It is a warning, Kurgish said. Nothing more. He sighed. You are right, Earth Mistress. I … forgot myself. This prophecy is a thousand years old. Thinking we understand it fully could be hazardous. Whatever protection Korina enjoys, we cannot change it, nor can we shirk our duty to oppose her because of it. I apologize.

Well said, Earth Master Kurgish, Regecon said. He took a sip of water. Now that we’ve established that dealing with prophecies is fraught with ambiguity, I still think we should do our best to interpret the canticle in some limited fashion. After all, since it is a warning, possibly from the gods themselves, we should do what we can to decipher it. That is, as long as we don’t expect an absolute answer.

Ambrisia blinked. They had acknowledged her point. Good, she thought. I don’t make a practice of studying particular prophecies, she said. I’ve never felt as if I needed to. This might be more Porthion’s department, as I said.

I have studied numerous prophecies, Gilliad said. I am not as versed on the structure of time, as you are, but I have spent a number of hours poring over prophecies relevant to my church and others: some that have been fulfilled and some that have not.

"Can you shed light on The Canticle of the Damned?" Regecon asked.

Right here? Gilliad asked. Now?

If you could ... Regecon said.

I can’t tell you much, Gilliad said. The great sage of Skaren, Tulthinon, had a few choice words on the subject. There is also a short prophecy by Byriss Quendillon, a priest of my order from five hundred years ago that may relate.

Please, enlighten us, Regecon said, folding his hands in front of himself.

I would have to research the subject specifically to give you a comprehensive analysis, Gilliad said. He stroked his brow for a moment then gestured explanatorily with his right hand. I remember some of what I’ve studied. Tulthinon classified the canticle as a Type II Prophecy consisting of three basic stanzas: a Warning Stanza, a Timing Stanza, and a Command Stanza. It is generally regarded as one of the most disturbing prophecies known to man. Not only does it speak of Morgulan’s return, but it suggests that he shall do so with the full might of Hell at his side. I can’t give you the reasons for that, I only remember that was Tulthinon’s conclusion because it was so horrendous to consider. And many other scholars agree with him.

Gilliad continued, There is also a second, shorter prophecy, like this one, that mentions the Man of Wounds. It was spoken by Byriss Quendillon, a priest of my order, as I said, who was taken up in ecstatic reverie at the time. Again, I’d have to look that up to be sure—it is rather obscure—but I recall it refers to the Man of Wounds and something called The Time of Choosing. He stopped and dropped his hand into his lap. That’s all I remember. I’m sorry it is not more.

You’ve given us enough for now, Regecon said. Can anyone else add anything?

Ambrisia shook her head and looked around the table. No one else said a word. Although she understood the nature of time rather well, prophecies were the works of gods and, therefore, out of her purview. Although they hid it well, the three mercenaries were likely lost by the conversation; it was above the typical commoner’s comprehension. The only other possible contributor to the discussion was Agyrra. She, however, remained in her seat with a contemplative look on her face. She opened her mouth, and, for a moment, Ambrisia felt as if the Sitharone priestess was about to say something on the matter, but then she closed it and returned to her ruminating.

Ambrisia cupped her hair behind her ear, and said, So where do we stand? What have we decided?

We move against Korina, Regecon said. "But we move carefully. She may be more dangerous than any of us suspect."

Just then, a shout sounded from above, echoing down the stairwell. A door could be heard opening. It was followed by the sound of footsteps. A moment later, Regecon’s manservant, Mallor, opened the door yet again. I’m sorry to interrupt, Guild Master, Mallor said, but there are three guardsmen here to see you.

I don’t have time to see any guardsmen, now, Regecon said. Set an appointment for a later date—

They are from the city watch, Guild Master, Mallor said. They bear a writ.

Enough, old man, a voice said from behind Mallor. Let us through. Not waiting for a reply, a figure shoved his way into the room. Mallor toppled roughly to the side. A man, clad in chain mail with a sword at his side and an iron helm on his head, strode to the table. Two other men similarly clad moved to his side in the now crowded basement and stood at attention.

Guardsman, show some respect! Regecon snapped. Ambrisia, too, felt a flush of anger at the rough treatment of Mallor. Even the lowly deserved some modicum of respect.

The guardsman ignored the guild master, though. He stopped in front of the table, pulled out a scroll, and unrolled it. He began to read. "Regecon del Brath’ere, Guild Master of The Serpent and the Crow Wizards Guild, I hereby inform you that the operating license for said guild has been revoked. An opportunity to plead your case before the Court of Nobles has been granted you for one week hence. In the interim, you are to cease any and all operations within the