The sound of boots descending the dark, long stairs of dungeon had pricked the ears of Vince as he lay upon the cold ground of his cell. Vince glanced across the from him into the opposing cell where Fintan had not stirred at the noise. He could not tell if Fintan was sleeping or not; for he sat with his back against the back wall and his legs crossed and dark shadows were cast from his waist up so Vince could not see his face. What he did know, is that Fintan had not moved from that position since he had fallen asleep initially, which in truth could have been many hours or only one hour—he knew not.

Vince could hear men stirring in the cells beside him and across the hall, desperate for the possibility of their next meal. Vince was ravenously hungry, and his fingers went to the two charms on his necklace. His fingers were shaking and quivering as he let his fingers run across the dragon horn, and then the Valligian tusk until his finger poked the sharp end of the Valligian tusk and he quickly withdrew it, sucking the small dot of blood that had pricked his finger as a result.

The sound of a dying cough disguised the sound of the boots on the old stone now. Someone hacked away their lung towards the front end of the prison hall, and Vince sat in quiet intrigue in hope that the boots was someone come to rescue him and his master. He had no idea how long they had been in this dungeon, but he was restless and fearful now. They might never get out.

It was a much better alternative than the sewer though; that had been the worst of it. Cramped together with Fintan in so thin a space that one could not even crouch and sit, the sewage waste had left a stingy smell upon him, but his nose had grown so used to it he had forgotten of the odor until a guard would toss him a boar's head or the scraps and bones of the royal supper that night and comment on the stench of him. He cared not; the sight of food was enough to set his mouth into a ravenous frenzy. His teeth licked the bones clean, and every piece of cartilage, meat, and salvageable Hyde was consumed.

Fintan was much slower to taking the food, and he worried that Fintan's body was letting go. He no longer had his strength; his stone. He had a certain dullness about him now. His clever wits and wise words no longer fed Vince with hope, instead he would simply grunt or give a hmph in reply to a question. Vince learned to stop questioning him on things he knew the answer. He had hoped Fintan could offer some hope of escape, but Vince doubted now.

He did not know what to make of the Valligian tusk. It hung from his neck, but it did not respond to his touch nor his mind. He sat for hours muttering things and testing out possible uses for the tusk, yet all he had accomplished was to continually prick his fingers and his body with its sharp end. Even the Dragon Horn had grown dull, and he had not seen the dragon in his visions since he had been captured. Instead, his head was pounding heavily as it always did but his visions were different. He did not ride the back of the dragon any more, flying freely over the landscape of Mestrane and into the stronghold of the dark lord's dwelling. He awoke in a yellow field, a meadow. And he would see the same story unfold over and over. An army stood waiting at a tree line where the groove of thick, green trees meets the swaying yellow meadows. After a time, a person would begin to emerge from the golden meadows beyond, and ascend the crest of a hill, putting him out of sight. The men of the great big army would wait patiently, but with great anticipation. In the end, the king accompanied by his squire would step forward to meet face to face with this emerging figure from the below the hill's crest, and at the top of the crest the mysterious figure would become visible to Vince's watching eyes. White, floating eyes melded into a pasty white skin and the markings off blue streaks ran down his cheeks. A crown grew out of his head as a part of him, and Vince knew it was a king of some sort.

In the end, the inevitable fate of this king would always play out the same, and Vince had sat in the dark of his dungeon and wondered why. Why ought he be shown this same vision over, and over, and over? The squire would seal the fate of the king of the meadows, and with that came a gushing wave of condemnation and death. Vince could feel those things, somewhere inside of himself as he watched, and he would jerk out of the vision with his hand squeezing the dragon horn and his breath coming rapidly. His heart was pounding out of his chest and his eyes lifted to the cell across the hall where the concealed face of his master sat, still as ever. Never moving.

So now they sat, in quiet anticipation. Vince wide-eyed, recently woken—the other sitting still and possibly asleep or possibly awake in quiet reflection. The hacking cough of the dying prisoner down the hall finally ceased and the sound of the boots on the cold tile stone had reached halfway down the hall of cells now and sound of begging men were met without a word as the man moved down the hall. Closer and closer he came.

Vince received not so much as a glance in his direction from the man, but he knew that face. It was his captor, Ser Fallon Diehurn. The Son of the King, as the villagers had sung as they rode upon steed through the wealthy towns and villages of Weptswur. Vince had no understanding as to why these words warranted a singing chant, but he figured it was something to do with a history of Weptswur and House Diehurn that he could not otherwise know.

Fallon Diehurn had his back to Vince as he knelt down on his haunches to look into Fintan's cell. His royal red cape hung from the back of his neck over his fine leather and mail. Vince could see dirt and mud splattered over his red cape and lathered onto the heels of his boots.

"I found these within the garments that we stripped off your back. Are they of value to you?"

Fintan was answered, "Would it matter if they were?"

The papers hung loosely from Fallon gloved hands. The parchment was damp and most of the ink had smeared the words down the paper.

"I would like you to read them to me. I cannot read, and I must know what is written here. I know a Magi would not carry parchment inside the hidden lining of his cloak if they were not important." Fallon spoke in a composed, assured voice. He had all the power here, Vince knew. He hoped his master would play his cards right, and if he did, they could closer to a way out of these cold, empty cells sooner than he had hoped. But his master did not seem to be thinking the same way.

"A man of royalty does not have his own scribes and scroll masters? I must have mistaken your identity when the villagers sang out your birthright in song when we rode through the villages of Weptswur," said Fintan. His tone already said everything he needed to say. Sarcastic and resentful, Vince had rarely seen this side of Fintan except when he had asked him hundreds of questions long ago. Vince's fingers made their way along the thread of the thong about his neck that bore the two charms.

Fallon exhaled followed by a deep inhalation.

"I know you are distraught by your treatment, but I know it to be true that you are not a sorcerer. I have ridden alongside Magi in the past, and you bear the signs of a true Magi Knight. Let us forget our faulty introductions and I am willing to work with you, and you may even find we have similar objectives in mind, lord Fintan."

"Whilst it is awe-inspiring and god-pleasing that you have overcome your pride to come start new with your prized captors, I am in no mood to read stories to you and entertain your agenda. Also, I am no lord. I am a Magi."

"But that is just it, Fintan. I am not aligned with my house. It is actually quite the opposite, in fact. I have great quarrels with my parents and my brother, and I seek your help if there is to be hope for this great nation, and perhaps the continent on a larger scale. Surely you can see that, Master Fintan. It is to my knowledge that the mission of the Magi Order was originally to serve and protect the realm. Has the Magi code changed?"

"Speak to me like a man, and I will tell you what is on the parchment you hold." Fintan's face still loomed in the shadows, and his legs had not moved since Fallon had knelt in front of him. Vince scooted to the side of his cell to try to catch of glance of Fintan around the side of Fallon's knelt body, but the shadow remained cast over Fintan's cell.

"Here, take it." Fallon held the parchment through the slits in the cell. Fintan reached out a hand, allowing his face to show in the light as he leaned forward for it. Vince caught his face for a second and saw that his beard grown scruffy as he'd expected, and his eyes were bloodshot. Fintan looked over the parchment in the light of the cell before speaking.

"These are prophecies and fortunes from the house of a dear friend of mine. He was a wise man, one who knew his way around the great writings of the realm. On his death bed he handed me this, and the other parchment I found myself." Fintan looked upon the paper now as he spoke, reading it aloud to Fallon.

"So, what does it mean?"

"I do not know how much you know of the current situation of the realm, but the curse of Mestrane was lifted—"

"—yes, yes, I know of the curse. I am no fool, master Fintan. Even you should know that of me."

"The curse was lifted by the sword of a king's squire. As the legend goes, the sword of the squire slayed the Maldur King, who protected the realm from the dark souls that lie dormant and trapped within Mestrane's borders. They are a guardian race, the Maldur."

Fintan paused to make sure Fallon was still with him and Fallon simply nodded his head, lowering himself from his haunches to allow his rear to sit upon the stone flooring.

"The parchment speaks of the tradition of the Maldur. As is their custom, he who slays the Maldur King, then takes the King's place as usurper, and the Maldur begin serving him as their new lord." Fintan paused again as the parchment folded flimsily over his hands as he held it before him.

"That could have been written by anybody, how do we know of the Maldur's traditions? They are a sacred people, an isolated race with whom humans have rarely ever had contact."

"Did you want my help or not, Ser? These writings are not foolish stories, they are sacred writing from the Old Ages by the First Historians. Their credibility cannot be questioned, for their writings were sanctioned and approved by Ertorin himself."

"I do not question these writings as a person attacking you, Master Fintan. But I believe it is well within my right to question some obscure tradition of a race which we hardly know about besides their all-important role in upholding the great curse which damns our human kind!" Fallon's temper had gotten the best of him for a moment, but his anger soon subsided after Fintan sat quiet.

"Pray forgive me. It has been a rough couple day inside these walls."

"Worry not, I have dealt with worse."

"Where were we?" asked Fallon.

"If you believe what I say to be true, Ser Fallon—that the next Maldur King is appointed by usurpation from the sword—then that is to say the much aggrieved 'Maldur Slayer' is the next Maldur King among us."

"Can you say with certainty, Magi? He is to be hung in a week's time or less!"

"Who, the Maldur Slayer? Don't tell me you continued your conquest by going off and chaining him too." Fintan was prepared to blow a fuse if it was Fallon who had captured Terran, Vince realized.

"No, I swear it on these castle walls, 'twas the sorcerer in service to my father, Nightclaw. I will admit it was tasked upon me to capture him should I come across his like, but it was Nightclaw who found him. He is held inside the sewers now, just as you were."

Fintan had dropped the parchment to the floor of his cell.

"Let me out of here. End this nonsense, Fallon."

"You know I can't do that."

"Do it now!" Fintan slammed his palms around the bars of the cell and jammed his face through a crack between the two bars with a look of pure anger in his face. Vince wondered where the composure and wit that Fintan had taught to him had gone. Without his stone he is weak. He has lost his discipline. Vince's fingers pet the surface of the grooved dragon horn.

"Master Fintan, there is still much to be discussed here. And do not take my visit lightly. It is of my own accord and my own risk that I am freely visiting two highly dangerous prisoners of our dark keep. Knowledge of our association could put my freedom at risk, so I would suggest you compose yourself before I take my leave of your anger."

"I am done speaking. I will not entertain your purpose whilst I am a slave to the stenches of this dungeon." Fintan leaned back against the wall and his face was again covered by shadow, but this time his legs lay flat and uncrossed at the ankle. Vince was unsettled by his tone. It was not like his master. Perhaps something changed before he found me in the pit with the mammoth. If so, he has not spoken of it yet. I dare not ask what happened, not while he is filled anger.

Fallon had risen from his seat on the ground to take his leave, but Vince could not let him leave. Not now, there would likely never be another visitor with such a keen interest in these matters. If he left, it would be the lowest guards of the land dumping bowls of scraps into his cells for him to salvage, and that would be the extent of his visitors until their trial. Vince could not wait that long.

Yet, somehow, Vince struggled to make his voice speak out as the sound of Fallon's boots resumed, only now they moved farther away. Down the hall they went, and their sound began to fade.

"Wait! Ser Fallon, come back! It is the apprentice of Master Fintan; I wish to speak a valuable word with you!" Vince had expected no response, he was surely out of ear shot now, and he heard Fintan scoff in his cell across from him. Hoping against hope seemed to work for Vince. The heavy boots scraped against stone and the sound grew closer again. Soon Fallon's head peered into his cell from the right.

"Was that you whose voice summons me?"

"Yes, m'lord, I mean, erm, Ser. Ser Fallon Diehurn. Yes, I think I can be of help to you."

"Yeah? And how's that? Oh, you're the real sorcerer of the two of you, aren't you? With those charms of dark magic about your neck, eh?"

"Well, sort of Ser. I did not seek these charms, but rather they were given to me and have worked in my favor well until now."

"I see. Well they certainly haven't gotten you out of this cell, have they?"

"That is not their purpose, Ser. They do not work like an Ertorin stone. They contain another kind of magic."

"Yes, I'm sure. I think they call that dark magic and I'll have none of that. Now that really could seal my banishment If I am caught in communion with those lowly charms you carry." Fallon appeared as though he was prepared to leave, and Vince knew he needed to speak quick and speak well. He felt timid, for Fallon Diehurn did not lack for an intimidating factor himself. He was tall and carried himself well. His sharp features gave him an important look somehow, and his dark tangled hair portrayed royalty and wealth. Vince thought so, anyway.

"The King of Mestrane marches east towards us with an army twice our size." Vince blurted it out quickly and held his breath. It stopped Fallon dead in his tracks as he had turned to leave.

"Why, of course, the armies of Mestrane march. As do our armies, and our neighbors Raideth, and Scourden as well. It is a paranoid time, little friend—"

"—No, you don't understand Ser. They are marching for battle, thousands of men. And they are led by a powerful skinchanger, King Steed."

"skinchanger?"

"Yes, I've seen it from my seat on the dragon. He is the darkness in the south. The leader of their armies, and he means to lead the attack himself as the Maldur King."

"Do not speak folly because you seek freedom, boy. You are still yet, so I shall have mercy upon your likeness. Lying is a dangerous thing in a powerful kingdom. I should have your trial be moved sooner so you are hung beside the traitor Terran the Slayer." Vince could tell Fallon wanted to be convinced. He dismissed his words easily, but he showed no signs of leaving now. He had his attention.

"I speak no folly, Ser. 'Tis true, all of it." Vince's eyes darted past Fallon to Fintan who had leaned forward again in his cell. He had not heard these words himself and now he listened in with intrigue.

"The nonsense about the dragon...dragon is mere fantasy, boy. I will pretend you did not mention such a beast, but I will here you speak about the King, the skinchanger."

"Here, go ahead and have a look for yourself." Vince held out the dragon horn, breaking it off of the throng upon his neck. Fallon was hesitant at first. He shot daggers at the small piece, but his interest took over. He took it in his palm and eyed it wildly.

"This cannot be real."

"You may believe as you wish, Ser. But I believe it real. I have seen what it can do. Go ahead, hold it. Close your eyes. If you focus, it may take you to the dragon of visions."

Fallon held it for a good while with his eyes shut. Vince wondered if he was already in a faraway land upon the dragon's back. He could envision it now, his long hair flowing majestically behind him in disbelief at the horn that Vince had shown him.

No such luck. "I see nothing," he finally said, returning the horn to Vince after eyeing it up close one more time.

"Perhaps it does not wish your eyes upon those lands, but it was drawn to me and so I have seen many things."

"Yes, many dark things and for that I worry about your allegiance." Fintan's voice cut hard from his cell across the hall.

"Keep quiet or I'll have your execution scheduled for tomorrow, Magi. Do not doubt for a second that I will not have it done, I have done many worse things for less disrespect."

"I don't doubt it. But you're too craven to have the head of a magic wielder."

Fallon turned on him faster than Vince had time to blink. His tip of his dagger was already digging into the flesh of Fintan's chin.

"The way I see it, Fintan, you have no stone. Therefore, you have no magic. So, lay off, and maybe the guards will forget to feed you. How's that for a pleasant death?" Fallon's voice had become cold and eerie. When he returned to Vince's cell Vince feared anything he would say would awaken that same Fallon he had just seen.

"Now, where were we?"

"King Steed...he's uh...a skinchanger."

"Which means...what?"

"The Maldur see him as the Maldur King, mistakenly, Ser. And if you kill the squire, as it is planned, then you have lost a valuable asset for winning the favor of the Maldur."

"We do not need the favor of the Maldur now, they have already failed the realm." Vince knew his next words would not be met with contentment. In fact, quite the opposite.

"It is not that, Ser Fallon. The Maldur serve the skinchanger now. He means to march on Weptswur. They are coming, Ser. The Maldur and Deranged Men both. King Steed has all that he needs, except one thing."

"What is that?"

"Terran's head, for he cannot command the Maldur to attack our walls if they see it."