As Moonflame disappeared over a ridge, Myranda looked back to the keep so magically appeared in the fields, wondering what was happening within. She considered using some minor magics to eavesdrop on her husband and the grey lord, but thought better of it. Instead, she looked helplessly for something to do, skulking back to her house and the empty tavern behind it.

Within the dark main room of The Hawkbreeder, Myranda sat and remembered the times she had spent in Neverwhere and the peace she had known there. She looked around the empty room for a moment, almost wishing that she and Hawklok had not closed the tavern for this week so that she might have something to do besides sit and feel the forboding darkness of loneliness surround her.

"Why," she thought, "am I sitting in here alone. My friends are out there."

The darkness within became more dense for a moment and she was reminded of the prison the Dark Lord had kept her in five years ago. She felt the tangible silence beckoning to her to sleep, to dream, and to never awaken. The blackness of sleep was overwhelming and Myranda closed her eyes and saw two residual points of light behind her lids. She tried to open her eyes, to get up and return to the festivities outside, but the darkness behind her eyes, the opiate of silence and darkness, kept her within its grasp as the red points of light kept her, drug-like, hypnotized. She wondered why those two points should remain so long after closing her eyes and a shiver followed a chill down her spine. The points of light had grown larger, more distinct, more closely resembling two disembodied eyes, glowing like coals in a dying fire.

Outside, Hiachmal Truth lay on the ground, tackled by several of the village children. As he lay laughing, he saw the clouds, till then white, puffy, and light, grow denser, darker, threatening. Wicked lightning, bright and destructive, flashed from one cloud to another, a hurdler in the skies. Another bolt, and yet another, in tandem with the first, struck out at the heavens, flashing ever closer to the ground, but not touching, as if testing the ground for safety.

The children, suddenly all fears, left their grown playmate and ran without hesitation to their parents' waiting arms and then as families to their houses. The people of Neverwhere, with nowhere to turn, huddled together under one of the immense oaks standing next to the river. Truth, left in the open, could not move. He felt a presence, the force of an evil personality, traveling like a ghost with the lightning, testing the ground as the lightning tested the ground.

With a mighty force of will, Truth leapt to his feet and ran for the closest shelter available to him. He ran for the inn, even as the lightning began to focus around it. As he stepped into the inn, a bolt struck the chimney of the kitchen, sending chunks of rock in all directions. Thunder rumbled across the skies, a deep laugh from the gods.

Within the darkened inn, Hiachmal saw Myranda sitting stiff-backed and alone in the tavern. Her eyes were closed, but beneath the lids, they moved back and forth as if watching some heated battle. Truth grabbed her arm and shook her. Her eyes opened, but they were empty, without iris or pupil. A shock went through her body, catching Truth still holding her. The shock stretched into him and sent him careening across the room. Myranda stood and groped for a handhold, then fell to the floor just as another bolt hit the inn's roof, sending a large beam through the ceiling of the main room. It fell, pinning both Myranda and Truth underneath it. Myranda yelled, and in doing so, seemed to awaken from her sleep. Again, thunder peeled in from the distance, shattering the glass set in the front wall of the inn. The shards fell on top of Truth, who was still pinned under the beam. He stopped his struggling, knowing that any movement at all could just as easily shred him as free him.

Back in the tower, Hawklok felt a slight tremor and ran down the stairs. He ran out of the tower at breakneck speed and did not see or hear the lightning bolt that struck it in the parapet. Instead, he saw his house and inn lit frantically by bolt after bolt from the sky. He saw smoke rising from the roof where a bolt had just hit and he saw his companions from Neverwhere cowering behind an oak. He ran for the inn, completely oblivious to all but one thought, finding Myranda.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the storm was gone. One last roll of the laughing thunder rose and fell in a great crescendo of violent sound, and then all was quiet.

Hawklok paused in shock when he saw Myranda and Truth pinned beneath the timbers from the roof. He tore through the rubble to get to Myranda. She was unconscious and unmoving. He yelled as he tried to move the heavy brace, but it would not budge. He yelled again, this time for help. He looked out to see his friends from Neverwhere approaching. Then they slowed and stopped as someone else came between them and the inn, someone Hawklok could not discern.

He rode a proud grey stallion. He was tall and cloaked in an indigo cloak dark as night. He carried a broadsword on his back larger than all that Hawklok had ever seen, save one. He then remembered one morning, five years ago, in Cymor, when his life had been saved by none other than Wullph, the ultimate champion of the Balance, and it was an instantaneous recognition that came upon both of them as Wullph entered the tavern.

"Yelling," Wullph said in his low, powerful voice, "will only weaken you the more. Take that end; I shall take this one."

As Hawklok did as he was told, he realized that it was Wullph carrying most of the load of the beam. Easily, they threw it aside, freeing the two trapped beneath it. Both Myranda and Hiachmal were still unconscious. Wullph knelt next to Truth, who lay at his feet. With an easy grace that seemed out of place in such a powerful being, Wullph traced several lines and runes across Truth's face and spoke a few words in a language older than even Moonflame's ancestors'. Truth began to move slowly, rolling this way, then that.

Hawklok held Myranda in his arms, trying to awaken her, but nothing was having any kind of effect. Wullph approached slowly, discreetly, not wishing to interfere with something as personal as the death of a loved one.

"She's not dead."

That was all Hawklok said as he held the limp body of Myranda in his arms. Wullph reached down to Hawklok's shoulder and grasped it firmly.

"No," he said.

He knelt by her and drew her up to his shoulders' height, then over his head. Hawklok could only watch in weakened amazement as Wullph sang in his strange language. As the notes and words resounded around them, a glow built around the pair and grew in intensity, until it seemed a raging fire of green and blue swept through the tavern. Truth had come closer to his friend Hawklok and both were gathered in a corner, not so much in fear as in awe of the power they were witnessing.

The fire flicked around Wullph and Myranda, engulfing them, caressing them, holding them in its healing light. Through the fire, Hawklok and Truth could see only the silhouettes of the ancient warrior and the sorceress. Soon, they could not even see these as the flame grew stronger and stronger.

It faded in a moment, diminishing almost instantaneously into Wullph's hands in swift contrast to the energy it represented. Standing in the area it occupied was Wullph, gently holding Myranda in his arms as he let her feet touch the ground. Hawklok arose and went to her, holding her up as she walked to a chair Truth held out to her. Wullph stood, his eyes darting back and forth, his nose, drawn a little forward with the intensity with which he was concentrating, crinkling as he sniffed at the air.

"The Elderonian has been here."

Hawklok turned to face Wullph, quite puzzled by this statement.

"Yes. He came to celebrate with us."

Wullph nodded, but his eyes refelcted the calculations his mind was racing through.

The residents of Neverwhere, General Punphar leading them, ran to the remains of the inn. They reached the entrance and stood back at the damage and the tall hooded figure of Wullph.

"Wullph!"

The demi-god turned to face Punphar, who had drawn his sword, a mere dagger compared to Wullph's legendary longsword Chaos, forged by the Lords of Anarchy eons ago, and smiled a half-second smile, showing his pointed teeth, and gave a short, deep growl.

"Punphar. It's been a while."

Hawklok stood between the two.

"I don't know what you two have against each other, but it can wait. Punphar, put that away. Wullph, please. There is obviously something bigger at work here."

"How can I put down my sword in the presence of that beast?" cried Punphar. "He destroyed all that was of my village when he destroyed our patron deity, Kilmarn the Thunderer, in his quest to eliminate the needs for the Balance."

"I was doing as I was told to do by the Balance itself. Your village was the battlefield for beings greater than the gods. You should be honored that it died as it did, instead of at the hands of one of the petty High Lords. And there will always be a Balance, no matter what I do or desire. Put down your sword, General, so that I might not be forced to draw mine."

A long silence followed as all waited to see Punphar's reaction to this soliloquay. Slowly, Punphar withdrew and stepped into the yard, walking away from a needless fight.

"I will see you in Neverwhere, friends. The Carousel is still too chaotic a place for me."

Punphar went to his horse, mounted, and headed south, to the bridge to Cymor and thence to Neverwhere. Several others followed him, whether from disgust, shame, or pride was not evident. But standing beside Wullph were Hawklok, Myranda, and Hiachmal Truth. They stood silently as the remainder of their comrades mounted and left, each in a different direction, leaving the four within the remains of the tavern.

"Damn it," said Hawklok, "why is it always me?"

"You chose to serve the Balance. Therefore, it must be you."

"No, I chose to serve it once. That was all. Surely once was enough. I have just turned down Roland. I am needed here with my wife and my son-to-be."

"Once the choice is made, it can never be changed. You chose to serve the Balance when you chose to serve yourself in defeating the Dark Lord, Krychara. Now, one of his minions has gained, through some of the Elderonian's magic, the means to bring Krynchara back to this plane."

Hawklok stood, alarmed and frightened and angry. Myranda stood in shock. She had been a prisoner of the Dark Lord for too long by her measures.

"That can't be," said Hawklok. "I killed him. Majestrix shredded his being, his mind. Nothing was left of him. He can't come back."

Myranda spoke next, cutting off Wullph's response.

"Gods cannot be killed, Hawk. You should know that. Moonflame worships the "Dead" Gods, yet, to him, they are no more dead than the Green Lady or Roland is to us."

"Your woman speaks correctly, Hawklok. As long as there is one worshipper, one believer left alive, that god is still alive and able to focus his power, though only as much as will be focused through those believers. This one believer, though, is one of his own creations, a demondarc, who has gained control of a wizard who lives in Granite Lonetooth beyond the Northern Reaches mountains. There, his powers are penultimate, bested only by the powers of the High Lords."

"So what are we to do? Sit and wait to be humbled before the Dark Lord again?"

"No. We can kill this wizard."

All three turned to Hiachmal, who had retreated into the inn to sit.

"This wizard and I have fought before, though it has been a long time and I thought him dead. His name is Zyn the Reaper. He gave his soul to several of the Lords of Chaos in return for their help in overthrowing the ancient kingdoms. If he is part of this, then he will know we are coming and what we are planning and how we will attack, even before we do."

"You know much for a thief, little man."

"I'm almost as good a thief as you are, Wullph."

The two stared into each others' eyes, reading the others' gaze, then both broke, retreating into their thoughts.

Hawklok walked behind the counter of the inn, unbelievably intact, and withdrew his great longsword, the legendary Majestrix, from its place of honor above the mantle. He laced the scabbard onto his belt and a spark jumped from the blue boltstone in the pommel to its brother stone set in the simple headband Hawklok wore. Only Hawklok could understand this communication of concern.

"I will consult with Roland about all this." With those words, Hawklok turned and exited, Myranda close behind.

As soon as Hawklok reached the overturned banquet tables and had a clear view of the fields below, he knew something was wrong, for there, in the checkerboard of grain, the keep in which Roland had arrived stood smoldering and broken, a crack splitting one side from the parapet almost to the foundations. Hawklok stood dumbstruck. Myranda approached him and stood silently, just as mystified and frightened as her husband. A moment later, Hiachmal and Wullph joined the two and stood as still and speechless.

The smoke, an evil, oily, noxious green-black fluid spreading slowly into the clearing sky, floated heavily on what little breeze there was. It seemed to bleed from the crack in the keep, unstaunchable blood from a gaping wound in the side of a friend. Hawklok was the first to break from the group, drawing Majestrix from its scabbard, lightning racing from edge to edge of the razor-sharp blade.

He ran without fear, without caution of any kind, for he knew something had to have happened to Roland for a stronghold of a Keeper of the Balance to be as damaged as this keep was. He also knew that, without a Keeper, the Balance might soon topple, allowing either total and antiseptic Law or complete and utter Chaos to take control of the Carousel and possibly the other worlds and planes as well.

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