Only a short distance down this trail, the leader stopped, turned abruptly into the wall and disappeared into a small crevasse which offered some small shelter from the constantly falling snow and ice. His companion followed and pulled the pack horse in with him. Both riders dismounted and quickly set up a tent of strange silver material, thin, yet obviously strong, and large enough for them and their horses. Finally, with all creatures within the shelter, they removed their riding habits and settled around the small fire one had made in the center of the tent.

Hawklok appeared almost dead, his skin blue and his unshaven face held tiny icicles which he brushed off, painfully ripping some of his whiskers out with them. Hiachmal Truth disrobed as well, taking more care with the ice on his face and hands, allowing it to melt against the heat of the fire. Neither spoke, caught up in their thoughts of the past week of travelling.

Hawklok thought of Myranda. He had last seen her from the ground at the foot of Roland's keep. A lot had happened. When he saw the smoke drifting from the tower's peak, he had run carelessly to the entrance, only to stop and stare with uncomprehending eyes at what he saw. The entire interior of the tower was a swirling mass of colors, blues, greens, reds, browns, and a wailing, as if from a high wind, shrieked so that he was forced to cover his ears. He could not see anything further, no sign of Roland, nothing.

As best he could, he concentrated on Majestrix, hoping the magic of the sword could help his eyesight penetrate beyond the infinite colors to what lay within. He felt nothing from the sword. The familiar spark of thought from the boltstone at the base of the hilt to the stone set in his headband was not forthcoming. He frowned and was about to enter when Myranda and Truth pulled him back and pointed to the parapets.

He stepped back to see better. The tower's peak was almost lost in grey mists. From over the edge appeared a face and for a split instant Hawklok thought it was Roland. He waved, then jumped, startled, when a hand gripped him from behind. He turned to face Roland standing there. It seemed Roland was trying to speak, but Hawklok could not hear. He stepped forward, but again a hand on his shoulder pulled him back, this time almost forcibly so. As he turned, anger about to flare, he saw a beautiful woman, dressed in grey and silver, standing beside Myranda and Truth. Her hair flowed in a raven-black cascade to her waist, held from her face by a delicate silver band. Her eyes were penetratingly blue and captivating, fixing Hawklok's in a focused stare. In that instant, Hawklok knew he faced a god.

"I am Alyssa, Keeper of the Balance."

Myranda moved to speak. Hawklok held her back with just a small movement of his hand. Truth, too, made a short noise, but silenced himself at Hawklok's signal.

Hawklok spoke as formally as possible. "We are honored by your presence, Keeper."

"Hawklok, you of all mortals should know that I am honored by your presence."

The formality bore a sharp contrast to the smoking debris of the keep's turret before them, but Myranda and Hiachmal knew better than to rush into conversations with deities. They stood behind Hawklok, motionless, speechless, but both wondering of Roland.

Hawklok was wondering about his friend as well.

"Keeper, if I may speak so boldly, what has happened to Roland?"

Alyssa looked nervously at Myranda and Truth, then spoke directly to Hawklok.

"I was on my way to warn Roland of a great tip in the Balance toward the side of Chaos. We Grey Lords felt it mere moments before it became obvious to you mortals on the Carousel in the form of that lightning strike, and by that time, it was too late. We fear there is some great anarchic evil set upon the Carousel, and it revolves around Roland and his Champions, you. Roland must be presumed captured, if not destroyed."

This news shattered any strength within Hawklok or Truth.

"By anarchic evil, do you refer to the magician Zyn?"

"Yes, Myranda, and some of his associates as well. He is hidden, now, in the Northern Reaches, in Granyt Lonetooth, and the forces of Chaos are gathering around him."

Truth approached slowly, barely daring to speak now.

"I thought Zyn had gone mad years ago, mistress."

"He did. We think that is part of his rise to power. Some demon or other has taken his empty mind and used it as a vessel in which to walk upon your world."

"This is as much as Wullph told us."

"Has Wullph been here, Hawklok?"

It struck Hawklok somewhat strange that a Keeper of the Balance would not know the whereabouts of the Balance's strongest Champion, then dismissed the thought; Alyssa had but recently gained the position.

"Why were you chosen as Keeper, Lady Alyssa?"

"So many questions from a mortal." For just a moment, there was a look in her eyes, a twist of her smile, that showed, for just an instant, emotions unbecoming a Grey Lord, but that look vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"I was chosen because my appearance and name are close to your wife's mother's. You see, I must take her to the Gameroom- for her own safety, as well as the safety of your son. I was chosen because with me, she might feel comfortable."

This news caused a flare of passion in Hawklok. He had been to the Gameroom once himself when Roland had first pulled Hawklok from the Carousel. The Gameroom was actually the entire plane of the Grey Lords, their home, and it consisted of many aspects: feasting hall, resting rooms, guest rooms, and the Arena. It was in the Arena that the Grey Lords moved their various Champions through their lives, leading into the paths of Fate. It was a discomforting thought, at times, to know that one's movements were determined by a set of fickle gods playing games in a grey world. Hawklok turned to Myranda. She stood quiet, sheepishly waiting, not knowing what to do.

"What danger is there toward my wife? I can protect her. I am a Champion!"

Truth was holding Hawklok's sword arm tightly, but only barely. The emotion boiled just beneath Hawklok's skin, ready to burst into uncontrolled action.

Alyssa spoke very calmly, trying to calm Hawklok as well.

"Hawklok, I am sorry, but you declined Roland's plea. You were his Champion, not mine. It is in Myranda's best interest that I take her with me back to our plane where she and her son can be protected. And I must return there shortly as well. My time grows shorter. I must find my Champions and gird them. Myranda, will you come with me?"

Myranda looked up, not to Alyssa, but to Hawklok.

"I will do as my husband commands me. It is his son, too."

Hawklok looked deeply into Myranda's eyes, hoping for some clue to her own thoughts. He turned again to Alyssa, her slim figure radiating power and command, but not commanding. Then he looked to Truth. Truth looked back and spoke softly.

"This must be your decision, Hawk."

He looked again to Myranda. "Will you go with her?"

Myranda looked Hawklok in the eyes. "I will go. I feel I must, as if compelled by higher powers, but I know that it is only by your will that I can leave here."

Again, something sounded wrong, but Hawklok could not judge what. Perhaps it was the confusion of the last ten minutes, the fires, the destruction.

"Myranda, if you feel comfortable with her, please go. It will be safer there than here." Hawklok then turned to Alyssa. "If you will have me as your Champion, I offer my services to you."

"I'm sorry, Hawklok. I cannot choose another Grey Lord's Champion as my own. If Roland returns, he will contact you. Thank you for seeing the sensibility in giving Myranda to my protection. We must go now."

Alyssa took Myranda's hand and together they vanished, reappearing on the turret. Myranda waved, then Alyssa, Myranda, and keep melted into grey mists, and were gone.

"I'm sorry, Hawk. I wish there were something I could do."

"Hiachmal. There is nothing to do. Only Champions do things. The rest of us just sit and watch." Hawklok started back for the inn.

Hiachmal Truth had never known Hawklok to give up. He was puzzled at his friend's apparent lack of confidence. He saw only one road to follow to force Hawklok to see that there was one thing he could do- fight anyway, as he had done before. Truth pulled his short sword and ran toward Hawklok screaming. With uncanny speed and accuracy, the two attacked and parried, neither breaking the other's guard. For ten minutes the duel raged. Hawklok reacted out of sheer reflex, not thinking, not rationalizing, but fighting, as he had not done for five years. Truth calculated each swing, each move, each twist into Hawklok's guard, but never managed to break it.

After ten minutes, Truth called out.

"Yield! I yield!"

He threw his sword to the ground, but Hawklok kept swinging, forcing Truth to back up.

"Hawk, I yield! Stop!"

Hawklok did not hear Truth's call. He did not honestly see Truth. His head was filled with visions of the Dark Lord, Krynchara, and an imprisoned Myranda whom he must free.

There was one sound he did hear, however, one voice he could make out. As he pressed his opponent, not even sure who it was, he heard another plea for restraint.

-hawklok- -things are not what they seem- -do not force my hand into this-

Hawklok slowed his assault, but did not stop. His vision was blurred completely by blackness, then a bolt of blue covered his eyes and he yelled in pain.

-i am sorry- -i did not wish to do this-

Truth saw only a flickering of blue light from the sword, but it encased Hawklok in energy, then Hawklok screamed and fell to the ground, trembling in fits.

Some two or three minutes later, Hawklok was awake, but puzzled.

"What happened?"

Truth laughed a moment before answering.

"Hawk, you are still one hell of a fighter. I pulled sword on you hoping to clear your head of all this muddy thinking. Then you went berserk, not letting up when I yielded. It almost scared me. Then the sword did something, I don't know what, and you were unconscious. Now you're awake."

"What?"

"Don't you see, Hawk? You can fight. Whether you are a chosen pawn of the Grey Lords or not does not diminish your abilities. You can fight Zyn."

"But where do I start?"

"Back in the tavern, where your armour is waiting for you, has been waiting for you for five years. Let's go and be gone."

Hawklok thought about that moment for a long time there in his tent in the snow. To be fighting again for the Carousel; now that was a thought that had not gone through his mind while he spoke to Alyssa. But why not? And why had Roland appeared to him? He reached down and took Majestrix from his lap and placed the great sword near his bedroll and streched out for sleep. As he slowed his mind, he fingered the chess piece Roland had given to him. Again, he felt that it was too symbolic, too personal. Hawklok slept.

Truth also thought to himself as he finished his dinner of warmed cured beef and water melted from the snow, but his thoughts were of an older trek through these mountains. Years ago, as a youth, Truth had learned the arts of thievery in the city of Cymor under the tutelage of Munglewart Stickypalm, a free-lance thief living outside the guild of Cymor. After three years of practice and hope, Stickypalm sent Truth out into the world on his own.

Truth left for his home village of Thorngrove Hall. He arrived in several days. The welcome he expected, small as it was, did not happen. Instead, Truth was met with charred remains of huts and carcasses, compounded by the mass of rotting bodies piled onto a makeshift altar in the village square. Most of them were mutilated beyond recognition, but some Truth could recognize. He spent the best part of a week burying his village alone.

As he scavenged among the remains of buildings, he found several silver tokens, all the same, but a symbol he did not recognize. Leaving Thorngrove Hall for the last time, Truth returned to Cymor and his master. He told Stickypalm of his return to Thorngrove and offered one of the tokens for identification. Stickypalm could not identify the symbol, but did identify the silver as coming from the mines of the Darkling elves in the mountains of the Northern Reaches.

With that information only, Truth had ventured north toward the mountains, gathering information as he could from travellers and merchants. The story he pieced together told of a Dark Elf usurper, Zyn Soulseller, who, with the assistance of major demon-magiks, had taken the cities of Cysil and Westwerld and all that lay between in the desert of Desolation. Still, Truth headed north.

In the dead of winter, Truth reached the mountain range and settled with a dwarven mining colony for two months, waiting for warmer weather. A week beyond the twp months, Zyn attacked the dwarven village. No prisoners were taken. Truth and a handful of the peace-loving dwarves headed into the mines and there remained until Zyn was convinced that they had either escaped or died. Truth helped bury the dead there, then wandered aimlessly into the mountains, his soul sick with the torture he had witnessed during the brief but intense encounter with Zyn Soulseller, until he found one of several entrances into Neverwhere, a place for war-torn, tired, weary souls and the bodies they inhabited. Truth crossed that bridge and remained in Neverwhere until five years ago, when a young upstart fighter named Hawklok came and recruited him for the battle against the Dark Lord.

Truth's attention returned to the tent when Hawklok set his sword beside his bedroll and lay down. Truth added another firebrand to the fire and then fell asleep.

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