One serf to the ruling class who understood this relationship was Yoryk. He did not have a family name, as slaves were not people, not members of families, but property belonging to the elitists who could bargain, trade, and sell such properties. But Yoryk had other ideas, other plans. He had watched his owners collect their sums of the sacrifices, had overheard the high priestess giggle with joy as her concubine made love to her on a pile of gold and silver coins, and had witnessed his own children sold to outsiders for the sole purpose of obtaining more riches. He had had enough. His ideas were simple- grab what he could and run. His fault lay in trying to grab the two large gems that were the eyes of the great idol in the heart of the temple. He was captured and tortured briefly by the midpriests before being given to the high priestess as a plaything. She tortured him some more, but never killed him, healing him instead so that his pain could last that much longer.

One evening, as the priestess prepared yet another vial of acid, Yoryk reacted. He kicked at her forearm. The acid spewed in a fortuitous arc, missing Yoryk, but burning through the chains which held him. He used those same chains to kill the priestess. He had wanted more time in which to plan her slow and painful demise, but he had to be quick to escape. As the priestess gasped her last, she spit into Yoryk's eyes. The blood and spittle ran into his mouth. He licked at it with his tongue and found that it was not too distasteful. He drank some blood from her neck swiftly, then left, running naked through the caverns, avoiding guards where he could, assassinating them if he could not.

Eventually, he reached one of the many openings into the upper world. It was cold and white. This was snow. He had never seen snow. He had never seen the upper world but once when he had been allowed to worship with his owner under the full light of Myshella. Now it was cold. But he ran on, leaving the safety of the caves, heading nowhere in particular, for nowhere was the only place he knew. Twenty minutes outside, he collapsed into the snow, waiting to die, but waiting as a free man.

A cloak was suddenly wrapped around him and he was lifted easily from the ground and carried into a tent of silver. His eyes could not see more than that- they were clouded over white. A cup of warmth was pressed into his hands and he drank. It was sweet and bitter, but it warmed him inside and his vision was slowly returning. He tried to speak, to thank the blurred shadow he assumed was his savior. Instead, the shadow spoke first.

"I am a messenger, nothing more. My time is short. There is clothing and armour for you here; weapons, too. After you have rested, you may take what you want. There is one piece in particular. I will put it around your neck for now. If you take nothing, leave this piece as well. If you take anything, you must take this with you. Head southward, into the forests. Agents of the Grey Lords will find you. Sleep."

The voice had been low and rough, like a controlled growl, and the hand that took the cup away was large and furry. Yoryk did not know anything of the surface people. Were all of them large and hairy? As he fell asleep, he heard the rattle of sword and scabbard and the neigh of a horse outside, then the pounding of hooves in the snow, then nothing. He slept.

He awoke, knowing he was dead. All around him was silver, and beside him was armour of silver and Darkling black steel. A slender sword of steel, with a scabbard studded with semi-precious gems lay beside the carefully displayed clothing, light, thin, but warm, as Yoryk discovered upon putting it on. He also examined the necklace placed around his neck. A simple thong of leather held a heavy piece of carved onyx, a horse's head. This same emblem he now saw embossed into the bracers on the ground. He remembered a dream of a wolf-creature giving this to him, remembered the creature's words, and took everything. The armour, chain mail with a full breastplate, forearm bracers with the horse emblem, hard leather boots and a small shield, fit surprisingly well, and the sword, once pulled from its scabbard, shone bright and clean and when Yoryk thumped it with his fingernail, it rang with a clear tone. He was duly impressed. As a slave, he had been marginally trained as a warrior in case he was ever needed to defend his owner's property, but never was he given such elequent weaponry or armour. His smile, white teeth glistening against the shiny black of his lips, reflected off the smooth finish of the sword. Then he sheathed the sword, opened the flap of the tent, pulled the tent down, packed it into a backpack that had been left, and began his long journey southward. "Into the forests," the creature had said. What, thought Yoryk, is a forest?

For many hours, Yoryk trudged through the ice and cold, the grey sky unemotional and the wind whipping unmercifully in his face. Yoryk cursed as best he could, which wasn't much, for, as a slave, he was denied religious privileges and had no real knowledge of the gods, only that he had been the merest trifling of a slave to one of the high families. Still, the wind and snow and ice paid no attention to his curses and stormed on. He was beginning to stumble now, and decided then to stop for the night. He pulled the tent from his backpack and began piecing the supports together, hoping that he was doing so in the proper order.

Damn, he thought, I should have paid more attention as I took the damnable thing down.

Eventually, he had a supporting structure that looked right. He removed the silver material from the pack and began attaching it to the supports through braced and reinforced holes for the purpose. The wind blew harder and more angrily. Yoryk tugged on a tethering line and pulled one of the several anchoring stakes from the ground. The wind picked up the tent, structure and all, and threw it into the sky. With it, hanging on by a solitary tether, Yoryk soared, screaming into the wind and snow. His yell echoed eerily through the canyons and peaks of the mountains. He was tossed back and forth until the tent became entangled in an outcropping of rock. He hung there for just a moment, then released, and fell into a snowbank. There he lay, exhausted and defeated by the elements.

He lay there for some unknown minutes, the cold easing into his bones, stretching and distorting time. He began to see visions of Darkling women caressing themselves for his pleasure, awaiting his beckoning finger. He smiled, and the ice that had formed on his face cracked, forcing him to awaken. Before him was a face, grey with dark hair, beard, and mustache. Its eyes were questioning, its mouth moving. Then came a hand reaching into the snowbank and, with just a tug, Yoryk was free standing, frozen. He moved his eyes and looked at the little men around him. Five in all, they stood no higher than his waist and all of them had the dark hair, beard, and moustache. He was then pushed by one onto his back and carried in a stretcher by two of the little men into a cave opening just now coming into view. As the darkness of the cave enveloped him, he drifted again into unconsciousness, where the Darkling women waited upon his every whim.

He awoke to a warm heat and light from a fire and torches and lanterns. He was on a soft bed of furs and beside him, asleep in a chair, was a small woman, similar to the little grey men, except that the facial hair was not as prominent. She was wearing a white smock and gown. Beside her was a metal bowl resting on a tripod above a small fire. A white rag hung from another stick tripod beside the bowl's, and a warm odor, almost like the incence the high priestess had liked to use while torturing him, but more friendly somehow, came from the bowl, and indeed, his own skin. He wanted to get to his clothes and armour, placed in a neat pile beside the woman, then to leave the strangeness of these little people. He made to rise and, as he did so, noticed his hands and feet were tied to the bed. At this point he wanted to scream.

So Yoryk did. The scream felt good, but his throat was somewhat dry and parched, and the scream no more than a muted wailing, but it did awaken the little woman with a start. He looked at Yoryk awake and struggling and called out of the room in a language Yoryk did not understand, though it was vaguely similar to his own.

Through the doorway came a round little man in furs and leathers, a metal helm upon his head with the horns of some animal stuck through it. A fine dagger hung from his belt and he drew it as he entered. He looked at Yoryk and said something in that peculiar language, gesturing toward Yoryk with the blade of his knife all the while.

Yoryk stared back then and began asking questions.

"Where am I? Who are you? What have you done to me? Let me up!"

The man's helm shook with his head and he spoke to the woman as Yoryk's feable interrogation from the bed continued. The woman spoke back and shook her head. Then both turned, looked at Yoryk rather condescendingly, and left the room altogether, closing a door from the outside, and Yoryk heard a crossbar fall into place. Yoryk struggled against his bonds for a few minutes more, but was far too weak to break free. He settled back and slept, as that was all he could do.

He awoke at the sound of the crossbar being lifted. The fire had died, as had all the torches and lanterns, but the darkness did not stop his seeing the door open slowly, and he watched as if still asleep as the small woman crept toward him and cut the leather from his hands and feet, then crept cautiously out. The bar was replaced, and he heard the small pitter patter of her feet as she walkled quickly away.

Yoryk got up and hit his head against the low rock ceiling of the room. Sitting back on the bed, he caught his breath, rubbed his head, and again stood. He gathered his clothes and armour together. His weapons were not here, but that was no surpise. He had fought many times in the slaves' arena for the glory of his owners without weapons or armour. The prospect of not having his weapons now did not frighten him in the least. Yoryk was, he felt, the perfect defeatist- optimistic that, even if he died, his death was victory for him for he would not be a slave in death. Except for his weapons, all of his things were there but the onyx horsehead necklace.

Twenty minutes later, he was fully dressed and armoured, seated on the bed, when the crossbar was lifted again, this time with much banging and noise, as if his captors did not wish to intrude unannounced. He quickly raced for the door frame and stood quietly behind it. The door swung open and a voice, from whom Yoryk could not see for the door, said something almost friendly into the darkness of the room. A torch was thrust into the room and yet another of the little men entered the room. As he past the door, Yoryk was sorely tempted to take this little man as a hostage and perhaps settle upon his release, but Yoryk saw that the man was unarmoured and, even more surprising, unarmed, except for the torch. Yoryk stood his ground and coughed.

The little man spun swiftly and held the torch out in defense, then pulled it back as he realized Yoryk was not attacking. He waved for him to exit the room, but did so in a manner suggesting Yoryk do so slowly. Yoryk stepped from behind the door and looked into the room beyond. There was a long table and many of the little men standing around it. Three of them, obviously guards if judged from their armour and weapons, stood in front of the door, but their knives, though drawn and ready, were not set to strike, but were rather a mere precautionary measure.

Yoryk did not want to leave his room. Then his eyes caught one of the decorations hanging on the wall at the head of the table. There was a large bronze relief of a horse's head, much like the one he had on his necklace. This gave him a sudden reassurance that there was nothing to fear yet. He stepped out of his room, careful not to hit his head on the low ceiling, and into the larger meeting room.

Underneath the bronze relief stood the round man with the horned helm. He gestured for Yoryk to sit at the opposite end of the table. Several other men led him to the seat, Yoryk bent almost in half to avoid the ceiling. He sat in the chair, placing his hands flat on the table in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. The men seemed to approve and took their seats and mimicked the gesture. The little woman who had been in Yoryk's room when he awoke the first time came toward him smiling and speaking in low, soft tones and holding something silver in her outstreched and open hand. Yoryk took the thing and saw that it was an ear ornament. It was made to fit around the outside and back of a person's ear, not like earrings for peirced ears, but like a wire wrapped delicately. This one was made for the left ear. His owners had worn these every day, though not quite as well crafted as this one. This one was shaped like a dragon with small gems for the eyes. Yoryk placed it onto his ear carefully, watching the expressions of the little people. The woman looked up at him and smiled and patted his knee reassuringly. Others of the men spoke their strange language amongst themselves. Then Yoryk finished the placement of the ornament and turned immediately to the man on his left.

"You speak my language!"

The man, somewhat frightened by the sudden outburst and rather shaken, looked at Yoryk and then spoke to him. Yoryk's eyes grew wide with amazement. What the little man said and the way his mouth moved were two completely different things!

"No, I do not speak your language," the man said, "but your ear dragon will interpret mine for you."

The horn-helmed man stood and said "It is why we had you put it on, you see. We could understand you, but nothing we said made sense to you. So." He then sat again.

Yoryk looked around astounded. His eyes met each of the men's around him and settled on the woman still standing beside him.

"It's all right, sweetheart. Just pretend our mouths are moving the way they sound like they're moving and things will be fine." She smiled again, then retreated a step behind Yoryk's seat. As she turned, Yoryk noticed that she had one of those ear dragons on herself.

"Thank you for helping me," he said to her as she passed by. She blushed, then stood quietly. Yoryk turned back to the table and the men seated there. He waited.

The men at the table looked from one end of the table to the other, um-ming and hm-ming back and forth. One of them stood and said "Uh, er...." and sat down quickly.

The leader, as Yoryk assumed the horn-helmed man was, stood then and addressed the assembly.

"Yes, well, here he is." He pointed with his whole hand, a wave of observation completely unnecessary. The others around the table, some ten or so, all looked to Yoryk then back to the leader.

"And so," said the leader, "there he is. Um-hum."

"Yes," said another seated in the middle of the table, "but what is he doing here?"

"Well I don't know. I haven't had a chance to properly question him yet. Um-hum."

Yoryk did his best to suppress his chuckle at the relative confusion around him. He had assumed he would be interrogated, tortured. He had assumed he would become a slave yet again to another people, but all those dark shadows of fears were fleeting under the humourous light of this meeting. But the chuckle caught up with him and he let out a brief, but explosive laugh. All heads turned toward him sternly. Yoryk knew he needed to apologize quickly.

"I'm sorry. Please, forgive me."

All heads then turned back to the leader.

"Yes, well, of course. Can't very well kill a man for laughter now, can we?"

The others quickly agreed and most of them smiled now as if a great weight had been lifted. Yoryk wondered exactly what that weight had been.

"You have some questions you would like to ask?" Yoryk felt most accomodating and figured if he could supply half the conversation, these men might feel obligated enough to give him his weapons back.

"Questions? Yes, yes, of course. Well, let's first make introductions, shall we? I mean, we all know who you are, but who are we? I mean, we know who we are, but you don't, so you're thinking who are we. I am Kerakitus, leader of the dwarf mining colony Urtz. These are my councilmen. Together, we run the colony."

The others um-med some more and nodded their agreement. Yoryk was still confused.

"You know who I am?"

"Well, yes. Everyone knows who you are, now that you've returned, and we all just want to be left in peace."

"Well," said Yoryk, "exactly who am I?"

"Ah, a test! Well, let's see. You are Zyn Soulseller, yes?"

A shudder raced up and down Yoryk's spine. He had heard the name of Zyn, and had even been born just before his fall and exile some twenty years before, but he never thought about it too much as it was forbidden. Zyn's name had been cursed at the time of his exile and all mention of him had ceased in the Darkling towns under the mountains and, so Yoryk assumed, all places elsewhere.

"I? No, I am Yoryk. Just Yoryk. Until recently I was slave to the high families under the mountains. I escaped and you brought me here. I am not... that demon spawn."

There was a sudden diluge of voices. All eleven men spoke at once and the resulting babble was too much for even the magic of the ear dragon to put up with and all Yoryk heard was the distressed arguments of the dwarves, as Yoryk now knew to call them.

The dwarf woman came from behind Yoryk and placed the leather thong in his hand.

"I'm sorry I took this from you, but I needed to know that you weren't Soulseller. Show this to them dear, and smile."

Yoryk watched her back away one step. She motioned with her hand for him to show the horsehead. He held out his hand slowly, his mouth also slowly opening to show his white, sharp teeth.

It took several moments for the councilmen to realize what was happening at the far end of the table. When they finally did notice, in singles and pairs, conversation dropped off, leaving just the leader, Kerakitus, speaking to himself.

"...shall we do with him now? Why is everyone looking over there? Oh."

In the light, the little black horse spun on the leather thong, reflecting the torchlight in sharp little flashes which were in turn reflected by the bronze relief on the wall.

"He has a sign. He comes from them."

The woman moved closer, still whispering.

"They have sent him. It was they who rescued him and kept him from freezing in the snow. It was they who led you to him. You said so yourself, Kerakitus, that you felt pulled in that direction."

"Shush, woman!"

Yoryk continued to hold his hand out, not sure what to say, but knowing that it was the presence of the necklace that had silenced the dwarves. He decided to speak anyway.

"I was given this by a large wolf creature my first night out in the snows. He told me to take what I wanted, but to keep this if I took anything. I took all he gave to me. I wish no harm to you. He told me to head into the forests, that agents of the grey lords would find me."

"And that we have, Yoryk! Gentlemen, Wullph has sent another knight into our midsts. We must get word to Hiachmal."

"I heard that he had left with the human, Hawklok, on another quest for the Dark One. I was told they were heading here, to Granyt Lonetooth."

"Then that is where we must go, and quickly, too. Yoryk, as one agent to another, welcome to our camp. Your weapons will be returned to you. We will leave first thing in the morning."

The council room emptied quickly but for Yoryk and the woman.

"I am Dianni, a healer. You are well enough to travel, I think."

"Dianni, thank you again."

"I do what Myshella asks while following the Path of the Balance. You were put in my care, knight. Now you are well."

"You worship Myshella, the Darkling goddess?"

"Myshella is our goddess. She watches over all things here at night, including lost slaves and knights errant."

She grabbed his hand and led him to his room.

"Sleep now. Tomorrow will come quickly."

Yoryk laid down onto the bed and was a sleep quickly, even in his armour. He was not asleep long before he began to dream.

The night, in his dream, was an ocean, dark and smooth and fluid, the current travelling ever forward. Within the current were the refelctions of the stars burried deep in the ocean. Yoryk knew then that he was on a boat in this ocean, although he had never seen a boat, nor knew what an ocean was. The boat was black, highlighted in silver and blue and at the helm stood a tall Darkling woman, full-bodied and beautiful.