Fawnlum and her friends sat in another eatery, close to the city wall, getting in one last civilized meal before going out into the forest again.

“Are you ready to go yet?” she asked Sienna, two days after her dark-haired comrade had visited the Nacklegems.

“Yes, fearless leader, I am!  Those gnomes are tough negotiators.”

“Saima,” Dreighton ventured, with his posture straight and voice clear.  “Not to sound cowardly, but I truly don’t want to go back out there.”

Everyone looked between him and Fawnlum.

“Not when the witchcraft plagues my thoughts,” he continued, “and brings rot to my heart.”

Fawnlum gave a small nod of acknowledgement, for he was not saying this in front of others out of disrespect.  He was simply letting no secrets come between them, as leader and soldier.

“You’re brave,” she easily replied.  “The darkness tempts you to forget this fact.

“We’ve faced dangers and death all our lives.  How does this dark magic compare to the battles we’ve seen?”

“It does not need to kill us with a blade, when it can make our minds too shadowed to sleep, and too clouded to see,” he replied.

“Whatever the power of that darkness to haunt our minds, it can’t kill us. Else we’d already be dead.  We’ll keep our attention alert so our wits aren’t dulled, just like we keep fighting so our skills don’t lag.”

“So what’s the plan?” Halrick asked.

“Keep adding to our ear count,” she answered matter-of-factly.

Sienna spoke up.  “We only have a spitting of fire-eel oil left.  Our flasks now contain mundane oil that won’t burn as well.  Our tactics will have to change to accommodate this.”

“It just means they won’t be so quick to run away, eh?” Dreighton said, more optimistically.  “No worries.”

<*>                                                          <*>                                                      <*>

In his study in the Daghaivans’ rooms in the undercity, Puddlence looked at his red-hued scrying bowl, where Armstrun’s face floated amid ever-so-gentle ripples.

“This had better be good, lackey,” he said, to the treacherous councilman.

“A lackey I may be.  But at least I’m not useless.  Those three-eye’d idiots you sent after that barbarian girl botched the job.”

“And that means what to me?”

The well-controlled Armstrun blinked; his face almost curled.  He curtly answered, “She’s going to make more trouble!”

He settled himself as soon as the words left his mouth, and visibly regained his demeanor.  “If she keeps this up, she could lead to royal troops coming to intervene.  The whole city has exploded with tales of her exploits.”

“Let her walk into Windsaeve and get surrounded.  She’ll feed the Slime soon enough.”

He leaned closer, and tested Armstrun’s calm front.  “And don’t bother me with this matter again.”

He waved a hand before the spy’s passionless face, and dispelled the connection.

Pouzelle slithered beside him as he left his quarters.

As they were alone in the hallway, she quietly asked, “You’re not going to do anything?”

“Of course not.”

The silence hung between them for a few seconds, until she finally asked, “Forgive my curiosity, but why?”

“Because, for the most part, our fodder deserves such little concern, I don’t care how many are wiped out by a few lucky defenders.”

“And if they think a tri-cleorps army is about to attack?”

“Hah!  If royal troops come, they’ll find nothing, same as every patrol from the city.

“Have you learned nothing,” he asked, looking at her as an instructor would a student, “of what to expect of fighters?”

“Those who can be bought, go where the grass is greenest.”

“Yes.  But those who are noble will die fighting, so wrapped up they are in their ideals to defend other, less fortunate lives at the cost of their own.

“That’s why it’s such an advantage having the tri-cleorps at our disposal.  It gives the short-sighted fools something to fight.”

“Short-sighted?”

“What does it matter if they are aware of the numbers?  The tri-cleorps become the representation of all their fears.  Then they fail to more thoroughly investigate the Cloud and the shrooms.”

“Ah.”  Pouzelle smiled with appreciation.  “It’s just another way of manipulating them through fear.”

“Correct!  With no inkling of what’s truly happening around them.”

“The Master could not orchestrate these events any better, if he was writing the yarn in a storybook.”

“No,” Puddlence said, as he was suddenly quietly thoughtful, with no sound except the soft squelch of his flat footsteps, and the scrape of Pouzelle’s 35 feet of snake-scaled girth along the floor.  “He could not.”

They reached the Great Hall, where another member of the Daghaivan – – a tall, dark-robed man with a sure stride, met them.

“We’re ready for the next phase,” Thurad told them.

His steady gait and brushed, blemish-free robe represented a true contrast to Puddlence’s  hobbling appearance, as he stood to the side, allowing the damp wizard see the fruits of their efforts.

But differences were what added to the Daghaivans’ power, and aided the lich’s cause.

Puddlence himself was a follower of Maguleth’s master, Hkoshiktay, the King of Torn Skins.  As a god, he was known for twisting life forms to his own dark purposes.

To a wizard like Puddlence, whose deepest enjoyment was altering living creatures, he was a true patron deity.

Thurad’s own magical genius related to plants, including fungi-forms of the lower planes, and reaping the power such plants could offer.

The same specialization could be said of the other members, testifying further to the lich’s fearsomeness, by commanding such a talented cabal.

“Let us be on with it, then,” Puddlence ordered, bringing them closer to Hkoshiktay’s great Day of Conquer.