An unkindness of ravens passed low overhead. Or was it a murder of crows? He was never too sure of the difference, and anyway, even at this relatively low level it was impossible to tell. No doubt others would have taken this as a bad omen, but his people did not believe in such things. Omens, yes, but portended by birds of the sky? No. He found himself musing upon the reason behind the odd names for any gathering of either bird, and why they had such dark connotations. Indeed, why did humans in particular – almost exclusively, in his experience – find the need to name groups of animals in weirder and weirder ways? Some made a certain sense: a pride of lions. Well, yes: lions were proud and they walked as if they owned everything around them, so you could (probably completely incorrectly) ascribe pride to a gathering of such magnificent beasts. Wolves travelled in packs, and yes, they were packed together to a degree, so again maybe. Even the animal most closely related to the lion, neither of which were generally seen around here and were only to be encountered in large numbers on the southern continent, the tiger, could have its collective noun justified, as an ambush of tigers sounded particularly appropriate, given their habit of attacking quickly and without warning.

But some of these groupings made no sense. A shoal of fish? Sometimes humans called this a school. A school? He thought, mentally rolling his eyes at the thought. What exactly did the humans think fish learned in the sea, and who taught them? Then there was the bear. A group of them was apparently named a sloth. A sloth? Bears were a little slow, yes, but to compare and link them to one of the slowest creatures on the planet was perhaps pushing it, but not so much as cats (a clowder, whatever that was supposed to be), clans for badgers, a surfeit of skunks, or even a pace of asses! It went on: a shrewdness of apes, a span of mules, a richness of martens, a wake of buzzards, a pod of seals, a convocation of eagles, a charm of finches – oh yes, now we're back to the birds again, he scowled. A murder of crows indeed!

He supposed that looking up at them as they passed over, and listening to their raw, croaking calls he could understand why the humans had felt they should label them with such a dark name for a gathering of the birds, a chilling, scary, ominous name heavy with foreboding and dread. The fact that they were completely black (or very nearly; he had never seen one close-up enough to be sure, but they certainly looked like it from any distance from which he had observed one) and made that odd sound had led to their earning themselves a name in popular literature, ancient and recent, and he knew of at least a dozen adventure novels which used the raven – oddly enough, never the crow: it was always the raven. He assumed this was because it was bigger, looked more dangerous and evil and that its name fitted better with the general belief that these birds were involved in mischief – as a figure of evil, dark portent, even in some cases the avine alter-ego of some dark wizard.

Crowmurder, A Dark Wing Passing. Raven's Eye (also, but not by the same author and a completely different book, Eye of the Raven). Time of the Raven. Ravensclaw ... the list went on and one. One author who was either quite clever or else misunderstood the groupings had titled her seven-volume pseudo-historical romance series An Unkindness of Crows. Or was it A Murder of Ravens? He wasn't sure which, but the woman had definitely mixed up the nouns. Human legend would have you believe that these presumably blameless and possibly even brainless birds would alight on a tree branch, wall or other perch, stare at you intently, recording everything they wanted to know about you, or had been told to discern, and then fly off with a cackle of triumph to their dread master in some dark tower in (probably) an even darker forest, or on an island somewhere, or halfway up a mountain. There were even those who believed that the humble raven was the servant on the Surface of the Devil himself, the very ruler of Hell, and that these birds brought back not only news of mortals, but on occasion could deliver to him their souls.

Utter rubbish, of course, and as a writer himself he was vaguely offended by the ease with which these authors of fiction would twist and reshape the raven into whatever villain or tool of the dark wizard or enchantress suited their purpose, and enlarged their bank account of course. People – and not only humans, he knew – ate it all up greedily, and to be totally fair, when one of these ravens or crows looked at you with their sharp, dark, shiny eyes, you could have a momentary belief that they were looking at you with intelligence far beyond their humble body, or that they were the conduit for a mind far sharper than theirs or yours, and when they flew off – almost always suddenly, as if they had received a summons or completed their task – you could fancy that there was some truth in the idea that they were reporting to a higher power. A look from a raven could chill you, and make you believe in things that you would otherwise lend not the slightest bit of credence to.

Looking up at the dark, bruised sky above him, Gloki sighed and noted that though the rain, which had been almost continuous since he had left Deadwitch four days ago, had now stopped, the chill in the air remained and the sun refused to come out from behind thick, heavy clouds. It was going to be a cold night, and he needed to find shelter. Since being turned away from Hard Rain two days ago he had had to sleep rough, which as a dwarf bothered him little, but his supplies were dwindling and he needed a hot meal, while a soft bed to lie in would not go amiss either. He knew that very soon now he must turn away from towns entirely, striking out across the dark fields and into the encroaching forests that lined the way for hundreds of miles, travelling through places no-one of larger stature than he could go, so the next stop, wherever it may be, would have to be his last, and he must stock up and try to make contact with other dwarves he knew around this area. He had been annoyed not to have been able to enter Hard Rain, as he knew the hearth Faery at the Bear Claw, and had not seen Robbie in some time. He would have obtained much information from the nixie, especially if he paid for her Sparkle. But something bad had happened in the small town and though he had been given no details of what that was, it was quite clear that wards had been placed around the town limits, and nobody would be let in, so he had ridden on.

He remembered too the odd feeling he had of being followed, though when he had pulled off into a small turning in the road barely large enough to hide him, and watched to see who passed him, nobody did, and he had had to admit to himself that perhaps he was being paranoid. Who, after all, would be coming after him? Sir Eradon could certainly spare no more knights, and even if he had changed his mind and sent some to escort Gloki on his journey, why would they then not hail him, make themselves known? The issue had been pushed aside though, as the rain had decided at that very moment to see if it could hammer him into the ground, and he had had to ride for the nearest shelter, which turned out to be an old abandoned mine he knew about. Mostly collapsed now, it led nowhere and was not one of the “secret places” he had assured Eradon that only he could go, but it served as a makeshift camp in which to wait out the falling night and the heavy rain. With the last of his rations eked out to the morning, he was now running on empty, and while a dwarf was hardy and did not need as much sustenance as a human to keep going, his stomach was complaining and he groaned in sympathy with it.

“Well, well, well! What have we here?”

The sound came from one side of him, to the right, and he realised he had just reached a crossroads, from the right fork of which four men were approaching him. No, he looked again: two men and two women. They were not armoured but they were armed, and the lack of co-ordination in their garb seemed to point to them being common bandits, the kind of scum that were very prevalent out here on the more lonely roads, people who made a living by taking the goods, and often the lives, of others. He glanced in their direction and was briefly cheered to see the distant lights of a town or village: that should be Long Lane, where he hoped to find lodgings for the night.

“Greetings.” He curtly nodded at the four, deciding it was best not to actually look for trouble, given that he was one against four, and by his own admission not the greatest of fighters. One of the bandits, a woman by her voice though you could not tell from the face, as all four had scarves wound around most of their faces, leaving only the eyes visible, barked a callous laugh.

“Hey! It talks!” She half-turned to her companions, who all echoed the laugh. There was no humour in any of it. She turned back, leaning down from the neck of her horse, peering at him intently. “What the fuck are you, anyway? A midget?” Again she turned slightly to the others, cocking her head back at him. “Never seen such a tiny little man before,” she remarked. “Nor such a tiny horse! Hey!” A thought seemed to strike her. “Maybe it's a kid!” She leaned down again, her arm reaching out to him, as if to touch him. As she stretched out towards him he noticed she had some sort of drawing on her arm, a tattoo that looked like a bat attacking a snake, though he could not be sure. Her eyes, sharp and clear and full of cruelty, regarded him with interest as she asked “You somebody's little boy, huh?” More laughter greeted this question. The four of them were obviously under no illusions that he was anyone's child.

“Somebody's,” he agreed shortly. “But it's been a long time since anyone called me boy.”

The demeanour of the woman who was speaking, who clearly was their leader, changed to a hard, stern tone. “Yeah?” she sneered. “Look like a boy to me. Don't 'e look like a boy to youse?” She turned to secure the support of her comrades, and Gloki decided he had better move. His hand flashed to his axe and it flew from his hand, burying itself in the middle of the woman's forehead. She screamed – screeched, really, more a sound of rage than pain – and toppled backwards off her horse, landing heavily in the dust of the crossroads. For a moment, everything was utterly still, then one of the men roared, and spurred his horse forward. Deprived of his main weapon, Gloki had to rely on his short sword, which was no match for the big heavy broadsword the man wielded. The two blades met and the weight of the bandit's weapon, coupled with the forward momentum of his horse, tore Gloki's sword from his hand. Weaponless now, he kicked his heels to the flanks of his own steed and made off at speed, but the trio, roaring in pursuit and with vengeance for their slain leader in their eyes, easily caught up to him.

One whirled a rope around and let fly. The dwarf felt its embrace as it pulled him tight, dragging him off the horse, which, maddened with fear, thundered off down the road without him. He smashed down onto the ground, hauled along by the bandit who had roped him. All three remaining robbers were now whooping and hollering as he raced along the dusty ground, feeling his skin tearing and stones and other debris on the road jamming into him, stopping for a split-second then letting him go, but not before leaving him a parting gift – a bruise, a long cut, an abrasion, a stunned blow to the head – as he careened along on the ground.

Consciousness was rapidly fading, as were the voices of the bandits, and the last thing he saw as they pulled him up and down the road was the dead body of the leader, his axe still sticking out from between her eyes. Her dead face seemed to accuse him, and if so, then her comrades were exacting their bloody revenge for his crime. As the world spun around him and began to dissolve, his last thought was that perhaps those ravens had been a bad omen, after all.

The candle was guttering, wavering, threatening to wink out. Snapping an order towards his back, Cardinal Filmor growled when he remembered that not even the boys who tended the candles were allowed into the conclaviat while a recount was in progress, the chamber being completely sealed off, guards at the doors and only he, the bursar and of course the Dean allowed inside. Resisting the urge to fling all the ballots up in the air, he pushed back his chair and stood, old joints creaking and cracking after sitting so long, made his way to the candles and relit them, returning to his seat, and resuming it – and the count – with the bad grace with which he had begun it. He had been against this from the start, but like the other two cardinals, he knew he had no choice. Ancient tradition allowed for this, and to refuse it would be to throw the shadow of suspicion and doubt upon the election of Humex, something which could not be permitted. A pope who began his reign under any kind of uncertainty began it in a weak position, and what they needed now was a strong pope.

So let that annoying twat Kolt have his count; nothing would be proven by it except that the runner-up was a sore loser, which could only detract from his own popularity, such as it was. He couldn't quite figure out what the man was up to, and as the Dean held up his hand and called for a break in the counting, he once again voiced his doubts.

“Why, in the name of His Creation, are we doing this?” he asked testily. “I truly don't understand the point.”

Jeron, the Dean, sighed, leaning back in his chair. It was not comfortable, being entirely made of wood and very common wood at that. Another attempt by the Church to convince its followers that even its mightiest priests did not enjoy luxuries. A separate reason put forward by – who was it that had instigated this? Oh yes! - Pope Sacrifax XXII, that old bastard - had been that the mind was better concentrated when not too comfortable. What was it he had said? Too much comfort is bad for the soul. Yeah, well it wasn't bad for the arse, remarked the Dean to himself, personally feeling the numbness spreading across his own aged backside as he squirmed and tried to get more comfortable in the chair, an impossibility in itself.

He had been contemplating, to himself, the answer to this question all morning, and as afternoon had come calling he believed he may have stumbled upon the only possible explanation for Cardinal Kolt insisting on a recount. It had nothing to do with his alleged worry that improprieties had resulted in a skewed count, and less to do with his hope of actually winning the election. Kolt knew he could never, would never be pope. He didn't have the supporters, he didn't have the experience and he certainly didn't have the ability. A man who had come from one of the border towns some ten years ago now – pissing time, in terms of being a cardinal – and had somehow, in a manner that baffled Dean Jeron, risen to a prominent place in the Evaricum, creating his own little army of spies and thugs, browbeating those he didn't agree with, actually beating (or, more accurately, having his goons beat) those who got in his way, and although it could never be proven, a suspect in at least six major murders in and around the city, including two within these sacred walls.

Who was he? Nobody seemed to remember attending seminary with him, nobody had seen him take mass, and yet somehow all his credentials were in order, he had very high profile patrons and guarantors, and he certainly did not seem to be short of a common or two, living in luxury in a purpose-built mansion that was really more of a palace, just on the very outskirts of the city. What went on behind those walls, nobody knew, but many was the figure who entered those big black doors and never exited them. If he had had his way, if he could have pinned anything – anything – on Cardinal Kolt, he would have had the man arrested, and he was sure he was responsible for much of the unsolved crimes that had taken place in Evaricon over the last five or six years. But nothing seemed to stick to him. Like some sort of slippery fish, he evaded any suspicion, confounded any evidence and confidently provided alibis for everything he had been accused of. A dangerous man, indeed, and one who must never hold the reins of power, the true reins of power, in his hands. How he had got this far – the Dean assumed through a mixture of blackmail, bribery and outright murder, none of which of course could be proven – Cardinal Jeron had no idea. But this was where his climb to power ended. Cardinal Humex had legitimately won the count, and this recount would do nothing but confirm that.

He shook his head. “He's just a cunt,” he sighed.
“He certainly is,” agreed Bethel, the bursar, leaning back in his chair and lighting his pipe. Thick grey smoke curled out of the bowl and ascended slowly to the sky, the look in Bethel's eyes as he watched the vapour climb making it obvious that he wished he could follow it. “He's just wasting our time, and he knows it, too.”

“It's odd though,” noted the Dean. “I hate the slimy little ****er, but even I have to admit he's not the sort of person who asks for something – well, demands it, really – without having some ulterior motive. Yet I can't discern one here.”

“Perhaps,” snorted Filmor, “he's going to take the opportunity to go, ah, remove the competition!”

They all laughed, no humour in the sound. “I'm sure he would if he could,” agreed the Dean, “but even Kolt is not that brazen. He prefers to strike from the shadows, and use agents rather than get his own hands dirty.”

“Indeed,” agreed Bethel, shaking his head. “Besides, the finger of suspicion would point directly to him, were he to do that. He would be the only suspect. Who else,” he asked, without bothering to wait for an answer, “would stand to gain from the death of Cardinal Humex? It would be career suicide, and whatever else that bastard is, he has never struck me as a man who would risk his own neck, especially after coming so close to what must be his goal.”

“There would be questions,” nodded Filmor, “that would be very hard to answer. But damn it all to Hell!” He thumped the desk, raising his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. “My apologies, Your Eminences,” he muttered. “Such blasphemy should not be spoken in this most holy of places.”

“Very true,” agreed the Dean, winking. “But also understandable. I don't think His Creation will take offence this once. Krystus! The Great Architect Himself likely doesn't trust Cardinal Kolt!”

This set off another round of chuckling, but when it had died down the question remained, like a bad smell hanging in the room. It was so annoying because they knew there was an answer, but none of the three men could figure it out. Like people trying to fit together a difficult puzzle, who find they are missing one piece and can never complete the thing, their failure to discover what Kolt was up to irritated the three most powerful men in the Evaricum. And, if they were totally honest, worried them more than any of them would like to have admitted. With ironic humour, the three of them spoke at once.

“What the fuck is he up to?”

The same thought may have very well been going through the mind of Cardinal Humex, as he watched his rival pick up and examine a small carven figure, inwardly hoping Kolt was not going to drop it. Not only was it worth a small fortune, but it had sentimental value. Kolt, however, merely stood looking at the artifact, turning it over in his hand and peering at it, so hard in fact that Humex was convinced the other man was trying to see through it. At length, however, the ornament was replaced without any damage. Kolt turned to Humex and remarked “A fine specimen. Early Fifteenth Horse, unless I miss my guess?”

Not in any way desiring to enter into a conversation with the defeated cardinal, who had simply followed him into his rooms, Humex could not though resist correcting the man. “Fourteenth”, he replied tersely. Kolt's eyes narrowed.

“Really?” he said, as if surprised. “I suppose I must brush up on my elfin sculpture. Could have sworn it was a year later.”
Humex sighed. “I believe, Your Eminence,” he conceded, “the artist began it on the last month of the Fourteenth but did not complete it until the second of the Fifteenth.”

“Ah!” Kolt brightened, like a man who had won an argument. “So in essence, I was correct.”

Humex scowled at him. “I think it would be more accurate to say we were both correct,” he offered. “Begun in the Fourteenth year of the Horse, completed in the Fifteenth.”

“Yes.” Kolt seemed unwilling to let it go. “I believe however that things are judged by the date on which they were completed, not begun. After all, the great painter Cerv -” He found himself unable to expound on this, though, as Humex cut him off with an annoyed grunt.

“As you wish, Cardinal Kolt,” he said, adding “You did not come to my apartments to talk about fine elfin statuary, did you?”

“No,” agreed Kolt, crossing to the door and locking it, a gesture that chilled Humex more than he wished to admit. He would never be so bold, would he? The thought hung in the air, no answer forthcoming. Kolt turned to him with a pained expression on his face, false sympathy. “I came to give you a chance, Your Eminence.”

“A chance?” snorted Humex. “A chance to do what?”

“Why,” said Kolt, grinning, like a man with a secret he will soon reveal that will totally change the game, “to bow out of the race for pope, of course.”

Dead silence followed. Humex felt anger bubbling up inside him, desperate to be released, but he would not debase himself by hitting this – this insignificant man. When he was crowned pope, in a few short hours, then Kolt would learn the error of his ways. For now, he must retain control, and to do so he lost himself for a few moments in one of his favourite paintings; the colours always soothed him and the textures calmed his mind.

“Why should I do that?” he asked as levelly as he could. Kolt was behind him now, also examining the painting.

“Another fine example of elfin art,” he commented. “Breschure, if I'm not mistaken? Yes, yes, surely this is a Breschure?”

Forced to answer, Humex agreed that it was. To his intense consternation, Kolt ran a finger lightly along the frame. Humex did not like his art to be touched by hands other than his, and Kolt knew this. And Humex knew that he knew. He was doing it to bait him, to goad him, to make him lose his temper. He would fail. Cardinal Humex was famed for his control, his calm manner, his ability not to crack under pressure. It was one of the very many qualities that would make him a great pope, perhaps one of the greatest in recent times.

“I've always had a soft spot for Breschure,” Kolt told him, intensely aware that the other man had not the slightest interest in his preferences when it came to art. Or, indeed, come to that, anything at all. The two men were not friends, and today they were most certainly rivals. Not only that, they were victor and vanquished, and what exactly the latter hoped to gain from the former at this late stage was completely beyond Humex. But he, like everyone else in the Evaricum, knew Cardinal Kolt, and he knew he did nothing without purpose. If he was honest, this made his slightly uneasy, though he could not think what the cardinal could do to him, now that he was pope in all but name. Still, the nagging feeling would not go away, and he wished that it, and Kolt, would do so. Kolt of course did not oblige, staying stubbornly where he was.

“Yes,” he went on, as if having a polite conversation about art, while Humex knew this was anything but, unable to detect the subtext that must run underneath Kolt's seemingly innocent words. “My own preference tends to run to more, ah, human artists,” he told Humex, placing an odd emphasis on the word human and turning to look the pope-elect right in the eyes. “You, ah, you don't seem to have any human art around here, Your Eminence?” he remarked, again on the surface an innocent comment, an observation, but beneath it, somehow, for some reason, Cardinal Humex felt the ground beneath his feet begin to give way, to crack and split.

“I – I prefer the more esoteric work that has come out of Valeron, Cardinal Kolt,” he told him, unsure why he was bothering to defend his taste in art to a man he would rather not even talk to, given the choice. Why had he not just thrown him out when he had followed him into his apartments here? After all, technically he was trespassing. But then, he had really broken no law, had he, and Kolt would no doubt plead innocence and try to use the incident to damage Humex's popularity, perhaps a last-ditch attempt to have him disqualified from taking the crown under some long-forgotten ancient rule. Best to humour him. Not to mention, he had to admit he was curious as to what the endgame was here. Kolt knew he had lost, and that a recount was nothing more than a delaying tactic. What could he hope to gain by this idle chit-chat? Make Humex lose his temper? Better men than he had tried. Accuse him of stealing the elfin art that abounded in his apartment? He couldn't prove that, because there was no truth in it. Humex had paid for every piece he owned, and could prove its provenance if required.

So what in the name of the Carpenter was the man up to? The count would be completed soon, and all that was left then was for the two of them, along with all the other cardinals, to return to the conclaviat and confirm his victory, whereafter he would be invested as Pope , and that would be the end of all this chatter about art and paintings and elves. So what if he preferred elfin art? True, the Church frowned upon anything not of human design, but he was not the only one to own art and music that had been created by other races. It was not a crime. Art was a man's own choice, and nobody could tell him what to like or what not to like. It was a matter of taste, in which Churchian dogma played no part.

“They are very good, I'll grant you that.” Kolt's voice pulled him back from his thoughts and reminded him the man was still here, and while he was, and as long as the papal crown did not yet adorn Humex's head, he was a danger, and must be treated as one.

“What?” Kolt's comment had somewhat derailed his own train of thought, and he felt slightly disoriented.

“Elves,” clarified the other man, pointing at yet another painting, and sweeping his arm around to take in two giant statues of stern-looking men who looked like they were soldiers. Well, they were garbed in armour and one held a sword, on which he rested, the point stylised into the ground, while the other aimed a crossbow at the viewer, the expression on the faces of neither friendly. They looked human in some respects, but the sculptor had successfully brought out the greenish tint to the skin that all elves possessed, the hair was slicked back and worn in a long ponytail in the elfin style, and of course there were the ears, sharp and pointed, and angled while also placed much further down the skull than human ears are. “They're a fine people, and they really know just how to capture the moment. Last Stand of the Four Brothers, yes?” He turned back to Humex, who gritted his teeth and nodded.

“One of Giralona's finest works,” he agreed. Kolt scratched his chin, as if unsure of something.

“Indeed,” he nodded. “But am I incorrect, Cardinal Humex, or are there only two of the brothers here? Bostil and ...” he looked closer, raised a finger, “Triblek?”

Unwittingly, or perhaps not, Kolt had hit upon a sore point with these two statues, as Humex explained. “You are correct, Cardinal Kolt,” he told him, the words scouring his mouth like acid as they came out, the admission bitter on his tongue. “Giralona did fashion four separate statues, but as yet I have only been able to acquire these two. At great personal expense, I might add.”
The unspoken words in Kolt's eyes – Yeah. Personal. I just bet! - would have been a serious accusation if voiced, but Kolt was no fool. He knew he could not make unfounded, or at least, unprovable, accusations like that, least of all to the man who would soon lead the One True Church. But he made sure that Humex saw the intent in his look. The pope-elect fumed at the unspoken slur, but was similarly powerless to act against it.

“Yes, I believe the last two are very hard to track down,” Kolt commented, looking at the two statues and then, very pointedly, at empty space beside them before he casually remarked “unless you know where to look, of course.”

For a moment, just the tiniest instant, Humex forgot that Kolt was an unprincipled bastard, a (to be proven) killer and a man who would walk over anything and anyone to get what he wanted. The man who would shortly sit on the Wood Throne would – figuratively, obviously, not literally. Well ... - sell his soul to obtain the precious missing two pieces of his collection. Not only would such a coup establish his fame and prestige in the world of art collectors, a position he desperately wanted to achieve, but the monetary value of a complete set of The Four Brothers was almost impossible to calculate. Suffice to say that he could buy most of the land outside the Evaricum, and still have plenty left over. If this nasty little man truly did know where he could buy the last two statues ....

But wait, he thought suddenly, abruptly remembering who he was talking to (or more accurately, who was talking to him): could this be the ploy? Was this why Cardinal Kolt had accosted him in his chambers, to reveal the location of two of the most sought-after pieces of elfin art in the world, and in exchange for what? The papacy? Was he offering to help Humex complete his collection, fulfil his life's dream, in return for stepping out of his way and allowing Kolt to become the next pope? And would he? Would Humex consider it? He wondered. Certainly, once he was invested he could issue a papal bull ordering a search for the two statues, on some pretext or other (it would have to be something like these are false idols and must be destroyed as the Church was, as he knew, notoriously racist with regard to any other species, allowing none but humans to join, or even worship in their chapels). But even then, without knowing exactly where to look, who to ask – information it seemed the oily Cardinal Kolt possessed – the search could take forever.

Then again, perhaps it was time for another Holy Trial, another rooting out of heretics and a range of sweeping reforms to remove any suspected non-human sympathisers from the Church. Cardinal Kolt could be the first guest of the Papal Torturer. Surely then, the information – vital to the new Crusade, or whatever the fuck excuse he decided to use to justify the search – could be wrung from him before disposing conveniently of the troublesome priest? His heart warmed at the thought, and yet, he wondered if the man would break under torture, or if he even told the truth about the other two statues. And, now that he thought more on it, assuming he did know, and did give up that information – hopefully not until he had suffered the greatest deal possible – would he, Humex, as pope, having denounced the two statues as pagan idols, not have to have them destroyed? And what of his own two prized Brothers? They could not be kept in his apartments, or indeed the Papal Palace, where he would be resident from tomorrow. If they were discovered awkward questions would be asked. He would have to destroy or hide them. The idea of never again setting eyes on his beloved Giralonas almost broke his heart.

He should hear Kolt out, he decided. If he proposed what Humex thought he did, then perhaps there was a way he could get the statues' locations and have Cardinal Kolt denounced and arrested as a heretic. Yes, yes! He liked the thought of that. Perhaps he could beat Kolt at his own game.

“And you do?” He asked the question in as offhand and casual a manner as he could, but he was unable to keep the anticipation and greed out of his voice, and he knew Kolt heard it too. When you're approaching the conclusion of your life's wish, something you hoped but never expected would happen, it's hard to be blase about it, and Cardinal Humex's voice dripped with longing, cunning and avarice. Pretending to have been distracted by his contemplation of the two statues on display, Kolt started.

“Sorry? I was miles away, Your Eminence. I didn't quite catch that.”

Humex sighed. So, he would make him beg, would he? Well, so be it then; if that was what he needed to do to rid himself of this little worm forever, it was a small price to pay. “You mentioned the possibility that you might possess information?” he prompted, and when Kolt still – deliberately, he knew, seething inside – looked blank, he went on. “The statues? The Two remaining Brothers?”

But oddly, and completely throwing Humex off balance, Kolt appeared to have decided not to pursue that line of thought, as he shrugged. “I've heard some rumours, Your Eminence, who has not? But you can't trust rumour, now, can you?” He spread his hands.

“Ah, no, of course not,” agreed Humex, inwardly screaming What the Hell is he doing? If that isn't his play, why mention the statues? What is he up to? Keeping his face carefully neutral, with some effort, he said “But I thought you might be dealing in ... more than rumour?”

The sentence was cleverly constructed, and he knew Kolt, a master linguist, writer and wordsmith would recognise this. The usage of the word dealing in should tell the other cardinal that Humex understood there might be a bargain to be struck, and that he was considering it. If Kolt was unsure or uncertain of his rival's interest in the deal, or that the import of Kolt's remarks had not impacted upon him as he had expected them to, this sentence should clear any ambiguity up. In essence, Humex was using coded signals to say I'm ready to hear your offer.

Yet again, Kolt did not rise to the bait, moving away from the statues and on to a beautiful, intricately-carved glass dish, again in the elfin style. This time it was a very old example, as Kolt recognised, restricting his observation this time to visual only, probably aware of how delicate the receptacle was.

“Stunning!” he breathed, and for a moment Humex could believe he was actually in the presence of another art lover, not a man who was trying to wrest the papacy from him. Kolt's eyes shone, his voice a low murmur as he examined the bowl, hands carefully folded behind his back, bending down and peering at the filigree designs carved on the glass, far more exquisite than anything human hands had ever created, or probably ever would. “Just stunning!” he repeated. Looking up at Humex, he cocked an eyebrow. “You'll have to help me out here, Cardinal Humex,” he admitted. “I know it's Pasha the First, but I'm not very well up on her early work. I would say, Sixth Lion? But that could be an embarrassingly wild guess.”

Embarrasingly wild! Humex avoided rolling his eyes with an effort. The man knew his art, and despite what he said, he was spot on. “You're exactly correct, Your Eminence,” he grated, loath to compliment the man but realising that, purely in the context of art, Kolt really knew his stuff. It was a rare man indeed who could date that bowl so accurately, and he had to allow grudging respect for the man's expertise. “Sixth year of the Lion, one of her earliest works. Is it not enchanting?” For the moment, he was not battling, sparring or trying to outdance Kolt: he was simply discussing art with another man who appreciated it, and understood it, as well as he. Seldom did he have such a chance, and even if it was his bitterest enemy, it was nice to be able to share it with someone.

“Breathtaking,” agreed Kolt, and for a moment time stood still as he continued to look at the bowl. Then, abruptly, time moved on and the moment passed, as he straightened. There was a hard look in his eye now. The art lover was gone, if he had ever existed, was anything more than a calculated tool to hook and lure the pope-elect in, and in his place stood his enemy, the man who was trying to push him off the Wood Throne. “Elfin art is stupendous,” he said, then with a sniff of polite disdain, “You don't care too much for human works though, I notice?”

Though he had alluded to this before, Humex had assumed Kolt was merely making an observation. Now that he referred to it again, a darkness began to close in on Humex and the air had suddenly become much colder. Forcing his voice to remain casual, again as if discussing the finer points of art, he admitted “I find elfin art so much more ... interesting. Human art is of course wonderful, but everyone collects it, and I like to strive to be a little different.”

Kolt looked at him, a direct look, a look that seemed to bore into the soul of the man soon to be pope. Lifting his hand to his mouth, and touching his nose reflectively, Kolt said two words, words that should have had no weight, no special meaning, no sense of doom, and yet, somehow, they did.
“Different. Yes.”

Suddenly very uncomfortable, though he could not say why, Humex said “Well, the count should be finished by now. I should really prepare myself for the confirmation and coming coronation. If you will excuse me.” Again, Kolt spoke only two words.

“Finished. Yes.”

He made no move to leave, despite Cardinal Humex's very obvious signal that he should go. He was looking at another painting, unsurprisingly, given the depth already revealed of Humex's love of elfin art, another one by Breschure. It depicted a rather stark storm at sea, with a large ship seeming very small and being tossed by the waves, while fingers of lightning reached down from the sky. One of the ship's sails was aflame and its crew looked like they were about to abandon it. Like the lightning in the painting, energy crackled in the room, and it was not a good energy. It felt as if something awful was about to happen, some tragedy, some killer blow about to fall. Humex could not say why he felt that, but he did.

“Such a master, Breschure, wouldn't you agree?” With the air of a man who was in no hurry to leave, despite having been invited to, or perhaps a man who had not yet concluded business, Kolt stood back from the painting and placed a finger appreciatively to his lips. “Able to capture the fear, the terror, the danger in the imminent sinking of Boldur's Bow. Marvellous.”

Impressed despite himself at the cardinal's knowledge of the famous elfin painter, Humex could not help but note “You seem well versed in the master's works, Cardinal Kolt.”

“What?” As if distracted from his contemplation of the painting, Kolt turned and afforded his rival a sheepish grin. Or was it a wolfish smile? “Oh no,” he insisted, as if embarrassed. “I am merely interested in art, of all kinds. I'm sure I know very little about the man, compared to your study of him, Your Eminence. Perhaps,” he suggested with disarming friendliness, “you and I might discuss his, and other elfin works some time. I'm sure it would be a fascinating debate.”

“Ah. Indeed.” The idea of speaking to another human who appreciated Breschure as much as he did have a certain appeal, and he found himself wondering if perhaps he had after all misjudged the man all these years? He seemed to be quite approachable; he had not made one demand or threat, both of which he had half-expected when the defeated cardinal had walked in to his chambers, and quite to the contrary, had been nothing but civil and polite during his short visit. Could it be that Kolt did not deserve his reputation? Checking the clock on the wall he again noted “The count, Your Eminence. I'm rather afraid our discussion will have to wait. Pressing matters, you know. I'm sure you understand. We should go.”

“Yes, you have quite the appreciation of elfin art,” remarked Kolt, as if Humex had not spoken. “Music, too, if I recognise these melodies. And elfin authors too. Oh,” he said, smiling and picking up a slim volume. “I see you are a dsiciple of Ro'ak-Thaa? Fascinating man.”

“Ah, I wouldn't quite say a disciple, Cardinal Kolt.” There was something about that word, and the way Kolt has used it, that worried Humex. He seemed to feel an explanation, even an excuse, was due. “I'm interested in his works, yes, but I obviously don't subscribe to his teachings.”

“Well, quite,” agreed Kolt with a sly smile the other did not at all care for as he leafed through the small book that was something of a sacred text in the elfin religion. “I mean, reading the work of a – well, what we would be constrained to call, would we not, a false prophet? - is one thing, but I don't think our Church would stand for one of her cardinals actually following the great man's precepts. Not that I am suggesting such a thing, of course!” He grinned, letting the book snap shut.

“Of course,” echoed Humex, some of the colour beginning to drain from his face. Kolt placed his hands behind his back, looking up at the ceiling.
“You know,” he observed, “I don't think I've ever come across such a fine collection of elfin art in one place. You really have a treasure trove here.”

“Um. Thank you.” Humex could think of nothing else to say, as he tried, again unsuccessfully, to edge towards the door. Kolt smoothly moved to block it, without seeming to.

“One might even say,” he winked, “a shrine.”

That cold hand gripped Humex's heart once again, and he swallowed deeply. “Oh, I wouldn't say that, now, surely, Cardinal Kolt?” It was almost a plea. Kolt knew he had him, but he was not ready to reel in this fish just yet. Let him dance on the line a little longer, the hook biting deep into his flesh, before Kolt dashed his brains out on the riverbank.

“A poor choice of words, I expect,” he apologised. “But you certainly do have a very deep interest in elfin art, do you not, Cardinal Humex?”

“I enjoy it, certainly,” agreed Humex, unable to deny it, unsure why he should. “It brings me a lot of joy.”

Kolt nodded. “I'm sure it does,” he agreed. “I'm sure it does. You do have to admire the attention to detail,” he remarked, apparently going off on another tangent as he took note of a small statue of an elfin woman, carved out of some dark green material that looked like jade but was far harder and yet also softer. It almost felt, when you picked it up, that you could mould it in your hands, change its shape, and yet he knew that gavranite was one of the most rigid metals to be found in Valeron – and only there – and that nothing short of the grip of a troll could change a single angle of this fine piece of statuary, and maybe not even that.

He turned to face Humex, his eyes suddenly sharp and cold, almost stabbing the pope-elect with their burning gaze. “Their women are very beautiful, are they not?”

The question screamed a warning in the mind of Humex, and he sought desperately for a way to avoid it, but could see no way out. “It's a lovely statue, yes,” he faltered, but there was no pity in the eyes of his adversary.

“I wasn't talking about the statue, Cardinal,” he said flatly. Unsure how to respond, Humex stared at him. Suddenly, Kolt looked away and Humex almost felt like he could suddenly breathe, as if he had been prevented from doing so while under the cardinal's intense gaze. “They say elfin ladies are a sight to behold,” he observed. “What do you think, Cardinal Humex?”

The question again caught him by surprise, and he automatically responded “I'm afraid I have never seen one myself, Cardinal Kolt.” He knew Kolt had caught the lie, and it began to tighten around his neck like a noose. His robes suddenly felt very hot and restrictive.

“Really?” Kolt's eyes were wide with surprise. “Now that does amaze me, Cardinal. I had heard that you were perhaps the foremost authority on elfin women in this kingdom.”

“I – I -” Humex found his tongue refused to work. Oh H'Med Krystus! He thought. He can't! He simply can't know ... we were so very careful ... nobody knows! Nobody! And yet, those eyes ...

“From an art lover's point of view, of course,” clarified Kolt, and Humex suddenly felt the noose loosen, his breathing begin to regulate itself again. He doesn't know. He was just fishing for information, hoping I would trip up and hang myself. But if he thinks that, then he doesn't know Valtor Humex! I've kept that secret for fifteen years now, and I'll take it to my grave.

“Ah, of course,” he agreed sagely, playing the game now that he knew his secret was safe. For a moment there... “I have rather more figurines of men than women, but the women are, as you say, quite exquis -”

“And a personal one, too.”

The words cut him off, both in mid-sentence and figuratively at the knees. He felt like collapsing, but rallied. Keep your fool mouth shut, Humex! He knows nothing! Don't fall into his trap!

“A personal one?” he repeated, forcing his voice to remain mild. “I'm not quite sure what you -” Again he was cut off, this time a little more sharply by the other man, who snorted, the first unfriendly sound he had made since coming here, and perhaps the first real indication of his true purpose, and his actual personality. Had Kolt entered wearing a mask, and was he now about to drop it?

“Yes, so I hear,” replied Kolt, turning the figurine over in his hands, examining it critically before finally replacing it carefully on the table. “It's a fake, you know,” he told him. Humex started.

“What?”

“The Hillarba'and. A fake,” Kolt repeated. “Just like you.”

“It can't be!” exploded the pope-elect angrily. “I paid a fortune for that! Had it authenticated by Hoons and Bradwin themselves! It's -” A delayed reaction suddenly kicked in as he remembered the other part of the last sentence Kolt had spoken. Frowning, he demanded “What do you mean, Cardinal Kolt: just like me? What are you implying?”

“Oh I imply nothing,” Kolt told him. “I deal only in facts.” A moment later he reached out and knocked the statue that was supposedly a genuine Hillarba'and and had cost Cardinal Humex half a month's salary to the ground. It disintegrated on impact, spraying a thin pink mist over the floor. “You see?” He said, as he hunkered down and poked around in the dust with his finger distastefully. “A true blackiron would never shatter so easily, and this dust – pinkiron, I believe they call it in the trade? Quite popular with forgers, especially those who make counterfeit blackiron. It would appear, Cardinal Humex”, he observed, “that you are not quite the expert on elfin art that you purport to be. On other matters elfin though,” he went on, “I'm assured you are something of a scholar. One might even say,” he grinned, a cold grin, “a virtuoso.”

Humex's temper finally failed him. All this innuendo, these veiled threats and half-accusations, and now the annoying revelation about his supposedly valuable Hillarban'and – where was it all leading? What was the man up to? What was his game? Like a man with a sword suspended over his head, forever waiting for it to fall, Humex suddenly just wanted it over. “You speak in riddles, Cardinal Humex,” he told the other, “and I'm afraid I am much too busy to decipher your codex. I will soon be pope and -”

“You will never be pope.” The words carried the absolute conviction of a man who was certain he spoke the truth. Humex's blood ran cold again. He tried to brazen it out.

“Well, the College of Cardinals has spoken, Kolt,” he sneered, deliberately for the first time failing to use the honorific, “and their will cannot be gainsaid. I'm afraid you've lost, Cardinal Kolt,” he told him, allowing a little more formality to enter his tone. “By this time tomorrow you will kneel before Pope Honarius III, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“You will never be pope.” Again, that same dark certainty, the unsettling lack of any sense of threat, or thwarted desire, but the clear and unequivocal utterance of a man who spoke only, as he had said a short time ago, plain fact. Well, well! Thought Humex. Looks like the old cunt's finally gone off the deep end. May as well humour him, I suppose.

“And why do you think that, Cardinal Kolt?” he asked, almost pleasantly, but the reply was anything but pleasant, delivered as it was in a deadpan, flat voice but with eyes that burned.

“The Church will not allow a heretic to sit on the Wood Throne,” he told him.

Now it was the turn of Humex's eyes to blaze, and with righteous anger.
“How dare you call me so!” he spat. “I am – I will be your pope, and you will kneel before me!”

“You will not,” Kolt said simply, “and I will not.”

Humex turned his back on him in exasperation. “You're mad!” he shouted, perhaps as much to convince himself as to quiet the terrified voice that was again screaming for attention as he steadfastly ignored its shriek: He knows! “I think it would be best if you were to retire from the Church. In fact, I'll see to it myself as one of my very first duties, once I am pope.”

Again. “You will never be pope.”

“Devils take your soul!” He was screaming now, in frustration, anger and, it had to be admitted, more than a little giddy fear.

“Fine words for a man who expects to be pope,” observed Kolt drily. “But not perhaps surprising that such utterances proceed from the mouth of a heretic.”

“I AM NOT A HERETIC!” Shrieking now, and almost dancing with temper, Cardinal Humex pointed a long finger at him. “You cannot accuse me without proof!”

A short silence. Water dripping into a basin somewhere. The tramp of feet a good distance away, the clank of a staff perhaps. “Oh, I have proof.”

Humex's heart, burning with rage, suddenly nosedived into his boots. Freezing fingers danced down his spine and sweat began to pour down his face. Staggering a little, he reached out for support and was intensely annoyed that the support turned out to be Kolt, who caught his arm and led him to a chair, into which he had no recourse but to sink, his legs having suddenly turned to jelly. Red-faced, he watched Kolt pace up and down, like a tiger assessing its prey, calculating the optimum moment to strike. For a fleeting second, he wished he had a weapon. Or at least that someone else was there with him. But he was alone, just he and Cardinal Kolt, and between them, the Secret.
He must know. Oh Great Architect! Save me! He does know!

He did know.

“Did you wonder, perhaps, why I shattered your statue, Cardinal?” Abruptly, Kolt was back on one of his maddening tangents, or so it seemed. Every time the axe seemed likely to fall, this intensely hateful man, whom Humex could wish dead a thousand time overl, stopped short of cutting his head off. A game of cat and mouse. And there was only one cat in the room, pacing the floor, his eyes turned away from his prey. Receiving no answer to his in any case rhetorical question, Kolt went on. “You could, I suppose, see it as a metaphor, a parable perhaps. The moral to be learned being that not all that which looks beautiful on the outside is so inside, or that appearances may be deceiving. How long have you had that statue, Cardinal?” Again, he did not wait for an answer: one was not necessary anyway. “Months? Years? And you never suspected it was a fake. Then I see it – one time only! - and I know immediately that it is not what it seems.”

Suddenly, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper, he whirled to face Humex, glaring down at the seated man. “If I can find that out so quickly, my dear Cardinal Humex, what else do you think I can discover?”

Oh Great Carpenter!

“I mentioned earlier that you seemed to have an obvious interest in all things elfin, Humex,” he said, repaying the insult the pope-elect had paid him a few moments ago. This was no longer a polite conversation – it never had been – and the gloves were off now. Now, it was a down and dirty, no holds barred, to the death streetfight. And Kolt knew how to fight dirty. He raised a finger as he counted them off. “Art. Music. Literature. Fashion.” He had noted, without mentioning it to the cardinal, several items of quite obviously elfin design stuffed away in a closet, as if someone had tried to hide them, which of course they had. Tried to. But nothing much remained hidden from Kolt. He straightened, frowning as if he had forgotten something. “Have I covered everything?” he asked himself, then theatrically snapping his fingers, declared, “Oh no, of course! How could I forget?” And he leaned very very close to Humex, pushing his face to his till the two were almost touching noses as he said the word. “Women.”

Humex felt the axe blade brush the top of his head. Oh Great Architect! I implore you! Deliver me from this trial!

But it seemed that the Great Architect was not listening, or if He was, had no intention of helping the soon-to-be fallen cardinal. All he could do was mouth the word “W-w-w-women?”

“I really must congratulate you on your commitment to your cause, Cardinal Humex,” Kolt told him cheerfully. “You are quite an all-rounder. You listen to elfin music, read elfin books, buy and display elfin art and, I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn, dress in elfin clothes when nobody is around.”

“That is a scurrilous lie!” Suddenly Humex found his voice. He tried to rise, but Kolt pushed him back into the chair.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “It will matter little though, when the truth comes out.” He turned away, as if to leave the room, and Humex, with an effort, struggled to his feet.

“What truth?” he demanded, though it came out as more of a plea. Without turning around, and still walking towards the door, Kolt replied

“Why, that you fuck elfin women, of course. Oh, I do beg your pardon!” He mock apologised. “How rude of me. You do of course only fuck one elphina, but I believe that's still the required amount to qualify as heresy.”

As he had predicted to himself as he left the conclaviat for his meeting with Humex, the personal world of the pope-elect had just come crashing down around his ears. The axe had fallen; it was sharp and it removed his head completely, leaving him a bleeding, kneeling headless man, the stump of whose neck gouted the thick blood of sin, covering him in ignominy and shame. His secret was out, and his life was over. Possibly literally, depending on how Kolt used this information.

Beaten, defeated, figuratively on his knees and possibly soon to be so literally, Humex whispered “What do you want?”

“I?” Kolt turned with surprise on his face. “What would any true servant of the Church want, Cardinal Humex? What is the duty of any of us, from the highest to the lowest, when we discover such sin festering within the very heart of our most sacred place? What I want is immaterial, my dear Cardinal: my duty, however, is clear, and that is to expose a heretic and ensure the Wood Throne is not occupied by one who consorts with heathens! How,” he asked with a sly smile, “can I be expected to do else?”

“You will destroy me.” Humex was almost crying, a sight that both gladdened Kolt's heart and sickened him to his core. “And her,” he added.

“Ah yes, her,” Kolt mused. “The lovely Ivan'isa. A charming woman – for an elphina, of course, and so innocent.” He spread his hands in a grotesque parody of grief. “What, after all, did she do, this fine flower of Valeron, but fall in love with the wrong man? And why,” he went on, raising his hands to the sky, “is their love forbidden by our Church? What difference should it make if two people from different races fall in love? Why should this be a sin?”

Seeing a glimmer of hope, Humex gathered himself, sniffling a little. “Yes, why indeed?” he echoed. “Surely love cannot be a sin? You see that, don't you, Cardinal Kolt?”

“Ah, alas, 'tis not for me to change dogma,” Kolt told him sadly. “Personally, I have nothing against elves – their women are most beautiful, and I believe you can fuck them for literally hours before coming!” Grinding his teeth, Humex told himself he would have to let this horrible sexual slur go; he was in no position to defend his mistress's honour, nor his. “But I am merely another servant of the Church,” he pointed out. “I must follow the rules, the same as anyone else.”

“Even the pope.” Humex was finally beginning to see the pieces of this complicated puzzle come together, and he did not like the picture they were forming.

“Even the pope,” agreed Kolt. “Of course,” he shrugged, “if I were to be pope, I could over time work to have such dogma reversed. I mean,” he hunkered down in front of Humex, his eyes bright and yet somehow also dark, “for too long the One True Church has ignored the cries of the sinners from other races who long to be saved. Pagans, we call them, and heretics, good only for the fire. But are pagans not simply Churchers who have yet to be converted? Is heretic not just another word for those who have not yet heard the Glad News? Why should we deny these people everlasting life and the glory of the Great Architect? As pope, I would ask such questions and demand answers, and change would come under my leadership. The One True Church would expand, taking in millions more new followers, until finally it would not be only the One True Church, but the Only True Church.”

“A laudable policy,” agreed Humex, “and one that would find much opposition.”

“Yes,” agreed Kolt, again turning to leave. “But I would relish the challenge. First though,” he pointed out “I would have to be elected pope.”

An eternity of silence as Humex tried to get inside the man's head. Surely he could not be allowed to lead the Church, be the next pope? And yet, if he shared what he knew, then Humex's own chances of sitting on the Wood Throne were about as likely as his own mistress placing her finely-formed posterior on that august chair. He could kill him, but Kolt was not the kind of man to come with an offer or threat without arranging backup, and surely his agents had strict instructions to pass on the information should Kolt not return from his meeting. Humex could just see Dean Jeron opening the letter with mild curiosity, that would turn to horror, outrage and then fury. There would be no hiding place, for him or for Ivan'isa, to say nothing of their soon-to-be-born child.

He could deny it. But of course, again, Kolt would not have made vague and unfounded accusations. Yes, he could have put some nuggets of information together, supplied a lot of alleged links and come up with a story, but he knew the cardinal better than that. He would only have approached Humex with this if his story was watertight. So denial would be useless, and anyway, like most scandals, even if somehow this could not be proven, the suspicion would always remain, and taint his papacy. The Church would not allow that, and one way or the other he would be removed as pope, either before or after his coronation, and perhaps permanently. Accidents had a way of happening at the Evaricum.

But there was another problem too, one that perhaps the wily Kolt had not considered. How could he, Humex, back out now, when he had been all but confirmed as the next pope? What excuse could he give? Bad health? He was in excellent health. Loss of faith? Nobody would believe that; he was a very pious and devoted man. Even if he did have a sneaking admiration for Gorelas, the elves' chief god. Oh, he didn't pray to him, of course, but he allowed the possibility of his existence, and that in itself was blasphemy and would leave him open to a charge of heresy. The count would show he had been correctly and legally elected, so how could he refuse the honour? And yet, if he did not, Kolt would ensure he suffered the most awful humiliation and persecution, and his family would be ruined.

“What have you in mind?” Best to ask the master puppeteer how he wished him to dance, he supposed. Kolt grinned.

“Backing out of the race would not be an option,” he told him, “under normal circumstances. But on compassionate grounds, well, there is precedent for that.”

Humex's blood, already cold, froze completely. “Compassionate grounds?” he repeated, his eyes narrowing, his lips trembling. “What have you done, Kolt? If you've hurt her...”

Kolt ignored the threat, empty as it was. Humex had gambled and lost, and he had no more cards to play. Time to pay up and leave the table, and head out into the night of an unfamiliar city. “Have you heard of Broklar's Syndrome?” he asked conversationally. Humex took a step back, his eyes wide with fear.

“No. No. No.” He didn't quite say the words but his lips mouthed them.

“Quite painful I believe,” Kolt informed him, “and completely incurable. Although,” he seemed to consider, “I believe they have made quite impressive advances in Valeron. It might be your only hope. Perhaps I should say, your mistress's only hope.”

“You – you – you fiend!” Humex finally found his voice, launched himself at the other cardinal, who stepped out of the way.

“Now now, Cardinal!” he tsked. “Every moment you waste here is a moment you could be getting closer to the elf land. I believe it's a four month trip, give or take a few days. The incubation period for Broklar's is, let me see, oh how convenient! Six months. So you'll have time to get to see an elfin doctor before, well, before it's too late.” He smiled, a smile Humex wanted so badly to smash off his face he could taste it. “I do so hope they can help you,” he said. “Such a beautiful young lady. And with child, I'm reliably informed.”

Sinking to his knees, head in his hands, it was clear that all the fight had gone out of the man expected to be the next pope. Kolt hunkered down beside him, hissed in his ear “You will go to the Dean and request a private audience. You will tell him your wife – let's try to be as civilised as we can here – is unwell, and you must take her overseas for treatment. You will of course leave out the name of your destination, and will avoid any awkward questions, offers to help, anything that might lead to the discovery as to who your – wife – might be.” Humex nodded, dumbly, the sound of tumbling boulders and cracking earth loud in his ears, the taste of rising clouds of dust assailing his nostrils and blinding his tear-filled eyes. So this is what it feels like, he told himself, when the world falls down.

“You will then tender your resignation from the Church, citing the amount of time you will have to spend with your – wife – and will take ship for Valeron.” He leaned down even closer, whispering right into the unfortunate Humex's ear. “If I ever see or hear that you have returned,” he warned him, “I will reveal what I know, and issue a bull for your arrest and trial as a heretic. As well as,” he added chillingly, “your mistress and whatever brat she bears you. Do not test me on this, Cardinal Humex. Make a life for yourself in Valeron. And stay there.”

As he walked along the corridor, heading back to the conclaviat as the bell rang out, summoning the cardinals back to witness the result of the recount, he found himself whistling, an action that caught the attention of another cardinal, who remarked with wonder “For a man who has narrowly missed out being our next pope, Cardinal Kolt, you are in surprisingly good spirits.”

Giving the man (whose name escaped him, and who cared anyway) a bright smile, he replied “The day is not yet done, my friend, and the Great Architect has been known to move in very mysterious ways.”

Behind him, the man who until about an hour ago had had the world at his feet and the Wood Throne in his grasp stared at a broken statue at his feet, the powdered remains of one more lie, one more disappointment, as his own shattered life crumbled and turned to dust.

Finn covered his eyes in frustration. “Trachiador,” he asked, already knowing the answer, “have you ever fought the hatebreed?”

“No,” the big troll admitted.

“Have you ever even met one?”

“No.”

“Let me explain about them. The thing about the hatebreed is that they're not strong, they're not brave and they're probably the worst soldiers in this world. And that includes grunts. Get close enough to one and you can snap its neck like a twig. We certainly could, and so could any human. They're almost as small as children.”

Trachiador looked confused. “So what then is the problem?” he asked, puzzled. “They do not sound very tough or hard to defeat.”

“They're not,” agreed Finn. “If you can get close enough to one to snap its neck. That's the hard part. You see, hatebreed are the ultimate cowards. They allow others to do their fighting for them, turning friend against friend by exuding waves of uncontrollable and irresistable hate. That's why they're called hatebreed: they literallly breed hate. They're born, so far as anyone knows, with an inordinate amount of hatred for everything and everyone, including themselves, but they learn – those that survive, and not that many do – to control this hatred, and later, if they live long enough, to focus and direct it. In effect, it becomes a weapon, possibly the most destructive and dangerous weapon known to living beings.”

“I see you still need convincing,” Finn looked at his cousin. “I once watched as three friends, who had known each other for years, fought in the same wars, and married each other's sisters, happened to fall foul of one of these loathsome creatures. All it took was one look, and within moments an argument had sprung up, out of nothing, escalated into a fight which left two of them dead, and the sole survivor looking for others to take on. There is no defence against concentrated hate, cuz. Even such as we will have to make a conscious effort to resist it. Humans have no chance. Let any more than one within a hundred yards of even a weak hatebreed, and they would be at each other's throats before they got within slashing distance of their prey. They're simply impossible to defeat.”

“But we can take them on.” Understanding was beginning to dawn on Trachiador's creased features. Finn favoured him with a grin.

“We can certainly try,” he agreed. “We have a far better chance of fighting against their influence than does any other living creature. We're trained to control our emotions, not to give in to base feelings, not to show what's in our hearts and not to respond to attempts to goad us. It's what makes us such good warriors.”

A sudden look of homesickness passed over Trachiador's face. Finn moved swiftly on.

“However, as you and I both know, the prevailing belief that we have no emotions is inaccurate. We of course do: we simply don't show them and we're not slaves to them. Well,” he admitted with a thin smile, “you more than I of course. That's a problem for me: I've spent so long unlearning all I was taught and fighting against our indoctrination that I've really let my emotions free, certainly in the last fifty or so years anyway. It will be a lot harder for me to resist these creatures, but we must try. If they succeed in turning the town against itself it will tear itself apart, and be easy prey for its enemies. This is,” he remarked darkly, “what I assume the traitors who let them into Deadwitch are hoping for. And nobody will ever be able to prove it was them.”

“So how do we make them pay then,” asked Trachiador. “These traitors?”

“We can't,” admitted Finn sourly. “Not really. Not now. We have no evidence. But men like that are always found out, sooner or later. They'll slip up, and when they do ... But we must leave that to others. Our priority now is to destroy their plan by hunting down and killing these hatebreed. And we must get them all. Even one left roaming the city could cause chaos the likes of which we could never hope to repair, and all the ones we killed would be for nothing. Not one must survive.”

“Agreed.” Trachiador's own eyes, though still as clear as they always were, as blank and colourless, nevertheless gave the impression of darkening. “Victory must be total. No survivors, and no prisoners.”

Finn heaved a sigh. “It won't be easy,” he warned his adopted cousin. “Even if we both resist them, they can easily turn others against us. When in the grip of the Hate, people don't think clearly, and just because someone attacks us does not mean we can kill them. If we have to, and there is no other alternative, then we will do so. But I would prefer to add as few innocents to the death toll as possible.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Incapacitate. Wound if you have no choice. Render unconscious if you can, or only inflict minor wounds. Some humans – those who have not fought before and more to the point never saw a troll before we arrived – may run at the very sight of us. The Hate can make them want to kill us, but common sense and self-preservation may triumph. More than anything though, do not allow a hatebreed to distract you by throwing enemies at you while it escapes. Try to take them out as quickly as possible, and make sure you strike to kill. As I say, they're easy to slay once you can get near them, either with your bare hands or any weapon that comes to hand. They have no other special powers, they cannot protect themselves if their mantle of hatred is removed or neutralised.”

A strange look crossed Trachiador's features. “I think,” he said, “I may know a way we can even up the odds a little.”

“How?” asked Finn, interested. The other troll shook his head.

“It may not work,” he told him. “And if as you say these hatebreed can read the thoughts of others, then with your ... lapse in emotional control it were probably best I keep the details to myself for now. Just in case.”

He couldn't help feeling a stab of savage joy at the momentary look of hurt that clouded Finn's face. He had basically told the other troll he could not trust him – which he knew, in the circumstances, he could not – and Finn did not like it. But he didn't have to like it. Trachiador was a creature of logic, and this was what logic dictated. The less people who knew of the plan, the better for their chances of success.

And those chances most likely hinged on him.

Ah, but, with your recent experiences as a human, hissed a dark voice in his head, it may be you who is the more susceptible to these hatebreed, have you considered that?

Hoping the other troll did not see the sudden look of uncertainty on his own face, he followed Finn out the door.

She had been quite surprised – pleasantly surprised – by how different it was when two women made love. With men, it was all rush, rush, pant, pant, grunt, grunt, stick it up you, spurt and go. There was no time for finesse or hardly even talking. Even discounting the various rapes she had allowed herself to endure since leaving Hell with her father's instructions ringing in her ears, men who had no violent intent still came across like animals to her, rutting and snorting and farting and slobbering all over her. It was like men needed to assert their dominance, had to be the ones in charge, and this almost seemed to preclude any tenderness or even regard for the woman, who was seen basically as an object and not a person. Male sex was all about gratification of the man, all about his needs and his desires, and hers came a very distant second or possibly even third.

With women, she had found, it was a totally different story. The experience had been shared, not forced, a glorious coming together of two individuals, both of whom cared for the other, or pretended to, and in the time that a man would have already have been turning over in the bed, his work done, she and Beatrice had not even finished the elaborate and sensual foreplay of which she had previously known nothing. Tongues figured a lot in this, as well as fingers, and they probed her secret places, places men were unaware of, where hidden treasures were to be found, feelings and emotions set in motion, sensations activated that no man had ever managed to come close to achieving up to now.

The main thing about female lovemaking, she had discovered, was that they took their time. There was no rush, no hurried charge towards climax. She and Beatrice had spent what seemed like – and possibly was – hours exploring each other's body before any real intimacy had taken place. Whispered compliments, soft breath sighing in her ear, the musk of heady perfume, the meaningful exchange of glances. The eye contact, something men knew very little about. Most of them entered through the rear anyway, so all they really ever saw was her arse, which, gorgeous as it was, did little for her self esteem.

She had had men stick their rough tongues down there of course, as she spread her legs and hoped for intense pleasure, and was always disappointed. Men did not seem to know how to work the labia, the clitoris, any part of her genitals, and this was not too surprising, as this really primarily gave pleasure to her, and they were not interested in that. Pushing, shoving, slapping and belching, they would rut and roar and oink and grunt their way through the encounter, concerned only with their own climax, and that to be achieved as quickly as possible, so that once it happened they could turn over and lose all interest in her, an object used for the purpose it had been built for, and no longer of any value.

There was always an end with men, a goal to be reached, a triumph, a conquest. It was primal with men, and she could enjoy that, certainly, on one level. But what Beatrice had shared with her was something far beyond all that, so different to what she had been used to. It was as if she had subsisted on bread for all her life and suddenly been offered the finest caviar. She had kept waiting, as they embraced, as their soft lips met and kissed, and eager tongues explored inside the mouth of the other, tickling the teeth as they flicked along their even edges, for the sudden push, the urgency, the campaign to be, like her, mounted. And yet it had never come. Softly, slowly, unhurriedly, Beatrice had given of herself all she had, and instead of taking from Shirley, the Darkling found that she was responding in kind, not because she had to or was being forced to, or used without any regard for herself, but because she wanted to.

It had truly been a magical night, but it was several days in the past now, she reminded herself as the pulsating tube in her mouth drove in and out, a final gasp from somewhere beyond presaging a flood of hot semen that burned her throat as it forced its way down, she working to swallow it, her breathing a little laboured. A moment later he was withdrawing, and sinking back on the bed rolled to the side and picked up a packet of smokes. Extracting one, he struck a match and touched it to the paper tube, inhaling with a massive sigh and then blowing the thick smoke out as he looked up at the ceiling.

At that moment, Shirley felt an abiding and eternal hatred for all men.

“That were fuckin' great!” Her paramour raised his body to expel a loud fart, grinned, finally deigning to acknowledge her presence. “Not many of the local lasses take it in the mouth,” he told her. “Fuckin' enjoyed that!” This last was almost spoken as if, again, he had forgotten she was there, or that, more likely, he didn't care. She raised herself up on one elbow, forced herself to be polite, even though she wanted nothing more than to ram that stupid flaming tube down his stupid coarse throat and watch him choke on it.

“So did I,” she lied, adding another one to the pile as she remarked “Really big cock you got there.”

Halfway between accepting this as a compliment and just taking it as a fact, he grinned. “Aye,” he agreed. “I do, that. No complaints so far!” He lazily placed both his hands behind his head and leaned back, leaving the smoke dangling from his mouth and making it even harder for her to resist shoving it down his throat. She decided instead to have some fun with him. After all, he owed her, him and that stupid fat cock of his. Her mouth hurt, and despite what she had told him to bolster his already obese ego, she had not enjoyed it at all. But her father had given her a command, and she was determined to take advantage of any and every opportunity that came her way, no matter how innately repulsive they might be. When she returned home in triumph, she would know how to please him, and he would be proud of her.

But he had said nothing about not having fun.

“Man like you,” she purred, “big cock like that, bet you're really strong and brave.”

Of course he could not deny it, nor resist the urge to boast. “Not many lads down 'ere as can take me in a fair fight!” he admitted.

“Ever been to war?” she asked, forcing her eyes to widen as if in anticipation of stories of courage and heroism, but as she knew he would, he disappointed in that also.

“War?” he snorted. “Nah. Too many fools go off t' fight foreign wars, gets themselves killed, an' for wot?” He didn't wait for her to answer, snapping “So some king ye never 'eard of can add another few acres t' 'is land, or stick 'is enemy's 'ead up onna pike! Waste o' time, war,” he told her, grinning. “I prefer fuckin'!”

As he reached for her, she managed to move away without looking as if she were doing so. “I was just wondering,” she went on, her eyes still shining, “if you ever went up to the Castle?”

The grin slipped from his face, replaced by a dark brooding look. “The Castle?” he repeated, as if unsure of what she had said. The smoke was stubbed out as he shook his head. “You mean that dark 'orrible place, Castle o' Forever? The lair o' that mad wizard? Like fuck I 'ave! Told yer: got more sense, I 'as!”

She nodded, looking away as if disappointed. “But ... I thought you said you were brave!” She reached out to fondle his admittedly muscular arm, but he shook her off angrily. He did not like where this conversation was suddenly heading, and found himself wondering, for the first time since she had caught his eye at the Rabbit's Foot, who the hell this crazy bitch was?

“Brave, yeah!” he blustered. “Not fuckin' stupid though! No man who's ever gone into t' Grey Forest 'as ever returned. Listen,” he told her, sitting up a little straighter in the bed and drawing up the covers, his erection, on its way to round two, now having thrown in the towel and lying dormant, his eyes darting around as if afraid someone might hear. “I knew a guy once, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who heard tell of a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who ...” He stopped, counting out guys on his fingers, as if the relationship of all these people to him was somehow important, “knew a guy who had a friend once who heard a guy tell him that he knew a guy who knew a guy who went up there, you know, for a dare? He didn't mean no 'arm, like. Simple chap, no threat t' anyone. Well, let me tell ye, missy.” He paused for effect, looking around again. “We all 'eard 'is screams for three nights straight, even down 'ere so far away from that damned castle. 'orrible it was, fair make ye shiver in yer bed, make ye draw the curtains an' curl up so tight ...” Aware he was not exactly doing his chances of getting to fuck her a second time much good with this confession of abject fear, he coughed and amended his story.

“Uh, not me, y'understand. I raised a rescue party, we was ready to go in there sword swingin', me and a few of the lads.”

“Oh yes?” She made herself sound interested, leaned towards him as if eager to hear more. His eyes slid away from meeting hers, his voice dropping to a mutter.

“Yeah, well, see, thing is ... night before we was goin' to go in, I gets me a really awful dose o' the squirts, y'know? Couldn't move ten yards from t' privy. Really sick I were, 'ad to take to me bed.”

“How horrible!” she breathed, though her thoughts were how convenient and also how ironically appropriate. He nodded, trying to bolster up his flagging image.

“Yeah, yeah,” he went on. “Guys 'ad to leave me an' head out t' the castle on theys own.”

“What happened?” She was not rapt. She was far from rapt. But she wanted to convince him she was, and she did. He narrowed his eyes.

“More screams,” he whispered, almost reverting to a child for a second, his eyes white with fear. “Longer, worse, more 'orrible than before. Six nights they lasted for...”

She interrupted him, asking “And, how long were you ... sick for?”

He frowned at her. Was she mocking him? She had better fucking not be! But the question needed an answer. “Um, seven nights,” he replied. Again she smiled inwardly at the convenience. He went on. “By then, it were too late. Like I says,” he told her again, “no man 'as ever come back from that cursed place.”

She looked away from him, out the small window. “No man,” she repeated. “But perhaps a woman might manage it?”

He looked at her strangely, then let out a guffaw of derision, reaching for his smokes again. “A woman?” he chortled. Then he stopped, the smoke halfway to his mouth as understanding dawned in his slow brain. “Oh fuck!” he gasped. “You're talkin' 'bout yerself, ain't ya?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“But ... but ... but ...” He seemed to be lost for words. Eventually he managed “Why?”

“I have business there.” The tone of playfulness was gone from her voice. Now she was all professional, ready to do her job.

“What kind o' business,” he asked in half wonder, half scorn, “could a slip o' a girl like you 'ave... there?” A shudder he tried, and failed, to conceal.

“Business that is none of yours,” she retorted coldly. She forced a smile, and some warmth back into her voice as she offered him a chance at redemption. “Perhaps you'd like to escort me? I'd welcome your company.”

He almost physically drew back from her, as if she were some sort of monster, something to be avoided at all costs. “Oh,” he said, the box of matches still in his hand, the match unlit. “You know, I would, but well, thing is, I have this ... this thing ... with ... my kid ...”

She pretended to be shocked. “You have a child? You're married?” Although the two were not mutually inclusive, he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, me wife would ... kill me.” He trailed off as he realised how pathethic that must seem to her, but it was an excuse that had its basis in truth. Mira would string him up by his balls if she knew he had been with this sexy honey, much less rode off with her on some crazy quest or other. He couldn't go. She wouldn't hear of it. It deflated his pompous manhood to admit that he bowed to the wishes of his wife, but at the same time it offered him an escape that, while not quite honourable, at least was not as cowardly as saying he was scared to go. Which of course he was. In fact, he felt like he needed the privy, like, really badly.

She eyed him coldly. “And yet, here you are, in bed with me.”

He squirmed like a worm on a line. “Yeah, well, y'know ...” he mumbled, “she ... don't understand me ...”

Of course not. It was always the same with these humans, it seemed to Shirley. Blame your wife for forcing you to be unfaithful. In her travels through it, one thing had become crystal clear to the Darkling Princess of Hell: the world Above was, very much like her own home, a male-dominated one. But perhaps she could make a small difference here, now. Having intended to get dressed and leave him wallowing in his self-pity, she instead sunk back on the bed, pillowing her head on his chest, and asked him “Tell me about her.”

“Huh?” The scratch of the match on the table was quickly followed by a thick cloud of smoke as he pulled on the tube, exhaling expansively. “Wot d'ye want t' know 'bout 'er for?”

She looked up at him, eyes he could drown in. Eyes which, had she the choice and the means, she would drown him in, and happily too. “Humour me.”

Somehow, it was not a request, and though Mira was the very last thing he wanted to be discussing with this sexy naked fox lying beside him, he felt compelled to talk about his wife. Strange: you could have pulled his teeth and not made him do that, and yet, one look from her and there he was, blabbing on about the woman he supposedly loved.

“Well,” he began, a little hesitatingly, “she ain't what ye'd call pretty. Not like you are, now!” He clapped his hand to her naked buttock, giving it a squeeze. She resisted the urge to shiver and forced herself to move closer to him, snuggling into him. Control. It was all about control. The closer she was, the more influence she could exert upon him, bend his will to hers. Of course, the fact that she was a smoking hot walking sex trap helped too. “She's more, well, more yer 'omely type,” he went on, as he searched for a way to describe the woman he had been married to for so long. “She cooks a great meal, she's very good with t' kid, and she 'ardly ever talks back. Not if she knows wot's good fer 'er, if ye know what I means!” He grinned, and Shirley did not, envisaging the woman named Mira receiving another cruel beating for some imagined offence or remark. The closer she got to this man, the less she liked him. “Yeah, old 'Arry knows 'ow to keep 'em in line!” he chuckled. Again, she did not share the laugh but asked seriously

“Do you love her?”

He seemed taken aback by the question, as if he had never considered it before. Scratching his head, he shrugged. “Love?” he repeated the word as if it were foreign to him, at least in reference to his wife. “Well, I makes sure she gets a good fuckin' once a week,” he offered. “Does me duty, like, as an' 'usband.”

“Does she enjoy it?” Again the question seemed to stump him, as if he had never given it any thought prior to this.

“Fucked if I know!” he laughed. “Who cares? We're married. Me duty's to stick it up 'er, 'er duty t' take it. That,” he informed her knowledgeably, “is wot marriage is all about, girl.”

“Is it?” There was a hidden challenge in the question which he entirely missed, nodding.

“We gets on fine,” he said, more it seemed to convince himself than her. “Long as she keeps that big fuckin' trap o' 'ers shut. Can't stand that whinin' voice she uses when she's tryin' to get 'er own way.”

“Get her own way...”

“Oh, ye know!” he snapped irritably. “Buy me clothes, these ones is 'angin' off me. Ye never take me out nowhere. Where's me money for the food? Fuck that! I needs me beer, I does.” He grinned. “So she might 'ave to stretch the food out for a few days. Gotta 'ave me beer!” He looked at her for agreement, but she was looking away now.

“It doesn't sound like you love her very much,” she commented, then reeled as the slap hit her across the back of the head. He had taken her very much by surprise with the violent outburst; had she been facing him that blow would never have landed, nor would he have ever raised his hand to any woman as long as he lived. As it was, she fell half off the bed, steadied herself, turned to face him with fire in her eyes.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me I don't love me wife?” he thundered, swinging a leg out of bed, a furious look on his face, his true nature now revealed. “Just let me grab me belt an' ye won't sit for a week, ye little tramp!”

She could have knocked him out. She could have killed him. It would have been easy. But too easy, and she wasn't finished with this worm yet. What had begun as a simple teasing game had, on the basis of the information she had now received from him, turned into something more serious, and more important. She needed to keep him onside. She forced tears to drip from her eyes, a trick she had learned by herself, though Darklings did not cry as a rule, and touched his arm.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “It's none of my business. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just ...” She began to turn on the charm now, infuse him with her Darkling equivalent of pheromones. He was defeated before he even took one step. He slumped back into the bed, the belt hanging over the chair forgotten now. He took her in his arms, his sleeping cock beginning to rouse itself, ready for action. “I really like you,” she lied, “and I want to know all I can about you. I just wondered why you stay with her if you're not happy. Is it,” - she made herself flinch, as if she expected another blow, but he was done with that particular mode of communication, at least for now - “the child?”

He sighed, shook his head. “Eric's a fine lad,” he mused, “but ... I don't know. Maybe I just weren't meant t' be no father. Too much 'ard work.”

“So then?” she prompted. “Why not leave her?” For emphasis, she blew the hair on his arm gently. He shivered with the thrill, but shook his head.

“Only way I could legally leave 'er is to divorce 'er,” he told her. “An' that would cost me a pretty penny, I can tell ye! I needs me beer money.”

“Yes,” she reminded him, ensuring he could not see how she rolled her eyes. “You said.”

“Well it's true!” he snapped. “If I divorced 'er she'd get 'alf of all I got, and let me tell ye, that ain't all that much! But I'll be damned if I'll give 'er a single Common! No,” he muttered darkly, almost to himself. “I'll snap 'er fat neck first!”

She affected a shocked look. “Would you?” He looked at her strangely. A short pause, and she wondered if he were considering it. Then his face split in a sour grin.

“Nah,” he admitted. “I don't want to end up in one o' the king's nasty dungeons. The things they does to a man there, so I 'ear.” He shivered, and she relaxed somewhat. He was a bully, yes, but like all bullies he was a coward. He would not kill his wife, not because he loved her or because it was wrong, but because he was terrified of being punished, of facing the consequences of his actions. Still, she pushed.