Morg strode cautiously through the unnaturally icy network of caverns beneath the city. Upon his back was the beautiful slave girl, Lali, who clung to him for warmth. As they moved through the dimly lit tunnels, she whispered into his ear.

"I know little of what goes on in the higher circles of Ravatheth, save as rumour. The city is ruled by a brother and sister -- Shayanaq and Alomoadil. The sister, Alomoadil, was well respected, but Shayanaq was viewed not so kindly. Some months ago there was a shake up at the palace and Shayanaq declared himself sole regent. Alomoadil vanished and is believed dead. That way," she said abruptly, pointing down a side corridor.

Morg grunted. "Go on."

"As well, for the last few years, a devil cult has been active in the city at night, the Cult of Shalli, ruled over by a mad boy who thinks himself the reincarnation of Ahabii, a legendary prophet whose name dates back almost a millennium. He calls himself the Majarahabii. As a symbol of his divinity, it is said he wears a ruby of great size and uncountable value -- the Bloodstone of All Souls."

Morg grunted. "A ruby? I'd not heard that one before. Given my circumstances, I could well use such a stake."

"It is a holy and cursed thing -- and the boy is well guarded by his followers," she advised him.

"I'm more concerned about the latter than the former. Still, it's an idle thought. Go on."

"Since the princess' disappearance, the cult has become even bolder, so I've heard, because they sense Shayanaq is unpopular without his sister at his side."

Morg nodded to himself. As a captain in the guard, he had heard some of this already. "So, the people are caught between a tyrant and a mad prophet." Morg shrugged, unconsciously jouncing the girl on his back. "Tough for your people. But what does all this have to do with me? I was accused of treason, for reasons I know not. And then rescued from the dungeons, by you. Why?"

"I do not know."

Morg snorted. "Who is your master?"

"Lord Felsteff," she said. "I have been in his household for, literally, as long as I can remember."

Morg chewed this over. He vaguely recalled Felsteff -- a fat man who, so the gossip went, had appetites numerous and insatiable. Yet though he knew the man by sight, he had never exchanged words with him, pro or con. Why would the man risk entangling himself in these matters -- and being declared a traitor himself -- simply to aid Morg? The fair-skinned barbarian scowled. These southern kingdoms were hard to fathom, with their nobles and court intrigue. In the north men were more straightforward -- if you liked a man, you clasped his arm, if you didn't, you bashed his head. Simple.

"Where now?" he asked as they reached yet another juncture. Lali was silent, but he could feel her tremble upon his back. "Girl?"

"I do not know," she said at last, almost a sob. "I thought I did, but I've become so turned around. I'm trying to remember what my master told me, but..."

Morg grunted. The girl's strong, supple legs were wrapped tightly about his waist, her bare feet turned slightly upward so that he could see the pale soles contrasting with her otherwise ebon skin. He closed his fists around her toes to warm them in this unnaturally cold subterranean world. "Think, girl," he said steadily, knowing a harsh or impatient word might drive the memory from her entirely.

As he waited, he let his mind consider things further. So Lord Felsteff sent his slave girl to free him, with obscure knowledge of these forgotten caverns that led off from the dungeons. How Felsteff knew about them was a question in itself, but why Felsteff gave the girl instructions about how to navigate these tunnels...but did not mention their sub-human inhabitants, was a question as well. Perhaps he was afraid that the girl would refuse to go if she knew, or that Morg would prefer his cell to facing the hairy beast men.

If so -- what of it? That implied Felsteff wanted Morg out of the dungeons for his own reasons, not to help Morg. Morg did not like feeling like a piece on someone else's Djarbii board.

Then he frowned. He pulled Lali's legs from around his waist and the girl dropped to the ground. Instantly, she began hopping about as her bare feet danced across the snow-dressed earth. "What-?" she said, clutching herself now that she no longer had Morg's warmth to cling to.

"You find our way out of her, girl," Morg said levelly. "While I keep them back."

"Them?" she asked innocently. Then she gasped.

Morg drew his sword as shambling, white-haired man-beasts began to emerge from two of the surrounding tunnels.

One of them roared as it leapt forward, a heavy cudgel raised above its head. Morg issued an answering roar and dove forward, slashing out with his sword. The creature stumbled, the white hair of its body stained a deadly crimson. Morg leaped into the air and kicked out with one booted foot, sending another creature stumbling back into its brethern even as he hacked down with his sword, knocking a spear from another's hands. His eyes blazed with battle fury, and a leering, wolfish grin twisted his lips.

Lali watched, for a moment unsure who she should fear more, Morg or the sub-humans, there seemed so little to distinguish them. Then, squelching her rising terror, she whirled about and tried to remember what she had been told. Strangely, as the patterns of the tunnels came back to her, she could not associate Felsteff's voice with the instructions. It was almost as if knowledge of these passages had been inserted into her very mind. She shuddered, fearing what forces it was that had made her their pawn.

"This way!" she called. "This way!"

Morg glanced at her, blood smeared across his broad chest, and gave a curt nod. He turned back and, with a frenzy of blows, beat at the beast-men till they fell back, if only a little, then he turned and raced toward her. "Run, girl! Run!"

In a dimly lit room in the north tower, four conspirators gathered around a low, bronze table. Lord Muuba laid an item wrapped in grey cloth in the centre of the polished surface, then looked at the others, moonlight from the tapered window glinting off his orbs.

"You're sure you weren't seen?" demanded Lord Dakhir.

"Only by the sentry," muttered Lord Elltharash quietly.

Dakhir shot him a look. "Blood spilt now will prevent more blood later."

"So we have been telling ourselves," hissed Elltharash, the diminutive man looking up with an uncharacteristic fire in his eyes. "We plot against the prince, we ally ourselves with devil cults, we murder and steal. And we tell ourselves that we do all this for a greater good."

"Oh ho," laughed the corpulent Lord Felsteff. "The little one grows bold and willful." He clapped the smaller man on the back. "Good for you."

Elltharash glared, bristling at the other man's patronizing tone. "I trust you least of all," hissed the little man. "You are up to something -- something that has nothing to do with us or our plan."

"If we turn among ourselves," cautioned Muuba, "then we are truly lost."

"Enough of this. What's done is done." Dakhir looked at Lord Muuba. "Let us see it."

Slowly, with almost reverential care, Muuba began to unfold the grey cloth. Almost unconsciously the other three leaned forward. Hawk-faced Dakhir, bold and canny, even held his breath. The last fold of cloth was pulled back, revealing a phalanx of yellowing white carvings.