he Maelstrom hit early that morning. From all over the city spectres erupted from Nihils and swept outwards, carried by the swirling winds. Intent on dragging any hapless soul not in the relative safety of a Haunt back to the Tempest and an uncertain fate. By midday the Maelstrom was raging at its height, across the city buildings were starting to blur as the raw power of Oblivion ate hungrily at their spectral walls.

"I guess we've got a few hours more to sit this one out"

The figure at the window was old and slightly indistinct. The armour pitted by too many years patrolling the tempest, the Legionnaire's mask, forged in a style popular in the fourteenth century, scarred by spectral claws. Not exactly one of Stygia's finest, but a veteran.

The wraith standing against the far wall turned to face the Legionnaire. He wore white, crisp and neatly pressed. Only the verdegris on the brass buttons of his jacket showed any sign of the decay that corrupted everything. In his right hand he clutched an old Banjo, its face worn by the incessant caress of loving fingers. The promise of square dances and gaiety somehow incongruous against the howling gale outside.

"Please come away from the window before you draw attention to us"

In the long hours since his arrival it was the first time he had spoken. He had stood in the same place against the wall, seemingly studying the water colours, heedless of his companions. The last of the four to arrive, they had watched him dodging spectres as he made his way across the park, towards the small art gallery in which they now sheltered.

"You know these aren't bad, although they do show a certain naivete of emotion"

"Is this fuckin' relevant?"

The tall muscular wraith started to rise as he spoke, sweeping his long, jet black hair from his face as he did so. The war paint and battle scars, a relic of his Indian heritage, rippled across his powerful frame, giving the impression of a great cat preparing to pounce. At a glance from the Legionnaire he paused and then returned to his seat upon the broken replica of Rodan's The Kiss.

"Stop provoking him, Chanteur"

The Legionnaire turned from the window, coldly surveying the room.

"I assure you I wouldn't waste my talents on him and anyway he's scared, not angry. Can't you feel it? And so's your little friend"

The Chanteur glanced at the figure huddled in the corner. The wraith was sitting on his haunches, rocking slowly, clutching the dark Stygian chains upon his knees. As if sensing the sudden attention he looked up. It didn't take the Chanteur's familiarity with emotions to see the fear in his eyes. Slowly he opened his mouth as if to speak, but stopped short.

"Would you like to add to our little debate? I'm sure that under the circumstances we can all consider ourselves equals"

The Chanteur's voice was soothing, calming. The Legionnaire recognised the subtle emotional coaxing but let it ride, anything to ease the growing tension.

"Why....why is this...happening?"

The Lemur's voice sounded as if it would crack as he spoke, every syllable forced through teeth clenched in terror.

"Cos ya got caught, why d'ya think?"

The Indian, now comfortably settled on his makeshift seat, hissed contemptuously.

"No...I mean..the storm. What caused the storm?"

The Lemure flicked a glance at the window, as if unprepared to accept the reality of the chaos raging outside.

"Huh, guess some asshole killed a few thousand again. That usually does it."

The answer was cold, bitter. Loaded with blame for unnamed atrocities he hadn't forgotten, even after all these years.

As if unaware of the growing danger the Chanteur laughed.

"Oh quite the opposite my Renegade friend, its a celebration, a party."

"Some fuckin' party."

His eyes burning with rage, the Indian stood up, drawing a slim blade from beneath his black leather trench coat as he did so. The blade was a relic, its polished silver steel catching the faint light from outside and sending it dancing like midsummer fireflies around the room.

"I've just about had enough of your clever mouth Mr Minstrel, but I can fix that real easy"

"Enough or I'll find a set of chains for both of you!"

The Legionnaire strode to the centre of the room, drawing the long Stygian blade from its scabbard in a smooth, practised movement. For a long second nobody moved, then the Indian slowly withdrew, sheathing his knife as he did so.

"Chanteur, explain yourself. And it had better be good"

For a moment, silence reigned. Then the Chanteur smiled, the smile of one who enjoys their work. A chance to tell a tale was presenting itself and he wasn't about to miss the opportunity.

"Today is Gorool's Birthday. Fifty one years ago this very day, Charon faced Gorool and vanished from history. I'm told that throughout Stygia the Bells toll for his loss. I would expect you of all people to remember such an occasion, but then the Legions have new masters now I understand"

At the mention of the name Charon the Lemure stood up, sending the heavy chains falling to drag at his arms as he did so.

"Charon, I've heard others say that name. Who is he?"

The Legionnaire, unwilling to so easily be made a fool of, answered quickly.

"He was the Grim Reaper, the Ferryman of the dead, the gatherer of Souls."

"Was?"

The Lemure sounded confused

"Why do you say 'was'?"

"Because he's gone, no more. Eaten by one of Oblivion's little pets and good riddance to him"

Joy edged the Indian's voice. It sounded somehow alien, as if he had never been intended to utter such tones. He relaxed slightly, it was the Legionnaires turn to endure the Chanteur's little game and he was going to enjoy it.

The Chanteur's eyes flashed with pleasure, he had his audience, and a captive one at that. Crossing the room he carefully seated himself upon the last intact bench, resting his Banjo across his lap as he did so. Pausing to brush the dust from his trousers he finally spoke, addressing his three unwilling companions.

"Ah, but they are just names, facades. Masks if you like behind which the real man hid. What our friend here wants to know is who was Charon the man."

He paused, surveying his companions, and then satisfied he had their attention he continued.

"Considering the significance of today I would be willing to tell a story seldom fully told. The story of Charon and Gorool. The story of how Charon gave himself to save all."

"However, my services carry a price, as do those of all guildsmen. And I name my price as a trade, a story for a story, a tale for a tale. I shall consider our young friend here exempt, for he is to new to death to know any tales I haven't already heard. But I shall enjoy hearing what you both have to say."

With that the Chanteur settled back into his seat, still smiling. He allowed himself to enjoy a moments pride, he had them and he wasn't going to let them go. At least not yet.

"I suggest our esteemed Legionnaire goes first, after all I'm sure you have numerous tales from which to choose. Whenever you're ready."

he Legionnaire reached up and unfastened the ornate mask, lowering it slowly, as if self conscious about what might be revealed. Beneath was the face of a young woman, probably no more than sixteen. But the deep pock marks and her dark tormented eyes betrayed the harsh history she had endured. For a moment she hesitated, uncertain where to begin, but then confidence returned and she began her tale.

"I died during the great plague that fell upon Europe in the year 1347. My entire family died that year, as did most of my village. Those of us that crossed the shroud knew nothing of death and we huddled in the remains of our village, fearing to leave the things that were familiar to us. In time Legionnaires came from Stygia to claim our souls. So it was that we were reaped and brought to Stygia, along with thousands of others. Young and old alike, some even still wore their cauls.

For weeks we waited, crammed en mass in the pens beneath Charon's palace, awaiting our judgment. Such were our numbers that there were not enough chains to bind everyone and many gave in to Oblivion, such was the despair. But I was no weak willed sister of the hearth, for I had grow up next to five brothers, and I resolved to regain my freedom whatever the cost.

Even in our dark pits far below the Onyx Tower we heard the Maelstrom. It struck Stygia with a howl and many more poor souls fell to Oblivion in terror. Even some of the chained could not resist the pull of that infernal nothingness and the stench of their vaporised plasm filled the air and threatened to choke us. How many hours we cowered in the dark listening to that insane ravaging I cannot say, maybe it was days or weeks. At times the very ground shook as if the isle itself writhed and convulsed in agony.

In time a Harbinger came, an emissary from Charon, offering to make a free wraith of any who wouldst stand on the walls and defend Stygia. My brother was with me and he stood up, as did I and about half the number present. I thought it better to die fighting than cowering like a child in the darkness. Quickly we were unchained and lead up the long winding stairs and dark passageways to our allotted place upon the ramparts.

As we stepped forth from the darkness we were greeted by a sight that I never can forget, though I sorely wish I could. The sky was the colour of blood and twisted and writhed as if torn by unholy claws. Below us the abysmal host assailed the walls. They crawled and slithered, some flew and yet others moved in ways that no words I know can describe. But worse even than this was the sound. The shrieking cacophony of rapturous glee that drowned out even the howl of the storm and at that moment I dearly longed for the dark ignorance of the pits below.

We armed ourselves as best we could, picking up the discarded weapons of the fallen and the lost. I stood square shouldered with my brother, a long blade my only protection. I remember him smiling at me and saying something I could not hear. His hair was matted by the rain as was mine and we stood, hand in hand, braced against the gale, waiting for the next assault. Behind us the Pardoners chanted and threatened, their great braziers burning with cold white flames that filled the air with the smell of incense and cast long skeletal shadows flickering across the ramparts.

Suddenly, far below, the unending hoard of nightmare swelled once more from the sea and fell shrieking upon the walls. At first I just stood and watched, dumbfounded, as the unwholesome mass clawed its way up the walls towards us, but then my brother called my name and I awoke from my trance.

My brother fell upon the third assault, a thing like fungus engulfed him and he was gone. I sent it soon after him but had not the time to weep for still they came. By the thousand we fell but our ranks would not give, for we had nowhere to run. I learned quickly how to slice and dodge, stay the claws and fangs with blade and boot. But then the things without form came, bigger than barns, they arose from the waves and around them the air burned with bale fire. At that moment I looked Oblivion in the eye and shuddered, for even the great storm seemed to pause in terror at their coming.

Then a great cry went up, "Charon, Charon is come". I looked up, my gaze drawn to the high tower above the great gate and as I did so a figure stepped forth. A lonely figure, armed with a humble scythe. But in our hearts he was like a giant, our salvation was with us and we turned once more against the foe. Still they came, but now they seemed to fear us and we slew a great many of them. Then out from the walls rang a cry, at first one, then many, then all. A cry of victory, for Charon had slew one of the beasts without form, and at that sound the remainder of the unholy throng turned and fled. Such was Charon's might.

Then we looked around and despaired for we realised how many had been lost and we cried. Not only for the ones we held dear but for all that had gone to such a terrible fate and we cursed Oblivion and swore to fight against it. Many could not be saved, their injuries were too great, so we took them to the forges. Better that than to feed the ever hungry maw. And from them were forged new weapons so that they may ever fight against the armies of hell. I knew then that the price of my freedom would be to fight for the freedom of all, so I took the oath of Legion and swore to protect Stygia and every wraith who dwells within its shadow."

With that the Legionnaire fell silent, her face down caste and seemingly drained. Slowly she sank to the floor and settled with her back against the wall, unmoving.

The Chanteur sat silently for a minute, deep in thought and then, as if offering consolation for her loss he spoke.

"A fine story my dear and I thank you for sharing it with us. I shall be pleased to pass it on as part of the great verbal history of our times."

Then, without pause, the Chanteur turned to the Indian, who was still seated upon his shattered perch. Seemingly unmoved by the Legionnaire's tale.

"And you sir, what do you have to offer us?"

he Indian shifted uneasily on his makeshift seat, warily watching the other wraiths. At first it seemed as though he would not speak, but then, suddenly, he sat forward, resting his arms on his knees. Staring hard at the Legionnaire he began.

"I'll tell you of Charon, but not of Charon the Great, Charon the Saviour. No I'll tell you about Charon the Destroyer and his Empire of Slaves.

I grew up in the lodge of my Grandfather, Nine Feathers, who was strong with the spirits and would run with the Wolves by night. My Father had been killed by Sioux when I was not one summer old and now hunted alongside the Red Bird who was our totem. For fourteen Summers I lived with my Grandfather and he taught me the ways of our people, how to honour the great spirit and live in harmony with all things.

In the Summer we hunted the great Buffalo and raided against our neighbours for fine horses and women.

In the Winter we would shelter in our lodges and make peace with our spirits, and tell our ancestors of our victories.

When I was but nineteen Summers old we met our first white man, he came alone and was dressed all in buckskin. We laughed at his poor little pony and strange tongue, but when he showed us his gun we gave him great respect. He stayed with us for one Summer and we showed him where he could find good game and taught him to talk. In return he told us about the ways of the white man, but we did not believe him for how could anyone be as he said or be more numerous than the great herds of Buffalo that would fill the plain from one horizon to the other and take three days to pass.

After the white man left us his brothers came, they had fine horses and many guns. They came to us one morning and said the land from the Great Snake River to the Mountain that Smokes was theirs. We said that the land belonged to nobody but that we had lived here since our great Grandfathers Grandfathers had descended from the sky to drink at the water of the Yellow Creek. Then they were angry and told us to go to a new land they had found for us. They said this was the law, but it was no law we knew or wanted. They left that night and we hoped not to see them again.

Two moons passed. Some of us were out hunting when the men without honour returned. We heard their guns singing across the hills and ran like the swift deer to our village. From high on the bluff we could see our village on the plain below. Flames ate at our lodges and many of my people lay dead. The white men rode through their midst with their guns, killing braves and herding our women and children like animals.

As I looked upon my village I heard a sound behind me. In the trees were men dressed in blue, who carried guns like the hunter. I drew my knife and struck the first man across the face so that he cried out and fell to the ground. Then another raised his gun and shot me so that I fell back over the bluff. I called to the Red Bird to carry me, but I am no Eagle and I fell to the rocks below.

When I awoke the sky was black with no moon. The rocks in which I lay glistened with frost, like winter, but it was not that time.

I thought I must be in that other place my Grandfather had spoken of, for around me the trees were dead and I knew it must be true.

As I lay in the rocks I heard a great beast nearby. I did not know what it was and I felt fear. My body was heavy so that I could hardly move, but I found my knife amongst the rocks and held it fast, preparing for the beasts attack.

When the beast found me I saw that it was like a great dog, with eyes and mouth that burned with a cold fire. Behind the beast a man, the like of which I had never seen, held the beast on a great chain, in his other hand he held a long blade. I had not the strength to fight, so I hid my knife and waited for the passing of the dark wings.

Other men brought chains and I was bound and taken to a great wagon with others of my people who were also bound like animals. Many of the people were of my tribe, though I had to look hard to see who they were, for they carried the marks of their death. I looked for my Grandfather, but he was not with us.

We journeyed for many hours inside that wagon, I cannot say how many for there was no moon or sun to follow across the sky. At last we stopped at what the dead men called a Citadel where we were put in pens. They did not guard the pens, but we could not break free, even though the boards were old and rotten.

After many days in the pens we were taken in our chains to a great hall, like a lodge. It was old and had the smell of dead wood. Around that place were many men and women. Some were dressed in strange clothes and some were disfigured, but I could not think how they died to be so.

One by one we were sold. Traded for trinkets which did not seem much although now I realise their value. I was bought by a man called Salem, who wore black and spoke in the tongue of the hunter who had visited my village.

I lived with Salem for the passing of many moons and he was kind to me, though he would not remove my chains. He thought me to talk as the white man and would ask me about my people. He would write down my words, but I could not then read his signs.

One day while Salem was away a great wolf came to me and I saw it was my Grandfather. He said he could not stay for he was not dead, but he took my chains from me and carried me far from the Citadel.

For many moons I searched for my tribe, but few remained and all were as I had been. Then I found my woman and sons. They were alive but lived as the dead. Slaves to the white man and his strange ways. For many years I watched over my woman and my sons, until they too died. Struck down one by one, by the white mans diseases. But they had lost faith in the great spirit and did not cross the darkness as I did and eventually I was alone.

Then I swore my oath to avenge my people and I will not rest until the Bastard Empire is as ashes before the wind."

As the Renegade finished speaking silence fell upon the room. The Legionnaire looked across at the Chanteur where he sat, motionless, as if composing himself for the task ahead. She had witnessed this before, in the courts of Anacreons and seedy citadel dives. The moment of quiet reflection before the recounting, as if he was drawing upon deep emotions to fuel the tale ahead.

t last the Chanteur slowly raised his head, drawing up his instrument as he did so. His fingers moved slowly at first, playing lightly across the strings and sending forth a stream of dark, tense chords. The ethereal sounds seemed to hang in the air, as if trapped by the walls. And as each layer of spectral music built upon the last so their surroundings seemed to fade and recede, subtly replaced by the dark moody tones the Chanteur skilfully evoked. Clouds of inky blackness swept in to cloud their minds, split only by brief flashes of half imagined lightning, they seemed to be flying, carried by the swirling notes. On they raced, headlong through dark tormented thunderheads, broken only by brief glimpses of cyclopean vistas far below. Madness carved reflections of nature reaching monolithic claws to the sky, twisted in a primordial dance of agony.

At last the clouds parted and there below, laid out in panoramic splendour was their destination, the Isle of Sorrows. Closer they seemed to fly, low past the lofty towers and minarets, their roofs and palisades awash with Gargoyles like great flocks of roosting birds. Diving down to the dark streets below, skimming the intricate ironwork traceries that spread like gossamer webs between the buildings. Then soaring high once more to look out across the glistening waters of the Weeping Bay. Even from the air the Legionnaire recognised the streets, their names conjuring evocative memories of an earlier time. The Avenue of Lost Hopes and the Boulevard of Cold Solace where she lived for a time with a lover. They stretched out like a network of veins supplying blood to every corner of the city and at their centre, like the heart of the great metropolis loomed the Onyx Tower. Slowly, inexorably, they flew, drawn onwards towards the Citadel, until its cyclopean walls consumed the view. Yet closer still, through the walls, passing like the faintest breath of air through a field of sun ripened corn, through and onwards. Ever onwards, passing dark buttressed halls and vaulted chambers, lit by braziers of burning souls, their guttering flames sending patches of cold light dancing across the undulating flagstones.

Still the Chanteur played on, drawing them deeper with his benighted melodies. Through chambers loaded with the relics of bygone eras, his haunting refrain, ever leading them on. Until at last their miasmal flight pauses before a great portal. Its vast Onyx Doors, set with Topaz and Lapis Lazuli, heed them not, as unseen they enter the darkened hall beyond.

Then and only then the Chanteur spoke. His words flowing with the rhythm, his voice dancing upon the harmonics, like the debauched sobriety of some dark Cajun voodoo rite.

"For three days the dark, ravening clouds had been gathering on the horizon. Cutting off the Isle of Sorrow to all travellers and leaving the Stygian capital isolated and alone. Atop the towers and ramparts the legions gathered, preparing to repel the Spectres that would accompany the great Maelstrom that must inevitably come.

On the fourth day the Maelstrom descended. The great bell of the water clock, powered by the tides of the Weeping Bay, had just struck seven. The broiling clouds raced inwards, spiralling. Driven by insane winds, enshrouding the city and plunging the underworld into near impenetrable darkness. Throughout the city tensions grew as hour upon long hour the defenders waited. Watching sea and sky, looking for the first sign of the spectre assault, but nothing came.

High in the Onyx Tower the Deathlords had gathered, summoned by Charon's personal command. Only the Lady of Fate was absent. The Deathlords spies had reported her visit to Charon the previous evening and her eventual departure.

It had been many hours since their masters summons and Charon had kept them waiting. His personal agenda seemed to have less time for them of late and now tensions were running high.

Across the great council chamber echoed the jagged sounds of raised voices. At the window the Lord of the Gaunt Legion and the Beggar Lord were openly arguing, their arms flailing like the tentacles of some outraged octopoid. From her intricately crafted chair, the Ashen Lady looked on with the quiet tolerance of a mother watching squabbling children. The ancient feud between the two Stygian Lords was well known and it was unlikely that any save Charon could halt this latest outburst.

The remainder of the Stygian Lords were scattered about the great chamber, surreptitiously studying the collected works of art and staring from the windows. Moving carefully to avoid contact with one another.

None of the Deathlords saw Charon enter the chamber. The Onyx Tower was well known for its intricate network of secret passages and chambers, many known only to Charon. The Quiet Lord noticed his arrival first, the musty smell of old leather catching his attention and drawing his gaze from the window.

Charon stood before a great tapestry depicting the fall of Rome. His dark robe concealing his entire body, its cowl drawn up over his head focusing attention on the Coldly smiling mask of the self styled Lord of Death.

"My Liege", the Quiet Lord bowed low as he spoke, drawing the other Deathlords attention to Charon's presence. With due reverence the they bowed before returning to the great table that occupied the centre of the room. The seating carefully arranged to separate adversaries and allies alike.

Upon the table had been laid the grand map of Stygia. An intricate model of the City, exact in every detail and forged from the plasm of countless Wraiths. In the hours before Charon's arrival, the Deathlords had studied the map. Searching for gaps in the cities defences that may allow the Spectral host to breach the walls.

At last all of the Lords were in place and Charon crossed the now silent room to his own highly ornate chair, forged from dark Stygian iron in the likeness of plaited reeds.

As Charon seated himself he spoke, addressing the Deathlords collectively.

"What do you have to report?"

The Deathlords remained silent, none wishing to risk Charon's wrath by admitting to their lack of tangible information. In the preceding days Harbingers had travelled far out into the Tempest to try to assess the gathering threat. In time all had returned unharmed but with no insight into the nature of the unfolding events.

At last, growing impatient, Charon spoke.

"My Lady of Madness, what news from the Penitent Legion?"

Tones of half suppressed anger coloured her voice as she spoke, the familiarity of Charon's address was an embarrassment she would have to endure for a long time, and she was well known for her ability to bare grudges.

"Liege, my scouts report nothing. They say it is but a storm within the Tempest and will pass in time."

Laughter and cries of condemnation erupted from the Deathlords. The risk of Charon's displeasure was past and now each sought to decry the Laughing Ladies report and propose their own theory for the storm besetting Stygia.

As the crescendo of argumentative voices reached its peak Charon abruptly raised a hand instantly restoring order and quiet to the room.

"Send out the fleet"

At Charon's command the Smiling Lord allowed himself a satisfied smile, by rights the fleet was his to command. Since the war in the North Atlantic and Pacific its ranks had been swelled by a number of modern warships and crews. The chance to demonstrate his military might before the other Deathlords was one he was not about to miss.

"So it shall be done, sire"

His voice hissed with malicious sibilance as he rose from his seat and bowed low.

"But where?"

The Emerald Lord's jewel faceted mask sent diffracted rainbows skimming across the room as he raised his head, his voice edged with confusion at Charon's unexpected command.

For a moment Charon paused, studying the map with a visible intensity. Then slowly he extended a long corpulent hand, out over the city he reached and beyond to the midst of the great Bay.

As Charon's finger struck the map so out in the midst of the Weeping Bay a great turbulence erupted, as if on some prearranged queue The water boiled and churned as if alive. Great waves swept outwards to crash against the Isle of Sorrow, sending boats rocking wildly at their moorings, smashing some like toys and sending them spiralling down to the dark depths. Then from the epicentre of the seething Hellespont an immense black shape burst forth, a great bestial malfean rising from the depths of the Labyrinth, its wickedly taloned claws scything the air as if seeking purchase. Slowly it turned its ponderous bulk to face the Isle and as it did so it threw back its monstrous head to bellow its rage and hatred at Stygia.

With unprecedented speed the Deathlords rushed to the window of their lofty chamber to look out upon the Bay. Only Charon remained by the map, unmoving, silently studying its intricate detail.

Even from their distant vantage point the malfean appeared immense, its shoulders rising almost to the height of the great city walls. From countless ancient wounds blood flowed to mingle with the water of the Weeping Bay staining the wave crests a lurid pink. As they watched its great barbed tail swept up from the waves sending another surge of water to buffet the shores of the Isle of Sorrows.

"What is that?"

the Laughing Lady asked, her anger at Charon forgotten.

"Gorool."

Charon's reply caught the Deathlords by surprise. They looked around, expecting to find him in their midst, but he was still standing by the map, seemingly unmoved by the events outside.

"But how do you know its name?" asked the Ashen Lady

"It is enough that I know."

Charon answered slowly, his words seeming unfocused, distracted.

"Leave me."

Weariness edged Charon's voice, robbing it of its usual authority. For a second the Deathlords did not move, but continued their whispered bickering.

"NOW!"

In unison the Deathlords stopped, sensing the danger in his tone and looked at their master. Then, as one they bowed and filed from the chamber, each leaving by their own ornately carved door, as was customary. Only as the last of the Lords of Stygia finally left did Charon turn from the map and cross to the window to look once more upon Gorool.

Slowly, Charon removed his ornate mask and for the first time in untold centuries, looked out over Stygia with unfettered eyes. As if a Caul had been removed from his face he saw the truth of what had become of his mighty empire, the subjugation, the pain, the terror, and deep within him something dark smiled.

As Charon watched from his lofty vantage, the great sea gates opened, disgorging their hidden charges from the darkened wharves and sea pens within the cities walls. Sleek black Stygian ironclads cutting through the turbulent waves, side by side with a score of relic battleships. At the fleets head sailed the Bismarck, the newly acquired prize of the Stygian navy. Plumes of oily smoke rising from its stacks, it drove through the water like a great plough. As the mighty fleet crossed the Bay their collective guns turned to bear upon their diabolic foe. As if guided by a single mind they fired in unison, the great rapport echoing around the city like the first clap of thunder that marks the onslaught of a great storm. The battle had begun.

The journey from the great council chamber to the throne room was but a few short corridors, but had anyone been left in the Onyx Tower, the sound of Charon's slow tread would have seemed to last an eternity. At last reaching the great throne Charon set down his mask and slowly raised his head to study Siklos, his ancient scythe, forged by Nhudri himself. Hesitating for a second Charon reached up and removed the great blade from its allotted place above the great throne.

Its weight so familiar to the hand, its balance perfect, its purpose perfect. How long has it been old friend, since last we were together.

Turning at last from the ancient throne to regard the cold stone wall, its grey blocks adorned with the shields and weapons of some ancient Syrian war, lost to history. Numb fingers caressing the line of the joints, searching the rough seams, somewhere - here. The ancient door opens smoothly, hinged on well crafted mechanisms that defy its ponderous weight. Beyond the door, leading down into the moist darkness, the cold stone stairs, nearly forgotten. Forward, descending with new purpose, each step leading closer to the past, closer to a destiny once defied.

As your feet leave the last tread of the stair the damp cold of the dark wharf enshrouds you. Nothing has changed, a place untouched by untold centuries. A mausoleum to part of your soul, your past. Bobbing gently on the last ripples of some ancient tide your coracle awaits, it's finely plaited reeds defying corruption. And as once more you step aboard the lost memories of simpler times flood back to haunt your waking mind.

Slowly poling the ancient craft through the shattered remains of the Stygian fleet, twisted forms materialising from the fog as you pick your way across the bay. Ahead waits your Nemesis, its towering form silhouetted against the pale mist like some demon in a shadow play.

At last breaking through the wall of miasmal mist you behold your foe. For an instant you regard each other, fighting the memories. Slowly approaching, trapped by echoes of the past, lost to the now.

Suddenly, with vicious speed the great tail sweeps from the waves, its barbs hung with twisted fragments of wreckage. Only the swell, born of its emergence, carries you safely out of reach to sweep you closer to your foe. Unbidden, Siklos cuts the damp air. Its gleeful song ringing inside your head as it bites deep into Gorool, opening a gaping fissure across the malfeans exposed chest. With a great cry the great beast surges forward, falling upon you with unthinkable ferocity. Only centuries old reflexes, fuelled by cold terror propel you from the hysterical onslaught. Turning your tiny craft to ride the crest of another wave as talons shred the surface of the Bay.

Countless times your blade sings through the air, opening rents and tears that would finish a lesser opponent. But to no avail, for how can you kill the many dead. How long you battle is impossible to tell. Locked in your Titanic struggle time is an irrelevance, only an end has any meaning. Cold skill matched by savage instinct, a tide with no turning, a perfect balance.

Above the sky is twisted, churning in an insane vortex spawned by the hurricane winds. But within that strange nightmare an idea is born, a last desperate hope of salvation. Quickly raising Siklos high, you strike deep into the waves, rending a great gaping fissure down through the inner depths of the Tempest to Oblivion beyond. And at Oblivion's hungry call so the waters of the Weeping Bay pour through the rent, a torrent rushing ever faster, seeking to fill the void without end. But even in this nethermost place the will of nature takes hold and slowly the torrent twists, curling in its descent. Drawing down into a tumultuous vortex, blurring all sight and sound save for that of Gorool. Faster you descend, each mesmeric revolution drawing you deeper, deeper into that Hell formed sump, one step closer to Oblivion's maw. Yet still you battle, locked in symbiotic struggle, still balanced, Yin and Yang. Until at last the waters close over you and the final faint spark of light goes out."

* * * * *

y the time the Legionnaire awoke the Maelstrom was over and the Chanteur gone. Wiping the last of the tears from her eyes she surveyed the room. Her captive lay on the floor close by, staring at the ceiling. The Indian Renegade hung slumped upon his chosen seat, still unconscious. Noticing that she was awake the Lemure turned to face her. "Wow" he said, "was that all true?"

"Never trust a Story Teller", she smiled weakly and scooped up her mask from where it lay nearby. "But it was a good story".

She reached over and, with a practised movement, removed the manacles from his wrists. For a moment he looked at her, unsure.

"Go on, be off."

"You're letting me go", uncertainty edged his voice as he climbed to his feet, rubbing at his sore wrists.

"Sure, my Father always told me 'When you go fishing, only bring back the biggest catch, you throw the rest back for next time'".

As she spoke she glanced at the Renegade and smiled.

As the Lemure reached the door he paused for a second. Behind him their came the unmistakable click of the manacles. He glanced back, quickly, as if fearing the Legionnaires attention, but she was busy about her task, the mask once more in place.

Outside the sky was still once again, a faint breeze carried the smell of moist earth across the park. As the Lemure crossed the expanse of brown, withered grass, he reached into his back pocket and produced an old, well worn Harmonica. For a moment he studied it, turning it slowly in his hand. Then with a smile he raised it to his mouth and started to play, and as the first notes drifted lazily across the park close by a Banjo joined in.