Skull. He rolled the name around on his mental tongue, contemplating its ramifications. Usually, his label appealed to him, but sometimes it just served to make him angry. Such a long time ago, the Moonfather had provided that ridiculous appendage; the Moonfather, in all his pathetic, hypocritical, soul searching wisdom and self-appointed sense of right. The assigned name of a duelist supposedly came from the essence of their personality. Skull wondered; did the name Skull truly reflect his basic character, or was it merely that he'd - over the years - moulded himself unconsciously to suit it? He had, after all, been called it now for almost as long as he could remember. The answer was unclear, and all the defining lines were blurred. Was anything ever as simple as one thing or the other? No, he thought. Everything would always be a little bit of both. Basic reality, bloody frustrating.

A noise sounded, demanding attention, and he lifted his head from its thinking position, the chin resting in his cupped palm. He ran a hand over his large, balding pate, sweeping a thin film of sweat to the floor in a cascade of droplets. Skull thought of his head as being the shape of a conical - rounded and coming from a wide top down to a point beneath his mouth. He liked the impression of his countenance; a sunken face with a flat, wide nose, and a thin mouth with small lips, usually pursed to make him appear ever annoyed, partially by intent. By contrast, he'd been told his eyes were quick, almost feral in their frantic activity, seeming to bulge somehow from his face in their fullness and inner light. He'd killed the concubine that said that, but often savoured her words. One originally blue-grey iris was drowned in crimson; his left eye permanently bloodshot after a government crossbow bolt swept through it with its feathers.

The noise sounded again, sharp and hollow, echoing several times, constantly in canon with itself as it clacked repeatedly. Footsteps, approaching the cavern. Skull glanced around momentarily at the voluminous stone-enclosed area. A vast underground cave, converted for habitation, rose around him. He sat on a natural rise in his throne, against what was usually referred to as the rear wall. The floor was suitably flat, and the semi-sphere of the rest of the cave contained three entrances. All three of these were perfectly visible from Skull's position, and none of the heavy, sharp stalactites hung above him; a satisfactory state of affairs, and no accident. A long shadow jerked progressively through the opening to his left, skinny and formless, and he stood to welcome his one and only adviser.

Moments later, Preacher followed his shadow into the chamber, six feet tall but almost skeletal. His face was tight and angular, a huge pointed nose giving him an almost bird-like appearance. He wore a burgundy red floor-length robe of thickest velvet, and Skull thought he looked like a massive, walking candle, his head the flame. His forehead sported a duelist tattoo embossed with a representation of praying hands rendered in purest black. He took a carefully significant time to acknowledge Skull, as he always did. When his eyes raised, their blueness was alert and clever, darting and staring. They alighted on Skull's gaze sporadically, ever so briefly, never resting on any one place or thing for any longer than was necessary to identify and analyse it.

Preacher looked up and gave a barely perceptible nod of his bare, domed head. "My Lord."

Skull sat back down and nodded in return, low enough to reveal the night blue twin horn crescent tattoo on the top of his head, set several inches above his red star which in turn was embossed with a disturbingly detailed white skull. "Preacher," he answered.

The adviser smiled his acknowledgement of the unspoken warning and produced his hands, apparently from nowhere, to fold together before him as he spoke. "Three matters require your attention, my lord. Firstly, your daily prophecy did not go as usual today. Something is happening. An event of major importance is on the proverbial horizon. If the omens speak true, it could threaten you."

Skull said, "Tell me." He leaned forward, intrigued. His adviser, at Skull's behest, made a daily forecast of possible future events, but rarely spoke of what he discovered. Skull had long ago given up wondering whether or not Preacher truly used his genuine mystical abilities or was simply highly empathic regarding the current political and social climate. In the end, he always found it more comforting to think of his adviser merely as a highly acute barometer of people. Skull dabbled occasionally in the Arts himself, although he kept it a closely guarded secret. Let his adviser bask in imagined power.

If Preacher was bothered enough to speak of the daily prophecy, then he'd either discovered a matter of some significance, or was playing one of his psychological games. Either way, it could prove interesting - boredom was Skull's least liked enemy. His adviser took as tentative a seat as was possible on the edge of the rise beneath the throne, and Skull sat back into it, playing out their usual ritual. The chair's arms and decoration of human bone enfolded their lord, creating from him an image of death reanimated. The Bone Lord smiled. He found the throne corny, but a necessary visual metaphor, designed to instantly instil the desired emotions in any visitors; willing or otherwise. Preacher fiddled silently with the hem of his robe and waited for his master. Skull waited until the silence was uncomfortable before repeating his request.

"Tell me."

Preacher cleared his throat, and intoned:

"One comes, one both of dark and light. He has a mind of cold but a heart of great warmth. He fights within himself. He will be the Lion. Alone he is insignificant, but he is an icon representing a great upheaval of our time. He must be stopped quickly. The Lion must die before he can exert the authority which time will make rightfully his. Once he inherits his destiny, he will be unstoppable. It is inevitable."

"Who?" asked Skull, his hand clamping on an ancient femur in his armrest.

Preacher sagged within his robe, as if recounting the prophecy had been a great strain. "I don't know."

Though it surprised even him, Skull wasn't angry with the reply. Indeed, he found himself intrigued and excited by the prospect of a challenge; something he hadn't faced for far too long. If this man was to inherit power, and he was stopped before that came to pass, could not that power then be transferred to another - was it not the way of things? Any such potential, even something so flimsy as future and destiny, would not simply dissipate, but would need to find an outlet similar to that for which it was originally intended.

Perhaps, perhaps not. Such power was always worth fighting for, though, and even if Skull could never make it his own, trying was bound to be, well, fun.

"If you don't know who we're looking for, Preacher," he said eventually, "then we shall have to find out." He looked down at his clothing - all baldrics and knife belts - and selected a heavy dirk from a hip scabbard. This he clutched in his left hand and drew slowly across his palm. Blood ran from the long wound, and he smeared it across the entire surface of the blade. Then he took the long dagger and rammed it hilt deep into the base of his throne of death. Preacher shivered visibly, as though a chill passed through him. Skull's pupils raised and met those of his adviser.

"I like the world just the way it is. My oath is given. The Lion will die."


*


Rhyll snorted and stopped in his tracks as a spike of awareness fired through his mind. Another Ralieri almost crashed into him and they exchanged apologies. He took a perch on the poles set along the main thoroughfare he'd been traversing. It connected two districts of Aktos, the capital of Raleria. Somewhere in the North, where the humans dwelled, a promise had been made.

Blue-grey bodies sped to and fro before him, but Rhyll saw another kind of person; a friend with whom he shared a pact. Somewhere, the Black Stallion would be rousing, and their part in the game to come was just beginning. He felt a smile turn his mouth flat and a shiver of excitement zip through his long, narrow body. The Way was pulling at him like a noose around his thoughts.

It was time for a journey. Destiny called.


*


Skull re-seated himself, having bandaged his hand. The melancholy he'd been feeling evaporated like sweat into the sun - today was a good day, after all, and Skull was the best name any duelist could ask for. He glanced at Preacher, who was fidgeting nervously as he always did, stiff with anxiety when awaiting the attention of his lord.

"Adviser?"

"Yes, Lord?"

"Is it a pleasant, clear night outside?"

Preacher's face was the very picture of 'blank'. "I cannot answer, master, for I have been inside the caves carrying out my duties since mid afternoon. I could send somebody...?"

"No, don't bother," sighed the Bone Lord. "What else would you bring to my attention?"

"Ah yes." The tension seemed to drain from Preacher the moment he was pushed back to matters he controlled. Skull wondered when the man last felt fresh air - he was always lurking somewhere in the cave complex. The weather question always unnerved him, which was exactly why Skull liked asking it. "We caught another young duelist roaming close by; he probably came to challenge you. Blood managed to gag him before he could issue anything formal, so he is ready at your leisure."

Skull's spirits lifted even further; another kill to add to his collection! Blood - his least untrustworthy companion - did, of course, have to accept any challenges which were successfully issued to him (and, Skull suspected, those of people whose nose his friend took a disliking to). However, he usually managed to gag potential opponents and bring them into the caves for the Bone Lord.

"Have him brought in, adviser."

Preacher pulled a bell cord on the west wall and shortly a metallic approach could be heard; stiff, clipped, strikingly even strides with precision and rhythm. Blood marched into view seconds behind his footsteps, dragging by the arm a young man of medium build with a large brow and a thick, unruly mop of brown hair. He stumbled and staggered as he tried unsuccessfully to keep up properly with his captor. A gag wrenched his cheeks back into a painful gurn and tears flecked his reddened cheeks. The youth glanced at the Bone Lord and his eyes widened. He emitted a groaning sound.

Skull grinned and looked the stranger straight in the face for a while as he was dragged to a position before his throne. Then he leaned forward, dropped the humour, and scowled. He was well practiced at this expression, and knew the effect it had.

"Number four hundred and ninety four," he whispered. "That's all you are to me, boy." His voice repeated itself eerily in the dank presence of the cavern, echoing with menacing cadence. "Do you understand?"

A nod.

"Good." He reached down one arm of his throne and lifted a crossbow from the floor beside it. The captive began struggling, but there was no way he could break the cast iron grip of Blood. Skull took careful aim and placed his finger on the trigger, delighting in the sensations racing through his stomach as his victim did the ragged dance of fear. Then a thought occurred to him. He sighed and lowered the weapon, gesturing to Blood. "Ungag him."

The man gasped deeply as his mouth was released, angry red welts on his skin giving testimony to just how tight the restraint had been tied. He tried to say something, but his mouth just moved, emitting a succession of croaks and grunts. Skull leaned forward and smiled at his target.

"I'm sure you'll appreciate, I have to do things properly. What's your emblem, boy?"

He couldn't answer, merely croaking, so Blood pulled back a lock of hair and examined the red star tattoo on the large forehead. He turned back to the Bone Lord, his stern features as iron as any of his armour.

"It appears to be some kind of flower, Lord."

"Well, well, a bit of a pansy are you?"

"Orr... Ork..." The man gave up, ducking his head as he failed to speak.

Preacher stepped in. "I think he's attempting to say 'Orchid', my lord. Perhaps he is a poet, or artist of some description."

Skull grimaced. "Ugh. Really? That's going to leave a nasty taste in my mouth." He turned his attention back to Orchid and arranged what he considered to be a serious expression. Then he issued the Challenge:

"I hereby formally challenge you
In the manner blah blah.
By the power blah blah,
blah blah: Lupo Dexus! Okay?"

He took aim again, enjoying the stunned look on the young man's face at such blatant disregard of the honour code, but once more paused and relaxed slightly. "Where do you keep your medallion, boy?"

"Rou... round my neck," came the croacked reply.

"Ah." Skull tensed, breathed, released, and shot Orchid in the face with his crossbow. The bolt slammed through his mouth, pinning his jaw to the throat beneath it, and wrenching his head off to a jaunty angle as it smashed his spine. The body toppled back, instantly lifeless. Blood reached an iron hand inside the corpse's tunic and tugged off the gleaming duelist medallion, throwing it to his lord.

"Phew!" said Skull, catching it cleanly, "I was about to shoot him in the chest." He pulled an aged and ragged-looking stamp from within his throne and rammed a skull into the blank reverse side of the Orchid medallion. He surveyed his subjects; Preacher fidgeting with his hands, looking on, and Blood's metal-wreathed form dragging the body off to one side.

"It is truly amazing," he lamented to himself, exaggerating his manner wildly, "that some of these people have ever committed an offence worthy of Duelism. I mean, what did he do; kill somebody with a particularly bad poetry recital?" He smiled. "I wouldn't mind so much if they were actually fun to kill, but they're no challenge, just useless romantics who mistakenly believe they can do the world some good." He shook his head to clear it, bringing himself back to the matters at hand. "Adviser?"

"Yes, lord?"

"You said that there were three matters."

"Mmm, yes. One of your concubines, Zita, has a son of teachable age. She wishes to request his release for adoption so that he may learn a craft and an honest living."

Preacher's tone sounded almost approving.

"Zita?" asked Skull. Preacher nodded, while his lord felt somewhat perplexed. "Yes, bring her in."

Preacher shuffled over to pull another bell cord, and Skull was left to wonder. Zita was his favourite; a rose among women - his own private little sun, as he liked to say. Her leather-toned skin and deep set eyes distracted him greatly, and she was a regular visitor to his bed. He was surprised to learn she had a son, and even more surprised to discover she was old enough to have a son of teachable maturity. Disturbing, he thought, although perhaps only to his pride.

Suddenly she was before him, a boy of six or seven standing beneath her hand. Her rather inadequate chiffon made Skull feel immediately awkward, so he focused his attention instead on the child... and stopped dead in place.

"Kevin," advised his adviser.

The Bone Lord didn't even twitch. Kevin was, without a doubt, the ugliest child he'd ever set eyes on - in every way. It defied even mental description. He spent a few moments seeking the words to describe the vision before him. Nothing he summoned could conceivably make the boy uglier in any way. He transferred his shocked gaze from the child back to his favourite concubine, and was immediately fighting a battle not to fall irrevocably into her gaze. He made sure that he had her attention, and pointed a shaking finger at Kevin.

"That came from between your legs?" Her mouth dropped open in clear affront, but she remained quiet, just nodding. "Moons!" He looked down at his lap in horror. "That's the last time you share my bed, woman!" Zita just stared at him, apparently unable to close her mouth.

Preacher stepped in front of her, fingers dancing with themselves in a frenzy, commanding his lord's attention. "The boy, sir?"

Skull flinched, then focused on his adviser, relief sweeping through him that he couldn't see the boy any more, and waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, let him go, but she goes with him. Blood! See to it."

"Of course, my lord."

Zita's soft tan features were impassive beneath her elbow-length black hair that curled and twisted its way over her shoulders. Her eyes looked set; what colour were they? Skull could never quite decide. They swallowed his attention so completely that detail no longer mattered, only existence; orbs of power, if ever such things existed. Blood grasped her arm urgently, and she went with him calmly, without a word.

Skull slumped in his bone throne, resigning himself to the search for a new favourite. Slowly, inexorably, his mind wandered back to the first matter brought to his attention today - the prophecy. One came; but who? Somebody of which he knew, or an unknown quantity? Few or none that he'd encountered could threaten him, even should he choose to fight fairly. An idea occurred to him, and he felt himself stir involuntarily with the beginnings of arousal.

"Preacher?" he asked, tossing his latest medallion to his adviser.

"Yes lord?"

"See that this is handed in for me at the local church. Now, this one that comes. I've had an idea. Do you think it might be the return of the Black Stallion - I've heard reports that he may still be alive?"

"It is unlikely lord, but possible. If the Black Stallion lives, he may reside in Raleria. We should post a spy."

"Raleria? Sounds like a groin disease."

Preacher's mouth twitched slightly. "You would know it as Rhambia. Far to the South; the home of the Ralieri tradespeople. If you remember, the Black Stallion is said to have made a friend of one of that race during his time as a duelist and hunter for the church."

"Yes, I remember. See to that lookout spy. If he's important to what's happening, I want to know about it before he does. Maybe he'll constitute my five hundredth kill."

Roger Dunbar. The Black Stallion. The most successful duelist ever to live. A legend ... possibly a living legend. He jostled himself into a more comfortable position, considering what such a duel would be like, following the thought to its most romanticised lengths. Stallion versus Skull; power and stamina versus death and decay. An interesting playoff - two forces never meant to co-exist. Truly the battle of a lifetime! Then he, Skull, the Bone Lord, would become the most famous duelist in history. The man who killed Roger Dunbar. Roger Dunbar.

"Adviser," he muttered, suddenly troubled. "What is my true given name - I forget?"

"Verack, my lord."

"Ah, yes. What is yours, Preacher?"

"I have absolutely no idea, lord."

"Good. That is good. You may go."