"Who implemented this ridiculous, ruinous sequence of events?" It was gravel speaking, or sounded as such. The rough, deep voice reverberated throughout the enclosed chamber, a room of indeterminate size. Indeterminate because, although twenty-one faces were visible, facing each other in a perfect circle, nothing else was. The unknowing observer might think, upon this sight, that the faces were in fact lit from within. That is, if the observer lived long enough to have any thoughts.

"I... I did, master," replied Benedict. His was a young voice, which he knew didn't serve him well in the current context, but he was mature enough. "Although, I think 'implemented' is a strong word for what little I did."

"And when were you epoptised?"

"A mere two years ago, master. This is my first interest of any particular significance." Benedict gulped, hoping it didn't show in his visibly lit face.

"So why did you not come to me?"

"I thought... That is, I believed my skills would be sufficient and you need not be pestered, Master. I did not do much -- in fact, I did no incantations at all. After casting the omens surrounding the matter I merely sent Derwin Cres-"

"You are a fool, boy. Destiny is a cunning foe, and your youthful enthusiasm makes no recompense for your stupidity. By your impetuous actions, you managed to set in motion the very sequence of events you sought to prevent. You were supposed to intervene, did you not understand that? You were played for a fool by something -- or someone -- vastly cleverer than you. Now the Lion is realised. The arrow has been fired. Have you any idea how much more difficult it is to deflect the arrow than to break the bow?"

"Master, I..."

"An it please thee, sire," a smooth interruption by a rich, deep female voice. "Thy bouffant pessimism does nowt but profane one of such lofty stature. Surely, did thee not exaggerate thine worries for benefit of no more than a favoured metaphor?" Her words slithered through the black air, curling their way into the ears of those present. Benedict felt himself shudder at the sound of her voice.

"What is your point, Arianda?" The voice, if possible, was even colder and deeper than previously.

"Unknown score upon the world, mine friend, and yet thy temper is fragile as ever it was. Well, do I mean. The Lion hast not the knowledge of his own intrinsic potential. If it is yet thus three Mooncycles from now in time, then his potential is wasted -- thus will we be freely able to leech of it."

"True, Arianda, but there are those who work against us and they need only tell him."

"Only so do you assume. The benefits may yet prove to be different from such portents' usual fruit. Mistake me not, I think of us are there none who ever encountered such power as wields this man. To trouble thyself over battle 'gainst such feeble heretics as defy us unbefits you, master. I have of mine own manipulations to thought, and well would you do to heed me."

The silence eddied her words like a storm, leaving its hosts to mull their meaning. Benedict knew a fear he'd not before considered -- that not all Moonfathers may have everyone's best interests at heart. He said a silent prayer to the Moons that Arianda's machinations might be banished from the meeting, but the thoughtful echoes of his comrades did not encourage hope.

"Tell me your plan, Arianda," the voice said eventually. "I see you have some idea what is actually happening here. Share it. Tell us what you believe."

Twenty One faces drew closer together, their expressions ones of stoic sobriety. Inside, Benedict's stomach knotted. The darkness of the room flowed about them protectively. Muffling sound. Clogging smell. Blinding vision.



* * * * *



Roger Dunbar sighed as he whittled a piece of pine. It was a sigh of contentment above anything else. The midday was bright, the rock upon which he perched was warm, and the gentle breeze whistled melodically in the mountain surroundings. The phenomenon known as the Singing Pass had been seducing travellers throughout the ages. Legend had it, the Moons dragged the mountains from the ground for company. Most people would have looked from Dunbar's eyes and simply seen grey stone. The Black Stallion looked and he saw a thousand shades of grey stone, and a thousand more, all arranged in concentric patterns -- spurs, peaks and valleys -- a perfect, peaceful metaphor for tarnished, chaotic life itself. One day, this gave hope, such comparisons would work the other way around.

Inspired by the sight, the old man sent a spray of wood chips flying through the air, smiling to himself as he did so. He was the retired warrior, whittling his wood with a wise expression on his face -- one of the all time great cliches. A greater passion for him was drawing or -- even better -- penning verse, but either activity was difficult whilst on the road. Instead, a spare branch and his hunting knife could provide ample outlet for his creativity. His basic shape formed, Dunbar gripped his knife blade and used only the point, guided closely by a firm thumb, to carve the detail.

Small pine filings soon covered his old brown leather trousers and cream hide jerkin. The only thing he kept clean, with a constant brushing hand, was his black sword belt, holding the scabbarded broadsword of historic infamy. The scabbard was a gift from his greatest friend and a treasure by anyone's standards, studded evenly with fully thirteen diamond studs, each mounted on a red silver star. A Duelist achieving Morta Siecle and granted freedom was awarded one such stud. The Black Stallion , subsequently, spent almost forty years of his life adding to that tally as a registered Hunter Duelist, and the last five years hoping to die, knowing he would not.

A faint scrape sounded from behind him on the mountain trail, and he ceased carving but made no attempt to move. Any enemy so stealthy would have seen him dead long before now. He simply waited, listening intently for any further sounds, poised to move in an instant at the slightest added threat. He did not have to wait long before a sibilant, guttural voice spoke out from close behind him.

"You whittle with skill, sir, unlike some others I have encountered." Dunbar grinned as he turned, holding up his rough carving of a mounted Ralieri figure against mountain scenery -- suspiciously familiar scenery.

"And you've been influencing my thoughts again, you ugly, shark faced shitlump! Some vices never die."

"Hssst! Most vices never die, and some humans defecate far more effectively from their mouths than any other orifice."

The ageing man chuckled. "It's been six years Rhyll, and you still look exactly the same."

The eight foot tall Ralieri dismounted his huge roan and his upturned mouth flattened into a broad smile. "Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for you. Your face resembles a sun-rotted peach. Although," he added as he was crushed in an enthusiastic bear hug, "your prodigious strength seems to have remained untainted."

Roger Dunbar chuckled again as he sat back, his alien friend taking up residence on a rock facing him. Despite the passage of time, he felt immediately at home with his lifelong companion. Still, this meeting was not for happy reasons. "So, you felt it too, Rhyll? I doubt profoundly you left your homeland simply to annoy an old man."

Rhyll's mouth became the upturned V that was the hallmark of his race. "Indeed. Light-heartedly as I may appear to treat it, there is a great danger in the air."

"In what form?"

"The Way has been interrupted. Destiny has gone awry, and without its guiding hand, humankind will flounder in the face of its chaotic nature."

Dunbar blinked. "You think well ahead of me, my friend."

Another grin. "This is not unusual."

"Alright, we'll start from the beginning. I know you're waiting for me to ask. What exactly is 'The Way'?"

"A very bad translation of the original Ralerian word, for a start. The Way is like a description of how things should be, but more than that, it governs what is to be, with an element of leniency mixed into it. You would probably call it Destiny -- the detail, the minutiae, can be controlled by individuals. The bigger picture, however, and any form of evolution, is governed by The Way."

The Black Stallion grunted. "So this is what kept me alive the last five years -- this disruption to the appropriate way of things?"

"It has done nothing of the sort, my powerful friend. Only you have the ability to do that. Your survival probably has more to do with your huge ego than anything else."

"No, no. I felt something during that half decade. I knew I wouldn't die, and a few days ago I knew it was time for action. I even had a fair idea of where I should be heading."

Rhyll smiled. "Someday soon, I will try to explain to you about yourself. For now, our concern must be that you understand the principles of The Way. In order to do this more effectively, I will tell you what I know in reference to your own culture. Whereas we Ralieri take our guidance directly from our link with The Way, you humans rely on certain members of your society to relate its path to you. This is through centuries of acquired habit rather than necessity, but such is a discussion for another time. Most recently - the last few ages - your race interfaces with the Lord Church of the Two Moons."

Dunbar held up a hand. "Hold on Rhyll. You know I'm not a religious man."

The alien's head nodded. "And at the moment you are quite right not to believe, but the point is you are in the vast minority. You see, the only humanly force which can influence The Way is belief. Belief and faith feed concepts such as love, luck and chance, hope and pessimism. Humans are driven very much by feelings above reason -- it's both a boon and a downfall -- and it makes your kind susceptible to corruption, intentional or otherwise. Your church has been believed in for so long now that it does in fact virtually govern the destiny of the human race. As a whole, you look to it for guidance, ethics and morality. It is only fortunate for us Ralieri that you humans consider us totally separate. There are rather more of you than us, and all those humans generate an immense amount of belief."

"So you're saying that, for humans, the Lord Church basically is The Way."

"Put crudely, yes. Now, in theory, The Way can never be disrupted because it is a natural force, not a personality. Only destiny can disrupt destiny, which a raw force will obviously never do -- it is incapable of duplicity. However, when The Way has been manifested physically, such as in the form of your church, the uncertain nature of man gains control and makes it possible for a physical occurrence to damage the entire process."

Dunbar nodded. "This is starting to make sense. Through a fault in its design, The Way has come under the control of people when it's supposed to be an independent entity, and those people have buggered it up."

Another grin. "Such eloquence, human, but yes. You have the basic idea. A human or group of humans is quite capable of duplicity. In fact, it is a fundamental part of their shared character. Humans are naturally self destructive creatures, and as such they are also destructive towards that over which they have control."

"Has any physical occurrence already taken place? Was it a vow of some kind, because I'd swear that was what alerted me?"

"No, it was not a vow, but it has occurred. A Knight of the Moons has been killed before he was able to pass on his mantle and weapon to his natural successor. This could not have happened but that it was an agent of the church who carried out the deed. You see? The physical manifestation of destiny damaging itself; The Way is vulnerable only to its own influence. Now, because it was the Lord Church which betrayed it, The Way is trying to realign itself through the Knights of the Moons."

"Wait a minute," butted Dunbar. "Weren't the Knights disgraced some time ago?"

"Officially, yes. Do not believe everything you hear. That is, after all, how this ridiculous mess came about in the first place. Now, shut up and listen."

Dunbar laughed and play-punched his friend on the shoulder. "Watch it, you ugly bugger."

Rhyll winked. "Unknowingly acting as an agent for The Way, the dying Knight imbued another with the power to pass on the necessities on his behalf. If this is allowed to happen then The Way can resume. Destiny will be back on track."

"I'll admit, it all makes a kind of way over my head sense, but where do I fit in? What role am I to play?"

"If you were alerted by a vow, then it will be one which affects this scenario, and therein lies what you must do."

Dunbar winced in concentration. "It doesn't sound very difficult, two people merely needing to meet."

"That is not the point. Many people are involved here, and many great forces are in play, but few know all the details. The man entrusted with delivering the mantle will have a huge aura of power surrounding him to anybody who knows how to look, as will the one set to receive it. The fate of mankind quite literally rests on their shoulders. People will see them as a threat simply because of this aura, and others are bound to try to steal from its power, never realising they are effectively plotting to destroy themselves. No no, my friend -- both men are in grave danger."

"Okay, I'll bite." The Black Stallion squeezed the haft of his famous sword, knowing he'd soon be wielding it in anger. "What's the plan?"

"Their meeting must be hurried along, and we must help it happen. Whilst The Way is disrupted, it can be tampered with. Even barring this danger, within a cycle or two -- eighty days at the most -- the level of disruption will become so great, the damage is irreparable. The power of the men will be rendered meaningless."

Dunbar smiled. "Say that in my language."

"In your language? Well, I think that calls for a theological metaphor. In your language, the Two Moons will be made to collide."

"Phew, and there I was, sitting comfortably on my rock, thinking it was a pleasant day."