UO:2000: Britannian Serial: Part 4: Cataclysm

The Prequel Legends: Britannian Serial: Part 4: Cataclysm

Author: Austen Andrews

Published: 2000

An icicle wind creased the midnight clouds. Shrouded in a deep hood, Lord Blackthorn watched from the peak of a tower as his armies battled among themselves. Inhuman voices snarled and snapped. Iron clanged against iron. Sharp echoes danced atop the dreary black crags surrounding them.

The dusky valley paled with moonlight sown over a tumbling snowscape. Campfires made constellations across the ghostly scene. The dark tower rose alone in the center. At its base rallied a troop of grotesque, tusked orcs, wielding axes and spears against a smaller group of goblins. The orcs taunted their diminutive cousins. The goblins answered with swinging blades. Around them all stood a circle of human Chaos Guards, goading the skirmish with laughs and jeers and volleys of copper coins.

Blackthorn regarded the conflict with stoic eyes. His gloved fists curled over the stone bulwark.

A shadowy figure appeared from behind the gold light of a brazier. Exedur crossed his arms against the chill of the winter evening. In his gentle voice he said, "Lady Gavrielle summons you, my lord."

The nobleman motioned to the conflict below. "Behold the army I'm taking into battle."

The assassin glanced over the tower's edge. Bestial curses leapt up from below. "They're warriors. It's their nature to fight."

"They hate each other. They've only come together because of me. But internal strife will ruin us."

"Leave them to it. They're animals. They're evil."

Blackthorn's gaze turned to ice. "No. They're men. They need to be reminded of their dignity."

He raised a hand and rasped the words of a spell. The low midwinter clouds cracked open and spat a fork of lightning into the midst of the squabbling troops. The smoky blast scattered orcs and goblins. The Chaos Guard fell silent.

Blackthorn watched as the combatants dispersed. "Honor must be tended like a garden. It nourishes civilization."

Exedur made no reply, except to motion toward the doorway of the tall, coarsely hewn tower.

The nobleman knelt before Lady Gavrielle, who cradled his head in her palms. The bare stone room glowed and pulsed. Fronds of white power leapt from the sorceress' hands and splashed over Blackthorn's weakened body. His pale, naked skin drank energy from her spell through a webwork of cracks and wrinkles. His limbs quivered with strain. He wept as she forced healing magic inside him.

When she finished, he clung to her voluminous skirts and gasped for breath. Her familiar scents were succor to his ravaged lungs. She draped a black cloak over him, stroking his short, white hair. "Just a few more of these," she murmured, "and you'll be something close to healthy again."

Blackthorn blinked tears from his blood-darkened eyes. "This was the last one. Our time is used up. We must act."

Gavrielle flinched. "So soon?"

"It's been three days since I escaped. British and Nystul could have reached any place in Britannia. By now they know I'm free, and I doubt they'll delay the Binding on my account."

"I know. But…" Her voice drifted into silence, then she crouched beside Blackthorn and took his hands. The room filled with the rustle of her gown. "I'm not ready yet. Please."

He caressed her with a trembling palm. "I understand. But the time has come."

"Nytsul's still my grandfather. Don't take Shadowghast with you, Blackthorn."

"I have to." He placed a small kiss among her golden curls. "I need it to stop the spell."

Gavrielle pulled back, far enough to meet his gaze. "That's not true. You only carry that horrible sword because it gives you another edge against British. It's nothing but extra ammunition."

He indulged a lengthy sigh. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I can't afford to fail, Gavrielle. I am profoundly sorry."

Her frown hardened. "Why are you so cruel to me?"

"I make sacrifices when I have to. If that means I'm a cruel man, I accept the burden."

"Stop casting yourself as a villain. You're not evil, Blackthorn."

He shook his head. Deep shadows pooled across his craggy features. "The people of Britannia think I am. Look outside that window. I'm leading an army of orcs and Chaos Guards against Lord British. History won't remember me with fondness."

"The orcs serve you because you champion them against persecution. That's not evil. And frankly I've always hated the term 'Chaos.' I think you only use it to get a rise out of British."

He almost smiled as he looked away. "You know me well, but think about it. My life's work has been nothing but destruction. British codified the Virtues and all I've done is try to tear them down. British wants to unify Sosaria and my only answer is to attack him for it. What is 'evil,' if not the destruction of good things?"

"I won't listen to this! I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in you."

"Then you're going to help me attack British?"

She squinted. "I am helping. But you know my limits. Don't push them."

"I'm not here to test you. I have a job to do. Please be strong for me."

"If I was weak, you'd've broken me a long time ago. But there is such a thing as good and evil, my lord, and you know where I draw the line." She cupped his cheek with her hand, then stood. "Please don't force me to show you how strong I can be."

Her voice ebbed on the last few words. She turned away from him and swept out of the room, her luxuriant dress stirring a sweet breeze.

Blackthorn rose to one knee, the cloak draped like a half-shadow over his ghostly flesh. "By the twin moons, with the Codex itself I couldn't conjure a more amazing creature than that. Don't you agree, Exedur?"

A silhouette resolved in the dark corner. "You knew I was here?"

"I'm never without you now, am I? You're my own shadow."

"I'm looking after you, my lord. You still haven't recovered."

"My assassin is now my protector, eh? These are backward days. Well, my champion, fetch me some clothes and my best weapons. We've got a rendezvous with another lady, one far more dangerous than Gavrielle will ever be."

Exedur glanced at the door through which the noble girl had exited. "If you say so, my lord."

The great hall shook with the roar of twenty daemon lords. The filthy creatures threw open their vast wings and lunged at the collection of humans in their midst. They were answered by a spray of searing white light that blasted through their otherworldly flesh. Prongs of raw energy like silver tree trunks cut gory swaths through the rampaging daemons. Then glittering blades flashed and stroked. Missiles punctured hellish bodies. Still the monsters pressed their attack.

Standing tallest among the humans, Lord British swatted away a giant claw with his serpent-blazoned kite shield. "Nystul, cast me a circle! Iolo, Gwenno, cover him! Geoffrey and Shamino, get behind these brutes and drive them towards me! I'll lure them in."

Fully armored, the monarch stood between Nystul and the charging daemons. Each stroke of his glowing longsword cleaved a gushing wound across a monster's torso, into which relentless streams of missiles poured from the crossbows of the grizzled Master Iolo and his regal Lady Gwenno. Giant corpses piled like a barricade. Then Sir Geoffrey and the ranger Shamino attacked the daemon horde from the opposite side. Shamino's speartip blazed with magical flame. The knight's platinum blade screeched through the air like a bird of prey and pierced enemies as a hawk pierces clouds. In moments the monsters retreated toward the other humans.

Then Lord British fell to the swipe of a daemon's barbed tail. Gwenno screamed and rushed to his side, just as the rest of Hell's lords converged. The two disappeared under a mountain of wings and talons and putrid, growling bodies.

Nystul threw up his hands and shouted an incantation. A ring of light encircled the daemons. With a collective howl they whirled around and smashed against the invisible walls that now trapped them. Quickly Lord British leapt free, holding the limp Gwenno in his arms.

"Handily done," he panted, nodding to Nystul. At his side appeared Iolo, snatching his wife from the monarch's grasp.

Gwenno stirred and looked up at the bearded archer. "Smile, you old codger," she grinned. "You'll never be rid of me."

Iolo laughed. The lady climbed to her feet and tended to Shamino, who was laid out by injuries.

Sir Geoffrey sorted through the dead. With an approving smile he shouted, "Sire, Stonegate is ours!"

Lord British held up his sword triumphantly. Then he sheathed it and murmured to Nystul, "Dispose of the daemons as quick as you can. Let's not wait to get started."

The old wizard frowned. "We should not be hasty. I would think that's obvious."

"Listen to me, my friend. Blackthorn's out there somewhere. He's got an army. If he finds us he'll make these daemons look like mongbats by comparison."

Nystul scowled. "He won't find us, my lord. No one can track us through my cloaking spells. "

"I trust your sorcery, but I won't underestimate Blackthorn again. We start the Binding as soon as this room is cleared." He moved toward the exit. "I'll be back when Sir Geoffrey has the Virtue Guards in position."

Bitterly the wizard mumbled, "My lord, the next time I meet that blackguard I'll get rid of him permanently. He degrades Britannia with his presence." Only the daemons could hear him, though, and in their rage they appeared somewhat less than interested.

In a bleak room of the tower in the valley, Blackthorn stood before an empty chair. The moon outside the window flung a rectangle of shining silver across its carved wood. No other light touched the chamber.

The nobleman wore plate armor and a coat displaying his bladed cross emblem. In one hand rested Shadowghast exposed, its crimson blade subtly clouded. Blackthorn's voice was grave. "Lady Gavrielle is occupied?"

"She's taking inventory of your reagents." Exedur lurked in the corner: eyes in the gloom. "We have some time."

"Good. Let's start. Remember, don't get distracted by conversation. We're after one thing only. And keep your senses sharp."

Blackthorn worked the gestures of a spell with his off hand. After he murmured a cryptic verse his fingers spewed a shower of bright flares that leapt through the room and revolved around the empty chair. As the flares diminished to wisps of smoke, he sucked in a deep breath and held it.

A shape now rested in the chair. Blackthorn made out the long curves of a silver serpent, slithering with a gentle, sensuous whisper. But the silver was only moonlight, baring the languid outline of a woman's flesh. Her naked legs were drawn up into the seat, furtively sheltering the rest of her body. Immodest strips of dark clothing seemed to vanish in the deep shadows. Her black hair glistened like a feline's coat. Every movement of her skin against itself was magnified into a constant, tantalizing sigh that breathed from the very stone of the tower.

One finger touched the lush contours of her lips. She gazed at the nobleman with labyrinthine eyes. "Why, Lord Blackthorn, you accepted my invitation. And here I thought I'd been spurned."

The witch-queen Minax, ravager of Sosaria, opened up a mysterious smile that sent a tickle through Blackthorn's flesh.

He returned a blizzard stare. "No games! You know what I want."

"Of course. You want me to tell you where the fortress of Stonegate is, so you can march your little army to it. You're in luck. I have that information." She leaned forward in the chair, metallic light spilling across her shoulders. "Make me an offer for it."

Blackthorn grinned darkly. "Don't waste my time. We both know what's at stake. If British succeeds, all your work will be for nothing. Your kingdom will vanish. You can't afford not to tell me."

"Which is why you've got to let me fight beside you. Honestly, Blackthorn. You couldn't stop me from conquering a single facet of a single shard. How can I trust you to keep this spell from destroying all of the shards at once?"

"Your trust means nothing to me. I'm the only chance you've got to survive. You're going to tell me where Stonegate is, because I'm holding all the cards. You have no power here, Minax."

Her large eyes sparkled. Her head cocked to the side. "And yet you've got Shadowghast unsheathed."

"I can't take chances now. Time is short." He tightened his grip on the sword, its hilt embedded with the knucklebones of an ancient sorcerer, one with whom Minax had been intimately acquainted.

She pulled her bare toes underneath her and reached out a hand. "You flatter me, my lord. May I see it? I have such fond memories of that finger."

"Where is Stonegate, Minax?"

"Don't get upset. I'll tell you. You're correct, of course; you've got me over a barrel. But if I'm going to salvage your insurrection, you can at least be so kind as to answer one question. I know you have a plan to stop British and Nystul. What happens after that, Lord Blackthorn? You can't win without bringing British to his knees. Will you take over his throne? Wear his crown? The land must have a king, you know."

The nobleman grimaced. "That's none of your concern."

"Isn't it? Soon you'll be a ruler on equal footing with me, at least in the herald's registry. That makes us associates. Personally I think you and I can work together. My presence right now proves it."

"No bargains, Minax!"

"Very well, let me tell you what's going to happen. You'll kill British, take over his throne, tear down the shrines and recreate the kingdom to your own liking. Am I correct so far? And then, because you're an honorable man, you're going to recompense me for my help today."

In the corner, Exedur choked on a breath. Blackthorn glanced at him.

"My lord..."

"Don't listen to her," warned the sorcerer.

"I've just seen it. What she said. You will be king."

"Be quiet, Exedur."

"And..." The assassin looked up at Blackthorn. "And you will repay her."

"With the Vortex Lens." Minax reclined and smiled. She draped one arm over her shoulder and across the back of the chair. "I like your pet, Blackthorn. I could have a lot of fun with him."

"She's deceiving you, Exedur. It's an illusion."

"No, my lord! I know my own senses. It's real."

The witch trailed her fingertips lazily across her throat. "Look again, little prophet. See how well I'll treat you when your master is king of Britannia and you are my personal pet."

The young assassin blurted out a groan and fell to his knees. His arms clutched his own torso. Breath eluded him as his limbs began to shake. Drawn like water downhill, his clouded eyes fastened on her languorous body.

Blackthorn sneered. "Leave us, Exedur. Now!" His arm whirled and Shadowghast slammed the stone floor in front of the assassin. A blossom of sparks erupted. Exedur flinched out of his trance and staggered backwards. Without a word he dashed from the room, banging shut the door behind him.

Minax laughed, like discordant bells. "He'll never trust his visions again, you know. Well, as you say, trust is meaningless."

Blackthorn growled, "I'm getting tired of you, lady. Let's finish this."

"Don't be sour. I think we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other. Until then, you'd better start deciding. What will your kingdom look like?" She smirked. "What cause do you serve, Blackthorn?"

"Not your cause, you diseased child. I don't serve evil."

A heavy moment passed, during which a smile built like storm clouds on the witch's face. Then she burst into musical laughter, a symphony of unbridled mockery. "My goodness, Blackthorn, but I do look forward to your reign! Compared to British you're as lively as a jester. Here is what you seek. You're now in my debt, black prince."

In a painful glare a runestone appeared on the floor between them.

Blackthorn did not look at her again. He shook his head, blew out a heavy breath and exclaimed, "By the mustering stars, power has made you tedious, woman! Begone from here!" With a stroke of his hand he summoned back the ring of sparkling flares, whirling around the chair.

As she faded from view, Minax the witch-queen blew him a kiss. "Watch for me soon, my newest pet."

When she was gone Blackthorn knelt and picked up the rune. It tickled his palm like a sensuous tongue. Cursing he hurled Shadowghast at the empty chair, which split in half with a noise like a snapping whip. The ghostly blade stuck in the hard floor. Coils of smoke snaked up its length.

"Damned temptress," he hissed, twirling the rune in his gloved fingers.

He found Exedur crouched like a gargoyle on the summit of the tower. The moon was lurking behind a crag, throwing a shadow over half the valley. Blackthorn winced at the high, icy breeze. His wrinkled face pulled into sharp lines.

"It was just a spell," he said. "She was toying with you."

The assassin did not move. "I used to work in the name of destiny, but how can I rely on my visions anymore? She's stolen that from me. Now there's nothing left to serve." He turned a dark glance onto the nobleman. "Except you, my lord."

Blackthorn kept his gaze. "Then I'll teach you how to shape the future, instead of just watching it. But Exedur," he pointed a finger, "don't act so ingenuous. I know you haven't stood by me out of loyalty or altruism. It's time for you to confess. Why did you seek me out in the first place? What have you foreseen?"

The young man blinked and offered a slight smile. But as he opened his mouth to speak, another voice cut through the wintry air.

"Blackthorn! You did it!"

They followed the voice to the rooftop doorway. In it stood Lady Gavrielle, uncloaked and stern-faced.

"Answer me!" she shouted. "You summoned the witch, didn't you?"

His lungs felt cold as he sighed. "I have the rune now. We're ready to march."

Her flesh darkened red. Tears painted her cheeks. "Then you clearly don't need me anymore." She turned her back to him and started down the steps.

Blackthorn strode after her. "Gavrielle, don't --"

"No more!" She spun and jutted her hands at him. A torrent of magic bolts barraged him. Blackthorn toppled backwards, his chest screaming fire in a dozen places. Lying atop the tower, he struggled to sit up as his own magic gently healed him.

Gavrielle's angelic features seethed with anger and seasoned fatigue. "You knew my limit, yet you made a deal with her anyway. I won't abide that. Not ever, your lordship. Good bye."

She vanished down the tower steps. Blackthorn watched her go.

The moon sank below the jagged mountaintops. His face dissolved into the dark. His voice was as thin as a shadow. "She was the only thing waiting for me on the other side of tonight. She's all I had left."

Exedur helped him to his feet. "Would you have done anything different, if you could?"

Blackthorn leaned for a moment against the coarse stone of the tower. Then he rose to a proud stance and ground his teeth. His eyes were a raptor's. "Get the troops ready," he snarled, "and don't ask me that question again. By my blood, I'm sick of doubt! Now we move out. It's time to fight."

Inside the ancient fortress of Stonegate, the blackened ceiling of the great hall loomed eighty feet above the floor. The rafters were a latticework of titanic wooden beams. They might have been mistaken for iron, so hard and dark were they from countless ages of torch fires and hearth smoke. From above they seemed to cage the giant chamber beneath unbreakable bars.

Fresh flames now danced in the great hall. Nystul was lighting a wide ring of braziers in the center of the floor. Inside was a smaller ring of candles atop tall, thin stands, ornately wrought by a master's hands. In the center of this circle was a small podium. Upon it lay a disk of blue crystal, in which glimpses of a black place shifted and twirled.

Lord British stood in front of the podium and gazed at the fabled Vortex Lens. He still wore his weapons and shining armor, wiped clean of the blood from the earlier battle. His helmet lay on the floor beside him. His brow glittered with sweat.

The old wizard Nystul lit the final candle and clasped his hands together. "My lord, we're ready to begin."

The monarch exhaled a tremulous breath. It fogged the chilly air. His large eyes reflected the color of the lens. "Nystul, are we doing the right thing? Can we really succeed?"

"As I've told you, we can most assuredly cast this spell." He tugged at his full, white beard. "As to whether it's the best course of action, my own conscience is at ease. But my lord, only you can make the final decision. The fate of Britannia is your burden, as it has always been."

British traced the edge of the lens with a steel-sheathed finger. "We're putting things right again. We're finally undoing the evil of Mondain. We owe this to the people of Sosaria."

Nystul nodded. "As you say, my lord. Let us start. Hesitation is the death of good deeds."

With a grave sigh British stepped back from the podium. "I'm ready. Let's rewrite this world."

In unison they began to chant.

The armies of Lord Blackthorn growled like a horde of wild beasts. In the blackness of the predawn they waited at the base of the tower, a swarm of steel helmets and black cloaks and battle-pocked shields. The tips of spears and halberds danced over the crowd like anxious stallions. A thousand swords, meticulously sharp, captured the light of endless torches and bit the darkness with their glowing fangs. The troops barked and shouted in a rising, blood-hungry frenzy.

From the peak of the tower Blackthorn inspected them with stern eyes. The mounted Chaos Guards were herding the others into marching formation. When he judged that all was ready, he threw up his hands and flung from each a giant, forking bolt of lightning. The flash and thunderclap drew all eyes to him.

"Warriors of Sosaria!" he bellowed in a voice that hammered the walls of the valley. "Hold tight to your weapons and listen to me! Tonight we go to face a legend. Awaiting us are the best soldiers and sorcerers Lord British can field. This will be unlike any battle you have ever known. But look around you! Never has history seen an army like ours. Never before has man and orc and goblin and ettin stood together for a single cause. When British's soldiers set eyes upon you, they will learn a new kind of fear! They will understand what it means to wake the god named Chaos!"

A booming cheer soared from the ranks of firelit warriors. Even the horses joined in the clamor, until Blackthorn lifted his hands again. "Tonight I face Lord British himself. I fight in the name of life and freedom. I fight for every being across Sosaria, even for those who stand against us, even for those who sneer at our anger and mock our cause! Tonight I stand against Lord British, and with these hands I shall take back our world! That is my grave duty. And my last allies, my most loyal companions, your duty tonight is simply this: Let no man or god stand in my way!"

The dark troops roared with bloodlust. Blackthorn unsheathed Shadowghast and held it overhead, as if its crimson blade could suck yet more fury from the masses of soldiers. Then he stepped away from the edge of the tower and glanced to his side.

Exedur stood close by. The assassin wore the same shadowy clothes as he had the night Blackthorn first captured him, on the way to murder Lord British. The young prophet handed the nobleman a small pouch. From inside Blackthorn withdrew the witch's rune. He clenched it in a gloved fist.

Exedur leaned close to him, speaking in his gentle voice. "You're sure you can do this? You don't want to overtax yourself before we even get there."

Blackthorn's grin was unrestrained. "Tonight I have no limits. Stand back."

He lifted the runestone in the air and began to chant the lyrics of a spell. As his resonant voice strengthened in volume the magic symbol began to shine, until a shaft of white light thrust up into the sky. On the lowering clouds the rune traced itself in bright, undulating lines. Blackthorn's sorcery called down the cloud cover until the glowing symbol hovered above the army. Its magical light washed away the dark of the snowy valley.

The air split open. A vertical cleft the height of the tower sputtered fire and wind as it parted, groaning like a giant wooden gate. Soon it was wide enough to admit the marching column into the inky portal. The Chaos Guards shouted commands. The black army heaved forward into the darkness beyond.

Exedur murmured to Blackthorn, "Now you must confess, my lord. You've got the top room of this tower filled with magical reagents. How do you intend to use them on the other side of that gate?"

The sorcerer shook his head. "Never overlook the obvious." He crossed his wrists and barked another verse; and the stones of the tower shook. Exedur crouched to keep his balance as granite blocks cracked and rumbled. The roof pitched. In an instant they were rising into the air, sorcerer and assassin and rooftop together. Exedur peered over the edge to find that the top floor of the tower had dislodged itself from the rest of the structure. They were floating on a squat cylinder of coarse black stone. Broken granite dribbled from the jagged lower edge of the circular wall. High above the chaos army they glided, soundlessly closer to the violent cleft in the air.

Blackthorn moved his open hands as if the action controlled the hovering platform. His face pulled into furrows of concentration. "I'm taking the reagents with me, Exedur. Simple as that. But dammit, my eyes are still tender. All this light and dark is blinding me." He closed his eyelids, whispered to the ether, then opened them again. A bright red glow pulsed from his sockets, as if his soul was volcanic.

"That feels better. Now show me the way to Lord British, Exedur, and I'll deliver you a miracle."

Looming overhead, his broad cloak roiling behind him like a thundercloud, Blackthorn led his black troops forward to the waiting fortress of Stonegate.

When Sir Geoffrey burst into the great hall, he felt Nystul's stern voice bellow in his head: Halt! Do not interrupt us!

The knight looked to the center of the room. Encircled by slithering flames, Nystul and Lord British sang peculiar chants that manifested as a wafting, tinted mist. Intricate aurora patterns shimmered in the air under the tall, dark ceiling, painting the chamber with a multicolored glaze. Geoffrey gaped at the crisscrossing patterns of light. He squeezed shut his eyes when he realized the old wizard had been shouting into his skull for many moments.

Quickly, Sir Geoffrey, what news?

The paladin was familiar with the mental communication. It's Lord Blackthorn! His army is attacking!

And Sir Dupre? What of his forces?

Blackthorn opened a gate large enough to march his troops through. He bypassed the ambush set by Shamino and Dupre. There's no sign of the Serpent Knights.

I predicted as much. You know what to do, then. Prepare yourself as I instructed you.

It will not be easy for me, sir.

I know, Geoffrey. But yours is the most important charge of all. You must not fail.

I understand, Nystul. Good luck to you. The knight made little sound as he exited.

Within the circle of light and fire, Nystul peered into the powerful, undulating imagery of the Vortex Lens. Under a frosty beard he indulged in a smile.

Wedged in a spine of foreboding mountains, the fortress of Stonegate from a distance resembled several castles stacked atop each other. Turrets and towers of grey stone leapt toward the sky in a chaotic dance. The granite walls were high and heavy. The fortress had a dour aspect, like a golem squatting among the sharp cliffs, waiting for an unknown master.

As the impending dawn stole stars from the sky, Stonegate emitted a ghoulish shimmer from a crust of midwinter ice. A single bridge spanned the chasm separating it from the mountain roads. Icicles dagged the bridge's underside like the fangs of a predator's skull. Clusters of bright flame lit both ends.

An army in shining mail arrayed itself to defend the bridge. The Virtue Guard formed a dauntless line at the edge of the silent chasm. Their shields glistened with five hundred silver serpents.

Facing them was a force of black-swathed soldiers emerging from a bright fissure in the air. The invaders did not display the austere dignity of the Virtue Guards; rather they roared and howled and bellowed in voices that were not always human. Siege engines crawled along in their midst. Overhead floated the nightmarish vision of their master, Lord Blackthorn, a dark apparition with blazing red eyes perched on a platform of ragged stone.

For a moment the two forces gazed at one another across a space of crisp, dark air. Then Blackthorn called down a talon of lightning from the clouds. It struck the ground between the armies, damaging only the coarse earth; but the stroke blasted away the chill of the battlefield. The two sides lurched forward with rampant war cries. They clashed to the staccato percussion of weapons upon shields.

Among the armed soldiers fought wizards of all disciplines. Flashes and sparkles erupted from the melee. Explosions rocked the battleground. The sullen crags of the mountain range lit up with the brilliance of sorcery. Most devastating of all were the spells of Lord Blackthorn, hurled down from his hovering stage in thunderous, ravaging volleys. The fearsome power of the nobleman seemed to weaken the resolve of the Virtue Guards. The army of Chaos pressed their assault. Soon siege engines were throwing new bridges across the chasm. Dozens of orcs fell into the abyss, victims of clouds of arrows, yet dozens more reached the walls of Stonegate with scaling ladders. The Chaos Guards followed close behind.

Grim-faced, the wizards of Lord British turned their attention to Blackthorn himself. They launched cascades of elemental power at the dark lord on his flying platform. In response he swatted away the attacks with magic wards and ghostly Shadowghast, and rained down upon them a stream of booming, derisive laughter.

The first amber bolts of dawn revealed a battle turned against the Virtue Guards. But the sun warmed their courage. They pushed back with renewed spirit. Shouts of furious defiance suggested the day was only beginning.

In a stone corridor dotted with torches, three figures waited before a tall wooden door. Sir Geoffrey gazed down the hallway, his hand propped on the hilt of his platinum sword. His eyes were sharp as daggers.

Next to him stood the archers Iolo and Gwenno. They were singing a soft tune from ages past. Their low voices braided lyrics that spoke of the sorrow of an ancient, dying king.

They stopped when Geoffrey raised a mailed hand. He pointed down the corridor. From the gloomy distance a figure appeared, moving closer with long strides.

"Blackthorn," muttered the knight, hefting his tower shield into place. "I'll be damned. Nystul was right."

"Load up," said Iolo, though his wife's crossbow was already cocked.

Blackthorn spread out his hands as he approached. "Gentlemen! My lady! Shouldn't you be outside right now? Your troops aren't faring well."

The knight donned his helm, though his faceplate was lifted. "Master Nystul predicted you'd make an illusion of yourself as a decoy in the battle. It's only a matter of time before our mages deduce that. The tide will turn when they do."

Blackthorn blinked slowly from under his gaping hood. "Quite likely. No matter. The battle has served my needs already. There's only three of you standing between me and the spell chamber, instead of an army of guards."

Sir Geoffrey lifted his chin. "We three are sufficient, my lord. Your magic is useless in this corridor. Master Nystul has arranged it." He slid his gleaming sword from its scabbard. It made a sound like a rush of wind. "It's the blade for you, Lord Blackthorn, if you're going to get past us."

"Ah, the famous White Falcon. I've always admired that sword, Sir Geoffrey. Care to meet mine?" When it emerged, Shadowghast was as quiet as a crypt.

Master Iolo grimaced. His long, wiry beard exaggerated the expression. "A weapon not even a daemon would forge. You've truly embraced the dark this time, haven't you?" His crossbow lifted. Gwenno's aim matched his. "Drop it, if you please."

Blackthorn stroked his chin with a glove of ebon chainmail. "Death serves in my camp. I have no desire to live beyond my deeds today. That's why I'm going to win." He glowered at the archer. "Fire on me, Iolo."

"I'll write you a proper dirge, my lord," said the archer, then squeezed the firing lever.

Blackthorn swept Shadowghast in the path of the quarrel. The sword pulled true to the missile's trajectory. Iolo's bolt shattered into brilliant sparks as the crimson blade cleaved its steel tip.

Lady Gwenno fired a simultaneous shot, though it flew astray. She yelped and stumbled forward. A man in black crouched behind her, pulling a short sword from her back. Master Iolo abandoned his crossbow and in an instant two rapiers were flashing in his hands. His twin blades engaged Exedur's double short swords in a dazzling cyclone of clanging metal. Cuts appeared on each combatant. Neither seemed overmatched.

Blackthorn and Sir Geoffrey locked eyes. Their weapons streaked at one another, crashing together in mid-arc. When struck, the platinum White Falcon let out a screech like a hunting hawk. A burst of white light exploded from the impact.

"Nice," said Blackthorn. "Try me once more."

They hurled together. In rapid beats their blades smashed again and again. Sometimes the impact expelled flashes of white with a falcon's cry. Other times it glittered the color of blood. The warriors circled. When a blow deflected from the knight's tall shield Blackthorn noted aloud, "You came prepared, Geoffrey! Your shield doesn't crumble at Shadowghast's sting."

"Nystul enchanted it. I learned from his experience fighting you."

"Indeed?" The pale-skinned nobleman carved out a series of strokes in the shape of his favorite rune, then ducked low, pirouetted and thrust Shadowghast directly at the shield. The crimson blade pierced steel and wood with a loud crack. Its point lost momentum inches from Sir Geoffrey's gut. The knight clipped short his breath.

"Don't take tactical advice from a scholar," offered Blackthorn, wrinkling his nose.

Iolo and Exedur charged into their duel with a quick, deafening rhythm. When it seemed as if youthful endurance might prevail, Lady Gwenno reappeared, healed and angry, sword and dagger in hand. Unable to engage both attackers, the assassin ducked aside. The couple pursued him in practiced tandem.

The magic swords banged together with flashes decreasingly red. White Falcon's blade whirred through the air to the sound of beating wings. Lord Blackthorn bled from several shallow cuts.

Sir Geoffrey pressed him back from the wooden door. "You can't beat me, my lord! Abandon this madness."

The nobleman's response was an unexpected, vehement slash down the center of the knight's tall shield. It split in half and fell to the floor. They exchanged a few more ripostes and then Shadowghast cracked the side of the knight's full helm. The steel dissolved to grey dust and spilled off of Sir Geoffrey's head and shoulders.

Blackthorn squinted his bloodshot eyes. "We're all mad here. And I will win."

A second figure lunged at him. Lady Gwenno had suddenly switched targets. Blackthorn dodged a rapier thrust to his low quarters. He answered with a swipe at her shoulder. She parried it with ease, though her weapon turned to soot and burst into a cloud. By reflex he shoved the point of his sword at her lightly armored chest.

Sir Geoffrey snarled, "Not her!" and dove forward to interpose White Falcon. The platinum blade found its mark. Shadowghast clanged away. Yet the knight was off-balance and Blackthorn's instincts served him. A second later his crimson blade rested against Geoffrey's uncovered throat.

The knight gulped for breath. "Don't bother bluffing, my lord. Kill me or leave. I won't surrender my post."

"You die for a noble cause," murmured Blackthorn as he slashed open Sir Geoffrey's neck. The vile magic of the red metal fountained through the soldier's body. With an expression of agonized shock, the knight stared down as his body transformed to an ashy grey. Like a delicate eggshell he fell apart under his own weight. Blackthorn shut his eyes for an instant and spat a sorrowful hiss.

Iolo cried out and rushed him. The warrior's dual rapiers struck like snakes. Blackthorn felt Shadowghast wrested from his grip. It clattered a few yards away as Iolo's sword tip punctured his side. The wound buzzed with pain.

Like a whirlwind Exedur fell upon Master Iolo. Distracted by Blackthorn, the archer was unprepared. The assassin buried both short swords into Iolo's sides, then twirled and held his blade against the chest of the unarmed Gwenno as she scrambled to reach her crossbow. She froze and glowered.

The young assassin motioned to his master. "Shall we finish them before Iolo recovers?"

Blackthorn snatched Shadowghast from the ground. "No. My lady, take this." From a pouch he withdrew a small runestone. "Spells don't work here, but a rune should. This one will transport you back to Britain. There may still be time to save both of them."

The archer scowled but grabbed the rune. As she knelt beside the ashes of Sir Geoffrey and the still body of her husband, her expression revealed a blend of fury and pity. "What length does your evil go?" she muttered. Then the rune cast a glow about her and she vanished with her fallen comrades.

Exedur sheathed his gory blades. "You lied to her. There's no hope for the knight."

"But Iolo can be helped. And now they're both safe and far away from us."

The assassin frowned as he quaffed a healing potion. "There's another presence here, my lord. A feminine one."

"I know. Minax must be up to something. Monitor your senses, but be wary of her tricks."

The young man swallowed hard. "I'm afraid to look at the future, my lord."

Blackthorn inhaled deeply. "So am I, lad. So am I."

Shadowghast carved a black gash in the huge door. The two men kicked it open and stepped inside.

When he entered the great hall of Stonegate, Exedur screamed and collapsed to the floor. In wild torment he pawed at his head and face. Blackthorn knelt beside him and whispered, "Your senses got us this far. But I was afraid they'd turn against you like this when we're so close to a dimensional nexus. Be strong, prophet. I go alone from here."

He rose and walked toward the center of the room, where a kaleidoscope of sorcery swirled in giant, concentric columns. Inside British and Nystul chanted their parts of the Spell of Binding. The azure Vortex Lens rested before them on a pedestal.

The air seethed with strange qualities that the nobleman struggled to identify. He had the odd sensation that the world he knew was a crystallization of abstract elements, and that here in the spell chamber the concrete world was unfocusing, slipping in subtle ways back toward the abstract. The feeling was distractive, intriguing. He blocked it out by tightening his fists and curling back his lips.

"British!" he shouted, stalking the perimeter of the ring of braziers. "I've come! Check mate!"

The monarch stood in a whirlpool of light and color that whipped his hair and livery. "Don't interfere! This is not a game, Blackthorn."

"Don't patronize me! I gave up everything to come here. I have nothing left now but to stop you. I'll die to do it."

The white-haired Nystul continued his chants as he watched the two men. He sheltered private thoughts behind narrowed eyes.

Lord British looked into Blackthorn's pale, ravaged face and smiled. "Give me ten more seconds, my friend, then do what you must." He stretched out his arms to each side. His hands he flattened like blades. Then he punctured the air itself, and with each hand opened up a hole. Beyond each rupture in space was another room; another great hall pulsing with magic; and another Lord British casting a spell with outstretched hands.

Blackthorn widened his eyes and peered closer. The scene was astonishing. Through two holes in the air he saw two other Britishes. Beyond each of them was another cleft in space, through which another Lord British was visible. As Blackthorn made out more and more detail, he realized that the chain stretched in both directions farther than he could hope to discern.

British and Nystul had opened gates to other shards. Their counterparts on those other shards had done likewise. Blackthorn realized the truth of the assertion that lawful order might indeed bind them all together.

Yet he also recognized that he was correct, as well, for each Lord British in another world was distinctive in his own way. They were not identical men; they were men with a common past. Individuality had asserted itself since the Gem of Immortality was rent into shards. After the Binding, what would be lost from these alternate Britishes? What treasury of adventure and insight would be sacrificed by erasing the parallel timelines?

Then the nobleman witnessed something that shook his entire body. Scantly visible through the rips in the air, lurking in those mirror Stonegates, were glimpses of other Blackthorns. He saw himself in an infinite chain, each image his reflection after a different set of life experiences. He saw what he might have been, what he might still be.

They were parts of himself that were missing. In a mad, magical sense, they were his brothers.

He formed his mouth around each word: "British, I won't let you kill them."

He swept his blade from its scabbard and lunged into the kaleidoscopic colors of Nystul's protective wards, erected to contain the force of the Binding.

The old wizard stopped chanting and barked out a new spell. Blackthorn saw the bolt of magic streaking towards him. With Shadowghast he smashed it from the air, only to be hammered by a dozen or more similar attacks. From the floor the nobleman growled his own incantation and launched a swarm of flaming stones at Nystul. The protective wards repelled the fireballs. Backthorn cursed.

Nystul motioned to the Vortex Lens. "You have no hope against the Codex. Cease this undignified assault."

Blackthorn glared back. "Stop me."

"With extreme pleasure."

An abrupt swell of glittering wind enveloped Blackthorn. He felt himself rise from the floor. Shadowghast seemed suddenly heavy, until he realized why. He could not move. The paralysis extended to his mouth and tongue, preventing him from casting a defensive enchantment.

His sword flew from his strengthless grip and clanked into a distant corner. Nystul opened up a grin that chilled the nobleman. "Let's settle this right now, Blackthorn."

"No!" Lord British looked away from the Spell of Binding long enough to shoot the wizard a stern look. "He's harmless now. Leave him be to watch."

Nystul grumbled, "As you wish, my lord," and returned to his chanting.

Lord British smiled at Blackthorn, suspended in a glimmering cyclone. "My friend, I'm glad you're here. Of all people I want you to see this." Consulting the Codex he called out another verse of the spell, to which he added, "The Virtues have guided our shards toward a common destiny. Let the Virtues now partition our worlds, so that component by component we may bind them all together. The Principles shall be our meter - Courage, Love and Truth. Let now the shards be likewise divided."

His every word was echoed by the Britishes beyond the rifts.

"Bring us first the lands to the east! I call to myself Moonglow, the city of Honesty, and everything that surrounds it."

An unusual calm seized the room. Blackthorn was not sure what was going to happen next, but his mind raced for a means to stop it.

The battle clamored outside the walls of Stonegate. The Virtue Guards were joined now by many Britannian Rangers, who had secured the fortress from its prior monstrous inhabitants. Though their captain, Lord Shamino, had accompanied Sire Dupre and his knights many miles away, still the ferocious rangers punched holes in the offensive formations. The sun had barely crested the mountaintops, yet the momentum of the conflict had nearly reversed.

Then a rumbling sound stilled the melee for an instant. It rolled across the rocky crags from somewhere to the east. The thunder was followed by a strange apparition in the eastern sky. Obscured by the waking sun, a long, thin shape like an impossibly large ribbon seemed to be rising into the sky. It arched across the heavens and began to descend towards the battlefield.

Both factions feared some new, terrible sorcery; but the ribbon did not strike the troops. Rather it punctured the roof of Stonegate itself. At close range, the soldiers could make out what they were seeing.

It was a titanic stream of swirling blue liquid, oceans of it, leaping high into the sky from very far away and pouring inside Stonegate. The roar of the flow rattled stones and scabbards.

After a few moments the battle resumed, though its fury was diminished.

The giant stream of blue fluid smashed through the ceiling of the great hall. When it struck Lord British it condensed beyond all reason into a sphere in his left hand.

Blackthorn strained against hope to break his paralysis. The sensation heightened that he was witnessing some raw, elemental form of substance, something more fundamental than the ordinary scope of matter. The notion fascinated him, though he knew it was only the hypnosis of the Codex.

Lord British continued to chant: "Bring us next the lands to the south and west! I call to myself Jhelom, the city of Valor, and everything that surrounds it."

The wracked Exedur still squirmed on the floor, just by the door to the huge chamber. Unnoticed, a small figure appeared beside him. A soft hand laid on his soaking brow. A stray golden curl drizzled over his shoulder. Then a white glow streamed from the woman's fingers into the assassin's skin. He stopped writhing. His eyes opened, glazed for a moment, and then by degrees regained the glint of lucidity.

Exedur looked up and offered a hint of a smile. "My lady, you are divine."

Gavrielle pressed a finger to her lips and scrutinized the proceedings from the shadow of the broken, wooden door. Her eyes darted with immediate, anxious purpose.

An enormous column of red liquid blasted through the ceiling of the chamber and condensed to a sphere in British's right hand. Identical events were transpiring beyond the rifts in the air. Blackthorn marveled at the sheer volume of both fluids. He strained to discern some clue about the nature of the substances. When he did, his body fell cold.

The liquids were some elemental phase of matter. Yet Blackthorn detected ghosts of what the matter had been before reverting to this fundamental state. He sensed mineral objects, like rocks and houses and buildings. He sensed living things, like plants and livestock and wild animals. And he sensed people. Confused people. Terrified people.

Blackthorn, what can I do?

The voice in his head sounded like a miracle. Gavrielle, can you free me?

I don't have a tenth of the power to break through those wards!

Then forget about me. There's one rune left in my pouch. Try to get it.

The girl cast a quiet spell. A small stone nudged itself out of his belt pouch and leapt into the glittering whirlwind.

I have it. What does it do?

Just activate it, before he kills anyone else!

Lord British seemed oblivious to Lady Gavrielle. "And last comes Britain, the city of Compassion. I call to myself my adopted home. To this world I offer the gift of unity. Never again let a Britannian's soul endure the pain of incompleteness."

The storms of fluid ceased. Blackthorn looked at the spheres in British's hands and saw death and horror and ruin. His stomach wrenched at the sight.

British now reached through the fissures in the air. He was preparing to take his counterparts' hands, forming a human chain that draped sideways across time. When the ground shook again, Blackthorn knew the end was closing. In moments all of Sosaria would flow into a yellow sphere, British would link hands with his mirror selves and the Gem of Immortality would fuse together into a whole. Or perhaps be destroyed in the attempt.

Hidden in the shadows, Gavrielle remotely activated the rune. A bright beam of white light burst from its face, spinning wildly as the runestone tumbled in the cyclone. Nystul and British startled.

The light congealed into a thick glare, from which a slender figure emerged. She held a blue crystal staff in one hand and wore a grin like a thousand hungry sharks.

Minax the witch-queen threw out her arms and said, "Blackthorn, you did call! And I thought you didn't respect me."

Lord British paused, his face taut with concentration. Across the room, Lady Gavrielle shrieked.

Nystul's face purpled with rage. "Devil! To the flames with you!" He flung his arms into intricate gestures, generating an aura of pulsing energy.

Minax laughed. "Ahhh, this is delicious! Toss your little magicks at me. I'm feeling hungry this morning!"

The flood of violet flames that roared over the witch illuminated the great hall beyond even the colors of the wards. Minax toppled to the ground and screamed. When the assault was over she looked up with astonishment.

Nystul's eyes burned. "Now I am mightier than you. My wrath is your doom."

The witch snorted. "You flaccid old octopus! You should know better. I can't abide false arrogance!" With two fingers she hurled a shower of blackness at the podium in the center of the room. The spell streaked around the Vortex Lens for a moment before swallowing it. In an instant the blue crystal disk was gone.

Nystul howled and plunged his hands into the blackness. The spell dissipated around his fingers. "No! Where did you send it?!"

Minax climbed to her feet. "Somewhere safe. Now let's see who's mightier!" With a twirl of her crystal staff she whacked the sorcerer onto his back. Then her eyes shot forth twin columns of purple fire identical to Nystul's spell. The old wizard choked and writhed in the relentless inferno.

"Stop it!" Gavrielle charged forward, hurling bolts of magic at Minax. The attacks dispersed harmlessly when they struck Nystul's wards.

Gavrielle, stay back!

When the witch-queen's spell ceased, Nystul lay still on the smoking floor. His granddaughter lunged through the wards and rushed to his side.

"Now," grinned Minax, "let's do something about this spell of yours, shall we, O King of Britannia?" She thrust out an open palm, from which pumped spheres of light. Where they impacted the vortex of swirling colors the wards cracked and shuddered. Then she turned her assault onto Lord British. Several glowing missiles slammed into his abdomen.

Straining to maintain the Spell of Binding, unable to defend himself, Lord British cried out in anguish.

The scenes beyond the rifts revolved away. The red and blue spheres were plucked from the monarch's hands and vanished into the hungry blackness of the ether. Wild images shot past. British pulled his arms to safety, then doubled over from the pain of Minax's attack.

The walls of Stonegate began to shake. Granite stones were blurring and dislodging and transforming into an elemental golden fluid. Blackthorn knew the spell was flying off course. His mind strained against his paralysis. Watching British reel under the witch's spells, he sensed a tide of raw fury rising inside him, a red, scorching blaze that felt as if it would consume him from within.

He nurtured it to its peak.

Minax turned to face him, delight curling her lips into a smile. "Such rage, Lord Blackthorn! I could bask like a lizard in the heat you generate. Is it for me? I'm flattered."

That's not all I have for you he said in his mind, though only Gavrielle could hear it.

The witch-queen walked toward him, her long, graceful legs cleaving through layers of colored light. As she reached out to him she opened her mouth to speak. No words emerged. Instead she coughed and flared her eyes in shock.

Behind her crouched Exedur at the extension of a skillful lunge. The crimson sword Shadowghast punctured the flesh between the witch's shoulder blades.

Her skin, as smooth as a river stone, began to grey. To the ceiling she turned her face and cried, "Mondain, not me! Why? I was faithful to you!"

Shadowghast made no answer, except to penetrate her with its scarlet sorcery. Minax fell to her knees, screeched in agony, and collapsed on the ground. From the impact rose a cloud of powdery dust -- the only remains she left behind.

Hurry, Gavrielle! Heal Nystul! We have to stop the spell!

The girl unleashed a healing spell. A flash of white lit the room. A bloody Nystul toiled to his feet, leaning on Gavrielle's shoulder. With a grunt he swirled his arms. Blackthorn stumbled forward, free to move again. The old wizard looked invigorated after dispelling the paralysis. He began a haunting chant and the damaged wards began to repair.

Blackthorn doubted they would be restored quickly enough, though he had no time to reflect on the consequences. He rushed to the injured Lord British.

The king stared now into one of the rifts with a look of amazement.

Figures appeared on the other side. They were not human, nor any race known to Sosaria, yet Blackthorn recognized them at once. He had seen them in Exedur's prophecies. He had conjured them in visions from the Codex. They were warrior inhabitants of a nightmare world of smoke and iron, of fumes and oil, of brickwork and smokestacks and pipelines and other lifeless, stirring things. Two of them crouched inside the rift. The female's lush hair was the color of molten lava. Her inhuman face was proud and strong. The male wore an expression that reflected British's own -- confused, capable, regal and courageous. Their clothes and strange armor were in tatters. Bloody wounds striped their flesh.

Behind them a holocaust rushed upon their heels. Lord British reached out his hand to help them.

Nystul lunged forward. "No, my lord! We don't know --"

This time Blackthorn intervened. "Follow his judgment! It's all we have now."

The wizard shot him a disdainful glare. "What a waste your life was, Blackthorn."

Lord British took the hand of the male being in the rift. An inferno flooded into the room.

When the holocaust overtook them Blackthorn covered his face. He knew Nystul's wards were designed to protect against any sudden eruption of power; so he squirmed with surprise when the heat began to singe his flesh. The others cried out as well. Through the flames Blackthorn saw Nystul pushing towards the rift. Glowing barriers appeared at the wizard's command, but the inferno pulverized new wards as quickly as he could erect them.

At last the aged sorcerer shrieked inside the mouth of the flames. In the deafening howl of torrential fire Blackthorn watched Nystul wither like a wax doll. Then the flames ceased and the old man was gone.

Lady Gavrielle wailed, "Grandfather!" Her large eyes, once innocent, now turned on Blackthorn. They were fierce with hatred. Behind her the hall was vanishing in a great surge of golden light.

Lord British reached his other hand in the opposite rift. Tears traced the monarch's face.

Beyond the second rift was another enigmatic person. She seemed to be a young girl in a leather tunic, draped with a brightly patterned mantle. Yet she was not human. Spotted fur covered her exposed flesh. She had an animal's ears. Around her was a crystal city more glorious than anything Britannia had ever known.

Lord British's movements grew more frantic as the golden light devoured Stonegate. After a pause, the furred girl placed her small hand into his. With a thunderclap her world rushed upon him. A flood of raw, complex energies deluged British. Shouting a spell he seized control of the flow, and like the red fluid before he gathered it into a shifting, rotating sphere. When a huge bolt of power slammed him from the opposite rift, he collected it in the palm of his other hand.

So stood Lord British with a world in each hand and a third collapsing around him.

Then something black and foul and nebulous leapt upon him from the beautiful city of crystal. British shouted in pain.

The catlike girl targeted a mysterious rune at him. Blackthorn staggered backwards from the sheer volume of mana that poured over Lord British. Even so the foul, malevolent presence continued to envelope his body. When the monarch was no longer visible, Blackthorn reached out his hand. Exedur tossed the crimson blade into it.

He drew back Shadowghast and prepared to strike. "May history forgive the folly of great men. British, brace yourself!"

He slashed the black malevolence with his fearsome sword. The shapeless, putrescent entity lashed tendrils at him.

In that instant the two rifts in space exploded, flooding the air with heat and sound. Outside the ring of braziers the world condensed to a titanic bolt of golden light. All else was pure ether, black within black. The golden light streaked high above them. The two spheres British had collected from the rifts soared into the air, smearing out into streams of sorcerous energy. Three fountains of power blasted out in three different directions.

The malevolence from the rift snapped itself around Blackthorn. He reeled from the grotesque, agonizing intrusion. As he sensed his body corrupted and breaking, he realized that the foul entity was no longer attacking British. The reason was clear -- it had already consumed him.

Lord British was gone. Not even a corpse remained.

Death rushed over Blackthorn in agonizing waves, yet the torment of his body and soul was meaningless to him now. He had nothing left to grieve with; every piece of himself was spent. Only a shell remained, haunted by the ghost of a man who might have been a hero. Now the shell became food for scavengers.

His last act before oblivion swallowed him was something he had never tried before. It gave him a small, but horrific measure of peace.

Blackthorn despaired. Then he was gone.

The room was stark white. Its appointments were simple -- two chairs and a table between them. A calm, heavy silence thickened the warm air.

Dressed in a simple white gown, Lord British sat in one of the chairs. Across from him was a mysterious woman, wearing the colorful layers of a gypsy's clothes.

"Welcome back," she said in a relaxed voice.

"Where am I?"

"Where you came from."

British creased his brow. "Earth?"

The gypsy woman chuckled. "No. Earth was your home for awhile, but you didn't begin there. Of the majority of worlds you've traveled you have no memory."

"I don't understand. Who are you?"

"A watcher and an accomplice," answered a masculine voice. The gypsy was gone. British now addressed a figure in a hooded robe of midnight blue. Deep shadow concealed the man's face. "I observe the tides of change in the cosmos and sweep up what flotsam they leave behind."

"I know you. The Time Lord. Why did you bring me here?"

"I didn't. You initiated a cataclysm unlike anything I've ever seen. Your own spell cast you here."

"The Ritual of Binding! I lost control over it! Blackthorn interfered and Nystul... perished." He thumped his fist on the table. "Tell me what happened! Did we succeed at all? Was everything lost? Please, I have to know if that's why I'm here!"

"All was not lost. Britannia remains, though changed."

He raked his fingers like a claw through his blonde hair. "But the spell was a failure. The shards didn't rejoin."

"Indeed they didn't. But you did rescue two worlds from oblivion."

"The strange beings in the rifts?"

"They are Sosaria's distant past and far future. Left alone both races would have vanished through their own misfortunes. Only your courage and compassion kept them from that fate."

"How? All I remember is taking their hands."

"You pulled fragments of their worlds into yours. Though none of them are yet aware, Sosaria now shelters three races of men. Three continents, each from a different part of history. Only time will reveal the consequences of the juxtaposition."

"Then send me back! I can forge bonds with these new people."

The enigmatic figure did not reply.

"You won't send me back?"

The Time Lord paused, as if considering his words. "You can't go back, Lord British."

"What? I have to! There's --"

"Your time there is over. New worlds await your arrival."

"I refuse to accept that! I have work to do!"

"Their memory of you is all that remains. That isn't cause for regret. All that Britannia is, you have given it."

British leaned forward on his elbows. "You're saying I died in the cataclysm."

The gypsy's voice answered him. Her smile was almost mischievous. "So it appears to those you left behind. But you don't die. You travel on. Britannia was never your ultimate destination."

He gazed into the empty air. "I can't... believe it's over."

"It isn't over. Your footprints will never fade from Britannia. You shaped a world of rich treasures and virtuous character. Children who idolized you have grown into men and women who seek to walk your path. That's your legacy, Lord British. It's a marvelous thing." She took his hands across the table. "You're the grain of sand in the oyster's shell. See what beauty you made."

British let out a soft, sad laugh. "And now I'm to travel to a different world and start my work over again."

"It's a challenge best suited to your talents, don't you think? You don't remember, but you've done it countless times in the past. Someday I'll tell you the stories."

He shook his head slowly. "Not now. I just want to know one thing. What happened to my friend?"

"Blackthorn? He hasn't perished, though death is close. All that's left is a single ember in the ruins of a man. If there's no one to fan it, he will die."

British rubbed his eyes. His rested his face in his hand. "Blackthorn, we're a pair of headstrong fools. Remember me for my friendship. I'll do the same for you."

"No one in Britannia will forget you, British. Rest easy on that. Now, would you like to see your next home?"

He looked up into the gypsy's face. "No. Just show me where the road starts. I'll find my own way."

The Time Lord grinned. "Naturally. That's what you always do."

They rose from the table and walked out, leaving the white room with the echo of fading footsteps.

In a burst of sparkling light a small group appeared on the turret of a high castle. The chaotic roofs of the city of Britain cascaded across the lands to the south. To the north a tremendous ball of fire seared the morning sky.

Three people huddled atop the central tower of Castle Blackthorn. Exedur stooped over Lady Gavrielle, who was kneeling on the ground. Laid out before them was the blackened, desiccated creature that once had been Lord Blackthorn. From the ruins of his face stared two wide eyes. No conscious mind was discernable in their tangles of swollen veins.

"It worked, my lady!" said Exedur. "You got us out in time. Can you stabilize him? We can't stay here long."

"Don't speak!" snarled Gavrielle. "There's something still inside of him."

The assassin snapped back, "Save him! Please, my lady!" He tugged the black mask from his youthful face. "We haven't got much time. Word of our attack is bound to reach the city soon. Castle Blackthorn might be razed to the ground by this time tomorrow."

The sorceress ignored him. With a careful touch she stroked the nobleman's wasted cheek. "You'll never recover from this one, Blackthorn. You're dying. But dammit, I can't let you. Despite all you've done, good and bad, I can't bear the weight of it." She gazed into his bulging eyes. "Take this from me, my lord, as testimony to my forgiveness."

She laid her hands on his bloody brow. A gentle glimmer sparkled over his body. Then Gavrielle's face tightened with pain. In a violent spasm she wrenched backwards onto the wooden roof of the tower. A black, putrescent shadow rocketed from Blackthorn's brow and plunged into her chest.

Exedur crouched over her, though he had no answer to her peril. Helpless he watched while the amorphous malevolence spread over her body, in seconds shriveling her flesh atop small bones, her eyes swelling into veiny white screams in the mummified horror of her face. Then the black, thrashing entity devoured her, skeleton and all, and bubbled away like the shadow of vanishing smoke.

The assassin staggered back and clutched his heaving stomach.

For a long moment he chewed on his lip and tasted the tears that rolled onto it. Then he caught his breath and turned to examine Blackthorn. His face lit up. "My lord! You're with me! Hold on, we're getting out of here. I'm going to find help for you. I'll see you through this if we have to travel the length of Sosaria. I'll find the answer!"

Quickly he wrapped the lord in the softness of an ornate rug. Only Blackthorn's face remained exposed. Almost lost in the wastes of blood and dried flesh was the track of a single tear, arcing down from his blood-heavy eyes.

A sound fluttered out of his ruined lips. It was too faint for anyone to hear.

Exedur lifted the nobleman in his arms and hurried to the rooftop entrance of Castle Blackthorn. After a final glance over the city, he stepped inside and slammed shut the door.

The cold morning stillness that followed was heavy and slow moving. It hid memories of a troubled past, and silent dread of the future.

It portended the days and years ahead, a time in which the souls of the land would be tried like never before. It announced the origin of a new world. The stillness, however, was not destined to last.

A cataclysm, of course, is always a beginning.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

The Glossary of Terms includes the descriptions of People, Places, Cultures, and Things found in both the Fiction of these Prequel Stories, as well as information that will be found in the game world of Ultima Worlds Online: ORIGIN. All information found in this Glossary is a Copyright 2000 of Origin Stratics (http://origin.stratics.com).

MEER

A feline-like race of humanoids inhabiting the world of Sosaria. It is unclear at this point where or when in Sosaria they exist. They are covered in spotted fur similar to a leopard's, with varying hues from light to dark. Their ears are also feline in appearance and one of their most expressive features. The Meer are a magical race, using the forces of nature as their source of energy.

People:

Kaji Sayarukan (KAH-jee sah-YAH-roo-khan) - A young female 16 year old Meer, apprenticed to Sayaru at a very early age to study the ways of the Mages. At the behest of Sayaru, sent to Anjur to infiltrate the Lore Masters Caste. In love with Teyloth. Apprenticed to Master Mithrazel in the art of sorcery.

Sayaru (sah-YAH-roo) - Matriarch of the Mystic Caste. Very old in appearance despite the use of several longevity spells. Referred to as the Venerable Mother by those in her caste. The term "Dame" also used to refer to her.

Teyloth (TAY-loth) - A young male Meer, member of the Warrior Caste. In love with Kaji of the Mystic Caste. Nicknamed "Tey" by Kaji.

Master Mithrazel (MYTH-rah-zehl) - Recent graduate of the mage apprenticeship in Anjur to Lore Master Adranath. Initial Master to Kaji in the art of sorcery.

Captain Dasha (DAH-sha) - Leader of the Shadow Hunters and Enemy of the Necromancers.

Lore Master Adranath (AH-drah-noth) - The head of the Lore Council in Anjur. Very old - "Within the disk, the silver-furred Lore Master shot him an irritated glare." (See our Screenshots section for a photo of a Todd McFarlane rendering).

Master Hathniel (HOTH-nee-el) - Sorcerer killed during a magical summoning being done by the Lore Council of Anjur, becoming undead and then finally killed by Kaji.

Creatures:

Madrogai (MA-dro-guy) - Giant monster found in the Wilds of Dashan. Reptilian in appearance, stands on 2 legs, has a beak rather than mouth, and has claws for hands. Carnivorous, intelligent, very fast & strong, with excellent vision.

Ostard- Domestic beast used for transportation by the Meer, similar to the horses used by humans. 2-legged, similar in appearance to a miniature dinosaur.

Durka (DUHR-kah) - Enormous, domesticated lizards that serve as Meer livestock, similar to the cattle of Humans.

Living Whip- A weapon of the Warrior Caste. Half whip, half serpentine arthropod with a venomous bite, and the length of a full-size meer when uncurled. Some believe that the creatures are bonded at the time they hatch to their masters even to the point of telepathy.

Stinger- Also called a Living Dart Thrower. A beetle-like creature that flings needle-thin missiles with a segmented tail. Venomous, though only one volley of needles is not deadly.

Scavenger Vines- Thorn-toothed, flesh-eaters.

Places:

Wilds of Dashan (DAH-shawn) - Untamed jungles filled with all sorts of wild creatures and beautiful fauna. Very few Meer inhabit this area.

Anjur (AHN-joor) - Home of the Lore Masters, nicknamed the crystal city. Filled with glassy spires, the towers sparkle clear and distinct, even from several miles away.

Sirocco (sih-RAHK-oh) - Little is known of this place other than it seems to be famous for assassins - "The man wore clothes painted to resemble the dappled shadows of the nighttime forest. His fur was dyed black, with stripes of bright red paint on the neck and limbs." In general terms, the word is used to describe any hot, oppressive wind.

Avenosh (AH-veh-nosh) - Within the time period that Origin takes place in, this is considered to be the ancient Meer land.

Culture:

SHADOW HUNTERS - Warriors dedicated to the eradication of Necromancy. Captain Dasha is their leader.

NECROMANCERS - Followers of the immense dark power of the Malevolance. Led by Adranath, the Lord of the Undead.

CASTES- The social structure of the Meer is broken up into castes. The varying caste members are not allowed to intermingle. At this time we know of three different castes:

MYSTIC CASTE - Masters of Magic and Nature. Balance is their mantra.

WARRIOR CASTE - The Protectors of the Land

WORKER'S CASTE - Those that support the other castes, including Farmers and Merchants

Things:

Lore Masters- Those that have mastered the power of nature above all other mages in the Mystic Caste. Dubbed Sorcerers, it is feared that they may have perfected the goodness of magic so much that the balance may have been disrupted and that doom may be on the horizon. Based out of Anjur. The leaders are called the Lore Council.

Matriarch- Title given to the leader of the Mystic Caste. Currently Sayaru.

Lore Council- Leaders of the Lore Masters. Based out of the city of Anjur.

Crystal- Item used by the Mystic Caste to help create their spells.

Circle of Elements- Terminology used to describe the various spells used by Mages.

Villages of the Meer- By all accounts, the Meer seem to live off the ground, with their homes built in the trees of large cypress and yew trees. The buildings are made of pulpy rough-hewn wood with thatched roofs.

Magework- Magic of the Mystic Caste with the keys being Balance, Tradition, and Rituals.

Anjuric Sorcery- Requires a lifetime of discipline and responsibility for a Meer to perfect the art. Stripping away the Traditions and Rituals of the Mystic Caste, the Lore Masters have perfected the art of magic by boiling each spell down to its Essence. By doing this, they believe that they have mastered nature itself. But the leaders of the Mystic Caste believe they have lost their understanding of balance and sacrifice as a result. Essentially, Sorcery can be viewed as a magic surrounded by Order, while the traditions of the Mystics are surrounded in the Chaos of nature.

Matrix of Enchantments- Used to create the magic of the Anjuric Sorcerers. It is supposed to be designed to elminate randomness from nature, but in fact (by Kaji's view) may only be spreading that randomness out over a larger area.

Mana- Created by nature through the energy of life (living earth and the living elements), this is the basic force used by Mages and Sorcerers to craft their magic.

Glyphs- Symbols used in Anjuric Magic to create spells. Known so far are Flam (Passion), Irem (Statis), Than (Undeath), Por (Movement), Xen (Creature), Tym (Time).

Chitin Armor- A warrior's armor, usually engraved with a family's symbols. Made in round plates out of the outer covering of a large insect or crustacean (at this point it is unclear what creature this might be).

Heartstone- Magical stones (found in pairs) that allow the heat surrounding one stone to be emitted from the other. In the Meer Lore, the stones are used by Kaji and Teyloth "so we can always hold hands, no matter how no matter how far apart we are" (as in, they could feel the heat from each others palms through the stones). After being given a sorcerous enchantment, the stones can also be used as a form of communication between each other.

The Parting of the Veils- A spell designed to replicate Creation itself, which is the ultimate source of power. Creation, which gives the ability to fashion life out of emptiness. And with it, most importantly, the ability to create mana independently. Disturbingly similar to the Spell of Rejoining that Lord British is also working on in another place and time.

Troth of Anjur - A collection of 700 total glyphs. The Meer's ultimate bond with the universe. Used in the Parting of the Veils.

Ether - Crystalline and impossibly dark. Almost animated in appearance.

Primogenitor (pri-muh-jen-ih-tuhr) - The term used to describe the ultimate power that comes from Creation.

A Nexus- One who, by the whim of fate, is able to channel mana without limits. It's extremely rare.

Hookah (HOOK-uh) - A pipe-like device with a long, flexible tube so arranged that it draws the smoke through water in a vase or bowl and cools it. Used to smoke tobacco with.

JUKAN

A hardened people, the Juka are described as a forged race, a designed race, and ultimately a slave race. They are strong, proud, long faced, hard skilled, and stoutly framed. They are tireless workers and tireless soldiers. Tattoos and ritual scarring are used to differentiate their various lots in life. From all description, they seem to exist in a future world of Britannia, one that has become industrialized to the point that nature is all but extinct.

People:

Kumar (KOO-mahr) - Of Shire Athul, under Citadel Britain. A warrior representing his region in the Juka rebellion against the Overlords. Has a past with the Janissars, but at this time it is unclear what happened. The lead character of the Jukan Prequel Lore.

Narah (NAH-rah)- Of Shire Kubaron, under Citadel Vesper. A warrior representing her region in the Juka rebellion against the Overlords. Red hair.

Obden (OB-den)- Of Shire Fusil, under Citadel Yew. She organized the smiths to capture the roving foundry the would be the meeting place of the first Juka Revolutionary Summit.

Rabak (rah-BAHK)- Of Shire Galvan, under Citadel Moonglow. A healer representing his region in the Juka rebellion against the Overlords. Nearly killed during the Revolutionary Summit by loyalist guards.

Turlogan (ter-LOW-gen)- Of Shire Cetyl, under Citadel Trinsic. Called a champion pit fighter, though it is unclear what or where the "pits" are.

Darhim (DAHR-heem)- Of Shire Crucivar, under Citadel Jhelom. A priest of legendary proportions. Also an Alchemist.

Warlord Kabur (kah-BOOR)- The Noble Leader of the Jukan Clans, based out of the free city of Garron. One of their mightiest warriors.

Captain Jamark (jah-MARK)- A Janissar, Kumar's former commander, and secretly involved in the reballion.

General Tallan (TAL-un)- A Janissar leader. Bald, hard-boned, solid as stone.

Great Mother- Seems to be a god that the rebel Jukans worship. "To you we owe the blessings of life and glory...It is in your name we fight."

Overlords- Rulers over the Jukay, very little is known of who OR what the Overlords are. Some myths even point to the idea that they may just be machines pretending to be alive. But most believe they are living beings of flesh and bone. They are mysterious, unseen, and incalculably powerful. They are also masters of technology and alchemical magic. Later we find out from first-hand experience with the rebels that The Overlords and their mechanical dens are indistinguishable from each other. They are sentient catacombs; entombed gods.

Prime Overlord- Leader of the Overlords. Located in Citadel Moonglow. It's mouthpiece is described as: "The thing suggested a misshapen globe or ovoid of armor plates. Its circumference was half split by a horizontal cleft, which opened and shut like some grotesque mouth...On the back of the thing were two large flapping extensions, though he could not discern whether they were leathery bellows or undersized wings." Of the Prime Overlord itself, it is described as "The organic creature this once had been was bloated and oversized, twice that of any Juka, though Kumar guessed the thing had never breathed with Jukan lungs. It was a monstrosity from an elder race."

Exodus- Little is known about its involvement in Juka Lore, but this entity was the prime enemy in Ultima 3 (the series). It is known though that it is a machine and not a living being. As described upon Kumar's first encounter with it, "The device was huge. It nearly filled the breadth of the vast floor and continued down to unknown depths. Most of it appeared to be a massive, tangled network of thick glass pipes and globes, supported by a coppery scaffold; though its fleeting, inscrutable internal movements suggested unguessed layers of complexity. It flashed and glowed in a thousand places, in the cadence of a distant thunderstorm. Darkness trickled throughout its workings. Its countenance was furtive, mysterious."

Creatures:

Ridgebacks- Very little information is given about these creatures, but they seem to be ridable animals, similar to the horses of humans.

Gargoyles- Apparantly the race used to engineer the Jukas from.

Juggernaut- These creatures appear to be almost like miniature tanks - "All Juggernauts had Jukan faces, locked in a dour, unresponsive expression. Most of them had arms, or metal appendages approximating arms. A few even had proper legs, though these were rare. More often they moved on wheels or propellers or hydraulic insect legs; or perhaps they interchanged mechanisms. Little was truly known about the Juggernauts, except that they obeyed the Overlords with animal loyalty and that, on the battlefield, they were the equal of entire platoons."

Dreadnoughts- From the sounds of it, flying machines of war. "Dozens of Dreadnoughts soared above the melee, raking it with static bursts and torrents of missile fire."

Maintenance Drones- "Attending the Juggernauts were swarms of maintenance drones, smaller counterparts to the half-living war machines, conscripted into the defense of the citadel."

Behemoth- "Above them all towered the largest and most terrifying of the Overlords' mechanized slaves. Only five Behemoths walked the burning plains. It was enough to harry rebel formations. They strode through enemy forces on steel legs hundreds of feet high, crushing troops and equipment under inconceivable weight. Each titan walked on four legs attached to a comparatively small body, with a fifth reared high in the air. Or perhaps it was better deemed a neck, for at its tip was a giant, spade-shaped weapon resembling a long, jagged muzzle. When a Behemoth struck, tons of steel bellowed in the motion."

Places:

Shires- Not much is known at this point what these are, but so far there are Shires:

Fusil (FEW-sil) of Yew

Kubaron (KOO-bahr-on) of Vesper

Athul (ah-THOOL) of Britain

Cetyl (SE-til) of Trinsic

Galvan (GAL-ven) of Moonglow

Crucivar (CREW-sih-vahr) of Jhelom

Citadels- These appear to be the power centers of the Overlords. Thus far we know of Yew, Britain, Vesper, Trinsic, Jhelom, and Moonglow. Several are overthrown by the Jukan Rebels, first Britain, then Yew, Trinsic, Jhelom and Vesper, with Moonglow being the location of the final battle.

Citadel Britain- A floating city, home to some of the Overlords, that is conquered by the Jukan Rebels and brought down to earth, forcing the Overlords to evacuate - "The fall of Citadel Britain marked the turning point of the Jukan Revolution. Collected rebel forces from Britain and Yew took control of the city and began to unlock its secrets."

Citadel Moonglow- Home of the Prime Overlord. Location of the final confrontation between the Juan Rebels and the Overlords. "Veiled by a writhing thunderstorm, the glimmering shadow of the citadel stretched over the sky like a canopy of smoldering embers. Thousands of lamps twinkled across its hovering bulk. Anchored in a dozen places by tall, thin pillars, the city swayed uneasily in the embrace of angry winds."

Logosia (low-GO-sheah) - Within the time period that Origin takes place in, this is considered to be the future Technocrat land of the Juka.

Jukaran (JEW-kah-ron) - The term used by the free Juka of Garron to describe their homeland (as opposed to Logosia).

Garron (GAHR-on) - Within the time period that Origin takes place in, this is a city found in the Jukan lands of Logosia.

Britannia Desert - "Talons of lightning struck the parched ground, churning up stones and debris. The air was an opaque veil of sand. The crimson dust stung all it touched, gnawing the landscape into blurs of scarlet-grey amid the endless, erosive squall."

Culture:

TECHNOCRATS - Led by the Techno-Prophet, Blackthorn. Instigators of war against both Britannia and the Meer Lands. Based out of Logos.

LOYALISTS- Those Juka that are loyal to protecting and supporting the Overlords and Technocrats.

JANISSAR (JAN-e-sahr)- The most elite of the Loyalists to the Overlords and Technocrats. Differentiated from other Juka's by elaborate tattoos on their arms. They also seem to be leaders in the loyalist military.

THE REBELS - Founders of the free city of Garron. Those that fought against the oppression of the Overlords, the original Rebels include Kumar and Narah. Within the current timeframe, the champion Warlord Kabur is their leader.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE WAY (The Jukan Warrior Code) - The Juka refer to their code of conduct as The Way. It encompasses their martial philosophy as well as their ideals for an ordered society. The biggest misconception surrounding the Juka is that they are savage and uncultured. Nothing could be further from the truth. Though undeniably proud and aggressive, the Juka have developed a sophisticated culture dominated by ritual and an appreciation of beauty. Honor is the motivating force behind much of Jukan society. If every Jukan warrior had a life goal, it would be the quest for personal honor and the honor of their clan. Everything else is secondary to this goal. The exact path to honor differs slightly from clan to clan; however, certain basic principles apply to all Juka who embrace The Way.

Juka admire strength. Not simply brute strength (any animal can possess this) but strength that is refined and disciplined. There is no honor in testing one's strength against a weaker opponent - it is commonplace if you win and disgraceful if you lose.

Strength comes in many forms (strength of character, strength of will, etc.) and it incorporates skill as well. Therefore your skill with a craft is considered your 'strength.' Because of this, any display of great skill will earn the admiration of Juka.

Different clans will value some forms of strength over others. Some will ally with powerful military factions, prizing martial strength or strength in numbers. Others may follow heroic figures renowned for their valorous deeds or their great wisdom (another form of strength). Any faction that promises the Juka honor through combat will undoubtedly draw the favorable attention of Juka clans.

Juka admire beauty. Beauty is the expression of great skill and discipline. For this reason, the Juka often wear a minimum of clothing, choosing to display their powerful forms as evidence of their hard work and dedication. This admiration is not reserved for Juka alone. The beauty, symmetry, and grace of any form are deeply appreciated by these warriors.

The Juka also prize objects of great beauty. Finely crafted weapons and armor are especially valuable, but so is jewelry, statuary, tapestries, paintings, or any other object of art. These objects are often given as gifts to family and friends, but can also be given as a show of respect to an enemy.

The Juka do not hate their enemy - that emotion is reserved for cowards, traitors, and the slovenly. Indeed, the honor of the clan is dependent on the strength and skill of their opponents. The greater the enemy, the greater the honor gained in defeating him. Demonstrating respect for an enemy's strength serves to honor both parties. It is this belief that allows the Juka to coexist with the Technocrats on the same island continent.

This admiration of beauty extends to the makers of such beauty as well. Juka warriors have been known to defend poets, artists, and musicians. Not only is honor to be gained by defending the weak from the strong, it's also gained when the person being defended is a creator of beauty. The preservation of beauty is always a noble goal.

Juka only kill when the act will bring them honor. These people do not consider death trivial. Senseless slaughter is never glorious. When a life is taken, it should be for the greater good of the clan. If an honorable opponent asks for quarter, it will be granted.

There is no honor in slaying an enemy who has acknowledged your superiority. Better to let them live to spread the tales of your deeds and by so doing boost the reputation of your clan. In times of war, however, the rules change. Juka will not compromise the security of their clan. It is better to kill an enemy, even one asking for quarter, than to risk that enemy endangering your brothers.

Juka treat others with the respect they themselves expect in return. One of the most striking features of these hardy warriors, or at least the ones who claim to embrace The Way, is their politeness. Juka don't boast or brag. However, they do delight in singing war songs that incorporate the valorous deeds of their clan. In their way of thinking, this is not boasting. Rather it's more like a poetic expression of history. The truth, however, is never stretched or distorted. To do so would be considered boasting and thus distasteful.

Since Juka find no honor in defeating weaker opponents, they dislike bullies. Rude or obnoxious behavior is a sign of weakness - only those who lack strength or discipline find a need to offend or bully others. The true warrior is confident, and a smooth, amiable demeanor best displays confidence. Bitterness and jealousy breed rudeness, and true warriors reject these traits. Not to say that Juka are quiet or stoic; they love singing, dancing, and laughter. However, they are careful to temper their revelry with restraint. To do otherwise would indicate a character flaw.

THE MACHINE (The Technocrat Code) -

Followers of this philosophy are called Technocrats, although this title is also used to refer to the members of the three Orders. Each Order is considered a sect within the Technocrat belief system (like the Franciscans or the Jesuits within the Roman Catholic Faith). Blackthorn is the Techno-Prophet, the undisputed leader of the Technocrats, equal in power and influence to the medieval Catholic popes.

This philosophy holds to the belief that the Universe is in a constant state of war. The laws that govern the Universe struggle endlessly against the force known as Entropy. The agent of Entropy is Chaos, just as the agent of Universal Law is Order. Life is the result of Order imposing structure on Chaos, so without Order there would be no life. Man, by reason of his organized intellect, is an agent of Order. Technology is man's expression of Order. Only by embracing technology can man do his part to bring Order to the Universe. That is the ultimate goal of The Machine.

Entropy's constant interference results in faulty designs. It is therefore logical for man to use technology to improve those designs. Biological parts are delicate and invariably suffer from breakdown. Mechanical parts, on the other hand, are not only easier to maintain but can be upgraded as well. Reason states that the fragile designs should be replaced with more efficient, hardier designs. This process must be applied to every aspect of life. Better living through machines is the inevitable result of any person who embraces logic.

As with any philosophy, there are degrees to the practitioners' faith. Some are fanatical zealots, convinced that all life should be converted over to the ordered beauty of the mechanical. Others are more reasonable, understanding that machines have their place and utility, but that they cannot possibly replace all things biological (especially since biological systems are also machines, simply organic ones). On a scale of 1 to 10 (with 10 being the fanatical zealots), the Orders of Technocrats would rank as follows in their adherence to The Machine: Engineers 10, Mathematicians 9, and Theorists 8. As a basis of comparison, the Amish would rank 1, and late 20th Century Americans would rank 5 or 6.

Not everyone in Logos is a Technocrat, just as not all Technocrats live in Logos. A citizen of Logos who does not embrace The Machine is simply called a Logosian, and they can be Jukan, Human, or Meer. Likewise, you could have a citizen of New Britain, Ishpur, or Garron who believed in the ways of The Machine, and they could accurately be called a Technocrat.

Things:

'The Hand of Honor'- Name given to the revolt leaders by the rebels of Citadel Britain.

Trident- A pneumatic weapon, meaning that it has devices attached to it that work with the use of air and gases. Considered a polearm, this weapon has the ability to suddenly extend an additional 2 feet, allowing for excellent piercing.

Pendulum Hammer- A multi-use weapon. In all appearances a regular hammer, except that when in need, an additional second hammer head attached to the tip by a spring-mounted rod can be used. It functions similar to a flail when active. Very long, to the point that it is considered a polearm rather than a mace weapon.

Blunderbuss - A weapon shaped like a wide-mouthed horn. Shoots out a ferocious blast that sprays knife-sharp fragments.

Spring Sap- A strange contraption consisting of coils and gears. Used to dig holes in walls with its beaklike jaws.

Gauntlets- Used as weapons by having long spikes festooning across the knuckles.

Trebuchet (treb-yoo-shet) - Another pneumatic weapon. An engine of war used for hurling large stones.

Short Sword- Not your usual sword. These are double bladed, curved, and very toothy.

Roving Foundry- A mobile factory built on enormous tracks. Its purpose is to forge repairs along its route, where needed.

Airships- Flying machines of great mass. From all description, they seem to have the appearance of a regular boat with windmill sails, but aside from the sails they are made of armored plates.

Core Siphon- A giant stiletto jabbed through the shell of the earth. Used to convert molten lava into an energy source, the remnants of which cause pollution throughout the Britannia Desert.

Bolt Thrower- Spring-loaded weapons used to launch an attack with spears.

Flying Skiff- A mode of transportation for small groups. Resembles the cabin of a large carriage, borne in the grip of a gigantic wooden insect. Riveted tanks of fluid levitant hold it aloft.

Healing Draught- An alchemic potion used to heal wounds.

Flame Belcher- An Overlord-designed artillery weapon. Little detail is given in the Prequel Lore, but the weapon is mentioned as one that will carry over into the game itself.

Gas Thrower- Mentioned as an Overlord-designed artillery weapon, but little other information is given.

Spark Stones- Apparently missile weapons. "Missiles and spark stones rained down from the citadel."

Kinetic Maul- Weapon used by Turlogan. Not a lot of detail on what it does yet.

Static Greatsword- Weapon of choice for Kumar. Powers not known.

Static Scourge- A whip-like mechanical weapon with a hand crank and a spark chamber.

Angular Swords- Ability to wield two at once, as Narah does in an attack on a Behemoth. Powers not known.

Gyrofoils- "Juka-manned pods, held aloft by levitant tanks and propelled by large, vertical wheels that stroked the air as a paddle strokes water...They buzzed the rebel hosts and raked them at short range with bolts of static charge." Used in conjunction with Behemoths.

Spark Lantern- "Turlogan struck the lantern's ignition. A pale glow leapt from the bright, buzzing arc."

Sanguination- Ritual used to pray to the Great Mother. Involves a blood oath. "They say prayers at Sanguination always come true."

Potion of Capacitance- A potion, when coated on a weapon, capable of burning through solid iron.

Thralling Potion- Controls the mind of the person ingesting this potion.

Levitant- Fuel used to run several types of machines, including airships.

Levitant Ore- When refined, can be used to create Levitant.

Pneumatic Armor - Gives protection twice than that of ordinary mail and also gives the wearer extra Strength.

BRITANNIA

As the traditional People of Britannia, the Humans are a race that need little introduction. This lore focuses on those that helped influence Lord British's realm and played a major factor in making the Britannia of Origin what it is.

People:

Lord British- The ruler of all Britannia. Also hinted at as being the one to cause the Cataclysm that creates the devastated world that Ultima Online 2 takes place in.

Lord Blackthorn- Friend of Lord British (at least for now), but also the *thorn* in his side. Blackthorn does not believe in plans that British has set in motion in hopes of bringing all shards back together again. Because of that, he is doing everything he can to prevent it. Further, foreshadowing from Todd McFarlane's toys hint at the fact that somethign terrible will happen to him, as he appears to be almost half human/half monster. An image from the Codex of Ultimate Wisdom also hints at this fate.

Nystul (NIGH-stul) - Adviser to Lord British and conspirator with his Lord to attempt the joining of the shards. Also the courts' Master Mage, perhaps the greatest in all the land.

Lady Gavrielle (gah-vree-EL) - Nystul's granddaughter and Lord Blackthorn's lover.

Exedur (EXE-duhr) - An Assassin that is haunted with images of destiny. A prophet that sees the destruction that Lord British will ultimately cause. Because of this, he becomes a confidant of Blackthorn's in trying to prevent it from occurring.

The Time Lord- Little is known about this entity other than the fact that Lord British has consulted with him in the hopes of bringing the shadow world shards of Sosaria back together with the one true world.

The Stranger- The one to shatter the Gem of Immortality, which caused the world to breaks into millions of different shards. In the timeline of Ultima Prime, he is referred to as "The Avatar" and is the savior of Britannia on multiple occassions. In the shadow shards, he doesn't seem to appear again after the Gem shatters (at least to our knowledge).

Creatures:

Daemon- Used for protection purposes by powerful mages. They are bound to a specific location. Twice the height of a human, weighing more than three horses, with razor-sharp claws, wings, fangs, and a stench so putrid that it can almost not be believed.

Places:

Castle Britannia- The home of Lord British and the center and heart of the kingdom of Britannia.

Great Stygian Abyss (stihj-ee-uhn uh-biss) - The location of the Codex of Ultimate Wisdom. At this time, the exact location is not known.

Stonegate- The place out of myth that Lord British and Nystul plan to cast the Spell of Rejoining.

Culture:

THE HOUSE OF THE GRIFFIN - Founded by the Companion Mariah, this Britannian Noble House was dedicated to the Principle of Truth. It has also been dubbed the House of Mages. The current Great Lady, Moriah (named in honor of Mariah), also happens to be the current Regent of Britannia. A picture of the Griffen Crest can also be seen on a warrior's shield in this shot:

THE HOUSE OF THE LION - Founded by Sir Dupre, who was named Regent of Britannia following the Cataclysm, this Britannian Noble House was dedicated to the Principle of Courage. It has come to be known as the House of Warriors and is the home to the prestigious Silver Serpent Order of Knighthood. Lord Cromwell is the current leader of the Lions.

THE HOUSE OF THE DOVE - Founded by Lord Erethian, an influential minister in the court of Lord British, this Britannian Noble House was dedicated to the Principle of Love. It has come to be known as the House of Statesmen. Lord Justin is the current leader of the Doves.

THE ORDER OF THE SHEPHERD - Founded by Lady Katrina, a respected healer in Lord British's court, this order dedicated itself to the Virtue of Humility. The monks and nuns of the order concentrate on charity and the healing arts. Abbess Nicolette is the current leader of the Shepherds.

THE ROYAL SENATE - Founded by Lord Erethian and Lord Dupre, this governmental body shares power with the regency. It's composed of elected representatives from each Britannian city, as well as the leaders of the Britannian Noble Houses and the leader of the Order of the Shepherd.

Things:

Codex of Ultimate Wisdom- The most powerful tome in existence. Viewable through a blue lens in Nystul's rooms, it is actually located in the Great Stygian Abyss. The script itself defies shape and oozes over the browning parchment in complex, delicate patterns. Filled with forbidden knowledge that is rumored to give the reader the ability to even change the world.

The Eight Virtues- These represent the highest ideals of Britannian society, as set forth by Lord British himself.

HONESTY - The pursuit of truthfulness, with respect to oneself and with respect to other beings.

COMPASSION - The quality of empathy, of recognizing and sharing the feelings of others.

VALOR - The courage to uphold virtue, even in the face of a physical or psychological threat.

JUSTICE - The wisdom that perceives what is right and wrong in human action.

SACRIFICE - The placing of the interests of others and the ends of virtue over one's own well-being.

HONOR - The courage to stand for truth regardless of the circumstances.

SPIRITUALITY - The concern for one's own inner being, and awareness of the love that unites one's own inner being to those around one.

HUMILITY - The recognition of the worthiness of all beings, and the perceptions of one's own place among them, regardless of one's own personal accomplishments or mistakes in the world.

Spell of Rejoining- Based on information that Lord British has gained from the Codex of Ultimate Wisdom, this is the spell that British and Nystul are working on in hopes of rejoining the shadow worlds back together with the one true Sosaria.

Shadowghast- Lord Blackthorn's sword. Forged of red moonlight, the hilt contains a length of clear crystal banded by iron which holds a finger of Mondain. In Nystul's words, a "vile artifact". Once someone is killed by this blade, they cannot be ressurected.

Binding Circle- Magical force used to prevent someone, usually a demon, from using mana. Used against Blackthorn by Lord British after he shows his intentions of stopping the king.