Supper was a feast, and Drake hoped they weren't laying out a banquet purely for his benefit. Still, being farmers, they probably had food to spare and could easily afford a feast like this on the odd special occasion. He dutifully tried to eat everything they put in front of him, real food being a luxury after what he'd been forced to eat for the past few months, but he was soon stuffed so full that he couldn't eat another mouthful.

     "I expect you're making your way to Samnia," said the farmer, when the remains of the meal had been cleared away and they were all sitting around a roaring fire, sipping glasses of home made wine and engaging in pleasant after dinner conversation.

     "Why would I be heading there?" asked Drake, confused. "There are enough of my order there as it is."

     Samnia was the only country in the world that was actually ruled by priests of Samnos, and almost half of all the priests of Samnos in the world lived there. It was the spiritual centre of their religion, and Samnia's armies, commanded by priests, were sent all over the continent to combat the forces of evil and promote the rule of law and justice. Every priest of Samnos was required to make a pilgrimage to the great fortress cathedral in Devonia, capital of Samnia, at least once in their lives, but Drake had already done so the year before and had no immediate plans to return.

     "You mean you haven't heard?" asked the farmer excitedly. "No, of course not, you've been stuck in that swamp for months, haven't you?" He couldn't believe his luck! Everyone in this part of the world had heard the news, and had rushed off in search of someone else to tell, driven by the gossip's delight at being the first person to break the news and watch their reactions of delight, astonishment and disbelief. The farmer, however, living right on the edge of the swamp, had been the last in the area to hear the news, and so had had no-one else to tell. Now, however, a genuine priest of Samnos had turned up, the very person to whom the news would mean the most, and he hadn't already heard! It was like a dream come true!

     "Haven't heard what?" asked Drake, his interest and curiosity mounting.

     The farmer paused, savouring the moment. "Someone's found the Sceptre of Samnos! It's in Samnia now, on display in the great temple of Devonia until they make up their minds what they're going to do with it. Every priest of Samnos for hundreds of miles around is on a pilgrimage there to look at it. You must be the only one of your order in this part of the world who hasn't heard!"

     Drake was thunderstruck. "The Sceptre of Samnos," he said in an awed whisper. "Then war really is coming. No wonder He wouldn't answer our queries. The finding of the Sceptre is all the proof we need."

     "War?" asked the farmer, his jubilation turning to fear. "What are you talking about?"

     "The Shadow is growing again, and the Shadowarmies are going to invade Belthar and its provinces, probably in spring. You haven't got anything to worry about, however. The marshes will protect you until Ilandia has been taken, and they probably won't turn their attentions south until all Belthar has been conquered, which won't happen."

     "Spring is only two months away," murmured Doreen fearfully.

     "What are you going to do?" asked the farmer, ignoring his wife.

     "What I was going to do anyway," replied Drake. "Return to Ilandia by way of Calmany. The PriestKing of Samnia will eventually send the Sceptre to Belthar, by way of Ilandia and Rahm, and I'll see it as it passes through Fort Battleaxe." He stood up. "I'll be leaving early in the morning, so I'd better turn in now and get a good night's rest. Thank you for your food and hospitality." He then left and made his way to the spare room.

☆☆☆

     The next morning, Drake got dressed in his chain mail and robes again and, going downstairs, found the whole family waiting to see him off. After breakfast, he put his helmet on for the benefit of the farmer's sons and daughter, who were thrilled to see him in his full, fearsome uniform. It fitted him much better now that his hair had been cut back to a crew cut again, Kathy, the daughter, having done it for him the night before, and in return he let her try it on. She was a little overawed to have that much real steel on her head, but it was much too heavy for her and came right down over her eyes. He also allowed the two sons to touch his golden griffin, and was pleased when they claimed to be able to feel some of the holy power it contained. He drew the line at letting them handle his weapons, however. They were much too sharp and dangerous for young people to handle.

     "Thank you all for your hospitality," he then said to the farmer and his wife. He tried to pay for the food he had eaten and his night under their roof, but they wouldn't hear of it. "It is an honour to have a follower of the Gods as our guest," said the farmer sincerely. "We should pay you for the privilege of having you."

     After one last round of goodbyes, Drake left the farm and took the road towards the nearest large town. From there, he went to Mondisa, a Calmanian city through which the great Ilandian road passed and from where he could join a caravan back to Fort Battleaxe. It was a journey of about five hundred miles, and he expected it to take about four weeks. That meant that he would arrive about a month and a half before the invasion, just enough time to get settled back into the city's routine before all the excitement began.

     Arriving in Mondisa, he made straight for the nearest alchemist's. He found one on the second floor of a three storey building, down a side street leading from one of the city's main centres of commerce, and he went straight in. The alchemist was a shrunken old man, almost bald but with two tufts of white hair above the ears and a long white beard. His face was as wrinkled as a dried prune, and his head barely came up to Drake's chest. He looked nervously up at the huge priest, towering above him. "Good day to you, sir," he said in a rasping voice. "It's not often I have the honour of serving a servant of the Gods. What can I do for you?"

     Drake took out the clay bottle containing the resin made by the lizard men and handed it to the alchemist. "I'd like you to tell me what this is," he said.

     The alchemist examined the bottle for a moment, unstoppered it, sniffed at it and stuck his finger in, bringing out a small sample which he rubbed between his fingers. He sniffed it again and gingerly tasted it, just barely touching it with his tongue. Then he stoppered the bottle again, handed it back and wiped his hands on a rag. "Resin," he said. "Distilled from the sap of some kind of grass or weed."

     "I know that," said Drake. "It was made from some kind of bulrush in the Blackwater Marshes. I want to know what it would be used for, and why it might be considered valuable."

     "Valuable?" chuckled the alchemist. "I can't think of any reason why anyone would consider it valuable, unless it has some kind of special property. The Blackwater Marshes, you say?" He took an old and dusty tome down from his bookshelves and brushed the dust from its cover to reveal the title. The flora of north Amafrykan swamps and wetlands and their uses in alchemy. He turned to the section on bulrushes and pored over it carefully, tracing the words with his finger as he read. Drake tried to read over his shoulder, but the author's handwriting was so crabby and the ink so faded with age that it was almost illegible.

     After a few minutes, the alchemist looked up. "The sap from a certain kind of bulrush can be used to make water breathing potions," he said. "That must be it."

     "No, it can't be." replied Drake. "The creatures who wanted it can already breathe underwater."

     "Gill men?" asked the alchemist, his eyes widening.

     "Pakin-kho, yes." replied Drake.

     The alchemist looked puzzled. "It's beyond me, then. Leave it with me, though, and I'll get in touch with Barchollus, the best alchemist in the city. If he doesn't know, we'll ask the trogs. Their alchemists are so much better than we humans, as you know. If anyone can identify this stuff, they can. If you give me the name of your temple, I'll get back to you."

     "I come from Fort Battleaxe, in Ilandia," said Drake. He reached inside a pouch for a gold crown and gave it to him. "This will pay for a messenger and your trouble. I'll be in Battleaxe Tower. If I'm not there, tell the messenger to find Resalintas, the senior priest."

     Leaving the bottle of resin behind, he left. He then went to the great Ilandian road, where he learned that a caravan would be leaving the next morning and that they would be only too pleased to have a priest of Samnos with them for greater protection. In the meantime he booked into a boarding house, the Traveller’s Hitch, and since the evening meal was still a couple of hours away, went to the public bar for a glass of wine and some pleasant conversation. There would probably be a few other people travelling with the caravan, since the lands between here and Ilandia were wild and dangerous, and he thought he might try to get to know them a bit.

     He bought a glass of wine, sat down at an empty table and looked around at the bar's other patrons. Most of them were locals, of no interest to him, but over in the far corner was a group of four trogs, swaddled in several layers of clothing that, after the manner of their kind, covered their entire bodies, including their heads. They had scimitars strapped to their belts, and bright yellow eyes stared suspiciously out from gaps in their head coverings. Their trophy cords were tied behind their heads in a ponytail. Eastern trogs, he thought. I wonder what they're doing all the way over here. They were chatting together in their own language, but looked up angrily when they saw Drake staring at them. The young priest averted his gaze hurriedly. No point trying to get friendly with them, he thought.

     On the other side of the room was a party of nomes. That was unusual enough in itself, since they were hardly ever found far outside their own lands, except for those few who took to the seas. What was even more unusual about this group, however, was that one of them was dressed in a simple white cloak trimmed with green, the garb of a priest of Ramthara, Goddess of life. There's a tale worth telling there, all right, thought Drake. He felt no inclination to go over and chat with them, though. Nomes, Pastoran nomes in particular, were too frivolous and fun loving for his tastes, and a stern, serious priest of Samnos would be much too tempting a target for their legendary and greatly feared sense of humour. No, he was more in the mood for some serious conversation, with a fellow human or perhaps a shae man. There were no shae folk in the room, however, and all the humans were either fat merchants or rather stupid looking locals. Drake sipped his wine and ruefully abandoned any hope of intelligent conversation before dinner. Looks like an early night, he thought.

     Just then, however, the door opened and another group entered, brushing clouds of dust from their clothes. Drake looked round at the newcomers and was surprised to see that it was a mixed group, including a shae girl and a tiny nome. Not a pastoran nome, he was relieved to see. His slightly larger build and style of dress marked him as a Blue Mountains nome, a race that was still too flippant and fun loving for his liking but to a much lesser extent than their impossibly jocular Pastoran cousins.

     The strangeness of this mixed group didn't end there, though. Of the four others, all human, one was a woman dressed in the robes of a cleric of Caroli, and two others were apparently mercenaries. They were dressed in tough leather with slennhide breastplates and helmets, the kind of clothing worn by the woodsmen of the forests surrounding Belthar, but they had steel swords, which was unusual for anyone not a member of a country’s regular army. Not only that, but one of them looked magical to his professional eye. That might be his work, thought Drake, looking at the last member of the group. A wizard, if he was any judge, but young. Probably too young to be creating magical artifacts, although it was hard to be sure where wizards were concerned. There was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, something in the way he took in the whole room and its occupants with a single glance, that shouted to the priest of Samnos that he was just as dangerous as the swordmen, maybe more dangerous. Definitely a man worth keeping an eye on.

     The humans were all quite young, ranging from their late teens to early twenties, and the other two also looked young for their races, but there was no doubt that they'd seen their share of the action. They carried themselves with confidence and self assurance and sat down at an empty table with just a quick glance at the other customers that told the watching priest that they considered themselves the equals of anyone there. There was no arrogance or hostility in them, however, and Drake had no doubt that whatever battles they'd been in, they'd been on the right side.

     The bartender saw it as well, and went straight over to take their orders, and several other heads in the room were also turning curiously. The nome, in particular, was attracting a lot of attention, especially from the Pastorans, who muttered busily amongst themselves as they speculated upon what a member of their race was doing in mixed company. There was something else about this group that was nagging insistently at Drake's mind, however, and after a few minutes of hard thought he finally realised what it was. This group was identical in composition to the one that, according to Resalintas, had originally brought the warning of the threat to civilization to Fort Battleaxe. Could they possibly be the same people? No, of course not. The chances of them meeting here, in this boarding house, were just too great. No, it had to be a completely different group that just happened to have the same racial composition. Even so, though, it might be worthwhile having a chat with them, just to be sociable. He got up, therefore, and crossed the room.

     "Pardon me for intruding," he said as they looked up at him. "May I join you?

     "Please do," replied the cleric, indicating an empty chair. "We're always pleased to meet a follower of Samnos. We've met others of your order, and it was always a pleasant meeting."

     "I'm glad to hear it," said Drake, sitting down. "I'm joining the caravan tomorrow, on my way back to Ilandia, and I'm guessing you are too. My name is Robert Drake, from Fort Battleaxe."

     "How do you do," said the Cleric. "My name is Diana Winterwell, these are my brothers, Shaun and Matthew, and these are my friends, Thomas Gown, Lirenna Daliris and Geremy Blumintop. You're right, we're on our way back to Ilandia, although only Tom actually lives there. The rest of us live between Ilandia and Callinia."

     The names were familiar to Drake, and as the significance of it came home to him he could only stare at them in astonishment, making them glance at each other in puzzlement. “You’ve heard of us?” said Thomas hesitantly.

     "Yes, indeed," said Drake, and he began to explain while the travellers stared at him in growing astonishment.