THE NORTHEAST QUARTER of the palace was typically quiet this time of the evening as the royal family were no doubt making ready for bed.

Most of the staff was either turning down their own sheets or busy conducting last minute preparations to ensure the next morning’s duties went off without a hitch.

Valtor’s staff tapped steadily along as he trudged his way down the lonely corridors, occasionally passing the random kitchen scullion or palace maid. No one dared cast an eye in his direction. Most went out of their way to keep to the opposite side of the passage as they scurried past.

Rounding the corner, he stopped in front of a brightly colored drapery against the left wall. It was one of many that lined the palace corridors, spreading bits of cheer with its ghastly array of profuse colors. It reached clear from the ceiling to the floor. The passing breeze following in the wake of the chancellor’s halting motion caused the heavy material to move ever- so-slightly. Its golden tassels tickled the corridor’s white-marble floors like the fingers of a celebrated musician as they moved across the polished ivory of a pianoforte, an instrument prevalently seen during the Second Age, but of no use during the Third as the ability to perform manual upkeep was forgotten with time.

He took a moment to listen for the padding of nearby feet as he glanced in both directions. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, Valtor reached behind the fabric and flipped a hidden release. There was a soft click and

the wall gave way, revealing a secret passage behind. A draft from the hidden tunnel threatened to shift the mitre on top his head. He readjusted the headpiece to give it a tighter fit. With practiced motion, he moved the drapery aside with his staff and stepped through, sliding the hidden panel shut behind him.

Valtor lifted his hand and a soft orb of green light lifted from his palm.

With its light, he navigated his way through the narrow passages.

Dust covered the hem of his scarlet robes as they dragged across the back of the steps on his way down the empty stairwell. The silence enfolded him like a coffin. It gave him time to contemplate his thoughts as he anticipated the night’s activities.

He kicked at a large rodent as it ran under his feet. “I hate rats.” Turning around, he sent a ball of flame into the helpless creature, searing it to the

side of the wall. With a smile he shifted his robe and continued on, leaving the burnt smell of cooked flesh hanging in the air behind him.

It had been a stroke of luck having found these hidden passages years ago.

Forced to leave home under the most strenuous of circumstances, Valtor had spent the better part of his childhood living on the streets. He had discovered the tunnels as a teenager, after stealing a small skiff in an effort to dodge the city patrollers.

With the discovery of the small caverns on the back side of the palace inlet and the adjoining tunnel system within, Valtor had spent years mapping out the labyrinth of channels and passageways. There was a great maze of corridors woven throughout the stronghold, forgotten by time. It was amazing that something so intricately constructed, like a web of veins running throughout the palace body, could go so completely unnoticed. All it took was for a single generation to not pass on the knowledge for it to be lost.

The secret passageways’ use in gathering information was limitless. He attributed most of his rise in position to its secrets—listening in on private meetings of state, catching officials in compromising positions, even the occasional assassination was not completely out of the question.

Yes, he had put the network to great use over the years. They had obviously been built as a safeguard against an enemy breach centuries earlier, following the devastation incurred from the Great Wizard Wars.

During those horrific battles, the palace walls were said to have been taken by Khul hordes coming out of the far north. Its occupants had been put to the sword, and its towers and bulwarks, halls and chambers had been left a smoldering ruin.

But, from the ashes as they say, a phoenix rose. Its new form took on a more fortified and grandiose visage, more breathtaking and visibly intimidating than any previously built. The palace had been constructed separately from the city itself with its hindermost battlements nestled

against the face of the Sandrethin Mountains, giving it an impermeable defense of natural design.

Dividing the capital city from the fortification was a large chasm which dropped into the Bay of Torrin. Spanning those dark waters was a

monolithic bridge. Its ramparts were of solid stone and its domed gates were said to be impenetrable.

Valtor had no doubt the old Wizard Order had played a primary role in

the construction of the new palace, probably sometime during the end of the Second Age, prior to the uprising of the Great Purge.

He shivered at the thought.

His deliberations were cut short when the all-too-familiar smell of rot and mildew brought his mind out of its not-so-pleasant wanderings. Striding across a small landing, he moved toward the center stairwell on the opposite side and continued downward. There were torches lining the stone walls of

the lower passageways. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of human cries. Valtor released his hold on the sphere and watched as it faded into nothingness.

Salty moisture saturated the air the deeper he went. The rear tunnels flooded periodically throughout the day as the tide came in, leaving a constant state of impermeable dampness within the lower reaches.

“Curse these infernal rats!” Sidestepping another of the hairy vermin, he sent out another lick of flame, narrowly missing the rodent as it scurried into the safety of a nearby hole. Up ahead, Valtor could see the end of the winding passage. His feet and legs nearly cried out for joy as he reached the main level and stopped.

Sparing a glance at the winding staircase behind him, Valtor’s fingers tightened around his wolf-head staff. He knew he would eventually have to climb his way back to the top, unless of course he decided to take one of the boats docked in the channels further down. But that would mean having to be rowed all the way back out and around to the entrance of the bay, and from there rent a carriage back up to the palace. He didn’t care for the wasted time or coin. Releasing a heavy frustrated breath, he limped his way forward, the silver tip of his black staff clicking as he entered the chamber.

Other than where he had entered, only one other passageway led from the open lobby. It was positioned on the opposing wall. Two white-clad guards stood sentinel on either side of its archway. Against the right wall

there were three adjoining tables, each surrounded by black-robed members

of the Legate. Much like their duties in the White Tower, the Legate were assigned to collect information on the subjects of his experimentation.

The robed figures bowed upon his approach. “How is our collection coming?”

“Splendid, Your Grace. A new shipment was boated in last night.” Valtor couldn’t remember the man’s name—not that it was important—

but he did strive to make his laborers feel personally included. “Excellent news, Legate.”

The man motioned him toward the open doorway leading into the lower dungeons. Valtor had converted these lower vaults for his own personal use years ago. He found that the screams emanating from his subjects were completely veiled from anyone above, allowing him the rare opportunity to work as long and as hard as he wanted without the threat of being caught.

They left the Legates’ collection chamber and headed down another flight of stairs toward the lower holding areas. The stench was strong. Valtor enjoyed watching as new recruits were stationed to this posting. Most spent the first week over a bucket while the remainder focused on breathing through the mouth. For Valtor, though, it smelled like fond memories.

The wails of fear, the demands for release, and the incessant cries for mercy coming from the cages were beginning to weigh heavy on his already stretched nerves, pulling the thread to the point of unraveling. He placed a bony finger against his right temple and pressed, trying to relieve the growing ache.

The first set of cells he passed was built with an open design, nothing more than mere iron cages. Further in, they were replaced by stone rooms with heavy wooden doors.

At the end of the long hallway was a large chamber, barred by an

enormous iron door that was corroded to the point of discoloration around its outer edges. It was this room that caused not only the prisoners, but the guards as well, to tremble with fear.

They called it Tir’Ross Moktor—the room of a thousand nightmares. The legate pushed open the door and stepped out of the way so Valtor could pass. “Ah, home at last,” he said as he took it all in. “Did you miss me?” At the back of the room was a closed door. Behind it, he could hear

the mixture of clanging metal, scraping wood, and feral noises all

harmonizing like a pharyngeal choir. It was both disturbing and alluring all at the same time.

He hobbled over to the two, waist-high restraining tables that stood in the centermost part of the chamber. Propping his staff against one of the loosely slung leather straps, Valtor turned to the legate who stood waiting just outside the door.

“Fetch me one of the younger ones. They tend to be more resilient.” “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and send for Rowen. Tell him his training continues.” “Right away, Your Eminence.” The black-robed legate turned and

disappeared from view, leaving Valtor alone with his thoughts as he tried his best to drown out the incessant whining, begging, and fits of crying wafting from the nearby cells. Unable to do so, he finally decided to shut

the iron door. The previously annoying sounds were now dimmed to that of a slight muffle.

“Much better,” he said with a smile as he turned back around to face Tir’Ross Moktor. “Time to get started.”

The light from the bracketed torches sent eerie shadows around the large stone room. The many desks, tables, and random cabinets placed intermittently about the chamber held an array of three, four, and five- stemmed candelabras. Their light shed luminance on whatever objects lay on top while at the same time adding to the room’s overall glow.

There were no tapestries, no murals, no paintings of any kind to add a dash of decorative color to the chamber’s visage. The only additional contrast supplementing the drab grays and browns of the stone and wood was that of the red decoupage that stained the floor around the two tables.

Winding his way through the rows of shelving, he reached the barred door on the far side of the room. Producing a large metallic key from an inner pocket, he slid the object into the door’s mechanism and turned. A loud snap could be heard as he spun back the latch and pushed open the door. Light spilled into the darkness beyond.

Stepping inside, the chancellor skewed his face and pinched his nose. He needed to remember to have Rowen muck this place out. What was the point in having a pupil if you couldn’t put him to good use? Valtor waved

his hand through the air and the darkness dissipated as a couple of torches flared to life.

The storage room was lined with cages, pens, and crates of all sizes and shapes, each holding a unique specimen. With the onset of the light, the

creatures grew restless, producing a wide cacophony of sounds.

It was a menagerie of rare collectibles.

Near the front were the more common everyday animals: dogs, cats,

rodents of all kinds, birds, snakes, frogs, lizards and a slew of other smaller creatures only found in the wild, untamed areas of Aldor. Farther back, the cages grew in size as did the animals within.

At the far back, hidden within the shadows, were Valtor’s most prized collections. These were creatures unlike any seen by human eyes in over a thousand years. They were of his own design.

They were a twisted blend of many varieties, much like throwing random ingredients into a bowl and tossing the contents into a large oven hoping the outcome would be edible. Clearly, it rarely was. The corax had been one of his first, but clearly not his last, success.

Valtor closed the door and twisted back the key, listening for the clicking of the lock before removing it and placing it securely within the confines of his inner cloak. He patted the area with his hand—a natural reflex.

With a clear image of what he needed to do stuck in his mind, he strode across the room in the direction of the two ceremonial tables. He stopped at a winged podium at their head and opened a large leather-bound volume resting on top. Leaning over the lectern, he proceeded to shuffle through the pages. The tome was one of a set he had found, along with numerous other items of ancient magic.

The relics had been waiting patiently within the Chambers of Purging for someone to finally come along and unearth their hidden treasures. It had been his grandest achievement to date, having discovered them while excavating the hidden tunnels below the White Tower.

The ancient manuscripts were written in a very old dialect of Fae. It had taken him years to translate, and even then only a partial translation. The

grimoire was penned as an instruction manual for the manipulation of

magic in ways long since forgotten and outlawed. Its author, Aerodyne, had not only been one of the original founders of the Wizard Order but had been named First Wizard as well. He was a powerful sorcerer who was eventually banned from the Order after a few of his side projects had come to light.

Aerodyne, in turn, formed his own society. Their ranks grew from those wielders who didn’t want to be limited in their use of magic and felt that

those who wanted to regulate its practice were no better than the ever growing Jun’ri Council.

Jun’ri, a term used for those natural-born humans who had not been twisted by the supposed evils of magic, basically meant, in its simplest form, pure ones. Although, as Valtor so often, and with great malice, liked to point out, “there was nothing pure about them.”

Hearing the sound of the metal door creaking on its rusted hinges, Valtor lifted his head. Walking through the entry was a skinny young man, barely twenty. His clean shaven face gave him the appearance of a mere youth if

one could overlook the grotesque deformity on the left side. It was like a thick blister that had been left to continue growing, each year getting a little bigger. It was quite a work of art. It reminded Valtor of one of Raguel’s later paintings once he had taken to the bottle after the death of his wife. The man was a master with the brush. Even his morbid depictions of humanity showed an uncanny appreciation for accuracy.

“Ah, Rowen, do come in.” The chancellor waved his young acolyte over. “I have a list of items I need you to collect from the shelves while I prepare for our first subject.”

A broad smile rested on his protégé’s mouth as the boy rushed over to collect the slip of parchment and set about gathering the necessary items. Valtor was most pleased with himself for finding such an apprentice. The young man was astute, earnest, a quick-study, and above all else, completely loyal. Rowen would do anything for Valtor. It was amazing what a small amount of positive attention could do for someone who had never known it.

The left wall was lined with two rows of symmetrical shelving. Each in turn held a wide variety of strange and disturbing artifacts, books, relics, and potions necessary in the use of his dark craft. He watched a moment longer as Rowen set about his scavenging before turning his attention back to the monolithic book in front of him as he continued to sift through the pages, until finally coming to a stop on a string of rune markings representing the word Shak’tor.

“Ah, here we go.” His gaunt finger scanned the ancient text that skirted the edge of a horrific image which had been hand-drawn to illustrate the

finished product. “Yes, this will do nicely.” The image was quite disgusting.

“What is it?” Rowen’s head peeked over the top of a four-layered shelf a few rows down. “What are we going to make this time, a six-legged lizard- goat, a winged constrictor? I know, what about a two-headed chirping

donkey? That might be rather interesting, don’t you think?”

“Interesting, perhaps. Useful, no.” Valtor’s finger continued to work its way down the page. “We will be attempting something no one has accomplished in at least fifteen hundred years.” He paused for emphasis, glancing up from his place in the book. “We are going to create a Shak’tor.”

Rowen’s head peeked over another shelf on the right. “A what?”

“A Shak’tor.” Valtor sighed, realizing he was going to have to explain. “The Shak’tor were first created back during the Second Age, at the height of the Wizard Order. It was highly forbidden, though, as it involved the blending and manipulation of not just animals, but humans.”

Rowen stepped out from behind the row, his attention obviously perked. “Is that even possible?”

“Yes. But it’s not without its risks. This is by far one of the most dangerous incantations developed.”

“Why’s it so dangerous?”

“Because we are dealing with a living human soul. Definitely not something to be taken lightly, but—”He glanced back down at the open page. “—with the right elements, the spell has proven extremely effective in the past.” Valtor continued to scan the document. “Hmm, this is alarming. It says here that during their earlier trials, the wizards found they were

incapable of controlling them, and they were destroyed.” “Who was destroyed? The wizards or the creatures?”

Valtor grimaced as he studied the text. “Doesn’t say.” He scanned further down before flipping the page. “Ah, hold on, here we go. Evidently, they determined that in order to control the beasts, they had to use their own blood in the mix.” His eyes continued to scan along with his finger. “Yes, they wrote that in doing so, whoever’s blood was used, that individual would be granted the ability to bend the Shak’tor’s will to their own.”

Valtor clicked his fingernails across the top edge of the podium. “Interesting.”

Rowen quickly shuffled his way over to where Valtor was reading. “What is it?”

“It says here the more willing the participant, the more successful the transformation.”

“Willing?” Rowen laughed. “And who in their right mind is going to willingly volunteer for something like this?”

“It’s all about the presentation, my young apprentice. You’ll be surprised what people are willing to do under the right circumstances.”

“So when do we start?” And just like that, a knock resounded from the other side of the metal door, sending its echoes vibrating across the bare walls around them.

Valtor lifted his head. “Come in.”

The door opened with a noticeable whine as the legate stepped inside with two white-clad members of the Black Watch following close on his heels. In between the guards stood a little boy, shivering from either cold or fright, or both.

“No, please, I don’t want to go in there!” the boy cried, trying to pull himself back, his bare feet scraping across the stone floor. He couldn’t have been much older than ten or eleven. His garb, what there was of it, was dirt- stained and worn, and his skin had discolored splotches from living on the streets. Valtor had a sudden flashback to a time in his own distant past, when he too had suffered the cruelty of being without a home.

He recognized the look on the boy’s face. It was the look of hopelessness.

He shook himself from the unpleasant memory and smiled. “Excellent choice, Legate.” He gestured toward the wooden table on his right. “Let’s get him situated, shall we?”

“No, please!” the boy cried. “Please, don’t hurt me! I promise never to steal from the bread-cart again!” Tears freely rolled down both dirty cheeks as his sobs became more energetic. “I don’t want to die!”

“There, there now.” Valtor said in a soothing voice as the guards were busy lifting the boy into place. “No need for those tears. I have no intention of killing you.” He laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, who at the time was squirming on the edge of the table while thrashing his legs from

the side. “I’m going to give you a gift.”

The boy’s head lifted. “Really?” He wiped a torn sleeve across his wet

nose and sniffed. His red eyes looked up into Valtor’s. “What kind of gift?” “The kind that won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

The child paused a moment to think, looking down at his bare feet as they swung back and forth over the table. Valtor could see the wheels in the child’s head turning. “You mean like Master Sil’foren?”

“Master Sil’foren? Does he hurt you?”

“Yes, he’s a very bad man. He hurts all the street kids. If he catches us,

he makes us work in his mill. And he beats us if we don’t load the sacks fast enough.” The boy raised his shirt to show the ugly scars.

“That’s terrible,” Valtor sympathized. “He’s an evil man indeed to hurt little boys like you.”

The child sniffed another run of snot. “He is.”

“Well, where are my manners? My name is Valtor,” he said with a sweeping bow. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Rat.”

Valtor grimaced. “Rat? What a horrible name.”

“They call me that ‘cause I can squeeze into places most others can’t.”

“Well, I’m not calling you Rat. I hate rats. Don’t you have another name, like Narris, or Jin, or Dezryk?”

“My mother used to call me Tate.”

“Tate. Yes, now that’s a good solid name,” Valtor said, placing his gaunt hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I like you much better as a Tate.”

The boy smiled, but after looking at the men surrounding him, he quickly let it fade. “So . . . where’s my gift?”

“Ah, I have it right here,” Valtor said as he walked back to where the thick volume lay open. He raised it into the air for the boy to see.

“A book? How is a book going to keep Master Sil’foren from hurting me?”

“It’s not just any book.” He raised a finger. “It’s a book of magic.” Tate’s eyes widened with excitement. “You can teach me to do magic?” “Well, not quite. But I can use magic to make you big and strong so that

Master Sil’foren won’t be able to hurt you. In fact, when I’m done, he will be afraid of you.”

“He will?” Tate obviously liked the sound of that, but Valtor could tell he was still reticent.

“Of course, if you are too afraid to help your friends, that’s

understandable.” Valtor knew exactly how to lay on the guilt to guide an answer he desired.

“No. I want to help,” the boy said with a little more enthusiasm. “I want to be big and scary. Then I can protect the other kids.”

Valtor smiled. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Turning away from the boy, he caught his pupil’s eye and winked. “And that, my dear

Rowen, is how it’s done.”