The Summons


An oppressive silence and a darkness deeper than pitch shrouded the
massive rectangular room, concealing its purpose and design. Had there
been light, an observer would have seen that the walls were formed of
heavy stones of irregular shape. Though the stones were not uniform,
they were carefully placed, and in no place was the mortar between them
thicker than a quarter of an inch, a testament to the skill of the
builders. 

Had the hypothetical observer been familiar with the ways of magic, the
intricate designs inlaid on the floor and ceiling would have made its
purpose immediately evident. The perfect circles, bounding precise
pentagrams, with sockets at certain points, perhaps for candles, or
incense, or other purposes; the way the designs were constructed of
indentations in the otherwise perfect marble, well-suited to accepting
chalk or blood; the numerous runes carved into the tiles formed by the
crossing of the lines, and the stacked tiles in a corner that implied
the tiles were replaceable, perhaps to repair damage, perhaps to change
the runes for differing purposes; all pointed to the fact that this was
a summoning room. 

An observer, had it been possible for any to attain this room through
the powerful wards that protected it, could have learned much about
the room's owner by the observations that could be made here. The
observer would have to be familiar with magic to make the right
deductions though; for most, the sight of the perfectly clean floor,
with not the slightest sign of cracks nor stains, nor the least bit of
dust or chalk, would lead them to conclude the room was unused.

A magic user, on the other hand, would see only the signs of magical
cleaning, and would not be in the least surprised by such, knowing that
a true summoner would never allow the slightest bit of contamination
near the summoning platform. Drawing powerful beings to the summoner's
plane, and binding them to the caster's will being a terrifically
dangerous exercise, the most minimal of contaminants could spell the
death of the summoner.

The primary circle on the marble floor was fifty feet across, a sign to
the observant and knowledgeable that the summoner to whom this room
belonged was among the truly powerful, for rare indeed are the summoned
beings that attain such stature. 

The apparently haphazard collections of books and scrolls in racks along
the walls of the room would also have furthered the misapprehensions of
an observer unfamiliar with the workings of magic, lending to the belief
that the summoner was an untidy or lazy man, or at the least,
disorganized. Another mage, on the other hand, would see it as the sign
of a summoner with a potent memory; a memory so clear that the summoner
could easily remember the location of every item in the room, for a
summoner could not be anything less than completely scrupulous and
meticulous in his work, or he would quickly be dead.

The tables filled with complicated structures of glass tubes, piping,
and containers, containing strange mixtures of liquids resting in
silence would indicate the summoner was possessed of a considerable
alchemical talent.

At the same time, the knowledgeable observer would have recognized the
insufficiency of the present materials for true alchemical research, and
might, if sufficiently swift of thought, have come to the correct
conclusion that the summoner was so powerful and confident as to summon
powerful beings for the sole purpose of obtaining an ingredient such as
a horn or hair to complete an alchemical formula, whether directly
from the summoned being, or by forcing the being to obtain it, and
therefore was prepared to have the formula on hand, ready for the
addition of the latest acquisition, and the swift punishment of the
summoned if the component was not as requested.

Indeed, an observer could have learned much if any had been there, or
even been able to obtain a description of the room. But the massive iron
door that rose twenty feet high on one wall, and stretched ten feet
wide, had never witnessed the passage of any but the summoner and his
closest servants. The builders of the room were long dead, and no
description was left by their hands. The room itself was so powerfully
warded against all forms of scrying that a god would have had
difficulties observing the summonings that went on therein. Indeed, the
only beings aside from the summoner and his servants that knew the
interior of the room were those that he summoned.

So the silent darkness was yet undisturbed when the summoner approached.
As the door swung inward in utter silence, torches set in brackets on
the walls flared to life, casting a flickering light across the room,
though they did not burn nor release smoke.

A tall lean figure, almost human in appearance, save for the pointed
and unusually long ears and the long white hair that was at odds with
the surprising youthfulness of his face entered, shoving the massive
iron door casually aside with light pressure from his fingers. There
was an air of power about the man, and a strong sense of command. His
face was undeniably handsome, but marred by a sardonic grin and cold,
hard eyes. A single fine white scar trailed down one cheek. His face
was smooth and free of hair. Not merely clean shaven, he looked as
though he had never had any facial hair. It would have seemed the
face of a child, were it not for the hard lines of his cheek bones and
sharp nose.

Following close behind the man, a wildcat loped into the room. It was
nearly four feet long and strongly built. Its fur was a very deep black
that seemed to absorb the light that fell upon it. Its eyes were yellow
and calm as it gazed about the room. It had a peculiar air of
intelligence about it, as if it might actually understand what it was
seeing, in the manner of a man. 

The cat was followed by a peculiar two-foot tall creature. It was 
somewhat human in appearance, standing on two legs, having two arms,
and a nearly human face. But its legs had two extra joints, looking much
like the back legs of the cat, and two bat-like wings sprouted from its
back. Its facial appearance was ugly and twisted; it had two horns and
fangs that protruded from between its lips giving it a bestial 
appearance.

The tall figure set quickly to work, moving with swift, silent 
assuredness to one of the tables, where its elegant hands and long
delicate fingers caressed an elaborately carved oaken box, before
flicking it open, with but a mumbled word to disable its many magical
protections. He drew forth from it several pieces of chalk, unused,
sharp edged. 

He spoke another word, louder and more clearly, and the torches suddenly
stopped flickering, and flared up to a brightness that made the light in
the room equal that of the midday sun. The most direct effect of this
was the almost complete absence of shadows on the central pattern in the
floor. Even the grooves running through it were lit to the bottom, and
the four sources of light cancelled out each other's shadows. 

The brilliant light and the resulting lack of shadows made the design on
the floor look curiously unreal, as if it were a painting by an artist
who had forgotten or discarded realism.

The man set to work with almost casual ease and yet with great care
and precision, as he laid out a circle on the floor. This circle was
much smaller than the large circular design of the floor, being only
slightly larger than the space that would be taken by a human sitting
lotus style. The cat watched in near-silence, padding about on
muffled paws to eye the man's work, but carefully avoiding the
chalk already laid down, purring occasionally, as if to indicate his
approval of one of the more intricate wards. The man stood, finally,
after thirty minutes of careful and continuous work, and looked at his
completed design. 

"Do you think it will hold him?" he asked, his voice deep but smooth,
with a hint of its underlying sensuousness. The cat padded slowly around
the circle, looking at each ward in turn and considering each with an
air of intelligence and complete understanding. It spoke in a smooth,
purring voice, "It would hold the one we knew. But how changed is he?
What gifts might the Lady have given him?"

"He cannot use the Lady's gifts against me, I am under the protection
of another. Any divine powers he has been given will be useless. I
have held her servants with a similar circle before. I think it will
do." He looked at the circle, and said a single word, in a calm clear
voice. The chalk shimmered and glowed, and when the glow faded, the
markings were clear and sharp edged, with none of the appearance of
chalk. 

Through all this the smaller semi-human figure, which any magic-user
would recognize as a homonculus, a magically created servant, sat silent
on a table, watching. Its time for action had not yet come. Its task
would be scrubbing of the blood from the floor of the summoning room,
and wherever else it splattered. This task could not be left to human
servants as none were ever permitted to see this room. So it would fall
to him, for he would work tirelessly and without complaint. 

The man began drawing out a much larger circle, laying the chalk in the
course of the design inlaid on the floor, which completely enveloped the
smaller chalk circle. "He knows I have not the power to command him once
summoned, so he will not be expecting me to summon him for any reason
other than to gloat." he said to the cat as he carefully drew in the
next ward. "I will bring him in just before I finish the last sigil in
the greater summoning circle. I want him to have just a few moments to
appreciate the depth of his failure and the completeness of my triumph,
before I summon the demon to rip his heart out."

"Then why do you not summon him now, and give him that much more time
to be miserable, Master?" the cat wondered, purring with delight as he
pictured the complete despair and final misery of his Master's enemy in
his mind. 

"Because I have not the strength to hold him for that long and I have no
wish to leave him enough time to figure a way out. I want to give him
only enough time to realize the completeness of his defeat before the
end," was the man's measured response. He was careful and thorough,
wanting nothing to mar his final victory. This would be a great moment
for him, as he defeated his most powerful enemy, and struck a blow
against the Lady that would be sensed around the world and felt for
centuries to come.

"Of course, Master," replied the cat, purring once again, "and what
demon are you going to summon? The Enemy is still a potent warrior."

"Simple. I am going to take advantage of his fears. What does he fear
most, Licius?"

"Cats!" was Licius' instant response, followed by a deep rumbling purr,
and an almost laughing meow.

"Precisely. So I shall summon a cat demon, and his own fears will
prevent him from defending against it."

"Master, I felt the increase in your power when you made your, ahem,
deal with the Ladies... but you still have not told me the details of
the deal... might this not be a good time?"

"Very well, Licius. It is simple, really. The Sisters have had a
long-running competition... feud, actually, for some time now. They
finally decided to stop wasting their power attacking each other
directly, and fight through mortal champions. So they looked to the
world and chose the most powerful pair of mortal enemies they could
find, to be their champions."

"A great honor, indeed," Licius purred.

"Yes, quite," Fey replied dryly, examining his latest sigil. "The
agreement is that they each devote a percentage of their power to us. We
choose the form the divine gift takes. When I defeat Arkus the Ladies'
feud shall be ended and I will be well rewarded."

"But you face many other challengers, as does Arkus. What of them?"

"The Ladies are aware of them. If either of us is defeated by a human
challenger, then the Ladies will give us the power to drive out their
soul and take the body. After all, if they defeated us, they must be
more powerful, right? At that point in time, we will get to make again
the choice of divine gift, to choose something more appropriate to the
new body. That is what Arkus just did," Fey's voice was taut with
disgust. "He lost to that damned white wizard, and now he's chosen
divine immortality, the fool. It made him into an extra-planar being,
capable of being summoned, and that will be his downfall." This forceful
statement was followed by the complete absence of a peal of maniacal
laughter. Not every egotistical evil sorcerer plays true to form.

Licius examined Fey's just-finished sigil, purring his approval. Looking
up, the cat asked, "You think he chose the immortality because he was
afraid of death, even though he had just experienced it?"

"Precisely. The fool realized he was mortal and vulnerable, so he sought
to defend himself against other mortals, instead of against me. Very
unwise of him. He hasn't studied the gifts well enough. Divine
immortality just means he won't age, and becomes an extra-planar being.
He can still be killed by a mortal, or a demon." 

Fey looked thoughtful for a moment. It really, now that he thought about
it, did not seem like Arkus to be so driven by fear... but then again,
"I do not know. Maybe it was not that. Maybe his new body is old
already, and that frightened him. If it was human, he would have to
worry about dying of old age or physical disability, and there is
nothing in the rules about that. Maybe he realized how close he came to
losing, and feared what the Lady will do to him, after he fails."

After nearly two hours of careful preparation the immense circle was
almost complete. It lacked only the final sigil, which would name the
demon to be summoned. He wanted his enemy to see his doom with utter
finality. It was time to summon him.

The preparations being completed and the man's power being what it was,
it took but a single word to activate the inner circle, summoning his
enemy to stand before him.

He stood straight and tall in the inner circle, though not as tall as
the dark figure outside it. His robes were white as snow, and he held a
tall wooden staff, slightly twisted and intricately carved. His hair was
as white as his robes, his face was lined with age, but his limbs were
strong, his eyes were clear, and they flashed now with amusement. "You
always were an impetuous fool, Fey. Think you that you now have the
strength to command me?"

Fey's eyes lit with a savage glee. "I need not command you to destroy
you, old fool. Look around you, Arkus, consider what you see. Look upon 
your doom, old man, and despair!" Thinking he had finally discerned
Arkus' true reasons for his choice of gift, Fey looked to press
the knife home, and so emphasized both Arkus' newly old age, and his
imminent failure.

Fey waited, as Arkus considered the runes about his feet. Hmmm. Fey
has done well. Were I solely stronger in what I had known, I should not
be able to break this. He has protected himself against the divine
powers the Lady has given me, but he is clearly unaware of the other
gifts of the Lady. He has placed no protection against psionics here.
Not surprising, considering how uncommon it is in this world. Arkus
considered the runes for another moment, then scanned the outer circle.
He means to summon a demon to destroy me, the fool. I'll have to arrange
a surprise for him. Even as he thought this, his eyes had come full
circle, and were again observing Fey. 

Seeing Arkus' eyes again upon him, Fey dropped lightly to his knees, and
began drawing the last sigil. Instantly Arkus realized his intent.
The fool doesn't realize my fear of cats is gone. Well, I'll use it
against him then.

Arkus focused his mental power, and cautiously reached out to Fey. 
Determining that Fey had no natural defense, and that there were no
spells focused on defense against psionics, he reached into Fey's mind,
and slightly adjusted Fey's mental image of the sigil. 

Fey completed the sigil, wholly unaware that he had been manipulated,
and stood with a flourish. Arkus carefully schooled his features into
the proper rictus of despair and dismay. It was calculated to reassure
Fey that all was perfect, and that Arkus truly believed that the
summoning would have the desired effect. He needed to prevent Licius,
Fey's familiar, from having time to examine all the sigils. His ploy
worked. 

Fey immediately snapped out two words, the first solidifying the chalk
circle, to which Licius gasped out a concerned, "But Master," only to fall
silent again at the second word. 

Fey had already activated the summoning.

---

In a forest on the island of Hokkaido, in Japan, a young boy of seven
paced steadily through the woods. Some twenty miles from him an older
man wearing a bandanna around his largely bald head tramped after him,
following the trail of deep scratch marks through trees, underbrush, and
soil. 

Occasionally the old man would stop and feel the scratches in a tree to
sense the residual ki signature, judging from its strength how far
behind he was. While he didn't know for sure how strong the boy's ki
claws were, he had felt a tree just moments after the boy had sliced it,
so he knew how strong the residual should be. 

Each time he felt a tree, he would sigh. The boy was steadily getting
further and further from him. At least this time the boy hadn't attacked
him first. The last several times the boy had gone feral he had
nearly killed him, the boy's own father. Ungrateful wretch. 

Surely this wild behavior wasn't the legendary Neko-ken! It was just
another example of the boy's failure to learn the style. After all,
surely it wouldn't be called an ultimate fighting style if it made the
martial artist chase butterflies and lie in sunbeams? No, impossible.
The art of Musabetso Kakuto Ryuu is about control, as are the other
martial arts. No way this uncontrolled, wild behavior could be the
expected result of a martial arts training technique. 

Meanwhile the boy continued his steady pursuit, following the scent of
the deer he had picked up. Every now and then, he would casually slash
at a tree as he went past. He wasn't marking his territory, merely
announcing his presence to any potential competitor in the area. A cat
of his human age would be ready to mate and therefore would be
announcing himself to potential mates, but the body he was in was not
ready and so this possibility did not make itself known in the cat's
mind, whose maturity matched the body's maturity, and not its
chronological age.

Suddenly he paused, crouched in the underbrush, tense but still. There,
in the clearing ahead of him, head down, grazing, was the doe he had
been tracking. Neko-Ranma was not yet old enough to hunt for real. He
was still at that stage of maturity where little kittens or cubs are
playing mock games with each other and their parents. But he had the
instincts that rule kitten's behavior, and his instincts were telling
him to sneak stealthily up behind the deer, spring out from his  
concealment, and grasp its neck in his jaws, suffocating it and breaking
its neck. Even as he leapt from concealment, there was a flash of light.
The deer bolted away from the now empty but strangely disturbing
clearing.

Several hours later when Genma finally reached the clearing he spent
nearly an hour puzzling over the signs. He could see the deep impression
of claws in the dirt beneath a bush where Ranma had pushed off into his
leap, but for the life of him, he couldn't find where Ranma had landed.
He saw the tracks of the deer, but no blood. If Ranma's claws were
digging holes in the dirt there was no way he could land on a deer and
not spill blood. Besides, the deer's tracks were not suddenly deeper, as
they should have been had a sudden weight been introduced to its back.

He then tramped out a half mile from the clearing, and using a few
distant mountains as landmarks he walked slowly in a massive circle
around the clearing looking for signs of his son. Finally, he reached
the original trail where his son's tracks had ended and set up camp.
Perhaps his son would return here. Perhaps he was here still, watching
from high up in a tree. He would have to let the boy sleep off the cat.
The boy would then return to his father. He was sure of it. The boy
would not desert him. Surely not. Or his wife would kill him. He 
shivered as if a sudden cold breeze had blown past him, as in his
mind, he saw his wife's katana flash before him. 

---

Neko-Ranma blinked at the sudden brightness, then bounced off something,
and scrabbled to his feet on hard stones. Neko-Ranma uttered a deep
plaintive wail at the loss of his toy. Fey was about to turn red with
fury at the utter failure of his spell when the summoned boy mewed,
and Fey finally noticed the deep gouges in the floor where the boy had
first landed. A strange and utterly peculiar cat-demon, but a cat-demon
nonetheless. Fey stood tall and straight. He uttered, in a strong and
commanding voice, towering menacingly over the demon, "Kill him now!"
He pointed towards the entrapped Arkus. 

Arkus, meanwhile, had been expecting the summoning to be a complete
failure, but recovered his composure quickly. He reached out mentally.
Finding the mind of a cat, he adjusted its perceptions so that it would
see this menacing figure as a male cat, invading his territory, and
threatening him. It was harder than he expected, due to the cat-mind's
relative immaturity, but Arkus managed to implant the suggestions in spite
of the difficulty.

Neko-Ranma hissed, and slashed at the intruding cat. His hand hit the
spell-wall, and went no further, but the bindings were meant to hold a
being of magic and demonic power, and did not stop Ranma's ki. The power
of the human spirit is not a common thing to find in demonic beings, so
it came as a complete and utter surprise to Fey as he felt the claws rip
into his face. An instant later he was dead, his face completely ripped
off. Licius, Fey's familiar, collapsed in pain, dying as the bond to his
master pulled him as well. 

As Fey died the binding spell on Arkus failed and he disappeared in a
flash of light. But the spell around Neko-Ranma was far stronger than it
needed to be, meant to hold a powerful demon, and so had not yet failed
by the time Fey's body collapsed across the spell-wall. This caused the
spell to fail in a completely different manner. Rather than releasing
Neko-Ranma back to his home plane, he was released into this plane.

Neko-Ranma growled at the dead man, still seeing him as a male cat
intruding in his territory. In a peculiar way, this action of Arkus had
an unexpected side effect. If the male cat was intruding in his 
territory, then this was his territory. He padded over to the dead man,
nudging him to be certain he was dead, and then reaching down to grasp
the dead man's neck in his jaws. 

Neko-Ranma intended to drag the man away, but before he could act on it,
the black clothing of the man disappeared, and reappeared on him. The
clothing was responding to Neko-Ranma's utter belief that this was his
territory, such that it recognized him as the legitimate master of this
place. This place was his, so he must be the master. This was a 
necessary addendum on Fey's part. The divine gift had gone to Ranma
immediately, but most of Fey's magic would not bind to him until it felt
Fey's will, to ensure the inability of the body to resist Fey's takeover
of it. Arkus' actions had ensured that the spells were convinced this
had occurred. 

Neko-Ranma panicked, and whirled around the room, hissing and snarling
as he tried to get rid of the tight fitting black clothes. In the 
process most of the room's contents were damaged until Neko-Ranma  
finally found the iron door, tore a hole in it, and fled down the hall.
Finally he came to a stop as the hall ended in a turn that led to more
stairs that led down still further. Exhausted, panting, he collapsed in
a heap, and fell to sleep. As he lay sleeping the ripped and tattered
shreds of  black cloth clinging to him began to slowly mend, and the
minor cuts and abrasions he had received quickly faded, his skin 
becoming smooth and unbroken again. 

---

Arkus floated in an infinite blackness, lacking even the slightest 
variation in any direction to provide a reference. There was no air, and
so no movement of it against his skin to anchor his senses, no scent to
touch his nose or mouth and guide him. The only sensation of location or
motion came from the confused signals his inner ear gave out. He had
long since learned to tune them out. There were no references here to
use, because there was no need. He drifted in silence, waiting for his
Lady's attention.

He was caught up in a pleasant daydream of what his reward might soon
be, for defeating his enemy so soundly. Though Arkus knew well the
dangers of assuming his enemy's defeat... Fey had come back from much
more serious wounds... a wound that took his life would take nearly a
day to heal... but this death had been so unexpected, that Arkus allowed
himself the luxury of imagining that Fey had had no defenses up, and so
would have been torn from his body before his powerful magics could
begin to heal him. 

He was still drifting in this gentle reverie, when finally, a voice
sounded in the darkness, seeming to fill it. The voice was feminine, but
utterly hard and cold, and from the first word, the way she said his
name, he knew suddenly that he had failed.

"Arkus, you are a fool."

"Fey did not die then, Lady?" Arkus queried, and was about to continue,
to point out that it was at least a setback for Fey, when she
interrupted him.

"Of course he died, you imbecile!"

"But, but, Lady, if he died, then wh..." Arkus was at a loss. The sudden
surge of triumph at her words fell quickly to ashes within him, as he
realized that there was something still very wrong. He had not just been
the catalyst for Fey's rise to demi-godhood, surely?

"Silence, cretin! Speak no more." Arkus felt his tongue cleave to his
mouth, silencing his imminent plea. "You changed his summoning, and
tricked him into allowing himself to be defeated. I would commend you,
had you not been such a complete idiot!" She was screaming in fury now.
"That cat-thing that killed him, Arkus, you putrescence, that was a
human boy!"

Now, suddenly, the terrible consequences of his success fell home to
him. She had said Fey had died... that meant he had not taken the body,
even though it was now his. That meant... oh dear. The boy was now a
champion, recipient of a divine gift, and inheritor of all Fey's
power... but wasn't in service to either of the Ladies?

She spoke again, calmer now. "We've won, Arkus. What a bitter way to
win. Fey lost, and by rights, all of his power, and my sister's gift,
should now be yours, and mine. Instead, they're in the hands of this
outworlder. You've won the game, and thrown away the prize."

Arkus was about to swear to the lady that he would slay the child, and
take back the gifts, when she screamed in fury, then spoke again in a
cold voice vibrating with anger. "You fool! That boy destroyed Fey with
a single blow! The agreement was with Fey, not him. If you kill him, he
simply dies. You won't get his gifts... but if he were to kill you, he
would gain all you had!" She was shouting now, in her rage. "You will
not go near that boy, Arkus!"

Then her voice was quiet and soft again. "You are still my champion,
Arkus, and I have your power and gift, while my sister has nothing of
Fey left to her. We have won, even if it is a bitter victory. I am not
wholly displeased with you. I can feel your desire, and I grant it. You
may watch the boy. Put no influence on him directly, but if through
indirect means he comes to worship and follow me, you will be well
rewarded."

Her voice faded, and he found himself once again in his own castle. He
moved quickly to his scrying room. "I must know what form the gift takes
with the boy."

---

He had been sitting there most of the night. He always had to leave the
castle when Fey went to do his summonings... he was simply too sensitive
to the emanations the spells put out. So he hunched over his mug of ale,
his seventh that night, grumbling to himself. Fey had told him that he
intended to complete his long-term plan to remove Arkus that night. Then
the wars could be renewed without outside interference, and Fey would
soon rule the Five Kingdoms with Krall at his right hand.

Krall felt a sudden burning, searing pain in his face, as if he had
just been clawed. He was not unfamiliar with the sensation... he had in
fact had his face ripped open during fights for dominance before. But
this time the pain was there, but not the damage... he put a hand to his
face and it was whole. Krall jerked upright knocking over his mug of
ale as he felt the touch of his Master leave his mind. Fey was dead! Now
was his hour of triumph come! Arkus must have defeated Fey, but he would
not know of the arrangements Fey had made, that would soon invest Krall
with Fey's power, and bind the dragon bitch to him! Then he stood, anger
vibrating in his taut form, as the other patrons of the inn backed away
fearfully. He growled, threw several coins down, and raced through the
door onto the streets. He didn't slow until he was outside of the small
village, and into the forest. There he let out his rage, howling into
the night, into the blackness of the sky.

It was his! It had been promised to him, for slaving his bloodthirst to
his master, it was to be his, but his master was dead, he felt him die,
felt the slash across the face, the sudden searing pain, and the almost
instant absence of the master in his mind, but nothing had come for him.
He stood in the darkness, waiting, tense with rage, and still nothing
came. It had been promised to him! Why was it not coming?

He roared his fury, and his body rippled, clothes disappearing as his
already impressively muscled form grew still larger and stronger,
sprouting thick black fur, as he swelled into his hybrid form. He was
the master of Lord Fey's forces, the general of his army, Fey's
right-hand, the promised and chosen successor of his Lord, upon his
death. To him was to have come the great power of the Lord, but it had
not! He felt nothing... not true... he felt diminished! The power lent
him by the Lord as his General was gone, stolen from him, as was what
had been promised to him.

The thief, whoever it be, would pay, and pay dearly for this, the beast
swore, howling his rage and fury. Arkus, he decided, it must be Arkus
who had done this. Well, then Arkus would die.