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	T'Spadri and the Unfire Hush, children. Listen, and I will tell you of T’spadri the stoker and the Unfire. Oh, now I have your attention, eh? This was long, long ago, before the Great Sleep, that other Name-givers call the Scourge, and not so long before we retreated to our Foundations. The last riverboats still plied the waters of the Serpent, mother of rivers, carrying the supplies that we would need both before and after the Sleep. One such was the Raven’s Wing. Sleek and proud she was, capable of carrying many duari at great speed, with a dozen and a half fire cannon and a crew well capable of fighting off all threats – except for the most subtle. You know about the Horrors, don’t you? Children are always most interested in that which is most dangerous. And you should know about them, for some remain in our world. Perhaps one of you shall emerge from kaissa a hero yourself, and go forth to slay one of these murdering beasts. If so, you should listen even more closely, and learn what it may cost you. T’spadri was an adept of the Boatman Discipline, and the lead stoker of Raven’s Wing, the man charged with fueling the fire engine and seeing to its needs. This is a difficult and tricky job, for while Upandal gave us a gift unsurpassed by any other when He gave us the fire engines, He set conditions upon it. The fire engine is dangerous. Powered by True Fire it is, the very elemental nature of fire, stuff that can fry the flesh from your bones, and blow your ship to splinters, crew and all. So T’spadri had charge of the fire engine, a cranky and ill-tempered beast, and oversaw its care and feeding. Now Raven’s Wing was on what would be its final voyage before the Sleep. It carried many duari of food, medicines, and magical components, supplies critical to our Foundation’s survival, supplies that by their nature had to be procured last and brought quickly. Raven’s Wing was well up to the task, being as I said a fine and proud ship, swift even when fully laden, and with a captain so clever she could sail her ship right through the eye of a needle and give you change in gold. Fully laden the ship was, too, with duari in the passenger cabins and in the side passages, lashed in every available spot where they wouldn’t interfere with the operation of the vessel. With that much cargo, and to maintain speed, the fire engine drank down True Fire like a babe drinks milk from its father, more than you think it could hold, every hour on the hour. T’spadri slept in a hammock slung in the passage just outside the engine room, when he slept at all, and dreamed of sparks. The other stokers, who answered to him, made sure that everything was kept in place, so that when they woke him to feed the engine, or to check its workings, he spent no time searching for what he needed, or reprimanding his crew for sloppiness. You could learn a good deal from their example, such as when it comes to seeing to your own quarters. But the story. On the first day, all went well. The riverboat made excellent time down the Serpent. Overnight, Raven’s Wing slowed, so as not to outrun her searchlights, chunks of light quartz larger than my head, with great reflectors of polished metal. They threw a beam to dazzle the eye, but not far enough for the boat to travel at more than quarter speed. And it was during this slow time that one of the stokers met with misfortune. She was moving kernels of True Fire from a storage bunker to an orichalcum-lined box, for carrying to the engine, a task not entrusted to any junior crewman, when something went awry. No one knows exactly why she was alone at the bunker, being a senior stoker and knowing better, but we can hazard a guess. No, you’ll have to wait for it, if you haven’t guessed it yourself. Her scream brought her fellow stokers on the run. They found her on the deck by the open bunker, the tongs for handling the fire kernels still in her hand, the carry-box on its side next to her. Four kernels of True Fire had spilled from the box, and landed on her. The stench of her sizzling flesh drove the apprentices out to the rail, to empty their heaving guts into the river. T’spadri leaped forward to seize the tongs and move the fire kernels to their box, in hopes of saving his crewman’s life, only to find them seared to her hand. Her arm was horribly burned, its sinews drawn tight from the heat. Another pair of tongs was thrown to T’spadri by a clever stoker who’d snatched up spare tools on the way, and T’spadri removed the kernels from the poor girl’s body, popping them into the carry-box. Too late, though, for she was dead. They mourned her loss, and prepared the body according to custom. T’spadri himself sat up to hold vigil over the corpse, to honor the stoker’s Name. At dawn, they held ritual at the rail, and committed her body to the river. And then they turned to in the engine room, for the run still remained to be made, and hundreds of lives depended on their skill. T’spadri ordered the young woman’s carrybox, and its True Fire, to be set aside, so that he could inspect them later. The tongs, however, were committed to the river along with her body, there being no way to keep them without doing violence to the corpse. All that day, T’spadri thought about her death, when his mind was not totally consumed with his duties, which was less often than he would have liked. She was young, yes, but not unskilled. She had known better than to go to the fuel bunker by herself, without someone to spot for her, and to help in case something went wrong. What had possessed her to do such a thing? The more T’spadri thought about it, the more he knew that something must indeed have possessed her. A terrible conviction grew in him, that a Horror was aboard. Oh, yes. Be afraid, children. The Horrors can sneak in where you least expect them, the more subtle kind. They don’t come charging in all claws and teeth, oh, no. That sort of attack is for the lesser ones. The greater ones, the Named Horrors, work quietly upon your mind, corrupting slowly, like boiling a frog. The heat creeps up, and by the time you realize it’s much too hot, you’re cooked and ready to be eaten. So T’spadri went to the ship’s Nethermancer. In those days, no riverboat traveled without a magician on board. It just wasn’t safe. Better still that you had a Nethermancer on board. Oh, yes, they’re frightening, the workers of the spirit world, those who stand across the border between life and death. But their magic is the most effective against the Horrors. And so T’spadri sought the help of Sisstima, a wise old woman who had faced down more than one Horror in her long life. He told her of his fears, that there was a Named Horror aboard the Raven’s Wing. Sisstima listened closely to her fellow adept. She agreed that there was something peculiar about the young woman’s death. Sisstima, however, had already performed a check of the riverboat, as she did twice a day, every day. She had found nothing, no trace of Horror taint, no trace of corruption. While there had been a whiff of something nasty to the astral signature of the body, which she had inspected before it was committed to the river, that could very well have been the residue of the crewman’s shock and pain, the stink of an unexpected and violent death. Nevertheless, Sisstima agreed to come to the engine room for a closer inspection. She gathered up her tools and followed T’spadri below. The engine room was blazing hot, and so noisy you couldn’t hear another Name-giver if they shouted right next to your head. The crew communicated in hand-signs, and changed places with each other frequently, going out for a cooling dip in the river at the end of a safety line, for the riverboat traveled much faster than a t’skrang can swim, and the current would have left anyone not on a line far behind. In this inferno of heat and noise, Sisstima found it hard to concentrate, to see the spirit world, but she bent forth all the considerable strength of her mind. The engine she pronounced free of taint, and T’spadri heaved a great sigh of relief. The crewmen she in turn examined, and found nothing of which to be suspicious. Again, T’spadri was relieved, but his own distrust of the situation grew. Something was amiss, and if not with the engine, or the crew, then with what? With the fuel, you say? Oh, but Sisstima had a look there, too, as best she could through the protective gear she had to wear. She saw nothing in the fuel bunkers to upset her, but could not be certain against the astral glare of so much True Fire. The carrybox she pronounced clear of taint, with a brief look inside, as astral sight cannot penetrate orichalcum. T’spadri was discomfited, though, for the carrybox held three kernels of True Fire, and he remembered there being four. His crew all swore that no one had touched the carrybox since it was put aside, and Sisstima could see no Mark on any of them. For a deeper examination, though, she would have to take each crewman off to her cabin, one at a time. There simply was no way to accomplish that without delaying Raven’s Wing and her vital cargo. And so the riverboat continued on through the day and into the night. And what do you think happened that night? Fire, yes. One of the most dangerous things that can happen on board a ship is for fire to break out. Despite being surrounded by water, fire on a boat is hard to control, and the boat can burn right down to the waterline, cargo and crew and all, faster than you could jump off and swim away. The passages are narrow, the cabins small, the cargo packed in tight, and tarred lines run everywhere, leaving lots of places for flames to breed. One of the crewman on deck watch smelled smoke where no smoke should be. The galley stove had been banked for the night. The smells of the engine, hot metal and smoke and steam, were all being left in the riverboat’s wake. He went hunting the source. Back and forth along the starboard gangway he paced, stopping every few steps to sniff, and test the direction of the wind. From below, he decided, and leaped out over the railing, high above the river, seizing a swing line and dropping to the lower gangway on the return. A faint glow showed from behind a door to one of the passenger cabins, one packed full of supplies for the Foundation. A flicker to the light was all he needed to put up a cry of fire. Thanks to that crewman being well-trained enough to not open the door before the fire team arrived, feeding the blaze fresh air before the crew stood ready to douse it with water, the flames did not spread beyond the one cabin. Much of what was within was saved, or at least salvageable, and nothing was lost that could not be replaced. As for the cause of the fire, all they found was a small hole in the base of the aft bulkhead, the size of a mousehole, but with charred edges. That led to another cabin full of supplies, and, there being no trace of either smoke or flame within, and no room on deck to unpack the cabin without seriously impairing operations, no further investigation was pursued. T’spadri was certain now that trouble was aboard. He took his concerns to the captain, as he should, and told her of his belief that the two incidents, on two successive nights, both involving fire, might be the work of a Horror. The captain sent for Sisstima, and heard the Nethermancer’s uncertainty as to the safety of the ship. Neither adept had anything solid to stand on, however, and the captain could not operate on suspicions. She bade both adepts to keep their eyes open, and tell her immediately should anything undeniable occur. She regretted not having an Elementalist aboard, for a magician attuned to the true nature of Fire would surely be able to tell instantly if there was something unnatural involving that Element. Sadly, there had been no such magician available for the present voyage, all of the Foundation’s Elementalists being occupied completing preparations for the citadel of True Elements that would protect the Foundation from the Horrors during the Great Sleep. She felt as if she were at the helm with neither lookout nor navigator, but there was nothing for it but to make her best speed for safer waters. T’spadri maintained a close watch throughout the next day, as best he could. The engine, on its third day of maximum speed, complained bitterly at the extra work, and took more attention than T’spadri was able to provide. Good fortune smiled upon him, though, in the form of his crew, eager to please their master and to do their duty to ship and Foundation. The lot of them labored intensely throughout the day, attending to the engine and its constant demands, and the ship drew ever closer to its destination. Thus the voyage came to its final night. The next afternoon would see Raven’s Wing in port at her Foundation, there to be unloaded, then dry-docked to hopefully survive through the Great Sleep. T’spadri had caught what rest he could during the day, knowing that he must be on watch throughout the night. Whatever was on board, it struck during the hours of darkness, and it would not strike a third time if there was anything T’spadri could do to prevent it. He set about ensuring that no detail had been overlooked, so that there would be no gap for the enemy to fit through. He inspected the engine, banked now to quarter power as the ship crept down the river. He counted the tools, and checked each one to be sure it was in proper order. Thus he discovered that a pair of handling tongs and a carrybox were missing. What about the tongs buried along with the dead crewman, you say? And the carrybox holding the True Fire she was working with when she died? Those had been accounted for already. No, there was a second pair of tongs gone amiss, and a second carrybox. T’spadri ran down the short, armored passage from the engine room to the fuel bunkers, finding to his shock the safety hatches at each end hanging open. He burst into the bunker room, and there stood a crewman, his own second, loading a carrybox. On the deck lay the fuel room guard, bleeding from a long gash down the side of her head. She had not gone down without a fight, and had marked her opponent, for T’spadri’s second bled from a wound in his thigh, not enough to stop him straight away, but lethal if left untended long enough. The crewman seemed not to care about his risk of bleeding to death, however, as he loaded the carrybox. “Stop!” T’spadri ordered. “Put down the carrybox and close the bunker.” His second halted for perhaps half a breath, seeming to listen to something else, then spun and heaved the contents of the carrybox at T’spadri. But T’spadri had his sword out and ready. He parried two of the kernels of True Fire, and dodged the third. The kernels glowed a deep, bloody red instead of their normal brilliant red-gold. Where they landed, the deck smoked and hissed, the kernels eating through the armor plating, trying to get at the wood below. In the same moment, the crewman attacked, swinging his tongs for T’spadri’s head. With a sharp pull at his own strength, and a jab of pain in his sword arm, T’spadri pushed hard at his Discipline’s magic, and blocked the blow. From there, the fight was over quickly. The crewman was crazed, giving no thought to his own defense and seeking only T’spadri’s destruction. T’spadri, though, was an adept, and once he realized to his great sorrow how the fight had to end, he brushed aside his second’s attacks and thrust his sword through the other man’s heart. As the crewman sank to his knees, and his life fled, reason came back into his eyes. “The Unfire,” he whispered, and then he died. T’spadri let go his sword, not taking the time to free it from the body, and seized the tongs. Wrongness shocked his hand and threatened to tie the muscles of his arm into knots. Fighting it back, along with his nausea and fear at what he now knew to be true, he scooped up the carrybox and retrieved the first two kernels. The third, though, was more difficult. Baleful dark flames wreathed about it, washing up from the pit it had melted in the deck’s armor. A stink of molten sulfur, and of things less natural, rose up from it, filling T’spadri’s nostrils with the stench of a thing that did not belong in our world. Didn’t I say that not all Horrors were great bundles of claws and teeth? Haven’t you heard tales of the crystal entities, which come into our world looking like no more than a shard of quartz? This grain of unclean flame, this black and unwholesome glow, this kernel of True Evil, was a Horror. What’s more, a Named Horror, if the second’s dying words were to be believed. Gathering his resolve, T’spadri seized the Horror with his tongs. Yes, it said, a crackle of uncontrollable flames in his mind. Take me up. Take me to where I may burn more fiercely. Take me to where the glory of my flames may blot out the Sun. With these words came a sharp pressure on T’spadri’s mind, and his heart sank like a stone. No, he said, in his thoughts, and the pressure became pain, a wave that crashed through his head and threatened to echo down his spine, leaving him crippled in agony. Do what I command, the Unfire demanded. Take me up, and bring me forth that I may burn the world. Knowing that he had been Marked, his mind racing frantically, T’spadri swept up the Horror and popped it into the carrybox, then, before the Unfire could react, slammed the lid and shot the latch. A distant scream of frustration echoed in his mind, a screech that flattened his crest and hurt his teeth, but the Horror’s anger was muffled by the orichalcum lining of the carrybox. No wonder Sisstima had been unable to find the Horror. Hidden within the orichalcum confines of the fuel bunker, enshrouded in the fierce glow of clean fuel all around it, the Unfire would have been nearly undetectable. And with Horror Marks being dispelled by the death of the person Marked, the body of the crewman the Unfire had killed would have held only the slightest taint. T’spadri staggered out of the passage and into the engine room, the carrybox growing heavier with every step. Even from within the carrybox, the pressure the Horror exerted upon his mind was growing unbearable. If he didn’t act quickly and decisively, not even the magic of his Discipline could save him from becoming just another tool of the Unfire. “Alert the captain,” he gritted out through clenched teeth to the crewmen tending the engine. “Wake all the crew. I’ve captured the Unfire,” and he gave a nod to the carrybox he strained to hold, “but the battle is not over.” “We stand ready!” said one of his crew, loyalty winning out over fear. But “Save yourselves,” T’spadri ordered. “Help prepare the liferafts, save the other crew and the cargo. This is my fight, and mine alone.” Seeing his determination and receiving direct orders, the crewmen fled the engine room. Some went to wake the off watches, one to alert the pilot, and another to convey the dreadful news to the captain. T’spadri drew a long, deep breath, and turned to the engine. “No sword will slay you,” he said to the Horror in the carrybox, “but let’s see what happens when your limits are tested.” And he threw open the fueling hatch, unlatched the carrybox, and flung its contents into the engine. The Unfire shrieked in delight, finding an environment that encouraged its heat, but then its screams turned to dismay and anger as T’spadri slammed the fueling hatch and dogged it down, trapping the Horror within the engine. Fool! the Horror cried. I will blaze so brightly, with all of this lesser Fire about me, that I will melt this box you have put me into! And do not think that a plunge into the river shall extinguish me! No ordinary water can quench my flames! T’spadri thought briefly of the stores of True Water the ship carried, supplies for the Elementalists at the Foundation, but discarded the idea. Depriving the Elementalists of even one kernel of True Water could put the citadel, and therefore the entire Foundation, at risk. Beyond that, hurling True Water into the engine would cause a steam explosion big enough to reduce the Raven’s Wing and all her cargo to splinters. No, he had to resolve this himself, and fast. Fast. T’spadri seized the power lever, and threw it over hard, putting his body weight into it. The lever hit its stops, and broke them, slamming down hard onto the deck. The engine shrieked, a howl of metal under terrific stress, and the ship surged ahead. Above, the pilot summoned up her own magic, a thrumming beginning in the back of her head that all too soon would exhaust her, but she needed every bit of magic she could muster to guide the ship as it picked up speed, faster and faster, no matter how much strain it put upon her. The river churned into foam, and then froth, astern, as the paddlewheel tore into the water, hurling the ship ahead. Within a few breaths, Raven’s Wing was outrunning her forward searchlights. Only the pilot’s magic kept her on a safe course. Sisstima ran to the engine room, but was pushed back out by the terrific heat blasting out from the engine. “T’spadri!” she called. “Are you mad, or has the Horror seized control of you?” Grimly keeping a foot on the power lever to hold it down as far as it would go, T’spadri opened valves to let more air into the engine, pushing up its fuel consumption as far as it could go. “Go forward!” he shouted back, over the racket of the engine. “The ship needs your magic to light the way ahead!” “T’spadri!” Sisstima called again. She clutched at the edge of the hatch as hot air blasted past her down the passage. “What are you doing? You’ll blow up the ship!” “Maybe!” he cried. The air he drew in to speak singed his throat. He knew he was capable of only a few more words. “But let’s see what happens when the Unfire is overfed!” And with that, he broke into a fit of coughing, and spoke no more. Sisstima paused for another breath, then, with a shake of her head and a prayer to Upandal, Passion of engineers, fled to the bow. There she launched a pyrotechnics spell downstream, illuminating the river well ahead of the ship. Again and again she flung light ahead, giving the pilot a view in flashes of what lay ahead. Maybe it would be enough to keep the ship from running aground, or into a snag or a boulder. Maybe. In the engine room, T’spadri kept up his battle with the Unfire. Nobody knows quite what happened after Sisstima left, but the fight within the Boatman’s head must have been fierce. His resolve was pitted against the strength of the Horror, his will against the pain the Horror could inflict as he defied its wishes, his strength against heat that first blistered his skin, then burned it away. The heat grew, the engine popping and banging as its metal expanded. The deck and bulkheads began to char. Smoke poured from the engine room’s portholes, the Raven’s Wing leaving a wake in the air as well as the river. Sparks flew from her stack, falling to the river well behind her as she plunged headlong down its course. The pilot held fast to the wheel, praying her own prayers to Floranuus, Passion of motion, that He guide her hand as the ship continued to pick up speed. The crew rigged safety lines and clung to them for their lives. The ship crested its bow wave, slamming back down with a crash that threw everything not secured into the air. Beams cracked. Decking sprang loose. A section of rail gave way, and three duari of flour went over the side with it. The Raven’s Wing groaned in agony as she was forced beyond her limits. Still in the engine room T’spadri strove with the Horror. Then, with a flash and a bang, the air itself in the engine room ignited. Fire roared from the portholes. The engine shrieked a final time, stressed beyond even the limits of its metal. And from the stack burst a howl of rage and frustration, a terrible cry that drove the crew to their knees. In a shower of sparks, the Unfire was consumed and met its end. Dawn came before the engine room was cool enough to enter. Raven’s Wing drifted with the current, the relief pilot guiding her with the help of rowboats at the end of bow lines. The sun had risen to find them only a candlemark away from their Foundation, the night’s mad rush having eaten most of the distance remaining. Sisstima was first to go into the engine room. Feeling that the events were her fault for failing to detect the Horror, despite the captain’s assurances that only an Elementalist of high Circle could have seen the Unfire in its hiding place, she undertook the task of seeing to it that the Horror was in fact gone. The engine had been reduced to slag. The deck all around was burned nearly through, and charred across the rest of the engine room. The bulkheads were likewise charred and seared. The porthole bolts had been welded into place by the intense heat. Of T’spadri, there was very little trace. Sisstima found a small pile of ash by the remains of the power lever, with a g’doinya bracelet, miraculously unburned, its reeds still fresh and green. This she took up reverently, wrapping it in silk, and carried it to the captain. T’spadri was mourned by the entire Foundation. The shivalahala herself presided over his ashes being given to the river. Raven’s Wing was unloaded, then taken out into the lake and scuttled. The damage done to her had been mortal, beyond any repair. Her bell and her wheel, however, were enshrined at the Temples of Upandal and Floranuus, respectively, and remain there to this day. And T’spadri’s g’doinya was taken by the shivalahala, and put away, against the day that another great hero should rise among the Boatman adepts of the Foundation. On that day, the shivalahala will present that hero with the g’doinya, and proclaim that T’spadri has returned to the House of V’strimon. And there it ends, for such is the truth of the thing.

T'Spadri and the Unfire

Hush, children. Listen, and I will tell you of T’spadri the stoker and the Unfire. Oh, now I have your attention, eh?

This was long, long ago, before the Great Sleep, that other Name-givers call the Scourge, and not so long before we retreated to our Foundations. The last riverboats still plied the waters of the Serpent, mother of rivers, carrying the supplies that we would need both before and after the Sleep. One such was the Raven’s Wing. Sleek and proud she was, capable of carrying many duari at great speed, with a dozen and a half fire cannon and a crew well capable of fighting off all threats – except for the most subtle.

You know about the Horrors, don’t you? Children are always most interested in that which is most dangerous. And you should know about them, for some remain in our world. Perhaps one of you shall emerge from kaissa a hero yourself, and go forth to slay one of these murdering beasts. If so, you should listen even more closely, and learn what it may cost you.

T’spadri was an adept of the Boatman Discipline, and the lead stoker of Raven’s Wing, the man charged with fueling the fire engine and seeing to its needs. This is a difficult and tricky job, for while Upandal gave us a gift unsurpassed by any other when He gave us the fire engines, He set conditions upon it. The fire engine is dangerous. Powered by True Fire it is, the very elemental nature of fire, stuff that can fry the flesh from your bones, and blow your ship to splinters, crew and all. So T’spadri had charge of the fire engine, a cranky and ill-tempered beast, and oversaw its care and feeding.

Now Raven’s Wing was on what would be its final voyage before the Sleep. It carried many duari of food, medicines, and magical components, supplies critical to our Foundation’s survival, supplies that by their nature had to be procured last and brought quickly. Raven’s Wing was well up to the task, being as I said a fine and proud ship, swift even when fully laden, and with a captain so clever she could sail her ship right through the eye of a needle and give you change in gold. Fully laden the ship was, too, with duari in the passenger cabins and in the side passages, lashed in every available spot where they wouldn’t interfere with the operation of the vessel.

With that much cargo, and to maintain speed, the fire engine drank down True Fire like a babe drinks milk from its father, more than you think it could hold, every hour on the hour. T’spadri slept in a hammock slung in the passage just outside the engine room, when he slept at all, and dreamed of sparks. The other stokers, who answered to him, made sure that everything was kept in place, so that when they woke him to feed the engine, or to check its workings, he spent no time searching for what he needed, or reprimanding his crew for sloppiness. You could learn a good deal from their example, such as when it comes to seeing to your own quarters.

But the story. On the first day, all went well. The riverboat made excellent time down the Serpent. Overnight, Raven’s Wing slowed, so as not to outrun her searchlights, chunks of light quartz larger than my head, with great reflectors of polished metal. They threw a beam to dazzle the eye, but not far enough for the boat to travel at more than quarter speed. And it was during this slow time that one of the stokers met with misfortune.

She was moving kernels of True Fire from a storage bunker to an orichalcum-lined box, for carrying to the engine, a task not entrusted to any junior crewman, when something went awry. No one knows exactly why she was alone at the bunker, being a senior stoker and knowing better, but we can hazard a guess. No, you’ll have to wait for it, if you haven’t guessed it yourself. Her scream brought her fellow stokers on the run. They found her on the deck by the open bunker, the tongs for handling the fire kernels still in her hand, the carry-box on its side next to her. Four kernels of True Fire had spilled from the box, and landed on her. The stench of her sizzling flesh drove the apprentices out to the rail, to empty their heaving guts into the river.

T’spadri leaped forward to seize the tongs and move the fire kernels to their box, in hopes of saving his crewman’s life, only to find them seared to her hand. Her arm was horribly burned, its sinews drawn tight from the heat. Another pair of tongs was thrown to T’spadri by a clever stoker who’d snatched up spare tools on the way, and T’spadri removed the kernels from the poor girl’s body, popping them into the carry-box. Too late, though, for she was dead.

They mourned her loss, and prepared the body according to custom. T’spadri himself sat up to hold vigil over the corpse, to honor the stoker’s Name. At dawn, they held ritual at the rail, and committed her body to the river. And then they turned to in the engine room, for the run still remained to be made, and hundreds of lives depended on their skill.

T’spadri ordered the young woman’s carrybox, and its True Fire, to be set aside, so that he could inspect them later. The tongs, however, were committed to the river along with her body, there being no way to keep them without doing violence to the corpse. All that day, T’spadri thought about her death, when his mind was not totally consumed with his duties, which was less often than he would have liked. She was young, yes, but not unskilled. She had known better than to go to the fuel bunker by herself, without someone to spot for her, and to help in case something went wrong. What had possessed her to do such a thing? The more T’spadri thought about it, the more he knew that something must indeed have possessed her. A terrible conviction grew in him, that a Horror was aboard.

Oh, yes. Be afraid, children. The Horrors can sneak in where you least expect them, the more subtle kind. They don’t come charging in all claws and teeth, oh, no. That sort of attack is for the lesser ones. The greater ones, the Named Horrors, work quietly upon your mind, corrupting slowly, like boiling a frog. The heat creeps up, and by the time you realize it’s much too hot, you’re cooked and ready to be eaten.

So T’spadri went to the ship’s Nethermancer. In those days, no riverboat traveled without a magician on board. It just wasn’t safe. Better still that you had a Nethermancer on board. Oh, yes, they’re frightening, the workers of the spirit world, those who stand across the border between life and death. But their magic is the most effective against the Horrors. And so T’spadri sought the help of Sisstima, a wise old woman who had faced down more than one Horror in her long life. He told her of his fears, that there was a Named Horror aboard the Raven’s Wing. Sisstima listened closely to her fellow adept. She agreed that there was something peculiar about the young woman’s death. Sisstima, however, had already performed a check of the riverboat, as she did twice a day, every day. She had found nothing, no trace of Horror taint, no trace of corruption. While there had been a whiff of something nasty to the astral signature of the body, which she had inspected before it was committed to the river, that could very well have been the residue of the crewman’s shock and pain, the stink of an unexpected and violent death. Nevertheless, Sisstima agreed to come to the engine room for a closer inspection. She gathered up her tools and followed T’spadri below.

The engine room was blazing hot, and so noisy you couldn’t hear another Name-giver if they shouted right next to your head. The crew communicated in hand-signs, and changed places with each other frequently, going out for a cooling dip in the river at the end of a safety line, for the riverboat traveled much faster than a t’skrang can swim, and the current would have left anyone not on a line far behind. In this inferno of heat and noise, Sisstima found it hard to concentrate, to see the spirit world, but she bent forth all the considerable strength of her mind. The engine she pronounced free of taint, and T’spadri heaved a great sigh of relief. The crewmen she in turn examined, and found nothing of which to be suspicious. Again, T’spadri was relieved, but his own distrust of the situation grew. Something was amiss, and if not with the engine, or the crew, then with what?

With the fuel, you say? Oh, but Sisstima had a look there, too, as best she could through the protective gear she had to wear. She saw nothing in the fuel bunkers to upset her, but could not be certain against the astral glare of so much True Fire. The carrybox she pronounced clear of taint, with a brief look inside, as astral sight cannot penetrate orichalcum. T’spadri was discomfited, though, for the carrybox held three kernels of True Fire, and he remembered there being four. His crew all swore that no one had touched the carrybox since it was put aside, and Sisstima could see no Mark on any of them. For a deeper examination, though, she would have to take each crewman off to her cabin, one at a time. There simply was no way to accomplish that without delaying Raven’s Wing and her vital cargo.

And so the riverboat continued on through the day and into the night. And what do you think happened that night?

Fire, yes. One of the most dangerous things that can happen on board a ship is for fire to break out. Despite being surrounded by water, fire on a boat is hard to control, and the boat can burn right down to the waterline, cargo and crew and all, faster than you could jump off and swim away. The passages are narrow, the cabins small, the cargo packed in tight, and tarred lines run everywhere, leaving lots of places for flames to breed.

One of the crewman on deck watch smelled smoke where no smoke should be. The galley stove had been banked for the night. The smells of the engine, hot metal and smoke and steam, were all being left in the riverboat’s wake. He went hunting the source. Back and forth along the starboard gangway he paced, stopping every few steps to sniff, and test the direction of the wind. From below, he decided, and leaped out over the railing, high above the river, seizing a swing line and dropping to the lower gangway on the return. A faint glow showed from behind a door to one of the passenger cabins, one packed full of supplies for the Foundation. A flicker to the light was all he needed to put up a cry of fire.

Thanks to that crewman being well-trained enough to not open the door before the fire team arrived, feeding the blaze fresh air before the crew stood ready to douse it with water, the flames did not spread beyond the one cabin. Much of what was within was saved, or at least salvageable, and nothing was lost that could not be replaced. As for the cause of the fire, all they found was a small hole in the base of the aft bulkhead, the size of a mousehole, but with charred edges. That led to another cabin full of supplies, and, there being no trace of either smoke or flame within, and no room on deck to unpack the cabin without seriously impairing operations, no further investigation was pursued.

T’spadri was certain now that trouble was aboard. He took his concerns to the captain, as he should, and told her of his belief that the two incidents, on two successive nights, both involving fire, might be the work of a Horror. The captain sent for Sisstima, and heard the Nethermancer’s uncertainty as to the safety of the ship. Neither adept had anything solid to stand on, however, and the captain could not operate on suspicions. She bade both adepts to keep their eyes open, and tell her immediately should anything undeniable occur. She regretted not having an Elementalist aboard, for a magician attuned to the true nature of Fire would surely be able to tell instantly if there was something unnatural involving that Element. Sadly, there had been no such magician available for the present voyage, all of the Foundation’s Elementalists being occupied completing preparations for the citadel of True Elements that would protect the Foundation from the Horrors during the Great Sleep. She felt as if she were at the helm with neither lookout nor navigator, but there was nothing for it but to make her best speed for safer waters.

T’spadri maintained a close watch throughout the next day, as best he could. The engine, on its third day of maximum speed, complained bitterly at the extra work, and took more attention than T’spadri was able to provide. Good fortune smiled upon him, though, in the form of his crew, eager to please their master and to do their duty to ship and Foundation. The lot of them labored intensely throughout the day, attending to the engine and its constant demands, and the ship drew ever closer to its destination.

Thus the voyage came to its final night. The next afternoon would see Raven’s Wing in port at her Foundation, there to be unloaded, then dry-docked to hopefully survive through the Great Sleep. T’spadri had caught what rest he could during the day, knowing that he must be on watch throughout the night. Whatever was on board, it struck during the hours of darkness, and it would not strike a third time if there was anything T’spadri could do to prevent it.

He set about ensuring that no detail had been overlooked, so that there would be no gap for the enemy to fit through. He inspected the engine, banked now to quarter power as the ship crept down the river. He counted the tools, and checked each one to be sure it was in proper order. Thus he discovered that a pair of handling tongs and a carrybox were missing. What about the tongs buried along with the dead crewman, you say? And the carrybox holding the True Fire she was working with when she died? Those had been accounted for already. No, there was a second pair of tongs gone amiss, and a second carrybox. T’spadri ran down the short, armored passage from the engine room to the fuel bunkers, finding to his shock the safety hatches at each end hanging open. He burst into the bunker room, and there stood a crewman, his own second, loading a carrybox. On the deck lay the fuel room guard, bleeding from a long gash down the side of her head. She had not gone down without a fight, and had marked her opponent, for T’spadri’s second bled from a wound in his thigh, not enough to stop him straight away, but lethal if left untended long enough. The crewman seemed not to care about his risk of bleeding to death, however, as he loaded the carrybox.

“Stop!” T’spadri ordered. “Put down the carrybox and close the bunker.”

His second halted for perhaps half a breath, seeming to listen to something else, then spun and heaved the contents of the carrybox at T’spadri. But T’spadri had his sword out and ready. He parried two of the kernels of True Fire, and dodged the third. The kernels glowed a deep, bloody red instead of their normal brilliant red-gold. Where they landed, the deck smoked and hissed, the kernels eating through the armor plating, trying to get at the wood below.

In the same moment, the crewman attacked, swinging his tongs for T’spadri’s head. With a sharp pull at his own strength, and a jab of pain in his sword arm, T’spadri pushed hard at his Discipline’s magic, and blocked the blow. From there, the fight was over quickly. The crewman was crazed, giving no thought to his own defense and seeking only T’spadri’s destruction. T’spadri, though, was an adept, and once he realized to his great sorrow how the fight had to end, he brushed aside his second’s attacks and thrust his sword through the other man’s heart. As the crewman sank to his knees, and his life fled, reason came back into his eyes.

“The Unfire,” he whispered, and then he died.

T’spadri let go his sword, not taking the time to free it from the body, and seized the tongs. Wrongness shocked his hand and threatened to tie the muscles of his arm into knots. Fighting it back, along with his nausea and fear at what he now knew to be true, he scooped up the carrybox and retrieved the first two kernels. The third, though, was more difficult. Baleful dark flames wreathed about it, washing up from the pit it had melted in the deck’s armor. A stink of molten sulfur, and of things less natural, rose up from it, filling T’spadri’s nostrils with the stench of a thing that did not belong in our world.

Didn’t I say that not all Horrors were great bundles of claws and teeth? Haven’t you heard tales of the crystal entities, which come into our world looking like no more than a shard of quartz? This grain of unclean flame, this black and unwholesome glow, this kernel of True Evil, was a Horror. What’s more, a Named Horror, if the second’s dying words were to be believed.

Gathering his resolve, T’spadri seized the Horror with his tongs.

Yes, it said, a crackle of uncontrollable flames in his mind. Take me up. Take me to where I may burn more fiercely. Take me to where the glory of my flames may blot out the Sun.

With these words came a sharp pressure on T’spadri’s mind, and his heart sank like a stone. No, he said, in his thoughts, and the pressure became pain, a wave that crashed through his head and threatened to echo down his spine, leaving him crippled in agony.

Do what I command, the Unfire demanded. Take me up, and bring me forth that I may burn the world.

Knowing that he had been Marked, his mind racing frantically, T’spadri swept up the Horror and popped it into the carrybox, then, before the Unfire could react, slammed the lid and shot the latch. A distant scream of frustration echoed in his mind, a screech that flattened his crest and hurt his teeth, but the Horror’s anger was muffled by the orichalcum lining of the carrybox. No wonder Sisstima had been unable to find the Horror. Hidden within the orichalcum confines of the fuel bunker, enshrouded in the fierce glow of clean fuel all around it, the Unfire would have been nearly undetectable. And with Horror Marks being dispelled by the death of the person Marked, the body of the crewman the Unfire had killed would have held only the slightest taint.

T’spadri staggered out of the passage and into the engine room, the carrybox growing heavier with every step. Even from within the carrybox, the pressure the Horror exerted upon his mind was growing unbearable. If he didn’t act quickly and decisively, not even the magic of his Discipline could save him from becoming just another tool of the Unfire.

“Alert the captain,” he gritted out through clenched teeth to the crewmen tending the engine. “Wake all the crew. I’ve captured the Unfire,” and he gave a nod to the carrybox he strained to hold, “but the battle is not over.”

“We stand ready!” said one of his crew, loyalty winning out over fear.

But “Save yourselves,” T’spadri ordered. “Help prepare the liferafts, save the other crew and the cargo. This is my fight, and mine alone.”

Seeing his determination and receiving direct orders, the crewmen fled the engine room. Some went to wake the off watches, one to alert the pilot, and another to convey the dreadful news to the captain.

T’spadri drew a long, deep breath, and turned to the engine.

“No sword will slay you,” he said to the Horror in the carrybox, “but let’s see what happens when your limits are tested.”

And he threw open the fueling hatch, unlatched the carrybox, and flung its contents into the engine.

The Unfire shrieked in delight, finding an environment that encouraged its heat, but then its screams turned to dismay and anger as T’spadri slammed the fueling hatch and dogged it down, trapping the Horror within the engine.

Fool! the Horror cried. I will blaze so brightly, with all of this lesser Fire about me, that I will melt this box you have put me into! And do not think that a plunge into the river shall extinguish me! No ordinary water can quench my flames!

T’spadri thought briefly of the stores of True Water the ship carried, supplies for the Elementalists at the Foundation, but discarded the idea. Depriving the Elementalists of even one kernel of True Water could put the citadel, and therefore the entire Foundation, at risk. Beyond that, hurling True Water into the engine would cause a steam explosion big enough to reduce the Raven’s Wing and all her cargo to splinters. No, he had to resolve this himself, and fast.

Fast.

T’spadri seized the power lever, and threw it over hard, putting his body weight into it. The lever hit its stops, and broke them, slamming down hard onto the deck. The engine shrieked, a howl of metal under terrific stress, and the ship surged ahead. Above, the pilot summoned up her own magic, a thrumming beginning in the back of her head that all too soon would exhaust her, but she needed every bit of magic she could muster to guide the ship as it picked up speed, faster and faster, no matter how much strain it put upon her. The river churned into foam, and then froth, astern, as the paddlewheel tore into the water, hurling the ship ahead. Within a few breaths, Raven’s Wing was outrunning her forward searchlights. Only the pilot’s magic kept her on a safe course.

Sisstima ran to the engine room, but was pushed back out by the terrific heat blasting out from the engine.

“T’spadri!” she called. “Are you mad, or has the Horror seized control of you?”

Grimly keeping a foot on the power lever to hold it down as far as it would go, T’spadri opened valves to let more air into the engine, pushing up its fuel consumption as far as it could go.

“Go forward!” he shouted back, over the racket of the engine. “The ship needs your magic to light the way ahead!”

“T’spadri!” Sisstima called again. She clutched at the edge of the hatch as hot air blasted past her down the passage. “What are you doing? You’ll blow up the ship!”

“Maybe!” he cried. The air he drew in to speak singed his throat. He knew he was capable of only a few more words. “But let’s see what happens when the Unfire is overfed!” And with that, he broke into a fit of coughing, and spoke no more.

Sisstima paused for another breath, then, with a shake of her head and a prayer to Upandal, Passion of engineers, fled to the bow. There she launched a pyrotechnics spell downstream, illuminating the river well ahead of the ship. Again and again she flung light ahead, giving the pilot a view in flashes of what lay ahead. Maybe it would be enough to keep the ship from running aground, or into a snag or a boulder. Maybe.

In the engine room, T’spadri kept up his battle with the Unfire. Nobody knows quite what happened after Sisstima left, but the fight within the Boatman’s head must have been fierce. His resolve was pitted against the strength of the Horror, his will against the pain the Horror could inflict as he defied its wishes, his strength against heat that first blistered his skin, then burned it away. The heat grew, the engine popping and banging as its metal expanded. The deck and bulkheads began to char. Smoke poured from the engine room’s portholes, the Raven’s Wing leaving a wake in the air as well as the river. Sparks flew from her stack, falling to the river well behind her as she plunged headlong down its course.

The pilot held fast to the wheel, praying her own prayers to Floranuus, Passion of motion, that He guide her hand as the ship continued to pick up speed. The crew rigged safety lines and clung to them for their lives. The ship crested its bow wave, slamming back down with a crash that threw everything not secured into the air. Beams cracked. Decking sprang loose. A section of rail gave way, and three duari of flour went over the side with it. The Raven’s Wing groaned in agony as she was forced beyond her limits. Still in the engine room T’spadri strove with the Horror.

Then, with a flash and a bang, the air itself in the engine room ignited. Fire roared from the portholes. The engine shrieked a final time, stressed beyond even the limits of its metal. And from the stack burst a howl of rage and frustration, a terrible cry that drove the crew to their knees. In a shower of sparks, the Unfire was consumed and met its end.

Dawn came before the engine room was cool enough to enter. Raven’s Wing drifted with the current, the relief pilot guiding her with the help of rowboats at the end of bow lines. The sun had risen to find them only a candlemark away from their Foundation, the night’s mad rush having eaten most of the distance remaining.

Sisstima was first to go into the engine room. Feeling that the events were her fault for failing to detect the Horror, despite the captain’s assurances that only an Elementalist of high Circle could have seen the Unfire in its hiding place, she undertook the task of seeing to it that the Horror was in fact gone.

The engine had been reduced to slag. The deck all around was burned nearly through, and charred across the rest of the engine room. The bulkheads were likewise charred and seared. The porthole bolts had been welded into place by the intense heat.

Of T’spadri, there was very little trace. Sisstima found a small pile of ash by the remains of the power lever, with a g’doinya bracelet, miraculously unburned, its reeds still fresh and green. This she took up reverently, wrapping it in silk, and carried it to the captain.

T’spadri was mourned by the entire Foundation. The shivalahala herself presided over his ashes being given to the river. Raven’s Wing was unloaded, then taken out into the lake and scuttled. The damage done to her had been mortal, beyond any repair. Her bell and her wheel, however, were enshrined at the Temples of Upandal and Floranuus, respectively, and remain there to this day. And T’spadri’s g’doinya was taken by the shivalahala, and put away, against the day that another great hero should rise among the Boatman adepts of the Foundation. On that day, the shivalahala will present that hero with the g’doinya, and proclaim that T’spadri has returned to the House of V’strimon.

And there it ends, for such is the truth of the thing.