Then the Stepsons had come, an arrogant mercenary company which one of the Hell Hounds, Tempus Thales, had abandoned his mess-mates to lead. That had really been the start of the Hell-Hounds' downfall. Their duties were reduced to those of token bodyguards, while the actual job of policing the town fell to the Stepsons. Then the Beysib had arrived from a distant land, and the Prince's infatuation with their Empress led him to replace his Hell-Hounds with fish-eyed foreign guards of the Beysa's choosing.

Denied even the simplest of palace duties, the Hell-Hounds had been reassigned under loose orders to "keep an eye on the brothels and casinos north of town." Any effort on their part to intercede or affect the chaos in the town proper was met with reprimands, fines, and accusations of "meddling in things outside their authority or jurisdiction."

At first, the Hell-Hounds had hung together, practicing with their weapons and hatching dark plots over wine as to what they would do when the Stepsons and Beysib guards fell from favor and they were recalled to active duty. Exclusion from the war at Wizardwall, and finally the assassination of the Emperor, had been the final straws to' break the Hell-Hounds' spirit. The chance for reassignment was now gone. The power structure in the capital was in a turmoil, and the very existence of a few veterans posted to duty in Sanctuary was doubtlessly forgotten. They were stranded under the command of the Prince, who had no use for them at all.

Both practices and meetings had become more and more infrequent as individual Hell-Hounds found themselves drawn into the ready maw of Sanctuary's flesh-dens and gaming bars. There were always free drinks and women to be had for a Hell Hound, even when it became apparent to everyone in the town that they were no longer a force to be reckoned with. Just having one of the Hell-Hounds on the premises was a deterrent to cheats and petty criminals, so the bartenders and madames bore the expense of their indulgences willingly.

The downhill slide had been slow but certain. The whores' conversation he had overheard served to confirm what he had suspected for some time ... that the Hell-Hounds had not only fallen from favor, they were actually held in contempt by the same low-life townspeople they had once sneered at. Once-proud soldiers were now a pack of pitiful barflies ... and this town had done it to them.

Zalbar shook his head.

No. That wasn't right. His own personal downfall had been started by a specific action. It had started when he agreed to team up with Jubal in an effort to deal with Tempus. It had started with the death of ...

"Help me, Zalbar."

For once, Zalbar's nerves were under control. He didn't even look around.

"You're late," he said in a flat voice.

"Please! Help me!"

At this, Zalbar turned slowly to face his tormenter.

It was Razkuli. He was his best friend in the Hell-Hounds, or had been until Tempus killed him in revenge for Zalbar's part in the Jubal-Kurd nonsense. Actually, what confronted him was an apparition, a ghost if you will. After numerous encounters, Zalbar knew without looking that the figure before him didn't quite touch the floor as it walked or stood.

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" he demanded. "I thought you were my friend!"

"You are my friend," the form replied in a distant voice. "I have no one else to turn to. That's why you must help me!"

"Now look. We've been over this a hundred times," Zalbar said, trying to hold his temper. "I need my sleep. I can't have you popping up with your groanings every time I close my eyes. It was bad enough when you only showed up occasionally, but you're starting to drop in every night. Now either tell me how I can help you, something you've so far kept to yourself, or go away and leave me alone."

"It's cold where I am, Zalbar. I don't like it here. You know how I always hated the cold."

"Well it's no lark here either," Zalbar snapped, surprised at his own boldness. "And as for the cold ... it's winter. That means it's cold all over."

"I need your help. I can't cross over to the other side without your help! Help me and I'll trouble you no more."

Zalbar suddenly grew more attentive. That was more information than his friend's ghost had ever given him in the past ... or perhaps he had been too drunk to register what was being said.

"Cross over to where? How can I help you?"

"I can't tell you that ..."

"Oh, Vashanka!" Zalbar exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Here we go again. I can't help you if you won't tell me what ..."

"Talk to Ischade," the spirit interrupted. "She can tell you what I cannot."

"Who?" Zalbar blinked. "Ischade? You mean the weird woman living in Downwind? That Ischade?"

"Ischade ..." the ghost repeated, fading from sight.

"But ... Oh, Vashanka! Wouldn't you know it. The one time I want to talk to him and now he's gone."

Seized by a sudden inspiration, Zalbar sank back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. Maybe sleeping again would bring the irritating apparition back long enough for a few clarifying questions.

As might be expected, he slept the rest of the night undisturbed.

Zalbar awoke near midday with a fresh sense of resolve. Razkuli's ghost had finally given him some information he could act on, and he was determined to rid himself of his otherworldly nag before he slept again.

The beginning of his quest, however, was delayed until nearly nightfall. The hangover he had eluded for his late-night conference with the spirit descended on him with a vengeance now that its ally, the sun, was shining bright. As a result, he spent most of the day abed, weak-limbed and fuzzy-headed, waiting until the traditional penance for overindulgence had passed before sallying forth. He might have convinced himself to wait until the next day, but all through his recovery he had clung to one thought like a buoy on a stormy sea.

It's almost over. Talk to Ischade. Talk to Ischade and I can sleep again.

Thus it was that a wobbly Zalbar donned his uniform and ventured out into the last rays of the setting sun, determined to rid himself of his nighttime tormenter or die in the attempt ... which, at the moment, seemed a reasonably attractive option.

It was his intention to follow the North Road, which skirted the city's walls, to the bridge over the White Foal River, thereby avoiding the streets of the city proper. It was well known that, following the Hell-Hounds' removal, the chaos in town had evolved into vicious street fighting between rival factions, and he had no desire to be delayed by a brawl. Once he had walked unafraid even in the Maze, the heart of Sanctuary's underground. Now, that was someone else's concern and there was no need to take unnecessary risks.

The further he went, the more he realized that he had underestimated the extent of the urban warfare. Even here, outside the city, his trained eye could detect signs of preparations for violence. There were boxes and barrels stacked in formations clearly designed for cover and defense rather than for storage, and there were any number of armed men lounging in corners with no apparent purpose other than to serve as lookouts. Despite his weakened condition, Zalbar grew more tense as he walked, feeling scores of concealed eyes watching him ... appraising his strength. Perhaps he should have taken the longer route, skirting the town to the east, then passing south along the wharfs where violence was least likely. Too late to turn back now. He'd just have to brazen it through and hope enough respect lingered for the Hell-Hounds' uniform to give him safe passage.