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With a heavy pant, Marcus crossed the threshold of the mountainous spiral staircase and into the brightly lit treasure room. "I... I -heh - heh- I did it... I got -pant- I got... got the seal..." His voice was strained, half delirious with exhaustion and pain. The wolf slumped against a pile of gold, one hand still clutching the heavy bronze disk. The return journey, though uneventful, had been more exhaustive than he'd anticipated due to the wounds he'd sustained. He squinted, Astari's scaley face swimming in and out of focus. It was hard to read the expression of such a large and alien face, but to Marcus' addled brain, the wide violet eyes and half-open jaw looked like intense concern.

"Just a few more steps," said Astari, his bass voice was sharp and apprehensive. "I can't keep you alive if you don't break the seal. I know you're bleeding like mad. Just a few more steps!" There was a great clanking of chains as Astari strained to reach Marcus. With a monumental effort, the wolf took a dozen staggering steps, reaching the stone dais. Astari presented his right forepaw, and Marcus pressed the bronze disk into the slot on the enchanted bindings. With a deafening crack and the tinkle like shattered glass, the chain binding the dragon's paw exploded into particles as fine as winter snow. As Marcus registered that the second seal was broken, he swayed on the spot in relief, and in a second that seemed to stretch for hours, the wolf's world went dark.

Words swam in the darkness, echoey and distant. A chorus whispered his name through a black mist: female, male, soft, loud, high, and low. "Marcus... Marcus... Are you there Marcus?" Faces swam before him: the white mouse, the austere pinscher, the keen feline. As if watching himself from a great distance, Marcus saw a flash of bared, white teeth, heard a low, bestial growl. "Wake up Marcus!" He tried to raise his arm to swipe at his phantoms, but it felt deadened and heavy.

A deep, earth shaking rumble broke through the darkness. "MARCUS! Wake UP!!" The wolf's emerald eyes snapped open, assaulted by a dull ache that made his whole body seem impossibly heavy. Astari was starting as him intently. A massive foreclaw was touching the center of his chest, each contact wreathing the wolf in a halo of blue-white light.

His whole body was warm and sticky. Blinking blearily, Marcus moved his head with monumental effort. He was lying in a pool of blood. His blood. The wolf laughed, more like a cough that wracked his damaged ribs. He tasted a noxious mix of blood and bile. "Heh... Didn't know I had that much blood in me."

"You are phenomenally lucky, Marcus," grumbled Astari. "If you'd passed out before you'd broken the seal you'd have deader than the residents of this blighted cave. Luckier still that the magic returned fast enough that I could start to close up your injuries." Throughout his grumblings, Astari kept jabbing at Marcus' chest, illuminating the whole chamber as the nimbus of healing light reflected off the mountains of gold. "What happened down there?"

"There were some skeletons, just like the top floor..." Marcus recounted his exploration of The Coffin. Talking helped him regain his focus, the residual pain sharpening as the weight of his exhaustion lifted. Astari kept encouraging him for details, his face lightening as his prompts for conversation nudged the wolf towards clarity. "Actually, that minotaur was a windfall in disguise. If it hadn't destroyed the sarcophagus, I'd never have found the seal."

Astari nodded, half listening as he continued to tend to the wolf. His scaley face was frowning. "Nothing doing... I'll need you to take off that coat. I need to see the gory details if I'm to fix you up properly. Can you stand?"

Marcus steeled himself before using Astari's foreclaw as a brace. The pain was greatly reduced from his foray into The Coffin. What was most unpleasant was the sickly, sticky sensation of his half-dried blood on his back. He staggered once, but managed to stay up. Marcus was surprisingly steady on his feet. His left hand unclasped his coat, flinging it away so that no more blood would sully the garment. The wolf stared down at his own chest, surprised at how badly damaged it was. The thin, deep wounds from the rapiers were closed, but his broken ribs were hideously damaged from his fight with the minotaur. More than half of his ribcage was visible, pressing against the skin beneath his greying pelt. Such a sight would have been nauseating to one less seasoned than Marcus.

Astari turned his head so that one faintly glowing eye was inches away from his chest. "How?!" His low voice was an octave higher due to profound bewilderment.

"What?"

"Just...how?! How did you manage to survive with injuries like that, let alone fight a giant bull?! Do you just not feel pain?" Astari's claw was tracing the protruding bones, glowing blue like when he healed his stab wounds. Marcus flinched as he felt the bones inside his chest rearrange themselves, as if Astari was manipulating complex puzzle pieces rather than reconstructing a living body. It was one of the most unsettling sensations Marcus had ever experienced.

"In a way, yes," said Marcus, sighing in relief as his sword arm began to mend under Astari's ministrations. "My master was a Disciple of the Deepest Fathoms. It was her teachings that allowed me to keep going down there."

The ridges around Astari's eyes rose in interest, peering at Marcus with interest. With a few more taps, the last of Marcus' injuries faded away into nothing but unpleasant memory. "That is something I've never heard of before, even in my exceptionally long lifespan. Do tell, if it would please you."

Marcus instead pointed behind Astari. "Would you like me to remove my sword? I doubt it feels good, lodged in your foot, eh?"

Astari's rumbling chuckle shook Marcus' newly mended bones. "It's not too bad, to be honest. Throbs like mad though. Just wrench it out and I'll be able to close it up." Marcus curled his fingers around Nimbus with relish, grateful to feel his beloved weapon in his hands again. With a wet schnick of scales on metal, Marcus pulled his sword from Astari's hindpaw. Another, brighter halo illuminated the treasure room. Marcus watched in awe as he saw Astari's flesh reknit itself, scales growing over the once gaping wound. "Hmmmm," said Astari, practically purring. His chains clanked as his body shuddered in relief. "That's a proverbial thorn in my side I'm glad to be rid of. What is that blade made of, that it can so easily pierce dragonhide?"

"Just steel," said Marcus, nonchalantly. "Ismaira made it herself, and when she died, she passed it to me. It's a blade with no equal. Not even enchanted swords are above Nimbus." The wolf hefted the great sword, finding three weight of the blade heavier than he'd remembered but comforting all the same. "At least, in the right hands."

"Couldn't one argue that any blade is more potent in the hands of a master?"

Marcus shrugged, taking the sword and walking to the stream trickling through the treasure room. The wolf gently dipped the top of the blade into the water, running his palm across where the blade had been lodged in Astari's paw. The gore on the sword was clotted and messy, and it took many minutes for Marcus to return the blade to its proper, gleaming state.

Marcus didn't speak for two whole minutes. Only once Nimbus was clean did he let the icy, clear water flow over his bare chest and limbs. As his own blood washed off his body, Marcus watched the dark red cloud of gore follow the flow of the stream, the water uncontaminated. Astari occupied himself by magicking away the blood on his stone dais. The pair spoke again only after they completed their ablutions. "I believe a ' thank you ' is far overdue. What is it, twice now, that you've saved my hide?"

"That'd be correct," nodded Astari, exhaling through his nose as he did so and washing Marcus in a wave of icy wind. "But I think you do give me too much credit. In reality I'm no saint. I have just as much interest in your survival as you do. You're my one chance to escape eons of bondage. Of course I'd want you to survive."

"Doesn't mean I shouldn't be thankful," shrugged Marcus. "Self-interest doesn't negate the fact that I'm still not dead." The wolf's muzzle cracked into a ghost of a smile. "And who should blame you for wanting to escape imprisonment?"

"Perhaps my jailor?" proffered Astari, his tone sardonic as he laid back down on the dais with a clank of chains. "But if you want to thank me, tell me about this Ismaira. You said she was your swordmaster... sword, uh, mistress?"

"You'd get a wrap on the knuckles for addressing her as anything but Master," chortled Marcus, absently rubbing his right hand. "Why so curious about the old viper?"

Astari clacked his claws absently against the dais. "A number of reasons, primarily that you alluded to a martial art i've never heard of before, as well as the fact that this sword master of yours constructed the weapons you hold so precious. Also, what better things do we have to do in this gilded cage?

The wolf say at the edge of the dais, cross legged before the massive dragon. "Well... I'm unsure where to start. She was a swordswoman of great renown, and was a bit of a folk hero in Eqbale, where she was born. She lead a life quite similar to mine, a life of exploring and spelunking and assorted things that would make an archeologist cringe." Marcus smiled ruefully. "But when she retired, she was practically mobbed by potential students, begging for her to pass her ways on to a new generation. She quickly vacated her homeland for the mountains. It wasn't that she was opposed to the idea of teaching, I'm living proof of that, but I can imagine how tiring it would be to have every young journeyman prostrate themselves at your feet, begging to become a student."

Astari nodded, his lip curling into a slight grin. "I know the feeling." Marcus raised an eyebrow at this remark. "Oh, it sort of comes with territory of being a dragon," said Astari, his chains clanking restlessly. His tone took on an air of awestruck wonder. "Oh mighty dragon, tell me your secrets! What arcane lore resides in your timeless mind?" Astari rolled his purple eyes. "I mean, they're not exactly misguided. I've spent much of my life to the art of wizardry, when I was free, at least. But there are plenty of my kin out there who couldn't give a damn about the art of spellcraft. But just because I'm big and covered in scales, some people think I'm a font of ancient wisdom."

Marcus chuckled sympathetically. "You'd have gotten along with Ismaira quite well, I think. Her intention in moving to the mountains was that any student who was dedicated enough to scale some wretched mountain was dedicated enough to learn the sword her way. At least that's why I think she moved there. When I learned the sword, there were five of us."

"And all five of you learned of this swordsmaster and climbed some godsforsaken mountain? At the same time?"

"Well, students coming in groups wasn't as uncommon as you think," shrugged Marcus. "Think about it. Climbing a mountain alone is incredibly dangerous. If you have someone to watch your back so a sabrecat doesn't pounce on you, or to throw you a rope if you take a bad fall. There's a reason you don't normally meet solo adventurers. They just don't last very long."

At this, Astari made a sort of tut-tutting sound. Marcus peered at the dragon over the top of his nose, a little miffed at the interruption and awaiting an explanation. "Not to be sanctimonious upon my throne of chains, but it seems you were forgoing your own advice. By my reckoning, it seems that you entered one of the most dangerous caves in the world without a friend by your side. It's almost like you had a deathwish."

Marcus chose to let the rebuke pass, instead keeping on with his story. "But despite the fact that groups of potential students scaled great snowy mountains to find my swordmaster, I never had to go through that ordeal. I sort of... just fell into Ismaira's lap, so to speak."

The scaly ridges about Astari's eyes rose. "How curious. The way you say it, it seems like someone climbed a great bloody mountain just to drop a pup on someone else's doorstep? Seems like parenting the child would be less effort." Astari paused before shaking his great head. "I'm sorry. Such a joke was uncouth."

Marcus actually let out a loud laugh, a sort of exhalation of mirth. His muzzle cracked into a true grin for the first time since waking up from his ordeal. "There was a mountain village not too far from Ismaira's hut. From what Ismaira told me, wolfkin weren't very common amongst them. Perhaps I was conceived by an explorer or traveler, and my birth would have been considered shameful. But I never really concerned myself with such matters. I never felt the drive to learn my origin or who my real parents. What was important was that Ismaira raised me, and in my opinion, the old mongoose did fairly well. She was never one to coddle or sugar-coat, which was probably why she was commonly referred to as "The Viper."

"How ironic that a mongoose was called Viper," said Astarit with a slight snort, sending another blast of cold air past Marcus. "So you grew up under the wing of an aged, battle-hardened swordmaster?"

"Indeed," nodded Marcus. "It never dull, that was for sure. The funny thing was that Ismaira never insisted I learned how to use a sword. She certainly taught me, but the closest thing I ever got to sword play in the first ten years of my life was learning blacksmithing. She also taught me to survive in harsh wilderness, to track animals and learn what different wild plants did. I had asked her to teach me the blade when I turned ten, but it took nearly three years of mental training before she let me pick up a sword."

"Oh, is this... what did you call it, the art of The Deepest Fathoms? I've never heard of such a thing. I hope telling me more wouldn't be some sort of breach of secrecy?"

"Considering the circumstances, it wouldn't matter anyway," shrugged Marcus. "It was Ismaira's secret to her sword play, her ability to master any weapon laid in front of her." The wolf imitated a severe, matter-of-fact voice, heavy with the wisdom gleaned from decades of experience. "Any fool can pick up a sword and swing it around. The truest way to tame a blade is to tame one's inner self, to see the world for what it truly is and let that knowledge guide each and every strike."

Unconsciously, Marcus shifted into a lotus position before Astari, his coiled arms at rest in his lap. "The Way of Deepest Fathoms is a meditation technique. It simply is a way to focus the world around you by narrowing one's attention. In so many words, by ignoring extraneous stimuli, one can achieve levels of clarity when focusing on their immediate goals. It is an exceptionally potent technique when fighting single opponents. Every movement, every detail, starts to become clear to you, and a focused swordsman can adapt to those observations and use them to his advantage. It's also used to ignore things like the chaos of the battle or even personal pain, so long as the user can maintain their focus."

"So, I assume you used this technique to filter out the pain of your arm and chest?" Marcus nodded. "Still, a feat worthy of the bards," said Astari. "To be able to maintain such concentration that you could power through the most grievous of wounds. How does one achieve such a state?"

"Well, that's what those three years of training taught me," said Marcus. "To achieve the state at all took great deals of concentration. It took me nearly a year of mental exercise just to achieve the state of focus at all. From there, Ismaira would create all sorts of distractions, and I'd earn a strap of the knuckles for breaking my concentration. She'd wave a torch before my eyes, swing a blade inches from my nose, send an arrow whizzing past my ear. To use the Way of Deepest Fathoms in battle requires exceptional self-discipline. And even after one learns to ignore distractions, they must learn to enter the state of focus in an instant. One can't stop and meditate for a minute in the middle of a fight."

"And was she so rigorous with the students who scaled the mountains to learn from her?"

"But of course! Many disciples couldn't learn The Way, and thus never learned a single swing of swordplay from her. Not everyone has it in them to master such a technique"

Astari shook his head. "Climbing a great mountain only to be punted back down. I can't imagine they took it well."

"One hard-headed steer actually challenged my Master to a sparring match to earn his right to stay." Marcus' laugh was heavy with nostalgia.

"I can't imagine it went well," said Astari.

"It was over in less than six seconds," said Marcus. "He thought he had an advantage over her, as his preferred weapon was a halberd, and Master chose to fight with a measly dagger. In two swings, Ismaira cut his polearm off at the head, knocked him to the ground, and had a bull twice her size pinned with a knife at his throat."

"I'm sure he was quite cowed after such a display," laughed Astari.

Marcus looked up at the great dragon, his green eyes narrowed in mock irritation. "I daresay you should be punished for such a hideous pun. Be grateful I can't think of a punishment befitting for such a mighty creature as you."

Astari only laughed harder, the ground practically shaking with his mirth. "And just when I thought you might have a sense of humor under that gruff exterior. But do continue. This Ismaira grows ever the more fascinating as you continue to talk of her. You said you were thirteen when you mastered this Way?"

Marcus nodded his assent. "I had reached the level of mastery that she deemed 'adequate' not a fortnight before a group of four students came before her front door. It was then that she asked me, for the first time, If I thought I was ready to learn the blade. In retrospect, it was good of her to wait until I had peers, even if I was the youngest, by a number of years."

"Four of them, you said. Did they all manage to stay?"

"Indeed. The first there was Rhea, a dove with feathers whiter than the snow. She was the first of the new pupils to master the way. She was also quite a dangerous combatant. She actually fought unarmed, and she practiced a style that focused on dispatching an enemy non-lethally. She was also really tiny, but she could pick me up and throw me like I was a sack of flour." Marcus smiled in his reminiscence. "Arainne was the second student. She was a gecko from Gealbra, and she'd actually grown up around the folk-legends that sprouted about Ismaira. Her fighting style was the flashiest of all of us. She used a weapon that I'd never seen before, a sort of staff-sword thing with blades on both ends, called it a twinblade. She said it was a family heirloom."

Astari drummed his four sets of claws against the stone at a mention of this. "Now that you mention it, I have heard of a weapon like the one you mentioned. But the only time I remember reading about was in a text dating back for hundreds, if not thousands of years. It's quite impressive such a weapon survived the ravages of time. But here I go interrupting again."

"One of the things about Ismaira was that she was a true savant when it came to learning to wield weapons. But she'd never heard of this twinblade before, and she practiced it when the rest of us were meditating. She was insistent on knowing the weapon as intimately as Arainne if she were to teach her anything. Watching her try to master the twinblade was one of the few times in my life that I saw my master struggle, and I think Arainne had the honor of teaching my master just as Ismaira taught her."

"Such a weapon seems baffling to wield," said Astari, his claw clacking against his lower jaw as he listened to Marcus' stories. "It would require inhuman dexterity to master such a weapon... for starters, placement of the hands would require unconscious expertise, at the cost of one's very fingers. What was fighting it like? Did you get to spar with your chosen weapons?"

"Indeed," said Marcus. "Of course they were made of wood, so as not to chop ourselves to pieces, but they were weighted to match their more lethal counterparts, and could leave welts that'd have you wincing for weeks. One of the things about my Master was that she could teach a student in any fighting style they wished. It was less about how to wield the weapon and more about how to wield oneself while maintaining the focus required to follow the Way. But when it came to sparring against Arianne I actually found the weapon somewhat easy to fight against. A twinblade has surprisingly short reach, despite the fact it's as long as most spears. Because they only place to hold it is in the very center, Arainne needed to get very close to me to score a hit. If I kept her at bay, she was very vulnerable."

"Oh? What weapon did you use then, if you'd never learned a sword before this?"

The wolf leaned back, enjoying the light crack as his stiff limbs loosened. "I wanted to learn with Nimbus, but Master forbade it. That blade was hers alone until her dying day. Instead I learned to fight with a bastard sword. Unlike Nimbus, a straight greatsword has the option of thrust attacks, although they do have a tendency to leave you vulnerable unless you can keep your foes at a long distance."

"And your other companions?"

"The only other male was Oran. Big fellow, a tiger who was nothing but muscle. He was a very defensive fighter. Spear and shield and all that. He actually specialized in combining the two when attacking. You'd be surprised how effective a strong shield bash can be, especially because no one really expects it when your opponent has a perfectly lethal weapon in the other hand." Marcus laughed a little. "Fighting him was awful. You couldn't keep your distance because he'd skewer you, and you couldn't get close because he'd cave your muzzle in." Unconsciously Marcus rubbed his nose with his left hand. "Ulna was the last. She was shorter than most ursines, but certainly just as strong. I'd also never have expected anyone to bring... I suppose I'd call it grace, to using a greataxe. I think she actually fought very similar to myself, actually." Marcus indicated Nimbus.

"Curious," said Astari. "I must admit I am amazed that your master could teach five different students in five different fighting styles with such ease. Even amongst the most learned of magicians, one tended to specialize in one field of spellcraft and then consult amongst each other when they needed an expert's opinion. Yet Ismaira seemed to decide that she could master any style of combat, and proceeded to do so. I have no other words besides _extra_ordinary." The dragon's tongue rolled over the last word, stretching the word to five syllables. "Were you there when she passed away."

Marcus closed his eyes halfway, finding the act of reminiscence oddly soothing. "Her passing was quick. She only spent a few months in a state of true infirmity, and it was then that I became her caretaker, as she was for me. But even then, she didn't stop instructing me. In her final months, she instructed me to take up Nimbus, and from her sickbed she taught me to fight as she did."

"Was it difficult to learn a fighting style through verbal instruction only?"

"It was less difficult than I would have thought," said Marcus. "Like I said before, her mastery of weapons came from The Way, not a particular specialization with a blade. However, Nimbus is a truly unique weapon. It was Ismaira who forged the blade, and Ismaira who developed a way to wield it." Marcus stood up, noticing Astari's gaze of intense curiosity. "It would really be easier to show you how it's done."

The wolf stood up, a little stiffly. He'd been talking for much longer than he thought. His right arm felt a little stiff, but he rolled it around until it began to feel normal. Reaching down, Marcus picked up the familiar blade, taking a wide stance, with the hilt of the sword resting against his left knee. With a deliberate step forward, Marcus drew the blade back, so that the hilt was even with his hip. The wolf curled his torso and began to bring the sword up and around, using his whole body to strike at whiplash speed, the slash traveling from the tip of Marcus' right ear back down to his hip again. But as Marcus brought the blade up, a lance of fiery pain shot through his arm again. There was a clatter of steel as Nimbus fell from Marcus' grip. The wolf himself fell down after his blade, landing on all fours. He'd fallen mostly out of surprise, but his cheeks burned with shame and rage. Just when he'd thought he'd gotten his sword back...

Astari stretched his neck out towards Marcus, his visage was of that of deepest concern again. "What happened?" Marcus growled and shook his head. Marcus was pleased Astari had forgone the obvious question of 'are you allright?' "I don't know," grunted the wolf. "The moment I tried to swing Nimbus around, my right arm sort of... clenched."

Astari strained at his chains, trying to get a closer look at Marcus' arm. "Can you come closer?" Marcus got up, a little unsteadily this time. His arm was still burning. The great dragon strained at his chains, peering at the powerful, corded arm with a massive eye. "Earlier... you said there was some sort of lightning trap in the maze?" Marcus nodded. "hrmm... I bet the musculature got all seized up... and since you were doing your best to block out the pain, you didn't notice anything odd when you got shocked, no?"

"Well... I mean, my arm hurt before i got shocked, and my arm hurt after i got shocked. I wasn't really in a place to dissect the exact nature of my injuries," grunted Marcus.

Astari grumbled to himself. "I wish I could see properly. Damned chains..." More loudly, he said, "Your sword arm is in a uniquely inconvenient state right now. With the second seal gone, I can heal flesh wounds just fine, as they tend to be nonthreatening when healing on their own. Restoring blood loss isn't difficult either. Even bones can be fixed if I line them up inside you properly instead of trying to simply regrow them. All I really did was expediate the natural healing process and save you the risk of infection. But muscles are actually some of the hardest things to fix. Each fiber has a very specific place that it belongs to in the body, and sloppy spell work could cause you permanent damage."

"I see," said Marcus, trying to control his sense of sarcasm.

The corners of Astari's mouth twitched a little. "The abridged version is this. I can't heal your arm properly without more magic at my disposal. The risk of long term or permanent damage is high, and it would be significantly easier to repair your arm, even if it were further damaged, in one shot. The alternative would be patching your arm up before it inevitably gets damaged again, and then I'd have to undo my previous spellcraft before attempting to fix it proper. Regardless, restoring your arm to its original level of prowess requires us to find the third seal."

"Understood," said Marcus, dourly. He picked up Nimbus and inspected the blade for blemishes.

After a silence, Astari whispered, as much as a massive dragon could whisper, at the least, "It still astounds me, how much you love that weapon. Even when you were fresh off of death's doorstep, drenched in your own blood, the first thing you did was wash your _sword." _The dragon let out a sort of laugh, heavy with morbidity.

"It is the only thing I have from my master. The one relic of the closest thing I ever had to a parent," said Marcus. "I spent years with this weapon. I've felled countless monsters, won more duels than I can remember, because I wield this weapon as easily and intimately as though it were one of my limbs. In my more than twenty years as a warrior, this blade has merged with me to be part of my very self. It would be like if you lost your wings, and you knew you'd be doomed to never fly again." Belatedly, Marcus looked at the ceiling, and then to Astari's chains. "I...sorry."

"I know what you mean," said Astari, clearly unperturbed. "What you need to do is eat and rest. Even if I knew where the next seal is, you're in no condition to rush back into the bowels of the Coffin. You seem to forget that you just collapsed at my feet an hour ago."

Marcus nodded. Astari was right. "Wake me if it's been too long."

Astari shook his head, jangling his crystal chains. "Unless you're dying, you can sleep as long as you like. What's a few hours compared to hundreds of years? If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd have been trying to kill yourself at the pace you're going." Marcus just sighed, picking up the knapsack that had been lying near the dais. After a paltry meal of hardtack and bruised fruit, Marcus collapsed back onto a coin pile, fading quickly into the soft arms of a deep sleep.