The slim figure moved quickly through the endless night. He bypassed the corpse of the sentinel, and continued to his checkpoint. He smiled to himself. The sentinel would never have thought that aggression might be used against its solid, titanium shell. All of the hand-held weapons that he had carried had failed against the sentinel except the Particle Shooter. It must have pierced a hole deep within the sentinel's body. The crystals that he had stolen from the perimeter of the Valley glowed even through the protective layering of blackness the human wore. He cursed softly.

"The damned crystals must be trying to inform their creator of their 'departure.'" He thought, a grim expression on his face. He slowed as he neared the checkpoint where he was to meet the courier. As he rested, he heard the soft humming that indicated that a Master was nearby. An ominous shadow advanced toward the human. The human whistled softly. The Masters certainly cared a lot about this job. They didn't even send a human as a courier.

"The mission must be very important," he thought.

"Do you have the crystals?" a voice rasped.

"Of course," the thief said. "And I'll be happy to give them to you. That is, when I'm given my payment."

A low, angry hiss emanated from the shadow.

"Very well, impudent human. We shall trade. A gem for a crystal. Hold out your hand, and I will extend mine." The mercenary looked for signs of betrayal, and detected none.

"All right," he said, and extended a gloved hand with a glowing crystal. Even in the darkness, the thief could see the Master's eyes glint with greed.

The Master extended a long, thin hand that held a large gem. The thief's eyes widened with surprise. He could buy a whole kingdom with that gem alone. The two exchanged their valued items, the thief slipping the gem into a secret pocket. The Master held the crystal up to its face, which glowed an eerie color, highlighting the elongated features of its face.

"Ah. Good work, burglar. Now, give me the other crystal." The mercenary bristled at the derogatory appellation of his line of work.

Now, foolish Master, he thought to himself, I won't give you the other crystal.

"Excuse me, sir." He said aloud to the Master. "I'm afraid that I only found the one crystal I gave you already." The Master straightened.

"Human, relinquish the other crystal immediately! I have no time to waste!"

The Master quickly drew a small energy pistol and aimed it toward the thief. The thief, faster than the Master, drew a miniature stun gun and shot the weapon hand of the Master. The Master screamed in outrage as his pistol was blasted away. Instinctively, as the Master gripped his injured arm, the thief bolted into the night.

A shower of sparks burst forth from the area around the torso of the Master, and a third hand extended itself, brandishing a disintegration ray. The Master fired with inhuman accuracy at the retreating figure. Instantly, amongst a myriad of exploding energies, the thief disintegrated into thin air. The Master proceeded to where the human had once existed. Bending low, he picked up the glowing crystal, the only thing unaffected by the disintegrating ray. His eyes lit up with an unearthly glow of their own as he regarded the crystal.

"Now," the voice rasped. "A regime of terror and mayhem will begin starting here, in the Valley, but it will spread. Without these crystals acting as shields, their influence will spread to all the surrounding kingdoms and empires on this continent. We will place these crystals exactly in the right places, in order that the time-altering influence of the Valley will not reach our continent." The Master slowly hovered to where he had left a small aeronautical vehicle, and locked himself in position.

"These petty humans will soon know the true meaning of suffering," he said, and vanished into the night.

***

Porthos ran through the darkened streets, hoping, praying to find a doctor in time.

He came to the village healer's house, and knocked, but to no avail. The healer was not there. Porthos hastened to the only tavern open during winter, the Brass Pitcher. He skidded to a halt and, breathing heavily, he opened the door.

The tavern was quite full, as it was a cold winter night, and a rehabilitating fire burned on the hearth. Porthos looked around, and when he could not detect the healer's whereabouts, he stepped forward and cleared his throat. Instantly, all eyes turned toward him. Porthos combated the feeling to run away into the night and never stop.

"Please, if anyone here knows anything about the arts of healing, I need your help. Please!" Through the jumble of bodies, a heavy man in a white cloak pushed his way toward Porthos. Porthos recognized him as the village healer, in his casual garb.

"There, there Porthos." The healer said in a soothing tone. "Why don't you slow it down, son, slow it down. Now, what's the problem." Porthos felt reassured by the familiar presence of the healer and talked a little less shriller than before.

"My uncle, Arad, is dying, afflicted by a strange disease." The healer looked unhappy.

"I am sorry, son, but it sounds like it's just your uncle's time. I can help make his last moments less painful, but I'm afraid it doesn't sound like he can recover."

"But you don't understand." Porthos's voice got louder as his impatience rose. "My uncle was in perfect health! He was young, active! This debilitating disease has seemed to make time speed up for him." He broke down, and began sobbing. The healer advanced slowly to Porthos, and put his arm Porthos's shoulder. Porthos's wailing continued, until a low but piercing voice came from the crowd, speaking only one word, "Time." The crowd parted as a tall man in a multi-colored robe seemed to walk on air toward Porthos and the healer. The healer stood up immediately and bowed before the priest.

"Your grace," he intoned, and covered his face. The priest held up his hand for the healer to discontinue his protocol.

"Time," the priest repeated, and knelt before Porthos. "Boy, what is your name." The words of the priest were more like a command than a question.

"P-porthos, grace," Porthos stuttered, for he had never seen a priest of the Timeless One, the deity of time and numbers, for they were incredibly elusive. The priest laid a comforting hand on Porthos' shoulder.

"Porthos, my friend. Did you say your uncle was afflicted by time?" Porthos could only nod, too awed to speak. "Then, we shall proceed to his dwelling at once." He stood up and pointed at the healer, who stood frozen nearby. "You will come with us." The healer at once began to bow profusely.

"Thank you your grace, you honor me too much." The priest looked disgusted.

"Enough conversation. We go now." He then proceeded out the tavern door, Porthos and the healer still in shock from the incredible visitor. The healer awoke from his reverie quickly.

"Quick, Porthos," he said, rousing the youth. "We don't wish to anger his grace." The two quickly exited the tavern, leaving the other patrons still standing in shock.

At the edge of the village, facing the mountains, the structure where Porthos and his uncle lived was situated. Three figures raced through the darkness toward the hovel, one with a multicolored robe, the other two not nearly as well dressed. As the first figure approached the hovel, he motioned to the other two to come closer.

"What's going to happen?" Porthos whispered to the healer in a loud whisper. The healer quickly waved his hand for Porthos to cease talking. The two friends held each other to drive away the fear of what might occur from the visit of such a prestigious visitor. The priest cautiously entered the door of the hovel, and the healer and Porthos carefully followed in the priest's footsteps. As the healer peered into the opening meant for a door, he barely withheld a gasp of horror.

The healer stumbled forward, consternation evident on his face. There on the sole bed in the hovel was Porthos' Uncle Arad. The old man was shriveled and wrinkled, as though all moisture had been drained from his face. The healer remembered Arad as a bright, jovial man, even in times of destitution and sorrow. The last time the healer had seen him, he was not thirty years of age, and his hair had not yet begun to whiten, except at the roots. The wizened man before him barely resembled Arad's previous healthy figure. The priest was kneeling next to the bed, while Porthos stood peering over him, barely holding back his tears. With a sudden motion, the priest stood up and whirled toward Porthos.

"When did these symptoms commence?" The priest asked quickly.

"Uh, uh," Porthos stuttered. "Around two weeks ago." He quickly composed himself. "My uncle was first just feeling sick for a while, but then he started aging faster and faster, and there was nothing, nothing I could do!" Tears once again began to flow from Porthos' eyes, as he could not hold back anymore. The priest looked thoughtful.

"I will need to hold meditation with the Timeless One to discover the meaning of this outbreak. As for you, young lad." He turned to Porthos, whose tears still streamed down his cheeks. "I am afraid that there is nothing that can be done for your uncle. When I return from my sojourn to the Holy Valley, if you still reside here, I will bring news of any recent developments." Porthos looked toward the priest with new hope. The priest held up his hand. "However, my eager young friend, I cannot guarantee that I will be able to come back anytime soon. The elapsed time could be anywhere from a month to a decade. I must depart now, young lad. Give my regards to the healer."

The priest took out a small hourglass, and tossed it onto the floor of the hovel. An enormous cloud of dust billowed out from the priest. When the dust settled, the priest was gone. Porthos and the healer clutched each other in an effort to gain hope, but they

realized that the priest was most likely not coming back.

***

The humans worked incessantly, without respite. The gargantuan metallic edifice they built reached far into the sky. No one knew the purpose of the structure. One human, a diminutive young man by the name of Gallos, paused a moment to wipe his brow. Almost instantly a harsh voice berated him.

"Get back to work, human scum!" Gallos withheld the urge to lash out at the Master he knew was watching closely right behind him, and picked up his drill again, ignoring, with no small difficulty, how his arm cramped up with a sharp pain. With a contemptuous snort, the Master continued on its route. Gallos deliberately drilled an extra hole in the metal casing before calming down. He only had one hour left in his work period, then he could finally proceed home. Home. The only home Gallos had was the one where he lived with other men. He never knew his parents well, and did not know of any siblings. He knew better than to question the "orders" of the "Masters", as his oppressors dubbed themselves, but which to him was obviously a misnomer. The last human to refuse to do work until he learned the reason was killed in a way that still gave Gallos nightmares. The hour passed slowly, and every turn of the drill seemed longer than the last. At last the bell rang, and the Master called "Next shift, now, you scum!"

Gallos put his tools back in the tool-house, and proceeded back to the settlement. The bunk-house where he lived was a large building, fairly comfortable, with ample space for all of his bunk-mates to sleep. The dining hall adjacent to the bunk-house was, however, squalid and filthy, and Gallos avoided eating there as much as he could, grabbing what little he could from the secretive black market, before the Masters caught wind of his doings. He quietly slunk into an alleyway and knocked three times. A small figure with an oversized cloak emerged from the shadows.

"Care to buy some food?" The raspy voice was familiar if irritating to Gallos. It was indeed the same man who always sold him food. Gallos produced a small copper coin and handed it to the short figure. The man withdrew a basket from the multitudinous folds of his cloak and removed a chunk of bread and some cheese. Gallos eagerly grabbed at the warm morsels and stuffed the food into his mouth. As the small figure withdrew into the shadows, Gallos wondered, as he always did, where his beneficiary received his supply of forbidden foods. No foreign foods were permitted in the city, and no bakery or farmer made bread or cheese in any city Gallos knew of. Granted, he knew of few cities, but his only source of fresh produce ever since he was drafted into the work force was the short figure who resided in the darkened corner. Gallos did not even know if the figure was even human. Certainly the Masters were not.

Shaking his head, Gallos returned to his bunk-house for some much-needed sleep. He had no more time to think, only to work and sleep. His "rebellious" thoughts would have to wait for another day. At least the Masters rarely bothered anyone at night.

***

"Given the recent events, I really think you should reconsider." Grimmore wheeled toward the sage who accosted him.

"Rischel, I don't think that your 'circumstantial' events that you've been so diligent with reporting would require a council meeting." He said with a snarl. "We have much more important matters to discuss. Besides," he said as an afterthought, "with your diminutive rank, the council would not even listen to your ranting and raving. Do not think for one minute that I won't report this to your teacher." Grimmore pointed a long, bony finger at Rischel, and wagged it at the younger sage. Grimmore sneered, then turned away. Rischel put on an injured air until it became obvious that the council-member would not pay attention to Rischel's claims. He sighed. He heard too many tales of horrible events had been occurring around the kingdom and its neighbors.

Rischel shook his head. Perhaps his sources were wrong. It did seem hard to believe that so many coincidences were possible, yet Rischel himself had seen one of the cases with his own eyes.

He still remembered the eyes of the boy he had abandoned. The boy probably thought that Rischel had forgotten him. With a sigh, Rischel leaned onto the posts of the doorway. Rischel knew that he should return to see the boy, but the man knew that the boy was probably gone.

Frowning, Rischel walked quickly out to the entrance of the university. He glanced around to ensure that no one else was observing, and began to incant a spell. Slowly at first, then increasingly quicker, Rischel's form changed. He grew taller, his hair became more gray, and his robe turned to a rainbow color from the previously monochrome pigment. The transformation was complete. Rischel was no longer a young sage but an ancient priest of the Timeless One. He had attempted to convince the Sage's Council, as well as the Philosopher's Guild in Yllania and the Academy of Specularum, and even the Yllanian and the Imperial Desert Council governments, to no avail. There was only one place left to go.

With an ill-concealed sigh, Rischel activated the hourglass that would transport him back to the Valley. They had to listen. After the terrible vision of the aged man, Rischel had taken upon himself to unravel this time-related mystery, and only his fellow priests could help him now.

***

The High Priest was writing furiously on several sheaves of paper when Rischel arrived in the inner sanctum. Rischel had had to almost force his way past the acolyte that guarded the inner sanctum, but the acolyte had finally relented. Rischel waited a minute for the High Priest to recognize him, but as the High Priest was engrossed in his work, Rischel had to clear his throat to get the High Priest's attention. At the unexpected noise, the High Priest looked up at Rischel with an exasperated look.

"Yes, Rischel?" The High Priest's tone was not very encouraging, but Rischel knew he had to continue.

"Master, I have matters of utmost importance that I need to discuss with you at once." The High Priest frowned.

"Rischel, at any other time I would be accessible to your request, but now my attentions must be spent on grave matters that have come to my attention. Perhaps you were unaware of this, but several of the barrier crystals have been stolen from the perimeter of the Valley, and I'm afraid all of my attentions must be focused on this other matter." Comprehension dawned on Rischel.

"That explains what's been happening. Listen, Master, I have evidence of strange temporal anomalies occurring recently that I believe are directly related to the theft of the crystals. There have been several people lately who have been afflicted with some kind of

temporal disease, causing them to age prematurely." The High Priest continued to write.

"Well, Master, can you please at least think about what I'm saying?" The High Priest arose with an abrupt motion, fury evident on his face.

"Rischel, how dare to you be so presumptuous as to imply that I need to listen to you?!" Rischel fell to the floor, prostrating himself in front of the High Priest, begging forgiveness. The High Priest, not appeased, frowned at Rischel's subservient form. "Perhaps you would be interested in a new assignment." Rischel looked up, confused, at the High Priest.

"An assignment, perhaps, of recruiting?" Rischel could not help but flinch, as recruiting was considered the most menial assignment given. The High Priest handed Rischel a list with numerous names. "You'd better get started." The High Priest settled back into his chair and resumed working, leaving a stunned Rischel standing in his office.

***