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discarded everything but his black shirt and breeches, and the sword.
    Darien summoned all his strength and charged forward into the water. He swam out into the fog, keeping just below the water’s surface as much as possible, surfacing only briefly to collect his breath. He could see nothing in front of him, and the shore quickly faded behind. He found no way to mark his progress or even know that he was still on course, as the bottom lay far below out of sight. As he continued, he began to tire. Even the Demon Sword could not keep him moving for much longer. His will wavered, and he wondered if it might not be better to simply give up, sinking to the bottom and accepting the futility of his struggle. Yet, he did not. Whatever force kept him moving forward, whether it was something from the Demon Sword or from inside himself, was enough.
    After what seemed like ages, he saw dim shapes in the water in front of him. He surged forward, throwing all the last of his strength into one final push. At last, he could see the bottom rising rapidly up beneath him. Finally, he laid his hand upon dry ground, heaved himself up on the bank, and laid the sword a few feet away. The moment it left his hand, he became aware of the incredible pain in his body. He had pushed his body farther than ever before, and the pain tore through him as though every muscle was burning from the inside out. Fortunately, exhaustion quickly overcame pain, and Darien slept, a deep, dark, and troubled sleep.

Chapter 4. An Encounter in the Fog
    Thin rays of yellow sunlight danced in the fog as it stirred overhead. The fog concealed the sun’s position, leaving the sky a cloud of shifting shades of light gray and white. Darien lay on his back just where he had laid down, and stared up into it wondering how long he had been asleep. He might have slept for days for all he knew. He sat up, looked around, and attempted to orient himself. The fog made it hard to see more than a few yards in any direction, but he could make out the shapes of structures further from the bank. Blurred shapes of fallen archways, broken spires, and ruined buildings formed and then disappeared in the shifting gray distance. I must have found the island, Darien reasoned, but I cannot afford to linger long here. The Master will eventually guess where I am, if he hasn’t already. His servants won’t be able to cross the lake as easily as I, but I still shouldn’t linger here. I have to get across the island to the western side, then swim to the western bank of the Saldean.
    The bedraggled fugitive picked up the Demon Sword, and trudged into the fog, across what must once have been the ruins of an old city. He stumbled through stone paths, which might have been narrow streets, or hallways whose ceilings had long ago crumbled. Long years of weathering had worn the limestone bricks, leaving them with sharp edges, long grooves, and deep pits. Bright green moss, nourished by the moisture of the fog, dotted most of the stones, and wholly covered many of the dilapidated structures. Darien followed the streets to the west, careful to keep to a straight line. In fog such as this, even without magic, it was perilously easy to become disoriented, and end up walking aimlessly in circles.
    After about a half hour of walking, a malaise began to fall over him. He became aware of the pain in his body again. His sleep, however long it had been, had been too little to fully recover. More troubling were the effects of the Demon Sword. A strange, unnatural sensation, like a cold emanating from within his own body, ran from his shoulders down to the palms of his hands, especially his right hand, which held the weapon. The fog played tricks with his eyes. Out of the corners of his eyes, the Executioner saw the shapes of pursuers, and he would whip his head round only to see them disappear into the sullen fog. Worse yet were the whispers, unintelligible murmurs coming from somewhere behind him. They began as