He had never feared anything in his life, but now, as the shores of the Isle of Klannaad came into view, the Lord High Executioner felt a shiver of apprehension. Klannaad, the Isle of Living Death. Traitors were sent here to die. Outcasts. Those who were in disfavor with the Lord of Mouldour, or with the Interrogator.

It was a bleak land, gray and barren. There was no water on the island save for that brought by ship each month. The men lived on the victuals that were brought with the water ration, and what they could catch in the sea. Those who were lucky were allowed to roam free; others were confined in the bowels of the prison, never again to see the sun.

The Executioner wondered how long he would survive in such a desolate place. He was accustomed to rich foods and fine ale, to comfortable quarters and garments custom-made to fit his oddly shaped form. Though his occupation was viewed with loathing, he had still been respected, for he was good at what he did, and his loyalty to Mouldour was above question or reproach. It was unfair that he had been banished from service to the royal house for one mistake.

Looking back, he tried to remember what had happened that fateful day, how he had been taken unawares. He hadn't seen anyone else in the dungeons . . . ah, but he had. And yet, the man had been dressed as a guard and so he had paid him no mind. Only now did he realize that it must have been the shape shifter, Hardane.

"Damn you," the Executioner murmured as he watched the ship catch the tide. "Damn you, Hardane. You'll rue the day you crossed my path."

He stood there for a time, watching the ship grow smaller and smaller, and then he smiled. It was Hardane who had caused his banishment; it would be his hatred for Hardane, his need for revenge against the Lord of Argone, that would give him a reason to survive on this accursed island.