Worth a Thousand

The photographer knew the value of his photos.

Sure, he hadn't yet sold a single one, but they were worth a thousand.

One thousand words.

For that is what he found on the back of every photo he took and then personally developed.

Sometimes the words were gibberish.

Sometimes they were dull.

But the best, the absolute best, were simply fantastic.

And he'd figured out that if he took a bunch of photos in one area at the same time, he could get more sets of words that were related to each other.

Pulling down a photo of fireworks, he eagerly turned it over.

There they were. Words. Wonderful words written in a curly handwriting that was not his own.

The battle was fierce, and I nearly gave in to the fear that this would be our last.

The Forger has a new ally, and we a traitorous lot to now defeat.

For the dragons have altered their allegiance.

Their sudden betrayal was nearly our demise. It would have been, if your foresight hadn't prepared for one of our allies betrayal.

And so we survived the day, with less fatalities than we otherwise would have had.

But now we suffer another enemy, and must vanquish it before the next battle.

For moral has been shattered, and our remaining allies question whether we have prepared a way to combat them as well.

What would you have me do? I cannot lie and say we have not. Yet to admit such a preparation could unravel some of our weaker alliances.

And we must move camp, or else fear a rain of dragon-fire while our army is weakened.

Yet therein lies another dilemma. For there are few places near which would provide cover from the dragons, and allow us to maintain our hold on some of the more vital keeps.

So do we risk the enemy weakening our camp, or do we sacrifice some of the keeps we've been protecting?

Neither sits well with me, but we've not enough men left to protect all of the keeps if we move to any position safe from dragon attack.

I've also sent another messenger to the griffins, and one to the nymphs. Now that we can no longer rely on the dragon's, perhaps one of those groups will finally join with us. I would prefer the griffins, if only because they are the most well-versed in the dragons' weaknesses.

Of course, they will mock us endlessly for having trusted their enemy. They'll caw that they knew all along that the dragons would betray us.

Perhaps they'd be right.

If they don't join us, then hopefully the nymphs will. We could use their supernatural healing abilities, and their Protective salve against fire.

I fear the dragons will leave us as nothing but ashes without it.

But I should make an end to such depressing reports.

We did win the day's battle, after all.

My latest report from the merfolk was promising. They are holding the eastern coast, and successfully captured an enemy supply ship. They found another of those strange illustrations that contain information on the back.

It was one of Ridgerider's reports.

We've yet to find the source of these illustrations, but we will not give up the hunt.

If we can stop them, then the enemy will have one less spy in our midst.

If all goes well, the entire network will be crippled.

For how can a report that Ridgerider had barely finished penning wind up on the opposite side of the country?

Who is this illustrator, and how can we stop him?

The photographer stopped reading, a strange feeling twisting in his gut. Replacing the photograph, he moved out of his darkroom and to the filing cabinet where he kept the photos with the really interesting words.

Sorting through them, he found the one he sought.

It was of a highway, with the lights from the cars creating streaks of color that blended with the evening's dying light.

Flipping it over, he skimmed the blocky scrawl until he reached the end.

Your loyal subject,

Commander Ridgerider of the Third Legion.

The photographer gripped the photograph, his mind racing. It wasn't possible that his pictures were somehow finding their way into another world. That would be impossible.

Impossible... like a thousand words magically appearing on the back of a photograph.

He gripped the photo tighter, shaking his head. It was impossible. It had to be.

Because if it wasn't, then what damage had his photographs caused–

“No, no.” The photographer said, cutting off his thought. “I didn't do anything wrong. I just took a few photos, and developed them myself. I'm not causing any harm.”

A crash sounded from his darkroom, and the photographer turned toward it.

Another crash, and the door jerked open.

A wild woman stepped out, a sword in one hand and a photograph in the other.

A photograph with a silvery chain hanging out of it.

“Ha! Illustrator!” The woman shouted, and the photographer took a step back. The woman lunged at him, and they both fell.

The photographer groaned beneath the woman's weight, then the world gave a violent twist around them, and his office was gone.

By the time his head had finished spinning, they were somewhere with dirt floors and the stench of smoke.

“How is it done, illustrator?” The woman's voice rang from somewhere above the photographer. He looked up at the woman, and caught sight of the torn photo in her hand.

The photo of fireworks, which held the words he'd been reading in his darkroom.

Words that this woman must of penned.

Words that spoke of betrayals, and of a hunt for spies.

Words that claimed he was a spy.

The photographer swallowed, and hoped that photograph hadn't been his last.