Polaris' Day, July 19, 1268 A.R.


The forest watched in horrified silence as the two warbands clashed together up on the road that was quickly being washed of it's spilled blood under the torrential downpour. Lightning momentarily scraped away the eager darkness exposing an orchestra of swords, spears and shields clanging together in a cacophony of determined hatred that was played against the melody of the fearful screams and cries of the agonized dying soldiers. Riderless horses dashed away whilst carrion birds hurried towards the meal being laid out with each thrust of a spear or slash of a sword.

Maceol was fighting near the heart of the nightmarish skirmish when the enemy began to retreat in full rout, rushing over the bodies of the fallen and forsaking the pleas of the wounded. Maceol stumbled, feeling the deep wound in his left thigh for the first time. Looking out from the mud through dimming eyes, he perceived the trampled banner of the enemy. The black hood of Shadow, inset in bronze flame peered outwards from the banner with invisible eyes. That hood haunted Maceol's nightmares night after night, scouring his mind with hidden eyes and burning his soul in bronze flame; forcing him to recall the cries of the shattered hearts of parents who lost their children, the tales of the broken spirits of rescued prisoners, the fearful denials of the dying, the burning villages, the burning bodies, the burning souls?

The lightning flashed, once more illuminating the watchful banner before all sank into darkness.

Sun's Day, August 12, 1268 A.R.
Across the bridge lay the city of Whiterift, its brilliant white banners shining beside the red flags of Octania. A few houses had been constructed beyond the outer wall, and their residents seemed a carefree folk, their children laughing and playing in the river as it babbled in the joyous yet indecipherable language of such meandering waterways.

Near the western edge of the city a quaint wooden mill, still active as farmers came to process their early harvests, was overshadowed by a massive stone bridge bearing six waterwheels that spanned the Angelos. Blacksmiths filed out of a large building built upon the mill bridge, cheerfully returning to their homes and anxiously awaiting their midday meals. Most stopped to wash the soot of the furnaces from their arms and faces in the river.

The road wound up to a wide gate watched by four sentries clothed in the full livery of the Marquis of Whiterift who were idly lounging about, smoking and eating and laughing. Their helmets and cloaks lay forgotten as they strove in a futile quest to stave off the summer heat. The grey stones of the thirty foot high wall seemed to blend with the bright green grass of the hillock naturally, as if the wall were a rocky cleft instead of one of man's many constructions.

On top of the wall men at arms on patrol duty were perched upon battlements, basking under the clear blue sky. Within the city could be seen the towering inner wall groaning under the weight of bastions and guardhouses in it's tireless duty to protect the inner city. While taller than the highest redwood, this wall was nonetheless dwarfed by the ancient castle of Whiterift. Streaming red banners adorned the top of eight round towers joined by walls a dozen yards thick. Within this fortress was the heart of Octania itself, the great Hall of Kings where Lord Garek Trunam VIII kept watch upon his realm.

A lone horseman wearing a luxurious red doublet paid the toll-man and rode leisurely across the bridge and into the city. It was Sun's Day, market day, and the city's market squares were overflowing with peasants, merchants and thieves grappling together in a great battle of commerce. Even the courtyard of the great Angelos Temple of Gaia had been opened to market. The rider rode through the outer city, stopping only to idly purchase a pouch of tobacco from a man in the Third Square. He arrived at a great stone building roofed with plates of lead and surround by men of steel. A doorwarden greeted him.

"Ah, Esquire Maruc. So good of you to come. How was your trip to Lecoy?" the doorwarden said politely.
Ignoring him, Maruc stared ahead into the doorway and asked, "Have the others arrived?"

The servant obediently answered, "All but one. Guildmaster Cirgan had a prior engagement in Hitali."

"Trust the blacksmiths to stay aloof. Well, no matter. Show me inside," the squire replied.

The other merchant kings sat on their thrones about a large oak table in an open room on the third level of the building. Ample light shone in from large un-glassed windows. Maruc exchanged greetings with the Guildmasters Guilliane, of the Mason's Guild; William Kurinson, of the Miller's Guild, the host of the meeting and owner of this manor; Jaku, of the Carpenter's Guild and Andir, of the Shipwright's Guild. He sat down in an empty chair beside Jaku, unstrapping a short sword and placing it beside him.

After a brief discussion about business of late, Andir held up his hand. "Perhaps William would like to tell us why be summoned us here. I did not travel for six days simply to muse over common misgivings." The suggestion was met with general approval and William stood up.

"The king is ill. He is expected to die within the week." A wave of excitement passed through the room.

"Are you sure? Your men are prone to exaggerate information," asked Jaku.

Maruc retorted more for the sake of sarcasm than any real affinity for William. "At least his men do not exaggerate orders, Jaku. How did they manage to hide the bodies, anyway?"

"That," replied the lord of woodwrights, "is not your business, noble." Maruc missed, or seemed to miss, the emphasis on the word noble. He had been named Swordthain to the King three years earlier for economic services and still wore the title squire with pride, seemingly oblivious that it had become an object of widespread mockery among his peers. Jaku glanced quickly back at William. "I, at least, made my own fortune." Maruc's father, the Sheriff of New Castlen, had somehow acquired a vast sum of money before his early death, which he left to his two sons.

"The king is bedridden with a peculiar ailment of the lungs. The paladins cannot save him."
Maruc knew the paladins, the spies of that meddling city-state to the north, Lyn'quo. He knew the white hawks, roaming the lands regardless of law, stirring up trouble, murdering without cause. He remembered when he had two of his best men abduct the owner of a large flax plantation. Those Gaia-cursed white knights happened upon their hideout while Maruc was away. One of those men, a good and loyal man if there ever was one, was slain in the struggle by those "holy" butchers. The other disappeared for almost a year, and was a changed man when he returned. Nobody every found out what they did to him, but he sold everything he owned and took to wandering from town to town like a broken spirit, under the guise of a wandering healer.

Guilliane smiled, a rare and rather grotesque and unnatural sight. "Whose man did it? My assassins could never get so close."

William laughed. "As far as my sources can tell, this is actually a real illness. I'm afraid that nature has gotten one over us, my friends."

Amidst the ensuing chuckles a serving maid entered the room and deposited several goblets and a pitcher of paign, honey-wine, on the central table before abruptly hurrying out. Maruc poured himself a cup and held it between his thumb and forefinger, the only remaining digits on his left hand. The cup was made of almost half a pound of polished silver. William loved showing off his wealth. The cup was even embroidered with fine gold wire in a stylish motif of a ship on an angry sea. Maruc shuddered. He hated ships. He let his right hand, still whole, drift to a reassuring hold on his gladius-style sword propped against the chair.

"So the war is to end?" asked Jaku hopefully.

Andir scoffed. "I doubt it. The next in line is Nesel, his nephew. A knight." They all knew well the warlike tendencies of the nobility.

Guilliane's face broke into a scowl. "Six months ago, he advised the king to force everyone, even freemen, between the age of fourteen and twenty-five to fight as infantry in the war."

Andir shouted, "Half my workers are that age!"

"Calm down, Andir," said William. "I'm sure that all of you understand the catastrophe this would cause for our guilds.

William, worried that Andir's heart may give out, decided to make his point. "Nesel is but a headstrong boy. I expect he will face formidable opposition in order to assume power. I wish to nominate Lakent, Patron of the house Bolare to succeed Garek."

Maruc argued, "He's not of royal blood. He's isn't even a noble."

"Garek's marriage to the Lady Bolare technically makes the Bolare clan royalty. While Lakent's not a noble, he is a learned man with a dislike for violence. That is all he needs to be placed in power."
"But Iaec and the Knights of the Monastery will support Nesel, not to mention that filthy butcher Maceol. Even with our financial support, he wouldn't stand a chance."

Kurinson stood with gleaming pride and indicated the door. "Then may I present His Excellency Archdeacon Molach of the Seerhood," he beamed as a tall thin man dressed in flowing green robes strode proudly into the room.

Maruc shook his head in distaste. William always had a penchant for unnecessary showmanship. However, the fact that William managed to coerce the Seers to his side is a proclamation to how far charisma and exaggeration could take you.

The Seerhood of Gaia was perhaps the most powerful political force in Octania, wielders of magiks and commanders of nature. Obviously, they couldn't see future events or persons, as their name implied. The name came from ancient times, when their knowledge of the ways of Gaia helped them predict matters of weather and agriculture, and gauge the success of hunting or fishing parties. An Archdeacon was a person of great importance, only three political tiers below the Seerlord himself.

"The Seerlord feels that Lakent Bolare embodies the wishes of our order. We proudly commit our assets to the cause of peace," Molach declared with feverish disinterest.

Maruc would have laughed aloud had his mind not been dwelling on the inlaid ship carved into both his cup and his soul. It had been a good many years since the Seerhood had accomplished anything for purely humanitarian or dogmatic motives. He made a mental note to have his people inquire into the targets and nature of William's bribes and threats. From the silence in the room, it seemed most people were considering the same concept.

The hours dragged on, filled with random plots and implications. Maruc kept to himself, knowing the pointlessness of such conversation. They had the Seers. The people would follow. They would win.

The score of horsemen continued riding through the rain. They had left in a hurry, taking almost no baggage and only three reserve horses. At their sides and in their packs were halberds, spears and swords carried openly along the road. Only the largest or most careless groups of bandits would dare attack twenty armed and armoured men on horseback on even terrain. Near the centre of the loose group rode Sir Maceol, a middle aged knight cloaked in a muddied red cape embroidered with the emblem of Octania, a sword driven deep into an anvil with a single thornless rose wrapped about its hilt, commonly referred to as the Sword, the Soul, and the Strength. He always wore the cape as it was a symbol of his status as the Knight-Marshal of Octania, high commander of all the military operations of the kingdom. The kite shield strapped to the flanks of his roan was engraved with a complex coat-of-arms involving a farm, a stylized picture of Whiterift castle, a slain Wyvern and even a jester's mask. Having come from a family of commoners, there hadn't yet been generation after generation to smooth down and refine the livery to within the ever-present bounds of good taste. Maceol personally liked the design, and had paid the blacksmith extra for not trying to remove some of the odder aspects as so many others had done.

At his right, upon a white horse, rode Sir Rodul, Marshall of the Flaming Calvalry, commander of all the offensive forces of Octania, in rank only marginally below Maceol. He was equal in rank to the Marshall of the Silver Bows, who commanded all home garrisons, but greater in rank than such lesser marshals as the Marshall of the Warding Hands, who controlled the rangers that watched the roads of the kingdom. Nearing thirty years of age, his short blond hair was hidden beneath a mail coif wrapped protectively about his head. Even though they were hundreds of miles away from any who would wish them harm, he still insisted on wearing mail at all times. Some joked that he was afraid a stray arrow shot by a squirrel might strike him dead.

On his left rode Esquire Kay, the son of Duke Iaen of Yantsima. Duke Iaen, a hero from the Sybürmian war, personally trained Maceol. Maceol gratefully took Kay as a squire.

The only wagon in the small company bore Lieutenant Daken, still recovering from the horrific injuries he sustained at the hands of the Shadow worshippers. Only twenty-three autumns old, he was the youngest man in Octanian history to reach the rank of Lieutenant. In his nine years of military service to the Crown, his clever mind and swift sword had helped him rise to the prestigious position of commanding the Fist of Octania, the company of elites so experienced that they were often trusted with the defence not only of the Marshall, but also of the king when he went to war. In the last hundred years, they had only known defeat twice. Maceol still hadn't forgiven himself for being the Marshall who witnessed the second rout, although, truth be told, they were outnumbered perhaps eight to one and had no source of relief or support. To most eyes, it hadn't been so much a rout as a tactical withdrawal. Sir Daken was currently being tended to by Jylo, a rotund Seer assigned to the Fist in their recent campaigns. Maceol watched with fascination the Seer as he placed his hands above one of Daken's more prominent wounds and weaved his magik, despite the regularity of this event. Some flesh began to regrow, scabbing over in a flurry of supernatural regeneration as the magik willed the cut to mend. He had only recently began to heal the knife wounds, instead focusing on the cracked ribs he feared would pierce the young knight's organs if not tended to immediately. Maceol knew that Jylo was capable of mending all the wounds at once, but the Seer chose to conserve his power and recover during the homeward journey. When they first left, Jylo was so spent that he could barely stand up. Most of Daken's wounds had been inflicted a little over three weeks before, when he was captured by the enemy after leading six knights in a daring charge that killed four of their warlocks. Octanian scouts found him the next day, brutally beaten and crucified. Had the scouts arrived no more than two hours later, he would have been dead. Smiling slightly, Maceol thought of what Daken's wife would say when she heard. He hoped to be at least three leagues away.
They were now close to the mountains that separated Sybürmia and Octania. It would probably be one or two weeks before they reached Whiterift. They had left as soon as the summons came, bidding them return to Octania. The king was ill. Maceol remembered, when he was but a child, asking his father why they couldn't just take his mother, sick with the flu, to the Seers, those workers of miracles. His father had hardly left her bedside though Maceol knew she would get better. His older brother, Nansoneol, told him so. Even Anji the peddler said so. His father told Maceol that Seers could not directly kill anything, could only make new life, and thus could not kill the demons that caused such sickness. Maceol, only six autumns of age, looked up at his father and cheerfully said, "Well, it doesn't matter. Mama'll get better anyways, right?" Maceol never forgave Anji for lying to him.

Maceol's mind snapped back to the road. They whole procession moved in eerie silence. Each man there felt bonded to the king, and none now felt in the mood for the usual singing and storytelling common to traveling knights. Garek IX, the successor to the kingdom, was once a squire to Maceol, and he would be proud to see the lad upon the throne should his father not recover. Some people accused Garek IX and his cousin Nesel of being warlike and violent as they wanted to vastly expand the Octanian military. Garek knew, as Maceol did, that the war was necessary, that they couldn't leave the Westerlands to fend for themselves against the men from across the sea. Any soldier who served at the front knew that. Nesel and Garek simply wanted to give the knighthood the ability to drive the Shadow worshippers back to the Gaia-forsaken land from whence they came. The Marshall fervently hoped the they wouldn't back down.

The old man finished had reached the last few verses of his song.

Cyrindrel I challenge thee
As demons dance and angels sing
Let us fight for our destiny
Let us contest Heaven's key"

So did Ne'Motin decree
Upon the Plains of Destiny
To the lowly mortal knight
Who stood before the demon's might.

The man clutched the brilliant sword
Of Anariet, the Fiery Lord
This soldier fought with Ne'Motin
A lord of Netani's deadly sins.

The ground shook as fate clashed
As magic flowed and white blade slashed
Cyrindrel smote down the lord
Sealed his fate to the sword.

The audience of the old man, whose name was Kali, was mainly young children and a few men taking the day off, applauded. Most, of course, really did not understand anything about Ne'Motin, the dark lord of conquest, of whom the song was about. Most simply came to hear the music, played on an old lute by the still vigorous fingers of the elder. The older children came up and deposited various scraps of food in his basket. Some of the adults gave small bits of copper. The old man, a travelling minstrel who had hung up his boots long before in this quaint little village in the Marquisdom of Whiterift thanked each member fervently as the came to give their praise and payment for the song. This had become the aged minstrel's main source of sustenance, as his lack of current news usually meant that his old stories of times long gone did not draw large crowds of adults. He noted that many of the adolescents had left earlier, disinterested with the rather slow-moving ballad that, in their opinion, really contained much less violence than it ought to. He grunted in distaste. These people had no appreciation for the truly great deeds of the past, mostly wanting to hear about the tragic love affairs of the current nobility. In fact, the last minstrel through this town had drawn large crowds with a story of stolen pigs. He had barely been recognized for his sweeping epic about one the most powerful demons ever to defile the world. Pigs! The old man scoffed.

He once worked in the Hall of Kings, and as such learned all the old songs and stories. Nobles, at least, had an ear for greatness. The minstrel remembered singing tales of Cathin of Angelos and lost Ambur to the King Lesk VI in the great stone hall. The memory of the king standing to applaud him still brought tears to his eyes. The king let him stay in the castle for as long as he desired. He often walked about the castle marvelling as he remembered the great deeds that had been done before those walls.
Now he was singing tales to bored ears in a muddy square and pacing about the wattle walls of his filthy sunken hut.

After he had collected all the people would give, he said farewell with a flourish and walked inside. In the corner lay a disused wooden chest, beside his straw pallet. He went directly to the chest. This business about the king's illness was disturbing. He opened the chest and carefully removed an old unbound book, the pages simply stacked neatly in a quaint box. Very disturbing indeed. He removed the book, turning it over in his arms. His treasure.

Bishop Cigal sat in his study, poring over scrolls on various birds and beasts. He had always had an interest in lore of this kind, preferring the study of Gaia's subjects in their natural environment, free from sin or virtue, to the history of men and lands and great deeds. He owned almost thirty books on the subject, not to mention scores of smaller writings. Other Seers often criticized Cigal, as his extravagant taste for knowledge had cost his diocese almost thirty pounds of silver. However, he had never built castles or gathered armies, as other bishops sometimes did, and was on the whole considered a just and holy man, truly blessed by Gaia. He had a rather small diocese in Blackmoor, but was still in his early thirties, and had a promising career ahead of him. Cigal fancied he could become a Deacon's assistant, or even a Deacon, in his life.

The bishop looked about the small room, taken up almost entirely by shelves. A small window to his right let in a column of light that illuminated the surface of his desk. The small wooden desk was bare except for the scroll and a small oil lamp for those occasions where he stayed up to read long into the night, trying to drown his worries in a sea of simplistic knowledge. A shadow was cast by a lonely sparrow balancing on the edge of the windowsill, its head snapping to and fro like power in temple politics. Cigal focused briefly on the sill. Small tendrils of green grew and lengthened, binding together to create a stalk. Leaves budded and grew as roots stretched downwards. A single flower bloomed and withered. Cigal continued to focus on the plant, his eyes glowing green with magik. A cluster of seeds sprouted from the plant. The sparrow, surprised but delighted, grabbed several seeds and flew away. Cigal had never been proficient at magik, for while he had no trouble touching the essence of Gaia and drawing forth His power, he had never quite acquired the knack of shaping it into an effective form.

Ah, to be a bird. To be free of greed or generosity, of custom or tradition. To simply live for living's sake, as Gaia would have it. Cigal watched with envy as other birds came to feast on the plant he had created. To him, a bird scraping in the ground desperately for a scrap of forgotten food was far nobler than any knight on any quest to kill or die for his misguided beliefs. He was well-respected and honoured among many Seers, though he did not know it. To some he was a figure of utmost admiration, a man akin to Gaia in mind and spirit. Perhaps that was why Archdeacon Gelir had summoned him. The summons said little, other than to be at the Mother Temple within the month, and that this was a matter of grave importance. He was not a man used to travelling, and did not appreciate being pulled away from his studies and government in the last few months before the animals would sleep and the birds would leave. He also enjoyed the autumn feasts when he was called upon to bless the year's harvests. But to ignore a summons by so powerful a man would be nearing subordination and blasphemy. Cigal sighed and called for his horse. If he must leave, he might as well start on his journey now.

Cigal rode into the mountain valley that cradled the Mother Temple. The depression was formed by solid sandstone cliffs on three sides, one of which bore several shining waterfalls like bands of starlight trickling down into bubbling pools about the valley floor. The temple grounds were packed tight with dozens of gardens tended to by scores of gardeners. A brick and plant hedge surrounded the estate, adorned with every type of flower imaginable, all which bloomed at different times so that visitors to the temple might never say it was without beauty. Three great grey buildings, with flat roofs bearing gardens of the finest oaks and willows, provided shelter for the hundreds of gardeners, Seers and pilgrims that wished to visit the temple. The structures seemed to be assaulted on all sides by the utter beauty of life. The temple itself was cut into the solid rock of the cliff, it's entrance surrounding by an enormous façade of carvings and statues. The hall inside was three hundred feet long, fifty feet broad and thirty feet high. Some said it took almost two centuries to craft. But beyond the temple was an ancient corridor two miles long, its origins stretching to the time before time, when the Nameless Spirits walked the earth. At the end it opened into the Sanctuary, a dell surrounded by stone cliffs hundreds of feet high, yet sunlight still reached it. But in that gorge stood a tree of a species forgotten by men, whose flowers bloomed greater than the sunrise, whose leaves wore a brilliant green that shone with all life's vigour, whose fruits glowed with silvery magnificence in the twilight. The Willow of the Sunset, as it came to be called, was immersed in a grove of apple trees, but these were immortal trees that bloomed all year long, and whose flowers stretched from the trees to form a wall of pink garlands. The ivy on the cliff face was not of the hungry, greedy sort seen prying apart old buildings in desperation to feed water to browning leaves, but ordered vines that grew in parallel, whose leaves interwove to form a curtain of green, and golden thread hung from the stalks. Cigal had only been there once during his initiation into the Seerhood, when he sat on the soft brown earth covered in sweet golden green grass to reflect upon the wonder of Gaia. He remembered being given a draught from the impossibly clear pool along the east wall covered with large white lilies.

Over the years, several attempts had been made to locate the Sanctuary overland, and so see if any other such gardens existed nearby. All had failed, for an enchantment lay about this area of the mountains that confused and befuddled travelers, and led them to where they had come, or in endless circles. One such expedition did not surface for almost two months until they were found wandering through the mountains in western Sybürmia. It was said in bard's myth that a wizard by the name of Connalus fooled the enchantment with a cloak of sunset's light and snuck into the Sanctuary, stealing a single flower from the Willow of the Sunset to prove his love to the fair maiden Adran. However, he was so overcome by the flower's loveliness that it became dearer to him than even Adran. When the flower wilted, separated as it was from the Willow, Connalus was so overcome with guilt and sadness that he wasted away to nothing. The Seer Sunaus burned the dead flower and used the ash to brew the Tincture of Grief, the very same that was poured into the Demon Horde's well so that they were plunged into the depths of misery until Dathor and his troops could escape from the dead city of Ambur.

Cigal gave a document of license to the guards that stood steadfast at the gate to the temple complex. He continued on through the winding paths that he knew so well from his days as a novice. The only flowers that still bloomed were large and burgundy, and melted submissively into the overwhelming green of the surrounding foliage. The road soon divided, river-like, into a branching skein of intersecting pathways, many of which led only to a more beautiful or quiet area of the gardens. Most novices spent hours each day for years trying to mentally map out the valley. Still, many a Seer, in his wanderings, would come across an overlooked path that led to a peaceful copse of blossoming trees he had never seen before, or would stumble through a long-overgrown trail to find a serene pool unseen by the rest of the temple. Often, new paths were cut and others disappeared suspiciously. In Cigal's youth, one of his teachers became trapped for eight hours by a hedge of undergrowth that had mysteriously grown over one of the roads as the teacher was walking. Cigal and his friends had never openly been blamed, but it was unwise to ask that teacher or any of the gardeners for a favour ever again.
Cigal arrived a Archdeacon Gelir's residence, which included six rooms and a kitchen at the east end of the First Building. The doorwarden, showing him inside, informed him that Gelir had been summoned to Whiterift on urgent business, but had left two friends, Prior Bennar and a young Seer named Hadise, to keep his affairs in order.

He was led into a small writing room that was sparsely lit but had three windows that looked down on some desks against one wall. Occupying one was a thin pale man of about twenty years. He had long blonde hair and a beard, with large glassy eyes that were of such a dark shade of brown that they could easily be mistaken as black in the dim light. He also had a streamlined, aquiline face that could be called noble, and was on the whole a handsome man. The long fingers of his left hand flipped a cork endlessly, occasionally tapping it against the table as those with restless hands often did. He turned around, glanced at Cigal and turned to the doorwarden. "Well? Do you intend to, to introduce the visitor?"

The servant, obviously not at ease with taking orders from a Seer half his age, turned abrubtly, and, without apology, said, "Seer Hadise, this is Bishop Cigal, of the diocese of Newshire and Lix, in the duchy of Hitali.

Hadise glanced, surprised, at Cigal, then ordered, "That will be all."

As the servant left, Hadise gestured to the empty desk beside him. "Please, good Bishop, have a seat."

Cigal turned the chair to face him, then sat down. Hadise continued, "I apologize for the, as, er, indifferent welcome, but I didn't recognize you. Gelir spoke of, well, a man of, as, a, great wisdom. And you're, well-"

"Young?" suggested Cigal.

"Ah, well, I suppose so. Also, forgive me for saying so, I really mean no disrespect, but you're, how should I say, not really all that, ah, rich." He looked nervously at Cigal, then added, "Sorry."

Cigal laughed and then said. "Most knowledge can be bought, but almost all wisdom has to be learned. For example, what are you reading?"

Hadise held up his book and said nervously, "A, er, a poem. Like the bards write." Hadise had the strange trait of being unable to look someone in the eyes, and his vision was focused on the cork that he still bobbed around in his hand.

"Really? What's it about?"

"It's about the Blue Council." Cigal was shocked. The Blue Council was a group of powerful magi, a coven of eighteen men who wandered from country to country, lord to lord, starting wars and aiding peace. They were like Illumati, enlightened men somehow a little more than human, who were rarely seen but often heard of, who said little but did much. But far more importantly, they worshipped the elder god Polaris, who was well-known to be more in line with the heathen deity Lynoxi than the goodly Gaia.

Cigal asked, "They let you keep such a book here?"

"No, no, it's not like that. It was written by Seers, who objected to the Council when they first came." It was said that the first of the Blue Council came across the sea when the city of Ambur was conquered a second time. "They say that the Council carried plagues and famine to the land of Sybürmia, so that they could take over." Sybürmia, as was known at the time, was ruled by a man named Thordesh who openly acknowledged that he was a member of the Council. Moreover, in the last two hundred years at the least, every king of Sybürmia had magikal abilities. Some said that every one had been a member of the Blue Council. Some, like those who had evidently written Hadise's book, went as far as to claim that the country had once been conquered by the Blue Council, though where they had gotten an army was anyone's guess.

"Do you believe they caused the plagues?" asked Cigal.

Hadise whispered, though there was really no need in this secluded room whose windows faced an empty plaza. He whispered, "I think that, that the plagues were caused by the Lunath magi who were after them." He went on, "And, ah, I think that, well, the only reason they're kings is to fight those plagues."

Cigal slapped his knee, "So you see? You got the knowledge of where the Council came from, but the wisdom that they were not aggressors from yourself. Not that I agree with you, of course." Cigal spoke truthfully, for he had a completely different theory about the Council.

"Then it's not wisdom, it's just another opinion that even you don't believe."

Cigal turned serious, "My boy, any idea that ever meant anything started out as 'just another opinion.' All lore is simply logical guesses about the world. Have faith in yourself, Seer. You have just as much a chance of being right as anyone else."

The Bishop's expression changed. "So tell me, where's your friend Bennar? And more importantly, why did Gelir summon me?"

"Bennar's out teaching novices somewhere in, ah, the garden. And Gelir wanted you here, well, because, the king is dying."

Cigal looked puzzled. "How can I help that?"

"It's not the king, you fool! It's the Seerlord! He's, he?"

"What?" asked Cigal.

Hadise whispered. "He's gone mad."

"What do you mean?"

"He wants to go against Nesel, to side with Lakent. For peace. And most of the Seers are with them! What do they care that our brothers in the West are being slaughtered as we speak, that Gaia's shrines are being defiled? They don't understand!" he exclaimed bitterly. "Gelir, well, wants you here to give him council. He thinks you're Gaia himself. Anyways, we need you to show the others the error of their ways."

Cigal looked out the window, while Hadise silently concentrated on the cork in his hand. Cigal said, "Well then, we'd best get started."

Gaia's Day, August 25, 1268 A.R.
The Hall of Kings was silent except for the depressing footfalls of a lowly servant in some dark corridor more often trod by the silent feet of ghosts and memories than the wooden clogs of the living. Half-dreaming ravens and scrounging magpies scurried about the rafters in seeming satire of the drifting minds of the shocked people below, each browsing his or her own maze of stunned sadness or devious delight. The time for quiet contemplation of the deceased was almost over, and soon the funeral procession would take Garek VII, King of Octania to the Angelos temple to be buried. The ladies who did not naturally break into despondent tears managed a grotesque imitation with skill honed by years of callous ruthlessness. The men present simply sat and were silent, an occupation soon mimicked by the women. Since her husband's death, her Grace the Lady Bolare had retracted from the world of the living, and rarely responded when spoken to. Her maids had coerced her to attend the funeral, but her face was a shade of unchanging sad indifference. Some of the men in the hall had known and loved the now deceased king for most of their lives and simply stood in shadows where their eyes could well with tears unnoticed. William would have laughed had the blazing flame of impenetrable silence not consumed all sound. The walls themselves chose not to echo for fear of the oppressive silence. Lord Iaen, in his shadow, drew his Honour Blade ever so carefully so that not even the smallest rat hiding silent in a corner could detect a noise. He sadly dissected it, his hidden eyes skimming over ever inch of metal, every carved engraving or defeated scratch.

He had received the broadsword, along with the duchy of Yantsima, from Garek after he slew the magus Sarune in the Sybürmian War. Although he was in his early sixties and had not ridden into battle for at least a dozen years, he still carried the sword everywhere as a memento. Iaen was well-loved by both his vassals and his peers. He was fairly wealthy, although he often gave gifts of land, gold or title to those who served Yantsima or Octania well in anything from fields of grain to fields of battle. The Duke was quite healthy and vigorous for a man his age, and William had no doubt that he was still fit for combat. The Honour Blade was just like every other issued to all the knights of Octania: three and a half feet long, three inches broad, made of a steel sheet folded twenty-six times and inscribed with runes of strength and swiftness given to Lesk Trunam by the elven Runemaiden Sade in ages past.

The bell sounded and the funeral guests left the Hall in a slow column headed by six knights in full armour and heraldry bearing an elaborate litter on which rested the remains of one of the greatest Octanian kings since Lesk Trunam himself. Iaen's brother, Sir Iaec, leader of the Knights of the Monastery and Lord Randolph, Marquis of Whiterift, marched in front according to tradition. Behind them marched the King's guest as specified in his will. Lord Iaen bore the litter with pride. The remaining three in the procession would usually be the three main Marshalls, but Maceol and Rodul had yet to reach the city. Lord Karel, the Marshall of the Silver Bows, held the litter alongside two replacements: Garek VIII's standard bearer and Nesel, Garek's nephew. They had put the funeral off for a week, but could do so no longer. To hold a funeral on a day other than Gaia's Day or after the first new moon after the death of an individual would be nothing short of sacrilegious. The mourners marched about six hundred yards, leaving Whiterift Castle and entering the inner city. Everyone in the city had remained home that day, as befit an occasion of prayer and mourning. Even the lonely homeless beggars had made their way to hostels or courtyards around the city so that they would not be accused of disrespect to the deceased king. Short and seldom, brief conversations were whispered in hurried tones among the funeral guests, and this helped give the seemingly dead city an altogether unwholesome atmosphere.

They arrived at the Angelos temple, a high roofed, broad and ancient building made of the same grey stone as the walls of Whiterift. The walls were alive with religious carvings, some covered by thick vines of ivy allowed to grow down from the roof. The entrance was two monolithic stone scimitars jutting out from the wall, the Twin Swords of Gaia, that met at the ornate hilt cross-guards and tips to form an archway. The thick door made of black wychelm wood bore carvings of Lesk Trunam and his endeavors to build this temple almost twelve centuries before. Seemingly balanced on the tips of the swords was a wide balcony on which was planted an ancient oak. Today they had no need to enter the temple of life, nor the gardens of the courtyard within. The procession went around the temple to the grove behind. Here was a veritable forest of neatly lined yew trees, a symbol of royalty. A grave had already been dug at the end of one row of trees. The back wall of the temple was painted with an exquisite mural of a village. In the centre, just above the back entrance to the inner sanctuary was painted the Twin Swords in an oval field of white to represent Gaia's hand in the opening of the White Rift, supposedly in this very river valley a millennia before. The villagers who lived near the Swords were fat and happy, their children playing carelessly alongside gardens overflowing with fruits and vegetables. Predictably, those who chose to live away from the Sword's gardens were little more than barren dust heaps, their houses collapsing sunken huts, their children emaciated beggars. The mourners, unconcerned with vain matters of appearance or comfort, settled themselves in the wet grass to listen to the blessings and eulogies.

About halfway through the first eulogy Sir Maceol walked into the park, followed by his squire and Sir Rodul. They both looked extraordinarily weary, as if they had not rested since they crossed the border into Octania. Besides hastily donned cloaks of office, Maceol and Rodul were still garbed in travelling gear. They sat down amongst the delegation from the Knights of the Monastery.

Maceol looked about, worried. The deceased's son, Garek IX, was not present. Perhaps he had business in the northern isles, Maceol thought, and hadn?t heard about his father's illness until a few days ago. He glanced at a bewildered Sir Rodul, who shrugged. Maceol counted the days since the peasants they met said the king died, on the second Wedding's Day of the month. Like Maceol, the peasants were illiterate and did not easily reckon numbers, and so could only tell the date of his death as reference to the ten days of the week: Sun's Day, Moon's Day, Wedding's Day, Gaia's Day, Shadow's Day, Lynoxi's Day, Polaris's Day, Lunath's Day and Rest Day. The Marshall realized with a shock that wherever Garek was, by now he would be king. Traditionally, the new king was crowned one week after the old lord's death, whether or not the prince was present.

The ceremony ended with a Seer blessing the sight of burial, ending with the words, "As all flesh came from Gaia, so shall it be returned to Him. And so life begets life."

Two temple acolytes lowered the king, without a coffin, into the ground. They removed the boards holding back a pile of soil, letting the grave be filled, so that the king's body might be decomposed and returned to Gaia. More than one face broke into tears as the king's ashen face saw it's last glimpse of light.

The Seer planted a yew acorn into the freshly dug soil. His eyes flashed green, causing a seedling to sprout and grow until it was strong enough to survive on it's own. The Seer reeled in exhaustion for a moment, but recovered enough to announce the end of the ceremony. The funeral party retired to the courtyard of the temple.

Maceol slowly walked out of the temple, too jaded from battle to weep for Garek. The clouds were still weeping softly for the king, and road, quarry and other such work would have been hindered had the day not been declared one of prayer and mourning. A voice behind said loud but gently, "Sir Maceol." Recognizing the voice, Maceol turned about and bowed to one knee in the same motion, soiling his cape of office in the mud. The man before him was Lord Nesel Trunam, a baron of seventeen years who, until he was recalled to Octania a year before, served with the army in the Westerlands. The boy was thin but muscular, like his uncle Garek, and a few inches taller than Maceol. He had black hair, long and curly, which he wore tied back like a horse's tail. His brown eyes regarded the Marshall, a hint of humour sparking beneath a blanket of sadness.

"Arise, you fool. It's been too long," he commanded with a staggered sigh that might have been a laugh in happier circumstances.

The older knight rose grimly and clasped Nesel's arms. "So it has. I mourn for your uncle," he said out of respect and genuine grief.

"And I also." Nesel intoned.

Maceol decided to get the question out of the way. "Yet your cousin does not?"

"My cousin," the baron explained nervously, "My cousin converted to the worship of Lynoxi last winter."

The boy waited anxiously for the implications to sink in. A king must worship Gaia, or forfeit his royalty. Even if Garek IX wished to convert back to the religion of the Protecter, the Seerhood, feeling spited, would deny him the ceremony.

It struck Maceol with the speed and ferocity of a warlock's spell. He dropped fiercely to both knees, arms crossed over his chest in salute and deference. "Sire," he stated, his face burning with embarrassment at showing so much disrespect to his lord.

Nesel laughed, "I'm not king yet, Maceol." He lowered the collar of his doublet to prove that he wore no circlet of red gold.

The Knight-Marshall staggered awkwardly to his feet. "But, hasn't the coronation ceremony happened by now?"

"No." Nesel focused intensely on a nearby flagstone. "There is another candidate." Despite his efforts, the young lord had difficulty disguising the anger and malice in his voice.

Maceol understood instantly. "The Bolare clan," he whispered inquisitively.
"Yes. Lakent. He announced his bid to rule the day Garek died. The Knights of the Monastery support me, but most of the artisans and many of the peasants of the kingdom support him. And, and the Seerhood. Dear Gaia, the Seerhood supports him." Nesel turned suddenly to Maceol. "Marshall, listen now. Lakent moves to withdraw all forces from the Westerlands. He would leave our allies to the knives of the shadow worshippers. We have both seen what they are capable of. Our allies cannot stand without us. The rows of crosses would be as an endless forest of bloody willows. Their altars would be desecrated and buried. Their children, the-," Nesel paused, his hands and voice shaking with dread of his dark vision.

"My lord?" asked Maceol, concerned.

The noble grabbed Maceol's shoulders and uttered in a tense whisper uttered, "That is why I need you, Maceol. I need all those loyal to you. Please, for the love of Gaia, help me. If not for me, than for the innocents of the Westerlands. If not for them, for the honour and dignity of Octania."

Maceol stared, shocked, into the young man's eyes. He saw for the first time the fear in those eyes. This was but a youth, probably more concerned with finding a wife than matters of politics. He had, at a stroke, shouldered the responsibility of not only the homeland, but also of a dozen lesser kingdoms, and possibly the fate of the entire Middle Continent. This lord feared failure more than all the armies of hell.

Please, he mouthed.

Sir Maceol promised, "I shall be strong for Octania. We both must be strong for Octania. We will be strong for all of Gaiadom.

Kay, carrying Maceol's shield and folded banner as all esquires on formal equations, chose most awkward possible time to intercede. "Master, I,"

"Dismissed." Maceol cut the boy off sharply. He was in no mood for formalities.

Kay shrugged and walked off, feeling he could better mourn the king's death over a mug of ale with a few old friends at the King and Castle. He left the banner and shield with a royal page and walked through the cracked flagstone streets lined with looming two-story buildings with shuttered windows until he reached the western gate in the inner city wall. The guard on duty was uncommonly alert, due to suspicions that some Shadow-worshipping assassin may take advantage of the sombre occasion. Kay showed him his esquire's emblem before passing through the gate to the outer city and the Second square. He walked a few houses to the right until he saw a familiar cellar door on which a tower wearing a red gold necklace was painted. He opened the door and strode home.

"Kay, is that you?" shouted Taki, an old friend. "Hey everyone! Kay's back!" This was met with shouts of approval from the regulars. Kay dodged through the room, assaulted by furious applause and pats on the back. He settled down at the old cherry wood bar, ordering his usual, a lager brewed just outside his childhood home in Yantsima. The bartender, a lanky amiable man named Oranic, was beaming.

Kay suddenly found himself in the middle of two duelling groups striving to tell him the best news first. Taki's group began with the revelation that Sela and Arren had finally settled down and got married, enthusiastically countered by Mari's cows getting sick and her having to move into the city to work as a cloth-maker, with a rather defeated first group mentioning that Frian the mason had made a fortune off of his new design for repairing the outer city temple and moved into a new house in the inner city, but still sometimes came back to the old pub once in a while. Good Gaia, I missed this place thought Kay.

"It's good to see you all again," he smiled.

Oranic spoke, "It's always good to see regulars come back whole from the war," he said joyfully, but the tavern fell silent.

Taki said "Perhaps if Lakent wins the throne the war will cease."

A serving-girl delivering soup from the kitchen noted softly, "You would abandon all the people of the west?"

"Better them then us!" shouted Mari from across the room, for whom argument was a grand pastime.

Oranic hushed the verbal combatants. "What do you think, Kay?"

"I think," stated Kay as he stared at his beer mug, "that if we let them conquer the west, then soon they will bring the war to us."

Taki said, "But is it worth all this hardship? I heard one of Lakent's proclaimers say the tide has been turned, and it's time to lessen taxes, and call our soldiers home."

"Then Lakent's a bloody fool. The Shadow worshippers have three harbours, and a new ship lands every day. I've seen they're armies massing. If they cross the fords, the war now will look like a training exercise next to what will follow."

"Say what you will, but Lakent's a great man. They're planning a rally in front of his guest home, and I'm going."

"Well, while you were off saving the world, you missed one hell of a pigskin season," said Oranic in a frantic attempt to change the subject. Pigskin was a rough game played by the soldiers and artisans of the city. The rules were simple. One team carries a pig's skin stuffed with grain weighing about forty pounds. The pigskin bearer, burdened by his prize, was overbalanced and easily knocked down. Therefore the team possessing the skin had to wrestle the opposing team out of the way to form a clear path for the bearer. Were the pigskin taken by the other team, one member, usually the most hurt, of the first team would leave the field immediately so that the wrestlers were matched one to one. The first team to get the skin over a seven-foot tall fence at the opposite end of the field won the game.

A burly man name Darek scowled, "We were annihilated by the Blacksmith Guild official team without you, Kay." The Guild's players were stronger than any other due to endless years pumping bellows, and usually bulled through other teams. Kay was never the strongest on the West garrison's team, but he had been raised all his life to be a knight, and knew several wrestling tricks that could easily cast down the unskilled blacksmiths. After grappled to the ground the Guild's players were easily kept there by stronger players. In the year before he went to war, Kay had brought four men down in one play in their game against the blacksmiths.

Nesel asked, "Who won the Pigskin Chalice?"

"The North garrison, like the year before." The pigskin championship usually ended in a match between the North garrison?s team and a team put together by a large group of waggoners usually referred to as the Skin of Octania.

"So what brings you back to the homeland?" Asked Oranic.

Kay simply stated, "The king."

"Ah. The best of times can often be the worst of times," Taki quoted.

Mari questioned, "So you'll be leaving soon?"

"Who knows? I expect Master Maceol will stay for at least a few weeks to sort out the succession issue."

"Well, in that case," Darek spoke enthusiastically, "We're having an out-of season game on September the twenty-second against the Questors. Just to practice. Want to come along? We need all the skill we can get." The Questors, mercenaries who operated in small groups, tended to by highly skilled in every art of war. They belonged to a loose guild that ran hostels and meeting halls for Questors to stay in until they acquired another contract. Guild dues were low, but certain ethical restrictions were placed on members. He talked with them until the sun went down, then, more than a little tipsy, said goodbye and wandered back towards the barracks.

"What do you mean you 'led the charge'?" Amelie, Daken's wife, screamed in outrage.

Daken replied humbly, "I am the Lieutenant of the Fist, dear. I didn't get to my position by showing cowardice."

"Well I didn't marry you just to see you killed gallivanting into danger just to prove your bravery!" Nearby objects seemed to shrink away from the woman's wrath.

Daken started to voice a thought, but was cut short by a babe's cry from the main room of his house. He almost fainted.

"Little Patrick was born in March," said Amelie, obviously amused by her husband's surprise. "I tried to send word, but no messengers could locate your company."

Daken made a feeble attempt at speech. "We? we had to move around a lot. Mobility is key to success you know," he blurted out.

Amelie moved aside and Daken entered the room where a white cradle stood upon a table. Patrick stopped crying immediately when he saw the figure of his father, clothed in shining armour and a cape of gold. Daken removed his mail shirt and carefully lifted his son, hugging him awkwardly to his chest. He placed Patrick gently back into the cradle, singing a troubadour's lullaby and missing every note.

"How long until you have to go back?" whispered Amelie.

Daken's eyes never left his son. "I can probably stay until a new king is chosen."

"Then let's hope for civil war," said Amelie.


Moon’s Day, September 1, 1268 A.R.


The Hall of Kings was abuzz with talk. The usually haphazard placement of dinner tables had been replaced by precisely ordered sets of tables divided into two opposing sections far enough apart to prevent swordfights from spontaneously breaking out. A few tables were set at either end of the hall to seat neutral parties. On the side supporting Nesel sat the leadership of the Knights of the Monastery, represented by Sir Iaec and several of his chaplains, the armies in the West, represented by Maceol and Rodul, and the lords of Octania, represented either by the dukes themselves or a high-ranking emissary. Archdeacon Gelir sat on this side with a few loyal Archbishops. Jaku and Maruc were present. Although they had no official right to attend, all knew that, in truth, they had far more influence than many present. Seated across from them were four of the Five Great Guilds, represented by their respective guildmasters, and the majority of Archdeacons, Deacons, and Archbishops or their representatives. At the neutral tables sat delegates from the Questor’s Guild, the Wizard’s Guild and the Blacksmith Guild. The Wizard’s Guild was given the difficult task of maintaining civility during the debates.

The wizard guildmaster, a young blond man named Oni, was the complete antithesis to the typical wizard stereotype. He wore a long red-brown tunic over black linen breeches, not at all like the exotic robes and outlandish charms many of his contemporaries wore. The only jewelry on him was a thin gold chain about his neck. Those who understood the obscure arts of wizardry acknowledged that he was a master of augury, and could fashion objects and forces from air or water, or nothing at all. Of course, wizards could not actually weave magiks, being Godless Ones, but could invoke magik latent in their surrounding environment by use of rituals, herbs, scrying pools, and other means. They made profits by selling potions and charms to the public, most of which worked to some extent. Their actions were monitored carefully, especially since the wizard baron of Gartu was found brewing elixirs with the blood of slaughtered peasants. The vampire’s capture sparked a wave of anti-wizard sentiment that the guild had neve r quite recovered from.

Despite being neutral, the wizards would probably be more generous towards Nesel’s supporters. The wizards made far more money during times of war, when soldiers would pay outrageous prices for charms of protection or potions of strength. Also, nowhere in the world, except perhaps Lecoy, was the antagonism between wizard and magus more apparent than in Octania. Some half-expected the wizards to take Nesel’s side simply because the Seers had taken the other.

Oni stood and gestured the crowd to silence. Rather than beginning with a review of past events, he simply said, "I open the floor to Duke Elmwood of Upper Silat."

The Duke, a vigorous young man, walked up to the table. "My good wizard, I must protest these seating arrangements," he said dryly. "I will not tolerate the company of traitors not only to the honor of Octania, but also to the very people who serve it."

Nesel shouted, "I am the rightful king! Lakent is the traitor, and his Seers lackeys!"

"A ‘rightful king,’ as you so eloquently put it, is the father of his people," Lakent stated with cold fury. "I doubt such a man would send his children unwillingly into the torment and death of war."

Sir Maceol said, "It must be done! We cannot abandon the Western kingdoms!"

"The Shadow worshippers are being beaten with our current support," noted Elmdoor.

Nesel almost screamed, "The tide may turn! We need more men to drive them once and for all from this land!"

Lakent looked at his nephew-in-law with disgust. "For sooth, Nesel? Why then have we not returned the recaptured lands to their kings?" He turned toward the entire congregation in a dramatic pose. "Listen well, all gathered here. Nesel claims that he wishes to restore Gaiadom, but in his heart he dreams himself its master."

"Then fight me, coward! Prove the virtue of your claims!" Nesel said as he drew his blade. William knew this was unwise. Obviously, Lakent could not refuse the challenge, for that would prove his testimony false. He could, however, hire the best champion money could buy to represent him on the field of battle. Being a noble, Nesel would not be permitted the use of a champion. Lakent’s representative could easily be told to kill rather than wound. It could all end now. Nesel checked his anger and glanced about nervously, realizing the consequences of his outburst.

Lakent’s laughter rang through the hall. "What a prison you’ve crafted for yourself, young fool. You’re stuck between the hammer of my champion and the anvil of your pride."

Fear showed in Nesel’s eyes. He took a step back and sheathed his sword.

"But I, perhaps, am just as foolish as you," said Lakent. William frowned. What was the man planning? "For only by showing mercy to my most powerful foe can I demonstrate the true nature of my ideals." Supporters on both sides were puzzled by this turn of events.

"I refuse the challenge."

In the ensuing silence, Elmwood walked over to Lakent’s supporters, and waited patiently while pages scrambled to produce a chair and table for him to sit at.

Elmwood sat down and spoke doom. "I owe my allegiance to Lakent Bolare." At the other end of the hall, Lakent smiled. He was glad to have this old friend in such a time of need.

Two other Dukes, of Upper Silat and Angelos, crossed over to sit with Elmwood. Nesel kneaded his knuckles nervously. Lakent now completely controlled the Lower Highway, not to mention a direct attack route to Whiterift, should they decide to dominate the debate at the point of a sword. Nesel looked at Lord Randolph. The Marquis clasped his right wrist and tightened his right hand into a fist. Nesel understood the gesture. Should all the forces of heaven or earth seek to destroy it, the city would not fall.

A page gave Nesel a note signed Maceol. Obviously Maceol had not written it himself, being illiterate, but his squire Kay was a skilled scribe, and could have easily worn the black of the scholar, should he have chosen a quieter life.

The note read: Do not fear, for we still control Salushire and South Curith. If need be, we could bring forces down the coast from Hitali and Yantsima to break a siege.

The Duke of Tandar, Lord Heinrek, professed his allegiance to Lakent.

Nesel was outraged. "Heinrek! When your palace was burning to the ground and your family in the hands of the eastern raiders, who pulled you from the flames and rescued your kin? Who saved your family, that your descendents might rule for a thousand years?"

Heinrek looked back. "You did what you were ordered to do. Nothing more. I will not follow a pawn of the Knights."

"You ungrateful bastard! I curse you, and all your kin! May you burn in the flame from which I saved you!"

Nesel stormed out, his shocked retainers hurrying after.

Duke Iaen caught up to him first. "Nesel, you must be more careful."

Nesel screeched, "I would rather risk my chance of succession than cower before those ungrateful commoners!"

"My lord, you are lucky to have left that hall with your head, let alone the red circlet. These men will not easily relinquish their chance at the throne. Whiterift is already threatened on two sides."

"You expect me to sacrifice honor to appease those pigs?"

"I expect you to sacrifice pride to save Octania. Those pigs are quickly recruiting wolves to their side."

"Treacherous bastards."

Iaen resisted the urge to strike his lord. "The peasantry, the Strength, largely support Lakent. If you do not move to comfort them, it could mean civil war."

"If they want war, let them have it!" Nesel gestured to a nearby servant. "Send emissaries to Duke Challey of Lecoy and Prime Archon Yessin of Jirith. I must know where they stand. If Yessin will not lend military aid, demand twice the tribute in iron and weapons, medicine and beasts.

"Should I contact the Sybürmians?" Nesel asked Iaen.

Iaen replied, "Nay. They consider themselves our allies, but even more so do they consider the Shadow worshippers their enemies."

"Then they should help me, help Octania continue the war."

"Nesel, no Sybürmian soldier is going to abandon the Westerners just to travel here to fight for a king who isn’t theirs who believes in a cause they don’t understand just for a possibility of Octanian reinforcements coming to aid them."

"Very well. Are there any representatives of Lyn’quo in the city?"

The servant answered, "High Priest Fashin arrived yesterday, with two paladins of the Order of the White Seraph, but-"

"Summon them to my hall for one hour past noon tomorrow. Dismissed."

Maruc and Jaku walked down the crowded street with several bodyguards. It wasn’t market day, but workshops and grocers lining the alley were still accepting business from a throng of customers.

Jaku suddenly exclaimed, "But he could have killed the bastard!"

"Well, yes. But then he’d be disgraced and seen as a tyrant, one cruel enough to spill noble blood. Even if he took the throne, support for him would drop, the knights would find some distant royal cousin and depose him within the year. Just let Lakent have his moment of glory. The longer he’s seen as a friend of the people, the longer we have to consolidate his position."

Jaku said sarcastically, "Oh, what wonder learning is! Why, if the knights ever come knocking at your door, I’m sure your knowledge will impress them so as not to gut you like the traitorous pig you are."Wedding’s Day, September 2, 1268 A.R.


Fashin sat in the small antechamber waiting for the Baron to arrive, conversing quietly with one of the paladins on matters of theology. The two paladins were strong, tall men, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes, after the manner of northerners. They had come without arms or armor, and wore clean white gowns over black trousers with a dragon crest embroidered above their left shoulder. The crest, of course, was depicting the white dragons of the south, which were rumored to be the personal servants of Lynoxi. The god of Lyn’quo was always depicted as a kindly old man in a white robe or an able bodied youth hunting in the wilds. Lynoxi was slow to send his messengers to earth, and even slower to come himself to lend aid to his worshippers. In Lyn’quo it was held that he last walked abroad in the year 1008 A.R. in the form of Garethi, a young hunter who taught the Priests how to make and appease the Torch, that they might shield themselves from the powers of evil that plagued the world. A small luncheon o f cold meats and soft bread had been prepared, although they ate little and drank none, feeling that this food would be put to better use by whatever lowly servant could steal it first after the meeting. They had plenty of food left in their saddlebags.

Nesel walked in, followed by Duke Iaen and Marquis Randolph and four armed soldiers.

"Gaia’s Love, High Priest Fashin," said Nesel as he bowed his head slightly."

Fashin looked at him, a little surprised. What use would a Priest have for the green god’s affection? "Lynoxi’s Blessing, Baron Nesel," he said with a hint of sarcasm.

Nesel, of course, now realized his error. With his greeting, he had implied that Lynoxi was an inferior god, one incapable of protecting his worshippers, and that his followers should seek the attention of another god to protect them.

Nesel stammered in a most undiplomatic fashion, "My apologies, High Priest. I meant nothing by it."

"It’s quite all right, Lord. I thought nothing of it."

Iaen sat forward, "As you know, Octania is rapidly becoming divided over the issue of succession. The people do not understand the necessity of the western war. If this goes on, they may become, er, disobedient."

One of the paladins exclaimed, "They speak of rebellion? They would start a war to end one?"

"Soft, Tireces. It seems to me that the knights are the rebels, and the peasants are protecting their own," said Fashin.

Nesel said, "I am the rightful heir to the throne. I am the last prince of Octania."

"What makes you a prince? You have neither land, nor people, nor knowledge. You call yourself a prince when all you have is a name. Rather call yourself an upstart baron, and so be truthful about it!"

Iaen pressed, "You must see the necessity of the war with the Shadow worshippers. Would you have us mimic your ‘glorious’ people, and shut ourselves behind a wall of sorcery while the warlocks take the lands one by one?"

"We too have a quarrel with the Shadow worshippers, but will fight it in our own way, in our own time. I believe many of your people feel the same way. You cannot force them to fight when they do not wish it."

"Then Lyn’quo will support Lakent?"

"Lynoxi’s Light, no. He too wishes to dominate others and force them to give up a cause they would die for."

Randolph looked questioningly, "So you will scorn both sides, and lend aid or counsel to neither?"

Fashin said, "My lords, surely you must realize the paradox of seeking aid from the people of Lyn’quo. Our armies serve the Truth of Lynoxi, as our Priests serve the Silence. To have our armies serve you, you must first attain the purity and Truth of Lynoxi Himself. But were you completely in the right, there would be no war to fight; for your enemy’s resolve would be dashed against you as a ship upon the rocks. As for counsel, here is my counsel to you: share the throne with Lakent, if either of you can humble yourselves for the good of Octania. Give up not the war, but do not tax the people more than is rightful. I bid you good day, or Gaia’s Love, if you prefer." He and the paladins walked out the door.

The door to the small cabin creaked anxiously as Jaku and Maruc walked in. It was a small thatched place in the woods surrounding the Angelos. The roar of the wide and noble river was whittled away as it forced its way through the jagged cracks of the windowless cabin until only a pathetic gurgle made it to the ears of the cabin’s occupants. Closing the door silently behind him, Maruc gazed around the room. Very little light made it into the room, and the few rays that were not sealed out cast leprous patches on the floor that made the cabin far more unnerving. A man in the complete darkness of a deep dungeon might give up all hope, atone for his sins and let his mind and spirit depart, even while the body is cruelly kept alive; but with a little light a man will clutch violently at life right up until the moment it is ripped from him.

A man slept lightly on the chipped wooden places, caked with blood and soaked in urine, that made up the floor of the cabin. His clothes were torn, bloodied and soiled, and his legs were swollen and, if Jaku’s men had any consistency in their work, probably broken. Jaku stepped towards him with a calculatingly amiable smile, and gently uttered, "Good afternoon, Beol."

Beol awoke immediately and threw himself to the side. He clawed desperately at the ground in an effort to drag his broken body away. Maruc never understood why they did that. Did they think they were safe from their captors on the other side of the room? He supposed that were Bethrazael to approach him, he would act similarly, that he would try something, anything, to get away. Maruc smiled inwardly. His captives respected him as much as the Traitor Lord of Hell Himself.

Jaku was then standing over this pathetic shell of a person, smirking. "Beol, why have you not paid me back?" he cooed.

Beol was openly crying, slobbering randomly as words spilled fluidly from his mouth, "I haven’t got it, no, lord, please, I haven’t, there’s none to be had, please, oh Gaia, oh lord, forgive me!" Jaku smiled at being referred to as a "lord," but quickly settled into a familiar scowl.

"Look at me when I speak to you," ordered Jaku firmly.

The man let out a low whimper and faced the ground, unable to face his demon.

Jaku was horrified at this insult to his omnipotence. "I said look at me, damn it!"

Beol just lay there, muttering an incomprehensible prayer to Gaia.

The angry Guildmaster grabbed the man by what little hair had yet to be pulled out, and yanked his head upwards. He flipped a knife out of his belt and promptly slashed Beol’s ear off. The captive fell in a torrent of blood.

"Look at me!" Jaku yelled madly.

Beol rose to his knees, both hands futilely struggling to stop the blood flowing out of the wound. He stared brokenly at his master. Maruc apathetically examined the gory mess that must once have been Beol’s face, at the broken nose and small, wet, pleading eyes.

Suddenly Maruc had to lean against the wall to not pass out. An inferno of memories burned through him. Blood spurting on the walls…smirking men with gruff voices…a cabin…this cabin? Maruc dashed to the far corner. There, old, rotting, but still clear as day, there a tiny finger had scratched a B. He remembered.

"I need to get some air," he said frantically to Jaku, and ran out of the cabin before a response could come. Maruc vomited violently at a nearby tree, struggling to pull himself together. His white knuckles gripped the hilt of his sword as he doubled over in horror.

It’s not true and you damned well know it! Jaku’s your friend, has always been your friend. Good Gaia, could it be true? Just go back into the cabin. Just get up and walk into the cabin. You can do this. Beol’s not like you. Beol’s an enemy, a thief who stole from your friend. Is he my friend? You can’t feel sorry for him, this isn’t the same as what they did to you. He’s just like them. He deserves this! This is business. It’s his fault for being in it, being a thief, being like them!

Maruc slowly rose, fighting to maintain his confidence. He reentered the hut. This is just business. It’s not like what happened. Just business.

Jaku was now wielding an iron rod he got from Gaia knows where. Beol now had several broken ribs, and was pale and faint from the loss of blood. "Please, lord, I’ll get you the money, I swear by Gaia, please!"

Jaku raised the rod for another blow, aimed squarely at the sobbing wretch’s head. Jaku had has his fun, and was about to end it. "You’d have more money if you had just killed that knight instead of bribing him," he said with contempt.

"Gaia would have punished me, he would have," the prisoner driveled.

Jaku spit. "Gaia would praise you for ending the life of a noble. I hate all knights and you thieves too! Enough!" He kicked Beol, knocking him over, and raised the bar again.

Beol looked up in hope and fear. "No, wait! You hate the knights! You… support Lakent?"

"Of course, Quickhand."

"Nesel tried to hire me for a mission, but I refused. I secret, a secret, military mission."

Maruc sprang towards him. "What is it?"

"First tell him to let me live, please?"

Jaku immediately said, "I swear by Gaia I’ll let you go if you tell."

Beol began. "Nesel wanted me to take some message to Lecoy. He said that I must not be found, that the letter talks of war, and if I should, If I.." Beol fainted from blood loss. Jaku and Maruc quickly bandaged his ear and woke him with water from the river.

Maruc asked, "If you refused the letter, then who is taking it and when?"

Beol looked up weakly. "Some baron, tonight around midnight. On the West road. I swear that’s all I know, just let me go now, please, lords."

Jaku was genuinely grateful. "Not only will I not kill you, I’ll give you a six month extension on your debt. You may have helped us much."

"You are merciful, lord."

As Jaku left through the door, he noted casually, as one would remark on the weather. "Till then, I’m placing your wife and daughter under house arrest. They hope that you will come up with the payment even more than I do, I can assure you. My men will come soon and help you get to a temple to heal those wounds."

As they walked back to Whiterift, Maruc asked, "What did he owe you?

"Four pounds of pepper, after he lost part of a shipment of mine I was smuggling two years back." Jaku insisted for all his clients to pay in pepper, as it was impossible to fake. Four pounds roughly corresponded to two and one fourth pounds of silver, a trifle when compared to Jaku’s vast wealth. Still, if everyone cheated him out of two and a fourth pounds, his business would fall apart. Sometimes, one had to make an example.

"What were you smuggling? Wood?" asked Maruc.

"Wyvern eggs."

Maruc backed away from Jaku, stunned.

"There’s a lot more to running a carpenter’s guild than you might think, my friend. A lot more."

Maruc did not bring up the cabin, knowing that a fight so close to town would attract some attention. Besides, he would have plenty of time that night when they would try to intercept that letter.

Esquire Maruc, Jaku, Guillame, and Lakent sat in the small aft chamber of Maruc’s Whiterift manor. It was a small room, used for after-dinner conversation with the various gentle-men and women Maruc had visit him occasionally. He rarely entertained non-nobles (with the exception of very wealthy merchants), not wishing to mingle with commoners more than necessary. To the door to the left was Maruc’s library, which he boasted was the largest in the entire Marquisdom, with the exception of the Great Library beneath the Angelos Temple, built and stocked by the Antone Knights in ages long past. Literally hundreds of books, a baron’s ransom, were stacked in neat shelves surrounding three writing desks. Maruc had even hired two personal scribes to reproduce borrowed writings and help him interpret the more obscure parts of some tomes. He lived alone with what servants he needed, although more often than not he was on the road overseeing his holdings. The manor served as nothing more than a place he could call home, where he could look forward to retiring to when his latest journey was completed.

"Nesel seems rather hotheaded," said Guillame, staring into the fire that lit the small room.

Jaku shrugged, "His personality is well liked by the knighthood. Even with hundreds of similar diplomatic blunders, I doubt his political standing will be strongly affected. Everyone already knows where they stand, and no amount of Nesel’s sniveling insults will change that."

Lakent asked, worried, "So civil war is inevitable?"

"You are afraid?" asked Maruc with a hint of intrigue. He loved to know what people fear, what they hate. He loved to get under their skin, make them fear the echo of their footsteps, make them hate him with all their hearts, yet live their lives fearing him, subconsciously controlled by him.

"I will not trade one war for another, not for anything."

Guillame grabbed Lakent’s shoulder. "This isn’t entirely about the war, my friend. The knights have trod us underfoot for long enough. Never, not once in twelve hundred years, has a commoner become king. It is time we strike back and take what is ours."

Maruc, of course, knew the truth. Guillame was in this to manipulate Lakent. He didn’t care whether or not there was a war, or the peasantry were oppressed, or any other ideological nonsense. Guillame wanted power. He wanted to be king, or at the very least be served by one.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jaku. "Bolare, there will really be no war to speak of. The Free Companies will soon arrive to take the north, and Elmwood’s forces can crush Whiterift. The war will be won before the knights in the West can come to Nesel’s aid."

"You brought the Blue Mercenaries into this? Do you want a war?"

"My friend, we only wish to prepare for the worst. The knights may turn violent if backed into a political corner."

Lakent looked incredulously at the three. "Are you any better? Already you abandon the hope of a peaceful end to this matter."

Jaku said, "Don’t be a damn fool, Lakent. You knew the stakes of this the moment you agreed to bid for succession. But you knew we had to strike back at the knights, take back what’s ours. I know you still believe that. We will be masters of our homes, even at the cost of our blood."

"Our blood? I doubt your houses will shed a drop in any struggle. It is the people that will take the blow!"

"Please, friend, calm yourself. We have spent a great deal more effort than you care to give us credit for. Even now, William and Andir are abroad gathering support. Already men are marching in the countryside under the Bolare crest. Please, go home and consider this. All will be made clear in time, I assure you." Maruc stood, adjusted his ever-present sword, and motioned towards the door. "Gaia’s Love, gentlemen."

Lakent left, stubbornly noting as he left, "I will not trade one war for another walked to his temporary home, a large guest house inside Whiterift castle, with two loyal knights at his side with Honor Blades concealed under long wool cloaks. On the pommel of their swords was engraved a green-black checkered pattern, the coat-of-arms of the house Bolare. Lakent was his usual pensive self, saying little to his family’s men and walking with a characteristic silent dignity. He took an alternate route home, enjoying a small stretch on a hill he favored. He crested the hill and looked upon his home in shock.

A mob of at least five hundred men had gathered about the outer hedge like a swarm of insects. Most were, drunken, cowardly men from the fields, the kind that scatter like mice when any armed man comes within a hundred yards of them. The kind that support nothing but themselves and live out their miserable existence blind to matters of ideology and freedom. Lakent thought the thugs must have come to raid his house. Many carried torches, but they made no move to force entry into the compound. Nonetheless, the terrified servants inside had doubly barred the gate and doors, and many had armed themselves with knife and bow. A solitary man stood on a table at the gate.

He yelled, and all fell silent.

"Brothers! We have left our workshops, our crops, our mines, our forests to come here, and you have not come in vain. For today is the beginning of a new era, as was Salvation for the people of Ambur and Lecoy. For the last time have we been thrown underfoot by the nobility. We are the Strength, and a man who has his strength has everything. I ask you, friends, to bend your backs in effort once more, but now toil to overturn the knights in their scarlet robes. This time we shall defeat the knights at their own game! This time we shall choose Octania’s future. We are the majority! Fie to the nobility! Fie to Octania! Fie to toil and war! Fie to servitude! Will not Lakent come out to greet his subjects? Where is the man who will lead us to freedom?"

"I am here!" said Lakent, huffing after racing down the hill to meet these valiant, honorable men who had come to serve the cause of peace. Most men went down on both knees, as if Lakent were already king.

The man on the table shouted, "Will you lead us to self-determination?"

Lakent looked about the suddenly silent mob. "Aye," he said strongly.

"Will you end the war that has so taxed our people?"

"Aye" he said, louder.

"If they seek to subdue us with fire and sword, will you lead us into battle?"

Lakent looked with his tired eyes at the men who sat silently gazing at him, all on their knees, hands folded across their chests, looking at him in hope. He saw all their faces, ready to give their lives for him, ready to change Octania forever. He gazed at the bold figure on the ridiculous pauper’s table, and whispered, "Aye. Aye, I will, if it comes to that." Gaia have mercy on me.

The man let out a yell and leaped off his stand to come running before Lakent. "Then accept my oath, Patron of the clan Bolare. I swear by my soul that as long as I have life in my bones, I shall suffer no harm to come to your house." And the man placed a knife, as it were a warrior’s sword, at Lakent’s feet.

Lakent fought the hardest struggle of his life to not laugh. The knife was single-edged and blunt, the kind used to cut meat at dinnertime in merchant households. After a long and almost unsustainable silence. Lakent edged out, "Your name and trade?"

"Taki, Patron, a bowman of the East garrison, of no house but my own, or yours if you’ll have me."

Lakent stood up proudly. "You will serve me as you would serve yourself?"

"Yes, Patron."

"You would freely abandon all previous affiliations save family should I ask it of you?"

"Even should you ask my abandonment of my family would I obey you."

"You will learn swordsmanship, chivalry, wrestling and other honorable arts befitting the personal guard of a Patron?"

"Yes, gladly."

"Then rise, Armsbearer Taki Cooking-Knife of the house Bolare, and go within. My servants shall outfit you with a tunic and armaments befitting of a man as honorable as yourself."

Lakent then stood on the decrepit table and shouted to the dirty, poverty-stricken crowd. "Two nights from now I shall hold a grand feast for the coronation of Armsbearer Taki. All here are invited! There will be a great dinner, with meat and cheese and wine and fruit and fine white bread for all. A dozen minstrels shall play, and a dozen poets shall read, and a dozen acrobats shall perform feats for your entertainment. Tell all in the city, be they peasants or craftsmen or merchants, that are loyal to the cause of freedom to at least stop by and lift a cup in honor of the Strength of Octania!"

Lakent knew, of course, that he could end up having well over fifteen hundred guests. But Maruc had guaranteed him unlimited funds, and he intended to test that promise.

Maruc met Jaku outside the city walls when the moon came close to its midnight zenith. They didn’t leave the manor together for fear of arousing the suspicion of Lakent. They now sat on the ground in a sheltered part of the road that led out the east side of the valley, about a half hour’s walk from the nearest Whiterift gate. They were long past curfew, and would not be able to get into the city until sunrise tomorrow, but they had it on the Beol’s authority that someone would be able to get out this night. They were dressed in the brown tunic and maroon leggings of the rangers that typically watched this stretch of road, and were armed with the typical short-bow and dagger of such men. Maruc had even left his gladius behind in the manor in favor of a more convincing disguise.

"It’s so cold," grumbled Maruc. "We could have just sent some men to do this."

"Maruc, if you’ve any men trusted enough to accomplish this errand, you’re either very beloved or very, very gullible. Not a good trait in either case."

"It sometimes pays to have loyalty among your men, Jaku."

Jaku shook his head sadly. "How you’re not lying dead in a gutter somewhere, even I don’t know."

Maruc got up and walked to the side of the road, looking off the road. The ground sloped sharply for about ten yards, then dropped off into a steep crumbling quarry.

He turned around expressionlessly and called, "Jaku, come here and look at this."

Jaku got up and trudged over, coming to lean against a tree with one hand while scanning the valley. He frowned. "What?"

"Nothing but justice, bastard!" Maruc backhanded Jaku, throwing him to the ground.

"What’s wrong with you?" screamed Jaku. Jaku ran up the incline and tackled

Maruc, knocking them both down to the ground. Jaku threw his fist repeatedly into his adversary’s face. Maruc got a hand free and knocked Jaku off him. The squire jumped to his feet and kicked Jaku in the face, who was knocked backwards, towards the edge. Jaku struggled to his feet and threw a punch at Maruc’s stomach. Maruc caught his Jaku’s arm and yanked him forward, then brought his free hand across to strike Jaku in the temple, who staggered, but didn’t fall. The guildmaster countered with an uppercut, throwing Maruc to the ground, then viciously kicked his ribs. Maruc, now writhing on the ground, kicked Jaku’s ankles out, sending Jaku tumbling down the incline.

Realizing his peril, Jaku clutched frantically at the vegetation. The cliff was getting steeper, closer to the quarry. He grasped a rock but it crumbled from the cliff. His frantic hands finally found a strong root, halting his descent. He glanced down and regretted it, for his hands shook violently as he saw the ground drop away suddenly less than two yards from him. The hill was so steep here that it was as if Jaku was on a ladder, and was covered in slick crumbling stone and soil. Maruc carefully climbed down, finally standing a yard from Jaku, holding fast to a tree, afraid to come too close lest Jaku would pull the squire down with him.

Again, "What are you doing?" he cried with fear at the dark figure above him.

Maruc stated, "You are the one who abducted me when I was six."

"What are you talking about? I haven’t even been running the guild for that long!"

Maruc roared, "Have you owned that cabin for twenty years?"

"No! I bought it last year, I swear. I don’t remember from who. I can find the papers, if you’ll just pull me up."

"Liar!" Maruc kicked the root that Jaku clung to, rat-like as he tried to writhe up the incline. Several fibers of the root broke. Jaku screamed and slid down as more and more of the root was lifted from the ground. He stopped half over the cliff, his legs dangling helplessly over the edge.

Jaku calmed down for a moment. "Maruc listen to me. I’m your friend, have always been your friend, haven’t I? I was the one who gave you that loan back in ’57, wasn’t I? Please, I know why you’re upset, just please, think this through! I wasn’t even a carpenter when you were abducted! Just help me up, I’ll help you find who it was, I promise! I’ll get you the name of the person I bought it from!"

Jaku stopped and heard nothing, as tears flowed down his cheeks and he struggled to hold onto life. His hand slipped a little. He cried out and grabbed hold again, now slick with blood from thousands of little cuts. Gaia, forgive me my sins, for as I die today my body shall give birth to new life and so shall you prevail.

A branch touched his shoulder, and he looked up at Maruc. Maruc said, "Climb up, you damn fool."


An hour of silence passed as the two merchants sat by the road in utter unceasing silence. Rote finally ventured, "How’d you know it was that particular cabin?"

Maruc, grim with the thought that he might have killed his best friend tonight, simply said, "I etched a B into one corner."

"Why a B?"

Maruc sighed. "It’s for Baro, a toy dog I owned at the time. Every night I wished that he was with me, that I might hold and love him, so I wouldn’t have to be alone. I think I missed him even more than my parents. I was so afraid of the dark, but even more afraid of morning, because then the men would come for me."

"You were a child. They couldn’t have hurt you that bad," said Jaku.

Maruc held up his mutilated, two-fingered left hand. "They did. They must have really needed a ransom. Sheriffs are usually targets."

"Why’d they let you go?"

Maruc said, "I don’t know. My father become quite distant after the incident; he never really said anything about it. He refused to answer any of my questions, although we did seem poorer than before, so I suppose he gave in to their demands. He once beat my brother for bringing the subject up."

"And you?"

Maruc said, "He never laid a finger on me, even when I disobeyed him and rightly should have been disciplined."

The far off sound of hoofs beating the gravel road brought them out of their conversation.

Maruc said, "Get your knife, Jaku, and then shut up."


Gaia’s Day, September 3, 1268 A.R.


About a half hour later, a little after midnight, the rider came into view. He was a typical knight, tall, muscled, riding a great black warhorse worth a half-dozen peasants’ lives. The horse was being ridden a bit too hard by the knight, was heavily armed with an Honor Blade, a spear, a bow and full plate mail. Maruc assessed him. Bloody froth was flying from its gaping jaws: its gums must have been torn by the bit. That meant that the knight must have had to turn or stop sharply, meaning he probably took a steeper trail out of town, probably up the west side of the quarry. However, not only was that trail longer, it was more dangerous, its only usual travelers being quarrymen and wagon drivers. The only reason for a knight to take it would be to avoid going past and waking the peasants living in the huts near the main road, who would certainly be curious about what a knight is doing out and about on a road under curfew. Maruc nodded to Jaku, who nodded back. They had their man.

Maruc stepped out into the light and shouted, "Hail!"

The knight slowed down, obviously hesitant. He was on a mission of utmost importance, but the rangers that guarded the roads were on direct order from Lord Randolph himself, and to refuse to acknowledge them would count as minor treason. They could pursue or even shoot him outright without any fear of repercussion. He came to a halt ten yards away and crossed his arms over his chest in salute. Maruc and Jaku did the same.

The two mock rangers walked towards him casually, although Maruc made a point of unslinging his longbow. Maruc of course had no skill with the bow, and was probably not even strong enough to draw an arrow, but the threat of a possibly hostile longbowman was enough to give any fighting man pause. Even now the knight was probably contemplating what would happen if he ran.

Maruc said, "Identify yourself!"

The knight raised his visor breathlessly struggled out, "Baron…Franir…..of Jokun.

Jaku stepped up. "You are aware that this road is under curfew from two hours after dusk to two hours before dawn?"

"I have a document of license," rushed the baron, who had caught his breath but was obviously nervous. "From the Marquis."

A moment of silence. Then Jaku said, "Well, let’s see it."

"Of course, my apologies," he said and dismounted. Maruc was silently laughing, for the knight was so stressed he had not even requested their names, nor any proof that they were indeed rangers, and had not simply stolen the clothes and weapons of some.

He withdrew a piece of new white paper and unrolled it, moving to hand it to Jaku. Jaku took the paper in one hand, and with the other drew a thin strong dagger and pounded it solidly through Franir’s armor and into the baron’s stomach. Jaku wrenched it out as the nobleman drew his sword. Franir swung at Jaku, but his movement was made clumsy by pain, and Jaku ducked it easily. Jaku came up fast and drove his knife deep into the knight’s unprotected throat.

Then Jaku felt that feeling, the wonderful moment when he looked into a victim’s dying eyes, and those eyes became Jaku’s world, and he saw how the victim feared him now, how the dying man respected him more than Gaia himself, how he was now absolute in power to his victim. Jaku reveled in the eyes for a second before the spark of life died out and the limp mannequin of armor fell to the ground.

Maruc ran over and both searched him, finally finding a small box of letters sealed with Nesel’s crest. They both took half, agreeing to trade noon that day.

Now came the difficult part of the murder, as if the corpse would soon be found be the numerous search parties Nesel would be certain to send out no matter haw well they hid it. They would realize that the wounds must have been inflicted by a thin dagger, once that must have been made of high-quality steel to be hard enough to penetrate armor. Only rangers use that type of weapon, but it would not be difficult to find the location of all rangers tonight, none of which would be anywhere near the road Franir disappeared on. The only mill in the Marquisdom capable of duplicating that grade of steel would be the Great Mill on the Angelos, which only has four clients, one of whom they would learn is entirely an intermediary for an illegal weapons dealer named Kylinia, who in exchange for a lighter sentence would give the courts the names and buying records of his clients, including Jaku and Maruc’s purchase of the ranger-like daggers. This was obviously a thing to be avoided.

Maruc was struck with a sudden flash of inspiration. He picked up a heavy rock from the side of the road, and dropped it on the cadaver several times, paying special attention to smashing apart the dead man’s throat and stomach. Jaku watched this with bewilderment, but he had committed enough crime with Maruc to trust his judgment with this sort of thing. When he was finished, Maruc called out, "Help me get him back on his horse, Jaku."

After considerable effort, the fully armored knight, his abdomen and throat crushed so that the wounds were no longer recognizable as knife cuts, sat limply in the saddle of his bored and relaxing horse, who reluctantly followed as Maruc led him to the edge of the road. "Get back, Jaku."

The two men retreated up the other side of the road. Maruc turned around and threw his dagger into the horse’s flank. The black warhorse neighed and bolted blindly into the wooded incline. The knife, which barely penetrated the beast’s thick skin, was shaken loose and clattered to the ground, leaving only a pinprick wound. The horse lost its footing and slid helplessly down the slope, carrying its dead rider off the quarry cliff. The neighing died sharply with a metallic clang.

Jaku considered the action as Maruc went to pick up his knife. In the morning, a quarry worker would find the dead horse and rider, who must have lost their way in the dark and stumbled over the cliff. All wounds could easily be accounted for by the fall. The only evidence of murder would be the absence of the letters, so that if Nesel wanted to launch a formal investigation he would have to publicly admit that he had sent messages during the debate without seeking the courts’ permission, an act strictly forbidden during a time of royal debate. He would have to fume silently while his messages are analyzed by Lakent’s supporters.

"You may be the most intelligent man I’ve ever met," said Jaku admiringly to Maruc, who was now digging a hole with his hands to bury the bloodied gravel. After an hour of readjusting the road, they began to walk cheerfully back to Whiterift with the feeling of a job well done.


"Damn!" exclaimed Nesel as he sorted through Franir’s belongings. "They taken the letters, all of them," he said to Maceol and Iaen, "The bastards murdered him!" No-one in the shack, a small lodge used by the quarrymen, could argue with him on that point. They had already thoroughly searched the quarrymen and their things, saying that the baron had been carrying an indefinite amount of silver, and that they were simply making sure none had been taken. None had even touched the body, for they were all good and honest men with little thought for meddling in the affairs of greater people.

In the shack were Nesel, Maceol, Iaen, Randolph, Kay and Nesel’s scribe, grimly brooding over the smashed cadaver that was once a loyal and honorable man. The scribe said, "Shall I write a letter, lord?"

Nesel, taken aback, asked, "What?"

"A letter, lord. Offering condolence to the good baron’s family."

"Of course!" ordered Nesel and turned back to searching the dead knight’s pockets. After the clerk had left, he asked earnestly, "So what’s our next move?" He glanced hopefully at the four men.

Marquis Randolph stated, "If we choose to seek a thief, they will find a way to prove nothing was stolen. If we admit to the messages, then we admit that we broke the code of debate and will likely be forced into armed conflict."

"If we do nothing, then they’ll show the messages to everyone in Whiterift within the week," argued Iaen.

Maceol stepped forward and said, "Every time anyone dies on the roads, the rangers launch an official investigation into the accident."

"So?" asked Nesel.

"So," responded Maceol, "We search through Franir’s family history for some great deed done for Octania by any of his forefathers. We claim that we owe his house a debt, and ask if we can take personal control over the investigation from the rangers. They are facing hard times, what with all Lakent’s supporters violating road curfews, and will go as far as thank us for taking this investigation of his hands."

Nesel glanced at Iaen, who nodded. Randolph said, "Sounds good."

The young baron slapped his palms down on the table and turned to Maceol. "Alright. Who do we send?"

"Maceol, I’m on leave," complained Rodul as he watched a few passers-by from the window of his house.

Maceol looked sternly at him. "It will only take a couple of days. Your leave can wait, but this cannot."

Rodul leaned forward, "Why do you even want me for this? I’ve never led an investigation in my life."

"Because you’re the most loyal man I have," said Maceol. "This cannot reach anyone with a loose tongue or hungry purse." He sat back and sighed. "Look, what’s it going to take to win you over? Nesel might even be prepared to give up some land if you get to the bottom of this."

Rodul laughed. "You, of all people, should know I’m not fit for lordship."

"Neither are half the lords in Octania, but I don’t hear them complaining."

Rodul chuckled, then said, "I’m not going to do it."

"How about double pay for the next three months? Double leave next year?"

Rodul simply stared at him.

Maceol, a somewhat less-than-shrewd negotiator, continued desperately. "I could have your name put down in the Book of Deeds!"

Rodul asked, "Really? You can do that?"

"Of course! Your great-grandchildren will make pilgrimages to this city just to better remember your glorious act, and every knight will say prayers that you live to perform more wondrous deeds!" pressed Maceol.

"Really?" asked Rodul, a small smile bending the corners of his mouth.

"Yes! What do you say?" declared Maceol.

"No."

"Oh come on!" moaned Maceol in defeat. He glanced up and, half joking, begging, "How about a personal favor? To me?"

"Sure."

Maceol stared at him incredulously. "What?"

Rodul, struggling to keep a straight face, said, "I do really owe you some help. I’ll take care of your problem for you," then broke down into fits of laughter.

Sir Maceol collapsed in frustration. He meekly said, "Nesel will brief you at noon tomorrow at his manor." He glared meaningfully at Rodul. "Be there."

As he walked towards the door Rodul asked, "I’ll still take the double pay and leave."

Maceol sighed in complete resignation. "Whatever."

"And I’ll need someone to help me. Any suggestions?"

"Rodul, I’m on leave," complained Daken as he sipped his beer.

"Do it as a personal favor to me," requested Rodul.

Daken answered, "Sorry, but I’d rather be kind to my wife than to you."

Rodul thought, why does Maceol always have it easy? Daken leaned back in his chair, seemingly settled for a long negotiation.

Rodul said "Daken, you’re helping me or I’m taking you out of the Fist of Octania and putting you in charge of a company guarding a Castlen fruit storehouse."

Daken stared at Rodul. Rodul stared back.

"Fine. When are we briefed?" asked Daken sadly.

Taki hit the ground with a shuddering groan.

"Taki, this isn’t knife-fighting," sighed Baren, a thirty-something Armsbearer assigned to training him in the art of broadsword-fighting. "Can’t you see that speed is irrelevant? You force yourself to hastily struck blows, but are easily struck down by a more skilled opponent. Aim, my boy, strength, balance and strategy are key in a broadsword duel. For instance," he handed Taki a two-foot cane meant to simulate a machete of the type used by Sybürmian soldiers. "Now let’s say you come at me, depending on a hasty rain of blows to wear down and slay me." Taki moved and threw a blow to Baren’s upper chest, who deflected it solidly, sending Taki reeling backwards. "Hold! No matter your agility, the first strike will always by stopped by a man of any noticeable skill. Now look at your position." Taki, knocked back by the counter, stood with his cane held behind and below his waist, on par with the tip of Baren’s sword that was held expertly at the end of the swordmaster’s follow-through. "Now watch close ly." He brought the practice sword up in a strike aimed at Taki’s stomach. Taki quickly countered by moving his sword arm upwards and left, but his elbow was turned upwards so that the entire force of the blow had to be taken by the wrist, as he had learned the weakest joint in a swordfighter’s arm. Baren’s sword was knocked away from the solar plexus, but was not fully stopped due to the lack of force in the parry. Taki’s sword was hopelessly askew, his entire upper body was bent over backwards, and Baren’s sword was an inch from his neck. "You see? This is not some barroom brawl. This is how true soldiers fight. Let’s try this again, but place your blows well and slowly. Think, don’t feel, and for Gaia’s sake let at least a second pass between your blows."

They fought for several hours, during which time Taki became very well acquainted with the packed dirt ground of the courtyard. Other Armsbearers as well as common men-at-arms of the household came and went to train in the courtyard. An hour or so after noon, Baren finally said, "That’s enough for today, Cooking-Knife. Be here at daybreak again tomorrow for further training."

"Again? So much, so soon?"

"Taki, how much time have you spent practicing with the longbow?"

"About six hours every Rest Day since I was six."

"And you expect less of swordsmanship? We hope to have you trained in less than a year, Cooking-Knife."

After Baren left, Taki walked idly through the halls of Lakent’s house in a vague search for the kitchen. He determined that, this day, there were roughly eleven Armsbearers and at least two dozen men-at-arms guarding the household, almost twice as many as the night before. Rumor had it that as many as forty more soldiers were coming down from the Bolare headquarters in the western highlands.

He found the kitchen, in which a short kitchenmaster, irate to the point of incomprehensibility, had apparently just been told of the coming feast declared the night before. Taki stepped deftly around a cook who successfully ducked out to freedom from his master’s ramblings.

Really not wishing to disturb the cooks by humbly requesting a bite to eat, he crouched around the room until he found a slightly stale loaf of bread, poured himself a cold cup of tea and crept outside to the eating area on the east side of the courtyard. He sat upon a wooden chair and admired the house around him, which, by far, was the most lavish building he had ever had the honor of being in. It was a massive building, with two stories of rooms wrapped around a sunny courtyard forty yards across at a side. It was a strange thing to use a structure that could pass for a moderately-sized inn was itself simply guest quarters of Whiterift Castle.

Taki finished his improvised lunch looking about his new workplace, wondering feverishly what he had gotten himself in to.

Jaku, Maruc, and Guillame sat in the corner of a prominent restaurant, skillfully choosing a boot far away from the other occupied tables, waiting patiently for their ordered luncheon to arrive. In Octania and Sybürmia this was the main meal of the day, in opposition to the Westerlands’ custom of eating three hours after noon. Both were a far cry from Jirith, where craftsmen and farmers alike ate as late as seven hours after midday.

Guillame asked quietly, "So, what does Nesel have to say to Grand Duke Challey and Prime Archon Yessin?"

"Read it yourself," said Maruc as he handed Guillame the letters.

The letters read:

To Grand Duke Challey of Lecoy:

You surely have heard of the disturbing state of affairs that our kingdom now suffers under, though I doubt that you truly understand how quickly the situation is escalating. As I write, numerous bands of insubordinate peasants, some several hundreds large, are marching in the countryside under the banner of Lakent Bolare. You, once the Marshall of the Flaming Cavalry, must understand the necessity of remaining in the war. I fear we soon may have no choice but to withdraw forces from the West to combat this new evil. In the worst possible scenario, I will lose the right to succession and Octania will be wholly removed from the war. However, I believe there to be hope if we strike hard and fast at the Bolare clan headquarters in the highlands of Rikalia. However, myself and the other Dukes are paralyzed until the Council ends. I implore you to send any available soldiers through Blackmoor to capture Rikalia the moment negotiations break down. I would like to remind you that you are indeed part of Octania, a nd not just an allied kingdom, as many of your people would have it. After this is settled, all Dukes who remain neutral or side with Lakent will be punished for insubordination. I hope you make the right choice.

Lord Nesel Trunam, Baron of Hyle

Guillame put down the letter. "A little severe, isn’t he?"

"He should be," said Jaku. "Listen to his ‘letter’ to Prime Archon Yessin of Jirith. Two sentences: ‘You are to immediately pledge all of your home guard to our cause or pay double tribute. Respond by the end of December or face the consequences.’ You’d think he owned the country."

Maruc noted. "He more or less does. However, I think that Yessin will realize that Nesel cannot afford to send any soldiers or ships to punish him if he disagrees."

They began to talk eagerly about upcoming festivals as a serving-girl approached and asked for drink orders.

Maruc asked in a polite manner not really befitting a man of substance referring to a servant, and a female servant at that. "I’m terribly sorry to give you trouble, but do you have any chocolate?"

The girl thought for a moment, than stated, "Yes, actually. A new barrel just came in from Sybürmia."

"I’ll take some, then. Light on the milk but heavy on the spices, please." The servant blushed slightly at having the request of such a notable person, then bowed and turned to Jaku, who ordered the house paign, which, according to his well-attuned palate, was one of the best honey-wines in the province.

Before she even asked, Guillame curtly said, "Brandy."

She bowed and turned to leave, but Maruc politely asked, "I apologize for imposing, but could you ensure that no-one comes near our table? We may be discussing sensitive matters of business, and we would appreciate some privacy."

She responded, "Actually, we have a room in the back that you gentlemen can use, if you prefer."

He thanked her as she showed them through a non-descript door into a large conference room, where they took their seats. The servant left to place their orders.

As the door closed, Jaku exclaimed, scandalized, "What the hell was that about? I thought nobles prided themselves on being respectable people, not womanizing scoundrels with no respect for social custom!"

"Oh, calm down, Jaku. Do you really think she would have shown us this room if we just asked outright? Sometimes you need to be flexible in order to get what you want."

As Jaku opened his mouth, Guillame cut him off with, "The important thing is that we got the room. If Maruc wants to lower himself to the point of indecency, it’s his choice. So back to business. Do we publish the letters? Discredit Nesel?"

"If we did, he would trace it back to us and hunt us down like dogs," responded Jaku.

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the servant carrying their drinks. She set them down, bowed quickly, and departed. Maruc picked up his chocolate and sipped it, feely the frothy spicy fluid burn down his throat. There was some strange outlandish spice in it, almost like the cayenne found in the southern isles, but not quite. Maruc made a mental note to look into it as a possible investment opportunity.

Guillame said, "Nesel will get a message past us, sooner or later. We should send word to Rikalia to prepare for a northern assault."

"Agreed. I know a trusted man who can get out of the city unnoticed. I’ll have him take it." Said Maruc.

Guillame rose. "I have to get back to the Guild Hall. Apparently the knights have taken several of the masons working at the quarry in for interrogation, and the whole Guild is up in arms."

"The knights are leading the investigation?"

"Apparently so," responded Guillame.

He left them to their worries. As soon as he left, Maruc immediately asked, "Show me the document."

"Hmm?" grunted a startled Jaku as he swilled his paign around his cup.

"The document you promised. The one that says who you bought that cabin for."

Jaku took a rolled piece of parchment from his pocket, and handed it to Maruc. The top of it read:

This deed is proof that the former property of Frilo Miller and Jae Miller shall hereafter belong , wholly within the law, to Guildmaster Jaku of the 1st Carpenter’s Guild of Octania. This occurred on July 19th in the twelve hundred and fifty-ninth year after Revelation.

The sale of a residence was quite an uncommon occurrence, with most homes being passed on to the next of kin when its former residents became deceased. On the rare occasion that a building was bought, the customer usually had the courts draw up such a document to prevent friends of the former residents from mistaking the new owners for thieves or brigands. At the bottom of the scroll was the Sheriff’s signature.

"Millers.".

"Yes."

Maruc said, "What luck! Next time we run into William, we can just ask to see his books and find out where those millers went!"

"I suppose so," said Jaku, dubious.

The serving girl knocked again and entered, taking their orders. They received their food and ate it, but afterwards remained locked in quiet conversation, and did not leave for several hours.

"I would like to invite Knight-Marshall Maceol to describe the situation in the West for those gathered," declared Nesel to the representatives in the Hall of Kings as two royal pages produced a large canvas map of the Westerlands and hung it on two conveniently placed posts.

Maceol strode to the front and loudly began, "As most of you know, the war began when the Shadow worshippers invaded the kingdom of Vanstardt in the May of 1265. Later that year, a council of war was called in the Valley of Life in the kingdom of Hemlock. All nations of the continent immediately declared war on the Shadow worshippers save Brosurg, Sybürmia and the Rosian Isle. The next January, the last stronghold of Vanstardt was overrun and King Adelik was captured. The Shadow worshippers refuse to negotiate for a ransom, and the current whereabouts of the king is unknown."

A duke by the name of Galai, who supported Nesel, stood and stated, "Forgive me, for I am unfamiliar with the history of the war, but if Sybürmia initially declined to aid Vanstardt, who or what changed their minds?"

Maceol immediately responded, "After Sarune was slain by the honorable Duke Iaen in 1247, the people of Sybürmia signed a treaty indicating that ‘though our ways may be different, let it be known that any enemy of Octania is an enemy of ours.’ This treaty was well kept until the Shadow worshippers invaded."

A lady in the crowd asked, "So they fight merely for the treaty?"

Maceol turned, "Then they fought for the treaty, but now they have seen the power of Shadow’s black host. They fight now, as do all of us, for the fate of the Westerlands."

He turned back to the map. "Moving along, an army two thousand strong crossed the border into Heinsydil and laid siege to the castle of Leksandof in the March of 1267. In light of the besiegement, the neighboring kingdom of Brosurg agreed to enter the war. Since then, The Shadow worshippers have taken over half the kingdom of Heinsydil, as well as all of Kenin, Co’til, Keshir and its sister kingdom Sethir. They were finally turned back in a battle before the gates of Hemlock Stronghold."

Maceol gazed around and the confused looks of some of the gathered as they watched Maceol trace the enemy campaign. He said, "Those of you who having studied modern warcraft are no doubt wondering at the strange path taken by the bulk of the Shadow worshippers. Instead of crossing the Lom in several places and gradually expanding their domain, they have instead had heir army occupy territory that is bordered on three sides by hostile territory. All of our strategic analysis has come up with only one conclusion: that they wish to take the Valley of Life, even at the cost of most of their conquered realm. We can only assume that they felt the capture of the Valley would lead to the capitulation of the remaining kingdoms. This assumption, which is agreed upon by all allied kingdoms, indicates they have no desire to sign a peace treaty.

"Do you hear me? They wish to take all the continent! They did not stop at Vanstardt and will not stop at the Westerlands!" He was not really sure if this was true, and in fact they would fight the war simply to save the Westerners, but he needed something to help convince the unbelievers.

Guildmaster Jaku scowled and said, "Enough with the history lesson. You were to present the current situation in the West."

Maceol gestured to the map.

"Since our recent campaign began February this year, we have liberated Keshir, Sethir and all provinces of Co’til that lie north of the Lom river. At the moment the armies lie thusly," he said and began pointing to the map.

"Octania has fourteen divisions of six hundred soldiers each, four of which come from the Grand Duchy of Lecoy, guarding various fords and bridges of the northern Lom. We also have four full-sized warships and several smaller frigates in the north branch of the river, although we have not yet achieved naval superiority in the southern branch. Every remaining Western kingdom has committed two full divisions, with the exception of Lomstaag and Tenal, who could only field one division. Collectively the Westerlands have armed nine warships and a score of smaller craft, which are currently engaging Shadow worshipper transport frigates offshore."

"Sybürmia and Brosurg are holding down the Great Bridge in southern Heinsydil with eleven divisions of seven hundred, eight from Sybürmia and three from Brosurg. Altogether we have managed to prevent an enemy force of any considerable size from crossing either branch of the Lom River."

Oni asked, "What can you tell us about the Shadow worshippers themselves?"

Maceol thought for a moment, then said, "They are a very pale-skinned people, and burn easily in the sun. Their government is a delicate power struggle between hostile lords and feuding covens of warlocks. Ten years ago, a great majority of them were subdued by a coven of warlocks whose name roughly translates as Shadow’s Chosen. They are presumably behind the recent hostilities."

"These ‘warlocks’ you speak of. What are they capable of?" asked Archdeacon Gelir.

Maceol slowly answered. "They are wielders of great magiks, terrible magiks. I once saw six of them, huddled together, spinning a ball of black cold which they cast into our ranks. I saw twenty men as the ball passed through them, diminishing as it gave its cold to our soldiers, and their faces, frozen by an instant of unbearable pain, dead in the black boulder’s wake. Our battle Seers have no defense against it but to grow life in its way in a frantic attempt to steal its deadly cold, and the glorious metal armor in which we hold so much pride holds little protection against such a perversion of nature. Individually, the warlocks cast small bolts of frost, aimed at the chest to constrict the lungs of our men and prevent them from breathing. This malady, called Warlock’s Grasp by the soldiers, sometimes lasts several days and results in a slow, painful death for the victim. Fortunately, the Seers of the Valley of Life have worked with our own Seers to create a tonic to restore life to failing lungs." At this, a rustling murmur went through the Seer delegation, for they had not authorized the battle Seers to ally with the heathens that refused to acknowledge the Mother Temple.

"What does their army consist of?" asked the Duke of Rikalia.

Maceol answered, "They have knights, as we do, though theirs pay as much heed to the principles of honor as the paladins of Lyn’quo do. These knights command large numbers of well-armed and armored spearmen and archers. However, a small portion of their armies fight with no armor and rusted weapons, and fight with fear in their eyes, fear not only of the army before them, but also, I think, of the warlocks behind them."

Oni asked, "They are mercenaries, then?"

Maceol shook his head sadly. "No. Slaves."

Lakent rose and stated, "Men taken from their homes and made to fight."

"Aye.

Indeed, many faces of Western descent can be seen among their ranks."

"Men taken from their homes and made to fight," repeated Lakent. He turned to the gathered and challenged, "Who here can tell the difference between these poor slaves and the men Nesel wishes to conscript into the army? Men taken from their homes to be sent, against their will, into the hell of war?"

Nesel stood and calmly stated, "I can."

"Oh? How would you described these ‘conscripts,’ then?" he mocked , as if he were condoling a child.

Nesel gripped his table tightly. "You will show respect for me as I have shown respect for you in these debates, Bolare."

Lakent contemptuously said, "Continue."

"The slaves of the Shadow worshippers are forced to risk their lives, but far worse, are forced to risk their souls. Should they kill a man who does nothing but defend his own, they shall surely pay in the after-life. But conscripts of Octania shall save far more lives than they shall destroy, and so shall be favored in the end."

"The end does not justify the means, Nesel. Gaia does not care if your murder has resulted in a net gain, as if men were but goods to be sold at market."

A few scattered laughs rang throughout the Hall.

Nesel, his face burning with humiliation, spoke, forcing the words roughly through a filter of respectability. "That is true. But, even the Seers would agree that it is necessary to kill one who would kill you. And so shall the conscripts rout the Shadow worshippers utterly, and cast them into the sea before they should threaten Octania."

Lakent firmly corrected, "If they should threaten Octania."

Nesel turned and departed the hall, with Lord Iaen hurrying after. Nesel scurried through the halls and almost ran up the staircase, Nesel saw a local baron and forced himself to slow to a walk, slowly breathing and muttering Gaia’s Love as the man walked past.

When the baron faded from sight, Nesel slipped into a disused room and ran to a chair, which he picked up and smashed violently against the unforgiving stone wall. Nesel collapsed onto a rug and began to weep violently.

Iaen walked over the threshold quietly closing the door behind him. He put a hand on the young baron’s shuddering shoulders and asserted, "You did well, Nesel. You did well."


Daken and Rodul paced over the stretch of road above the quarry. They both were wearing simple brown tunics and trousers. Their horses, tethered to trees on the side of the road furthest from the quarry, were laying down placidly. Daken’s and Rodul’s Honor Blades and shields were strapped to the flanks of the roans. Daken’s shield bore a crest conceived by his great-great-grandfather when they first entered aristocratic life; it depicted an oak tree on a field of gold above a red stripe. His ancestor had made a fortune selling oak to be used in Yantsima’s blast furnaces, in a time when steel was needed but coal was rare. Oak, when cured properly, could fire steel just as well as the blackest coal. By contrast, Rodul’s coat was relatively new, and was a simple drawing of a Cauldron Dragon with a spear through his heart. Rodul’s father, Sir Cirice the Dragonslayer, was the leader of one of the few groups of knights who managed to bring down a drake at the infamous Siege of Dragon Gate, and had redesigned the family crest in his own honor.

Rodul said, "Well, that was a waste of time." He was right. Whoever had committed the murder had covered up all tracks for fifty feet in both directions.

The only evidence that the baron had been here at all was an area where a horse seemed to have galloped off the road, tearing a path through the vegetation. Not nearly enough to base an accusation on. He went on to say, "My guess is that they spooked his horse as he galloped past, and it went off the road, stumbled on the incline and fell."

Daken replied, "Then how did they get the letters off of him?"

"They walked down and got them, Daken."

Daken’s mouth curled up in a smug little smile. "The gate to the quarry is guarded at night to prevent illegal stonecutting. They couldn’t have got in."

"Maybe they climbed down."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. Do you have a rope? I want to check something out."

Rodul fetched a rope from his saddlebag and gave it to Daken. Daken tied one end of the rope securely to a stump and the other end around his waist, then began to lower himself down the incline. Rodul watched him disappear over the cliff. Rodul sat down on the road and waited., thinking about a particular ale he liked.

A minute or so later, he heard Daken call in an exuberant voice, "Alright! Pull me up!"

Rodul pulled the rope slowly, taking care to dig his feet firmly into the slightly tilted ground. Once the younger knight was on solid ground, and both were breathing heavily from the exertion, Daken pressed a crimson mass into Rodul’s hand.

"What’s this?" he asked between breaths.

"Moss. There’s tons of it on the cliff. All green moss. All covered in blood."

Rodul shook the bloody mass out of his hand in distaste. "So what does this prove? That they injured the horse to scare it off the cliff?"

"No. It proves," said Daken, "that they injured the rider. Don’t you see?"

Rodul shook his head blankly.

"If the horse tumbled over the cliff like we think it did, it would have been moving a great speed and would almost certainly be a few feet away from the quarry wall at the beginning. Now the rider could easily have slouched backwards and dragged against the moss. However, this moss is soft and on flat rock, and simply banging his had against the stone would not cause bleeding so profuse. My guess is that Franir was dead long before he went over the cliff."

Rodul said, "So let’s go take another look at the body."

Two hours later, they stood outside the temple where Franir’s body was held, arguing in vain with a resident Seer.

Rodul explained, "It’s not ‘defiling the dead.’ We just want our surgeon to take another look at the baron."

The Seer took out a book and flipped through the pages. "This book was written by Seerlord Violet in the four hundred and twenty-third year after Revelation. It is considered by many to be the best account of the Will of Gaia ever written. Here, read this. I assume you can read?"

"Yes," said Daken and took the text. He read out, "Defile not the bodies of the dead with the instruments of the living, for the desecrated bodies shall then never return to Gaia."

Rodul asked, "But wouldn’t Gaia make this small sacrifice in order to find the good Baron’s murderers?"

"Gaia cares little for the notion of revenge."

The surgeon they hired said, "Look. I’ll leave my tools here with you if you please. Just let me take a look at Franir."

"I suppose son," said the Seer.

The surgeon emerged an hour later, pale as a ghost.

"That man was murdered."

The Seer turned, "What?"

Daken and Rodul asked in unison, "How?"

"It was hard to tell, especially without my tools, but I think it was a knife wound to the neck, about half an inch across, and quite deep. Didn’t you see a hole in his armor?"

"There were many holes in his armor. He had a very long fall."

Rodul said, "But how? No knife that thin could puncture armor, unless it was made with-"


"What are you implying?" Juri, the owner of the Great Mill, asked angrily.

Daken calmly replied, "Nothing, good miller. We just need to see a list of your steel clients for our investigation."

"This mill’s going downhill as it is without you knights putting one of my clients out of business."

Rodul stood. "Perhaps you forget yourself, miller. We are Knights of the Monastery, in the service of Nesel Trunam and Marshall Maceol and the Sheriff of Whiterift. We could have you arrested for impeding the investigation, and raise the charge to minor treason. Have you ever watched a hanging, miller? Watched a man beg for mercy before the chopping block and thought nothing of it? Of course you thought nothing of it, knowing that their deaths are necessary, that Octania is better without them. But that is what people will think of you, miller. If you cross us, you will die, and all will celebrate your death."

Juri shrunk back. "I will tell you."

Rodul sat down, "Begin."

"Well, every month we deliver two tons to Lord Randolph’s armory, one ton to Baron Ikio’s smithy, three hundred pounds to an independent blacksmith in the inner city by the name of Coste Lakeson, and one and a half tons to the Blacksmith guild forge."

"Where is Coste’s smithy?"

"It’s on the north side of the Fourth Square."

Rodul nodded and left them room, but Daken said, "Thank you for your help, Juri. I apologize for our uncouth behavior."


As they left the mill, Daken exclaimed, "What were you doing in there? You threatened a freeman! You’ll get us both discharged!"

"Daken, sometimes it is necessary to frighten people to uphold the Knighthood."

"You call that upholding the Knighthood? What is the Knighthood?"

Rodul looked puzzled at him. "What kind of a question is that? The Knighthood is what buys our horses and forges our armor. It gives us what we need to fight so that we can serve Octania."

"No," replied Daken. "The Knighthood is honor. And the four pillars of honor are-"

"Fortitude, Compassion, Temperance and Faith," finished Rodul, bored. "Daken, honor is about upholding the ideals of both Gaia and the Knighthood. Sometimes, compassion and temperance are needed. But in there, fortitude was required." Rodul sighed. "Maybe you’re just too young to understand."

"That did a great deal more harm than good, Rodul. Right now the only thought on that man’s mind is that the Knights are corrupt, and someday Lakent is going to come and free the oppressed of them."

"He’s just a miller."

"He has friends and family, Rodul. You may have just converted a dozen people to the side of Lakent. At this rate, if we do end up in civil war, all of Whiterift will raise the Bolare standard."

Rodul said, "Fine, you win. Do the talking from now on and see where it gets us. What do you think of Lakeson?"

"We should arrest him."

"Agreed. Send a letter to the Sheriff asking for a troop of deputies. I’ll see if I can get some of my knight friends to help us, and we’ll move on the smith tonight," said Rodul.


It was several hours after the sun set when three knights arrived at Daken’s door. They were wearing chainmail cuirasses and steel gauntlets and greaves. Over their armor were linen gowns of various colors representing their families and ranks.

"Welcome to my home, gentlemen," said Daken and motioned them inside.

Rodul and Amelie sat in Daken’s common room, and Rodul stood to greet the knights.

Rodul walked over to the four men and introduced them. "Daken, this is Sir Penag, Lieutenant of the White Lions; Sir Aloce, the reputed wyvern slayer; and Sir Bakine, an old friend serving in the Whiterift home guard. Penag, Aloce and Bakine, this is Sir Daken, Lieutenant of the Fist of Octania and my assistant in this investigation.

All three knights crossed their wrists against their chests in warrior salute; Daken returned the gesture. Daken said, "We’ll leave as soon as the deputies arrive. Anyone care for a mug of beer?"

Penag, a large man, probably from the southeastern duchies, exclaimed, "By Gaia, I haven’t heard such genius since they stopped making us attend morning ceremony. What brew are you stocking?"

"Whiterift stout, from the outer farms. The very best, I assure you," answered Daken.

Penag clapped him on the shoulder, "Good lad. Let’s go draw a cup!"

Daken turned to the others, "And you two?"

Sir Aloce, a strange muscled man, with brown hair the exact same color as his eyes, flatly said, "None for me, but thank you for your hospitality."

"Ah, Aloce, you old dry sod! Come; you can’t fight without some fire in your belly!" said Sir Penag.

Aloce softly countered, "In our profession, we have a tendency to get knocked over. I’d prefer not to do our enemies’ work for them."

"Hah! The man can’t even take a cup without going tipsy. Well? What about you, Bakine?"

Bakine said, "I’m in. Lead on, good Lieutenant."

As they left the common room, Daken whispered to Rodul, "That man is your friend?"

He replied, "He’s just a little boisterous before a battle. Trust me though, he’s one of the best warriors around, and a good friend in peacetime besides. You’ve got to forgive some people for occasional weaknesses." As they crossed into the dining-room, Rodul added, "Still, watch yourself you don’t give him more than a pint or two. Penag isn’t a pretty sight when he’s really drunk."

Daken poured out two large tankards and handed them to the knights, surprised at how his dining-room had shrunk now that five fighting men inhabited it. He took a small cup for himself, while Rodul still held the drink he had before the knights showed up. He said, to make conversation, "So, Sir Aloce, you slay wyverns? How many have you killed?"

"Seven," said Sir Aloce in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

Daken laughed and said, "I suppose you got some Blue Magi too? Maybe the odd dragon? I hear over in Hell they’ve got a real demon problem-" He froze, looking at the surrounding faces. "He’s telling the truth, isn’t he?" Bakine nodded. "I’ll be damned. Seven. How many men do you have?"

Sir Aloce replied, "Three. Two men-at-arms and my squire."

Rodul asked, "Shouldn’t your squire be here?"

"No. He’s in Lecoy for his brother’s wedding."

Daken said, "There can’t be many slayers your match."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It’s a growing profession."

"Always the humble one, eh Aloce?" Penag exclaimed, "As I hear it told, this man here is the very best in the kingdom, especially for his age."

Daken gazed at the wyvern slayer. How one could know his age was certainly a mystery, for his face could be one of twenty years or fifty, and Aloce did not seem the type that ever talked about himself.

"Perhaps," Aloce repeated.

Penag slammed down his cup, saying again, "You’re the best in the kingdom, Aloce my lad, the best since Maceol himself!"

Daken inquired curiously, "Maceol was a wyvern slayer?"

The four other knights said in unison, "Of course."

Rodul continued, "He killed his first when he was twelve years old.

Jumped on it from a balcony and drove a longsword through the back of its neck. Just like that. Slew eleven since."

"Hates wyverns, that man does. He’d hunt them down even if there wasn’t a reward," added Penag.

Bakine explained, "It’s said that his younger brother was killed by one."

"His mother and father too, as I hear it told."

Rodul stated, "I doubt that. I’ve seen his father in the flesh, and he seemed quite alive to me. Can’t speak for his mother, though."

Sir Aloce said, "So how about you, Lieutenant Daken? Seeing as you’re so interested in my accomplishments, how about yourself?"

"I, I’m sorry, good knight. I didn’t mean to offend," Daken stuttered. "Most men quite enjoy boasting of their actions."

Sir Aloce said, "Then boast away," his voice flat and stoic.

"Well, I, uh, suppose so. I’ve slain six Shadow knights, well reputed to be equal in skill to the Knights of the Monastery, six enemy men-at-arms, nine archers, three warlocks, one Oghre, and, I’m sorry to say, eight slave soldiers."

Sir Penag asked, "No dragons? I hear there are black dragons at the front."

"No," said Daken. "No single man could claim to have slain one of Shadow’s drakes. Fifty men would not prove one’s match. They are fully three times the size of the largest cauldron dragon, and more clever by half than their human commanders. Their breath has the force of a gale and the power of a thunderclap. I’ve seen men blasted to pieces by a black dragons’ gasps."

"He’s as dramatic as Aloce, eh Rodul?"

Rodul replied to Penag, "At least he’s honest. Believe me, those drakes could scare Gaia himself."

Three knocks came on the door, and they all fell silent. Daken walked across the large common room and answered it. On his doorstep stood a man about half a head taller than the Lieutenant. He had sandy blond hair and was wearing a long green leather tunic over leather breeches. The leather was overly tanned to the point of stiffness, providing a sort of light armor for the man. Around his neck, heart and rib cage was an added disc of hardened leather, died black and painted with a geometric design. On the right side of the man’s belt was a shortsword, on the other a thin wooden club. A shortbow and a quiver of arrows hung on his back. He bowed slightly and introduced himself, "I am Dell, Deputy to the Sheriff of Whiterift." He gestured behind him to five warriors wearing similar leather armor. All carried shortbows and clubs, but none had swords. Two bore thick staves. Dell said, "These are my men."

"Welcome to my house, gentlemen. Take a seat in the common room, and we’ll outline the plan for tonight."

Once all the deputies were seated, Rodul laid out a piece of parchment on the table. Rodul began, "My name is Sir Rodul, Marshall of the Flaming Cavalry and the leader of this investigation. This is my assistant Sir Daken, the esteemed Lieutenant of the Fist of Octania. These three fine knights you see before you are the noble Sirs Aloce, Bakine and, of course, Sir Penag, the Lieutenant of the White Lions."

He sat down. "I suppose everyone is wondering exactly who we are arresting and why. Now, some of you may have heard that the noble Baron Franir died in an unfortunate accident yesterday. However, we have solid evidence to prove that the Baron was, in fact, knifed in the throat long before he wandered off the road." The faces of the deputies registered little shock.

Daken supposed that in their line of work, any briefing that started with talk of an "accident" was invariably related to a murder. Rodul continued, "The murder weapon had to have been less than an inch wide and strong enough to punch through Lecoise chainmail. Unless this blade was shipped up from Tandar or down from New Castlen, which we very much doubt as the Baron’s trip was not planned long beforehand, the knife had to be made of the Great Mill’s steel. We suspect that a blacksmith, one Coste Lakeson, forged the dagger for the murderers. This afternoon, Sir Daken and myself followed Coste from his forge to his home in the eastern outer city. His house is directly across from the Duke’s Court Inn, and he has a back door to an alleyway."

As Rodul spoke, Daken drew several squares on the parchment with a piece of charcoal, labeling two buildings as "Coste" and "Inn." He made two circles to indicate the doorways to the house. Rodul motioned towards Daken, who explained, "The innkeeper of the Duke’s Court has agreed to let us use his upper balcony. We will position three archers on the balcony." Daken drew three X’s on the inn. "These men will shoot anyone who leaves Coste’s house without us. Remember at all times that we need live captives. In all likelihood, Coste is not the murderer, and we need him to find out who is. I want all men to shoot to cripple, not to kill. Now," he said as he eyed the deputies, "Who wants to lead the archer party?"

Sir Aloce answered, "I’ll do it."

"What?" asked Daken. Archery was a profession usually taken up by serfs and freemen, not nobles.

Bakine explained, "Aloce once put an arrow through a wyvern’s eye at forty paces. I doubt any man here could duplicate that feat."

"Aloce will lead, then," stated Daken. "Someone give him a bow." Dell looked at the soldier on the very right, who grumbled, then complied.

Dell ordered, "Frol and Giale, accompany Sir Aloce."

"Now, I want the gentlemen with the quarterstaves at either end of the street, in case the archers miss someone. You," he said, pointing to the remaining deputy, "you and sir Bakine will stand at either side of the back door and club the sense out of anyone who tries to flee. Dell, Penag, Rodul and myself will enter through the front door. We do not draw steel unless they do it first. Agreed?"

The street was completely deserted. All the buildings were dark, save for a dim light shining from a private parlor near the east end of the Duke’s Court Inn. The troop of deputies marched with only a single torch, so as not to attract attention from anyone at Coste’s house. Lakeson’s home was a neat little brick square between other neat little brick squares, exactly the height of every surrounding structure. It had a nondescript well-kept thatch roof. A ghostly trickle of smoke oozed out from his chimney-flap, probably from the embers of a fire for their evening meal.

Daken ordered, "Snuff the torch."

As their torch went out and the elongated shadows of the knights faded into the moonlit semi-dark of the summer evening, Daken could see a slight glow from one of the windows, a candle for reading, perhaps. Someone at least was still awake in the house. He nodded to Bakine, who left with the deputy to circle around the street to the back alley. Frol, Giale, and Sir Aloce were already knocking at the side door of the inn. A small, old man let them in without saying a word, being careful to not make eye contact with the knight.

One of the staff-wielding deputies hunched over, clutching his weapon for support, and hobbled past Coste’s house to the end of the street, his face turned towards the inn. Hopefully, whoever was still awake in the house would think of him as nothing more than a lost and crippled beggar.

Dell whispered to Rodul, "Bakine and my lad are ready."

"How do you know?"

"Secret Deputy signal. Can’t be more specific, I’m afraid."

Rodul thought back to all the sounds he had heard in the last minute. Some sort of bird call. A wagon wheel turning. Pebbles dropping. A child’s yell. It was in the middle of the city; a hundred quiet noises happened every second. On the balcony, three dark shapes stood casually. The tallest, presumably Sir Aloce, waved. Rodul waved back, then motioned the group forward. They crawled beneath the lighted window and lined up in single file in front of the door. Rodul knocked twice.

A voice from inside asked, "Who is it?"

"My name is Sir Rodul. I wish to do business." It was not really a lie.

The man inside said, "My father is dealing with other clients at the moment. Go home, and come to the forge tomorrow."

Rodul exchanged looks with the other knights, then kicked the door hard. The wood bent inwards, but the lock held firm. The voice of an older man, likely Coste, screamed, "You have not the right!"

Dell yelled back, "We are representatives of the Sheriff of Whiterift, and the Royal Law! Open this door and come out unarmed, and we shall commend you to the courts!"

Rodul kicked again, and the door gave way. He drew his club and rushed in.

At the table of the common room sat Coste, five older men and one younger man who was likely his son. A woman in an adjacent room screeched as the door came down with a crash. The seven men stood and ran into different rooms. Daken and Dell ran after some.

One of the sons yelled, "You can’t take my father!" and rushed at Rodul, brandishing an iron bar. He swung high, and Rodul dodged underneath. He jumped into the boy, grabbing his stomach in a tackle, slamming the youngster into the wall. The son raised the iron rod again, but a swung club smashed into his hand. The iron bar fell onto Rodul and rolled to the ground as the young man clutched his broken knuckles, screaming in pain. Rodul heard another crack and the brick wall was sprayed with blood. The lad went limp, although his stomach still moved in soft breathing. Rodul dropped him and saw a shallow gash across his forehead.

He looked back and thanked Penag, who stood triumphant with a bloodstained club. Daken burst back into the room, wrestling one of the older men. Daken still clutched a club, but he could not free his hand from the man’s grip. Penag and Rodul ran up to the pair. The man, oblivious, sat upright, trying to choke Daken with his knee. He went down with a grunt as Rodul’s club slammed into the middle of his back. He rolled onto his side, releasing Daken. Daken promptly swung a club into the man’s stomach, as Penag hit struck his upper shoulder. The man crawled into a fetal position, moaning softly.

One man took advantage of the distraction and dashed out the front door. He immediately collapsed, screaming, with an arrow in his foreleg. Rodul ran through the house, until he found the remaining four, standing in a bedroom with Dell silently watching, a club in one hand and a shortsword in the other. Dell let Rodul and Daken through.

Rodul looked directly at Coste and asked, "We believe a dagger used in the murder of a noble was forged in your smithy. Do you deny it? Keep in mind that for each time you deny a statement that is later proven to be true, you give yourself two more years in the dungeon."

Coste responded, "I deny it."

"Do you deny that your ‘clients’ chose to run from the Royal Law, or that your own son fought us, believing that you were guilty of a crime?"

Coste whispered, "My son fought you?"

"He is alive, and did no harm to us. I may even be able to convince the courts to overlook his…transgression, providing you cooperate with us."

"You are gracious, sir."

"Quite. Now answer the question."

"I do not deny it," stated Coste.

"Do you deny that you are guilty of knowingly conspiring with murderers?"

"I do not."

Daken leaned forward and directly asked, "Here is the question that will determine whether or not we report your son’s crime. Whoever forged that dagger used steel that you and you alone, among freemen, have access to. If you did not forge that knife, who did?"

Coste glanced at the other men in the room. "If I tell you, all my sons will die. I am sorry, sirs."

"We shall arrest all who could harm you."

"Maybe," Coste said, frightened.

Dell asked, "What if we let you go? For your crimes, you could spend up to twenty-five years imprisoned. The Sheriff is not kind to those who aid murderers for money. Tell us, and your name will never reach the courts."

Rodul nodded and said, "You have my word as a knight."

Coste bowed his head and said, "I sell steel to a woman named Kylinia. She sold the weapons to the desert men in the raid on Tandar Palace in 1264. If anyone in Whiterift made those daggers, it was her."

"Fully four dozen innocent freemen were killed in that raid! You aided this, this slaughter! For what, half a pound of silver?" raged Daken. Coste was silent.

Daken spit on Coste, then asked coldly, "Where is Kylinia?"

He began to give them directions, but two of the other men in the room drew daggers and ran at Coste. Penag drew his Honor Blade and stepped in their way. Reconsidering, they threw open a panel in the wall and ran outside.


Outside, Bakine saw the two men leave through the secret door over the deputy’s shoulder. He yelled, "Halt!" and began to run after them, the deputy following. He grabbed the back of one’s collar and threw him to the ground. The deputy behind clubbed and grappled with the man.

Bakine ran after the remaining criminal. The man scrambled over a fence to the right. Bakine could hear his comrade’s shouts behind him. He leaped on to a crate and bound over the fence, landing hard on the flagstones. The alley was silent, the culprit vanished. Bakine stood up, glancing around the empty side road. Suddenly, a shape darted out of the side door and tackled the knight.

Sir Bakine elbowed the man’s stomach and freed a hand. His aggressor pulled away. Bakine slammed his mailed fist across the man’s face. Coste’s client was thrown backwards off Bakine’s torso. He still clutched one of the knight's legs. In a heartbeat, the criminal pushed Bakine’s foot against a crate and brandished his dagger. He hesitated for a moment. Bakine’s eyes widened in horror.

The man gripped Bakine’s leather boot and drove his knife through the foot, just below the anklebone.

Bakine screamed in agony; the man dashed down the alley. Rodul climbed over the fence as the wounded knight wrenched the dagger out with a howl.

Rodul began to run after the criminal, but he was long gone. Rodul returned and carefully bandaged Bakine’s wound.

"Is the joint broken?" asked Bakine, cold sweat dripping over his grimacing face.

"Yes," replied Rodul placidly.

Bakine denied it and began turning his head from side to side. The man looked as if he was about to burst into tears. "How bad is it? Can the Seers fix it? Will I, will I ever," Bakine turned away. His voice was shuddering with a hint of hysteria.

"You’ll walk again just the same, mark my word. Better, even."

Penag and Daken tore the fence down and approached the pair. Rodul backed away to display the ankle, bound loosely and obviously broken. "Damn," swore Penag. "Can’t you splint it or something?"

"Do I look like a surgeon?"

Daken motioned to a deputy and ordered, "Run to the inn and see if there’s a Seer or a surgeon staying there."

Rodul yelled after, "And buy some strong liquor!"

The deputy could be seen hammering at the inn door. An annoyed innkeeper answered, hesitated, then let him in. A few minutes passed, Bakine writhing in pain, Penag and Rodul holding his foot still.

The deputy emerged with a stooped Seer in green robes and Sir Aloce, holding a bottle in his hand. The Seer tiredly walked, despite insistences that he run.

He reached the injured knight and knelt beside him. "My name is Archdeacon Hadar."

Bakine said nothing, but took the bottle from the deputy and drank deeply, sputtering as some spilled over the edges of his mouth.

"Good brandy," he commented with a slight smile.

Hadar asked, "Have you ever been healed by a Seer before?"

"Yes," Bakine replied between drinks.

"Then you understand-"

Bakine replied sadly, "Yes. I’m going to have to get a lot more drunk."

Eventually he cast the bottle aside, drained of the liquor. He said, "Do it."

The Seer placed his hands above the ankle, then hesitated and asked, "What about payment?" He eyed them sharply.

Daken replied, "What do you mean, payment? It will take you a few seconds and barely tax your power, like doing a small favor for a friend."

"I am no friend of knights. Pay now, or you can try to find a way to get him to a surgeon before he goes lame." Bakine cried out drunkenly in fear.

Rodul opened his money pouch and withdrew a silver lump and handed it to the Seer, who looked closely at it then asked, "How much is it?"

"Two ounces pure, on my honor."

Hadar pocketed the lump. He ordered, "Hold him down."

The four knights complied, an the healing began. For five minutes Bakine thrashed around in the agony of regrowth as his friends held him fast. At one point during the ordeal, someone had gagged the patient to stop his cutting screams. The seconds dragged on, and Bakine’s squirms became more desperate, his eyes pleading to be let go. After four minutes, tears ran freely down the knights face as finally lost control. The tears were echoed by the wetness in his friends’ eyes as they forced the torture on him. In the end Bakine passed out, though froThe skin over the former wound was pale white, in contrast to the tanned flesh around it.

Hadar stood and bowed stiffly, then walked without a word back to the inn.

"Good Gaia, I thought that would never end," stated Rodul, wiping the tears of his face under the clever premise of wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Daken stated, "Jylo was able to heal wounds like that in a matter of seconds. I’ve heard the battle Seers are superior, but still-"

"It doesn’t matter. It’s over, the ankle’s whole, and, if that brandy’s strong enough, Bakine won’t even remember it come next morning," interrupted Rodul.

Aloce said in a voice uncharacteristically emotional, "I don’t believe anyone could ever forget something like that, strong drink or no. I certainly won’t."

As they carried the unconscious knight back to the inn, Rodul whispered to Daken, "Bakine’s the only man Aloce ever took a real liking to. That healing probably hurt Aloce more than Bakine, if you understand me."

They found a room waiting for them at the inn, rented by the deputies. Dell stood by the bed, and said, "I also rented the cellar and tied up the men who tried to flee down there. Now for Kylinia. Coste gave me directions."

"Well, I’d imagine that that last man has already told her we’re coming. We have to make our move tonight, before she leaves the city."


The knights and deputies ran down the streets behind Dell, every street almost completely devoid of life, save a few miserable beggars, who followed them for a spell out of curiosity. Ten armed men jogging down the road at this time of night was surely a sign of upcoming excitement. They entered a broad boulevard, surrounded by huge houses two to three stories high and fifty yards wide. A row of trees ran down the center. Near the end of the street, Dell stopped. "That’s it," he whispered.

The house he pointed to was small compared to the others, but still grander than most of the homes of the city. It was painted with a single shade of red, covering all the walls, interrupted only by white windows and shutters and long vines stylishly left to grow the length of the house that met with a dark green hedge wrapped protectively around the building. The occupants were certainly awake, as evidenced by lights shining through the shutters in almost every window and a low murmur of speech that drifted across the boulevard. Daken saw the dark silhouette of a man on the rooftop, who suddenly ran to a trapdoor and disappeared into the house. Daken shouted, "Take cover!" just as the shutters of the upper windows opened and arrows flew.

The group fled to the other side of the street, ducking behind trees. Daken sat with his back to a thick tree, glancing at Dell on his right and Aloce on his right. Aloce nocked an arrow and spun round, loosing it at the nearest window. The enemy archer ducked just in time to see the shaft fly right through where his chest had been.

"Return fire!" ordered Dell, and he rose as one with four of the deputies, bows singing in the twilight. One of his men went down with a strangled gasp, echoed in the mansion by an archer who ducked a heartbeat too late. Both sides were much more cautious from then on.

For half an hour they laid siege to the home in this fashion, and another of Kylinia’s men was downed. Some of the surrounding residents had gathered a hundred yards off, watching the skirmish as if it were a theatre production. All the knights save Aloce simply hid behind their respective trees, unable to help the deputies, wary of the archer fire. Aloce jumped back behind the tree and threw down his quiver, empty. The other soldiers seemed to be in the same predicament, and each one only loosed an arrow every few minutes. Daken scanned the mansion.

m the liquor or the pain none could tell. At last Hadar pulled away, and said, "It is finished." His ankle was as before.


Kylinia’s soldiers seemed to fire with abandon, and likely did not fear exhausting their stockpile of arrows. One man, it seemed, even wielded a cross-bow of the sort used by Lecoy and Jirith, firing shafts slowly, but with deadly accuracy.

Dell stated glumly, "She’s probably already fled halfway to Syburmia."

Daken shook his head. "The garden in the back of that mansion is nestled between two outworks of the Inner Wall. Unless she can climb a hundred feet of the tightest masonry in the world, she hasn’t escaped yet. However, I’ll wager she’ll soon work up the bravery to try to escape through the front door, once we run low on arrows."

Daken scanned the manor. A bowman stood in each of the five upper windows, watching the trees cautiously. A hand touched his shoulder, and he spun around, nearly striking a man in surprise.

The man slinked backwards, holding up his hands passively. "I mean no harm." He was middle-aged and slightly fat, his dark hair tinged with gray. "Me and my sons, we heard the fighting, and we always knew that they in that house were up to no good. A bad sort of people to have as neighbors, I always said. Always up an’ about in the midnight hours. So trust me, I don’t hold with them, not in the least. Now my family, when we heard the fighting, we chopped up a table into planks quick as we could, and lashed them together to make six big shields, tall and thick, proper man-at arms shields, I fancy. They’re coming out now, if you can tell your men not to attack them."

Daken relayed the message down the line. It was only then that the man realized the presence of Dell and Sir Aloce, who were covered in bushes and were not easily seen. The man held up a small flag, and from his house came five young men, holding up the wooden shields in the direction of the mansion. The shields were three feet tall and two broad, certainly not proper man-at-arms shields, but they would do.

"Now," said the man, "Can you help me in return?"

"What do you need?" asked Dell warily.

"My daughter, she, er, fell in with the wrong type of women." Dell nodded. For years the Sheriff had been trying harder and harder to combat prostitution, but the perverse industry was still growing as never before. The man continued, "Now the man she and her friends work for has bribed some deputies to overlook his business. I want you folks to arrest him."

Dell exclaimed, "Done! In fact, I thank you for bringing this man to my attention, doubly for the shields."

"And," the man went on, "I don’t want his arrest to be gentle."

"The Sheriff holds little love for such men," said Dell simply.

An arrow from the manor flew at the sons, who ducked behind their shields. The shaft missed, but a retaliatory shot from one of the deputies plucked the archer from his window. Another took his place.

The sons reached the trees and hid, passing the shields down the line to the knights. They were indeed made from table planks, with hemp ropes nailed on, supposedly meant to strap the shield to one’s arm. Daken put it on. It rested badly on his arm, and the ropes were not positioned parallel to each other. Obviously the man’s only experience with shields was looking upon them from afar.

Daken looked at the other soldiers. All the knights bore shields, plus Dell and the deputy without a bow.

Rodul shouted, "For the Honor of the Monastery!"

Dell roared, "For the Righteousness of the Sheriff and the Royal Law!"

The deputies stood and loosed a volley at the windows. All the archers ducked, and the knights rushed forward.

They were halfway to the manor when the deputies stopped firing, and Kylinia’s men countered vehemently. He saw the bow pointed at him, and threw his shield up just as the bow twanged. An arrow pounded deep into the planks. Aloce was struck in the shin, but the dart bounced off his greaves. The force of the blow threw him to the ground.

Aloce scrambled around in fear as he heard more bowstings cut the air. Penag threw his shield over Aloce’s back just as two arrows reached him. Realizing his weakness, an archer fired at Penag, striking him in the forearm. Aloce righted himself, and Penag brought his shield back over himself to block three more shots as Aloce began to run forward again. Dell was the first to reach the door, which was shielded from the archers by a stylish overhead arch. Dell kicked hard. The lock broke and splintered, but the door was barred and kept shut. The other deputy reached it next, cast down his shield and thumped the door with his staff. Rodul came into the crowded foyer and drew his broadsword, driving it between the door and the frame, its point embedded into the bar. He held it there as Daken arrived and struck the pommel with his club, as if the sword were a chisel and his club the hammer. The bar began to give just as Penag arrived, followed by limping Aloce. Penag threw his body wholesale against the door, which came down with a crash.

They rushed into the common room, where they were attacked by a dozen swordsmen.

All the knights but Daken drew their Honor Blades and cast aside their clubs. Dell was separated from the skirmish, and quickly found himself surrounded by four grinning fighters, each eyeing gleefully the sign of the Sheriff on his tunic. He rolled to the side, avoiding a downward swing. The other deputy, through the crowd, glimpsed Dell and tossed a staff to him. Dell grabbed it and held it in front of himself to block a broadsword swing that dug almost halfway through the staff. He swung it along the ground at the nearest pair of feet, and the man hit the floor with a crash. The deputy spun the staff, striking the floored man in the chest with the other end of the weapon. The man was winded, and silently screamed at the sound of his lower ribs cracking. Dell leaped to his feet and deflected the nearest sword blow, turning it down to the floor, then spun to fight another aggressor. He backed up against the wall, fighting three men blow for blow. Sweat ran down his face. He concentrated single-mindedly on the three darting blades, trying not to let any of the men get behind him. His staff was so chipped and cut he thought it would break any moment. Gaia, forgive me my sins, for as I die today my body shall give birth to new life and so shall you prevail. His staff was knocked wide by a sword blow. He spun around to throw a thrust downwards, shifting his center of balance forward and jarring the staff against the ground. In the corner of his blurred vision one of the swords came at him, but he could not regain his momentum. The blade darted, strangely slow. Then it disappeared.

Dell shook himself back to reality. Rodul stood nearby, his sword held at the bottom of a swing in both hands, dripping with blood.

One of Kylinia’s men lay nearby, curled around his arm. His hand and dagger lay nearby. The other swordsmen froze and looked around. They were alone, their comrades slain, injured, or disarmed. Aloce and Daken stood behind the men, Aloce’s sword and Daken’s club leveled threateningly. Dell’s deputy lay on the floor, a deep wound in his thigh.

One by one the three remaining criminals threw down their swords. The remaining deputies entered. They bound the prisoners in a far corner and tended the wounded.

Penag entered, holding a knife to the neck of a handsome middle-aged woman. "Kylinia," said Rodul, and Penag nodded.

Penag stated, "There’s a whole armory in the basement. Stolen Honor Blades, cross-bows, objects of dark sorcery, wyvern eggs, everything unholy or stolen."

Dell approached her. "The Honor Blades will be returned to their rightful owners; the rest will be turned over to the Wizard’s Guild for destruction. For your men awaits the lonely life of the exiled; for you awaits the gibbet, Scourge of Tandar."


The victory party was held, naturally enough, at Sir Daken’s home. The men crowded into his common room, drinking deeply from overfilled cups of beer. Dell’s two wounded men were back at the barracks, neither believed to be permanently injured. Of the eighteen soldiers in Kylinia’s house that night, three were killed, two from arrow wounds and one from a sword blow to his neck, and nine were injured through various means. All in all, a sound victory whose lack of fatalities would certainly be noted by Gaia when the time came to receive his blessings before their souls left for the afterlife. Bakine had been roused from his stupor and seemed in excellent health.

Dell walked up to Daken, and gripped his shoulder. "You’re a good man, Lieutenant." He saluted, then returned to the table. Daken watched him, but he did not say the same to any of the other knights. Because I used a club? He wondered.

Sir Aloce was the only man who did not seem to be enjoying himself. He sat away from the others, drinking nothing, eating only a few slices of bread with butter. Daken sat down at the end of the table, and raised his cup in salute. "To Sir Rodul, the leader of the investigation. Victory is yours!" This was in the grand custom of the Knights of the Monastery, and the deputies cheered as well despite thinking the toast to be somewhat oddly worded.

They had a platter of cold meat and cheese going around, and only Sir Penag seemed to be exceptionally drunk. They boasted and laughed for a good long time, during which Aloce neither moved nor smiled.

Daken turned to Sir Rodul and asked, "So what’s his story?" and inclined his head toward Sir Aloce.

Rodul responded, "His father was Baron Drila of Gartu."

"The vampire?"

Penag joined in. "Aye. After the Sheriff of Angelos hanged his father, he sent Aloce and his mother and sisters to Blackmoor, hoping that Aloce could be freed of the dark wizardry practiced by his father. It’s not as if Aloce ever brewed potions with his own peasants’ blood, in fact he knew nothing of that foulness until his father was arrested, but anything to do with wizards was mistrusted in those days. Of course, everyone feared him, the five year old spawn of the dark wizard.

He led a very lonely life, his only friends being his mother and sisters, and the trainer who was hired by the Sheriff to teach him the knightly arts in hope that chivalry would help lead his mind away from demonic influence."

Bakine nodded and finished, "He became obsessed with purity, never laughing so as not to appear a fool, never drinking so as not to show anger and being mistaken for evil, never doing a thing that could possibly hint that he was his father’s son. He joined a band of wyvern slayers at sixteen, hoping to prove his devotion to Gaia, and has done so ever since. But you see, Aloce never really liked people, and they never really liked him. He’s a good lad at heart, even if he holds with no one."

Daken smiled at Sir Bakine. No one but you, as I hear it told.

Amelie walked down the stairs, sleepy-eyed. She glanced around the room and asked, "Victory, I suppose?"

Rodul exclaimed, "Did you expect less? These men before you are the finest knights in the kingdom, with the finest deputies!"

A resounding "Aye" went up through the room.

Daken hurried to her side and proclaimed, "I’m sorry, gentlemen, I haven’t had the chance to make introductions. This is my lovely wife Amelie, and these are the good knights Sir Bakine, Sir Penag, and Sir Aloce. The other man is Dell, deputy to the Sheriff, and those are his soldiers."

Penag clunked his cup down. "Her accent’s Sybürmian, eh?" He spun around and faced Daken. "A regular Sybürmian bitch! And I was just starting to respect you!"

Amelie turned and ran up the stairs. Daken’s eyes turned icy cold.

"Leave my home immediately," he commanded.

"The lad’s defending the whore’s honor! I doubt she respects yours! Probably bedded every man in Whiterift without enough sense to push her-" He was cut off by Daken’s fist. Penag flew backwards over his chair. All the men in the room ran to the sides, forming a ring.

Penag lurched to his feet and laughed. "You’re stronger than you look, boy! And I must say it’s astonishing you found a Sybürmian intelligent enough to learn a decent language, even with-"

Daken struck him again. This time Penag did not rise. He turned to the rest of his guests, anger in his eyes. "Celebration’s over, everyone. Get out now."

Rodul came up to him and said, "My apologies, Daken. His father and brother were hostages in the War and-"

"Just leave," murmured Daken.


Daken opened the door to his bedroom slowly. Amelie lay on the bed, weeping softly. "I hit Penag," he said quietly, then stated, "I love you."

He left his weapons at the door, as always, then sat on the far side of the bed, removing his surcoat and chainmail. Amelie turned to him, tears running down her cheeks. "Have you ever regretted marrying me?" she asked.

Daken lay down beside her. "Of course not. You are everything to me. I love you." He kissed her.

"All the women on the street think you could have married the daughter of a baroness, maybe even a duchess. My father couldn’t even pay a dowry."

He looked at her quizzically. "I was a corporal at the time. I had a good house, a horse and I didn’t have to support my sisters. What in Gaiadom would I do with a dowry?"

"If only you hadn’t wasted your life on me," she said, tears glistening on her cheeks, "you could have owned land and bought everything you want, if only you hadn’t wasted your life on me."

Daken embraced and kissed her. "I have everything I want."

They lay silent in the darkness for a time. Daken spoke, "Do you remember the first time we met?"

"Of course. Your regiment was passing through my village, and the officers stayed the night at my father’s mill because there wasn't an inn.

There you were on your big horse and shining armor, and I thought you to be a pompous idiot. And there I was, head downcast and caked with mill dust, and you thought I was the most beautiful girl in the world."

"You are," mumbled Daken offhandedly.

Amelie let out a small giggle. "Always so charming."

Daken said, "And then when we talked that night, and despite my bad Sybürmian, I knew I loved you. You’re the most amazing woman that ever existed." He kissed her again.

At the same time, Jaku arrived at Maruc’s manor, his bodyguards behind him. Maruc himself answered the door. Jaku puffed, "We’ve got a problem."

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.10.2011

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Dedicated To My Family Who Always Believed In Me!!!!