Korbillions Tales

2002-07-17T05:41:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Chapter 15

Anian looked at Tyus, his eyes narrowing for the things they had been told. It seemed an impossible tale to be sure, though both the Midgard and Albion before them were nodding in agreement at each image drawn for their understanding. That such a creature could exist in the realm was beyond belief, but that it was gathering the power of the relics for its own; that it might free itself of this cavernous pit and decimate the realms was a terror they could not entertain.

“I believe them,” Tyus said finally, the druid nodding as he did. “They have spoken only truths that I can see. They saved us from death at the hands of the succubus. For my copper, they are as they say they are.”

Anian nodded, and turned to the paladin that lay yet poisoned, his own head still aching from the battle with the succubus. The wizard knelt in concern for him still, her hand caressing his near-lifeless brow. She had beseeched the Hibernians to aid him, and while Anian had the power to draw the poisons from him, he was not willing until they could be made to understand the whole of their circumstance. Now that his understanding was complete, Anian moved to the paladin and readied his spell. All the others gathered around as well, for the life of the paladin was slipping away to be sure. His death would have been a profound loss to them all, and that they might yet pull him back from the brink of what lay before him was an answer to their prayers, one and all.

Anian lifted his hands to cast his spell when a voice cut through his concentration as his spell would have the poison.

“Not another word, druid, or I shall kill you surely.”

The entire contingency turned to see Jackmode standing with Tyus’ bow in hand, an arrow knocked and aimed in their direction. While the hero was not as well versed in the use of the bow as the ranger, surely, he was more than familiar enough with its aspect to see the deed done, should he desire it. The ranger cursed his own foolishness for leaving his weapon unattended, but the time had passed for self-recrimination.

“Have you both gone mad?” the hero demanded, his voice an enraged thunder through the underdark. “These are the enemy, joined to see us dead, and you would aid their fallen? Go on, villains! Speak your traitorous lies!”

Tyus stepped forward lightly, seeing that the troll and casters we readying their attacks. He motioned them down, and sighed deeply with relief as they seemed to abandon their intention. “Jackmode, it is me. You know me as well as any, and you know I would not risk our lives or our honor for such as these, but you must also know and hear what we now know and have heard. There is a danger here, and we cannot deny it. We cannot avoid it. We can only fight it, and fight it together.”

Jackmode looked to Tyus as though he had truly lost his mind. “I hear only madness in your voice, ranger. I thought I knew you, yes, but this that you seek now is treason! I’ll not have it!”

“He is not treasonous and he is not mad,” Anian argued, his voice a softer cut of reason. “We have watched the tale that these have told, marked for us in pictures and images. There is a greater evil in this place than they represent to us, or we to them. If your words are true, then why do we yet live? Why spare us now when they have the numbers and power to kill us surely?”

Jackmode hesitated, the bow in his hand wavering for his uncertainty. It was true that he had known both Tyus and Anian for a longer than he could recall, and both had always shown themselves to be loyal Hibernians, with no more a calling to treason than he himself, and yet this before him seemed the very picture of insanity. How could he bring himself to battle beside those he had only known to cross swords with in the past?

“Jackmode,” Tyus spoke on, his voice falling to a calmed tone, “let us tell you what they have told us. Let us explain to you, so you can know as we do. If, after hearing this tale, you still doubt, then so be it and we will deal with the situation then as it might be, but for the sake of Hibernia, by the Gods, please at least listen.”

As though a curtain had been raised and light allowed to enter a darkened room, Jackmode softened, at least to the point of willingness to entertain their words. He slowly lowered the bow, and the lifting of the spirits of everyone in the grotto was almost audible.

Would that it could have lasted.

Tyus smiled at Jackmode, the old friends meeting the others gaze. Tyus saw, perhaps more clearly than the rest then, the life’s spark slip from Jackmode’s eyes as the twin daggers of the assassin slid through his armor and buried themselves deeply into his ribs. No sooner has they cut flesh, they were pulled free once more. Before Jackmode could even comprehend the truth of what was happening, one of the daggers was drawn across his throat, his blood spurting freely for all to see.

Each in the room stood dumbfounded, unable to move in time to save the hero. Anian raised his hands to cast a healing enchantment, but it was too late. Jackmode fell to the ground, the light in his eyes fading to gray, the beating of his heart slowing to a stop, his last thoughts those of betrayal wants for vengeance.

By the time Tyus reached him, he was dead.

Helphdane looked on in horror as Eldorad ruthlessly cut down the Hibernian. Assassin and thane caught eyes for a moment, and inside of that instant, Helphdane was chilled to the absolute bone, for in those eyes he saw nothing of the man he had known. He saw only obsession and hatred and death. In those eyes, he saw the end to all that they had planned, and Helphdane, troll thane of Midgard, was afraid.

To the last, save Tyus, all in the chamber drew weapons and spells and moved after Eldorad, cursing his existence and swearing that they would find him and end his threat to all that they were, and all that they sought to do. They chased the assassin out into the main passageway, and each cursed him again when they discovered that he had vanished into the darkness.

Tyus knelt beside Jackmode, the hero’s head cradled in his lap. He watched as the last vestiges of life were bled from him, the hero’s blood staining the ranger’s hands and clothes. Tyus closed his eyes and whispered a prayer that Jackmode would be seen to the glory of the afterlife that the Gods held in reserve for those of honor and righteousness.

Tyus hung his head and let a tear wend its way down his cheek, falling onto Jackmode’s body. The pristine droplet glided across the hero’s flesh, merging with the blood that flowed freely yet. Tyus had to concentrate and keep from going mad as he took in the reality of what had just happened.

Jackmode was dead.

Panthius roared its anger across the planes of existence, the very rock beneath him trembling for its rage. It had dispatched the most powerful succubus to be had to destroy the invaders and take from their dead bodies the relics they yet carried. It had been confident that she would not fail him, and yet fail him she had. Its anger was only in part directed at her failure. The remainder of its rage centered around the fact that she was dead, and could not feel its wrath and ire.

Panthius moved to the sconces that held the relics it had in its possession. It could already feel the magical conduits flowing with the raw power the relics provided. It felt stronger than it ever had before, and with that power came the want to exercise that power. It raised its arms above its head, magical energy fairly cracking across its talons and arms. It roared once more, for its frustration at having all that it desired so close and yet be out of reach was more than it could bare.

Long moments passed and finally its howling ceased, though its rage burned ever darker. These that had come to Darkness Falls carried with them that which it sought to the exclusion of all other things. It had been folly to entrust the succubus with the task of gathering the relics.

This time, it mused, it would ensure that the task was completed.

And it would feast on the blood and the bones of those that it sought.

Brandt sat up, his head still spinning for the ordeal he had been through. He had come closer to death than he ever had before, the poisons that had wracked his system tearing him from life as surely as the assassin’s dagger, if not quite so quickly. Finally his head cleared, and he looked about him, Errine’s smiling face the first thing that he saw.

“Welcome back, M’lord,” she said joyfully, pleased beyond the knowing of it that Brandt had recovered.

“My thanks, Lady Errine, though I have to wonder at the cause of it. Those poisons should have seen me dead, and yet here I am…”

“We have managed to gather the Hibernians to our cause as well,” she said, the tone in her voice wavering between joy and anguish. “At least, two of them are with us.” Errine proceeded to tell Brandt of all that had transpired, the paladins face twisting in regret as she told him of the hero’s death.

“Where are they?” Brandt asked, a quiet demand in his voice.

Errine stood and helped Brandt to his feet. They walked into the grotto proper, and there he saw the troll, the norsewoman and the two Hibernians, though what caught his vision more was the dead body of the hero, laid upon the stone floor in one corner of the small chamber. Without a word, Brandt walked to the corpse and knelt beside it, offering his prayers that this soul night see the land of the Gods for all that he had sacrificed. He knelt there for long moments, his prayers as fervent and pious as any he had ever offered.

When finally he stood, he saw Tyus gesturing to Errine and Tylaara. He watched the silent exchange for a few moments before Errine turned to him, as Tylaara did to the troll.

“The ranger has asked the norsewoman and I to purge the remains of the Hibernian with mage fire. I think he cannot bare the thought of leaving his fellow’s body here to feed the denizens of this place.”

Brandt nodded slowly. “I think we have been here long enough,” Brandt said. “Cast the spells and let us be off. We have much to do.”

Helphdane, Brandt, Anian and Tyus moved to the chamber exit, leaving Tylaara and Errine standing side by side before them. At Errine’s nod, they both raised their arms and uttered their castings, the magical bolts hurtling from their hands incinerating the remains of the hero in less time than the telling takes. As the clouded smoke cleared, they could see that nothing remained of the hero save those pieces of his garb and weapons that refused to succumb to their magic.

Brandt nodded, spoke one more silent prayer, and then turned. “Let us be off.” His eyes widened in confused disbelief, however, for Tyus was nowhere to be seen. Brandt turned to Anian, who shrugged in confusion, for he had not seen the ranger depart. His attentions too were on the purging of Jackmode’s remains.

Helphdane too saw that the ranger was gone, and cursed a trollish curse. “Damn, Tyl, this isn’t working out at all.”

Tylaara nodded. “Where do you think he went?” she asked, looking at the others in the group but seeing nothing but confusion in their eyes as well.

The troll shrugged. “Who can say. I cannot understand these rogue types. No sense of honor or propriety,” he spat, and while Tylaara could not agree with him completely, she certainly sympathized with his point of view.

“Come my friend,” she said, noticing that Brandt was gesturing them onward. “We best move with the others.”

“And what of Eldorad?” Helph asked, for while he doubted that the assassin would attack them again so soon, he knew that he would attack. “he is one of our own. I think we are responsible to see his madness ended.”

Tylaara gave some thought to the comment, and nodded, though in truth, she had no idea how to go about doing that very thing. “I am open to suggestions, old friend.”

Helphdane was silent, for he had none to offer.

As they left the grotto, Anian walked to the makeshift altar and knelt before it, closing his eyes and offering a final prayer for the soul of his friend and realm mate. As he stood and moved to catch up with the others, his whispered his farewell, and hoped that he could put his grief behind him, for the sake of what they sought to do.

2002-07-17T05:40:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Chapter 14

Tearor, Deceon and Ronin escorted their lurikeen prisoner back to the Midgard mile gate, though none of them wanted to present themselves in the role of captor. They had come to contact the Hibernians in the hopes of uniting themselves against whatever force this Panthius might be gathering. Instead, they had managed only to kill three Albion warrior and take captive she who might be their only link into Hibernia.

Tearor sighed. Not a particularly auspicious beginning, but then again, what more could he expect? He could not hope to simply erase a lifetime of realm hatred simply because he wished it so. All things being equal, he mused, they were not doing badly.

“Well, now that we have her here,” Ronin sighed, the arrow upon his bow not for an instant drifting from its target, “what do we do with her?”

Deceon’s fingers squeezed the bow string tightly, for it took every bit of strength in his dwarven bones to hold himself back from killing this before him. She was a member of a race that had killed more than he could count of his friends and guild mates. He had every reason on the face of the realms to see her dead, and the Gods forgive him, he wanted to kill her himself. Still, he was a rational dwarf (a character trait uncommon among the realm-hardened race); he knew that they were there to serve a greater purpose, and he would stay true to that purpose, no matter the cost.

Tearor slowly sheathed his weapons, making sure that the Hibernian’s eyes never left his. He then unbuckled his weapons belt and slowly removed it, tossing it lightly to the side, well out of reach.

“Be sure of what ye be doin’ lad,” Deceon warned. “These are bein’ among the fastest and deadliest o’ the realms. I’d be hatin’ to be killin’ her jus’ to be avengin’ ye…”

Tearor nodded at the dwarf’s warning, but continued on. He knew he had to gain her trust, if not her confidence, if they were to have success in what they sought to do. With measured motion, he raised both hands to the Hibernian, palms forward in a gesture of trust. He smiled thinly, though enough that he hoped she would see that he was sincere in his want to peace.

Eurbralgarfha watched the shadowblade before her carefully, her disbelief almost impossible to hide as he disarmed and discarded his weapons. She was temped then to attack him, and while the two arrows pointed her way certainly worked to dissuade her, she held back for another reason entirely.

Curiosity.

What could these Midgard want? They had every opportunity to kill her, and yet they had not. They could have left her to the fate that her Albion pursuers offered, and again, they had not. There was obviously a method to their madness, and she had to admit, she wondered what it might be.

Still, while she was curious, she was not stupid, certainly. She was not about to voluntarily abandon her weapons simply because her captors had made one gesture toward – what? Friendship? A truce? She was confused, and refused to place herself at more of a disadvantage until that confusion was resolved.

Tearor reached into his tunic and pulled free the parchments he had brought with him. They had taken a good deal of time to prepare, but in the end, he hoped that their usefulness would be worth the effort expended.

With careful movements, he unfolded the first parchment and laid it out on the ground before him. The Hibernian, however, refused to take her gaze from his. Her eyes were grounded in distrust, and thus far she had not been given reason enough to abandon it. Tearor shrugged his shoulders questioningly to her, and in answer she threw a knowing look at the hunters behind her. Tearor nodded and spoke a few words that Eurbralgarfha could not understand. The hunters exchanged worries glances, and then did as they were bade. Their weapons were lowered, and each removed the arrow from their bow, placing them in their respective quivers.

Eurbralgarfha was more confused than ever. They had just placed themselves very much in harm’s way, for she had faced worse odds before and come through alive. Were this any other scenario, she would not have hesitated. These would be dead already, but she could not shake the feeling that there was reason at work here.

Her eyes dropped to the parchment on the ground at her feet. Kneeling to get a better look, her eyes closed in pained remembrance, for there was a crudely drawn picture of all six relics, each drawn twice. The first drawing of each showed a glow coming from the artifact, denoting, she assumed, the magical power of the relics. The next picture of each had the glow removed, the relics looking pained and old, as though they had been buried in the very dirt of the realm itself for a thousand or more years.

Eurbralgarfha lowered her head. It was clear that these Midgard were trying to communicate something about the raping of their relics. Her first reaction was that they were somehow at fault, but she dismissed that thought immediately. If these drawings were to be believed, then all of the relics were so affected. No, their reason lay in another direction.

For the next several measures, Tearor laid out carefully drawn parchments communicating all that he knew. He told Eurbralgarfha of the demon, though he could not discern a manner to communicate its name. He told her of the attacks on Midgard, and she in turn made him aware of the like attack in Hibernia. And finally he made clear that the Midgard had sent a contingency into Darkness Falls to find and defeat the Greater Demon. Eurbralgarfha then remembered back to the battle where they had lost Jackmode, Anian and Tyus, and suddenly it made sense. They too have been taken to Darkness Falls.

Eurbralgarfha Shook her head at her own flawed logic. How could she know that? It might as easily have been nothing more than what it appeared; that they had been killed in the demonic attack. Still, she harbored hope; with a demon such as this that the Midgard had described, nothing was impossible.

Finally, Eurbralgarfha was made to understand their reason for taking her in the first place, but she balked at their suggestion. To think that the realms could unite, even under such a circumstance, was unthinkable, though she had to admit, she could think of no better reason to make the effort.

Eurbralgarfha looked at Tearor and turned over one of his parchments, taking from him the burned charcoal he had been using to write. She etched a small picture representing the rising of the sun, and them marked two notches beside it. With a smile, she stood, moved to the edge of the mile gate, and was gone.

Deceon moved to follow, but Tearor stopped him with a hard glance. “She will be back,” he cautioned, his eyes looking out over Emain Macha, wondering if they might actually have done some good.

“In two days, she will be back.”

Tyus parried another attack, the succubus growing angrier as the moments passed. She had made several attacks, all of which he had masterfully dodged, but they both knew that his time was running out. He could not defeat her alone, and she had seemingly limitless endurance. Sooner or later, her strike would land, and his life would be over.

The succubus turned sharply in midair, angling toward Tyus unexpectedly. He was taken by complete surprise, and he wondered how death would feel. Its coming would be painful, he knew, but to be held in its embrace must be a wondrous thing indeed. To be beyond the cares of the realm; beyond mortal concerns and worries; what a comfort it must be.

As it turned out, he would have to wait for the experience.

The energy bold and fireball seemed to strike the succubus as one, an eruption of magnificent color and grand effect all but blinding the ranger for its presentation. The succubus screamed and was knocked backward a good distance, and while it tried to remain in the air, its strength had been bled from it by the brutal attack. Another pair of bolts arched gracefully into the demon, and while Tyus had no idea what had happened, he knew an opportunity when it presented itself. His bow was in his hands quicker than he could acknowledge the thought of it. His first arrow met the demon’s chest, almost in time with the magical hammers that seemed to appear over its head and slam down upon it. More magics and countless arrows challenged the succubus, and in the end, there was no doubt as to the outcome. The succubus dropped completely to the ground, dead for the combined attacks.

Not a moment had passed after the death of the demon before Tyus had another arrow knocked and turned to face those that had saved his life. He felt almost a hypocrite for aiming his bow at those that had just spared him the indignity of a painful and bloody death, but he was not about to completely trust anyone.

Into his view came a troll, a norsewoman and an Albion spell caster, each standing in challenge. His bow looked somehow insignificant in context, and Tyus truly wondered for the outcome. His eyes moved from one to the next, each returning his gaze with a sympathetic turn. It was wizard though, whose gaze captured Tyus’ trust. He could not define what it was in her aspect that pulled at his misgivings, but pull it did, until they shifted into something more akin to reserved co-existence. Trust was too much to ask, at least it was so then.

The ranger lowered his bow and walked forward slowly, pleased that he had finally found these that he had sought. Even more pleased that he was able to make contact with them without the influence of Jackmode, for while the hero’s heart was certainly in the right place, his distrust of these would have made such contact impossible.

Tyus continued forward until he was standing in front of the others. A thin grin crossed the ranger’s face, and it was met with a wider smile from the wizard. Tyus shifted uncomfortably under her attentions, and turned to look at the troll. His battle hardened features spoke of the uneasy alliance they had forged, and while Tyus could see that this one would certainly by an asset in battle, it was equally clear that he had misgivings about their current situation.

Tyus chucked.

He could live with that.

The norsewoman offered the ranger her hand in friendship, and Tyus found himself suddenly nervous. He was about to flaunt a thousand years of history and Hibernian pride; trample the respect he had for all those who fought and died fighting these in years passed. Still, he knew his own heart and he knew right when he saw it.

The ranger gripped hands with the norsewoman, and somehow he felt vindicated.

Tyus then moved to kneel beside Jackmode, the hero still not recovered from his wounds. He lay unconscious, unmoving as though death had taken him. Anian was the same, though Tyus was confident that they would both recover, given rest and opportunity. He motioned to the others, and each moved forward, helping the ranger move his realm mates from the open chamber to the small grotto where Brandt lay poisoned still, death pressing at him yet.

Jackmode dreamed.

At first it was visions of home and hearth; of his time with his family and the joys of his youth. He could not know how long that dream had lasted, but he knew that he would have been content to have lived within that dream for the rest of always. As with all things, it faded too soon and moved through the cycle of his life, as though he were looking through a magical recall stone, and being allowed to relive the best of the life he had left behind. They were dreams of comfort and happiness, and he wondered why he had ever left such a life behind.

Soon, however, the nightmares intruded.

Demons haunted his dreams, wreaking the havoc in this thoughts that they did when they invaded Hibernia. He battled them in his dreams as he had at the keep. They were unstoppable however, and his began to thrash about in his sleep, wanting nothing more than to awaken and be away from such images.

Suddenly, the demons began to shift their aspect, and each took on the look of a Midgard or an Albion. He thrashed even more, determined to see his enemies dead for the sake of those friends that these might kill. In his mind’s eye, he killed them by the thousands and still they came, all with the same aspect of death undelivered; anguish unanswered.

Suddenly his eyes were open, and he closed them quickly, trying to make sense of the jumbled images that washed through his mind unchecked.
Where was he?

How had he come to be there?

He could hear sounds about him, though in truth they seemed innocuous enough. There was the sounds of armored feet crossing a stone floor; light breathing and talking, though the words spoken were beyond him.

With a carefully determined motion, Jackmode opened his eyes again, though he wished for all the realm that he had kept them closed. There stood Tyus and Anian, kneeling on the ground and etching what looked like the oddest drawings into the floor of the grotto with a troll and norsewoman.

Jackmode reached for his weapon but could not locate it. He was livid with anger at the betrayal of his realm mates, and he would kill them as easily and with as much joy as any he had known before if they had indeed sided against Hibernia.

He lay there quietly and unmoved, his very soul screaming out for release from this place, for what madness had forced the sheep to lay with the wolves?

He could not know the answer, but he swore on the grave of every Hibernian that had died during the realm wars, he would find out.

2002-07-12T08:10:00.000-07:00

Remembrances

Wargolem's Goodbye

He held his small son on one knee as he opened the huge tome, the words on the page exploding out at him with the drama and the anger and the passion that had inspired them. His name was Walton, and he was a norseman, who had made his home on the shores of the river that ran through Camelot Hills. He had lived in Mularn most of his life, but when he had met and fallen in love with an Avalonian maiden, his heart and his soul was turned to Albion. After their son was born, they decided that the more temperate climes of Albion suited him best, and so they had moved their lives across the realms, finding a home at last.

Destria, his wife, came into the room and sat by the fire. She so loved to watch her husband and their son as they played together, though she had to admit she was not so fond when she saw him take that book down from the shelf. She knew well enough that his great-great-great-grand parents had been in the realm wars, and that he held a certain reverence for those times, but the wars had been over for more than two centuries. She would prefer to have let the atrocities of the past die sit unremembered. The stories the book contained may have been accurate historical accounts of the wars and those who took part in them, but to her it was nothing more than a withered remembrance of a time best left forgotten.

Still, she could not deny that Walton loved the history, and that he loved as much their son, and sharing those moments with him. If the vessel of their closeness was sometimes the histories of the war, then so be it. It was something she could learn to live with.

“…and the Hibernian forces fought bravely, but the rage of the Midgard warriors proved to be too much for them to hold back. The keep was taken, and the relic was returned to its home, where it sat for years, waiting for another realm so bold as to make the effort to take it again.”

Walton smiled as he reached the end of the tale, folding the tome closed. He ran his hands over the rich leather binding, his eyes drinking in the vastness of the book; not only its size but the things that it held; the stories it told and the glories it offered.

“Daddy,” the child whispered, for he knew that his mother did not like their talks of the realm wars. It made her sad, and he wanted to spare her that pain. “Why are the realm wars over?”

Walton paused a moment before answering. He had to admit that he was a prisoner of the glories and the romance of the history, though he wondered seriously if anyone could truly know what it was like to have actually lived through them. When he read to his son from the book, he was, of course, careful to make sure that he did not read of the blood letting and the atrocities of which the book spoke. They were almost too much for him to take, let alone his son. No, there was no need for his son to know the harshest realities of war.

“A lot of people died during those wars, son,” he said, laying the book aside and pulling his child close. “War is not a good thing, you have to remember. So many people get hurt, and so many die. There is pain and death, and while it oftimes brings out the best in us all, it can also bring out the worst. In the end, all three realms finally realized that there was more to be gained from peace than from war.”

The child sat thoughtful for a moment. “Is that why the relics were taken from the keeps?”

Walton laughed, impressed that his son remembered. “Yes it is. They knew that as long as the relics existed, there would be reason for the wars to continue, so they took them all into Darkness Falls and cast them into the lava pits, one at a time. Once the relics were gone, so was the need for the wars.”

“I’m glad there is no more war,” Walton’s son said innocently. Walton smiled ironically, for his son had spoken an eternal truth, no matter that his child’s mind could not see it.

“So am I, my son,” he said, hugging him tightly, “so am I.”

Destria stood and walked to her husband, caressing his face lovingly before lifting their son into her arms. “Its time for bed, young one,” she smiled. The child wriggled out of her arms and dropped lightly to the ground. Before he followed her want to his bedroom, he ran to the huge portrait that hung across one entire wall of the small house. He hugged the picture as though the image within were real, and then scurried off to his room, Destria close behind.

Walton stood and walked to the portrait and smiled. He remember the fight he and his wife suffered when he had it commissioned. She wanted no part of it, for she had said that he who was captured upon the canvas was one she could not respect. She could not allow his likeness to be so much a part of their lives, no matter that he was Walton’s distant relation. It had taken weeks of persuading before Walton had finally convinced her to relent. She could not know how proud he was of his ancestor, for he had lived and fought and died for the greatness of Midgard. He had led troops into battle and had commanded some of the greatest victories the realm had known. To simply forget him in the reality of history seemed wrong, somehow. The picture might not be much; it was, after all, nothing more than paint and canvas, but to Walton, it was a monument to all the Midgard had been, and all that it had become.

Walton lit a pipe and breathed the smoke in deeply as he looked reverently at the man captured there. In many ways, he wished he had been alive during the realm wars, or that his long dead relative was alive today. What was he like? What did he hold dear? What were his passions, his sorrows, his pains? How did he come to command so well, and cause such a ripple in the history of the realm?

Walton sighed, for he knew these were questions that were lost to time and to history. Still, as long as he breathed and could speak, the man in the portrait would never be forgotten.

As he turned to leave the room for their bed chamber, Walton stopped and looked at the portrait one last time. As he spoke, he felt in part the fool, but he felt as well that perhaps somehow, someway, his ancestor might hear his words.

“You may be gone, Wargolem, but rest in eternity, for know that you shall always be remembered.”

2002-07-12T08:09:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Part 13

Tearor, Ronin and Deceon moved through the light copse of trees and open grasslands of Emain Macha. Each was cloaked in the shadows of the terrain, their natural hiding skills protecting them from the venom of the enemies they might encounter.

Tearor looked about him as they moved, memories of the bloody battles held in these lands washing over him like an unbearably cold rain. He had seen much bloodshed in his life to be sure, and he had spilled more than his share of it. He had hunted the enemy with passion, and had killed with regret when he was forced to do so. He had lost count of the lives he had taken, and while there existed a very real part of him that regretted each life he had extinguished, he knew as well that he had acted, and acted rightly. Still, he could not move past the irony that the current situation lay upon him. With the number of times he had come to this place as a killer, how mad was it then that he had come now as a emissary of cooperation?

The shadowblade shook his head. This was not the time for self-indulgent musings. There were matters about requiring attention, and a lapse in his concentration could see them all dead.

Emain was still, the softest of breezes blowing across the hills and flatlands, and for an instant, the threesome threatened to forget the import of their task, and lose themselves in the gentle hues and calming shade around them.

A scream from the west tore their fantasy asunder, and each turned to follow the sounds and see what was to be seen. Tearor led the way, his weapons pulled free and his heart pounding, though battle was not that which took him to heart this day; it was the opportunity that he hoped would present itself to them.

As they crested the hill that spilled into the flatlands in front of the Albion Mile Gate, all three stopped as they witnessed three Albion warriors pursuing a Hibernian, their swords raised and their intentions only too apparent. The Hibernian was clearly injured, her steps faltering the shadow of pain, and the Albion attackers had obviously no compunction about killing a wounded enemy.

“Our chance,” Tearor whispered loudly, nodding to Ronin and Deceon. The Hibernian was running toward them in an effort to reach Dun Craunchon, though they could see that even she knew that it was beyond her reach. Tearor vanished, moving off out of sight, leaving Ronin and Deceon to do what they must.

Deceon raised his bow, sighting his arrow. “Be sayin’ when,” he almost spat, his dwarven nature coming to bare in light of the circumstances they faced. Ronin lifted his bow as well, both hunters waiting with baited breath for the signal that would loose their arrows into their intended targets.

Eurbralgarfha ran as she had never run before.

She had been dispatched to Emain Macha to discover anything she could about enemy incursions into Hibernian territory. With the relics bled of their power, and the people of Hibernia bled of their passion, they all realized that the other realms might well take advantage of their weakened state, and seek to invade. Surely the attack by the demons was some kind of forerunner to a full scale invasion, at least many of the Hibernian leaders felt that such was so. Eurbralgarfha was not so sure. Hibernia had been crippled by the loss of their relics, and had not the Midgard relic that they had captured been so affected as well? It made no sense to her that the other realms would attack them while they themselves suffered the same fate? Still, she was not the maker of realm policy, she was simply a tool of that policy.

She had arrived at the Albion Mile gate uneventfully enough, her form hidden from view. She had stationed herself on top of the gate and simply waited, her eyes as keen as her senses, until finally, three of her enemy finally chose to arrive. Her weapons were in her hands as quickly as she could hope, though her thoughts were not on her defenses. She merely sought to stay hidden from sight until she could determine how many more there might be. If these three were the entire contingent of the Albion force, then she could happily report back to her superiors that all was well in the frontier.

She could not be sure how they had managed to discover her presence. Perhaps it had been a fateful reflection of the sun, or maybe one of those that she spied upon had heard an errant sound that had carried her to their attention.

It mattered little. She had been revealed, her life was in very real peril.

Eurbralgarfha had jumped from the top of the Mile Gate, landing with the grace that her profession had offered. She ran then, faster than she had thought she was able, for her enemies were not satisfied with her discovery. They were out for her blood, and would be happy with nothing less.

She ran toward Dun Craunchon, knowing that the fort was her only hope for salvation, and while she was tiring quickly, she knew that she had enough of a lead on her pursuers to see her to her destination safely. She knew then that she was safe. Her thoughts of freedom were torn from her, however, when the cross-bow bolt suddenly appeared in her right leg. She staggered, stifling a scream of pain, but pushed on, more determined than ever to reach a place of relative safety.

Suddenly, two Midgard hunters appeared before her, their bows raised and drawn. She thought for an instant that she was dead, until she noticed that the bows were not aimed in her direction. Before she could react, they had loosed their arrows, the shafts arching past her, and if the screams could be judged as evidence of such, into her Albion attackers. She risked a turn over her shoulder and saw that two had been felled with the arrows, and a third Midgard engaged the last of the Albions, his axe and blade cutting deeply into the Albion’s intentions. Before a breath was taken it was over, the Albion laying dead beside his compatriots, and Eurbralgarfha eager to be away from the entire situation. She turned to finish her run to Dun Craunchon, intending to offer a nod of thanks, when she found herself facing down the two hunters, their bows at full draw, though this time the arrows were most decidedly pointed at her.

The lurikeen held her ground, knowing that she was most likely dead, though all doubt would have been removed had she attacked. She was outnumbered and stood not a chance in this fight, should one arise, and escaping was a dream she dare not indulge. She was forced to simply stand, and wait.

Brandt coughed up another mouthful of blood, Errine looking more and more concerned as the time passed. She had lost track of how long they had traveled, though it was long enough that even the troll was tiring, and they found their way to a quiet grotto, hoping upon hope that it was out of the way enough that they would not be disturbed.

The wizard watched as the norsewoman knelt beside her and brushed Brandt’s hair from his eyes, and smiled at Errine with a smile of confidence, sincerity and most telling, trust. The wizard only nodded back, and retuned to her wok of caring for the paladin. She had no idea what lay ahead, but she prayed that whatever the future would bring, that it would see fit to cure Brandt of the malady that had possessed him.

Tylaara moved back to stand with Helphdane, who had taken rest near the entrance to the small cave, his eyes never leaving the path that they had followed. He had seen enough of this place to know that they were never safe, though he was damned if he was going to allow these in his charge suffer for that circumstance.

“How is he?” the troll asked, his concern for the paladin all too real. In truth, his concern was not a personal thing, but a means to an end. They needed these that they traveled with in full measure if they were to see their task through, and the paladin’s death would be a crippling blow to be sure.

Tylaara shook her head as she approached him. “He breaths. He is warm. For now that is all that he can claim. I know nothing of the deeper effects of Eldorad’s poisons. Only the Gods know how long the effects will last. They may even kill him, if nothing is done.”

Helphdane slammed his fist into the wall, his anger spilling across his usually even temperament. “And the only one of us that might have been able to heal him, Eldorad chose to kill. Damn him and his blades…”

Tylaara fell silent, for she knew her friend’s anger, and knew it well. The assassin may very well have doomed them all with his prejudices. She had hoped that his attacking Dreadkane Dwarfeater was an act of desperation by a man eager to side with his fellows in a task that was both necessary and potentially lethal. More, she was learning, it was Eldorad’s hatred of the enemies of Midgard that had guided his hand, and with those enemies held so close, he would be trying for their lives again, she knew.

“We can’t stay here,” she said finally, as though she were telling Helphdane something that he did not know. The troll simply nodded slowly in response, and took a step toward the fallen paladin. As though to accentuate the point the Tylaara had made, a low rumbling seemed to drift upward from beneath them. It was soft at first, as though some great being were shifting the rock from a thousand leagues below. It grew louder as the moments passed however, and before long it was as though it were in the chamber with them, its voice demanding attention and its intentions nothing like clear. After a few moments it died away again, leaving the threesome with a lingering emotional after-effect. It might not have been a sound they recognized, but it was an emotion they knew all too well.

Helplessness.

Tyus listened at the entrance to the grotto, his form as still as the rock, his attention as focused as the concern within. It had been easy enough a task to track the Midgard and Albion wandering about, at least it was so for a ranger as experienced as Tyus. Jackmode and Anian held their place behind a rock formation a good way behind him, awaiting his report. As the moments passed, he gathered what little information that he could and made his way back to the others.

“What word?” Jackmode asked hurriedly, as though his life hung in the answer he sought.

Tyus looked back from where he had come, to ensure that none followed. “There are four, two Midgard and two Albion. One of the Albion, a paladin I think, is injured badly. It looked as though he had been poisoned, though I cannot be sure.”

Jackmode grinned at this last piece of information. “Excellent. If he dies, then perhaps a rift might grow in their ranks. It must already be a winsome union. Perhaps this is what we need to gain our advantage.”

Tyus sighed.

He knew that Jackmode was a vengeful sort, and that his hatred garnered through the realm wars real enough, but he had hoped he would come to the understanding of their need for the others if they were to see themselves free.

“Jackmode,” Tyus spoke slowly, measuring his words with care, “are you sure that fighting these we follow is what we wish to do?”

Jackmode threw Tyus an expression of both anger and confusion, though the ranger knew that anger ruled the moment. “What are you talking about? What madness is this?” The spear bearer fairly spat his words at the ranger, his ire raging forward for the implication.

Tyus almost regretted having said anything at all, but he simply could not stand and watch as their collective fates were sealed. “Can you not see? They are as trapped here as we, though in truth I sense that they know more of this place than we. If we antagonize them now, kill them so that not one is left standing, then we lose everything that they have learned. We blindly push by an opportunity to understand what they understand, and for what? For the spilling of more blood!”

Jackmode let the thought filter through him for a moment. To ally with an enemy realm was death back in Hibernia, and he had, until that moment, discounted the possibility, simply for the madness of it all. Still, he could not deny that Tyus was right. If they were to learn anything as fast as they needed to know it, then the chance at hand might be more than worth the risk.

The roar that called to their attention pulled them from their thoughts, and brought their consideration to that which they assumed would be their deaths. A succubus, standing better than seven foot high at the shoulder, hovered in the air behind them, its worn and weathered wings beating with the confidence of a killer who had found at last, her pray. She held a look of motivated loathing, saliva dripping freely from her mouth. It ran down across her chest and legs, and her wings began to beat with eager anticipation.

It was an anticipation it would not have to suffer for long.

Tyus moved first, throwing himself over the cover stones and rolling to his feet a good way from his comrades. His bow fairly jumped into his hands, as eager for the fight as Tyus himself. He waited a moment, giving Jackmode the chance to do what he knew the hero would. Surely enough, a moment later, Jackmode threw himself from the relative safety of the rocks and into the arms of the succubus, his spear leading the way. The instant that the demon’s attention was on Jackmode, Tyus released his arrow, not even watching it fly before knocking and firing another.

Jackmode felt his spear sink into the thigh of the succubus, causing her to fly back several turns, out of his reach. She hissed her anger for her wounding and lashed out with her left wing. She seemed to reach out impossibly far, and struck the hero across the side of the face, sending him reeling. Jackmode dropped his spear as he feel, landing hard, and had he the capacity to think such things, he would have wondered if he would ever see he light of day again.

The she-demon turned her attentions to the ranger then, for the third in the party had done little but try to heal Jackmode, and had not garnered the beast’s attentions. It moved on Tyus with a stalwart resolution that the ranger had to admire. He dropped his bow and drew his swords, for it was clear that this would not be settled with bow and arrow, but with talon and steel.

The succubus dropped to the ground and jumped at Tyus. The ranger managed to side step the attack, and swipe at the she-demon as it passed him by. He had thought that he was clear of attack, but the succubus lashed out with her leg as she passed, striking the ranger solidly across the chest. As he staggered back, Tyus was thankful indeed that it had been a glancing blow, for even as such, he had felt the impact indeed. A more focused attack would have seen him to his maker, of that he had no doubt.

The succubus righted herself and immediately began to stalk her prey, her clawed hands opening and closing in anticipation. The clicking of her talons on the stone floor send a chill through all who had the misfortune to hear it, and her eyes screamed for the blood she knew she would shed. Anian settled in to aid Tyus, casting a healing enchantment. The ranger nodded his appreciation and moved to close with the she-demon once more, determined that the fight would be his. Anian pulled free his mace and joined with Tyus, the sight of Jackmode prone on the stone floor fueling his anger and his want for revenge.

The succubus snarled her anger and her pleasure at the confrontation, her right had lashing out at the druid as they closed the distance. Anian dodged the attack, though the succubus was as skilled in the ways of battle as she was in the ways of death. As the druid moved, a spell leaped from her hands, Anian catching the full impact of the magical blast in the chest. He staggered back, dropping to one knee, for the blow had been vicious indeed. Blood dripped from a thousand small gashes in his chest, and his breath drew short. He lifted his eyes and looked on as Tyus made to cross blades with the succubus once more. Anian whispered a prayer as best he could, and wondered if the Gods could even hear him in such a place.

Tyus parried an attack from the succubus, but knew in his heart this his time may very well have come. He had seen both Anian and Jackmode fall, with the succubus barely injured at all for the battle. This was an evil he had never known before, and while his pretended bravado had carried him into the fray, the painful reality was what threatened to see him dead for it.

The succubus flexed her wings and took flight, circling the ranger slowly, with but one painfully obvious thought on her mind, and Tyus seriously wondered if he could save his own life in what was to come.

As the succubus angled toward him, talons extended, Tyus readied his stance. He might die this day, but it would not be without the blood of the she-demon on his blades.

Cold comfort, he knew, but it was all he had. His blades warmed in his hand, his thoughts offered prayer to his realm mates and the understanding he was leaving behind, and then the succubus attacked.

2002-07-12T08:07:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Part 12

Tyus moved through the halls of Darkness Falls, invisible to any that might be skulking about. He had passed demons and succubus’, familiars and more, and for the first time in his life, he knew true fear. These were not the same beasts and monsters that inhabited the home he had been taken from, certainly. This was a new breed of terror, one that he was not sure that he and his realm mates would survive. He had thought and thought again on Jackmode’s tirade. Yes he had aided the Albion and Midgard that they had come across, his first instinct having been that they were as imprisoned in this place as he; that perhaps cooperation was most sensible means to freedom, and that perhaps laying the groundwork for a truce of sorts was a strategically sound idea. Jackmode had obviously disagreed, but with the vile beasts that he passed in his trek through the pit, Tyus realized more and more that his heart had guided him well. He had made the right decision, and peaceful sleep would come to him surely, comforted by that face alone.

All he needed to do then was convince Jackmode and Anian. The druid was not a concern, for Tyus knew him to be a level headed sort, and while he did not know him well, his limited experience was enough to convince him that Anian would see the light.

Jackmode was another matter.

Still, Tyus knew that he had to make the effort, no matter how fruitless such an effort might be. He turned and started the trek back, his thoughts consumed with the confrontation that awaited him when he arrived.

He had not taken more then four steps to return to his compatriots when the scraping of talons on stone captured his attention. He halted all movement, his fingers closing tightly around his knocked arrow. He might die this day to one of the denizens of this horrific place, but he would not, he swore, die alone.

He turned his head slowly, only to see a daemoness, hovering in the air a few feet above the ground, its right hand clawing marks into the stone itself. It was female, that much was obvious, though it was hideous in the extreme. It reminded the ranger of the pixie’s of home, though this was a far more malevolent breed than he was used to. His eyes settled on the talons for a moment, the wicked claws raking deep gouges in the stone. He could only imagine what such strength could do to his flesh, and in truth, he had no desire to know the truth of it.

More than that, however, he was unnerved by the fact that the beast stared directly at him, as though it could see him through his invisibility. He pushed the thought out of his head and moved on, for manner of monster could see through that which held him from sight?

A step further, and it was made all to clear to him that the daemoness could indeed see through him, despite his abilities. She screeched her rage to the under-realm and flew directly at him, her talons outstretched before her. Tyus raised his bow and pulled it to full draw, knowing beyond knowing that, once loosed, the arrow would surely hit its mark, and yet, something held his hand. Perhaps it was the tilt of the beast as she came to him, or perhaps it was something less tangible. He could not know, and in the end, it mattered little. Tyus trusted his instinct and held his arrow, hoping upon hope that he would live long enough to know if he had made the right decision.

The daemoness hurtled by him, her talons only a hair’s breadth form his face. The demonic familiar that was her target took her talons full in the face, blood spattering across the stonework of the underdark. The familiar reared on its hinds legs and made an effort to return the assault, but the daemoness had flown out of reach, the blood of her victim still dripping from her talons. The ranger could barely comprehend what had happened, for the daemoness had indeed saved his life.

Tyus made the most of the opportunity, and loosed his arrow. If flew true, imbedding itself in familiar’s chest as it reared, and the beast toppled over, as dead as Tyus would have been without the daemoness’ intervention. The she-demon flew in a small circle above the ranger, her eyes upon him, though he could not interpret her intention. He readied another arrow, though he held back drawing the bow, at least until he could be more certain of her want.

She circled a few more times, flying almost lazily, and then landed a short distance away from the ranger. Her eyes lay across Tyus, a thin smiled crossing her face. Tyus took in the entirety of her aspect. She was just a hand shorter than he, her wings looking as though they were made of the same leather that he wore. Her legs were bent in the same orientation as a bird, though they were well muscled, the talons accompanying still thick with the blood of the familiar. Her torso and face were that of a woman, and if Tyus were true to himself, a beautiful woman at that. Her eyes looked through his countenance and touched him, though he could define precisely how. Her face held a bearing of great sadness, and more than fear, and Tyus felt a certain sympathy.

The daemoness opened her mouth, the sound emanating from her wafting to him gently, though he could understand none of it. More akin to a whispered whistling than the spoken word, her voice communicated to him the same melancholy as her eyes, and his heart went out to her all the more.

“Are you a prisoner here as well?” he asked out loud, though he did not receive nor expect a response. “Are you alone?”

The daemoness tilted her head quizzically, chirped a response that was beyond his comprehension, and then she was gone, her wings carrying her to the shadowed heights of the passageway. Tyus’ eyes followed her for as long as he was able, but soon enough she was gone, even the sound of her wings fading into the blackened depths before him.

Confused and more than a little mystified, Tyus stealthed once again, and made his way back toward Jackmode and Anian.

Brandt Ironwolf had known anger before in his life, but the worst of that was dwarfed by his absolute rage this day. They had met with the Midgard, and had forged something of a mutual agreement, if not complete trust. He had come to meet them in the spirit of cooperation, with hopes that they were more than their reputations demanded; that they would see the futility of carrying on aggressions when the world they found themselves within offered enough for all. His hopes had been buoyed at their meeting, for they seemed as eager as he for a truce, and all that seemingly remained was the details of their alliance.

And then they had murdered Gabryl.

Both he and Errine had heard the struggle, and, after retrieving his sword from the ground at his feet, they ran to investigate, the Midgard close behind. They rounded the stone behind which Gabryl had hidden, only to see his lifeless body prone on the ground, his skin already turning blue for the blood that had been stripped from him. His eyes lay open in stark confusion and accusation, and upon seeing him there, Brandt felt guilt and anger, but more than this, he felt the demand for vengeance.

The paladin whirled about, his fist clenching and his sword rising before him.

“Deceivers!” he screamed, his rage only too evident in his voice. “I trusted you and this is how you repay my trust?” Her ranted on, and while the Midgard could not understand what he was saying, they could read well enough his tone.

Helphdane, having taken back his hammer as well, lifted it before him in defense, for he could only assume that Brandt was on the attack. “Damn Eldorad!” he screamed, for it was obvious that the shadowblade had perpetrated the attack on the cleric. His hammer deflected the slash of the blade, sparks flying for the attack. He stepped forward and returned the attack, though his response was half-hearted at best. He could only imagine how he would feel and react if he had found one of his own murdered by those he had hoped to ally with. His hammer was blocked by the paladin, but the trolls immense strength had staggered him. Helphdane stood back several paces, refusing to advance the attack. Enough damage had been done by Eldorad and his foolish actions. The thane was damned is he was going to be party to making a bad situation worse.

Errine saw Brandt attack, and immediately a spell came to her lips. She raised her staff and looked to the norsewoman, knowing the she had to kill the caster if she was to ably support Brandt. As her eyes fell across her target, she found the spell dissipating, almost of its own accord, for the look she saw in the eyes of her enemy told her a world of truths. She saw there remorse and pain for the death suffered; she saw anguish over the battle that had ensued, and more than anything, she saw hopelessness, for Brandt had been right. These Midgard knew well enough the price of failure, and without aiding each other, that failure was assured.

Errine nodded at Tylaara and smiled weakly, turning her attention to Brandt and the troll. Helphdane worked to merely parry the attacks, while Brandt was blinded by rage and sought only the death of those he called betrayer.

Suddenly Brandt screamed in agony, a pair of daggers plunging deeply into his ribs. The wicked blades slipped expertly between the pates of his armor, the wielder an practiced in avoiding the nuisances that even the heaviest armor can provide. Helphdane had seen Eldorad appear behind the paladin, but was unable to do anything but watch as the assassin plied his trade once more, seeking the death of another enemy of his realm.

Brandt dropped to his knees, the agony more than he could ever have imagined. Was this was Gabryl felt before he had died? The paladin whispered a prayer for the soul of his friend, for if he had departed the realm in this pain, he was pitiable indeed.

Errine stood as still as a statue, her eyes widened in horror, and she cursed herself for being taken so by surprise. She screamed, a terror she had never known swallowing her whole, to the point that she knew was too stunned by the circumstance to aid her friend.

As fate would have it, she would not have to.

It was impossible to say which hit the assassin first, the magical bolt that Tylaara had loosed, or the hammer that Helphdane had thrown in rage and in disgust. Which struck first hardly mattered to the point. The assassin took both attacks to the chest, and was hurtled backward, stopping only at the discretion of the stone wall behind him. He sank to the floor, unconscious before he had hit the wall.

Errine was to Brandt’s side in an instant, working to free him of the armor he wore. With Tylaara’s help, his breast plate was on the ground finally, the wizard tearing pieces of cloth from her tunic in an effort to stem the flow of blood from the wounds. They were deep, that much was clear, but the depth of the wounds was not what worried her.

It was the poison.

Already the flesh around the wounds had begun to turn a dim shade of green, and Errine had seen enough of the assassins to know the foul workings of their toxins. In but a few measures, Brandt’s entire body would be given over to the foul venom that ran through him, and with a healer of impressive ability, there was nothing they could do to stop it. The paladin lay unconscious, his body having given in to the inevitability of the attack. Errine lifted her head and looked to Tylaara pleadingly.

“We have to help him,” she said sternly, though she felt the fool for talking at all. The norsewoman could not understand her certainly, but Errine hoped that she understood well enough.

Helphdane moved to where Eldorad lay unconscious on the ground, his body twisted at a painful angle. He lay his trollish hand before the kobold’s face, breathing a sigh of relief that the assassin yet lived.

“Foolish kobold,” Helphdane whispered, his head hanging low for the circumstance that Eldorad’s blades had out them in. “Why so much hate…so much rage…to make you abandon our reason for being here, simply to sate your anger?” The troll spoke as though he expected the kobold to answer. Instead, he simply lay there, his injuries holding him to silence.

“Helphdane, Tylaara called out, bringing the troll back to Brandt’s prone form. “Eldorad poisoned him with those damned blades of his. Without a healer, he will die for certain.”

Helphdane looked to both Errine and Tylaara, though he had no words of comfort to offer, no phrases of reassurance to buoy their spirits. All he had, all each of them had, was a whisper of hope that their time in this place would not be wasted.

The troll stood and lifted the paladin across his shoulders, careful not to aggravate his already serious wounds.

Errine looked with a near panicked expression as the troll hoisted her realm mate onto his massive frame. Tylaara spoke with worry as well, for while she trusted Helphdane, she had no idea what he planned.

“What are you doing? Know you a place to cure him?”

Helphdane shook his head. “No, I do not, but I do know where the cure will not be found, and that is here. Whatever our destiny, it lay in the heart of this place.” With a calming smile, Tylaara assuaged any fears that Errine might have had, though both runemaster and wizard knew that she would worry non-the-less. With that, the troll turned to call Tylaara to bring Eldorad along with them, but the sight that greeted him froze him to the bone, for the assassin was gone.

The three companions exchanged worried glances, for there was another danger that would haunted them in the underdark, and this one was by far more dangerous than the demons.

This one could think.

This one could kill, and kill easily.

This one was Eldorad.

As the three some moved off down the tunnels with Brandt weighing tightly across Helphdane’s shoulders, Jackmode, Anian and Tyus looked out after them.

“We should kill them now,” Anian spoke softly, for while he was by nature a less violent man, he knew an advantage when he saw one.

Jackmode stared for a time, then shook his head. “If they are allied, and it seems that this is likely given what we have just seen, then we best bide our time. An open fight would teach us nothing. These have allied for a reason, and we best find out what that reason is if we are to be victorious.”

The three moved off through the tunnels, eager to discover the secret behind the apparent alliance that Midgard and Albion shared. Tyus quietly moved ahead, hiding himself from the prying eyes that lay before him.

“I will know their hearts,” Jackmode hissed quietly, or I shall surely feast upon them.”

Tyus heard his vow, and grimaced inwardly. He was still convinced that their path out of this place lay with those they followed. He would find a way to do what he knew he must, no matter if Jackmode spoke otherwise. Tyus would do what he must to see them home again, and if that meant waltzing with the enemy, so be it.

He would see them all home.

Or he would die in the trying.

2002-07-02T10:01:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Part 11

Brandt took his place at the entrance to the chamber where they had encountered the demons and the Midgard. It had been a hard task indeed to convince his fellows that trying to side with those they warred with above was in their best interest, but in the end both Errine and Gabryl had come to see the logic, if not the desirability in his plan. Of course, he would have preferred their enthusiasm, but if he could not have that, then their agreement would have to be enough.

“Are you sure they will come?” Errine asked, concealed behind the same rock that hid her compatriots. “What makes you think they will return here?”

Brandt answered without taking his eyes from the exit that the Midgard had taken. “I am assuming that they have intelligence beyond bloodlust. They have to know of Panthius as well; what other reason could bring them here? Reason holds that we need each other. I am hoping that they see this as well, and if so, they would do well to search for us where last we saw each other.” The paladin turned to Errine, the concern in her eyes only too clear. “Worry not, M’lady. It is a fine line we walk between betrayal and salvation, but know in your heart that what we do is right.”

“Bah!” spat Gabryl, as hating of this plan as Brandt was confident. “Even if they do return, it will not be with words of welcome and alliances on their lips, but with hatred and anger, make no mistake. They have not the wisdom to know right from wrong, or even sensibility from foolhardiness. Then again,” he muttered, his voice falling to an almost unreadable pitch, “neither do we.”

Brandt ignored the cleric’s anger and jaded response, his own understanding of those they awaited telling him that Gabryl was wrong. Midgard, as with Hibernia as well, were peopled with those gifted enough with common sense to know danger when they saw it, and, he hoped, opportunity as well. Still, he had to admit that Gabryl’s concerns were not completely unfounded. There was indeed potential for disaster in the plans they had laid. Death and worse awaited them in the depths of Darkness Falls to be sure; was it folly to invite confrontation with their enemies as well? The paladin sighed as he stood watch. They would, he surmised, find out soon enough.

“It has been half a measure already that we have wasted here, Brandt. When do we say enough? How long do we postpone our purposes here for a hope that was dead before it was spoken?” Gabryl was growing more and more restless and anxious, his voice reflecting the frustration he was feeling. “Let us move on and be about our intention here.”

Brandt was about to respond, when a shadow from across the chamber pulled a smile to his face instead. The norsewoman that had been upon the altar entered the room cautiously, followed by her troll companion. They moved exactly as he might, given their circumstance; cautious, their hands upon their weapon and staff, should the need to defend themselves defend themselves present itself.

A nod was all that was needed to call Errine and Gabryl’s attention to their arrival, though Gabryl received the news with something less than aplomb. He snarled his derision and moved a hand to him hammer, a spell moving across his lips. Brandt hissed a warning to the cleric, concerned that the rash reactions of any one of them could see this meeting to an unfortunate end.

“Gabryl, you will wait here. Errine, you and I will greet them.”

Before the cleric could protest, Brandt calmed is angst. “There are but two of them as well, my friend. I don’t want to appear confrontational. And if the matter does turn to bloodshed, we will need you well hidden and ready.”

Gabryl seemed skeptical, but accepted the explanation well enough. He moved to take Brandt’s vantage point as he and the wizard moved out into view, though not for an instant did his untrusting eyes leave the Midgard.

Brandt brazenly stepped into plain sight, his hand tightly on the hilt of his sword. He could hear Errine whispering the words of a spell, and he relaxed that much more, for her magic and his sword made an imposing challenge indeed.

The huge troll was the first of the two Midgard to see him, and he turned to face them directly, a threatening howl leaving his beastly lips. The norsewoman with him turned as well, her hands and staff raising in the beginnings of the casting of a spell. “Well,” Brandt said with a thin smile, “here we are.”

Errine nodded, and wondered, as did he, what the next step in their interaction might be. In truth, Brandt had no idea what to do next, for while he knew this to be a necessary alliance, how they would forge it from the steel of their mutual mistrust he had no idea. Added to that the fact that they could not speak to each other, and his confidence in his plan began to waver.

The paladin took a full step forward, the troll matching his movements exactly. The huge beast had drawn his war hammer at the same moment that the paladin had his sword, and while Errine knew that Brandt was a master with his blade, she had to admit that the troll looked intimidating all the more. Brandt felt a cold bead of sweat run the length of his head and neck as he approached the troll. They came together in the middle of the chamber, each knowing that their casters were at the ready, and each praying the they would not be needed. As they moved within striking distance, both thane and paladin stopped, their eyes meeting, partly in challenge and partly in hope. How long they stood there, looking into the face of the enemy, neither could know, though it was the paladin that grew weary of the stand off first. With his eyes not moving from the troll’s, he bent at the knees and placed his sword on the ground at the foot of his huge adversary. The thane looked down to see the gesture, and when the paladin stood again, he matched the movement again, both weapons laying on the ground in silent testament to the miracle that had just occurred. Midgard and Albion had meet on neutral ground, and no blood had been spilled.

Errine smiled widely at the happening, for in truth it was more than she had expected. She was simply pleased that initial communication had been made, though how they would move forward remained to be seen. Her eyes moved to those of the caster across the chamber, and the two women dropped their spells, a sigh of relief almost audible across the chamber from all involved.

Both Errine and Tylaara moved to join their fellows in the middle of the chamber. As they came together, Brandt gestured to the troll, his hand raised, palm forward.

“What are you doing?” Errine asked, trying to make her voice as calm as she knew it needed to be.

“We have to let them know that Gabryl is here as well. We don’t want any surprises that might risk what little be we accomplished. Gabryl!! Come forward!”

The cleric heard the command clearly enough, though in truth he was loathe to respond. He had hoped that the situation would turn hostile, for he could not see himself, nor his countrymen, siding with these before him. It was too much to ask of any man; siding with their mortal enemy, no matter the righteousness of the cause. Trolls were evil by nature, and norsemen could not be trusted. No, he swore to himself, He would not have any part of this, no matter the command of his better.

As though fate had ordained it, the choice was taken from him.

He sensed the stabbing pain in his sides, his eyes opening widely in surprise and panic. Before he felt anything further, he felt the poison enter his system, and begin to spread through him as though it were a palpable presence. His hands whirled about him in the releasing of a spell, though his attacker made sure that the spell would never be cast. Another expertly crafted strike took the blade of a dagger across his throat, and Gabryl felt his life’s blood slipping from him. He tried to call out; to warm Brandt and Errine, but there was no use of it. His voice was gone with the cut to his throat, as was, ultimately, his life. His vision swam before him and he slipped into death, his end coming without even the dignity of seeing the face of his killer. Still, his last thoughts were not of himself, nor even of Brandt and Errine, but instead of his realm. He let his prayer for his home wander through his mind for an instant, and then he was dead.

Tearor stood at the teleport pad, the magical necklace draped across his throat. He raised a hand to scratch what felt like an itch there, but it passed as quickly as it had come, and his thoughts moved on to the task at hand.

“Are we doing the right thing?” he asked out loud, the two hunters standing with him shaking their heads, almost in tandem.

“Hard to say,” Ronin whispered, his bow held across his knees as he sat patiently awaiting the spell that would see them to their destination. “But you are right in one thing, old friend. We must do something, for we cannot expect Tylaara and Helphdane to succeed alone. And without the approval of the Alliance Council, we stand in this unaided.”

“The norse be right, lad,” Deceon said, his dwarven voice as the very rock of his homeland. “There be no doubtin’ that we have to be doin’ something. If what we be doin’ be the right of it, alls the better. If not…”

The dwarf did not have to finish the sentence, for Tearor knew only too well what awaited them all if they failed. A future history of torment at the hands of Panthius for the realm, certainly, and death for them at the hands of their enemy, likely.

The Gothi readied their spells, their hands and voices rising in arcane ritual. “Here we go…” Tearor whispered, firming his resolve.

“And may the Gods go with us,” Ronin added as their bodies faded to the magics and vanished completely from sight.

2002-06-29T04:13:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Part 9 & 10

The darkened passageway seemed to go on forever, the roughhewn walls throwing terrifying shadows across the path of the trio as they made their way through the horrific place. The stench that filled the halls was overpowering, and not one did not feel the want to wretch at the very smell of it. It was as thick as the stone it seemed, and pushing through it was a daunting task indeed, for what could lay ahead if not more of the same, or worse, if such was possible. Along with the horrid reek was the very air itself; a haze of doom seemed to hang in the call of it, a tangible mist that covered the threesome as they pushed onward.

Brandt Ironwolf coughed, his eyes watering for the foulness of their travel. In truth he had not been surprised when he had been informed by the Council that he would accompany the fellowship into the pit, for he knew they would never allow such an outing without Church representation. He had lifted an eye at their decision to include Gabryl as well, for while the cleric was certainly able and devout, he was not one to easily travel with those he considered outside of the Church grace.

This brought him to Errine. He looked over at her as they traveled, Merlin’s Staff held firmly in her hand. It looked innocuous enough, as though it were nothing more than a common walking stick, but she held it with the reverence and respect due an artifact of its innate power and potential. As for Errine herself, her hair was matted and confused, the length of her robes tattering for the stone upon which they traveled. She looked haggard and spent, her caster’s constitution unused to the rigors and hardships of such a place. Brandt had to admit, if only to himself, that he was hardly more suited to it, though his training offered him some resiliency to such things.

“How fare you, M’lady?” he asked, his words cutting a sympathetic swath through the haze of the passageway. “Are you well?”

Errine lifted her eyes for only a moment to look at him squarely. She could not afford to hold her gaze upon him any longer, for the footing on the passageway floor was treacherous at best. “I do what I must,” she whispered, her distress only too evident in her voice. “I do as the Council decided.” In truth, she had been, and was still ecstatic to be quested with protecting the staff on their journey, though the reality of that circumstance was proving far more challenging than the idea of it.

Gabryl, a sturdier sort of only for his experience in the realm wars, chuckled. “Perhaps if you had followed the dictates and the tenets of the Church, you would be better prepared for the pain of what we now face, woman.”

Errine carried on despite Gabryl’s comment, for while she would never admit as much to him, she herself felt the inadequacies of her calling. She was born to magic, that much had been clear to her from an early age. She had given thought to working in the service of the Church, but her call to the mystic arts had been too strong to ignore. Still, her ties to the Church had been and remained very strong, though she could not help but admit that she felt somewhat inadequate in the company of those she traveled with, and Gabryl’s comments served only to deepen that conviction.

“And perhaps, Gabryl, if you had followed them less devoutly, your arrogance might hold to its own,” Brandt retorted, his sarcasm matching Gabryl’s own. The cleric bridled under the scathing comment, for it had been made only too clear to him that the paladin was in command of this journey, and while he would die before he crossed Church mandates, he did not have to like it.

“Worry not Lady Errine,” Brandt said loudly, “if the worst you have to face in this place is the sting of Gabryl’s foolishness, then so much the better.” Errine smiled thinly at the comment. It was nice to know that she had an ally in a place such as this, to be sure.

The passage seemed to widen out as they moved on, light from ahead cautioning them to slow their progress. As they moved in closer, it was clear that there was a contingency ahead, though none could lay claim to knowing for certain what exactly they faced.

“What is it?” Errine asked, wide-eyed and worried. “Can you see?”

Brandt simply shook his head. “Lets move closer, but be careful where you walk. No sounds. Silence…” The paladin almost chuckled at the irony. It was he who had called for silence, yet moving silently in his plate mail would prove to be something of a challenge in and of itself.

The three moved in to where they could see more clearly, and the sight all but froze the blood in their very veins. Better than a score of demons knelt in a confounded semi-circle about a stone altar. They were minor demons certainly, for they stood no taller than Errine herself. Leathery wings sprouted obscenely from their backs, and they all had their heads bent, to a last, chanting something that neither of the three could understand. Brandt looked more closely to the alter, and there he saw it. Errine’s sharp inhale told him that she had seen it as well, and he wished for all the realm that they hadn’t. Chained to the altar was a woman, alive and struggling mightily against the bonds that held her there. The paladin could see clearly enough that it was a norsewoman they held, and he wondered only briefly how one such as she might have found her way to the demon’s pit.

“Foul Midgard,” Gabryl muttered, almost enjoying the fact that they were about to witness the death of one of their enemies. In his estimation, it was a lucky circumstance indeed. For her part, Errine looked away in disgust and derision, for while the Midgard horde might surely be their enemy, no one deserved to meet such a fate as this.

Another demon, slightly larger than the others, moved to stand in front of the altar, its arms raised in defiant bloodlust. Brandt could see the pink stains on the hands of the executioner, a testament to the sacrifices it had seen in its time, and as it raised its hands on high, Brandt knew that the time was upon him to make a decision.

“Brandt?” Gabryl whispered cautiously, not wishing to disturb his concentration.

The paladin nodded and nudged the Errine, pointing to the larger demon that stood above the norsewoman. It held its talons on high, and screamed something out in its foul and ruthless language. The demons in attendance seem impassioned by the display, and Brandt watched as they begin to pound the very ground with their hands and fists. All in all, it was a frightening scene, and Gabryl cringed, for he knew then how close they were to being discovered. If luck was with them this day, the could ease away without the demons being any the wiser.

“The large one,” Brandt whispered, and while his command was for Errine, Gabryl heard it as well. “Get its attention.”

Errine nodded and raised herself to her knees. Gabryl looked on, knowing what she was doing but not able, in the wildest of circumstances, to acknowledge that Brandt would be so foolish as to risk their lives for the enemy before them.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, paladin?” He hissed quietly, his rage obvious enough, though he had presence of mind to soften his words so that only they would hear. “One spell from her and every demon there would be upon us as darkness upon the night! Let her die! One less enemy to deal with!”

Brandt ignore the cleric’s words, nodding to Errine. She pulled her self to almost her full height and raised the staff before her, her lips whispering the magical phrase that would send the spell on its way. Before she could release her magics, though, Gabryl jumped in front of her, effectively blocking her line of sight. Errine hissed and held her spell, not wanting to release her magics for fear of killing the interfering cleric. She looked to Brandt for direction, and Brandt’s response was as quick as it was decisive. Faster then the eye could follow, Brandt drove his plated fist into Gabryl’s stomach, doubling the cleric over and allowing Errine to cast. The spell was away, and they all watched as the incantation soared across the cavern and blasted the taller of the demons off the altar and into the stone wall behind it.

Gabryl was more shocked than injured. How could Brandt, a brother in the Church, lay violent hands upon one of his own, especially to see a member of an enemy realm spared? It was unthinkable, but there it had happened.

Brandt and Errine stood to their full height, the paladin drawing his sword and readying his stance. The demons would be upon them before long, and there was precious little time for the preparing of it. “To arms!” the paladin screamed at Gabryl, the cleric slow to respond, though the sight of the maddened demons descending on them convincing him of the wisdom of Brandt’s command. He stood tall, pulled free his hammer and cast his spells, along with Errine. With the Gods of luck at their heels, they might see a few of the demons dead for their casting. Once the atrocities reached them, however, there would be no doubt of it. They could simply not stand against the numbers they would face.

As they set themselves to the fight, Gabryl hoped that the pit of Hel would hold a special place for Brandt Ironwolf, for it was he that was responsible for the death they were to know.

Helphdane watched from a side passageway as the demon sacrificer made ready to offer Tylaara to the dark lords it served. His eyes were wide with fear, only that Eldorad would not reach her in time. They had awoken to hear Tylaara taken captive, and while they had hastened to see her free, they had been able to do nothing more than follow her trail to this chamber, only to find her where she then lay, awaiting a death that none should be forced to suffer.

Before he could utter a word, Eldorad had slipped into invisibility and made his way forward, sure that he could reach the demon before the deed was done. Helphdane knew it was an insane plan, for even if they could kill the sacrificer, the rest of the demons would surely tear them from life for the doing of it. Still, the scene was unfolding, and the huge troll pulled free his hammer, ready to die in the defense of his guild mates.

An ironic ending to their quest, he thought bitterly as Eldorad suddenly appeared directly behind the demon. The troll watched as the assassin lay its blades into the beast, though the magical explosion upon the chest of the monster took his attention completely. The demon struck the wall behind it and was dead, if not for the blades in its sides then for the charred flesh upon its chest. Helphdane looked out across the mass of demons as they turned and moved to attack three lone figures set into a grotto at the rear of the chamber. Helphdane had been in the realm wars long enough to know his enemy when he saw them, and these were from Albion, of that there was no doubt.

Eldorad recovered form the shock of the magical attack quickly, and set to trying to free Tylaara. His lock picks worked as quickly as his poisons, and soon she was loose, smiling at the shadowblade as she had gathered herself. Helphdane moved to join them, and together they turned to face the throng of demons as they rushed the Albions that had saved her life.

Without a thought, Tylaara raised her hands and sent a magical attack smoldering into the rear of the mass, a few demons screaming their denial for any to hear. They turned and moved to attack the Midgards, and in truth she could expect no more. As for the rest of the demon, those from Albion were on their own, to be sure.

In all, seven turned back upon Tylaara, Helphdane and Eldorad. Two more spells saw that number drop to three, and as they reached them, Eldorad and Helphdane went about their grim business. They had almost expected the same power from these as they had met from the demons that had attacked Gna Faste, but such was not the case. The three that attacked were dead quicker than the wishing of it, their blood spilled across the altar that had held Tylaara.

“We best be off,” Helphdane called out, looking over at the Albions as they fought their adversaries with courage and conviction.

“Cant we help them?” Tylaara asked, her want to repay these for saving her life strong within her. Though the question was asked to neither in particular, it was Eldorad that answered.

“We already have, Tyl. If they are outmatched, then so be it. We cannot risk them finding us here. Enough blood has been spilled this day. We best get to beyond harm’s way.” As he spoke, Eldorad let the image of the Albions sear into his memory. There were few things in the realm that he truly hated, but those of the enemy realms certainly were among those few. He swore to himself that he would see these dead, that was sure, for their presence was a harbinger of doom. Their doom, he though with a twisted sneer, as he and his fellows moved from the chamber and were gone.

Brandt felt another demon fall beneath his blade, the paladin glad for the battle, if the truth be known. He had been frustrated with the relic deaths from the start, and this release offered him opportunity to rain his vengeance on those who deserved it certainly.

At first look, he had been sure that they were heavily outnumbered; that they were seriously outmatched. He had hoped that some aid might come from the caster they had saved, or the troll he had managed to glimpse in the side chamber. As the Gods would have it, such was the case, and they then found themselves facing more reasonable odds. Even so, he was surprised to see that the last one he felled was the last of them all. More than twenty demons lay dead before them, their own breathless gasps the only sound in a chamber that, only moments before, had been the sight of a battle greater and more profound than any in the realm wars.

The paladin was pulled from his revelry by Gabryl, the cleric’s face a clear depiction of his absolute rage. “You aided her! I cannot believe the betrayal!”

Brandt sighed deeply. “Calm, Gabryl. There is a method to my madness, trust. I will explain the whole of it to you both, but for now, lets us away before more of these come to see what ails them.”

As Errine, Brandt and Gabryl made ready to move back down the passageway, hoping that they could find another path through the depths of Darkness Falls, the paladin paused and looked back over the body of the demons that littered the floor. As though by design, he noticed something he hadn’t before, though the seeing of it then brought a wondering to his thoughts. There in the body of several of the demons, lay feathered arrows, as responsible for the defeat of the demons as any steel or spell, though silent in their effect and almost unnoticed in their presence. He had seen arrows such as these only too often through the realm wars, and knew well enough their origin.

It seemed that the Midgard and Albion were not the only realms represented.

Brandt turned and made to be away from the carnage, though both Gabryl and Errine wondered for the odd smile that had etched itself across his face.

Part 10

Tearor walked the streets of Jordheim, his thoughts in confusion, his aspect reflecting every bit of it. It had been a full day since Helphdane, Tylaara and the arachite had left Gna Faste, and since their parting, he had grown more and more anxious. He knew that they were as capable as any in the realm, if not more-so, to attend to the matters at hand, in the truth of the matter, was it the right decision? What chance had they against this Panthius, with no more than three warriors to face him down? It had seemed like the sensible, the only alternative, and maybe it was, but to lay all of their hopes, and the hopes of the entire realm, at their feet seemed foolish, if not completely insane.

The sun was dropping below the western corner of the city, and Tearor hurried his pace. He was to meet with the alliance council in but a short while, and while he was anxious to do so, he knew in his heart what their reaction would be to the plan he was to suggest. Still, he could not in all conscience, move ahead with his plan without at least attempting to convince the Alliance Council that his concerns were valid and his solution the only one that made any sense. He chuckled as he walked, for there could be no mistaking how they would react. Still, he knew, it was the only choice, though in truth he was already thinking about how he would move ahead when he was denied by the council.

Some might call it pessimism.

Tearor called it good planning.

Either way, he knew what must be done, and council support or not, he would see to the doing of it.

“It was foolish and it was against my command,” Jackmode all but screamed. He paced the small circle of stones, the fire within burning warmly despite his rant. “Those demons could have as easily turned on us! And when has it become our way to side with an enemy, no matter the circumstance?”

Tyus sat and listened to the tirade for as long as he was able. He knew that he had been in the right in aiding those against the demons, and his conscience was as sharp and as clear as his aim. He stood, taking his bow with him, and moved off into one of the side tunnels, slipping into invisibility as he did. He left without answering or even acknowledging Jackmode’s outrage, which served only to anger him further.

“Damn him and his arrogance! We don’t even know where we are, or how to get out, and he goes his own way, without concern or conscience!”

Anian nodded lightly, his voice as calm as Jackmode’s was enraged. “He has always been so, or so his reputation calls. You are right though in that we are trapped here. We best learn to get along. Accept who he is, Jackmode. Learn to work with him, as he must with us. All of our lives will be made easier.”

Jackmode snarled his anger in response, though in truth he realized that the druid was right. If they did not learn to work as one; to watch out for each other as well as themselves, they would not survive long in this pit. None of them had known where they had found themselves, all of their memories of their coming to this place the same. They remember the assault on the keep, and rushing the demons. They recalled the magics cast and being struck, but waking in this hellish place was the next thing any of the remembered. Within moments of their awakening demonic beasts had set them upon, and while they had managed to dispatch them in short order, it served to illustrate very definitely that there were dangers within to terrify them to their very core.

Where once might have stood curiosity then only lay fear, and a want to be home as quickly as they could.

Adding to his consternation was the fact that, when they had awoken, they had found the Cauldron of Dagda laying beside them. How the dead relic had managed to follow them to wherever it was they lay, or why, was beyond them all, but it served to heighten their feelings of confusion and more, responsibility. Not only were their lives in jeopardy, but one of the sacred relics was theirs for the protecting. Their lives, the realm could sacrifice. The relic, it could not. Jackmode worked to fashion a harness, strapping the great relic across his back. They may not have had opportunity to affect their coming to this place, but he was damned if he would allow the Cauldron to come to harm. Not as long as he lived, he swore, would they fall from the hands of his own.

As they waited for Tyus to return from his scouting, their angst grew unchecked.

Jackmode stood and leaned heavily on the wall of the grotto as he looked around the small chamber. Even without demons to fight, the chamber settled a sense of doom over them both.

Jackmode sighed.

Where in the nine hells were they??

Helphdane and Tylaara moved through the tunnels of Darkness Falls, their thoughts on the encounter they had only narrowly escaped. Tylaara’s hands were still shaking for the memories of the altar, and the near sacrifice she had been forced to endure. She had faced death a hundred times before, but never so clearly; never with so much a sense of premeditation. She knew that the demons has orchestrated her sacrifice, though she had no idea as to what they sought to gain through her death.

Power of some kind?

Vengeance for a wrong committed that she was not aware of?

Perverse pleasure?

She shook her head as she walked, trying to clear the memories of the incident away. It had been painful and humiliating enough to endure once, and she would rather not have to endure it through memory as well.

Helphdane fumed in silent anger and frustration. It had been bad enough to awaken within the pits of Darkness Falls to find Tylaara abducted, but to have had such a brutal and immediate an introduction to the denizens of the place had unsettled them all. Granted, finding that Eldorad had taken the arachite’s life and had joined them in his stead was gratifying in the extreme, but the joy of that happening was understated by the fact that Eldorad had vanished shortly after leaving the chamber wherein they had battled the demons. The thane hoped that Eldorad was simply scouting; that he would return to them in a short line and report the happenings about them, but in his heart he felt as though that was not the case. He was not sure what Eldorad was about, and all he could do was hope that the assassin was wise enough to keep in mind their purpose.

“We should find them,” Tylaara said finally, the thoughts running through her head too much to hold inside.

Helphdane stopped, his shoulders dropping in assumed understanding. “Find the Albions…” he said matter-of-factly, knowing the truth of her statement before she had spoken it.

The runemaster turned to face the troll, her eyes turned in a sympathetic aspect. “I know how you feel about them, Helph. They had attacked us and killed our own throughout the realm wars, as we have theirs. That is the heart of war, old friend, but we have to look past that now. You know what this Panthius is, or at least, what he is reputed to be. We cannot simply hope that we discover a manner of defeating him alone. We need the Albions. As they need us.”

Helphdane sighed deeply, sounding more like a bellow than a sigh. “How, then? We cannot even talk to them, Tyl. Their language is as foul and foreign to us as ours is to them. What chance is there that we can gather their understanding, let alone their aid?”

Tylaara shrugged helplessly. “The only thought that carries me now is, what are they doing here? Is it mere coincidence that they have found passage into this place at the same moment as we? Are their relics not affected as well? No, Helph, they are here for same reasons we are here. Where is the logic in fighting each other when a common foe darkens all of our lives?”

Helphdane muttered his response, though Tylaara heard him none-the-less. “I have yet to meet an Albion who could claim reason as a long suit.”

“Lets be honest,” she countered, “You have yet to meet an Albion, period.”

Helphdane chuckled and nodded. “Fair enough. Where do we start looking? I would hate to veer from our present path until we find Eldorad. He may not be able to find us again.”

This time, it was Tylaara’s turn to chuckle. “I have never known him to be lost, by any definition. Worry not, my friend. I am sure he will find us, when he decides the time is right. As for how to find the Albs, I would think that the chamber we met them within would be a good beginning.”

Helphdane nodded and they backtracked, retracing their steps to the spot they first encountered their Albion counterparts. As confident as they were that they were doing the right thing, they were not so sure that those they sought would see the right of it as well. A paladin’s blade between their shoulders was not something either looked forward to. Still, they pushed on, hope guiding their steps.

As they moved off, the shadow that had once stood with them then only followed. He had been suspicious that they would speak this madness, and seek to ally with the Albions.

He smiled wickedly. Perhaps they saw the logic in seeking out their enemy. He, for one, did not, but if they would lead him to the Albion throats, he would gladly slit them.

With the softest steps of an assassin on the hunt, he followed.

Panthius stood motionless, its great eyes closed, the enchantment it had cast bringing images of wondrous joy to the demons mind. The foolish mortals had actually come to it, bringing with them the relics it had gone to so much trouble to find! It would be a ridiculously easy task to gather them, and the greater demon had to pause for a moment and wonder to the foolishness and hubris of these. Had they all not lost hundreds of their own in battle with the demons it had dispatched to gather the relics? Had they not themselves seen the power it commanded? What madness then, in sending their own into its domain? The sublime arrogance!! That they would think that a handful of their own could hope to defeat a power that had seen hundreds of their brethren decimated?

The demon let the images go. If they chose to be so foolish, so accommodating, then it was not about to question its good fortune.

Finally its eyes opened and it made the slightest motion with its taloned hand. A succubus scurried out of the shadows and stood at its great cloven hooves, cowered in abject fear and subservience. “What isssss it that you wissssshhhhh, masssssster?”

The demon reached out and took the succubus in its mammoth hand and lifted her to its forehead. At the instant the succubus touched his head, a thousand images exploded into her mind, threatening to drive her completely mad with their insistence and their effect. A long moment passed, and the succubus felt for certain that her time upon the realm had ended.

Finally, mercifully, the images slowed and receded, leaving the succubus with a very clear understanding of what was expected, and more, what would befall her should she fail.

“Take all that you need, toad, and return to me with the relics.” The demon all but hurtled the succubus from its presence, sending her on her way to do its bidding.

Once she was gone, it let its gaze fall to the three relics that it had managed to claim thus far, and its lips curled into a bizarre and terrifying, hideous grin. It would have the relics, that much he knew. To soak them in the blood of their own, however, was a treat it had not expected, but reveled within none-the-less.

It would be a sweet victory indeed.

2002-06-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Part 8

Tyus moved about the relic keep, watching the demons battle his realm mates to a stand still, each side as refusing as the other to embrace defeat. He had witnessed the assault from the beginning, and while he knew it was too late to save Lugs Spear of Lightning (that loss made all the more poignant for the face that The Horn of Valhalla had been taken with it), the Hibernians rallied around the keep holding the Cauldron of Dagda, for they could not hold to losing it as well. The demons had already breached the keep and had captured the Cauldron when the Hibernian forces had arrived, and the battle raged on to see the demons dead before they could make good their escape.

The ranger stealthed about the battle scene, trying to gather advantage and wielding his bow when the opportunity presented itself. The demons had rallied and were fighting hard the Hibernians, Tyus almost choking for the deaths he had witnessed. Several of his realm mates had been torn asunder without remorse or even thought, and others had fallen to the magics that the demons wielded. He could see the demon that carried the relic, and it was this enemy that the forces concentrated their attacks upon. The demon seemed empowered by the dead relic, for while both fought with a ferocity unmatched, this one seemed to battle with a frenzied mania, his spells deadlier and his physical attacks more intense than his counterpart, to be sure.

“Rally!! Pull to the trees and regroup!!”

Tyus heard Jackmode’s command carry through the fighting, the confidence exuded in the timber of his voice filling all who heard it with renewed vigor and hope. The Hibernians did as they were bade, moving to the copse of trees and readying themselves. The demons seemed content for the respite as well, holding at the keep walls and taking the opportunity to rest. These Hibernians had battled valiantly, more-so than they had expected, and it would take some doing indeed to see themselves free of this realm and back to the pit where they so longed to be.

Jackmode let his eyes wander across the battlefield, taking in the carnage that had been wrought thus far. How many dead? Twenty? A hundred? It hardly mattered for the moment, for the death toll was nothing compared to the misery and moral suffering the realm would know if the demons made good their attempt to see the relics taken. “Bards and druids, heal as you can! Everyone that can fight must be on their feet and ready to do so before a measure has passed! To it, all!”

Magics swirled in the air, wounds closed over and endurance returned. Slowly, too slowly for the liking of the leader of the Pretend Heroes, champions and heroes, bards and wardens rose to their feet, exhausted but ready to fight on. “Tyus!” Jackmode called out, the ranger appearing almost directly in front of him. “Scout the demons. Get as close as you can, and try to divine their condition. We need to hit them soonest if we are to win this day, but I want to know their readiness.”

Tyus nodded and was away, more than eager to have his part in the defeat of these monstrosities. As he moved off, Anian Barkskin moved to stand with Jackmode. “Have we a prayer?” he asked, his eyes not moving from the sight of the demons at the face of their beloved keep.

Jackmode sighed. In truth, he had no understanding of their chances in the fight. He had never faced such as these before, and while their strength and power were obvious, their shortcomings were not. It would be a fight to the death no doubt, and the Gods only knew how many more Hibernians would pay the ultimate price. Still, he knew well enough that the Hibernians were on the side of the angels, and would fight to the last.

His only hope was that would be enough.

Tyus crept toward the demons, using what little cover was available to the best advantage. They seemed not to notice him, or if they did, took no concern with his presence. The ranger stopped at the base of the hill upon which the keep stood, the demons clearly in sight. He felt a knot build in his stomach, for this proximity to such evil, to such vile intentions and malicious wants was almost too much for him. Still, he had been given a task and he would see that task completed.

The demons stood at the ready, neither willing, it seemed, to be caught off guard by the Hibernians attack. They were wounded, that much was certain. Demon-blood oozed from several vicious gouges in their flesh, and they looked as exhausted and battle-weary as they Hibernians they fought. Tyus smiled, for it would be a wondrous victory indeed to see these put down, and the likelihood seemed all the greater for the wounds they had suffered. With a thingyy arrogance that had both served him and damned him in the past, Tyus dissolved his invisibility and ran back to the tree line to rejoin his fellows. As he related what he had seen, Jackmode smiled and turned to the army that awaited his command.

“The time is now!” he screamed, raised his weapon in defiance. “The demons have been weakened and are suffering! Now is our advantage! To arms! It is time to end this siege!!”

A rallying cry when up through the forces, and all surged forward, ready to do what they had come here this day to do. All eyes were on the demons as they attacked, though in their hearts, they had won the day already.

Jackmode led the charge, with Tyus and Anian close behind. The rest of the Hibernians followed, the moment of truth approaching quickly, though not quickly enough for most. Their realm had been invaded, and blood would be spilled in response.

As they reached the hill, Jackmode looked on as they demon carrying the relic stood tall, raising the Cauldron high over its head. Few in the coming army did not see the gesture, though not a one knew for certain its intent.

They found out all too soon.

The dead relic suddenly glowed a bright and blinding crimson, the army slowing to a crawl at the sight. This was a magic they had not known, and in truth, feared. The demon howled its rage to the realm, screaming its hatred and its malice for all to hear. “Forward!” Jackmode scream above the sounds of magical energies crackling before them. The army surged again, this time their resolve unstoppable.

Suddenly, like lightning from a storming sky, a bolt of magical energy ripped from the Cauldron and slammed into the oncoming army. Jackmode, Tyus and Anian took the brunt of the force, the second line of the army muted in disbelief as their bodied simply vanished, destroyed, they knew, for the power of the relic. Anguished screams erupted through the army as they reached the demons, all more wanting than the next to see the demons dead and dying for the crime they all witnessed.

The demons battled as they could, but the onslaught of the Hibernians was too much to defy. The demons fell finally, under a hundred swords and spells and arrows, their task a failure and their lives forfeit for it.

It would be many measures indeed before any of the remaining army would notice that the very relic they had come to defend had vanished in the confusion. They would search for it surely, wasted effort though it was. It was gone from the realm, they would eventually come to assume, though the truth of its destination was one that not any among them might guess, even in their most vivid nightmares.

They had lost many of their comrades this day, as well as they relics that would carry them through the times ahead.

The days were dark for Hibernia indeed.

Darkness swirled around her head, holding her to unconsciousness as tightly as chains might hold her to a dungeon wall. Images danced in her head, of demons and of death, of suffering and a realm enslaved. She recoiled from the icons before her as though they were anathema, her very soul shuddering in horror for the scenarios played out in her mind’s eye.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the images faded slightly, as though they were ghosts, on the edge of reality though demanding yet to be heard. A dim and illuminating spark tried to force its way through the darkness, as though it were alive and intent on reaching her. She looked though the darkened horizons before her and made to reach out to the light, but it eluded her, a lover toying with her wants and desires. It taunted and teased her, beckoning and rebuking her advances. She wanted to cry out in frustration, for never in her life had she wanted anything as badly as she did to reach what was before her.

As though in answer to her want, the light danced within her reach, but as she laid her hand upon it, it suddenly rushed to her, as though it had wanted her as badly as she had it. Her mind was filled with blinding consciousness, the light forcing her eyes to open and the pain her reality to wash over her, taking from her the warmth and comfort that her unconsciousness had offered.

Tylaara opened her eyes gingerly, afraid for the pain that she knew lingered without. She breathed a sigh of relief when the pain receded, and she was able to look fully about her and see what fate she had been called to.

Helphdane lay close by, his huge troll form laying unmoving, having succumbed to the same malady that had affected Tylaara. She hoped that he would return to consciousness as well, for without his strength and his support, she had little hope that she would long survive.

Her eyes moved through the darkness to the form that lay across from them both. It was a smallish figure to be sure, and as she ventured to move closer, a familiar face greeted her in silent oblivion. She remember as best she could back to the casting that had sent her there, and then she knew. Someone had entered the casting circle, and attacked Dreadkane Dwarfeater. She remembered feeling panic course through her, for what if the interference should alter the spell? She had wanted to try and aid the arachite, but she could not bring herself to release the Hammer, for exactly the same reasons. The spell took effect before she could know the effect, but the sight of Eldorad laying before her told her well enough the truth of it. She shook her head, not sure if she was angry or pleased for his interference, though she put such reactions aside. It mattered little. They were there, and there was no use in lamenting the certainty of it.

Tylaara turned from her fallen comrades and looked about the cavern. It was near black with only enough light to see by, though she knew not where such light might originate. Crystals lined parts of the walls, and the cavern itself was roughly cut from rock, without shape nor function nor style. She wondered if this place was a natural grotto, or if some greater force had hollowed it out for its own purposes.

As though by design, Tylaara recalled the relic, and looked about frantically for it. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as she spied it laying several feel off from where she had awoken. She moved to it and claimed it once more, her hope buoyed by its presence.

It was an evil hiss that called her attention, and she looked up from where she had gathered the relic. A winged creature hovered in the air, no more than fifteen feet from where she stood. It was yellowish-orange in hue, with small misshapen wings sprouting from its misbegotten form. Tufts of black hair sprouted from its head, and while it was perhaps half her height, it held the aspect of a beast that she could never hope to best. It was without fear and without remorse, without compassion and conscience. It was there to see her dead, that much she knew in her heart.

If she had any doubt previsouly, they were washed away in the instant she met its gaze.

She was in Darkness Falls.

She wondered briefly if she would ever live to walk free.

The smallish creature howled and attacked, its deadly talons leading the way as it move toward Tylaara with frightening resolve. At that instant, she knew that she was dead.

Her life had been a glorious moment in time. As she felt the beast’s talons sink into the flesh of her shoulder, she closed her eyes to the pain, and moved to protect herself.

She knew the truth, as well as did her attacker.

Her defense, as heartfelt and defiant as it might be, would never be enough.

2002-06-14T15:31:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Part 7

Brandt Ironwolf sat at the head of the round table, his sword unsheathed and laid on the table before him. Never in the history of the realm had there been such an uproar from every corner of Albion, save perhaps with the death of Arthur himself. When Friar Ephraim had reported the purging of the relics, the Church had sent a contingency to ensure that his words were true, and surely enough it was so.

More than this though was the appearance of the demons.

They had attacked the relic keep without warning, with the keep all but completely undefended. The demons had made short work of the guards within, those sent for the gathering the Scabbard of Excalibur meeting success, though their fellows were unable to gather Merlin’s Staff. The Albion forces that waited for them as they came for the Staff numbered more than three hundred, and while the toll in life taken by the demons was horrendous indeed, the demons finally fell to their combined might. The army celebrated its victory wildly, though the festivities were abruptly ended at the news that the Scabbard of Excalibur had been taken, and more than a hundred had died in its defense.

The appearance of these monstrosities attempting to take the relics for their own sent a wave of terror sweeping through the lands. The Church had called its highest advisors together to determine the path to be taken, and the worrisome situation was causing tempers to flare and anger to reign in place of reason.

The Church had commanded that the last relic be brought to Camelot for safe keeping, and it had been entrusted to Errine, Guild Mistress of the Legion of Doom and one of the most respected and proficient wizards in the realm. That decision alone had sent ripples of discontentment through the Church, for she was a wizard, and while an ally to be sure, she was not one of them. Brandt had been given the task of watching her, for ally though she might be, in this that she carried, there were those who refused to trust her. She sat at the round table beside Brandt, Merlin’s Staff lain on the table before her in reverence. While she followed the conversation passionately, her eyes rarely left the Staff, for she took her role of protector of the artifact seriously. She would die before it left her sight, to man or demon.

“So what then are we to do?” Friar Durman spoke out, his own anger reflected in the eyes of his fellows. “If we think that these demons will abandon their want to see the relic taken, then we fool ourselves too easily.”

Brandt raised a hand, silencing the council that had been called to meet. “Good friar, I don’t for a moment think that this is the last we shall see of the demons, but more it is their master that I fear.”

“Their master?” Morgase asked, her lute and drum sitting unobtrusively on the table before her. In truth she had been surprised, to say that least, that she had been invited to the council session, for while she had aided the Church in the past, she was hardly of a nature to be included in such proceedings. Still, her curiosity and playful disposition had gotten the better of her, though the seriousness of the matters at hand did little to amuse her.

Brandt nodded. “These are not the sort of beasts to wander free of their realm. They have neither the power nor the want to see themselves without. Someone sent them here, though for what reason I cannot see, beyond the want for the relics. What need would anyone have for them? With their power gone, what use?”

Errine stood slowly, her voice unsure and removed in the face of Brandt’s stern aspect. “I have been studying the relic lore and this relic specifically since it was entrusted to us. I think I know why the demons want of them.”

A tangible silence fell over the assemblage, and Errine looked to the parchments she had gathered to further her claims.

“Speak woman!” Savanna Lionheart called out, her pole-arm striking the floor with resounding effect. Errine was jolted all but out of her armor, she concentration broken for the interruption.

“Savanna,” Brandt spoke in lowered tones, the intent in his voice obvious, “hold your seat, that weapon and your tongue. We shall hear from Errine when she is prepared.”

“What are they doing here, anyway?” called out Gabryl, standing in opposition to what he saw as conflict of interest. “These at this session are some not of the Church! Do we allow heathens among us to counter the word of God and see us to our doom? Have we not enough concern? And by what right does she, a wizard no less, carry the Staff?”

Brandt sighed as a chorus of sympathetic murmurs arose through the council. True, it was unprecedented, save at Arthur’s death, to have non-members of the Church in attendance, but this matter was different. There was too much at stake and too many affected to keep the council to Church members only.

“Very well then Gabryl,” Brandt spoke, his words as biting as his meaning, “If you would see these removed, perhaps you can enlighten us as to the histories of the relics and the want the demons have for them.” His challenge was well delivered, for while Gabryl was strong in conviction, he had not the knowledge nor background to understand the complexities of what was discussed. He sat down, silenced and bitter for while he was forced to admit that there was a need beyond the knowledge of the Church in this, he did not have to like it. “And for the rest of you who would whine and moan in this regard, know that these seated here this day are here at the word of the Church Council. If you would have another way of it, you are welcome to make the effort.” Brandt’s words were not softly received, which suited him well. He had not offered them to sate their passions or to renew friendships. The matters they discussed were far too important to allow pettiness and class prejudice hold sway in the face of the true danger.

Brant slowly sat again, motioning to Errine as he did. “M’lady, when you are ready.”

Errine nodded and looked to the assemblage. She was hesitant, for she knew well enough that there were few would like what she had to offer.

“Its name is Panthius…” she began, relating the demon’s history and his want for the relics. It was Panthius, she explained, who had purged the relics of their power. It was the greater demon who had sent its minions into Albion to see the relics themselves taken.

“Why?” Savanna called out, her voice echoing off the stone-worked walls with impressive effect. “What need has one such as this Panthius for dead relics?”

Errine paused a moment, not sure she could bring herself to speak the words. “Because it seeks passage into these realms once more.”

The murmuring that had been echoing through the hall grew to a heated challenge. Swords were raised in defiance; shields were pounded in boldness.

“Let this monster come!” a voice screamed out, carrying above the din. “We shall see it back to Hel as easily as we did its minions!” A cheer went up through the hall at this words, for all of Albion was outraged at the demon’s attack, and apparently putting them down was not enough to sate their bloodlust.

Brandt sighed and smiled thinly. He had seen this raw courage before, on many occasions, and always had it raised in him pride in his realm and in his realm-mates. This time, however, it only served to frustrate him.

Rising to his feet, Brandt raised his hands and crowd quieted, all eagerly expecting to hear the paladin speaks words that would send them to the battle, their blood pounding and their pride swelling.

“I salute you all, and the bravery you demonstrate, but I fear my friends that brass and blade will not carry this day. The two demons we have defeated killed better than two hundred of our number. How high shall the bodies pile when their master comes to call?”

A stunned silence fell over the assemblage, for while Brandt may have been right, these were not the words they wanted, nor expected to hear.

“Then what?” called out Gabryl, his aspect as stout and hardened as his shield. “Shall we simply stand in wait, and allow this Panthius free reign of Albion?”

Brandt looked to Errine, who spoke as loud as she could, though even so she was barely audible over the din. “Our best chance for success lies in the same want that Panthius has for the relics.” At these words the room fell silent, every ear turned to wizard as she spoke. “If he manages to acquire all the relics, from all three realms, he can combine their inherent power and break free of the prison that holds him. We can use our one remaining relic to send three of us within.”

Again silence reigned. Her words were madness, they all knew.

“Into Darkness Falls?” Savanna called out, her voice fairly quivering in disbelief. Her parents had told her horrific tales of the pit when she was a child. They claimed that it had been a stopover on the road to Hel itself, and while Savanna might not have believed the heart of the stories, she learned well enough the dangers within. “You said it yourself, Brandt,” Savanna continued, her anger growing at the absurdity of the proposition, “more than two hundred of our number lay dead after battle with its minions. What chance might but three have against the demon itself?”

Brandt nodded slowly, for that very question had not been far from his own mind as well. “What choice do we face? If we do not seek out this Panthius and end his intention, then all we can do is wait for it to come to us. More minions will come, mark it, and when they do, they will come in numbers we cannot defeat. So then, the choice is ours. Shall we wait and see what Hel looks like upon the realms? Or shall we polish our brass and sharpen our blades and take the fight to Panthius?”

His words had been intended to inspire, but instead the silence remained. Finally Friar Ephraim, who had been silent through it all, lifted his voice in support of Brandt Ironwolf. “Well, the Lord hates a coward,” he called out, his voice edged only slightly with the ale he had tasted since the battle with the demons. “If we are to face Panthius, I say we face it on its own soil, and teach it the error of its ways!”

A cheer went up through the great hall, and Brandt sighed in relief. They knew what had to be done. All that was needed was the going of it. “We have one more matter to discuss,” he shouted, his voice carrying through the enthusiastic cheers. “Errine, do you know the casting to take us to Panthius?”

Errine paused again, for while she had discovered the spell through her studies in the great library, she was leery of the casting itself. The spell was old by centuries, the slightest miscast could have disastrous effect. Still, she knew that she had a better chance than any, and the risk had to be taken. She nodded solemnly at Brandt, who seemed to read her trepidation, but did not pursue it.

“Then all we need decide is who will go…” Brandt’s voice trailed off into the brine of conflict, for there were obviously many who sought the challenge, and the glory. Brant raised his hands to calm the voices hurtled in acceptance across the hall. “I shall speak with the elders on this. All of you are of stout heart, I am certain, and all would make fine additions to the party, but only three can make the journey. I will depart and speak on this with the elders. I will return in short order, with their blessings and their choices.”

As he walked out of the Great Hall and went to meet with the Church Elders, Brandt wondered how much of their enthusiasm was an honest want to confront the demon, and how much was bravado and foolish warrior pride. He chuckled to himself as he ascended the marble staircase that would take him to the elders chambers. In truth, it mattered little. Either would do in the face of the adversity before them, though he had to wonder in truth if either would be enough.

2002-06-13T08:23:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls Part 6

Editors note: Apparently the Darkness Falls story now exceeds the maximum post size for Blogger so from this point forward it will be posted in seperate parts

“This is madness if ever I have heard it!” Helphdane’s voice resounded through the small room, the guard tower in Galplen having been commandeered as a temporary meeting hall for the leadership of Shadowfire. “An arachite! And this one, at that!”

Dreadkane Dwarfeater hissed his challenge to the troll, as eager as he ever had been to taste the impudent beasts blood. As much as he was tempted, however, he held himself in check, for there were greater issues to be addressed than his appetites.

Those, the arachite reasoned, could wait until later.

Tylaara looked around the room, her head spinning from the tale of the defeat of the demons. She had been overjoyed to see that most has survived, including Rokks and Zandra and the other members of Shadowfire, all having been taken from the brink of death by the talented healers and shaman of the reinforcements that had turned the tide of the battle. She stood slowly, her conviction in the matter at hand accented by her countenance.

“I understand as well as you, Helph, and to a large degree I share your feelings, but in truth what choice have we but to at least listen? Is the arachite’s presence here not evidence of the truth of at least some of what you have heard? Given the circumstance we face, can we truly afford to ignore the opportunity presented to us?”

Tearor nodded. “Tylaara is right. We have heard nothing to explain the madness of the past several days, save what this Gerik has offered. We cannot afford to let this opportunity pass us by.”

Rokks was quiet until this point, the injuries that he had sustained in the battle getting the better of him, though he could not hold silent any longer. “So then we are to offer the last relic held by us to a stranger, on his word and his word alone? I am in agreement with Helphdane. The arachite only serves to deepen my suspicion. My vote is that we…”

“That we what?” Tearor cut in, his impatience gathering the better of him. “That we sit on our swords and wait for another demon to make himself known? To guess and guile and hope that we stumble upon the answer? No, my friends. This is far too important, and I will not allow this chance to slip through our fingers. We need risk only two of our number. We will hold enough here to ensure that we are protected in case we are wrong. I see madness here, yes, but that madness lays in allowing an opportunity such as this to wander by untended.”

Helphdane and Rokks both held silent, their opinions held firm certainly, but neither could they deny the truth of Tearor’s words. Yes it was a risk, to both life and relic, but given the circumstance, what better choices had presented themselves? With a resigned nod, both Rokks and Helphdane conceded the point, though neither could claim confidence in the decision.

“All right then,” Tearor continued on, his concession in his voice reflecting his own hesitation, “all we need do is choose who will accompany Dreadkane into this…Darkness Falls.”

At this point, the arachite moved forward, his talons clicking across the floor as he moved. It was an unnerving sound to say the least, and he was only too well aware of the effect it had. “We need’en peoples of power, know for’en sure. It is your’en to choose, but know that there’en be no two ways of it. Send the weak, and watch’en them dies.”

Tearor offered the arachite a look of derision, he own frustration with the situation exacerbated by the arrogance of the arachite leader. “We know well enough the situation, arachite. The choice will be ours to make.”

The arachite nodded, but spoke on. “I see’en power in the runemaster,” he hissed, his eyes turning to Tylaara. “Fools be you’en if leave’en her behind.”

While he was frustrated with the arachites intrusive comments, he could not help but think that he was right. Tylaara was a fine choice, though her position on the council made her presence on the journey a liability for the guild, to be sure.

“What say you, Tyl?”

The runemaster sat, the relic still strapped to her back. She had carried it this far, and if she were completely honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had intentions of accompanying the party from the moment Gerik had proposed the idea. With a nod of anticipation, she spoke. “I don’t know if Gerik is right or not, but I do know that if we do not take the chance as it comes to us, we allow our own defeat. I will go.”

Tearor smiled thinly, for while he had every confidence in her abilities, the guild would be something less foe her absence. “We need one more,” he spoke slowly. There were many who were qualified, he knew, and many more that would want to go should they make the plan common knowledge. They had to be sure that, whoever they chose, would be one to carry the banner of their intentions close to their heart.

Helphdane slowly rose, his massive form suddenly claiming the attention in the room. “I will go with her. I have known her for a time now, and I honor her skill, and her life. Her husband is my friend. I cannot allow her to walk into the pit knowing that she may not be protected. I will accompany her.”

Tearor grimaced, for while he knew Helphdane was an excellent choice as well, both were members of the council. To lose one to this expedition was unfortunate; to lose both was folly. Still, he reasoned, the good of the guild had to be weighed against the good of the realm, and he had to admit, if only to himself, that having two members of Shadowfire accompany the arachite offered him far more confidence in the success of the outing.

A thin and pained silence washed over the room, until Rokks spoke, his own concerns too intrusive to ignore. “Has anyone given thought to how this Panthius is to be dealt with once you find it? It took the combined force of more than a hundred of our best warriors to see its minions dead, if we can assume that Panthius dispatched the demons. How are the two of you alone going to see this one defeated?”

Again a silence fell over the room, this one far thicker with augury and omen. No one spoke, for there was nothing to be said. Mayhap it was a venture domed to failure, mired in madness and hopeless from the onset, but in the end, there was nowhere else to turn. Their course had been set, and they would sail into the waters ahead, hoping that they would find the strength to deal with each squall as it arose.

Helphdane snarled in frustration and walked from the meeting room. Before he left he turned to Tylaara, his voice heavy with the flavor of desperation. “When?”

Tylaara let the happenings of the last several moments settle over her. They had agreed to walk hand in hand with the worst of realm into the very pit of Hel itself. Helphdane had been right; it was madness, and yet, they were of the mind to see it done. To answer when they would leave to see their own end seemed an irony that Tylaara was not prepared to face.

“First light,” she whispered, though the troll heard her well enough. Tylaara remained in her seat long after the others had left, trying to believe that they were doing the right thing; that they were helping rather than condemning the realm; that their actions would see the realm to prosperity again, rather than consigning it to the mercies of the beasts that lurked in the underdark. Finally she rose to her feet and left the room as well, knowing that all the speculation in the realm would not change what was, nor what would be.

Moments after the room was abandoned, the shadows in the corner began to shift, seemingly of their own accord. Very slowly the shadow moved toward the door, its motion as unobtrusive as the shadow itself. Mayhap the circumstance was beyond all of their control, but this one would see the circumstance turned to their advantage, no matter the cost.

Ronin Seryne walked with Tylaara to the edge of Gna Faste. The morning air was cold indeed, and his heart was as heavy as the sense of doom in the air. His wife was to be away, and he was not sure that he would ever see her again. His hand clenched hers tightly as they walked to meet Helphdane and Dreadkane Dwarfeater.

“I wish I could come with you. I trust Helphdane as I would my own brother, but I would feel better if I were with you.”

“I as well,” she answered, letting the tear fall freely from her eye. “I have loved you for all of times. To think that I may never know your touch again…”

Ronin stopped and turned to face her. “We shall see each other again, my love. Know that in this heart I shall live for all of times with you there. If it is not in this lifetime, then in the next, we shall be together.” The hunter looked deeply into her eyes, his heart hanging on each moment they spent together. Letting her go was to be the hardest thing that he had ever done, but they both knew their place, and their duty. Ronin leaned forward and offered her the softest of kisses. Their lips met in passion and paradise, both wanting to do nothing but melt together and forget the troubles that had found them.

Instead, they moved off to meet Helphdane at the edge of Gna Faste. The troll was waiting for them, with Dreadkane Dwarfeater standing a good step off the temperamental troll. “About time you two showed up,” he half-joked. He had known them both for the longest of times, and knew well enough how their hearts were breaking for the matters at hand.

Tylaara squeezed Ronin’s hand a final time and walked into the forest, the arachite matching her step for step. Helphdane turned to face Ronin before moving off. “Worry not old friend. She shall not come to harm.” He gave his old friend a confident smile and hurried to catch them as they went, leaving Ronin to contemplate the future, both his own and that of the realm.

“See that she doesn’t,” he whispered after the troll, “for if she should, I will not rest until those responsible are dead, though not before knowing the reasons of it.” His eyes lingered on the forest long after she has disappeared from sight, as though the want of it could make her return to him.

After a time, he turned and moved back into Gna Faste, eager to try and forget his loneliness and pain, but knowing that he never would, not until Tylaara was back in his arms once again.

Gerik’s chamber seemed large enough when it was him alone with the arachite. Even when he had Tylaara there as well, there was room to spare. The moment the troll entered, however, Gerik was sure that the entire room was closing in on him. Helphdane had done little to hide his contempt for the dwarf and his designs, and it was clear early on that the troll would brook no foolishness or deceit from him. Gerik was only too happy to offer the troll some distance, and was pleased that he would soon be gone. Still, as much as he feared the troll, he could not argue that he seemed competent enough for the task at hand.

“Be ready my friends. Make sure you all hold tightly the Hammer, else you be left behind in the traveling.” The old dwarf moved to a locked chest and passed his hand over it, uttering a single, magical phrase. The lid opened of its own volition, and Gerik withdrew a parchment that seemed to glow for the power within. The old dwarf was sure that the magics contained within would be enough to whisk them on their way, if he had studied the casting and the realm histories correctly. A cold chill passed through him as he began to read the incantation. Every few moments he would risk a glance upward to see that they all held the hammer tightly, for if they were to release it while he was in the casting, Gods only knew what the effect might have been. The words came strangely to him, for they were written in the magicians tongue, and it was a language which with he was not wholly familiar, though he did manage speak enough of it to see the incantation to its completion.

Tylaara held the hilt of the hammer tightly as though it were in danger of being ripped from her hands. Helphdane and the arachite held it as well, none of them knowing what to expect from the casting. Suddenly the hammer grew warm to the touch and then hotter, almost to the point of actual physical pain. Tylaara cried out, but refused to relinquish her hold. As quickly as it had come, the heat seemed to vanish, replaced with a dim light that rapidly grew brighter. It did not become so intense that they could not see for it, though it was not far from that to be sure.

Gerik’s voice reached a mournful pitch, making her wish that he would simply complete the passage, regardless of the cost, if for no other reason than to silence the dwarf (no small task in and of itself, she thought with a bemused turn). As the spell went on, a large, red glowing circle seemed to etch itself into the floor of the chamber, encircling the three who sought to reach Darkness Falls. Tylaara could feel her body being pulled in a thousand different directions at once. Pain tore through her as though euphoric for its freedom, and she cried out several times, though never did she relinquish her grip on the hammer.

Gerik looked on with almost surprised fascination as he uttered the final words of the spell, for in truth even he was not sure that the incantation would function. When the travel circle appeared on the floor and encircled them, Gerik noticed a suspicious shadow moving along the floor, but gave it little more than a passing interest. The shadow seemed to dissipate for a moment upon entering the circle, but an instant later it returned, though its form had shifted to its native state as quickly as thought might be enacted. It was a kobold to be sure, and an assassin if Gerik recalled the profession correctly. Before there was even time for a moments respite, twin daggers appeared and were buried in the sides of Dreadkane Dwarfeater. The arachite screamed his denial to the realms, all four of its clawed hands releasing its grip on the relic.

“NO!!” screamed Gerik, realizing only too well the danger that this madman presented. The spell was not yet complete, and to have it toyed with invited death and disaster and worse. He contemplated rushing forward and engaging the assassin, but restrained himself, for to introduce another disruption in the lines of the spell could only make matters worse. He was consigned to simply watch and pray that his plans would not unfold completely.

The assassin jumped high into the air and spun about, its right foot connecting with the arachite’s face as he did. Dreadkane stumbled back out of the circle, knocked senseless for the attack. Gerik was helpless beyond observation as the kobold grabbed hold of the hammer in the arachite’s place. A instant later and it was over, the circle having vanished along with the runemaster, the thane and the unnamed assassin. Gerik looked to the arachite, his hands fairly trembling in frustration, the twin daggers of the assassin having done their work with admirable precision. Dreadkane Dwarfeater was dead, and Gerik’s time among the arachites was done, for surely the others would blame him for the death of their leader, no matter the truth, and see him torn asunder for it. In truth the death of the arachite was one that he would not mourn, but his sense of self-preservation bid him leave, and he was only too willing to do so, considering the alternative.

More than this, however, he mourned the assassin’s attack, for the Gods only knew what effect it might have. They had all been sent to Darkness Falls, or so he assumed for in truth he could not know for certain, but what would befall them once there? Was the assassin’s intention for good or ill?

Gerik sighed. There was nothing to be done, save flee the caverns, and wait to see if what he had set in motion would bring his plans to fruition. The very fact that an assassin had usurped the proceedings gave him cause to wonder if he had not sealed the fate of the realm, rather than saving it.

2002-06-12T10:03:00.000-07:00

Reputations

The Inn of Forgotten Dreams in Tir Na mBeo was a quiet establishment, its walls witness to little excitement and less gossip, ironically uncharacteristic for an inn within the Hibernian realm. Those who frequented the inn were farmers for the most part, with the occasional traveler stopping by for rest and refreshment on the way south or more frequently north, for there lay Tir Na Nog lay, the greatest city in the realm.

The proprietor of the inn, a thinly framed celt by the name of Rork, looked around, smiling widely. He had seen the larger inns in the bigger cities, and had watched first hand as the adventurers came and went, brawling and drinking, causing more trouble than their bar tabs were worth. They paraded through as though they were the ones who paid the rent, carousing and spouting their stories of the realm wars and the glories they had won for Hibernia.

“Bah,” he spat quietly. The larger cities were welcome to inns of that sort, and those who frequented them. He was more than happy with his establishment, and very pleased indeed that adventurers generally carried on through to the more rowdy and less controlled drinking houses to the north.

The door of the small inn opened, and Rork looked on as a lone female lurikeen wandered in. His smile of contentment faded to a grimace of disappointment at the sight of her, for she bore the gait and the gathering of one who has seen the wars, and reveled in them. She wore black armor, studs sewn in random patterns across the face of it, with a bow strung casually across her shoulders, her quiver of arrows complimenting the weapon held there. She also wore dual swords at her waist, within easy reach, and she carried the aspect of one who was comforted in their time in the realm by their ability to lay the belly of their enemies open at the slightest provocation. He had seen her type before, and truth to tell, would have been more than content to never have seen the like again.

The lurikeen moved to a small table in a darkened corner of the inn, and removed her bow, laying it within easy reach. As Rork approached her, his eyes fell to the weapon as it leaned against the wall, and he felt a cold sweat run down his spine at the sight.

As he came to her, Rork firmed his resolve and spoke in a manner that might have invited conflict instead of patronage. “New here,” he said, more of a statement than a question. The lurikeen nodded offhandedly, sitting up a little straighter in her chair at the inn keeper’s tone. “Mostly farmers in here, these days. Quiet it is, and without need for more than that. I hope you understand my meaning.” The pitch of his voice left little room for debate, and the lurikeen nodded again, a thin smile crossing her lips.

“Midgard Ale,” she said, her voice high pitched, almost comical, though the wicked blades at her waist bypassed any humor in the sound.

The inn keeper laughed. “Where do you think you are? The Forest Elf Inn? We have ale of this realm here, nothing more.”

The lurikeen sighed a moment, and then turned to face the inn keeper. Her eyes narrowed and her face took on an aspect that cut through the inn keepers words for the lie they both knew them to be, and he looked to the ground, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Seventy five silver a tankard,” he said, still unwilling to meet the eyes of the lurikeen. He knew the price was inflated, and that even in Tir Na Nog, the same order would cost but 50, but he cared little. His pride had been wounded for the lie he was caught in, and there was a price to be paid for it.

The sounds of silver falling onto the table pulled his attention, and he scooped up the coin and was gone, eager only to give the lurikeen what she wanted and have her on her way.

The lurikeen chuckled as the inn keeper hurried off. She could sympathize with him, for adventurers were an unruly lot, and few were the taverns in the land that could deal with them in numbers. That was exactly the reason she had come to this inn. It was small, quiet and out of the way. The last thing she wanted was attention. Perhaps it was her profession that called to her seclusion. Rangers were loners by nature as a rule, preferring to hunt the enemy on their own soil, hidden from the prying eyes of those would see them dead for their cause. In her case, however, it was more than that. It was more than what she did, it was who she was. She had spent her lifetime cloistered from the masses that seemed to attract so many of her fellows. She had gone to great lengths to distance herself from the maddening crowds that so may others seemed to revel within. Her heart spoke to her in solitude, and she answered in kind.

Her thoughts were pulled to the door as two burly firbolg farmers assaulted the entrance way, obviously at home in the place. They were huge by comparison; easily four times her height, their massive frames all but filling the small inn.

“Rork!” the larger of the two yelled, his voice carrying across the inn like thunder across the frontier. Immediately the inn keeper was to them, carrying two huge tankards of the finest ale he had. He dropped the ale on the table and nodded, backing away, clearly intimidated by the presence of the two. They immediately set to drinking and yelling at each other, fools and blowhards both. The lurikeen sat in quiet observation, thinking how nice it would be to have them keep to themselves, and let her time there pass without notice.

In her heart, she knew better.

The larger one noticed her first, punching the other in the shoulder to gather his attention. They stood almost in tandem, as though they had rehearsed this scenario a hundred times before.

They moved to stand on either side of her, their countenance intimidating to most, but in truth, she was hardly impressed.

“What have we ‘ere?” the large one demanded, pushing her table out of the way, sending it crashing halfway across the inn. “This little leaf ‘ere fancies ‘erself a fighter I’m guessing!” His slurred words were accompanied by the stunted laugh and the other joined in, as eager to throw his considerable weight around.

“Fighter eh? Maybe we should see how well she knows the trade!”

The first laughed again, and reached down to push the lurikeen, looking for some kind of response to their implied threat.

While he indeed got a response, it was surely not the one he was expecting.

In one fluid motion, the lurikeen pushed out from the chair and dropped to her knees, both her blades appearing in her hands as though by magic. The large firbolg screamed in pain as she slashed the blade across the back of his ankle, hobbling him. He dropped to his knees in agony, the pain washing away any thoughts of revenge.

The other howled in rage and kicked at the lurikeen, but she was all the faster. Moving with a speed graced to her through years of practice, she fairly danced across the floor and onto a nearby table. She remained there but an instant, however, before hurtling herself with unerring accuracy at the firbolg, landing on his shoulders with her legs on either side of his head. Both blades came to rest, their tips breaching the skin ever so slightly at either temple.

“Care to continue this, friend?”

Her voice carried the pitch of her race, but the threat carried within was unmistakable. The firbolg whispered a terrified reluctance to do so, and she slid from his back, landing gracefully at his feet. With a calm and confident air, she sheathed her weapons and picked up her bow, moving out door at her leisure.

She wondered why it was always so that even her realm mates at times, crossed her.

She shrugged her shoulders as she mounted her horse. This, like all things, she simply accepted.

The Albion contingency approached the Hibernian keep, all eager to see it fall. The army moved through the frontier, their weapons and their resolve at the ready. They had planned this attack for months, and all that remained was the doing of it.

They were met by the Hibernian army several miles south of the keep, and the two forces clashed with resounding force. Elfin magic met highlander steel, both sides as wanting of victory as the other, both sides knowing the stakes in the game they played out.

Neither were willing to lose all that they fought so desperately to gather.

Nancy stood off to the north of the battle, shielded from the sight of the combatants by the invisibility inherent to all rangers. Beside her stood another lurikeen, easily her height though as untried in the ways of battle as Nancy was experienced.

“Aim for the highlander cleric,” she whispered. “Remove their healers first, and there will be no one to raise their fallen.”

Her protégé, an eager lurikeen named Ranth, nodded and knocked an arrow, drawing it clumsily and shooting without care. The arrow came close to its mark, and while it did miss, it was close enough to draw the cleric’s attention. Ranth felt a cold panic run through him as the cleric began the casting of a spell. He had heard of smite clerics before, and had been warned to stay clear of them, for their power in battle was indeed something to be reckoned with. At that moment, he was dead, and he blamed himself for his folly.

The sound of a whispered arrow being knocked and fired to his right calmed him somewhat, and the sight of the cleric taking the arrow in the forehead and dropping where he stood soothed him further. “Th…thank you…” he whispered.

Nancy simply nodded as they both stealthed again, and moved off to find another to fell. As they walked, Ranth spoke in hushed tones. “Might I ask why you are helping me so? I have heard of you, of course, but…”

Nancy looked to him, curious as to what he had to say. Ranth continued, but his voice was tainted with hesitation. Whether it be fear or respect that edged his words even he could not say. “…but I had thought you too aloof to aid one such as I.”

Nancy smiled, though it was a thin and private smile. “Reputations are not what they seem, my friend.” She had little more to say on the subject and turned with Ranth, sighting another enemy who had been foolish enough to wander away from the rest of the army. “There’s one!” Ranth almost yelled. He was as excited to battle and to learning the life of a ranger as she herself has always been. He would be a worthy successor to all that she was.

Nancy smiled again.

Few attended the funeral services that were called. A handful of personal friends and guild mates, though most of these had not known her well. Solitude was her life, and her heart held closely to it while she had lived.

Her wishes called her to be interred in the heart of the frontier, for it was there, in the heat of battle that she was at her best; where she was at home. Her guild had taken great care to ensure that her wants were heard, and despite the danger, she was laid to rest among the quiet standing stones that marked the lands she loved so well.

The ceremony was over quickly, for the dangers of the frontier waited for none. Most of those in attendance left immediately after her burial, though one lone ranger stood and stared intently at the ground that had claimed her. His thoughts ran back to the day she had met him in the frontier so long ago. She had taught him all that she knew, and praised him when he had learned more than she had to offer. She was the warmest of souls to her friends, and the most respected of warriors to her enemies. She had lived long and she had lived well, on her own terms and in her own fashion, and there could be no greater testament to the life that she had lived.

Ranth backed away from the burial place, hidden from the prying eyes of those who he knew would come. He had managed to pass the word across the realms, though his Hibernian commanders would have flayed him alive for the doing of it. Still, it was something that she deserved, and he owed her this much at least.

Sure enough, a group of Albion warriors came to the spot where she had been laid to rest. Ranth could hear them well enough, but could understand nothing of their words. They stayed for a time indeed, some offering what he assumed was prayer, others laying weapons on the ground in respect.

Ranth smiled at the gesture of the Albions, and knew as well that the Midgard horde would also be represented in time. It was a time of mourning and a time of loss for all of Hibernia, even if precious few understood it to be so. It was a time of respectful acknowledgement for the other realms, and through it all, one thought passed through everyone’s mind, be they elf or troll or saracen.

Nancy was gone.

And she would be missed.

2002-05-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

Darkness Falls

Editors note: This is a multipart epic story new chapters will be appended instead of posted as seperate parts.

The cavern was dank and dark, a fitting hole for the vile beast that called such a place home. The walls were carved out of the very stone of the realm itself, roughhewn and edged with the blood of those mortals foolish enough to wander within its labyrinthine corridors. Pillars seemed to rise out of the very ground, as though the master of this place had commanded it so, though the most telling tale of the pit was the stench. It was that of a thousand dead men, piled to the ceiling and rotting away as the months and years and centuries carried on. Even then, with no corpses about, the hum was unmistakable. How many centuries had it been since those in the outer-realm had ventured within? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? It was impossible to know, though for the smell of the place, it was hard to think that it had been so long. The reek had permeated the very stone itself, and were there any within to wonder, they would surely have marveled at the number of dead it would have taken to infect the stonework so. This was the smell of hatred come to life, with a promise of a cruelty known to those who dared journey within. This was not a cavern far beneath the grass and sky of the realms; this was not a forgotten place where demons and beasts and worse existed; this was not every child’s worst nightmare.

This was death.

The beast shambled about the platform, the arcane chains binding it in place straining against the immense girth of the fiend. How long had it remained there, imprisoned by its master, to be released only when his purpose demanded it? It howled in absolute anguish, for the chains that held it tightly were magical indeed, sending searing pain through the tortured beast whenever it grew restless and attempted to break free of its bonds. Devious by their very nature, the shackles not only restrained the monstrosity but long since had stripped from it any semblance of sanity, leaving it only its hate and its appetite to fend away the cold. Over the centuries it had gone mad, and where once it had only fed upon the mortals that had ventured within, it had grown in appetite and want to where it would feed on any hapless enough to wander too close, be it demon or succubus or any of the other thousand aberrations that called the caverns home.

Its name was Legion, and it was the vessel of death in that cold and foreboding place.

The master of the labyrinth moved about, preparing its castings and readying its enchantments. It had been seven hundred years that it had been preparing for this happening, and it yet recalled with startling clarity that day so long ago when it had been sealed with the caverns for all of times. The outer-realm had managed to lure it within, and once there, gathered their magics and forever closed the exit, leaving it alone to ponder his vengeance and plan for the day when it would again appear in the realms, and wreak the havoc that was so richly deserved. Once it had found his way to the very heart of the caverns, he had had begun to prepare for the day when it would be ready to see its vengeance answered.

And that day drew nigh.

Panthius stood better than twenty-five feet at the shoulder, dwarfing even the largest of out the outer-realm. It held the appearance of fear and malice, would that such things held aspect. Three heads lifted hideously above its shoulders, an atrocity of nature born in the pits of Hel itself. Each head sprouted two massive horns that curled upwards in an obscene rendering. Great cloven hooves supported its massive frame, threatening to tear the very foundations of the realm asunder with each step that it took. It was as twisted in its heart and in its soul as it was in its visage, and for the second time in the history of the realms, it made ready to infect the outer-realm with its venomous poisons.

It looked around the cavern at the demons and minor-demons strapped unmoving to the stone altars, ten in all. It had discovered at last a manner to put such as these to its use, draining away their life-force and storing it in magical receptacles. Each such vessel stood beside the altars, glowing a dim crimson for the energies stored thus far, and once each was filled, Panthius would have the power it needed to begin its unholy magics. The casting would leave the donor dead or dying once it had bleed their life, abandoning the victim to the malicious mercies of the underdark, until death finally took them over. It had taken great pains to gather the strongest that the caverns had to offer to fuel his spell, and they all stood about the great demon, each chained with the same magical restraints that held Legion captive. The fortunate one would be those who died in the casting. Any so cursed as to survive the happening would be fodder for the dozens of lower denizens who inhabited the foul place, searching always for scraps from Panthius’ table.

“Masssster,” hissed a particularly hideous succubus, her wings flapping in eager anticipation as it flew about the Great Demon’s knees, “all issssss prepared. The lessssser are ready for your cassssstingsssss….” The succubus stammered out of fear and reverence as she spoke to her overlord, for so terrible and hideous a master she had never known. She had seen it send back to the Abyss demons greater than she, and she knew only too well how tenuous her position was. She had garnered its favor, though many died for the circumstance, and she knew only too well that its favor was as fluid and yielding as the blood that flowed from those they sacrificed.

“Sssssssssoon, the power sssssshall be yourssssss for the taking….”

Panthius swatted at the annoying creature, sending the succubus moving to the shadows for protection. She was a fool, and knew nothing of the complexity of its designs. True enough, the pathetic essences of those it had farmed would feed its casting, but the casting was simply the first step in a far more intricate and devious undertaking. Once the spell was cast, then it would begin its final preparations. Power was required beyond what these wretches would provide, and the source of such power could only be found above. The greater demon cackled a malignant laugh, the irony of it all not lost on it foul perceptions. The outer-realm would supply it the eldritch energy it needed, and then they would pay and pay dearly for the humiliation it had suffered. Its blackened finger nails imbedded themselves in to its hands as it clenched its fists in rage, demonic blood running down its forearms and onto the stone floor. The demon blood, acidic in effect, burned into the floor as easily as its nails had its flesh, though it felt nothing of it. Its mind was alive with the plans unfolding; its heart beat with the exhilaration of what was at hand; its every moment of existence fed upon the revenge that it would visit on the realms. Nothing mattered more, and none could stop what it was about to begin.

A dark and foreboding silence fell over the room as Panthius stood in the center of the casting chamber. The lesser demons chained to the altars began to scream in terror, for as demented as they were, they were sentient enough to know that death was at hand. Its voice was almost silent at first, barely audible above the din of the sacrificed. Slowly it grew in stature, the voice resounding from within it deafening any unlucky enough to hear. With almost an after thought, it reached into the shadows and plucked the succubus from her hiding place, its voice growing louder yet. She wriggled in its grasp as though she had a hope of escape, her own terrified screams adding to the cacophony of horror that the cavern had become. With its free hand, Panthius casually took the succubus’ head and tore it from her torso, abandoning the head in favor of the bloodied carcass. Without missing a syllable of its terrible incantation, it lowered the corpse to the ground and etched a pentagram upon the very stone itself. The succubus’ blood seemed to glow as it formed the unholy symbol, and when it was finished, the greater demon stood in the center, discarding the drained corpse, for it was nothing more than refuse; carrion for the weaker demons to feed upon. Raising its head, Panthius screamed its casting to the realm, the room glowing brighter with each phrase, though it was a brightness consumed with the shadows of the evil within. The imprisoned demons ceased their horrific howling, for the magics cast by the master of the underworld had done their work, their lifeless bodies laying in gruesome testament to the ritual performed.

The receptacles stood as silent witness to it all, glowing a blinding crimson, pulsing, as though alive.

Songstar Crestfall ran, as he had never run before.

The attack on the Midgard frontier had been a bloody affair to be sure, the bard having long since lost count of the number of dead and dying left on the battlefield. The Hibernian force had come through Odin’s Gate unopposed, and had poured into the Jamtland Mountains as though the very realm itself and been wounded and bled them into the heart of the Midgard territories. When they reached finally Fensalir Faste, the keep fell to their might in moments, the guards therein taken completely by surprise. The Lord of the keep had fought and fought valiantly, though in the end, the outcome was never truly in doubt. Leaving a small defense force in the keep, the main body of the Hibernian contingency moved on the to the relic keep that lay so close, the Horn of Valhalla housed with almost calling to them. They moved with alacrity and purpose, though their taking of Fensalir had alerted the Midgard horde that invaders were about. As they approached the relic keep, they could see that Midgard had amassed a sizable defense force, and the leaders of the Hibernian invasion knew that the worst was ahead.

How long the battle raged, no one could know. Weapons were swung with purpose and posture; spells cast across battle lines all, to dizzying effect. Trolls and dwarves fought for the defense of their homeland as valiantly and maniacally as the invaders fought to see it taken from them.

Songstar Crestfall had been chosen for his skill as a bard and his strength in battle to fight through to the relic room, should the battle turn to the Hibernians. He knew not what God might be responsible for their success, but after what seemed a lifetime of battle and blood, loss and more, he found himself moving through the relic keep with his compatriots. They were close to victory, he knew. He could feel the anticipation in the air, as thick as the stench of blood and death the lay in their wake.

“More guards!” came the call, and suddenly Songstar was afraid. With the arrival of more defenders, what chance had they to gather what they had come so far to acquire? Their numbers had been reduced to almost nothing by the zealot Midgard Horde. How could they expect victory in the face of reinforcements?

“Songstar!”

The bard stopped on the staircase, turning to see the leader of the attack force, a wizened elfin mentalist by the name of Corwyn, calling to him as he turned to meet the defenders.

“Get to the relic! See it home! We will hold these at bay! Go!!”

Songstar fairly flew up the stairs, for he knew then that he was the last hope of the invasion. No other were close enough to the relic to take it, and none were as able as he to return it home. His mind was awash with a thousand images, from his being heralded as the savior of the invasion upon returning with the fabled relic, to his dead and broken form laying in the relic room, at the foot of the untouched prize. With resolve unmatched in his lifetime, he pushed on, his mace at the ready and his prayers moving free to any God who might be listening.

The relic room lay at the top of the stairs, and when he arrived, he fully expected to be cut down by the few who sought to protect the Horn. His eyes fairly burst from his head when he saw the relic alone and unguarded. With an almost reverent whisper, he reached for the Horn, the very power of the relic warm to the touch, and placed it within the pack he carried across his back.

Songstar paused for but a moment as the totality of the happening reached through to his understanding. He carried with him one of the defining artifacts in the realms! Hundreds had fought and died for it, there existed thousands more whose lives depended upon it. It was the reason they all existed, and could very well be the vessel of their demise. The enormity of his task felt like a weight upon his shoulders, almost too much to bear. He stood for but an instant to gather his repose, and his thoughts before focusing on the task of taking his prize home.

It was a moment too long.

The pain knifed into Songstar’s back, his scream as loud as the pain was agonizing. He turned his head in time to see the shadow blade that had attacked him. He was a kobold, no taller than three feet in all, his leathers dyed black, making him all but impossible to detect, unless he should wish it so. Songstar had seen this assassin before, though the two had never faced off in battle. Most in the realm wars were beings of conscience, with an ideology to defend. Most fought for home and hearth and to see all that they know and love.

Such was not so with this.

His name was Eldorad, and he had come to kill, plain and simple.

The kobold arched his wicked weapons again, his intentions all too clear. Songstar twisted with all of his strength to avoid the attack, though he could feel effects of the assassin’s poison, his strength diminishing for the toxins running though him unchecked. He threw himself to the staircase, taking the fall down the length of them in stride. The magic of the relic seemed to comfort him somehow, as though it were want to protect whoever held it, no matter the realm or race.

The bard landed with as much control as he was able, his hands raising in a casting as he saw Eldorad round the top of the stairs in pursuit. A whisper of an arcane phrase and the spell was away. Eldorad simply stopped moving, his entire form held from motion by the effect of the incantation. Songstar let his eyes fall upon Eldorad’s for a moment, though it was a moment locked in time and memory for all of eternity. Though he was immobile, Eldorad communicated his hate and his rage well enough. Songstar knew that he had made an enemy this day, and enemies of the assassin sort were dangerous enemies indeed.

The bard jumped to his feet and freed his lute, a song of healing rushing through him, bleeding from his the assassin’s poison. Another strum of the lute followed, this song sending waves of strength and endurance into his legs. He turned from the mesmerized assassin and ran down the stairs, eager to see the Midgard artifact home.

The battle raged on outside of the relic keep, with more Hibernians and Midgards arriving to bolster the waning numbers of both armies. Blood flowed like sap from a tree, and the sounds of battle seemed to echo across the realms. Songstar deafened himself to that which was happening around him, and turned through the battle toward the portal keep that would see him home. Through the chaos of the fight, few noticed him moving off, and none dared follow, lest they give their opponents opportunity to carry the day.

Corwyn saw Songstar as he left the keep, a silent prayer upon his lips that the bard had actually retrieved the relic and might see it back to Hibernia safely.

In his heart, he knew better.

Songstar passed the Mile Gate and focused his attentions clearly on the keep ahead. Once with sight of the guards of the keep, he knew that he would do as he was bid, and Hibernia would hold victory this day, and the entire realm would reap the rewards!

As he neared the keep, Songstar felt a sensation that he could neither define, nor deny. It was as though they magics that carried him to his destination were pulled from beneath him. His legs gave way, and he fell heavily to the ground, as though the weight of the relic suddenly grew a hundred fold. Songstar pulled himself to his knees, realizing that the effects of his magics had indeed been pulled from him. His head spun with confusion, and almost without thinking he reached behind and pulled free the relic. As it came into view, a cold panic gripped his heart, for the Horn of Valhalla lay bitter and lifeless in his grasp, its power having been torn from it as surely as it sat in his hands. The firbolg looked to the relic with near panic in his eyes, as though the intensity would itself revitalize the artifact. After a moment, Songstar stood again, his mind refusing to accept the reality of what had happened. Instead, he placed the relic back in his pack, and took free his lute once more. With shaking hands he strummed the melody that would see him enhanced once more. He held his breath as he played, for he was almost expecting his song to fail. It was with a sigh of relief that he felt the magics flowing through him again, though he could sense that the power of his spell-song had been reduced greatly. As he moved off to the portal keep once again, his fears were confirmed, for the magics that once would have carried him as though upon the wind itself then barely moved him faster than a normal pace. He would reach the portal keep to be sure, but to what end? What had happened was more than he could understand; how it could have been so was beyond him completely. All that he could think of was what price had they paid for returning home with a dead relic.

Friar Ephraim moved through the relic keep in Snowdonia, his head bowed and his heart heavy, each step a pained reminder of the hours he had spent in prayer this day. There had rumors of an planned assault on the Snowdonia keep, and while these rumors could not be confirmed, they neither could be ignored. The Church had no option but to send someone to Snowdonia to investigate, and while a friar was not their first choice, he was their only one. The paladins and clerics of the Church had been dispatched to Emain Macha, for the reality of the realm wars were demanding, to say the least. When word of the supposed attack came, there was simply no one else to dispatch, beyond members of the Brotherhood of Friars. Friar Ephraim was the best choice, of that there was no doubt, and he had been dispatched with all speed to see to the rumors and send word if there were indeed trouble.

He had walked the halls of the keep for hours, praying and staying alert to every sounds; every notion; every sensation that dared intrude upon him. There was no accounting for what might signal the attack that was to come, and he was determined that he would not be taken by surprise, should the invaders grow bold.

Ephraim walked the length of the staircase that led to the relic room, having checked the battlements for the hundredth time, he was sure. The magic of the relic bled out of the room and down the staircase as though a lover beckoning.

Ephraim chuckled at the analogy, and lifted his wineskin for another taste. “What lover might a pious friar take?” he called out to no one, laughing again at the absurdity of the thought. “Coming, my love! Calm in thy calling dearest, for soon I shall sate thy want well enough. My rod and my staff shall comfort thee…” He laughed all the way to the relic room, the wine having taken a leisurely toll upon him. The Staff of Merlin greeted him in silent want and subtle accusation. He stopped as he entered the room, his laughing falling silent in the face of the holy artifact. He was always amazed at the power the relic seemed to hold over him, for no matter his mood, no matter his fancy, upon feeling the raw vigor of the relic, he was silenced into complete respect and reverence. With a measured motion he fell to his knees and let his mind go in prayer to that which all of Albion coveted. Friar Ephraim prayed then, for the souls of those who had fallen in its defense over the centuries; to those whose lives were taken in recapturing it when it was stolen from them; to those who lost loved ones and those whose hearts were broken, all in the name of the artifact that sat before him.

Friar Ephraim recalled with pained clarity his part in the realm wars. He saw the faces of those whose lives he had taken, and the faces of those who lives he had saved. He gave thanks and apology for both, and wondered in the end if all of the sacrifices were worth it. His faith God above was unyielding. His faith in the relic before him was not.

He did not know how long he knelt there in prayer. It might have been an instant or it might have been forever. At that instant, it was surely one and the same. He could not know what had called him back from the revelry of his prayer, but the sight that greeted him could not be denied.

The Staff of Merlin stood before him, silent in its aspect and impotent in its power.

Ephraim looked closer, as though the relic were simply hiding its faculty, and he expected to see beyond the ruse. He reached out a hand and gingerly touched the artifact, praying as he did that the act itself would somehow infuse new life into the tired and silent sentinel. Instead, his hand fell upon what appeared to be nothing more than a normal wooden staff. The magics within the relic were dead; as dead as Albion would eventually be without it.

Ephraim understood as well as any the repercussions of the happening. Life in Albion was threatened, for without the relics, how might they defend themselves from their enemies, both within and without the realm? His first though was to wonder what power could take from the relic its very life. The relics were things unnatural, born into the realms at the pleasure of the Gods, offered to give aid in times of peace, and faculty in times of war. No more powerful artifacts existed across the realms. What unholy force might have potential to drain them and capture their power? Were all the relics affected, or only Albion’s? The thoughts flowed into his consciousness without respite, and yet through it all he knew that he had to warn the Church of the happening. Without another thought Friar Ephraim was away, eager to be out of the keep and on his way to the Snowdonia gates. With the artifact in such a state, the keep was as dead as the relic itself, and he had no desire to remain within so hollow and lifeless a place.

As he made for the gates and for home, Friar Ephraim wondered what Albion would become, with her heart and her soul torn free.

The doors of the great hall in Jordheim were thrown open, the troll exiting the room all but tearing them from their hinges. He was a huge specimen, large even for his race, with all of the bulk and raw power inherent in all of the troll race. The great warrior’s arms were thicker than a Dwarves belly, and his anger matched his aspect this day to be sure. He wore a suit of bright orange armor, and while most would only look ridiculous, if not comical in such a costume, this troll looked somehow all the more threatening. The magical two-handed hammer he carried across his back served to define his aspect all the more clearly, and there was no mistake to be made regarding his skill in wielding it.

A diminutive figure observed him as he exited the council chamber, the troll’s anger more than obvious to the seasoned dwarf. He was as were all of his race; a thickly beard that threatened to cover his stomach (no small feat in itself) flowed from his face as though it were water from a waterfall. He was as wide as he was tall, and corded muscle strained against his studded tunic. He carried with him a bow drawn across his back, with a wicked looking spear carried in his hands. He leaned upon the spear with a casual manner, and an eye patch covered his right eye completely, with a scar daring to show itself from beneath. At first glance he would appear as any other dwarf might, though a veteran warrior could see that this dwarf was no-one to be trifled with. Angering a dwarf under the best of circumstances was a questionable practice; this dwarf raised the stakes of such an undertaking so as to make it downright foolhardy.

The troll stormed away from the council chamber within the Jordheim Castle, and as he went, the dwarf moved to walk with him.

“What be ye fer, ya heapa!?! Deceon’s voice held the twinge of irritation that seemed to mark all dwarven speech, though Helphdane had long since learned to read through his friend’s ire. “What be they sayin’?”

Helphdane stomped his feet on the ground as they walked, his patience tested by the rage that seemed to consume him. “The blind fools!!” he bellowed, knowing that he was yet within earshot of the council, though in truth not caring. “They can’t see any further than their own blunted noses!”

Deceon hastened to maintain his pace, for the troll was too absorbed with his anger to notice that he was beginning to outdistance the dwarf. Finally Deceon grew frustrated and took a swipe at the troll with his spear. The weapon bounced harmlessly off Helphdane’s skull, and the troll slowed his pace, barely noticing the happening.

“Ye be telling them, aye? About the relics? Don’t be tellin’ me ye be forgettin’ to be tellin’ them??

“Of course I told them, Deceon! What in blazes do you think I was doing in there for the last measure??” Helphdane continued to walk on, and did not bother to turn to face Deceon as he yelled. The dwarf was not deserving of his rage, though the alliance council, that was another matter.

Finally Helphdane stopped and breathed deeply, trying to air out his anger and restore his reason. After a moment, he turned to Deceon. “I told them of the relics; how they were no longer alive with the magic that carried them. I told them everything that we talked about, and they still cannot see. All that they can understand is more troops to the frontier! Carry the battle! Defend our borders!! Idiots!! And with Hibernia still holding the Horn Of Valhalla, their reasoning is clouded even more.”

“We still not be knowin’ anymore than they what be fer the relics. It not be ours to be understandin’ the whys of it.”

Helphdane breathed a frustrated sigh. “Think about it Dec. Why would we assume that the other realms are responsible for the state of our relics? Everything over the past few days has pointed to them not being responsible.” The dwarf tilted his head in quizzical misunderstanding. “The council told me that they know of the relics. They have known for several days now. As well, they have spies in the other realms that report that their relics have been similarly affected.”

Deceon whistled in disbelief. “Then who be at the foot of it all?”

Helphdane shook his head slowly as he walked on again, headed to the Mularn gates. “I don’t know, but I know that the council is not going to be asking. They are too concerned with defending the borders; too convinced that the other realms are responsible. Every available alliance guild is being asked to send more troops to the frontier.”

“And what be we fer?”

Helphdane shrugged. “That’s what we are going to discuss tonight at the guild meeting. Hopefully,” his voice fell to a whisper, “we will find more wisdom than the council…”

The sun sank low over the trees of Myrkwood Forest, the shadows of twilight throwing an eerie glow over the south lands of Midgard. The news of the relics had spread like wildfire through the realm since the Alliance Council meeting in Jordheim, and before the sun had started its slow fall into night, there was not a guild nor individual in the realm that did not have thought nor concern about their holy artifacts and the fate that had befallen them.

The small room was quiet by recent standards, with neither enemy nor aberration causing interruption to the proceedings within. Inside the small chamber, the leadership council of the Shadowfire guild sat in quiet conversation, the subject at hand the same that held the attention of the entire realm. The council had arranged for use of the main meeting room in the guard tower on the edge of Gna Faste, both for its secluded location as well as for the two guards that stood watch below.

The members of the council sat around the small table, each engrossed in their own thoughts and trying to give offering to those of the others. Tearor chaired the meeting, his pose one of thoughtful meticulousness, his exacting nature lending itself well to not only the leadership council, but his profession as well. As a shadowblade, he held the aspect of precision in all that he did, especially his manner in leading the guild.

Tylaara sat opposite Tearor, her rune-staff leaning against the table, never far from her reach. She was a norse runemaster, her skill as stout as the staff itself. Her dedication to her principles and the courage of her convictions defined her role in the leadership, and it was role that she held proudly.

Rokks was in attendance also, a troll skald who was as impulsive and impassioned as Tearor was methodical. His heated temper often took him to places he wished he had not gone, but as often it had saved his life, and the life of his friends and guildmates.

Helphdane rounded out the council, his massive frame dwarfing the others in the room, his fellow troll included. His bright orange armor was as defining of his character as his logical mind, though his troll heritage often pushed him into defending his principles with more vigor that the circumstance might require.

Tearor twirled a dagger between his first finger and thumb, the weapon fairly dancing along his hand at his command. “And they were adamant in their course of action?” he asked, looking to Helphdane for answer to his pose. “Despite all that you told them?”

Helphdane nodded. “The Alliance Council understands only warfare and realm prejudice. As far as they are concerned, Hibernia, Albion or both together are responsible for this happening, and they will see them dead for it.”

“As it should be,” Rokks yelled out, his hands clenching into fists of rage. “The other-realm scum are deserving of such a fate. It is one thing to attack our realm at their leisure, and patrol our borders. Its another to steal from us that which gives us life and longing and pride. May they all rot in the depths of Hel!!”

Tylaara sat straighter in her chair as she spoke. “That is not fair, Rokks, nor reasonable. We cant even say with certainty that either realm is involved, and here you are, ready to cleave their skulls for something they may not have even done.”

Rokks was about to argue the point when Tearor broke in. “Tylaara is right, Rokks. The time for blame is not yet upon us. We have to look for more evidence that might point us in the right direction. All that we have now is vague notions and rumor.”

“That’s nor exactly true, Tearor,” Helphdane spoke up, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. “We have a dead relic.”

Tearor nodded slowly. The taking of the Horn of Valhalla by Hibernia had a horrendous affect on the morale of the realm as a whole, and news of the relics and their plight served only to worsen an already frustrating circumstance.

“I think that we need to gather the remaining relic and bring it here, to be studied.”

The very suggestion sent a shiver of disbelief through the entire council. Mortals were not permitted to touch the scared relics of their own realm on pain of death. To actively seek one out for its return to Shadowfire was tantamount to a death sentence.

Tearor looked around the room and could see the reaction that his suggestion had as easily as he could see their faces. “I know, my friends, but what choice do we have? We cannot find any answers here, and unless we are willing to join with the Alliance Council and send more resources to the frontier, this is what we are left with I am afraid. The Alliance Council is too concerned with defending our borders to worry about the relics themselves, and with a relic in our hands, perhaps our alchemists will be able to discern something of the cause for all this.”

Slowly the council members conceded the wisdom in Tearor’s suggestion. They would send a contingency to Uppland to retrieve Thor’s Hammer. With any luck, it would offer up explanation at least, and solution if the Gods be willing.

It was Helphdane who voiced the concern that they all had, considering the course of action they had agreed upon. “Who shall we send?”

Tylaara nodded as she added to his query. “It is a choice that must be carefully explored. We can only send ones we trust, to be certain, for the import of the task, not to mention that we risk death at every turn, demands that we make sure that whoever it is, is worthy of our faith.”

All were in agreement, and Tearor smiled, for he knew precisely who to send, though he had to admit, he was not altogether comfortable with his own choice, for in this there was little room for error.

Rokks noticed the look in Tearor’s face, and recognized it for what it was. “Who do you have in mind?” Too long had he known the shadowblade not to know that he had already made the choice.

Tearor looked at his old friend, and simply smiled again.

The receptacles stood upon their sconces, glowing crimson brightly enough in the dark caverns to keep away those atrocities that worshiped the darkness. Panthius moved between the ten vessels, the power radiating from each almost blinding it, but they paled to shadows when compared to the huge receptacle that sat in the center of the others. Until recently, it had been black; dead for all intents and purposes. Panthius had used the arcane energies captured from the denizens of the underdark to power his incantation that had bled the raw power from the relics of the realms above. He had been more than successful in his spells, all of the energy of the relics being harnessed within the huge receptacle. He had but one more task to perform in order to set his plans of death and vengeance into play, though his angst only grew, for he knew well enough that what stood behind him was as a whimsical gesture indeed compared to what lay ahead.

He had taken the power of the relics, though the cost in life had been staggering. All that he required then, were the relics themselves, for without them, he could not fuel the spell that would see him free of his prison, and onward to the vengeance that he craved so completely.

A snarling from behind him turned Panthius, though not out of fear or surprise, but more, impatience.

“They are here to ssssssssserve you, massssster….” The succubus spoke slowly and deliberately, for she knew what had happened to her predecessor, and had no desire to have her blood etched upon the stone floor beneath her feet.

In tow behind her were eighteen demons, stronger for certain than those who lives Panthius had absorbed to power its casting, though nowhere near as powerful as it itself.

“Walk them to the pentagram,” Panthius hissed, pointing to the symbol it had drawn with the blood of her fellow. The succubus did as she was bade, pulling on the arcane chains that encircled the neck of each demon. They moved with reserved hatred and resentment, each more eager than the next to rip the very heart from the succubus, for it was she that had ensnared them with the bonds they wore. Once they were within the confines of the pentagram, the bonds vanished, and the succubus moved from the pentagram, not eager to be fed to the ravenous hunger of the demons.

Once free of their bonds, the demons hurtled themselves out of the pentagram, only to find that the edges of the unholy symbol were as walls to them. Once within, they could not escape, no matter their fury or their resolve.

Panthius made several more preparations, its mind awash with the pitfalls of what lay ahead. It had gathered enough power to release these lessers into the realms, about that much it was confident. Upon reaching the realms, the demons would be imbued with the overwhelming desire to gather the relics and return them to it. All should go as required, though it hated the idea of having so little control over its designs once the demons reached the realms. It could not be sure of what they did or if they were successful, until they returned to it. Only then would it know for certain if they had gathered that which it so greatly desired.

As the last preparations were made, Panthius began his casting, looking casually for the succubus that he knew lingered within.

As with her predecessor, it would have need of her shortly…

The shadow moved across the face of the realm that was the Uppland Forest, each step as light as falling leaf, each motion as invisible as the blowing wind. The relic keep was not far off, and he knew well enough his duty once he arrived. Of course, what he had come to do was illegal, if such things were defined by realm authority, but in truth, such was of no concern. His was a member of Shadowfire, and his leaders had asked him to do that which he was about.

Beyond law or common sense, he was loyal to his guildmates, though none other, save himself.

Eldorad made sure to stay hidden, not eager for any unwanted or undue attention. As he closed with the keep, the very air itself seemed to thicken with what he could only call vile intent. He could define neither its form nor its function, be he trusted his instincts enough to know that something was amiss.

The keep came clearly into view, and his heart grew cold with the sight that lay before him. Three demons, all easily ten foot high, with an aspect that would send most running in terror, were positioned at the keep doors, their talons and rage raking great gouges in the wood. They attacked the doors as things possessed, oblivious to all other distractions, all other concerns. All that appeared to be in their thoughts was breaking through into the relic keep proper.

Eldorad cursed out loud, though none but he could hear. It was unlikely that he could defeat even one of them in battle, let alone all three, though he knew that he had to gain entrance before they, for what else, he thought wryly, might they be there for? True, the relics might be dead, but if they could yet hold value to Midgard, was it so great a walk in logic that others might yet covet them as well?

Eldorad stole up the hill that housed the keep, his footsteps as light as he might make them. His invisibility was an asset in his profession to be sure, though he was not ready to gamble his very life that these demons would not see through it. As he moved up the hill, a great battle cry from behind him called his attention away. For an instant, his spirits were buoyed, for would that Albion or Hibernia were attacking! What joy he would gather from seeing his enemies sent to their deaths by the rampaging demons!

His hopes feel as quickly as they had risen, for he indeed recognized the small group of people that approached the keep, their intentions only too obvious. A small contingent of the Wrath of Asgard alliance had apparently been dispatched to see the demons put down, and they rushed into battle against the great beasts; or perhaps they were simply hunting in the area and happened upon them. It mattered little. They were rushing headlong into their deaths, no matter how they came to be there. All brass and blade to be sure, though Eldorad knew well enough how the battle would end.

He watched as the first arrow struck its target. The three demon’s turned as one, their blood red eyes alive with the hatred and malice that marked their time in the realm. They rushed the attackers, moving far faster than their aspect might have allowed. The battle lines had been clearly drawn, and the demons would offer no quarter in the fight to come.

Eldorad turned from the scene and ran to the keep wall, abandoning his invisibility in favor of the increased speed he would be afforded. Reaching the keep, the sounds of death ringing in his ears, he climbed the wall of the keep with a dexterity that most would envy. Once over the wall, he chanced a glance at the battle behind him.

He wished immediately that he hadn’t.

Easily half the attacking numbers, perhaps twenty in all, lay dead or dying. The demons appeared to have suffered no injuries, though each was covered in the blood of the dead. Those left alive battled on relentlessly, the deaths of their compatriots dissuading them not at all.

“Fools,” Eldorad whispered as he moved to the stair case that would take him to the relic room. He all but flew up the stairs, for he knew well enough that once the demons were through with the fodder that had attacked, they would be back at the doors, as eager to gain entry as he was to be away with his prize.

As he came into the relic room, he stopped suddenly, for the appearance of a spear at his throat took him completely by surprise.

The hunter that held the spear to him snarled in anger, pressing the tip lightly into his flesh. “I would have known that it would be an assassin to try and make off with the relic,” he hissed, his anger knowing no bounds. “What dog might you be to take advantage of a realm so beleaguered?”

Eldorad breathed in deeply, for he knew only too well how tenuous his position was. He was fast, of that there was no doubt, but fast enough to dodge a spear already pressed to his throat? He had no illusions in this, and much preferred to live through the circumstance.

“I am not here to pillage the relic, hunter, but to aid in its quickening.”

The hunter tilted her head quizzically, for while he did not want to believe that one of his realm would be so vile as to steal the relic, he could not afford the risk. “Why, assassin, should I believe you?”

Eldorad forced an ironic smile. “You have little choice, my friend. Your options are to either believe me, and lets both be away from this place, or kill me, and deal with the demons that are, as we speak, assaulting the keep doors.”

The hunter took on a panicked look for a moment, and ran to the window in the relic room. He closed his eyes, and faintly, from below, the sounds of the demons besieging the keep reached his sensitive ears.

As the spear was pulled from him, Eldorad considered hiding and making off with the relic, though in his heart he knew he could not do so and leave the hunter to such a fate. In truth, he would certainly do as much should the circumstance come to such, but they were not there yet.

“What do they want?” he gasped, her voice almost panicked. Eldorad threw him a sarcastic look, for while he sympathized with his reaction, the answer to his question was obvious.

“We have to go,” Eldorad said, moving to take the relic. Again the spear touched his throat, halting his motion once more.

The hunter looked him in the eye, and while he acknowledged the risk the assassin had taken in warning him of the danger, he was not yet convinced that he was as innocent or as honest as he might have him believe. “I shall carry the relic, assassin. Lead on.” With nary a word more, he took Thor’s Hammer from its resting place, and strapped it across his back, the weight of the artifact telling, though nothing that he could not bear.

Eldorad had to admit that he did not like the manner that the circumstance had taken, but he had precious little time to debate the matter. He was gone, down the stairs almost immediately, with the hunter close on his heels. Before long they had reached the wall over which he had climbed to gain entry. Both dropped over and to the ground, their natural abilities bearing them so without injury. They cloaked themselves in invisibility, and moved away from the keep, angling in front of the desecrated castle so that they might see the progress of the demons. Eldorad heard the sharp inhale of the hunter at the sight of the defeated attack force, their bodies bled and dismembered, the entire area covered in the blood of their realm mates.

They moved toward the Uppland gates, their prize firmly in hand, Eldorad gloating at the idea of the demons fighting their way into an empty keep, only to discover that the artifact they sought was no longer within.

As they approached the gates, they abandoned their invisibility and walked with purpose toward the realm proper.

“You have a cut about you, hunter,” Eldorad said, impressed not only by his courage and his dedication to the realm, but by his presence of mind. “I would have your name.”

The hunter paid the stable master the five silver pieces and hoisted himself onto the horse that would carry him. He looked at Eldorad with a thin smile creasing his features. It was a smile that promised no concession, though they had at least established that they did not and would not trust each other.

“My name is Hawkin,” he said with pride, and spurred his horse onward.

Lewstherin slammed his hand down on the casting table hard, the resultant vibration knocking over several vials of carefully concocted potions and spell components.

“Damn this relic!” he all but screamed, his frustration finally gathering the better of him. “Every spell we have tried has failed!” he hissed, his anger outstripping even his frustration.

Tylaara stood and stretched her back. As emotionally bound as Lewstherin was, she could not deny the truth of his words. Eldorad and the hunter called Hawkin had brought to them the relic, their task to determine why the relic was suddenly dead, and if possible, who was responsible. They had started their research and their castings the moment the relic had been delivered, and through the three days that had followed, they had been able to divine nothing.

Tylaara had to admit, she shared Lewstherin’s frustration.

“I am not sure where else we can look,” he said, his temper having faded. “There are no other spells that will even potentially work. We have prodded and cast; we have tested and more and we have nothing to show for it but our own failure.”

Tylaara nodded as she walked to the relic and looked at it for the thousandth time. What secret was it keeping from them? Who was responsible? She knew that the relic held the information; somehow the Hammer of Thor knew that which they needed to know. All they need do was discern the manner in which to pose the questions. Thus far, they had failed.

Dismally.

Tylaara looked about the small chamber they had managed to acquire for their purposes. It was no larger than the smallest bed chamber, the sheer proximity within testing the limits of their patience. The room was beneath the guard tower on the southern border of Gna Faste. Helphdane was able to arrange their use of the chamber with the realm guards that were stationed there, and while he had been sure that the guards could be trusted, he was equally sure that their trust would be lost if they knew for certain the truth of their circumstance. They had gone to great lengths to disguise the relic and see it within the tower unnoticed, and while they had been successful in this, they had been less so with the task at hand.

A sound from above called both Lewstherin and Tylaara to all but panic, trying as they would to hide the relic from whomever approached. The door opened gingerly, and there stood Tearor, his aspect as worrisome as theirs.

“How goes it?” he asked, his voice barely an audible whisper. He had to admit that he had no love for the lies they were telling, nor the crimes they committed, and while he understood the need, he had no want for the circumstance.

Tylaara shook her head. “We have tried all that we know, and we have discovered nothing. This relic holds a secret, that much is sure. How to gather it, let alone what it is, seems to be beyond us.”

Tearor sighed deeply. He had harbored great hope that Tylaara and Lewstherin might be able to pry free its secrets, for he had certainly no idea of where to turn next. These were among the most knowledgeable and talented magi in the realm. If they could not succeed, what hope remained?

“Well, we must know. We cannot risk returning the relic to the keep, that much is certain. If the tale the Eldorad has told is true, the demons will surely be searching for it. To return it there would be tantamount to offering it over, and that we will not do.”

Lewstherin looked to the relic, his heart breaking for the lifelessness it showed. “You don’t think…” His words faded off before he completed them, the sheer horror of the thought that had come to him making him regret the notion. He looked to Tylaara and Tearor both, the expectation in their eyes a simple thing to recognize. “You don’t think that the demons might come here looking for it…”

Tearor titled his head in a worrisome fashion. “We have thought of that, Lews, and have dispatched several Shadowfire to the Uppland and Yggdra gates. If they come looking for it, we will know, at least with time enough to…” This time it was Tearor’s turn to lose his thought. To what? Prepare a defense? Even if they could rally the numbers they would need to turn the demons away, they could not do so without alerting the realm to their deed. To run? That seemed nonsensical as well, though in his heart he knew that it may very well come down to that. With a resigned sigh, he looked to Tylaara and Lewstherin once more.

“We have to know the secrets held within,” he spoke, his voice as grave as their situation. “Keep working at it. If another full day passes and still we know nothing, then the council will meet and we will determine what to do.” As he turned to leave, his parting words chilled them to the bone.

“Find out, my friends. I do no think highly of our future if we fail.”

With that he was gone, the runemasters returning to their work, their sense of urgency increased to be sure. They wished their chances and hope for success were buoyed as well.

Panthius cursed his demonic blight to the depths of the labyrinth, his anger as powerful as he himself. The minions he had dispatched to the surface had returned in part, bringing to him some of that which he sought. Four days had passed since his sending, and with so much time gone by, he knew that the relics that had not been brought to him were removed somehow from the keeps, and his minions had been unable to find them.

He looked to the three relics that he had managed to gather, one, ironically enough, from each realm. He held thus far The Horn of Valhalla, Lug’s Spear of Lightning and the Scabbard of Excalibur. The three reaming artifacts were beyond his reach, and while he knew not why or where they were to be found, his minions would not stop their search until they discovered them and returned them to him.

He had been more than hopeful when the first of them had returned, for they had come with Lug’s Spear of Lightning and the Horn of Valhalla, both taken from the same Hibernian keep. As the time had passed however, he had grown more enraged, for it soon became clear that he would not gather all that he needed so easily.

The greater demon knelt within the pentagram, and projected his thoughts and his commands to the minions that remained yet without. They were thoughts of command and of urgency, but more than this, they were thoughts of threats and horrific punishments should they fail in their tasks.

The sun had crested the treeline of the Myrkwood Forest, throwing an early morning shadow across Gna Faste when the demons attacked.

Two in number, they descended on the small village as a plague, killing any and all that stood in their path. The screams of the dead and dying began to fill the air, for the demons knew only that their prize lay within. Where specifically was beyond them, which suited them well, for the more death they were able to deal, the more their heinous natures were fed.

Lewstherin and Tylaara heard the attack as clearly as they might their own death knell. They looked to each other with near panic, for while they knew well enough that the demons would be a time before discovering them, they knew with equitable clarity that that time would come.

“What to do?” Lews asked Tylaara, for her position on the council of Shadowfire gave her authority to command, considering the circumstance. Tylaara struck a thoughtful pose for a moment, trying to quell the terror that was running through her unchecked. They had to get the relic away from the city, but the doing of it would prove to be more of a challenge. No matter the difficultly, the relic would not be seen to safety through fear and wishful thinking.

She grabbed the relic, having to use both hands to pull it to her shoulder, and headed out of the small chamber. The wooden stairs they ascended groaned under their combined weight, and before long they reach the concealed door that would lead them to the city proper. With a push the door swung easily, if noisily, and they were within the tower, looking out upon the ravaged remains of Gna Faste. Bodies seemed to be everywhere, the demons indiscriminate in their killing. Tylaara chanced a look without, and saw that the demons were still destroying the northern building, which housed the vendors of the city as well as the vault keeper.

“We have to run,” she hissed, casting the magics that would see her quickly across the realm. “With me,” she commanded.

“No,” Lewstherin said, his voice deep with conviction. “Shadowfire will be here shortly, without doubt. I will stay and keep the beasts occupied. With their attentions on me, you will have a better chance of it.”

Tylaara looked to Lews, her first instinct to command him to come with her, out of the city and out of harm’s way, but she knew as well that she would not. He was right. The citizens of Gna would not be able to stand alone for long. Most of the worthiest warriors had been called to the frontier, chasing the Alliance Council’s command to man the borders. Shadowfire would arrive, no doubt, and Lew’s talents and skills would best be put to use guarding the escape of the relic.

Tylaara stammered her response, and while it broke her heart to command it, command it she did. “Hold them as long as you can. As soon as I am clear, run. Do not sacrifice yourself in this, my friend. Distract them and be gone.”

Lews smiled at her knowingly. Neither had any illusions about his chances of surviving the encounter, though he could accept it with resolve and aplomb. Without further word, Lewstherin threw himself into the city proper, a spell on his lips as he went.

Tylaara waited until the spell was cast, and then she ran, as fast as she was able. She did not risk looking back, for too important was her task. She had failed to discover the secrets of the relic. She swore she would not fail in this.

Her path carried her toward the werewolf fort, her first thought to hide within. She realized the folly of such an plan, for once the demons realized that the relic was not in Gna Faste, they would surely start searching again. It would only be a delay of the inevitable. She arched her course north and headed into Myrkwood forest, her magics moving her as though she rode a calming wind. The sounds of the destruction seemed to fade behind her, and after several long moments, she slowed to a stop, the weight of the relic bearing her down. Her breaths came is pained gasps, and she began to grow afraid. Where would she run that the demons would not follow? She knew that Spindelhalla lay ahead, but the collection of vile beasts that lay within would ravage her as easily as might the demons behind. She feel to her knees, real fear beginning to edge her thoughts and capture her attention.

Behind her, she thought that she heard the sounds of the demons approaching. She prayed that she was imagining such; that her fear had taken her to where her mind played jests upon her senses. She held her breath and concentrated, her head turned to the city she had left behind. A moment later, the unmistakable sound of a demon’s howl broke the relative silence of the forest, and she was to her feet again, moving away from the sounds that threatened to send her into madness. She could almost feel their breath upon her; sense their demonic talons ripping into her flesh and rendering her without thought, nor remorse. She ran as she had never run before, all with the knowledge that her death was assured. Ahead she could see the hills that separated Myrkwood from Skona Ravine. The sounds behind her grew more intense, and she knew she would never breach the hills before she was overtaken. In silent prayer and apology for her failure, she whispered her regret, and turned to face the death that she could not escape.

“Norseman….”

The sound was cold as the death the she knew awaited her, and she readied the spell that would see her defend her life. The demons were within view then, and her hands shook with the terror that threatened to consume her.

“Norseman….”

The sound came to her again, more insistent, and Tylaara realized for the first time that it was not a figment of her imagination. Her eyes darted from side to side, wondering what new evil had found her.

“Norseman….”

Tylaara turned sharply, only to see that an entrance had opened into the very side of the hill behind her, the darkness within as foreboding as they lands without. She looked over her shoulder to the demons that approached. They bore down upon her quickly, and with her options quickly narrowing, she threw herself into the darkness of the entranceway, for the evil that pursued her was death itself; the darkness was at least a chance to life.

As Tylaara Seryne was swallowed by the hills of Myrkwood Forest, the entranceway closed over as though a healing wound, leaving only the smell of her fear to mark that she had ever been there at all.

Hawkin and Eldorad stood on the border of Gna Faste, the water to their backs, as they looked out over the destruction that the demons had wrought. They had been resting in Galplen when the siege had begun, and by the time they had reached the small city, it was virtually in ruins, the death toll more than either cared to count. They stood motionless against the shore line, both too stunned to speak.

“By the Gods…” Helphdane muttered as he moved to stand beside them, he too having been abed in Galplen when the devastation was begun. The merchants of the city lay dead in their place, with the bodies of countless other travelers in their wake. “What could have done this…”

Eldorad looked to Helphdane, an almost angry look upon his face. “What think you, troll? A strong wind??”

Helphdane ignored the kobold and moved forward, each step taken as gingerly as though the entire city were blown glass, and to step too harshly would see it shattered further. As the moments passed, the other members of Shadowfire began to arrive, none of them having been able to reach the city before the damage was complete.

Helphdane moved with the other through the city, looking for any who might have survived. It seemed impossible, for too complete was the attack; too effective the killing. Helphdane lost count of the bodies he discovered, and he knew then that the story Eldorad and Hawkin had told him about the demons at the relic keep were true enough indeed.

Helphdane looked to the borders of the city, his eyes searching for any sign of the demons, for he knew well enough that only beasts such as these could perpetrate the atrocities before him. “Eldorad, scout the forest beyond Gna. Make sure we are safe.”

Hawkin turned to Eldorad, hoping that the seasoned assassin could use his talents in what he was commanded, but before he could speak a word, Eldorad had slipped into the shadows and was gone.

“Over here!” came a yell from the guard tower, and all those of Shadowfire ran, each hoping upon hope that they would find one, if only one, alive.

Zandra, a dwarven healer of remarkable ability, knelt on the ground, Lewstherin’s head resting in her lap. Tearor looked on, his face twisted with concern. “How is he?”

Zandra nodded with a half-smile, her hands moving to cast the spell that would see his wounds healed. Lewstherin’s wounds seemed to close over of their own accord, and all breathed a sigh of relief, though his eyes remained closed. “He needs to rest,” she said, calling for Rokks to carry him into the tower.

“See if there are other wounded,” Tearor commanded, sending Shadowfire to the search, each praying that they might find another who had the strength of will to survive the attack.

Silence swept over the small city, as though it were a death shroud. Tearor, Rokks and Helphdane all felt the responsibility. That the demons had come after the relic was obvious; what was not so clear was their accountability for the happening. It had been they who had called for the capture of the relic and its transport to Gna Faste. Was it not then for them to shoulder the blame for the attack on the city? Each knew that they had followed their hearts and their loyalties to the realm, yet this was cold comfort in the face of the destruction they had called to their home.

They might have languished in their own guilt for all of times had Eldorad not run back into the small city.

“Tearor,” he called out, his voice breathless in panic.

Tearor looked to the assassin, his eyes demanding explanation for his dread. At Eldorad’s explanation, he wished that he had never given the order to retrieve the relic.

“The demons return.”

Tylaara blinked several times, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the light. She tried to swallow her fear, and convince herself that she was safe from the demons, if only for the moment. She was laying on the dirt of the realm, she knew, though at that moment, she was grateful to be alive, regardless of where she found herself.

“He...hello?” she called out hesitantly, wishing she could see more clearly. A figure loomed before her in the darkened tunnel, though she could not make out specifics. “Who are you? I want to thank you for your aid…”

The form before her hissed a sound that was more animal than man, derision evident in its pitch. “Norsemen hunt and killen mine own. Norseman want to see’en me dead. Now, norseman want to thanken me and mine own. Norseman hides not worthen the skinning.”

Tylaara looked hard, wishing for all the realm that more light would answer her want to know this stranger’s identity. She had never heard the voice before, and she had no idea of who she faced.

“I would not see you dead, for you have honored me with my life. Whatever…whoever you are, I will always thank you for that.”

A chilling laugh echoed through the small hallway, and suddenly a torch was ignited. Tylaara covered her eyes to shield them from the painful illumination, and she all but jumped back at the sight of he who was before her.

“Why you be’en scared, norseman? Is the sight of Dreadkane Dwarfeater too much for see’en through norseman eyes?”

Tylaara whispered another prayer, for she knew not if she had escaped death, or had fallen headlong into it…

Tearor let Eldorad’s warning settle over him for a moment, saying a silent prayer that they might survive the confrontation that seemed then inevitable. “How long?” he demanded, his eyes searching the Myrkwood Forest for any sign of the invaders.

“Moments, no more!” Eldorad called back, moving to the tree line and blending into the shadows as he spoke.

“Form lines!”

Helphdane’s voice thundered across the face of Gna Faste, sending Shadowfire to battle. Helphdane, Rokks, Dreadgar, Liannor, Kalda, Non and Maugan all formed the facing line, their weapons drawn. Behind them stood Icronius, Taysha, Zandra, Dnai and Marcher, their spells at the ready. Helphdane knew as well that Deceon, Ronin, Eldorad and Cogito were hidden about, and could be counted upon in the coming fight to hold their own.

An eerie silence fell across the ruined city as Shadowfire waited in readied, if not eager anticipation. They had not been long together as a guild, but long enough to have fought together; long enough to know what they were, as a group, capable of. There was no doubt in any of their minds that they would see this battle to its end, and would stand on the side of victory.

As though a whisper at first, the sound of the approaching enemy quickly grew to a thunderous pitch. The demons had been denied their prize, and were retuning to Gna it seemed, to exact their vengeance on any who might yet live.

A thin smile crossed Helphdane’s trollish features. This was no sleeping citizenry the demons would be facing, to be sure. This was a battle hardened group, their experience and their abilities beyond reproach. The demons would surely know that they had been in a fight this day, and while he was not sure that Starfire would walk free of the battle without life lost, he knew that his faith and in pride in the guild would be justified. Of that, there was no question.

The sounds of bows being taken to full drawn, the wooden shafts sliding along the arrow rests of the best archers in the land bolstered everyone’s confidence, for they knew then that Deceon, Ronin and Hawkin had scouted ahead.

The hunters had found the demons.

Demonic roars followed the deathly whisper of the bows, the arrows streaking toward their targets. The three hunters wasted no time in self-congratulations, despite all of their arrows finding their marks. Each of the demons were struck with the deadly arrows, though both shrugged off the attacks as though they were nothing more than an annoyance. The hunters exchanged worried glances, and hid once more, moving back to the border of the city and readying themselves for the battle proper.

Helphdane stood before the line of warriors and thanes, skalds and berserkers, his eyes scanning the tree line. He knew that the enemy was not far off, and an instant later he was proven correct. The demons broke through the tree line with reckless abandon, and turned their courses to meet the Shadowfire contingency head on. The warriors saw the arrows streaking into the demons from the sides of the forest, and all were equally dismayed to see the demon’s reactions. Again, the arrows were ignored, and the demons turned their attentions to those that stood before them.

Tearor took a moment as they demons made their appearance to take stock of them fully, for the first time. These stood easily twice the height of the tallest troll, their obvious strength and power awe-inspiring to be sure. They bore no weapons, but from the look of their talons, and the cut of their aspect, none were needed. Black as night, in appearance and intent, Tearor knew well enough that the very lives of the guild members might be forfeit in the coming battle. It was almost enough to bring him to call a retreat.

Almost.

“Attack!”

Helphdane’s command echoed profound fear through all who heard it, though not one hesitated. The front line hurtled themselves into the demons, hammers, swords and axes arching through the air toward their intended victims. Rokks led the charge, his magical abilities carrying him to the demons on the wings of the wind. The moment he was close enough, he unleashed his arcane attacks, the fight nearly taken from him as he watched the demon shrug off the magics, and turn to fight. A great, muscled fist was thrown at the skald, and even his enhancements were not enough to spare him. The huge fist collided with him solidly, and he was lifted high into the air, crashing into the ground some thirty feet away. An impressive display, though the skald was not conscious to appreciate it. He lay one the ground, unmoving, as the rest of the guild moved in to attack.

Icronius looked on as Rokks was sent from the battle, a rage building deep within. He had known the skald for many years, and to see him taken in battle so blithely sent the spiritmaster to the limits of his restraint. With the wave of his hand, and the whispering of a magical enchantment, a spirit warrior was summoned from the nether realms, linked to Icronius and pledged to do his bidding. Without further thought, Icronius sent the sprit into battle, hoping upon hope that a creature of the nether world might affect the huge beasts.

Such was not the case.

The moment that the spirit engaged the demon, Icronius began to cast spell after spell, praying that one of them might affect the great monster. He most powerful incantations seemed to be completely without effect, unless enraging the demons could be so defined. He whispered a curse to himself, and wondered truly how they were going to find victory this day.

Helphdane reached the nearest of the demons, momentarily hesitant for the futility of their attacks thus far, but his hesitation faded as quickly as it had come. With his hammer swinging, he waded into the battle, taking stock of his target and picking his point of attack, he swung. The hammer whistled as it hurtled into the demon’s knee, the solid crack of shattering bone echoing through the entire area. All in Shadowfire saw the attack, and their resolve was buoyed by the crippling of the demon. They all surged forward, more confident than ever that they would win the day.

Helphdane, Dreadgar and the rest of the front line hammered at the demons with fury and rage unmatched. The demons fought back, sending several of them reeling with the intensity of their assault, though it was Liannor that paid the greatest price. In her battle rage, she captured the form of a Vendo, the huge bear-like visage slashing at the demons with her swords, gathering more than demon-blood for her efforts. The demon she attacked raised a great fist and lay it across her with resounding effect. She felt herself rise from the ground and all but fly through the air, her consideration such that she were an angel, lifted from the battlefield by the Gods themselves. Her entire realm went black as she landed heavily in the debris of one of the buildings, her head striking a fallen pillar. She lapsed into unconsciousness, her final thought one of confusion and misrepresented hope.

Cogito moved silently and invisibly behind one of the demons, his blades finding their way free of their scabbards. He felt a twinge of fear, perhaps for the first time his in life, for as an assassin he had killed many from the enemy realms, but they were kills he was reasonably assured of. This was a different matter entirely. His blades were coated with the deadliest of poisons, and yet he wondered if such as these would even be affected by them, if they did not thrive on the vile liquid. Still, the time for hesitation and regret was passed. All that was left was the doing of it. With a word to his God, Cogito released his invisibility and slashed at the beast before him, all of his strength and command saturating the attack.

The demon howled in agony as the shadow blade’s swords bit into its flesh. The poison ran through it unchecked, and while it was not in danger of succumbing to its effects, it certainly could feel the pain that would herald such an end. It ignored the anguished burning coursing through it, and turned its attentions back to the shadow blade, eager to mete out vengeance in full for the attack. Cogito saw it turn and made to escape, though the demon was the quicker. It’s hand moved faster than the eye could follow and struck the shadow blade squarely across the back, sending him screaming to the ground. He rolled onto his back and brought the swords to bear on the demon, knowing that his time was through. The demon would see him dead, and all that he could do was to wish better for his friends.

Suddenly, the demon howled in agony again, and Cogito looked over to see two arrows protruding from it’s back. Both Ronin and Deceon could be seen to either side of the demon, knocking their arrows once more and readying a second shot. More than this though, the demon had reacted to the second set of shadow blade weapons cutting into it flesh and muscle. Eldorad had appeared as well, and immediately set to work on the demon, determined to see it put down for once and all times. Cogito threw the pain aside and was on his feet again, the courage of his friend bolstering his own. With hated eyes and blades as cold as his heart, Cogito moved in to see the demon dead.

Shadowfire pushed forward, each circumstance of watching a guild mate fall to one or both of the rampaging demons only spurring their resolve even further. The demons responded with a defined counterattack, both sides as determined as the other to see their enemies put down.

As another Shadowfire fell, Helphdane chanced a quick glance at Tearor. They were, all of them, outmatched, and while Helphdane and the others had succeeded in injuring their enemies, there was no manner that he could see that would send them back to the Abyss, and that, he feared was the only manner of ridding the realm of such as these.

Maugan was the next to fall, the demon he battled having struck a blow to his head that would have killed any but a troll. As it was, he was knocked senseless, paying for the attack with a good deal of blood.

Helphdane watched as he fell, and wondered where then, was the hope.

Tylaara moved back, the aspect of the arachite warlord unnerving her, to say the least. Her hands lifted before her, the phrases of a spell falling across her lips, and while she could not say what held her from completing the casting, held she was, norsewoman and arachite facing the other down. She had known of Dreadkane Dwarfeater ever since she was a child raised in the Vale of Mularn. He was a cunning foe, responsible for taking the arachites and raising them from an unorganized, disjointed annoyance to a well ordered force that had come to challenge even the werewolves for control of Myrkwood Forest. The wolves had been driven back to Skona Ravine, save for those that had found sanctuary within the fortress near Gna Faste, and the arachites had taken virtual control of Myrkwood and Spindelhalla. Were it not for the civilized races of Midgard, the arachites would surely have taken the whole of the southern region of the realm completely. Dreadkane Dwarfeater was more than an arachite of common ancestry. Through some circumstance, arcane or otherwise, he had been gifted with intellect and cunning both, though neither matched his ferocity and sheer brutality in battle. All tolled, it was a frightening combination.

“Be off with yer’en casting, norseman,” the arachite hissed, his intentions seeming benign for the moment, if not trustworthy. “I am not bring’en you here to have’en you cast yer spell’ens.”

Tylaara held her hands firm, refusing, for the moment at least, to let her spell fall from her lips. “Then why have you brought me here? Why help me escape from what I faced?”

Dreadkane laughed a piercing, hollow laugh. “Why you think’en it you that I be’en save? So arrogant you be’en…”

Suddenly the relic that Tylaara carried across her back seemed very heavy indeed. The magical energy that crackled across her fingers for the spell she held was something more comforting than it had been a moment before. She had never battled this arachite, nor had she any desire to in such close quarters, and she prayed that this confrontation would not come down to that.

“If not, then why aid me? What is it that you want?” She spoke her questions, knowing full well the answer before they were asked , but wanting to hear the words just the same. The arachite laughed in response, the sound raking across Tylaara like a dagger across bone.

“You know why I help’en you, caster. Give me what you have’en, and you can go’en free.” His voice fell to a threatening murmur, his intentions only too clear. Tylaara had been worried that this would come to a fight for the relic, and her fears, it seemed, were about to be realized. The arachite lifted all four of its arms in a threatening gesture, and Tylaara renewed the spell she was to cast, for the confrontation seemed then inevitable.

“Dreadkane, hold your place.”

This new voice was more threatening than the arachite’s to be sure, though the dim illumination did not allow Tylaara to see who uttered the words that very well may have saved her life. She looked to Dreadkane Dwarfeater, and was almost shocked to see him abandon his confrontational posture, and near-cower in the aftermath of the words spoken.

Tylaara looked toward the voice in confused wonder. Who would have such effect over this, the most ruthless of all arachites? Should she be grateful or afraid?

Slowly, the newcomer walked into the light, and Tylaara took stock of him for the first time. He was a dwarf, unassuming in appearance. He wore chain mail armor that had obviously seen better days, and he looked as though he had been living wild for a time. He held the countenance of one who had seen much in his long life, and had been defeated for the horror of it all. More than one scar marred his face, and the swords that lay upon his waist and across his back lent themselves to the telling of a tale of one who was no stranger to battle, nor to victory.

The dwarf stopped short of where Tylaara stood, his back, she took notice, to the arachite. He bowed deeply, though she sensed that it was more out of formality than anything else.

“My name, dear lady, is Gerik, and we have much to discuss.”

The battle went poorly for Shadowfire.

More than half their numbers had fallen, the demons having rallied and taken the offensive. Zandra, Taysha, Dreadgar, Cogito, Ronin and more lay injured and unmoving on the battlefield, and the others, while laying forth a valiant effort, knew in their hearts that the battle was lost.

Helphdane called the order to pull back, and the demons, injured for the moment, though only barely so, did not pursue as the remaining members of Shadowfire grouped at what was left of the guard tower.

“This day is lost,” Hawkin said matter of factly, for while he was not a member of the guild, he had certainly fought with their valor and resolve, but he had seen enough warfare in his life to know that they were defeated.

“The hell ye be sayin’!” Deceon all but screamed, his bow moving threateningly in Hawkin’s direction. The dwarf’s mind was on the battle at hand, though his heart and his passion for the fight was fueled by the memory of his beloved Zandra falling to the demon’s ire. He cared little for the decision of the guild. He would see this fight to its end.

“Hawkin is right,” Helphdane said, his eyes never leaving the demons, who were obviously preparing themselves for their next assault. He could see the confidence in their pose, and they knew as well as he that the battle was theirs. “Our losses number too many. We cannot hope to win.”

Tearor nodded, though his thoughts were not with victory. “And so we know that we shall die should we fight on, but think on this my friends. Once they are past this city, what then they? Galplen is my guess, and there are more than a few buildings and merchants there. Families live in that city. Children play in the forests. How will they fare when the demons come to call?”

A dread silence fell over the small group, edged with a sense of urgency. They knew that the demons would not wait long before attacking again. Whatever Shadowfire was to do, they had to be quick about the decision.

Tearor looked to all of them, their faces as lost in anger as in defeat. The silence reigned for a moment longer before Tearor took it over. “Hawkin,” he spoke gravely, “I would ask that you go to Galplen. Call them to abandon the city. Lead them north to Ft. Atla. They will be safer there. I know I cannot command you to obey, but I ask you to do as I bid.”

Hawkin nodded slowly. He had come to know these as valiant warriors in his time among them and through the battle at hand. He would do as he was bid, and be proud for it.

“What of all of you?” he asked, afraid of the answer he knew he would hear.

Tearor responded by drawing his axes, their blades glistening in the shadowed light. He looked to these, his friends, and one at a time, they all reacted in kind. “We will hold them here as long as we can. Go Hawkin, and see that we do not die in vain.”

With a prayer for their lives and their blessings in the afterlife, Hawkin was away, moving toward Galplen as quickly as he was able.

Tearor stepped out and faced the demons, Shadowfire moving with him. “Once more then my friends, unto death!” He screamed his rallying cry to the realm, all of their hearts filled with the want to give their lives for the greater good.

As one, they charged the demons, knowing that they rushed into the mouth of Hel itself. The demons stood in calmed anticipation, more than willing to send them there. The battle lines were drawn, with no quarter offered nor accepted.

Helphdane smile with pride and conviction. It would be a good death...

Part 5

The chamber that Gerik had taken Tylaara was modest, by the most forgiving standards. Carved from the dirt beneath the realm, it was reinforced with wooden planks whose function was to prevent the outer realm from caving in on the unsuspecting occupant. Tylaara knew that such was so, for they were certainly not there for their aesthetic qualities. The hollow was large enough to be sure, though Tylaara could not claim to be any more at ease with her situation for that.

Gerik cleared the myriad papers and parchments from a crudely fashioned chair and motioned for Tylaara to sit. She did as she was bade, though she had to admit she was more than a little anxious. Who was this Gerik? What was his connection to Dreadkane Dwarfeater? Why was the arachite so intent upon gathering the relic? Her head swam with all the questions that were settling over her. She only hoped that her present circumstance would offer her an answer.

“You must have a thousand questions,” he spoke, Tylaara noticing for the first time that Gerik spoke with a Norseman’s accent. Every other dwarf she had ever known spoke thickly, with the accent of their ancestors. This dwarf was becoming more and more of a mystery as time went to. “I will try and answer them as best I can,” he continued, the resolve in his voice unmistakable, “but I must be up front with you. I need that relic that you carry, as do you, more than you know.” Tylaara felt a shiver run down her spine as Dreadkane hissed his approval at Gerik’s comment. She wondered how she would fight free if it came to such, but she shelved her concern for the moment, deciding to see which direction the circumstance would turn.

Gerik looked to Tylaara and chuckled lightly. “Don’t worry, M’lady. I am not the sort that Dreadkane here is. It is not my way to kill or even injure someone for my own purposes.”

“I admit that I am relieved, to a degree, but if not to force the relic from me, why have you brought me here?”

Gerik stood silently in front of a huge table for a long moment before answering. Finally he lifted his head to look at her, a worrisome look crossing his features. “What I am about to explain to you is unbelievable, even to me. I will tell you what I know, you will discount it, and I will tell you the truth of it again. I only pray that you finally understand.”

Tylaara could hear the defeat in his voice, as though he had played this tune before to a crowd that refused to dance. She moved to stand beside him and looked at the huge parchment laid out on the table. It was a crudely drawn pictorial representation of a gigantic underground cavern, larger by scale than any she had ever seen before. Seemingly hundreds of hideous creatures swarmed the cavern, each more disgusting than the last. The main focal point of the picture, however, was a huge, cloven hoofed monstrosity that stood to the rear of the cavern, the other beasts cowering before it. Tylaara could not help but inhale sharply at the images that the drawing provoked in her mind.

Gerik nodded to her response. “I know. It is horrific. But this,” he said as he pointed to the giant atrocity, “this is why I need that relic you carry.”

Tylaara strained to understand, but in the end, its made no sense, and she told as much to Gerik.”

Gerik sighed. “Forgive me. I move too quickly and explain too little. Please be patient with an old dwarf, and I will do what I can to make you understand.” Tylaara moved to sit, eager to hear the tale, any tale, that could justify the images running through her mind.

Gerik walked the chamber for a time, letting his thoughts gather before beginning. Finally, he turned, sat opposite Tylaara and spoke, his voice thick with portent. “The realms we live within have existed here for thousands upon thousands upon thousands of years, though not for all times in the state they do now. Always have they been separate, yes, but it was only recently, within the last five thousand years, that we have learned of the magical arts enough to allow transport between the realms. In the beginning, before the realm wars, emissaries were sent from all three realms to negotiate with the others; to try and begin what could be called an alliance of sorts. Back then, no one wanted blood. No one wanted war. Ironic, don’t you think, that this is all we have accomplished?” Gerik paused a moment, the irony of it all frustrating him. After a time, he continued. “The cavern in the picture is a real enough place, as are its denizens. It is a land buried far beneath the realms, hidden from the prying eyes of humanity. The demon you see portrayed there is a vile one, by the name of Panthius. Where it originated, no one can know. Hel; Valhalla, Heaven. Mayhap the Gods themselves can know, but this is information is lost to time, and the arrogance of the Gods. All that matters is that once, a thousand thousand years ago, it escaped its home. Somehow it gathered enough magical power to move into another sphere of existence. Ours, to be precise. Once here, it wreaked havoc across all the realms, moving as it would from one to the other, as easily as we might across a stream. Many though that all was lost; that Panthius would see the realms to their destruction, or worse, enslavement.”

Gerik paused for a moment to observe Tylaara. She was passive in her stance, though completely attentive. He had her attention, if not her trust. Hoping for that as well, he pressed on.

“Even though the negotiations between realms were in their infancy, the realms knew that they could not defeat Panthius independently. It was too strong; too powerful; too hateful. But together, together they might hold hope to see it put down. The scholars of the time knew of the caverns even then, and more, had found passage within. The realm untied in a glorious battle with Panthius, that lasted, according to legend, better than a year. Finally, though valor, courage and power alone, they managed to lure the demon into the giant cavern. Once within, the magi of all three realms combined their power in a sealing enchantment that would imprison Panthius within for all of time. Their casting was successful, and Panthius’ reign of terror was ended.”

Gerik stopped again, his own emotions getting the better of him, as they always did when he told or even thought of the history he was revealing. “Legend holds that one of the heroes of the conflict, a very powerful mage named Cassisius, watched the enchantment seal the demon within, and then uttered the words, Darkness Falls. He meant to infer the end of the dark one, but those two words so suited the horrific incident, that the cavern below was dubbed Darkness Falls. To this day, Panthius is sealed within, his evil contained.”

Tylaara closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather sense from the tale she had been told to the relic she carried across her back. “A fine tale, Gerik, but what matter has it to this? Why tell it to me now?”

Gerik grew even more somber, if such were possible. “Ever since his imprisonment within Darkness Falls, Panthius has been searching for a manner of escape; a way to be free of the damning darkness and lifelessness to which he had been condemned. Make no mistake, he has grown in power and in intellect. He knows how to be free of that place, and he has planned his revenge for countless centuries. Imagine then the havoc to be wrought should he make good on his plans and see himself free. What price would you pay to prevent such a happening?”

Tylaara could not even think of the expanse of horror that would be unleashed should the demon free himself. Still, her question remained unanswered…

“The relics,” Gerik whispered. “They are the most powerful source of magic in the realms, these or any other. Panthius has managed already to drain them of their power, and capture it for his own. That is why the relics now stand dead. All he now needs is the relics themselves, for they still hold power yet, within the very wood and tempered steel of their forms. The relic’s power will fuel his casting. The relics themselves are the key to his escape. Without them; all of them, he cannot find his way free.”

Again Tylaara found the weight of the relic more than she could bear. That she might hold the only bond that stayed the demon to the under-dark was an unnerving reality to be sure. “And what is your intention now, dwarf?”

Gerik moved to stand before Tylaara, her fear that he might take from her the relic coursing through her, no matter her intention to hold it still. She looked into his eyes as he approached her, those eyes alive with the plead he was to cast upon her. “My intention is to see Panthius dead, one time and for all.”

Helphdane heard the thunderous clash of Shadowfire and demon; of flesh and demon-flesh; of humanity and hideousness. The battle would be over in a moment, he knew, with the power so clearly on the side of the demons.

The troll thane looked on as though through the haze of a dream. It must be so, he reasoned, for fate is never so forgiving. He blinked his eyes several times to force reality to side within him again, but it was no use. The vision of a hundred or more warriors breaking through the northern tree line was there before him, and there was no denying it.

Ulysseus, Kalimon, Elof, Seven, Wargolem,. Davros, Othim, Bankok, Alki, Mamimal – they came by the numbers, the news of the demons having spread through the realm like wildfire. Every guild of note was represented in the onslaught; Wrath of Asgard, Odin’s Fury, Equinox, Harmonium, Fires of Valhalla, Iron Wolf, The Unforsaken Souls and countless more had answered the call to defend the realm. Helphdane could not help but laugh as the reinforcements hurtled themselves into battle against the demons. Many fell to lay with the fallen of Shadowfire, but the sheer ferocity of the attack, combined with the overwhelming numbers began to turn the tide of the battle. The demons began to fall back, their every movement tainted with fear; their every step marked with the defeat that was now truly inevitable. When the first of the great beasts succumbed finally to inevitability, a cheer of euphoria erupted through the masses, and everyone turned their attentions to the last of the two. It had witnessed the death of its brethren, and the sight only spurred it on to greater heights of fury. Dozens more Midgard fell to the remaining demon, but in the end, its fate was sealed. After what seemed eternity, it too gave way beneath the avalanche of sheer and raw power, moving to join its fellow in the cursed afterlife that awaited.

The combatants one and all sent a cheer across the lands that would could help buyt be heard. They had won a victory this day, they knew, that the skalds would sing of for centuries to come.

The lone voice of detachment was Tearor’s. He knew that they had won a great victory indeed, but these demons did not wander blindly into their realm. Their power was great, no question, but he doubted seriously if it was at all comparable to that of they who had orchestrated the assault.

The side of the righteous had won this day.

Tomorrow, he feared, would tall a different tale indeed.

Gerik was in earnest, she could then see. She knew not what he would beg of her, but she knew that whatever it was, it would be asked in solemn aspect.

“M’lady, I have a manner about me. I know what we need to do to see the demon defeated, but it is more than I can do alone. You see, I have studied the relics and their power for years. It is all that has consumed me and taken its toll within me. I am shunned by my family, by my guild. That is why I have allied myself with the arachites. They are vicious and aggressive in the extreme, but they are loyal followers. If it were not for them, I could not have gathered the information I now possess. The relic in and of itself, holds enough power to carry three of our realm mates into the pits of Darkness Falls. If we had both relics, we could send more, but we do not, and we do not have the time to seek it out.”

Tylaara took a hesitant step back. “Go into Darkness Falls? With the demon? Are you mad, dwarf?”

Gerik sighed deeply. “No M’lady, I am only too sane. It is the only way. We cannot hope to hide the relic from Panthius forever. The demons that we saved you from are ample evidence of that. The only hope we have is to go into Darkness Falls and see him defeated before he escapes.”

Tylaara breathed deeply for a moment. “Gerik, this is madness. You cannot do this alone. I cannot aid you in it. Have you spoken to the Alliance Council?”

Gerik laughed out loud. “The council … too many times over the years have I asked them for aid; asked them to listen to the wisdom I speak, for their own good and that of the realm. How many times was I laughed out of Jordheim for my heretical theories and insane suggestions? No M’lady. The council would only talk and in the end, do nothing. I must see this done, and I shall, alone if needs be.”

Tylaara had to hang her head. She had seen enough dealings with the council to know that their intentions were only the best, but their actions were for their own designs. It was not hard for her to believe that they would not aid in such an undertaking. In their defense however, she was not sure that she should either. “What do you want from me?”

Gerik smiled thinly. He had at least persuaded her to listen, and that was more than he had expected. “I am an old man, Tylaara. I cannot make this journey, though for all the realm I wish that I could. You are young, and you are powerful. More than this, your friends are powerful as well. I need you to find me the two who are willing to make this journey. Somewhere in the realm there must be two who are not afraid, and would believe this to be the greater good.”

Tylaara tiled her head in question. “Two? You said that the relic could carry three…”

Gerik nodded. “Indeed, but I have already pacted with the arachites. Their part of the bargain we have struck is that Dreadkane Dwarfeater attend the company that breaches the pit.”

The very idea of allying with the arachites was unthinkable, she knew, but to have the most dread arachite of the race entrusted with such a role? Tylaara knew that, even if Gerik’s plan was enacted, the arachite’s presence would complicate matters considerably. Still, she repressed her concerns, for the moment, for there was yet much to be discussed. She could hear the desperation in his voice, and while she knew that finding those who were willing to make the journey would not be their greatest problem, convincing them, or anyone, of Gerik’s claims might be. She had to admit that she was not yet fully convinced that it was the truth, but considering the madness at hand, and the things she had witnessed of late, she could afford to discount nothing.

Tylaara stood, nodding slowly. “I will speak with the other leaders of the guild. I cannot promise anything, beyond that they will listen.”

Gerik smiled as he rose. “That is all that I can ask. M’lady.” Gerik hesitated, and while it was obvious that there was more that he wanted to say, he was unsure of the wisdom in doing so.

Tylaara smiled. “Speak it, my friend.”

Gerik firmed his resolve, and did as she bade. “M’lady, I would ask one more boon of you. The relic that you carry…it would benefit my studies and our cause if I could but hold it for a time. I have never had the opportunity to examine one so closely. If you could see you way clear to leaving it with me, I would be much in your debt.”

Tylaara was torn. She, and many others, had risked much to see it safe. To so blithely give it over to Gerik, little more than a stranger, seemed unwise at best, and foolhardy at worst. “I am sorry Gerik, but too much has been risked in its protection. I am afraid it is a venture that I cannot take. I hope you understand.”

Gerik nodded. “I do, and I hope you understand what I must do. I too seek the safety of the relic, and while I will not take it from you, I must see to its protection. Dreadkane will accompany you on your sojourn back to Gna Faste, and will remain with you until you return to me. If the relic comes to danger, he will take it and see it safe. If that should happen, know that you can find it here, for here is where he shall return. Fair enough?”

With an apprehensive glance at the arachite, Tylaara nodded. In truth, what choice did she have? Still, she wondered with a bemused afterthought of the reaction her guild mates would have to her sauntering back into Gna with the arachite leader in tow.

That is, she realized with pained concern, if any of Gna Faste had survived

2002-05-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

Honor Bound

Windrunner knelt on the ground outside of the Albion Portal Keep in Odin’s Gate, his eyes closed in holy reverence, his sword laid out before him in silent witness to that which he had come to do. Never in all his days had he thought he would come to this, and he was not yet sure he could do that which called to him, and yet there he was, present for no other purpose than this.

He had been born to the farms and fields near Camelot city, and had seen the parades of paladins and clerics, friars and more moving through the streets of the huge metropolis. As a child he had stood and watched them with awe and wonder, his young eyes wide to the promise of glory and battle that were whispered in the wind as they passed him by, each looking more stately and majestic than the last. Their swords gleamed in the midday sun, their maces hanging by their sides like loyal servants and followers, eager to carry their wielder to the fields of conflict, and show their enemies the true heart of Albion.

How long had he stayed on those days, eager for each glimpse, wanting of every moment that he could spare to be in their company. Even on such days, no more than a child rushing headlong into manhood, he knew that he had wanted to be among them; to be one of them. The realm wars were upon them even then, demanding sacrifice and threatening the peace of Albion. Had the realm wars not existed, he would have dreamed as he had, for it was not the death of Albion’s enemies that spurred him forward. He found no joy in killing, or in risking death himself. His passion was in defending that which he loved, not killing that which he hated.

So it was that he passed into the ranks of the paladin, eager to learn all that the order had to offer him. He was a student of exemplary resolve, and excelled in all aspects of his training, from theories of warfare to theology; from inflicting wounds of savage interest to raising the newly fallen from death itself. Upon his confirmation into the ranks of the paladin, the elders knew that they had found one of unsurpassing respect and commitment; one to whom the heart of the realm could rest easily beside. He loved Albion as few they had known, and his honor would carry that love to the battlefield.

The weeks and years went on for him then, though even at his first conflict he knew that he was not as the others. Even the other paladins seemed different to him, not in look or ability or resolve, but in concept. War, he knew, was nothing more than disagreement gone mad. It was a realm’s resolve in place of an individuals; it was a world torn asunder in the eye of the maelstrom. He knew in his heart that it was not the Midgard horde nor the Hibernians that he fought, though they certainly felt the kiss of his blade more than once. No, they might have wielded the swords, but at the end of the battle, they were not his enemy.

His enemy, and the enemy of them all was one far greater, far more dangerous, far more cunning than either of the realms they opposed. This enemy knew the weaknesses of men and dwarf and elf and exploited that weakness at every turn. No, the true enemy was an enemy of them all.

It was ignorance.

It was greed.

It was avarice and hubris and every other character flaw that turned the realms against each other.

This was the common enemy. This was what they had to see defeated, else suffer the ignominious fate that awaited them all, for what true end could there be to the realm wars? Surrender? If Midgard and Hibernia were peopled with those of similar resolve, then this was simply not an option. Defeat? With the Gods holding the wars from the realms proper, true defeat was not possible, neither was true victory.

What then? Condemned to battle through the ages and through eternity, forever killing and killing again?

Windrunner had spent his entire adult life trying to educate his fellows, preaching that those they cut down in battle served not Albion’s victory, but only the victory of their common foe; that to kill another was a sin, yes sometimes necessary, but a sin just the same. How many times had he been laughed at; how many times had his thoughts been ridiculed in the face of what he believed with all of his heart?

In truth, he could not know.

There were so few that he could talk to about these things anymore. He had felt alone; isolated; desolate. In a realm full of people and a frontier full of enemies, he had no one who seemed to understand him. The only true friend he had found was another paladin named Brandt; brash and strong of arm, they had fought may battles together, and won many victories. He was of a like mind, and he too had watched while too many, in every realm, swung their weapons in want of their own bloodlust, instead of love for their realm.

Windrunner had come to Odin’s Gate that very morning with a warring party, all eager to see Midgard blood taken on their own soil. At first, he had declined the invitation, for he had no want to hunt an enemy on their own soil. To face one in honored battle was one thing; to hunt them down like animals on their own ground was another. It was then that he had been commanded by the elders in the church to accompany them, for they had no cleric nor friar, and the church elders felt that a pious presence was needed in the group, if only to keep those present from the temptations that so commonly afflict warriors on the hunt.

They had traveled past the Mile Gate when the scout spotted the enemy. A lone troll warrior, hunting the beasts of the land. They had set upon him as a pack of ravaged wolves, each more eager than the last it seemed, for the blood of their enemy.

And blood there was, to be sure. Before they were through, Windrunner knew that not a drop of it was left within the troll. The paladin spoke a quick prayer over the fallen corpse and moved off with the others, the killing turning his stomach and churning his emotions.

The day had progressed in a like manner for the most part. Lone Midgards, perhaps the occasional pair were found and set upon, the group swinging their weapons and casting their spells for nothing more than the sake of death and its offerings. Windrunner watched with a pained eye and a breaking heart as his compatriots wreaked havoc upon any that they happened upon, though in truth it was not until they returned to the Mile Gate that his pains were deepest and his mind turned from the battle at hand completely.

She was a lone norsewoman, standing at the gates, looking out upon the frontier land before her. Windrunner saw her with the rest, and as with the other kills, the party rushed their victim, her spilled blood a foregone conclusion. Windrunner held back, as he had most of the day, in part to watch for other enemies and in part to distance himself from the madness.

It was then that he saw the baby.

She carried it in her arms, a blanket wrapped about it in an effort to keep it from the harsh elements. He looked on as her head lifted to see the rushing war party; she mouth opened to scream, as though in anticipation of what was about to transpire. He watched her mouth open in a silent scream, her want to see her child protected turning her body from the attackers.

And then Windrunner saw something that he would never forget, nor would he let others forget. He looked on in helpless disgust as the raiding party killed the woman, and the child as well. He could almost hear the baby scream as the steel of the sword tore into it as though it were the heart of the realm wars itself. He saw the blood; he heard the battle cry and he knew then that he had witnessed a travesty to all that was right and good in the realms.

At that moment, he turned and walked away from the Mile Gate, his destination, the portal keep.

Perhaps there, among the thousands of dead souls that inhabited the lands of the keep, souls that had been lost during the hundreds of battles, perhaps there he would find an answer.

Windrunner opened his eyes and looked at the portal keep before him, as though all of the answer’s he sought would be written across the face of it for all to see. He still saw the baby screaming; crying; dying. He yet could not believe that his realm mates were yet this cruel; yet this blind to the basic humanities. How could he carry on with the realm wars and his part in them knowing what was in the hearts of those he fought with and against?

Windrunner looked to the sword on the ground before him. He could no longer hear the wind, for the screams that resounded in his head. He could no longer see the grass for the blood that seemed to cover it. The edge of blade seemed to call to him, promising him a release from the madness. The sword was almost alive, moving to his hand of its own accord. Windrunner took the blade as though answering the invitation. He wondered briefly what the world beyond would hold, and if sanity might hold sway there. He wondered if he had the strength of will to carry himself there and find out what might await…

‘Windrunner,’ a familiar voice whispered to him. He ignored it at first, as though determined to see his act through. The voice came again, more insistent, demanding his attentions. He blinked to clear his head, and looked to see Brandt standing before him.

The older paladin looked at him, a tear creasing his cheek. ‘I know what you seek, old friend.’

Windrunner looked at the sword in his hand, and then back to his oldest and most trusted of friends. ‘Will they ever know?’ he asked, his voice cracking for the strain upon it. ‘Will they ever learn?’

Brandt reached out his hand and helped Windrunner to his feet. ‘I don’t know. There are so many who are blind, my friend. You and I have our work before us, to be sure.’

Windrunner wiped at the tears he had shed, and sheathed his sword.

Brandt turned to face his friend, and saw written across his face the pain he knew so well. ‘In this, as in all things, we are honor bound.’

Windrunner nodded.

Honor bound.

It was the hard fight, to be sure, but one he knew he could not abandon. With a resolute turn of his head, the road before him grew clearer then, as though it always had, and simply waited amidst the fog of confusion and misconception for him to see clearly.

‘Come my friend. Lets go home,’ Brandt said quietly, turning to Portal Keep as he did. Windrunner stopped short however, and turned back to Odin’s gate.

‘Nay, Brandt. There are those without who yet require my aid, whether they know it or not.’

With that, Windrunner was gone, moving back to join the others he had left behind. Brandt looked out after him as he ran. When he spoke, it was with reverence, respect and most of all, friendship.

‘In this, as with all things; with honor, old friend. With honor.'

2002-05-15T19:37:00.000-07:00

End Game

I am dead.

I lay in the grass of the frontier of my beloved homeland, and I watch as my life’s blood seeps from the wounds in my chest. With each breath I draw, I can hear the rasping in my lungs, and the sight of the arrows rising and falling harkens me to the end that I know approaches.

I had no malice in my intentions as I made my way to the gates of Druim Cain. I sought only to gather my abilities more deeply through conflict with Grovewoods. I sought them out where only they grow. As I wandered through the pathways approaching their copse, I inhaled deeply the afternoon scents and listened with reverence to the sounds that surrounded me. I had known Hibernia for thirty nine summers then, each one more glorious and wondrous than the last. My home in Ardee was modest by most standards, and I suffered the endless hardships that all of the realms must suffer, more-so with the coming of the realm wars. I knew long ago that I wanted to devote my life and my strength to the defense of Hibernia, for its enemies were many and powerful. I challenged the magics of the land, and learned to bend them to my will. I grew stronger and more adept, and I knew then that I must know more, if I am to hold my realm in good stead.

Such was my reasoning for marching on the frontier this day. I reached the wooded lands that the Grovewoods called home. I raised my staff and cast my spells, the magical energy arching through me as though it were a thing alive, eager to quicken itself upon release. I watched in stark amazement as I unleashed energies powerful indeed, and looked on with wonder as the magic that I employed felled one of the powerful trees before me. As the last of my castings struck the ill-fated, it shattered into a thousand shards of wood and debris, and I felt, just for a moment, the intensity of a lesson learned flowing through me. With each casting, I grew more powerful, more insightful, more grateful that I was who I was, and that I had made the choices I had made. It would not be long before I would be able to participate in the realm wars, and see my homeland defended. Already I had been approached by those who sought to harness my power for the battles with Albion and Midguard, and while I was tempted to use my abilities then, I knew that better I hone my skills a time longer, and be sure of my ability before risking the lives of others in its shadow.

I cast my spells again, and I watched as another of the great trees were lost to my magics. A third, and a forth were dispatched, and I began to feel all powerful, as though no force in the realms could harm me. I was an eldritch, on the hunt, and invincible.

I sat upon the grass to allow better my power to return, for without it my castings are impotent. I closed my eyes to allow the truth of the life I had chosen to wash over me. I am at peace with who I am and the things I am about. I breath deeply the air of the frontier, and I know that, for me, there can be no other way of it.

The sensation is odd, almost unassuming at first, as though an insistent child were tugging at my sleeve, begging for my attentions. Quickly, almost more quickly than I could know, that sensation flowered into pain, which erupted into agony. My eyes flew open and fell to the cause of it all.

The arrow is in my chest, and I am gasping for air. My hands begin to tremble with the terrible notion of what has befallen me. I raise my head, no small effort in itself, and I look to see the visitor of my pain. He stands no more than thirty yards away, a bowman of some description; my faded vision cannot discern if he is Albion or Midgard. I almost chuckle at the irony, for truly what difference might it make? One or the other, the arrow is still coated with my blood; despite his place of birth, my blood still runs free of my body, my vision still blurs and my breath yet comes in heaving gasps. He is dressed in black leather armor, a crimson cape flowing from his back and shoulders. In his hands he carries a bow of wicked design, and across his back is strapped a spear whose magic is only too obvious. He looks for all the realm as might a demon taken human form, and I am sure that if I look closely enough, I will see the blood red eyes that call to his foul deeds.

I struggle to my feet, not sure of where I am or what I am doing, for I am acting now on instinct more than reason. I cannot see my target, but I know that I must not give in to the pain that is slowly consuming me. I right myself and turn to see him there, a hazy form through the pain I am feeling, though enough to give me direction. I raise my hands and begin to chant, knowing that I have precious little time to counter his foul deed if I am to be free of this place.

Were I not so dizzied; were I not so blind with the pain I might have seen him draw the second arrow; I might have heard the bow being drawn and I might have be able to distance myself from his anger.

Yet such wishes are for the foolhardy and the faint of heart.

I do not see the arrow fairly leap upon the bow. I cannot watch as he draws the weapon, his eye sighting down the wooden shaft with confidence and clarity of thought and purpose. I beg to look into his cold and hardened eyes as I sight back along the arrow, for I know that, in those eyes I would see no compassion; I would see no mercy; I would see no reason for this death, beyond that I am of an enemy realm. I wonder what thoughts run through his mind as he sights me down. Might he know of my dreams and my aspirations?

Might he care if he did?

My hands raise in the casting of a spell that might yet see me free, and for an instant, a glorious, hopeful, wondrous, futile and fleeting instant, I believe that I might have the precious moments I need to complete the casting.

As though in the throes of a slowing spell, I watch the arrow leap from the bow and move to me with resolve unmatched. It moves into me beside the first with but a whisper, and I feel my casting falling away. Both my hands clutch at the arrows as I fall, the blood from the wounds spreading slowly across the cloth tunic I am wearing. I fall to the ground again, and beg to any God that might be listening to allow me to be free of this horror. I have no wife and have borne no children, and know not if my passing would be noticed or mourned by any I am leaving behind, but it matters little. Death is calling to me, and I know that I cannot deny her beckoning.

As my life wanders from me, I look again to the archer who has sent me to that which awaits beyond. He bows to me, and salutes, and I find the gestures almost comical, for what honor is there in this death? What purpose? Is the offering of such a gesture in death truly a consolation in the face of my own mortality? I want to speak to him, if only for a moment; to tell him that which he has done; to make him understand the depths of the despair he has demanded in my heart. Would that we could speak; what might I say?

Why?

Why is clear enough. I am an enemy. I am that which he hates and kills for the same reasons I would have killed him had I known he was there.

Who?

There is no who. He was not commanded here; he was not ordered to seek my death, and will receive no reward for the doing of it. There is he, and there is I, and these are all that are needed to play the scene to its end.

I dismiss thoughts of telling him what I want him to hear, for even if it were possible, it would serve no purpose. He is that which he is. I am that which I am. We are from opposing realms, and while we might fight for the same freedoms, we are born to enemies, and no circumstance could have seen this scenario to a different conclusion.

I die.

He dies.

Its all the same.

I reach to the arrows once again, and try to pluck them from my chest, as though that might spare my life. They have become a part of me, as much as my arm or leg or soul or destiny. They are that which has brought my fate to me; they are the road I shall travel to reach the destination we all approach. In an odd manner, I should almost thank this archer for delivering to me that which is inevitable.

Yet I am afraid.

The sun no longer beats upon me, for all I can see is darkness; all I can feel is the cold. My mind races across a lifetime, searching for those memories I shall carry with me into what awaits.

There is no one here to comfort me in my final moments.

There is no hand to hold.

There is no promise of love and warmth.

There is no salvation, and no absolution.

There is only darkness and death.

Yes I am afraid.

I am alone.

And I am dead.

2002-05-15T19:36:00.000-07:00

The Ties That Bind

“Where be they?” Orlan said, pouring himself another tankard of ale. He cozied himself into the chair by the fireplace, and looked to Elof for his answer. The old dwarf had taken Elof and his brothers, Zeik and Hawkin, into his heart and his home years before, when their parents had been killed during the early days of the realm wars. He was healer by trade, and while he could not, nor did he ever, condone the realm wars, he was only too aware of the impact that the brutality of the wars could have, especially on the innocent and the young. When he had found the three brothers, guarding the bodies of their murdered parents, his heart fairly broke for their circumstance. He knew that he could not cure the ails of the entire realm, but this, this he could affect. He had taken them as his own then, and had never regretted the decision. After many years, they had come to love him as a father, though the memories of their parents burned brightly indeed in their minds and in their intentions. From an early age all had demanded to learn the ways and manners of warriors, for vengeance prayed upon their every waking moment; to see those responsible for their parent’s death paid in full had grown to an obsession for them all, and it concerned the old dwarf more than he cared to admit.

“I don’t know,” Elof answered, his sword hanging in its scabbard like a lover waiting. His hand rarely strayed far from the hilt of the magical weapon, for he had vowed that he would not die so easily, so unprepared as his parents. “Hawkin left word that he and Zeik had found someone who knows of some information we might use…” Elof’s words trailed off into nothingness, and Orlan looked to him inquisitively.

“I’d be thinkin’ ye be pleased to be knowin’ more fer their deaths,” the dwarf said softly, his true feelings only too obvious through the words that he spoke.

“I would think so too, but it makes no sense. They were alone when they were killed. Who would know? Who in Midgard would be privy to such information? The only other thing I can think of is that they had contact with someone from Hibernia or Albion. Who else could know of such things?”

Orlan nodded slowly. “Ye be knowin’ the penalty for crossin’ the realms, lad?”

Elof nodded slowly. “Only too well.” The warrior remembered back to a time when he had been engaged in a battle with the Albion forces. One of his number had stopped only to admire the aspect of an Albion cleric. Their commander had witnessed the transgression, and Elof’s friend had been stripped of his rank, and his commission. Not only this, but it had been rumored that they had considered executing him as well. In the end, he had walked free, but the threat was all too real none-the-less. To communicate in any fashion with the enemy was not to be tolerated.

“Well, ye best be about it, boy. Them numbskull brothers o’ yers are fer to be getting’ themselves in deep, unless I be missin’ me guess.”

Elof nodded and turned to leave. He stopped as the door to the small house was opened, and he called back to he whom he loved as a son would a father. “You hate this that we seek, don’t you Orlan?”

The old dwarf took a long draw on his ale. “I be hatin’ it more ‘an ye can be knowin’. It be wrong’ it be foolish, and in the end, it like to be leadin’ to yer deaths. Aye, lad. I be hatin’ it the very bones of it.”

Elof thought of a thousand things to say in response, but instead he closed the door behind him as he left the house. Of all the things he could have said, not one would ease the pain he knew that they were causing in the dwarf’s heart, and for that, he could not forgive himself.

He only hoped that the old man could.

“Kill him.”

Hawkin’s voice echoed through the small cavern, his eyes never leaving their prisoner. His brother Zeik stood beside him, looking as well as the firbolg they had captured. He was bound cleanly, unable to move, tied to the chair in a position that not only restricted his breathing, but looked damned uncomfortable. The hunter shifted his bow slightly, moving the knocked arrow to face their prisoner.

Zeik walked forward and drew a thin dagger from its sheath. “Calm, Hawk. We didn’t go through all the trouble of catching this dog to simply see him dead so soon. He has a great many questions to answer first.”

Zeik knelt next to the firbolg, the shadowblade almost able to smell the Hibernian’s fear. He lifted the dagger to his throat, and pressed the blade tightly to his skin. The firbolg shivered with terror, for he knew that his life would be forfeit. Would that he had died in the throes of battle, as was the wish of all true warriors.

“Fifteen years ago, pig, a group of Hibernians killed a farmer and his wife in the Upplands. They were simple people, and died on the end of a sword and a spell. If you want to live through this, you will tell me all that you know of this incident, and if you say you know nothing, I know you are lying. Talk, pig!” Zeik pressed the dagger even more firmly against the firbolg’s neck. He smiled a thin smile of satisfaction as a cold sweat beaded on the Hibernian’s forehead and trickled down his cheek. He spoke as best he was able, considering his bonds, but neither Hawkin nor Zeik could claim to understand the gibberish that passed for language amongst the Hibernians.

Zeik snarled out of frustration and let the edge of the dagger part the firbolg’s skin only slightly, a whisper of blood running free from the wound. “I swear by the Gods of Midgard that I shall see you split from ear to ear!” The shadowblade screamed his anger to the firbolg, though he served only to terrify the helpless Hibernian more. The firbolg pressed himself back into the chair, as though he could escape somehow the terrible anger of the Midgard before him.

“Cut him!” Hawkin called over, satisfaction only beginning to show on his face, “he knows and wont tell us! Cut his throat!”

Zeik looked again at the firbolg, calming himself in the face of his brother’s outburst. “Listen dog, I have no care if you live or die. It matters not to me one whit, but my brother has another way of it. To see your blood spilled simply for the sake of the spilling is what carries his thoughts. Speak, and I can help you to return home. Stay silent, or talk in your foul language again, and I will let him have you.” The threat was thick on his tongue, and while the firbolg could certainly taste his own death in the offing, he knew not what he had to do to stay alive. The words of the Midgard were confused and made no sense, and his true fear came from knowing that he would die without ever understanding what he needed to do to save himself, if such a thing were possible.

Hawkin waited a moment until his frustration could no longer be repressed. He rushed to the prisoner and struck him hard across the face. The firbolg’s head snapped backward, and blood ran freely down his chin for the assault. Hawkin struck him again, harder, if such could be believed, two of the Hibernian’s teeth knocked free in the attack.

As he raised his hand to strike him a third time, a voice cut through the frenzied bloodlust, pulling Zeik’s dagger from the firbolg’s throat, and Hawkin’s anger from the brink of insanity.

“What in the name of he Gods is this about??” Elof’s voice was commanding as it pounded through the small cave. “It is no wonder that you had me meet you here, in this cave, so far from the traveled road. Since when do we fall to madness to see our ends met?”

Both Zeik and Hawkin knew well enough that their older brother was enraged, though in truth, they had little care of it. They had played his game long enough, seeking information about their parent’s deaths as though they were lost strangers, seeking shelter. None had helped them and none cared to. They had enough of this foolishness. They would seek the information in the manner that suited them, this time and onward.

Zeik stood and faced Elof. “He is of the enemy. He knows what we need and he knows of their deaths.”

Elof stormed forward, almost meeting Zeik’s face with his own. “How?? How can he know? Look at him, Zeik! He is barely older than either you or I! And who is to say if it was the Hibernians who killed our parents! No witnesses were found! No tell-tale marks of any kind could tell us which realm was responsible! This is not the way to the information we seek! This is obsession gone mad!!!”

Zeik pulled his sharpest dagger from his sheath, and turned an eye to the firbolg. He had seen enough. He knew that Elof would never allow then to finish what they had started, and he was damned if he was going to let the enemy walk free for it. His hand flashed out faster than the eye could follow, the dagger flashing for the Hibernian’s heart. He was as good as dead, Zeik knew, for few things in the realm were as fast as his cutting arm when he had a mind to it.

The only think faster was Elof’s sword as it danced out of its scabbard and knocked the dagger free of Zeik’s hand, saving the life of the firbolg, and enraging the shadowblade beyond comprehension.

“You would take the side of this animal over that of your own flesh and blood?? He is Hibernian, and here you stand defending his life!!!”

Elof consciously tried to calm himself, for he knew that he had crossed a line that he may have to pay for, though he knew in his heart it was for the right and the good. “He is not our enemy, Zeik. He alone is as you and I alone. Our enemy is not one man. It is the realms that oppose us; the realms that killed our parents. This firbolg cannot harm us, cannot help us. It was wrong to bring him here to this place simply to see him tortured without a hope of obtaining that which we have fought so hard to see. Let him go, brother, and let us resume our search with measure.” As he spoke, Elof laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and smiled a smile of the confident. He knew that his brother would see reason. This was wrong, and there was no right of it.

Zeik lowered his head, as though contemplating the that which Elof had said. More quickly that Elof could react, Zeik threw his head up and into Elof’s chin, knocking the warrior back several feet and spilling his own kin’s blood. Zeik saw the look of disbelief on his brother’s face as he stood over him, his daggers flaring in the dim light of the cave. “For so long we have searched, Elof! Years, we have tried to find they who killed our parents, and at each step we are turned away. Yes, this firbolg can tell us nothing, but his death can help to atone for that which we have lost! His death is the right of this matter!! You cannot deny it!”

Elof spoke from the ground, his hand again upon the hilt of his sword. “No, Zeik. The right of this was lost when you brought him here. Death in battle is one thing; death in bondage is another.”

Zeik howled in maddened rage and threw himself at Elof, his daggers leading the way. As he came in, Elof swiped his sword across, knocking both daggers from their path. Zeik landed heavily on his brother, and the struggle began, each demanding that the other surrender, each vowing that they would not. Zeik regained one of his weapons and slashed at Elof’s throat, though the warrior was older and more seasoned. He pulled his head back just out of reach and the daggers flashed harmlessly by him, though yet uncomfortably close.

Elof took the moment of opportunity and drove his knee upward, feeling it sink into the soft flesh of his brother’s groin. Zeik screamed in pain and denial, re-doubling his attacks, maddened to the point of wanting blood, and if that blood be his brother’s, then so be it.

Elof knew what the battle was turning into. Zeik was pushed beyond reason, beyond sanity, and he would not stop until blood was spilled. That he could kill was understood, though Elof had to admit that he never thought him capable of killing his own brother in order to calm the angst of his rage. The older brother wondered how he could stop him without seriously inuring him, and given Zeik’s crazed attack, he doubted that he could.

Suddenly a sound cut through the air that startled all three, Zeik and Elof moving apart so that they might see the cause of it without losing their advantage. The three bothers turned to see Orlan standing at the entrance of the cavern, his dwarven howl of rage pulling from them all their madness, if only for the moment.

“What are ye fer, ya fools?? A realm of enemies be waitin’ to spill yer blood, and here ye be, doin’ their work afer ‘em!!”

Orlan’s eyes then wandered to the firbolg bound to the crude chair, the terror written across his face only too obvious to any who cared to look. Orlan only shook his head, and walked to where Elof and Zeik lay still on the ground. He offered them his hand and they pulled themselves to their feet, each taking their weapons as they did. The dwarf dropped his head in desperation and turned to walk out of the cavern. His disappointment and frustration were as thick as the heated blood that flowed through him. He spoke no words, for no more were needed. The brothers followed closely behind, each cowed for the dwarf’s rage, though Elof spoke to Hawkin as they went. “Free the firbolg, Hawk,” he said softly, pain and regret edging his voice, “let us have this day behind us.”

As they moved free of the cavern, a scream of anguish sent them running back in, each afraid of what sight might greet them. What they saw far exceeded their worst fears, and into their minds was burned an image that would haunt them for all of time.

The firbolg lay dead on the ground, bound still, his lifeless eyes staring off into nothingness, as though the answers to his death might lay in the raw and untouched expanse he saw in death. His body was pierced a hundred times it seemed, his face and torso covered in the wounds that had seen him to his end. Kneeling over the Hibernian was Hawkin, a blood stained arrow in his hand. He rocked back and forth upon the corpse, the arrow moving in and out of the dead firbolg, almost of its own accord, as though there were a use in it. Hawkin’s eyes were glazed with the madness that had taken them all, though him more closely it seemed.

Elof closed his eyes to the horror that stood before him. This is not the legacy he had wanted, for them or the memory of their parents.

It was, however, all the legacy they could claim.

Orlan moved to Hawkin, took the arrow from him, and helped him to his feet. “Come lad,” he said, compassion and pity bleeding from his words, “it be time fer leavin’.”

As they walked from the cavern, Orlan thought it ironic that they could indeed leave, for he knew as well that a part of them would remain in that cavern forever. Something of them all had died with the firbolg, though he knew not what it was.

Compassion?

Pity?

Humanity?

The dwarf could not say for certain, beyond the truth of it.

As they walked into the sunlit expanse of the Upplands, he prayed that it was a part of them that they could learn to live without.

2002-05-10T10:24:00.000-07:00

When the Clock Strikes Home

The inn was a bright and lively place by night. Nestled in the western corner of Tir Na Nog, the Forest Elf Inn was a place where adventurers and farmers, merchants and nobles alike would gather and revel in their commonalities. Hibernia was a realm of brothers, perhaps more than Albion or Midgard, and while all of its inhabitants might not be in complete harmony on all subjects, they all shared a pride in the realm that bound them together, such that nothing might tear them asunder. Rich or poor, it made no difference within the house of the Forest Elf Inn. All were welcome, and all were more than pleased to frequent the establishment.

Lyric Opera sat in a corner of the inn proper, his stool a head higher than any other in the room. Upon his lap he held his lute, his hands strumming a tune that drifted out across the room like a subtle lover, entwining its listeners with a vision born of its master, the bard himself. Most who heard his music were softened to their moment and circumstance, and often would lose themselves in the melodic tones that Lyric offered. Angry, sad, despondent, it made little difference, for such emotions held little meaning once they were faced with the music of Lyric’s lute. Like opposing armies they would meet, though the outcome was never truly in doubt. The music that Lyric Opera created would edge through the hostility and anger as though it were an offering of something more in the face of something less. More often than not, those who fell to the sounds of the music would wonder later where their anger had gone, though most took in the dance of the music without even being aware of the effect, nor of the origin.

This suited Lyric just fine, for fame as not his want in this. He was a brash young man, never seen without his lute nor a tankard of ale by his side. He looked about the room in complete satisfaction, for he had been training in the ways of the bard for more years than he could recall. He remembered with perfect clarity the day that he had garnered his title through the bardic college. He had been approached by the armies of Hibernia, who had asked him to offer his services to the defense of the realm. Lyric had almost laughed in their faces, for getting killed in the frontier is not what he had planned for his career. There were countless tankards of ale to attend to, not to mention the scores of maidens in the realm that had yet to taste of the fruits he offered. Playing his lute in the inns of the lands and carousing as he saw fit was the life that he had wanted to live, and had lived, for longer than he cared to recall. ‘Leave the killing and fighting to others,’ he had said, ‘I have better things to do with my time.’

On this night, better things meant a beautiful elf maiden named Glora. She had come into the inn the night before, having been away for a number of years in the lands south. She was immediately taken with Lyric’s calm and self-assured manner, and had spent the evening sitting and listening to his songs as they echoed throughout the inn. This night had found her there again, her hand resting playfully on his thigh as he played his sweet music to all who cared to listen.

His song having ended for the moment, Lyric moved off his stool and sat beside Glora, his eyes falling upon hers. She was a creature of sublime beauty to be sure, her voice as golden as her hair was raven; she held the softest of tones in both aspect and speech. In truth, Lyric found himself drawn to her completely, his heart beating faster at the closeness they shared.

“So what business took you south, away too long from my reach?” he asked, his voice as playfully flirtatious as her own.

She giggled in response, her head turning in embarrassment at the compliment. “I was training in the lands near Howth. The realm wars threaten, and I decided years ago to answer the call.”

Lyric looked at her with surprise and shock. “You are a warrior?”

She nodded, a playful smile upon her lips. “I have trained for months now in the ways of the mace.” As though to augment her point, she slipped a mace from beneath the table and laid it in front of Lyric. “This was a gift from my father. He was a great warrior, and I shall do him proud in the wars.”

Lyric noticed a hint of desperation, bordering on obsession in her voice, though he gave it little thought or attention. He laughed deeply, for more than the absurdity of wasting one’s life in the realm wars, he was amazed that one so gentle and winsome as she might see herself to the heart of death, all for the memory of her father.

Glora looked at Lyric with an almost insulted expression. “It is so much to believe, that I, a woman, might seek to defend that which we all have and hold?”

Lyric shook his head. “Nay indeed not, M’lady. What is too much to believe is that anyone would risk their lives fighting a war that cant be won.”

“Well if yours was the common opinion, then you would be right. Hope is what makes the impossible possible. We did not ask for the realm wars, but they are here. To ignore them is to offer up what we have. To scorn them is to throw away what we want. No, gentle bard, we must fight them if we are to grow and prosper.”

Lyric nodded as though accepting her words as truthful. He managed to capture her eyes for a moment, and held them prisoner within his own. “Mine own prosperity, I fear, is held to your eyes and your lips, M’lady. Would that I could taste thy lips, and know my fortune surely.”

Lyric leaned forward and met Glora lips with his own. The kiss was gentle at first, as though both feared the reaction of the other. As they settled into the passion, however, the intensity of the moment grew, and threatened to take them beyond the conduct allowed in such a place.

Glora pulled away first, her eyes falling in embarrassment once again. “You have the better of me M’lord. Would that our surroundings offered us the privacy we would seek.”

Lyric let a thick and wanton smile wash across his face. He knew that to spirit her off and share the moment together would cost him an evenings wage, and perhaps a tongue-lashing at the hands of the firbolg who owned the inn, but one look into her eyes; one step into the realm she was offering and such concerns became like a drop of water in a rain storm.

Lyric stood and offered his hand to Glora. She reached out and held it gently, rising to her feet and taking her mace as she went. Her eyes never left his, so deeply were they given over to the other; and his eyes were fixed on hers as well. It was as though they were born for this moment, and giving themselves over to it was the fulfillment of a destiny written before they were born.

As they moved to ascend the stairs to the rooms above, they were pulled violently from their revelry by a sound neither had heard before, so brutal was it in its happening. Lyric turned his head to see the door to the inn splinter inwards, a reddish-hued cloud exploding into the room in its wake. The force of the magical attack knocked four of the inn’s patrons from their feet, three of whom landed in a heap, but were, for the most part, unhurt. The forth struck a table with his head as he fell, and any close enough to see knew that he was dead before he hit the floor.

Lyric looked on as three men entered the room, all bearing arms, their intentions as clear as the dead man before them. Lyric immediately mistook them for celts, though saw soon enough that they were not of Hibernian blood. He wondered where such a group might have come from, until a voice cut through the stunned silence that held sway.

“Albion scum!!”

Lyric turned to see an adventurer, a hero by trade, hurtle himself over the table at which he sat, his sword leaping from its scabbard, almost of its own volition. Before he could gather his footing, however, he met an arrow from one of the invaders. The shaft split his throat, blood and screams mixing in the horror that the inn had become. The hero dropped in his tracks, dead before he could wonder at the way of it.

The two other invaders drew their swords and moved into the room, their blades swinging at any Hibernian unfortunate enough to be within their reach. Five were dead before a breath was taken, and Lyric’s head dizzied at the thought of how many more would die before the carnage ended.

“How could such as these find entrance to our realm?” Glora all but screamed, pulling free of Lyric and drawing her mace. “For Hibernia!!” she screamed, and threw herself from the stairs toward the invaders. Lyric moved to restrain her, but she was far too fast for him to hope to stop. Then, as though the entire inn had been frozen in a trance and suddenly awakened, all within rose to their feet and attacked the intruders, each as offended as the last at the audacity of the attack, and each as determined to see the attackers put down.

The entire inn erupted in chaos, and Lyric found himself all but helpless. In his training he had learned the base tunes of the warrior bard, but had neglected them over the years. What need had such as he for the songs of war? At that moment, he wished that he had not been so flip or foolish in his youth, and that he had better prepared.

With a desperation of which he had not thought himself capable, he threw himself from the stairs and into the fray, his anger fueled by the knowledge that Glora was within as well, her life in danger for the intrusion of the Albion invaders. He pushed his way through the crowd, surprising himself at his eagerness for blood. Finally he stood close to the enemy, and without thought he lifted his lute, his intention to crease the skull of the nearest attacker. As the lute came over his head, he felt the oddest sensation in his back, as though he had been stung by a wasp of surpassing venom. The pain grew from a gnawing annoyance to something far more demanding. He found himself unable to stand, and as he dropped to his knees, he reached behind to feel the feathers of the arrow that had felled him. He tried to hold away the darkness that started to come over him, but there was little use in such futility. His eyes closed and he fell into that darkness, then almost grateful for the respite from the pain, his last thoughts of Glora and a whispered prayer that she would see her way free of the carnage, so that he might hold her in his arms once again.

Lyric slowly opened his eyes, the haze in his mind fighting his want to see the realm once more.

“Easy lad,” came the words from he who had healed him, ‘that arrow came close to seeing you dead. You best have a care, else you might find yourself there yet.”

Lyric nodded slowly, the healer turning from him and seeing to the others in need. Slowly, with measured patience, Lyric got to his feet and looked around. The evening was still upon them, and the blood and carnage that had taken the inn was yet in evidence. The bard all but gagged on the stench of the dead, and he wondered for a moment if he had been the only one who had survived.

The invaders were dead as well, their corpses laying in a corner of the room in silent testament to the ravages of the war that he had avoided for so long, though in truth his thoughts were not on the dead invaders, nor the wars that had become all too real this night. His eyes searched the room frantically, hoping upon hope that he might see her standing to the side, awaiting his gaze.

As though such dreams came true.

He found her a few moment later, her broken and lifeless body laying twisted to the left of the staircase. Her mace was in her hands yet, as though it clung to her as she had to her ideals. Lyric dropped to his knees at her side, real tears of anguish dropping from his eyes as water from a waterfall. The realm wars had always been nothing more to him than a story in the telling; a hateful aberrance a thousand miles away. He had not expected the realities of the wars to settle over him so completely, though he knew well enough then that they had. He could no longer hide from it, as much as he might wish it.

With trembling hands he freed the mace from her grip, and stared at it for the longest of times. Without thinking, he slipped it into his belt, and looked once more at she who lay dead before him.

He did not know how long he knelt there, thinking of the life that might have blessed them both, but knowing in his heart that nothing would be the same again; nothing in his heart, in his soul, or in his realm.

He could not have known how right he was.

The ranger stood at the Albion Mile gate in Emain Macha, his few moments of rest having passed him by. “I am pleased for the time and the rest song, brother,” he offered. “That is quite a tale you have to tell.”

Lyric Opera only nodded in answer.

Typical.

He had placed his life and his heart on display, if only to try and make another see the truth of the wars they fought, yet this ranger seemed as casual about them as Lyric himself had been so long ago.

“Back to the killing, says I,” and with that, the ranger vanished from sight, leaving Lyric alone to ponder the futility of it all.

To some, he supposed, the realm wars would always be nothing more than an excuse to kill, and to kill again.

To him, however, they were something more. They had taken from him his love and his hope, and had left only painful memories in their place. Still he laughed and caroused when the wars allowed, but within the laughter hid the tears that would always fall for she whom he had left behind in that inn so long ago.

“For Glora,” he whispered, and played his song of travel. He was off again, eager for the blood of his enemies, searching for an absolution in war, that he knew would never come.

2002-05-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

Introspection

I stand within sight of the gates of mine enemy, cloaked in the shadows and hidden from the eyes of those I have come to kill. I feel my bow in my hands, heavy indeed for the death it is about it impart to any so fortuneless to wander into my sight. I cannot recall with clarity the road I took to arrive here. It was so many years ago and another lifetime that carried me to this day, to this circumstance. To attempt to recall it with anything more than passing recollection would serve only to frustrate and infuriate. Better then to accept who I am, what I have become and the fact that I have, indeed, come to be here.

How long have I stood in this place, motionless in the half-light of the Hibernian sunset? Each bone in my body aches for the effort; each morsel of my flesh screams for rest; each thought serves only to sublimate these physical weaknesses, for to surrender to them would call to my death, and I have not traveled a thousand miles and a thousand more to see myself to my demise. The light of the fading sun illuminates the trees and grass and misbegotten monstrosities that inhabit the lands I have come to this eve, though my eyes are beyond such petty concerns. I stare straight ahead, alert to every movement, awake to every sensation that offers itself over to me. I am a whisper on the wind; I am a lie in the telling; I am the softest kiss of death, in a world born to the revelry of it.

My right hand flexes slightly, the string of my bow pulling lightly from the bow itself. The arrow knocked there seems to ache with the same intensity I am feeling, though it is every bit as controlled and controlling as I myself. The tip of the arrow seems to yearn with the want to taste the blood of those I have come this day to kill; it calls to me, begging me for release and the fulfillment of its destiny. Its call is relentless; its demand unforgiving. I am but a tool that it has adopted for its own designs, and it will see me to the end of its burning desires.

I can feel my magics surrounding my body, making me more dexterous and stronger of arm. They comfort me, as a mother might her sickly child, with assurances of protection and peace of mind. The warmth of the eldritch energies covers me like the warmest of blankets on the coldest of nights. It soothes my aching form with promises of victory and reward; of conquest and triumph. I want to listen and I want to believe, but I know better. These speak to me as though they are my friends and allies, but I embrace the truth of it. They are naught but beasts of war, as eager to see death played out as I myself. I am nothing to them, save the vehicle; the instrument of that death.

A slight motion catches my eye. Its as though my mind is moving a hundred times faster than the passage I can barely see. With a measure motion I cock my head slightly, my eyes fairly twisting out of my skull in their want to see what is to be seen. As my head turns, I feel a drop of cold sweat roll down my check and neck, and into the collar of my tunic. The sweat feels foreign and odd, and for an instant, my consciousness, in its entirety, takes hold of that sensation and refuses to release it. In the face of the warm promises and self-indulgent declarations, I know better than to give myself over to them. The chilling sensation demanded by the sweat awakens me to the reality of what I face. I shake my head slightly to rid myself of the misconceptions that might lead me to my death, and help to refocus my concentration where it might yield the most promising of ends.

My head turns finally and there I see him; a Hibernian caster, if his robes and staff are to be counted as evidence of such. I watch him, unmoving, for a time. Magic flares from his fingertips as though it were rain from the heavens, all but killing the living tree that is his target. The Grovewood moves toward him with unwavering resolve, its only want to see him dead for the blasphemy of his attack. I almost pity the poor mage, for should the tree reach him, it would see him to his death without question. No mercy nor thought nor reason nor rhyme would hold it from its conviction, though the caster understands the encounter ending differently. Another spell erupts from his hands, and the tree falls to the ground, leaving nothing more than splinters and branches to signify that it had ever been there in the first place.

I watch with detached interest as the elf before me sits in order to gather back his mana spent. I give a quick look to all sides, in order to ensure that no other will see what I am about to do, or attempt to stop me from doing so. As I look about, I can still see him where he was left to rest, for I have learned from bitter experience that death comes most quickly to those who have no respect for their pray.

The way is clear and I turn back toward he who is my target. Still he sits, as though a statue carved in the very stone of the realm itself. As though if its own accord, my bow rises, the arrow lining directly with the chest of the unsuspecting mage. As I sight along it length, I wonder who he is; what is his want in life? Does he know happiness? Has be taken a wife, or fathered a child? With the one arrow I am about to loose, I am going to take from him all that he is, and all that he ever shall be. I think of my own loved one, Tylaara, the light of all that I am, the defining truth in the fabric of disassociated confusion that my life once was. I wonder the look on her face should news reach her that I am dead; that an assassin from the enemy realms has ended that which we have shared for so long. So intense are the feelings conjured that for an instant, my bow arm wavers slightly; regret fills my every muscle, my every thought, to where I am almost unable to finish that which I have come to do.

Almost.

I draw the bow slowly, almost painfully so. It is a magical weapon, requiring no small amount of strength to draw, but I barely feel the strain. Suddenly, as though awakening from a dream, the bow is at full draw and the arrow is sighted. I feel myself inhale deeply as I close my left eye, my right taking the responsibility for accuracy upon itself. I Can feel my lungs fill with air and my concentration focusing a thousand fold. I consciously relax my bow hand, allowing the bow to breath and my accuracy to increase. The arrow is home. It is in his chest. He is dead or dying. All that is left is the doing of it.

I open my mouth slightly and let the wind escape me. As I breath out, I relax my right hand, and the arrow slips from the bow with whispered thanks. I have come free of the shadows in the act of loosing death, though I move not a muscle. Nothing else in any realm exists at that moment, save for me, the arrow and the dead man awaiting his doom. With my one open eye I watch the arrow dance to its target. With a precise and unyielding resolve, the arrow slips noiselessly into his chest, a small release of blood accompanying its arrival. The elfin mage screams; or in truth I assume as much, for I cannot hear him. I see that his mouth has opened; I see that the arrow has struck true; I see the blood from the wound and from the corner of his mouth, but I cannot hear a sound.

I am whole again. I am who I was born to be. I have lived the destiny of my very being. Each step in my life, in my training and in my heart and soul are vindicated in that one instant, and the elf has paid for my quickening with his life.

He staggers to his feet, his hands lifting in defense. I knew well enough that he intends to cast his magics, and I knew as well that the casting would be my death. Before I realize what is happening, another arrow has grown upon my bow. I try to acknowledge the truth of it, but before I am able, the bow is drawn and I am sighting along another shaft. I try to line the arrow up with my target; I try to exact the same precision, but I have loosed the arrow before I am able to know that I have aimed truly. By breath is held as this arrow streaks to its target as well. It climbs into the elf beside the first, as a sinking ship might fall into the depths of the sea. I see his hands waver in their casting, and he falls to the ground again, grasping at the arrows in his chest as though they were roses on a bush, being picked for their beauty and their fragrance. These roses refuse such attention, however, and I simply look on as the last of his life seeps from him. His eyes fall open and he stares in death at the realm above him, looking for explanation; wanting another moment in his life to atone for his wrongs; to whisper his love to those he leaves behind; to make peace with whatever God he might pray to.

Instead, I have given him death.

With a thought I am cloaked again in the shadows, though this shadow is that of the damned, for what other fate can I know for the sins I have committed this day? I move again to that place where I shall await the next to wander in my path; the next to whom I shall offer the ultimate gift, and demand the ultimate sacrifice.

My name is Ronin.

And I am death.

2002-04-29T13:49:00.000-07:00

Kerika's Good-Bye

Editors note: This was written as a farewell story for the Albion player Kerika who has left the game for personal reasons.

Kerika walked the halls of the relic keep, her sword and lute held tightly in her grip as she made her way through the hallowed and ancient stone-worked corridors. She had given much thought to the decision to which she had come, and as painful as it was she knew that it was the right thing to do.

And it was painful. More-so than she could have imagined. How many nights had she laid awake, tears streaming down her face as the realities of her decision tore through her mind like an avenging spirit, torturing her waking hours with conscious anguish and brutalizing her sleep with fitful dreams of consequences and repercussion. In truth, her heart knew what she must do; it was simply a matter of convincing herself that her heart spoke truly.

The minstrel walked into the relic room, the Scabbard of Excalibur radiating its magic throughout the entire keep, though this room more than the others. Kerika let her gaze fall upon the magical artifact, and the memories of the battle fought in its name washed across her. How many times had she come to this place to drive off those who sought to see it taken from its rightful home? How many of the Midgard horde and Hibernian multitudes had she killed in order to see her beloved Albion protected from their intentions and intrusions? In truth, she had lost count. Over the months and years, she had come to know this keep as well as she might know her own heart. It was home and it was hearth in every way that counted, and she would miss it surely.

As she turned to go, a thought struck her; one that, on another day or another occasion would have been unthinkable. Kerika turned slowly to face the artifact, and with a ginger and tentative motion, reached out to lay her hands upon it. Such an act was outlawed, for only the highest elders in the Albion church had leave to do such a thing, but Kerika had spilled blood in its defense, as well as paying for the privilege with her own blood on more than one occasion. It might have been contrary to the laws of the land, but in her heart she knew that she had earned the right.

Slowly, her hand settled against the Scabbard of Excalibur. She half expected to be struck down by a bolt from the Gods themselves, but such was not the case. It was as though her hand had passed into the warmest of baths, the comforting sensation washing over her like a comforting spring rain. She felt suddenly very much at peace with the realm and the decision that she had made, though she felt as much an odd emotion as well. Her eyes fell to the Scabbard as she realized that this new feeling came not from her. In truth, it seemed to emanate from the relic itself. It was not a physical awareness, but more an emotional one, as though the relic itself were alive and communicating to her its feelings about the decision she had made.

If she had to sum up that feeling in a word, it would have been one that not only was she not expecting, but would never forget through the rest of her days.

It was regret.

The battle raged all through Emain Macha, with the Midgard forces assaulting the Hibernian Keep with a vigor unmatched in recent skirmishes. A force of Albion warriors and mages had entered the fray as well, and heavy losses plagued all sides of the conflict, though the healers, druids and clerics were all as skilled in healing wounds as the warriors and mages were in inflicting them. The battle went on for countless hours, the cost in blood and morale staggering beyond expectation.

Kerika walked on the outskirts of the conflict, her innate ability to become invisible serving her well this day. Under normal circumstances, she would be in the thick of the fight, defending her homeland from the any who dared to threaten it, no matter the odds, but this day was different. She knew that this would be the last day that she would walk this field of honor; the last moment that she would spend in the company of her allies and enemies alike. It was not a moment she wanted to remember as being stained with blood; rather, she wanted to remember it with fondness and warmth. She almost chuckled at the thought, for how could such a circumstance bring her comfort? How could she hope to draw reward from the memory of war and strife, such as that she witnessed this day? In truth, it was not the battle that would bring her what she sought in the days ahead, but more it was the thoughts of one individual no doubt in the heart of the fighting that she would turn to. She scanned the battlefield until her eyes fell upon him, her heart almost breaking at the sight.

He was a troll, standing some seven foot at the shoulder, his armor gleaming in the half-light of the battleground. She looked on as he fought with courage and tenacity that she had always admired. She thanked the heavens above that the Midgard horde were engaging the Hibernians for the moment, for she could not look upon him attacking her own and feel such as she did, without regret and without remorse. She watched as Manimal helped to shatter the Hibernian lines and move on the keep. Her heart raced with pride and affection as the troll rallied his forces and moved them onward, the Hibernians feeling the wrath the Manimal exuded so wantonly.

Kerika gave serious thought to what she was about to do, for it would represent a danger from both the Midgards and Hibernians, but her time with Manimal warranted the risk. With but a thought she was visible to any who cared to look, though as fate would have it, Manimal was the only one who noticed. He stopped his onslaught and stood straight, his eyes finding her across the battlefield. They held each other’s gaze for a time, the troll forcing back the tear that was threatening to escape his resolute control. He had known of her decision for a time now, for she had shared it with him, though in his heart he had not believed it.

Her appearance on in Emain this day, however, convinced him of the truth.

Kerika lifted her hand as though to wave good bye, though she found not the strength to complete the gesture. Instead, her hand dropped to her side in pained defeat. Manimal simply nodded to her in response, for in truth there was little left to be said between them. He watched as she vanished from sight, and turned his pain to the battle at hand.

She had taught him so much over the time they had shared.

To hope.

To dream.

To long.

And now, on this day, she had taught him as well to know loneliness.

Manimal raised his weapon and waded into the Hibernian forces.

May the Gods help those that met his pain on this day.

Kerika stood upon the portal that would whisk her from realms for once and for always. Many of her friends and realm mates had wanted to come and see her off, though she had begged them to abandon such plans. She had said her good byes to one and to all over the past week, and now there was naught to do but the leaving.

She stood at the portal and closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the magic of her memory to take her once more through the light and the love that had marked her time in the realm. She cried and smiled, laughed and all but died in those moments of remembrance, and she wondered for the thousandth time if she was truly acting for the best. So much she was leaving behind…

Still, she knew in her heart that the outer-realms called to her, and she must answer. Perhaps in another time, another circumstance, she would be able to find her way back to the heart of Camelot, but for the time being, her fate was to be found beyond the borders of the realm she had come to love so dearly.

She watched with almost detached interest as the magi made their way to the portal. As they encircled her, their hands at the ready, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent farewell once more to all that she was leaving behind. She prayed only that her time in the outer-realm would gift her with the happiness and joy she so desired.

As the magi cast their magics and Kerika faded from the realms, one word seemed to waft across all of Albion, and to one lone troll as well, in final farewell. It settled across the realms like a blanket of snow, cold in its speaking yet warm its intent. It spoke her heart to any who might yet hear, all of her pain and regret dancing upon the edge of the word she had whispered.

Good-bye…

2002-04-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

Borders

Anian Barkskin circled around the small copse of trees in Odin’s Gate, his eyes alert to every sound that dared intrude upon his concentration. This day had been coming for many years now, ever since his time as a druid in the Hibernian ranks had begun. He was not sure what it was about the realm wars that had fascinated him so, though from the moment they had broken out, he knew that his place would be on the front lines of battle, wielding his weapon in the name of Hibernia and in defense of all that he had come to know as right and just. Often the stories of the Midgard horde and the vile Albion races had made their way into the smaller inns and taverns of Hibernia, even as deeply as Ardee, where Anian had made his home. How many hours had he spent in the local inn, sitting spellbound while a warrior, fresh from the battlefield had come to quench his thirst and spin his tales of valor and sacrifice. Soon after, he had taken his cause to the Druidic council, and had petitioned them for membership. To be able to wield the magic and weaponry of a druid! To be able to carry nature’s glory into the frontier, and see his enemies driven down in the face of the wonder that was his calling!

How long had he trained? Even he could not say. Months of preparation, years of honing his skills, countless hours of casting magics and learning to control the power the screamed for release from him, as though it were a forced captive, longing for nothing more than escape, and finally, he was ready. He had traveled to the lands of the Midgard horde, eager to spill their blood in honor of the lands he had left behind.

As he circled the trees, Anian kept his eyes leveled before him, for the troll that he approached had not yet seem him. The huge beast stood silently, as though he were carved in the very stone of the realm itself, and while Anian saw in him the resolve of a warrior, he could see no purpose for his being there. There were no other Midgard forces to be found; they were well away from Bledmeer Faste, so he could not be guarding the rear of any troops headed there, and they were well north of the Mile Gates. His presence made little sense, and still Anian moved closer, his first enemy kill there before him, as though the troll were born waiting for the happening.

As he reached striking distance, Anian saw then the reason for the troll’s pose. An injured dwarf lay at his feet, an arrow sticking obscenely from the diminutive figure as it lay unmoving. The troll had his hand on his war hammer, his eyes surveying the lands before him, careful to note any movement; anything out of the ordinary. Every so often, however, his attention was pulled to the dwarf, a look of concern and consternation crossing his features.

Had he been more attentive, he might have been able to defend himself from Anian’s onslaught.

As it was, the fight was over before it started. The druid’s mace slammed into the back of the troll’s skull, caving it in and spattering blood over the snow covered ground, the attacker, and the injured dwarf all. Anian stood back and looked at the death he had wrought, and smiled a thin smile of satisfaction. Not wasting the opportunity, he moved to the prone dwarf, each step taken in careful anticipation of an attack. As he closed with the enemy, Anian saw that his enemy’s eyes were open, terror etched across his face. The dwarf had seen the death of his troll compatriot, and could see surely enough the bloodied mace of the Hibernian invader. His injuries prevented him from defending himself, or from even moving. He prayed that his sense would be taken from his as well, that he would not have to endure the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him.

The Gods were not so generous.

Anian stood over the dwarf, the Hibernian looking even taller to the injure dwarf than the troll had, for this Hibernian was there to deal death and death alone. The dwarf prayed his silent prayers that his invader might know mercy; that he might know compassion in the face of helplessness; that he might turn aside his weapon in the light of victory.

The mace came down hard across the face of the hapless dwarf. Fresh blood spat across the land, joining with that of the troll, painting a tapestry of death across the canvas that was the ground of Odin’s Gate.

It was a work of art that would define Anian’s aspect for many years to come, he knew.

She laid her hands on the wounded ranger, her words whispering arcane phrases that sent her healing spell coursing through his torn and broken body. She had come upon him at the Portal Keep in Odin’s Gate, a group of Midgards having attacked the ranger upon leaving the safety of the keep. He had been ravaged to be sure, his blood spilled for the sake of it. She had arrived mere moments later, witness only to the very end of the attack. She had held her place at the Portal Keep, hidden from the prying eyes of the Midgard horde, until she was sure they had abandoned the keep for more fruitful hunting grounds.

“My…my thanks, M’lady…”

The ranger’s words came at the price of a mouthful of blood, though Cieri looked on with only compassion in her heart. He was hurt almost to the point of death, and if she could bring him again to health, she would, no matter the cost.

Cieri looked on as the ranger’s wounds knit and lacerations healed over at her command. His eyes flickered open again and she helped him to his feet. “You should rest, good ranger,” she warned, for she knew that while he was again at his near-best, his wounds were only freshly closed, and there was risk that they would reopen, should he be injured again.

The ranger shook his head at her warning. “I am afraid I have no time for such luxuries, M’lady. The war rages on…” Without waiting for a response, he was off and running, Cieri keeping her eyes upon him unit he was out of sight. She watched him move off toward the Mile Gate, and said a silent prayer after him that he might he well again, and be kept safe from harm.

“You are too concerned for his welfare, Lady Cieri.”

Cieri turned to faced Chandan, the leader of the small group that had accompanied her to the Midgard frontier. She looked at him quizzically, for his words surely were spoken in haste, and without thought.

“How can I have too much concern for the injured? His wounds needed mending, and he risks further injury by continuing to fight without rest.”

Chandan chuckled. “He is as all these warriors be, Cieri, more driven by the want to kill than even the want to survive. If he can win the battle he fights by sacrificing his life in the doing of it, he will. I warn you now, M’lady, distance yourself from these you seek to heal. Being close to them is as being close to madness itself. Heal them surely, but forget their face once their bleeding had ceased.”

Cieri nodded slowly, but could not bring herself to believe his words. Caring too much? No such thing, she decided. Her spells were only part of that which she had to offer. To give of her self, of her heart and of her soul to her healing could only bring more comfort to the wounded. With a shake of her head, she followed the others out from the Portal Keep and into the arms of the fate that the realm wars demanded.

Cieri closed her eyes for a moment, for she could bring herself to look out upon the field of battle before her without a moment to gather her strength. The inhumanity that was on display was far worse than she could have even imagined, with her beloved Hibernian brethren wreaking as much death and destruction as the Midgards that they battled. She had healed who she could, and mourned the deaths of those she could not. She cried for the bloodlust and screamed at the atrocities committed in the name of Hibernia, and she swore she would never give in to the sword, for hers was the realm of healing. How could any raise arms and commit that which she had witnessed? It was beyond her.

Healing was not.

She ran through the wounded, healing where she could. The battle had pulled back from the Mile Gate, and all the healers had used the opportunity to bring the back the injured and see them again to their health. She came upon him strictly by chance, for he was as the rest of the wounded; nameless and faceless, bathed in a pool of his own blood. She knelt beside him and lay her head to his chest, breathing a sigh of relief at the sound of the beating of his heart. She looked to his face briefly as she cast her magics, and found the words holding in her throat. Through the blood she could see that he was the handsomest of men, with a look of vibrant pride and youthful resolve etched across his features. As she cast her magics upon him, her hand brushed his cheek, and she found herself blushing as he was pulled back to consciousness and saw her looking to him, her eyes softened by the heart she saw within him.

“My thanks, dear lady,” he whispered, his cheek still tingling from a sensation he could not recall. He felt his eyes wander to hers, the grace within them holding him prisoner with their tenderness and wonder.

How long did they remain there, warrior and healer, leaving behind the realm and the wars that plagued it; the death and pain and violence that their lives had become? For just a moment, they were taken far from the battle-ravaged lands, and hurtled into a world neither one had known before, or would ever find again they feared.

The attacking norseman pulled them both back into the reality they had so readily abandoned, his sword cutting through their hearts and souls as easily as it would have their flesh.

Anian jumped to his feet, pulling Cieri out of harm’s way as he did. The offending blade sliced through the empty space she had so recently occupied. So intent was the attacker on meeting flesh that he was thrown off balance with the force of his assault. Anian lashed out with his foot and struck the Midgard across the knee, sending him to the ground. He gathered his mace and moved to finish the battle, though the norseman was the faster. With a vicious cut of his sword, he opened a grave wound indeed in Anian’s belly, his innards spilling out for all to see.

For Cieri, it was as though the entire realm had slowed to an unnatural pace. She watched with fascinated obsession as the sword cut through her realm mate’s body. She heard herself scream in denial as he fell to the ground, his eyes wide with disbelief and regret. He looked to her for a moment, and in that moment, he offered her his heart, for as long as it might continue to beat.

Cieri felt something come over her that she had never known before. It was something akin to rage; something akin to vengeance. Whatever the emotion, it moved her to act, and act she did. Without thinking on the right or wrong or how or why of it, she kicked out with her foot, knocking the sword from the hand of the norseman. He reacted faster than she could hope to respond, his fist creasing her jaw with more raw power than she knew was possible. She was knocked unforgivingly to the ground and shook her head in an effort to clear it, for she knew that the norseman would be all but upon her. Her vision clouded from the attack, she began to frantically search the ground with her hands, in hopes of finding something that might see her free of the danger she was in.

Later she would wonder what it was that brought her hand to the sword that the norseman had lost. Fate? Chance? The Gods intervention? In the end, it was not important. All that mattered was the cold and deadly steel she then wielded. In one graceful motion, she brought the blade to bear on the shadow that was approaching her, and thrust forward with all of her strength. She felt the blade sink into flesh, and as her vision cleared finally, she saw the norseman on the ground before her, near dead to be sure, looking for all the realm as though he were shocked that one such as she could see him defeated.

She looked at the wound she had inflicted for a moment, realizing that she had crossed a line she had sworn she would never cross. She should have felt guilty, she reasoned, though in her heart of hearts, she could not. She had defended herself and her realm well. Though the sword felt foreign and heavy in her hands, she tucked it into her belt, and moved to the fallen druid.

She cast her magics as quickly as she was able, praying that she was not so late that he was lost to her. She offered words of prayer such as she had never before, and breathed a deep and genuine sigh of relief as she watched his wounds once again close over. She felt a tear roll down her cheek as he opened his eyes, for she knew that something had happened between them this day. It was something they would know for all of time, and for all of time she would remember how they met, on the field of battle.

Anian rose to his feet and took her hand, noticing with concern the blood upon it. He looked to the fallen norseman, realizing what must have happened, and smiled at her, for she was truly a remarkable woman. Reaching to the mace he had dropped when the norseman had attacked him, he moved to stand before the fallen enemy. With a conviction born of anguish he raised the mace high, his every intention to crush what life might remain within his fallen enemy.

As his muscle’s contracted to carry out his wishes, he felt her hand upon his arm. His eyes turned to meet hers, and there he saw the very depth and ardor of her heart. Suddenly, his actions seemed almost ridiculous in the face of her compassion. He watched as she stepped forward and knelt beside the fallen norseman. She laid her healing hands upon him, and cast her spells. Anian looked on as the wounds that she had caused healed only slightly, for his heritage would prevent her spells from acting on him completely. They healed enough though, for the druid to know that she had saved the norseman’s life.

Cieri then rose and took Anian’s hand, moving back toward the Mile Gate. As they walked, they both said good bye to the person that they had been when they had come to battle this day. He had been a warrior, nothing more, with less compassion in his heart than any she had known. She, a healer, with no more an urge or ability to inflict an injury than the very stone of the realm to receive such. As they moved back toward their own, each knew that they had grown into something more.

He had learned compassion.

She had learned the cut of a blade.

Both had learned that they had the other to thank for the changes they had seen. As they left the battlefield behind them, they wondered what lay ahead; what lessons might they yet teach the other and learn themselves?

Neither knew the answer, but both knew that they would not miss the learning of it, not for all the wealth in the realm.

2002-04-15T16:23:00.000-07:00

What Dreams May Come

The sweat rolled down Kerika’s face as she made her way through the darkened passages of the blackened cave. She had come across the labyrinth in her solitary travels through the realm, her lute and drum faithful companions through the dangers and excitements that had greeted her. She had found the cave entrance purely by chance, surprised that she was even able to see it, considering the speed she was moving and the darkness of night. It had captured her imagination, for who could know what treasures might lay within? Surely such adventure would come with a price, but Kerika had never been one to side step adventure in the face of adversity.

She moved with silent assurance, her torch dead in her pack for fear of attracting the denizens of the cavern. Meet them she might, but she saw no advantage in advertising her presence. If she were to meet with peril in the heart of the cave, she would meet it on her terms.

As she moved through the near black expanse of the caves, she found her thoughts turning once again to he who had managed to capture her imagination so vividly of late. He was of Midgard stock, an enemy by birth, and more than this, he was a troll. She had recalled seeing him for the first time in battle but weeks before. Facing him had terrified her beyond telling, for even for a troll he was immense, but face him she had. With spells flying and weapons drawn, she had confronted the Midgard known as Manimal, and hope for victory had buoyed within her soul in the beginning, for she saw as her attacks landed unblocked, and more than this, unanswered. As she continued with her assault, her captured a glimpse of his face, and in that instant, her world changed for all of times. Where she had expected to see a beast of rage and hatred, she instead saw a soul in pain and torment. Her elders would surely have told her to maintain her attack; to press the advantage no matter its cause, but Kerika had never been much for following orders when her heart told her otherwise. There was something there in that face; in those eyes that told her killing this troll was wrong, and more than wrong, a thing she would regret for the whole of her life. Kerika pulled back her attack, and stood in silent contemplation as Manimal dropped to one knee in anguished pain, for her assault had been true indeed. His head hung in anguish, she felt her heart melt at the sight of him. Guilt started to cover her like a blanket that only smothered her, offering no warmth or comfort.

The beast called Manimal slowly stood, his strength returning after a moment, much to Kerika’s relief. As the troll rose to its full height, the young minstrel marveled at the sheer size and power so obvious within his rock-bound frame. She knew then that he could easily have killed her when she had attacked, and the fact that he did not intrigued her even more. There was a gentleness about the giant, and Kerika knew that she must know of him. What beat within his heart? What drove him to stay his hand when he could so easily have killed her outright?

Thus began a time in her life that she knew she would never regret, nor forget, nor even truly understand. She and Manimal had grown closer in the weeks that had followed, or at least as close as two from opposing realms could grow. They would meet in battle, each secretly careful to avoid the other, for while they would defend their realm to the death, die they would rather than to have to strike a blow against other. Oftimes they would meet in Odin’s Gate or Hadrian’s Wall, alone, in order to know the other better. He would sit in silent wonder and appreciation as she would play her lute. She would look on at him and wonder how such obvious power and unyielding strength could house a heart as big as that which she knew beat within his chest.

For weeks she wrestled with the morality, the treachery, the utter futility of it all. He was a Midgard! And as much as this, a troll! She knew not what she was feeling, where it be love, loyalty, intrigue…whatever name one might attach to it, she shared it with him openly. She had been guarded at first, but when he had arrived at one of their secret meetings with a blooming rose in his gigantic hand, her heart was his, in as much as it might be.

Her friends and comrades in arms whom she had decided to trust with her secret had called her mad. Surely to meet with one of another realm was insanity! The realm of Midgard had killed from Albion citizens than stars shone in the sky! How could it enter her mind to take one into her heart, and hold him dearly? How could she justify her feelings to them, when in her heart of heart, she knew them to be right? She had not told them of the fact that he was a troll, for they would not have coped well with such revelations. Enough, she knew, that they thought her crazed for knowing one of another realm.

As the weeks had passed, Kerika grew closer to Manimal. A kinder, gentler heart she had never know, and it all but broke her heart for the reality of their circumstance. Bound by birth to a realm apart, bound by heart to each other. Perhaps she had gone mad, and if not, her devotion to the troll in the hands of so a cruel fate would surely see her there. How she had prayed that he was one of their own; a citizen of the realm of Albion, for then she could at least speak to him; hear his words and truly know his heart. Still, fate was a cruel master, and she would have to be content with knowing him at a distance.

Kerika let her hands wander in front of her, along the wall of the cave, so as not to wander too far away from the familiar. Bad enough to be in this cave in the first place, she almost chastised herself, without the worry of being lost as well. How she wished that Manimal were with her! She recalled how safe she felt when they were together; how secure she knew herself to be when his massive shadow fell across her own. This cave would seem little more than a child’s playhouse were he with her. Alone, it was the darkened pits of Hel itself, with no light to guide her footsteps, or her heart.

She first heard the pained scream from a distance, and while the sound was clear enough, though distant, she knew that it was familiar to her. Where she might have heard it before she could not dare to guess, but as it rang out through the cave once again, it called even more truly in her memory. Kerika pulled her drum from within her pack and tapped out the magical notes that would speed her to her destination. She felt the magic flow through her, and she was off, knowing the folly of running through the caverns with no light to guide her, but she knew as well that she had little choice. Someone was in pain, and while no name came to her, she was confident that the voice was one she knew. With no thought further to her own risk, she ran on as fast as she was able.

Before long a dim light appeared before her. She hurried toward it, slowing only as she came to see the images that stood within. There, in the center of a small grotto, illuminated by torches burning in small wall sconces, Kerika saw a sight that would haunt her for years to come. Chained in the center of the small chamber was Manimal, glowing shackles holding him in a kneeling position, his troll blood dripping from grievous wounds in his back and shoulders. Behind the injured troll stood a fearsome demon indeed, his form towering over its victim with ease. Beyond fearsome, the demon was blood red in color, as though it might once have had skin, and some greater power had stripped the skin from it completely, leaving only muscle and sinew and blood to mark the happening. In its hand it wielded a whip of flames, that sparked in delight each time the demon flayed them across the back of the troll. With each stroke of the whip, the demon lay its horrific head back and howled with laughter, its sadistic whims realized with every new wound it inflicted.

Kerika’s first instinct was to flee; to run the way she had come and not stop until she saw once again saw the light of day. The sight of Manimal in agony, at the hands of the vile demon, however, was more than she could bear. With another thought and a strum of her lute, she charged the demon, bringing her sword upon the horror before her. The demon turned to confront her and for the first time she was gifted with the sight of the demon’s face. She screamed a scream of sublime terror when she saw that the demon’s features were her own, though twisted and bent to the purpose of the ungodly. With a fiendish laugh of one who was truly mad, the demon vanished in a cloud of smoke and brimstone.

Kerika fell to her knees, tears of guilt and anguish running freely down her face. What treachery was this that would see her confronted by such a horror? She could barely hold herself to her own sanity for the experience, and feared that she would lose herself forever in the madness of this place.

Somehow, through the haze of her pain, she heard a stifled moan, and she turned her head to see Manimal in his knees still, his eyes turned to her. For the moment, she forgot that which tortured her so, and moved to her beloved friend.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered, knowing that he could not understand, but speaking her sorrow regardless. “I will see you free of this place, I swear it!”

Manimal slowly lifted his hands, the magical shackles glowing in the light of the chamber. The troll’s face reflected the physical pain that hounded him relentlessly, and Kerika’s heart all but broke for the suffering in his eyes.

Kerika moved to Manimal and drew a dagger from her belt. Her eyes sought comfort and confidence in his, but found only loss and confusion. She never knew how deeply she felt for the troll until she saw that anguish written across his face. With a hint of desperation in her hands, she slashed at the chains, more in frustration than any real hope of affecting them.

In a blinding flash of magical light, Kerika turned her head to keep from being blinded. The pain knifed through her skull, as easily as her dagger had the chains, and when she turned her head again, the troll that had been Manimal was gone. In his place stood a tall Briton, the robes of a magic wielder adorning his form. Kerika stood slowly, her suspicion aroused by the happening, though when her eyes fell upon the Briton’s, she saw within them the same heart that beat within the chest of the troll she had come to cherish.

“M…Manimal?” she whispered haltingly, as though this were not real, and she feared he would not understand her. Tears filled her eyes once again as the Briton spoke, and the words came to her like the softest of summer breezes.

“Its me Kerika. I am here.”

She stood facing him, as though every prayer she had known had been answered. So overcome was she with the realization that Manimal was actually before her, of her race and realm, of her heart, that she could hardly find the strength to stand, let alone speak.

“I have dreamed of this moment for longer than you know, Kerika. How long have we held each other in heart, if not in body; in soul, if not in reality? I wish that things could be different…”

“But they can!” she managed to cry out, as though he were a vision, and might fade before she could speak what was truly within her heart. “You are here now! We can be…”

“No Kerika. No…I wish that it were so. The magics I have employed to move myself to you this day will last but a few moments, and have come at a great cost.”

The minstrel felt more than helpless; she felt angry and betrayed. To be so close now that they could know more than the pained glances across a battlefield, and then to have that dream stripped from her; what vile torture! Could any greater pain come to her heart?

“Why?”

Manimal looked to the ground. “Because I could not know life any longer without knowing you, if only for a moment. I could not go on in the life I have led without, for a moment, breathing in the very heart of you. Because I have known you, and held you in my heart for so long. I would risk and surrender this and more to but know the touch of your hand…”

Kerika felt her breath shorten as Manimal reached out for her face. His hands brushed lightly across her cheek, and a chill ran through her entire being at the touch of the man before her. She closed her eyes, and let the feeling warm her completely; fill her with a longing and emotion she had never known, and would, she feared, never know again.

Slowly, she reached out her hand to return the caress, but found only empty air to greet her. Her eyes opened in panic, and the man that was before her was gone, leaving only a faint whisper on the wind to remind her that he had been there at all.

With a rush of absolute shock, Kerika sat bolt upright in the small bed, sweat pouring from her like rain from the heavens. She sat perfectly still for a moment, her tears merging with the sweat so as to be indistinguishable. Her breathing was sharp and forced, and she knew that she had called out upon awakening. Her hands shook with what she could not know, but never in her life had she felt so alone; so completely, and blindingly alone.

The door to her chamber opened slowly, and the innkeeper’s wife looked inside. “Are you will miss? I heard you call out…”

Kerika looked to the older woman and tried to smile, though what appeared across her face could hardly be called such. “I am fine…” she said. The innkeeper’s wife closed the door; quickly enough that Kerika’s words were lost in the darkness of the small bed chamber.

“It was only a dream…”

2002-04-12T06:35:00.000-07:00

A Warrior Born

Editors note: This story is actualy one of the older stories that I missed wehn starting this archive. The next two stories are the latest.

The Hibernian forces battered at the doors of the Relic Fort with easily half a dozen rams. The sounds of splintering wood and waning hope seemed to echo across Yggdra Forest like thunder on a silent evening. The Midgard defenders had been taken completely by surprise, many wondering how in the name of the very Gods of the land the Hibernians had managed to cut so deeply into Midgard territory without notice. They had been quick to rally in defence of their homeland, though even when the main body had reached the Keep that housed Thor’s Hammer, the Relic of Strength, the sheer number of Hibernians that had managed to infect their lands had astounded the Midgards. They were there by the hundreds, each more determined than the last, it seemed, to gather the Relic of Strength unto their own vile hands.

The Midgards had immediately set upon the invaders, the all-powerful thanes leading the charge. No one could count the number of Hibernians that died in the first assault. They dropped as though they had been called to judgement, and were eager for the release. Following the thanes, the warriors and berserkers came forward, their weapons cutting a swath of death and destruction into the ranks of the Hibernians. This was the totality of the initial wave of the counterattack, and much to the dismay of the defending Midgards, it was obvious that it would never be enough. After this, it was as though Hel itself had come to call, with blood and fur, flesh and bone scattered to the four winds, torn from their own by the brutality and battle lust that could only be measured on a battle field such as this.

The clash seemed to last forever, a tapestry of violence and bloodshed, righteousness and indignation, victory and defeat. Which side would hold more closely to these was yet to be ascertained, though it was clear that each was as determined as the other that theirs would see victory before the setting of the sun.

There was a moment when the Midgard forces could see the light of victory slip over the battlefield. The Hibernians had been slaughtered by the number, and for a brief shining instant, it seemed as though they might have been turned back.

And then the second wave of Hibernians attacked.

The assault of the newly arrived Hibernians made the first wave seem tame by comparison. Many Midgards died, in surprise and shock that Hibernia could hold so many. It was as though a hole had been torn in the very heart of Hibernia, and its denizens were bleeding into Midgard, the wound open and weeping. It was a battle that the Midgards could not win on an open field, and the call soon went out to pull back into the Keep itself, for there perhaps they could hold the invaders at bay.

The Hibernians screamed to their Gods in near panicked elation, for they had won the first leg of the battle. The forces of Midgard had been pushed back into their own Keep. It was just a matter of time, they knew, before the keep too would fall. The Hammer of Thor would be in the hands of the Hibernian horde, and the very hint of this happening was enough to send the Hibernians into a frenzied fever.

Wargolem stood on the Parapet of the keep, looking out over the thronging mass of Hibernians fighting to make their way into the stronghold. “More to the doors,” he screamed out over the din of the rams. “Wood workers to the repairs!” The leader of Odin’s Fury let his brow knit in despair, for while he and his realm mates had fought with a passion that made him glow with pride, he was seasoned enough to know when they were fighting a losing war. “More archers to the walls!” he called out, running as he did to the inner gates of the keep. For the moment, the inner gates were open, allowing the defenders access to the outer doors in an effort to repair them before the Hibernians could take them down. This too was a losing effort, for Wargolem could see that the doors were being destroyed faster than they could be repaired. Wargolem cursed under his breath. This was their last line of defence. Once the doors were breeched, the keep would surely fall, for not enough defenders survived within to turn back the Hibernians.

“Pull back!” he screamed again, drawing the repair force in the keep proper. Just as the inner doors were closed and barred, the outer doors gave way, and the Hibernians poured though. The last glimpse of the enemy turned Wargolem's stomach, for their lust only seemed to the growing with every piece of ground taken. Not that he could blame them, he thought ironically. He had been involved in more than his share of raids in the past. He knew well enough the frenzied hunger that could overtake an army, especially one on the verge of victory.

“To the Relic Room!” he commanded. “Defend from there!”

Without an instant’s hesitation, the remaining Midgard forces abandoned the courtyard and ran up the stairs into the room the housed the Relic of Strength. Each who entered felt their spirits rise with the very sight of the magical artifact. Its raw strength inspired even the weakest of heart to new heights of courage, though on this day, its effect was blunted by the invaders who sought to claim it for their own.

Wargolem watched as the rams hammered away at the inner doors. How long, he thought to himself, before the Hibernians would know victory? It was almost more than he could bear. His place in the realm had been as defender of the righteousness of the Midgard people. His God has sent him to walk these lands with but one quest; but one reason for being. The Hibernians were threatening to take that from him; to show him that he was not worthy of the mantle offered to him. If the battle were lost, where then, thought Wargolem, would one such as he be banished?

Without another thought, he ran into the keep tower, but instead of joining the forces in the Relic Room, he moved instead to the chapel. Falling to his knees, he closed his eyes and spoke his prayer, his reverence and humility bleeding from as though from an open wound.

“Modi,” he began, calling out to his God, and more than this, and in a very real way, his Father, “since my coming, since your sending, I have asked for nothing. I have fought and bled and killed and killed again in defence of the realm you hold so dearly. This day, we have battled with resolve and with courage, and yet still we are facing defeat. You sent me here to do that which you could not, seated upon your holiest of thrones. I beg you now, with all that I am, and all that you made me, please, give me the strength to do that which I have been charged to do. Deliver unto me the miracle that will see us delivered from the fate I cannot bare, neither for me, nor for my realm.”

Tears of frustration fell freely from Wargolem’s face as he offered his heart and his soul in the prayer he then delivered. In truth, he would have offered anything that was within his realm to give, if only he could see the Hibernian force turned away. His hands were clenched together in absolute reverence, for to do what he asked was without his province. Without Modi to answer his prayers, all was truly lost.

The voice came to him, softly at first, like a flirtatious whisper, gently pulling at his consciousness. Soon it grew louder, to where it was almost deafening to he who had called the presence upon himself. Wargolem tried with all of his considerable will to hold the voice at bay, but it was of immeasurable power, and would not be silenced, even by a will as strong as his might have been.

“Wargolem…”

The voice was commanding, to be sure, and held his attention from the very moment it first echoed across the chapel.

“I bore you to this world to fight the battles I could not; to hold the deceivers and betrayers to their own realms. Now here they stand, on the threshold of taking that which all other realms covet. You have failed me, and yet you stand before me, begging for more than that which I have already offered?”

Wargolem felt the rage. He felt the anger and the disappointment, and yet, he could not feel guilt for what it was that he had one. His purpose was to combat the evil that was not Midgard. If this should mean to offer genuflection to the Gods themselves, so be it.

When the voice returned, it was with a tone that offered calm resolution. “And yet, I must know now that this world is not that to which you were sent. It has grown, in power, in knowledge, in savagery and in madness. The Hibernians are at our door through mine own shortsightedness. Your words speak of arrogance, but your heart speaks the truth. Very well, son of Modi. Take that which you have asked, but know that all of your path will receive this as well. Take it and do that which you were born to do.”

With that, voice vanished, leaving Wargolem alone to contemplate the meaning of it all.

The Hibernian bard ran though Odin’s gate, three of Hibernian’s greatest warrior close on her heels. They had watched the Midgard Relic Keep fall and had been with the main attack force that had killed the few remaining Midgard defenders within. When they had taken the relic for their own, a flow of strength infused them all, for such was the reward for the capturing of Midgard’s most precious relic. Her name was Tran, and she was the fastest of the Hibernian bards, present on the raid with the sole responsibility of returning the relic to Hibernia, should they manage to capture it. She had never, in her heart of hearts, thought it could be done, but the Gods had smiled, and she was but a spear’s throw from returning in victory, the relic safe within her hands.

As they had passed through Odin’s Gate, they had met the expected resistance, though the Midgards had not time enough to gather a sufficient force to truly offer a challenge. A few of their number had confronted them, though they had met their demise with alacrity to be sure.

They had passed through Hibernian mile gate without incident, and when the portal keep came into view, they all breathed a sigh of relief. They were all but home.

Wargolem stepped out from behind the tree that had concealed him, and stood between the war party and their portal keep. They stopped in their tracks at the sight of him, more out of surprise that he would actually confront them so close to their keep than out of any real concern.

The three warriors moved as one, perfectly trained and honed in their skills. Their weapons all arched at the challenger before them, all as sure of their victory as they would be surprised at the events to follow.

Wargolem saw them come, and if he were honest with himself, he would admit that he felt a hint of fear and doubt. He could feel the newfound power offered him by Modi flow through him, though he had no idea how such power might manifest itself. He had tried to make the power come while waiting for these to arrive, but he realized soon enough that it was a gift to be used in the heat of battle, not on a whim.

The three warriors circled about him, and with precise movements and a coordinated effort, they moved to kill as one.

Their eyes widened in absolute surprise as Wargolem’s form began to shift before their very eyes. It was an instantaneous alteration, and for the moment the transformation took, Wargolem felt pain, as he had never known before. It was as though this new form lay below the surface of his skin, and had torn his flesh asunder in order to be free. Once the agony had passed, Wargolem knew power as he had never known it before.

The weapons of the Hibernians all struck the berserker with untold force, though through the form he then held, they might as well have been feathers on the wind. Wargolem drew his weapons and attacked, his rage and fury matching the beastly form he had taken.

Tran watched with horrified fascination as the huge bear-like form that had been the Midgard fought her compatriots. Her spells were cast to aid where she could, but she might have been blown them kisses for all the effect they were having. She watched as the berserker danced a waltz of death with his enemies. Hibernian blood was spilled with impunity, and in less time than the telling of it takes, the three warriors were dead, all sent to their maker with thoughts of wonder and shock written across their aspect for all of eternity.

Wargolem felt some of the bloodlust pass, though his form remained intact. With a measured turn, he faced the Hibernian bard and raised his weapons, willing to allow her to pass with her life should she be willing to surrender the relic.

The bard lifted her war hammer, her eyes red with rage, both for the deaths she had witnessed and the fear that she might lose the relic that she carried. For a brief shining moment, she thought that her rage might have carried the day.

In the end, they both should have known better.

Wargolem stood alone in the relic room of the great keep, and reverently laid the Hammer of Thor back in its rightful place. He knelt before the artifact and closed his eyes in thanks to Modi for answering his prayers, and in worried anticipation of what was to be, for surely the Gods of Hibernia and Albion would not let such a gift go unequalled in their own realms. Balance was the nature of life and the order of the day in the realms, and while, for the moment, Midgard was safe, it would not be long before its borders would again be threatened.

Wargolem stood and moved to the small window, looking out over the wonder that was Midgard.

By all that he held holy, they would be ready.

2002-04-12T06:30:00.000-07:00

Compromises

He was born to be a wizard.

From the first moment he could understand the meaning of the word, he had been a slave to magic. He had studied it as a child, almost frightening his parents with the fierce dedication and unswerving resolve he demonstrated. He would sit in his sleeping chamber for hours upon hours, studying any manuscript that he could lay his attentions to, trying to discover the vast hidden secrets and dark intricacies of the arcane arts. He was able to cast light magics as of seven summers, and conjure impressive cantrips and incantations before his fifteenth year. So bound to the study of the magical arts was he that, upon his twentieth year, the year of his ascension, he traveled to the magistrate in Camelot had paid the 75 silver pieces to change his name to one which more befitted a man who had given over everything that he was, and everything that he would ever be, to magic.

On that day, Mystic was born.

Word of his prowess in the eldritch arts traveled far and fast, and before long he found himself the center of much attention. Surely he knew that the lands were well populated with magic-users, some more powerful than he, though most less, and yet through this he knew one other thing as well.

None were more dedicated.

It was no surprise then that Callstaff, of the Albion Academy for Magical Arts sought him out. He, like so many others, had seen the boy’s talent, but he, unlike the rest, knew of a place where he could hone his talents and come to the true greatness that his potential promised.

It had taken no convincing at all before Mystic had agreed to venture with Callstaff to the Academy. The recruiter had spoken of the true meaning of power, and how, within the hallowed walls of the Academy, Mystic would learn the mysteries of the magical arts, and discover his personal secrets as well.

Initially, Mystic had expected his parents to resist the idea, for it would mean him moving away from their humble farm outside of Pradwyn Keep, but much to his surprise and delight, they were agreeable to the idea. In truth, they were relived, for so powerful had their son grown in recent months that they had begun to fear that he might not be able to control his power any longer. There had been several accidents with the boy’s magic, and each incident had proven mostly costly than the previous.

Not to mention more dangerous.

The Academy would offer a vessel through which to train the young man how to control that which was his nature, as well as expanding his power to its limits. As his time at the Academy passed, Mystic’s abilities surpassed the most advanced students, and Callstaff glowed with pride and delight at the boy’s progress.

Callstaff sat in the huge oaken chair adorning his private chamber within the Academy. The room was a monument to the life-long study of and longing for magic. Tapestries depicting magnificent arcane battles hung loosely from the walls; magical items and weapons decorated the chamber, each an artifact of Callstaff’s lifetime, each reflective of a time or place or circumstance, but all dear to his heart.

“Perhaps he will come to get over this.” Callstaff’s words drifted upon Imboden, the Academy’s master. He had come to Callstaff this day more out of courtesy than duty, for he knew that the old wizard had taken a personal hand in Mystic and his training, and that he would surely have a vested interest in the sad tidings he carried.

“I am sorry, Callstaff,” Imboden spoke slowly, his words thick with the regret that both men were feeling. “Mystic is a gifted mage to be sure. I have never seen one more powerful, or potentially so at any rate, but this is something he cannot get past. The Gods of Albion know, I have tried.”

Callstaff nodded. In truth, he had seen it coming for a long while, but had hoped that Mystic would come to grow out of it. Even at their first meeting three years before, he had seen the compassion in the young magi’s eyes. When they had talked, as they often had over the years, Mystic had betrayed his unwillingness to take life. In the beginning, it had mattered not at all. The Academy was a place for wizards to study magic for the sake of it. Back then, the young wizard’s talent would have been enough. However, with the break out of the realm wars, the Academy had been forced to turn its attentions to the training of wizards for the purpose of defending the realm. Study for its own sake was replaced with study for the sake of the lives of those that called Albion home. From the moment that the re-focusing of the Academy’s energies had been implemented, Mystic had resisted the changes. He would not take life, he had sworn from the beginning. What once had been a personal choice had turned into a point of contention that would see him removed from the Academy.

Callstaff stood and walked the floor of the chamber, his mind awash with the truths that Imboden spoke. Mystic loved life, almost as much as he had loved magic. How could they, in all conscience, ask him to betray so personal and sacred a belief?

Imboden stood and walked to the door of the study. “If it would be easier for you, old friend, I can tell him.”

Callstaff shook his head. “No. I brought him here. I took him into my care. I will be the one to tell him now that he must go.”

As Imboden left the room, Callstaff lent thought to precisely how he would tell Mystic that he was no longer wanted within the walls of the Academy. It would not be easy, for the lad had turned his entire life over to magic and the study of it. To be told that he was no longer worthy of the Academy’s attention simply because he respected life was more than he could bare.

It was folly.

It was hypocrisy.

And worse, it was the truth.

Mystic walked the streets of Camelot, his robes dragging upon the ground behind him. The news of his expulsion from the Academy had taken him completely by surprise. It made no sense. It was a place of learning, a place of knowledge. To see it turned so blithely into a place of death and an instrument of killing was more than he cared to accept. Had he not been removed form the school, he knew he would have left on his own. He simply could not be a part of something so contradictory, not only to the things that he held dear, but to the very fabric and foundation of the Academy itself.

Still, it was a stand he had taken not without reason, and not without attempts to force his hand against his values. That very morning, he had traveled to the frontier of the Midgard horde. He had come together with other eager adventurers at the Portal Keep, and had traveled to the blood soaked lands of Odin’s Gate. Those in his party had been eager enough to see the lands more bloody still, and he had acted in their spirit, if only to prove to himself that he could do it, but in truth, he could not. He had known it when he had set out on the fools errand, and he had proven it when they had come upon a lone troll warrior. He had tried to cast his spells as the others descended upon the unsuspecting troll, their swords and magics leading the charge. He himself had called a spell to mind, but found that he could not bring himself to cast it. This troll was alone, and no threat to any but himself. To kill him so, without thought or remorse, without conscience, was more than was in him to do. He had turned from the battle then, and returned to Albion, hoping upon hope that he would be able to one day reconcile this within himself. He loved Albion, but could not kill for her.

What place then, for a conscience-ridden wizard in a land ravaged by war?

Mystic kept his eyes to the ground, paying no attention to where the fates carried him. The cobblestone roads passed beneath him and the day sky turned to night above him, and still he walked. How long and how far, he could not say, and did not care. He had hoped that he would find solace and comfort and perhaps answers on the streets of the fabled city, but instead he found only painful reminders of what he had thought was his greatest strength, turned before his very eyes into his more damning weakness.

The sounds came to him gently at first, as though they were whispers meant for another’s ears. He paid little attention, for he did not care to lend thought to such matters that were not his for reflection. He could not say then what pulled his attention more closely. Perhaps it was the whispered desperation, or the hint of panic in that tiny voice. Whatever the call, it lay across his consideration and refused to be ignored. Mystic raised his eyes and realized that the darkest of nights had crossed the realm, and that he had wandered into a part of the city that was not known for its hospitalities, or its compassion. Not a soul could be seen in the dim light of the waning moon, though now that he gave it more notice, he realized the voice to be that of a young woman. He could not see anyone, but the quiet sobs and wretched pleading were not to be mistaken. It was as though he had been awaked from a long sleep, and was more alert and aware than he had ever known himself capable of being.

The young wizard began to run across the roads of the city, he ears guiding him unerringly toward the sounds that had garnered his notice. As he ran, his hands began to sweat, and his heart to pound, for he knew not what he would find. More than that, he was not a man of physical prowess. His abilities lay in his mind and his magic. The thugs and ruffians of the streets were an animal he had never known, and in truth, doubted his ability to handle, should the situation come to such.

Despite his personal misgivings, he followed the pleas and realized as he closed with them that whoever she was that cried out in the night was in serious distress. He quickened his pace, and turned suddenly down a narrow alleyway, convinced that he was close.

He could not have been more right.

The sight the greeted him when he entered the alley froze his very soul and would stay with him until the end of his days, if not beyond. A group of streets thugs surrounded a young girl, no older than himself, and their intentions were only too clear. Her clothes lay in tatters, both around her and on the ground, and several of the thug’s clothes were also in disarray. Mystic felt his stomach turn for the scene upon which he had stumbled, and more, for the plight of the young woman, so helpless before him. That they had ravaged her was obvious; that they planned to do so again was equally so.

Finally one of the thugs turned and took notice of the mage. With a nod of his head, the others turned as well, each brandishing a knife or dagger in his direction.

“Be gone, ye cur,” one called out, the venom in his voice as sharp as the dagger he carried, “or yer blood will stain the streets along with hers.” The others laughed a raucous, vile laugh at the threat, and Mystic felt his hands begin to tremble for the terror that welled within him.

For the first time in his life, he knew actual fear.

The thug took a threatening step forward, the blade of the dagger glistening in the half light of the alley. “Maybe ye didn’t hear me right, pig. Go, or lose what life ye might have.”

Three others stepped toward him as well, and Mystic took a hesitant step backward, his first instinct to run, as far and as fast as he was able, and yet he found himself unable. As much as he could not cast upon the lone troll warrior that morning, he knew that he could not abandon the girl to the contemptible mercies of those before him. And yet, what could he do? Sworn not to take life, he knew he could not hold them all at bay either. The situation was moving too fast and grew too confusing for him to comprehend. He knew he had to do something, but only the Gods knew what it could be.

Thankfully, they saw fit to share that knowledge with him.

As the leader of the cutthroats moved toward him, the young girl moved to crawl away, her knees and hands leaving a bloodied trail as she did. Mystic’s face cringed with pain and disgust, and he took a step forward, though what he would do he still could not know. One of the thugs closer to the girl saw her attempt to escape, and kicked at her viciously, his foot landing squarely across her face. Blood flew from the wound, and her head snapped horribly back with the attack. She fell completely to the ground, and if she lived, she showed no signs of it.

Mystic watched the sadistic assault as though it were a play, performed for his disgust, and acted in slow motion, so as not to allow him to miss any instant therein. Anger welled within him, as he had never before known or even comprehended. Anger grew to rage, and rage to an absolute frenzied fury. He himself would never remember what exactly happened then, though the thugs would never forgot, for as long as they might lived to hold the memory.

They looked on as the young man before them turned as pale as death itself. The very color seemed to vanish from his flesh, lending to him the visage of one of the undead that stalked the outlands at night. White as the moon he was, save for his eyes. To a one, they would swear that his eyes turned as red as the blood on the ground at their feet. Each backed away from him, for this was not fear that they saw before them.

This was hate.

This was vengeance.

This was death.

The wizards hands began to move through the air, faster and faster, as though weaving a pattern of destruction out of the rage that consumed him completely. The words of the spell came to him easily then, as though he had been born to speak them, and his life up until this moment had been spent in quiet anticipation of the happening.

Each of the cutthroats looked to the others for explanation, but none could be found from any. Without warning, the alley erupted into a blaze of wizard-fire, the likes of which could be seen from every corner of the huge city. The flames leaped from Mystic’s hands, his mind blind to everything, save the spell that he cast. As though a ship on a charted course, the flames visited each cutthroat in turn, burning the very life from them before moving onto the next. In their last moment of existence, they knew only pain and sorrow and absolute, unyielding terror.

Mystic knew, even then, that it was more than they deserved.

Callstaff looked at Mystic as he sat before him. He had come to call at the Academy, only three days after his expulsion, and while Callstaff knew he had come to ask to return, he had not expected to see a man where a child had been only days before.

“You know the conditions of your return, Mystic,” Callstaff spoke sadly, for while he wanted with all of his heart to allow Mystic’s admittance, his knew that the young wizard’s conscience would not allow it.

Mystic looked at his old friend, a sad and angry smile across his young features. “I know…” were the only words that he spoke.

“But the taking of a life ... You have sworn…”

“I know my vows, Callstaff,” he spoke harshly, as though taking offense at the doubt in the old wizard’s voice. “They are mine to reconcile. All you need know is that I will kill, when I have need to.”

Callstaff could not know what had happened to change Mystic’s heart, but at the moment, staring into the eyes of the young man before him, he knew that his heart had indeed been changed. Something had been lost in the soul of the young man; something akin to innocence. Something akin to compassion. Something that Callstaff knew he would be a lesser man without.

Mystic looked to Callstaff for an answer in response to his request for re-admission. Despite the thousand questions roaming through his mind, Callstaff simply nodded. As Mystic rose to return to the studies he loved so dearly, Callstaff found that he did not have the strength to hold his questions within.

“Mystic,” he called out, his voice trembling in curiosity. “What happened?”

Mystic turned as he reached the door, his eyes betraying the changes he had known over the past several days. He looked to the man that he most respected in the realms, and he knew that he owed him an explanation, if nothing else. They had known too much together to simply leave his question unanswered.

For an instant, that sad and lonely smile returned. Without a word, he turned his back on Callstaff and closed the door behind him.

2002-04-12T06:26:00.000-07:00

What Lies Within

Friar Ephraim staggered along the main road of Ludlow Village, his destination lost in his confused and addled thoughts, for the brew he had ingested at the Ludlow Inn was still working its magic upon him. He vaguely recalled the events of the night before, leaving the hallowed streets of Camelot and setting out for the small village of Ludlow shortly before nightfall. It was a long walk to be sure, but one that was worth the effort, for Ludlow surely served the finest ale in the land.

Or so Friar Ephraim told himself.

In truth, the best was to be found in the Dragon’s Breath Inn, across from the Market Square in Camelot, but after a rather raucous visit there in the months past, he had been politely asked to refrain from frequenting the establishment again, at least until they finished repairing the damage. As well, his merry-making had not gone un-noticed by the elders in the church, and while not a one of the elders could truthfully claim complete abstinence, Friar Ephraim was easily the most accomplished drinker of the following. The elders had mentioned to him, more in passing than in reprisal, that he might do well to curtail his alcoholic tendencies, or at the very least, to be more discreet about them. He had nodded politely at their suggestion, and headed straight to the Dragon’s Breath, where he had been stopped at the door and reminded of his temporary banishment. He then turned to the city gates and made his way to Ludlow, where he was known, certainly, but not nearly to the excessive lengths that he was in Camelot.

As he made his way carefully through the early morning streets, he heard the unmistakable sounds of his shadow running up behind him. He hadn’t noticed him at first, the night before, but after a few hours of drinking and carousing in the Ludlow Inn, the youngster had made himself known. Friar Tespa, he had called himself. After what seemed like an entire night of posing questions and having them artfully dodged, Friar Ephraim had discovered that Tespa was a spy of sorts, or if one wished to use a somewhat less pointed descriptor, keeper, or baby-sitter might suffice. Apparently the elders held no faith in Ephraim’s ability to keep his word, or hold his drinking, and had appointed Tespa to follow him around and ensure his good behavior.

“Friar Ephraim, please wait, I beg you…”

Ephraim simply walked on, the cold air of the morning sobering him far more quickly than he would have liked. Still, he slowed his pace and allowed the younger man to catch up. As Tespa took his stride beside Ephraim, the older churchman could not help but chuckle at the sizable bruise that Tespa sported on his left eye. His chuckle grew into a warm laugh, though in truth Tespa did not see the humor.

“I see nothing funny in being assaulted by a fellow friar,” Tespa spat with anger, lifting his right hand to touch the blemish gingerly. “I did nothing to provoke you. I fail to see…”

Ephraim turned on him sharply, leaning on his staff as he did. “Listen to me whelp. I asked for neither your company nor your holier-than-thou rhetoric, and yet you have provided me with both. All night. At every step. I asked you politely to leave, several times, and yet again I was ignored. So be it. You may have been ordered to stay with me, but don’t expect civility in the face of forced companionship.” As he finished his words, he reached into the folds of his robes and withdrew a small, capped bottle. Without talking his eyes from Tespa, he quaffed the ale a long, satisfying draw, and replaced the empty tankard in his rode. The tepid liquid flowed through him and warmed his drunken haze once again, and Ephraim turned away, heading for Camelot and for home once again.

Tespa walked with Ephraim as they left Ludlow, his head a mass of confusing and contradictory information. He had heard nothing but praise with regards to Ephraim during his time as an acolyte. His name was near legend in the halls of the church, so when he had heard that there was need of someone to watch over him, Tespa had jumped at the opportunity. To be able to aid one such as Ephraim, even in so small and indirect a manner, was more than he was able to refuse.

As they walked, Tespa snorted with disgust. ‘How the mighty have fallen,’ he thought to himself as Ephraim stumbled again for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Tespa almost moved to aid him, but he knew that, as sure as Ephraim would stumble again, he would be able to right himself without incident.

That was one thing that Ephraim was exceedingly good at, Tespa thought with a bitter taste in his mouth. Taking care of himself.

As they moved to the outskirts of Ludlow, Tespa looked up in surprised fear. Out of nowhere had come six cutpurses, the low-life thieves that seemed to infest the Camelot Hills like a plague. Ephraim saw them as well, and came to a stuttered halt, leaning heavily on his staff.

“Your purse, holy man,” the obvious leader of the thieves hissed. He looked directly at Ephraim as he spoke, his sword held menacingly before him. Tespa looked to Ephraim with a reserved dread, wondering what the older man would do. If he had any sense in his ale-addled mind, he would give the brigand exactly what he wanted, and they could be on their way.

“Mmmm…my…huh??” Ephraim’s words were slurred and barely recognizable. Tespa was sickened by his fellow’s behavior, and more than that, he feared that the cutpurse would be as well.

“Your gold, you drunken sot!” the robber all but yelled. Tespa risked a look around, and saw that the other thieves were following the example of their leader. He was reasonably sure that they would not attack unless he ordered them to do so. Judging by the look on the face of their leader, they would not have to wait long.

Ephraim staggered forward as he reached into his robes once again. He took a misstep and fell to his knees, muttering some incomprehensible slur, and looking every bit the drunken fool he was. The cutpurse hissed with contempt and reached down to grab the fallen friar’s hair, in an effort to yank him to his feet. Tespa worried then for both their lives, for it was clear enough that they were outnumbered and out-armed, especially with Ephraim in the state he was.

The moment the he felt the thief’s hand crest his head, Ephraim stood straight and lifted his staff, driving the blunted end into the face of the surprised thief. He felt the cutpurse drop to the ground, and he readied his stance, the staff whirling about his body in an almost frightening display of prowess.

Tespa stood all but dumbfounded as the cutpurses rushed Friar Ephraim, their weapons eager for retribution. They knew it would be an easy kill, for while the churchman might have been able to catch their leader by surprise, there was certainly no manner that would allow them to be so easily defeated.

They soon learned better.

Tespa looked on with awed fascination as Ephraim danced and all but flew through the enemy. He tried to watch the motion of the staff that Ephraim wielded, but it moved with such grace and speed that there was no chance at all to see it. It was little more than a blur of motion, as was Ephraim himself.

See it, he could not. Witness the results, he could not help.

When the last cutpurse fell to the ground, Ephraim simply laid the tip of the staff on the grass amongst the rogues and leaned on it, looking at Tepsa as he did. “If you are going to follow me around, boy,” he slurred, “the least you could do is lend a hand when it is needed.”

With that, Ephraim walked off toward Camelot, leaving Tespa to wonder in absolute disbelief at the scenario that had just played out before him.

Friar Tespa paced about the small chamber, his every motion a reflection of the agitation he was feeling. “But he was completely out of control! For the entire evening he was loutish and drunk, accosting me and flirting shamelessly with the barmaids! And the brigands!! After he left, I tried to heal them as best I could, at least to ensure that they would not die, but I was too late, or more, he was too brutal. They were dead one and all. It was all I could do to keep my composure…”

As Tespa ranted on, his audience, Friar Gravin, the highest of the order, listened carefully to everything that he said. It was a tale that he had as much expected, and in truth, was pleased to hear.

“…never seen such a poor example of our order! Surely he sullies the very title of Friar wherever he goes! Something must be done!!”

Friar Gravin stood, his aching bones moaning in protest. He was an old man to be sure, but one that was respected in the order beyond any other. “And what would you suggest we do, young Friar?”

Tespa stopped his pacing for a moment and turned to face his elder. “Surely an investigation! Perhaps a dismissal from the order! I cannot believe that we could condone such a man as he!”

Friar Gravin laughed, a light, though infectious laugh. Tespa did not see the humor. “To begin with lad, calm yourself. Certainly Friar Ephraim has some peculiarities in his manner, but do you truly think that he should be expelled from the brotherhood for them?”

“His manner is a damn sight more than peculiar, it is oftimes blasphemous. He betrays church edict, not to mention the morality of his actions, or more, the lack of it!”

“Sit down, boy,” Gravin ordered. Friar Tespa moved obediently to the closest chair, though his angst was no less profound. “Let me tell you something of the man you would so blithely see removed from the order. There was a time, a long time ago, when the realm wars were in their infancy. It was a time of fear and anxiety for the realms, and a time of sobriety and absolute piety for Friar Ephraim…”

The small group stood about the keep gates of Caer Boldiam, awaiting the arrival of the Midgard assault force that their scouts had reported was incoming. Friar Ephraim stood at the rear of the defenders, his hands shaking to where he could barely hang onto the staff he carried. This was not his first battle to be sure, but it was to be the largest, and it was the first time he had defended the Albion frontier. Until this time, they had been able to hold the invaders out of Albion, but somehow the Midgard contingency had managed to push through. He knew the risks of losing Caer Boldiam to the Midgards. If that fort fell, they would have a stronghold in Albion territory, from which they could launch a full scale invasion. The realm wars could easily be over before they had truly begun.

No, he swore to himself, as did every other warrior and mage and healer present. They would hold the Midgards back, no matter the cost.

As he stared at his staff, and prayed his prayers of strength and courage, Friar Gravin came to him, his voice urgent and his tone grave.

“Friar Ephraim, one of our scouts is down at the crossroads. He was discovered and attacked, and is gravely injured. We need someone to risk the flight and see him back here safely.”

Ephraim shivered at the very notion, for in order to reach the crossroads, he would have to travel all but through the invading army. It would as likely end in his death as not, but that was hardly at issue. It was his duty, sworn and unwavering, to lend his ability to aid any in need. With but a nod, he was off, running to the trees to the south of the path leading away from the keep.

“The Gods be with you…” Friar Gravin whispered as he watched Ephraim go.

Ephraim tried to remain as close to the tree-line as he was able, for while he wanted to by-pass the invaders, he also knew he had not the luxury of time. If he were to arrive in time to aid the fallen scout, he would have to risk running into the very army he sought to avoid. He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the invading Midgards pass by him unseeing, all too intent on the keep ahead to notice but a lone traveler such as he. Ephraim wondered in awe at the sheer number, the trolls and dwarves and the rest of the Midgard horde certainly an intimidating sight to behold. Still, he had his own task to perform, and moved on quickly, ignoring the sounds of battle that erupted behind him. It was as though Hel itself had broken loose upon the realms, he tought, and Friar Ephraim wondered briefly who was most at risk; he on his mission of mercy, or those who he left behind to defend the fort.

Finally, he came upon the scene of the attack on the scout. Staying behind the trees as much as he was able, Friar Ephraim stopped in shock and pained disgust at the sight that greeted him. Two trolls had remained at the crossroads, and both stood above the fallen scout. Each was a towering behemoth, their size truly staggering to witness, but what was more staggering yet, was the atrocities they were committing on the dead scout.

And he was dead, that much was without doubt.

Each troll held a portion of the dead man in their huge hands, blood splattered all about the area. They tore flesh from the corpse, and seemed to be taking great joy in throwing it about the entire region. Ephraim looked at the body of the scout, and could identify nothing of the man that he had been. Bones and blood were all that he could see, save for the trolls and their merriment. They were all but playing with the body, tearing it asunder and stripping from the dead Albion any dignity that his death might have held.

Friar Ephraim could remember very little from that moment onward, though the Albion scouts that were hidden close by held witness to what followed. The holy man walked form his hiding place, his gait reflective of one who was without doubt, and without fear. He walked directly toward the trolls, both of whom where too consumed with their desecration to notice him until he was all but upon them.

The first roared at his appearance, and lifted its huge axe, its intentions only too clear. Friar Ephraim dodged the ferocious attack, slamming his staff into the exposed knee of the huge beast. It howled in rage and agony as it dropped to the ground, for even one of its gigantic girth could not withstand the assault.

Friar Ephraim turned on the next, his staff leading the way, thought he troll was more seasoned than his counterpart had been. He knocked the annoying staff aside and slammed his hammer into Ephraim’s midsection, knocking the churchman back several feet. He landed in a heap, his head spinning from the attack. He looked on as the troll advanced to finish the battle, when an arrow streaked out of no-where, and struck the troll in the side. The monster screamed his rage to the realm, sending Ephraim back to his feet. The staff danced across the troll’s head, sending the wounded beast to the ground.

As the scout that had shot the arrow ran forward to lend his blade to the battle, he stopped short of the fight in utter disbelief. The friar that he had seen engage the trolls was beating their unconscious forms with his staff, so violently and so without mercy that he wondered that any in Albion could raise such anger and rage. From one to the other the friar went, the sounds of bones breaking and sight of blood spilling from their grievous wounds bringing the unbelievable scene to a stark and vivid image that he would never forget. This was not battle, he knew. This was vengeance, plain and simple. The scout simply stood and looked on as Ephraim visited death on the enemies of Albion.

Friar Tespa sat with his head in his hands, tears of compassion and distress streaming down his face. The story that he had heard was beyond belief, and yet he could hear the truth of it in Friar Gravin’s voice.

“From that day onward, Friar Ephraim has been our greatest asset in battle, and his own worst enemy. When he battles, he battles without mercy. He defends what is right in this realm with his very life, and against his own values when he must. And when the battle is over, yes, he drowns his sorrow in the ale house, but not without reason, and not to unreasonable excess, considering the tale you have heard, wouldn’t you think?”

Friar Tespa stood and nodded slowly, turning to make his way out of the small chamber. He had been given much to think on this day, and solitude was what he craved to allow him to think it through completely. His shame demanded that he leave, and he gave into it freely.

One thing he knew already though, was that he had been judgmental and unfair to one who had known more strife and pain than any should have to know in any lifetime.

“By the way, Friar Tespa, I did not send you after Friar Ephraim so that you could watch over him.”

Tespa turned and looked with confused misunderstanding at the elder. If not to watch over him then why…

“I sent you after him to teach you the meaning of the word humility. The next time you see him, you owe him thanks. Unless I miss my understanding, you have learned it well.”

Friar Ephraim pulled himself up on the small stool at the bar as he saw Friar Tespa enter and make his way over to him. He smiled lightly to himself as he saw that the welt on his eye had not yet settled.

Friar Tespa sat beside Ephraim, words failing him. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, for since he had seen this man last, a great many things had changed, not the least of which was the very man that he himself had been.

As the inn keeper approached Friar Ephraim and asked for payment for the ale he had thus far, Friar Ephraim reached into his robe to gather the coin.

Friar Tespa placed a restraining hand on his arm and laid five silver of his own on the bar. When he spoke, it was with near reverence and no small regret. “This evening’s drink, dear Friar, shall be mine to pay.”

2002-04-05T11:03:00.000-08:00

What Madness This

The small farm house on the outskirts of Mt. Collory was modest by most standards. A living area, with a fireplace to warm those seated within; two small sleeping quarters, and a cooking area was all that the abode could claim as its own, though the warmth of the fire was dwarfed by the feeling of welcome and family that exuded from every corner.

Throm Grovewood sat with his feet up on a small foot stool, the fire warming the very bones of him. His wife sat near him, her head upon his massive shoulder, both staring into the crackling fire that seemed to have them entranced.

Throm remembered the words of all his brethren farmers when he had announced that he was taking his family and his farming to the frontier. Folly, they had said, one and all. The realm wars intruded on the lives of everyone, no matter where they called home. Even in the relative safety of the cities and inlands of Hibernia, the effects of the wars were felt. What madness would drive a man to move his family and his home into the very heart of the conflict? Throm had not answered them, for the truth of his situation was more than he could bring himself to admit. He was in serious financial difficulties. He had gold owning to several individuals in Hibernia, and the lands that he tilled inland were simply farmed beyond productivity. Rare were the years of late that he could afford even to feed and clothe his family, let alone repay his debts. His only recourse was to move them out to where the lands were untouched; where the farming would be a pleasure and the yield plentiful. Three seasons in the frontier, and he would have the gold he needed to see himself out of debt, and his family back into a position of comfort.

Rena, his wife, had far different thoughts on the matter. She knew of her husband’s debts, and she understood his reasoning, but she had to admit, to herself if not to him, that their moving to the frontier lands was more insanity than solution. The dangers in the frontier were tenfold that of the inlands. Certainly the farming would be better, but would that be worth the danger that the would surely face, sooner or later? And more, if it were just her and Throm, she might be able to reconcile the risk, but the sounds of their daughter’s light breathing from the nearer of the sleeping chambers reminded her all to clearly of the potential danger. She was but seven summers old, and did not deserve to grow, even for three years, in the shadow of the death that the realm wars promised.

“I am scared,” she said, her voice like thunder over the silence of the small abode.

Throm sighed. A night could not go by without her bringing up the matter again, and a morning could not come it seemed where he did not find himself angry with her for doing so.

“Rena, we have been through this. We have no other choice.”

“Of course we have a choice, husband,” she said, pulling herself to her feet as she spoke. “We can move back to the inlands, where it is safer; where I don’t have to fear for our daughter’s life each time she steps outside the door…” Rena’s voice trailed off into tears, as it always did. Throm stood and walked to the window, his eyes drinking in the darkness before him. He wanted to go to her; to take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be all right, and that they had nothing to fear. He had done so every night since their arrival, though now the words seemed so hollow, even to him. He had said them so many times, he knew that to say them again would be to waste his breath.

He turned slowly, to face his wife. Fate smiled upon him that he did, for the arrow that streaked through the window passed only through his cheek. Had he remained facing the night, he would surely have caught the shaft directly in the face.

Throm cried out as threw his hands to the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. Rena was taken completely by surprise, and did not even know what had ailed her husband. Her eyes fell finally upon the arrow imbedded in the wall behind him, but before she could even acknowledge the happening, the door was all but torn from its hinges and hurtled into the house. A huge troll lumbered into the dwelling, its voice a mountain of terror as it screamed in a language they could not understand, and doubted that any did, no matter their realm of origin.

The troll moved surprisingly fast for one of its girth, and back handed Throm across the face. The farmer was thrown violently against the wall, and sank to the floor, consciousness fading from him like blood from an open wound.

Rena simply stood, paralyzed with fear as the troll moved toward her. It was easily three times her size, and as broad in the shoulders as she was tall. She knew how ridiculously easy it would be for the behemoth to kill her, though she knew no manner nor method to prevent it. Her only thought more pressing than her own situation was her concern for her daughter. The Gods only knew what they would do to her should they find her. Rena kept her eyes focused on the troll, refusing her every instinct, which told her to look at her daughter’s sleeping chamber.

Another voice called out, in the same foul language the troll had used, and the huge beast stopped and stood aside. Rena looked on as two others entered the house. The first was a Norseman, that much she knew. He held a bow in one hand and a spear across his back, and he carried them with a casual confidence that terrified her almost more than the troll. The second through was a kobold, a disgusting race that she, thankfully, had never had to lay eyes on prior to this night. The little beast carried a magical staff of some kind, that seemed to glow in the night of its own accord.

The Norseman uttered something else in the Midgard tongue, and the pair took up station at the window and door, each focusing their eyes into the night before them, watching for any signs of intrusion.

The Norseman pointed to a chair behind her, and Rena sat, her very hands quivering with terror. He was a hunter, that much she could discern, though it was of little aid to her. The hunter hissed at her, his meaning and his threats all too clear. He moved to where her husband lay on the ground, yet to find consciousness. The Norseman pulled an arrow from his quiver and laid his bow on the floor. Kneeling beside her husband, the hunter grabbed Throm’s hair and pulled it to the side, exposing his neck. With a smile of promise, the hunter drew the tip of the arrow across his neck, the blood from the wound spurting across the floor of the tiny house. The color faded from his flesh as though he were born to the zombies of the realm, and then he was dead.

Rena stifled a cry of anguish, her husband’s death more than she was able to bare. Tears started to well in her eyes, for she knew in that moment that she, and her daughter, were as dead as her husband before her. All that was left was the doing of it.

The norseman leaned over and slapped Rena hard, her head snapping from the force of the blow. She stifled a cry as the hunter grunted something in his perverse tongue. The troll nodded in response, and moved to make Rena’s worst fear come true.

It moved off to the chamber where her daughter lay asleep.

In but a moment, the troll reappeared, carrying the girl as though she were little more than a child’s plaything. She screamed with horror and confusion, and though Rena knew it was a mistake, she pushed forward in a feeble and hopeless effort to reach her terrified daughter.

The hunter taught her the error of her ways with a back handed strike across her face, sending her to the floor, blood rushing from both nostrils. Rena’s head pounded for the attack, to where she could barely focus her thoughts.

For a moment, Rena wondered why she was still alive. These were obviously brutal warriors, invaders in her beloved homeland, their savagery obvious at their attack on Throm. Why keep her alive as long as they had?

Her question was answered as the hunter reached down pulled her to her feet, his right hand encircling her waist as she was righted. He pulled her close, her stomach turning at the stench of the man before her, his intentions only too obvious.

With his free hand, he grabbed the back of her head and held it motionless, forcing her eyes to meet his. In those eyes she saw her own ravishing, and if she then had means, she would have surely killed herself to avoid such a fate. The only circumstance offering her hope was that they had not killed her daughter yet either, and as long as her daughter was alive, there was at least a chance …

The norseman called out to the troll, the words sounding ominous to Rena, despite her inability to understand them. The troll snickered and looked the farmer’s wife directly in the eye, as one of his massive hands reached for and encircled the child’s head. She felt the bile rise in her throat as the realization of what he was about to do.

‘No!” she screamed, and tried to break free of the hunter, though a knee to her belly sent her to the floor in agony. The hunter wasted no time in dragging her to her feet, and forcing her head to the scene before them. Not only would she be forced to endure the advances of the hunter, but she would be forced to watch her only child die, her husbands dead body laying in plain view, his unseeing eyes looking over the entire proceeding with dispassionate distance.

Rena saw the troll’s face twist into a sneer of absolute glee, his hand beginning to turn her daughter’s head slowly around. Rena heard the scream of pain from her child, and offered anything in the realm if the Gods would spare her daughter from the foul death at the hands of the outlanders.

What happened then almost renewed her belief in the Gods that she had prayed to.

The arrow flew threw the window, and struck the troll directly in the side of the head. It moved through and did not stop until the point was protruding for the opposite side, troll blood dripping from the broad-head. The troll simply stood in stunned silence for an instant, as did they all, and then fell to join Throm in the throes of the life that awaited beyond death.

The hunter ran to the window, drawing his bow as he did. The kobold mage readied her staff, and refocused her attention. Rena ran to her daughter and scooped her up in her arms, cowering from the corpse of the dead troll, as though it might still do her harm.

All was silence for a time, the hunter and mage ready for the fight that was to come, unsure of the numbers they faced; Rena and her daughter simply too afraid to move, for fear of gathering again the intentions of the intruders.

How many moments passed none could tell. The invaders listened intently for any sound that might give away the numbers they faced, but no such sound was forthcoming.

Another arrow gave them their answer, though the kobold would not live long enough to understand it. The shaft flew in from the door and buried itself in her chest with such force that it seemed as though it were alive and eager for the happening. With a whispered sigh resigning herself to the killing at hand, she was dead.

The hunter backed away from the door, dropping his bow and bringing the spear around into his hands. His eyes watched without wavering, for it seemed to Rena that he had come to understand the situation, and was readying himself for the conflict to follow.

Rena found her eyes moving to the door, as a lone figure entered the house. He was elfin in race, and a ranger by profession, though Rena had never met him before. His eyes focused with as much intensity upon hunter as the hunter did upon him. The ranger was careful not to let his concentration lapse, for he knew well enough the enemy he faced. Opening his hand, the ranger let the bow drop to the floor, and drew his two swords. Without waiting for further circumstance or challenge, the ranger hurtled himself into the hunter, his swords weaving an intricate dance of death as he moved.

The hunter parried the attack with his spear, his skill with the weapon as impressive as the rangers. They moved about the house, swords and spear blocking and parrying, attacking and retreating, both eager to see the battle ended, each as determined as the other that they would walk free from the battle in the end.

Rena watched in fascinated terror, for more than the ranger’s life hung in the balance. Should the elf fall, the hunter would surely finish that which he had begun. She was tempted to run; to escape the horrific scene before her, but something held her there, unable to flee. Fear, perhaps, or morbid curiosity. It mattered not, for the result was the same. She could not find it within herself to run.

The elf and norseman moved about, each as skilled as the other, each realizing that it might be luck that played the defining role in the outcome of the battle, though it was the ranger that refused to let it be so. Feigning to the right, the ranger waited until the hunter lifted his spear to block. Seizing the opportunity, the elf kicked the norseman hard in the stomach, doubling him over in pain. With a well placed swipe of the long sword, the elf cut the spear from the hunter’s hand, and another swift attack slashed his knee from beneath him. The hunter fell to the ground, the smell of blood permeating the small room.

The elf moved in and sheathed the long sword, placing the edge of the short sword at the throat of the hunter. He flexed his arm to end the life of the invader, when he felt a soft hand upon his shoulder. He turned and looked into the terrified eyes of the farmwoman.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice a thin whisper in the sudden calm of the night, “there has been blood enough this night. My husband, these intruders, dead, and my daughter forced to endure it all. Please…”

The ranger looked back to the hunter. The farmwoman had demonstrated more humanity in those few words than any of them had in their business this night. She had seen her husband killed and her daughter threatened, her own virtue compromised, and still she had compassion enough to call for the sparing of a life, for the sake of her daughter’s well being. The ranger was awed by her humanity.

A shame for the hunter, then, that she did not wield the sword.

With a vicious stroke the deed was done, and the norseman fell to the floor, another grisly trophy of the brutality that was life in the realms.

Rena closed her eyes and held her daughter near. So much death these lands had known of late. So much death…

“I would have thy name, ranger,” she called out. She knew not why it mattered. He would leave, and she would be left to deal with the aftermath of the night’s madness. Knowing his name would neither ease not compound her situation, but something in her heart told her that she must know this, if nothing else.

The ranger paused at the door and looked back at the delicate woman before him. In another circumstance, perhaps…

“My name is Tyus,” he said, and then he was gone.

2002-04-05T11:00:00.000-08:00

One Man's Honor

The gavel came down hard upon the table, sending a chill through everyone in attendance. Caledon, the ranking church Paladin, stood as he slammed the gavel, bringing everyone in the room to silence. The Great Hall that day held more people than any could recall before, though at Calendon’s words, there was silence throughout.

“This disciplinary Tribunal is here-by ordered to session.” Caledon was an older man, perhaps forty summers, the gray in his hair lending an air of distinction to his paternal aspect. He looked anything but frail, his plate mail armor hiding a well-muscled frame. Any who might have had opportunity to see him in battle would know well enough that he was as able as any, and in most cases, more able than most. His sword was strung across his back, an oddity in the Great Hall, for generally the protocol in the church prohibited the wearing of weapons, but during a tribunal such as this, weapons were required.

“Call out the accused.”

Calendon’s voice carried through the hall to the ears of Brandt Ironwolf. He had been brought up from the dungeons below to stand trial for his crimes, the shackles that he wore paining his wrists as a stark and unyielding reminder of the circumstance he found himself within. He had been a paladin in the Church for a number of years, his faith and his warrior skill never in question. He knew that he felt a need for battle at a young age, and had trained for the life he knew that he would lead ever since. It was not until a chance encounter on the battlefield with a particularly reverent cleric that he began to question the brutality of what he did. Soon enough he discovered that offering his life and his fealty to the church gave him the guidance he had been needing, and the training he had been lacking. Since that day he had been the very model of everything that the church stood for.

Until now.

“Bring forward the disgraced.”

The two guards that flanked the fallen paladin grabbed him roughly and pushed him forward through the massive oaken doors and into the Great Hall. A hushed whisper echoed across the hall at his appearance. He knew many of those in attendance personally, for they all were of or about Camelot. Being brought before them this way was almost more than his pride could bear, though he knew in his heart that bear it he would, for the righteousness of his pose would see him through the madness at hand.

At least, he prayed that it would.

Brandt was dragged and forced to his knees before the tribunal. Twelve members of the church, elders all, sat at the black table, their faces heavy with the angst that they were feeling. Brandt was one of their own, brought to them later in life, though he was no less loved for it. They had schooled him in the language that was their religion, and he had loved the church as none before. To have him kneeling before the tribunal, his integrity impugned and his very life hanging the balance was more than many of them could bear.

Caledon, however, was not so moved. He felt betrayed more than anything, for he had spent a good deal of time with the disgraced, teaching him the ways of the paladin; honing his skills and sharpening his mind. Brandt Ironwolf was one of the most devout and most able warriors he had ever had the pleasure to teach. That he could betray the church is such a manner angered Caledon almost beyond reason.

“Brandt Ironwolf,” his voice called out across the Great Hall, the sound like thunder in Brandt’s ears, “you are brought before this most holy of tribunals to answer the indictments against you. You are charged with the gravest of crimes, high treason. What is your plea before us?”

Brandt coughed up some blood as he tried to speak. Ever since his capture on the battlefield, he had been mistreated. Beaten with regularity, starved and half mad with sleep deprivation, Brandt could barely form a thought, let alone translate those thoughts into words. With a conscious effort, he coughed the words out, though he paid the price for his efforts in pain.

“I …I am …not guilty…”

Caledon looked upon Brandt with graven eyes, his distain for the man all too apparent. Shifting his glance to the guards that held him, he barked his command.

“Place him in the defendants chains.”

The guards half pulled and half dragged Brandt to the end of the tribunal table. There upon the wall were iron forged shackles. None too gently, they placed Brandt in the restraints, and moved off several feet, though their eyes never left him. They, as much as Caledon, hated him for the supposed betrayal, and were ready at an instant’s noticed to demonstrate exactly how deeply they felt their anger.

Caledon stood tall before the tribunal. As he spoke his words, he looked not once at Brandt, but spoke instead to the assembly as whole. “Brandt Ironwolf, is it not so that on the occasion of the a skirmish with the Hibernian horde eleven days ago, you came upon a lone Hibernian warrior?”

Brandt dropped his gaze to the floor. He knew that this was how his trial would follow. Caledon asking questions that were pointed and skewed, forcing answers that would only serve to twist the truth of it all into a verdict that would see him dead.

“Yes…” he answered weakly.

“And that on this occasion, you were in full control of your faculties and abilities, and that despite having opportunity, you allowed this Hibernian warrior to walk free of this encounter?”

Brandt coughed for the pain in his chest. He knew that the guards had badly bruised his ribs, and breathing was a chore.

“Yes…”

“And further, that this same Hibernian warrior lived to kill Commander Constantine, he who led your military force on the field of battle that day?”

Brandt simply nodded his response. He closed his eyes as he remembered seeing the dead body of his friend and commander on the battlefield. The words that Caledon had spoken were true enough. The Hibernian he had spared had ended up killing Constantine, that much he could not deny.

Caledon almost laughed out loud at Brandt’s answer. “Then tell me, Brandt Ironwolf,” how do you justify your plea of not guilty? You have admitted every charge, denied none of what has been spoken against you. Where then is your innocence?”

Brandt pulled himself to his feet, though the shackles about him barely offered movement enough to do so. As he rose, he spoke with a much clearer voice, and steadier resolve than even he would have thought himself capable. This was the moment that he had waited for since his arrest. This was his opportunity to tell the truth of what had happened to him, and why he had made the choices he had.

“It is true on that day that I encountered a Hibernian. I had just passed the crossroads in Emain Macha, and there he was, at the stone tower. He sat against the base of the tower, three arrows in his legs and chest. As I moved on him, I could hear his breathing. It was shallow and labored, with the scent of decay upon it. He was injured almost to the point of death. He was covered in blood, and his life was ebbing. I was faced with the choice of killing him outright, or showing what mercy I could.”

Brandt stopped, and looked across the Great Hall. Every eye was upon him; every ear turned to him. He could see that some of those eyes were filled with disgust; others were edged with compassion. He knew that he might well die despite his defense, but even so, he would have his say.

As he continued, Brandt’s voice took on an air of defined compassion. “As I stood there, he looked to me, and our eyes met. I could see his pain. I could see his weakness, but more than this, I could see his humanity.”

Caledon slammed his gavel down upon the table again. Most everyone started at his interruption, so intent had they been upon Brandt’s tale.

“This is the treason of which we speak! Hibernians are not human!! They show no humanity! They harbor no compassion nor mercy! They are exactly opposite that which you claim! There can be only one explanation! You are in league with them! Why else would you spare his life?!?”

Brandt sighed deeply. “I spared his life because he was not able to defend it. I love my realm and I would die in its defense. I loved Constantine as I would my own brother, and would have died to spare his life, but I will not kill one who is unable to defend himself. The Hibernians love their lands as we do ours, as the Midgards love theirs. I cannot kill another simply for the sake of it. I cannot damn another for loving their lands as we love ours. The realm wars plague us all, and I will fight and I will die for this realm, but I say now, to all assembled, that I will not kill another simply for who they are. Give me reason and I shall slay them surely. Give me circumstance, and I shall spare their lives, even at the cost of mine own.”

Caledon smirked. “Brandt Ironwolf, by your own admission, you are guilty of the crimes set before you. Have you any last words before I impose sentence?”

Brandt looked to the rest of tribunal, hoping upon hope that he might see some sense, some reason amongst them. The looks on their faces told him all that he needed to know. They were too cowed, too intimidated by Caledon to protest his words. He was too powerful to stand against, even with the right and wrong of it at issue. Brandt would die this day, for the foolishness, fear and intimidation of one man.

Brandt simply shook his head in answer to the query posed.

“Very well. I hereby order that you be put to death, in the courtyard of this Hall, the sentence to be carried out immedi…”

“Hold!”

Every eye in the hall turned to the voice that had called out. Brandt watched as a robed figure walked from the audience and moved to stand before the tribunal.

“Who are you that you would dare to interrupt this most holy of proceedings?” Caledon demanded, his anger reaching new heights.

The stranger simply moved his hands to the clasps of the robe and pulled. The robe fell free and the gasp of awe and amazement that wafted through the Hall was audible; and more than this, it was tangible.

Brandt dropped his eyes in reverence, for there before them all stood High Paladin Cormier, the ordained leader of the church. Cormier was a direct descendant of He who had founded the order, more than three hundred years before, and there was no one in the church who commanded more respect than he.

And more than this, none who commanded more power.

As he spoke, it was as though the Gods themselves had deigned to speak to man, and Cormier was the vessel through which they did so.

“Caledon, I have heard the words of Brandt Ironwolf. I have seen his heart this day, and seen his compassion. I look to you and I hear your condemnation, and I must ask, where is your heart? Your compassion? Have you forgotten why we are here? What we are about? The realm wars are not a proving ground for hatred and intolerance, no matter what some have tried to turn them into. They are a field of battle, of honor, wherein we of our realm defend it and its relics from those who do the same.”

Caledon tried to remain self-assured, but could hardly maintain the façade long in the face of the words hurled so accurately to him.

High Paladin Cormier turned to the guards that flanked Brandt.

“Release him.”

In a moment, Brandt was freed of his shackles, and found himself standing before Cormier. He dropped to his knees in humility, though Cormier would have none of it.

“No, my friend. Stand, and receive my gratitude.”

As Brandt rose to his feet, Cormier embraced him, and as he spoke, he lowered his voice that only Brandt Ironwolf could hear. “Forgive these men, and Caledon particularly. He is a good man. He has simply forgotten something of what we are. He owes you his thanks, as I owe you mine, Brant Ironwolf, for you have reminded us this day. You have called to mind again the heart and the compassion upon which this order was founded. Go in peace, my son.”

Brandt gave himself to the parting embrace offered him, and moved to leave the Great Hall, though before he did so, he turned to face the tribunal. Caledon stood yet, his head bowed in shame. Brandt walked forward and around the table until he stood face to face with his accuser. A disquieting tension filled the hall, for surely Brandt would exact a moment of retribution for the anguish he had been forced to endure. That tension melted away to an audible sigh of relief as Brandt embraced Caledon, and in that moment, more than any other on that day, demonstrated the very compassion that he himself had been denied.

As he walked from the Great Hall, his freedom once again his own to command, he wondered truly if anything would change in the hearts of Caledon and men like him.

He liked to think so, but in the cold gray light of dawn, he knew that he asked too much.

2002-04-05T10:59:00.000-08:00

A Healer Born

Camequil knelt before the small altar, offering her prayers to her God, her eyes closed and her heart reverent. She held her sword before her, the tip to the ground, both hands gripping the hilt with an almost obsessive passion. She had always been a woman of conviction, and the recent turn in the realm wars had inflamed her conviction to obsession. She was young; perhaps twenty summers, and she had never swung her blade in true battle thus far. Still, she was more than eager to ply her skills in defence of the realm she loved, and loved with all of her heart.

Outside the small chapel, her parents stood, and waited for their daughter to emerge. Her mother, Marybeth, a matronly woman with a heart of gold and will of iron, looked at the huge oaken doors as though she were lost, and the direction she sought were etched upon them.

“Why is she doing this?” she asked almost breathlessly. The one blessing she had always been most thankful for was that she they had been gifted with a daughter, rather than a son. A male child would almost be expected to grow into battle; to learn the art of war and fight in the conflict that had gripped the realms. With Camequil being a girl, there was at least a chance that she might find another road; follow another path that would lead her away from the battlefields that she and her husband both had fought so hard to avoid.

Camequil’s father, a huge, bear of a man called Strogarth, shook his head, the pain in his wife’s heart mirrored in his own. “We kept her from this madness as long as we could,” his words drifted aimlessly about the small alcove, as though searching for someone to hear them. Strogarth and Marybeth both had been born of the land, and had become farmers early in life. They had met in the dirt of the fields, and it was upon that dirt that they had built their lives, their vocation and their family. Strogarth had been visited by the armies of the realm, and had been expected to join them in the conflicts of the realm wars, but time and again he had refused. He was not a warrior, and while none, not even his wife, knew his true reasons, they were justification enough for him. He would never kill another in his lifetime, that much he had sworn.

The people of the vale in which they had made their home had ostracized he and his wife for what they perceived to be his cowardice, and in truth, Marybeth could not lay claim to knowing his true motivations, but it mattered little to her. He had taken his stand on the realm wars, and she would stand with him.

Little could they know the shame that his convictions would cause their only daughter. She would return home from playing or from her lessons in tears, day after day, week after week. Daughter of a coward, they of the vale had called her. Long through the days she would be forced to hear how her father was afraid to go and fight; how he shirked the duty of all in Midgard to defend their realm. She would listen to the tales of cowardice and malice, and she would try to shield herself from the anguish they caused her, but in the end, she would wonder if they were true. After a time, and endless badgering from most everyone in the vale, she herself started to believe that her father was indeed what they said. Soon, it was such that she could not look him in eye, for fear that she might see there that they were right.

It was not long after, during her eleventh summer, that she had made her decision. If her father was too much the coward to fight for what was right, she would not be. She would fight in his place. She would spill the blood of her enemies, and she would redeem her family’s name, even if he could not.

Strogarth closed his eyes and leaned on the wall of the alcove. He hated that his daughter thought him a coward. He hated that she could not know his life, for if she did she might then understand him and that for which he stood. He hated that she felt the need to right his wrongs, for he knew that the realm wars and the bloodshed that they brought would serve only to see her to a bad end. He would have given everything he was to have spared her the life she was going to lead. He clenched his eyes closed them as tightly as he was able, though it was for naught.

The tears came anyway.

After a time, and a thankful prayer that Marybeth had not seen his weakness, the door to the chapel opened, and out stepped Camequil. She was adorned from head to foot in chain mail armour, her bastard sword strapped purposefully across her back. Both Marybeth and Strogarth took a step back, not at her appearance, but at the conviction in her eyes. She was as the stone of the ground, focused and unmoving. If she saw her parents, she gave no immediate notice of it. She simply stood and stared forward, her resolve firming as truly as her conviction.

“We leave for the Albion frontier this morning,” she whispered, though the words struck her parents both as though they were the head of a war hammer, for in truth she wielded them with as much spite and venom.

Both her parents wanted to go to her; to embrace her once more before she left; to tell her one last time of the foolishness of the road she had chosen. Strogarth especially wanted to take his daughter in his arms, as he had when she was a little girl, and hold her closely, cradling her life and her heart and her soul and protect her from the fears and the dangers of the world without. She was his daughter; she was walking to her death, and he could do nothing to stop it. His heart was breaking, and Marybeth’s as well. All they wanted to was to make that which was wrong with realm, right for their daughter’s sake. At the very least, to let her knew that they loved her with all that they were, and all that they wanted her to be.

Instead, they wept in silent desperation as Camequil walked out of the alcove and into the hands of the fate that she had invited.

The screaming seemed to echo across the Pennine Mountains, as though the Gods themselves called out the fury of the battle. The Midgard forces had crossed the Mile Gate and passed through Hadrian’s Wall with no resistance, though the moment they entered the mountain range that stood between them and the Albion Relic keep, the Albion horde attacked, and attacked with obsessed brutality.

Camequil held her position toward the middle of the Midgard contingency, listening for the command to attack. She held her sword before her, her hands shaking and her heart beating like thunder pounding in her chest. She had been able to calm herself thus far with self-assurances of the righteousness of their cause; with knowing that she was making up for the cowardice that had been her father’s legacy. She almost hated him for his fear and his weakness, though it would be the Albion legions, she vowed, who would pay the price for her rage.

Bandar, a fighter of some experience and skill, stood beside her, a shield and war axe raised before him in eager anticipation. He and Camequil had become friends in the short time they had known each other, for he could see her fear, even through her training, and had tried to offer what he could to see her calm again.

“Rest easy, Cami,” he called to her above the din of the battle ahead. “Await the order! Let them come to you! Remember your training!”

Camequil heard Bandar’s words, and tried to let them soak into her consciousness and take the comfort they offered, though she found it difficult. A hundred simulated battles she had fought, each more challenging than the last, but none had even come close to creating the sensations she was then feeling. It was fear; anger; terror, pride; every emotion that she had even felt seemed to be welling within, threatening to over take her. Camequil moved a few steps closer to Bandar, for the sheer proximity seemed to offer her comfort. He was about the age of her father, and she had come to look at him as though he was what her father might have been. She drew comfort and confidence from him, and finally, his words seemed to settle her spirit, at least for the moment.

But that moment quickly passed.

The Albion army had broken the front lines of the Midgard forces, and Camequil could see them, rushing at the second wave like beasts possessed. All at once, her confidence melted away like the façade that it was, and before she could know that it was happening, fear rushed in to fill the hole that her evaporated resolve had left.

“Sword up, girl!” Bandar shouted, specifically to her! “FOR MIDGARD!!!!!!!”

Camequil readied her stance, and watched as the Albion front collided with the Midgard invaders. Blades arched through the air; war hammers smashed through shields and bone alike; magical spells filled the very air, and the screams came louder than ever.

Camequil parried a clumsy attack, and kicked the defender square in the belly. He dropped like a stone, and her confidence firmed, if only a little. Another took his place, and she side stepped his attack, her sword arching to her right and slicing through the calf of the attacker as his momentum carried him by. He dropped to the ground with an anguished howl, and Camequil felt more like a warrior born. A third and forth came to her, and each was turned back with a well-timed cut and a sword hilt to the temple. Her resolve returning, Camequil turned to face another.

He was a young man, younger than she, though the thought did not register in her consciousness then. What she did notice was his eyes, for in the heat of the battle they waged, they were as hers had been.

Frightened, unsteady and unsure.

They two stopped for an instant, as though studying the other. The battle raged all around them, though for the two warriors, children both, the realm seemed to stand still. Her resolve again vanished, though this time it was not out of fear, but out of understanding. This boy before her was no beast; no vile monster from another realm bent on killing those she lived and raping the lands she had been born upon. He was simply as she had been.

Alone.

Afraid.

And unable to turn back.

She watched in almost astounded disbelief as he raised the sword he held in his quivering hands, and swung it with all of his strength. In her own mind, her reaction was every bit as slow, though in truth, it was as fast as it needed to be. Dropping to her knees, the offending blade sliced through the air where her head had been. As she hit the ground, Camequil drove the whole of her sword through the young man before her. She could hear the very sound of steel through flesh; she could see with perfect clarity the blood leap from the wound as though begging for release, though more than this, she could see his eyes.

She watched as they shifted their aspect from sheer terror and apprehension, to understanding that was all too clear.

He was dead.

She knew the instant her blade entered his body; the moment she felt it pass through his very heart. What terrified her most, more than she thought possible, was that, though his eyes, she understood that he knew it as well.

He knew that he was dead.

He dropped to his knees, the sword still deep inside his flesh. His eyes fell on hers, and he seemed to plead with her, as though begging for a moment more to live the existence that he had been promised; to dream the dreams he had dared to conjure; to find love and bear children and know life in his heart and in his soul. In that moment, he asked her to pull free her sword and let him go on his way, and simply to live.

Camequil watched as the spark of life, the same spark that raged within her own breast, died in the eyes of the man before her.

Like water bursting through a dam, the reality of the war destroyed her private thoughts, and called her violently back to the battle that demanded her attention. She pulled free her sword, the sucking wound vomiting forth more blood for the effort. Camequil stood and raised the weapon again, though suddenly it seemed too heavy to hold, as though the life and death of every man and woman killed there that day lay upon it. If she could have had her way, she would be gone from this place; away from the demands of death.

Would that it were.

She saw the arrow fly an instant before it struck Bandar. She might even have had time to call out a warning, were her thoughts not still with the boy whose life she had ended. Bandar took the attack full in the chest, the arrow passing through his leathers as though they were skin themselves. Bandar dropped to the ground, clutching at it uselessly, as he might a sliver in his hand.

Camequil heard her own scream; she felt herself drop her sword as she ran to the fallen warrior. Her hands ran over his chest in a panicked, vain effort to aid him. His eyes met hers, and she was forced to watch again as that which was life slipped away, leaving only death and despair and emptiness in its wake.

Camequil wanted to help him; to stop death. Her hands moved more frantically, more uselessly over his wound. She could hear herself screaming, as though her screams mattered.

In the end, they did not.

For the second time that day, death had touched her soul, and for the rest of her life, she would know that it had found her wanting.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Marybeth asked as Camequil put her chain mail armour on once again. Her homecoming had been bittersweet, for while her time on the battlefield had been long and arduous, and home was like heaven in her heart, death, it seemed, followed her there as well.

Her father had passed away while she had been gone.

Camequil finished dressing, and then turned to her mother. The smile on her mother’s face was one of pride and love and admiration. That which she had seen and done during her time in the realm wars had changed the young woman, in a way that she could never have imagined. It was a change she herself could not deny, and while her mother yet feared for her life, it was a change that Marybeth looked over with pride.

“I am sure, mother,” she whispered, the tenderness in her voice filling Marybeth’s eyes with tears. The two women, mother and daughter, embraced warmly, lovingly, and Camequil turned to leave, with but one more task to perform before her return to the battlefield.

It was a small tombstone, set unobtrusively in the corner of the yard. Her father had been buried there out of love for the lands he could never refuse, and love for the family he could never abandon, even in death.

Camequil knelt before the stone, her eyes closing in reverence for the man buried beneath. She regretted so much; she could not find the words to speak it. She had wronged him so much and in so many ways. She knew there was nothing she could do to make amends. He had been right. She had seen and dealt the death he had tried to keep her from. Tears streamed down her face as she pulled her sword from its scabbard for the last time, and laid it across his grave. Her time as a warrior was over, and she offered the blade to his memory, to protect him in death, as he had tried to protect her in life.

She would return to battle, that much she knew. She prayed with reverence and hoped with all of her soul that her new calling as a healer would be one that her father’s memory could reconcile.

As she turned to leave, she closed her eyes and offered a moments respect to the three men who had taught her the meaning of her own existence.

A young Albion warrior, who taught her what it was to take life.

Bandar, who had taught her what it was to want to preserve life.

And most profoundly, her father, who taught her was it was to respect life.

Camequil opened her eyes, stood and walked away.

2002-04-05T10:58:00.000-08:00

A Realm Between Them

The sounds of merriment echoed through the streets of Camelot, the festivities within the Dragon’s Breath inn reflecting the norm for the best inn within the famed and fabulous city, though this evening’s activities were anything but normal. The patrons of the inn danced and sang, cheered and celebrated, for the taking of an enemy relic was not a happening that occurred every day. It had taken weeks of planning and coordination, and while the cost in life had been high, the Midgard relic of power now lay within Albion hands. All in attendance had good reason to rejoice, and rejoice they did, without respite.

Connor, the innkeeper, looked out over the crowd, a familiar smiled draped across his face. He had purchased the small inn some five years before, and never once had he looked back with regret. The place was full night after night, and especially since the realm wars had escalated again, the need for respite and escape was greater than ever. Connor knew better than any that often, the best escape was through the doors of an inn, and life often looked better through the bottom of a glass. He reached for another tankard of his own ale, and quaffed it without pause, gathering his courage more than looking for the effect of the ale. He let his eyes drift across the room in a hazed stupor, for she had come again this night. She had first entered the Dragon’s Breath a few weeks before, and had returned most every night. She had caught his eye (as she had every other male in the place) with her raven hair and her casual manner, but more than his attention, she had captured his lust. He would have claimed it was his heart that she held, but any who knew him and knew him well would testify to the fact that he had no such organ, if compassion and sympathy were markers of such a thing. He was rude to most and cruel to many, and more than a few wondered, as they swallowed the last drop of the best ale in the realm, why folks returned night after night.

For himself, Connor knew of his reputation, and cared little. He had wealth, he had position, and he had his eyes upon the fair Kerika. She, like everything else in his domain, would be his surely enough.

She sat at a table in the corner of the room, laughing and carousing with her compatriots and friends. She wore light leather armour, and a dimly glowing sword hanging casually at her side. She looked comfortable enough with it, to be sure, though her true calling lay with the lute that sat upon her table, her arm around it with an unusually protective aspect. Her friends were male and female both, and while the women at the table might notice her harmless flirtations, and might even take mild offence, not a one would deny her skill in battle or her fierce loyalty to her those she did call friend.

It was to such a group that Connor made his way, pushing several out of his path as he did. His eyes were fixed on her and her alone, and he cared little for those who were pained for his purposes.

Including, he admitted, if only to himself, Kerika.

“Hallo M’lady…” the drunken barkeep slurred at her, pushing Kavin, a good nature warrior, out of his chair. Connor dropped himself unceremoniously down beside Kerika, his loutish behaviour matched only by the stench of stale ale and fresh intentions.

Kavin jumped to his feet, his hand reaching for his sword, when Kerika shook her head imperceptibly. Kavin snarled his anger, but held his place. The others at the table took notice, and settled themselves in, for what followed promised to be entertaining, if nothing else. Still, each held a hand upon their weapon, for while it was all in good fun, one never knew when such fun could turn ugly. If such a thing were to happen, they would be ready.

“Evening Connor,” she replied without letting her eyes move to him, “Nice night for a drink to two, wouldn’t you say?” The others, all having had a whiff of the soiled keeper, chuckled lightly at the comment. If Connor was aware of the insult, he was careful to keep his reaction hidden. More than likely, Kerika thought, he was simply too drunk to have noticed.

“Got a room upstairs all ready fer us and our fun…c’mon…lets go show each other a good time then…”

His words were as offensively thrown upon her as the message they carried, and Kerika could not help but wrinkle her nose in disgust. With a measured turn of her head, she looked the inn keep directly in the eye. “Now what part of my greeting lent itself to your thinking I would want to bed you this night?” Her words were offered with calmed confidence, and deliberate intent. “I would rather mount the horse that carried me here.”

Those in earshot laughed out loud, though this laugh was enough to capture Connor’s notice. He felt suddenly humiliated, and more than that, angry for the happening. With one motion he stood, grabbing Kerika’s wrist as he did. He took a step back and pulled hard, his want being to yank the minstrel to her feet. In the days to come, he would wonder if she was that strong, or was he that drunk. Either way it mattered little, for the result was the same, for Kerika saw easily enough his purpose. She planted her feet and pulled hard against him. The drunken barman was no match for her warrior’s strategy, and found himself pulled back into the table with more force than he could have imagined. Kerika, feeling Connor release her arm, drove her elbow back as hard as she was able. A thin smile creased her face as she felt it connect with the softer flesh of his groin. He dropped to his knees, the pain knifing through his drunken haze like a sword through a celt. Without hesitation, Kerika reached around and grabbed the back of his head, and slammed his face into the table top, careful not to strike her precious lute. Connor’s head snapped back, and he fell to the floor, consciousness a concern he would not be laboured with for some time to come.

Kerika happened a glance at the prone oaf, and shook her head as she looked backed to her audience, who sat in stunned silence. “Now that, I think he understood.”

The forests of Odin’s Gate sat in quiet thoughtfulness and solace, as though they were alive and grateful for the moment’s peace. The front of the realm war had shifted, and for the time being, Odin’s Gate was as serene a place as one could hope to find in a realm all but torn asunder by the death and madness that the realm wars had demanded. A light dusting of snow lay across the ground, unmarred by the crimson stains of battle. The air was warm, a calming breeze wafting through the trees, unfettered by the sounds of the dead and dying. It was a place of immaculate beauty and, at least for the present, untouched virtue.

Perhaps it was these things that brought Kerika to Odin’s Gate this day. Perhaps it was the serenity that the land offered when not besmirched by war and its wants that called to her. In honesty, these things might have been the truth of it, but more than this, it was simply a chance to be away. Away from the ravages of war. Away from the smell and touch and taste of death. Away from those who seemed to dance a little too merrily to the tune that the realm wars played. Simply, she thought, to be away…

She sat under a tree, a few dozen feet from the well trodden path through the Gate. She was a good measure from the Midgard keeps, and had no worry for the realm guards, for they traveled these specific lands lightly. Her lute lay across her lap, as though awaiting her hands to caress its strings, and call it forth to life. Her sword sat contentedly by her side in the snow, as though waiting for the song she would inevitable play to begin. Rightly enough, she was in an enemy realm, and her life was taken into her own hands by being so, but for the moments of solace she found there, it was more than worth the risk.

Kerika lifted the lute and began to softly strum a tune. It was a melody of her own devising, not intended to call forth the magics of war. Instead, it was simply intended to ease her heart, and placate only herself.

Kerika closed her eyes as she played, the music lazily offering its passion and its effect to any who cared enough to stop and listen. The wind seemed to blow that much lighter, the trees to sway that much deeper, the creatures of Odin’s Gate to walk the lands of their birth that much happier for the music that rid them all of the burdens that they carried. It was a music of life; of warmth and of peace.

A pity then, that death stalked the lands.

Her bow was held in her hand as though it were a part of her. How many times had she taken the lives of those who opposed her realm? She had lost count. In truth, she would admit, she killed not for the defence of her beloved Hibernia. Surely she would answer the call when her realm was threatened, but in truth she would yet ply her deadly trade should the realm wars end. It was not that which benefited from her deadly art that moved her to kill; it was the killing itself. She worshipped the death that she dealt as though it were a God, demanding fealty from its minions, and she offered such at every opportunity.

Her name was Nancy, and she had come to Odin’s Gate to deal that very death.

The music came to her as she moved with practiced ease through the forests. It was almost silent at first, as though it sought to evade her notice, but hear it she did. Nancy listened carefully, that the music had a tale to tell, and she was wanting to hear it. The truth of the matter was that it indeed told a tale, though Nancy cared little for the telling. It would lead her to her dark mistress, and thus was the only message that mattered.

It took little time to find her prey, though Nancy moved with caution. Surely no one would be fool enough to stand alone in the frontier and play a song, whose only purpose seemed to be to announce their presence to any who might wish to know? Nancy held her place for a moment, at each step, carefully inspecting every tree and rock. Was there an enemy there, part of an elaborate trap, ready to see her to her demise? Content that the way was clear, she would step again, and search again. It took time, to be sure, but Nancy would not die to the foolishness of haste; that much she swore.

Eventually she came to see the minstrel sitting at the base of the tree, as though the world were her audience, and war did not ravage the realms. She almost chuckled at the ease of the kill. Alone and unprepared, Nancy knew that this songstress would die without knowing the who or the why of it. The how, she smirked, would be only too clear, for the arrow that would end her life would lay protruding from her chest, telling the tale all too clearly.

Nancy raised her bow, and drew the arrow back, breathing deeply and readying for the release. It would be a sweet death indeed.

Where the troll had come from, she would never know. It was a huge representative of a massive race, its stoney features and enormous girth all but blocking out the sun as it tried to illuminate the scenario. The troll grabbed the bow from her hand and hurtled it away, the arrow misfiring and landing in the snow, well short of its intended target.

Once he had released the bow, the troll swung his right arm at the offending Hibernian, striking her hard across the temple. Nancy took the blow full to the head, too surprised by the attack to react quickly enough to fend it off. She stood dazed for a moment, and had she another, she might have had a chance.

The troll was not so accommodating.

Clasping both hands together, the behemoth slammed his hands down hard across her back, sending the Hibernian into the nether-realm of unconsciousness. She landed in the snow in a heap, leaving the troll to stare down at her and contemplate her fate.

He had come to Odin’s Gate to seek out invaders; to search for those who would dare to come to Midgard and kill his own. He had come ready for battle, and more than that, eager to find it. He would see the battle taken to the enemy, and if that be on his own soil, then so be it.

And then he had heard the music. It had calmed the rage in his soul; a rage that was born into the very heart of the race. He had tried to fight the effect, for what treachery could ease the fury in the soul of an enraged troll? Fight it he had, though from the beginning it was a battle he could never hope to win.

He followed the music, for he had never felt such strains before. For the first time in his life, he had felt calm, he had felt safe, and he had felt at ease with himself.

Finally he had found her. Imagine then his angst to see an Albion there, playing the music that had touched him so. He felt almost betrayed by the truths there before him. His first reaction was to rush the Albion invader and kill her for her intrusion, but before he could begin to act on his instincts, the music reached out to him again. It cradled his heart and his soul, and the huge troll knelt instead in the snow, and let the music work its magic upon him.

Sheer luck had called his attention to the assassin seeking to kill she who had played the music that had captured his heart. It was then that he knew rage as he had never known before. He had run to the Hibernian invader and had sent her into oblivion with an almost joyous abandon, and as he stood there, looking down at her unconscious form, he wondered if her intrusion warranted her death.

On any other day, there would have been no question. Her very presence on Midgard soil would have been enough to guarantee her death. On this day, though, his heart was serene, almost forgiving. The melodies that called to him brought him back from bloodlust and madness to a place he had never been before. It brought him to reason, and more, it brought him to mercy.

The troll moved off, confident that the assassin would remain unconscious for many hours to come. He moved to a small copse of trees and observed the minstrel, who had sat, eyes closed, playing her lute, oblivious to the happenings around her. The troll knelt in the snow, his eyes held upon her. She was one such as he had never known, even among the skalds of his own realm; tranquil in aspect, and beguiling in effect. How long he sat there, he could not know. It was as though the Gods had offered a new rhythm to the realms, and he had been born for no other purpose but to hear it.

After a time, she rose and moved off in the direction of the Albion Portal Keep. He stood with her, tempted to follow, though he stopped himself before she could see him. What end, he thought, to such an act? Surely she would see him, and either run from him or fight. Neither option appealed to him, and instead he simply watched her as she walked off.

He stood there, staring at the path she had taken, as though she would return for the longing in his heart. He had to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. She, a minstrel from an enemy realm; he, a troll of Midgard. It was too ridiculous to consider, and yet, as he moved off to return home, he thought of it none the less.

On that day, a day of fateful wandering and random chance, a troll by the name of Manimal learned what it was to want; what it was to desire; what it was to yearn. And as he walked through the Midgard frontier, and remembered who he was and what the realm wars would demand of him, he learned one thing more.

He learned to hurt.