Pillars of the Kingdom

Chapter Twenty Six

The shadows which followed him to the meeting left him amazed at the parallels of the lamp’s shade and the darkness in his conscience. He couldn’t fathom why the person he was moving to meet had flared his aura up enough for a nearby, powerful force to recognize - But whatever the reason, it damn well had to be important.

The place chosen for the meeting was, fittingly, the arena of Castrell City. Rayne’s capital happened to have an ancient training center and battle-site, a coliseum which could hold over thirty thousand people easily. At this time of night, three AM, it was all he could do to convince the night-guard that he simply wanted a work-out after a tryst gone wrong.

“Sorry, bud. You’re the great Branden Frost, alright,” the large armsman stated flatly. A man who’s rank could be no lower than Aqui was not likely to be a fool, but he never pictured the man would be this obstinate.

“Listen, man, you get the deal, right?” Branden asked, trying to sound quite dejected and a special kind of bored. “A guy meets a broad, she’s a total fridge, and before you blink twice she’s asking you to leave the hotel room you paid for!” The look in the Guard’s eyes was one of understanding - Clearly, it had happened to him at least once. “So I figure it’s late, I’m angry, and it’s a bad idea to try to go to bed in a miserable mood. You know what can happen when a Hora loses himself in an anger-inspired dream.”

Okay, so it was an exaggeration combined with a bluff. Branden knew exactly how rare a case of lost control was. Then again, the effects could be devastating - One time, long ago of course, a Fecha Swordpriest had a terrible drunken nightmare and had called upon a little more than his subconscious will to break it. Nobody had died, but the dream was shattered along with the furnishings of the room he’d slept in and a number of onlooker’s bones.

Branden stepped through the southern gate of the arena and recalled that once, a long time ago, he’d fought a battle here. It was a training exercise against a number of various foes, part of the schooling Serge had put him through, but it was one he’d long ago forgotten. He smiled once to himself and quickly lost that feeling when he saw the man in black robes standing before him.

“So, you figured out where I was and decided to pay me a visit, eh?” The deep voice asked without much of a question behind it. The man’s hood was drawn back to reveal the shaved head which lay underneath.

“They think I’m going to be doing a little workout here, Ammon. Why you’d sneak into the Castrell family arena and put yourself at the possibly unkind mercy of the entire Swordpriest military sect is beyond me, but I have to concede that it’s bold,” Branden remarked. He drew his sword and tapped it against his boot just once.

“Full armor to fit the excuse, a good idea. Listen, I want to get straight to the point - We need to talk about Aubrey.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Ammon was attempting suicide. Revealing his mere existence was a silly but necessary thing to do. Illegally entering the arena was bold but acceptable as they needed a meeting area and, in a hushed voice, this place could fit the bill as good as any at three in the morning. But to even mention the name Aubrey, the vanished prince, was inviting any Ralasian citizen who wanted a plump five million gold piece reward to make a run for the nearest police kiosk.

The arena’s massive lighting system had been turned off for the night, as without any sort of competition scheduled the few nearby homes (businesses abound where games are held, after all) wanted their good night’s sleep, so the black cloak Ammon wore made him virtually invisible. The dirt floor of the arena was still well packed, a fact which Branden was thankful for as it kept his feet more comfortable.

“Alright, what did you want to say?” Branden asked cautiously, keeping a neutral tone of voice. He didn’t want to take the chance of Ammon ratting him out to Aubrey, but he had a strange feeling they shared intentions.

“I wanted to know something, Branden,” Ammon began with an equal amount of trepidation. “Do you think that Aubrey has changed since this first began?”

Ammon was going somewhere with this, and Branden knew it. He’d pointed it out to Serge earlier, and he had no problem at this point with just telling his comrade the truth. Fortunately, this also afforded Branden a chance to address another issue that had lurked, unresolved, in the back of his mind.

“Well, Ammon, did you hold back when I fought against you for my rank? You’re even with me and any fool could tell it, yet you let me virtually slaughter you.” He let the question hang in the air, and Ammon did not immediately give an answer. It seemed almost as if the monk might not have heard or might be passing it over.

The monk might also have smiled, but with the darkness concealing his facial expression Branden couldn’t determine if it was a frown or smile that Ammon’s lips moved to. “Assuming your answer to be the same as mine, yes. Jagger was always a fool, Jagger was always insane, but Aubrey always kept him on a very short leash. Now it seems Aubrey is the one who needs the restraint,” Ammon said bluntly.

Branden was quite surprised that he would openly challenge Aubrey’s leadership to one of Aubrey’s old friends. He paused to make it seem as if he considered this notion, then he sighed. “Aubrey used to be a lot wiser, you know?” Frost began. “You know my motivation for joining the Four Lords. I want to set this kingdom straight by all means necessary. Aubrey shares this notion...” Branden’s rather self-righteous statement trailed off suddenly.

“Yes, I do know your motivation,” The monk stated without a hint of emotional entanglement in his voice. “I also know, just as you do, that Aubrey is becoming more obsessed with power. As they say, absolute power corrupts–”

“And just what the hell are your motivations, Dark Monk?” Branden interrupted with an accusatorial voice. The eldest of the group was unquestionably the most confusing and mysterious, and he hoped to find out why.

“I listen to a higher voice, Branden,” The monk replied stoically.

“The hell does that mean?” Frost’s voice was tense with unsatisfaction.

“It means exactly what I said,” Ammon said without even a trace of aggravation in his tone. “I answer to a power which you do not have a single obligation toward, but I do answer to it nonetheless. Anyhow, I wanted to say that no matter what happens between Aubrey and Jagger, I feel you are a good person. Can we agree that, between us, there is no enmity so long as your choices are validated by your personal honor?”

Branden was understandably taken aback. He still could not believe that Ammon was sharing his doubts about Aubrey’s way to handle things. A smile crossed his lips, however, and he shrugged his shoulders just once. “Why is it you held back?”

“Because,” Ammon replied softly, “I wanted to know which of you was more worthwhile, Aubrey or yourself. I knew that in the end you had a slight edge on me, no matter what the circumstances, but Aubrey? Well...” Ammon trailed off.

“You thought I might be able to overcome his Relic, yes?” Branden finished for his comrade. “I did too...I even wounded him, though slightly, but it didn’t stick for long.”

“Same,” Ammon replied. The two then grew silent, waiting and pondering exactly what to say next. Finally, Ammon ended the pause. “I guess it’s in Fate’s hands now.”

“Yeah,” Branden remarked without much emotion backing it. Whatever was going to happen, he would have to be on his guard. Ammon had just proven he was far wiser than Branden gave him credit for, but had further shocked him by declaring a truce.

The two said their goodbyes and, after Ammon left in some manner Branden couldn’t quite guess at, simply disappearing into the rafters and hopefully evading the guards. Branden, in his confused mindset, did have that little spar with himself.

*****
The castle’s “VIP” quarters were a series of dorm-style, suite-style, barrack-style and single-style rooms all for the choosing. Castrell Castle was prepared, as expected after centuries of diplomatic exchanges, to house virtually any sized entourage. The walls were made of brick that was white with just a hint of red coloring in it, some sort of marble or other material which was beyond his ability to identify.

Serge had done three things when first reaching the city - He’d made damn, damn certain that Clarice was put in an intensive care unit at Castrell City’s most advanced medical facility, he’d given thanks to Rayne Castrell for his assistance in warding off the Apostiles as well as given him a promise for a meeting later, and finally he set off after two particular people.

He asked one of the many maids where he could find them, knowing he would catch them both together. Sure enough, they’d been given a single suite in the castle’s visitor housing area, and at this hour of nine in the evening he was given affirmation that the two were indeed in their room dining. Dining, I bet, he mused to himself.

He knocked on the door, wearing nothing more than a black pair of pants and a grey tunic, and he expected damn well that the door would be answered. He ran his fingers through his finely combed hair just once, making certain he was presentable, and waited. And waited. He knocked again, the door finally opening a moment later.

The grey-haired Arcanic was not, as he usually was, in black robes. He was instead in a similar outfit of black pants and a blue shirt, while his “lover” (Never married, for reasons neither had ever explained) wore the same exact outfit. Their robes were non-callously laying on the bed in unkempt piles and the fact remained that the once-neat sheets had been completely disheveled.

“Am I interrupting?” Serge Lenkmen asked with a touch of a wry smile on his lips. He didn’t need to ask to know the answer, but it was amusement he rarely got in his life. Not to mention that he didn’t care.

“To be to up front about it, my friend, yes,” Cassandra remarked, the time for blushing at knowing smiles such as Serge’s long passed in her life.

“I see. Then I can depart if you’d like?” Serge offered sarcastically. It was the sort of preposition that only a fool or an innocent might attempt to accept. The old knight was calling for a reason and, with a visitor possessed of Serge’s mentality, the reason was likely one worth putting business first and pleasure later for.

“No no, Serge, that won’t be necessary. Come on in,” Shade offered, opening the door to its widest. Indeed, two glasses of wine, each with a different closeness to the bottom of the cup, were sitting next to a bottle filled with it, one with small beads of condensation running down its side.

He entered into the room, Cassandra’s violet eyes - Supposedly having had their colors changed by the same supernatural forces which kept Shade and herself alive long beyond their years - turned to him with mild amusement. Clearly she knew she’d been caught, hand in the cookie jar, and she didn’t quite care. Serge simply closed the door behind him, making sure Shade knew this was a serious discussion to be had.

“So, lets get to business then, old friend,” Shade stated, moving to get another glass. Serge shook his head to decline, and Shade shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said and took his and Cassandra’s crystal clear glasses, handing her one and taking a sip from his.

“Sure. I’ll just say it - You plan to die,” Serge accused openly.

“Yup,” Shade replied. Cassandra flinched ever so slightly, but then smiled with some form of hope in her eyes. Maybe only one of them had hit that point of determination.

“Why? If you’re resolved to die, it will fulfil itself,” Serge chastised, taking a step toward his old accomplice and shaking his head. “You’ve lived about twice as long as I have, don’t just throw that all away! You can do this without just throwing your damned life away!” His voice raised, and it was to the credit of the castle’s builders that the doors and walls were made of such thick stone.

“There’s no real choice in the matter, Serge,” Shade said in a rather somber tone, even for the Arcanic who was known for his lack of extreme passion.

“Don’t say that! You’re...Well damn, you’re a legend and…” Serge trailed off, voice strained by the emotion he was trying his best to express.

“I’m a legend - But legends are so often overstated. I’m old and losing my edge, Serge. I’m certain you understand this,” Shade remarked with his violet eyes looking sadly at his friend, “and understand that my decision is final. I cannot stress enough how dangerous this fight will be - The only reason you are going to come with me, you and the entire rest of this group, will be because Cassandra and myself cannot destroy all three of them ourselves.”

The elder knight was silent for some time, then he began in a shaky voice. “Shade, you’re going to use it, aren’t you?” Serge stated, a long sigh drawn from his lips. “You’re going to use the–”

“Yes, he is,” Cassandra stated flatly. She then added in a quiet voice, “The only spell I never had to perform, and never could.”

“The Shadow of Light,” Shade confirmed. “I will unmake them if that is what it takes - I’m hoping conventional spells will do it, because with my age I can’t Seal it, not that the Sealed version will work anyway.”

The Shadow of Light was secretly whispered about in the halls of the Arcanic council, as well as between a select few Horas. The only hint Shade had ever given to its nature was one said to Cassandra nearly eighty years ago, a hint claiming that the spell was based upon one theory of creation - Of the world. Serge shook his head as the Arcanic confirmed his spell selection.

“I can’t stop you,” Scarred Peace stated flatly, “and I can’t help you with it. You taught me the rudiments of Arcane power, but no amateur Sorcery and no amount of Crystal can duplicate that power. I bet you won’t even let my men and I handle this first, eh?”

Shade shook his head, but it was Cassandra who decided to speak. “Branden, he’d be useful maybe. Yourself, I bet you could do some good. Clarice is...” Cassandra paused, then shook her head. “She’ll live through this, alright, but she’s hurting. She might not even fully recover by the time we have to go. Kathy London is...Well, she’s a useful Arcanic and a good shot, but that really won’t be enough. As for the others...”

“Charles is a little bit too rough around the edges,” Shade continued. “And we’ve all agreed that Jacin is just not ready. That Relic he carries is useful but I would not expect him to win while relying on a crutch. No, I think it best that Cassandra and I handle this as well as we can, using some good teamwork.”

Serge could have tried to argue this, could have attempted to discuss his way out of it and talk his friend out of a suicide attack, but in the end there seemed no way of succeeding in being persuasive. They knew their limits and knew, it seemed, what they would be faced with. In a situation such as theirs, Serge decided they’d come to the conclusion it would be better to die together than to risk failure by standing alone. He knew he would ultimately do the same.

“Very well,” Serge said with a sigh. “Enjoy your time together, my friends.” His statement was followed with a short bow, one the two lovers returned, then he opened and closed the door.

He swore, on the way out, he heard Cassandra scandalously mutter, “Don’t worry, we will.”
*****

“Give me the latest reports,” the slightly wounded royal spoke. In the time since Serge and his party had departed from Castle Emor, King Tevalain had recovered almost completely from his leg wound. He was still limping, of course, but that was a hardly noticeable trait when compared to the number of still-wounded that were out there. Some part of him wanted to throw his crown to the floor and march out to the ramparts himself to stand watch, yet the more rational side was focused on the aforementioned reports.

“Well, king,” The Media officer began, “We’ve had minimal casualties after all, however the number of wounded is far more damaging then we’d care for. They’ll mostly recover, but the damage to national pride as well as military standing has been serious.” The page’s voice was confident in the way that doctors told the condemned they were alright, and the king knew it.

“Alright, let me run this by you - The head perpetrators are the chieftain of the Shatterrock Clan of barbarians, an unknown Gammin Monk with skills that Serge Scarred Peace Lenkmen reported were beyond of his sphere of knowledge, a Swordpriest who endured a number of serious wounds, and a fourth mystery shopper who hired every freelance mercenary he could afford that wasn’t already in our employ?”

“Yes, my king, that is the case,” the page replied as an affirmative. “We have queried all of the Swordpriests and monks we have found who are still alive, yet to a man they deny knowledge other then that they are eternally loyal to the “Four Lords” who will overthrow the Kingdom and replace it with a more egalitarian order.”

“Oh, great, communists,” the King muttered. “Just what we need. So what else–”

“King!” Interrupted another of the Media officers who so often doubled as pages, “An electronic message has been received from King Rayne of Ralase!” the messenger offered both a bow and a slightly wrinkled piece of paper.

“Damn, what could go wrong now,” The king remarked. He took the sheet of paper and paraphrased it aloud. “Shade’s group was ambushed by the Apostles! No...” He paused, then continued to read. “All wounds were minor except for those suffered by Clarice Saffron, who is in critical but stable condition.” At this revelation, a mixed cheer and sadness came from the group. “That means we can beat those damn Apostiles, although I suspect it not to have been an easy fight.”

“My king!” A third page exclaimed, running into the meeting room and bowing. “The White Prince has been spotted.” All these interruptions could give one a stroke, but this last was well worth it.

“Well finally,” the king remarked at the news of this man’s presence. The king’s face went from slightly angered to extremely relieved, if surprised. “Some good fucking news. Where did you find that vagrant of a son?”

“Kendrick Tevalain was found in a, if you can believe it, tent city in southern Coaslund. He made himself known at some mild incidents, saved a town, the usual deal for him,” The page began. “Of course, he also made sure to send word about two bits of information - First, that he was okay and second that he didn’t want much to do with the court.”

“Is it possible to send him a message?” Asked the king of the third page. While the ruler’s voice sounded rather relived it also sounded slightly irritated - That son of his must cause trouble, it appeared.

“I suppose so, king, but if your Highness didn’t hear–”

“I heard,” the king said with a chuckle. “Tell him this - I have a challenging opponent for him to face, and that he should do what he can to intercept the Arcanics Shade and Cassandra Retholden. Inform him they are at Castrell City and are seeking to move south through Presia until they reach a land that I do not know, yet. Shade said he’ll do the knowing, so that’s that. Tell my son it will be an adventure.”

*****
The man was quite surprised to see a message on his small, electronic device. He didn’t know - Or much care - what it was called, but it was the only way they would let him out of that town without an entourage of guards following him.

His white hair hung long, sweat-soaked and in slightly curled bunches, his blue eyes looked over the electronic message, and his white armor and cloak completed the image of the White Prince, as his Hora title aptly called him. Princehood, he had to remind people, was not hereditary although, he was most certainly a strong candidate for the throne. As were Branden Frost and Rayne Castrell, his two friends. Branden might even stick around to take that throne, while Rayne would be like most Ralasian royals and retain his loyalty to his principality.

“Eh? Shade? Somethin’ about a tough fight, hmm?” He didn’t quite believe it, but then again...He’d heard about the attack on his father’s city. “Times’re changing indeed,” the prince remarked with a bit of a grin on his lips. His longsword was slowly drawn, a blade which was slightly thinner than weapons of their type, and he studied its rune-encrusted edge. “I suppose the old man would want me to help ‘em. There better a hot girl involved in this endeavor, that or some very, very good action.”

The prince swung his sword just twice and sheathed it quickly, shrugging his shoulders. A bag was quickly slung over them and he removed his sword from its belt, using it as a cane. The hill he intended to climb was a high one, but it led ultimately back towards civilization.

“Just how the hell long have I wandered, anyway?” he asked himself idly, his shoulders rising and falling once again as he smiled. “It’ll be good to see Branden again. I’ll have to have a match with him, or...I’ll have to see if I can even hold my own!” He said with a hint of blushing in his cheeks. “Plus, I have to see one other thing. I have to see if my father was really serious when he said the country is on the verge of chaos if any more of these major incursions come around.”

Oh yes, this hill would be a long and rocky one, but then again...When one is almost thirty, perhaps it is time for one to return to one’s home, he thought as he got to gathering his gear.

Chapter Twenty Seven

She dreamed.

Her wounds, if they had ever been real, were not hurting her one bit. She moved freely, though as the sleep she fell into deepened a setting took place before her eyes. She was in a room, no - No, as it came more into focus it was a hallway. The hallway became one she knew, a hallway not of a barracks she once stayed in...No...Where was it? She fought for recognition, and she realized it was a house she didn’t know after all - Yet.

She looked to her left, a table with a quartet of small drawers and a vase atop it partially blocked the way, yet the hall was wide enough that she could pass with someone next to her without squeezing too much. Her mind observed the white wall and how the oak table and clay-colored vessel all seemed to blend in perfectly with her mood and her relaxedness. She looked up and saw, to her surprise, that someone was approaching her.

The man - It was clearly a man, from his height and frame - was wearing a white T-Shirt, fitting this white wall. He wasn’t much taller than her, and as she brushed her green strands from in front of her eyes she canted her head, making out more and more of the familiar man’s face...

Alan?! Her face reddened and her shoulders rose with surprise as she saw the handsome man approaching. This could be a dream, but...As with dreams, they could turn to nightmares. She fervently hoped against it, but she looked the man in the eyes and shivered just once. “How...How are you?”

“I’m alright,” He responded with a smile on his lips. “I see you’ve had better days, but for now lets forget that little fact!” His voice was cheerful, almost...Unlike he’d ever been before. It raised more than one bit of suspicion.

“I guess...I wouldn’t mind forgetting, for a while anyway, what’s going on. But this is a dream and I know it,” she said. She was talking almost to herself, and it was a shame. She wanted to - No, she did melt into Alan’s waiting arms.

His arms took her and rubbed her back in the soft way that a god friend could; not as a lover might, “I know, I’m just a dream as well...”

Alan suddenly started to melt away and, before she knew it, she was standing on a battlefield. It was familiar in the same way as the hallway was, and her foes...Her foes, they wore black armor and were quite recognizable.

Sure, this battle raged all around them - Jacin was up against a very familiar woman in armor, a spearman’s duel moving at a speed almost incomprehensible to her. Charles was dueling a man with a very, very long sword, Branden was faced with someone moving at an incredible speed - Faster, even, than he was; her flame dissolving his ice. Serge, Shade, and Cassandra were nowhere to be found while a man with white armor and hair was facing off against an Arcanic. That woman with the bat was staring Clarice down while Iona...Well, she and Valin were at it again. A man with a number of handguns was waiting on the sidelines, making gestures with a crystal in his hand.

Yes, she knew these enemies! The Apostles...She was fighting them! Again! And yet...Where were her strongest damned comrades? The bat-wielding woman advanced upon her and struck, and she was suddenly at a funeral.

It wasn’t her’s. It was instead the blind hermit’s. She looked around, startled out of her mind to be back here. It was a rather...Empty burial - A few of the local townspeople had attended, but the old man had no living family. She was the closest thing he’d had to a daughter, a fact she’d both cherished and regretted. Her family was still alive, of course, but she rarely saw them – They weren’t thoroughly put off by her sexual interests, but duty kept her from melting what ice remained over their image of her.

The memory was one which stung - The old man who had served in Coaslund’s military as a mere Noche had been discharged when his eyesight began to degenerate despite medical procedures. He’d refused to give up his martial arts, he’d learned how to hear better than he saw and gradually replaced and even surpassed anything he could do with his eyesight.

“Completion,” he’d always spoken about, “it’s about seeing without eyes, hearing without ears, and touching without skin. It’s about the essence which carries on when you die. That is what makes the Hora different from the Noche and the rank amateur.”

She understood, back then, none of this. Now, she had to wonder if she ever would. Sure, she’d learned how to see the auras of her foes with her eyes closed - But it felt as if she were still missing something. With her teacher dead and in that place where the spirit endures, she had to wonder if she had missed some vital part of her teaching.

Then, abruptly, she stopped dreaming.

*****
“She’s coming to. That’s a new record, doctor,” The male stated in a soft voice.

“Yes, it is, nurse,” spoke the woman. Apparently, to some people, titles meant nothing.

“Is she alright??” came the familiar, worry-stricken voice of Kathy London. Clarice tried to open her eyes but found that she was still too strained. The first glimpse of light nearly did her in, causing a wave of dizziness and darkness to assail her.

“I thought so,” The doctor stated. “Your idea was great, Miss London, but having your associates pour mystical power into you so that you may channel it to heal Lady Saffron, well,” the doctor paused, “I’d bet she had some odd nightmares then and odder feelings right now. Dizziness, nausea, it’d be a surprise if she didn’t fall asleep very shortly, but you can speak to her if she’s up to it.”

The offer was one Clarice seized upon to help her fight off the shadows which crept over her eyes. “Yes, I can talk to Kathy. I’m alright, really,” she insisted, though if she believed it honestly or not was another question entirely.

There was a small amount of rustling and Kathy stood over Clarice. The woman called “Blind Justice” still wasn’t fully aware of her surroundings, though the soft beeping of a monitor - One which yelped in tune with her heartbeat, she quickly deciphered - started to break through the pain-induced haze.

“Hey,” Kathy said quietly, looking nervous.

“Hey, yourself,” Clarice responded. Both women stifled a bit of a giggle.

“So, did you have any awkward dreams?” Kathy asked with a hint of trepidation in her tone. She was, after all, the pioneer of this mass-healing technique so it was possible that any nightmares were her own fault.

“Yeah. I dreamed about my teacher, dreamt some odd dream of seeing Alan again...” She paused, then forged through without letting the moment for damage take its toll. “I also had a dream we were fighting the Apostles again, and this time the pairings were different.”

“I see...Probably some side effect of Jacin having provided some of the energy for your healing,” Kathy replied. It was a scientific enough look at things - Jacin had the power of prophecy and it wasn’t even hard to believe they would fight that set of foes again.

“I see...Well, it’s unsettling. It makes me feel bad that he’s got this power, although it could be infinitely useful toward our goal,” Clarice stated, repeating the obvious implications of Jacin’s heritage. She paused, then simply blinked her eyes. “Man, think of how far we’ve come. This started off as a mission to the Shamans and before we knew it we’re...Well fuck, saving the kingdom.”

Clarice’s voice wasn’t all too steady - The drugs were taking over quite clearly, and Kathy had more than enough medical knowledge to tell. The scientist simply bowed and delivered a kiss to Clarice’s lips. “Sleep, love,” she whispered, “there’ll be time for talk later.”

As if obeying Kathy’s command, she dozed off.

*****
Clarice had recovered enough after two days that she could sit down with Rayne, Serge and the rest of the crew in the royal meeting room. It was a fitting place for such types of closed-doors meetings, the walls were the same light-red and white mix that the rest of the castle seemed to be built from, the doors were large, thick and wooden and the room was built with a number of breathtaking pictures. One even had the signature of Terra Castrell, one of the primary leaders of Ralase in days long ago.

The assembly included every one of her group, from Iona to Branden, and she took the only available seat. Each offered a greeting of some form toward her, as well as their thanks that she was alright.

“Well, now that the well-wishing is over, shall we get to business?” Rayne prompted after quite a bit of time had elapsed. He was an incredibly handsome man, one who wore his long brown hair in a ponytail and stood at over six and a half feet. He was built almost like the walls of his castle, a muscular and powerful man whose combat prowess was well known throughout the entire Kingdom.

“Sounds good to me, old pal,” Branden stated openly with a yawn. Frost wore nothing more descript then a grey T-Shirt and black pants, though his long friendship with Rayne ensured that Branden’s rank would be well respected anywhere in the castle.

“Well, Clarice, to sum it up it’s been a good three days of relative peace and quiet,” Rayne began.

“Surprise, surprise,” Charles interjected with a smile toward the king of Ralase. Rayne just grinned and shook his head.

“Alright Chuckles, seriously now, your battle with the Apostles was a damn close one. I know you had them beaten this time, but for some reason I suspect that this wasn’t a real offensive by them. Also, I happen to have a list of renegade Swordpriests who sided with that nutjob who threw an attack at Castle itself.”

This welcome news caused Clarice to smile. She ignored the less benevolent aspects of the statement, of course, but she was focused on a cause and she knew it - She had no time for the distraction posed by the Apostles as right now she was after those ancient relics.

“I take it you have heard nothing of Solasce’s movements?” Serge asked in a rather strained voice for the usually-relaxed old man. It was only then that Clarice noticed Serge had been rather gruff and displeased at the entire situation, despite the sincerity of his greeting to her.

“No, Sir Lenkmen, I haven’t,” Rayne said with a touch of edge about it. It seemed to be a mutual animosity, alright. “All I know is that Coaslund sent a message saying one of their southernmost trading posts with the local barbarian types was torched. They suspect the Shatterrock clan, which as you certainly–”

“Yes, I know damn well that their warlord was involved in the attack on the king. And I don’t think it was those barbarians; it’s a fool’s thought that it would be. They might have intention to strike us but it’s damn senseless to hit a trading post after such a major defeat, unless perhaps all of Coaslund’s economy depends on that one insignificant place.” Serge’s interruption was not just rude but uncalled for, especially in the home of another. Rayne sat on it, trying to present an appearance of calm.

“I can assure you,” Kathy interjected regarding the rather agitated leaders “Coaslund does not depend on any one leg. A trade-post in the south is nothing more then a small bit of cash not in our pockets and they would know it.”

“Then fine, contribute it to Solasce if you’d like, Serge. Put it in a nice report to the King of Emor and make sure to check it out,” Rayne stated in long, bored tones. Serge was now the one sitting on his frustration, as much as he was flustered. Branden was looking back and forth and was quite damn nervous.

Iona unsuspectingly raised her voice to “Cease this nonsense, because we know very well that Coaslund’s base was near the area Shade believes to be part of Coaslund’s excavation. It would be nothing less than sensible to have taken out a location which might be used against them, especially considering Solasce’s record for being absolutely paranoid.” She was holding a small marble, one which she allowed to remain visible to the meeting. It was a rather odd thing, but Clarice realized she’d seen the little sphere before.

The wisdom was enough for both Horas to chew on, and they did so while shooting arrows from their eyes at one another. Branden sighed and looked toward Iona, who smiled back as politely as seemed possible. Clarice observed the actions of both and had to admit, Iona and Branden would look better together than her and Branden (or, for that matter, her and Iona) could ever be.

“Quite true, Lady Iona,” Shade added in a soft voice. “It would fit my disgraceful home’s profile to do such things. I’m sure that adds more reason for you not to trust me,” he said cautioningly, “But it adds more reason for you to accept that, if I am indeed a good person, I would be willing to leave them and aid others to save the lives threatened.”

Cassandra’s arm moved to Shade’s and gently rubbed along his robes, a reassuring touch between the two. Cassandra had been the only one who knew Shade’s true nature, though when she was told and how she’d reacted was still quite the mystery.

“I see,” Serge stated. He rose to his feet slowly, “Branden and King Rayne, would it be a terrible problem to have a conversation alone with the two of you?” His eyes were thoughtful. Branden blinked his own blue ones, trying to determine Serge’s intention, while Rayne simply looked poised to accept any fate.

“Fine,” the king of Ralase responded as he stood up. “Unless there’s anything else, I would like everyone to clear the room out.” It was a request, alright, but it was definitely an adjourning message.

“Nah, I’m good,” Charles stated. With a bow toward the three who would remain, he got up and departed.

“Same here,” Jacin stated. “Let me know if you need me,” he added before stepping out of the heavy doors.

Shade and Cassandra merely stood up and, with deep bows to everyone, left the room behind. They departed together, two silhouettes in black moving at the same speed, one arm slipped around another lovingly. Many in the room envied their closeness despite their determination to perish.

Kathy moved toward Clarice and took her shoulder. “Lover, we have some time to spend talking and,” She paused and then grinned, “Recovering.” Clarice nodded her ascension, a grin forming on her own lips before she departed.
*****
“...I thought I asked everyone to leave,” Rayne questioned of the black-haired girl who had apparently insisted on remaining.

“I think it would be better for me to sit in on this, if there isn’t an objection,” Iona responded. She looked to Branden for a moment, as if asking for either a clue as to what was going on or for him to step forward to defend her. She was to be disappointed as he shrugged his shoulders.

“Iona, not to offend you or insult your great assistance in our prior battles, but this is a matter which concerns only the three of us. We would greatly appreciate you leaving.” Serge was impatient, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to put on a polite front for her despite his growing irritation.

“I understand. I shall depart then,” Iona remarked as she stood and walked away, closing the door behind her after giving a small head nod. “And no offense is taken,” she said with a smile. The door itself did not slam shut, but it clicked audibly as it closed.

Serge walked to it and listened for a moment to ensure none were even breathing outside of it. All he managed to discern were the footsteps Iona made away from the place and he turned the large tumbler on the door’s handle, locking it. Then he turned to Rayne and Branden and spoke in as soft and calm a voice he could manage. “We need to talk.”

“You know, old knight,” Rayne said in a joking, polite voice which masked some level of aggravation of his own, “I had deciphered that from your insistence on the beauty with the black hair’s departure.”

“Rayne, you never disclosed something when it came up, and its damn time you do - What relic did Aubrey take with him? And don’t say he’s dead, if you lie to me I will ensure you die for treason,” Serge finished sternly. This unveiled, un-blunted threat was enough to start a war had it been directed at Presia, but as Branden had been his foster-child Serge knew Rayne (and Aubrey) from years ago, and such an open accusation would not provoke conflict - Yet, anyway; on its own, it was merely a topic starter.

“I don’t know Serge, you tell me,” Rayne responded. He drew his sword slowly, open-palmed, allowing the old man to see the blade of his weapon. The few mystical engravings upon it betrayed the fact that it was an incredibly potent weapon both physically and magically - The sheer force of the blade’s aura could terrify a lesser warrior.

“So it’s not the sword Lune, obviously,” the elder observed. “And I see the Ring of Focus upon your finger so I know it can’t possibly be that,” Serge began with a touch of...Anticipation, was it? Whatever it was that laced his tone, he was going somewhere with this as he looked at the small ruby ring with a number of tiny runes engraved upon it.

“And it’s not the Crest of Rule, either,” Rayne remarked dismally as he raised his sleeve and showed the band which wrapped around his left bicep. The Ring of Focus and the Crest of Rule combined endowed a powerful effect to its weilder - The Crest was a defensive relic which created barriers and the Ring was a filter which could direct mystical forces far beyond what a normal person could.

Branden paused at this, a lack of knowledge splayed across his face as plain as day. Of course, beneath this lack of knowledge came a frightening truth - He was privileged to know exactly what the Relics of Ralase could do, and he knew which one had not been covered. He also knew how much trouble Rayne could be in, and for a change he had no idea if Serge would call this into being or if he would allow Rayne to go.

“Are you fucking joking? You allowed Aubrey to leave with that?!” It was the kind of question which made “that” sound like any form of world-ending device. It was pronounced with the kind of shock which only accompanied such a device as well.

“The Gorget of Invincibility, the relic which even Kendrick Castrell refused to wear because of its possible side-effects. The same one you’re fearing, Aubrey has.” The King of Ralase’s answer was one which sang a death knell for a lot of the group’s hopes.

“Well that explains a lot,” Serge began. His eyes moved from Rayne to Branden and he closed them, sadness etched in his face. “He’s the man you went to see in Yenohar. Him, that monk and that barbarian. Lilith...” Serge paused. It snapped into place. “Lilith joined your little group but kept her true identity as a Saint a secret, using you all the while. Am I right?”

It was a good guess, though only half of it was the insane part - That Branden couldn’t tell what was going on with the black-haired Saint - and that Branden thought he might get away with this. It was treason in the highest, an attempt on the throne itself, punishable by death or worse. And for all Frost could do, he gave a rueful smile.

“I told you,” he stated in as steady a voice as he could get, “That I would never betray the people I care for and who depend on me. I never have - When this whole affair began, it was to have as little bloodshed as possible. It was to be...A peaceful revolution. We figured some people would refuse and would attack us, but imagine it for a minute...”

“A Swordpriest who could be King of Ralase, who never failed his tests but instead probably was too powerful to even register,” Serge began with an angry glance at Rayne. Rayne had to know, he was just as guilty as Branden, “not to mention a Swordpriest with all that power being vulnerable only to the most powerful relics in existence. “Add that with Branden Fucking Frost,” Serge roared while ignoring the shocked and insulted look from Branden, “a man who can hardly be defeated, throw in a Gammin Monk with skills even I haven’t seen and add the most powerful barbarian despot in the southern reaches and you have an almost unstoppable force.” Serge bit his anger off and grew silent, before another question was posed to the two, “And are you in on this, Rayne?” Asked as an afterthought.

“Nah. Truth be told, I had figured out Aubrey was in charge only after he made that suicidal attack on Castle Emor. What amazes me is he almost won - Cassandra and Shade normally could have popped the whole group of them silly,” the king responded with a sigh despite his casual wording. It appeared truthful, because Rayne was looking at Branden with a good deal of shock in his eyes. “I mean, yeah, I knew that Branden and Aubrey were hanging around and that Kendrick had declined an offer to have anything to do with a new political party of some type, but I hadn’t been invited despite staying fairly close to Aubrey, who has, as Branden said, gone somewhat crazy. Its one of the risks of the Gorget, and it’s why my ancestors never used it.”

It was true - The Gorget was forged of the darker Arcane powers in the world, forged to allow any tyrant the ability to endure unlimited damage and come out intact. The problem with this was that it was sinister enough to cloud one’s mind, possibly even controlling that person rather than being a simple tool for conquest. Now, it appeared, Aubrey was falling to it.

“Of course,” Serge remarked, “One has to have some evil inclination or desire for personal power to fall to the depth Aubrey plummeted to. I told you,” he said to Branden, “That I trust you. I still do, despite how inanely stupid this is. You’ve had every chance to bowl by me and run like all hell, every possibility to just break a wall down and get out of here - But you haven’t, and I bet if I told you to kneel down so I could take your head off for your crimes you would,” Serge said. He didn’t even reach for his sword, he simply made the proposal.

Branden smiled. “Yeah, Serge, I would. You’re right, but that’s why me and that monk decided that whatever happens he and I will not support Aubrey if he descends any further.”

“That’s good, to know that at least two of you are sane. And I am not going to kill you,” Serge said with a sigh. “I only pray that when the time comes to stop Aubrey we can either save him or, he has to be slain. And at that point, it becomes a him-or-us decision, Branden, and I will have to kill him and will need all the help I can get. I trust you, that’s all there is.” Serge remarked, leaving Branden to make his own decisions.

The old man looked worn out, looked angry and depressed all at the same time. Branden said nothing as he walked over toward the elder and gave him a nice, tight hug, rubbing his back softly. He spoke in what sounded like an emotionally torn voice. “Serge, you’re a father to me. I’m not always a great kid, but I try. My fault is that I just care too much.”

The woman gently smiled, quite impressed. She brushed the strands of obsidian hair out of her way as she overheard, knowing quite well neither would find the small, sentimental link between the black stone and herself. Golden eyes blinked as she leaned against the wall and whispered to herself. “So that’s what having a father’s like, eh? That son of a bitch was nothing like this old man, that’s for damn sure,” Iona remarked to herself.

*****
“So, summing this all up, we’re putting in a call to a few people in Yenohar in order to hire a few mercenaries. Well, one in particular, I suppose. It’ll be on my bill for my part in this, eh Serge?” Rayne proposed to the old knight as they prepared their gear for the coming trip. “I’ve decided to hire a mercenary who has a lot of gear, ex-military stuff, and one who isn’t quite poor at the close-quarters stuff as well. It wouldn’t be bad, would it?” A smile was on the king’s lips as they moved toward the radio tower.

“I suppose it works out. Make sure you can trust him, that’s all,” Serge responded as he threw a meal kit into his bag. The silverware was all packed tightly into a pan, providing the best in tightly-packaged dinnerware.

“Nah, I already have someone picked out. You’ll like him, he’s one of those gunner-types.”

Serge thought about it for just a moment before nodding. “A Montoyan,” he remarked. The type of warrior was named after a man who was slain centuries ago, a man whose last name was Montoya and who was one of the first “Gun-Horas.” Feared for their ability to dance through a battle and unload varying types of firearms while alternating pistols with swords, a Montoyan was a terrifying prospect on a battlefield.

“Yes, Serge, a Montoyan,” Rayne stated. The two had just entered that communications room, one in which Rayne lifted a telephone and dialed a number he must have had memorized.

“Yeah, this is Mr. Johnson. I’m looking to talk to Martin Derringer. No,” Rayne said with a smile, “this is not a male prostitute. I don’t want Maxine, I want Martin. Yes, I know the names are confusing,” he said with a voice that signaled humor turning dry, “But I am a businessman and I am quite busy, as it were. May I please speak to Martin?”

Serge struggled for a moment with the names mentioned; Martin and Maxine Derringer? They had some kind of fame, each for a different reason yet he knew they worked together, being brother and sister. What he remembered, however, was not much of use.

“Yes. I’m Mr. Johnson, Mr. Derringer, and I’m looking to hire you. Your mission will be to report to Airpad-8 at Castrell City in Ralase and follow further orders. The pay? What sounds good? 1,500 gold? Hah!” Rayne said with a laugh. “I’ll give ya 1.75 and you’ll just ask for me at the door. The airpad will be clear, trust me. Mission details? Let’s just say you’ll be helping a few poor souls on a very difficult mission. Yeah, bring everything.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

The party reached the small trading post only two days after they had departed. What they found was shocking - It was often said, in such cases, that “Not a stone was left standing,” however for once it was close to the truth. As they approached over the flat, coastal lands they were able to see the beginnings of what appeared to be hills. Hills which appeared on nobody’s map.

They soon learned the truth - The hills were craters created by, as far as Kathy’s ability to determine Solasce-manufactured weaponry using Arcane power was concerned, a high-powered rifle. What’s worse was that the damage was recent, three days gone at most. No survivors were left, though no bodies were visible either.

“Serge! Over here!” Iona exclaimed as she tucked her marble into her pocket, waving the elder knight over to look at something. He approached quickly and, like Iona, was quite shocked (yet in some ways, relieved) to find a row of graves.

“They might have killed everyone here, but at least they buried the people like humans,” Serge remarked with touches of both anger and sadness in his voice. “So we’re not dealing with demons, that’s a plus, since there might be things they might not want to do to win.”

“I doubt it,” Iona remarked idly, “They’re probably willing to do just about anything for a victory.”

The search for clues continued unabated for about twenty minutes. Each member of the group felt they’d found something of note, a surefire sign that Solasce was the perpetrator (as if the large holes carved into the town weren’t enough), yet in the end not a survivor lived nor a definitive sign that any given force was a direct attacker. The main disappointment was that they could not even find a trace of a departure route.

Now, ordinarily they’d have searched for longer than twenty minutes. After twenty or so minutes had passed, however, a loud sound akin to a shriek was heard overhead.

“The hell?” Jacin asked as he looked upward, the sunlight keeping his eyes from locating the source of the disturbance.

“A jet,” Kathy replied with a sigh. She quickly went to her bags and grasped her gear, slapping together her rifle as quickly as she could. It was just in time; for over the horizon a rather large vessel, one literally the size of a small house, came while escorted by five of these fighter planes.

The aerial barge, for that was all any of the party could liken it to, hovered in place for the time being as the planes, each small and made for only one man with relatively short wingspans and a trio of plasma cannons visible on the undercarriage (one under the nose and one on each wing) starting to glow. In similar fashion, three engines existed on the plane - One on each wing and one, quite plainly, in the rear.

“Shit!” Jacin managed to exclaim as he and the rest of the journeying group began to scatter at full speed. Some, Branden especially, were likely out-running the planes themselves. The plasma rounds barked out loudly and one of the red bolts of light smashed into the ground in front of him, creating a rather large disturbance in the natural stone pattern, not melting the rock nor exploding, yet punching through the topsoil with brute force.

“Mark-Eights and a lancer!” Kathy exclaimed loudly. If it had any solid meaning to the group they would be hard pressed to recall it while evading red plasma bolts for their lives. “Their cannons vaporize what they touch, but they’re not particularly potent either. Watch this!” she shouted. Her rifle was then slung over back and she moved her hands in a rather simplistic pattern, almost a rectangle. She spoke a word, and gestured in the direction of one of the aerial invaders.

Suddenly, as sure as if an invisible structure had arisen from the ruined settlement to strike its destroyers down, the plane appeared to have smashed into a wall in midair. It exploded in a burst of flame, and the other four planes were forced to alter their attacking pattern to evade the smoldering bits of rubble that rained from the sky. The noticeable absence of a parachute ensured the pilot was indeed downed.

Such a simple, energy-efficient spell was repeated four times quickly, each one claiming one of the planes. Only the second to last plane, its pilot observing Kathy’s casting, happened to veer his plane out of the way and, unfortunately for him, crash-land in the distance. His survival prospects were unknown, but the party had more pressing concerns to attend to - The large ship had begun a descent.

“Lets smash this son of a bitch!” Charles shouted as he produced his head from under his shield. He’d been hiding quite well, and a number of the plasma bolts had smashed into the ground around him without causing him any harm.

“You’d be wasting your time,” Kathy yelled back at the young man. “Watch,” She instructed. Assuming he would, she grasped her rifle from her back and loaded in one of the long crystals she used for ammunition. She fired six rounds at it, three quick pairs of loud “clack!”s spreading through the ruined town. Each (this time, red) streak was simply absorbed by a white sheen of light, though ironically the last bolt managed to strike the armor underneath the vessel and cause a small, almost invisible crack in its hull.

“Better then you thought?” Clarice asked as she looked from her lover to the damage caused by the last attack.

“You’re damn right. They haven’t added new shield modules to this thing? Are they getting sloppy or have they hit their peak?” she muttered, more to herself than to any others.

“Look!” Branden exclaimed as he finally decided to draw his blade and use it as an instructor would use a ruler, pointing at where the vessel’s wall descended and, after a moment’s compacting, formed a ramp. A small group of exactly forty four men, though it took a moment to count them, stepped out.

Most of the men were carrying nothing more sophisticated then energy rifles of various forms. One man in each of the squadrons carried a larger, four-barreled device while another of them, dressed differently than the nine rank-and-file soldiers, carried a broadsword in addition to their rifles. It was, however, the odd men out who captivated the interest.

While the riflemen lined up to create a firing arc on the scattered heroes, four of the interlopers had no rifles (though if they had handguns on them or other forms of technological gear, it was well hidden) they did possess some form of martial weaponry. The first man wore red armor akin to Emorian plate and carried a spear with two blades coming from the side of it. The second wore the ordinary cloth of Solasce, a dark grey uniform with few adornments, and carried a broadsword much like the four lieutenants. The third brandished a rapier quite openly and wore a blue dress befitting her eyes, and the final wore the same grey uniform but with black marks along the shoulders and no sleeves, perhaps a sign that he carried no weapon because he was a hand to hand specialist.

“This looks great,” Serge remarked dryly as he drew his sword slowly. The chorus of clicking sounds signified that the attackers had cocked their guns, yet the spear-wielding officer held his hand up and shook his head.

The officer spoke in a heavily, almost alien form of Emorian. “Do nat flattan ‘am,” he barked out, “Thay can’t baat yau anywa’.” Apparently he was using a dialect which emphasized the vowel “a” to a sickening, painful-to-hear extent.

Kathy shouted something in a foreign language, something which apparently took the Solascian invaders back, and then they looked to one another and laughed.

“We’ll baat ya aselves!” The spear-user said as he looked from Shade to Branden.

“I think that means they want to fight,” Charles remarked with a smile. It was a good thing he was right, because he drew his blade faster than Kathy could scream out a warning that they might fire if threatened and not a single energy bolt flew at them. Charles looked anxiously at all four of the intruders, trying to pick which one he was going to take.

“Jacin,” Shade instructed as he pointed from the back of the group, “Take the guy with the spear. It’ll give you good practice against people with your weapon.” Jacin looked as if he might say something, but Shade shook his head to discourage any interruption. “Don’t worry, you can take him if you have confidence. Charles, get that unarmed guy,” Shade’s voice lightened a bit, “Rumor has it you lost to that monk and you probably would like to see what amateurs can do without weapons compared to a powerful Quadragammin Monk. Branden, get the girl with the rapier. I bet you can handle one chick, no?”

Branden looked up to Shade and shook his head. “No, I can’t, of course not,” his sarcasm overflowed, leaving Shade to grin quite widely and Cassandra to chuckle. “Should I even bother fighting her or should I just freeze her now?”

“Fight her,” Cassandra started, “And Serge...”

“No,” Iona interrupted as she tossed her marble into the air just once before catching it. Her golden and black eyes looked to Branden for a moment, then she shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll take the broadsword user. I wonder who will destroy their opponent faster?”

Serge looked like he might move to take the place Cassandra had already offered, but some part of him felt it was better to just watch. She was right - Iona would easily win this fight, and Jacin and Charles were the only ones who really needed the training. He looked to Clarice to see if she wanted to interject, but the way she and Kathy were looking at each other was one he could not disrupt. He nodded to Cassandra.

“Very well then, Iona. Do this.”
*****
Charles look at the person he was ordered to fight and had to admit, he didn’t feel quite threatened. The man was muscular alright, and from looks alone Maxton guessed the man could put his fist through stone, but something inexplicable - Perhaps nothing more than the fact he couldn’t feel little hairs on his neck rising in spite of him - Made him feel confident.

The foreigner charged toward him, moving with speed that Charles was impressed with. Unfortunately for the Solsacian, Charles would have been more impressed a month ago, because compared to Malach this man was nothing. A fist moved toward him with rocket-like momentum yet Charles easily raised his shield and deflected the attack, countering with a mere bash to the head.

He’d never expected, despite what the man was showing, that he’d hit. He felt the metal collide with bone and stepped backwards, expecting to see the foe had covered his face. He was wrong, the man’s nose was pouring blood and his face looked rather swollen already.

“Ya Can Be Faking Serias,” Charles said in his best impression of the Solascian accent. He saw the unarmored warrior’s face grow enraged, despite a tooth that had been hanging by a threat finally falling to the ground, and with a startling howl the warrior ran forward.

A trio of fists were thrown quickly, followed almost instantly by a sweeping kick toward Charles’ legs. The fists were virtually ignored by the young knight, deflected with his metallic shield, and the sweep was easily leapt over. The Solascian began a roundhouse kick yet shortened it, adjusting his balance to deliver an elbow to Charles’ face while standing on one leg.

Regardless of what the man thought might happen, Charles stood there virtually unphased. Underneath his helmet, only a small trickle of blood flowed from his face. “So, Serge’s training has paid off,” Charles remarked callously as he moved to the offensive. It was nothing less than an exercise in dropping someone’s guard in two feints, for after one high and one low motion, he’d raked his blade across the man’s chest and cut deeply into him. A second blow put him clean out of his misery.

“That was even faster then I thought,” Charles could hear Serge declaring, rather proud of his student.

*****
Iona had drawn her blade, yet she stood there admiring the black marble she was so fond of. The enemy in front of her had just witnessed the complete and utter termination of his comrade and was surprisingly unaffected, his sword drawn and at the ready. The black-haired Shamaness stared across the gap between them, then slowly sheathed her blade. Her eyes simply lost their focus for a moment and she shook her head.

“Get out of here,” Iona offered in a warning tone. Clearly someone knew where they stood and knew the outcome should this turn into a duel to the death, and that someone had mercy in her veins.

“You like that marble, huh? Whaat is it, daddy’s?” The man responded in surprisingly good Emorian. The goad appeared to have worked, for Iona slowly moved the sphere down to her pocket and sealed it in place.

“Close enough,” the black-haired vixen uttered, “I don’t have a father and the excuse for one I had is not going to survive if we cross blades once more,” she responded as a smile grew on her face. One moment she was standing perfectly still and the next she was gone.

The Solascian only had an instant to realize that she’d moved behind him. Teleportation or pure speed, either was a death knell for the invader. He had just barely begun to react, his body starting to turn and his head moving to analyze her stance and make an attack, when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the woman stood not behind him, but in front of him with her back towards him.

He never knew that he was cut six times, four of those slashes coming through his sword and reducing it to five small, uneven pieces. Her technique was flawless and simple at the same time; simply get him to drop his guard by being behind him, then use a sword drawing technique to spin her body 180 degrees and cut clean through his sword and flesh. Five more cuts ensured the man’s demise, and she wiped her blade clean on a small rag she produced from her armor and sheathed it.

“And it wasn’t the insult or the goading which got me to do this,” Iona remarked almost to herself and not the fallen foe, “It was the fact you were a pigheaded fool and could not see the writing on the wall.” Her words were not a complete lie, but she did so cherish that marble...Even as the relic of a dead past.

*****
“Go home, you idiots,” Branden remarked idly as he waved his sword, jumping and waving like a jester might. “This is a futile fight, don’t you understand?! You can’t beat us!” It was, after all, the truth. He noted out of the corner of his eye that the point of a sword was moving toward him, and he dodged quite effortlessly.

“Stand still and faght me lake a man!” The woman exclaimed in her accented speech. Another quick flurry of thrusts came from that rapier and Branden was forced to evade each one with the same lack of difficulty as the first. The woman was quick, and perhaps paired against Charles she’d be able to land a blow, but reality was the here and now and the woman was totally outclassed.