Pillars of the Kingdom

Chapter Nine

The morning took her like a dog might; it shook her up and tossed her across the yard. Clarice woke up and rubbed her forehead, then wiped the sleep from her eyes. She quickly drew her armor onto her body and began to affix it to her frame.

"Thank heaven for modular design," she whispered softly, snapping two buttons into place. The construction of armor, especially custom-made suits, was an industry in the "advanced" category of the Kingdom. Using mass production, armor was made to snap easily and securely into place on a moment's notice. No longer was it necessary to have assistance when armoring up; even the plates of armor which went on the the wearer’s back could easily be affixed, although this was still the most time-consuming part. All in all, it meant that a force could go from sleeping to battle-ready in a fraction of the time as older, more complicated armor would allow; a margin always vital when dealing with monster attacks.

She ate a breakfast of pancakes with strawberries and maple syrup. It didn’t take long to cook at all, nor was it troublesome to clean up after - And since she was in charge of cooking the meals for everyone, it was all the better that she could easily prepare everyone's food. All in all a good meal, and she stretched her arms over her head and proceeded to pack up camp.

Of course, none of this helped her escape her situation. Alan and Kathy were almost at one another's throats - He'd disappeared last night after a confrontation and returned looking as if he hadn't slept all night, looking completely drained to the bone by working out to alleviate his frustrations. Kathy had refused to speak on the subject and she knew full well, even without a confession, that the confrontation involved Kathy taking advantage of her closeness with Clarice to land an intellectual wound on Alan. Granted, though she knew that in all likelihood Alan started the dispute, it was still tempting a lion.
*****
"Close your eyes. Both of you," Serge said in a soft voice, reading his book. He might have seemed lazy, but this phase of the training didn't emphasize his activity at all. It was his students that needed to do something right now.

Both Jacin and Charles sat wearing not armor but cloth. Both had initially protested that the training wasn't as hands-on as they thought, but Serge promised it wouldn't matter. He claimed it would be a damn good workout and that they'd be armor-free as it would only make things harder and, as striking one another was not necessary at all, would add another facet for no reason.

"Now, your first task is to stand up while keeping your eyes closed. It's an exercise in balance that you both should be familiar with." They were. It was part of basic training in Gatamene to master the ability to stand up while in the dark, as well as do other things. Not only did it improve balance, but it gave one an impression of their body's place in the world, the space it took up, and that led to better combat tactics. It allowed one to measure one's mass against a foe's and to better know what "close quarters" were.

Both men stood up easily, very easily in fact - And Serge nodded his head once. "Good,” he remarked before he flipped the page in his book and smiled a slight bit. "Now, get up on your tip-toes and stay there for five minutes, eyes closed."

This was slightly harder, but both men managed to handle the task. Five minutes later they lowered themselves easily, though a subtle, digging pain in their hamstrings was starting to set in. Strain was...Well, suffice to say the two youths started to believe Serge's warning that they would hurt despite not hitting one another.

"Very good. You guys have a sense of balance in the physical world. One of the things about Fechas and Horas is that we can perceive the Arcane."

Both men seemed to accept this at the same time as rejecting it. Charles sat on his questioning while Jacin spoke. "How? I thought Arcanics were born into their power? How could you perceive the arcane if you aren't born into it?"

The response came quickly, as though the old man’s tongue were a snake prepared to strike at it. "How is it that Charles is stronger and faster than you, and that I am stronger and faster than him, yet Branden Frost - a less muscular man, capable of generating less physical force with his legs - is faster than I am?"

Jacin hesitated, face melting into one of confusion. "I...Don't really know," he acquiesced as his voice trailed off. It made no sense, after all, that Frost should be faster than Serge without being able to generate the momentum.

"Shamans apply this principle just as much as Horas; Arcanic power is, to some extent, developable. Not so much the spell-casting powers outside of the body, but inside of the body you can use that power, consciously or no, to improve your physical assets. Further, study the case of the Swordpriests - Their belief in their own skills gives them the power to, say, part flames with their minds."

It was true, and Jacin had no way to argue against it. It almost made sense, how one's belief in one's power could make it manifest. The preposition that magic could be real when paired with the amazing devices society had invented, with the grasp of physics as the land’s scientific minds understood it, was amazing yet firmly grounded in fact. A plasma rifle paled in comparison, after all, when paired against the strength of a single Arcanic.

"So you're tellin’ me that physical and metaphysical balance have similarities. Like what?" Charles asked softly, uncertainly.

"Well, close your eyes and focus now on one part of your body. Fingertips, fingernails. Anything, really, any part of your body you choose. You'll feel it more securely, you'll have a stronger sense in it and you'll know where it is. This is the first phase of mastery - Conscious focus on part of your body, all leading to an enhancement. When you're running, you need to think about running. Or, better," he said with a pause, “stand again, but focus on just your feet.”

Both men closed their eyes, and in minutes they could feel the results - They felt more balanced then ever before, and the pain in each's legs seemed lessened simply by willing it to be so. An hour later, the two had run a little bit to test their new mentality, and they found themselves much faster than they had been before. Jacin moved as if he were on the back of the most fit horse in the Kingdom, yet he was doing it all with his legs. They met back up with Serge and quickly packed up the camp, the promise of more training lying ahead tomorrow.

*****
"Sure, it's three farthings south of this road, can't miss it! About a few yards back there's a crossroads down that way." Clarie had been asked to give directions. The man who had approached them was fairly well mannered and dressed, though he seemed down on his luck. A nobleman, perhaps, who's horse had gotten away from him.

"And where, m'lady, are you headed?" The blonde stranger asked, lifting his bags from the ground and preparing to depart. "I've been here about a day since I got lost, you know?" One bag was clearly a tent and sleeping bag, the other appeared to carry foodstuffs. The odd man had been waiting for quite a while, choosing the center of the road to sit and ponder his fate. A wise choice, as any road such as this would have a traveler sooner than later.

"Errick's Point," she said offhandedly, resisting the urge to toss him a coin - His clothing was in good enough repair that, landed elite or not, he was certainly not poor. His response was a nod.

"I'm just coming from over there. Same 'ol, same 'ol, M'Lady," he said cheerfully, bowing his head and heading toward the junction. "Thanks a bunch, beautiful!" he remarked with a wave.

The tall man strode past the rest of the crew, which followed a little ways behind Clarice. Each person nodded their head, and a nod was given in return. Serge offered the man a parting wave as well before heading up to the front to meet with Clarice.

"Any suspicions?" He asked almost offhandedly, glancing around once to ensure the place was 'clean.' Any easy ambush setups or traps would be looked off by the elder knight rather easily, as he had experience with such things as using a mediocrely dressed pawn as bait.

"Nope. Seemed like an ordinary nobleman to me. There was a fair out west, remember?" She brushed green locks from her eyes, studying the elder.

"Oh yes. The boss of that tavern back a ways had mentioned that..." The old man remarked. The tavern in question was the one he and Branden had met at, but he assumed just as quickly that Clarice had seen a different tavern at some point on their trip, as they'd stopped at more than one and, despite being known as Blind Justice she was not without sight.

"Yes, so there you go. A regular old wanderer, you old coot!" She said with a chuckle. He laughed as well, then fell back in the entourage.
*****
"Alright boys, watch closely," Serge said. The day had proved rather uneventful, and when they found a suitable clearing for the night, they had a bit of time before the daylight was completely gone.

"We're watching," Charles spoke. Jacin remained silent as the three males and Clarice stood a small distance from the clearing. Alan and Kathy were sleeping in separate tents, and for good reason. Jacin and Charles were watching Clarice get ready to help show them another facet of how to fight.

"Clarice, six blows, alternating, from each hand," Serge said calmly, turning his side slightly to give Clarice a bit less area to strike. Both Jacin and Charles were surprised to hear this - No warning to go easy, no specifics, just attempts to throw punches at him.

Clarice, although momentarily confused by what the elder was requesting, threw twelve punches, six of them coming from each hand in an alternating fashion and not one of them landing on Serge, who blocked each one without any apparent effort.

"Well?" Serge asked the observers. Both men shook their heads.

"I didn't even see her throwing the punches. I mean, she got in the position, but each punch was faster than I could register." Jacin remarked, bemused.

"I...I think I might have seen part of the first one, but after that it was a bunch of blurs!" Charles exclaimed, shaking his head, eyes fixing on Clarice. "How the hell did you do it?" It was a fair question as to how a man blocked invisible attacks. It was also a more interesting question as to how someone threw invisible punches.

Clarice blushed before giggling softly, while Serge just chuckled. "The more interesting question is 'why did Jacin see less of it than you?'" the old knight proposed.

"...Yeah." Maxton responded, confessing that this question was ultimately the more interesting and probably the more pressing one as well.

"The answer to both questions lies in your ability to react. Charles, you're more trained and a bit stronger than Jacin, so naturally you saw a little more. Now, Clarice is going to repeat the process, and you're going to focus your vision only on the space between she and I," he instructed, emphasizing with his hands the area in front of him. "The air each fist will travel through," he added for clarification.

Both men nodded, and Serge and Clarice resumed their position. The first punch was thrown, and Jacin fought not to blink his eyes. He saw, just barely, the outlines of a fist moving in a blur. Then it seemed like two at a time, then four, before his eyes completely lost their focus and he blinked. It was already over, less than one second into the exercise. Both he and Charles rubbed their eyes, almost as if they had just woken up.

"...How...Did you do that?" Charles asked in a wavering voice. His forehead was slick with sweat, black hair slick and draped over his forehead.

"Do what, punch so quickly or get you to see it?" Clarice asked, glancing almost immediately at Serge to seek approval. The elder knight nodded, and held up his hand to stop any further questioning. Lecture time, it appeared, was here.

"I can answer both; we utilized our latent spiritual abilities to enhance our bodies. She threw the punches using the same principle you used to see more of it," he revealed, rubbing his right arm where he'd blocked her punches. Apparently, he was sore. He raised his arm over his head to stretch it, and as he dropped his hand he ruffled his long, grey hair. "For you guys, you have to focus a lot. As you improve, it will become easier and easier to do, until on a whim you'll be able to see a normal punch thrown as if it were in slow motion."

Both of the young men nodded their heads, and then Charles looked to Jacin. "You know, we have a little time...Care for a quick spar? Test this new stuff?"

Jacin paused, considering for a moment, then he raised his fists with a grin on his lips. "Sure!"

*****
About ten minutes later, both men were exhausted. They lay in their tent and stared at the ceiling, not speaking from nothing more then the level of tiredness they faced. Jacin closed his eyes and listened for a moment, noting Charles had such a rhythmic breathing that he might well be asleep. He failed to remember to re-open his eyes, and he found himself in that intangibly deep realm of thought, between sleep and waking.

He saw his earlier fight, relived it almost as if it were happening again. He remembered how Charles had always been faster, stronger, but never quite like this. Now, it was like a full step separated them in potency. The oddest part, however, was that Jacin knew he was fighting better than he'd ever fought before. He knew his fist was moving faster then he'd ever thrown a punch, that he was moving almost fast enough to dodge an arrow at point-blank range, and yet Charles was moving so much faster than he.

He also recalled vividly how he looked at a falling acorn as it fell, saw it moving in at a slower, restrained speed, as if it were disobeying gravity. This not only disturbed him out a little bit, but gave him a true perspective on what happened earlier, how Clarice had so quickly beaten him. He wasn't defeated simply by experience, but by raw power. His deduction was simple; at this moment in time, he was likely the weakest person traveling in their band. He shrugged his shoulders, losing the fight to sleep.
*****
"You don't have to keep me company, Sir Lenkmen." Clarice said in a soft voice as she stood watch, both of her swords on the ground next to her. She didn't even wear armor; she was fairly confident that it wouldn't be necessary, while still within Gatamene's borders.

Serge waved a hand and sat down next to her, also in no armor, longsword and shield in his tent. He smiled kindly toward the lady. "Don't have any worries, I can't sleep. I'd like to find out a little more about you, as I told you about myself and Branden last night. Fair is fair, no?"

Clarice found quickly that she had no inclination or grounds to argue, so she conceded. "I suppose. Thank you."

"And call me Serge," he added as an afterthought, one repeated time and again.

"Right. Serge. Anyway, I'm just a girl, more or less. My parents live and will die. My parents worked in my father's silver-smithery, they're retired now." She didn't say this with sadness in her voice, but there was that underlying hint of resentment that all children had when their parents grew old and death drew near.

Serge nodded his head; Silver smithing was a very lucrative industry in Coaslund, especially because it had coastal territory and could trade with both Yenohar (which indulged its need for silver-circuits, powerful transistors which facilitated the transference of mystical energies as all Crystals were) and any barbarian tribes in the south (which envied the fine workmanship a silversmith could put into a work of art). "And what made you decide to become what you are, the beautiful yet deadly woman known as Blind Justice?"

Clarice blushed at this, reaching into a nearby knapsack and pulling out a canteen of water. After offering it to Serge (he refused politely), she opened it and took a sip. "I don't really know. I liked playing with swords, I guess, as a child. Then I met my teacher."

She didn't notice in the dark, but Serge's eyes blinked. This was, to him, a point of great interest. "Not to sound offensive, but was he blind?"

Clarice laughed softly, taking another sip from the canteen. The water kept her mind focused on the task at hand with its cool embrace. "Not at birth. He was a soldier in Coaslund's army, alright, but he was never more than an Aqui until he started losing his eyesight."

"I'm sorry to hear that, it must have been tough on him." He spoke in a somber voice, but he was startled as well; an Aqui mastering the ability to fight blindly and being able to teach it? To manage to pass his art on to a woman who clearly had Hora potential? He didn't quite believe...

"Well, when he learned to compensate for his failing eyesight with his hearing, touch, scent and taste, he started to improve. He claimed to have found something even better, but refused to tell me what it was. Now he's easily a Hora, or rather he was. He died a few years ago." The tone of her voice, dropping slightly with sadness, indicated a fresher and more serious wound than she was ready to admit.

"Again, I'm sorry to hear this." Serge had no more words other than these, and speaking too much was as foolish as saying nothing.

"It's alright. He was old at that point, and he went peacefully, a benediction I hope to have." Her voice did not sound convinced that she would go peacefully at all.

"As do I. You know, I'm not young!" He chuckled, and he could see the outlines of her lips form a smile. His resolve brought her comfort, it seemed, and he gave a firm nod of his head toward her. "Don't sweat it, even dying in battle is kind of...Well, okay, I'm a liar," he said with a smile, "I would imagine it isn't fun. Make peace with it if you can, but strive to live for the same cause you'd be willing to die for."

He bowed, stood and went to bed. She bowed, sat awake and thought on that statement.

Chapter Ten

As the small party crossed into the lands once owned by the Principality of Gam, they noticed an almost immediate change in the world. Whereas Gatamene was fairly orderly, with signs in both Emorian and Gammin on the well-kept roads and regular inns and rest-areas, Gam had very few signs that were not in their native tongue. Gammin only non-Emorian Language which was still spoken by the majority of any Principality; as time had progress, language and dialects had simply concentrated into one Emorian common tongue. That Serge knew the language helped the group immensely, and they managed to progess well along the two remaining days it took to accomplish the journey.

As they approached the town, Serge allowed himself to fall back to Jacin and Charles, who were riding together and discussing, of all things, women. Just as Charles commented a touch too loudly, Serge gave a faint cough and Charles nearly fell from the back of his horse.

"Ahh! Err, Serge, hi!" Jacin remarked, hiding his bashful, blushing face. His blonde hair, in its short spikes, did nothing to help his attempt.

"No, no, do carry on!" Serge said with a sagely chuckle, "After all, the two ladies in the party must certainly love how you guys talk about other women. It must make them feel very welcome." He gave a slight wink to Charles, who only blushed a deeper red. Then he shook his head. "You two have improved a lot, though, for four days worth of training. By the time we actually find these Shamans, you'll really be a rank above where you started." They believed him.

"So what do you know of Errick's Point?" Clarice called backwards. It was a pretty good question, as Serge was the only one who'd visited the place.

"Well, I haven't been here in years, but it's a nice little place. Or it was, anyway. I heard they were building a small harbor for those travelling along the river, and the inn there was always a nice one. They did pretty decent armor-working as well," he added in a bit of a wistful tone, "It's walled, since it’s always been border-land, and I helped re-build the western section of the wall during my time here years ago."

"Yeah, and when you were here last they probably had straw huts, since brick hadn't been invented," Charles exclaimed while chuckling in a somewhat rude manner. It earned a rousing laugh out of Jacin and Kathy, though Jacin made an attempt to silence himself when Serge looked backwards. Then Serge's lips widened into a big grin and he chuckled softly.

"Well, actually, brick is a little bit older than I am. A decade or so." The counter-joke drew a stale groan from Charles, who'd determined his was much funnier. The other members of the entorage laughed quite forcefully. "Don't let Shade hear you say that, or you'll wind up incinerated." Shade was the true anomaly, after all. He'd been on the Council of Emor for almost one hundred years. That's 100 - And he was no young man when he joined. Even to this date he was known as one of the best Arcanics alive, likely still the single best, and he was over 150. Only his consort Cassandra was said to hold a candle to his power.

"Well then, that sounds like a good game plan," Clarice stated while continuing along their merry path. Merry largely because they had avoided such incineration.

*****
"Sir Lenkmen!" Exclaimed one of the two silver-armored pikemen. Both of them wore "neutral" silver armor, with the Crest of Emor over their hearts. The first of the guards was marked with a red lion, the symbol of Ralase, and he carried on his hip a broadsword. The second had the same mark as Clarice and Alan had on their armor, a golden fox. A Ralasian and a Coaslundian guarding the front gate. Both men had on full face masks, ready to act in a moment's notice - Seemingly, they were well trained guards.

"Gentlemen! Myself and my party will be staying here for..." Serge began. He didn't get too far, as the Ralasian held his hand up and laughed.

"No no, my lord. You don't need to explain. Errick's Point isn't much of a war-zone anymore, and you're still stuck in the past," the knight said in a joking manner. Serge laughed and clapped the man on his shoulder. Clearly the guardsman had recognized Serge for who he was.

"And you, good sir, are probably assigned to the wrong place. You're a Swordpriest, aren't you?" Serge said, smiling even wider, as if this was...An accomplishment. Not so much an accomplishment in that he'd become a Swordpriest, but that he'd gotten such lazy duty.

"Well, Sir, I've had a bit of training..." The knight began before he shook his head. "I never finished the training, but I know a thing or two. Why do you seem so overjoyed, Lord Lenkmen?" The quizzical look on the man's face was hidden by his helmet, but his voice intoned every decibel of it.

"Oh, it's nothing bad! It’s just that, back in my youth, I'd never see anyone with Swordpriest training sitting around on guard duty. Even the most basic training is for Aqui on up, so I'd figure you'd be in some sort of battle by now, not on guard duty." Serge's eyes were filled with something more than his usual joy; hope. Hope that his battlefield habits of yesteryear would not be the same as tomorrow's so-called common sense. "I guess it’s a good thing, a lad like you sitting around guarding a city instead of being on a battle-field."

"Yeah. Don't worry about it, he's a bum," chimed the Coaslundian, who finally took his eyes from the living legend and noticed a second - One much closer to his home and his heart, considering where he was from. "You're...Clarice Saffron...The Blind Justice...Aren't you?"

Heat immediately rose up to Clarice's cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but an arm slipping around her shoulder stole her vision to her left. Kathy's slender limb encircled her 'friend's' neck and she gave a vigorous nod. "Yup! She's Clarice alrighty! One of the best swordswomen alive!" The attention was not asked for and only made Clarice try to shrink into her armor.

"Oh man!" The young knight exclaimed, nodding his head twice. "Two named warriors in one place!" He said with a slight pumping of his fist - A victory celebration. The man was a young one, likely about Jacin's age, and in contrast to the rather calm Swordpriest he was an excitable little guy. Then again, "named warriors" didn't appear too often in groups without something big going on, unless they were family (If it had been Branden and Serge, the reaction might not have been too great).

"Well kiddo, don't get too bent out of shape," Charles said, giving a slight grin to the young one. "Branden Frost is coming here to meet up with us. And you forget young Alan Booker here, a quite potent warrior if I do say so!" As Charles spoke, Serge gestured to the man on a horse, who simply covered his hands with his sleeves nonchalantly and nodded off a greeting.

The young one appeared woozy, while the Ralasian shook his helmeted head and looked back to Serge. "You must be having a picnic with this troupe." He didn't appear to resent his comrade's exuberance, though he in no way condoned this sort of unprofessional behavior.

"Oh yes. A barrel of monkeys worth of fun, I dare say," Serge uttered, then he paused and looked skyward, "then again, I never had a youth like theirs, so part of its rubbing off on me." He gave the men a cagey grin and the Ralasian nodded a reply..

"Aye. Well sir, looks like you'll be on your way." The Ralasian gave a metered chuckle before shaking his head. "Have fun! I know I am!"
*****
The inn was a riot of voices cheering for Serge. Clarice had gotten her fair share of admiration, and Alan even had one or two roses thrown to him (prompting Charles to decide he wasn't quite as useless as he first appeared, if ladies could be interested in him), but Serge "Scarred Peace" Lenkmen was unwillingly thrust upon the stage at the Potroast's Potluck. The name of the inn was one of simple design; you could get a potroast there, and as for a potluck? Well, all a patron had to do was bring some food and he could partake of what others brought as well.

"The easiest way to turn four onions into a full, three-course meal." It tended to hold up to this motto, but tonight was a huge exception. So much food had been brought for the travelers that the owner, Tel Tonnyson, had decided that it would be a festival in honor of the hero which had liberated Gam. Not all of the Gammin people agreed with this idea of "freedom," but many of them had also opposed the separatists who caused the schism to begin with. Serge had been as close to a mediator as anyone could have expected.

"Let's hear it again for the Scarred Peace!" Exclaimed the owner: Tel was a deep voiced man, almost a walking stereotype for a bartender. His brown hair had long ago given way to a brown moustache and beard, though in age the brown had faded to grey much like Serge's hair. He was a large man as well, perfectly filling the ale stained apron he wore. "It's been almost forty years and he's back f'r more! Our only question is 'where was 'e!'"

Serge didn't quite blush, but he rubbed his upper lip softly. The journey had seen to the setting in of stubble, and he was privately considering growing a moustache which would hide his face and, hopefully, add a little more of a wizened look to him. "Now Tel, let's not go starting a riot, eh? We're just passing through!" Serge moved to hop down and get off of the stage, when almost immediately the old knight realized he'd said something unexpected and foolish. The crowds quieted a little, as if considering his words. Then a lone voice in the crowd rang out, a woman who looked to be a few years older than Charles.

"Yer goin' ta' stop tha' Witches??" she shouted in an ominous, derisive tone. It was a question alright, but the expectation backing it was unprecedented. Serge blinked his eyes, and though his mind quickly connected "Witch" to "Shaman," it was too late. A clamor had broken out, and Serge found himself reaching for a voice which couldn't quite project enough to salvage the situation. He'd only done how much for these people, and they were going to ask him to plunge into a war on what evidence?

"Silence!" Shouted the younger swordsman, Lieutenant Maxton, who promptly slammed his sword, sheathed of course, against his table. "Now then, let's listen to what the man has to say, 'right?! He's your hero!!" Ever the showman, Charles gave a swift grin toward the elder. A chorus of "Yeahs" rose up in response.

"Thanks, Charles." Serge commended, promptly ignoring the "your welcome!" he heard. It had been far too long since he'd addressed a tavern crowd, it seemed. "Yes, we head westward, but not to stop anyone. I can imagine by your sentiments that Errick's Point has been the victim of some form of recent threat or attack, and the Arcane nature of such seems to undoubtedly point toward the Shamans as the perpetrator. I assure you that if this is the case, we will eradicate them, but we do not believe it to be so. We seek their aid, in reality, to settle this issue."

Serge's next feeling was the same one he felt when mentioning that the party was passing through; that familiar feeling one gets when making a silly mistake with major consequences. A number of cries for "justice" and "action" against their remote western neighbors were heard, along with some cries of disbelief at this proposed resolution. Pandemonium was, for the moment, also known as Errick's Point.

Jacin saw Clarice was somewhat paralyzed with shock, moving towards a door in order to keep any potential riots from spilling out. The tavern wasn't filled to the bursting point but if even one runner got out and cried of this perceived injustice the whole town would wind up aflame by the end of the night. Charles was holding back with all his willpower not to enter the crowd and deliver a punch as his version of "placating the masses." Jacin, while trying to calm the crowd in as polite a tone as he could muster, could not settle them down even one notch. Finally he stood up and shouted at the top of his voice.

"Enough! Dammit, can't you all shut up and listen to what the man says and forget your pointless bickering?!" This drew a hushed silence, one which threatened holy war should the young, blonde upstart not have a very good purpose. "Serge is trying to explain to you that we are going to solve the problem by eliminating the threat at hand and that if the people you are angry at aren't responsible, they will not be hurt! Grow up and realize that this is a living legend you're addressing, and that he has your best interests at heart like he did forty years ago!!"

The crowd remained silent for a full minute after he stopped yelling, and Jacin felt the adrenaline rising to the forefront; he was mentally preparing to be torn to shreds by an angry mob. Just when he was about to raise his spear, the crowd broke in a loud cheer and sat down to listen to the plan as it was outlined by the party.
*****
"So what do you think?" Kathy asked her companion in a hushed voice. The two ladies were holding tightly to one another, sharing that one-bed room. It caused no shortage of odd stares when they requested a single room, but most of them were with regards to it being a one-bed room. Two women sleeping in the same room made perfect sense, but in the same bed? In Errick's Point, at least, provincial stereotypes and prejudices abound when two beautiful, young women sleep with one another.

"Of?" The reply came quickly enough, but Clarice's eyes began to close as her cheek moved against the collarbone of the other woman. It was a rather loving embrace, considering it put the immense sexuality of their relationship behind the intimacy of simply being close to one another.

"Oh, I don't know," she whispered, trailing a finger through the other's long green hair. A kiss was soon delivered to the younger girl's forehead. "But I do know that you are one interesting girl."

"Well, I don't want to hurt you, Kathy. I just don't know if I'm ready yet..." Clarice whispered into the woman's collarbone. It might have been a plea to end the embrace or one to deepen it, and even Clarice couldn't come up with an answer.

"I understand. We'll take it slow, lover," Kathy offered in a sincere voice, "slow indeed." Clarice felt Kathy pull away, felt her start to lower her body, and the next sound to escape either woman's lips was a soft moan.

They never heard the door creek open slightly, never saw the set of eyes drawn to the situation not by the sound of the lovers, but by another’s desire to speak to one of the women who was involved. Alan sighed gently and shut the door, turning and stepping back toward his room. He had the same solution to this night as he'd had for all others. Morning would come and he'd be alright to go, though tomorrow he knew his feelings wouldn't change.

*****
"Fiono! It's been what, since you were a kid??" Serge exclaimed, striding over and taking the young looking blacksmith's hand. The black haired man, face covered with a thin layer of soot and hands doused with a thick one, eagerly shook the old knight's hand, bowing to the company assembled before them. The man called Fiono was clearly in charge of the forge, and he wore a brown smith's apron to keep sparks from sizzling his flesh during his work. A black moustache adorned his face, a long one, and he smiled at the sight of an old friend. Clearly this man was a bit older than he appeared.

"Serge 'Scarred Peace' Lenkmen!" Fiono began, smiling at the group from within that old blacksmithy shop. It had clearly well-worn equipment, a number of the smith's works on the wall (some framed and labeled, including a shattered sword of extremely high quality), and one or two of the newer peices of Blacksmithing equipment to hit the markets; a Crystal Melter and a Steel Quad-Folder. Of these, the first was rather self-explanatory while the second was used to heat steel of different widths in layers. Heating the metal as one lump produced a powerful blade, but forging four layers at once and fusing them into one did more to remove the oxygen and make the blade far stronger. Many swords were made by folding metal time after time, while most armor was made of slabs of steel and little more. This provided an easy way to make good quality weapons (for repeating the folding process only enhanced a blade's strength) and a quick way to make armor much stronger than old, ordinary plate. "Twenty years, it's been, Serge! I was just a runt when you left!"

The old knight seemed to hesitate suddenly, though that smile on his face left little implication of this to those who hadn't seen it before, and he canted his head. "Is your father still around?" Serge studied the room closely, noted three extra beds that, assuming Fiono had no children, were unoccupied. There was no overt purpose to having many beds considering the man was most assuredly a bachelor when looking at his unadorned fingers.

Fiono gave a slight shake of his head. "Nah. A few years ago. He was an old man indeed, but you knew that, and he's happy. It was peaceful." The young man's voice never wavered as he addressed this always-painful situation. He'd made peace with it and like he'd said the man's passing was painless.

Serge frowned, offering nothing more consoling than a shrug of his shoulders and a gentle rub of the younger man's head. "Glad to hear that last bit. In that event, I suppose you could come up with some gear for these youngin's." He pointed to Jacin and Charles, and the two bowed their heads. A glance toward Alan and Serge shrugged. "Something for this little guy as well, if you have anything his type. I think he could use an upgrade as well."

"Give me a day or two on the armor, and we can see what weapons I have in stock," the smith said before dusting his hands off on his shirt and diving into one of the large rooms in his workshop.

*****
After an hour and a half of rummaging through the back room, Jacin and Charles had come up somewhat well armed. A very good quality shield, made from the new four-fold press, was one of the gifts Fiono had for Charles. The second was a longsword, which Serge himself tried out and discovered was of incredible craftsmanship before passing it on to Charles. He'd decided it would be a great idea for him to give it a real workout before taking the peice.

As he stood outside, swinging the blade to get a sense of its balance, he saw something from the corner of his eye; not something in the distance, something coming from the sword. Upon closer examination, he could see a very faint green hue around the blade. His eyes grew wide, and he placed a fingertip upon the sword's blade. The image of a plant's roots sprung up in his mind, and he calmly sheathed the blade in the ornate scabbard Fiono had provided and walked to the Blacksmith.

The younger man was engaged in producing the armor that Serge had requested. "Explain why there is an Earth aura around this?" Serge asked in a slightly cold tone, one which showed he was marginally suspicious of wrongdoing but impressed nonetheless. He stood with his eyes losing focus for a moment before he shook his head in disbelief. "I...Fiono, you're an Arcanic?"

The man looked up from the bracer he was making and nodded his head. "I am, although you aren't. I suppose you got some training in how to use what little power you and all other people have, but not before you left Gam, am I right?" Fiono sounded a little...Conceited, but he smiled with that charming smile some have, the smile letting someone know they were just kidding around. Serge gave a smile toward the younger man and confirmed his hypothesis.

"Yeah. Once I became a Junior Councilman, I volunteered for one of the first Aura-Training experiments. Shade himself, head of the Arcanic's Council, gave us some instruction. All Horas have power, but it stays largely internal; this training made us bring it out. It’s tiring, but it can be a good thing, firing an Aurabolt at someone not expecting one. You have it all though, I bet?" It was a bit of an understatement - Even Fecha like Clarice could learn some form of external energy manipulation, but it would be dreadfully exhausting and it was better they simply stuck to what worked.

Fiono nodded. "I didn't enchant the shield I gave your friend, but his sword and the kid's spear are both somewhat charged. The armors will be too, which is why it will take so long. I have to be honest, I’ve never charged a four-fold suit of armor," he commented: Enchanting armor was difficult enough, as a single hole could lead to the unraveling of all the spells meant to defend a warrior's life, but each time the metal was folded would lead to the metal resisting the magic more.

"Then those spare beds are...?" Serge had an idea, and he wanted to confirm it. He waited for the man to respond.

"Yup. The ol' healer died not too long before my dad. I've been taking on a few cases myself, since I'm Arcane and all, but I'm no medic. As for the weapons, I can enchant the shield later. The sword has an Earth enchantment which can slow an enemy down if he's hit, and the spear has a flame spell upon it, one which will burn a wound it makes. It keeps a foe from healing."

Jacin and Charles walked in at that moment, Jacin holding his spear and Charles looking at his blade in Serge's hand with eyes blinking rapidly. Neither of them had any clue that there was magic in their weapons, and if by some chance Charles had managed to catch its aura it would be dismissed as nothing more than residual energies flowing in the air.

"Thank you, Sir Fiono, for these gifts..." Jacin spoke. Gifts didn't quite match up to the strength of what was given, each of these weapons being worth an incredible amount of gold and personal effort. Charles cut him off rather quickly, before he could get into an honorific series of thanking a benefactor.

"Ahhh, c'mon, he's an ol' pal of Serge's. Though really, these weapons are superb," Charles said, studying his shield and its light-weight nature. "I can't believe you aren't gonna charge us for them."

"No...It's no problem at all, Charles," he responded with a sagely smile on his lips. Then he looked to Jacin. "And you, you need to relax a little. Don't give me any of this Sir stuff, it’s...A headache. Serge paid for it years ago when he helped save our people, and I'm sure you guys will do something great as well." Confidence was plainly etched into the man's voice, and he looked at Jacin with only approval in his eyes.

"Yes, of course," the spearman began, giving a smile as his blue eyes shimmered, "We will indeed do something great. I don't know what yet, but it will be for the good of the country, and --" He never finished the sentence, because his thoughts were jarred as the alarms went off, and the town of Errick's Point was under attack.

"See what I mean?" Fiono said with a loud sigh. He'd already proven something great would happen - Today even - but at what costs?

Chapter Eleven

He left his friends behind with a smile on his face, departing on his mission with trepidation laced in the back of his mind. Would they hate him? He hoped not, but he couldn’t care less if they did. Coldflame and he were alone, and north they rode; his ability to ignore the horse’s attitude, pointing out that he was lying to himself, was quickly fading.

The border crossing into Yenohar was a headache and a half. Their border patrols were not very invasive about what he brought with him, however he always felt strange about leaving his horse behind. Why leave the beautiful mount behind? Because Yenohar had an extensive underground railway and Coldflame was not a fan of close places. Promising to return in three days or less, he paid the stable-keepers and entered into the subways.

Within half a day he’d reached his destination, the capital of Yenohar. The city was known as Yenohs, for the valley in which the city was located and isolated in, and he left the subway car to find himself on a busy street with carts and crowds surrounding him on all sides.

Looking around, he felt almost like he’d entered another world. The city was not walled, but its streets were awkward and sometimes even curved into themselves. Instead of horses and buggies, with occasional appearances of mechanized vehicles, the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians and the streets were filled with moving metal, the light from the buildings reflecting off of the cars to create the same effect that waves have in a lake. The buildings themselves were taller than a Titan, rising for hundreds of feet into the sky. That cities such as this existed outside of dreams truly surprised Branden.

Yenohs was a place Branden had visited before, of course - He felt some small thrill at the cultural gap between Yenohar and Gatamene, and his soul soared at the knowledge that the city had such great scientific wonders as cars and skyscrapers. On the other hand, his heart was weighed down tremendously by the knowledge that only about half the city’s population really enjoyed these things - The rest were virtually worker-bees, and part of the reason he’d joined up with his little friendly circle of partners was that the discrepancy in wealth was just wrong.

Yenohs had police alright, but it had gangs and drugs as well. Depending on the gang, it may or may not be wise to talk to them - Many gangs pushed those drugs to all people, from old men to young little girls. Sure, they might be able to smuggle in something if you really want it, but to deal with that sort of criminal was something Branden couldn’t put up with. The other side to the gang coin was a little more benevolent - The Bikers.

They more than anyone else owned Yenohs’ lower class. They poured money into their gear, buying new engines and mufflers, racing for nothing more than street cred or the right to hang out in a certain park. Everyone knew a ganger because everyone probably had a family member who was one. To top things off, the little gangs long ago rallied under one of six lightning-fast, talented bikers. Most had pushed the drug culture aside to perfect their speed, though one still supported and actively pursued the narcotic industries. These Six Kings passed their ideology down not through strength of arms (though with easily one thousand bikers each under their direct command and ten times that in dependents, one could imagine strength of arms was a major factor) but through speed of racing.

Three of the Kings had long ago aligned against the drug sub-cultures, while two of them had never quite come to terms with one another. Sadly, one of the groups had just lost its King to a surprising death by natural causes, and when the dust settled there was no more King - A Queen, Maxine Derringer, held firm control over that particular gang.

Branden didn’t know the specifics and didn’t want to. Military-specification engines in a motorcycle still couldn’t get it to keep up with him and that’s all he cared about. They never messed with him and he was no Councilor - He was a Knight of Gatamene and the Lord of Icebridge. He would help those he could, but he wasn’t about to fight a street-war in Yenohar to achieve some moral victory, especially when he and those he planned to meet had designs to win a much greater one for the whole Kingdom. If he could utilize the Six Kings he would, but if not he would dismantle them at his convenience His only concern was making his meeting on time which, due to a faulty train wheel, he was already late for.

The tavern he sought was called Medieval Lands. Its location was in a fairly wealthy part of the city, and the walk was not a terribly long one. The tavern had the sort of feel that screamed “bad impersonation,” the victim being a country such as Gatamene. “Knights” in pink and purple armor “jousted” to the cheers of the “retro”-dressed fans. At least, Branden thought, it’s better then a strip club, where all the people are dressed in leather. Not that it isn’t sexy... He never did mind a beautiful woman naked (and what man would?), but not on business time.

That business lay inside the tavern. He ignored the hail of painfully accented “me lord”s and “goode sir”s he encountered, focusing instead on the bar which was the centerpiece to most of Yenohs’ nightlife features. He asked a simple question of the bartender, and was pleasantly surprised when the man simply nodded and pointed him to the back of the restaurant. No “My Lord,” or “Sir, what would thou desire,” just a straight answer

He saw four chairs arranged in a circle around a table, two of them still unoccupied. A slight bit of surprise struck his face and he quickly studied the two figures present.

The first man must certainly have gotten a number of archaic addresses as he entered, as he lacked the tact to wear his ordinary outfits despite multiple reminders that stealth, in this case, was the key to success. He also lacked the tact to cut his hair; the long, brown shaggy mess hung down nearly to his waist. He was a large man, very muscular and standing a full six foot nine inches. He didn’t appear to have any weapons on him, but they were likely checked in at the front desk and passed off as facsimiles carried by an amateur. A quick glance to his left, specifically to the weapons counter, and he saw it - A gigantic double-headed axe. The man in question wore a cloak and furs, showing off his barbarian heritage which most would think was just an act for the tavern patrons themselves. He waved to Branden, beckoning him over.

The second man was much more invisible in this place. He wore a black robe covering his entire body, and he kept the hood up to keep people from seeing his face. This cloak-and-dagger type of appearance almost shouted to a novice “Watch out, he’s an Arcanic!” Unlike the first, this man had a warrant for his arrest out, though only a fool would challenge him on it. Very few, in fact, knew of this - only the Council possibly prepared to pursue him. He was nearly a full foot shorter than the barbarian, and was a good deal thinner then him as well. Branden didn’t look to the weapons check to see if this man had been caught carrying - He was a weapon all by himself. Unlike the boisterous barbarian, the man simply nodded his head as Branden approached.

“Been’while, skinny!” The first man said, and Branden smiled in response as he took a seat. Unlike those two, Branden was allowed to keep his weaponry - The markings on his armor, of an Emorian official, exempted him from the checking of arms. That policy was very useful with men like the two he was visiting about, though which side he stood on remained to be fully determined

“Same to you, Jagger. Ammon.” Branden said, addressing both men in order.

“Glad to see you are alright, Branden. Our great leader is busy at the moment, I suppose, but late regardless. He will arrive.” The voice was soft, that of a disciplined warrior who was keeping himself in check despite an atmosphere he disliked.

“Hey, I have no grounds to criticize him. I lost to him, as well as was late just now. He’ll show when he shows.” Branden shrugged nonchalantly and sat down.

“Well put.” The monk returned.

“So, are we still on f’r th’ plan? You aren’t goin’ t’ back out?” Jagger asked in a polite, yet edged voice.

“Of course. If you can handle it, I can. The question is can you?” Branden’s reply was a slightly pointed one. The monk, however, shook his head.

“Both of you, lets not start this again. Please, I’m really not in the mood,” Ammon put forward in an attempt to dissuade both parties with reason. The cloaked man knew one had the definite edge on the other in that field.

“Ahh, c’mon Ammon, we’re tryin’ t’ figure out if Brandon ‘ere is gon’ handle it.”

“And I assured you I can,” Frost spat back, “We’ve got it made, so just relax.”

“‘Right, because I know ‘ow y’ handle trouble sometimes.” Jagger said with a grin on his lips. Branden wished he could smash them in –Again - But he remembered just how he’d proven his point the last time, and that was fun enough.

“Now, now, are we about to strangle one another again?” Spoke a fourth voice, one moving toward them. Branden looked up and canted his head.

This man had a height and weight advantage on Ammon, but was still much smaller than Jagger. He wore no armor, carried no weapon, but Brandon knew that the man was dangerous as any of the three assembled warriors. Frost inclined his head as the other two did and was depressingly pleased to have the gesture returned.

“Branden Frost, Ammon, Jagger Shatterock, how are my friends tonight?” A polite voice suited to either work or play sounded out.

They each gave a reply, and Branden saw the newcomer’s eyes scan the three of them piercingly before he smiled. “Jagger, are your men ready to move? I can only assume your assaults on the southern border are going as well as we intended?”

“Pathetically. ‘Ey ‘ave us outmatched ev’rywhere. ‘Ey’ll ne’er expect it,” he said with a grin on his lips. It sounded as if the barbarian had hardly expected it, either.

“Good. Ammon, I take it you have the necessary information to eliminate your foes? You’ve had the maps for a while, and you probably have a few more apprentices than last we discussed this?”

“Yes,” The monk responded, raising his head a little bit. “My side of this plan is completely prepared.”

“And Branden, good friend, you’re ready to do it all? You owe me, and you’ll pay, correct? Debt and friendship both?”

Branden’s blue eyes closed a moment, then he nodded his head. “Yeah, I’m ready. This will be a piece of cake, as long as you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Good,” he countered cheerfully, clapping his hand on Branden’s shoulder. “I need you for this, old friend, and I’m glad you can be counted on.” The strange one gave a winning wink with a seducing smile, “My end of the bargain is always going to be upheld.”

“Good. If this is settled then you wouldn’t mind me stepping in, Four Lords?” Whispered a soft, decidedly female fifth voice, one coming from seemingly nowhere. All four turned to look at the newly arriving woman, staring at the uninvited guest.

She wore black armor with a large number of patches and dents in it as if it was well used. It bore no hallmark and she carried no weapon as it was likely checked in at the door. She was not very tall, only 5'4, and seemed slender, almost pleasing to the eye. Her armor, however, was the sort a muscled man like Jagger might wear, thus her strength had to be quite overwhelming.

“...’Ow y’ know that, I dunno. Yer dead, though,” Jagger threatened, slowly standing. The leader of these four and the monk both raised their hands, the monk’s moving to Jagger’s shoulder to gently guide him back down. The leader simply raised it for silence.

“What my friend says is true, lady knight, depending on your intentions. I can see you’re very powerful, a sort I’ve never seen before, so that’s why I give you a chance before I let my big friend here have his way with you.,” offered the unworried leader. “What is this about?”

Branden couldn’t call to mind why, but something about this woman; her youthful beauty, her overwhelming presence...It was familiar and wrong, all at the same time. He felt like a coiled snake facing a demon, knowing it must strike yet afraid of a myriad of negative consequences should it not run and hide.

Her voice was a soft one, unafraid and powerful in its silence. “I am seeking the aid of one of you, in order to retrieve a treasure capable of guaranteeing your success. To this end, I wish to take any one of you with me on a small quest.”

The leader of these four looked downward for a moment, then shook his head. “You’d have to join us to earn our aid. Let’s step outside and discuss this.”

Chapter Twelve

The back of Medieval Lands contained a rather large lot for the parking of any vehicles the patrons might come with. Cars were, despite all of Yenohar’s advanced technology, somewhat frowned upon in the capital city; there wasn’t enough room between busses and pedestrians and hire-for-ride cabs for every automotive enthusiast to drive his car though the crowded streets any time, any day. Still, night-time was a different story, and there were a large number of automobiles that needed to be parked, and Branden smiled as he and the leader of these four sat upon one of them, a blue one with chrome plating over its tires to make it look good. A high-tech car at a “retro” bar was somewhat disquieting, if not sickening.

The lot was private and boxed in, a wooden platform overhead to keep rain and bird droppings off of cars while patrons dined, and the concrete served as a good deterrent to a would-be car thief - Escape was nearly impossible with a vehicle unless the metal gates were opened. There were likely cameras to deter vandalism, but cameras or not this would end well for the group.

“Now, you wish to join us, correct, girl?” the group’s leader asked, looking her over for a moment before he shrugged. If he saw something odd about her, he ignored it. “To know of us you must then know our rules; you have to beat Jagger to enter. A fist fight, no weapons. Probably his preferred style, anyway, which is even better for him.”

Both people had been returned their weaponry when they left the tavern - Jagger’s large axe was set atop a car (only denting its roof slightly), while the woman nodded faintly and removed her weapon, a broadsword, and placed it atop Jagger’s. No markings or emblems adorned the mysterious woman’s weapon, adding to her aura of suspense and confusion.

“Fight ‘s ‘til one of ‘s quits or can’t ge’ up,” Jagger said, cracking his knuckles. The large barbarian stretched a little, noticing the woman not matching pace. At least, Branden thought, Neither of them is stupid enough to not know to stretch before a brawl if at all possible. Torn ligaments would be disappointing.

“...I understand,” she whispered to herself, fingers contracting and releasing as she flexted them. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said as confidence oozed from her voice.

“Alright,” whispered the leader, then he shouted “Go!”

Jagger studied her as she moved forward, slow steps with her hips swaying, and he threw his first punch. She ducked under it, much as he’d planned, and he threw an uppercut aimed toward that lowered chin. A vertical duck on a fast punch was useful only if a second wasn’t likely to come, and she’d clearly bitten off more than she could chew in his eyes.

Unlike he planned, she had already taken to the air by doing a front-flip and her heel struck the back of his head. The speed required to front-flip over an uppercut was nothing short of incredible, and Jagger was surprised at the force with which the small girl kicked. He stepped forward with surprise, body buckling under the impact.

He turned and threw a round-house kick toward the girl, but she was already to his left. Then she was...Gone? She re-appeared in front of him, then vanished and appeared to his left again. His eyes noticed blurs moving, but a series of images were constructed around him almost as if she were using speed to create specters surrounding him.

“How fast is she...?” Asked the leader of the group. The monk, standing near them, shook his head - His eyes moved as they apparently kept up but his silence indicated he didn’t want to venture a guess.

“Almost my speed. Almost. And using a very interesting technique. I wonder if Jagger can keep up?” Branden said with nothing more advanced then the desire to know the outcome of this duel in his voice and heart.

The answer quickly became apparent. Jagger threw a punch into the girl where she stood, but was rewarded seeing no damage inflicted upon the image. He paused, considering for a moment.