Pillars of the Kingdom

Chapter Twenty Five

“Alright, so this is fun...” Charles stated in a long, drawn out voice the party had come to associate with that of a bored Lieutenant Maxton. The rather ragged train was rather short, with three distinguishable nodes: The front was made up of the young people; Serge, Iona and Branden were in the back and Shade and Cassandra fit in somewhere in the middle.

“Just shut up,” Clarice said after a long sigh.

“Really man, we get the point. It’s another day to Ralase, we’ll be fine,” Jacin stated.

“Charles, quit being a dick,” Branden said playfully as he approached the frontrunners. “Jacin, Serge wants to talk with you.” Branden gave a look to Clarice then nodded once. She smiled in return.

Jacin nodded and allowed his horse to fall back in the ranks. He saw Shade and Cassandra pass him, and he looked toward the old knight and bowed his head.

“Sir Lenkmen,” Jacin started, curiosity in his eyes as to what his senior officer wanted.

“Serge, please, and here,” outstretched from Serge’s arm was a relatively large object about 18 inches in diameter, not spherical but with four sides, each joined in the center with nine inches on each edge and connectable to...

“This is the top from Alan’s spear!” Jacin nearly exclaimed, managing to keep it to a harsh whisper. One of the dazzling crystals sat embedded in the tip of the weapon, and its long slashing edges glistened in the sunlight.

“Indeed it is. He wanted me to make sure you would get it - It turns out that it will probably fit easily upon that staff of yours,” Iona added; the fact she even spoke to him astonished him. Such an accomplished and exotic warrior deigning to speak to him? He felt....Honored.

“Yep. Here are the three remaining tips for it; one’s already fitted on. Use them well!” Serge said, handing over a small, tied pouch and giving Jacin a pat on the back to re-assure him.

He quickly realized, after no more than five minutes of fiddling around with the gift, that Iona had been right - It fit together perfectly and, as if by magic, joined together. Then again, both the staff and the metal were enchanted.

For the next two hours, the journey was uneventful. Charles continually complained, though the frequency of each outburst was decreasing as he accepted the fact that everyone else was equally hot under the sun. Then the proverbial mess hit the fan; five figures upon black horses approached the party not from an intercepting course, but from behind.

“....This is bad,” Shade muttered to himself. For the first time in a long time, true concern was in his words.

“Well, let’s do a quick analysis...I know I will take one of them, Branden another, Clarice a third and Serge a forth...” Iona stated loudly, tapping her horse once and dismounting. She almost seemed stumped as to how to handle yet another.

“And I guess Charles and Jacin take the fifth?” Serge offered as his feet touched the floor and he adjusted his sword belt.

“And here’s to hoping there isn’t a sixth, yet,” Kathy shouted as she stepped from her horse. The rest of the party had already made it to the ground quickly and stood, waiting for the approaching riders in black.

The five figures on their horses looked for the most part identical, though small nuances in their bodies (mainly height and weight) made it clear they were not all clones. Each one’s armor had the poisoned and bleeding dagger of the Saints embedded on them, and they wore full helmets which kept their faces out of view.

The first who dismounted from his black horse removed his helmet. He was a strikingly beautiful, black haired man who wielded only one weapon - a katana almost exactly like Iona’s. He almost appeared feminine, and his grin was nothing less than sinister. His long, ebony locks did nothing to conceal the beautiful image that was his face, and for this reason he was perhaps the most fear-inspiring. That, and the others waited until he dismounted to follow suit.

The second to step down had no weapons of any kind and had a suit of robes on over his black armor. His very being screamed “Arcanic!!!” and it seemed as if Shade and Cassandra would have an equal-opportunity foe. He might have been an elderly man, judging from how slowly he moved, but no hair was visible under the helmet and his eyes were effectively blocked from view by the slender little metallic slits, thus prohibiting further identification.

The third was clearly a woman, stepping from the horse and carrying only one device - A bat. A typical ball bat, even painted black, did not suit the reputation such a group had. A warrior woman using nothing more sophisticated than a club? Certainly she could not be a pushover, considering how much skill it must have taken to master the use of that in combat.

The fourth was also a woman, and she used a rather awkward device as a weapon - It was something like a trident, but with five prongs forming a dice-reminiscent entrapment tool. She removed her helmet and revealed that she was elderly - And with this, apparently, came the sort of body type which looked ill suited to fighting - Short and slightly overweight.

The final of this group stepped down and removed from his back a large sword with a relatively thin blade - About two and a half inches in diameter, much like a broadsword, yet as long as a man with ease. This male had green locks of hair falling from underneath his helmet. The tallest, his muscular frame was easily visible through his armor.

All four of these figures looked toward the Katana-wielding man, who gave his most charming smile. Branden could almost feel his heart melting. The whole group seemed rather stunned to see these adversaries, yet the man’s obsidian orbs turned straight to Iona, paying the team no heed. No...It wasn’t just to Iona, it was also to her sword.

“...The Master has decreed,” spoke the woman with the wooden bat as a weapon, “That should Iona turn over her sword, you will all be invited into The Saints. Iona, you will be given the seat on the Apostlate that was released when you slew Lilith.”

Iona seemed like she might have words to say, but it was Branden who spoke. “I have a better idea,” he responded. “First of all, it was I who killed Lilith. Second, it was I who destroyed that very organization’s members singlehandedly. Third, get ready to descend into the hell you belong in with your damned friends.” He drew his blue sword and prepared to use it against these leaders of his hated enemies.

“Branden Frost....A tragedy, the fate that befell your parents at my orders,” the black-haired man began. His silky voice was so persuasive that one might slit his own throat if asked politely. Even Branden was taken aback.

“Shut the hell up!” Came the surprising shout from none other then Serge. He readied his longsword, raised his shield, and appeared prepared to do battle as well. The man barely glanced at Serge, his gaze returning to his centerpiece of focus.

“...Iona, be reasonable - There is no force in this world that can hurt me, including that sword,” the dark figure said with a gesture toward Iona’s katana. “Once I found a way for it to be drawn, I became immune to it.” The soft voice of the leader figure of their group was quite, quite entrancing. His confidence was overwhelming and his presence proclaimed that there was no possible way for the figure to fail.

“I don’t think it matters, dark one,” Iona responded as she slowly drew that sword from its sheath. For a moment, the two stared at one another, before Iona continued. “How do you want to do this?”

“I figured that the legendary Shade would have something to say to that extent, Iona,” replied the leader of the Apostles. He was nothing less than nonchalant about the entire situation.

“Cassandra and myself will not intervene in Iona’s fight, nor Branden’s. The others I leave to my comrades, and if they need aid I will give it,” Shade replied with a chilled voice.

“That’s right,” Cassandra said. Then, with a hint of mischief in her voice, she added “Also, I am quite confident it will be a good training exercise.”

“Take us lightly if you will, Arcanics,” stated the woman with the bat. “I do not believe, sad to say, you will survive to end this encounter.” She was confident, no doubt about it - But she stepped back when she noticed that one of the group was suddenly not where he used to be.

Branden had thrown all his speed into getting behind the woman. His sword already drawn, it was a simple matter of a powerful downward slash and she would bleed for her cruelty. Justice would be served...And even if she did block, her wooden bat could never hold up to the force.

Then again, a sound similar to that of wood being struck by an axe was heard and the ground trembled ever so slightly as the woman turned and parried the attack away, moving her body just enough that the tip of Branden’s blade could not touch her armor and pressing the bat to the back of his blade, using the flat of it as a place to avoid cutting her weapon on.

She released a furious counter-attack, and Branden barely managed to raise his dagger in time to fend the crux of the force from striking his side. The knife flew from his hand and the bat went on to smash into him; his armor negating enough of the blow that, despite a showy trip along the ground where his heels failed to dig into dirt until traveling twenty feet with the remaining inertia pushing him to his knees, he was relatively unphased.

“Branden!” Serge exclaimed, moving toward the woman with the bat and finding the claymore user standing between him and his destination.

“Not happenin’, ol’ man,” the oddly accented man stated. “M’Name’s Scotia, and you’re a dead man.” And with that, a gust of wind flew toward Serge and an instant later, Serge was raising his sword to parry invisible slashes that seemed to arise from the Apostle before him.

“Damn, a Swordpriest!!” exclaimed Serge. For a moment, he thought he’d gotten some good answers to the earlier attack on the kingdom. He raised his shield to give himself a moment’s cover, then made a few quick slashes into the air. Each slash left a small sphere of blue light hanging in the air, and Serge made the motion of punching them.

These six spheres turned into streaks and flew towards the offending Scotia. Five of them clearly were deflected while the sixth struck. He stumbled backwards, astonished at the power the “old man” still held, and raised his sword to a ready position.

“Not bad, old one, but keep in mind I’m no Swordpriest. My technique is like theirs, but...” A pause. Serge felt it first, looking to the ground as a number of blades made apparently of dirt flew towards him.

He leapt into the air and parried the rest of them, adding a little backflip into the mix to prove he still “had it.”

“Not bad yourself, Saint!” Serge exclaimed, firing two more of the blue spheres at the Apostle with no visible result. One was simply swatted away, the other was apparently shattered.

“You don’t have what it takes if all you have are distance attacks!” shouted the man wielding a sword that might have symbolized overcompensation. He rested his blade on his shoulder as his now-free hand rose, the fingers of his gauntlet making a snapping motion with very little sound. Serge felt the pain of slashes obviously unblocked striking him. A delaying tactic, or a sign of superiority? Serge didn’t care - He’d faced worse, despite what the blood leaking from his right arm might tell an observer.

Clarice looked over toward the stubby woman with the awkward trident and readied her longswords, closing her eyes in familiar fashion. She could ‘see’ the flashes of light hanging around the large figure facing Serge, could see the immense power radiating from the leader of these Apostles, and could definitely see that her foe would be a fair match for her.

“Daydreaming, bitch?” The chubby woman stated as she raised her spear over her head, positioning it so that she almost looked like a surrendering soldier, the only difference being the grip’s easy adjustment into a combat stance. Looks are always deceiving - She looked open yet was guarded tighter than any fortress.

“Yep,” Clarice replied with a smile, “Just getting the mental picture of what you look like in the before shot - The after one won’t be nearly so pretty...” A slight hesitation as she readied herself, blades forming that familiar triangle as she opened her eyes. “Then again, you’re a fat ugly pig already.”

“Clever, bitch. Enjoy this!” And with that, the two women sprung into combat - The Quintet, as it might be called, was almost a utility weapon compared to Clarice’s. Every attack Clarice made had the threat of disarmament attached to it and only the fact she had two swords to attack with kept her certain of victory.

By attacking with both blades at the same time, she forced the woman to choose one to dodge and one to block. By attacking one after the other, she forced the foe to try to dodge or block and not leave herself open. A bad plan either way was to simply press the attack - Clarice knew right away she’d need a stalemate breaker if this woman was anything more than a glorified fill-in.

The woman was on the defensive only until she used the opposite side of her spear to press against the tip of one of Clarice’s swords. All of the woman’s force focused upon the place with the most leverage in her favor, and Clarice nearly dropped her blade. As it was, the weapon dropped and she felt the sting of a blunt object smash her in the side of the head.

A step backwards was taken and she sized her opponent up, taking a slow breath to judge her chances before leaping back into battle.

“I guess it’s me and the kiddies,” spoke the robed Saint as he looked from Clarice’s fight toward the motley crew of Jacin, Charles and Kathy. The spearman was on the far left, Kathy in the center and Charles on the right of the group, moving to flank him. The Saint raised his hands, presenting a dagger in the left and his palm in the right, and made a quick cut along the inside of his hand.

“The hell?” Jacin heard Charles state as he lowered his guard in surprise.

“Get down!” Kathy shouted, flinging herself to the floor even as she reached into her pocket. Jacin managed to react and leap to his left as far from Charles as possible, but he saw his friend’s surprise turning to calamity.

The blood flowed only to the bottom of the man’s hand before lighting on fire, cauterizing the wound and causing the accumulated crimson liquid to produce a massive fireball that Charles was unable to avoid. He raised his shield and hit behind every ounce of willpower he could throw against it, yet fell to his knees in the aftermath with his armor steaming from the sudden heat.

“Charles, are you alright?!” Kathy shouted as she feigned weakness, her finger finding the trigger near her right hand while she gathered her thoughts together, focused on her left.

“Fucking....” Charles muttered, slowly getting to his feet. He was visibly exhausted, breathing heavily as he shouted. “Ouch!!”

Jacin moved forward, thrusting his spear into the air at his rival, who blocked easily with his blood-encrusted dagger. He lunged again, moving the weapon downward and smashing it into the ground. His technique moved quickly, a solid column of stone pressing up towards the Arcanic opponent he had and striking a small red barrier which arose from a trail of blood moving from the dagger to the air the attack intended to pass through.

“Clever!” The magic user retorted, making a quick gesture and sending a black ball of light into Jacin’s chest.

He’d never felt an energy attack like this hit him - It sent him sailing through the air and landing on his back, yet it didn’t really hurt; it simply made him tired. All in all, he didn’t need any advice to enlighten him that this was a bad sign.

“Clever to you,” Kathy stated as two loud cracks of firearms discharge echoed through the plains. Red lights flared around the Apostle as defensive magics, geared towards typical Emorian firearms, flared up to deflect the typical energy rifle burst. The Saint looked somewhat surprised at the crimson line starting to trickle down his body, staring astonished at the silver-plated handgun.

“...Projectiles? Such archaic devices?” he asked, blood rippling down his body. He’d evaded one of the rounds from the weapon, but the second struck him clean in the gut.

“Damn right, prick. Eat this,” she replied as she unloaded the rest of her ammunition, another fourteen rounds, and took a guilty pleasure in watching twelve spurts of blood rise up. Two of those bullets either missed, were dodged, or were simply deflected - But the effect was the same.

“Die!” she exclaimed, a blue circle of light forming in her palm before she aimed it toward the Apostle; calling forth a long bolt of azure energy and feeling the satisfaction of watching her foe careening through the air for the ten seconds she felt like battering him with that raw power. She took a slow breath.
“....That went poorly...” The figure with the long, black hair stated to Iona. If the demonic man before her cared, he didn’t show it - Typical of him, after all.

“I can’t say I’m sad, Valin!” she chided with a laugh as she invoked his real name. She’d been worse for the wear before, her armor having only endured two decent blows, neither of which managed to do much good.

“Nor can I. The weak die, the strong live. No better proof of that then you,” he stated matter-of-factly, sheathing his sword as he lowered his center of gravity to the floor. His black eyes were fixed upon her almost admiringly as he prepared to try to murder her.

“I agree. I take it we’re going to do this in the old Iai style?” Iona asked, sheathing her own blade without hesitating. She was exactly 100 feet from her foe, her figure was lowered so her balance was optimized and even the wind seemed to be in her favor.

“Aye. Good luck,” the man remarked tauntingly before charging forward. Iona returned the motion, and both fighters had closed the distance in less than a tenth of a second.

Iona’s attack was timed just as well as her foe’s, and was executed with blinding speed. It was an all-or-nothing gamble, for she knew most of her techniques wouldn’t work against an enemy of this calibur. She knew Valin was gambling everything as well, but she also knew he wasn’t prepared for this technique she’d devised on her own. She’d wanted to call it “See no evil, hear no evil,” however that name was simply impractical - She’d settled on...

“Deaf and dumb!!” It still sounded silly, but it fit the bill: The unsheathing of her blade was done in such a way that it created a fragile wavelength of sound which would deafen her foe. At the same time, a spark was ignited of her own energy to create a blinding flash: One could see no foe, one could hear no foe, and though spiritual senses remained active they were largely useless when facing a blinding light of mystical power. Furthermore, though she felt metal impact on metal, she knew the next blow was her’s and took it - Striking Valin clean in the back and quickly transforming it into a thrust through the neck.

“Well....,” the black-haired man choked out through the blood gurgling in his throat. In a tacit way, it seemed as if his wound was not effecting his body just yet.

“Now, this probably isn’t the first time someone asked you, Hora known to most only as the ‘Morning Star,’ but die already,” Iona whispered in a passionless voice.

“I think not,” her foe choked out, delivering a powerful kick to her side which forced her to retreat backwards and take her sword with it. She cursed silently as the wound on the Apostle’s neck closed up.

“Just like that other bastard of a maniac,” Iona replied with a faint grin as she alluded to Aubrey. “But you did bleed, and that proves one thing...”

“Yes,” Valin acquiesced with pure, seething rage hidden deep in his voice, “it proves that someone, somewhere, somehow erred. Big,” the Apostle added with a sneer. “I assure you, it doesn’t change a thing, dear Iona,” he continued before resuming their duel.

“Surprised, young Frost?” asked the woman who appeared relatively unscathed. Branden knew only two very light, insignificant wounds had been inflicted upon her - One on her right shoulder and one on her left leg. These injuries didn’t hamper her efforts at all; yet to cause even such minor marks had pushed him to the breaking point of his strength.

“Didn’t think it would be easy, but you aren’t faster than me. I also haven’t figured out what trick you use, yet. I’m thinking it might be like Clarice’s, where you hear me rather than see me,” he replied in a conversational tone, deciding he knew exactly what trick of his own to use in response.

“Nope,” she replied, giving him cause for alarm. This break in the battle...She had to know it was a chance for him to recharge his reserves. She couldn’t be dumb enough to believe speeds like his were something he could reach without strain - And if she needed evidence to prove this theory, his heavy breathing would suffice. This had to be a trick of some sort, and he couldn’t figure it out - A fact which led to only nervousness and the scattering of his thoughts - In short, it made him lower his guard.

“Then what is it, lady Apostle, that I might better compliment you as you fall beneath my blade?” Branden asked in the most polite tone he could manage. He knew he had very few hopes of throwing her off balance, thus his disappointment was minuscule.

“My eyes,” she stated, “are the sort which can see-”

“The future?” Branden interrupted with a scoff, attempting once more to unsteady her, this time with brutish arrogance. Once more, he failed, yet in her composure she’d given him the last clue he needed. That’s it...I know her... Branden thought. A smile grew on his lips.

“No, but it doesn’t take foresight to know you’re toast,” she remarked. “They see what you are doing in extremely slow motion, including even the vibrations your aura makes in physical space. Hellfires, I can even see the sound your sword makes as it passes through the air. Speed is insignificant when compared to the ability to see an attack coming.”

If this was meant to be impressive, she was finally to receive a shock. “Any Hora has that power, or should if they are worth their rank. Sound is different, true, but...Every edge has the ability to cut its owner.” Philosophy was a strong point of Branden’s education, and he showed it here; so was covering up the nausea in his stomach.

“You fool,” she responded with a grin, “since I can see what you will do virtually before you do it. It’s a fairly common power, but refined to my extent the “Eyes of Wind” are impervious to your speed. You might be invisible, but I know what you will do.”

“Eyes of the wind, eh? Then that would make you the lady known as Shardia, the ‘Playful Killer.’” Knowing Yenoharan sports and society finally paid off. Playful Killer had originally been a ball player for one of the top teams in Yenohar. Her records stood, to this day, as twice that of any other sportsman. “Could hit a ball across a city, they said. And you became an Hora because you were bored...Then vanished.”

“And you hit the nail on the head, fast boy. Too bad I know your play book and you can’t win. You might as well slit your own throat. I’m not that merciful to end your life that fast.” The woman didn’t seem the least concerned that he’d found her identity.

There was a loophole somewhere, Branden felt, but he couldn’t find it. He decided to act as if she hadn’t spoken so much nonsense: With his breath recovered, he poised himself with sword sheathed for a charging attack. That’s it...A blizzard to distract her senses and a trick to take her head fucking off.

“Then let’s play!” he exclaimed, leaning forward ever so slightly. First, the ice - Large blades of hail were whipped into existence from nowhere, making a clockwise circle around his form with only a few random shards moving against the grain. He kicked his legs into full speed, then made a quick half of a diamond around his target to her back. He got just enough distance that he could build his speed again, remaining invisible to the normal eye.

This Apostle, however, did not have normal eyes; she saw the ice, saw him take off, saw his leaping turn as he slowed down to attack. Then she “saw” the sound of sword being drawn. Her bat went low to intercept the blade at its point of unsheathing, planning to block him before he’d fully drawn and strike back easily. Her eyes then grew very, very wide.

Branden was using a sword-draw attack, all right, but he’d performed the technique he’d called the “Freezing Spiral.” This simple move was a basic Iai attack with one small change; he used his full speed and entered into a sort of cartwheel, his left hand posing as both pivot and springboard so that he moved forward not with his feet on the ground but with his body suspended in the air. In this particular case, his foe moved to block him on what was once the correct side but now had no sword whatsoever passing through it - She was completely open and unable to evade.

Blood spurted from the woman’s throat, and she fell quickly to the floor while struggling to breathe.

“That’s that. Who’s next?” he commented, attempting to seem totally calm despite the exhaustion aching in his body and the anger gripping his soul.
“Well, old man?” Spoke the warrior with the claymore, staring towards the elderly Serge as the two stood about thirty feet apart. No fighter could gain an advantage in this one, though both had used a lot of high-impact attacks to try to gain the upper hand.

“Well, what?” Lenkmen replied, tapping the blade of his sword on the floor idly as he pondered his next move. This chess game of a duel was coming to checkmate quickly, and he had a feeling his foe just didn’t have a clue.

“Ready to die? You’ve clearly exhausted your spiritual energy reserves.” It was asked as if it were an offer, but it was clearly a threat, if not a promise or guarantee.

“That so? Then here’s one more!” he said, metaphorically moving his queen into position. He swung his sword and a blue arc of energy flew toward his rival. An abused technique, one which he’d used so often in this duel it held no surprise anymore.

“Nothing!” Spoke the Apostle as his sword slashed through the spiritual force. The light exploded and perhaps stunned his foe. He took one step forward, then a second. The first was relaxed, the second was with his back arched and explosions erupting all around him.

“Hail of Light,” Serge whispered without more than a hint of amusement in his voice. So many missed and deflected energy balls, one had to wonder where they’d gone - And the answer was they’d gone far enough away to be out of sight and out of mind, none of them exploding. When called, however, the Saint’s memory was quickly jogged, along with massive damage being inflicted across his entire body.

“I don’t suppose I have to say I told you so,” Serge remarked caustically as his foe’s frame collapsed into the dirt. The billouous cloud the sand created settled, and the attacker’s body lay unconscious on the floor.
Clarice deflected the quintet (it was still all she could think of as a name for a five-pointed weapon like a trident) weapon two more times, two swords used against each attempt. The battle was a complete stalemate, aside from the few bruises they inflicted upon one another at the start of the battle. Clarice had already learned the chubby woman’s attack patterns, while she’d evidently learned how to tell when Clarice was going to retaliate. A complete, total stalemate.

“So,” spoke the voice from behind the helmet as she made yet another thrust, being deflected yet again and showing no gain whatsoever in position to boot, “What say we end this?”

Clarice very nearly lost her grip on things - It was almost as if the woman had pre-planned this to be a workout. Gods knew that she needed one...

Another lunge of the spear, a fast one. Clarice blocked it to find herself stumble forward ever so slightly as the attack lacked all power. A feint, a clever one as well, but now Clarice’s swords had bound the weapon up. A simple disarming and...

And that’s when she noticed the middle spike on the weapon was made of an ornate crystal, one which was black as night and which started to glow. She looked on helplessly as obsidian spire began to gather what looked like small electrical discharges; no, small arcs of lightning. She tried to pull her weapons away, but found that by binding the opponents she’d sufficiently bound herself.

“This is called ‘Hell’s Star,’ for the five points of a star; though I suppose it isn’t really star shaped....Hey, at least it’ll be bright, right?” The Apostle jabbed in a mocking voice. Clarice fought to free her weapons but couldn’t before her enemy screamed a scream that was met and quickly beaten by her own.

A huge pillar of black energy slammed into the woman’s chest and sent her tumbling through the air and along the ground. Tiny bits of armor and cloth fell to the ground, charred into oblivion as the energy displaced dirt in a number of small rings around the beam.

Clarice shivered once she first came to a halt, sprawled in all angles and lying on her back. She took a deep breath and, as her vision began to haze, ignored the pain and made an attempt to stand. She thought she reached her knees until her brain jerked her desire back to reality and she found herself, once again, on her back. She managed one more attempt, her muscles twitching, then she felt the darkness wash over her.

“That’s about that, Dark One,” Shade remarked to the wounded Valin. “You are wounded and three of your four accomplices are seriously injured. Do not prolong this slaughter. Surrender.” It was not much of an offer, but the old Arcanic proposed it with a straight face.

“Dream on, Arcanic,” Valin spat back. “I could take the whole lot of you.”

“And what, die in the process?” Cassandra said with a smirk on her lips. She was not a vindictive woman, as indicated by Shade’s slightly startled look in her direction, but she was nothing less than amused by the Apostle’s arrogance.

“Only Iona here can truly hurt me...” Valin began, then closed his eyes for a moment. His lips formed a scowl and he sheathed his sword, pointing an accusation at Shade. “You called for help! How…Droll,” the warrior stated more to himself than others. He spun his katana around quickly. “Shade, you cannot win in the end,” Valin finished.

Shade could not, nor did he try to suppress a chuckle. “Well, the Swordpriests knew we were coming and their Arcanics would certainly have divined our presence. Rayne Castrell himself is on the way. You know as well as I do where this will end,”

Valin did not seem to react to this news, other then to sigh and shake his head. “Very well. Its time, then, that I retreat.”

He touched the air in four places above his head, each touch causing a black sphere of light to appear. He made a quick gesture and the balls moved and settled into the four Apostles. Suddenly they all stood and recovered from their injuries, though the adventuring party felt as though four souls had been spent in the endeavor.

Shade and Cassandra both moved to strike. Valin smiled, however, and he and his four Apostle had suddenly vanished without a trace. The old magic user lowered his hands.

“....That is very, very old magic. Magic which even I do not have a full grasp of. This is...Going to be difficult,” He muttered to himself, his eyes turning from Iona to Jacin and Branden, then to the rest of the group.

“They teleported and regenerated based on death. This Valin...How do you know of his existence, love?” Cassandra asked. All ears were at attention to this one.

“Suffice to say he is something of a very reclusive legend. Solasce has a few archival notes of his existence,” Shade stated matter-of-factly. “He was a....Fairly underground, fairly major player.”

“In what?” Serge ventured the question. It was clear that he, among others, was concerned over two things - Valin’s presence and Clarice’s health.

Kathy, for one, was weaving spells to hold Clarice’s failing body together. Jacin and Charles were pacing as to-be fathers often did outside of the operating room, and Branden was still recovering from the excruciating stress he’d put himself under.

Clarice did not look very well for the wear - Her flesh was reddened and blistered, her armor peeled away and her swords far from her hands. She breathed, a good sign if ever there was one, yet the shallow rise and fall of her (exposed and injured) breasts was so minuscule it was hardly detected. Branden’s eyes shifted from Clarice to Shade.

“In Cernai,” the head of the Arcanic council stated flatly

Before the party had time to be taken aback, once again, the sound of horses could be heard approaching. Before long, four red flags and seventeen riders could be seen approaching, the head of which wore a dazzling suit of white armor marking him as a royal of the Castrell Family.

It could only be Rayne Castrell, a man reputed for nobility and skill with a sword. Also, as Branden noted, the brother to the leader of the Four Lords, Aubrey. The man they had come to see, and the brother of the Kingdom’s enemy. Now all they needed was for Clarice to be healthy and all would be well - But, with one gentle cough from the woman’s unconscious lips, many of his fears were allayed.