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(have you read the prologue and parts one, two, three and four?) “These little naked bipeds scurry so. It makes me dizzy sometimes to see them run and turn and squeak so much. I eat them from time to time, not as a snack – they’re too small for that, but to break their pathetic monotonous routines. I wonder if they even notice when one of them disappears. They are so many… They gave him a spear and a shield, and taught him how to hold them. They gave him a bow and two loads of arrows – not the broad head hunting ones, but the thin barbed ones, clearly meant to cause irrecoverable wounds. They told him when to fire his bow and when to stab with his spear, and what to do if ladders hit the barricade. They showed him how to brace the spear against a cavalry charge, and how to slit the throat of a wounded man without spilling blood all over his clothes. He could not remember a single lesson right now. All he could see was the long line of wagons, the riders and the fires, and he was scared. The riders from the encamped people approached their delegation - flags all pristine and white flapping like wings in the wind and rain. The white, pristine white and innocent flags like his daughter’s dresses, or the linen from his wife’s bed. They were both dead now. Dead from hunger and sickness, and he hated the ones that were to blame: Jarron and his hordes of demon-worshippers. The rain was whipping him in the face and he could hardly see the details of the people talking. He drew his bow – made of a single staff of yew-wood. Calmly, he removed the oilcloth from it. He drew a single shaft from the covered quiver, carefully replacing the cloth cap. Its head reflected the light of the smoking torches brightly. The feathers were cut short and were twisted onto the smooth wood - it gave the arrow spin – made it fly more true. He blinked the rain away from his eyes, and then he shook his hair out of his face. He drew with all his might, a sudden calmness descending on him. His friends were asleep on watch, huddled in their trenches against the rain. The bow creaked ominously as he drew a bead on the misty forms in the distance. He pulled the string until it rested on his cheek thrumming in eagerness. Quietly muttering he said a quick prayer to his wife and daughter. His muscles strained and his hand started to shake but he could not let the arrow go. A shudder from a gust of wind went through him and the arrow slipped from between his slick fingers. It disappeared into the darkness in a misty spray of hatred and death. He stood there, mesmerized by what had happened. A horn blew, and then another. His friends awakened around him, hastily retrieving their weapons. A cry went up. “They got Cedric. They got the captain. It’s war. We’re at war!” And then arrows like rain surged past their barriers of sharpened stakes. A lone horseman was galloping away towards the enemy encampment, when three or four shafts struck him simultaneously. The horse flipped and tumbled in a heap. A cry of victory went up in the air, and nobody heard a lonely wail of anguish… “Helena! Helena get in here. Wake up and come here.” Roleen blinked the dream from her sight and rolled out of her bed with a stifled groan. Jarron sounded hoarse. “They attacked us!” Jarron stumbled through the tent-flap, barely giving her time to cover herself with a coat. He froze in mid-step, hastily turning. “Oh. Oh, sorry Helena. I didn’t mean to…umm. I’ll wait outside.” She almost burst out laughing as he cleared the distance in two brisk steps and disappeared outside. “I’ll be with you now.” She quickly put her shirt on, grimacing at the tightness of the collar. Jarron was leaning over the map on the table. He was biting his fingernails. He blushed as she approached. “Sorry about that.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry about it. Now what’s so urgent that you awakened a lady from her beauty slumber.” She could see that he was really upset. His forehead was furrowed and his hair was messed. “Helena, they attacked and killed our messenger. Negotiations for the entrance to the city have failed. There are large-scale skirmishes taking place as we speak.” “Whoa, back up for a minute. We were negotiating? How come I wasn’t told?” Jarron turned away. If he wasn’t prepared to look her in the eye, he was feeling guilty. “We…I thought that I could fill you in afterwards. You were practically sleeping on your feet. You have been doing so much…” She cut him off, angry. “Jarron, that’s why I’m here, remember? What happened next?” “The negotiator was killed trying to make it back to our encampment. And then a large group of them came through the barricade, attacking our tents on the west hill. They were chanting songs to the gods. Something about purging the demons from us.” She pulled him to the chair, and sat him down. “They penetrated far into camp, and started burning our tents on the eastern slopes. Lucky for us that it was raining, or else we would have lost a lot of equipment and food. Shanna rallied with the Mirrored Soul Regiment. They are well trained, and the attack broke. She let the city folk escape into the barricade again.” “By the gods…” He sat down heavily, holding onto his head. “Merciful Father, I’m responsible for every death. Not just on our side. All of them.” “Jarron…” “No, listen. If I hadn’t led them here, if I didn’t fill them with vain hopes…” She grabbed his shaking hands in her own. “Jarron, listen to me. They’re not vain hopes. Everyone was suffering, and nobody was doing anything about it. You have a purpose…” “I lead these people to their deaths. All I wanted was the King to notice…I…I didn’t want any conflict. These are the people I swore to protect as a priest. They were countrymen and friends yesterday, and now they’re killing one another. In my name.” “Jarron, there is still time to fix things. Give me five minutes! Are you listening? Five minutes.” She practically ran back into her tent. Under the bed, the bundle she needed was hidden from sight. She opened the skins and scattered her clothes. The dagger was lying where she had left it. Made of a strange metal ensorcelled by runes, it glinted red in the light. She grabbed the manticore-spike handle with both hands (it was always warm and sandy to the touch), and cleared her mind. She imagined the blade she was holding, and then her mind was sucked into it, leaving her in a dark, warm, safe place. “Damus…Damus I need to speak to you.” She waited until the echoes died. A while later she felt the sharp retort of his thoughts. As usual, he was thinking of too many things at once. Some woman was distracting him. She kept the knowledge to herself – he was as yet unaware how much she could pick up from a mind contact. It seemed that women were far more attuned to the empathic content than men were. She shoved the twinge of jealousy into a corner and spoke: “Hi, I cannot stay too long. You must come now. It’s an emergency. The Feroll militia has attacked our encampments. Things are heating up.” She waited in the silence, reveling in his sudden focus on the link, and the woman’s apparent distaste at his inattention. “I’m coming. I will be with you presently, Roleen. Wear some of my favorite perfume if you don’t mind.” His amused thoughts were gone before she could select a retort. He made her so angry sometimes. She repacked the blade, and quickly re-bundled her clothes. Jarron was pacing outside. She ran up to him quickly and grabbed his arm. “Come, I want you to meet someone. He’ll be able to help, I hope.” He resisted her tugs. “Who? In your tent?” He removed his mace from the holster, and parted the tent with a quick motion of his arm. Three steps carried him inside, the prayer in his mind gathering power. There was a slender man seated in the shadowed corner of the main chamber. “Who are you?” The man stood up. He had a handsome face – a trustworthy face. He was dressed in soft burgundy leathers and a lighter doublet. He looked young and yet his eyes spoke of many experiences. “Hello, Jarron. My name is Damalanthas Quithas, and I believe I can help.” The caravan was passing below right on time. Flash felt the thrill go up and down his spine. It was almost time to start the raid, and he could hardly contain himself. The ten rangers that Tekuna had hired had through their many raids bonded into a coherent force, each member knowing precisely what his or her tasks were. They felt like an extension of his arms now, and they seemed to enjoy ‘piracy’ almost as much as he did. He slipped on his pirate eye-patch (it was only fair that he should shoot nearly blind – they would, after all, be surprised). Almost as a symbol of the impending action, the other rangers spread out, communicating in flawless animal noises. They had set up on two lips of a small pass. It was perfect. The trees came close to the overhang on both sides of the road, providing them ideal cover. Flash counted the wagons smiling. There were eight this time – three more than usual. This was going to be their richest haul yet. He counted fifteen guards with roaring tiger heads on their tunics. It would be difficult not to harm anyone with so many guards present, but his men were trained very well both individually and as a unit, and besides, he could handle ten guards by himself anyway. Smiling, he made a cuckoo sound. With a fluid motion, he drew and fired. There were three more arrows in the ground, and he fired those rapidly, changing targets precisely after each shot. The first arrow hit a man’s spear, jerking it out of his grasp. The second one punched his shield so hard that he flipped of the horse. The third arrow pinned a raised arm to a tree, causing another guard immense pain (he missed the cuff-link somehow) and the fourth arrow lodged in an axle, grinding the front wagon to a halt, keeping the others in their trap. All around him arrows filled the air, buzzing and howling. They were especially prepared to panic the horses. Already Flash could see men struggling for control, as their mounts rolled their eyes and kicked the air in fear. He could feel his blood quickening, his pulse beating to the rhythm of the battle. The thrill of a fight caught him, as it always had for the last 50 years. Adrenaline pumping, unconcerned about the height, he leapt right off the bluff. He let out a savage ‘tally-ho’, and for a moment he was flying. Then he hit the man in the soft midriff with his knee (breaking his own fall), and they both tumbled off the horse. Flash drew his main-gauche while rolling, always aware of his surroundings. Each action slowed down, and his perception focused to within the reach of his blade. The man he had knocked down was rising, but he put him down with a boot to his face. Simultaneously he parried a horseman over his head, catching his blade in the parry-dagger. He turned the grip and the man’s sword snapped. He drew his own blade and pirouetted. In one fluid motion he cut the horseman’s saddle strap, sending him and the saddle to the ground. Casually, he parried a down-cut from a guard on the wagon. His dagger sang and the blow vibrated through his arm, nearly causing him to drop everything. He pushed forward, his dagger pommel locking with the sword’s pommel. He was slender as all elves were, but it belied the sinewy strength that he possessed. He cackled with glee as he pushed the man clear off the wagon. Now that he had high ground he could survey his surroundings. The battle was going well. Most of the horsemen were on the ground, either unconscious or struggling with their frightened mounts. There were singular duels all around him, but the rangers were far superior swordsmen to the guards, and he had no worries for their safety. Time for the show. He reached for his eye patch, but it was not on his head. It had to have slipped off in the melee. The darned thing was where he leaped into the horseman. He had to have the eye-patch. It was essential to his pirate act. He jumped over a horizontally swung sword, and tumbled over the guard he had pushed off earlier. He pirouetted, just as the guard was turning. He hit his sword hard on the man’s blade, and it bounced out of the guard’s numbed grip with a whine. The pommel of his dagger left a solid round bruise on the man’s jaw. He tried to pick up his eye patch, but it was tangled in the roots. With a distinctly human curse, he shoved the sword into the ground and he pulled harder. There was a flash of light behind him. He smiled and half-turned his head. A hungry ball of bright flame rolled in behind him. Suddenly sound caught up with it in a low roar, and he was falling. He felt a quick sharp stab of pain, and then that was gone. His vision filled with light, and he guessed that the scream he heard was his own. A piece of a wagon slammed into him, picking him up into the air and for the second time in five minutes, Flash was flying. He slammed into the canyon wall with a solid crunch and he heard/felt some ribs crack. Then, all pain ceased. He barely caught a glimpse of movement through the air as the wagon landed on top of him… “Flash, Flash!” Euvgeni was leaning over a very strange contraption. It consisted of a cylinder with two open ends, covered by symbols. The Lords had several of them, and Grumplin had seen them use the shells to communicate over vast distances. Flash hadn’t been answering for the last hour or so. Souriin had disappeared soon after hearing the news and Grumplin got the feeling that he was worried that Flash was in trouble. If the stories were true, Flash never got himself into a little bit of trouble; it was always a LOT. Grumplin’s hands were itching again. He really wanted to see a tube and what made it work. With a hum, it crackled into life again. “Euvgeni…are you there?” “Yes, Souriin. Speak.” “I see a column of smoke on the horizon…I’m heading there to investigate…Fear the worst.” There was a moment of silence, and Euvgeni started pacing. He spoke to Grumplin so suddenly that the halfling jumped: “He shouldn’t worry, you know? Flash is the most competent swordsman I have had the pleasure of sparring with. He can scrape himself out of any situation.” He looked at Grumplin for support, and so he nodded vigorously. “We never really saw eye to eye – he was so reckless. But you cannot doubt the elf’s courage. It put me to shame every time. I would trust my life to his blade. It’s his reason that I worry about. I would have thought that having a daughter would…” The tubes crackled to life again: “By the gods…the devastation… there is a radius of scorched and blackened earth here. There are many burnt bodies here…unrecognizable…steel melted into flesh…the wagons are burnt to crisp or scattered like toys…the horses, dear goddess, the horses…I count over a dozen bodies, so it must be the caravan guards too.” “Souriin, Souriin do you see any survivors? Is anyone alive? Where’s Flash?” “I’m walking amongst the bodies as we speak. I haven’t spotted any survivors yet, and I cannot recognize anyone because of the damage…the smell…” Euvgeni smashed his hand into the table. The whole table leaped up, spilling glass and crockery onto the floor. Grumplin could see a strange gleam in Euvgeni’s eyes, something feral and uncontrolled that made him want to hide. “Wait, wait…is movement under one of the wagons…hold on…I’ll have to move it.” Euvgeni looked at Grumplin: “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted that snake. I told Tekuna…” “Who?” The word slipped out before Grumplin could hold his tongue. “That snake Pierce. He’s the only one besides us who knew the location of the caravan. But to kill his own men? Would he be ruthless enough? Probably not. Not unless the situation had changed for him somehow.” The tubes interrupted their thoughts again. “He’s alive…he’s badly burnt and the wagon broke his leg…some ribs… but it covered him from the brunt of the explosion. I can’t believe his luck…I’m taking him to Sepyt…hang in there…” “Make sure he’s alright. I’ll hold the fort, but come back soon. Remember, we might need to evacuate the king.” “I understand, Euvgeni… Make sure Grumplin is safe…See you soon.” Outside, the trumpets sounded again, which meant that the invaders were making another charge at the barricade. The man’s voice was calm and soothing. Outside the horns sounded sporadically, signaling attacks. Jarron shifted, unsure of what to do. Helena was standing behind him. “Damalanthas…that’s from Rotan isn’t it? That’s a long way from here.” “Yes, but the circumstances are rather extreme, wouldn’t you say?” The man was cocky – Jarron had to give him that. “Look, I don’t have time to be flippant. My people are getting killed out there. Helena said you could help. How?” Damalanthas leaned on the table behind him. “I can take you to the King…” Jarron laughed. “Right, and I would be thrown in jail shortly after, or executed on the spot. And, in case you haven’t noticed, there is a siege on.” Damalanthas frowned. “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve lost control of your troops. They’re farmers, starving, and a whole lot angry at what’s happening. You will have full-scale slaughter on your hands unless you do something drastic soon. Is that what you want? Is that what you marched all this way for?” All the jabs were directed to the right place, and Jarron saw red. “How dare you strut in here in your pampered clothes and presume to tell me what’s good for my people?” “And how dare you presume to know what’s good for them if all you bring them is death?” They were standing face to face, and Jarron was heaving, clenching and unclenching his fists. Damus had predicted the conversation would go this way. They had rehearsed many times. The timing was perfect. Roleen touched Jarron’s arm, and it tensed like a spring. “Jarron, listen to me. The king has promised you free passage in and out of wherever you wish to go, within limits of safety. He has also given Damalanthas his word that he only wishes to speak to you.” “But Helena, if I see him, and it’s a trap, then everyone here is doomed…” She hugged him. “If you don’t see him, many people will die today. I think that alone is worth the risk. I’ll come with you, if you want.” He looked in Damalanthas’ eyes. Damus could feel the magic flux building. Jarron was untrained, but he had an immense raw talent and capacity for magic. “I want you to promise that you will return me safely here if I so desire.” There was an enchantment in his voice, but Damalanthas was ready. All his life he had spent pursuing magic in the sounds that surrounded him. That coupled with the Elven heritage hopefully gave him enough of an edge. “I…I promise.” The spell was not subtle, and the magic drilled into Damus like a large spike, suddenly and with the force of a battering ram. He let the compulsion slide over him, he let it pass through him, through the protections and charms he had placed earlier…and then it was gone. He opened his eyes, nodding imperceptibly to Roleen. “Get ready Jarron. Don’t hold onto anything heavy. You will feel dizzy upon arrival, but don’t panic.” He spread his hands, and started his Song of Travelling… “Jar-ron!” “Our Path to Light!” “Jar-ron!” “Our Path to Flame!” “Jar-ron!” The chant had been building for the last hour. Shanna had trained this group herself, but they were far beyond her control now. From a poor company of misfit soldiers and guards, the Mirrored Soul Regiment had grown in both skill and unity very quickly. And they changed. With each victory Shanna could see the changes becoming more and more evident. People looked up to them for guidance and leadership in the beginning, but as they became more and more fanatical to Jarron, they separated more and more from the rest of the refugees. This latest development had her particularly worried. They had somehow gotten hold of some very powerful trance-inducing bark, and they were using it before each battle now. The chant would induce some sort of fearlessness into them, making them oblivious to danger. They had broken past the eastern end of the barricade and they were trying to hold the breach against the desperate defenders. For every companion that fell, five defenders would follow. Shanna had seen some battles, but none like this one. This was neither the agreed on encounter, nor the maneuvering of units around a preset engagement. This wasn’t even a vicious siege that one would expect. The defenders were nearly as numerous as the refugees but ever since the rumor spread that the refugees were demon-possessed, the defenders fought as if protecting their very souls. What had ensued was a disorganized slaughter as farmers hacked farmers with scythes, as carpenters bludgeoned merchants with smithing hammers. The refugees had broken like a wave on the barrier several times already, but it wasn’t until the Mirrored Soul Regiment had entered the fray that they were able to make a breach. They were stuck now in the surrounding buildings as the breach they had fought so hard to open was closed behind them by a determined and lethal group of southerner berserkers. The tables had turned and they were the ones besieged now, and Shanna didn’t like it one bit. Already the southernmost building was overwhelmed as crazed town-folk put the structure to the torch. The men tried to rally out into the streets, but they were quickly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of flesh. Each died fearlessly, with Jarron’s name on his last breath. Now, the soldiers she was stuck with were preparing to charge out, while the majority of the crowd concentrated on burning down another building. She had prayed to Artafor for guidance several times already, using special mantras known only to select few of her order, but where normally she would have basked in Artafor’s warmth, there was a deliberate absence of answers, which was very disconcerting. “Arise all in Jarron’s name!” The change in the chant surprised her, breaking her out of her contemplation. “The time has come! Slay the tyrant for Jarron! Let no-one stand in your path! Stand where others falter! There is no dishonor in battle! Go!” Suddenly quiet, the soldiers readied their gear. Shanna put on her helm. She prayed to Artafor that her death would mean something. “On the count of three…” They readied in twin ranks by the door to the building. “One…” Shanna recalled her inauguration into the clergy. They were so young and full of dreams. And she was so proud and fulfilled in becoming a servant of order and law. “Two…” She remembered the first time Artafor spoke to her heart. His voice and power filled her to the brim, expanding her potential, showing her the path to take; giving her dreams a real starting point. “Three!” The door opened with a crash, and they spilled onto the street in a crazed, bellowing charge. All sounds faded to her humming ears save her own pounding heartbeat and the clang of her mace. She ducked a bloody sword, and her mace connected with a knee. Her helmet rang as something hit her from behind, but a quick command spell froze the man in place. She slammed the spiked ball into his midriff and he went down. The crowd was melting before their rush. Something hit her arm and she cried out in pain, nearly dropping her weapon. She swung automatically, without looking. Her arm jarred painfully as the mace crunched into something soft and she grunted, more in satisfaction than in pain. She half-turned and her world crashed around her. Her vision focused on a ten-year-old child, bloody knife in hand (a girl?) falling slowly to the ground. The mace dropped from her nerveless hand as the small shape hit the ground. In the distance, somewhere far beyond her focus, several guards were screaming at her, trying to keep her retreat open. One went down as a rock split his head open. Shanna dropped to her knees beside the child. She (it was a girl after all) was coughing blood weakly. Her eyes were glazed, but she smiled weakly up at the cleric. Shanna took hold of her head with shaking hands, but she couldn’t focus. She looked around at the dying people. Where was the order she had fought so many years to preserve? Where was the peace that the people needed? A man slid slowly to the ground next to her. She tried calling to Artafor again, but she couldn’t force the words past her clenched mouth. The girl’s blood was warm on her hands, and she sobbed in frustration, now desperately trying to summon the healing that had always come so easily before. Where was her faith now, when she needed it most? The child shuddered, and breathed out gently. She pulled her closer, rocking her, the words of her healing prayers stuttering meaninglessly from her lips. She wiped her blurry eyes with the back of her glove. There was a woman screaming in front of her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she mouthed silently to her. Suddenly, there was an angry man with her, grief chiseled on his face, hatred in his eyes. He was holding her mace up in the air. She slipped the helm off, letting it clatter to the ground and looked down… Jarron blinked the sparks out of his eyes. He looked around. He was in a large hall in the company of foreigners. There were large woodsmen lining the walls. He looked to the dais. There was a proud man seated there. To his right stood a hulking warrior bristling with menacing weapons. To the left stood a robed man, leaning on a staff. Next to him was a nervous halfling, who smiled and waved to him. He steeled himself as Damalanthas spoke up next to him. “Your Majesty – Jarron Tilessin.” Jarron bowed his head, refusing to kneel. There was an uncomfortable silence. Damalanthas spoke up again: “Your Majesty, there is no time for this. We’re here for a reason…” The king animated, his voice slowly gaining in strength as he spoke. “Yes, of course. Hrm, hrm. Jarron, I want you to know that your safety is assured no matter what the result of this meeting is.” Jarron could feel his hands trembling. Here, before him sat the wretch who was responsible for it all. Here was the focus of the people’s suffering. He couldn’t stand silent like the others. “Why…? Just tell me why you chose to ignore us all?” The words rang like a knell in the silence of the hall, hammering their accusations. The king visibly shrank into the throne, but there was defiance in his gaze. “I had done everything in my power to help my people. The city reserves are empty…” “You do not answer the people when they cry your name for help!” “I listen to them all, each and every accusation like a stone on my back…but after a while I stopped answering. There are only so many false comforts a king can promise before he hates himself for it. I could not continue so.” “You could have sent for help…” The king sighed, smiling sadly. “I did, Jarron. As Artafor is my witness, I have lost all my dignity begging for aid. Most could not help, after all everyone is still recovering from the blight, and what help came was mostly sabotaged.” “We needed a king to show us the way!” “I was trying Jarron, but everyone scattered so much after the destruction of the cities that we were caught unprepared. I’m so sorry, but I tried everything.” Each accusation cut Loren like a sharp edge, but he sat rigid and still. Jarron had come all this way, dragged so many people to their deaths, and here, at the end of the road, he was wrong. He covered his face with shaking hands. He had failed his god, and he had failed his people. The king wasn’t the tyrant that he had imagined, living off people’s suffering and he wasn’t the savior that would bring his people salvation. “Who…who would sabotage the aid? Why?” Damalanthas spoke up. “There are people in whose interest it lies to see the region destabilized. It was done for money and power, Jarron.” “Who…?” “Helena’s mistress, the patron of your quest.” Jarron looked up incredulously at the bard. They would stoop as low as to blame his allies… “You can’t be serious. I know you were told that I am a simple farmer, but…” “Stop!” The bard’s sudden command brought Jarron’s stammering to a halt. “Do you think that we’re playing games here? There are hundreds of lives at stake. We have all made the same mistake: we assumed that violence would not break out so quickly. Unfortunately, stories of you being possessed spread suddenly, and panic ensued. I would not even bother with such allegations unless I had the proof to back them.” The man leaning on the staff whispered something to the halfling. The halfling shook his head. The man pushed him gently forward. Jarron’s head was beginning to swim. Damalanthas put his hand over the halfling’s shoulder as he approached. “This is Grumplin. He has been an outside observer for the last couple of weeks. He has seen things that you must see. His mind is the most ordered of any that we have as yet encountered, and his memories will tell you the true story as he’s seen it. It’s not a trap Jarron. We could have killed you a long time ago, but we want to see all this resolved peacefully. Look, at least. Make an informed decision.” They broke through the crowd of soldiers in a wave of madness. In such close quarters the long blades of the southerners worked against them, and they were able to force a retreat into the Hall chambers for a while. The drug-induced fires in his mind kept him hewing long past the pain in his arms. His voice was gone and he could no longer scream oaths to Jarron, or to the Mirrored Soul. His chest was heaving, laboring to provide him enough air to keep running. All limbs, heads and weapons that he could see were fair targets for his daggers, but he was becoming aware of his strain now. That meant that the bark stew was wearing off. They had broken through the initial wall of surprised foreigners, but running through the high arched corridors, they were quickly bogged down by staunch resistance. Soon after, they scattered in different directions as they realized that they would be worn down eventually. He was running with five others. They hadn’t seen any guards for the last couple of minutes, but they were hopelessly lost. They slowed down in unison. He was getting the shakes and he couldn’t keep his hands still, and he could see that the others were similarly affected. Soon they wouldn’t be able to stand. He halted them with hand signals, and indicated to the bedroom doors. They opened them quietly, confidently spreading into the room. His eyelids were beginning to droop, and he was having difficulty standing. Borreck sank to the floor next to him as he closed the doors behind them. The bark didn’t affect him as badly as the others; he was able to stagger past the bodies of his companions to the fireplace. Propped up, he sat down heavily, facing the door. There was a sound of voices somewhere. He put his ear to the chimney. “…Your majesty, now is the time for us to take advantage, while he’s vulnerable.” “No.” “But Loren, he’s merged with Grumplin’s mind now. He won’t be able to resist the charm enchantment from me now.” “I said no, Damalanthas, I trust he will make the right judgement.” “I strongly protest. It’s his judgement that brought him to your gates. This is what we planned. It’s our only chance to strike.” “What do you say, Euvgeni?” He was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate. The stone of the fireplace was as soft as a pillow against his cheek. “…missed opportunity. Sometimes there is no right or wrong Loren. Sometimes a monarch has to make choices based on intuition. It’s your kingdom – make the choice.” “Souriin…?” “…could damage Grumplin. I’m against it. If the charm wears off, we would be back to step one, and worse off than before.” He was drifting into sleep, and the comfort of the wall behind his back was too much. He slept, untroubled by dreams. Grumplin’s memories flashed by, threatening to overwhelm Jarron’s reason. It was like a jumbled collection of rooms. He would open a door (the ones that would open), and peer inside. Only it wasn’t just sight. He would smell the air, taste the food. Oh, the food. The flavor of things was incredible. He could taste the texture, the composition and even the temperature. Some sensations he could not even understand, not having the senses to interpret them. It all played an important part of the halfling’s eating experience. And sometimes he would open a door and he would drown in a deluge of emotion. It was difficult to shake off as well. Puzzling the events out piece by piece, Jarron could see that Grumplin’s memories spoke the truth: the Lords were right. He and all the refugees had been duped into storming Feroll. He had been so stupid, so gullible. And Helena? Why had she betrayed him? Or had she? After all, it was she that called Damalanthas. Jarron had always known when the crucial moments in his life would occur. He knew he was at a crossroads and the decision on how to proceed rested firmly on his shoulders. The magic pulsed just under his skin, eager and all consuming, ready to be summoned at his merest whim. Images of dead women, starving children and bleeding farmers breathing hatred at each other filled his mind. Pain begot pain. They were hurt so they hurt someone else. A self-perpetuating cycle of discord. The magic welled within him in a tide of sorrow, and he broke out of Grumplin’s mind, his spirit soaring like a wounded phoenix into the skies above the buildings. Men were scurrying like little flickering lights below him, but he saw their souls rather than their bodies, dark and twisted by the fear, misery and hatred. Some were blazing in red anger, others were flickering and dying. All around him Jarron could see the dead departing. A couple would hang around as if lost and abandoned, others would streak upwards and disappear from his sight. This was all so pointless, so unnecessary. Feeling hurt and abandoned, Jarron prayed to Artafor, each word making his purpose clearer. Her brother was going to pay dearly for this. There was no way she could exact revenge sweet enough for making her come to Feroll. The tables were turned momentarily, but Claris always made sure that all of her debts were paid in full. He would squeal like a little girl before the week was out. She could hear the shouting and clashing of weapons in the courtyard below. They had teleported here safely, but the risk of her ending up in the ground made her queasy. Julius (the mage she had hired from Pirs) was capable enough, but like all mages he was unpredictable at the best of times. Irritated at everything, she turned to the city official. “Well, do you have the goods?” He was sweating and his clothes reeked of several days of continuous use. “Yes mistress, but the price has changed.” She paled at that. The little snivelling worm presumed to renegotiate? “How dare you, you traitorous rat! Is what I offer not enough for your black heart?” He shrank closer to the shadows, looking around to see if anyone heard her. “Mistress, I’m the Minister of the Treasury, and I would be hanged if they found out about this little business deal of ours, assuming I don’t die when the ship sinks. Take me with you. Surely you can use my talents elsewhere? The city walls are coming down on top of us.” “Give-me-the-scepter. Then we’ll talk.” He moved further away from her. “I’m afraid that I have to decline your offer and find a different buyer.” She turned to her companion. “Julius, Reggie is being uncooperative. Change his mind for me, would you?” The little man turned to run, but the door in front of him sealed with a hiss. He screamed in terror seeing his escape close and tried to head for the window. The carpet morphed into a fist, slamming him into the wall. “Ok, don’t hurt me. Aaaah. It’s under the sofa in the corner. Don’t kill me.” She nodded to Julius, and the little man dropped in a heap on the floor. She approached the wingback chair. Sure enough there was an elongated bundle underneath. She ripped the wrapping hastily. The gem flashed its facets at her even before she had the scepter out. She ripped the rest of the paper off. It was beautiful. The rod was made of platinum, faces of past monarchs etched into it. The top bit flared into a cup of flames. In the cup, held by the tongues of fire was the greatest sapphire she had ever seen. It was deeply azure in color and it was sculpted into a starburst fully the size of her fist. Claris stood still holding the scepter, dazzled by the gem. There was a strange glimmer within. Holding it carefully, she brought the scepter closer to her eyes. There was definitely a light inside. She looked closer still. The gem held a figure of a little man, arms outstretched. Startled, she gasped. With a sudden wrench, the scepter left her hands. She made a lunge for it, but it was far faster than she was and it cleared the window with a crash of glass. “Noooo.” The doors still glimmered with Julius’ magic, preventing her passage. Red with barely suppressed rage, Claris clenched her teeth and calmed herself looking furiously at the calm mage. “Julius, you useless parlor jester, take me home!” The scepter came to rest next to Jarron, pulsing in clear blue light. Jarron arose from his kneeling position. He grasped the scepter in both hands, raising it above his head. In the background, a translucent barrier arose as Souriin wove his protections around the king. Everyone drew back, giving Jarron a wide circle of space. There were voices in the hall, and people looked around in fear as spirits materialized, spinning in a maelstrom above the scepter. “Father of Gods, I understand Your purpose now. I give myself to Your cause, as do the others to guard it.” He turned slowly to Loren. A spark from the maelstrom burst the translucent wall, popping it like a soap bubble. Milky, white eyes stared at the young king, boring into him mercilessly. The maelstrom was building in strength as the spirits sped up to a howling blur. Jarron spoke again, but this time his voice resounded in the hall above the noise of the gale. “Trying times come for our lands, and it shall take a united stand from the kingdoms to withstand the storm that brews on the horizon. We are an aggressive people, quarreling amongst ourselves for the smallest of reasons, and if broken into small scraps of land, we shall fall.” The scepter slowly floated to Loren. “Take this gift from Artafor. It is imbued with his favor. It will assist any monarch anointed by a high-priest of Artafor to rule his people justly. In the hands of a true leader of men under whom the kingdoms have united, it will become a powerful weapon for justice and a beacon of light to which people can rally in the darkness ahead.” Pulsating brightly, the scepter lowered in front of Loren, searing his eyes dry with its heat. “Take the Sceptre of Office with Artafor’s blessing. Know that you rule in His favor. You are the custodian of the flame, the one judged strong enough to pass it onto the rightful successor. Use it wisely.” Jarron was becoming more and more translucent. One by one, the ghosts descended on the scepter, disappearing inside the gem in small discharges of energy. Jarron was fading quickly. His voice was dulled, as if he was far away. “ I wasn’t wrong your majesty, just misguided. Have mercy on the people who came to see you. They will serve you gladly once they understand. I…I wish I had the knowledge that I possess now back when it all started. It would all have made so much more sense.” He was hardly visible now. With a last static burst, the rod flared like a torch of azure flames. The hall grew quiet. Then with a mournful clang of metal, the scepter fell to the ground, and the flames flickered out. She waited and waited for the blow to end her misery, until she could bear it no more. She looked up with a sob. The man was still clutching her mace, frozen in place by conflicting emotions. His grief was evident by the tears smudging the dust on his face, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to kill her. She slowly stood up, and as if deactivated by a switch, his arms dropped to his sides. People were fighting all around her, but to her they were just illusions of characters in a play. A light burst from the library, spilling out of every window. It crept forward like mist, enveloping more and more buildings. Where it touched the people, combat stopped. She waited, not even willing to summon enough energy to run. As the mist enveloped her, her head lightened. There were shades of people flowing like wisps of smoke. Whispers invaded her head. Someone was calling her. She turned slowly, knowing to whom the voice belonged. The little girl she had struck down was standing in front of her in a plain flowing dress. Shanna drew back, tears welling in her eyes again. The girl’s feet were not touching the ground, and she was translucent. Her voice was distant and empty: “Don’t run away, please. I have to tell you something.” Shanna stopped. The buildings around her had a blue tint to them. “I have to show you that you only did what you were meant to do.” Shanna looked around wildly. All around her, people were conversing with spirits. The little girl approached her. She smiled as her little hand touched her face. Shanna saw into her heart, sobbing in relief. The girl was happy fulfilling a purpose. It gave her a will to continue. She closed her eyes in wonder, bathing in the glow of serenity that flowed through her. Through the girl, she could feel Artafor again – and with amazement she realized that he had never left her heart. It was she that had closed herself to His presence, unable to bear her guilt. As it left her body, the long sigh carried with it all her doubt and sorrow. Invigorated, she opened her eyes to the sunshine. Everything was familiar again – the light was gone. People were moving around as if waking from a collective dream. Shanna could hear no clash of steel anywhere. She knew the truth now – instinctively. Jarron had given something of himself to everyone here. She could feel him in her heart and she stood there silently for a while, awed by the clarity of her thoughts and the vision of her purpose. All around her, people gathered themselves, helping one another to their feet. She retrieved her mace, but it felt odd in her hand – as if she had never used it before. Slowly limping, she made her way towards the library. (Now read the epilogue.) |