Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates - Book One

Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates Nathan P. Cardwell

Rendering Nirayel - Wayward Fates Copyright © 2007 Nathan P. Cardwell All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Double Dragon eBooks PO Box 54016 1-5762 Highway 7 East Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada http://double-dragon-ebooks.com http://double-dragon-publishing.com Layout and Cover Illustration by Deron Douglas www.derondouglas.com ISBN-10: 1-55404-470-7 ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-470-2 First Edition July 24, 2007 Also Available as a Large Type Paperback Now Available as paperback and hard cover A Celebration of Cover Art: 2001 to 2006 Five Years of Cover Art [Companion calendars also available] www.double-dragon-ebooks.com

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Private residence-08/01/10-3:30 AM-2150 110th Street-Tulsa, Oklahoma. Dieter Hoffman sat before his computer, shoulders, lids, and chin drooping. It was early, even for someone whose devotion to a favorite pastime usually found him at it late, early, and anytime his spouse might be absent, or otherwise indisposed. Besides, his brother-in-law, the Twerp, was supposed to be logging on soon. "Twerp," he muttered disdainfully while slipping several inches further into a more pronounced slouch. Despite his inability to achieve a more attentive posture, he did manage to register the coffee maker's familiar sputtering, and in response, his body seemed to commence its own assertions. The muscles in his legs tensed while his hands grasped the armrests in preparation for, or perhaps hopeful anticipation of, some further correspondence. The remainder took several moments, though the continued collective insistence of his appendages did finally prompt a semi-coherent rejoinder from their more academic partner. After dragging himself to the kitchen, he emptied the entire pot into a very large mug, and then returned to put on his headset. This last part of the ritual was to avoid waking his wife at such an early hour. Much like his ability to detect coffee, an aversion to disturbing Sarah before daybreak had invariably made its way to the top of Dieter's priority list. Finally, he clicked the enter button. The first thing he heard was the sound of muffled footsteps, followed quickly by a low and throaty growling as he whirled about to confront the Candlis goblin of The Talisman Quest , just as it pounced. *** 08/01/10-3:30 AM-{Location unknown} Orval reached for the door handle, and then paused to regain his composure. He hated unscheduled inspections. Ironically, these were the very types of interruptions that had always brought about the majority of delays for which the inspectors were so concerned, not that he could ever include such information in any report. For that matter, he had not actually submitted a written report in quite a few years. Apparently, when mixed with matters of national security, bureaucracy becomes an excellent medium for those who prefer a minimum of communication. Understandably, this had generated a certain deficit of viable rationale, and without implicating the true source of the aforementioned delays, he was unavoidably forced to become somewhat inventive. However, in the due course of time, plausible excuses became less and less abundant. Eventually, he had been forced to fall back on a number of somewhat less than plausible excuses, and thereby prompted an even greater interest by his superiors. At first, this had been handled easily enough through a few pre-recorded messages. This is Doctor Kwibee. I'm not in the office right now. Please leave your message at the beep. Of course, since he actually never replied to any given request, grievance, demand, and or any incoherent hysteria that may have been logged over a period of eighteen months, he found that the bureaucrats' concerns were yet again elevated to that rare point wherein the system of government actually takes action. The wheels of bureaucracy do in fact turn. This usually occurs when bureaucrats become the victims of their own rust. Thus did Colonel Terrance Hereford arrive. Hereford was an obnoxious little man with no technical background whatsoever. What he did have going for him was an overbearing personality, a complete lack of tact, and a rather acute case of halitosis. In short, the perfect prerequisite for a bureaucratic, bean-counting squeaky wheel. Even so, Orval found this latest of the Colonel's visits to be quite disturbing. Why would they pull an inspection at this time of day unless something was up? Something like the replacement of hard-

working civilian contractors, with no talent, backstabbing military hacks! Don't jump the gun, Orval, he cautioned himself, taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and then closing his eyes while quickly reviewing the periodic table. Several therapeutic breaths later, he opened the door. "Good morning, Colonel," he offered with a smile and what he hoped was a casual tone. Hereford remained seated, but did swivel about to face him. "Have a seat, Doctor Kwibee," he offered in a dry, professional voice while gesturing to the chair opposite him, at the other end of the long conference table. "Well, I'm sure you're anxious to get down to business," he offered pleasantly, determined to conceal his irritation. He had just been invited to sit down in his own conference room while the chair offered was at the opposite end of the table in relation to his own chair, now occupied by the good Colonel. He took the seat offered, and then opened his satchel, withdrawing the same documentation of support that he had used on all of Hereford's previous visits. Several pages were actually becoming somewhat dog-eared, thereby denoting subject matter found to be particularly puzzling by the Colonel. "Let me begin by saying we're all very excited by recent breakthroughs. We have assembled the finest team of researchers and programmers in the country, and all things considered, the accumulative progress has been phenomenal, to say the least." "Excellent. Then may I assume we can begin with…" "Nevertheless, it behooves me to remind the Colonel that we are far from ready to release anything for testing, much less for any military application." At this, Hereford stared back at him with an expression as unreadable as stone. Orval was no fool. Hereford's reputation for results through intimidation was the cornerstone to the man's entire career. Still, in the long and awkward moment to follow, he found himself glowering right back at the portly Colonel in spite of himself. Time, and relentless Governmental badgering, had long since chipped away any true sense of diplomatic charity. Hereford broke the silence. "Doctor, I'm sure you have the best interests of the pilots at heart. The problem is that this project is both over budget, and overdue. In fact, you've been behind schedule for the last five years. The truth is that I've stalled the Committee for just about as long as I can." Oh, sure you did, Orval thought incredulously. "If you expect to continue as Project leader, I'm going to need more to go on." "Okay," began Orval with as much resolve as he could muster. "It just isn't possible to make you fully aware of the depth of technical details surrounding this project within the time frame allotted. No offense, Colonel, but you're essentially a layman here, and since your superiors have necessitated that I become answerable to someone lacking the required technical background, then I cannot help but find myself handicapped in my ability to communicate. That being the case, the best I can offer is a summary of fundamental applications and basic theory." "Oh, that," intoned Colonel Hereford warily. "Yes, that. That's fine, Doctor, but this time I'll expect a complete hard copy of all raw data to be placed in my hand before I return to Washington." "But…" "You remember Washington, don't you? It's the place with all those nice people in the oddly shaped building who keep sending you truckloads of money."

The remainder of Orval's congenial expression faltered. He had always been reluctant to deliver written reports, which had been verbally requested. If they actually were contemplating the replacement of his team, then he would be unable to appeal such an action. In fact, without the evidence of a written request, they could use his report literally to appropriate the entire project. He half suspected this had been their ultimate goal for some time. "So, that said," continued the Colonel after what seemed like an eternity, "if you're still interested in providing me with another of your little presentations, then I would be only too happy to cooperate." Orval collected his thoughts, and then took another deep breath before commencing his oration of the project's definition in the most predigested and generic descriptions feasible. Hereford had already heard a great deal of this before. Still, it had been Orval's experience that the Colonel's powers of observation were somewhat less than razor sharp. This would be Orval's fourth session to define the project for the man, including individual component layout, and a good deal of its history as well. *** Dieter quickly sidestepped, thereby avoiding the full brunt of the creature's attack. Still, his life meter had dropped by an increment of one point, denoting his opponent's first strike before he was able to place it under the target cursor. Mildly frustrated, he quickly tapped the W button, thus drawing his sword, and then clicked on his attacker in a well-practiced motion. His character then drove the weapon in a forward thrust and right through the goblin's chest. As it fell to its knees, the creature dropped to the ground the prize it carried, while shrieking a curse of revenge with its last vile breath. "May it serve thee well!" *** "The Infrasubliminal Bio-Optic Translator, or IBOT, utilizes a number of established technologies, and a number of newer technologies in unison, to accomplish all of its parameter directives. Our current success in these areas has been astonishing, but by in large untested. I'll elaborate on this as I define each function." Yet again , he added silently. "Of course, there's no need for me to brief you on the established technologies, other than to say that they are no more than industry standard materials. I'm sure you're already aware of what this involves, since it was the government who provided all pre-existing software formats." In fact, Colonel Hereford had never been briefed on this matter, but he wasn't about to let Kwibee know it. "So," Orval continued. "I'll just cut right to the culmination of newer technologies developed, and how it all works together." "The first package is essentially a ping-based form of stealth infiltration software, designed to locate, analyze, and then emulate any given type of existing virtual environment. Once that contact is secured, another of our newer technologies, Digital Impulse Transference, or DIT, is then implemented upon connection with the human target and or targets within the virtual setting." "I know, I know. It's like putting their brains somewhere else. Please, just skip…"

"Of course, it is not actually possible physically to transfer someone's mind, but IBOT does the next best thing by utilizing a stream of rapid signal bursts through a common svga monitor to broadcast a subliminal infiltration, and thus tapping directly into the target's subconscious." The Colonel sighed heavily, his acquiescent, though downcast expression perhaps comparable to an adolescent version of himself after receiving a dosage of castor oil while pretending to be too sick to go to school. Kwibee paused, momentarily glancing over his glasses to deliver an expectant expression to the Colonel, who then promptly cleared his throat while returning his attention to his own dog-eared copy of Kwibee's documentation. "Once the link is established, the program excludes any other ambient personnel who may be within imaging range of that particular connection. This is a security feature we implemented after several mishaps in our initial testing. This is not to imply that multiple targets cannot be acquired. It would simply necessitate the incorporation of multiple connections to the simulator." The Colonel appeared as if he were about to say something, but reconsidered when he realized that Kwibee had already paused to gaze at him expectantly once again from over the top of his bifocals. "At this point, the monitor literally becomes an information inlet, allowing IBOT to deliver its data stream to the target, thus facilitating the re-allocation of certain unemployed sectors of the frontal lobe to safely bypass and store information, thereby allowing the program to move on to the next stage." This is where we came upon a bit of a snag, moaned the Colonel inwardly. "This is where we came upon a bit of a snag," Orval continued. "With the inlet established, we still lacked an outlet. The information inside the subject could not return to IBOT for processing without the use of Electroencephalography, which would require electrodes maintain physical contact with the subject's skull. So we developed a sequence of reactionary batch commands in the DIT that serve to assimilate subject specific data, then returns through electric impulses found within the same spectrum as emitted by the human brain. This information is then recorded, and finally translated into any computer related language needed." This isn't my new uniform, thought the Colonel ruefully. They must still have it at the cleaners. Did I remind them about the starch? "The next problem was data retrieval. Specifically, the translated information in the target's mind had nowhere to go. We needed a hardware component on the target's end of the line to serve as a catalyst. Regrettably, the closest electronic device resembling what we required were the types of microphones used in the early voice recognition packages. This lacked the requisite spectrum sensitivity for DIT. Well, we were suffering a number of cutbacks at the time. At the risk of sounding blunt, we simply lacked the resources to develop this technology on our own." This last statement was punctuated by a brief accusatory glance in the Colonel's direction. "So, in the fall of 1996, we initiated a carefully orchestrated infiltration of a number of the top hardware manufacturers by our own people. We figured, 'Why not let the private sector do the work for us?' This wasn't exactly a new tactic, and since the overhead of that operation was so low, the commission was quick to approve our expenses." *** "Jesse?" Dieter queried quietly, moving closer to the microphone while glancing nervously in the direction of the bedroom, where his dear wife yet hopefully continued to sleep. "Dammit, Twerp!" he

whispered as loudly as he dared. "I'm stuck in the gol-darned Candlis Mountains! Jes? You there, Bubba?" *** "After a brief period, wherein we allowed our people to establish key positions within each company, they were sent out as moles, approaching each other's companies for the purpose of selling industrial secrets. The technology we needed to incorporate was then sold in the guise of new developments, which had supposedly been earmarked for future product release, yet still required extensive research. Incidentally, the revenue from those proceeds managed to fund the project for two more consecutive years." "Really?" intoned the Colonel. "I don't remember you mentioning that before…" "The resulting reverse engineering afforded the perfect medium for a wildfire of stolen DIT technology. In a matter of weeks we had several corporations working on the very improvements we needed. Best of all, there was no way of determining any other purpose for the included specifications since DIT doesn't register until activated through a series of IBOT-encoded instructions. Besides, it's not as if the public hasn't profited. The level of sensitivity in the latest generation of market-side digital microphones is far better than it would have been without our intervention." *** 08/01/10-3:52 AM-{Location unknown} After his briefing, the Colonel was escorted through several sets of security doors, and then to a lab where the majority of development and testing took place, and where the Doctor's demonstration had been set up just prior to his arrival. Unfortunately, there hadn't been a great deal of notice, so Orval was only able to throw together a basic presentation. Still, he hoped this idea would at last serve to illustrate the massive advances made without further need of a written report. Hereford was seated at the terminal and given a headset with built-in microphone. He listened as Doctor Kwibee droned on, absorbing what information he felt was relevant. The rest was mostly bells and whistles meant to impress, but had very little to do with any possible flight simulator application. He understood the virtual upgrades were of an internal nature, and that a great deal of effort had been devoted to the augmentation of simulators in ways involving the employment of the pilot's own mental resources. What he didn't understand was why the Doctor felt so obsessed with conveying every detail to him. After all, his only official participation in the operation was to secure and deliver data the Doctor had been so reluctant to provide in the first place. These little presentations didn't really serve anyone's purpose. Next to the Colonel's computer was yet another computer, in front of which the Doctor himself took a seat. Pinched for time as they were, they paid no great deal of attention to whose computer was to be used for the Colonel's demonstration. Orval had grabbed up one of the spares belonging to some Junior Assistant. As per the Doctor's instruction, the Colonel entered the prescribed program. This was an outdated trainer for first generation F-16 jets. He was acquainted with this program, but hadn't seen it in years. He was amazed that it actually functioned on the current operating system, considering that it was based on an old 3D wire-frame graphics engine. Of course, back when it had first been implemented, it was considered the fastest and safest technique available, not to mention the cheapest. It probably had

saved a couple hundred billion in cracked-up planes alone. However, by today's standards and today's planes, this was not very impressive. Now it was the Doctor's turn. The Colonel didn't actually witness the power's being turned on. The brief, yet lengthy flicker of numerals denoting the registration of processor speed was his only indication. Otherwise, from the point at which Kwibee sat down, to the point when IBOT's desktop actually came on line, the expanse of time was, for all intent and purpose, undetectable. If he hadn't known better, Terrance would have sworn that Kwibee had only switched on the monitor. As he completed the link, Orval noticed his expression. "Research and Development, Colonel," he answered the question yet to be asked. "It's all part of the same package," he continued before Hereford could interrupt. "IBOT had to be based on hardware capable of providing sufficient latitude. In order to accomplish that, we had to develop our own hardware." "Hardware?" "Storage and containment was the original problem. Development had fits over it for years. Then we came up with the Sphere drive." "Hardware development is fine for research, Doctor, but you're never going to get approval for mass production when your funding is based on upgrades to programming." "You'll only need the one unit, Colonel, unless you intend to train more than fifty thousand pilots at a time." "Oh." "Hard drives as you know them function on disks. Our drive is still based on skuzzy technology, but the design is spherical. Disk drives are limited, in that they can only function in two dimensions of operation. The Sphere drive functions in all three dimensions, and it does so at a velocity approaching that of light. This dynamism allows for the mapping of such complex structures as the marriage between human and virtual memory, or storage and containment, if you prefer." Prefer what? thought Terrance irritably while still wondering how to pronounce the SCSI label beneath the hard drive's indicator light. "Unfortunately, this result prompted yet another problem. The heat build-up appeared to be insurmountable. Fortunately, the final solution turned out to be rather simple. The sphere was given an internal power source, which in turn enabled us to incorporate the processor into the same unit, thus providing remote operation through the drive's chassis, which remains hard-wired. The drive was then suspended in a vacuum through opposing magnetic fields, which also serve as data conduits. Once the overall package was submerged in liquid hydrogen, the majority of problems one might expect with heat build up were eliminated. Then, thanks to yet another of the government's included supplements, we were able to base the entire substructure on Nanotube technology. This reduced the remainder of our heat levels to an acceptable and indefinite range. Other than that, the entire package is no more than the most basic of components needed to allow the DIT to function externally." At this, the Colonel casually folded his arms together, and then slowly relaxed against the chair's backrest while raising one eyebrow. This was one of his more successful poses. It offered an unconcerned bearing while still projecting an expression of both interest and authority. Most important of all, it concealed his unavoidable ignorance. "Now, for the purpose of this demonstration," Orval continued, "we will suspend the standard adjustment of settings usually made by the program. After all, the only purpose here is to allow you to get an idea of IBOT's abilities."

"Uhh…okay." "As you can see, I've selected a relatively primitive trainer. I'm sure you've no doubt seen this one before. As a matter of fact, this program wasn't actually capable of functioning on this system. I had a few adjustments made in order to allow it to operate, but I assure you it's still the same program you remember." "I hope you aren't about to tell me you've spent the last twenty-five years and forty billion dollars on refurbished software, Doctor." "However," continued Orval, ignoring the Colonel's continuous display of bombastic ignorance, "when IBOT detects the virtual target, it will initiate enhancements designed to elevate the same detected program to a level of realism rivaling that of our own reality. To do this, IBOT literally consumes the program by transferring both it and the user's connection to the sphere drive, thereby allowing its enhancements to take place and insuring a maximum integrity of all security lockouts." "Program transfer?" "Whether or not the subject or subjects are to maintain their original identity structure is a matter of direct transfer, or re-allocation of the subject's identity by either manual instruction, or by initializing IBOT's deductive computations to determine the proper structure in relation to the situation." "Identity?" "One point to remember: once these parameters are set into motion, they cannot be altered without compromising the integrity of the program. What's more, if IBOT's security interprets any such compromise as a threat, it won't allow the alteration without the utilization of a specialized filtration program that I developed as a diagnostic." "What has any of this to do with flight…?" "Pilot reactions in training cannot be properly evaluated if they're aware that there is no actual danger. IBOT removes this element, thereby securing the integrity of the test. It can be utilized with any of your simulators, and the pilots wouldn't even be aware. Even the most experienced of pilots won't expect a test initiated by remote. The subjects being tested can be placed in any situation required, programmed to believe the situation is as real as required, and then have the entire experience erased, if required." "That doesn't sound like anything I was ever briefed on!" exclaimed the Colonel. "My research has been funded for the sole purpose of maximizing pilot performance. Nothing was ever stipulated about any sort of restrictions, so long as I provide results!" It was the first time he had ever raised his voice to Hereford. It was also the first time the Colonel had ever balked. Damn, that felt good! "Furthermore," he continued, hoping to avoid any further discussion on the topic of appropriation, "if these new developments test out successfully, the entire concept of education, medicine, and many other applications in general could change the way in which our entire society functions." "How so?" "Why psychoanalyze when the problem can be seen directly? Why hold a trial when you can just display the facts? Why spend two or more decades of your life in school when all you need do is download?" At this, the Colonel raised an eyebrow as the implications began to set in. Orval could tell the man was caught off balance. It was time.

*** 08/01/10-4:00 AM-{Location unknown} "In this demonstration, you will be maintaining your identity structure in order to maintain an objective evaluation." "I appreciate that," the Colonel intoned. He was becoming a bit irritated with this flamboyant display. "Let's just get this over with." *** 08/01/10-4:01 AM-{Location unknown} Colonel Hereford sat drenched in sweat, his heart beating so hard that he could hear the blood rushing through his ears. Momentarily, he came to realize not all the moisture he felt was from sweat alone. "I had no idea!" he finally managed, and then made as if to stand, knocking the mouse over in an attempt to brace himself as he discovered that his legs had not quite recovered the process. He quickly dropped back to the chair, allowing himself to take full advantage of the backrest. "Are you all right, Colonel?" Orval asked, exhibiting genuine concern. "Hell no, I'm not all right!" he exclaimed, not quite managing a shout. "You just placed me smack dab in the middle of World War Three! I was just about to get a MiG enema if you hadn't pulled me out when you did!" "I assure you, Colonel, you were perfectly safe…" "Why in God's name did you leave me in there so long?" "How long did it feel like?" "Well… I don't suppose it could have been more than eight or maybe ten minutes, but I assure you, ten minutes is an eternity when you're in a dogfight, not to mention that I was outgunned!" At this, Kwibee's grin broadened as he relaxed within his own chair, adopting a pose of satisfaction not entirely dissimilar to the Colonel's own recently lost composure. "Was that your idea of a joke, Doctor? Because if it was, then you're one sick son of a…" "No, sir. I meant no disrespect, though I did feel it was necessary to illustrate the program in such a way as would have an impact." The Colonel's expression had long since lost its quality of polished authority, but at the mention of the word "impact," he involuntarily shuddered, as the lingering memory of his impending conclusion when the MiG's last missile fired came rushing momentarily to the forefront of his attention. "As a matter of fact," offered the Doctor in hopes of distracting the man from his obvious state of outrage, "the entire experience was not eight or ten minutes. Your consciousness was disrupted for…" Orval double-checked the readout. "For just under nine seconds. Of course, the sequential ratios will fluctuate according to the program's taxations and allowed resources, but we're working on several developments we hope will eventually allow better control over this aspect." The Colonel looked up from the growing wet spot on his trousers. "Are you telling me that this program of yours altered my perception of time?"

Orval smiled. Perhaps the situation was still salvageable after all. "It's not very complicated. Our subconscious is much more"-he searched for the right word-"pliable. It accepts a much larger spectrum of information." "Pliable?" "Perceptions made by our conscious are riddled with preconceptions that don't exist in our subconscious." "It didn't feel as if I were unconscious, Doctor," the Colonel returned dubiously. "No," corrected Orval. "Subconscious is not a prerequisite for unconscious. Our subconscious is active from the moment we're born to the moment we die. It governs a great deal of our perceptions, so much so, that once it becomes the primary medium of input, then it is a very simple matter to create as real a situation as can be conceived, or perhaps even greater than can be conceived if left up to the program itself." The Colonel was still confused. He needed time to think. For the most part, the Doctor's descriptions were lost on him. He began to stand up, but was still somewhat shaken from the demonstration. He had meant to use the desk as a brace, but his hand came down on the mouse, yet again. The first time, he had turned it over, thus causing the cursor to position itself over the games directory, which then automatically opened. The second time his hand came down on the now upturned mouse, the cursor shot across the games folder. As Colonel Hereford regained his balance, he caught the mouse just as it was about to fall off the edge of the desk, but as he grasped it, he inadvertently clicked the primary selection button, thereby initiating the executable for an online game one of the programmers had only recently installed after seeing it advertised. The assistant had wanted to get a better look at it as a possible candidate for future research in virtual enhancements. As Wayward Fates began to patch into its online server, Orval jumped to intercede, but was too late. IBOT had never been deactivated. It had simply been idle, waiting patiently for the next assignment. *** "Colonel?" someone asked in a concerned tone. Terrance glanced up at the evocation of his title. The strange fellow now poking his head just inside an even stranger set of doors was disregarded, as Terrance focused on the door's unexpected appearance: three-inch iron-oak, carved in elaborate symbols of what appeared to be some gaudy type of royal crest. Although usually slow to engage, the Colonel's sense of alarm was now, as he might have termed it, at Def-con One. "Colonel?" repeated the Orderly. "Are you all right?" Colonel Hereford slowly scanned the room he now occupied, his initial impression being that the decorator had attempted a cross between an Elizabethan sitting room and perhaps a Flintstones version of something like a military command center. Orderly? he thought, suddenly wondering why he should know anything about the fellow at the door. Before he could answer his own question, other alien thoughts began to infiltrate the edges of his peripheral consciousness. I really should invite the Magistrate to Tea, and I wonder if that blasted Tailor is finished with my corset yet.

*** -Subgenus One: Strophe One.-In his deception of indignant disdain, did Lord Abhoron enliven the archetypal Dyadic Dryad to relinquish the Light for his seductive promise of false fortune. Once lost within that twisted influence, their fates entwined in spiraled paths of crafted damnation. Thus began the most accursed and lugubrious of all winters. In the end, when the last embers of their true heart's light faded, what remained of their foredooming souls were then set upon a new propagation of dark and abhorrent rendering, and forged in the dark and perfidiously cobalt portraiture of Malignancy itself. Therein lies what all would come to grieve as the birth of The Dark-elf, and The Dark Empire!

Chapter One-Not A Pleasure Krues "Yes, Captain," replied Elder Pynewood patiently. "We've already dispatched an escort. In fact, we are just as concerned as you are. Our Squire was given his assignment over six days ago. Assuming that your soldier returned along the same route, our man should have intercepted him at the rendezvous by now." "And yet you've received no word?" "Well, at the time we felt it was crucial that he maintain his post. This was heavily emphasized in our Edict. I did send a messenger to contact our Squire, but she was unable to locate him. Still, I would venture to guess Squire Thistle has probably centered his vigil on the shipping port itself." "Just one moment," Reginald scowled. "What rendezvous point?" "Why, the one we indicated upon your original request. It is the closest available Hub for that region." "No, milord. I assure you, I was never informed of any such thing." "We sent a messenger with that information just after receiving your request for assistance," confirmed the Elder adamantly. "Well, I'm afraid your messenger never reached me." "Captain? The messenger in question reported she placed the scroll directly in your hand." "And where is this person now?" "I really couldn't say. There were no further assignments, so she took her leave. Our people are either given Quests upon application, or their availability. Please understand that we aren't structured like your military. When an assignment is over, our people may come and go as they please." The entire situation smelled of deception; not on the Elder's part, but something… "I wonder," he began, and then paused. "What?" "Well, there have been several reported sightings of a dark blue figure in the sewers who purportedly cast a spell, and then appeared to have a lighter, brown skin. This in itself is not uncommon. There are a number of Human Enchanters in Arbitos. What was out of the ordinary was the color of that individual's skin before casting." "Another Faction?" intoned the Elder softly. "Possibly. A Human Enchanter would be unlikely to alter his form to that of a Dark-elf while inside the city, even if it were in a secluded spot. Such practices are simply too perilous. What's more, if he were Human, why would he need to cast a spell to return to Human form when all he need do is to allow the illusion to fall away?" "Really, Captain," the Elder scoffed. "Wognix, here?" "The sightings weren't given any real credence. Beggars and drunkards will often tell stories. Nevertheless, we did search the entire aqueduct system. We cleared out a number of undesirables, but they were all Human. In retrospect, I suppose that if an Enchanter of another Faction had been among the ousted group, we may never have known it." "You believe the messenger I sent was an imposter of some form?"

"Not of your knowing, milord. I would never think such a thing of any of your people. However, if a foreign Enchanter has taken the form of one of your people, then we've both been fooled. And if he was hiding in the sewers, then he certainly isn't doing so now." Elder Pinewood's focus shifted from Reginald to the receding shadows about the Grove. "Unfortunately, I will be completely tied up until later this morning, Captain. I'm currently in the middle of having my things sent to the Embassy, but as soon as I arrive in Arbitos, I will personally send for another messenger to contact our Squire. And rest assured that we shall get to the bottom of this matter." "Yes…of course. And as always, the wisdom of the Council is most appreciated, milord." *** Borin Krue hung over the railing, near the bow. The massive vessel had been reputed to offer a much easier passage than smaller ships of its class, though he had failed to notice any such improvement. He leaned over the side, just far enough to avoid making eye contact with other passengers as they strolled by. Dark strands of sweat-soaked hair fell in his eyes, but went unnoticed. His attentions focused almost solely on the contents of his stomach, which were currently attempting to escape as he gripped the railing more tightly, his gauntlets leaving deep indentations in the oak. In truth, he would have no doubt felt much better if he just let it happen. He knew this, but also knew it would not be seemly for a Warrior to be seen tossing his lunch overboard. After all, he was a representative of his Garrison. True, he was only a Corporal, but after this Quest he was sure to be promoted. Less than a week earlier, he had slain a particularly nasty little Goblin in the Candlis Mountains, thereby completing a Quest that many had sought to complete, and failed. It wasn't that the Goblin in question was so tough. The challenge had been in locating the beastie. In fact, it had begun to appear hopeless. He had gone to sleep on the last night of the Quest, believing that he had failed. His allotted time had expired and there would be a ceremony of disgrace upon his return. This was nothing of real consequence. Many others before him had endured it. In recollection, Borin realized that his success had been pure luck. On the morning he was to begin his journey home, the Gob had literally stumbled right on top of him, just as he was waking up. He had performed no great feat. A simple sword-thrust had dropped the Gob and won the prize, with no more than a simple scratch along his left cheek to indicate that the Quest had been any more troublesome than the lengthy trek there and back again had been. Of course, said trek did include a form of travel he was most adverse to engage in, which is to say, oceanic. He looked back to the horizon. Land had been sighted several hours ago. Now he could see the ferryboats on their way to meet the ship. This was necessary, as the vessel was far too large to come any closer then a kilometer off shore. Upon sighting the oncoming boats, he experienced a brief sense of hope. This nightmare voyage would soon be over. He had tried desperately to secure a teleport while returning from the mountains to Candle Port. He had hoped to cross paths with a Wizard. Alas, there had been relatively little traffic along the main road. By the time he had reached the foothills leading back to the coast, he would have even settled for one of those disgusting Druids. It was certainly better than purchasing a gate potion. Most alchemy products were outrageous in price. Absolute highway robbery! He didn't actually hate Druids, per se. In fact, the ones actually living within the civilized walls of Arbitos weren't quite so bad. Oh, they were street trash to be sure, but they were at least housebroken. It was the rural aspect of both Druids and Rangers he found so distastefully common. They knew

absolutely nothing of proper etiquette. It was one thing to sleep out in the open during such times as warfare, or even a Quest, but Rangers and Druids actually appeared to prefer such conditions. Now, how can one be expected to associate with that? he thought, thus evoking the memory of his father's last "chastising" lecture prior to Borin's acceptance of the Talisman Quest. *** "I'm most concerned about this unhealthy attitude you bear against our neighbors in Spurious Grove. It borders upon open prejudice." "Their Grove is less than a day's travel, but do they offer assistance in the protection of their own homes? No, they do not," Borin offered, answering his own question. "Besides, the Grove is nothing more than a glorified exile for what the majority of both High and Wood Elves consider half-breeds. If you wish to point a finger at someone for committing prejudice, I suggest you start with the 'pure' races." "Let's not begin casting aspersions on people who aren't even here to defend…" "Do you think for one moment I would be welcome in Lavish'nix, Father? No! I would not! Nor was my mother, who had dared to marry a Round-ear. She was shunned to the very day she died, an outcast to an entire race who 'profess' themselves to be above such discrimination." The Captain placed a gentle hand on his son's shoulder. "It is not our place to determine the hearts of others, Borin," he began softly. "You may well be correct. Neither High nor Wood Elves have ever availed themselves in matters of direct diplomacy, but only this morning, I received word from the Spurious High Council on the very subject of opening an Ambassadorial estate in Arbitos. I have sent word that we would be honored to open our gates to our esteemed neighbors. With luck, we should have an Emissary in Spurious within a fortnight. And by the end of the month, I hope to have received their Emissary." "I wonder what they're wanting from us," returned Borin dryly. "You don't suppose they've run short of people to prance about the wilderness hugging trees, do you?" The Captain sighed, shaking his head. "Whatever it is that has prompted this narrow-mindedness has nothing to do Pi'xylem or Lavish'nix. Were I the type to wager, I would bet my pension it has more to do with those snooty friends of yours." "They aren't snooty! They just know the dif…" "Calm yourself, boy," soothed the Captain in a weary tone. "The world is in turmoil enough. Let us , at least, be at peace." "…Yes, milord." "Though if it's not asking too much, could you at least refrain from referring to them as tree-huggers?" *** The Launches were much closer now, but as he went to reach for his duffel bag, an uncontrollable revolt broke out within his gut. He heaved far over the side while several passers-by took several quick steps back. From over his shoulder, he heard a number of sailors break out in riotous laughter. "Another Lubber bites the Brine!" yelled a Dwarven crew member. That response caused another group further down to start cackling. He wanted to crack a few heads open, just for good measure. He settled for gastric relief.

Chapter Two-Apple, Oak And Oaf After carefully placing the last polished apple atop the pyramid in his display window, the portly Dwarven Baker released his held breath in a quiet sigh of relief. Fresh apples were out of season in Port Dwergus. As such, the baker looked forward to receiving a premium price, perhaps as much as a gold piece for each, and at least a platinum piece for each pie. Of course, the majority of stock would go into pies, but this display would no doubt serve to attract an even greater quantity of prospective clientele. As he lightly sprinkled a mixture of honey and water over the perfectly shaped structure, thereby giving the already polished pile a bit of extra shine, a freshly rack-cooled pie floated quietly behind him, then whipped out the front door of his shop. A city guard rounded the corner of the adjacent alleyway, and the pie quickly ducked down inside an empty apple barrel. As the guard passed, the pie resumed its stealthy flight until entering the same alley the guard had just exited. It then paused, appearing to peek about the corner as if to confirm its successful escape. It then continued to float along until exiting out the other end of the alleyway, which opened onto the outskirts of town. Upon coming to a large oak tree, it rose and disappeared within the tree's thickly foliated branches. Feeling safe in the arms of the old oak, Jesterwolf, or Jester, as he is known in every tavern from Arbitos to Brinehaven, allowed the camouflage spell to drop as he carefully placed the pie in the crook of the tree. He then reached into his knapsack and withdrew several apples, depositing them inside a large hole in the upper trunk. The hole served his purpose for the moment, but being grateful for such warm hospitality extended by a tree in such obviously poor health, he promised himself to heal it before returning home. The Grove Elders had sent him to act as an official escort for some Arbitos military oaf who was supposedly returning via ship from one of those Warrior-type rites of passage. Of course, such Quests were never warranted, and seldom proved of any use other than to allow another Paladin or Warrior to swagger about as if they were Wildern's gift to Nirayel. So and So, Son of So and So, keeper of the flame of So and So, hath retrieved the mighty stinger of a dastardly Bixie who was no doubt bent on the destruction of the world. So now, so and so, Son of So and So hath hereby earned the title of Peon Guard. Finding this image to be most amusing, he almost lost his balance. He quickly caught himself, calmed himself, reclined against the trunk, and retrieved the scroll containing his assignment from the hole housing his recent acquisitions. He bit into an apple, holding it in his mouth while opening the document, and then read on down until he came to a particular stipulation. Be advised. Corporal Krue has not been available for briefing in this matter. Therefore, he will not be expecting you. For this reason, and due to the current nature of negotiations with Arbitos, it is imperative this extension of our goodwill be successful. Under no circumstances are you to depart your post without your contact. Jester had been waiting for this particular so-and-so for the better part of a week now. It had been his understanding that the Ox in question would already be here, waiting to go. Apparently this was not the case. After the first couple of days, a thought had commenced to loom in the back of his mind. Is it possible that in their infinite wisdom, the Council has miscalculated the Warrior's schedule? If this were so, then he would certainly not be the one to point it out. Such thoughts were best left unspoken. Besides,

even if such a miscalculation did exist, surely they would have noticed the Warrior's absence by now. Surely they would have sent word. Surely they wouldn't just leave me here to rot! So, there he was, confined to a community of rude little round-eared Dwarves. There was little choice in the matter. The Council had spoken, and one simply does not question the Council. Whether Ranger or Druid, all Half-elves pay strict attention to the Letter of Edict. The consequences of an infraction could be most unsavory. It might be that one would only sustain a small sentence, such as Megalith Hub duty for three to five summers. A heavier sentence usually involved some form of missionary work for extended periods, and in the most unaccommodating reaches of Nirayel. There were also those true unfortunates, who, upon lacking the good sense to obey a direct Edict, would suddenly find themselves branded as Proscribe. Jester knew of nothing more severe than being cast out. Even death was better than a Druid with no deity. *** On his seventh Birthday, Nanna had gathered his belongings together, and had then wakened him before sunrise. "It's time yer about the business of yer own kind, Grub." "Nanna?" he had inquired sleepily. Rather than reply, she simply pulled him to his feet and dressed him, as if for a journey. Before leaving their tent, she tethered him with a stretch of rope about the waist. The other end she tethered about her own. All of the other tents and wagons were yet quiet. No one stirred at this time of day. There was no breakfast, no campfire, nor anything else of interest, save the full moon, which always posed a strange but vague attraction for the youngster, though certainly nothing of sufficient import to preempt a good night sleep. "Where we goin?" he had asked, shivering in the night air, and almost afraid of the answer. Was she getting rid of him? Had he done something wrong? "Yer of an age fer learnin." "Learnin?" he echoed, failing to see what might be gleaned from their unscheduled exodus. Abruptly, she stopped and faced him. She leaned heavily on her canes as she bent to address him, her knees and back creaking loudly in the process. "Yer in yer seventh Summer, with no sign of any to take ya fer their own," she began dispassionately. The lack of warmth in her voice had conveyed more to him than the content of her words. His eyes began to fill, and then brim. "I'm too feeble ta keep wiping yer snotty snout and still look after the others, too," she continued, seemingly impervious to his tears. "I can wipe my own snout!" he retorted defiantly, and then illustrated his point by doing so. "Makes no never mind. Yer still bound fer the Grove." At this he had actually balked. "Let go, you old Round-ear!" he shouted, setting both feet firm and pulling hard against the old woman. His rebellion was to be short-lived. She continued on without noticing, dragging Jester behind for several steps until he finally regained his footing, and followed obediently, if not enthusiastically. They had traveled the entire day, stopping only briefly to rest and eat. It was dark by the time they reached the Grove proper. Campfires dotted the surrounding landscape as they entered the forest where many Elves of questionable parentage were cast away, to be kept separate from decent folk.

As they approached the center, Jester spotted a party who were neither Human, nor Half-elf. These were smaller, slimmer. The adults and children alike appeared almost frail, though something about their bearing suggested otherwise. As the old woman and Jester passed their group, he heard the youngest speaking to an older Elf of his own kind. The child was perhaps a season or two younger than Jester himself. "I heard them speak about sending disobedient Rangers on Missionary Quests." "We do not speak of such things here, Merfee. It isn't proper." "And they were talking about something called a Proscribe?" "I said we do not speak of such things here!" "They do." "They know no better. But, as your blood is not tainted, then you shall heed me and not speak of such things in public. I will tell you of it later." "Yes, Father." "What business have you in Spurious Grove?" demanded a Ranger, running quickly to meet the old woman and boy. "I bring ya one of yer own," declared the woman. "We're not taking any new Neophytes this season, milady. You should have brought the child before Spring Semestris." "He is both orphaned and without sponsor. Woulds't thee still turn him away?" returned the old woman in an uncharacteristic bearing of both strange speech and vehement posture. The guard appeared momentarily daunted. "Please wait here. I will find an Elder." As the Ranger made his way back to the center of the Grove and to the Elder Oak, Jester turned to face the Wood-elves. He was met by the cold stares and the unwelcome posturing of their entire collective, save one. The younger boy stood as innocently as Jester himself, offering a similar smile of acceptance. Neither was yet acquainted with such things as ethnic intolerance. Jester stepped forward, bowing deeply at the waist as the old woman had instructed him to do upon greeting new people. As he returned to an upright posture he began to introduce himself. "My name is Jes…" He cut himself off, as he was now facing the backs of their entire assembly. All except the youngest Wood-elf, who, oblivious to his own Elders' rejections, had stepped forward, and was now repeating Jester's ritualistic bow of respect. "My name is Merfee. We are well met, Jes," he smiled. His smile was short lived as he was quickly yanked about. "I brought you to witness the perils of diluting the Wood-elf line! Not to make friends with their kind!" scolded the older Wood-elf. At this, Jester himself was jerked roughly about by the old woman. She offered no reason for her actions, but held him close to her all the same. ***

The Council's policies, though certainly strict, were designed for the overall betterment of the entire Spurious community. To the rest of the world, half-bred equated to less than half. Until this changed, Spurious Grove could ill afford less than an optimal performance in all areas, including discipline. Unfortunately, he had not arranged for the provisions allowing an extended stay in this festering rat hole. Had he been in the wilds, there would have been no problem. A Druid may sleep where he will and forage a feast. And even if food was scarce, he could just conjure what he required. However, the cobblestones of civilization provide little to forage. Furthermore, the use of spells for conjuring food is a violation of some sort of marketing treaty. It had something to do with undermining economic stability, or some such, and to top it off, the penalty for such a crime is death, whereas the penalty for stealing is no more than a few weeks in jail. Go figure. Absolute nonsense! is all Jester could discern. Just another example of civilization's folly. If food is plentiful, then why sell it in the first place? Is it not everywhere, to be picked from the very flora itself? Neither Wildern nor Natura demands any levy on such gifts. What's next? A toll on water? A tax on the very air we breathe? He had considered teleporting out, grabbing the needed provisions, and then popping right back. Then he recalled the Council's edict. Under no circumstance am I to depart my post. Ahh, there's that infinite wisdom again. Still, he did feel a certain twinge of guilt. It was specifically against Wildern's teachings to take what wasn't his. I had no choice! Would you have me starve? His thoughts were subjective, and not intentionally a prayer, but even as he thought it, he cringed. Oh … all right! I'll send restitution to the Baker as soon as I get home! He checked the sun. Almost dusk! He had heard the boarding calls for the ship from Brinehaven, but had been busy locating nourishment during the call for Candle Port. By now the launches should have already returned. With the apples secured, he quickly prepared to check the incoming passengers from the last group of ferries. I've probably missed them! As he was about to drop to the ground, he froze. A faint, yet specific scent wafted upwards. Wognix? he thought incredulously while sniffing the air for more information. Yes. Two, maybe three. What in Wildern's name would Dark-elves be doing here? It was fortunate that the tree was so well covered in leaves. Jester's eyes cut through the darkness well enough, but the eyes of the Dark-elf were crafted by Darkness, for darkness. He wanted to look for the hell-spawned Elves, but his nose told him they were close-so close, that it was more than likely they would see him first. It was fortunate they were upwind. If it had been the other way around, he would most likely be dead now. He listened, but heard little. Then he caught the scent of another. Another Half-elf? The entire situation was rapidly unraveling. He must at least warn his own kind, yet he could ill afford to broadcast his location without knowing where they all were. He wished he hadn't allowed the invisibility to drop. Then he heard them. What are they doing? He worked up the nerve to lower himself far enough down to peek out beneath the leaves of the lowest branch. Sure enough, there they were, two young Wognix. Far too young, judging by their size and frame. By their garb, they appeared to be Neophytes of some Rogue Class. What are Dark-elves doing so far from home? he wondered. No matter. He wished no trouble where trouble was not warranted. Besides, Wognix so damp behind the points posed no threat to him. He would just wait until they passed.

Only they were not passing. Instead, they each crouched low on either side of the alley, behind several discarded crates, unseen to all but Jesterwolf. Are they mad? Is it remotely possible that they fail to realize the danger in coming so close to Dwarves? Then he saw their intent: the other Half-elf. A shadowy figure swaggered down the darkened Alley and headed directly toward the hiding Wognix. Obviously, they meant to waylay him. Upon closer inspection he could see a thin rope lying across the width of the darkened alley. Both Wognix held an end of the rope in one hand. In the other hand they each held a dagger. He could even detect the faint scent of the nightshade plant. The daggers were poisoned. Wildern might overlook a bit of pilfered pie, but were Jester knowingly to allow bloodletting when he knew he could prevent it, he might just as well paint a big Proscribe sign on his forehead. His eyes glowed only the faintest shade of green as the unsuspecting Half-elf passed the point of no return. Yet just as he was about to step into their trap, his feet shimmered so faintly that only the actual caster of such a spell might have spotted it. Even the Dark-elves missed the effect. Abhoron may have crafted their eyes for the night, but the light of burning mana was of yet another nature. The on-comer's feet left the ground, but no more than a few centimeters. The spell was very weak, as it had been meant to be. Neither of the Wognix, nor the rube they hunted, had detected the change. Then, as the trap was sprung and the rope stretched taut, the feet of its mark were yet above it. A mere moment later, the other Half-elf floated gently back to the ground as the weakened levitation spell fell away. He continued to swagger along, completely oblivious to both of his assailants, and to the fact he had just taken several strides without touching the ground beneath him. Jester suppressed a strong urge to snicker. This is hardly the time for levity, he scolded himself, and then immediately bit down on his lip to maintain his composure as the phonetic connection between levitation and levity caused the abrupt reemergence of that which had just been suppressed. Now the Wognix were lining up behind their mark with daggers drawn. Apparently, they were not subject to subtle hints. Jester grinned mischievously. Very well, lads. Let's see if I can make myself a bit more obvious. He gestured with both hands, making an upward motion with his fingers, and then clenched them into closed fists, as if grasping. A bright aura formed about the Dark-elves' feet as the ground cracked, followed by green glowing vines that shot out to entwine their legs. Abruptly, they commenced to struggle while spitting curses at the unseen menace that had rooted them to the ground. *** Borin turned quickly, sword drawn. He came suddenly face to face with two young Dark-elves. They appeared to be in some form of distress. He had understood their kind to be of a less civilized nature, and would never have imagined such as they might be welcomed this close to a Dwarven community. Perhaps he had been misinformed. His father had told him to try and keep an open mind when it came to other races, and he was determined to do just that. He did not sheathe his sword, but did approach the Elves cautiously. "Are you quite all right, gentlemen?" he asked. The Dark-elves ceased their struggling and looked back at him. They appeared to be somewhat confused.

Perhaps they didn't speak the Homidris language. He had been schooled in many tongues, yet he had always found Dark speech difficult. Their application of description in emphasis of almost every structure of communication seemed far removed from the established uses that were almost universal in all other languages. Happy meant painful, and sad meant healthy. Such terms as "Good morning" were often followed by some form of violence, and he didn't even like to think about their mating rituals. Still, he was a representative of Arbitos, and he must at least make some token effort to assist these Elves if possible. He spoke to them in broken Dark Speech, and though he was unaware of it, he spoke quite loudly, as if volume might compensate ignorance. He had meant to ask if they were in need of any assistance. However, it came out, "IS BOTH DARK ONES I SEES BE NEEDING CHRYSANTHEMUMS?" At this, both Dark-elves looked at each other in pure confusion, and then suddenly burst out laughing. Hmmm-I may have miss-spoken myself, he thought. Then there was an abrupt thud several meters behind him. Both the Dark-elves and Borin turned to witness another Half-elf with short reddish brown hair rolling on the ground beneath a large oak and fairly booming laughter, which only served to further fuel the Dark-elves' own amusement. Jester had withstood all he could, finally losing his balance, suddenly no longer finding his continued concealment to be much of a priority. "What a buffoon!" he bellowed, booming laughter again. Now both of the Dark-elves were in tears and supporting one another. Borin was rapidly losing patience. All he had done was offer assistance. He could not fathom what idiocy possessed these three. Then he noticed the roots holding the dark ones hostage. This was obviously the work of a Druid. With that, he turned back toward what he now knew was yet another of that unbearable tree-hugging Class. "Release your victims, Knave!" he demanded as he brought his sword to bear on the assailant who was yet rolling on the ground. Jester looked up to realize that Borin's anger had now targeted him and his face corkscrewed in pain. That's better, thought Borin. At least he has the sense to fear a Warrior when he sees one. "Fear not, fool. I'll not kill you, but be you warned, I'll not have you wear my patience further. Now release your captives!" Tears streamed down the Druid's face and he clenched into a ball, much like a newborn. At this, Borin was taken aback. What's wrong with him? Then, as the Druid's entire body commenced to tremble, he found his resolve suddenly shaken. What ails the wretch? Is he addled? Or … What if he has a weak heart? he thought in what was rapidly becoming a state of panic. By my father's beard, I've killed him! In truth, Borin Krue had very little use for Druids. He found their lack of serious regard for civilization to be most offensive. Still, he had no wish to harm one of them, and he certainly didn't wish to become the cause of anyone's death who didn't warrant it. "Are you all right?" he asked in a curt, yet slightly less aggressive tone. There was no reply. The Druid simply continued to lay upon the ground, convulsing. What would the Captain say when he discovered that his own son had killed a Priest of Nature? Considering the upcoming Alliance, this was hardly conducive to gaining Sergeant's stripes. "I'll go get help! You will be all right, I swear it!" Before he could leave, Jester's hand shot out to grab his arm.

He turned back and knelt to support the fallen Priest's head. "Yes? What can I do? How may I help?" "Ple…" Jester began to speak, but failed. He took in a ragged breath and tried again. "Ple… Please stop! You're killing me!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Nay, friend Druid," Borin soothed. "Lay still. I'll fetch you a Cleric." "Please… I can bear no more!" Jester begged, and then burst out in another fit of ragged laughter. Borin's mouth dropped open as his eyes narrowed. Borin Krue was neither fool, nor dullard. True, this may not have been readily apparent under the circumstances. On the other hand, regardless of intellect, is there anyone who could have instantly known the nature of these events beforehand? Had he not been upwind to the Dark-elves, even as they were to Jester? And as anyone acquainted with the nature of levitation spells could testify, there is no sensation of lift. One might detect a difference due to an increase in height. A full levitation spell can lift and hold a person several meters above any surface, but this had not been a full levitation spell. As for his initial confrontation with the Dark-elves, it was true that they were armed with daggers. On the other hand, Borin had been highly trained in all forms of combat. He saw their clumsy grips on the daggers and how their postures were obviously that of untrained civilians. What's more, once he had passed down wind, he had smelled the poison just as easily as Jester had, not that it mattered. Warriors are weaned from infancy to become immune to many poisons, including all derivatives of the nightshade plant. They simply had no prospect of defeating him with those silly toothpicks. The only reason he had failed to see the true nature of his would-be attackers was that it never occurred to him that they might not be aware of the differences between themselves and a bona-fide Warrior. After all, even cur dogs know better than to jump a timber wolf. Still, he chastised himself. I should have known something was afoot. Most people don't laugh at their saviors. He whirled back toward the Dark-elves, prepared to cut them down. Not only had they sought to commit an act of unprovoked violence, but they had also violated the code of honorably challenged combat by the use of stealth. Outside of the confines of open warfare, this was the epitome of dishonor. They deserved death. Yet in facing them, he found that both of the dark-blue-skinned Elves were now absent. While he had been busy with the Druid, the spell holding them prisoner had dissipated. *** They had overheard their parents speaking with the Regent of the latest news from the Empire. Such reports were always welcome in Pitchwere. It offered a reprieve from the boredom of this backwater post. This particular report had been a preliminary intelligence on some low ranking Arbitos soldier, apparently returning from some form of Quest. Heartrot's spy had delayed his return by fouling up the coordination efforts for his passage home. The report had gone on to include the request of a Detail to be dispatched from Pitchwere in order to intercept the returning soldier as he disembarked at the Dwarven port of call, the idea being to send the head of Captain Krue's son back to him in a box, thereby achieving a great coup in the Emperor's name. The Regent had discounted the entire business, as it had apparently originated from some old feud between Baron Heartrot and Captain Krue, and was not worth risking Pitchwere resources on. "The only thing Heartrot has accomplished with this foolishness is the loss of one of his Enchanters. What a waste, to have the girl gate back with nothing better to report than this," he had concluded in disgust.

Officially, that had been the end of it. Not for the boys, though. For them, this was a purely platinum opportunity to complete their rite of passage to manhood. So they had set out to retrieve the head of Krue's son. Unfortunately, things had not worked out as planned. They had already risked too much by seeking their mark so close to Dwarves while the remnants of daylight yet lingered. They had also designed their tactics to be swift, quiet, and clean. They had failed on all three counts. What's more, there were angry voices in the distance, distant, but quickly closing. They would complete their rite of passage by other means, on some other occasion, and with less humorous prey. *** Borin's anger redoubled as his attentions returned to the mirthful menace. He would not kill him, as he hadn't actually attempted to harm him, but only humiliate him. Still, he felt under the circumstances it would be all right to thrash the varmint within about a centimeter of extermination. Yet as he faced him, he found that, like the Dark-elves, the Druid had taken his leave. A small vein just above his right eyebrow began to throb. He was about to commence upon a fullblown Berserker's rage if he didn't calm himself soon. A community of happy-go-lucky little Dwarves was hardly the place for that. He walked stiffly to a nearby oak tree and sat with his back resting against its trunk. After perhaps four or five deep breaths, he began to regain a bit of his lost composure. Maybe I should just sleep here tonight, he thought. Surely, neither the Dark-elves nor that ridiculous Druid would be foolish enough to return. Then he heard a number of voices in the distance. They were becoming louder. It sounded like quite a commotion. No, not louder. Closer. Perhaps a Posse searches for the Dark-elves. Perhaps they were caught in the act of killing that accursed cuddler of plant life. This was a particularly pleasing thought, serving to calm him even further. There was a rustling in the leaves above his head. Borin looked up just in time to see an apple fall from the tree. He reached out to catch it deftly in his right hand, and then brought it closer to his face for a better examination. His brow furrowed. How odd, he thought. An apple from an oak tree? Just then, a large group of Dwarven merchants rounded the corner of the alleyway, led by a roundbellied baker sporting a rather large rolling pin. The baker, catching sight of Borin with one of his stolen apples, immediately let loose a mighty howl of anger while hurling the six-pound wooden pin at the culprit before he could escape justice. He had meant to stand and meet with the men. Perhaps they would ask him to help search for the Darkelf Brigands. Yet even as he stood, he was struck upon the very top of his head by the pin as it came down in the arc it had been thrown, its punctuation echoing through the alleyway like that of a cricket bat striking something metallic and hollow. Fortunately, Borin's helm absorbed the majority of impact. Even so, when he did finally regain consciousness, he would find a most pronounced goose egg of a bump on his head. He would also find himself residing within a small cell with steel bars, low ceiling, and a Dwarven guard standing watch. Worst of all, he would find himself left wearing naught but his long johns. ***

Jester loved apples. Still, as tasty and sweet as they were, could any apple ever hope to compare to such sweetly executed mischief? I think not, he thought in self-congratulation of his latest work of art. Of course, he would regret it later, as he always did. Wildern's teachings were quite explicit about such behavior. And yet time and again he would find himself in situations that were simply too irresistible to pass up. It was just so perfect. The timing, the Buffoon, the mob. The best entertainment in all of Nirayel, and all for the meager price of one small apple! And yet was it not more than mere entertainment? Was it not also due justice? Did the oaf not have it truly coming to him? Had I not just saved the oaf's very life, only to witness said same oaf offer protection to his own assailants? And flowers! This brought on yet another in a long line of uncontrollable fits. After falling out of the tree for the third time, he at last resolved to sit on the ground until he got it out of his system. After a time, he began to calm down. He then recalled how the Warrior had pointed the sword at him. What was that he had said? Oh yes, I remember. "Release your victims, Knave!" he mimicked the Warrior's authoritarian baritone. And the apple! Oh, the apple! And that expression of confounded mystery! Jester was no mind reader, but it didn't take one to see the Warrior's fleeting attempt to connect the apple with the oak it had just dropped from. "Oh, what a great dunderhead!" he bellowed, cleaving to the oak's trunk for support, even as the great oak itself seemed to sway in the windless night, as if in jovial camaraderie. "I'll-I'll fetch you-a Cleric!" he cried in a cracked voice as tears rolled uncontrollably down both cheeks. Jester had become fully intoxicated with mirth, drinking it in as a drunkard fills his belly. This was the way with almost all Elves, Half or otherwise. Yet in his case it was more than the Race or Class he belonged to. It was simply who he was. He could have been anything, Warrior, Ranger, Rogue, or even Baker. For all his spells, he had never found a finer magic than simple laughter. He continued to play it over in his mind for some time, savoring each moment as if it were fine wine. The armored oaf simply swaggered in with that ridiculous duffel bag, completely oblivious to everything around him. More laughter. Duffel bag? he recalled, no longer laughing. Armor? he thought nervously. And was he not walking from the direction of the wharf? Quickly, he sobered. "ABHORON'S BUTTOCKS!" he cried, quickly jumping to his feet and bolting for the Jail.

Chapter Three-Assassination She Scribed "Elder Ironwood? I think you should see this. Elder Ironwood!" Amara Ironwood knelt some fifteen meters away from the recently discovered corpse. She concluded her silent prayer to Natura for the swift passage of her slain friend, and then rose to her feet with the assistance of her walking staff. As she turned to address him, she noticed the insistent Wood-elf was only just beginning to lay out his kit. Wood-elves can be so exasperating, she thought wearily. They're just naturally brash . "You've no need to howl at me, boy," she scolded. "My points may sag, but I assure you, they're still quite sharp." The double meaning was well received, as the entire team of Rangers offered a short round of subdued chuckles in approval of the Elder's sharp wit, which matched her sharp hearing. The possibility of a third meaning became visible on several of their faces, but was quickly squashed by the Elder's grim expression as she made her way through their midst. Humor was not only accepted here, but expected. With exception to the darkened factions of Abhoron's realms, no Elf would ever wish his death to interrupt the lives of others so drastically as to suspend good-natured mirth. Had the circumstances been of a less serious nature, there would have been hearty laughter, rather than subdued chuckles. Naturally, one was expected to walk a fine line between humor and respect. It was simply a matter of good taste. And of course, there were exceptions. The family and friends of the deceased could claim exemption of this custom, though such behavior was not usually mentioned within the more refined circles of conversation. As she approached, the young Wood-elf pointed to a slightly discolored area below the victim's hairline, just behind his left ear. The discoloration was very faint, but unquestionably of a purple hue, ringed in pale red lines that faded as they dissipated outward. The lines extended into the hairline, near the base of the skull, yet remained within the temporal region where they disappeared altogether. "Help me, boy," she ordered, holding her free hand out to indicate she wanted him to assist her to a kneeling position. The young Ranger did as he was bid, taking great care with her. "Thank you. You've a most steady hand," she offered gratefully. She pulled the spectacles from her bodice and placed them on the bridge of her nose. Then, after a long examination of the area, she said, "Methinks you've a keen eye to go with that hand, boy. Still, I believe there may be more here than meets either." She withdrew a finely crafted split-bone razor from the Ranger's kit, and then commenced to carefully shave the hairline back, hair by hair. She stopped after no more than two centimeters. "There," she announced, pointing to an almost imperceptive puncture, scarcely penetrating the skin sufficiently to have reached the victim's bloodstream. "What's your name, boy?" she asked while returning the razor to its leather pouch. "I am Merfee Rainswalker, mistress," replied the Ranger without removing his attention from the shaved area. "Well, Merfee, what would your assessment be?"

He leaned forward, gingerly tapped about the area, and then sniffed the puncture itself. Momentarily, his eyes glimmered with an internal radiance as his perception magnified. He looked again to the puncture, and then all about the body. After a moment, his eyes returned to normal and he knelt beside the Elder, arms folded and eyes closed, as he prepared his report. "Well," he began. "I seriously doubt that it was a dart. If it was, it was certainly a very small one, most likely projected through something like a hollow reed, or the like. My compliments to the Assassin, who showed tremendous comprehension of anatomy, accuracy, and wisdom in retrieving the evidence." Amara grinned. "You sound skeptical of your own assessment." "As for the poison," he continued with an indignant expression. "It's certainly not nightshade. I might have thought it was basilisk bile, due to the lack of odor, though such would not account for the discoloration." "Think, boy," she prompted. "For one moment, forget the puncture itself and consider only the facts. Now, what could cause such a pigment?" He thought for a long moment, and then exclaimed, "Of course! It has to be drachnid! No, wait. That's not possible. Venom extracted from a deceased drachnid loses potency within an hour's passing. Besides, that mark could not possibly have been produced by a drachnid. It's far too small, and there's no species in this region even remotely resembling…" "True enough," she agreed, "but might it not be that a drachnid spider conferred the venom of its own free will? And if it did, could not the deposit of such be sealed in something like a corked mosquito beak, so that it would thereby maintain its potency?" "I suppose," he returned doubtfully. "The mark could well have been from the beak of a mosquito, but no creature as vile as a drachnid would cooperate with anyone but…" He paused, his eyes widening. "With anyone but Dark-elves!" he exclaimed, his tone rising as the sudden revelation also served to startle. "Very good, Merfee Rainswalker," she praised him, being careful to pronounce his name correctly while among his peers. "You've the makings of a fine Ranger, but you're going to have to learn to trust what you know. Of course it's drachnid. It couldn't possibly be anything else. You knew it as clearly as I, yet you saw that the mark wasn't drachnid, and you allowed that single fact to cloud your view of the whole truth." Merfee's mixed expression reflected her appraisal, proffering both gratification, and just a hint of dejection. "Too bad they retrieved the beak, if, in fact, such is what they used," he added with just a hint of indignity. He wasn't yet convinced of the "Beak" theory. After regaining her feet with the help of both her walking staff and Merfee, she opened her purse and withdrew a quill-pen and parchment. She quickly finished scribing, rolled the scroll into a tube, and then passed it to her attendant, who had already heated the special wax that held the guardian spell. Once sealed, this would only allow access to the person for whom the writ was addressed. Otherwise the results would be explosive. The reddish wax was poured and Amara quickly pressed her wooden signet ring into it, leaving the impression of a wolf's face. This was the mark of The Grove Elders. The ring was sacred, as it was an offering made by one of the few remaining Ancient Treants. The Ancient had shaped the ring itself, and then bestowed it directly to the bearer. Were the ring ever stolen, it would simply turn to dust. In this way, the Council's mark could not be authentically duplicated.

With her free hand, Amara shielded her eyes as she surveyed the sun's posture. "There is perhaps a two hour jog to Arbitos. Now, off with you, boy. You need not hasten, but neither should you dawdle. There may yet be lives at stake." *** Merfee raced as fast as possible while tightly gripping the brass tube that housed the Elder's sealed scroll. It still bothered him that she kept calling him boy. I have seen seventeen summers, and I am married with a child on the way! he thought irritably. Still, I suppose I'm just a tot to one who has seen over three hundred summers, he consoled himself. Besides, he need not necessarily include that part when he recounted his day to Nefari. He and Nefari had come to Spurious for the birth of their first child, though he would have personally preferred the baby be born in Pi'xylem. Arguing this point had proved precarious. A temperamental wife of roughly three times his age didn't help matters. Then again, she also sported the advantage of a previous marriage, which had included a prior pregnancy. Still, he had given his best attempt. "Traveling in your condition is daft, Wife," he had argued. "No child of mine will be born without a Godparent!" she had pouted. Then, when he had attempted to put his foot down, she had simply burst into tears. "You care nothing for the baby, or me! If you did, you wouldn't put such effort in vexing me this close to my delivery!" she had wailed. This had of course ended the argument, together with Merfee's desperate appeal for absolution. After about half an hour, she had calmed down and was beginning to get hungry again. Suffice it to say, he was at long last allowed atonement by going on something of an extended errand for honey clover, sugar berries, sour goat-head cabbage, and of course, Nefari's favorite dish, turnips. As he recalled the events of the last few days, it suddenly occurred to him that what Nefari had told him was quite true. "You can't plan ahead for everything, Merfee," she had said as he packed her things for the trip. "All you can do is pick yourself up, dust yourself off when the Fates are cross, and then relish whatever bounty they see fit to bestow otherwise." Now, while running a critically important errand at the personal request of one of the oldest and most revered Rangers to ever live, it all made perfect sense. She even complemented my skills, right there in front of every Ranger in Spurious. I don't deserve someone as patient and wise as Nef, he chided himself. I must remember to tell her how special she … Just then, Merfee's foot struck a rock. He tripped and rolled to a dead stop, flat on his back, where he continued to lay still for several moments while considering whether or not he had broken anything, this time. In truth, he was very much as the Elder had assessed. His hands were steady as stones and his eyes were keen, but the Elder had not had opportunity to assess his coordination. Two out of three isn't bad, he consoled himself. After he was sufficiently convinced that he was all right, he picked himself up, and then dusted himself off. It would appear the Fates are of mixed emotions about me today, he thought, having a good healthy chuckle before resuming his errand.

*** A tiny dart struck the tree next to Merfee, just as he bolted forward. He was too far away to hear the cry of pain as the author of the wayward dart was cuffed up side the head. "You missed, fool!" spat a Dark-elf with an officer's insignia painted above his left brow. As the object of his rage now lay unconscious at his feet, he motioned at two acolytes to bring the Rogue. "The Baron will no doubt wish to complement your accuracy, himself," he addressed the oblivious figure. The Rogue was dragged along as the members of the small group carefully made their way back toward the safety of their recently acquired Sanctuary. Their passage was both slow and cautious, for not only were they deep within the lands of their enemies, but upon specific orders, they had ventured away from the lair of their only allies during broad daylight. At night, even the least of them would have moved as silent shadows, but in this accursed intensity of light, they were as conspicuous as Hill giants. As a result, they were forced to return to their haven in much the same fashion they had left it, which is to say, they crawled upon their bellies through the underbrush and gullies. Here we are, in a land breeding Rangers and Druids like rabbits, thought Crimsin incredulously as he inched along. What's more, I find myself traveling amidst these vermin while the eye of their light rides high, with hours yet before reaching even its nearest horizon. We are like fish, pulled from the depths to flop about, defenseless and gasping … And yet, I've never felt more alive, he thought, suddenly swelling with pride. If I can but survive the incompetence of this Rogue, I shall drink the blood of many Humans and half-breeds. And if I die, then so be it. So long as my life is not wasted. As long as Lord Abhoron bears witness to my black heart, then death be no threat to a Dis'Errant, he thought, smiling. *** Standing at his balcony, Reginald looked out over the same training arena as he himself had used so very long ago. He could almost hear the others with whom he had trained. Many were dead now. Old chums, old rivals, old ghosts. The rank of Captain was his last step before entering those ranks no longer concerned with military operations. Everything from Colonel on up were considered positions held by government officials, with all the rights and privileges such implies. In itself, the rank of Colonel presented something of a transitional phase. It was the primary link between all military and administrational operations. On the one hand, this rank literally stood above that of the highest military rank. On the other hand, it was lowest of the governmental positions, almost considered to be an honorary title by both sides of the fence, depending on how one looked at it. This is not to say Reginald was without political influence in his capacity of Captain. He had long since learned the power behind that particular tool. Perhaps this was why the Magistrate had already issued several offers of promotion. Of course, Reginald had turned them all down. There was something about stepping into the role of Colonel that just didn't sit well with him. So many of those he had known in his youth had already crossed through that barrier. Perhaps he should have followed their example. They seemed happy. They were leading their lives, providing for their families. Perhaps if he had, his son wouldn't have become a soldier at all, and wouldn't be on this ridiculous rite of passage. How could I have let this happen? He was drawn away from such thoughts by a knock at his door. "Come in," he offered absently.

"Reports have come in from all towers, Captain," spoke the guard nervously as she poked her head just inside the door. "Yes, of course. Do come in, Private," Reginald offered with more enthusiasm. The Private had not personally bore witness, but it was rumored that the Captain had been out of sorts ever since learning his son was overdue. "I'm afraid," she continued, "that there is yet no word on Corporal Krue, milord." "BLAST HIS HIDE!" Reginald roared. Usually, all the neophyte guards found themselves in awe and admiration of Reginald. His bearing and presence, combined not only with his lofty position as Garrison Captain, but also with his incomparable achievements in battle, had rendered an overall image, which was simply nothing short of legendary. Unfortunately, as he also appeared to be upon the very verge of going berserk, the youth found herself quite abruptly unbalanced. And with her legs suddenly acting as if they were made of rubber, she quickly cast about for anything that might serve as a buttress while the entire room seemed to be spinning in several directions at once. Alas, there was naught but the floor, and of course, the Captain. She opted for the floor. Reginald signed and sealed his instructions for watchers in all towers to be doubled. He turned to give the scroll to the Private, but there was no one there. Then he saw the youth lying prostrate on the stone floor. "Oh, dear! Medic! Medic!" *** Immediately upon his entrance to the Captain's reception hall, Merfee heard a thud from the adjoining room. To the ears of most, this almost inaudible sound would not have even registered, but to the ears of a Ranger, the resonance was unmistakable. A body had just hit the stone floor, and if he was not mistaken, it had struck limply. This placed a very specific implication to the sound. It implied that the person who fell was already unconscious, or possibly even deceased, prior to the ensuing thud in question. To make things worse, the thud was quickly followed up by a frantic cry for help. "Medic! Medic!" Merfee burst through the Captain's door to see a young Human female lying on the floor at the Captain's feet. "You there!" shouted Reginald. "This soldier is not well." Merfee was neither Cleric nor Druid, but he did possess some meager healing abilities, and was just about to cast a third-class regeneration spell when upon closer inspection he found the youth apparently uninjured. In fact, she appeared to be simply sleeping. He rummaged through a small pouch hanging from a drawstring on his belt. A moment later he withdrew a tiny wax-sealed packet, which contained a concentrated mixture of garlic, stinkweed, skunk extract, and powdered bat guano. The concoction was ordinarily used in hunting rituals. One spreads the scent around the vicinity one hunts in order to mask the scent of the hunter. Under the circumstances, however, Merfee felt it could serve yet another purpose. He pulled the sealed flap and waved it under the young soldier's nose. "Ahh yes, smelling salts," commented the Captain. "That should bring her round."

As she inhaled the foul scent, she involuntarily retched, sat bolt upright, and then instinctively recoiled as far from the concoction as possible. She scooted quickly, literally walking backward upon both buttocks until she bounced the back of her head onto the stone wall behind her. As she did so, she screamed in pain, and lost consciousness yet again. Now Merfee did cast the healing spell he had originally intended to use. This abated the majority of damage to the guard's skull, reducing her initial concussion to a mere blinding headache. As the guard slowly recovered her senses, she looked up at the Captain. "My apologies, milord," she offered with only a minor slur. "I have no excuse for my behavior." "Don't be ridiculous," soothed the Captain while helping her to her feet. "It was no fault of yours, but rather my own outburst. Corporal Krue is quite overdue and… No. That is no excuse. I do most humbly beg your pardon, milady." While yet disoriented, the young guard continued to hold her head with both hands. Still, the Captain's appeal for her personal clemency had struck some horrifying cord within her that far outpaced her cranial discomfort, as was clearly evident by her ever-widening eyes. Captain Reginald Krue, Captain of the guard, Defender of the people, and Hero to Nations had just begged the pardon of a Peon guard. This was somehow even worse then his previous outrage. She made as if to gain her feet, though between her aching head and Reginald's unprecedented behavior, she suddenly found herself thumping the stone floor again, and then again. Finally, both Reginald and Merfee decided to assist, each taking one arm until she had regained a solid footing. "I believe it might be prudent if you were to visit the infirmary before you resume your duties, Private," added Reginald with an odd expression of concern. Then he handed her the scroll, bearing his signet. "Yes, Captain," the guard replied, snapping to attention. "Right away, milord." As she prepared to take her leave, she turned to Merfee. "I must have struck my head when I passed out. I thank you most kindly for healing me, milord," she concluded with great sincerity." "No, no, I'm simply glad to be of service," Merfee corrected magnanimously. Still holding her pounding head, the guard left the room, yet bearing an oddly quizzical, and perhaps somewhat painful expression. She paused briefly at the door, sniffing the air tentatively, as if attempting to identify something both perplexing and repulsive, and then closed the door to go in search of the infirmary, and perhaps a tavern after that. "That was quite the quick response, young man," commended the Captain while clasping Merfee on the shoulder. "Umm, no, milord. I think there's been a mistake. I'm no Cleric," Merfee stated correctly. "I was dispatched by Elder Ironwood on a matter of great import," he concluded, handing Reginald the Scroll, bearing the Grove Council Seal. The Captain unrolled the document and read its contents, his brow furrowing deeper as he read further. When he finished, he re-rolled the scroll and placed it back within the tube, and then stared at what he held for several moments. After a time, his attention returned to Merfee. "What's your name, boy?" he demanded impatiently. For the second time that day, Merfee introduced himself in response to the label of child. If he was perturbed by it, he had the good sense to keep it to himself. Besides, he saw no need to include that particular information when recounting his day to his wife on this night. To his dismay, Merfee found himself rapidly becoming adept at the editing of recounted conversation.

The Captain secured the scroll in his belt, and then grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair. "Right then, Rainswalker," he continued while making for the door. "Stay on my heels, boy. We've much to accomplish, and precious little time." Borin would have to wait. Matters of Arbitos Security had just taken a drastic turn for the worse. Elder Pynewood had just been assassinated in broad daylight, and if Ironwood was right, then an invasion by Factions from within the Dark Empire could not immediately be ruled out. Either way, Captain Reginald Krue fully intended a swift retaliation upon the perpetrators.

Chapter Four-Where's Waldo? Jester had been unable to come close enough to even catch sight of the oaf for almost three days. In fact, he had only seen him once since the oaf had been taken into custody, and then only briefly as his unconscious body was dragged across the courtyard, and then down into the prison proper. There were a large number of guards posted at strategic points, both in and about the Dwarven stronghold, and carefully positioned so as to avoid any possible blind spots. This, coupled with staggered shifts that ended only after their replacements arrived, had consistently left Jester with no gaps to penetrate. On the third day, he decided there was no choice but to risk a closer look. He began to cast, pausing only for a brief prayer. Perhaps I should just take a moment to point out that were I to depart this life while undertaking this completely selfless act of rescue, then I would be unable to carry out the wishes of your most illustrious Council. Then of course, there are still the matters of restitution to the Baker, and that unfortunate wound borne so bravely by the poor old oak. Now, I'm sure you know I would never pretend to tell you of your own business, but it's always good to have all the facts. With that, he waved both arms in wide arcs, concluding with his outstretched hands, as if grasping imaginary curtains, which he then drew about himself like a cloak. A distortion formed. At first, it appeared as an aura that grew and swirled. Presently, the rotation intensified, collapsing inward as it fused with both his body and clothing, slowly draining all color: a liquid sheath of air that bore only his shape, like a living ice sculpture. Finally, even that faded, melting into the air and earth about it. This was his strongest invisibility. Other, less elaborate spells could have been established much faster, but what he needed now was reliability. As he approached the Dwarven portico, he overheard several guards in a discussion concerning recent pressure from the Merchant's guild to crack down on the perpetrators of all the thefts occurring of late. After receiving their signed petition, the Governor was apparently considering their requests with greater attention. Jester tried not to dwell further on that particular topic, as it might just be possible that he had contributed to some small amount of that pressure. Nevertheless, it looked as if the crime of theft might soon become elevated to one demanding a more severe penalty. Once on the second level, he tarried as a stately Dwarf with a shortly cropped beard addressed several more guards. "The whole of Arbitos and Spurious be in pandemonium. Some high up, muckety-muck half-breed were found face down in the mud, and rumor has it that Wognix be responsible. I'm expected to attend a full gathering in Arbitos proper. I'm thinkin' they're of a mind to form some Tribunal, or Council of Nations. All I know for certain is they're gonna have to do more than form yet another worthless…" The Dwarf felt a sudden current of air, powerful enough to blow the buckled hat from the top of his head. "Here now! You lads have a terrible draft down here, don't ya?" he commented while retrieving his hat. Both guards looked back at him with quizzical expressions. The truth was that the lower sections of the hold were shut off from any outside airflow. It could be terrible in the summer. ***

The tiny Fodder beetle exited its nest in the corner of his cell after having delivered yet another payload of various building supplies. It then reversed its bearing, traversing the length of stone floor, and then exiting beneath the door. It would then be away for ten to fifteen minutes while locating more material. He had watched it repeat this process for several hours. Observing this ritual was not particularly entertaining. On the other hand, there weren't a great many other distractions available. There was his neighbor in the adjacent accommodations, though this was a subject from which he would have preferred to be distracted. There came a "Pssssst," from outside the door to his cell. At first he thought it was that confounded drunkard again. Gads! If he recites the finer points of difference between Dwarven and Elven ales again, I'll go stark raving mad! "Pssssssst." "What is it, you lush?" he shouted, striking the cell wall with his fist. "Over here," a voice whispered at the door. His attention was drawn to the corridor. Cautiously, he moved to the cell door and looked through the bars. He looked down the dimly lit hall in both directions, but saw nothing. He was about to return to his cot when… "No. You can't see me, but you must listen." Egad! Borin thought, recognizing the voice. It's that accursed Druid! "Be gone, foul Sprite!" Sprite? Sprite! he thought, and then caught himself. There were much greater issues at hand than insults from a simpleton. "Listen to me," he whispered as loudly as possible. "There's been a murder back home." "I said be gone from me!" Borin bellowed. "Are you deaf as well as… Who?" "I've no idea, though it appears to be a matter of some import, or else they would not be calling for a gathering of Dignitaries." "This is all your fault! Had you not framed me for a crime of your own perpetration, I would be home by now!" "Will you please lower your voice? I'm here to get you out." "Oh, really?" Borin inquired sardonically. "And just how do you plan to accomplish such a feat?" "You really are simple, aren't you? Unless you missed it, I happen to be a Druid. Have you never heard of Teleportation?" "Aye, I've heard of that. Have you never heard of Warding? Take a good look at the marker above the door." Jester stepped back and looked up. Sure enough, there was a seal of warding. No magic could be performed while near it. He suddenly grew quite nervous. If his spell were to wear off at this juncture, he wouldn't be able to recast without stepping out of the ward's area of effect. That would definitely place him within the guard's range of vision. "Just hang on," Jester offered encouragingly. "I'll be back to get you out." "Well, isn't that just grand," Borin intoned. "I feel better already. What is it you think you're going to do? Ask them for the key?"

No answer followed. "GET ME OUT OF HERE!" "Hey!" came a slurred shout from the next cell. "Can't a fellow catch a few winks?" The Dwarf in the adjoining cell pressed his face to the bars of his own iron door. "Oh, it's you!" he voiced with enthusiasm, if not clarity. "Say, did I ever tell you about the time I was a Judge in the Dwarven versus Elven ale contest in Upper Lavish'nix?" The small vein above Borin's eye began to throb. *** In truth, Jester had no idea what he was going to do, not that he had ever let that circumstance stop him before. He saw no particular reason why it should get in the way now. He raced back out the way he had come, stopping short when he noticed a door that read Confiscations. Once inside, he found a number of crates marked with different numbers. He opened a few, but failed to find anything that might serve a purpose in his current endeavor. There were several items that caught his eye, such as a lady's pink garter, heavily woven with iridescent sparkles. Ezy would really go for this, he thought before placing the item back. In the next box, he found an oversized jerkin and thought of Huey. He held it up against himself, gauging its size by using his own dimensions as a template. From tail to collar, the garment was perhaps half again the length and breadth of Jester's entire body. Way too small . Recalling the number to Borin's cell, he searched until he located a box with the same number. In that box were all of Borin's possessions. He searched through the Duffel bag to see if there was anything of use. It mostly housed various types of weaponry. There were several swords, axes, and daggers, and a finely crafted bow with some very well-balanced reed shaft arrows, but nothing of particular interest. The daggers posed something of a momentary problem. Being of a higher quality craftsmanship, he experienced a certain minor discomfort in merely looking at them. Touching them would have been excruciating. If only they weren't so obviously deadly, he might have been able to pretend they were something other than what they were, at least long enough to move them out of his way. When at last he realized that his aversion was not to be denied, he simply emptied the entire bag onto the stone floor. As the contents scattered, a wooden case fell on top of the pile, popping open as its latch jarred free. His eyes widened, for inside the box reposed a Talisman of Fortune! Any Tarot would covet such an item, and he found himself sorely tempted by it. Even to lay eyes on one was an extraordinary stroke of luck. There followed an intense moment while he wrestled with his conscience. Had this business only been about rescuing an ungrateful oaf, he might have disregarded his ethics. As it was, there were matters afoot of much graver consequence. Regretfully, he placed the Talisman back within its box, consoling himself by recalling that for every Talisman of Fortune, there was an identical Talisman of Ill-fortune, indistinguishable from the its twin until such time as its true nature emerged, which was often too late to do the bearer any good. In fact, the only good thing about Talismans of Ill-fortune was, ironically, the only bad thing about Talismans of Fortune, which is to say, they only function once per bearer. After that, their magic awaits the next victim and or lucky oaf to blunder by. He had an idea, but wasn't sure it would work. He checked Borin's money pouch. Ahh, jingle-jingle, he grinned. Plenty…and platinum at that. Perhaps there was a chance. He had to take one big risk and hope he was far enough from the ward to cast. Unfortunately, the act of casting would in itself disrupt

his invisibility. If he were wrong, then he would no doubt be sharing the same cell as the Warrior himself. Not a nice image, that. He gathered up all of Borin's belongings. Oh, Troll spore! How can I carry it all? The armor alone must outweigh a small Roc. Still, he managed, but just barely. He offered a small prayer to Wildern for good fortune in a worthy cause, hoping that the Deity would not examine the situation too closely while considering the request. He wasn't entirely certain of Wildern's stance on the worth of oafish Warriors. Then he waved his arms, and his eyes flashed silver as a cloud of starlight surrounded him. *** "That's my final offer!" "Friend Druid," crooned the Dwarven Rogue. "Surely you can see my position. I have a great deal of overhead to deal with." "What? Ink and parchment?" "And besides, the content of your request is obviously of a risky nature. Should you get caught, then it is my reputation on the line. No, this situation definitely calls for a proper adjustment of compensation." There is no time for this foolishness, thought Jester. No doubt the Rogue sensed his impatience. They have a knack for that sort of thing. If he just had a bit more time, he would show this little Thief how to really barter. As it was, he had no choice. "All right, you Crook!" "Excellent," crooned the Rogue with a triumphant smile. "I will get to work right away. Come back in the morning and it will be ready." "Oh, I don't think so, little man," Jester stated flatly At this, the Rogue's smile vanished. "You have just one hour, else me and my plat disappear," he spat, demonstrating further by fading from sight, and then reappearing behind the Dwarf to flick his ear. "Be reasonable, my friend!" cried the Rogue as he spun about. "You cannot expect a quality product in so short a time! It simply isn't possible!" "Considering the amount in question, I think that I can expect both quality and expedience. Besides, you know good and well that I'm pressed for time, or else you would not be receiving the unholy sum of fifty platinum in the first place. So just let me know if you can't handle the job. I hear there's a Rogue at the other end of town who has no qualms about working under pressure." *** "…and so then the Dwarven brewer says, 'Crumly?' That's me, Crumly. 'Crumly?' he says to me, 'You may well be the leading ale authority on the face of Nirayel.'" "Please stop. I just can't bear it." "Of course, the Elven brewer was none too happy. I don't think I should even repeat what she said." "Then don't!" Borin cried pitifully.

"Shut up in there!" commanded the guard as he came to Borin's door. "Stand back, prisoner!" Borin complied as the guard unlocked the iron door, which then swung inward. The guard walked through, followed closely by a Paladin, crouching low. "Is this him, Marshal?" the guard asked. "Yep," a most familiar voice replied. "Thought you got away, didn't you, Waldo?" asked the Paladin in a superior tone. "I've searched high and low for this varmint." Borin was staring at what he knew was a Druid, but who was fully dressed in finely crafted armor. After doing a closer inspection, he realized that it was his own armor. The Corporal insignia had been replaced with Sergeant Major bars, and then stamped with an encircled star of gold, denoting the class and rank of a fully vested Deputy Paladin, Warden Class. Still, he would have known his own armor anywhere. The nerve! Oh, the nerve! Mistaking Borin's expression for shock at having been caught up with by the long arm of the law, the Dwarven guard turned to the Marshal with his own expression of admiration. "Congratulations Constable," he offered solemnly while shaking the Paladin's hand, and very nearly toppling him over. "Oh, just doing my duty," the Constable assured the guard while bracing his hand against the cell door. "Judging by the Writ you showed me, I'd warrant that they'll be glad to see you bring this vermin back to Arbitos. He must be a real nasty character, extradition being what it is." "Yep," replied the Constable shortly while endeavoring to support the massive weight without showing any sign of the incredible strain under which he labored. "All right, Slime. Move out!" gruffed the guard, quickly ushering Borin out of the cell with the pointed end of his bronze spear. "Be careful," the Constable admonished. "He's tricky, this one." "Yes, I heard about his last escapade," intoned the Paladin. "Pilfering produce now, are you, Waldo?" A small growl escaped before Borin could adjust to the escalating string of insults. Fortunately, the guard's insistent spear tip was most helpful in his regained composure. "All that's left," continued the guard as he tossed iron shackles at Waldo, thus prompting Borin to restrain his own wrists and ankles, "is to stop off and collect his effects." "Umm… That is to say," the Constable offered haltingly, "that really won't be necessary, my good man." "What do ya mean?" the guard inquired with a confused expression while tossing him the key to Waldo's shackles. "He has a fair amount of goods in our lock-up, ya know." "What I mean is-well-a Swine like this has no right to possessions. Yes, that's it. I would appreciate it if you would simply see to it his possessions are sold, and the proceeds donated to local charity." "Do you mean to tell me you intend to parade this man all the way back to Arbitos in his long johns?" queried the Dwarf incredulously. "Yep," answered the Constable absently, feeling as if he were about to topple again, although he managed to right himself. "Well, if you say so. He sure musta made folks awful angry where you come from."

"Well-I really shouldn't divulge the specifics of the case," intoned the Marshal seriously. Then, noting the guard's deflated expression, he added, "Of course, seeing as how you're a fellow officer of the Law and all, I suppose I can trust you." "Sure ya can trust me," beamed the guard. "I won't tell a soul." "Well, you see, it involves the daughter of a certain prominent Southwest Wiccaris farmer," confided the Marshal in a hushed tone. "You don't say," replied the little guard, leaning in to hear more. The Marshal Looked about cautiously, insuring that no one was eavesdropping, and then motioned the guard even closer. "The poor innocent lass was just picking fresh wild flowers for her ailing grandmother when…" He whispered the rest into the guard's ear. Borin looked on as Jester continued to whisper confidentially to his all too eager audience. As this went on for some time, his attention wandered back through the door of the cell he had just exited, and then to the beetle as it returned with yet another load of building material for its nest. This wasn't going to aid in his escape, but neither was the great whopper spewing from the fool's mouth to the guard's ear. As long as time was apparently to be squandered anyway, he could at least squander it on something infinitely more interesting than a Druid's dribble. "And that's how they found her," concluded the Constable, no longer whispering. "Still atop the church bell tower?" asked the guard with genuine astonishment. "I'm afraid so," confirmed the Marshal. "What's more, the poor dear was three sheets to the wind and wearing naught but the Bishop's hat. I understand the baby is due before the coming Tri-equinox." Borin's attention snapped back, though he offered no argument. What could he say that wouldn't jeopardize his impending freedom? In truth, the Druid really was helping him. Wish as he might, he couldn't change that fact. "Oh! Oh, it's just awful!" lamented the inebriated occupant of the adjoining cell, who had apparently overheard the Marshal's account.

Chapter Five-Elementary, My Boy There she stood, just as the scroll had indicated. "Hail," Reginald called. "Ahh, good to see you again, Captain," Amara returned with a wave. As they reached the trading post, he held one hand up, palm forward, thus prompting the entire Regiment to come to a resounding halt as the soldiers' right feet stomped the ground in unison. "A pity it has to be under such unsavory circumstances," he returned seriously. "You made excellent time, boy," she commended. "I wasn't really expecting you until after dusk. You may add stout legs to go with that keen eye and steady hand," she offered with an oddly amused expression. Merfee flushed as he was reminded of his minor delay. To his chagrin, the revisions to the story Nefari would hear later were becoming somewhat numerous. "Have you determined if they are still about, mistress?" the Captain inquired. "Yes, though you're bound to be none too happy about it." Reginald raised a wary brow. Ironwood's reputation for accurate field accounts was not one to be taken lightly. If her estimation included an opinion in which one was unlikely to find something to one's liking, then one should more than likely remain prepared for that likelihood. "I followed their sign as best I could," she began. "Mind you, Wognix leave precious little for a tracker to follow. After a bit, I lost their scent altogether. As a matter of fact, I was about to give it up when Natura favored me with a-special gift," she intoned, her hand hastening to intervene between her mouth and the Captain's line of sight while dropping her gaze to the ground, apparently in collection of her thoughts. At least this was how Reginald interpreted her manner. Merfee's observations were somewhat different. After a moment, when she had managed to either compose her thoughts, or perhaps herself, she continued. Now however, she appeared intent upon Merfee alone. This subtle change in demeanor was lost on the Captain, whose only real concern was the information he sought. "It would appear that our blue friends had yet another target in mind. Of course, the details are a bit sketchy, but as well as I can figure it out, they were close to the main road-quite near here, in fact. That is where I found signs of…" she paused, smiling briefly at Merfee, "what seemed to be a place where someone met with something of a minor mishap." Merfee's eyes widened. "I believe this person was most likely in some sort of rush," she continued. "And as often as not, when folks are in too great a hurry, they suffer mishaps." Merfee glanced nervously at the Captain, who seemed oblivious to the Elder's dual assessment. "I found a small jutting rock, bearing several leather fibers, followed shortly by muddled signs of someone's evident tumbling, and further followed by the clear imprint of what I believe to be that very same someone lying flat upon his back," she concluded. "Mistress, I…" Merfee began. "Be still, boy," commanded the Captain, not realizing that what was being conveyed was as much for the young Ranger's benefit as for his own.

"Now, who ever it was," Amara continued, "he was most fortunate indeed, for upon closer inspection, I found something of particular interest buried in the bark of a tree, quite near the tumbler's imprint, and approximately the height of a young adult Wood-elf." Amara held a small parchment envelope and took out a pair of fish-bone tweezers. She carefully extended the tweezers into the envelope, and then withdrew what appeared to be a very tiny dart. "I believe," she said, holding the item up for display while looking Merfee squarely in the eyes, "that this little item is definitely a mosquito beak. Further more, I feel quite confident it contains a sufficient amount of distilled drachnid spider venom to kill a Hill giant." Merfee's heart skipped a beat, and then made up for the loss with a vengeance. He had been most embarrassed when confronted with such a clumsy mishap while on such a matter of grave importance, but to learn that he had come so close to his own grave was yet another sensation altogether. He suddenly wished nothing more than to sit down while rapidity of said beats had an opportunity to ease a bit, and preferably somewhere other than in the presence of this particular Ranger. "Sounds as if their intended target escaped by a hairsbreadth," commented the Captain soberly. "No doubt," Amara concurred, still smiling at Merfee like a Cheshire tigress. Merfee recalled what he had been thinking at the time. Perhaps the Fates are not so mixed after all. "There was more good fortune than simply having their targets escape," she added, returning her full attention to the Captain. "The circumstance afforded me the opportunity to regain the Wognix trail. From there we followed them to where the trail ends." "Most fortunate," Reginald agreed. "Truth is that the only reason we were able to keep on the scent was a mistake made by whatever Wognix led their little excursion. It would seem that right after the dart missed the target, one of their own group had to be dragged. It's only a guess of course, but I would be willing to bet it was the same individual whose dart missed the intended target. Wognix are an unforgiving lot when it comes to failure in the ranks. In any event, dragging a body through the underbrush was as good as putting up road signs all the way there. "And where exactly are the culprits, mistress?" asked Reginald patiently. "Howling Cavern."

Chapter Six, Part One-Tarots, Tramps And Thieves Shadows stretched eastward, creeping and merging as the light of day declined. Traffic through the Megalith's Hub first slowed, and then came to an all but a complete halt until the night passed. In the early morning hours, the greater flow of transportation would continue. Few pilgrims intentionally traveled the territories by night unless they planned to stop at one of the nearby guard stations, or perhaps one of the fortified farming communities. Of course, there were those few whose station in life prompted a need to bear on. There were always a certain number of Diplomats, Couriers, Politicians, or Law enforcement Officials with the financial means to expedite their expedition. Often, their travels took them far beyond the course of transport, or nocturnal cessation. In such cases, continued Dryadic escort was the standard insurance of both speed, and safety. As such, each waited patiently while their hired Priests of Nature meditated after the exertion of transport. *** As the portal faded, the world swam back into focus again. Borin wasn't quite as adverse to teleportation as he was to ocean travel, but it was a close second. Teleportation's only real saving grace was its blessedly brief duration. The dwarves had allowed him but one light meal of sour bread with a cup of muddled water per day. This turned out to be a blessing in itself, as his stomach took only a few more moments than his eyes to recover. This had been Borin's first real Quest, and his knowledge of the Wiccaris territories was sketchy at best. In fact, his initial trip to obtain the Talisman had bypassed Wiccaris entirely when he had come across another of Jester's ilk who had been willing to teleport him directly to the Dwergus Hub. In truth, he really did need a guide, at least as far as West Wiccaris. Still, he could not actually bring himself to consider this troublemaker in such a capacity. After recovering his possessions, or at least most of them, he discovered that the Druid had encountered several operating costs. First of all, he had already paid some Rogue to forge the papers of extradition, along with the false rank on his armor, or so he had said. As far as Borin knew, his money might yet reside within the Druid's own pouch. Forgery might well be just another talent for which the Druid had an affinity. It would go well with his skill in framing innocent victims. Then the tree-hugger had dragged him back to the very Dwarf who had hit him with a rolling pin, and anonymously paid the baker for the cost of what he had taken. This was accomplished via invisibility. When Borin had started to question this last action, Jester had replied, "Considering the fact I just got you out of jail, I simply assumed that you wouldn't mind if I took care of that. After all, it was only a couple of platinum." At the time, Borin was too overwhelmed by the Druid's unfathomable cheek to form a coherent reply. Then he had insisted upon returning to, of all places, the very spot where all the trouble had begun. Once there, he proceeded actually to converse with the oak tree, thanking it for its hospitality, and then healing a large hole in its upper trunk before finally bidding it farewell. Gads! No, all things considered, it would be far better to simply rid himself of this particular individual. He turned to Jester. "I thank you for your assistance concerning my imprisonment," he began in a dry, formal tone. "I also thank you for passage to Wiccaris. Furthermore, in review of events concerning the Dark-elves, I can see where your initial intentions were probably well placed." "Probably…?"

"However, considering the incident with the apple, and my resulting incarceration, I believe it best if we take separate paths home," he concluded flatly. "As I've already explained," began Jester. "I have been dispatched by the Grove Elders to escort you back to Arbitos. I am not to return to Spurious until we reach the Arbitos lowlands." "I care neither for your instructions, nor the council who gave them to you," Borin replied, straining to maintain control. "Please…listen…to…me," spoke Jester in slow emphasis. "I have no alternative in the matter. I understand the authorities binding me are of no consequence to you, but surely you can still see my position. What would have been the outcome between you and the authorities who sponsored your Quest, had you failed?" Borin thought carefully for a moment. "I would have returned in disgrace," he answered without inflection. He knew where this line of discussion was going and he didn't like it. "Well then, you must see my position," Jester returned triumphantly. "Indeed I do," Borin conceded. "I also see that had you thought before framing me for a theft of your own contrivance, then not only would you have avoided all of the time and trouble you have caused us both, but we would have completed our respective Quests. I would not bear you the resentment I currently do, and we would both be back in our respective homes, enjoying a good meal, the company of family, and I for one would be indulging in a nice hot bath. Of course, I cannot speak for you in this matter, but if the fleas now residing within my armor be any indication at all, then I seriously doubt that your itinerary includes such activities as hygiene." "What…" "Now, I feel I have been most patient with you, but my patience is just about exhausted, so if you will excuse me, I will take my leave of you!" he concluded while hoisting his duffel bag over one shoulder. He turned back to face Jester once again, as if to survey him. He offered a small, but pronounced expression of exasperation, mixed perhaps with just a touch of nausea. The nausea was in fact the fading residual of teleportation, although he felt justified in applying its effects to augment the impact of his departure. Then he simply turned away and marched off. He had marched about twenty meters when Jester finally spoke up. "A most impressive speech! Too bad the Warrior's flight precludes rebuttal!" he shouted loudly enough for everyone about the circle of stones to hear. This was confirmed by a murmuring among the small assembly. It is not often that one witnesses a Druid's challenging a Warrior's courage, even by implication. Borin, however, was seemingly unaffected. He simply continued his march homeward. "If only I could impart but a few irrefutable facts, I could then resign myself to the Council's discipline!" The Warrior showed no sign of even slowing. "I do not believe this is too much to ask! Oh, I suppose one might reason that it's a waste of time! After all, had I not intervened, you could still be learning about all those wonderfully different types of ale!" Borin stopped, but did not turn. "Make it fast!" "First of all, I do most humbly offer my sincerest apologies for my previous behavior! My action in reference to the apple is simply inexcusable! I have no defense, other than to say I felt somewhat slighted after having thwarted an attempt upon your life!"

"Second! My name is not Druid! It's Squire Jesterwolf Thistle! My friends call me Jester. You may address me as Squire Jesterwolf Thistle!" "Third! I do not have fleas! My hygiene is the same as that of all Druids, which is to say, beyond reproach! This is far more than I can testify for the majority of the ever-sweating Warrior Class! Further more, if you seek the source of your infestation, I suggest you consider your recent residential accommodations!" "Fourth! It is far too late in the day to reach Arbitos before dark! Even with Spells of Canis or Felidae, one would not make it even as far as the nearest of the western Arbitos sentry towers!" "Then of course, there are such hazards as Wolves, Grizzly bears, Rocs and the like. Such as these would be of no threat to someone traveling with a person to who said creatures are considered kindred spirits. And I suppose the other undesirables, such as Vampires, Ancient Hags and other undead could be simply vanquished by such a powerful combatant as yourself, if they were backed by a healer of some sort. Or, I imagine, such things can simply be outrun, unless of course the traveler in question might not have had the foresight to request Canis before bounding away from the only place of Dryadic gathering between here and Spurious Grove!" "And Fifth! Arbitos is west of here! You're facing east!" he concluded, and then turned away from Borin, toward the west. He sat down, crossing each leg over the other, so as to commence a meditation that would assist in the recovery of mana expended on teleportation. It also served to hide his expression. It had been a truly monumental effort on his part, but he had managed to say everything required without the slightest snicker. Humor would not serve his purposes at this point. Still, it had almost been too much, especially when he had seen the look on the oaf's face as he turned about, realizing in his exuberance that after delivering such a grand performance of righteous indignation, he had failed to consult his sense of direction. Borin stared at the Druid for several moments. It would be so truly effortless just to lop off the bounder's head, but for the life of him, he could find no better justification than the seemingly continuous string of indignities he had been unduly assigned to suffer. As if to punctuate the point, he now noticed that Jester's shouting had gained more than simply his own attention. The travelers who had been resting and/or meditating had formed a small audience. Although Jester himself had refrained from laughing, the now assembled group showed no such restraint. Hearing a noise from behind, Borin turned to observe a young Treant standing right next too him. The great tree-like creature was swaying significantly in what was no more than a light breeze. It took him only a moment longer to realize even the foliage was making merry at his expense. *** "Ouch!" cried Tuda as the small clump of dried manure struck her squarely between the shoulder blades. "Nanna, Nanna! Dobin's throwin Roc pies again!" Dobin quickly pulled a small primer from his jerkin pocket and plopped down by the campfire, turning to about the middle of the book, and feigning serious study. "All right, me little grub!" Magnatha shouted. "I told ya the next time ya hit yer sister, I was gonna wallop ya but good!" Magnatha Thistle sat in her tent, near enough to the fire to ward off the majority of cold aches in her bones. She rose from her rocker stool using two very old and very crooked Cyprus canes. With one

cane in each hand, she stood as straight as she was able, her old joints creaking as she forced herself into a forward lurching motion. "Yer sister's got welts the size of bear paws from head ta foot. I think it's about time ya had a few welts of yer own!" "I aint done nuffin, Nanna," Dobin replied in a perfectly calm, perfectly naive tone. "Don't ya be pullin that innocent routine on me, boyo," she commanded while adopting a facial posture somewhere between a sneer and a grin. "I was pulling such as that, near ta five hundred summers before yer Pappy was birthed. Now come here and get yer licks!" "Let me help you back to your tent, Nanna," Cleetis offered in a soothing tone while gently sidling next to her, and then cordially taking her arm while casually turning her so as to place himself between Dobin and his would be disciplinarian. "You're just going to upset yourself again." From behind Cleetis, Dobin stuck his tongue out at the old Round-ear in his own tauntingly emphasized victory. "Surely," she crooned sweetly. "Right after I knock some sense into yon wee Demon's noggin!" Then she braced herself on one cane while raising the other over her head. Cleetis quickly intercepted the cane before it came down on Dobin. Dobin offered several mid-air smooches while crossing his eyes in Nanna's direction. "Now, Nanna, we've been through this before. You know good and well that Reanna and I have never hit the children. What makes you think I would allow such a thing?" "Well, I suppose I just keep hopin you'll wise up!" she spat, and then spat for real. "I was raised up just fine by folks what walloped me when I needed it. I reckon I've seen more younguns brought up in my day than yer likely ta ever count. Each and every one of em got walloped when warranted and as far as I can tell, they all did just fine. They learned respect, and did what they were told, when they were told." "Maybe so, but I doubt you were ever walloped over the head with a big wooden stick," Cleetis returned flatly. "Are ya addled, sonny? That boy's a Halfling! Ain't nothing short of a Smithy's own hammer could get through yon noggin!" she concluded with a loud air of superiority, and then hobbled about face, lurching back toward her tent. Dobin's grin broadened at the prospect of having bested Nanna. As she reached her rocker, Magnatha abruptly turned to address him. "Psssst, yer book be upside down, boyo." Dobin looked down. Sure enough, the primmer was turned wrong. He quickly turned it right side up, but not before his adopted father had witnessed his error. In looking up, he found Nanna offering several mid-air smooches of her own. As he was led away by one ear to take punishment in the form of a very long lecture, to be followed by a stint at washing the laundry, or perhaps cleaning out all the wagons, he could hear Magnatha from within her tent, cackling with laughter. Later, while washing his sister's bloomers, he realized she hadn't meant to strike him at all, not that Nanna was above such. There were numerous occasions when his backside had found her wrath in the form of a switch, strap, or even her open hand. What had escaped him until this moment of reflection

was the incorporation of her walking sticks. He had witnessed her using them on other adults, including Momma, Papa, and numerous unwelcome strangers, but never on children. No, what just happened had been exactly as Nanna had wished it to happen. A child of six simply doesn't stand a chance in a war of wits with someone almost a hundred times that age. Somehow, it just didn't seem right. *** A shadowy figure dashed through the dimly lit cavern. Seemingly, it neither walked, nor ran. Where its foot fell, there was no sound, and though it did pass the occasional lamp or torch, it offered no turbulence to disrupt the steady flames. It stopped only once before entering the deeper corridors. There it turned its hooded face upward to hear the battle cries of Arbitos guardsmen, mixed with the howling death song of remaining Gnolls as their numbers dwindled. Then the figure continued, disappearing into gloom. *** "Block their retreat!" shouted the commanding voice of Captain Krue. "Take as many prisoners as possible!" The remaining Gnolls fought bravely. These were the Elite guard and there was no question of their intent to die fighting. This had been Reginald's only miscalculation. There would be no retreat, and there would certainly be no surrender. *** "I bear grave news, Baron," reported the Rogue while still half buried in shadow. A stocky Dark-elf with a jagged scar running from his chin to his collarbone glanced up from the huddled circle of his council. "Do you hide from your friends, Delphi?" Baron Heartrot asked in a graveled voice, and then returned his attentions to the matter of tactics. "No, my Baron," she replied, stepping hesitantly into the half-light. "The last of the Elite cry their songs of death, even as we speak," she reported. "You are yet veiled," said Crimsin from directly behind her. When she did not react, he pushed passed to stand between her and the others, then turned to face her accusingly. "Are you perhaps frightened? Or could it be you wish to conceal something?" About his neck hung a necklace constructed of wide leather stripping, segmented by a series of small glass cubes: receptacles filled with alcohol, and then corked. Within one cube was the ear of a long forgotten enemy. In another was a fang from a pet snake he had tortured as a child. Each container held tokens of pleasurable occasions in his life. As he regarded her, he smiled faintly while fondly stroking the glass of his latest addition, a pearl white ocular orb with an iris of sky blue. She slowly pulled back the hood of her cloak. There for all to see was the bloody, gaping socket that had once been her right eye. She cringed despite herself as her compatriot's laughter rang in her ears, and then quickly drew the hood forward to cover her face again. "Very well then," the Baron chortled while waving the rest of his assembly back to order. "It is a fine thing we still show such good spirits in times such as these, but there yet lies a great distance between us and home. Let us to the business at hand, shall we? Crimsin?" "Yes, milord?"

"I trust you were able to secure the shipment." "No, milord. I fear the passage to Norwinds was overrun before the mediator could make it through." "Hmm. Now, that is a pity," the Baron observed casually. "Without gate potions, our situation does become a bit more…complex." "I told those idiots we would be in need of a Wizard!" Crimsin spat. "Yes. Perhaps our lack of provisions was also an oversight," Delphi intoned with an accusatory glance in Crimsin's direction. "Are you implying such was my responsibility?" Crimsin hissed through clenched teeth. "I do seem to recall it was you who were charged with overseeing all acquisitions. What I don't recall are any gate potions." "Harlot! You never requested anything of an alchemic nature! How many times must I…" "Now, now," chided the Baron. Let us not be so critical, my friends. The Emperor's tacticians cannot be expected to foresee every contingency. Besides, a Wizard would only have served to slow our progress to this point. The same can also be said of overstocked provisions." The Baron's intervention was gentle, even affable, but any interruption during a private dispute could only come were it of a high priority. His smile remained genial, yet his eyes were demanding. The dispute was to be diffused. Their tempers had no place in this exchange. A long moment of silence followed as the tension between Delphi and Crimsin lingered. "We must return the gathered intelligence," Crimsin asserted, breaking the silence, and his concentration on her jugular. "If only we still had an Enchanter," Delphi mumbled, momentarily reinstating the Dis'Errant's steely gaze. "Of course, there was a time when we had two, didn't we?" "If Pitchwere succeeds, then the demoralization alone makes the risk worth while!" "That accounts for one Enchanter." Delphi smiled dangerously. "There's also the matter of someone's decision to send Effigee on a solo-reconnaissance that now appears to have separated us from our last hope." "What's done is done," intoned the Baron. "You're both right. It was a worthy risk, Tyde, and I appreciated your most daring advice. However, under the circumstances, it would be most useful if we had at least one among us who could gate." "Milord? I…" Crimsin began with a crestfallen uncertainty, and then fell silent as the Baron waved him away dismissively. Delphi's features were hidden beneath her hood again. "Well then, let's see. The Gnolls have fallen. This is of no particular consequence. They were weak and pathetic anyway. Still, they've purchased us a useful pittance of time. I propose we use it to our advantage." "How are we to elude their forces, Baron?" the young Warrior to his left asked. "With both Lowland and Norwind passages blocked, it would appear that we are trapped." "Appearances are not deceiving," the Baron replied absently while scratching a rough layout of Howling Cavern on the earthen floor with a dagger.

Unnoticed by all, Delphi had maneuvered to a new position, specifically placing the Baron between herself and the Dis'Errant. "Here, then," continued the Baron while drawing their attention to a point on the crude map, "is what the Gnolls called the War room. I believe this should be the first place Krue and Ironwood would expect to find us." Delphi briefly glanced at the makeshift map, noting the position indicated, and then returning her attention to Crimsin. "Here is where we are now," he went on, indicating a deeper alcove. "I think the mongrels called it Alpha's Den." Crimsin quickly noted as the Baron scratched a line between the two points, and then returned his glare to the one eyed Rogue. "Between here and there is this uneven corridor that splits with the narrow side completely obscured from the line of sight of anyone who might be moving toward the War Room from… Oh, what did the blasted curs call this!" he exclaimed, pointing to the spot in question. "I believe that is the Serpent Gardens, milord," Crimsin replied absently, only noting the spot in question through a peripheral vantage as his direct attention was maintaining a steadfast vigil on Delphi's hand, which had casually disappeared beneath her cloak and now rested suspiciously near her left side arm. He could easily imagine her faint smile to be in direct relation to the caress of that holstered blade. "Ah, yes. Well done, Tyde," commended the Baron. "As I was saying, anyone behind this partition will remain unseen by anyone passing from the Serpent Gardens to the War Room." "I have surveyed the formation in question, Baron," began an older Rogue, bearing an officer's insignia of lesser rank. "What you say is true, but I don't believe our enemy will leave the adjoining corridors unguarded. We might elude the first group, but we will still run into their forces." "Not at all," retorted the Baron. "If the Round-ears discover Dark-elves hiding in the War Room, then they will surely think that they have us all cornered. Word of this will spread quickly through their ranks, and I'm sure that all of their forces will rush to the call of battle, especially if those of us who are cornered give them no other option. Once Krue's entire Regiment is either fighting within the War Room itself, or vying amongst themselves for the least glimpse of dying Wognix from its doorway, then anyone hiding on the other side of this partition can simply stroll right out of this kennel. "Forgive me, Baron," said the confused Rogue. "I assume that you mean to use some of our number as bait?" "You assume correctly," he affirmed, still tracing the complete escape route. "Then how are those of us who would be posted in the War Room to escape?" The Baron offered him a hard grin. "You aren't." *** Ezlea's guardian, Hobson, was actually the enchantment of an old pair of gauntlets, which she had bartered for as a child in an open Tarot bazaar near Brinehaven some eighty-five Summers past. They were old, even then. Old, covered with dents, and quite oversized. The barker with whom she had bartered maintained that they had once belonged to an actual JuggerKnight. The mass of such powerfully enchanted slaves was nothing less than legendary,

especially to a young Tarot girl who dreamt of such things as magically enamored masculine devotion. In truth, they were probably derived through means no more fantastic than the scavenging of some Barbarian or Ogre graveyard. She realized this, but the story was pretty and she had lent credence to the proprietor's imagination, if not his propriety. Of course, this was all seasons past, and such romanticisms had long since faded. Now she had committed the enchantment to the protection of the entire Tarot encampment, though she remained its Master, as she must. It was her creation and ultimately loyal to her alone. This evening, Hobson had detected some form of possible danger within the radius of its warding. In response, it clapped together as if in applause, its oversized bodies connecting with a loud resonance until satisfied that the entire Tarot camp was made fully aware of the potential problem. *** A resounding series of loud gongs disrupted Dobin's emersion in self-pity. Hobson was sounding the alarm. Albin and Cleetis burst out of their wagons, followed closely by their wives. The children, including Dobin and Tuda, were quickly ushered inside the wagons while others were gathering from the Northeast side of camp. Both men and women took up what arms they could find. Some had conventional weapons like swords and maces while others carried pitchforks, shovels, or whatever was handy. Some were casters and needed no weapons. The enchantment ceased its alarm as Albin climbed to the top of his wagon where he used a spyglass to survey the area. "It's a chick to the Southeast," he shouted. The crowd relaxed. Had it been a grown hen or rooster, there would have been trouble. However, a mere chick could be fended off easily enough. After all, there were thirty-two able-bodied men and women here. The crowd began to disburse and go about their business. "Hold it!" shouted Albin, and the crowd stopped. "The beast is attacking two travelers… One of them is Jester!" There was a momentary silence as the implication sank in. Then, "Well I'm not plucking it! Jester can clean his own kill!" shouted an elderly woman in a serious voice as she wheeled about and marched defiantly back to her wagon. The others nodded in agreement. Squire Thistle was infamous for dodging chores. *** The chick had been roosting behind a hill and was just as startled as Borin and Jester, who weren't aware of it until they were almost on top of the beast. Still, its reflexes were instant and a large claw shot out with blinding speed to clamp down on Borin with an initial force that jolted him within his armor, and then slammed him to the ground. The right and left forward talons met with nothing but finely crafted armor, but the hind talon slipped between the breastplate and gorget to penetrate Borin's shoulder, just beneath the collarbone. Had he been prepared, this would not have happened. As it was, he was quite tired and upset, and tired of being upset, and otherwise generally inattentive. Nevertheless, the creature had managed to gain his undivided attention.

Jester acted quickly. He drew upon his mana, spreading his arms to envelop a concentrated burst of fire, and then stopped short. Apparently the situation was well in hand. Borin had wrapped one arm around the foreleg of the beast that had him pinned. Then he swung both legs up hard and into the joint just above its foreleg, causing the chick to lose its balance. The beast came down hard, beak first. He pried the talon from his bloody shoulder and fell upon the creature while it was yet at the task of prying its beak from the hard ground. He clenched the creature's throat just below the beak and squeezed until the beast's eyes bulged wildly. Then, regaining his feet and while still clutching the chick's throat, he slowly brought the bird's face to his own, placing both the strangled bird and stressed Warrior eye to somewhat bulging avian eye. "Tax me not, birdy," he commanded in a controlled, but strained sarcasm as the chick's eyes rolled back in their sockets. "Now be a good little birdy and fly away, before I remember just how hungry I am." He gently released his hold on the creature, turned half about, and then calmly strolled over to stand his ground beside the Druid, as if daring the chick to defy him. The young beast flopped about in agony for several moments before successfully refilling its lungs with air. As it regained its footing, it turned on him, screeching from depths of its young craw in a very loud, high-pitched fury as it charged, the feathers about its head and neck raised like hackles, and both wings drawn up and forward, as if to imply that the young creature was larger than it really was. Borin remained stoical as the chick drew its serpentine neck back and up, preparing to strike as its beak opened widely to impale the quarry. At the last moment, it veered to the left and wheeled about, wings extended. Rather than attack, the chick fled, screeching its indignity for some distance. The bird was too young for flight, but was able to glide from some of the more elevated hilltops, and could be seen for some distance, giving no evidence of slowing. Jester remained where he had been during the entire display, slack-jawed, and with mana yet dripping from his hands to fall and dissipate before reaching the ground. He had seen countless chicks slaughtered. He had even seen them killed by single hunters. This was no particular accomplishment. He himself had killed more than his share with no help at all through what a number of casters referred to as Kiting: a simple technique wherein the prey is usually rooted, and then bombarded with either direct damage, or swarm-based spells until it dies. What he had never seen was a relatively uninjured Roc back down without a fight unless under the influence of an intimidation spell, or having been subjected to intimidation in the form of skill, as performed by several fighting Classes, to which Warriors did not belong. This however, was altogether simpler. Borin, by doing nothing, had apparently allowed the Roc to intimidate itself. "Are you just going to stand there?" queried Borin. "I'm tired and I'm hungry, and I've had just about enough of Druids and birds and Dwarves and fleas and trees for one day, if you don't mind. "Yes, of course. We are almost there," Jester replied absently, still staring after the fleeing chick. "There's a Tarot camp just to the west, he says," muttered Borin disdainfully. "It's only a short jaunt. Perfectly safe, he says!" *** "What are they saying?" Tuda asked. "Shut up!" Dobin snapped with his ear to the door. "I can't hear nuthin with yer mouth runnin."

She thought about reaching over and yanking out one of the coarse hairs growing from her brother's big feet, but decided otherwise. Being cooped up in the wagon, as they were, would negate her ability successfully to escape his grasp afterwards. "They're laughin!" "What?" "Yeah, they're laughin!" he confirmed. "Why they laughin, Dobi?" she queried politely, using the nickname she always used when diplomacy was required in dealing with her brother. "Can't rightly tell. I think It's got somethin to do with a Roc," he replied. Tuda could not imagine anything funny about a Roc. "I think it's attacking Jester!" he exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down. Then he was slammed into the door, and since he had the door cracked just enough to let him eavesdrop, he suddenly found himself sprawling down the wagon steps and landing on the seat of his pants with a jolt. To make it worse, Tuda didn't stop at merely ramming him out of the wagon headfirst. She jumped from the middle step to the middle of his back, stepped on his head, jumped clear, and ran on as if he had been nothing but a throw rug. Even so, he wasn't angry. He was just a little slower to react than his sister. Both of them were more concerned with the Roc, and the only adult member of their adopted family who understood the concept of fun. By the time they had wound their way through the crowd to the front, it was all over. Apparently, Jester had already dealt with the Roc, and was currently escorting the Roc's victim into camp. "Jester!" Tuda cried while continuing to run at full speed. Dobin was close behind. He was glad to see Jester too, but being a bit on the husky side, he had just enough wind left to enable him to run, so long as he did not waste his breath on yelling. "Tuda! Dobin!" Jester shouted while dropping to one knee. By the time Tuda reached him, Dobin had caught up and they both hit him with a combined impact that rocked him backward, though he did manage to hold his balance. "It's a good thing you're Halflings," he laughed. "Fling us! Fling us! they both sang in unison. "Oh…well, I'm really very tired. Let me get some rest…" "Please! Please! they sang in unison again. Jester looked from one to the other with a curious expression. He paused for a moment, torn between his own need for sleep and their pleading faces. Very well then," he relented. "Ahem," Borin cleared his throat. "Oh yes, I forgot. Sorry," Jester apologized. "My friend here is really quite exhausted. Just let us get settled in, and then I promise to fling you both." Neither of the children said a word. The look of disappointment on their faces was statement enough. Jester looked from one long face to the other long face and back again. It was more than he could bear. He looked to Borin. So did the children. Borin looked from one expression of disappointment to another expression of disappointment, to Jester's own expression that seemed to say, "How can you be so completely heartless!" and somehow a day that had already seemed longer than was possible, suddenly became even longer.

"I know not what this…fling thing is. Please just get it over with," he said resignedly. Both children cheered. Jester began to spin around and around. Soon, both children were each hanging by one of his arms as centrifugal force continued to pull them further away from his torso. When both of his arms were held straight out from the force of said spin, he began to swing them, down at first, and then up as he gained momentum. "Stop it!" Magnatha screeched, while hobbling on one cane and waving the other in the air. "You'll turn their livers over, ya dang fool!" She was however, too late to interrupt as Jester had already dropped down and was currently pushing up hard with both legs, snapping the children skyward, and releasing them while still spinning, so that they shot upward like stones cast from a sling. Ten meters, twenty-five meters, thirty-five meters. At about forty meters in height, their trajectory began to curve. Soon they would be dropping like stones. Borin had not expected this. He figured that the children had wanted to be swung about, as most children did. Still, one is not supposed actually to let them go. Beset by an abrupt image of the children falling to the unforgiving ground, he bolted forward, both arms raised. What was he to do? He could not possibly catch them both. They were flying in opposite directions. Jester stopped spinning and got a bead on both children as he waved his arms outward, gathering his mana, and then swinging his arms in a wide arc. As they came together, he crossed both hands in the directions of the children and loosed his spells. Both Dobin and Tuda began floating gently back to the ground, squealing and giggling all the way. Borin caught himself and stopped. "I really don't like you, you know," he stated flatly while passing Jester on his way to camp. Jester had not noticed Borin's attempt to save the children. What's eating him? he thought. Fortunately he did notice Magnatha's cane bearing down on his head in time to dodge. "Ya coulda killed em both, ya blasted menace!" she screeched, quickly drawing her other cane up to whack the same noggin the first cane had missed. Now her I like, Borin thought, looking back without stopping. Jester jumped over the second cane as easily as he had dodged the first, and then landed on his feet to fall backward and away from both canes as he rolled into a sitting position while becoming translucent, and then altogether absent. "Get back here, ya scallywag! I'm nowhere near done with yer tree-huggin carcass!" "It's nice to see you too, Nanna," Jester whispered in her left ear. He then kissed her cheek. "Bah!" she spat. "I'd just a soon kiss the Spurious end of an Arbitos-bound Dung beetle!" Then she wheeled about, to begin hobbling back toward her tent. "Young scamp," she chuckled to herself after she was about halfway. "I heard that," laughed a disembodied voice to her right. "Bah!" ***

"I'll take three fingers of the red sulfur powder. Oh, and let me have half a dozen cut dressings, if you have them." The vendor held up a large package of fresh bandages to illustrate that he there was no shortage. He then folded a sheet of Bixie wax-treated paper into an envelope and held it over a torch that was mounted on his vendor post to braise the wax, thereby creating a watertight container. He finished by measuring out three fingers of the reddish powder into the container and folded the flap shut, handing both the bandages and sulfur to Borin with a well-practiced smile. "I seen what you did with the chick," commented the vendor. "Nice bit a work, that." "Thank you," Borin replied politely, and though both thin and awkward in light of recent events, his facsimile of a smile was a sincere response to the old man's appreciation. He placed two platinum coins on the counter and slid them toward the vendor. "Nice doing business with you," he offered while picking up his purchases. The vendor pushed the coins back toward him. "Like I said, milord, I seen what you did with the Roc. We got young ones here. I'll not be takin money from someone who was injured while contributing to their safety." Borin's recent buildup of apprehension eased, his smile actually broadening a little as he started to collect the coins. "Besides, no friend of Squire Jesterwolf Thistle will ever drop coin in my shop." Borin's smile dropped. Instead of reclaiming the coins, he pushed them back toward the vendor. "Thank you anyway, friend, but I'll not take goods without paying. No offence meant. It's just my way." "No offense taken, friend," assured the vendor. "There be many different peoples. We all got our own ways." *** He needed some boiled water to clean the wound before dressing it. It would have to be soon, too. There was an increased sloshing within his armor, not unlike the problem one experiences when one is on maneuvers through swamps or marsh, only he hadn't been on such an exercise. This coupled with his increasing dizziness, and further accompanied by the ringing in his ears indicative of a simple problem, the solution to which was complicated only by a need for expedience. He came to a wagon near the center of the encampment. Beside the wagon was a cauldron with a fire under it. He stepped up to the door and knocked, already beginning to feel somewhat disoriented. The door opened and a most comely young woman stepped out. Her warm and welcoming smile was obscured only by a thin tress of long Raven-wing hair that curled at the end, almost as if intentionally attempting to caress the Lady's brandy-wine lips, while her eyes, green as jade, seemed to assess him from head to foot. She asked, "May I help you, milord?" in a voice of pure honey wine. "Yes, please," he had meant to say, though what came out was so slurred, it made no sense. "Are you all right?" He was not all right. In fact, he had grown quite pale. His eyes fluttered briefly before rolling back, as the world swam away in shades of gray and light. "Milord?" Already unconscious, Borin fell to his knees, and then sprawled flat on his face.

The woman at the door screamed in horror as blood flowed from his armor at every joint, in rivulets.

Chapter Six, Part Two-The Ezy Conspiracy In waking, Borin encountered none of the previous ill effects. He felt for the wound, but it was gone, as was his armor, yet again. A large pail of water sat on the floor. Next to it lay a bar of soap and a clean drying-cloth. Borin had been placed on a bed, or rather, on a tarp that had in turn been placed on the bed. He raised his head up to realize he was covered from head to foot in his own blood. "Why didn't you say something?" Jester inquired as he sat up. "If I had seen it happen, I would have healed you then and there." "You healed me?" "Of course I healed you! You were barely alive!" Borin mumbled something under his breath that Jester could not quite make out. "What's that you say?" "I SAID THANK YOU, DAMN IT!" *** As Jester left Ezlea's wagon, she asked, "Is he going to be all right, Jes?" "What's that?" Jester asked. "You'll have to speak up. "I asked if your friend was all right," she repeated in a slightly louder tone. "He'll be fine, Ezy." "Oh, that's good," she offered with relief. "It would be such a waste… Such a shame to lose such a fine young man." "It's very kind of you to put him up for the night." "Yes, well, he is rather nice looking, isn't he?" she grinned while turning to peek between the shutters of her wagon's rear window. "Sure," Jester mumbled as he walked away. "He's real cute, in a loud, oafish, ungrateful, dunderheaded sort a way!" He was still banging the palm of his hand against his ear when Ezlea entered the wagon. *** Borin sat on the bed, near the edge, washing as much blood off as possible without getting everything about him covered in it. Fortunately, the canvas was serving its intended purpose. "How are you feeling, milord?" At her voice, he looked up to once again to find himself facing the same Human whose assistance he had first sought. Her dark hair fell about her face, encasing eyes of infused jade and emerald that somehow seemed almost too large. She could have been as young as fifteen summers, or as old as a hundred and fifty. As his attention came to bear upon her, she offered a cordial smile. The overall effect became fairly disorienting.

"I'm…" "You're what?" she asked, small dimples forming about the corners of her mouth as the nature of her smile shifted. "Oh… I'm just washing up a bit, milady. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience." "I assure milord, there is no inconvenience," she crooned softly while slowly moving just a bit closer, and proffering a scent not quite that of perfume, but perhaps more like a morning breeze: the bearer of such scents as wild flowers and wheat, and rains yet to come. He was beginning to feel somewhat lightheaded again. "That is not what I asked, though," she added with a hint of playful teasing. "I guess I feel…a bit dizzy," he managed to reply truthfully, if not altogether coherently. "Oh, milord!" she crooned with exaggerated concern. "Perhaps you should lie back for a while." She quickly leaned forward, placing one knee on the edge of the bed while pressing a hand to his forehead, the hemline of her skirt just happening to rise over half way up the length of her thigh as she did so. Though Borin was able to tear his eyes away, by exerting no small amount of effort, he then found himself faced with her upper torso. As this new proximity caused that portion of her body to envelop the perpendicular horizons of his peripheral vision without either returning his attention to the now almost non-existent hemline, or actually turning his head to the left or right, thereby expanding those horizons and thus causing tactile contact with his proboscis, now thoroughly immersed in her scent, he was duly forced to crane his head up, returning his attentions once again to those all-consuming green eyes that somehow served to both alarm and disarm all at once. "Oh, dear! I think milord has a fever!" she exclaimed in mock severity. Her playful tone was still there, but now bearing something else beneath it, something not really playful at all. *** "You what?" shouted Magnatha. "Why are you all looking at me like that?" he asked defensively. "So, he's there, even as we speak?" Albin inquired. "I suppose so. Of course, there's no telling. He is a Warrior after all. I gather he's geared for violence more than passion. More than likely, it's all over and she's kicked him out. He'll probably have to find another place to roost tonight," he laughed shortly, sobering quickly in light of their sober faces. "Your friend is in great danger!" Niry exclaimed. "Why do you all carry on so? It's only Ezlea. I did the oaf a favor. Fact is, I've never seen anyone in a greater need of…" "Squire Jesterwolf Thistle!" Magnatha shouted, invoking his full name. "I always knew ya were a scallywag, but I had no idea ya were so low as to treat one of yer oldest friends as if she were just a common tramp to be passed about!" "I did no such thing!" Jester retorted with great indignity. "Whatever is or isn't going on over there is none of my doing, and certainly none of my business!" Albin grasped Jester's shoulder, to focus his attention. "Ezlea was joined to Nere during last Solstice." "What?" Jester inquired, not quite absorbing the full impact of the implication.

"He said she's married, ya great boob!" *** Nere led a large cart full of various pelts, hides, and meat-everything from Plains cat to Roc. The Shear beetle he had harnessed pulled the cart without sign of effort. It had not been a difficult task to persuade the Shear to cooperate. He simply held the end of a rope as it dragged the ground behind him. On the other end was a small rabbit carcass that held the beetle's interest. Beetles were strong, but not very smart. Nere was no mental giant himself, but he was smarter than the beetle. It had almost seemed too easy. In fact, it all seemed almost too easy. Life in the frozen wastes of his birthplace had been harsh and forbidding. His people had to struggle constantly just to survive. Yet here in the Wiccaris, there was so much. What a paradise! And now he was married to the sweetest of angels. True, Human females cannot bear children of Barbarian blood without risking death. However, were there not many adoptions in this camp? Dobin and Tuda were fostered by Human parents. Ezlea and I can adopt too. How could life be so bountiful? "Good evening, Nere," a vendor offered as he passed. "And a good evening to you too, friend," he returned with great sincerity. Most people shunned Barbarians. How many times had he heard their curses? Be gone, foul beast! Take your leave, and take your stench with you! We don't serve animals in this tavern! Yet the Tarots were different. Sit yourself down, friend. Warm yourself by our fire, Brother. Come to my wagon, handsome. Life had been so unfair, for so long. Finally, Nere had found a home. While yet reveling in his good fortune, Nere failed to notice when someone stepped out in front of him. "Ummfff!" That muffled cry seemed to come from under at his feet. He looked down to see a large pile of cloths strewn by an upturned basket. From beneath the pile of laundry poked a pair of feet wearing ochre sandals. He recognized them immediately. "Niry!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Here, let me help you." He turned the basket right side up and loaded the laundry back into it, thereby excavating the disheveled Niry at the same time. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked with concern. "No, Nere. I'm fine," Niry said, while getting to her feet and dusting herself off. "I am such a clod!" he cursed himself. "Oh, look!" she cried abruptly, pointing to the cart as it rolled away. Nere looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the rabbit, cart, and all his goods were currently traveling back the way he had just come. He quickly bounded off after it, already forgetting the mishap. When he finally caught up to the cart, after some two hundred paces, he found Albin holding the rope, and the rabbit to which it was attached. "Give me that carcass, you infernal beetle!" Albin cried. "Oh, there you are, Nere. I thought I would never get the rabbit out of the Shear's pincers! You should take greater care about leaving an unattended cart," Albin chided as he handed Nere the rope, and then turned to walk back to camp. "Perhaps you should consider investing in a fully trained beetle. They're much easier to work with, and you wouldn't need a rabbit," his voice trailed as he continued on.

Nere scratched his head in bewilderment. "That's awful strange, Albin. I didn't see you…" But Albin was already out of sight. He returned his attention to the wayward cart, maneuvering the Shear about, and then making his way back toward camp again. When he reached the outskirts, he came across Magnatha, who was standing beneath a large Cedar tree, near the outermost ring of wagons. As he approached, she banged on the trunk with one of her canes. "I know yer up there! Ya can just get yer rump down here right this minute, ya Goblin grub, ya!" she shouted. "Is something wrong, milady?" Nere asked, failing to notice her indication of someone's covert whereabouts. "It's that little scamp, Dobin!" she lamented. "It's time fer his lessons, and he's hidin from me again." "I see," replied Nere, preparing to continue past her. "What he don't realize," she whispered confidentially, and offering a wink to punctuate her confidence while pointing up into the tree with one cane and blocking Nere's path with the other, "is that I know where his favorite hidin place is." "Oh, I see," said Nere, grinning broadly. "The little scamp," he agreed, chuckling. "I don't suppose ya could help a feeble old crone, could ya, Nere?" she appealed in a pitifully helpless tone. "Uhh… Which one?" "Me, Nere. I meant me," she answered in the same sweet, yet now somewhat tenuous tone. "Oh, of course, milady. "Ahh, thank ya so much, dear boy," she crooned. "It's not easy fer a woman of me age to get around, ya know, especially now that me poor old joints are so stove up with rheumatism." "I understand, mistress," Nere offered sympathetically. "How may I be of assist…" "Not to mention me eyes," she continued. "They're just not what they used to be." Poor old Lady, thought Nere. "Why, I can't see three paces in front of me own face," she lamented, sadly resigned to her plight. She then paused to regain her composure. Nere reached down, gently patting the old woman's frail shoulder to demonstrate his earnest empathy. "Of course, it really doesn't matter anymore," she went on bravely, attempting but failing to hide her dismay. "Me poor old heart is so weak now, I'll probably pass on before next Solstice anyway," she resigned, expelling a heavy sigh, then again pausing for effect while noting his expressive reaction to her obviously unavoidable fate. "Oh, how I dread the cold, cold winter!" she cried pitifully as her shoulders began to twitch in rhythm with his involuntary sobbing. He knew well just how miserable cold weather could be. It can bite through the warmest of clothes and embed itself into one's very bones. He would not wish such a hardship on anyone, much less such a truly sweet old Lady. "How may I help you, milady?" he moaned as huge teardrops ran down his face, and then fell from his greasy beard to his dusty boots. "Would it be a great imposition to ask ya ta climb yon tree and dislodge that rapscallion?" she asked, then sniffled.

"No, milady, not in the least," he sniffled while wiping both his eyes and nose on his sleeves. "Ahh, yer a good…" She paused, and then with slightly less flair, and perhaps slightly greater sincerity, added, "Ya really are a good lad." She smiled, briefly taking both canes in one hand while reaching up to pat at his face with the other. He shinnied up to the lowest limb. It wasn't easy, but he finally managed to pull himself up. It did not occur to him that what he had just accomplished with great effort might be an impossible feat for an adolescent Halfling of just under one quarter his own height. "You get down here, Dobin!" he shouted while craning his neck upward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy. Other than a gentle creaking of limbs in the breeze, there was no reply. "You have your Nanna all upset, you scamp, you! Get down from there, right now! She is too frail to chase little Halflings all over the place!" He continued to ascend, climbing and jumping from limb to limb, until he finally rose high enough to look out over the entire camp. He could see every wagon and tent. The sun was almost touching the horizon of the western lowlands, but still provided sufficient light to make out most of the people walking about. He couldn't discern many, not as to their precise identities, but their silhouettes told their Race. Most Tarots were Human, although there were a mixed group of Dwarves, Half elves, and even a few of his own minority. There was even an Ogre, though Nere could not locate that particular unmistakable silhouette. This was not surprising. It just meant Huey intended to fish through the night again. Then he spotted someone's hairy feet sticking out from the far side of Magmata's tent. Nere jumped to another limb that offered a better view of the camp. The boy was crouched beside the tent, as if hiding. It looked as if he were holding something in his right hand. Then, when yet another adolescent Halfling silhouette came around the corner of the wagon, he threw what he had been holding, hitting the newcomer squarely between the eyes. From Nere's vantage, it was too far to hear what she was yelling, though he could tell she was very upset. She ran into the family wagon while Dobin plopped down in front of the campfire to open what looked like a tome of some sort. He pointed in Dobin's direction. "There he is, milady!" he exclaimed, but when he looked down, Magnatha was not to be seen. His cart was still there. He had made sure to stake it out before climbing the tree. However, the beetle was as absent as Magnatha herself. He scowled, scratching his head. This day was getting stranger by the minute. *** "Isn't that Warrior out of there yet?" Magnatha asked as she hobbled behind Albin and Niry's wagon. "Not yet," Niry replied, with a spyglass trained on the wagon in which she knew Borin to be. "Where's Jester?" "Oh, he just entered Ezy's… I mean, Ezlea's wagon," she reported. "Well, I do hope Lordship Thistle takes his own sweet time," she crooned in as sarcastic a tone as she could muster. "I'd hate ta think we've put a rush on him." "Isn't this exciting, Nanna?" Niry exclaimed in a wistful tone. Magnatha's sharp expression went unseen by Niry, who was concentrating intently on the image of Ezy's wagon as seen through her husband's spyglass. "I mean, it's just so romantic," she continued. "Did you ever have anyone fight over you, Nan?"

"Get away from there, ya Ninny!" Magnatha chided as Niry abruptly felt her left ear being pulled away from the rest of her body. "Ouch!" she cried, while desperately craning her neck in such a way as to follow her hostage ear before it actually did become separated. "What did I do?" "Just get yer carcass in the wagon before I tan yer hide! And gi'me that!" she commanded, wrenching the spyglass away with surprising strength for one so old and supposedly frail. As soon as Niry had entered the wagon and closed the door behind her, Magnatha took her post as lookout. She adjusted the spyglass to her own eyes, which just happened to be as sharp as a Roc. "I don't see how we're gonna save that boy's hide when everyone about me is nuthin but boobs and ninnies! Is everyone a slave to his glands then?" she muttered in exasperation. In her survey of the wagon, Magnatha found every curtain of every window to be drawn tight. Try as she might, there was simply no way to observe what was going on within Ezlea's abode. "Well, Troll spoor!" *** "I said, get out!" "Wait, you have to listen to me!" Jester pleaded. "I don't have to listen to anything! Especially anything you have to say! "If you would just hear me out for one min…" "What's wrong with you, Druid? Are you deaf, or just daft? Or maybe both!" "Now, boys," Ezlea chided gently. "Let's just calm down a moment. I think I know what the problem is." Borin and Jester appeared dubious. "Well obviously, Jester is concerned for my reputation," she declared with a certain prideful tone. "What?" Jester and Borin exclaimed in unison. "Jes," she soothed, with only the slightest hint of a patronizing tone. "You have nothing to worry about." "He doesn't?" Borin inquired, grown somewhat confused after considering certain recent events. "Well, of course not, silly. We were just having fun," she smiled, using the same playful tone again. Borin raised a confused eyebrow. "It's just so sweet of you to protect my honor like this, Puppy." Puppy! Borin thought, with rising alarm. "But really, Jes, I'm fine," she smiled warmly. "That's great, Ezy," Jester offered hastily. "But really, I'm just here to…" "Do you mean to say you have some sort of relationship with this…this fleabag, milady?" "Well… I've known Jes for a long time…" she seemed to be trying to remember something. "Borin! My name is Borin!" he shouted indignantly.

"First off, Ezlea is like a sister to me," Jester intoned, correcting Borin's obvious mistake. "Sis…" "And further more, it's not me or Ezy's bad memory for names you should be concerned with right now." "All right, fleabag!" Borin shouted as he turned his full attention and anger toward Jester. "You've done just about everything possible to drive me insane ever since I first laid eyes on your sorry carcass! And now, when I finally let my guard down to enjoy the company of a Lady, lo and behold, you pop up yet again, apparently to point out that I've stepped into yet another of your traps by falling for your sister's charms! Well, ha, ha! Congratulations! The dunderhead was successfully tricked into consorting with a tree-hugger's sister! Big joke! Ha, ha, ha!" "Huh?" asked Jester and Ezlea. "So let's hear it, Squire Thistle! Tell me something I should be more concerned with than the sorrowful state of affairs at hand!" Jester's own patience had been wearing ever since Borin's first insult, back in the Dwarven jail. Being Druid, his temper was naturally slow to boil, even when faced with certain unpleasant duties, like seeing to it that tardy ingrates make it home safely. Nevertheless, even good-natured Priests of Nature have breaking points. "So far, you have referred to me as a tree-hugger, a fleabag, and a foul sprite." "And fool. Don't forget fool!" Borin added quickly. "No, of course not. Thank you for reminding me," Jester replied in mock appreciation. "So, if I were actually deserving of all you've accuse me of, then I…" "Trust me, you deserve it." "All right, fine!" *** Nere had given up his search for the beetle. He was on his way back to the cart to load up on as much as he could carry when he came across his wife's guardian. Ordinarily, the enchantment was only to be used for guard duty. However, under the circumstances, Nere saw no reason why it shouldn't do a bit of honest labor. In no time, he had both gauntlets tied to the front of the cart. "Pull," he commanded. Hobson took orders from anyone his Mistress had given clearance to, and of course, her husband would naturally be on such a list. So it pulled. As a matter of fact, it pulled better than the beetle had, and didn't even require a rabbit. *** He was getting closer. By Magnatha's estimate, he could not be more than sixty or maybe seventy paces out. She turned the spyglass back to the wagon, just as Jester was walking back toward her general direction. The young Warrior was not with him. "Where's yer friend?" she asked when he was close enough to hear without shouting.

"He's still in the wagon, and he's no friend of mine," Jester replied without slowing. "Didn't ya warn him?" "He doesn't wish to be warned." "That boy's about to get himself killed if we don't help!" "I seriously doubt it," he laughed dryly while passing her. "How's that?" "Cause I'm just not that lucky!" "Boarwash!" she snapped, swinging a cane down hard into his Achilles tendon with a resounding whack. Howling in pain, Jester quickly drew up his injured foot and grabbed it with both hands, while hopping in a circle on his other foot. As he hopped and howled, Magnatha hobbled up, snatched him by one ear, and then set off in the direction of Ezlea's wagon, with Jester in unavoidable tow. As all of this transpired, Tuda and Dobin watched silently from under the front steps of their parents' wagon. The children loved their Jester fiercely. Not more than an hour ago, they had both been prepared to battle a Roc on his behalf. However, there was a vast difference between Rocs, and upset Nannas. *** "Where's my armor?" Borin asked dispassionately while re-donning various articles of the steel mesh padding. "You aren't leaving, are you, Borin?" she asked in a pouty tone. "I'm afraid so… Ezlea!" he replied, mocking her difficulty in recollection. "Please don't go!" she pleaded. "Am I not desirable, milord?" she whimpered softly in his ear while pressing closely to him. "Greatly so, milady. Most desirable," he admitted without slowing his progress. "Then why are you leaving?" she whined in a tone not unlike that of Tuda after being refused a third helping of honeyberry pie. Borin turned to look Ezlea squarely in the eye. "I have but two rules concerning Ladies," he announced. "First, I make it a rule never to consort with Druids, or their relatives. And second, I expect a woman to at least remember my blasted name!" *** "Stop, Nanna! Stop it! Please?" "Ahh, Gwaurdenbog!" Magnatha cursed in Dwarfish without slowing. Nere had pulled the cart to the side of the wagon and was currently stepping around to the front. "We're too late!" *** "Please?" Ezlea pleaded, dropping the playful baby doll manner she had previously adopted.

"You should not carry on so," he chided. "It isn't becoming to a Lady." "So who said I was a Lady?" she asked while smiling and reaching both arms about his neck as he reached for the door *** As Nere reached for the handle, the door suddenly burst open. There, right in his own doorway, stood a half-dressed Half-elf and his own sweet Angel, who currently had both arms and both legs wrapped tightly about the stranger's neck and waist in what appeared to be an attempt to jerk him backwards. "I'm not…letting you…get away!" she grunted in exertion. Unaccustomed as he was to this particular image upon entering his household, Nere found himself temporarily befuddled. As he searched his poorly equipped mind for an answer to the aberration before him, he could come to only one conclusion. "PROWLER!" he roared. *** "PROWLER!" assaulted the ears of Magnatha, who lurched to a stop, and released Jester, who accordingly fell to the ground, holding his sore foot in one hand, and his sore ear in the other while she looked up to witness the seven-foot Barbarian's seeing his wife wrapped tightly about another man. As Nere's oversized fist drew back, she reacted quickly, which is to say she closed her eyes tightly. *** "PROWLER!" impacted the hearing of Borin and Ezlea, who both looked up in time to witness Nere drawing back with all his might. Borin had no time to evade the attack. Ezlea, on the other hand, had just enough time to scream. *** "PROWLER!" all but deafened Hobson, who spun quickly to confirm the alert. The following scream from its Mistress was all the confirmation required. The enchantment immediately bolted to her rescue. Unfortunately, he was yet bound to Nere's cart, which was in turn staked out to restrict its wheels from turning. This did not stop Hobson, who now moved with a strength and speed born of pure magic and devotion to its beloved creator. The cart however, was affected more profoundly by inertia. *** Fortunately, there was only one punch thrown. Borin was struck squarely upon the left eye, cheek, jaw, and ear, the resulting force of which being more than sufficient to drive both himself and Ezlea, who yet held him in both a full nelson and scissors-hold, backward and almost through the rear wall of the wagon. The resulting conclusion caused Ezlea's unconscious withdraw from both her husband's homecoming, and her own wrestling competition. Borin, though thoroughly unconscious before hitting the wall, was in fact temporarily jolted back to consciousness as a result of the second impact. "You get your filthy hands off my wife!" Nere shouted through a rasp of quickened breath, his already whitened knuckles now creaking with tension as he advanced on the Brigand who had dared to defile the sanctity of both house and spouse.

Borin attempted to look up through his right eye, as the other didn't seem to respond. The anger in Nere's command had lent a certain resonance to the term Wife, which seemed to echo in his good ear as the world began swimming away in shades of gray and light for yet the second time in one day, and third time that week. As he drifted toward what was rapidly becoming a familiar oblivion, he verbally cursed his source of woe, or rather, his slurred attempt was easily the valiant effort of a man quickly relosing consciousness. Nearing the source of his outrage, who yet had his sweet Angel pinned to the rear wall of their home, Nere heard the Felon exclaiming something beneath his breath. It was difficult to make out, but sounded very much like, "Accursed teabag!" Hobson suddenly exploded through the side of the wagon, snapping timbers, shattering two windows, demolishing the bed, and crashing into the confused Barbarian husband of his Mistress. Without pause, it swiveled first toward the now unconscious Nere, and then toward the unconscious forms of both its Mistress and Borin, and finally back toward the massive hole it had just created, there to witness the heavily laden cart to which it was still attached, just as it rammed into said same wagon with a truly devastating force. Magnatha stood where she was, quietly considering the massive rubble that had once been Ezlea's home. After a time, she turned about face to hobble back in the direction of her tent, shaking her head and mumbling to herself of the weights borne only by the elderly in a world of nothing but ninnies and boobs. Still sitting on the ground, Jester had forgotten the pain in his ear and Achilles tendon. For some time, he continued to stare in simple disbelief at the results of the oaf's uncanny ability to attract trouble.

Chapter Seven-I Hate When That Happens! The growing length of silent tension had at last become too much to bear. "Will you please stop sulking?" "I'm sorry," Merfee mumbled absently. "I don't understand why you're so upset. It's not as if this is any of our concern," she chastised. "We are neither of the Grove, nor Arbitos. Besides, I am on the verge of bearing your child at anytime!" "I know, my love. It's just… I had hoped to accompany Mistress Ironwood. I truly should have assisted in the investigation. I had no intention of taking part in any battle, honestly." "Oh, of course not," she returned expansively. "I suppose you've unpacked your swords, bow, and best bone-tipped arrows in order to better investigate something!" "No, my love. I only thought to…" "I swear, Husband! If you had your way, the morning would see me widowed, and your own child orphaned before born!" Merfee was preparing to commence a proper display of expert groveling, when spared the indignity by the footfalls of an approaching runner. He pulled the tent flap back to see that it was in fact an Arbitos Garrison messenger. The young man entered the Grove, pulled a scroll from his belt, and then commenced his heraldic broadcast in a dry, professional voice, easily heard by everyone in the immediate vicinity. "Hear ye! Hear ye! The Gnolls of Howling Cavern have fallen before the Federal Garrison of Arbitos. Garrison losses were minimal while Gnoll resistance was described as inconsequential. Also, a small contingence of Dark-elves were discovered in the Cavern's War room and dispatched within the due course of battle. When prompted for a response concerning the possibility of any connection to the recent Assassination of Elder Pynewood, Captain Krue's reply was simply to assure the peaceful residents of all surrounding provinces that the incident is well in hand." With his initial task completed, the messenger then withdrew a second scroll, this one bearing an Elder's official Seal. "I seek the Ranger, Merfee Rainswalker! If you are present, please step forward!" Merfee and Nefari exited their tent. "I'm Rainswalker," he confirmed. "Good evening, Squire. You are directed by order of Elder Ironwood to report immediately to West Wiccaris, at the Arbitos Lowlands border. Once there, you are to await further instruction," the messenger announced formally. Having handed Merfee the sealed scroll, he took two steps back, and stood at attention while waiting for a reply. Merfee quickly broke the seal, turning away to read in private. Merfee, We have slippery prey afoot. I believe those sharp senses of yours might well be put to use. No dawdling now. The trail grows colder with every passing moment. And do mind your step, boy. Amara Ironwood

Merfee flushed. As Nefari moved in closer, he placed his thumb over the Elder's last comment, and then faced the messenger, thereby obscuring her view altogether. "Please inform Mistress Ironwood that I will report as quickly as is possible." "Very well," replied the young messenger, withdrawing a gate potion and drinking it down quickly. "I will advise the Elder to expect you shortly, then," he confirmed while bowing deeply as a white mist formed about him. When the mist cleared, he was gone. Merfee was abruptly infused with a feral sense of stamina and reflex. His legs and heart both surged with a dynamism not their own. He turned to face Nefari just as she finished casting Essence of Canis. "Well, you'd better get going," she confirmed without inflection. "But if you leave our child without a father, just because you wanted to go and play Army, then I swear on Natura's name, I'll sell your sorry bones to the first Necromancer that…" "I'll be fine," he assured her. "They require my service as a Tracker, and nothing more." "It's not what they require that concerns me," she scowled. *** As Merfee gathered his gear, Nefari entered, hastily stretched out on the bunk, and then casually opened the latest Pi'xylem Periodical she had received from home, to the place where she had left off. "Don't forget your warm socks," she muttered curtly. In reaching the first hill, he turned to find his loving wife standing by their tent and offering a halfhearted wave of farewell. He returned her wave, pride swelling as his thoughts turned to the great things he might accomplish in the company of such leaders as Ironwood and Krue. Perhaps the day was not so far off when the name of Rainswalker would be counted among their auspicious legends. He began to make his way toward the border, but she called out to him. She no doubt felt a resurgence of fear at his impending but glorious peril. He must remain strong for her. Yes, he must not allow her to realize what dangers may lie before him. That must remain his to bear alone. Such were the lonely burdens of the Ranger. "Don't forget to mind your step… Boy!" he heard her call as his self-induced image of manly prowess suddenly shattered. Reluctantly, he looked back. In the distant dusk, his loving wife was waving the Elder's scroll at him with one hand while holding her mouth shut with the other. *** "Jester has healed both Ezlea and Nere. She's awake, but we're letting Nere sleep a bit longer while everyone gets their stories straight," Cleetis concluded. "And the Warrior?" Magnatha inquired. "He's awake, but refuses to be healed by Jester." "That may be just as well. I don't think Jester's willin to help him anyways." "Yes. When I recommended it, the Warrior looked as if he were…rather nauseated at the very suggestion." "What's his condition?" "Well, his jaw's fractured. There's also a very good chance that he has a concussion, and I'm not certain, but I think he may have pulled several muscles in his neck and back. All of that will heal with time.

The only serious problem is his left eye. If it's not restored soon, there could be some permanent impairment." "Does he know?" "Oh yes. I was very careful to explain what he faces." "All right. Have Reanna watch him. I'll go try ta knock some sense into Squire Thistle. Oh, and it might be a good idea ta have someone scout about fer another healer type, just in case it turns out he has no sense. Several hours passed, as everyone involved endeavored to restore the peace. Upon waking, Nere was informed of Borin's entrance into his home, not a prowler, but rather as an injured pilgrim who had simply come to Ezlea in search of medical attention. This much was true. Further, what he had witnessed was no more than Ezlea's valiant efforts to restrain her patient from leaving before he was well enough. This much was for the sake of all involved. Magnatha made one last attempt to convince Borin of the severity of his injury. He remained quite adamant in his refusal to allow any magic healing, were such to involve what he referred to as "that evil fleabag," which was perhaps a moot point since the fleabag in question had yet to be found. She suspected that Jester was most likely close by and simply did not wish to be seen. At last, she concluded that diplomacy was lost on all young Warriors and Druids alike. With her patience finally exhausted, she got to her feet, exited Borin's tent and shouted loudly enough to be sure Jester could hear. "Jesterwolf Thistle! If ya don't show yerself, right this minute, then ya might as well stay invisible, cause I won't want to be seein ya round here, no more!" There were several gasps in the crowd that had congregated about Borin's tent. Jester appeared directly in front of Magnatha, his expression ominous. "Am I to take it you're kicking me out of the family, then?" "Take it anyway ya like," she spat. "I can't afford to be associated with someone who would allow anyone to suffer such as the loss of an eye, knowin all the while it could have been saved." "Nanna, that oaf insulted…" "Aww, what did the big bad Warrior do, then? Did he call you somethin like…an oaf, maybe?" she shouted, both hands clutching both canes tightly enough to leave her knuckles white. Jester suddenly found himself unable to offer any response, other than that of open apprehension. With her temper flaring, Magnatha forced herself to take a step back. She closed her eyes, and after a time managed a measure of composure. When at last her attention came to bear on him again, she seemed to consider him with something like wounded disappointment. "I'm…I'm just so ashamed of ya," she whispered in a cracked voice, and then turned her back to him. He made as if to respond, but stopped. There was really no point. Once Magnatha Thistle put her foot down, it stayed there. Besides, it might be that her observation of his own conduct could have had some minor impact on the situation. He released his breath in a long sigh of resignation, then walked over to Borin's tent and entered. "I heard what she said and I don't care. It changes nothing." "Well then, oaf…Corporal… it would appear that you've failed to grasp the point. You see, it really doesn't matter what you do, or do not care about. What does mat… As a matter of fact, what matters is really none of your concern."

With the excitement concluded, the crowd dispersed. It was getting late, and as the day prepared to give way to the night, the entire camp prepared for bed. Morning always comes early for Tarots. *** He had no intention of sleeping in camp. It would serve no purpose, other than to allow further opportunity for blame to be placed on his shoulders, should anything else befall the Warrior. This did not appear to be an overly remote possibility. The oaf seemed a veritable magnet for trouble. He did have to keep it in mind to wake before the Warrior, otherwise the ingrate would most assuredly set out for Arbitos without warning. In itself, this was of no particular concern. The Elders had only stipulated that he accompany the Warrior. They had included no clause wherein the Warrior had to be made aware of it. After the proper amount of begging and whining, Tuda and Dobin were finally given permission to stay with Jester for the night. He didn't mind. They were well-behaved children, and good company when not preoccupied with waylaying one another. In fact, they seemed to be just about the only Tarots in camp who were not faulting him. He had intended to sleep near the Hub, perhaps in one of the surrounding Elms, or even a nice Willow. Willows were quite pleasant on breezy nights. However, this was not a practical option for the children, so he decided to stay in the nearest guard tower to the west. He knew the guards there. They weren't exactly friends, but they both owed him platinum from a crap game played the last time he was through this way. He had often found that having someone indebted was worth far more than the actual amount they owed. Tonight was such an instance. Accommodations in the tower were sparse. The guards had little to offer other than a few blankets. The solution was simple enough. Jester cast full strength levitation spells on both the children and himself. The finest bed in the world couldn't compare to a cushion of air. Besides, the children loved it. On the other hand, convincing adolescent Halflings that rest was more important than playing about with levitation spells had turned out to be something of a difficult proposition. Then of course, there were the standard rituals that always followed. She was thirsty. He had to relieve his bladder. She had left her doll in the wagon, and could not sleep without it. Then he was thirsty while she had to relieve her bladder. By the time they had finally settled down, he was far more than ready to turn in, himself, and drifted off almost immediately. Within a short period, his sleep deepened. The last few days had taken a toll. He had not actually slept since before his search of the Dwarven Garrison. He had compensated for a great deal of fatigue with restoration spells, but one cannot keep that up indefinitely. Eventually, the need for sleep will become too overpowering. *** Sometime before dawn, they had slipped silently about the tower. In the dark, they were like crystals in water, or perhaps more aptly, they were like shadows among shadows. If only he hadn't been so exhausted, he might have caught their scent, or even heard the gurgling sounds made as the guard's throats were cut. Then he might have acted in time to teleport the children to safety. As it was, he never even felt the blow. ***

Borin awoke early. The sun's approach was yet to be detected, though the arrangement of stars suggested the eastern sky would soon be about its morning blush. He recalled the dangers of traversing the Wiccaris at night and had no particular desire to meet up with a Hag, Werewolf, or any of the other unpleasant bogies offered by the dark. He paused to weigh his options carefully, finally deciding it all sounded pretty damn good when compared to his recent misadventures. When at last he was satisfied that everyone else was yet asleep, he gathered his gear up and set out for Arbitos. Upon reaching the western edge of camp, he looked back to make sure he wasn't being followed. Good riddance, he thought, breathing easier for the first time since taking that ill-fated shortcut through the Dwergus Alleyway. In turning to resume his journey home, there came an almost imperceptible, though familiar irritation. That's odd, he thought, slapping absently at the tiny sting behind his left ear. It's rather late in the season for mosquitoes.

Chapter Eight-Wake-Up Call "How long?" Reginald asked as Amara examined the guard's body. "Several hours, I should think. There's been a great deal of flow, though it hasn't quite coagulated enough about the cut to be more than that." "Back here!" Merfee shouted. "More blood?" "Yes, milord, but not very much. In the absence of a corpse, I would venture to guess that they've either taken a hostage, or procured rations. Dark-elves can be rather…omnivorous." "Hostages," Amara corrected. "Three blankets, roughly arranged in a circle." Merfee carefully rummaged through the bedding, but found nothing in the first two. As he lifted the last, Amara gasped, "Oh, Natura!" Reginald knelt down, and retrieved what was obviously a child's doll. "We must hurry." *** Just before daybreak, a lone fire was struck near the outskirts of camp. Magnatha was always first in camp to wake. Her band of Tarots moved with the seasons, following the trade routes, Solstice festivals, and general commerce. During migrations, the youngest and oldest spent the greater majority of time within the safety of beetle-drawn wagons. Life lived in this manner made the time spent between pulling up stakes something never to be squandered, and for Magnatha, mornings were the most precious of all. After rubbing liniment on her knees to abate the rheumatism, she faced her rocker to the east. There she sat down to a breakfast of muffins and coffee as the sun came up. She always enjoyed sunrise in Wiccaris. The new sunlight filtered through the leaves of trees and Treants alike, casting golden illuminations and long, winding shadows. A silent dance of life stirring. A parading celebration of renewal. A grand performance of soothing reassurance, belonging to her alone. This was her time. So quiet. So peaceful… Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong! Cleetis burst out of his wagon, sword in hand. The first thing he saw was Magnatha on her back with coffee and muffins spilled about her. "Oh my!" he exclaimed, rushing to help her up. "Are you all right, Nanna?" he asked while setting her rocker right again. "Do I look all right?" she asked disdainfully. Reanna rushed passed Cleetis, who had just helped Magnatha back to her rocker. "Nanna!" she cried. The Warrior lies unconscious near the western edge of camp! There's something wrong with him, but I can't tell what it is!" "Again?" Magnatha groaned. "All right. The two of ya go see to him. I'll be along in a bit." When they were both out of sight, she refilled her mug with coffee, and then retrieved several fresh muffins from the bin by her rocker. By the Great Dragon's Arse, I intend ta at least enjoy me blasted breakfast! Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong! Gong!

"Incoming Arbitos soldiers!" Albin shouted as he ran through the camp. "All vendors to your carts! All vendors to your carts!" *** Nere and Ezlea, who had slept in a borrowed tent, were up and preparing their wares as quickly as possible. Owing to the loss of their home, they found themselves unable to pass up any possible commercial opportunity. As Magnatha approached, Nere called, "Good morning to you, milady." With his attentions primarily set upon the task at hand, he failed to notice both her coffee-soaked bodice, and the muffin crumbs sprinkling from her ear when she turned to face him. "Mornin, Nere," she offered absently while turning about on her canes, looking this way and that way, as if in search of something specific. "Oh, Nanna!" exclaimed Ezlea. An entire regiment! We could make enough to build a whole new wagon!" Magnatha wondered vaguely if Ezlea's interests in the regiment were solely based on a commercial motive. Out loud she crooned, "Where's yer sweet wee Hobson at?" "I think he's on the other side of our tent," Ezlea replied while continuing to carefully separate various pelts and skins. Magnatha quickly hobbled around to the other side of the tent. Shortly after, there was a most resounding GONG. She then hobbled around to the front of the tent and on back toward her own. She was sporting a most satisfactory grin. A moment later the enchantment emerged, wobbling unsteadily as each gauntlet lurched independently of the other, hovering in what appeared to be something of a drunken stupor. Haltingly, it began to progress in the general direction of its beloved creator. About half way there, it dipped, righted itself, hesitated, rattled violently, and then finally collapsed to the ground, both gauntlets falling askew. The right landed palm down in the mud. The left landed upright, upon the rim of its cusp, its back to Magnatha's back, and with all fingers relaxed, save one. *** At first, the undefined murmuring seemed only another aspect of the rushing water. The voices themselves made no sense, but the water was easy. He knew the sound of the Wiccaris River, quite well. After all, he had heard it all his life. "Youse wake up now, Jester," Huey's dream voice whispered, momentarily drawing Jester's attention from the other voices. "Huh?" he replied, glancing over and thoroughly expecting to find his friend standing right next to him. No one was there. His attention returned to the voices in the water. Or was the water in the voices? He wasn't sure, though his efforts to separate the two seemed to diminish everything else. Soon, there was nothing but the voices, and…the water sounded familiar… There came the sharp pain of being struck again as it wrenched the dream away. With awareness flooding back, he experienced a dull throbbing to the back of his head. He attempted to investigate, only to discover he was unable to move at all. He tried to open his eyes, but found that he

could not see. Not only were his hands and feet bound, but he had been hooded as well. He struggled, but only managed to tighten the rope's bite. If this were part of the dream, then the dream was obviously becoming a nightmare. "Ahh, I see our friend is waking," a graveled voice of unmistakable accent remarked as he was abruptly yanked to a sitting position. The hood was removed and he blinked to clear his vision, but only succeeded in part. Blood from the blow had flowed well enough to reach his eyes, and then dried there. One eye was unable to open at all, as it was fused shut by the congealed blood. The other eye could open partially. His field of vision was reduced, but it was clear enough to see what was directly in front of him. "Good morning. I trust you slept well," the graveled voice said. It was a raspy sound, and the words came to Jester's ears as if wafting from the hollow of a tomb. Jester focused as best he could on the grizzled blue face before him. His eye became drawn to an ugly jagged scar, running the length between the Wognix's chin to his collar bone. As if in anticipation of that observation, he casually traced the scar with a long fingernail while his yellow eyes remained intent upon Jester, as if reading him to determine his next move. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Baron Goulder Heartrot." Jester started to speak, but was cut off when the Dark-elf to his right used a short staff to strike him across the face. "I do hope that you can accept my apologies for these most unsavory circumstances," continued the Baron cordially. "Unfortunately, I fear the situation is quite unavoidable." Jester did not reply. "You see, my associates and I find ourselves in need of transportation." offered the Baron affably. He then snapped his fingers. A hooded Dark-elf stepped forward, placed two small tow sacks at the Barons feet, and then backed away. His heart sank as the Baron reached to loosen the drawstrings of one sack, thus revealing Tuda, both bound and gagged. She had obviously been crying. He shifted his attention, realizing that Dobin was no doubt in the other. At the sight of Jester, Tuda's eyes brightened. That such innocence should be subjected to such vile ilk was an abomination: an affront to Nature itself. Jester's gaze wandered, and then dropped as he cursed himself for their capture. "Excellent," crooned the Baron, his grin broadening as he watched Jester's reaction. "From the expression on your face, I gather that these…creatures…are of some import to you. That is a most fortunate turn for everyone." At least she hasn't been harmed so far, he thought. Her eyes are too bright, too coherent, for someone of her age to have endured true hardship. "Kill it," commanded the Baron, his attention on Jester intensifying. "No!' Jester shouted. "If you seek cooperation, then you've found your leverage! I will do as bid." "Baron. If I may be so bold," a third Dark-elf said. "Your council is always welcome, Crimsin," replied the Baron.

"An untested threat is a worthless tool, milord. I suggest you kill one creature to show your sincerity. You still have the other to hold the Druid in check." "NO!" screamed Jester, involuntarily struggling against his bonds. "Besides, I've never actually tasted Halfling. I understand that it's quite the delicacy," Crimsin concluded while continuing to grin in light of the Druid's dilemma. The hooded Dark-elf stepped forward again. "My Lord," she began. "He is obviously more than willing to cooperate. I fail to see the profit in reducing our insurance by half." "One is as good as two!" spat Crimsin. "Really?" asked the hooded Dark-elf. "And what would stop the Druid from simply porting both himself and the remaining child out as soon as you cut his bonds?" "We can take it out of his spell range," Crimsin countered. "Then we transport in two separate groups. One group can stay behind and hold it hostage, thereby insuring cooperation," he concluded with an air of satisfaction. "That would certainly insure transportation, all right!" she returned disdainfully. "The question, is where to?" "What are you babbling about, Delphi?" the Baron asked impatiently. "What would stop the Druid from transporting the first group to a place even further from home than we already are?" she answered with a question. "Or perhaps straight into an ambush at the Druid Hub, right here in Wiccaris? All he would have to do at that point is gate himself back here. The group holding the remaining child would be none the wiser. What's more, they would have to let him open yet another portal, as such would be their only hope of salvation. Unfortunately, when he envelops only the child and himself, then they would be stranded here." The Baron turned to Crimsin with obvious disapproval. "With two children," she continued, "you can take one of them out of his spell range, and then have him transport us all in two separate, but infinitely safer groups. By transporting the children separately, you won't need the Druid's agreement. You'll have him truly bound to your will." "You make a very strong point, my young Rogue," he commended. "My Baron," Crimsin began. "I'm sure if we just…" "Druid?" began the Baron while cutting Crimsin off. "As long as you cooperate, we will not harm your little friends. But if you attempt anything other than what I command, then you may rest assured their deaths will be most unpleasant, and not altogether swift. Do I make my meaning clear to you?" he asked, his concentration intent upon Jester's reply. "Yes. I will do as I am bid," Jester repeated. "I will do nothing to endanger the children." "Then we have an agreement," the Baron concluded with a smug expression. The searing stare Crimsin offered Delphi bore an almost tangible loathing. She had openly opposed his counsel. Worse yet, her counsel had been preferred over his. It was like an open slap in the face. How could he allow her to continue breathing after such an unrestrained display of disrespect? And yet, he could not kill her at this time, not after she just earned such favor in the Baron's eyes. She will die soon enough. Oh yes, he thought, as images filled his mind of the many pleasures he would experience at her expense. Lingering tortures. Exquisite pain, made to last for hours. His heart

raced in anticipation. His breathing became heavy and the intensity of his stare became that of a starving man, drooling over a feast. This hostility was certainly not lost on Delphi. He could not have made his intentions known to her any better if he had screamed them. In fact, no one missed the raging silence transpiring between them. Especially Jester. "I assume," spoke Jester carefully, "that our agreement includes your underlings." The Baron shifted his gaze of amusement from Crimsin and Delphi, to the Half-elf. "What transpires between my people is none of my concern, as long as it doesn't interfere with the Quest, or my commands. This has nothing to do with our agreement," he concluded. Jester nodded his acceptance. There was little else for him to do, but accept. Crimsin forced his gaze from her and moved away from the crowd.

Chapter Nine-Captain, My Captain: Revelations Of An Oaf Borin's world returned in much the same way as it had left. Shades of gray and light passed away as his surroundings gradually came into focus. "I cannot thank you enough, my dear," Reginald crooned with a deep bow as he kissed the woman's hand in a formal sign of respect. "I am most honored to be of service, milord," replied the Cleric, who began to follow suit, offering Reginald a grandly swept curtsy. Quickly thinking better of it, she corrected herself, snapping to attention and delivering a formal salute. With her task completed, she exited the tent and returned to her position in the column to meditate. "Father?" inquired Borin as he attempted to sit. "Lie back, Son. Let the good Lady's spells do their work." "What happened?" he asked weakly. "You were the recipient of a poison dart," Amara supplied. "Not just any poison," Merfee added, obviously impressed. "That was drachnid." Reginald placed a hand on Borin's chest. "You two shouldn't look so surprised. After all, my son is a Warrior." His tone was full of pride, but his eyes betrayed his relief. Knowing his father as he did, Borin realized how worry must have taken a toll, but perhaps he could make up for it. "Captain Krue," Borin announced in a formal tone. "I have retrieved The Candlis Talisman of Fortune." "No need to worry about that business now," Reginald replied dismissively. "Just rest, and we'll talk about it later." "Where's my bag?" Borin asked, disregarding his father's attempt to divert his attention. All that was left to do was hand the Talisman to his Captain and the Quest was complete. A silence fell as those around Borin glanced about nervously. At last, "I'm afraid you were found as you are, Son. There was no bag." "No," he refuted lowly, refusing to accept the implication. "I carried my duffle with me." "It is most likely that your assailants have your possessions," Merfee offered. "They no doubt have your armor as well," added Amara, thereby prompting Borin to lift his head and confirm what she had said. It was true. Incredible as it seemed, he had once again been deprived of his very armor. The thieves were apparently in a hurry, as he was still wearing all of the mesh under padding. "Son…" Reginald searched for words to console. "In truth, the Quest was but an exercise in futility. It was derived as an instrument to teach young Warriors the humility of failure. There are so many soldiers these days who come to a false security in their abilities… Honestly, nobody expected you to actually gain possession of it. To be truly honest, I wasn't even sure it existed." Borin wasn't listening. Time and again, his life had been close to its ending. He had been attacked by Dark-elf children with poisoned toothpicks, humiliated by that evil Druid, attacked by Bakers, framed for theft, stripped of his armor, infested by fleas, attacked by a giant chicken, and then tricked into consorting with a woman of ill repute, who not only admitted to having a Druid as a member of her

family, but who was in fact married to a seven-foot-tall smelly monster who had almost killed him for doing nothing more than attempting to escape the clutches of the monster's wife. Now, he actually had been poisoned by Dark-elves, and yet once again stripped of everything, including his very armor. He suddenly felt quite weary. With all he had been through in the last few days, he simply had nothing left with which to be angry. "Father, may we just go home now?" he asked in a voice not dissimilar to that of a child who had been allowed to stay up so late that even the child himself recognizes the need for sleep. A commotion suddenly broke out in front of the hospice tent. This caught the attention of everyone except Borin, who was yet stupefied by his own misfortune. "Call off this boob of a guard before I squash his noggin!" Reginald pulled back the tent flap. The guard in question had caught Magnatha's left cane in his right hand as it came down. He had also managed to catch her right cane in his left hand as it came up. With neither willing to relinquish their claims on the canes, they both now danced in a small circle as each strove to gain control. At one point, it looked as if the guard had managed to gain the upper hand when the old woman released her grip on the cane she had originally sought to bring down on his head. This was a false victory, as was quickly evident when she grabbed the cane yet again, only now her grip was above, rather than below his. The strategy to this seemingly odd tactic became all too self-evident when she commenced to utilize her new leverage repeatedly to bang the guard's helm. "Hold!" bellowed Reginald in the same tone of voice as had boomed orders over countless battlefields: a voice no soldier under his command had ever failed to heed. Accordingly, the guard released his grips on both canes while immediately coming to attention. Magnatha was another matter. She had not taken orders from anyone in a very long time, and the Captain's tone, while quite authoritative, had no special hold on her. She had her own ideas of propriety and justice. As such, the guard received one last whack on his armored noggin for good measure, and though the soldier surely found this most uncomfortable, he did not waver. His ability to stay at attention in the face of such adversity was a testament to his training, and more than likely the primary reason he received but one extra whack. With the small outbreak of violence now under control, Reginald quickly strode to stand before the two combatants, presumably to reprimand and perhaps even incarcerate the crazy old crone for her affront. Instead, he bowed low at the waist, holding that posture for several moments before finally returning to an upright position. This was a gesture of respect usually reserved for military ceremonies, or sometimes as a casual greeting to foreign Royalty. Magnatha nodded, almost absently, as if the act of doing so was a matter of long endured habit. "Mistress Thistle, I presume," he offered in a formal tone while quickly moving to stand directly in front of her, dropping to one knee, removing his helmet, and then lowering his head in fealty. There followed a shocked silence from every soldier and Tarot in the vicinity, most of whom being of the opinion that offering one's head to such a woman was rather foolish, especially in light of her obvious head-whacking disposition. It did, however, serve to break through Borin's stupor of self-pity. At the sound of his father's formal address, he turned his head to witness said submission to a person that he knew was naught more than an old Tarot. Upon witnessing this, he sat bolt upright, his full and complete attention achieved.

"Ock! Stand ta yer hind legs, Regi," Magnatha prompted while placing the palm of her hand to his nape in acknowledgment. "Ya owe the likes of me no such grandeur." Regi? wondered Borin. Reginald stood as bid, taking Magnatha's hand, and then appropriately kissing it as was called for by parliamentary procedure. "Retirement be damned, Magi Thistle! As far as I'm concerned, you are as you were, and shall remain until I find my final breath. I have only ever had one Captain." Captain Thistle? wondered Borin. Magi? Magnatha laughed. "Ya've not changed one bit, Regi. Yer still a blasted politician." "Milady," Reginald replied with a sly smile. "I assure you, I am still the same Warrior that you yourself trained. Politics is but another weapon in my arsenal." Magnatha considered this a moment, then suddenly broke out in laughter more closely resembled a cackle. Borin, whose attention had been last to focus on the commotion outside his tent, now found himself standing next to his father. He had only a vague memory of standing, and then moving to where he now stood. His concentration was intent upon the ancient woman standing before him. The image he had formed of her as nothing more remarkable than a crotchety old Tarot peasant had abruptly been displaced. And yet, this in itself was not the driving force behind what now consumed his attention. It wasn't that he had simply made a miscalculation. In fact, miscalculation in combat training was the cornerstone to eventual mastery. No, this was different. There was something fundamentally upsetting in being so completely mistaken in the assessment of a person's character. Sometimes one has precious little time in which to determine just who is to be defended, and who is to be dispatched. These are times in which one can ill afford to be so wrong. He recalled the young Dark-elves in the alley, and the efforts made by Jesterwolf to intercede on his behalf. "Ahh, there you are," crooned Reginald, realizing Borin was now by his side. "Captain Thistle. I would present my son, Corporal Borin Krue." Borin bowed deeply. "We've done met," Magnatha smiled. "Though I had no idea he was of yer line. I suppose I shoulda known, considerin the trouble what seems to follow him about." At this, she had to cover her mouth to avoid snickering, which could be taken as a social indiscretion under the good Captain's official presentation. "And what, may I ask, have you been up to for the last century?" Reginald inquired. "And don't go telling me you're just enjoying your platinum epoch. We both know I know you better than that." "True enough," she grinned. "I was never one fer bein put out to pasture. Truth be told, me business is naught but the business of family." "Family?" Reginald repeated dumbly, not quite forming the intended question as he sought and failed to align the image of his former commanding officer with that of a homemaker. "I never had time fer the makins of such during me career. Oh, I had you, and others like ya. Ya were all fine soldiers of every brand, and don't ya go thinkin I take such lightly, cause I don't. I was a career soldier and I've not one single complaint, nor regret." "A glorious career, milady," he quickly agreed. "Even so, by the time I resigned me commission, I was done too old to start up any fool notions of marriage. Who'd be wantin a crusty old Roc pie like me anyways, eh?" she snorted laughter.

"Reginald's smile was offered as a token of one wishing to offer polite argument, but unwilling to interrupt. Besides, wish as he might, it was hard to dispute. After all, his mentor was older than anyone he had ever known. Magnatha Thistle might be many things, but beautiful was not on the list. "So, there I was," she continued. "Passed the time fer man huntin, and sure and certain passed the time fer child bearin. What could I have to invest in, but others with less themselves? Look about ya, Regi." Reginald glanced about. What he viewed was a menagerie of half the races on Nirayel. "Almost everyone who camps here is either one of me children, grandchildren, or great grandchildren. And there be others as well, done grown and gone their ways. Not a one of em could be dearer ta me if I'd birthed em meself. Real corkers too, every last one." Reginald listened, and his smile broadened. As Magnatha spoke of her family, she slipped a bit further into a more archaic accent while her posture became that of a Warrior reciting some ancient and heroic deed. Her words offered one story, but her tone offered another. Her tone sang of a light yet burning in the dark, of dragons vanquished, and evil armies driven back before the might of valiant righteousness. Now the image of his old Master aligned properly with her legend. She was proud of her family, and here was Reginald Krue, one of the few persons of her previous life whose opinion really meant something to her. She wanted him to see. She wanted him to understand what it all meant. And he did understand. He understood that though the form of a Warrior may change, there remains one single constant. A Warrior must Quest. "Where's me wee grubs?" she asked brightly. "I want ya ta meet the latest additions. We took em in after their folks died. Now they're a handful, all right, no doubt of that, but I think you'll see what I mean by corkers," she chortled. "They stayed the night in the guard tower with Jester," Cleetis reported. Amara and Merfee turned to each other with alarmed expressions. "Well, fetch em back here, and bring Jester as well," she ordered. "I want ya to meet him too. He's a rascal if there ever was one, but he's…" "You say they stayed in the guard tower last night?

Chapter Ten-Chaos Gambit, Part One A caster who cannot see, cannot cast. As such, he would be allowed to wash out his eyes before opening a portal to the Vastus Druid Hub. The hooded female cut the ropes that bound him. Yet, while rising to his feet, he abruptly found the serpentine blade of her dagger at his throat. As he instinctively jerked away, her own reactions, or perhaps, anticipations, would either imply faster instinct, or superior preparation, for as his head whipped back, so was her other hand ready. She grabbed him by the back of his collar, using his own momentum to pull him backward and even further downward with both his legs now caught beneath him. He came to rest with his spine draped across her knee and his head supported by the same hand that had jerked him back, then once again found her dagger at his throat. As she bore down on him, he found himself looking up. The only benefit of this new vantage was that he could now see inside her hood, or rather, in part. In spite of everything, what he saw was striking: a thick mane of the darkest locks sweeping over a sculptured violet cheek, both high and delicate, and her left eye, which to Jester seemed the very hue of Nirayel's ether. Of course, the quality of that azure was slightly tarnished through a glare no less intimidating than any other type of voracious carnivore. Then, just as the inside of her hood billowed in the breeze, Jester winced. He quickly looked away, though the image of it lingered; her right eye completely gone, and not just the eye itself, but the lids, brow, and even a small portion of her cheek, with scant sections of bone appearing about the rim of the semi-coagulated maw. His reaction had not gone wholly unnoticed. She drew in close enough for him to both feel and hear her breath. "Be warned, Druid," she whispered evenly, her hushed tone coated just as thickly with venom as was the blade with which she held him. "Lend no credence to that missing eye, for your every motion is yet well known to this Rogue." She then sheathed her blade, permitting him to stand, the maw once again hidden within her hood. He allowed himself to be escorted to the river by two other Dark-elves. These appeared to be Warrior types. "Waste no time," she called as he was led away. "If we fail to escape, then you have failed your little friends." *** When they reached the riverbank, he knelt down to the water's edge. In doing so, he felt something slip from the inside of his jerkin, near his collar, to the inside of his waist at the belt line. The two guarding him were at his back and saw nothing as he withdrew the small patch of leather. He palmed this in his left hand while cupping water in his right. As he splashed water in his face, he glanced down to the single word cut into the patch: sanctuary. In reaching to cup another hand full of water, he dropped his left hand into the shallows, thereby burying both his hand and the patch in the sandy bottom. It wasn't difficult to determine who had planted the note. In recalling what had transpired, he made several connections. First, the hooded Rogue argued for Tuda's life. As to whether she acted in the interest of the children, or simply offered sincere advice to her commanding officer, Jester had no idea. What was clear, were the murderous intentions of the one called Crimsin. Unless he missed his guess, the Rogue's life was currently worth no more than the children's, or his own.

He continued to wash until his eyesight cleared. As he withdrew his left hand, the note remained buried. He had just enough time to wash the sand from his hand before being wrenched to his feet. "Move yer arse, fleabag!" spat the guard while hauling him backward. Jester was unprepared for this and fell to his knees. While getting to his feet again, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, near the waters edge. It was only a flash of gray from behind a rotted log and no more. Still, this was enough to recognize a kindred spirit, and perhaps an ally. Then, as they approached a small water puddle, he caught the reflection of something else. Something most disquieting was quietly sitting high in the tree directly above the main group of Dark-elves. Though this did serve to identify the wolf behind the rotted log, it did little to explain how this other had come to be perched where he was without the Dark-elves' knowledge. Unless he had been there before we arrived. *** Now they traveled quickly. With his troops running under Essence of Canis, Reginald led his men while Merfee led them all. At first, Magnatha had intended to join the hunting party. Reginald had gently pointed out that time was of the essence. She could only serve to slow their pursuit. He could see that she was hurt by it, but he knew better than to attribute her hurt to such dainty reasons as ego. Simply put, she was to be deprived the opportunity to cut down the vermin who dared endanger her family. No, there was nothing dainty about his former Captain. Amara had also elected to remain. She would be no more able to keep up than Magnatha. In her place, she provided the same young Ranger as had dispatched her original assassination report. He was inexperienced, yet she felt that such natural abilities as he obviously possessed would more than compensate. I do hope he keeps to his feet. As the Regiment disappeared over the southern horizon, Magnatha wrenched her hands, feeling helpless for perhaps the first time since the day of her retirement. "I never prayed even once in me whole life," she said to her companion. "I reckon Jester prays to the one called Wildern. Do you pray to Wildern?" "Natura is my Deity," Amara replied softly. "Shall I pray on your behalf, milady?" "No, but ya might ask if she's of a mind ta watch over me grubs," Magnatha suggested as tears welled, and then flowed. "And if it's not too much trouble, she might keep an eye on that scallywag as well." *** An arrow struck a tree in plain view above the Baron's head. Attached to it was a thin red flag. At this he stood, searching the direction from which it had come. In the distance, a Dark-elf waved and pointed to the north. The Baron made a subtle hand gesture in the direction Jester and his two escorts were now returning. Upon receiving the relayed signal, each guard took one of his arms and Jester was dragged as both guards ran back toward to the main group. "Baron, if I may?" Delphi asked, glancing toward Jester and the incoming guards. Picking up on her meaning, the Baron nodded approval of her offer to expedite their departure, but as she started in Jester's direction, he grabbed her arm. "There is only time enough for one transport, my

dear. Some must stay behind for the good of our cause. I simply thought you should know that I do not consider you expendable," he offered while smiling. She had made quite an impression on him with her previous counsel. He knew that Crimsin would eventually kill her. Until then, he saw no reason not to take advantage of her allegiant zeal. Perhaps he would convince Crimsin to hold his blood lust in check for a bit. At least, long enough so that he could sate a bit of his own. She returned his smile as one who had an understanding of an unspoken agreement and he released his hold on her. In turn, she withdrew slowly, deliberately raking her nails across his forearm. Blood welled from the scratches she left behind, causing him to draw a sharp breath as his smile broadened at the pleasure. Still smiling, herself, she turned and went to the Druid. As she approached, she waved the escort away. When they had gone, she moved closer, placing her dagger to his throat, yet again. Then, without moving the blade, she maneuvered behind him. With her free hand, she grabbed a hand full of his hair, yanking his head about so that his ear was to her mouth. "Unless you're a complete dolt, I gather you've a clear understanding of our situation. Do I gather rightly?" she asked loudly, for the Baron's benefit. "Yes." "Then hear my terms," she whispered. "I will help you escape. In return you will represent me to your people as a candidate for Sanctuary." "There has never been a Wogni…" "Do you agree, or not?" she cut him off while speaking loudly enough for the Baron to both hear and see as she pressed her blade deeper to his flesh. She glanced up to confirm the Baron's approving grin as the Druid's widening fear of both her blade and veiled question became evident within his frightened yet comprehending eyes. "Yes," Jester rasped in a low tone. "I will do what I can for you, but only if the children escape with us." She considered this briefly. "All right, Druid. You should know then what Heartrot plans." "You mean other than Kidnapping and Extortion?" "You are to bind yourself for the return gate. You are then to place two spells on each member of the group. First you are to give them the ability to see that which cannot be seen. Then you are to make them unseen by all others." Though she did not know the Dryadic names for these spells, he understood her meaning. "Next you are to transport the first group to the Vastus Druid Hub. From there he plans to return to the Empire, via the Vastus-Lobri pass, only…" "Only what?" "He intends only the one portal," she whispered. "And though he has not said so, I feel certain that he will kill both you and the child as soon as you are on the other side. The others are to be sacrificed to those who pursue us." "Arbitos," he muttered, closing on the only possible motive for the Baron's haste. "They're close, then?" "Sentries have spotted them to the north. Our position could be discovered at any moment." "Not a lot of time for planning," he muttered.

"You could port the three of us away before he could stop you. In fact, he wouldn't even know what you were up to, until it was too late. Obviously, this would leave the other child, but I believe it to be the only way to at least save one of them." "I can't do that," he replied without hesitation. She appeared confused. "It is of course unfortunate, but we must be practical. I cannot see why…" "Because they're my family. And even if they weren't, they're still children. We can't just abandon one of them." "As you wish, Druid, but if we are to survive, then I suggest that you come up with some other plan of action, as I know of no alternative." Jester's thoughts raced. "Tuda is with the Baron." he muttered. "Who?" she inquired. "The girl child." "Yes. He watches her closely," she confirmed. "And the boy? Where is he?" "He is near the eastern sentry. He too is being watched." "I see," he sighed. "This will not be easy, though there may yet be a way out," he paused in thought, and then continued. "There is no time to explain in full. I realize trust is a difficult commodity between us, but I fear our choices are few." There was a short silence as she considered her lack of options. "Command me then, Druid, but betray me not," she warned, "lest my last breath be shared with your own." "Fair enough," he agreed. "Then listen to me closely." He went on to describe what she was to do. When he was satisfied that she fully grasped her part of the plan, he added, "No matter what may occur, you must not do other than what I have asked." "I understand, Druid." "Delphi!" shouted the Baron. Bring him! We must go!" With her blade still to his throat, they started slowly toward Heartrot. "Incidentally," he whispered. "My name is not Druid." *** Now acting as point man, Merfee crawled on his belly in the tall grass, recalling his assurances to Nefari concerning his simple role as a tracker. Oops, he thought, smiling despite himself. He carefully raised his head, but only high enough to get a bearing. What he saw was not what he expected. Unknowingly, he had ventured much closer than planned. There was a Dark-elf sentry approximately twenty meters to his left, and hiding behind a dead cedar tree. Oops, he thought again, no longer smiling. Then he heard a small explosion. It had come from directly in front of him, but not close enough to see. He looked again to the sentry, whose attentions had also been directed toward the explosion. A moment later, Merfee loosed an arrow. The sentry fell dead, landing quietly in the tall grass.

This offered a valuable but risky opportunity. There was obviously some distraction among the Wognix. Now would be the best time for the Captain to close in. After a moment of deliberation, he made his decision. He hoped he would not regret it. He got to his feet, his eyes glowing faintly red as he raised his bow high and to the north. The Captain was but a small dot on the northern ridge. The arrow, also emitting a pale red aura, would fall at the Captain's feet. *** He continued to force an acceptance of what he now knew to be the objective truth. The series of events, beginning in Dwergus and subsequently ending at the Tarot camp, was by in large nothing but a lengthy string of very unlikely, yet authentic misunderstandings. This was not to completely dismiss Thistle from all responsibility. He was obviously the direct cause of much of Borin's misfortune. However, when everything the Druid had truly been innocent of was eliminated from scrutiny, the remaining series of events in which he was actually guilty seemed relatively trivial. This line of logic served to momentarily ease Borin's mind. Jester isn't such a bad sort, he told himself. We just got off on the wrong foot, he told himself. But what if it happens again? What if, in the course of crossing paths again, he brings yet another catastrophe down upon my head? And thus Borin found himself. He was no more capable of breaking the chains of honor that defined who he was, than he was able to break free of the dread he felt in contemplating the chaotic misfortune he knew must inevitably follow that infernal Druid. He was jolted from his ironic reverie by the sound of distant thunder. No, not thunder, but a small explosion of some sort. A few moments later, the Captain gestured to his followers to close in on the enemy, but to maintain rank until the final signal. This command was relayed silently, as the entire Regiment disappeared into the tall grass. As he crawled southward, he somehow knew exactly who was responsible for yon explosion. It suddenly felt like a very long time since he had been home. *** When they were no more than ten meters from the Baron, she removed the knife from his throat, thereby allowing him the casting room needed to open a portal. As she went to re-sheath her blade, he suddenly jerked his arms up high and fast. There followed a resounding explosion that knocked her off her feet. The assembled group about them was caught off guard, first because of the explosion itself, and then at the shock of seeing Delphi fall dead at the Druid's feet. The spell he had cast was called Inner Storm. It was not even offensive, but rather a low-level, selfbuffing spell he had learned in nursery school. All it was really good for was noise. He wasted no time. This deception might serve to disorient, but not for long. With the shock still on their faces, he cast again, infusing his own body with a spell known as Fleeting Felidae. Then he bolted forward by a means of speed too swift to be observed clearly, thus covering the distance between himself and the Baron in a blur.

The Baron reached for the small tow sack at his feet, but only succeeded in retrieving a hand full of grass as both the blur of the Druid and the sack he had snatched disappeared, leaving naught but a fading after-image, indiscernible but for the Druid's crooked grin. *** He streaked eastward. Without even seeing, he knew that Heartrot was giving the command to end Dobin's life. He would only get the one chance. The spell enabling this massive increase in velocity was short-lived, and once spent would be useless until he could regain the greater bulk of his mana which was required by the spell. His only hope was to get to Dobin first. Unfortunately, without knowing where the boy was beforehand, he would need to learn, somehow, of Dobin's location, retrieve him, and then safely deliver both Tuda and Dobin to the Arbitos soldiers, supposedly somewhere to the north. He had only just commenced to doubt his planning when he discovered that the eastern sentry running to the south. This was a strange direction in which to run, considering the positions of both his enemy and his Baron. In following the sentry's line of projected course, Jester caught sight of the sack the sentry was heading towards. He shot passed the running Dark-elf, quickly retrieving what he prayed was Dobin. Although it was possible, he didn't believe the Baron had thought far enough ahead to plant dummy sacks. Now he changed course yet again, this time to the North. Again he passed the same sentry who had been running for Dobin. Having failed at accomplishing that task, the sentry had stopped in his tracks, equipped his bow, and was notching an arrow, even as Jester sped past him for the second time. Behind him, Jester could hear the wooden bow creaking with tension as the sentry drew back. He broke out of the Wognix parameter and raced toward what had to be Arbitos soldiers. They were on their stomachs, apparently attempting to sneak up on the Dark-elves, as if Wognix would be unable to hear an entire regiment of armor clanking through the grass. Yep. Arbitos guards, all right. Then he noticed another: someone not of Arbitos. *** Merfee had waited until the soldiers were within a hundred meters, and had then begun to crawl forward again. If there were any traps, he would need a moment to assess the situation. He had progressed only a few meters when he heard something odd. It sounded much like a sickle cutting through a great deal of grass. He looked, but what he saw was no sickle. What he saw was an old friend coming toward him at a great velocity, and with tall grass on either side, splaying outward like water in the wake of a great ship. As he reached Merfee, he stopped short. The residual current of air blasted the grass in front of him, effectively flattening Merfee's cover in a radius of several meters. "Jes?" Merfee began uncertainly. "No time," Jester blurted while tossing Merfee a tow sack. "Open it," he directed, even as he himself opened the other. Merfee loosened the drawstring and pulled at the opening to reveal a small child. Then he glanced at the content of Jester's sack, which was similar.

"Take them to safety," he said quickly while turning back toward the south. As he did so, Merfee caught a glimpse of something alarming, but before he could say anything, Jester had already bolted back in the direction he had just come. A moment later, he was gone, leaving Merfee to look back down at the bright red droplets, now soaking the grass where his friend had been standing. *** Delphi lay perfectly motionless, lowering the rhythms of both blood and breath. So far, no one had even thought to check on her. This could not last for much longer, and once she was discovered playing dead, she would no doubt find herself expiring in earnest. Baron Heartrot strode briskly past without taking notice of her. For some reason, he was heading south, toward the river. The key to the Druid's plan was obviously based on what her old Master would have called a Chaos Gambit. A bold and admirable ploy, if it worked. If it did not work, she would die quickly, as her now previous comrades would lack the time to torture her to their full satisfaction. Death itself presented no aversion. Death was only that and nothing more. It simply meant a quicker admission to Limbo. She would of course prefer to escape, but were she to die under these circumstances, then that too would be a victory of sorts. Then she heard him. With her ear to the ground, the rumble of his speed was unmistakable. It was like a stampede of one. Were the situation not so serious, it would have been almost comical. She was relieved that he had not betrayed her. If he had, she would never have been able to make good on her threat. It was not so much that she would have wanted vengeance. After all, none of this dilemma would have come to pass, had her own people not instigated it. It was simply that she had placed the threat within their bargain. If he had betrayed her and she failed to carry it out, then it would become an empty threat, and Rogues do not make empty threats. She could also tell that his speed was decreasing. The spell was dropping and she had no idea what he had in mind from this point forward. True, the children were safe. She knew this had been his primary objective, but what now? With his speed spell gone, they would both be surrounded. If his plan was to transport out, they would surely be cut down before the portal even formed. Whatever it was he had in mind either involved some element as of yet not known to her, or… She recalled what he had said only moments before their diversion. My name is not Druid. It's Jester. The term Jester had several meanings in the Homidris language. It could mean Trickster. On the other hand, it could also mean, Fool. She hoped it was not the latter. *** Running back to the center of his captor's lair was the last thing they could have expected. This was apparent by the collective expression on their faces as he streaked into their encampment. To Jester, they appeared much the same as he had left them. As he reached Delphi's feigned corpse, he felt the spell finally slip completely away. He felt this just as surely as he had felt the impact to his lower back while escaping the Dark-elf parameter. Losing the speed was bad, but this was actually more than he could deal with. It was simply more than he could afford to acknowledge. Perhaps Warriors and their like draw upon some mysterious fortification: some instinct or reinforcement enabling them to deal with such things. The best he could hope for was to

avoid its reality long enough to finish the business at hand, for stunned or not, they were closing quickly. And yet there would come three further occasions in which they would falter. The first was when Delphi suddenly jumped up from the dead to backstab a Warrior who was about to cleave Jester in two pieces with a broad-axe. Oddly enough, her own reaction to what would surely be viewed as a most dishonorable betrayal was more like a weight lifting from her. It felt right somehow, as if Surripere himself had just praised her course. The second was when Jester chose that moment to sing what sounded like a child's nursery rhyme. "The dell is full of Ne'er-do-wells… Let's send em all to Ogre Hell…" Here, Jester paused, hoping he was not asking too much of a good friend who must be frightened out of what few wits he had in the first place. Upon hearing him sing, Delphi herself took pause. To her great dismay, the definition of his name was abruptly leaning far too nigh the lesser of desired characterizations. That is, until the remainder of the rhyme was completed. The reason for this was simply because it was not the Druid who sang, but rather a voice from above. All eyes turned upward. The voice was somehow full of thunder, and yet childlike at the same time. "Smash em… Smash em… All fall down!" As if to punctuate the song's end, something massive crashed through the tree limbs above, coming down like a boulder, and landing with an impact that shook the very ground beneath their feet. Now before them, and standing where he had landed, which was right next to Jester and on top of a now crushed Dark-elf who had been about to crack open Jester's skull with a morning star, was an Ogre of truly unusual mass. As a general rule, Ogres are more likely to eat meat than anything else. They're even less likely to exercise. Growing up among Tarots had afforded him a well balanced diet and plenty of hard work, the results of which was made clearly evident in the expressions of all the Dark-elves as they faltered for yet a third time. "Hi ya, Huey!" "Hi ya, Jester," Huey drawled. "Allow me to introduce my new friend, Delphi." *** Borin both heard and felt the impact of something like a tree crashing to the ground. He centered on this as he charged, and though unaware of it, he was followed closely by his entire squad, which in turn prompted the entire Regiment to storm forth. He was the son of Captain Reginald Krue. The soldiers with whom he served, many being of an even higher rank, had come to look up to him for that very reason. If Borin Krue had call to charge, then there would be no doubting such judgment. They followed his lead as if it were the Captain's own command. *** Delphi had killed another. This had been a Rogue of lesser rank who had actually made the mistake of attempting to backstab her. Then, as she withdrew her blade from his neck, she was attacked by the one Dark-elf she had hoped to avoid.

Crimsin reached out and gently touched her shoulder as a dark aura pulsed through the Dis'Errant's hand and into Delphi, who at first stiffened, and then dropped limply to the ground. One should note that it is really of no particular import as to where one is struck by an Ogre, as was evident when Huey back-handed Crimsin across the face, thereby sending him to sprawl through the air some fifteen meters, to where his body connected with a rather unforgiving tree trunk. He too, dropped limply to the ground. *** Jester ducked as a Dark-elf's sword prepared to separate his body from his head. He avoided the blade, but crouching as he did was not without consequence. A crippling pain exploded throughout his lower back, and then down his legs. Ignoring the arrow was no longer an option. He dropped to one knee as the world swam out of focus, and then darkened. The Dark-elf swung at Jester again, but as his blade came down, Huey caught the swordsman's arm and turned, tossing both sword and wielder over his head to land near the same spot where the Dis'Errant had landed. When Huey looked back, Jester had dropped face down, and now lay just as unconscious as Delphi. He lifted Delphi from the ground and draped her over his left shoulder. He was about to drape Jester over his right shoulder, and then simply run away. Before he could reach his little Druid friend, he found himself being surrounded by a large number of Dark-elves. He turned to discover them all about him, slowly closing the circle they were yet forming as more of their number joined the effort. Fear seized him as he realized he now stood alone. They's lookin real mad at me! Youse better wake up now, Jester! he thought desperately, as if to will his friend to consciousness. Please? *** The Baron had maneuvered to a higher vantage atop a small hill to the south. He could see the incoming Arbitos soldiers. He could even make out the distinctive form of the man in front who led the charge as though he were invincible. Only Krue would be so bold, he thought, absently tracing his scar from chin to collar while recalling a different battle, from a different era. With the figure of his old adversary so close, it was suddenly difficult to consider anything other than the demise of one whom he had wanted dead for so long. Still, his men would all be dead soon. There would be no one left to report their findings. Reluctantly, he withdrew the tiny vial he had found among the Gnoll Chieftain's possessions. There had only been the one gate potion, and he had hoped he would not need it. Another time then, my dear Captain. *** Those in the circle now stared in bewilderment as it became obvious that the behemoth was not quite the threat they first thought. He had led them south for almost thirty paces before they closed in with spears and halberds, effectively blocking further retreat. Then, when he piddled down his own legs, they began to laugh. "Be done with him!" one of them shouted while advancing with a long leaf spear.

Huey froze with panic. He couldn't make his legs move. His lower lip began to tremble as he was unable to even look away. In one moment, the spears tip hovered inches from his face. In the next, a shadow passed quickly over several of their heads to land within the circle. Huey's self-appointed executioner dropped his spear as he was suddenly faced with other concerns. He tried to struggle, but the beast was too strong, too fast. It was over quickly. Blood and gore dripped from Digger's muzzle as he released what remained of the Dark-elf's throat. Forgetting the infantile Ogre, the remaining Dark-elves closed on the wolf, whose snarl bore fangs now painted in their own comrade's blood. Huey knew nothing of wolf packs. All he saw when he looked at Digger was another member of his family. In this case, family in trouble. His fear fell away to be replaced with something new, and though he had never been formally trained in combat, what he felt now would have been easily recognized by any veteran Warrior. It was battle rage: the sort of fury only Berserkers knew. It quickly enveloped him as a chaotic tempest, and for the first time in his life, Huey the Tarot issued the shattering roar of a true Ogre. *** A Dark-elf Warrior had seen the Druid fall from a distance. From just over the hill to his left, he could hear the jeers of those comrades who were yet busy dealing with the cowardly Ogre. He quickly ran to the Druid's unconscious body and raised his sword to finish the job, but paused at the reverberation of a most dreadful bellowing. He had heard the battle cry of Ogres before while serving under several integrated Quests between allied factions. This however, was no allied battle cry. It was less controlled, as if issued by something feral and horrifying. He came back to his target quickly, swinging sharply downward to finish the task at hand. Then he could return to the others before the Ogre got out of hand. The sharp chop had buried several inches of his weapon in the grass and earth, but not the Druid's head. How could he have missed? And yet his target lay several inches beyond the blade's reach. In looking up, he was met by the menacing eyes of yet another Half-elf, though this one was no Druid. The Warrior dropped the Druid's leg back to the flattened grass, a toothy grin forming on his face. Behind him, other soldiers from Arbitos were charging in.

Chapter Eleven-Chaos Gambit, Part Two: Druid's End In truth, it had not been a proper battle. Between Huey, Digger, Borin, and the other soldiers, Dark-elf numbers had dwindled quickly. An entire Regiment versus a handful of cornered Dark-elves in broad daylight presented no great challenge. Then again, it was not as if Arbitos had shown up wholly uninvited. There were a few Arbitos casualties, as there almost always were in such skirmishes, though far less than expected. In the end, only a few of the invaders were given the chance to surrender. The reactions of some had been to charge against the wall of soldiers to die. Those remaining had attempted to flee, only to be cut down in showers of arrows. *** As he retrieved his personal arrows, easily discernible by the family crest on each shaft, his bearing and expression was perhaps somewhat less than a model of perfect humility. The glances of disdain proffered by his fellow Archers were yet another reflection of Merfee's own gloating grin while intentionally holding up each arrow pulled from an enemy's body to insure that his peers could clearly see the difference between his armful of ammunition versus their embarrassingly tiny piles. Of course, his friendly taunting came to a halt when he tripped over a corpse while endeavoring to display said grin, thus scattering said pile and fortunately diffusing their growing of aggravation. *** At first, Huey was aware of nothing but the rage. As he slowly awoke to his surroundings, he could see there were no more of the blue-skinned Elves, save the one Jester had called friend. She was yet draped about his neck. He surveyed the area about him. The ground was loosely strewn with the dead of all those who had failed to escape his insanity. Their number was difficult to discern, as a great deal of what could be seen were no more than body parts: a head, an arm, a torso. It might have been easier had a blade been used. As it was, the remains were naught but a great mass of ripped sinew and broken splinters of bones, jutting at various angles. It was as if one large blue-skinned beast had exploded. Still holding what remained of a femur, Huey looked down at the blood covering his body from head to foot, and then returned his addled attention to the leg bone in his hand. What an odd thing it was. And why should he be holding it? Then he recalled. He had torn a leg from the first of them to fall within his grasp, and then used it as a crude club on the others. There was little left of it, save the bone itself, and a few shreds of gristle. He dropped it to the ground with the rest of the gore. It was useless now. His mind was calming, though his body was yet possessed by the rage. He felt weak, and began to shake, taking several unsteady steps back as his legs threatened to give way. In response, he sat down, disregarding the grisly display about him, including that of Digger, who was presently at the business of rummaging through the debris for preferred morsels. *** Borin had saved the Druid's life. Though largely incidental, there yet seemed a sense of elation to it, as if some particularly taxing weight had been lifted. We are now even, Squire Thistle.

During the fray, he had noticed his father casting several severe glances at him while dispatching several Wognix of his own. His expression was most dour. At first it made no sense. He had been too consumed by his own moral dilemma to really take note of what, or who was about him, other than what particular foe he battled at any given point. Now, in that aftermath, he recalled his mistake. He had charged without being commanded to do so. To make it worse, he had been followed by his father's own men. He abruptly came to a very clear image of himself cleaning privies for the next three summers. So much for making Sergeant. As his father conducted a full body count, he finished wiping his blade clean, and then sheathed it. He turned from his final kill to return to the Druid, but stopped short when he caught sight of one of the most horrific views of aftermath he had ever witnessed. Everyone in the Garrison knew Huey. He would come to Arbitos from time to time as a matter of seasonal trade, though how an Ogre had ever survived in a land full of Ogre enemies was yet a mystery, the more so as Huey's ability to communicate made in-depth conversation almost impossible. Still, he seemed to make friends with all who would allow it. Ultimately, he was but a gentle child, trapped within the body of a monster. Even so, there he sat amongst what could only be described as a scene from a slaughterhouse. Let's see Father count that! Borin walked over to him, stepping carefully around and over various components of Dark-elf, and then stopping to consider the Ogre more closely. He was covered in deep gashes and stab wounds, yet Borin suspected that most of the blood was not his own. He appeared to be simply sitting there, as if lounging in the middle of such a morbid mess was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Then he saw the glazed look, and how Huey was shaking, which added an almost comic image to the corpse draped about his neck, like a knitted muffler to keep him warm. His expression of absence was not uncommon. Many Warriors had been through it after their first experience of a Berserker's rage. Now it made sense. "Huey?" he inquired gently. "Are you all right?" Huey looked up slowly, as if from a dream. "Hi ya, Corpal Borin," he mumbled, though apparently not coherent enough to register the question. He offered Borin the same friendly smile he had always worn when visiting the Garrison. Somehow, it seemed out of place today. Then the Wognix on Huey's shoulder stirred, and Borin instantly drew back, grasping the hilt of his sword. "Stop!" Jester exclaimed while walking slowly toward them, wincing with each step. "She helped us, and she's requested Sanctuary." Borin was obviously dubious. He proffered a raised brow to accompany an unbelieving scowl that was his only available response to the Druid's absurdity. Still, he carefully removed the Dark-elf from Huey's shoulder, and then gently placed her on the ground next to him. He also removed her dagger, just in case. Extending credence to absurdity was one thing. Outright folly would only be his own shame. Upon having initiated Delphi's request, and thereby securing her immediate safety, Jester then allowed himself the sweet luxury of collapse as he carefully laid face down in the grass. "Egad!" exclaimed another soldier of Borin's rank, who only now noticed Huey's massacre. This drew the attention of others, prompting a crowd to form about the spectacle until Borin waved them on. "Could you take care of Huey?" he asked the first soldier.

"Of course. Come along then, young man. Let's get you cleaned up." He held his hand out, and Huey took it without reservation. They made their way to the river with the smaller figure gently guiding the behemoth by one finger, which was as much as could be grasped. "I say, ole boy. Have you ever considered an exciting career in the service of the Arbitos guard?" "Huey live wit hims Nanna and Tuda and Dobin and Ezy and Nere and…" "Umm…yes, quite." Digger looked up from feeding and bounded after them, pausing only once to snatch up the leg bone Huey had discarded. It already had a number of cracks and fractures. The marrow would be easily reached. Borin started in Jester's direction, but instead of stopping, he just stepped over him. He had noticed yet another item of far greater interest. "Hey!" Jester shouted. Borin paid no attention. There, in the tall grass, was his duffle bag. He opened it quickly, and dumped the contents on the ground. He rummaged through his belongings until he finally came to the Talisman. "Ahh, there you are," he issued with a sigh of relief. "Excuse me!" exclaimed Jester indignantly. He re-packed his duffle, swung it over his shoulder, and walked over to Jester, stooping to examine his injuries. "That scratch on your head will need tending, as will the wound from the arrow. Would you like me to remove it?" "Don't you think we should wait for a Cleric?" Jester asked nervously. "Why?" Borin asked quizzically. "I've got a blasted arrow in my back! You can't just go ripping it out! You might damage something vital!" Borin looked again at the arrow, returned his attention to Jester's face, and then looked down at the ground. Observing this reaction, Jester became alarmed. "Is it serious?" he asked, hoping the arrow had not hit his spine, or some organ. Another soldier had come to offer assistance just as Jester asked the question. He immediately burst out laughing. Jester looked up at her unbelievingly. "Oh, ha, ha! Very funny! I could be facing death itself, while you…" He stopped himself, as Borin, who while still looking down now turned away, though not before Jester caught his expression. He too was laughing. Not overtly so, but for him that was as good as booming laughter. In all the time from Port Dwergus, to the Tarot camp, he had not once witnessed Borin even crack a smile. All things considered, this was very odd behavior. At the same time, there was an eerie familiarity to this entire situation. An unexpected, but thoroughly emphatic understanding suddenly came to him. *** She lay perfectly still, just as she had been placed. The Dis'Errant's deadly touch might have finished her, had she not instinctively feigned death for a second time.

Fortunately, she had only absorbed about half of what she knew Crimsin to be capable of doing. It was a risky ploy on her part, considering that she had only just played that card moments earlier. Even so, Crimsin was no fool. He might have seen through her ruse, if the Ogre hadn't stepped in. Her hood covered her face well enough to enable her to avoid detection while she observed these people. She needed to determine their intentions before making her presence known. Maybe they would help her. Maybe they would kill her. All she had to go on was the agreed representation of a Trickster. Yes, she had decided he was in fact just that. Who but a Trickster could have accomplished what he had on such short notice, and with no legitimate weapons, save an Ogre, a wolf, and a one eyed Rogue? On top of everything, he had orchestrated the entire sequence of events with a precision of timing the like of which she had neither seen, nor heard tell of. Then, when it appeared all was lost, in charged the Arbitos soldiers, right on cue. It was the general consensus among all Rogue guild chapters that the art of the true Trickster had died out almost two-and-three-quarter eons past, save among a small contingent of followers within certain primitive tribes of Pixie who were indigenous only to remote areas of the Pi'xylem forests. Even so, no one had ever been able to establish a viable form of communication with these creatures. They had no language, or discernible intellect. Pixies were generally considered to Elves as Primates were to Roundears. All that really remained of the art were a few vague passages of text from a tome written before any true recording of history. Yet here was this Half-elf. He was certainly no Pixie, though his skill was undeniable. She recalled her studies of the old tome. Most of what was not already crumbled to dust was far too faded to read. There was a cryptic passage on the inside leaf that had survived the ages, or at least in part. She recalled the words that were decipherable. To jest with fate , she thought. Is it possible? She watched him closely, studying his graceful style of deception. Just look at him, she thought. Even now, he manages to utilize a minor injury to project a false image. He has both of those simpletons convinced that he is naught but a buffoon. *** "It's only a flesh wound," Borin assured him. "I don't care!" "It would be over with very quickly," offered the other soldier in soft and reassuring tones while inching forward slowly. "I said, back off!" *** How had they responded so quickly? No sooner had he sounded the security alarm than they began to show up. At first, in groups of two and three, and then five and ten, and all were bearing clearance badges, specific to the I.B.O.T Lab. Within half an hour the entire facility was crawling with people he had never even seen before. They, on the other hand, had seemed to know quite a bit, both about the project in general, and Kwibee himself. After being escorted to, and then locked within his own conference room, Orval had been allowed to represent his case as best he could. This included an in-depth explanation, far more comprehensive than

any ever heard by Hereford. Unfortunately, every time he had ventured to assert how delicate the situation had become, the Specialists, or Hacks as he thought of them, would remind him that it was not his place to offer conjecture. Ultimately, he had relented. There was little else for him to do. They were given a complete rundown on every aspect of the program's academics. It was just as he had always feared. Government Hacks are very efficient. They are highly proficient at reverse engineering, but their ability to comprehend in terms of projected dynamics was limited at best. Then again, if their minds weren't confined within the proverbial box, then they wouldn't be Hacks in the first place. As soon as they were satisfied that Orval had imparted everything they considered relevant, he had simply been dismissed, as if he were nothing but a minor element, no longer of use to them. As he drove, Orval replayed all of this in his mind. He kept hoping to find an alternative: some solution to this catastrophe that might salvage his career without jeopardizing lives. To his dismay, he kept arriving at the same conclusion. No matter what his chances of reasoning with the military, he couldn't afford to place himself above the lives of so many. He pulled over to the side of the road. When he killed the engine, the silence that followed was an unexpected relief. He briefly rested his forehead on the steering wheel, simply enjoying the quiet solitude. It would be so easy to… Don't! he told himself. Move it, before you fall asleep! He sat up. Pushing his mind back onto the task at hand, he withdrew the last file report he had run before being asked to exit the building. If it had been in hard copy, it would have been several inches thick. Fortunately, he had been able to download the information to a PDA. He was still amazed he hadn't been caught with it. He supposed they simply considered themselves too intimidating to be opposed. He went over the possible candidates one last time. He had chosen this city for several reasons. First, for its close proximity to the lab, and also because of its dense population of players. Both factors would prove crucial, both in his ability to avoid military notice, and for the best available selection of connections. A large number were immediately ruled out as they didn't have voice-recognition packages. That meant no microphones. Anyone caught within IBOT would necessarily have had a system equipped with a microphone employing the implanted technology. Many others were ruled out due to slower connections. These people were just as susceptible to DIT as anyone on the larger bandwidth, but the connections would be passive. This would make it impossible to remain undetected. After excluding a number of other groups for various reasons, he had narrowed the selection to a mere thirty-eight targets. Of these, he narrowed the selection down to only those within a one-quarter mile radius of the local phone company, and then the least populated section of that radius, thus insuring the best possible bandwidth. This dropped the candidates down to twelve. One among that group had a wireless connection. Admittedly, it was not quite as stable under ordinary circumstances, but with certain enhancements, it would be safe enough. There are a number of ways to utilize the local trunk line to augment a wireless connection so as to remain invisible. Invisibility was a most attractive feature. Any Hacker worth his salt would know this. Fortunately, most phone company drones don't. Orval's definition of Hacker differed dramatically from that of Hack. One was an innovative Maverick. The other simply fell into that same category as any of the drones currently occupying his research facility.

He read the full residential report, including the individual dossiers on each of the two residences. The game subscription was solely in the husband's name, which placed him as the probable target. Good. A woman will be more likely to cooperate, he thought, circling the name and address. He then unfolded the city map to get his bearing. He started the engine, pulled back out onto the highway, and checked his watch. There went another fifteen minutes. As he passed the Tulsa City limit sign, it occurred to him that he had no idea of what to say when he got there. He held a number of medical degrees, including several in the field of psychology. Surely he could handle one distraught housewife.

The adventure continues, in the second book of the four comprising the series. That work, entitled Rendering Nirayel: Stepping on Arbitos, by Nathan P. Cardwell, will soon be available at DDP.