

## A Leap of Fate

## Episode 2:

### The Caronian Conflict

By G. L. Fontenot

Copyright 2013 G.L. Fontenot

Smashwords Edition

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### What is fate?

### More often than not, fate is a cynical, maniacal fiend surfing the tides of time.

### G.L. Fontenot

### Prologue: part one

### The First Step

Two beautiful, violet eyes stare out at nothing...looking towards a timer, but seeing only an incoherent, unfocused blur. Too many thoughts race along her synaptic pathways to allow a single, clear signal...and waves of intense emotion bathe it all into a slurry of unintelligible gibberish.

Eighteen thousand feet above the semi-tropical base of a rugged, forest covered mountain range that subdivides the most prominent continent of the planet Rauld, a waiting game is underway deep within the bedrock. Although a lofty location when compared with the level of the nearest ocean, fifteen hundred hoz (Raulden miles) to the east, it is by far not the uppermost floor of the immense, underground complex of Gammone, the single remaining inhabited city of that world. That ultimate title is resigned to the atmospheric monitoring station, and it lies almost two thousand feet above...and that is still over seven thousand feet beneath the icy, snow-crested summit of the outside world.

One might expect a thin, deadly atmosphere in such a locale, but within the confines of the pressurized living spaces of this phenomenal underground city, such conditions on the thousands of differing floors are all kept absolutely identical.

In a large, well lit room, lined at every turn with some form of amazing, high-technology instrumentation, a petite woman stands at arm's reach from a point marked out on the floor. This particular space has been meticulously carved out of the solid rock of the planet's mantle over nine hundred cycles (Raulden years) in the past, and was once the lavish living quarters of an ancient prominent leader. Every inch of the stone walls is decorated by its artisan's tools, creating soothing, flowing patterns that draw the eye and intrigue the soul. It would be a marvel of art and engineering on most any planet...but here it is just the norm and is rarely given any thought.

The cavernous laboratory dwarfs the woman's feminine figure and is so eerily quiet that a depressing wave of isolation creeps across her mind. Such thought however is quickly cast aside...quelled offhandedly by her steadfast determination because her resolve will not be deterred.

Her mind's attention sharpens suddenly, sweeping all the distractions away in a blink...leaving only clear, productive reason in the forefront. Her gaze locks forward while her pulse steadily quickens, and the rising rush of adrenaline in her bloodstream forces a slight, nervous tremble to surge through her.

She impatiently checks a timing device on the wall in front of her and her heart rate climbs still further. That chronograph will, in a few short moments, activate an incredible transportation phenomenon of her own design, bridging the vast distance between her world and her target, a harsh and undeveloped planet called Caron.

The huge room's temperature, relative humidity, and pressure are always perfectly comfortable and never deviate more than a single percent from the designated setting, they each being recorded at hundreds of points by an exceptionally sophisticated computer. Nonetheless, the woman is garbed in heavy winter gear and carries sophisticated, high altitude breathing equipment.

She has deeply tanned skin, the like which would rival the most devout Hawaiian surfer, totally hidden in her attire's capsule of overlapping layers of thermal insulation. Her coif of fine, straight, black hair which hangs down to her waist lies tucked away under her fur-lined hood making her bright lavender eyes even more unique and sensuously appealing.

This darkened persona is almost exactly opposite of her normal appearance, but she has spent many billots (Raulden hours) planning how best to proceed on her quest. Her desire to blend with the foreign area's populace is essential, and she feels well prepared for her perilous mission of subterfuge and infiltration.

Her natural state...a blonde-haired, fair-skinned Raulden female...would certainly stand out vividly, and that fact would undoubtedly result in her capture and ultimately her death, in the sun-drenched, tropical cities of Caron...her eventual destination.

While the sound of her heart pounds in her ears, the enormity of the plan weighs heavily on her thoughts, as does the danger. She knows quite well that it will no doubt be a huge accomplishment just to survive the contrasting elements of her journey, and she steels herself toward that task. She will soon be leaving the comfort and protection of her placid, hazard-free home, deep inside the fortress complex of Gammone, for an unforgiving, hazard-filled ice cavern with scant accommodations and almost no atmosphere to breathe. And that's merely the first step in a list of trials she must overcome!

The gravity on Caron will be substantially greater than that of her home planet, and it concerns her deeply. Even though she has spent the last santari (Raulden month) training her body to adjust to it, she knows the change will not be easy on her. Reality has a way of illuminating every fault of a plan in glaring fashion, no matter how careful the attention to detail, so she wills herself to accept that fact.

From that bleak cavern her trek will start by sending her through the treacherous, snow-covered, windswept peaks of the most rugged mountain range of the Caronian landscape...nearly twice the height of her own beloved mountain. Again, she has trained for those conditions in Rauld's advanced simulation facility, but any true experience in the real world is sadly lacking.

Such a remote and perilous route is necessary because it is the only place she is convinced her arrival will be neither perceived nor expected by those she must avoid at all costs. Her confidence is bolstered fervently because no native of the planet could ever set foot within three dactrais (Raulden days) travel of where she is going. The temperature might be survivable but the thin air of the location would easily kill anyone without some form of assisted oxygen supply...a product that is totally foreign to the technologically primitive population. That fact makes surveillance by the enemy's orbiting satellites unnecessary, and thus gives her a great measure of security...for the time being.

She tries to dismiss her fears of the coming hardships, knowing perfectly well that once there, in those peaks, she will have to travel a great distance on foot through that cold, pitiless, and frozen wilderness to reach the lower country. And if she can survive that first leg to the steamy confines of the forest, she will still have to negotiate another week's hike to civilization through steep, rocky, rugged, mountains.

That stretch of fifty-to-sixty hoz will be filled with large carnivorous beasts too, as well as crawling, flying, and slithering creatures at every turn...and such knowledge makes her body quake with trepidation. Similar animals are all long extinct from her pristine home-world, and her reaction to them is another "unknown" area of her plans.

Once past those grueling trials, she will have to find a way to interact with countless native inhabitants...some undoubtedly friendly, but many not...in order to reach her final objective.

This heroic path she has chosen will inevitably lead her to a tenuous meeting with a group of wary, battle-hardened, revolutionary freedom fighters on the alien planet, and that gathering will no doubt hold its own dangers too. Those men have seen more than their share of subversion, betrayal and death, and likely will not be the trusting sort.

The woman's thoughts drift briefly through the reason she is about to risk her life.

This world, Caron, is besieged by a vicious, sadistic, cutthroat species of warrior beings that have the indigenous peoples locked in a brutal balance of master and servant. They demand payments from every producing field...from farm-grown foods and drinks to transport beasts and raw materials for weapons and even ships.

Many Caronians are forced to become obedient slaves for manual labors such as constructing roads, bridges, and great stone structures, as well as mining ores for their masters' many requirements. They are also used as playthings for entertaining the rulers in a wide variety of ways that range from combat sports, to human prey, to sexual servitude, and even procreation.

The Caronians themselves are physically powerful individuals due simply to the heavy gravity environment of their planet and their present state of evolution that demands a hardiness of very high standards merely to survive. This durability attracts the attention of the Lords even more because ruling the strong is far more glorious than ruling a weaker people.

The Caronians are also extremely intelligent and adaptive, and she hopes a coup over their rulers might spark the beginning of an expulsion of these creatures from this planet, and one day all the worlds they imperil.

The woman tried before, and is once again attempting to assist the native residents in freeing themselves from the bloody tyranny of their rulers, but it will be...as it already has been...a very risky undertaking.

She shivers again as she recalls the last group of fighters she tried to aid, and how they died so violently after they were horribly mutilated and tortured in the attempt to find out who was providing them with support...her. Her personal identity remained secret on that occasion, but her transmission had been traced and her location identified.

Once this enemy found out about the alliance, the self-imposed masters of all lesser beings didn't care how many Caronians they had to dispose of as long as they captured the woman...or more precisely, her technology. They were keenly aware of what she was worth. In fact, the transporter she was now about to use, by itself, would be invaluable to them. It would mean they could expand their realm infinitely more quickly...and they could only dream of what other devices they might rend from her and her people.

Presently, less than half a planetary cycle has passed since those malevolent beings sent a fleet of their best warships to her world, Rauld, in a direct attempt to assimilate the advancements of her and her brethren. But that armada was not successful; and in fact, it had been entirely crushed. Those iniquitous leaders were then forced to find another way of achieving their objective...but fortunately for her, they knew nothing of her agenda, her new contacts, or her timetable. They were left waiting for the next opportunity for her capture to present itself.

She watches the timer more closely now, knowing she has only a brief moment in which to pass through the portal before it shuts down automatically, as she preprogrammed it to do. She instated that directive to insure no one from the other side could discover the aperture and force their way into her domain, thereby gaining this crucial piece of engineering. The enemy would have unlimited, instant access to thousands of worlds, should she allow this to happen, and she would rather die a ghastly death at their hands than let them attain it.

As she stands there, she very much wishes she were not going alone on this journey. She is anxious, a bit doubtful, and even frightened at taking this bold step on her own, but her would-be partner is in no condition to accompany her at this time. He is off on a personal quest of his own, trying to come to grips with a tremendous loss in his life still too fresh in his thoughts for him to put aside.

She desperately wanted to wait for him to return, but matters on Caron were escalating faster than she anticipated, and further delays could only complicate the situation. His companionship and protection would have been very comforting, and would have significantly improved her odds of success, but her window of opportunity is open now, and she is compelled to take it.

She carefully affixes the air supply mask to her face and checks the seal. It is absolute. She is now completely insulated from the environment around her and her stomach tightens. She feels her pulse race as the last moments flash by...and then the portal begins to form.

It is programmed to open just large enough to allow her to fit through, conserving as much energy as possible and providing as small a signature as necessary to any foreign surveillance technician, making it harder for the enemy to detect.

The 'portal' isn't what one might commonly think of since it is not a solid device such as a door, or a hatch. It's more like an open window with no frame whatsoever. Instead of an actual casement, its edges are defined with the simple contrast of visual, and physical, surroundings. It's literally a direct opening to another locality. In this case, the destination is a point trillions of hoz across space; the outer caverns of a lofty series of natural tunnels that lead to her laboratory in the heat-deprived, high-altitude landscape of Caron's Taerdrasseg Mountains. It is also a barrier in the fact that physical things like the difference in ambient pressures, wind, and temperature do not cross, even though a falling leaf can. It is both a miracle and a paradox.

Finally the time is here. The Kuar Starflex Portal flashes into existence as quietly as a sunrise, and Cache Kuar peers into the other realm, her heart racing wildly. The dimly lit cave is now just a short step away, so she takes a quick breath and strides forward.

The silent, invisible surface of the portal envelopes her and then winks out as if it had never been.

The room is now empty of human life, with everything running on automatic, or controlled by Cnauts (cybernetic nimble autonomous utility technicians), expecting her next contact at a preset interval.

The new countdown clock immediately begins its task, slowly measuring the passage of time that is neither hurried nor delayed...a constant, precise duty. The lights blink out a few litas (Raulden seconds) later and the machines switch over to standby.

They wait with unlimited patience.

### Prologue: part two

### Decisions

At that exact moment, three thousand hoz away from the now empty laboratory, a large, deeply tanned man with shaggy raven hair stands and looks out as well, contemplating the next step he is about to take.

In contrast to his partner's position of security, he stands at the very edge of insanity; a massive rock formation jutting a hundred feet out from the surrounding cliffs like part of a natural bridge that was never completed.

He is barefoot and nearly naked, with only a small pair of formfitting trunks covering his privates, and his long, broad-shouldered body glistens with sweat while his heart pounds with anticipation. That upper body is adorned with a thick layer of work-hardened muscle, every ripple and bulge clearly defined as if he were carved from a massive block of living bronze. He is the personification of the epitome of human male development...and he has used that body to its fullest in the past, as well as the present.

Through his natural sunshades of Caronian origin he slowly scans the sky above him and finds it as clear and deep blue...almost indigo...as any he has ever seen. The stiff breeze in his face is a floral-scented wonder, laced with the sweet smell of various wild flowers from many hoz away.

Eight hundred feet below him is a large lake, calm and soothing, reflecting his entire view like a gigantic mirror, and he cannot suppress a smile. Mountains with heavy snows cresting them give the impression of whipped cream on a sundae as they envelop the lofty elevation of the lake on all sides. The man sweeps his gaze back and forth, imagining he has stepped into a life-sized postcard, so perfectly peaceful and magnificent the sight is.

He stands there thinking about how bizarre and conflicting the scene would look to anyone watching if they were to consider his persona, the man he has become, situated in this particular place, at this particular time.

He has spent many dactrais searching out this location where there is no other person for as far as he can see, and he enjoys the serenity and totality of the seclusion immensely. Yet he comes from a planet which now has not a single living soul left on its entire surface, and that fact leaves his heart nearly shattered at its own stark isolation.

This man is encircled in an unbelievable Eden of absolute harmony and breathtaking natural beauty, something which inspires him and leaves him in awe. Yet his place of birth is now the vilest, most toxic world he's ever heard of, or read about, or even imagined.

Nearly a thousand cycles of patience and perseverance have gone into rebuilding and nurturing the land where he stands. Yet the land where he was raised to manhood was completely destroyed in less than a week.

Why were his wife and family, and everyone he'd ever known, obliterated from the universe? Why was he spared? Why is he here? What is he to do now?

He has spent the past several torjournes (Raulden weeks) alone, grieving and searching for answers to those questions. He set out into this wilderness hoping the quiet, tranquil state of the natural wonders around him might aid in his search to find those answers...the direction...the guidance he seeks. But now, even the thought of that goal makes him laugh at himself, as he has finally concluded that his search was as ironic as the location in which he hoped to find it.

He is no longer the simple family man who once worked to support his wife...who enjoyed relaxing vacations and planned to raise a family of his own. Now, a normal job, relaxation, and a trouble-free existence are too boring for him to even consider. He is a living, breathing weapon of extremely lethal capabilities...one which craves action, danger, and challenge to make him feel alive.

He now understands why he has recently felt driven to take bigger risks; leaping across deep gorges, climbing ever-steeper slopes, and putting his life on the edge of reasonable conduct at every turn. It is now his nature!

He constantly drills himself in the use of weapons of varying sorts and will settle for nothing less than absolute perfection. He is a full-blown adrenaline junky who has finally reached this lofty setting for the ultimate rush.

Before the rising of Metash, the slightly larger of the two stars which illuminate Rauld in brilliant sunlight, he stripped down to his current attire. Then, leaving nearly everything he had at the base of the cliff, he began his ascent.

It was a treacherous climb, straight up, and he had no rope or safety gear of any kind. Several times during the arduous ordeal he made some slight mistake, or the rock had given way under his substantial weight, and he found himself dangling precariously from one hand. Those moments showed his truest self, as growling was the only noise to escape his lips...not the gasping, fright-filled squeal of a common man on the verge of death. Anger and resolve were what drove him to cling to the face of that cliff. He simply would not be denied!

It was a foolhardy venture for any sane man, for even with the lighter gravity of this world, he knew the fall would surely have killed him, but death was not what he feared.

When Dersa, Metash's little sister star, fully arose more than half a dactrai later, he had reached his goal; the large rock formation on which he now stands.

By shear strength, determination, and willpower, is he now perched at this precariously poignant site, reflecting upon himself. The one thing that long, harrowing climb accomplished was to at last force him to come to grips with his new reality, and while he stands there he makes some concrete, definite decisions.

He will not be swallowed up with his grief, living each day without hope, without purpose, without love. He'd pulled, heaved, and clawed his way up that precipice, proving to himself that as long as conscious thought survived in his brain, he would fight to sustain his life with every ounce of strength his beating heart would allow.

He will move forward!

With great concentration, he stretches out his hands in front of his broad chest and forms a mental target in the sky. Once that is locked, his hands move smoothly to the side, clearing the way of the spectacular sight before him. Then, mimicking the Olympic divers he'd watched so many times on television, he takes a long, deep breath to calm his nerves. Not a quiver sweeps through him. No doubts cloud his thoughts...no fear.

Suddenly his long legs fold, and his arms snap down and then up in a flash. He leaps out as far as he can, extending his form as if reaching for a bar which is just beyond his fingertips. More than fifty feet out into the oncoming breeze his body tilts slowly downward as gravity takes an ever-increasing hold on the situation.

The feeling is that of utter exhilaration...free-fall!

The adrenaline rush floods in and his mind is suddenly sent speeding as fast as his body.

"Why did my planet die?" he asks himself. "They could not, or would not deal with their own petty problems," he answers.

His body accelerates.

"Why have I been spared?" "My life has been given a new purpose."

His body accelerates.

"Why am I here, on this planet?" "To fulfill this new purpose."

His body accelerates.

"What am I to do?" "Anything and everything I can, toward that end."

He reaches terminal velocity.

He tucks his head between his thick biceps as the water approaches with blinding rapidity, and then he strikes its surface like a bullet.

Down into the depths of the lake he shoots...deeper and deeper he plunges. The water on this globe isn't dense enough to support his mass with sufficient buoyancy to swim, that much is clear. But also, it doesn't produce the surface tension that would normally shatter every bone in his body at the speed he entered it.

His dense frame knifes toward the bottom of the lake like he's a ship's anchor cut from its chain and he arches his back powerfully to counteract his descent as much as he can. He knows of course that if he cannot quell his speed, he will likely not survive the impact with the rocky lakebed, and now fights as hard to avoid it as he fought to climb the cliff.

Finally, he slows himself adequately and manages to pivot his body around to have his feet downward. He sinks, as he knew he would, but when he does contact the bottom it's at a nominal rate and he remains uninjured. By then his heart is racing madly from the temperature of the chilly environs and the adrenaline pulsing through him, but he is able to control himself enough to take a moment and look around.

He marvels at the geologic beauty that formed the lake's floor, and at how clear the water is. He finds it absolutely remarkable and wishes he would have been able to see some of the aquatic life that once dwelled there.

The pressure at the depth he reached isn't painful to his system, but nonetheless it reminds him he is an air-breathing mammal and so he opens his mouth and retrieves a compact apparatus he'd tucked away there earlier. He quickly affixes it to his left wrist and then depresses a small section of the watch-sized device, which activates it. In a split-second, a large bladder inflates with compressed gas and sends him streaking for the surface far above.

He finds this ride almost as exciting as the fall, but is greatly relieved when he's able to fill his lungs once again with the warm fragrant air of the mountains.

He then uses the inflated device to keep him afloat as he kicks toward the shoreline and, even though his progress is slow, revels in his experience. After a time, he steps out of the water and into the intense heat of the Raulden daytime, but is significantly refreshed from the swim, if you could call it that.

He has a newfound purpose! His questions are now moot, his doubts are behind him, and his focus is set. He will be heading back to Gammone!

### Chapter One

### Point Me the Way

Ron Allison, once a run-of-the-mill working man from the state of Louisiana, on the planet Earth, shook himself off like an animal would. He then let the remaining water air-dry from his body as he made his way calmly to his belongings.

Following a short dinner from his ration tubes, he got dressed, strapped on his various weapons, and pointed himself in the direction of his hover-car. He'd parked it on the other side of the eastern ridge; a peak which now, even as tall as it stood, was difficult to see.

Ron suddenly found himself eager to return to the mountain fortress he'd left nearly two santaris ago. There was a lovely young woman waiting for him there...waiting to see if he was going to join her in a tremendous, daunting, almost insane undertaking, and he was eager to give her his response.

She was of a mind to liberate an entire planet which was being governed and exploited by a race of merciless, despicable creatures calling themselves, the Kreete. They had control of hundreds of worlds, most of which were inhabited by less advanced species who possessed no way to protect themselves from the technologically superior Kreete Triad. The Triad was the governing entity spanning half the galaxy...and so those hapless souls under their rule were doomed to either be slaughtered by them or become slaves of their mighty alien empire.

Cache Kuar...the woman who had requested Ron's help...had tried to explain her plans to him on several occasions over the last few santaris before he left Gammone, her home. But he was too distracted to listen, too angry and confused and disgruntled, and so she had allowed him his space, even encouraged his current sabbatical.

Now, a santari and a half later, he was ready to start a new chapter in his life. It would be full of danger as well as adventure, and he was convinced his destiny lay with her and her plans.

A miraculous occurrence had created the being he now was. An unfathomably complex set of "coincidental" factors had somehow fallen into place in a singular instant of time...entwining two beings who previously existed thousands of parsecs apart.

Was it simply blind chance, the outcome of his personal, individual fate, or some divine intervention...he would never truly know which...and it really didn't matter. It joined...no, actually it compressed his former self...a tall, slim man from the class 6.5 planet of Earth...with that of a large, fearsome warrior named Kaskle Dangarth, from the heavy world of Caron, a class 8.6 planet. Now he was both, and neither.

After much introspective deliberation over the long days of his solitude, he was absolutely certain this transformation had a definitive purpose. This change to his person, as well as the destruction of his past had come about for a specific reason. That reason now lay far to the west of his current position, in the fantastic underground facility of Gammone, the solitary living city on the entire world of Rauld.

His mind wandered as he ran through the cool forest, oblivious of all he passed, remembering his fondness for Cache's company and her fortitude toward her goals. They made a marvelous duo in their last pairing...a treacherous and exhausting struggle that eventually won out over tremendous adversity, danger, and hardship...and he was confident they would do so again.

She was brilliant, tough, and resourceful, and her people had technology which could overcome even that of the seemingly omnipotent Triad. Ron possessed a keen knack for survival, the killer instinct, and the physical characteristics of a heavy-worlder as well as the brawn of such beings. Together, he knew they would make a formidable stand against the Kreete.

Ron glided up and over the mountain passes as if he'd lived there all his life. Traveling on sparse periods of sleep, with only minimal breaks for food, he made it back to the hover-car in only eight Raulden dactrais. He was tired but not unduly exhausted, and so didn't even pause.

He climbed aboard and hurriedly set the small vehicle on autopilot for the return flight to Gammone, pushing it to the greatest speed the craft could produce before seeing to his own needs. Once the trees were hurtling beneath him in a blur, Ron ate and drank his fill and then settled back for a long needed nap.

The trip figured out to encompass most of the current dactrai before he would finally arrive at the complex, so he just curled up on the small seat of the open-air vehicle and drifted quickly off to sleep.

The onboard computer of the tiny vessel alerted Ron when his destination was near, and after he brought his senses back to full function he felt an odd sensation. As the vehicle glided gently into its berth, it was like coming home.

He'd lived there only about six santaris, all-total, so the feeling puzzled him, yet he felt it nonetheless. Perhaps that sensation was because this was his first home after becoming the "new" Ron Allison...but he didn't ponder it long.

Riding back to his plain, utilitarian living quarters on the cubic transporter, he negotiated six directional changes expertly, and that made him smile. He recalled how amazed he'd been the first few times he rode the high-tech elevator, and now he hardly noticed its remarkable ability to move in all three directional planes...up-down, left-right, forward-backward.

After he showered, shaved, and downed a huge hot meal, he headed directly to Cache's quarters to give her his decision. He'd really missed her company while he was out soul-searching. Her charming yet sassy wit and her insatiable resolve to help the less fortunate victims the Kreete had conquered were hard to ignore, as was her incomparable beauty.

While he strode swiftly along the corridor, his memory flashed through some of the events that had taken place since first finding himself in this foreign land:

When he initially arrived on Rauld, after his adjustment to where and what he was, he'd found it difficult to resist his attraction for Cache. He recalled how hard he fought his urges while they trained together at the gigantic subterranean facility, leading up to their first battle with the Kreete. Ron found her completely captivating and uniquely inspiring as she educated him about the history and the planned future of the Raulden people. He became aware of a powerful bond growing between them even before they set out on their epic attempt at thwarting the enormous attacking fleet the Kreete had amassed. Only by constantly reminding himself of his love and devotion to his wife back on Earth had he been able to suppress his burgeoning emotional ties with Cache. Maybe it was his inconceivable alteration that had shaken his resolve toward those vows, or just the simple need for companionship at an extraordinarily difficult time in his life. He would never be certain which one was the case, but he steadfastly fought off such temptations, managing to stay true to his beloved and return to her side...only to find he was too late. All that remained of his home-world was a smoldering rock, swirling with dust and radioactive waste.

Following the long interstellar journey back to Rauld, he wandered about Gammone aimlessly, restless and depressed, even though the Rauldens did their best to understand and nurse him through his grief. A santari of mood shifts and fits of anger and sorrow finally persuaded Cache to suggest he take a long break, which sent him out into the sunlit expanse of the planet's surface.

He left with provisions to last two santaris and no formal plans at all. He just needed to get away.

Now, as the cubic transporter stopped, he eagerly awaited the dazzling smile on Cache's face...the one he knew she would have for him. Ron pressed the small ornate insignia on the wall beside her doorway and waited, vibrating with anticipation of their reunion. When she didn't answer however, he queried the central computer about her whereabouts. That's when he found out she was not in Gammone, or in any complex on Rauld.

"She is gone, Ron," said a familiar voice from down the hall behind him.

Ron spun about to find Fortell gliding up the corridor.

"Fortell!" Ron returned, grinning broadly at the Raulden's chief physician. "It's good to see you again."

"And you as well," Fortell added as he approached the tanned figure of Ron, holding out his slim, fair skinned hand to the man more than twice his bulk.

Ron shook his outstretched offering gently, always careful when in physical contact with one of the Raulden population. He was well aware of the danger this smaller individual was placing himself in, and he greatly appreciated the fact that Fortell trusted him so much. One forgetful instant could result in a badly broken appendage, and so Ron was very mindful of the gentle inhabitants.

"Gone?" Ron inquired after the greeting, "Gone where?"

"To Caron."

"Alone?" Ron questioned. "Is she crazy? I thought we were going together."

His mind raced frantically, filling first with worry, then hurt, then anger.

"What does she think she's doing? How's she going to find her way, protect herself, make contact?" Ron asked more out loud to no one than to the doctor.

"I tried to dissuade her from striking out without you, as I would certainly feel much more at ease if you were with her, but I think she feels she is quite well equipped to carry out her plan. I pleaded with her to send for you. One of the hoverbots could have been dispatched to locate you and bring you back, but she would have none of that.

"She said, 'He needs this time alone, uninterrupted, if he is to find the path he will walk, be it with us or not.'

"She has been gone nine dactrais."

"Did she take the Darlile?" Ron asked, referring to the interstellar warship she'd designed and constructed over the past eighteen Raulden cycles.

"No, she left that for you, if you returned with the inclination to join her. She said the timeline of the mission had been hastened due to the coming winter in the region she was headed for. There was much to do at the base of operations she was setting up and she needed extra time for that, and to get down out of the high altitude before the heavy wintry snowfall made it impassable. I am sorry but she left that station almost a dactrai ago."

Ron knew very little about her plans, only that she intended to construct an energy processor somewhere in the mountains and start the utility robots, Cnauts, to erecting a planetary shield generator. Eventually, when it came online, it would protect the Caronians from the Kreete Empire's space fleet. He hadn't been listening when she tried to include him in the preparations of her proposed undertaking. His emotional attachment had been concentrated elsewhere, on his past life. Now he regretted that lack of attentiveness enormously.

"If she left the ship for me, then she must've left some instructions as well, right?" Ron asked.

"Yes, that is correct. She asked me to send you to the training facility. Your preparatory instructions are there."

"Great, thanks," Ron told the slight man and then he turned to go to the transporter.

"I take it that you have decided on your course of action?" Fortell called to Ron.

Ron stopped and returned to the man.

"I want to thank you and all the wonderful people of Rauld who've shown me so much compassion since my return from Earth. It's been...difficult...for me to come to grips with what happened to my race, and why. Where I come from, many prophets concurred that we were the sole intelligent members of this vast universe in which we live. I never believed that, and always wondered what our true part was in the grand scheme of it. Now I know that we are probably much like countless other civilizations and worlds, who have seen our time come and go.

"Earthlings couldn't get past the point when we were emerging in technology, yet still clinging too tightly to the past...a period which was rife with fear and ignorance. The conflict was simply too much for us.

"I still grieve for the innocent victims, fallen before they could push beyond that narrow plateau of a future, but I know there was nothing I could've done either.

"As for me, personally, I intend to help any group I can to at least have the same chance we had. Possibly, they will prevail."

Ron and Fortell shook hands again and then Ron sped away toward his destiny.

### Chapter Two

### To Caron

Ron went directly to the training room where he and Cache had spent many exhausting billots preparing for their overland journey across the Doriean valley to Jametid, the uninhabited neighboring mountain complex. It was that deserted site which held the construction and launch facility for the Rauldens' spaceship...the Darlile.

Ron walked into the gymnasium-sized room and was flooded with vivid memories. They felt fresh and clear, yet at the same time as if from long ago, like a childhood recollection, and that yielded a slightly confused result in his mind. He knew those events were less than half a cycle in the past, but so much had happened in that time span, and so much was changed from the normalcy of his previous life, that he felt a bit disoriented as he looked about.

He stood there for a long while, collecting and sorting his thoughts, and then he pushed those daydreams aside, stepped over to the instructional terminal he'd used in the last training session, and powered it up.

The video screen burst into life with a three-dimensional projection of Cache sitting two feet away in the very chair on which he now sat. She was wearing an especially racy version of her normal uniform (a formfitting, less-than-full-coverage body-suit)...the one she knew Ron found to be the most attractive. This particular adaptation to the mundane, purely functional attire most Rauldens wore for work was a deep violet color which was a perfect match with her glittering eyes. It was adorned with sweeping and swirling additions of cream which accentuated her already fabulous figure to an even higher degree. She'd modified it to have only one sleeve, thus allowing the line of her neck to carry on nearly unimpeded to the turn of her delicate shoulder. That barely-there adornment of clingy cloth was broken only by a slim choker supporting the front section of the outfit. It had an oval shaped section deleted under the neckline which dipped to the upper quarter of the swell of her spectacular breasts and was further trimmed away just beneath those heavenly mounds to give full view to her superbly toned midriff.

Ron also knew from past experience that it had no back at all above the flare of her bottom, and still wondered at what could possibly support that tantalizing bit of material...other than glue. The lower section of the garment was like a second skin that began scandalously low on her hips and wrapped her fantastic legs in a mind-bending array of playful patterns comprised of those two off-setting colors.

Cache's fair-skinned complexion was the tone of fresh honey and her bright blonde hair gave her whole persona an explosion of radiance. Her posture was impeccable, with the arch of her back further dramatizing the heart-pounding dips and swales of her, and causing Ron's mouth to become very dry as he gazed hungrily at her image. He found her to be absolutely exquisite, with her sense of style tasteful, yet extremely sensuous.

Her eyes glistened as she sat there smiling that enchanting smile that sent Ron's senses churning, and she had her hair pulled back over one ear, exposing the smooth, gentle line of her neck. She sat with her legs crossed, left knee over the other, and she had a notepad placed in her lap.

Cache took a breath to speak...

"Pause!" Ron ordered to the computer.

The image stopped instantly, but was as clear as if she were right there in the room, and Ron stared at her intensely. He took a few moments to explore this audaciously accurate resemblance of her as he studied every curve of her face and contour of her figure, burning them into his memory.

"My God, what a beautiful woman!" he sighed after a long while.

"Resume!" Ron ordered as he snapped himself from his trance.

"Hello Ron!" the Cache image said. "I am glad that you are back, although I wish I were able to greet you in person. I do not know how much time has passed since I left for Caron, but I know Fortell has informed you of this by now, so I will just get to the point.

"There has been some changes in the timetable of my, and hopefully 'our', mission to Caron, because of an early climate change in the region where the resistance forces reside. The rainy season is approaching and that will spawn violent and long lasting snowfall in the higher elevations. Therefore, I have placed detailed instructions on this pad about everything I have planned, everything I know about these people, and the bulk of the Kreete's activities.

"Since we will be separated, I think you should read up on all these details, in case we are unable to meet later.

"I very much look forward to seeing you again..." then her expression turned serious, "but do not come asking for me too openly when you get here. If for some reason I am captured, those questions will give you away as well."

Her face brightened up again as she concluded.

"I hope you are well, and I hope you are better. I can only imagine what you are feeling, and I truly wish I could help you with it. Be cautious on your journey, Ron. If things go as planned, I will be waiting for you with our friends on Caron."

The image generator then abruptly returned to its blank, stand-by mode.

Ron blinked hard as the image of his friend vanished, realizing that it may be a long time until he saw her again, and in that instant he felt completely alone.

A moment later, a hidden compartment popped up and the electronic pad Cache had been holding was revealed.

Ron took the instrument out and held it for a while, imagining what she was thinking when she placed it there;

"Will I ever see him again? Will he choose to risk his life all over again and join me? How long will it be before he can make it to Caron...and then how can he possibly find me?"

Ron held the data pad tightly as he wondered about that last question. Then he caught a slight scent, undoubtedly left on the apparatus by her.

One of the many remarkable abilities he'd gained from his transformation-mutation with Kaskle was an extraordinary sense of smell. It wasn't as acute as an animal's, but was far superior to the normal man. Now that enhancement gave him solace as he could clearly distinguish her fragrance. It wasn't that she wore any type of perfume, but rather her natural pheromones which lingered on anything she touched...as long as the automatic cleaning bots hadn't sanitized it. He closed his eyes for a lita and smiled.

"I'll find her!" he reassured himself.

Ron wasted no more time and immediately began his absorption of the material the device held.

The first item on the agenda dealt with the conversion to the Caronian calendar. On Rauld, a planet with twin opposing stars, there was no term for night since one of its two suns was always in a position to flood the surface with its light. A complete revolution of the planet was known as a dactrai and the seasonal variances of the plant life were minimal at best.

The basis of the Raulden numerical units of measurements was ten, so one hundred lita (a lita being roughly two-thirds of an earth second) made up a bort (minute). One hundred borts comprised a billot...an hour. There were thirty billots in one dactrai, and ten dactrais totaled a torjourne...a week. Five torjournes made up a santari...a month, and ten santari joined for one Raulden planetary cycle...a year. But since the planet orbited neither star, the 'cycle' was merely a set number for timekeeping.

On Caron, where he was headed, the terminology returned somewhat to that which he was more familiar with. The Kreete used much of the same terms that their ancestors, the Rauldens, did, with some changes. Ron's translator chip which Fortell had imbedded in his brain was designed to exchange like terms of any known language into a reasonable version of Earth's English...and vise-versa when Ron spoke. It was able to make the similarities of "day and night" instead of dactrai, and converted "torjourne" to "week". The word week came about because the Kreete had partially superimposed their own base of measurement (units of seven) into the culture and so the torjourne was now seven days...like on Earth. Most of the rest of their terminology remained set even though the time frames varied. Seven weeks now encompassed a santari, and a complete orbit of Caron's star was fourteen santari, or one year.

(Note: There were one and a half weeks that didn't fit into the Kreete numerical system so they installed a "Celebration Period" to make up the difference at the end of the year. This was a time dedicated to competition of numerous sporting events, much like the Olympics...only with several events that took the lives of many of its competitors.)

Next on Ron's Caronian orientation list was the data about the planet's surface...its ecosystems, climates, oceans and such, so Ron settled in for the long haul at that point.

While he read and listened and watched the data, he took a few litas to punch in new instructions into the computer that increased the Raulden's version of an artificial gravity field in that room. What actually occurred was an escalation in strength of a magnetic field under the floor that pulled at the material in his clothing. Thusly, it simulated the stronger gravitational force he would encounter on Caron. His and Cache's garments were composed of a fabric containing vacandin, an element which reacted powerfully to magnetism. While in the training complex, this metallic compound, in conjunction with the Raulden's technology, allowed them to be burdened with the weight equal to, or in excess of, any planet's surface. It was a preparatory necessity so their bodies would adjust to the stress and strain of such places and not be shocked by them when planet-side.

Over the next few dactrais, he once again worked himself almost ceaselessly for billots on end, only stopping briefly for meals and sleep. He kept at his studies even when he worked out, cramming in as much as he could of the over ten thousand terabytes of data Cache had gathered. Her information about the Kreete's interplanetary commerce and communication, as well as their patrols, weapons, sensor arrays, and other such categories, was extensive. Details of the lives of the typical Caronian was less explicit...the Kreete having no real need to discuss those matters over their communications routes.

As he ran on the treadmill, he watched videos of the planet's orbiting satellites the Kreete used to monitor Caron for various reasons. He needed to memorize the narrow corridors he would have to take to circumvent their abilities to discover his ship, and any use of the Darlile's sensors could possibly betray him. He would have to go in as stealthily as possible.

The entire trip was going to be risky at best since he would have to fly the Darlile deep into Kreete-occupied space just to reach Caron. But he wasn't so much worried about a fight as he was of showing their hand...revealing to the Kreete where their next focus was. He wished momentarily for a way to transport the Darlile to Caron via the Starflex Portal, but there was no way to generate an aperture large enough on the planet. He even considered following Cache's trail, leaving the ship on Rauld, but Cache wanted the war-bird on the planet badly, and Ron agreed. At some point, either during the fight or to escape if things went bad, they needed it nearby.

He also thought about visiting the Caronian outpost in person, just to get a look at the facility before he left Rauld, but decided against that since the portal was in a new mode of operation...set on an automatic schedule that only Cache could vary.

He was never supposed to use it anyway since her plan had been for him to pilot the ship to the planet all along. She was going to work with the utility bots and organize the initial construction phase of the field matrix generator while she waited for Ron and the Darlile to fly in and join her. Then they would travel together to the prearranged location and try to contact the Caronians' militia. That of course had all changed.

Ron listened to the seemingly unending intelligence briefing even as he trained with his weapons. He commanded the computer to recite the data in Cache's voice, a familiar sound he found easy to listen to, while working with his throwing knives, his new bow and arrows, swordplay, and hand-to-hand combat.

As usual on Rauld, all combat was against foes of differing threat scenarios, generated by the central computer's holographic emitter. That device could create any situation he required, and the enemies were as real as he was...at least in the "physical" realm. That meant they were solid and menacing, but the computer would stop the exercise if Ron's death was imminent.

He could, however, be seriously injured, cut, beaten, or shot with an arrow or gun if he didn't perform well enough, so it wasn't exactly a safe game to play. If he was open to a mortal blow, it was programmed to punish him with a painful strike and then shut down while it berated him in Cache's voice for allowing himself to be killed.

Ron had seen and heard all of this during his first encounter with that miraculous device, and had learned to concentrate as if he were fighting real adversaries, so he was spared all but the most common injuries. Without his sexy partner though, each of his bad bruises and minor cuts were handled by the standby automated physician station...which was a far-sight less appealing.

It was a grueling regiment he forced on himself, but also was a needed one.

After the third dactrai of this preparatory period Ron decided he'd delayed long enough. He called on the Raulden Council of Planetary Affairs for a meeting in which he informed them of his intentions to depart for Caron immediately, ordering the ship prepped for flight. They all extended their most profound wishes for a safe journey and a successful mission as they bid him farewell, happy to see him smiling and back to his more upbeat manner.

Ron gathered his belongings a billot later and was zipping along at a blistering speed for the hangar complex of Jametid, where the Darlile was moored. The last time he made that journey (Ron remembered with dramatic images), it took him and Cache several dactrais of arduous and perilous travel over rough, hot, and rain drenched ground to finally get to the same destination. This time it took only about fifteen borts...and in complete safety and comfort. Ron just shook his head as he compared the two trips.

When he entered the cavernous hangar and caught sight of the ship, he was again astounded by its resemblance to the earth aircraft built by Lockheed Aerospace...the SR-71 Blackbird.

Ron strode quickly over to the prelaunch preparations room where he found his G suit stowed, and exchanged his present apparel for that one, vividly recalling the last occasion in which he'd used this facility as well.

He and Cache had been pressed for time and were compelled to shower together to minimize the use of that fleeting commodity. His pulse quickened as he summoned up the memories of those short few borts, and he had to force his mind away from the recollection in order to complete the task before him.

When he was ready, he moved out into the hangar once again and marched directly to the waiting hover-sled where he hopped aboard without hesitation and was floating out toward the ship shortly, impatiently anticipating reaching the vessel.

Although the Darlile appeared to be just a short walk away, Ron knew from experience the distance was deceiving, as the craft was at least a half-hoz from him. The size of the hangar, as well as that of the spacecraft, created an illusion that played tricks with the eyes.

The ride was quicker than he remembered and the sled soon settled silently to the gleaming, polished hangar floor only a few feet away from the pitch-black ship. He stepped off and walked slowly next to the interstellar craft's side, sliding his hand along the smooth surface of the dark lady, much as he imagined the pilots of Earth did before a mission. It was like saying hello to a pet...caressing the skin of this mechanical partner that he would try his best to become part of...to think and react as one entity during the coming voyage.

Joy and exhilaration were the prominent feelings in Ron's heart as he reached the point of entry of the Darlile. A small, flush, ornamental icon was all that marked the entry door of the craft. It was the same one that decorated the entrance of...and functioned as the doorbell of...Cache's quarters. He placed his hand on the symbol for a brief instant and a panel, so perfectly crafted that it was completely invisible, slid out slightly and then down, revealing a flat keypad.

Ron entered the required code and a large door, also invisible when stowed, slid inward and up into the overhead section of the ship's cabin. Ron turned to the motionless sled, now sixty feet away.

"Return to dock!" he ordered.

The little craft lifted three inches and pivoted around to head back to its resting spot by the dressing room. As it sped away Ron climbed aboard the Darlile and turned immediately toward the cockpit. He stopped only long enough to deposit his gear in the storage hold built into the side of the walkway, and then he was slipping into the pilot's seat and running through the start-up procedures.

Less than ten borts later he commanded the hangar doors to open and started the massive energy plants that powered the dark vessel. The hum of the engines as they kicked into life caused his body to shiver with excitement and giddy anticipation.

He gave one last scan across all the instruments and saw everything was in the green...good to go!

Ron's hand quivered as he grabbed the throttle, and his eyes gleamed like a child riding his first bike. He pushed the handle forward and let out a small gasp as he felt the ship leap into motion. It was like driving a racecar, so powerful was the acceleration.

There were no windows in the Darlile but rather it had an incredibly advanced sensor array that fed the view screen and duplicated the outside world perfectly, flooding the cockpit with the intense sunshine of the Raulden star.

The Caronian glands in his eyes sprang into action automatically as he and the Darlile cleared the hangar and burst out into the sunlit valley, and his heart pounded with an adrenal rush caused by the incomparable thrill.

Ron pulled up on the controls and the ship followed his wishes instantly, climbing in a near vertical ascent, and he grinned as his body was crushed back into the seat with ever-increasing strength. His heart pounded for more so he pushed even harder...and the Darlile responded.

The seat that Cache had custom fitted to match his powerfully built figure quickly enveloped his body and caused the G suit's controls to compensate for the rapidly rising pressures against his frame. It was all he could do to keep from cheering as his grin spread wide and he laughed at the sheer joy of it all. It was just as he'd imagined it would be when he was a boy dreaming of being a fighter pilot...only infinitely better!

At the edge of space, Ron signaled the Central Computer with a complex code which opened a window in the planet's defensive shield matrix just large enough to allow the black ship to pass beyond it. At the moment the Darlile was through, the fissure closed once more, regaining its impenetrable status. That energy barrier had been substantially enhanced since the demise of the Kreete war fleet over five santaris ago and was now an absolute deterrent to any number of ships with any known weapon. Even the Darlile could not breach it without the proper code.

Ron toyed with the power at his fingertips for quite a while as he exited the Raulden atmosphere and headed out into space at a constantly increasing pace. The planet was a mere speck when he finally settled down to allowing the autopilot to engage and take over the flight.

His destination had already been laid in by Cache and all Ron had to do then was to adjust to the constant, although less powerful, G-forces the ship regulated itself to. It checked Ron's body systems for every minute sign of stress, and adjusted accordingly. Even at maximum acceleration though, he was in for several billots of this extra load before the threshold of light speed was reached and the ship made the switch to transoptic, or faster-than-light velocity. At that time the Darlile would exit tangible space and the dynamics of normal flight would vanish completely, allowing Ron to move about the interior of the craft as if it were not moving at all.

Ron continued his education about the Kreete's control of Caron, as well as the mission, while he was locked in his seat, having nothing better to do and no one to talk to. It was interesting information at least and so the time passed quickly.

As the transoptic threshold approached however, he put that work aside and prepared himself for the next phase...the NOVA drive.

That unbelievable scientific marvel was almost pure magic to the former Earthman, so when the acceleration forces faded away, he didn't even take the time to stretch out his weary muscles before engaging it.

The blue lightning began to dance once more across the wings of the ebony ship, and he sat glued to the screen to watch. A couple borts later the Darlile was encased in the capsule of living light again, and her speed began to jump. Entire solar systems whizzed by as she was pulled harder and harder toward the brilliant ball of firelight in front of her...the graviton well. The quotients marking her speed climbed exponentially until a velocity unfathomable by any normal man was registering across her viewer.

Ron gazed at the spectacle for a while before toggling over to a new sensor depiction that made the beautiful blue shell surrounding the ship vanish, and left the glorious cosmos open to his field of vision. Once again he sat in absolute awe of the indescribable splendor of the universe.

The trials of the day finally caught up with him a few billots later though, so he pried himself from the heavenly vision and went to the more roomy living quarters' section of the ship. He hated to miss anything, but knew he could always replay it later since the ship recorded every moment it was in operation.

After a huge meal and a hot shower Ron finally felt relaxed to the point where he was ready for sleep, so he headed off to bed.

### Chapter Three

### The Best Laid Plans

Ron spent the following two weeks in a mundane loop of exercise, study, eating and sleeping, and by the end of that time he was really feeling the effect of his solitude. He was wound up like a caged animal.

At last came the time he'd waited for...the deceleration period...and his upcoming escape of the ship's confining environment. Also, he would be returning to the adrenaline rush of his impending mission and that nudged his spirits upward a good deal. He braced himself when the pilot's chair swung around to face aft, knowing what was to come. The Darlile then dropped suddenly back into tangible space, slamming Ron's body deeply into his seat as he was hit with maximum G-forces while the ship began its braking maneuvers.

While sitting backward, the ship automatically projected a holo-image of the view-screen and the entire console in front of Ron so he lost no control over the ship whatsoever. He made good use of that fact too, instantly scouring the sensors for any signs of Kreete activity even though he was in an extremely remote location, far away from Caron.

The flight plan allowed for this decel in an out-of-the-way position well beyond any known flight routes the enemy used, and after fifteen borts of nervous scanning, Ron was ready to congratulate Cache on her foresight. But at that instant his praise evaporated when the screens lit up with warnings, both aural and visual. For just a moment he was overwhelmed with the input, but his training, and the ship itself, quickly clarified the problem.

He was headed straight into what appeared to be a minefield, and it was less than five borts away! It was well shielded against sensor detection but, luckily, not well enough to completely elude the advanced Raulden technology.

At the tremendous speed the Darlile was moving there would be no way to avoid the field due to its three-dimensional pattern and its size. The entire area was flooded with trillions of automobile sized satellites, each moving in its own random pattern, thereby making it impossible to navigate among them even if he weren't moving at over 120,000 hoz per lita. There wasn't enough time and distance to regain VL-1 either, so switching back to transoptic flight was not an option.

As the field rushed up at him, Ron read swiftly through the computer's diagnosis of the scans of the Kreete mines, hoping for a miracle.

They were proximity mines. Each was capable of independent movement. Each was programmed to attack any moving object within range. Each communicated with the others to alert them to any target so they too could get themselves within range. And each was powerful enough to disable a large ship! Also, they were fragmentation type weapons built specifically to penetrate spacecraft's energy shields. Such shields, which were designed primarily to absorb plasma or disrupter type fire, would be only minimally effective against them.

"I can't blast my way through that mess," Ron told himself as he watched the minefield draw nearer, "The debris itself would shred the Darlile in an instant."

Ron then noted the mines' sensor nodes were not very sophisticated...at least by the Rauldens' standard, so he quickly reconfigured the Darlile's array to send out a split signal, a phantom echo of the black fighter. If his plan worked, the mines would think there were two ships flying approximately a thousand peors (Raulden yards) apart instead of one in the center. It was a desperate plan to say the least, since the signal had to be strong enough to make them attack, but yet, not enough to trigger their ordnance.

With only thirty litas to impact, Ron finally noted the results he needed...the mines began converging on the false ships' flight paths, opening a lane just barely wide enough for the Darlile to slip between. Ron perspired heavily for the next few borts as he rotated the ship delicately along the longitudinal axis to allow his wing tips to clear some of the slower moving weapons. A few cringes and gasping moments later he was tearing out the other side of the field, completely unscathed.

He let out a huge sigh of relief and returned the Darlile's sensor array back to full scan mode, once more sweeping the open space all around him for danger.

"That field was set up to keep anyone from doing exactly what we did...using this dead area as a deceleration zone," Ron concluded. "That, or they knew I would be coming through this region. Either way, I'll have to let Cache know we'll need to get a physical confirmation about any more intended 'safe zones' in the future."

Ron had no more problems over the next several billots and felt much more at ease when the decal ended and the ship was once again under his full control. With his seat facing forward, he swung the Darlile around to follow Cache's approach plan to Caron, which involved a close fly-by of Ortesa; the solar system's star.

The intent of her path kept Ortesa squarely between the ship and the planet, and was planned as such because knew the photosphere would distort anyone's attempt to see the Darlile on their sensors. Ron would then wait for the designated arrival time of a large cargo ship entering the system and try to snuggle up behind it for cover. The enormous craft would easily overshadow the Darlile...it being at least a hundred times as large. And as long as it didn't have an escort, its low yield sensory nodes would never know the smaller ship was nearby, thanks to the sensor-mask the black ship generated.

After two agonizing days of waiting, Ron at last got his chance. The correct type vessel came lumbering into the system using the sun's gravity to help it decelerate...and it was unguarded.

Ron nervously watched for the right moment, and when it came the Darlile leaped forward like a flea to a dog.

He quickly maneuvered the ship between two of the enormous exhaust nozzles of the cargo hauler and immediately swept the area for signs of pursuit.

"So far, so good," he muttered softly, his eyes constantly scanning the Darlile's readings, and his hand hovering over the throttle, ready to bolt.

A billot later, he relaxed again and studied the next move...although he soon found out he had plenty of time to prepare. The speed of the cargo vessel was maddeningly slow and another three days passed before they finally reached Caron.

When the freighter entered orbit and flew over an isolated section of the planet exactly where Cache expected it to, Ron slipped the Darlile from its hiding spot and fell back directly aft of that huge vessel. He then shot down a narrow alleyway between scanning satellites, and headed toward a remote, mountainous region that was uninhabited.

Ron flew the ship down a very tight, steep glide-path, urging the Darlile at an ever-increasing speed that caused the air around the ship's shields to incinerate and glow bright red. In the harsh sunlight, it would be difficult to notice, but if anyone were to witness the incoming craft, it would simply look like a meteorite plummeting to the surface.

Ron waited for the latest possible lita, when the Darlile penetrated a large cloud layer that would mask her from inquisitive eyes on the ground, and then suffered the consequences of a high-speed pullout...crushing inertial forces against his body.

After that maneuver though, for a few litas he couldn't understand why so much of that extra weight hadn't dissipated. What was happening? Had something gone wrong? He checked and rechecked his instruments while the Darlile settled into level flight, and was beginning to think he was going nuts until he realized his new proximity to the planet was the key. Caron's influence was now joined with the simulated gravity in the ship, pressing Ron deeper into the pilot's seat...essentially doubling his body's stress. A quick press of his finger disengaged the onboard enhancement and the "heavy" feeling instantly rebounded to what he'd taught himself to expect concerning his personal weight.

He sighed pointedly as the addition pressure vanished, and felt sure he must have lost at least an inch of his height after that daring flight, but quickly refocused his attention on the next task.

The remarkable scanning abilities of the Darlile cut through the cloudy, swirling murk of water, ice, and snow, and clearly displayed every detail of the rocky landscape sliding past as he glided along.

Ron absentmindedly wondered what Earth pilots would have thought about the tech he was enjoying as he headed for his landing point, nimbly grazing between the mountain peaks as though he was enjoying a beautiful, sunny day.

The clouds could have been entirely removed from view, but instead were reduced to a mere phantom shadow on the outside to let him see that the mighty sable craft was still well hidden from view on the ground.

His target was a volcanic plateau over forty thousand feet above the surface of the planet, according to the readings in the Darlile, and it wasn't the highest of the mountains by nearly fifteen thousand feet.

That range of majestic peaks ran north and south until encountering oceans at both points, dividing the expansive continent with an impenetrable barrier of unassailable rock and ice. Its height and breadth permanently separated the two groups of natives from ever coexisting. Ron's predecessor...Kaskle Dangarth...was from the western side, but this mission was to take him to the east, and he momentarily pondered what new dangers were in store for him there.

The sun was not yet close to setting but was far enough along to bathe the eastern side of the range with shadow, giving it a somewhat ominous appearance. Also, there was a blanket of dark clouds roiling in over the mountaintops and that looked especially menacing. Snow would be dumping in the region by the bucket-load...not what he really wanted to see.

Ron plunged the ship deeper into that limited darkness, using the dark color of the Darlile's hull as camouflage while he skimmed along. He also held the ship to a slow enough speed so as not to induce a pressure wake that might draw attention or cause an avalanche.

He carefully followed Cache's directions to a large, crater-like depression in the highlands not far away, and then set the Darlile down.

The ship's superb hover capabilities allowed Ron the time to blast the area thoroughly with the thrusters. As a result, his action created a huge storm of flying snow as it cleared a path beneath the black vessel down to the mountain's permanent, hard ice surface. When he finally landed, the Darlile immediately became engulfed and totally out of sight in the fresh powdery stuff blanketing the area. It was as if he'd pulled a thick white shroud down over her.

Ron then activated a new system that cloaked the ship's position with an incredible dampening field that would appear to the Kreete's scanners as ordinary, igneous rock. It was a variation of the same barriers the Rauldens used at the Gammone complex. That, in combination with the natural swirling winds in the vicinity replacing most of the stirred up frozen material, finished the camouflage job to any but the most dedicated visual surveillance expert. And who would even be looking in that spot?

He then shut down the engines and sat there for the next two billots, studying the sensor readouts, searching for any sign that he'd been detected. If the ship was found, the entire mission would be compromised and he would no doubt have to blast his way back out into space and lose any chance he might have to reunite with Cache.

Ron was finally convinced the Darlile was secure when a small fleet of ships, escorted by three Destroyer-class vessels, passed directly overhead, out into orbit, and then accelerated away from the planet.

Ron then immediately contacted his robotic comrades in the vicinity and acknowledged that it was safe to begin his extraction.

Since the Darlile was now buried nearly fifty feet deep in snow, Ron couldn't just stroll outside, so he had time to kill while the waiting crew of construction robots began burrowing out to the ship. They moved about a foot per bort, forming an ice tunnel as they advanced.

After getting them started, Ron went aft in the sable vessel and made ready to disembark, gathering all the gear he'd set aside for this next phase of his journey. The assemblage had the appearance of a one-man Everest expedition when he got it all laid out, so much thermal and high altitude equipment was present.

Ice shoes, snowshoes, axes, as well as a thousand feet of repelling rope, enough food for two weeks, and a thermos-type device which could convert snow and ice into drinking water were only part of his equipment.

That converter was made into his backpack and had an insulated tube routed through his heavy coat which ended in a soft mouthpiece that he would have to keep in his lips at all times. Such a permanent unit was essential to him for the intake of fluids because of a simple fact...he would be unable to work any small devices because of the thick gloves he would be wearing. And even if he could have handled a cup or glass, exposed water couldn't be liquid in that climate for more than a lita.

Also, besides all that paraphernalia, he had his utility belt with the medicines and personal winch cable he'd used in the past...not to mention his private arsenal.

After he secured each of his weapons on his person, atop his new "period matching" Caronian clothes, he slipped into the thickly insulated outerwear, much the same as what Cache had worn when she stepped through the portal. He then waited for his signal.

The machines were very efficient and it wasn't long before Ron heard a slight chirp from his console...all was ready. He swung his large backpack across his broad shoulders, different gear dangling all around, and stepped to the door. One final adjustment to the Darlile before leaving was to set the ship in "standby" mode, and all systems except life-support went dark.

The internal sensors and thermal processors would keep only enough heat inside the ship to prevent it from icing up while he was away. It could easily last three cycles in that mode before the batteries would require charging.

Ron then placed his oxygen mask on and pulled the hood around to cover his head. The last thing he made note of before powering down the ship was the outside air temperature. The Rauldens use a measurement of heat called "Kotrans" which was equal to the Kelvin scale scientists used on Earth. The lowest point of it was 1 degree K., which is one degree above absolute zero; the point at which all molecular action stops. Their scale showed the point at which water froze as 273 degrees K...the Darlile's sensors were indicating 150 K...123 degrees below freezing!

Ron couldn't stop a quick shiver from racing down his spine since he'd never even dreamed of being in a place that could reach that level of cold. He briefly considered how long it would take to freeze his body solid in such a climate...and then shoved that thought out of his mind.

At a touch of his mitten-covered hand, the door slid up and away, and Ron quickly stepped out into the frozen tunnel.

The inner layer of the narrow corridor was as smooth as glass and reflected the limited light well. The construction crew had melted the snow and ice from his intended walking path until it was a shallow ramp up to the doorsill of the ship. All that material was then blown up into a surrounding archway, freezing instantly into a seamless, seven-foot high and six-inch thick structure. The floor of the new tunnel was as smooth as the walls but so dry it wasn't slippery, even without the automatic, retractable spikes jutting out from the bottom of Ron's boots.

Ron turned stiffly to see the door return to its former position and plug off the entrance to the ship, sealing out the harsh environment in which he now stood. He found himself in the darkness of an alien world at that point...and it was dark! Without him noticing the passage of time, the white star above Caron had vanished over the horizon, which left the sky illuminated only by the stars in the heavens, which was extremely dim after being filtered through so much snow.

Ron could barely make out the outline of the passage as he headed off away from the Darlile...toward a new and undoubtedly perilous adventure.

The cold hallway was long and straight, ending abruptly as it emptied into a narrow, rocky, subterranean network of passages. One of Cache's probes had discovered the place two santaris ago, and after thoroughly cataloging the entire area, she'd decided to use it as a base.

Ron wound his way deep into the mountain, feeling the temperature rise very gradually, until the passage eventually opened up into a huge cave that was lit up like one of the Rauldens' laboratories.

Dozens of robots of vastly differing shapes gliding about in a fury of movement that reminded him of a hornets' nest. More of the bots streamed in from several entrances, each carrying some part to a grand puzzle...a puzzle that would eventually fill the entire void they were working in, and Ron could only imagine what it would look like.

They were assembling a planetary defense shield generator, like the one used on Rauld, and this section of the project was the power producing facility. The thousands of parts of the machine were being manufactured and tested on Rauld, and then sent over at irregular intervals through the same transport device Cache had utilized.

Great care had to be taken to avoid any chance of detection of the portal's operation, so she'd added an extra level of precaution. To keep an eye on that possibility, off in another room was a passive sensor array that kept track of just how close the Kreete scans were, and what type of penetration they were using.

The Kreete were only looking for some outlawed weapon or technology that might give off an energy reading...gun powder experiments, stolen electrical gadgets or tools...that sort of thing. Primarily they used low yield detection that could barely see through thirty feet of rock, which gave her a good margin of safety. They had nothing orbiting Caron that could scan through the gigantic shield of stone and earth that lay above those caverns.

Ron walked through a labyrinth of interconnecting caves which had vastly differing activities in each, and observed the mechanical laborers going this way and that. He followed a hoverbot guide who described each of the actions of the various areas and finally delivered him to the station's only living quarters. It was a small pocket fissure just deep enough to contain a bed at one end and a shower, toilet, and sink at the other.

Ron received a good blast of warm air as the door opened, confirming what he'd hoped; that it was pressurized to a breathable atmosphere. The room was also well heated so he removed his mask and began stripping off his heavy gear.

Next to the bed was a view-screen mounted on the wall and he stepped over to it and flipped it on as he undressed.

Cache's reproduction, with her new dark hair and tanned manifestation, instantly appeared beside him in another 3D image, donning her usual dazzling smile.

"Welcome to 'Safe Haven', as I have dubbed this isolated facility," the projected version of Cache Kuar said as she greeted Ron. "I trust your trip was safe and uneventful, and I hope you are well. This recording will update you about what to expect."

With that she began a twenty bort rundown of the scope and time-frame of the operation as well as her intended path out of the mountains.

Ron chose to pause the machine as he'd done on Rauld, but this time it was to get used to her new look. He couldn't make up his mind about whether he liked it better or less, but slowly and thoroughly memorized it nonetheless. He might only get a glimpse of her from a distance, and he wanted to be sure not to miss that opportunity. Finding her on his own would be like finding a particular tree in a colossal forest.

"I hope to see you soon!" she ended, smiling; her eyes sparkling like jewels.

"Yeah, me too," Ron told the likeness.

She'd been gone almost two santari now and he had serious concerns about finding her, so he decided his best chance was to make his best speed to the area she was headed for. Once there he would attempt to infiltrate the underground band of soldiers, and just hope for the best. That task in itself seemed daunting, but if he could succeed, they should then be able to help him find her.

Ron ate a large meal and enjoyed a long, hot shower, probably his last on this trip, before he settled in for one final night's sleep in a warm, comfortable bed. Such luxuries were soon to be left in the past...and he knew that would take some getting used to.

### Chapter Four

### Cold

Ron Allison awoke early the next morning, rested and revived as the Caronian sun was heaving itself over the horizon. He ate a light breakfast to quiet the fluttering butterflies in his stomach and then began strapping his gear about himself once more. A check of the outside air temperature from a sensor where the Darlile lay moored revealed a startling surprise as he stepped over to the door. It read 120 degrees K.

"Holy crap! A hundred and fifty three below freezing?" he exclaimed, wondering just how bad it could get there.

Moving quickly back over to the monitor beside the bed, he queried it for a forecast of the local area's weather, mentally kicking himself for not having done so on the previous night. Cache had the computer set for automatically scanning the Kreete data streams that were sent out in several different vectors to multiple destinations, and it carefully plucked out the desired information, relaying it to Ron.

The mountain he resided in was in clear skies at the moment but clouds were on their way, and with them was a massive storm front. The readout explained the front would reach the highland range in less than thirty billots and would then slow down dramatically due to the height of the colossal peaks, sending them into a weeklong barrage of frozen precipitation.

Ron's heart sank. His brain told him he should wait out the weather...that it was near suicide to start out now, knowing he would get caught in that mess. However, he also knew the delay could be much longer, depending on what developed behind the system during that week. Too, he wanted to get going badly, to find Cache and to get on with the mission. In the end, his anxiousness won out over his caution and he headed for the door.

Pausing only momentarily to affix his accouterments, he placed the water supply device in his mouth and secured the full-faced oxygen mask in position before striding forward without another lita's hesitation.

The Cnauts guided him down through the mountain's interior for over a billot, along ancient lava vents that were now a maze of twisting, diving, and sweeping tunnels. Fortunately Cache's planning aided the trek tremendously because at several of the steepest, most hazardous points the mechanical workers had carved out hand and foot-holds to keep them safe. After descending at least a thousand feet, those tunnels eventually came to an abrupt end in a tight, open-air passage ablaze in the early morning sunlight.

Ron's auto shades sprang into action as the white star purged the darkness of the cave with its brilliance and he allowed for a moment's adjustment to that rapid change before he continued. He half expected to feel the warm embrace of that sunlight, but any amount of heat he'd hoped for was torn away as he approached the entrance. In fact, it felt like a vacuum pulling at him due to the venturi effect of the wind roaring past the cave at hurricane velocity.

He stood for a moment, sheltered from the gale, just inside the mouth of the tunnel, checking his next route. He would have to leave the bots behind, not wanting any chance they might be detected, and so needed to set a specific visual goal...the first rule in land navigation. Ron locked onto his target quickly, not kidding himself about what was to come. He knew he had a tremendous fight ahead of him to reach it and mentally mapped out the shortest course across and down those frozen peaks.

He then took a few litas to secure his ice cleats to his heavily insulated boots. They locked into place firmly, having four-inch spikes jutting out from the toe and heel area with two inch spikes on the outsides of his feet and more nail-like protrusions all along the bottom. As he stood atop those razor-tipped metal spines, scanning the ice-covered landscape, he felt confident he would not be slipping and sliding anytime soon.

The designated course would mean an initial drop of about twelve feet below the place where he now stood, so...bracing himself firmly...he charged out into the blasting wind.

His first true taste of Caron's gravity surprised him, so much stronger was it there than on Rauld. He hit the surface hard but did not lose his balance, immediately sinking to his knees in the outermost frozen layer.

From that first step, he had to start battling the elements and the terrain for every next footfall...and so it began.

He clambered down the first slope carefully...adjusting his coordination to take into account his heavy gear, the wind, the gravity, and such, and made it to a wide highland plateau two hoz away in good order.

He set his pace high but sustainable; a steady, powerful plodding rhythm he knew he could endure, and across the plateau he pushed, heading for the eastern side of the range.

When the way was flat, he switched to the huge snowshoes that spread out his dense mass's footprint, allowing him to keep from sinking to his chest in the softer powder. But when it was steep, he was up to his knees in that fluffy material and forced to simply deal with it.

At the edge of the flatland was an escarpment formed from the incredible tectonic forces that built the jagged peaks. That was his first drop...four hundred feet straight down...and on he went.

The breadth of the mountain range was extensive and Ron traversed some breathtakingly dramatic landscape as he worked his way eastward, alternating from repelling to climbing, and sometimes even wriggling his way through the craggy land.

He slogged a hoz along a ridge, repelled down another steep descent, continued with another long, slow plod through a valley, and then negotiated another drop. Over and over he repeated this series of actions, thanking the Raulden technicians each time for the wondrous equipment they had provided for him.

His climbing rope was fashioned of the same material he'd become familiar with when he first arrived on Rauld, which was practically unbreakable. Each end of that super-cord had a small metal clasp which was a quick-clip; twice as strong as the rope and having a fantastic function. It would hold fast as long as stress was on the rope, but once that weight was removed for thirty litas, it would automatically release, allowing Ron the ability to reuse it as many times as he needed.

Billots drifted away in his arduous struggle as he watched the sun rise, crest, and then settle on the western side of the range, casting him into the shadow of the taller spires. The weather turned cloudy for a while and then sunny again, snowing lightly for a bit and then so clear he could see far out into the lower country, perhaps a hundred hoz.

There the forest seemed to go on to the horizon with only sporadic breaks in the unending canopy...that of farmland arduously hacked out of the tangled net of foliage.

He stopped only twice in his long first day, and that was merely to sit and eat when he managed to find a nice sheltered location, away from the wind and definitely in the sunlight. While he rested, he calculated his efforts and felt good about his progress.

Taking off his protective mask was the only part that gave him difficulty, but it was also the only way to get food to his mouth, so he struggled with it as he must. The atmosphere was exceedingly dry at that altitude and he inhaled the frigid air when he ate, testing it for the sake of curiosity. It was like breathing in a refrigerated vacuum chamber. The actions of his lungs were the same but nothing went in but cold from what he could tell.

The heavy accouterments were no longer a burden to Ron but rather a part of him his senses had adjusted for, restoring his exceptional agility which he made use of at every turn. He imagined he must look like a living snowman as he saw his limbs covered in a good coating of the stuff, but worried about it not at all since there was no one around to notice for countless hoz.

Sunset came quickly that evening, as if someone was putting out a huge candle that dwindled quickly, winked for a short bit, and then went out. However, the stars and the smaller of the Caronian moons, Vorac, provided Ron plenty of light in his stark-white world, permitting him to continue all-night without slowing much.

He paused only briefly that night, enough to grab more food and relieve himself. The latter would have been a real danger too, if his winter gear hadn't come with a urine extraction apparatus which kept him from having to expose his skin to the horrendously low temperatures he was in.

Ron had to be extra careful not to allow the cold of the night to creep into his body though, and so worked extra hard to keep himself charging forward. After many more hoz and dozens of ascents and descents, he welcomed the new day with a grin and a sigh of relief.

The sun's radiance was a joyous sight to the hybrid man, and he hoped it would soon raise the temperature, which had dropped dramatically once more during the long dark.

When that brilliant sun was high enough to provide some much needed warmth, no matter how miniscule it felt, he took a half-billot break, nestled in another small pocket where the air was still but open to full light. After a few borts lying flat on the snow, he found the ground was actually much warmer than the air. It was puzzling at first, until he remembered his basic physics and chemistry lessons. Snow, after all, will only reach a certain temperature and can in fact be used as an insulator in the right environment.

Ron was very strict on himself; pressing on at the end of that short respite like a self-imposed drill instructor with absolutely no leeway accepted. Up and down the jagged land he continued, fully realizing he was racing against time now as the thirty billot window began to close. It was still a beautiful, dazzling day as the morning went on, but he could see...every now and again when he crested some pinnacle of ice-covered rock...clouds approaching in the western distance.

Ron paused several times to get mental pictures of the terrain he would need to cross. He knew he must forge a map in his mind now because he wouldn't have that opportunity for long.

While he trudged, he also had time to consider his position, and he chided himself for rashly venturing out into this harsh, soon to be changing climate, while he watched that storm system moved ever closer and grow more ominous.

It was going to be very bad!

Ron managed his way down more than fourteen thousand feet before it hit, and when it did, it erased any further chance of visual guidance as if a white dome had been dropped over him.

It was a furious beast of a blizzard too, with driving sleet, whipping snow, and only about two feet of visibility. He was up to his waist in the powdery material and still got blown down a dozen times, struggling each moment to regain his footing and realign himself with the proper direction.

His uncanny ability to maintain his heading was all that saved him.

By dusk, he'd managed only another five hundred feet of descent and his body ached from the ordeal. The thick trappings were working well at keeping his flesh from frostbite while venting enough of his body's heat to keep him from sweating, yet he still felt chilled to the bone and sore.

His discomfort came primarily from being battered by the gusting winds against the hard frozen or solid rock faces of the cliffs he scaled down. His joints ached and were slightly numb from the constant slamming of his ice shoes into the mountain while trying to preserve his control in those fierce winds. When he finally stumbled into a rocky pocket that broke the airstream a bit, he decided to settle in for a while, grateful for a chance to get a meal and stretch out his weary legs.

He dropped down onto the frosty ground and let his limbs droop as they would for a few borts, reveling in the pleasure of that simple luxury for even a moment. When his chest no longer heaved, he pulled open a sealed pouch revealing a multifunctional device...one that was completely mechanical and undetectable by the Kreete's sensors. It gave him information such as altitude, temperature and time, and he noted that he had another fifteen thousand feet before he would safely be able to breathe the atmosphere.

"Great!" he thought. "I'll be there in no time!" he told himself in his deepest sarcastic tone.

He was pleased to see the temperature was rising though...up to only thirty below zero. At least the storm was good for something! He barely noticed the time, as it was for the most part inconsequential. The sun was setting again on the other side of the mountain, but he'd been in the gloom of the dark storm for so long he barely noticed the change.

Ron cursed a string of profanities when he was forced to slam his body against the rock wall several times to break the ice and snow from his backpack so he could dig through it for his food stores. The tediousness and physical strain of the trek was frustrating and draining, so he pushed as much of that aggravation aside as he could...discarding it from his thoughts through his will alone.

What else could he do besides endure it and continue?

He ate and drank heartily while contemplating his next move...to keep going in the dark or to rest and sleep.

After fifteen borts of stationary time though, he knew the answer to his question. He could tell a definite change in his body. His hands and feet were much colder. The two days of constant exposure were taking a heavy toll, and he knew it. That short period of rest and lack of exertion was allowing the blood in his limbs to slow down enough to permit a large drop in his body temperature. That fact, along with the knowledge that he'd been mostly feeling his way along for the last few billots anyway...with the white-out conditions he was in...prompted him to disregard the darkness enveloping him and press on.

Ron got his gear back into position and began a series of limbering exercises, working his body through some moves that generated much needed additional heat and loosened up his muscles. Soon he was feeling more like himself again and his spirits rose.

Back out into the blizzard he pushed, his resolve anchored toward his task. The wind slashed and tore at him once again, but he was unmoved. He plowed through the storm like an icebreaker ship through the arctic sea...slowly, doggedly, forcefully, and undaunted by its wrath.

Ron probed his way forward with the handle of one of his ice axes extended out to form a ridged walking stick. He did this because he was able to see only shapes in the dimly lit world; only the contrasting dark-light outlines of exposed rocks against the snow, and he wanted to be sure not to step off an edge.

He continued his quest purely through steadfast determination, feeling a bit like a blind man in the driving snow and sleet. He much preferred the long, flat spaces he had to push his way through to the times he found himself dangling from the rope while the storm tried to blow him off the mountain, but either way he did not falter.

Driving onward no matter the cost proved to be a fool's objective however, and when the night was halfway gone he finally realized his luck had run out.

Down another cliff he descended, but then, finding no space to move because the foothold niche he stood in was very small and the surrounding rock fell away sharply, he attached his line once more and dropped yet again.

He understood a billot later that he'd reached a particularly long, sheer face of the mountain. Of course that was only after he'd repelled down a much longer stretch than any of the other points in his trek without finding a single footing.

He guessed he was at least eight hundred feet from his tie-off point when he kicked away from the mountain and was startled to find the ice-covered face was gone, and he was left swinging and spinning at the mercy of the wind.

Ron locked his position on the line with his left hand and tried to picture the three-dimensional depiction of the mountain he'd studied. He recalled a broad, steep-faced cliff with its lower section undercut into the mountain that would account for his predicament, and knew immediately that he'd passed his most desirable route by at least a quarter of a hoz. He then considered whether he should start back up or continue to the base of the precipice.

Ron remembered that none of the drops were noted as being more than the thousand feet of rope he had, so he decided to test his luck. He gambled with the chance of being smashed against the cliff instead of losing the two or three billots of time it would take to regain the upper niche. He felt his odds were at least 3:1 for success, especially since he had no promise he could go back up from that upper point when he got there.

Down he went, trying to time his descent to counter the pendulum effects of the blasting winds, which was increasingly difficult because he could not stop his spinning.

Down...down...down...probing the space around him with his outstretched pole and straining with his eyes to see what was not there.

Ten more borts of this got him to the end of his line, and to a very worried position. He was now swinging back and forth a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet and he knew if he hit something solid, he could be in big trouble. But the worst thing was that he was no longer sure in which direction the mountain was. The constant whirling and the near zero visibility had him uncertain about where he might be in danger.

Ron cursed in frustration again as he began carefully attaching the climbing slings to the rope, preparing himself for the long haul back up the line, when he suddenly recalled one of his other tools...the winch!

"That'll get me down another two hundred feet," he thought, "and if that doesn't work, at least it'll pull me back up to here so I won't have lost anything."

He then tried to get to that compact device, but it was buried deep inside his heavy clothing and was impossible to reach with his bulky mittens. He had no choice but to remove his right glove to get the job done, but he was concerned about exposure. After another hasty bit of trial at a workaround however, he concluded it had to be done, so he shoved that thick, warm, protective cover between his legs and yanked his hand free. Instantly he felt the prickly shock of the ambient air and the sandblasting effect of the howling sleet.

"Geez!"

Ron worked as quickly as he could, unlacing the front of his coat which had four overlapping seams, and allowing the frigid climate to breach his thermal armor. He had to work one-handed because his other held the line to keep him upright, so it was a time-consuming venture due to all the built up snow and ice on his garment.

He finally reached his objective but then fumbled badly with the small machine. The clasp was designed to be very light and so was also quite small, never intended for this type of use...and Ron's fingers were rapidly losing their dexterity.

He concentrated with every ounce of his strength, forcing himself to operate his digits...to comply with his needs even though he couldn't feel them...until, at last, the little clasp opened. He hastily secured it to the end ring on the rope before shoving his naked hand up inside his coat, under his left arm where his straining body was warmest.

"Oh, shit, that's cold!" Ron screamed inside his oxygen mask.

He hung there like a giant spinning pendulum for a few borts while the feeling returned to his hand but he knew he was on borrowed time now. His coat hung wide open, and he couldn't close it again until he was off the winch cable since it shot right up his torso. He couldn't even put his glove back on because the control mechanism on that compact device was too tiny to operate with the gloves as well.

Finally, trying to keep the flap of his coat over his unprotected hand, he was moving downward again.

The cable was two hundred feet of super-strong metal filament, half a millimeter in diameter. The winch was powerful enough to lift Ron and all his gear easily, as he'd found out during their first mission, so at least he didn't need to be concerned about it failing now. However, another hundred feet of descent got him no closer to the security he was looking for, and at that point he was really getting worried.

Down, down, down, he continued, probing outwardly with his axe-wand in his left hand. It was as if his entire world was a mere ghost, with no solidity other than that tiny umbilical cord that supported him.

"Son of a..." he let out in frustration as he reached the end of the cable.

Ron quickly restored his right glove to his numb appendage as he dangled totally at the mercy of the swirling storm. He was blasted this way and that, knowing he was flying in a large elliptical pattern with no way of discerning which point of the compass he should be looking to.

### Chapter Five

### Let it End

Ron extended the second axe's handle and reached out in both directions as far as he could, desperate now because he didn't know if he could endure the climb back up the rope. He flew like that for another few borts...his anxiety soaring with every moment's passage. At the last, he let his body pivot to an upside down attitude so his reach might be extended an extra few feet. But that also allowed his coat flaps to be totally open and his body was blasted by the super-cold winds.

"Aaaaaaah!" he screamed, furious with himself for having ended up in this reckless situation.

And then it happened!

"Clank!"

Ron's attention was instantly focused on that sound. He was speeding away from it in his wild orbit, but his senses were now compensating for every rotation of his body and tracking that spot by more than instinct alone. When he was again heading for that beautiful point, he slid the hood off his head so he might see better, and reached out with both rods, deliberately this time instead of wildly.

'Clank, clank!'

He heard and then saw the cause of the noise...and then he was heading out again. It was an ice-encrusted shard of rock that jutted out from the cliff at least two feet...enough to stand on!

Ron again tracked his movements carefully and turned his axes around, gripping them by the very ends of the handles. He tightened the straps securing his hands to those tools and braced himself.

The force of the wind was finally helping him by pushing him up against the cliff...but was also propelling him at a high rate, so he wasn't exactly sure which was fortune and which was folly.

Ron was still hanging upside down but he no longer felt the cold and the wind. He just saw his target in his mind, and his only hope for reaching that target was timing. If he succeeded in attaching the axes but they didn't hold, that act could change his haphazard orbit and he might have to wait a long time before it would reestablish itself, if it ever did. It was another huge gamble.

As he soared toward that position again, he reached back as far as he could, coiling his body for the strike. With a powerful grunt, Ron brought the six-foot long axes around, slamming them deeply into the thick ice. The shock resonated up into his hands violently...painfully...and he knew that he'd made a solid hit. Then the full weight of his body, and the heavy gear he carried, snapped against his arms like he was hit by a car...and he felt one axe-hold fail.

With the blood pressure in his brain pounding from being upside down for so long, and the brutal force of the sudden, jolting stop of his orbit...as well as the constant spinning...Ron's head swam through a murky mire for a good while. Finally though, he realized he was once again stationary and clinging haphazardly to the mountain.

When that thought at last clicked into gear, he quickly went into action.

He found his hold was secure and he was five feet away from the cliff...and inverted. Ron swung the free tool forcefully and sank it deep into the ice at his waist level. He then struggled to loosen the other, whipping it back and forth vigorously. Once that was done, he pulled himself to the mountain and used those axes in concert to right himself.

It was still a substantial challenge in the blustery gale, but his head eventually rose above his feet, and gravity returned his orientation as it should.

Without pause, those nasty-looking axe blades continued their work in conjunction with his climbing boots, and Ron started climbing back up the face of the cliff far enough to remove the tension on the rope.

Then he waited.

After thirty litas that seemed like an eternity, he felt the tension on the winch cable snap at him in the opposite direction. He then started down to that small ledge he'd first glimpsed.

Ten borts later, he was kneeling on a solid surface again and rewinding the winch cable as quickly as possible. He didn't stop furiously working either, until every layer of his clothing was secured and his rope was once more coiled at his feet. Then he turned away from the wind as much as he could and allowed himself to breathe easier.

Ron stayed like that for a quarter of a billot, his body temperature stabilizing slowly, but he now shivered violently. If it hadn't been for the drinking wand in his mouth he feared he would have cracked his teeth, so badly was he shaking. He could feel his muscles knotting and bunching all over as well, spasms brought on from the strain and the cold.

By then it had been over three billots since he left that small shelter where he ate and the long exposure with his body hanging and his coat open had drained his thermal reserves badly. He needed time to regenerate his core temperature and he needed to get out of the wind, or he knew his condition would likely become fatal.

There was nowhere to secure his rope on the tiny ledge, so he started down again with the axes and ice boots holding him to the cliff. He hoped the strain of such physical work would help his condition, but the wind wasn't going to let him go that easily, and it sapped any amount of heat he could muster.

As his head descended past the little shelf on which he so recently rested though, Ron abruptly struck something solid below him. He carefully probed about the area as far as he could reach, and then dropped to that new level.

A few borts of exploration revealed that he was finally at the bottom of the cliff, and he laughed out loud at the irony of his situation. He'd been less than eight feet short of the base of the drop when he was hanging upside down and scrambling for any sign of hope, considering climbing all the way back up.

The sardonic humor lasted only a brief time though before he took his bearings from the mountain's vertical face and headed out again on his eastward march...hopefully to a warmer climate.

The way was much easier there, and the sloping ground for the next several hoz was more like a steep ski run than the precipitous cliffs he'd been scaling, so he made good speed, comparatively. Also, the plodding exertion managed to stabilize his internal furnace.

The new region Ron reached beyond that slope was odd though, a natural maze. It forced him to wind his way around a multitude of rocky outcroppings that seemed to grow out of the white earth like tree stumps in a frozen forest. It was bizarre and confusing, but his concentration was superb, and he pressed on.

He hurried as much as he dared...still trying to churn his body's heating system into a roaring flame, but the rushing air that screamed up the mountain continued to rob him at every step. As a result, he made no ground toward that endeavor.

As the night wore on, he began to worry about what damage he might be doing to his body. It had been several billots since he last felt his feet, and his fingers were locked around the axes with a death grip but he received no discernable feedback from them. He felt certain frostbite was a definite threat, but could see no relief except to get down out of the storm as quickly as possible.

After another billot, Ron's spirits were given a meager boost, but he wondered if it would last. The sky was perceivably brighter, so he knew dawn was finally on its way and so he tried to be optimistic. He prayed the daylight would bring a change in the weather and allow him some real hope...but it was not to be.

Instead of abating, it seemed to Ron that the storm actually intensified, as if having the soul of a living thing set on his personal destruction. Just as before, he had no recourse however, and just bent his back into it, trudging onward, his teeth clenched in rebellious fury.

Twelve more unrelenting billots brought Ron to the brink of utter exhaustion. He couldn't continue much longer and he began considering digging into the snow and hunkering down to ride out the blizzard. His strength was gone.

He scanned this way and that for a potential location for his burrow, and decided on a spot at the base of one of the rocky outcroppings. But when he hacked his way through the frozen shell of the mountain, he found it was only about two feet of soft snow on top of a foot of hard ice, then solid rock. That would not be deep enough for what he needed.

"SON OF A BITCH!" he screamed at the howling winds, convinced he was battling a mortal enemy.

His clear breathing mask fogged up heavily as he roared out his anger and he wiped away the frost off-handedly before taking up his trek once more. His rage made him feel a touch warmer and he snorted at that. If that's what it took, he would need a lot more anger to get him through this day!

Twenty feet further on, Ron stopped dead in his tracks.

"Wait a minute!" he said out loud. "If I wiped off the frost..." he hastily deduced, "then it wasn't me who created it!"

As quickly as he could, he retraced his steps and began a deliberate, nearly frantic search of the area in a slowly widening circle. It wasn't long before he found his mask once more obscured by a thin layer of frosty coating. Now he was really excited. He noted the direction of the wind and immediately plowed out a path toward that bearing with a renewed purpose.

Not far away, but almost completely hidden from his view in that powerful gale, he found what he could hardly have hoped for. Beside a cluster of boulders that barely pushed themselves through the snow was a cloud of steaming vapor, puffing out of the ground steadily.

Ron used his tools and tested the ground all around the area. The vent was barely a foot in diameter and was encircled by a mound of thick, hard ice which he immediately began hacking away at with a vengeance. A half billot later, he had the hole enlarged enough for his body to fit through and was struggling with his rope to get it tied off to one of the boulders.

His fingers respond stiffly, like an arthritic patient's, and with almost no feeling at all, but he finally managed the chore. Another few moments found him positioned over the opening with great anticipation.

He couldn't see anything below the surface, but was willing to take his chances at that point, and so down into the darkness he dropped.

The first moment below ground produced a shocking, dramatic change to his surroundings...so much so that he paused for a few moments to take it in.

As soon as he was out of that gale-force wind, Ron felt as if the temperature rose thirty degrees, and he couldn't keep from cheering. Along with the wonderful rise in temperature comfort was the fact that it was almost totally, eerily silent down there, and that took some getting used to as well.

He hung about six feet down into the hole, swinging gently back and forth for long enough to let his eyes adjust to the dim surroundings. He also had to reorient his senses to the lack of pummeling from the wind and ice, which was oddly difficult to do since it had been such a strong factor for so long.

After a few borts more, Ron began his inspection again. He thought, at first, that he was in a rock cave, but it wasn't long before he realized just what he'd found.

The only downside to his new environment was that he could finally tell exactly how much trouble he was having controlling his shaking, quivering hands. From there, making the rest of the descent wasn't as smooth as he would have liked, but he managed through it.

Ron lowered himself another ten feet before his boots felt resistance, and then he was almost too shocked to believe it. He was standing on solid, ice-free ground for the first time since leaving that tunnel with the hoverbots!

He clipped the snowshoes onto the dangling rope to keep some weight on it, and then investigated his new environs.

Several litas drifted by while he gazed about in the gloom before he also realized he was standing beside a fast flowing stream. It was an artesian spring that pushed up from the deep rock and poured out and down the mountain...and it was hot!

The "cave", as it turned out, was actually an ice shell, formed from freezing the hot mist that boiled out of the water. That water was no doubt heated by some underground volcanic source and was of a temperature high enough to keep the "shell" a full ten feet away from the flow, allowing plenty of room for Ron to stretch out.

Diffused sunlight was able to penetrate the frozen dome just enough so Ron could explore his new discovery freely, and he did just that.

He checked his multipurpose device and noted that it showed the temperature of the cave to be 301K...28 degrees K above freezing!

"Wait a minute..." Ron muttered as he did some quick conversion calculations to get it into terms he was more familiar with. "That works out to be almost 80 degrees Fahrenheit!"

He checked the reading twice before he tore the gloves from his hands and exposed them to the glorious sensation of the moist, warm environment. ..and at first he rejoiced...but then...

As the feeling returned in his digits, they reported their distress in stabbing shards of pain streaking up to his brain, but he didn't mind that temporary grief when he saw them bright pink once more and flexing at his commands.

Shortly after that, when he could manage it, he stripped off his heavy coat and backpack and felt the moist hot air against the rest of his skin too, so relieved that he was practically giddy.

His feet experienced the same discomfort his hands had, but it was all for the better when it had passed. For the next billot he walked around and around in the little cave until his limbs each reported vast improvements, and then he sat down for a long, much needed meal.

While he relaxed and ate, Ron wondered about where this fantastic find might take him. Staring down into the long, dark tunnel that followed the stream, his eyes were filled with curiosity.

After he satiated his hunger, he got himself geared up again and looked up at the hole he'd just come down through. The opening was already half the size it had been, and sleet and snow could be seen whipping by past it.

He considered his position for a while, and carefully weighed the choices. He truly hated the thought of going back out there in the storm that seemed as if it would never end, but waiting in the warmth of the ice-dome had its own drawbacks...more delays.

He looked for a second time down the path the watercourse took and quickly decided he would give that route a look before he resigned himself once again to the world on the surface.

He left the front of his heavy coat open, slung his ice-climbing cleats and snowshoes over his back, and then set off along the bank of the little river straight away.

It was fairly easy going for a long while, even though he had to repel down a number of quick elevation drops, but none were dramatically steep and so he soon realized he was actually enjoying himself. It was like being on an expedition into an unknown land...which he admitted it was.

Ron ended up following that icy tunnel for the rest of the day, until, as he observed the light giving out at sunset's approached, he found himself at the end of the road.

At that point, the little river was directed into another crevice in the mountainside, vanishing from sight in a swirling depression of stone. Ron quickly set up a modest camp at the mouth of that depression and devoured more of his rations while the tunnel went pitch black.

He was bundled up in his heavy gear and in deep slumber just borts after finishing his dinner, with the resonance of the gurgling, splashing stream echoing through the ice-lined channel like a lullaby.

### Chapter Six

### Hunted

The next morning came so quickly Ron thought he'd just shut his eyes in a long blink and the night was gone, a marvelous contrast to the preceding one's pace. He reveled in the tropical feel of the place like a man on a winter's vacation in the Caribbean and was in a much brighter mood.

He stretched, exercised, and took extreme pleasure in having his complete mobility again before he ate a casual, relaxed breakfast.

Then he turned his attention to the next ordeal...how to get out of the tunnel.

Ron used one of his axes to test the ceiling and found it to be reasonably thick, perhaps two feet of solid ice, and he didn't know how deep the snow above that was. So, he tossed those tools aside and reached behind his head for the dark sword Cache had presented him with back on Rauld, at the beginning of their first mission.

It was coal black from tip to tip and gave off no reflection whatsoever, as if it were made of solid shadow. It was equipped with nearly 27" of razor-edged blade and a handle long enough for him to grip it with both of his large hands, yet was balanced perfectly for one-handed battle as well. As it slid free of the scabbard, the hand guard sprang out with a familiar snap that made him grin.

Ron took a lita to feel the weight of it and to swing it about; since this was the first time he'd held it in the higher gravity of Caron. He was always exhilarated when handling that deadly weapon and now he hardly felt any change in it at all...his body having adjusted marvelously to the new parameters of the planet.

Presently though, he returned his attention to the matter before him...or rather above him.

He stood over to the side where the roof of the ice cave was just above his head and then he pointed the blade of his sword upward and heaved. It sunk to the hilt like it was penetrating foam, propelled as it was by his bulging arms. Ron repeated that chore dozens of times as he pivoted his body about in a circle, until all the punctures connected, and then he began pounding on the center of the plug with one of his axes. It didn't take too long before he was rewarded with a huge cylindrical cone of ice smashing down into the tunnel and then careening into the warm stream where it disappeared down that water flume.

Ron stood back until all the icy material stopped falling, and then stepped under the opening again. It was obviously much brighter there and he knew he was close to breaking through to the outside world. He then tied the two axes together and began launching them up the shaft and into the snowy/icy crust above. It took a good amount of time before he was finally rewarded with his goal...when they shot up but did not return.

The frozen drizzle of snow stopped at last and he peered up the white shaft hopefully. The twin axes were nowhere in sight, having broken through and sunken heavily into the surrounding material like grappling hooks.

All he could see was the rope leading upward and then disappearing because the sky above blended exactly with his snowy exit route, lending no perception of where one stopped and the other began.

Ron tested the line several times and then he was on his way out.

The mountain was much tamer than when he left it on the previous day. The wind had subsided to a strong breeze and he could see for a good half hoz, with a light snow blowing about. He scanned the area to get his direction again while he secured and adjusted his cold-weather gear. A bort later he was on the move once more.

The marvelous benefit of a full night's rest was that it had recharged his body tremendously, and so he returned to the fast pace he'd set on the first day. The route was rugged but not treacherous, so he made excellent time with no incidents to speak of for that entire day and half the night, when he stopped for a short nap. He thought about not stopping at all, but with the immediate future so uncertain, he didn't want to chance running himself down as badly as he'd done before. He needed to be ready for anything.

Ron was up and away again quickly at the crack of dawn, and with a short break in the storm around midday, he received a tremendous boost. The cloud-filled sky opened to the deep indigo of the heavens for almost an entire billot, blasting him with the sun's blinding radiation...a cherished, welcomed sight to be sure. The glare filters of his eyes restored his vision immediately and Ron panned the lower country with great anticipation. A moment later his grin outshined even the white star above...the snow line was easily within two days march!

Ron went back to the march with a quick step and a light heart, but by late in the day though, the weather took another bad turn and the snowfall got much heavier. His visibility dropped once more to less than a hundred feet with gale-force winds and a sleet mix. It was a bother, but he didn't let it concern him too much because the grade was much easier and he was still confident he would be out of that mess by nightfall on the morrow.

"This too shall pass," he grunted to bolster himself. "It can't get as bad as befo..."

It was just then that something shook him to his boots.

The clear mask he wore was vented to the ambient air through a series of baffles designed to keep the pressurized area stable while mixing it with the outside air as much as possible. Due to that design, during one inhalation, a musky odor reached his nose in a backwash of wind. His step faltered just ever so slightly, but he controlled his reaction well and kept plodding onward.

Something was trailing him.

Ron didn't look back, but instead, began uncoiling his rope. He could see just far enough ahead to know it was only seventy-five feet to the next point he would have to repel from, and it looked to be a good drop. He picked out a prime candidate for an anchor point from the boulders around the ledge, and made for that. The snow was only knee deep there so when he got within fifty feet of his target, he broke out into a fast, high-stepping gait. He guessed the animal was trying to corner him up against the cliff's edge where there would be no escape.

Ron lassoed the rock as he went by and jumped over the rim with the rope wrapped securely about his gloved hands and enough slack to get him clear of any harm. He spun around to see what was behind him as he cleared the rocks and headed downward, and that view was filled by a huge paw reaching out for him. It came up just inches short of its target and Ron was thankful to the extreme for his remarkably lucky timing. Then he braced himself for the fall.

The rope drew taught and he slammed into the cliff wall with his feet, immediately continuing down as swiftly as he felt he could. The creature...a yetar...which resembled a cross between a wooly mammoth and a bear, had looked Ron evenly in the eyes...and it was on all fours. He guessed it would have stood up to be at least eleven feet tall. It had white, extremely thick fur like a sheep, but was longer and shaggier. Its body was very broad, with hugely oversized feet.

The creature howled in fury and roared a high-pitched, repetitive bark at him as it clawed feverishly at the rope Ron dangled from. The surrounding cliffs shook from the sound, and snow was actually dislodged and fell on Ron as the cry reverberated down the mountain.

The beast snagged the rope several times and Ron felt himself lifted upward when it did, only to fall back again. He knew if the animal kept up that agitated pawing, it might slip the rope off the boulder and, as Ron kicked out a few litas later...

"Shit!" he yelled.

It happened! The rope let go.

Ron awakened after twenty borts to the sensation of flight because he was sailing horizontally through the air, tumbling and spinning limply. He hit the snowy ground again hard, but not hard enough to knock him out this time.

The beast had clamped onto him and snapped its head side to side like a Terrier dispatching a rat...tossing Ron away to check its success. His luck was remarkable once more as his large backpack had taken all the power of the great creature's crushing jaws and was torn in half.

Ron was back fully alert then, and found himself at the edge of a shelf with a twenty-foot, steep-sided slope. He'd been flung over twenty-five peors as if he were a child's doll. He shook his head free of ice and frantically gathered his feet under him to face his adversary.

The huge animal was charging again and Ron was knee deep in soft snow with one of his snowshoes snapped in half. He couldn't even hope to outrun the beast; so instead, he unclipped the shoes hastily and jumped down that drop-off. He rolled to the bottom of the slope with the straightforward notion of separating himself from the monster long enough to shed the thick gloves and pull out the dark blade.

The creature tore down the small bank after Ron, snow flying upward fifteen feet into the air with each galloping leap, creating a surreal beauty, Ron thought, in the raw nature of the hunt. It was like a scene right out of National Geographic.

That image flashed through Ron's mind like a camera snapping a photo in high speed...then he was all business again. His body felt no cold anymore. He felt no doubt or worry or fear. This was a fight to the death, pure and simple, and such emotions would not aid him. His mind locked onto only one foe...and he embraced the challenge.

The bear let out another horrible, echoing roar as he closed in on Ron with his fangs bared and death in its eyes. Ron answered it with a deep bellowing call of his own, a custom his alter ego, Kaskle Dangarth, grew up with in the wild country where he'd been reared. His own eyes too were gazing through a bloodred haze that marked the flame of mortal combat!

"To fight a beast," his grandfather had counseled him, "you must first become the beast. You must match...or exceed...its ferocity."

The bear leaped the last ten feet, trying to bowl Ron down with its sheer mass, but Ron's mobility wasn't that hampered. He jumped to the side and raked the right shoulder of the creature with the tip of the black blade, opening a two-foot-long gash on the bear which quickly turned the stark white slope crimson from arterial spray.

Ron wished he had access to all of his knives now, but they were still buried inside his thermal layers too deeply to have the time to retrieve them...all but one. A quick reach inside the neck of the heavy coat allowed him to pull out the twelve inch, double-edged throwing blade he kept between his shoulder blades.

The bear took no time at all to pivot around and face Ron. It pushed off with its front paws and stood on its hind legs, dwarfing Ron in the process, and brandished its teeth and claws while howling out its challenging call yet again.

Ron stood his ground and returned the challenge; taking advantage of the open shot the creature's stance gave him. That foot-long dagger sped off his fingertips and sank nearly out of sight into the enormous chest of the bear.

The animal jerked just a bit as it felt the slim blade pierce its body, and then bubbling red liquid started pouring from the wound. In that instant, it appeared to know it was facing a real foe, not some easy kill, and immediately attacked again.

Ron backed away as quickly as he could and swept the sword back and forth as the yetar closed, slowing its advance. He retreated between two jutting mounds of snow-covered boulders, gambling he wouldn't drop into a deep drift, and as the beast followed, it brushed the rocks clean of their icy layers...the space being far too narrow for its bulk.

Ron was hoping the beast would show a little more caution now and was rewarded with exactly that, when, instead of charging him, it merely swiped those huge paws at him.

Ron was amazed at how quick the animal was, considering its size, and was nearly mauled as the front of his coat was ripped open from shoulder to waist. Nevertheless, he managed to get the advantage by timing one of its swipes perfectly and countering with his own cutting weapon.

The yetar leaped back quickly with a howl of pain as its left forearm fell into the snow, severed just above the elbow. The scene was turning gruesomely macabre with the huge animal's life fluid destroying the pristine beauty of the mountain, but it would not retreat. Instead, it roared again and stood tall, fighting on in pure rage now, no doubt attempting to subdue its enemy with a show of size...but Ron was not one to shrink from fear.

It was time for Ron to take the offensive. He dashed in and slashed at the creature's other arm, but just nicked it. The beast seethed and roared down at the man's smaller form, saliva spilling from his foam-flecked lips, and its eyes red from the surge of battle. It couldn't understand how such an undersized creature could be winning the fight, and Ron met its threat with the full fury of the ebony blade.

After a deep, slashing strike across the chest from the shadow-blade, the bear dove at him with its mouth open wide enough to engulf Ron's entire torso. Most men would have fallen back...but its adversary was Ron Allison, and retreat was not in his plan.

Instead of the sound and feel of bones crushing in the giant bear's maw, the yetar felt and heard a metallic chime as the two-foot-long blade entered its mouth and exited the back of its skull.

Ron's grip on the weapon broke as the weight of the lifeless beast slammed to the ground beside him, and he stepped back for a brief moment, poised to defend himself barehanded if need be.

His heart raced and his chest pounded from the exhilaration of the fight. But when the creature didn't make so much as a shudder, he quickly raised his face to the mountain and bellowed out his victory song, the thundering, challenging call of the wild beast that coursed within his broad chest.

When the long, terrifying cry had subsided to a mere echo across the mountainside, Ron scanned the area slowly, searching for more danger and feeling as if he would welcome it. Finding none, however, his demeanor quickly changed to a more calm and pragmatic visage. He jerked the black sword free and then struggled fiercely to turn the huge creature over to recover his throwing blade.

His eyes danced along the perimeter of the hillside too, constantly watchful now, while he cleaned both weapons on the fur of the slain beast before returning them to their sheaths.

Ron finally realized at that point he could taste blood in his mouth and his jaw ached painfully, so he searched out the cause of it. His lower lip was split open and swollen, but nothing worse. Then, recalling where the whole brawl had started, he cautiously moved all about checking for damage from the sixty-foot fall he'd taken when the rope became dislodged.

Fortunately though, apart from various tender spots and some severely mangled clothing, he was virtually unharmed.

Ron gathered his gear and hiked back to that spot to recover his rope, wary now for more danger. He saw that he'd fallen onto a level of hard-packed snow which had a recent few inches of soft fluff to lessen the impact, luckily for him.

He knelt there and looked up at the cliff, scanning left and right for any more beasts like the yetar. In each direction, that level went on out of his limited sight, but the lack of imminent threat didn't set him at ease since he knew almost nothing about the animal. Was the bear he killed the same one from the initial attack? He couldn't be sure. Was this a solitary creature, or was its mate out there on the hunt as well?

Ron got to his feet and threw off the gloves again, quickly stripping out of the cold weather apparel before he began assembling his bow. This elite version of the common, ancient weapon had been meticulously designed to resemble multilayered wood when in fact it was a man-made material created specifically for Ron's abilities by the fantastic Central Computer back on Rauld.

He didn't give the cold temperature a second thought as he poured all of his strength and leverage into compressing the recurve-designed bow to allow the string to slip into position. It was very powerful, with the capability to send a razorblade-tipped arrow completely through a hardwood tree twelve inches in diameter...and he could hit anything three inches or bigger at a distance up to a hundred yards. The blades were extremely lethal as well because they opened upon entering a target and expanded the slim missiles' killing ability fourfold with the increased damage area.

Ron quickly tied the heavy coat onto his pack, threw that across his back, and set off again, now being mindful of this new hazard. The silent, long-range weapon swung firmly in his left hand, and the quiver of arrows was carefully positioned clear of his cumbersome load.

Down the slope he marched at a steady, quick clip...his keen senses alive and on full alert. No longer hidden under that thick hood, he could hear his environment clearly again and he could smell the forest that was drawing near now. He surmised that he was just above the tree line and that spurred him to move even faster.

Ron trudged along doggedly for twenty borts, sometimes through waist deep drifts, using his body inefficiently as a snowplow, before he realized the dramatic change in his ability to process air.

A hasty investigation revealed his breathing apparatus was snapped off below his chin, and that brought him to a grinding stop. He immediately slipped off the clear mask and let his face feel the brisk mountain air for the first time, and was invigorated.

He thought he was winded because of his exertions, but now he knew it was because of the thin air...but it was breathable and that was all he was concerned about. The cold, crisp atmosphere smelled and tasted thick with the scent of fir trees that were just beyond his view, and he enjoyed it immensely.

Down another few cliffs he went and then he was among them. They were short trees with stout little branches covered in thick, dark green needles, and they forced vibrant memories of Colorado to his thoughts. The dwarf trees were barely able to live at that altitude, taking decades to reach his height, and he felt impressed about their efforts to survive where nothing else could.

He swept his hand over them as he walked...the first plant-life he'd come across on this wild foreign planet.

He was at last free of the barren ice-world! He'd made it!

Ron spent the rest of that day and the next trekking ever eastward and down the mountain, and by the second nightfall he hadn't seen any sign of another bear, or any other large animal. He'd traveled below the elevation where snow could be preserved by then...but the storm was still with him and now he was in a cold, steady rain.

### Chapter Seven

### Choosing sides

Finally past the ominous peaks of Safe Haven, Ron made his way steadily downward, into an ever-warming, lush forest. The ice and snow that had nearly finished him gave way to the edges of the upward-reaching tropical heat of the lower altitudes at about twenty thousand feet. He'd come a great distance, but there was yet a substantial amount to go before he was in the elevations where the majority of the natives lived.

The rain was steady and of the unrelenting, heavy sort which made the world seem unusually dark, gray, and foreboding, but his spirits did not match the gloom. He was too ecstatic to be out of the snow. The few indigenous animals that would normally be scampering about in the brisk mountain air were undoubtedly waiting out the storm because Ron saw none of them for most of the first afternoon.

He trudged along in that lonely setting, descending through the seemingly unending range of undulating rock and earth with little visual guides, the rain cutting his line of sight to a quarter hoz at best.

At times it was grueling, treacherous progress with loose or slippery footing, numerous drop-offs, and precarious crags to maneuver around, but on he went. Such obstacles kept him tense and alert, but at least here he didn't have to worry about the hidden dangers of an unstable snowpack, or an avalanche sending him down the steep grade to his death. That in itself was a relief.

He listened for any signs of predators as he went, but his passage was very quiet in the rain-drenched land, so he felt he had little to fear from such happenstance. As a result, his stride was long when it could be and he hesitated little while navigating the innumerable cliffs and gullies, streams and ponds...always heading downhill.

When nightfall again winked out the sun's influence, Ron was wedged under an overhanging shard of rock that provided him with adequate shelter to keep him dry and offer a peaceful night's rest. As he lie there drifting off, he was thankful once more for being away from that frozen environment of the highlands, able to build a fire and be at least mostly warm.

He slept lightly though, concerned with whatever animals might call these woods their home, so when the rain stopped around midnight he awoke to the far-off cries of the hunters of the night, and perked up his senses.

After a billot of listening however, he dropped back to sleep; the sounds giving him a settling comfort that he could not explain.

"Kaskle lived almost his entire life in such a place," Ron thought before he slipped away, back into slumber. "I guess it's like coming home."

The morning brought forth a brilliant sunrise that blasted away all the dreary images of the previous day, so he was up and moving again early on. He could now fully appreciate the rich sights and smells of the forest, and they made him quiver as his senses took it all in.

The deep green leaves all around him glistened from the sun reflecting on their waterlogged surfaces, making the morning twinkle with reflected light off thousands of species of fauna that fought one another for living space in that rugged land. To enhance the delightful and uplifting scenery, the scents of hundreds of natural flowers drifted in the soft breeze, mixing thoroughly with the sweet smell of the dewy, humid air. Throw in the earthy aroma of decaying plant matter which lay strewn about the base of the verdure, and trees gently swaying to and fro, and the picture was complete.

He was in Eden.

After his first full day below the snowy heights, Ron searched out a good hiding place and stowed all the special gear the Rauldens had provided. A washed out divot at the base of a huge boulder did the trick nicely. He carefully organized and extracted everything he could possibly use, and then employed the brute power of his class-ten planet-dweller body to topple the rock the size of a midsized car onto his equipment...sealing it effectively from any accidental discovery.

It wouldn't be good to be sighted with "otherworld" clothing and technology when he encountered the locals. To be branded with the stigma of an outsider could make it exceptionally difficult to gain anyone's trust.

It was still rather chilly at night, the temperature dropping to, or below freezing, and he hated to give up the guaranteed warmth of the cold-weather gear, but felt he mustn't take the chance. After all, he was certain he could manage with the trappings more befitting the local peoples and so decided he'd better get used to them.

Ron had a long, hooded cloak which worked amazingly well at protecting and sustaining his body heat, even in the windswept hills. It was virtually waterproof too, and kept him comfortable enough through the next rain shower and the long cold nights. His new boots were calf-high in length, constructed to simulate animal skin, and were also water resistant. He possessed two shirts; one long sleeved and one sleeveless, and two pairs of trousers; one of heavyweight material; the other a lighter one. That accounted for his entire wardrobe. He also sported a pack to hold it all as well as his rations. It too appeared to be made of animal hide. Everything else he carried was for survival and defense...his seven throwing knives; one twelve inches long, three ten inches, and three six inches long, the bow with two-dozen arrows, and the raven sword.

The terrain was becoming more forgiving now and over the next two days the thin air of the high altitude range quickly gave way completely to the sun drenched, humidity filled lowlands...the foothills of the rugged mountain chain.

The trees changed too, and were now alive with every type of flying, crawling, jumping, and slithering creature he could imagine...including insects, which were incessant.

When he first noticed those biting nuisances Ron began plucking the leaves off a prevalent bush of the area and chewing them automatically, without even realizing he was doing it. After another billot, the insects no longer feasted on his flesh.

Every now and again, as he picked his way along some rocky patches, Ron could catch a glimpse of a vast open plain that bordered the edge of the hillside on which he stood. This particular region had been obscured to him while at the higher altitudes; due to the "line-of-sight" disruptions of the many layers of peaks, but as he approached, he grew very interested in that grassland.

Until now, he had little problem convincing himself to take his time meandering the tangled undergrowth, regaining some of the strength he'd lost during his fight through the heavy snows. But finally, after breakfast on the third day, finding himself only a day's trek from those plains, he pushed hard once more, determined to be on flat ground by the next sunset. He also looked forward to enjoying a warm night's rest under the stars for the first time since landing on Caron.

He made excellent progress that day, and a short few billots after his midday stop, he was less than a hoz from his goal.

As Ron splashed his face and drank deeply from one of the thousands of snowmelt streams dotting the mountainside...enjoying the feeling of being in the wilderness that seemed almost nostalgically familiar...a distinct sound shattered the placid surroundings and changed his attitude in a flash. It was high-energy weapon's fire.

Ron went on high alert instantly, listening, searching, and scanning, but barely allowing himself enough movement to turn his head for fear of detection. His garb was designed to be an excellent camouflage in this terrain, and he used it to its fullest.

Cache's report had stated energy weapons were forbidden from use on the planet by the Kreete's code of honor. They were forced to deal with the local populace with the same level of technology they had, it not being sporting enough, or bloody enough, to use such an excessive advantage over them. So what could possibly force them to break that steadfast rule?

Long moments rolled by as he probed the forest with his eyes, ears, and even his nose, finding nothing but the usual woodland creatures, and a plethora of swarming insects. Those buzzing pests were densely congregated next to the stream, where they undoubtedly knew their prey would eventually have to come, but at the moment he was barely aware of them.

The trees nearby bent in an uphill direction, forced to yield to the pressure exerted by an almost nonstop strong breeze from the hot plains generating thermals which had nowhere else to go but up the mountain. Ron focused his attention in that direction, now confident the sound was distant, carried to him by the wind, not by some nearby threat.

He was rewarded with a repeat of the blast, three in fact, in rapid succession. Ron could then tell the weapons were far out on the plain, a good hoz and a half to the east.

He quickly leaped into motion and set off in that direction, determined to find out what was the cause of such a blatant violation to the code.

Ron flashed through the woods at a rate that teetered on the edge of sanity. He knew any missed step could send him sprawling headlong down the sharp gradient and may, with the heavy gravity of Caron, produce a catastrophic injury. Nonetheless, he continued until he came across a twisted old tree that caught his eye. It grew very tall, jutting up and out of the canopy, well above the neighboring foliage, and was lashed to the hillside with enormous roots resembling talons, which sank directly into the rocky landscape. This specimen reminded Ron of the mammoth trees in the Raulden forest, so huge was it.

He had no time to dawdle though and hastily pulled out the winch from his pack. He gave little thought to anyone seeing the device, deciding it was worth the risk at the moment. Attaching it to his belt, he reeled out a long length of cable and studied the area above him. Over forty feet up was the first branch that looked strong enough to hold him.

Ron gauged the weight of the clasp and hurriedly added one of his knives to it. The blade would lend accuracy as well as mass and would help keep it from tangling. He stepped back a few feet and then his arm shot back and then upward.

The throw was superb...the blade arcing over the branch neatly, falling back only twenty feet from him.

His triumph lasted only a lita before an ear piercing cry ripped through the forest, causing an instant ceasing of all the normal bird and animal calls that provide a cheery background commotion for the outdoors.

Ron remembered that teeth-clenching utterance from his dream, or memory, or whatever it was. It caused the hair on his neck to jump to attention and a queasy feeling quickly settled into his stomach.

He recovered the double-edged instrument and then cinched up the cable. A moment later, he was hurtling upward as fast as the little winch could manage.

Ron hauled himself up onto the limb he'd snagged and, leaving the cable attached for a quick descent, just in case, he speedily ascended the living monolith. After another hundred feet, Ron broke out above the surrounding greenery to be bathed in the intense brilliance of the Caronian sun, so he halted.

The black, protective fluid Caronians were gifted with instantly flooded into his eyes and lowered that blinding light's intensity to allow him a perfect view, and he began rapidly scanning the, now, nearby edge of the plain.

The deep blue of the sky was dramatic as it contrasted sharply with the vibrant green of the rolling hills in the distance. And those principle colors stood out even more so from the straw colored grass which spanned several hoz between the hill Ron was on and those he saw.

The picturesque beauty below, with the gently waving waist-high grass and the mountains at the horizon could have been Montana in the summer, or Idaho...but it was not. This was Caron, an alien world, and a more alien event could not be imagined.

The scene was as clear as the leaves that surrounded him. It was a hunt!

Out on the grassland, at least half a hoz from the edge of the forest, Ron could see the creature, barely. He saw a ripple in the grass more clearly than the beast itself, but he knew instinctively what it was. He'd seen one before up close, or rather his Caronian half had. It was a Redalion Tracker; simultaneously the most feared and revered animal known to the space-spanning humanoids.

Ron's mind blitzed through a replay of the information he'd received from his alter ego.

The tracker was an animal with the body of an enormous cat and the head of a demonic dog. It had eight legs, four sets of two, which could work together in a fight or attack, or be alternated for a lengthy chase or patrol of its territory. It had a long, thick tail which added exceptional balance to the creature's credentials, and at the other end, the canine head of the fearsome animal was a living nightmare. The beast's jaws had double rows of six-inch-long dagger-like teeth which were impossible to cover with its lips, and it possessed four eyes set deep inside its skull. Two of the eyes were forward-looking and the others could see to the side and, to some extent, backward, giving it the ability to study its entire surroundings with the slightest turn of its massive head. Its home world was a class ten-point-eight, heavy-gravity planet with vast plains and extreme weather variances, so the beast was exceptionally adaptive and powerful beyond its appearance...and it was fast!

Here, out on the plain, it was moving in a serpentine manner at an appalling rate and it appeared the beast had something in its mouth...something large and dark. Behind the tracker were two multi-wheeled vehicles pursuing, one on either side of the animal. Each was sporting a large cannon mounted in the center of the bulky machine, and each was also carrying a number of Kreete soldiers...Ron guessed five, not counting the driver and gunner. They seemed to be closing the gap between themselves and the tracker slowly.

Further out on the open expanse was a herd of some type of large herbivores, grazing on the tall grass. Ron surmised the object in the tracker's jaws was one of those animals. That was when he began to understand what was occurring.

The Kreete were not following, but rather chasing the tracker...and apparently trying to kill it!

That was of great puzzlement to him. He corroborated his deduction by studying the area from the large beast to the edge of the woods. There was no sign of the grass having been disturbed recently, so it hadn't come from that direction, which meant they had clearly chased it across the prairie to this point.

The mystery peaked Ron's curiosity.

Those animals were not native to Caron, were extremely rare, and supremely dangerous, so finding one roaming the countryside was not a likely scenario. Also, trackers were only used to hunt down specific targets that held great importance to the Kreete, and never allowed to run loose like a pet. Furthermore, he saw no "typical" quarry anywhere around and doubted the creature would have cried out had it been only following an old trail. That led him to think it must have been issuing its challenge to the Kreete force closing in.

The entire picture made no sense.

Besides all these oddities, it must have just made the strike on the struggling animal it clutched, or that helpless victim would've been killed and eaten. And Ron felt confident it wouldn't have stopped for a snack in the middle of a hunt.

His mind spun furiously for a bort, until he separated the individual facts from what his preconceived opinion tried to tell him was happening. If the tracker were any other animal he would simply see a common occurrence...this was some kind of elaborate trap to capture it. But it was not any other animal.

"What would make them...oh crap! It must have escaped!" he concluded.

Ron decided to watch a while longer from the safety of his perch.

"This ought to be interesting," he told himself, settling down on a good-sized limb.

But before he could get comfortable, one of the vehicles fired a new round of blasts. They were very close to the creature by then and, even though the beast was making some aggressively evasive maneuvers, the Kreete managed to make contact with one-shot, taking the animal down instantly. Ron watched in horror as the tracker's back, left-hand set of limbs was literally blown off in a terrible shower of blood. The animal in the tracker's mouth was jostled loose and rolled a hundred or so feet as the larger creature plowed heavily into the soft turf.

The two vehicles screamed past the beast before the drivers could get the machines slowed down enough to circle back. As they did turn though, one of them stayed between the tracker and the tree line, while the other looped back to attack from another vector.

It was a good thing the one stayed put too, because the animal, even though badly wounded, was up very quickly and moving again, albeit at a much slower pace. It veered away from the blocking Kreete vehicle and headed off at an angle toward the safety of the woods, farther away from Ron's position, heading northwest.

The cannon operator let go another volley at the tracker. The ground erupted all around the beast, it changing direction each time, and then one blast struck home on the creature's side, pounding it into the ground again. This time however, the second vehicle was there to keep the powerful animal down.

Through another series of shots, the fearsome mammal was hit in the head, in the right forelimbs, and in the right aft set of legs.

They were piecing the injured brute up.

Ron was on his feet again quickly, his contempt for the Kreete as a race rose another notch as he saw them torturing the wounded creature. It wasn't enough for them to simply kill the beast; they had to torment it first. He could hear them cheering and laughing as he went down the tree even faster than he'd climbed it.

Ron struck the forest floor hard and was off on an intercept course with that grisly scene even before he rewound the cable...it spooling itself up as he sped through the undergrowth. His anger was sending him where he would never have thought he'd go...into a fray with two Kreete scout teams to aid a tracker!

Ron reached the edge of the forest as swiftly as he could manage, it being extremely dense in that area with underbrush and climbing vines impeding him at each step toward the sun-drenched plain. Once there, he immediately turned towards the conflict out on the grassy venue.

This side of the hills was already deep in shadow of the retreating sun, and that aided his wish to keep his presence a secret. He skirted the edge of the wooded land, keeping himself hidden from the members of the hunting party, yet hurrying to a spot that allowed him the shortest distance to the group. He heard the wounded animal cry out several times as he worked himself into position, and that only added to his haste, as well as his fury.

He stole a few sidelong glances, witnessing the soldiers repeatedly stabbing the downed animal with their swords, as six of the seven troops in one group had left their machine and approached the beast. The tracker seemed to be too badly wounded to counter their abuse, weakly flailing about on the ground.

Seeing the Kreete enjoying their sport, and knowing they would make it as drawn out as possible was disgusting. The entire display sickened Ron.

He surveyed the scene in front of him, it taking place nearly two hundred peors out in the open, and knew he would have no cover in which to hide, should he decide to try to assist the crippled creature.

He could clearly see the vehicles the Kreete were utilizing and vaguely recalled such machines. They were simple troop transports that were used chiefly in low threat situations and had no protection at all for the passengers. They had six large wheels, for impressive off-road capabilities, and articulated in the middle for tight maneuvers in wooded areas. Their cabins contained a single seat for the driver at the front, and a bench seat along both of the two outer sides of the rear section. They ran off a centrally located power cell that produced vast amounts of electricity and turned a drive motor at each of the wheels, and they were extremely quiet for such a large motorized vehicle. A bulky cannon was affixed atop a pole at the forward-most position of the rear section and could be regulated to many different power settings. The operator of that weapon stood at all times, ready to defend the group.

Ron looked at those heavy cannons vigilantly, fully aware that one well-aimed blast would be all it would take to incinerate him, but he was undeterred. He gripped his bow tightly, checked his arsenal of knives and arrows, and then watched the Kreete.

They were extremely intent on their victim, even the drivers and cannon gunners, and that gave Ron the diversion he needed. One of the machines was cruising back and forth between the group and the forest while the other was parked fifty feet from the animal, with its weapon trained on the helpless creature.

The entire complement of ground troops were surrounding the tracker now, slowly circling it and jabbing at it sporadically. The beast lay on its left side, nearly immobile. It jerked violently as the Kreete sunk their blades into it over and over in different locations...not deep enough to kill it, but enough to cause the desired pain and turn its smooth, amber-colored fur into a matted, bloody mess. The right side of its face was a complete disaster, mangled and bleeding, having taken a full blast from the heavy gun earlier in the chase. It couldn't see its attackers on that side, and with only one of its hind legs and two of its fore limbs still intact, it could mount no defense to the soldiers' onslaught. It was doomed, and it knew it.

Ron weighed the importance of his assignment with the futility of this mercy mission for just a lita...until the choice became clear. The animal suddenly let out a long, hollow moan that touched Ron's soul, it sounding so much like a call for help...a plea for compassion he could not ignore...and he would stand by no longer. Then a member of the Kreete group suddenly hacked off one of the tracker's dangling paws and tossed it to the driver of the parked vehicle...an act which sealed Ron's decision.

The cruising machine had just finished its turn and was heading back across the scene with both occupants trained on their fellows...and the sport...when Ron's window of opportunity opened.

He didn't blink as he set out into the grass, primitive weapons at the ready. He moved swiftly but not at a full run. He wanted to have the option of stopping rapidly to defend himself if need be.

The driver of the parked machine jumped out of the forward end of his rover to retrieve the trophy his partner had offered him. He had to move within a few yards of the beast's head to fetch it, but didn't pause...the creature was obviously close to death...helpless.

The tracker moved so quickly the driver couldn't have saved himself no matter what type of weapon he had. He was pinned inside the animal's jaws instantaneously, crushed and dying a split-second later as he got the last view he would ever see. That sight was the beast's glaring, still functioning set of eyes barely six inches from his face as its teeth sunk completely through his body until they touched!

### Chapter Eight

### Mercy

The tracker couldn't see the other soldiers to its right, but knew where at least one was because of the latest injury the man had inflicted. It lashed out at the large fellow with one of its fore legs, disemboweling him as neatly as a surgeon, even through his armored vest, and then spun in the opposite direction, confronting three more scouts.

They tried to raise their swords to defend themselves, but the animal was simply too fast. All three were shredded a moment later.

A blast from the cannon of the parked vehicle refocused the battle. The ground next to the tracker erupted violently as the gunner fought with the heavy weapon to hit the writhing creature, missing again and again. The beast couldn't run, but it was still extremely quick at such a close distance.

Another Kreete soldier fell dead as the tracker lashed out in vengeance for its mistreatment, and then the air vibrated with its challenging roar.

Ron was within fifty peors of the cruising machine when the tracker jumped to life, and he stopped short immediately, drawing partially back on his nocked arrow. He didn't know what to do in that first instant, and then the cannon belched its high-energy bolt into the ground and he felt a renewed and overwhelming urge to help the animal. After all, his enemy and its enemy were the same.

He finished drawing back on the bow and a razor-tipped, dark shafted missile took to flight.

Atop the transport which had just lost its driver, the sole remaining Kreete soldier of that seven man group frantically fired the big weapon. But only a single shot escaped before the gunner's left arm slammed against his side violently and an intense burning sensation ripped through his chest. He looked at the point of the pain and found black fletching protruding from his dangling arm. The rest of the little missile was two-thirds the way through his innards, piercing both lungs and his heart. He had just enough time to trace the line of the shot and see Ron before another arrow leaped from the bow, to bull's-eye his forehead.

The operator of the other vehicle hurriedly jammed on the brakes to allow his gunner a better chance to fire, and that was a fatal mistake. The Kreete scout got off a few rounds, one managing to find its target...the tracker decimating his comrades...but it also allowed Ron an easy victim.

Ron put two arrows in the gunner's back and another into the driver's chest, and as they recoiled from the impacts, the machine began moving again. The driver struggled to remain at his station and regain control of the rover, but Ron ended his effort with another shot.

The vehicle slowly evacuated the scene with no one alive on board to stop it, trundling across the grassland toward the tree line to the north.

The tracker managed to clamp down on one more soldier before it was hit between the shoulders with that last barrage from the cannon. It then went down hard once again...the body of the scout tossed free more than ten peors away, but that corpse didn't have a head.

The remaining scouts had scattered as fast as they could, but now regained their composure and combined forces to attack the animal with a joint effort. Before they could carry out that feat, however, one of them glanced around and noticed the dead gunner on the nearby parked rover, and the slowly retreating machine with two slumped-over soldiers on the deck. He whipped about to face a charging foe just as the smaller man lunged at him.

The Kreete soldiers came from a large race...the smallest Ron had ever met standing seven and a half feet tall. They were all hairless, and their skin was a dull gray color that looked like elephant hide, accentuating their hideous appearance. They each displayed vast, intricate adornments of tattoos which signified some bloody victories in their careers, further adding to their look of pure evil. The head of a Kreete warrior was large and fearsome, having a prominent bony ridge running from one ear, over the crest of the skull to the other ear. The faces of the soldiers were distinct in that they had very wide noses which drooped over their upper lips, and four tusk-like fangs jutting up from the lower jaw, two of which entered their nostrils a bit. But the most strikingly ghastly feature of them was their eyes. They were completely silver!

The ebony sword sank deeply as the Kreete felt the hand-guard slam against his chest, and his alien, vacant eyes flew open in utter surprise, making his face even more revolting than normal. Ron spun around and sent one of the blue slivers of steel flying at the next nearest enemy, making a perfect strike at the base of his neck. He then extracted his rapier from the dying scout, giving him no further thought as he knew the huge warrior's spine had been severed.

He faced the remaining three soldiers with his sword only, itching to test himself in this heavy-gravity environment.

The closest fellow parried the black sword only twice before he was cut down, his body nearly subdivided. Ron's next opponent was much more adept at the use of his weapon, and the third soldier bolted for the parked vehicle, off to their left. Ron used all his strength and quickness to hammer away at the defenses of the scout swordsman, and abruptly dispatched him, but his partner was already on the vehicle and moving for the big gun. Ron dropped his sword and sent a twelve-inch messenger to greet the Kreete. The scout took the knife in the chest, but stumbled up to the weapon anyway, his training driving him onward. Ron grabbed his bow and nocked up another arrow, letting it fly an instant before he dove for cover and a blue energy blast tore from the barrel of the cannon.

Ron sprang up and fired again before the Kreete could home in on him once more. The larger man was bleeding profusely from the entry of the first arrow, but still fighting to turn the heavy gun nonetheless. Ron's second shot was dead center of his chest though and the impact made him stagger back. He paused for a brief moment and then fell forward onto his face, stone dead.

Ron quickly searched the area for any more threats from the soldiers, and when he was satisfied there were none, he turned his attention to the huge animal which lay prone before him only a dozen steps away. It was bleeding from scores of horrible wounds and the turf and grass around it were crimson for ten feet.

It was hopeless. The great hunter had taken so much damage that Ron's only emotion for the beast was pity. He couldn't fathom how anything could lose so much blood and not be dead, even a creature as large as this.

He didn't feel fear of the tracker, even though he'd witnessed its final battle with the scouts and couldn't really be certain it wouldn't repeat that attack. There was just something about it as it laid there though, its ribs undulating very quickly, fighting for life. Ron knew it would not attack him, almost as if he could feel its emotions. It lifted its great head, craning its neck around to use its remaining eyes, and peered right into Ron's gaze, locking the two of them in a long stare, as if sizing him up.

"You!" he felt slip into his thoughts, as if someone had whispered it directly into his brain. He didn't turn away, but his reason raced through a dozen questions about that notion, or impression, or sensation...whatever it was...and why he'd gotten it.

Ron finally broke the trance and stepped forward. The tracker didn't flinch. When he was barely a stride away from the animal, the beast redirected its attention to a spot out on the grass, and then back at Ron, and then back at the plain. Ron was still holding his sword unsheathed, at the ready, but he turned his head to follow the creature's eyes. A few hundred peors away was the animal the great hunter had been carrying when it was first hit by the Kreete's energy cannon. It had a broken leg, but was making its way back toward the herd which was nearly out of sight now. Ron looked at the tracker and watched it closely as it repeated the same eye motions again.

"You want that?" Ron asked the beast, pointing to the retreating animal, dumbfounded that he could even imagine he was communicating with the creature.

The tracker locked its gaze with Ron's again.

He got the distinct impression the wounded beast was affirming his question, even though it hadn't moved a muscle.

"I don't think a good meal is going to help you enough," he said to the animal, scanning its body again. Ron had read all the information Cache had collected about these creatures, back on Rauld, in preparation for his trip. He was entirely aware of the unusually high regard the different species held for the beasts, but was confident this one would not live to see another sunrise.

"The best thing I could do for you is a quick death, and end your suffering," he told the animal, feeling odd about talking to it like it was a person. Ron then took a lita to search his memory and recalled what one of the reports had said about the brute. It came from one of the beings, a Tredasiean Monk, who was assigned as a tracker's caretaker and had been so for half of his ninety cycle life.

"Just because it has not the capability to speak our tongue, don't be fooled into thinking it doesn't understand us fairly well. I have witnessed these creatures perform some amazing feats and have no doubt that this is a very intelligent being in its own right."

Ron looked after the fleeing herd animal and was torn between trying to understand the beast and his worry that the longer he was exposed out on the open ground, the greater the chance he may be discovered. There was so much to lose if he was captured.

The deciding factor occurred at that time. The tracker went into a series of convulsions of which Ron felt certain were its death throes, and so he stood back a few steps, wishing he'd spared the animal the ordeal. One blast from the cannon, a clean headshot, would have been completely painless and would have been merciful to the tormented creature.

Then the scene took an incredible turn. Instead of death, there was life! The tracker was giving birth! Ron was shocked as the newborn animal exited its mother, looking much like a foal exiting a horse.

The new creature was encased in a heavy membrane, squirming weakly to break itself free of its thick, airtight prison. Ron saw the mother try to maneuver around to help it in its task, but her strength was gone. All she'd been through had finally taxed her beyond what she could overcome.

Ron saw the determination in her eyes turn to concern, and then to wild desperation. He suddenly threw caution, and his own safety, to the wind and bolted for the infant. He sheathed the sword and slipped one of his throwing knives out, quickly slicing through the birth sac and sliding it off the pup. The baby tracker continued struggling as if it couldn't breathe though and so Ron moved in again. He removed the jelly like material from its nostrils and opened its mouth to check its throat. The pup's size was that of a six-month-old pony and its mouth was large enough to envelop Ron's head, fully lined with teeth that were already two inches long.

Ron really hoped he was doing the right thing as he thrust his arm down the creature's throat as far as his fingers could reach, feeling for an obstruction. A moment later he removed his limb, unscathed, grasping a huge wad of mucous. He promptly flung that away before shuffling over to the side of the pup and, placing his hands on the ribs of the newborn, thrust downward hard.

The tracker child expelled another large glob of mucous and then gasped deeply before it settled down and began to breathe normally, still lying prone on its side, exhausted.

Ron rocked back on his heels and released a great sigh...sweat dripping from his brow heavily.

After a short time, he sat down in the field, relieving his weary legs of the long day's strain and wiping his hands on the thick grass of the plain, both thankful and worried.

What would happen now? Had he just saved the life of a creature that will undoubtedly kill dozens, if not hundreds, of people in its lifetime? His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. Should he end the threat here, now?

The newly birthed tracker rested a few borts and then stood up quickly, with amazing agility. It looked at Ron and then crept over to where its mother could see it, issuing a soft purring and whining sound. They nuzzled each other for a long while, and after a bit, Ron got up and moved around to have a better view of the two of them, giving the pair a good amount of room.

He climbed up on the nearest Kreete troop carrier and retrieved his arrows from the dead scouts, wiped them off on the fallen men's garbs, and then put them away. He considered nocking up one of the missiles as he watched the two unfamiliar animals, but again he found himself strangely unconcerned of the danger his woodsman's experience told him he was in.

After a while longer, the mother tracker regarded him again and repeated its obvious glancing at the limping beast in the distance. Ron got a definite feeling he was supposed to do something with that creature.

"Food!" he said out loud. "You want that animal for the baby's first meal."

Ron still had a sense of urgency to get moving again, but he also felt he must see this mercy mission through to the end, so he set off toward the prey. He wasn't sure exactly how big it was, or how he would get it back to this spot, but one of the questions was answered immediately as the mother pushed the baby toward Ron. She clicked her jaws together twice in rapid succession, and then let out a series of barking calls. The baby started off, and then turned back. The mother repeated the sounds and the baby joined Ron like a well-heeled dog...a very big dog.

They ran through the tall grass easily. The pup's fur was dry by that time and its ability to adapt its coloring to the surroundings was impressive. Ron was sure that if the infant stood still in the grassland it would be extremely difficult for anything to spot it.

They caught up to the fleeing beast in a few borts and Ron acted on a hunch. He stopped, stared at the tracker pup until he had its full attention, and then pointed towards the animal. With a clear picture formed in his mind, one of a lion attacking a gazelle, Ron spoke to the pup.

"Kill!" he ordered.

The pup didn't hesitate, setting all eight of its limbs into motion and churning up the ground in a fury. The grazing animal was two hundred feet away, but the pup was on it in a blink, taking it down with a vicious kill stroke. The tracker's horribly menacing jaws clamped powerfully onto the throat of the prey, hauling it to the turf easily and snapping its neck. The young buffalo wasn't a full-grown animal, but was, Ron guessed, at least the size of a four-hundred pound cow and displayed an impressive set of horns which grew out, and then swept around to a forty-five degree angle. The tracker devoured half of the calf in less than five borts.

For a while, Ron watched the grisly scene of this natural cycle of hunter and prey, and then he headed back to the mother of the newborn, still wondering if he'd done the right thing. By the time he'd trotted to the former battlefield, the pup was flashing by him covered in the cow's blood. It rejoined its mother and they continued barking and moaning to each other as Ron went around attempting to mask the fact that he'd ever been there.

He used his sword to slash up the corpses of the men who had arrow wounds, so any superficial investigation would assume the fight with the tracker had killed them...instead of a two-legged interloper.

During the cover-up, he turned several times to check on the new family, and at one point, found the baby gone. He jerked around suddenly, keenly alert again, and dropped into a crouch, his black blade flashing out of the scabbard, immediately at the ready. He'd seen how fast the baby was, and felt pretty sure he stood little chance against it, but he would do what he could to protect himself.

A new series of grunts from the mother though, caused Ron to go to her again, but he kept an eye out for Junior.

Ron again locked his gaze with hers and felt a reassuring sensation pressing firmly on his conscience once more. He listened to her tones of growls and barks and watched her body language carefully. She was incredibly intent as she looked out at the openness of the plain and seemed worried as she looked from one dead Kreete to another.

A short time later the newborn tracker came flashing back to her side, and Ron was astonished at the quickness of the thing. It seemed to be getting faster by the bort! Undoubtedly, Junior had found a stream or pond nearby and had taken a quick bath because it was dripping wet and its fur was sparkling clean.

The pup ignored Ron at first, and at the vocal urging of its mother, it went around to every one of the dead Kreete scouts and sniffed them gingerly, backing away from each of them carefully, as if afraid. Then it approached Ron. It looked timid, sniffing him all about, and even licked his hand. When it was through, it did something which took Ron totally off guard. It dropped at his feet and rolled over onto its back like a pet.

Ron stooped down and touched the pup carefully at first, and then, seeing that it enjoyed it, scratched the newborn more vigorously. It stretched its neck out and squirmed like a cat, as a deep rumbling sound rolled from its throat.

Ron finally stood up again, still wondering how long this friendship might last when, at a snort from the mother, the newborn tracker flipped to its feet and leaped at Ron with its huge jaws agape.

Ron had only enough time to gasp before his right shoulder disappeared into those jaws and he was thrown to the ground violently. He instinctively reached across his body with his left hand and grabbed, but touched nothing but air. The pup was gone!

Ron checked himself for injury but found none. His clothes weren't even torn. Then he felt a crushing weight on his torso. The infant tracker had run around to his other side and pounced on him, four paws resting firmly on his chest. Then it placed its toothy, grinning snout on Ron's cheek and gave him a big lick on the face.

"Geez!" Ron let out, laughing madly. "You crazy oversized puppy! I thought I was dead!"

Ron pushed the young animal off his chest and sat up, looking at the mother.

"I think I get it," he said to her. "People are to be left alone, and everything out there," he waved his hand across the expanse of the wilderness, "is fair game. That's okay by me."

Ron was absolutely sure she understood what he was telling her, or at least his intentions, so he confronted her again.

"I am very sorry, but I have to get going. Do you want me to leave you like this?" he asked her with genuine sorrow in his voice.

The mother called the infant to her one more time and nuzzled it. Then she growled and nipped at it sharply, giving it a forcible nudge. The pup tucked its tail down low and headed slowly for the forest to the west. When it reached that wall of foliage, it glanced back once, and then dove into the dense undergrowth.

The mother then turned to Ron again and he swore he could see her eyes watering heavily.

She paused a moment, as if contemplating her action...reflecting on some thought. He presumed she worried over her child that was now left all alone in this hostile world...and then she snorted in a low tone and twisted her neck sharply to the right and down.

That particular move revealed a singular weak point in the amazingly powerful beast's figure. It was a small spot which opened between her spine and skull, well-defined as a narrow valley with her lean hide stretched across it.

Ron took out his sword and choked back the lump in his throat.

"I am sorry it had to end like this for you."

The tracker moaned once more, and Ron shoved the black sword into that valley as quickly and smoothly as he could. The new mother's body instantly went limp, and her labored breathing stopped short.

The task was done...she would suffer no more.

Ron removed the blade and cleaned it on the clothing of one of the scouts before sheathing it. He went back to the large creature and laid his hand on her head for a moment, and then he set out for the vehicle that had driven off on its own. He had to remove any evidence of his intervention there as well...plus he wanted his arrows back.

Unlike what he felt for the tracker, he showed no remorse as he butchered the scouts to conceal the signs of his presence.

When he finished his cover up operation the sun was well past the peak of its intensity and into the evening billots, with even longer, shadowy fingers protruding far out onto the grassland. So with one last parting glance at the motionless form of the magnificent beast, Ron extinguished his concern for the tracker, returning his thoughts to his own mission.

He paused there, on the deck of the Kreete personnel carrier, and took the time to scan his surroundings less than a bort before he heard a new sound drifting across the terrain. It was the unmistakable howls of a wolf pack, far off in the distant western slopes, south of his current position. They were moving fast down the mountain...the smell of blood calling them in for the feast.

Ron tried to put the thought of what was to come out of his mind. After all, it was the way of nature.

### Chapter Nine

### A Stranger in a Strange Land

While he scanned the forest's edge for a plan, Ron took just a split-second to decide what he needed to do to mask his trail away from that macabre scene. The boundary marking the end of the plain and the beginning of the great woods was so thick he couldn't see past the entanglement of this eastern face. The powerful influence of the sun's rays on the foliage allowed a mass of vines to completely engulf the lower branches of the outermost trees, forming a tightly laced net of plant life. He gripped one of the thickest vines and gave it a tug, testing its strength. A moment later, he was thirty feet up into the overhanging canopy.

Ron wormed his way into the interior of the tree, taking great care to not damage the barrier to a degree that could be detected from the grassy turf below. Shortly afterward, he crouched on a broad limb, enveloped in the cool shade of the protective greenery above and feeling much safer for being out of sight of any intruders, should they happen upon the area.

Ron soon found the density of this foreign, wooded land was such that the individual trees' limbs were tightly interwoven...so much so in fact that he could actually cross from one tree to the next fairly easily. Only every now and again did he need to use his formidable strength and excellent sense of balance towards some daring leaps to continue his journey.

He made his way in that manner for over a billot before he thought about dropping down to the forest floor to try his luck on the ground. At that time though, he discovered the slope of the hillside so steep it was far easier to stay where he was, so on he went, scrambling along like a squirrel. (And his mode of locomotion didn't escape him without an occasional thought of his similarity to a certain "Ape-Man")

Ron stopped before sunset to have a bite to eat and rest, listening to the sounds of the jungle surrounding him in every direction. Many of the noises were familiar, even though he knew they should not be...another of the strange adjustments he felt he would simply have to accept as part of his new persona. Most of the clamor was from the hundreds of birds that seemingly filled many of the spaces between the branches of the lower areas, but there were also numerous crawling and scampering critters barking and screeching at one another.

He finally rose to his feet to get moving again but another noise found its way to his ears through the nearby maelstrom, and that gave him pause. He made out an escalating roar rending its way to him from back towards the open grasslands. It sounded like a couple dozen animals brawling in a furious din of a feeding frenzy.

Ron knew that sound well, as the wolf packs were the same even in the land of Kaskle's birth. Those groups were feared by all but the most experienced woodsmen, and that distinction was only a minor one. The folks who lived in the wilderness were merely more apt to stay alert and avoid all, or at least most, of the situations which could lead to an encounter with those demons of the mountains.

The Caronian wolves were large canine animals, as big as St. Bernards on Earth, and since they roamed in great packs, sometimes as many as thirty animals in a group, no individual wanted a personal confrontation with them.

Ron shinnied up to the topmost reaches of the tree he was in, and could just make out the distant locale where that remarkable battle between the Kreete masters and their thrall had taken place. Four hundred feet below him, the beasts were indeed involved in a tremendous clash for the choicest parts of the deceased. The air above them was beginning to fill with vultures too, twenty of which Ron could see at that moment, each waiting patiently for their turn at the prize. As he watched, he half expected to see the tracker's young offspring jump into the commotion, even at such a young age, to defend its mother...but that did not occur.

He started to turn from the scene when a shadow swept across his position, and he heard the wind whip sharply. He immediately ducked and drew his ebony sword, poised for defense...but he was alone still. That realization peaked his curiosity instantly, causing him to search out what had just "buzzed" him, to verify his perch was yet secure. His eyes swept over the undulating greenery of the forest's canopy like a hawk inspecting a field for the twitch of a mouse. It wasn't difficult to spot his quarry either, due to the fact that the cause of his start was a giant, magnificent bird sweeping down the hillside, just ten feet off the treetops. It was the size of a light plane and glided the up-wash of hot air deftly.

He watched it closely...mesmerized by it...as it cleared the tree-line, streaked out across the open field, and snatched up one of the wolves like it was a field rat. The gigantic falcon lifted back into the air with a piercing cry announcing its kill eerily echoing up the forest covered terrain.

It was a ceatary; an enormous carnivorous bird that soared over the land from one end of the Taerdrasseg Mountains to the other and as far out into the lowlands as anyone has ever been. It resembled an oversize albatross in generality, but it sported a huge red fan on its skull which raised and lowered upon need...apparently for some degree of aerodynamic stability.

The wolf pack paused for the briefest of moments when one of their group was taken, searching the sky for more of the aerial predators, but it was a lone killer, so they went back to their original endeavor.

Before much more could happen though, the entire carnage came to an abrupt halt as a Kreete shuttlecraft rushed onto the scene, flying in low from the east. The newcomers blasted away at the air with ear-piercing sirens that sent the wolves scattering in all directions. It surprised Ron that they didn't start destroying the pack with their cannons, but he recalled his instruction in the ways of the Kreete. They were not allowed to use any weapons the inhabitants didn't have for enforcement of their dominance. They didn't need superior technology since they were a superior species. Ron smirked at the memory of the soldiers firing the plasma cannon at the tracker.

"I guess there is a limit to their bravery," he said to himself.

Ron watched them fan out to investigate the vicinity, and then decided to get moving again. He felt assured they would not be able to find his trail, and doubted they would even search for it since no one in their right mind would either aid a tracker animal or oppose the Kreete's military might. But he wanted to place as much distance between himself and that group as he could nonetheless.

He made his way back to the core of the tree and once again began weaving his body through the maze of branches, still heading uphill, as he had not yet reached the summit of the mountain.

It was a grueling journey, a test of strength and determination to keep up any kind of reasonable pace, yet he constantly urged himself on, resolute in his wish to rendezvous with Cache as soon as humanly possible.

By nightfall he'd crested the pinnacle of the lowland hills, and so decided to make that his stopping point. He was exhausted and famished, and the light slipping away behind the distant ridges cast a dark, almost sinister shadow into the next part of his journey...the adjacent valley...so he felt his move prudent.

Ron didn't feel fear at continuing since the night sky was a brightly lit one with both of Caron's moons at near full luminescence, but a night's rest could do him a world of good. And besides that, he had no reason yet to believe there was any real necessity for his pressing forward at a greater speed.

At the trunk of a huge old tree he found a pair of branches that were both broad enough and close together enough to serve a purpose for him, so he lowered himself to the ground on his winch cable.

The land was covered in a thick layer of leaves, but underneath that, the rocks and earth were very loose, and the steep grade was still present. That being the case, he searched for materials to build a makeshift bed while remaining tethered to the cable, which saved him a couple of times before he finished. In half a billot he was settled onto a rough platform of interlacing limbs woven across the fork of the tree branches and padded with leaves, where he sat comfortably for his supper.

Later, when he'd squelched his body's requirements of food and water, Ron laid back and relaxed, listening to the wild sounds that filled the starry air and planning the coming day. Of course this "plan" was rather basic, since he didn't truly know what to expect on the other side of the range, but it satisfied his mind.

The rendezvous point was in a town at the northern section of the territory he was in, but the road to it lay east of his position. He would simply continue eastward as quickly as he could, moving toward the north whenever the opportunity arose.

Before long Ron was stretched out prone, eyes closed, and drifting off in the gently swaying tree. He was a quick breath away from slumber when he heard the scream of a large cat as it attacked its prey in the shadowy night below. He didn't get the impression of familiarity he'd expected, but the beast was clearly far off and so he let go any worry that normally would have crept into his thoughts.

Following that one short delay, sleep quickly took a firm grip on his weary body.

Ron slept soundly all through the night and awoke to the dawn of a brilliant white sun searing the landscape with a rainbow of colors as the light bent and refracted around the huge planet. As he gazed at that sight he felt he couldn't possibly have found a more perfect place in which to fully appreciate the new day. The lowlands were shrouded in mist, and the spires of the mountains were peeking out through them like enormous green cones, shimmering and glistening once again in the dewy daybreak.

While taking a few moments to enjoy the awesome beauty of nature, Ron drank deeply from his water flask and sucked in the rich mountain air before he set about to his breakfast and the needs of the march. He was careful to disassemble the nest he'd built too, and thoroughly scatter the parts to it, always trying to cover his trail at every opportunity.

Before the sun was completely airborne, he was on his way down the northern face of the mountain. Here though, he often had to leap boldly for a handhold or use the cable winch to lower himself to the next point of safety, since the space between the trees was getting larger on that side of the summit.

Ron continued this practice for most of the morning, working his way slowly down the sloping grade until the ground under the canopy at last turned less precipitous and he could finally walk on firm soil once more. It was a relief to him to be able to stand again and not be in a constant risk of a nasty fall, but the thrill was gone too, and he missed that quickly, having thoroughly enjoyed the challenge.

The security of the turf was a mixed blessing though because the wind didn't make it down that far with any real life left in it, and the day promised to be a warm one. The moisture of the forest didn't help Ron's comfort level either as it felt like a steam room while he marched forward to the east, following this ridge's outward push in that direction.

He consciously shrugged off the heat's burden though, since he would much prefer it to the bone-rattling freezer he'd been through only a few days prior.

Ron made his way at a good pace, eating up ground and putting more and more distance between himself and the open grassland. He checked his trail numerous times, ever guarded for followers, but saw nothing to raise his concern, so his journey remained peaceful for the next two days.

He left the steeper mountains in his wake after one more brush with the higher elevations, and entered a region that was more hilly than sheer. This was a grand, fertile valley...the one where he was to make first contact with the Caronians...but the city he and Cache had targeted to rendezvous lay many days farther to the north and he wondered at what interacting with the natives might stir up.

As the elevation dropped again, Ron traveled down a long slope, enjoying the wilderness and all its wonders. His day's plan was to continue downward and try to find a town by the following evening...that is, until he reached a strong flowing stream that he couldn't ignore.

He replenished his water supply, splashing his face and head with the clear, cold water, and was completely at ease. In the solace of the mountains it was as if he was the only being on the face of the planet, and intentionally entering the realm of men gave him pause.

The pettiness, deceit, and downright evil of men always weighed heavily on his mind. He could easily distinguish a conflict building inside him, and would have to sorted it out over time. Ron had reviewed Cache's dossier on Kaskle Dangarth and understood the man fairly well, having some of his personality tendencies as well. The mountain clansman never cared for the high level of guard he must place on his person, his views, his choice of words, and almost anything having to do with "civilized" men. He was seldom willing to trust in another's honesty...and after the experiences he'd survived, Ron knew why.

Perhaps due to those feelings, or merely on a whim, Ron elected to detour his trek a bit, and so he followed the stream northeastward for another billot before stopping for lunch. The spot was of particular beauty, at the edge of a sheer drop, above a picturesque setting with a large catch-pool that lay at the base of a fifty-foot high waterfall.

He scanned the rocky bottom, finding it was devoid of trees for almost a hundred feet in all directions, and that view lent to a long, relaxing mealtime. He lounged lazily, sprawled out against the base of a wide hulk of a tree which had been struck by lightning in the recent past and now stood full in limb yet bare of leaves and bark.

Ron finally had to order himself to get up and get moving again after realizing he was just watching the day go by. He'd almost convinced himself that he'd earned a brief reprieve from his commitments and could afford to waist the time...but not quite.

Regaining his feet, he leaned over to retrieve his backpack, and then froze in mid-motion. Barely a hundred peors away, a man strode out of the wooded land at the bottom of the falls and approached the pool's edge. Ron slowly crouched down out of sight of the newcomer and observed him, his fingers checking each of his weapons silently.

The foreigner wore long animal-hide trousers that fit him closely, and instead of a shirt, he had a vest of the same material as the pants...looking much like what Ron pictured a nineteenth century mountain-man might wear. He had a bushy black beard and long black hair which he tied back securely with a narrow band...to keep it from hindering his vision, Ron guessed. His tall boots were dark and heavy, and nearly up to his knees...excellent protection from the brambles of the forest. And along with that he had a large pack slung over his right shoulder which bulged across his back. It too was made from the dark brown skin of some beast. He carried in his left hand a longbow and had what looked like a broadsword dangling from his left hip, as well as a shortened version of a spear. That spear was perhaps five feet long and metal tipped, secured vertically to his back.

Ron ducked down even further and watched as the man cautiously surveyed the area before he dropped his pack to the rocks and began rummaging through it. The fellow pulled out a metal bowl and then a pouch containing some soft or powdered material by the way it moved inside. He casually scooped up some water from the stream with the bowl, and then added the material. Setting that aside, he gathered an armload of small branches that were scattered about the rocky ground and quickly built himself a fire using what must have been a flint-like stone to start it up. In a few short borts, the woodsman was heating up the liquid concoction over the small fire using only the materials that lay within ten steps from his location...shards of rock and the like, for the bowl's support.

When that was going well, the man sat down and began undressing, especially alert to the surrounding woods, for any danger. He'd placed his bow and spear near the edge of the water, as well as his unsheathed sword...a noteworthy precaution Ron thought. As soon as he was stripped, he plunged off into the deepest part of the pool that was eroded at the base of the waterfall and began his bathing.

Ron had a notion at that point to make his way from this place quietly, knowing there was no way the man would possibly be able to hear him leave with the roar of the falling water so nearby. But he hesitated just the same.

His mission would eventually force him into direct contact with the local populace, so at some point he would have to step out and make himself known to the people who lived in the area...so why not now? Here was a single individual who clearly liked the quiet of the wilderness and was at home there, much like himself. He was also someone who might be able to give him valuable information about the land that lay between here and Shavore, his objective city.

After a bort of weighing his options, Ron decided he would meet the bathing fellow and moved off to the right, looking for an easy way down. He found it a small distance away.

An eon of time and the unrelenting influence of water had made a rough stairway down to the lower area by the countless years of wearing and breaking of stone. It was steep and jagged, but Ron had little difficulty navigating his way silently to the bottom. The bather was out of his line of sight the whole time because of an outcropping of rock on that side of the falls, and so was extremely surprised when Ron stepped into his little camp.

He immediately glanced at his weapons, only arm's length away, but Ron threw up his hands, palms out, in an attempt to calm him.

"Hold, friend!" Ron said to the naked man, shouting above the sound of the water. "I mean you no ill will. I would like to visit with you for a bit, that's all."

Ron stood as still as he could while the man considered the situation, but also, Ron hadn't drifted too far from the protection of the rock outcrop, just in case things got anxious.

The wading fellow stood up abruptly, having moved to a shallow section of the swimming hole by then, and his eyes darted about the clearing for others. He took a half step closer to his camp...and then he locked his gaze with Ron's...pondering this odd intruder.

Ron had caught him at his most defenseless state, yet made no move to use that fact against him. The bather reasoned if he was a thief, or meant some mischief, surely he would have a drawn weapon trained on him by now. It was very peculiar. The woodsman had never been caught in such a compromising predicament before though, and was obviously uncomfortable about it.

"If you are indeed a peaceable sort, then kindly turn around so I might be able to make myself less exposed," the woodsman shouted back to Ron.

Ron smiled broadly at that request.

"Now, if I were to do as you wish," Ron responded, "that could be considered rather foolish, don't you agree, since I don't know you or what your intentions might be toward me."

The bather smiled back. "Well, at least you are honest enough...and not completely stupid!"

The fellow then climbed out of the pool without further delay and shook himself off as well as he could, wringing out his shoulder-blade-length hair onto the hot rocks. Then he sat on a large, low stone next to his fire, tending it to keep the heat up. The contents of the bowl were steaming by that time, so he scooped up a piece of woven cloth and, wrapping it around the hot metal container, withdrew it from over the fire. He swirled it around for a bit, and then sipped it gingerly.

"Aaahh!" he let out, obviously impressed with the liquid. He then carried on for a while as if Ron was not there...possibly showing he could be trusted as well.

The woodsman looked down and snatched up a thin, wide, flat rock he'd found while gathering sticks, and placed it where the bowl had been. Then, digging through his pack again, he produced a small amount of dried meat and quickly dunked it into the brew and slapped it on the homemade griddle. By the time he was halfway through the liquid, he had a hot piece of moist meat to go with it.

He continued with his meal as if there wasn't another creature within a hoz of him, sitting there in the hot sun, bared to the world and basking in the glory of nature. When he was finished, he cleaned the bowl thoroughly and placed it back into his pack. He filled his good-sized water flask from the crystal clear stream and placed that with the pack as well. Next, he laced shut that bulging pouch and set it on the rock he'd been resting on before turning to the task of getting dressed again, since, by then, he was dried off thoroughly.

When he had his trousers on once more, he turned to Ron, who still stood exactly where he'd first announced himself, and spoke.

"Stranger, you are an odd one! These parts are pretty remote, and to run into another talking being is rather unlikely, unless that being might be stalking the other. What brings you out to this wild land? Did you know it's crawling with Yetsole cats?"

"I don't even know what a Yetsole cat is," Ron told him, still maintaining his position. "Although I think I heard one last night before I slept. I came from over the great mountains," he concluded, pointing off in a slightly different direction from where the Darlile lay dormant.

The woodsman looked to where Ron indicated and then back at him. "You came from over the high mountains?" he asked, sounding skeptical.

"Yes."

"Wearing only that?" the fellow asked as he slipped on his high boots.

"Well, no," Ron replied, recalling the special winter gear which had made it possible for him to have survived the icy trek. "When I reached the warmth of these woods, I left the heavy gear behind. I won't be needing it down here in the low country, and I have no intention of going back."

"Why is that?" asked the woodsman, now once again fully clothed. "You running away from some sort of trouble?"

"Let's just say I'd like to leave that life behind me and start fresh in this new land. I'm making for a place called Shavore, do you know it?"

The man took a moment to answer, still sizing Ron up.

"Yes, I know it," he replied, pointing off to the northeast. "On foot, it is a santari's journey in that direction." He paused a moment as if contemplating something. "But tell me," he continued, "if you came across the mountains, how is it you know of Shavore? I've never heard of anyone living through the journey over and back from that side of the range. And since those icy peaks go on forever in both directions, and it's widely believed the air up there is too thin to breathe, no one here has any knowledge of that land. Many will find your claim to be a bit of a stretch."

"And what do you think?" Ron asked.

He gazed at Ron a while longer.

"I'll reserve my judgment for now. Come...sit and we'll talk a while."

Ron stepped forward without hesitation, but kept his eyes on the stranger constantly. He walked over to the man and extended his hand.

The woodsman was a couple inches taller than Ron and looked a little like a bear, so wide and thick was he. Too, his straight black hair now hung about his bearded face giving him a wild, untamed appearance. His face was especially unnerving to Ron with his eyes blacked out as they were from his natural eye protection...just as Ron's were, and every other Caronian male's were while in the glare of the white star's brilliance. The animal skin he wore was thin and light, excellent for the hot climate, but still good protection in the thickets. That garment was adorned with many beads across the chest area and had a picture of a cat head, which looked very much like a black leopard, stitched into the left breast area of his vest.

At length, the man didn't respond in fashion. Instead, he looked at Ron and at his hand and then scratched his head.

Ron withdrew his attempt at a handshake and sat on a nearby boulder, a step away from the man.

"My name is Ronald Allison of a land called Earth. I go by 'Ron'."

The fellow's expression turned blank for several litas, as if Ron had said something completely outlandish. Finally though, he broke his trance-like pose.

"I'm Roelantish of the Chavarre...but everyone calls me Roe. With names as close as ours, maybe we were destined to meet, eh? But you are indeed from some strange place, no doubt, and you have some strange ways."

"What do you mean?" Ron probed; realizing that understanding the customs of these people would be crucial to the success of his mission.

"Well, most people out here in the vastness of the wild country wouldn't approach another as you did without being properly armed, even if they weren't going to rob or threaten the stranger," Roe instructed. He suddenly drew his sword in a flash and pressed it against Ron's throat. "You never know who you are dealing with out here...yes?"

### Chapter Ten

### Friend or Foe

"I see," Ron replied, staring into the big man's eyes intently. He'd taken a gamble on this mountain brute, and meant to go all the way with it. There was something in his manner that gave Ron no call for alarm, even when he went for his sword, which Ron knew he could have prevented. However, Ron took note that Roe was incredibly quick for his size, and seemed skilled at the use of the weapon.

"I will have to remember that next time," Ron said to him calmly.

Roe stared at him again, his expression of surprise and puzzlement clear on his grizzly face.

"Hah!" cried the large fellow in delight as he withdrew the blade and began a haughty laugh. "Yes indeed, stranger! You are one peculiar find!"

Ron joined him in his mirth, guessing he'd passed some test of nerve the man had set.

"What else shows I'm not of this area, as I surely wouldn't want to stand out too much," Ron pursued.

"Your greeting is a bit forward, I'd say," Roe explained. "No one in their right mind would extend their sword hand to a stranger, allowing themselves no defense. These times are hard, and only the folks who can prove themselves worthy to survive will do so."

"Why then didn't you take my life just now?" Ron asked. "I put up no defense."

"I don't rightly know," the man responded, giving Ron the once-over while his fingers sunk into his beard to scratch his wide jaw. "There's something about you that intrigues me I suppose."

Ron shrugged his round shoulders. "Then I guess I should be grateful for that."

Roe was still studying the smaller man sitting across from him as calm as if they'd been friends for years. "This guy has a keen eye and good judgment with people...and he's not as defenseless as he would let on," he thought.

"What have you got in that tiny little pouch that would allow you such a fantastic journey as you've undoubtedly set your mind to?" Roe asked of Ron.

"Oh, just some dried foods and water, medical items and such. I had to travel light so I could make good speed. You can't be lazy up in the icy peaks, or you stay there for permanent. Plus, as I've mentioned, I had much more to carry before I shed it up in the high country. In fact, I'll have to start looking for some meat soon, as I find myself running short on that sort of thing."

Ron really had plenty of the concentrated staples from the Raulden's extraordinary stores...enough to make it another week before he truly had to start thinking about food...but he saw an opportunity to continue the conversation."

"What do you plan on using to get the job done?" Roe asked. "I don't see any traps or snares, or even a man's bow. Are you going to use that little thing?" he inquired about Ron's recurve style weapon still lashed to his back.

"Actually, yes," Ron replied with a grin, retrieving it from its secured position and handing it to Roe. It was not strung.

Roelantish took the item and studied it closely.

"It's so small...and light," he commented after a moment. "What can you possibly bring down with this child's toy? Not an animal that could be used for real meat, surely. Maybe some scurrying critter, or a slow bird, eh?"

It was Ron's turn to laugh now, as he recalled his first encounter with the bow the Rauldens had provided him, and how deeply the arrows penetrated the hard-rubber target.

"I can do fairly well with it," Ron finally said. "It does much better than you might imagine. Here, try it for yourself."

Ron fished out the string and tossed it to the larger man.

Roe scoffed at the weapon which was barely half the length of his mighty longbow, but he took the string and fastened one end of it to the bottom notch of the bow as a courtesy. He then straddled the device in order to bend it into the shape necessary to attach the upper loop, but when he pushed down on the upper limb, his eyes went wide. The bow did not give in to his pressure as he'd expected. He quickly repositioned himself and shot Ron a sidelong look as he pressed once more on the small weapon. It gave in to his weight at first, and then would yield no more. He was still over two inches short from what he needed.

Roe let up again, and lifted the curved piece of wood once more. He examined it very closely, weighing it in his grip and following its apparent grain pattern from one end to the other. Then he placed it for a third time between his legs and heaved down on it with all his strength and weight combined. He strained for over thirty litas, vibrating and grunting out loud before he finally let up with an angry curse...sweat dripping off his brow from the exertion. He'd only managed to come to within an inch of what was required.

Ron had watched him intently, smiling all the while. He knew exactly what it took to bend that superb instrument into shape, and he found it amusing to watch the experienced and, no doubt powerful, woodsman be humbled by it.

"You use this weapon?" Roe asked in an almost demanding tone.

Ron just smiled and nodded.

Roe scooped up some dirt and patted it in his hands, trying to gain a bit more gripping power, and then he slipped the bow into position for the fourth time. He braced himself as firmly as he could and breathed deeply...then he attacked the device as if it was a hated foe. The bow bent quickly down and held, barely a hair's width away from his goal. Roe saw how close he was and refused to be denied, reaching down for just another tiny surge of strength...and then the loop popped into the groove at last.

The big man let out such a huge sigh that Ron chuckled as he collapsed to the ground, his furry beard dripping with sweat. He lay there panting for a while before regaining his composure and regarding Ron yet again.

"What tree bore such wood?" Roe demanded of Ron.

"I don't know," Ron replied lightly. "It was a gift of a master craftsman from my home country, and he would offer no such secrets."

"And what type of animal did this cord come from, that it can stand such pressure?"

Ron just raised his shoulders and shook his head.

Roe was a bit perturbed at the lack of answers, but he got to his feet and gripped the bow, pulling back on it hard. He promptly found he could not pull it to full draw.

"Heavens above me!" he shouted, totally bewildered by the weapon. He'd never in his life found such a device...one that he could not wield. He finally gave up on the bow and tossed it back to Ron...hard.

"Can you really use that thing?"

"Of course," Ron retorted, getting to his feet.

The two men stepped away from the camp and Roe watched Ron carefully, still doubting that anyone could handle a weapon he could not.

"There!" Roe said, indicating a tree stump which stood four feet tall and was roughly sixty yards away. "Show me."

Ron was pleased that he had this simple test with which to gain the big man's admiration, so he didn't hesitate. He withdrew one of the black arrows, nocked it up, and then reached out to trigger the device to keep the razor edged blades from sprouting. He intended to stop their designed purpose of expanding inside the target to make it much easier to recover the arrow from the stump afterward...but he didn't get the chance.

At that instant an ear-piercing scream ripped through the sound of the falling water and shattered the peaceful surroundings with its terrible reverberations. It was very high pitched and almost painful in its intensity, but Ron instantly understood that it came from several locations.

Both men's heads whipped around simultaneously and sought out the points of origin of that cry. They quickly realized it was not a single assailant challenging them for a fight, but three!

Three Yetsole cats sprang from the woods, each separated by about forty yards, practically surrounding the men in an arc that pinned them against the rocky cliff at their backs and the shallow stream to their left. If the men were foolish enough to chance the water for an escape route, they would have found out the cats were exceptional swimmers. It was a superb ambush.

The three cats were perfectly coordinated in midair, bursting from their cover with a thirty-foot leap. They were chocolate brown in color, but reminded Ron of the black panthers from South America he'd seen in a zoo, although these were easily three times their size.

Ron didn't blink, but instead wheeled around to the nearest animal and drew back on the bow. There was a quiet "thwang", and then a resounding thud as the dark missile slammed into the large cat's chest...but it kept coming.

The huge animal made one more bound toward the two men but Ron was already pulling back again on the powerful weapon, and for a second time came the sound of the cord vibrating to a stop. The big cat went down writhing with the impact of that arrow, its horrible blades doing too much damage to ignore as they tore through the creature's insides. Ron was satisfied that at least one threat was gone, but that thought lasted only a fleeting lita since there wasn't enough time for another shot as the two other beasts screamed again and were upon them.

Roelantish also reacted with no hesitation. Fear was of no use to him and so not allowed into his thoughts as his sword leaped from its scabbard while he slipped a few feet over to his personal items.

That separation forced the animals to split their attack, and as one of the beasts charged, the Chavarre warrior jumped to the side and slashed out at his foe. He escaped its claws by a hair's width, raking it down its left side with his sword, feeling each of the animal's ribs catch against the edge of his weapon. He rolled nimbly and came up with his iron tipped spear at the ready as the animal stopped and whirled about, blood streaming from its side.

To Roe's right, the bow was cast aside and the ebony sword was sliding from its mooring when Ron's second attacker leaped high for his throat. To retreat would have been pure folly and exactly what the beast expected, and so he dove forward and down, but left the point of the sable blade straight up. All ten of his steely fingers gripped the hilt of that fantastic weapon when the mass of the beast impacted with it. Only his immense strength kept the sword from being torn from his grip as it was pulled at hard by the tough hide of the huge cat. Ron ducked his head and slammed against the ground as the shadow of the panther flashed overhead in a blink.

His desperate move might have left him vulnerable to a concerted effort of the two felines, but their separate targets split such a dominant pairing...to his good fortune. As for this single foe, he felt the tip of his razor-edged blade grating against the creature's backbone as it gutted the animal cleanly down the middle from throat to groin, so he knew he was safe from it.

The cat struck the rocky ground behind Ron and quivered for a short time, as the nearby rocks turned crimson from the creature's ghastly wound.

Ron popped up and pivoted sharply to aid Roe, one of his long throwing knives held high in the air, ready for the toss, but found the bearded fellow standing over the third beast as it lay at his feet. Roe's spear skewered the cat's thick neck, and his sword was buried to the hilt in the animal's chest. He'd made an outstanding throw in the instant of time he was given as it turned to charge.

The smell of blood on hot stone and the adrenaline spike in Ron's system sent his primal self racing for control. With his knife in one hand and the black sword in the other, still dripping the cat's life fluid, he tilted his head to the sky and gulped in a great breath of air. Without hesitation, he expelled that breath in the typical ancient, primordial, bestial fashion of Kaskle's mountain people brethren. Ron's victory cry burst from him and out into the wild land like a cannon blast...drawing every creature's immediate attention, and their silence.

A new predator now walked these hills...and he dared all others to stop him!

Roe stood to the side, staring at the ferocious beast-man he'd just fought next to. Gooseflesh jumped to attention on his skin, and he had the urge to regain his weapons fast...in case this maniac of seething fury might turn on him...but that quickly passed.

Ron's battle-raging form scanned his surroundings quickly and looked right through Roe, searching out foes of a different sort. But when the woods stood quiet, the calm, peaceful man who'd entered Roe's camp returned, as did his more placid demeanor.

The two warriors checked the edge of the woods once more for signs of any further attacks, and then regarded each other.

"That was exciting," Ron said to his comrade sarcastically, his heart still racing wildly...not even realizing the affect his primal reaction had on Roe. It felt so natural to him here in this forest that he didn't give it any thought. He was who he was!

"Yes," was all Roe replied as he studied the scene...and his partner...his own chest heaving from the short, albeit exhilarating fight.

Seeing the evidence of the two arrows that had disappeared into the first cat, and the near subdivision of the second, he looked long and hard at Ron...who still held the long throwing knife and sword in his hands.

"And I thought you were a bit mad to have entered my camp unarmed," he said bluntly. "I know the error of my quick judgment now," waving his hand across the grisly work Ron had accomplished. "You are indeed as well armed as you need be, eh stranger?"

Ron simply slipped the knife back into its sheath and cleaned his sword in the nearby stream. He felt no need to give any explanation.

"Rarely have I heard of these creatures hunting in pairs, even less in the daylight, and never in threes, and so now I have to admit one absolute fact my fine friend. It would appear that you have just saved my life, as I would most assuredly be their meal right now if you hadn't come along...so I thank you, Ronald Allison of Earth."

"I too must thank you for a similar act, with no misgivings, since I doubt I could have dispatched that one in time to save my own skin had you not been here. So I return the thanks to you, Roelantish of the Chavarre."

Roe strode over to Ron then and extended his hand, as Ron had done earlier.

"We are brothers from this day forward!" Roe exclaimed, grasping Ron's hand firmly and then pulling him to his chest for a huge bear hug. Then the two of them laughed outrageously at the good fortune of still drawing air into their living bodies.

After a short period of reliving the attack, Ron turned to Roelantish.

"What can we do with them? Should we take what meat we can carry and just let the wolves have them?"

Roe looked at his new friend and shook his head.

"You really aren't from anywhere around here are you?" Roe exclaimed. "You don't know how rare it is to kill one of these beasts?"

Ron had to admit that he did not.

"If a man can bring down one of these animals in a single cycle, he's extraordinarily lucky. They are cunning killers, as you have just witnessed by that well-coordinated attack, and most times the hunter ends up as the animals' trophy, instead of the other way around. Trust me when I say that these three pelts will make you rich. The Lords of the territory will be happy to reward you handsomely for them."

"Me?" Ron asked, surprised. "Aren't you going to at least share this good fortune with me?"

"You will need much if you are to travel all the way to Shavore, and I have no need for such wealth," Roe proclaimed. "I have everything I need already, and it would give me great pleasure if you would accept this beast as my gift to you for the gift you have given me here today."

"And just what have I provided you with that you should be so generous?" Ron asked.

"I've known you only a short few billots," Roe said softly, "but I know that in you I have found a true friend and companion of the wilds. It's rare that I have ever been surprised by any other person, and yet I find you both surprise and impress me, and I consider that the best gift a man could ask for."

They clasped hands once again before moving past all the emotional outlay and setting about their work.

The two men spent the rest of the day preparing the deceased cats for their use. The beasts were big, nearly half again as long as a man was tall and weighing as much as a good-sized horse. They were very lethal adversaries too, no doubt about that, having claws as long as Ron's fingers, and canine teeth that were equally inspiring. Their jaws could crush even the large bones of their prey, and there was absolutely nothing they feared in battle. Ron could think of only one other animal that sounded as fierce while Roe shared all of his knowledge of the beasts and some of his experiences.

The woodsmen began by skinning the three animals and stretching out their hides to dry. Then they removed the claws, teeth, and certain organs which Roe explained as being valuable, and cleaned and dried them appropriately.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, the two newly bonded comrades were enjoying a large steak from the choicest part of one of the cats. Ron provided some of the dried bread wafers he had and Roe added some spices and more of that liquid mixture he'd brewed up earlier. It turned out to be a cross between coffee and cocoa, but had no bitterness to it whatsoever, so Ron enjoyed it very much.

They built up a blazing fire and sat around it for a long while, talking and laughing about different adventures Roelantish had survived. Ron chose not to share any of his own stories, pleading a sinfully dull existence until now as an explanation of his lack of material to entertain Roe, but heartily encouraged the Chavarre inhabitant to spin his own yarns.

They didn't fear the wolves that night either, due to the wilderness savvy Roe possessed. He retrieved the scent glands from the big cats and used some of the acrid liquid to spray around the perimeter of the clearing.

"No wolf will come within a hoz of the perimeter of this scent!" he announced as he went about his business. "The dogs know their limits, and even in their large numbers they won't wish a confrontation with these creatures. Unless driven to the brink of desperation by starvation, they will avoid the big cats at all cost."

The men stayed up late and Ron listened carefully to all Roelantish had to say about the ways of life of the inhabitants, of the towns and villages, and even the cities that he'd spent time in. It was much like the information he studied back on Rauld in preparation for the mission, and it seemed relatively familiar to him now...except for the human to human interactions Roe explained.

The Kreete showed their largest presence in the bigger cities and as the population of the villages and towns diminished, moving out away from the urban throng, so did the numbers of the Triad. In fact, many people actually tried to migrate away from the cities in the early generations of the Kreete rule, but that failed quickly. The invaders made a point about patrolling, or assigning patrols to all the outlying areas often enough to manage or control such shifts, and monitor the actions of the indigenous peoples. They apparently used mostly natives for this particular duty...it not being completely justifiable to warrant firsthand Kreete oversight. The lure of power and wealth drew out exactly the kinds of people they needed for that type of calling, and with the backing of the Lords, many of those men made their own laws. Their only requirement was that they keep the peace and provide the Kreete with what they wanted, which varied from time to time.

As their differing needs arose, the Lords of each realm would take a sample of men and women from each of the towns and march them off to be slaves. The men mostly ended up in one of the many mining operations the Kreete had established for the raw materials they used to keep up their powerful warships. Or perhaps they were sent to tend the requirements of their high officials in the form of manual labor, construction of buildings and roads, reaping of crops, and other similar duties. Some were even sent to the training facilities for the "Games". Wherever they eventually arrived, they were only supposed to be in the Kreete's service for seven years, but only rarely did an individual ever return from any of these places...and they were never the same as when they left.

The women were carried to likewise destinations but under wholly different intentions. They were used as servants, either menial laborers or as pleasure slaves...or as breeders for the Kreete. The Triad's members had a great lust for the most beautiful of the Caronian women. And since the Lords' offspring were genetically mutated after birth, the mother's origin was of no consequence, although the heavy gravity of this planet was a great asset to the enhancement of their baseline genetic pool.

Ron of course knew much of this already, but it still sickened him to think about what that vile race was doing to these people.

Once during Roe's instruction, the great brute even alluded to a frightening revelation. "You know," he began, "there is a story of a great warrior from a distant place who was only a man but who is believed to have killed twenty Kreete soldiers in fair combat. And half of them were dispatched with his bare hands. What do you say to that?"

Ron tried to give no weight to the statement, and brushed it off as a wishful fairy-tale.

"It is said that this man is here now," Roe went on, "possibly in these very lands, and that he intends to join with our rebellious forces to try and put a stop to the rule of the Kreete Triad on Caron. They say he is as fierce as a mountain beast and as strong as the most powerful of the Triad's athletes. Too, he has brought some otherworld magic to destroy the Kreete's mighty ships and weapons that light up the sky and incinerate whole towns."

Ron said nothing, but watched his companion carefully, trying to understand what he was getting at. After a long pause, Ron broke out in laughter.

"And I suppose he can fly and shoot fire out of his mouth as well!" Ron roared, slapping Roelantish hard on the shoulder.

Roe laughed heartily with him and did not bring that subject up again.

After a few billots of conversation passed, the two men finally succumbed to the night's pull and adjourned to the sleeping mats they'd constructed for themselves. Ron lay down prone with his cloak draped across him to stem the dewy onslaught that was to come and was asleep after one long sigh. Roe did much the same, but it was animal hide he used for cover instead of cloth.

The night was alive with a thousand sounds from hundreds of animals, and what most people would consider a frightful racket was as calming as a lover's caress to those fearless men of the treacherous mountains. Their slumber was deep and unbroken.

Over the next few days, while the skins cured out, the two men talked and hunted together and carried on like old schoolmates. Then, as the third morning broke with a glorious beginning, Ron and Roelantish finished their preparations with the hides. By using the dry mountain air and the heat of the sun to hurry the job along, their task was finally complete...and by then Ron was a little eager to be moving on again.

In the early afternoon, they'd packed up and were making their way down the sloped ground toward the nearest junction of a major road that would lead Ron to the next phase of his journey, and ultimately to his final destination.

They spent the following two days walking and talking more about everything from what routes to avoid, to the best way to cook up a particular animal. They even sparred with their swords at times, each wanting to remain proficient in the use of such devices of survival. Ron showed his new friend a few tricks to aid him in his swordplay after Roe found out the smaller man was even better with a sword than he was with a bow and arrow.

Roe in turn supplied Ron with as much information as he could about the undulating land between where they were and the faraway city of Shavore. He even offered to travel with Ron to the city, but his homeland was in the opposite direction and Ron would not have him away from his beloved hills for so long a period.

When it came time for them to part, the scene grew tense and emotional, each feeling he was losing a real blood-related sibling, so fond were they of each other's company. Roe finally broke the silence.

"Remember what I have told you, my friend. The roads are full of thugs and bandits, and no one is to be trusted until you are sure of them...and the news of someone like you will be hard to keep a secret.

"There will be much danger on your journey, I'm afraid, so be as cautious as you can."

"I will," Ron replied, grasping the man's large hand in his and shaking it firmly. He wondered what exactly Roe was getting at. "We will meet again, Roelantish of the Chavarre. I feel it in my heart. Take care, friend."

The two warriors then turned their backs and strode away, Ron heading north and Roelantish to the south, each wanting the other to change his mind and not break up the tightly bonded partnership they'd so recently formed.

### Chapter Eleven

### The Road

Ron marched off briskly down the wide, well-kept road as it dipped and climbed over the rolling terrain. The hard-packed ground was open to the cerulean sky above, and lined much of the time with the dense foliage of the encroaching forest. It was quite picturesque and Ron's spirits were high as he made excellent time, grinding out hoz after hoz without a thought to what problem, or danger, might lie ahead. Whenever he caught the sign or sound of another traveler, or group of the same, he would slip silently into the wooded land and allow them unfettered passage.

Every now and again during that first day, he permitted himself some time to just let go of all the "what ifs" and enjoy the moment. He even jogged for a while, trying to keep his body as fit as he could. Too, the exercise helped him adapt as quickly as possible to the increased humidity and temperature of the lower altitude's climate...as well as the affects it would have on his internal systems.

When he stopped for his evening supper that night he'd put many hoz behind him and felt more on track of his intended goal than he had in the many days since leaving Rauld.

The road, even though it was well groomed and strictly maintained, didn't have a great deal of traffic, or at least he hadn't seen much of it just yet, and he wondered about that for a short time. However, he didn't dwell on the fact too long because, according to Roelantish, this was a trade route between farming communities which were very far apart. These remote settlements were sporadically patrolled and much less occupied than the segments closer in to the "civilized" areas.

To make his camp, Ron moved downwind off the hard packed turf to a spot that was a fair distance away...not wanting anyone to be aware of his presence without his first knowing of theirs. He made his way gingerly through the darkening shadows of the forest as dusk drew its gloomy veil across the land, until he came to a good-sized hollow that was somewhat open. He maneuvered himself into the depression in such a way that a small campfire could be built yet not detected by any passersby. He then set up such a fire and arranged his sleeping accommodations to suit his needs.

In short order, he was sitting beside the fire and roasting some of the dried steak he was packing. It wasn't as good as when Roelantish cooked, and he carried none of the wonderful drink to go with it, but is was palatable and a good diversion from the emergency rations he had.

Ron finished his meal and then snuffed out the fire before he lay on his back and stared up at a sky full of strange stars, wondering briefly if he would ever feel completely comfortable with his surroundings again.

Rauld was like a great resort, full of wonderful, safe, relaxing distractions, but lacking the challenge that made each day worth exploring and investigating. This world...Caron...had a familiar feel to it, undoubtedly because of Kaskle's influence on his memories, but it was still foreign to the mind Ron lived with each day. He constantly felt in a state of déjà vu, but couldn't quite remember why.

He pondered those things as sleep drifted firmly in on him, and then dreamed fitfully about being lost and unable to find his objective, or Cache. Those repeating nightmares disturbed him so much that he jerked awake several times during the night with an increasing sense of dread and finally ended up breaking camp before daylight, agitated and worried.

Ron started on his trek as the dawn brought clouds with it to make the coming day a dreary one. He donned his long cloak against the approaching weather, stretching it over the two packs strapped to him, and ended up looking very awkward indeed...like a giant hunchback.

He tried to convince himself the change in the weather was the reason he felt so disheartened and that was why those dreams had troubled him so much, but they nagged at his subconscious all the same. Finally, in an effort to break the mood, he resigned himself to the one fact of a promising perspective; at least he could keep up a good pace. Even as the rain began to pelt down on his cloaked form trudging onward through the mud, he slowed not a bit.

The hoz drifted away once more in good order, but this time Ron had no distractions whatsoever and soon found his thoughts wandering back to the night's hidden messages...or were they nothing more than indigestion? He couldn't be sure, either way.

Whatever they were though, the constant mulling over of them coaxed Ron into a foul disposition as he sat down to have his noontime meal...cold, dried jerky. It wasn't really that bad if the circumstances had been different, but as it was he just ground up the meat and felt the darkness of his emotions drift even deeper...despondent and menacing.

Ron was on his feet again before long. He repositioned the large bundle that held the furs to sit up high on his back for better balance, and was soon running along at a fast clip. He even pushed himself a little extra, trying to rid himself of the nervous energy he felt might be overwhelming his thoughts.

It was rare that he'd ever felt as bitter and angry as he did now, and he could only imagine the source of it...those dreams. He was getting a vivid sense of urgency and worry about Cache, as if she were in real, mortal danger...a trap, like when she visited Caron before, only...he couldn't justify his feelings.

Billots came and went with the rain falling in sheets...and still he ran. A dozen and more hoz slipped past as the weather turned the forest to a gray blur...and still he ran. The torrent at last came to an end and the sunshine broke through the clouds...and still he ran. He was having no trouble at all with the gravity affecting his body. He was a machine...and on he ran.

Distance, time, mud, heat...he was oblivious to it all, until...

Ron crested a good-sized hill and was on top of a caravan so quickly that he nearly ran into the back of the rear wagon. He skidded to a stop in the slippery road and only then did he notice the inch deep tracks the wagons were leaving in their wake. He jerked out of his trance-like state and pulled aside to go around the huge cart, dropping his speed to a fast walk to avoid the appearance of an aggressor. He was breathing deeply and sweating profusely from the intensive exertions of the afternoon, and should have welcomed the rest, yet he still felt annoyed at the break in his rhythm.

The caravan turned out to be two overloaded wagons, filled with an apple-like produce. They were hooked together and pulled by four enormous animals, denkas, Ron recalled from his lessons.

Denkas were draft animals like oxen, only twice the size and hornless. They had an interesting wide, flat plate of hardened cartilage which encircled their necks to prevent predators from attacking their throats, and they were immensely powerful, as was needed to tow the load which they now drew.

The wagons were easily twenty feet long and half that wide, and had five-foot-high sides. The wheels alone stood eight feet tall and were six inches in width, edged with a thick band of metal. The produce was heaped up so high that even the cover was being utilized to hold it from spilling over.

The huge hoofed beasts' plodding steps and the continuous creaking of the wooden wagons had easily hidden Ron's approach from behind, but he recalled what Roe had warned him about strangers.

In an effort to avoid any misunderstandings he moved over to the opposite side of the road and strolled forward, trying to be as nonthreatening as he could. He noted the lead cart had the only passengers, so he called up to the driver who was a good seven feet off the ground and announced himself.

"Good day to you!" he shouted out in a forced feign at cheerfulness.

The driver turned quickly, completely taken unawares, and Ron was surprised to find that it was a woman in control of the gigantic load. She had long, chestnut colored hair that flowed across her shoulders and down the front of her short-sleeved, light blue dress. Her bright green eyes flew wide and she quickly looked to her partner...another woman whom Ron immediately guessed could only be her sibling, so alike were they. The passenger snapped into motion and leaped to her feet with a crossbow leveled in Ron's direction. Her hair was as black as pitch, slightly longer than the driver's, and her green eyes practically radiated fire.

"What do you want?" demanded the woman with the weapon.

She was young and Ron hoped not too impetuous.

"I want nothing other than to pass," Ron called back to them, "imperforated preferably. The road is wide and I will be gone quickly, so fear not."

"And then you will lie in wait for us when we are unsuspecting?" the driver said to him harshly.

"I have no need for two wagon-loads of fruit, ladies," Ron told them bluntly. "I'm only traveling in the same direction as you and want to continue on. My goal is far away and I need to get there as quickly as possible. Surely there must be a way to convince you to let me by."

"Many out here on the highway would consider our load as valuable, and 'easy pickings' to a bandit or thief who was brave enough to take it," said the passenger.

"That may be so," Ron replied, his patience ending abruptly, "but I have no such desire and I will not be hindered in my wish to move on. It's easy to understand your fear of strangers and the need to protect your property, but your fright is misdirected at me and that's all I'll say on the matter!

"You can shoot me in the back if you so wish, but I don't think two women struggling to get such a load to market are inclined to kill anyone who is not a direct threat, which surely I am not. Good luck with your trip and may the way be clear."

With that said Ron picked up his pace and strode off ahead of the women and their wagons, which were very slow moving. He doubted they could have even hurt him from behind anyway, with the thick bundle he carried. The two women made no more demands or threats, yet they spoke quickly between themselves, no doubt reaching the same conclusion Ron had. Nevertheless, they allowed Ron peaceful passage even though they detested doing so.

Ron sped onward, his lengthy strides carrying him smoothly away down a long, straight section of the highway. When he finally reached the next bend, he glanced back and noticed he'd put a good quarter of a hoz between himself and the wagons.

"That's a dangerous trip for those two," he muttered to himself as they were cut off from view by the wooded land.

Ron continued onward, his mind less on edge now at least, having been distracted for a while from his previous concerns. He wondered how far those ladies had gone and how much further they would have to go to reach their destination...and tried to imagine the days on Earth when such travels were done routinely. He was now living in a world of pre-gunpowder times, and found it not easy to understand and relate to. He was still a twenty-first century Earthman and still had the "rat-race" mentality.

Shortly after that the road swung back around to the original direction following a series of bends that provided the easiest, flattest path through the hilly countryside. Around the fourth such turn, Ron came across five men on the edge of the highway. They were crouched down in low conversation, and all stood up as he approached. Ron instantly tensed and silently cursed his luck but outwardly remained calm and bid the men "Good day!" as he caught up with them.

All the individuals were dark-haired, with deeply tanned and weathered faces, and half grown, scraggly beards...not a pleasant looking group. They were each armed with swords except one large fellow who also carried a long wooden staff. When the group caught sight of Ron, three stooped and retrieved additional weapons...crossbows.

Three of the men continued with whatever they were discussing and two walked out toward Ron...the large man with the staff and one of the bowmen.

"Who are you and what business do you have on our road?" the man with the staff asked.

"I'm just a traveler in these parts and have no set business thus far, other than getting to the next town," Ron told him, watching his partner who now held the bow trained on him. "I was unaware that this was a private path and would not have taken it without permission had I known."

"Well, we patrol this stretch of ground between Lampsh and the Chavarre Territory," said the man, edging up to Ron. "You never know when some thieves or bandits might want to take advantage of a helpless traveler, such as yourself. One man alone could be an open invitation for an incident."

"That's very kind of you gentlemen," Ron responded, bowing his head slightly and beginning on his way again. "It's good to know that such men of good intentions are out here in the wild country."

The man with the crossbow then stepped in front of Ron threateningly. Ron stopped again.

"The only drawback to that, though," the staff-wielding fellow continued, moving in close again, "is that it can be expensive."

Ron calmly turned to face the man anew, his agitation level rising again quickly.

"We spend long days out here to keep the peace, and we just want to make enough to keep our families fed and housed...you understand, right?"

Ron swiftly glanced at each of the men in the group, because now, even the three others were taking note of the conversation.

"Let's have a look in that bundle you have there," ordered the fellow with the crossbow.

"I can assure you men I have little of value, and I'm hoping to find work in the next town...Lampsh I believe it is," Ron explained smoothly. "But I'm a good hunter and I can make sure your families have meat for a day or so. What are you children's names?"

The larger fellow's smug expression turned to anger, and he brought his staff into an attack poster.

"I'll give you their..."

Just then a sixth man came running up, also toting a long staff. He approached from off to Ron's left; presumably he'd been up on the open glade, off to the west of the main road. Ron surmised he could see quite a distance of the highway from up there, and mentally berated himself for not having spotted him.

"They're coming!" Ron heard him inform the three others who still stood off to the side.

One of that group turned to Ron's adversaries and waved his hand. The man withdrew his threat and shouldered his weapon, and the bowman stepped aside.

"Get on with you, peasant," he ordered to Ron before he walked off muttering something about "penniless vagrants".

Ron set off again quickly and was around the next turn in just a few moments, his stride lengthy and swift.

The six men then formed a line across the wide road and waited. It was nearly ten borts later that their quarry came into their vision, but they stood calm and unhurried until then. At that point though, the highwaymen assumed aggressive demeanors and barred the approaching wagons from passage...the ones Ron had recently overtaken.

The women tried to drive their animals through the human barricade, but the denkas were slow and passive beasts, so the effort was for naught. The leader of the men simply grabbed the reins controlling the huge creatures and yanked them out of the woman's grasp, halting the procession.

The two women brandished their crossbows, each being so armed now, and threatened the men.

"You can only get two of us, Lilea," said the man with the reins. "We don't want to hurt you lovely ladies, but if you shoot one of the 'boys', I don't know what'll happen to you."

"What do you want Tarvelle?" Lilea demanded; she who had been driving the team of animals.

"Just give us this little shipment and we'll let you go on back to your farm...no harm done, and no one gets hurt."

"Why, you low-bellied chinch!" she snarled at him, referring to a dog-sized, rodent-like creature that feeds on carrion. "If my husband hadn't been taken away to the 'Games', you wouldn't have the guts to even think about robbing us. And I'm surprised you found it even now. When he gets back, you..."

"Face it Lilea," Tarvelle said, cutting her off, "nobody ever comes back from the 'Games', so we'll do as we please from here on out. Now, we demand payment to use our road, and that wonderful produce will do just fine."

"You can't have it!" the other woman shouted out. "We've worked for five santari, fighting off birds, bugs, and every other kind of scavenging vermin, and it's all we have to get enough supplies to take us until the next harvest. We'll have nothing if you take it! How are we to survive?"

"We'll make sure you get safely to town," Tarvelle told her. "And I'm fairly certain we can find some suitable work for a couple of fine looking ladies like yourselves."

The entire group broke out in raucous laughter at that.

"Get them down from there boys," Tarvelle ordered, "Let's have a look at'em, up close. Maybe they'll be worth selling to Criege."

The men eased apart and surrounded the wagon...and then they closed in. The women's two arrows found their targets and two of the six men fell back with fletching protruding from their bodies, one struck in the thigh and the other in the shoulder. There wasn't enough time to reload however, so they kicked and slapped at the other men as they were dragged down from their high perch, thrown harshly to the ground, and bound.

Tarvelle walked up to the two women who now had ropes around their necks. While two of his men held their hands behind their backs Tarvelle glanced at the injuries to his partners, and then he backhanded Lilea savagely across the face.

She fell to the roadway roughly but let out no cry...just glaring up at the man with utter contempt.

"Your husband was a good man, Lilea, but now, without him, you're mine! If you and your sister would like to live, you'd better learn to treat me right."

Lilea brought her foot up as hard as she could into the man's crotch, and as he bent and wheezed, she spat upon him.

After a brief moment, Tarvelle's anger overcame his pain and he reached out with his left hand and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her to her feet.

"That's going to cost you!" he threatened.

Tarvelle gripped the front of her garment with his free hand and ripped it down to her waist.

"What do you think fellas?" he shouted to his men in triumph.

She was a beautiful woman indeed, and she stood with her head held high, not willing to give in to their disgusting humiliation of her. She resigned herself then and there that they would have to take what they wanted...she would not bow.

"Do you think she'll bring us a good bit of coin?" Tarvelle asked his band of men. "Perhaps we should all take a sample of the goods, just to see what the market value might be. What do you think, lads?"

"I think you should let her go!" came a loud, deep voice from behind the leader, Tarvelle.

All the men jumped as if an explosion had just gone off behind them. They whirled around and faced a large man no longer draped in the muddy cloak...no longer hidden under the huge load he packed...and no longer of the desire to slip by unimpeded. He brandished no weapons, and none could be seen from their vantage points.

His face and garb were strange to them, but his manner was not. He stood with his arms folded across his wide chest and he glared menacingly at Tarvelle.

"What did you say?" Tarvelle asked, without his usual tone...he was utterly surprised at the challenge to his authority.

"Let go of the woman and her sister, apologize to her, pay for her torn blouse, and keep moving," Ron said in a condescending voice, as if chastising a child.

The men looked from one to another, until they all turned to Tarvelle who began a round of gruff laughter. That soon died off when they all noticed the stranger did not find it quite as amusing.

Tarvelle then returned to his normal, impertinent self.

"Or what?" he asked.

"That's up to you," Ron replied. "I have no wish to fight you, and I would have kept on going had you six, strong, well-armed men not set upon two feebly armed, hardworking, honest women. Nevertheless, these ladies have toiled and fought for this produce and undoubtedly need it badly to carry on. It is theirs and they should have it. You have no claim to it, as you have no claim to this highway, or anything that passes upon it.

"Now, that leads me back to your question. If you don't do as I've suggested, I'll do whatever I must to see to it that my wishes are fulfilled."

"Really!" Tarvelle replied, motioning his men to regroup around the stranger. He then shoved Lilea rudely to the muddy ground at her sister's feet. She covered herself as best she could and sat there, stunned, watching.

The men moved to positions around Ron, leaving three steps distance between him and them, for maneuvering. Three of Tarvelle's men had their crossbows trained on Ron, the two who were already wounded and a third, and the two who were armed with long staffs waved them to and fro. Tarvelle drew no weapon...not just yet.

"Now, stranger," Tarvelle said to him, "you will receive the beating of your life."

At a motion from their leader, two of the bowman shouldered their weapons...and fired.

The shots flew madly out into the forest. An instant before they squeezed the triggers of the crossbows, Ron's folded arms shot out to deliver razor-edged missiles that slammed into the men's chests. It caught the bandits totally off guard and allowed Ron time enough to leap clear of the third arrow, as its operator jerked in response to his friends' apparent failure. Ron swept that fellow's feet clear of the ground, and when the man hit the damp, yet solid surface, Ron ripped the bow from him and pummeled him in the skull with the butt of the weapon.

Ron then stood up calmly, as if he'd just had some minor distraction to attend to. He tossed the bow away and faced the three remaining threats. The two men holding the staffs looked at their leader hesitantly. Tarvelle scowled back at them harshly.

"Sreedar, you and Cearn take him down...now!" Tarvelle ordered.

The man to Ron's left began swinging and twirling his staff, setting his partner into motion doing the same thing as they spread out to get to opposite sides of their intended victim. Sreedar was a large man with huge arms, and Ron new by his easy manipulation of the device that when he swung that long, hard piece of wood, it would be a formidable weapon. The other, Cearn was average sized, but he handled the staff nimbly and quickly as well. These thieves were adroit at what they did, no doubt accounting for their disreputable success.

The two adversaries charged in at Ron simultaneously, as he assumed they would. Ron sidestepped the big man's hacking blow at his head and then leaped in the air as the other's staff swept at his legs, snapping his foot out to contact the smaller man's jaw in the process. Those startling moves effectively foiled their concerted effort.

As his body whipped about, Ron gripped Sreedar's weapon before his feet even struck the ground, much sooner than the outlaw could withdraw it, surprising the large brigand by the quickness of his actions. He shoved hard, driving the big man off balance, which forced him to break up the duo and regroup on his own. Ron held on to the staff and spun the man around until his partner was behind him. Then he used the fellow's own strength to aid his attack.

Sreedar jerked the wooden staff to the side powerfully...a move that would probably have snatched it from the grasp of most other men, but Ron did not release it. Instead, he used that momentum to propel him closer in to the fellow. Ron's foot again flew out as he kicked Sreedar hard in the face, rattling the barrel-chested thief visibly. He then released his grip on the staff and hammered the bandit with a flurry of several blows to his rather robust midsection.

Sreedar was left stunned and out of breath long enough for Ron to wrestle the weapon from his enormous hands. The big fellow realized his mistake and made a feeble lunge at Ron, but his own weapon, in the hands of another who could wield it with authority, met him ruthlessly. Ron jabbed him sharply in the ribs, drove him to the ground with a cracking blow to his knee, and then put him to sleep with a roundhouse slap to the head.

Before Sreedar's unconscious form could even strike the roadway, Ron whipped around to face the second man...the heavy staff spinning as if it were helicopter blades...and smiled. Ron worked the device around and around his body, feeling the weight of it and getting its balance. It was well crafted, and although made for a larger individual, Ron felt comfortable with it.

Cearn backed himself away from that buzz saw of hardened wood and glanced again at his leader.

Tarvelle had his sword out now and bolstered his man forward by moving to come at Ron from the opposite side, as Sreedar had tried. Ron let them position themselves as they wished and then just waited; the staff constantly on the move...a dark blur.

At a moment when Ron's eyes flicked toward Tarvelle, Cearn roared and lunged in quickly, feigning a strike. Ron read the maneuver clearly and didn't fall for that simplistic attack, instantly spinning about to meet Tarvelle in the middle of his thrust. The heavy wooden staff whistled through the damp air and smashed against the steel sword on the upswing, sending it flying away and leaving Tarvelle grabbing at his wrist from the force of the blow.

Ron plunged his staff's end to the ground, pivoted on that weapon, and whirled quickly. His right foot whipped up and slammed into Tarvelle's face with enough force to loosen three teeth and spin him around like a top.

Ron ignored him then and continued around to meet the oncoming Cearn, who now was truly attacking.

Ron parried the man's assault several times, working his position away from Tarvelle in the process, as he didn't want his enemy where he couldn't see him. When Ron felt he was in a good spot, he changed from defense to offense, crushing the smaller man's charge straightaway. As the bandit fell back, Ron shattered Cearn's elbow, and then his kneecap, and then his collarbone, and then it was "lights-out" for him as well.

Ron stood over the latest of the fallen enemy and sighed.

"This all could have been avoided," he told the ringleader of the bandits as he tossed the staff to the ground and strode forward to meet with him.

Tarvelle had retrieved his sword, but still held his wrist with his free hand.

"You should have complied with my request," Ron said.

"Time to die, stranger," was all Tarvelle had to say as he moved in, his sword flailing at the seemingly unarmed Ron.

### Chapter Twelve

### A Free Ride

Ron met his attack with a lightning quick move, pulling the black sword free and into battle in one smooth motion that drew a quick breath from the onlookers. After that initial scare, it was immediately evident that he fought with Tarvelle more for practice than for actual defense. The bandit could use his weapon effectively, but he didn't have the speed or the strength to really threaten Ron as the black blade was everywhere at once, almost alive with its swiftness.

Tarvelle lunged and parried and circled, testing Ron for a tiny slack in his guard. Ron did the same, watching and waiting, and forming a plan. He began to show a slowing response to his right side and it didn't take Tarvelle long to make his move, driving hard to get inside Ron's blade at that apparent fault...but he was waiting. Ron reacted immediately, sliding the incoming blade neatly aside, locking it there, and then leaning in to the charging man, barely six inches from him. He held a long knife in his left hand.

Ron eased half an inch of the tip of the dagger into the fellow's neck, just under the curve of his jaw, and Tarvelle froze instantly. All the fight seemed to drain out of him as his blood began trickling down the blade of Ron's stiletto. One small jerk and his jugular would open in a fountain of death, so he stayed intently still and became much more interested in listening to what Ron had to say.

"Would you like to reconsider your evaluation of the current predicament?" Ron asked quietly. "Or should we continue to do battle?"

Tarvelle's eyes were wide and nervous as he mouthed a negative reply and turned loose his sword. Ron hooked the blade with his foot and slung it far away. Then he released his opponent and stepped back, sheathing his own sword. He stooped down over one of the dead men and, using the man's clothing, wiped clean his throwing knife that was red with the blood of the bandits' leader. He then pulled that dagger's sibling blade from the first archer's corpse and repeated the wiping action, copying the chore once more on the other bowman. Ron looked down on the bodies of the men and shook his head.

"Today did not have to be like this," Ron announced to the cadaver at his feet. Then he turned to Tarvelle.

"Now, about that apology..." Ron said as Tarvelle blotted his wound with a piece of cloth, still panting at his brush with eternity.

At first he seemed to be willing to put aside his bravado and yield to the obvious situation, but as he looked up at the smiling women, he couldn't eat the crow he'd earned. His stubborn pride was still too strong.

"You got lucky, stranger, but you can be sure we will not forget this. And you two," he practically frothed at the women, "will have to come back through my forest to get home again."

The smiles on the women's faces evaporated as they understood what he was saying. It would be several days before they would return down this road. And even though the thieves' group was now smaller and those men that still lived were injured, the ladies knew they couldn't stop the next robbery attempt on their own.

"That just won't do!" Ron told Tarvelle angrily. "I won't leave without your word that these women will have guaranteed safe passage back to their home."

"No one tells me what I can or cannot do," Tarvelle shouted in defiance, bracing himself for round two.

Some of his men were regaining consciousness by then...in too much pain to render him assistance, but watching...and Tarvelle was his foolish self once more.

Ron walked straight up to him without hesitation. Tarvelle's hand slipped behind his back quickly and he lunged at Ron with a long knife. Ron leaned sharply out of the path of danger and grabbed Tarvelle's arm, a rumbling growl emanating from his throat as if he were an angered wolf. With a quick twist, Ron wrenched the man's arm into a painful position and then he dropped his free elbow down harshly on that limb and folded it backward with a horrible crunching noise.

There was a scream of pain as the dagger fell limply to the dirt, and then Ron slapped Tarvelle in the face with the back of his hand, splitting his lip.

Tarvelle was a strong man and he stayed on his feet somehow, staggering back several steps and fighting the agony that blanched his face while trying to think.

Ron scooped up the dagger and flipped it to the women. "Free yourselves."

Tarvelle shook his head hard to focus his thoughts and then looked around at his men. The esteem in their eyes was gone. Two of them lay dead and he'd been bested, unequivocally. The stranger now held the position of alpha.

Anger sparked the flame inside him again and removed reason from his mind. While Ron watched the ladies cutting their bonds, Tarvelle swung at him with his still working fist. Ron blocked it aside easily and slapped him again, and then again. Ron doubled him over with a sharp shot to the ribs and the man still swung away madly.

Ron had played with him long enough by then and so he grabbed the free-swinging arm and heaved. Tarvelle felt himself lifted off the ground and propelled high into the air, completely over his adversary's head, and then down he went. He landed with a resounding thud, flat on his back on the hard packed surface of the road where he lie gasping for breath with empty lungs.

Ron then dropped down next to him and grabbed him firmly in the crotch...and squeezed!

Tarvelle's empty lungs somehow found enough air to expel a high-pitched scream, and he clenched Ron's hand with both of his, the pain in his ruined elbow forgotten.

Ron withdrew one of his throwing knives in full view to the wheezing man and slipped the long, double-edged weapon under his fist and through the man's clothing, where it nestled coldly against his hot skin. Blood quickly began oozing from this new incision and tears flowed from the ring-leader's eyes.

"You and your men have been beaten in fair combat!" Ron announced loud enough for all to hear. "Now, I want your word...as little as it might be worth...that you will personally see to the safe passage of these women on their return trip, or you will never have the need for a beautiful woman again! Get my meaning?"

Sweat poured from the battered face of Tarvelle, commander of the highway robbers. He didn't hesitate this time, even with his men watching.

"Yes, yes!" he squeaked through gritted teeth. "They will be safe! You have my word!"

"Have you all heard the oath?" Ron asked the group.

They all nodded affirmatively and grunted.

"Excellent!"

Ron gave one last twist, and then he released the man and stood up. Tarvelle promptly rolled over and puked.

"Now let me make something crystal clear to you men. It's true that I'll be gone from this area shortly, but you can be assured that I will check in on these two upon my return. Your names?" he called over his shoulder to the women.

"Sevraign!" Lilea replied. "Lilea Sevraign...and my sister is Sharlese Hurnei."

Ron nodded and returned his attention to Tarvelle. "And I give you 'my' word that I will exact a more definitive result to this little disagreement if they do not report a pleasant recount of their return trip. And if you get the notion that I can't find you again in this wide open wilderness..." Ron smiled a thin smirk that was almost an 'I dare you' look. "You may be surprised at what I'm truly capable of."

Tarvelle struggled to his knees then, his legs quivering too badly to stand, and began wiping his sleeve across his bloody, sweat-drenched face, his need to show his dominance completely gone by then.

"Finish up so I might be on my way again!" Ron ordered.

Tarvelle looked at him blankly for a brief moment, fear clearly evident on his face as he searched his mind at a frantic rate to recall what it was he was supposed to do.

"Oh, uh, yes!" he stammered, quickly finding the needed motivation to regain control of his limbs and jump to his feet.

He watched Ron carefully as he began stepping forward tentatively toward the wagons, where the women had climbed back up into their seat, and where Lilea had thrown a wrap around herself. The ladies were both armed again with reloaded crossbows, just in case, and they glared down at the would-be robber.

Tarvelle reached into the pocket of his trousers and produced a golden coin, and then he timidly held it up to the woman, Lilea, whom he had accosted. She grasped the blanket tighter around herself and then leaned over to accept the money.

"I apologize for my mistreatment of you and your sister, Lilea," he said to her as she took the coin. "I'm sorry for ruining your garment and the humiliation I caused you. You shall never be bothered by me or my men again...please accept my word on this."

Tarvelle then stepped back and away from the wagon, his face ashen white, one arm cradled with the other, and his head down low. Every few steps, he tried to adjust his trousers to a less painful position.

Lilea looked at the coin, then back at the bandit, and then at the coin again.

"Is it enough?" Ron queried.

"Yes!" the woman said excitedly. "I could buy a whole new wardrobe with this!"

Ron flashed a quick smile, threw up his open hand in a wave, and then turned on his heel and strode away in the direction he'd originally been traveling. He stopped for just a lita as he retrieved the heavy staff Sreedar had carried.

"You don't mind if I keep this, do you?" he asked the man who sat limply on the ground, his head still groggy.

Sreedar glanced quickly to Tarvelle and then back at Ron.

"Uh, no, sir" he said quietly, "I can get another one."

"Thanks," Ron offered as he returned to his path.

"What's your name?" Ron heard the shout from behind him...it was Tarvelle.

"I am known as Ron," was all he replied.

"Where are you from?" called Lilea's sister, Sharlese.

Ron stopped for another moment and swung about to face her. He thought about it carefully, considering what harm might come from the truth, and said, "I am from a place far away, past the mountains. It's called Earth."

He was surprised to see the whole group, the men as well as the women, drop their mouths open in apparent astonishment.

Ron turned once more to take up his trek, but again he was halted.

"Wait!" shouted the women in unison.

They snapped at the reins and the denkas started off on their way as if they'd never stopped, oblivious to the squabbles of their masters. Tarvelle and his men scrambled out of the way of the massive wagons, glad to be separated from Ron at last. One of the highwaymen began stripping their dead accomplices of everything he could make use of.

"You can travel with us," Lilea called to him. "It's still a good day's journey to Lampsh and it'll be dark soon. We can at least take the strain from your legs since you could ride instead of walk, and we can fill your belly with a good hot meal."

Ron strolled casually beside the great wagon and pondered the offer.

"Your wagon is slow and I'm in a bit of a hurry," Ron told them, apologetically.

"But we don't stop at the coming of darkness," she said, seeing a possible angle to get her way. "The denkas will just keep right on this road until we tell them to stop. They eat and drink as they go. So, we can probably save you some time, or at least not keep you much longer than the trip would have taken anyway."

As she finished her speech, both the sisters flashed Ron the sweetest smiles they could...not a bad way to conclude their pitch, Ron thought.

He was feeling a bit worn from the long run that day and the lack of sleep from the previous night. Also, he could no doubt gather more information about the town and where he could sell his recently acquired hides and things. Plus, the promise of a hot meal was almost too much to pass up, all by itself.

"Very well, ladies," he said to them. "I just have to fetch my belongings."

Ron trotted off a few hundred feet and then vanished into the forest a bit. He was back in a flash and quickly climbed up to the driver's perch.

"We haven't been properly introduced," Ron told them as he stood atop the gently rocking surface of the wooden deck, "and I would like to correct that, if I may. As I have said, I am Ron...Ron Allison, and you are?"

They both stared at him again, like before when he told them his name, and seemed to be flustered or tongue-tied for a few moments.

The woman with the deep brown hair finally spoke up first. She was slim and well-tanned from many long billots out in the sun, and her green eyes gleamed like emeralds set on fire, accented as they were with her dark features. Her face was delicate and smooth, having not a single sign of a wrinkle any place on it, with a petite nose and full, deeply red lips which were pulled back to reveal a breathtaking smile. Her appearance was warm and inviting.

Ron had unintentionally born witness to the beauty of her bared torso and tried not to allow that image to encroach his thoughts as he continued his assessment of her. Her hands were small and feminine, as were her sandaled feet, and she was wearing a single-layered, pale blue skirt that didn't quite reach the knees of her fabulous legs.

Those silky supports reminded Ron of one of the facts about Caronians...the women grew no hair at all on their limbs, no doubt because of the development of their peoples in the warm climate. A thought suddenly flashed through his mind about how his deceased wife would have enjoyed that luxury of never having to shave.

"I am Lilea, wife of Crogan Sevraign, of the Lampsh Territory. This is my sister Sharlese Hurnei. She stays with us since our parents passed on two years ago. We live on a parc farm in the valley country, back that way about two days journey."

Ron then guessed the apple-like fruit which was so laden in the wagon was this farm's main, or only, product...parc.

He extended his hand to her and she took it hesitantly until he said, "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance," and then she understood what he was doing.

"And I am Sharlese!" her sister blurted eagerly, gripping Ron's hand with both of hers the instant Lilea turned it loose.

"It is an equal pleasure to meet you, Sharlese," he added with a chuckle at her excitement, and wondered after a while if she was intending to release him at all.

Sharlese was clearly Lilea's younger sibling, although completely developed into a gorgeous woman in her own right. Her long, straight, black hair billowed in the wind and framed her face marvelously. She was nearly a twin to her sister, as far as their looks, but was a bit taller, and she wore a skirt that was a little shorter. They both had strong grips, no doubt from their toils of farm life, and they were very fit. They also both seemed pleasantly gregarious toward their guest, which was a wonderful relief to Ron, especially considering the way they'd first met.

The wagon was so wide it had ample room for the three of them and more. Ron hung his cloak over the side to dry it out and slid his packs under the seat, as he did with his bow. He discovered the back of the wide bench was a huge storehouse for supplies and equipment when Lilea opened one compartment and withdrew another blouse. She then disappeared into a shallow covered area, just aft of the driver's perch, and changed.

When she emerged again, Ron stole a peek inside that little room and saw it was their sleeping area.

"An old-timey motor home!" he thought, quite impressed with the rig.

"What all do you have in this thing?" Ron asked at that point, scanning about inquisitively.

The women were delighted to have someone other than themselves to talk to and eagerly gave him a tour of all the compartments built into the transport, which were many. They had a sealed water supply at the very bottom of the wagon, which was enough to get them and the animals from one water source to the next. There was a large bin for the grain the animals fed on, food cashes for the women, a large tool box, bulk storage for clothing and the like, just about everything other than a bathroom.

After inspecting the rolling warehouse, they all sat down again, and as the monstrous rig trundled down the dirt highway, Ron took notice that he'd been without a good washing in a long while. He then sheepishly inquired about the chance to remedy that fact.

"Ladies, is there any place a fellow might freshen up on this trip?"

"Oh, yes!" Sharlese told him, her face flushing bright red as her eagerness to be helpful to Ron came out a bit too enthusiastic. "There's a good-sized river around this next bend in the road. We can stop there if you like."

Ron chuckled. "I think it would be a good idea if I did...for the benefit of the entire group."

For the next little while Ron quizzed them about their life on the farm, and how they'd been able to harvest such a huge load by themselves...or if they were given aid from a neighbor or two. He found out they were fairly isolated, way back in a small, remote valley, and with the loss of Lilea's husband at the end of the last season, they'd been forced to do everything themselves. The entire area was hit hard in the latest "recruitment" from the Kreete, about a cycle ago.

Ron was duly impressed. There was no doubt in his mind that these women would do whatever they had to do to survive. In fact, the crop had been so robust they were going to be able to hire some help for the next year. Now that Ron had saved them from being robbed, they were doing rather well, although Lilea teared up heavily when any mention of her husband came up. It was clearly evident that she was longing for him very badly.

When the trio reached the river, Lilea and Sharlese set about tending the animals and Ron walked off a bit to a secluded twist in the shoreline. The women gave him some of their supply of soap and he made good use of it, but was wondering about what to do with his clothes. The dirt, sweat, and odor from days in his garments would wash out entirely, but even the Rauldens hadn't engineered an "autodry" function for this situation. They had the ability, but didn't want him to stand out quite so obviously from the native population.

He shrugged it off and resigned himself to the fact that he would just have to wash them out and wear them until they dried. It wasn't the preferred plan, but he would have to live with it, since he had only the one set of warm weather shirt and trousers.

He rinsed off with a short swim in the chilly water and then climbed out to start drying off as the sun dipped low in the sky. There was a nice breeze gliding along the riverbank, so it wouldn't take long. The brilliant star made for a grand sunset over the river, melding three of the primary colors into a brilliant rainbow affect across the upper atmosphere.

The shore of the small tributary was very rocky, carved out of the substratum of the surrounding foothills, and Ron climbed back up the natural staircase of the embankment just in time to run into Sharlese. She was bent over his apparel and looked up at him, her eyes flashing wide as china plates.

### Chapter Thirteen

### Companions

"I...uh, was just...I mean...I," she stammered as she swept her gaze up and down his deeply tanned and chiseled body.

Ron stood unabashedly calm in light of the situation, not one to be overly shy about that particular circumstance. He was a little puzzled about what the young lady was up to though.

"Is there something you needed?" he asked calmly.

Sharlese's face was so red by then that Ron thought its hue was due to the setting sun. She just stood there looking at him with a dazed expression, her mouth slightly open.

Ron finally snapped his fingers twice and repeated the question.

Sharlese jumped back into animation then. She finished scooping up his clothes and then realized he wanted an explanation.

"I was just going to," she began, and then dropped his garments as if they'd shocked her. "I'm sorry. Uh, would you like me to...I mean, I was wondering if you would like me to wash out your things," she said, at last able to make a coherent sentence.

The young woman was no more than nineteen cycles old, Ron guessed, and obviously not accustomed to this type of situation, but he almost broke out laughing just the same. He held his composure though, and instead, he smiled warmly and spoke in a soft voice.

"That's very kind of you Sharlese. I would be much appreciative of that. But I have nothing else to wear, I'm afraid."

"Well, I brought you this," she replied, turning and scooping up a long, simple dress made of some cotton-like material. It had no sleeves, the top third of it laced up the front to close, and would be about knee length on him, he guessed.

Ron was a little skeptical at the thought of wearing such a garment, even though he couldn't care less what anyone thought about his attire, but Sharlese explained that it was Lilea's husband's night-shirt. She'd found it in one of the storage compartments, and thought Ron would be able to wear it since he was of the approximate size of her husband, although a bit taller.

"Very well then," Ron replied. "I am indebted to your kindness."

"Don't be ridiculous!" the young woman responded. "We will never be able to repay what you've done for us this day."

She had undoubtedly recovered from her embarrassment, or the brashness of her young age broke through, because she then set the shirt across her shoulder and, gathering her courage, walked right up to Ron. She held a large piece of thick cloth in her hand, and while her eyes scanned him once more, she spread out the towel in front of her and began drying off Ron's dripping figure.

She pressed the cloth against the expanse of his chest, and her fingers couldn't believe what they felt. He was like stone...his muscles were so firm. She gingerly began patting him down starting at the shoulders, taking a bit longer than Ron thought she needed to, but he wasn't one for chastising a lovely woman for overt tendencies. When she reached his waist though, Ron gently took over the task, entirely aware of her young age.

When he handed the towel back to her, she tossed it over her free shoulder and then held up the long shirt, measuring it by pressing it against his heavily muscled body. Her left hand held the neckline up to his chin and her right smoothed the fabric against his skin as she slid it down his chest slowly. Over each ripple of his vividly defined abdomen her exploration went, and at his upper thigh her hand lingered.

"I think it will do well enough," she told him in a hushed, quivering voice, pressing her fine figure cautiously against him, her eyes darting from one of his to the other in rapid succession. Her breath was coming fast now, and her hands vibrated in shuddering waves.

She was tall for a woman, but still she was a full head shorter than Ron, and he cautiously looked down into her half closed, tear-moistened eyes. It took no effort at all to comprehend what she was offering...but he could not allow himself to give in to her desire.

She was so young, and in the Caronian society, such an act of lust could damage her whole future should it become known. Ron knew all too well the passions of youth and tried to think of a way of letting her out of the moment without rejecting her.

"Sharlese," he said gently, "I find you to be exquisitely beautiful, and incredibly desirable...but," he lowered his eyes, breaking her gaze for a moment before reengaging it, "my heart is bonded to another."

He saw the disappointment and a little hurt in her gaze, but she didn't become angry, and for that Ron was grateful. She lowered her eyes and removed her hand from his thigh, yet leaned into his large body. Ron held her firmly for a brief time, and then he lifted her chin to catch his gaze once more.

"You have no idea how flattered I am to have such a beauty as you find me of interest," he said delicately to her.

Sharlese smiled up at him warmly, and then gathered her emotions again as she stepped back. She left the nightshirt in his grasp and turned to collect the soiled clothing, then spun around once again as if to say something, but changed her mind and walked off.

Ron slipped into the long shirt and found it to be quite nice...soft and comfortable. It was also a good fit for the most part, but he had to leave the lacing open to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders.

The fabric felt like cotton and allowed the light breeze to pass through nicely, keeping him cool in the warm, humid air of the encroaching night. Ron headed back to the wagon then in a much different (and better) mood than when he'd first awakened that morning. The feelings of dread and worry were now only distant, fading memories.

He crested the small rise that had hidden him from the vicinity of the wagon and immediately ran into Lilea, who was standing with her back to his position.

"Well, hello," he said to her, surprised.

She whirled around to face him, jumping a little at his greeting, and then she smiled.

"You gave me a start," she told him, her hand at her breast. "I didn't want to disturb you, not until you were dressed again, at least. But I wanted to thank you for what you just did."

"What do you mean?"

"I was going to make you the offer of my husband's nightshirt myself, but Sharlese snatched it from me and ran over here before I could stop her," she explained. "She is rather taken with you, you see...and I can completely understand that...you know...because of what you did for us...saving us and all...from Tarvelle...but she's rash and...you know...innocent in the ways of life, and...well...I...I...I'm very grateful to you for not taking advantage of her...eagerness."

Ron smiled warmly and placed his hand lightly on Lilea's shoulder, turning her around and heading toward the wagons.

"Think nothing of it. I remember my youth well, and my wife was very much like Sharlese...lovely and headstrong. We learned about love together, slowly and innocently, as it ought to be. That experience should be for the love of her life, not for some stranger who'll pass in and out of her life in a day or two, and likely never be heard from again.

"I must admit though, I envy the young man who's lucky enough to make that journey with her."

"You're married then?"

Ron calmly looked off over the water, his focus adrift in distant memories.

"No...not anymore. She waits for me in the next life."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause...," Lilea began, but Ron waved her off.

"It's fine...really."

Lilea smiled sweetly and they changed the subject to the needs of the present...getting moving again.

Ron helped Lilea replace the denkas' feedbags one more time, and then he hauled up enough water to replenish the holding tank on the wagon. They watered the animals well, and by then Sharlese was finished with the laundry and had it hanging off the wagon to dry. Ron looked about to see if he'd forgotten anything, and ran his hand across his chin absentmindedly, feeling the thick, bristly hair that had grown across his normally barren skin. It had been a few days since he'd shaved.

"I've got to get rid of this mess," he remarked out loud to himself, wishing he still carried his little pocket razor that Fortell had devised for him. It was so much handier than using a knife.

"Would you like me to shave you?" Sharlese shouted down to him from the driver's bench.

He hadn't realized he'd even spoken out loud, so he hesitated.

"Uh, no," he replied, "that's all right. I can do it. I just need a mirror."

The expression of disappointment Ron saw on her lovely face was too much for him though.

"Unless you don't mind," he quickly added. "I don't want to be an extra burden on you, with all you've been through today."

Her smile returned straight away and she jumped up again, quickly digging into one of the many storage compartments and commanding him to sit down and wait for her.

Lilea removed two wooden assemblies off the side of the wagon and Ron watched her slip them together to form a chair with a very comfortable, reclined backrest.

"I used to shave my husband in this chair," she told him; then leaned down close to his ear. "She is skilled with a blade, but you will be the first man she has ever shaved. Are you sure about this?"

Ron swallowed hard and then chuckled.

"I've gone too far to back out now."

Sharlese slipped down from the high perch and approached Ron slowly, suddenly a little apprehensively. She set a few items down next to him and then poured some liquid into her hand, transferring it to his face like a lotion.

Ron enjoyed the attention a great deal, and leaned back, totally relaxed.

Next, she unsheathed a blade...exactly like the straight razors of old Earth...and held it in trembling fingers. Ron allowed himself no outward concern, although inwardly he was more than a little nervous. She reached out to begin...and then stopped.

"I must confess," she admitted shyly, "I have never done this before."

She looked quickly from Ron to Lilea and back.

"If you would rather Lilea do it...she is experienced...I wouldn't mind. I don't want to injure you with my clumsiness."

Ron saw the look of shame on her beautiful face and waved his hand casually.

"Don't be ridiculous," he told her, sighing deeply. "I'm sure I will survive."

He gave her a quick wink and then closed his eyes, as if asleep.

Sharlese spent the next twenty borts, four times longer than a shave usually lasts, gently removing every whisker from his face. Ron found her touch to be extremely deft and quickly knew he was in excellent hands...and the entire experience was incredibly sensual.

At length, she finished the task, and as she carefully wiped his smooth chin, he opened his eyes to look into hers. He could tell she was also feeling the passionate closeness he was, as her gaze was wrought with smoldering flame.

Lilea too knew what feelings the experience aroused. To take care of a man like that was more than a simple act...and much more than a casual favor, so she "clumsily" dropped the water yoke they'd used to refill their supply tank. It struck heavily against the wagon, causing Ron and Sharlese both to jump.

Sharlese quickly put away the shaving kit and Ron clambered out of the chair and slipped up next to Lilea as he returned the chair pieces to their stowed position.

"Thanks," he whispered to her quickly, knowing just how close he'd come to losing his chivalry.

They all gathered the remains of the tasks and climbed aboard the lead wagon again. The brute force of the denkas then surged the enormous weight of their load forward and they were off once more.

Night fell abruptly as the three of them lumbered along, and Sharlese lit two lamps that swung above the driver's bench, illuminating the area with a warm, yellow glow. A loud growl from Ron's stomach brought to light the fact that suppertime was upon them and so he dug out his pack and was about to start in on his supplies when Lilea's hand stopped him.

"I told you we would provide you with a good, hot meal tonight, did I not?" she asked him.

"But we're moving again," he said. "You have another campsite in mind?"

Lilea grinned devilishly at him and said, "You handle these, and we'll handle the cooking."

Ron smiled and bowed to her authority. She handed him the reins and changed position with him, and then she and Sharlese went to work.

Lilea produced a metal pan with shallow sides...which had three short legs sticking up instead of down...and placed it on the floor before her feet. She then filled the pan with golf-ball sized rocks and some fine tinder. Only a few moments later and the "rocks" were lit and beginning to heat up, much like charcoal, but with no smoke at all.

"Some type of natural coal, no doubt," Ron guessed.

Sharlese had erected a three-foot tall metal tripod by then and Lilea secured the pan into that contraption by means of a light chain sling, which left it swinging freely in the air. Next they dug out a large, deep pot and attached it over the fire pan by inserting the legs into matching receptacles made into the bottom of the pot.

Then, by systematically adding some water, meat, vegetables, and several other ingredients, they had a mouthwatering stew bubbling away and ready to eat in a mere half-billot.

The entire apparatus gently swung to and fro as the wagon rocked along, and shortly thereafter the three of them were enjoying a fully cooked meal without ever stopping their journey. Sharlese also produced a large loaf of bread she'd baked the day they'd left home, which Ron found to be utterly delectable.

"I have to hand it to you two," Ron told them between bites, "this is delicious, and your ingenuity is amazing. I would never have thought you could cook on the wagon while we were moving. You ladies are absolutely remarkable!"

Lilea and Sharlese both beamed at him for the complement, and they talked and enjoyed the ride as they ate first the stew and then a luscious pie which was made from the parc fruit.

Later, the women cleaned up the meal's materials and put them away, and by then, they were all ready for a good night's rest.

The ladies demanded Ron sleep inside the wagon since he was their guest, but he wouldn't hear of it, his chivalrous pride clearly on the line. There ensued a long discussion about that until the women finally compromised by digging out enough blankets to soften up the long driver's bench where Ron was to slumber.

When they were at last settled though, the night air suddenly jumped to life. Down from the western mountains came an increasing roar through the distant trees as a stiff wind forced its way steadily toward them. It blew hard with a cold bite to it, followed quickly with a driving downpour.

Ron sprang upright and grabbed the blankets as the women flung open the flap to their small quarters and shouted for him to join them. Seeing no alternative, he hurriedly squeezed into the covered compartment with them, knocking over the lamp in his haste...and then they all threw down the flap to seal out the rain, roaring with laughter.

The space was cramped, and so they had to scramble around a bit in the dark to make room for his extra bulk before things got sorted out. More loose items were tossed about in the confusion and it was insanely comical to them all. When the commotion calmed down a bit however, they relit the lamp and decided they had to come up with a new solution to the sleeping arrangements since the storm gave no signs of relenting.

They finally decided that, because of Ron's size, they had but one real choice. He squirmed around to lie down on his back, and then the two women maneuvered to lie on either side of him with half of their bodies draped across his.

Before the storm, the women had already changed into their sleeping clothes, which were designed much like what Ron wore, and they'd stayed securely behind the tarp of the quarters at that time, preserving their dignity. Now however, due to the lamp in the tiny room, those gowns were revealed to be scandalously thin, no doubt a comfortable piece of clothing amidst the usually warm nights. The ladies blushed heavily at first, but quickly realized they couldn't remedy their predicament in such a tight space, so they simply decided it was unavoidable, and didn't worry about it further.

As the lamp died out, Ron was left with the picture of these two beautiful women sliding into bed next to him, their practically nude bodies enveloping him from either side.

Needless to say, the dreams that had haunted Ron the night before did not recur that night.

### Chapter Fourteen

### Lampsh

Ron awoke the next morning feeling more rested than he had in days; the two gorgeous bed warmers still nestled tightly against him, deep in their slumbers. Ron wasn't positive, but he would have sworn that Sharlese was actually purring in her contentment. He laid there for a while longer as the Caronian sun brightened the tiny quarters, but finally stirred himself into motion and carefully untangled his person from the curvaceous figures beside him.

Cautiously, he opened the cover flap and stole his way out to the driving seat without so much as a creak from the wooden transport. The day promised to be a bright one as not a cloud could be seen in the new dawn, and he breathed deeply, drinking in the freshness of the air. The rain had apparently gone in the night leaving a veil of heavy dew to cover every inch of the land like a glinting watery blanket.

The road had left the confines of the forest and was open now to the surrounding countryside, which appeared to be contrived primarily of farms and grazing land on both sides. Hundreds of animals were milling about on the hillsides, and a creek with dancing water on bleached white stones cut through the rolling land heading southeastward.

Ron slipped on his boots and leaped down from the wagon to disappear for a moment of needed relief from the long, rainy night. When he returned, using some of the water they carried in their holding tank, he washed his hands and face, feeling invigorated after that simple task. He then tended the animals with water and feed bags, all while they plodded steadily onward.

He was amazed again at the ingenuity of the farmers who'd developed this harmony of device and animal. The denkas never made any protest at their labors, seemingly perfectly contented to be where they were.

Ron finished with the beasts and returned to his own needs. His clothing was still wet because of the nighttime rains, so he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to wait a while longer to get dressed. He walked along inspecting the wagons, finding his old habits of maintaining machines were still strong in his mind, and figured such crude devices needed constant attention.

While he was about this task, Sharlese woke up and found him gone. She jerked upright in a panic and tore out of the little tent, jumping into the driver's seat and scanning the area frantically.

"Ron!" she called out loudly, startling her sister from sleep. "Ron!"

"Yes?" Ron replied, running up to the front of the wagon, his eyes on the horizon and his hand reaching for his weapons under the bench.

"Oh!" she sighed, nearly collapsing in the seat. "I thought you'd gone...I mean, I thought something might have happened to you."

Ron smiled up at her in a friendly way. She did indeed have a bad crush on him.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked then, smiling back at him brightly.

"Yes...yes I did," he replied with a devilish grin.

Sharlese couldn't help but stare back at him and let her mind wonder a bit...her budding youthful curiosity having fewer and fewer limitations.

The sun was out in full strength by that time though and cut through the thin nightgown the young woman was wearing as if it was not there.

"Perhaps you'd better get dressed," Ron told her as gently as he could, searching about for fear of some onlooker.

"What?" she asked slightly confused at his suggestion, until she glanced down at herself. "Oh! My!" she squealed, dashing back into the tent.

Ron chuckled lightly and then slapped himself hard on the cheek to get that vision out of his mind. She was absolutely stunning.

He went around and greased all the wheels and scouted much of the nearby countryside as the ladies dressed and washed and made a nice hot breakfast. There was an ever-increasing volume of travelers on the highway now, and because of that he deliberately managed to slip out of sight each time some others went by. This action was in keeping with his wish not to have the women openly linked to him should something get out of hand, either here or in the near future.

When breakfast was ready they all enjoyed the hearty meal and cleaned up hurriedly, discussing the upcoming events at the trading post with increased excitement.

Lilea was familiar with the places she needed to visit in order to sell their produce and purchase their personal staples, as well as whom Ron should see to sell his hides.

"What type of hides do you have?" she inquired, realizing she knew almost nothing about this man other than that his gray eyes and captivating smile made her knees weak when they were turned in her direction. And that he was equally as good as a dozen armed escorts.

"Here, I'll show you," he told her, as he unpacked his belongings.

Ron unfurled one of the huge hides and the women both gasped out loud.

"This is the hide you were speaking of?" Sharlese asked, now even more in awe of him.

"Yes," Ron responded matter-of-factly. "I have two more of them, and I was told they would be of some value. Is this not so?"

Lilea and Sharlese looked at each other in amazement. "Could anyone truly be so ignorant of these things?" they thought.

"You can live solely off the sale of 'one' of these for an entire year...lavishly!" Lilea told him. "You have three?"

Ron nodded.

"This," she said as she ran her hands across the short, soft fur of the yetsole hide, "is worth ten times as much as our entire load."

Ron was surprised at that revelation. Roe hadn't told him as much as he could have, he now knew, and he smiled.

They rode and talked about many different matters after that, until Ron's clothes were finally dry, at which point he slipped into the tent and changed. Upon his return, he completed his outfit by replacing all his weapons, of which, the women found, there were many.

Lilea and Sharlese watched closely as he sheathed and strapped those deadly protective devices onto his person. They wondered at what a man like him, whose life was clearly intertwined with danger and conflict, shrouded in mystery and intrigue, and who could do all they'd witnessed in the recent past, was doing in their wagon. Fate was indeed strange.

He finalized the ensemble with the donning of his cloak, concealing much of what he carried. Then, grabbing the large bundle containing the furs, he prepared to leap down, glancing about quickly and often.

They'd been passing tiny communities and villages all morning, and were close to the main city, so Ron told them he had to be going. They protested fervently, but in the end he won out, telling them his business was such that he couldn't risk being seen with them, as he was worried that a connection with him might endanger them. They begged for him to tell them why this was so, but he refused, kissing each of them on the cheek lightly and then bounding off the wagon as lithely as a tiger.

In a few moments, he was gone... and Sharlese was in tears.

Ron trotted off ahead of the wagons until they were out of sight in his wake, and then he dropped into a fast walk. In so doing, he made it to Lampsh half a billot ahead of the produce caravan.

The city was not large, but it was obvious that the commerce here was, because people and wagons of all shapes and sizes streamed up and down the main road in a thick cluster. That thoroughfare too, was four times as wide here as it had been outside the city.

Lampsh was a river-commerce hub with the entire layout of the place focused around that avenue of transportation, and all the surrounding communities within five days journey used it to market their goods.

Ron passed through the two large pillars that proclaimed the city as 'Lampsh, of the Lampsh Territory and Watershed. He could see dozens of houses, all built of stone and mortar, winding down the side streets that continued up and into the base of the nearby hillsides. Smoke came streaming out from each of their chimneys, as their owners were no doubt in the middle of morning chores or late breakfasts.

Earlier rising bakers were busy hawking their merchandise at several points along the way, and small businesses were opening everywhere.

As Ron strolled down the central street of Lampsh, called Criege Street, he saw warehouse after warehouse on the waterfront side of the road. It was well laid out to allow the wagons to drive under covered pole-barns, where they were unloaded right onto a waiting barge, or into a large holding area next to the dock. Afterward, the animal teams could drive right out again onto the street through the other side of the structure, making for a smooth flow of traffic.

Those thirty-foot high, open sided buildings had huge tarps which could be lowered to within a few feet of the ground, undoubtedly to protect the goods inside against the elements. Many of them were still down now, dropped hurriedly on the previous evening due to the overnight rains.

He also noted large numbers of men stationed at every building, or hurrying between buildings in a rush to unload whatever commercial product might be coming in.

The waterway itself was wide and not too swift, with barges floating downriver on the far side of it and others being pulled upriver on the near side along a well-trodden footpath. Animals, like the denkas the ladies used, were towing the large, low-slung wooden boats, and no sign of any type of sail could be seen on them. Undoubtedly, the barges were for the singular purpose of trudging up and down the river way.

On the other side of Criege Street, which was wide enough so three wagons such as the women were driving could pass safely, were the merchants that sold the various goods everyone had day-to-day needs for. Everything could be found there, from farm implements to spices...fruits and vegetables to pottery...weapons and tools to animals...practically anything there was.

Children played up and down the wooden porches lining most of the establishments, and the bustle of urban life was rife with meaningful purpose.

Off to Ron's right, a low riding wagon with eight small wheels was being off-loaded of the hay that was stacked ten feet high on it. Further on, a dozen horses...Ron looked hard at them to confirm that identification...the only creatures he'd seen so far that were exactly like Earth animals, were being led off a barge and into a pen. He saw feed, something resembling corn, barrels of some beverage, leafy vegetables, and a score of other items, all rushing to their final destinations before they spoiled, or escaped, or were devalued in some other way.

Ron walked two-thirds the way through town before he came to the stop he was looking for. It was on the side away from the river and called "Lampsh Furs, Hides, and Stables".

The furrier store was a fairly large structure with thick stone walls to block out some of the heat which in turn held down some of the smell of such a trade. It was situated directly adjacent to a large blacksmith shop that was big enough to employ ten smithies all working at once. Apparently "smithing" as they called it, was a much-needed commodity in the technologically simplistic society.

Ron watched those men for a while, all enormous fellows, swinging the heavy hammers as if they were wooden mallets. They were making numerous goods, many of which hung on the walls around them on pegs, cooling or waiting to be purchased. Two great, bald-headed smithies off to one side worked a specialized station that repaired wagon wheels and other tools for the farmers. It was a captivating sight.

Even though he'd always had a fascination with that particular artisan's products, Ron hesitated no longer, prying himself away and stepping into the furrier's office.

The odor was the first thing that grabbed his attention. With hundreds of animal hides stacked and stretched and hung in every corner, the place wreaked like a slaughterhouse, which he also found out later was just a short distance from the back of the shop. He tried to ignore the stench and approached the large counter where two other men were plying their skins.

Ron killed the next few borts by reading the leaflets on the wall, each explaining the value of a particular fur or hide. He didn't see anything mentioning what he had to sell however, and after a quick stint scouring the information he began to wonder if he'd come to the right place. But then another fellow, clean-shaven with his black hair cropped short, came in from the backroom and offered to help him.

"I have some items I would like to sell," Ron announced to the man before he pulled the first of the hides out from his homemade pack.

"Very well then, let's have a look at them," the attendant said politely, glancing over at his partner's discussion. They were quibbling over the value of one hide from a stack of pelts that looked similar to fox fur but was jet black...a kendal hide, Ron heard them call it. Roelantish had mentioned them to him. The creatures were feline and hunted vermin mostly, so the black coat was excellent camouflage in the night. It was also very soft and made excellent bed throws.

When Ron flipped the skin out onto the counter, unrolling it to its full length, the man behind the wide bar stared at it like it was on fire. He touched the fur with one hand and grabbed at his partner with the other.

"Sharn!" he spoke to the man in a stern voice. "Look at this!"

The other guy turned then, half annoyed by the interruption, and jumped back.

"May the Guardian preserve us!" he gasped, forgetting the other patron altogether. "This is unbelievable! That's the biggest cat hide I ever saw!"

The two men then poured themselves over the pelt for several borts while Ron stood by quietly.

"I guess I did come to the right place," he thought.

Finally the merchants turned to him and began asking questions about where he'd run into such a marvelous beast, and how he'd come to survive the ordeal. They shot question after question at him in a flurry...obviously, the story of the event was almost as important as the actual hide. Ron briefly described the incident and gave them as little information as he could get away with, but they wanted him to stay nonetheless and tell his story again when their usual friends came by at midday. Ron begged off that, wanting to get moving again, so they relented at last and gave him a price for the item.

Ron had discussed the costs of things at length with Sharlese and Lilea, and what he should expect to get for the furs, so when the man exceeded that figure he was pleased.

The owner of the shop tried to send for the amount from the local bank, since he didn't keep such a sum in the building. But before the runner could leave, Ron told them he had a few more items he wished to sell as well. The owner told him to go ahead and lay them out at the other end of the counter while he inspected the hide again, almost dismissing anything else Ron might want to vend since nothing could possibly top that specimen.

Ron backed off and pulled the next pelt free, snapping it out as he'd done with the first, right under the noses of the furriers. They jumped back again.

"This can't be!" the owner shouted at his partner. "Never have I heard of two Yetsole coats delivered on the same day!"

The men roared with jubilation at such a fantastic sight...slapping each other on the shoulders...until...

As they congratulated themselves on the fortune that had come to them, Ron unfurled the third skin. The men stopped their celebration and both of them fell to the floor, their knees buckling from under them. They sat stunned and confused for a moment before regaining their composure and leaping up, practically in tears. They then ordered their runner to the nearest market of strong drink and bid him return with a barrel of the best they had.

"There will be no more business this day!" They proclaimed.

### Chapter Fifteen

### Fortune and Fame

Ron retold the story, this time with all the happenings, and a good view of the bow and the dark blade he'd used to perform those miraculous feats. He included Roelantish's part in it of course, and at the same time, dug out all the items Roe had helped him gather. By the time he was done, the sun was past midday and he was due more riches than he could carry...and the shop was so crowded with spectators Ron could hardly turn around.

The merchant told Ron he would have to set up an account at the bank since he couldn't possibly travel with that amount of money.

The owner of the furrier business, the clean-shaven man whose name was Jarle Raidene, was more than happy to accompany Ron to the central building in the town, which was the bank. It was a condition of the sale that Ron wanted this man to make sure everything was in order before leaving his presence.

As they walked, Jarle shouted at every person he knew, telling them they had to go and see what he had at his shop. And when they reached the bank, it was easy to get the transaction done too, since everyone in town seemed to be dashing to the furrier's store, leaving the other establishments practically empty.

The bank was a rather small place, but the walls of it were four feet thick granite blocks, and every window and door was adorned with heavy metal bars. There were two very large men outside the main entrance, and two more inside. They all wore armored vests of some animal hides, layered for strength. (The vests were much like what the Kreete soldiers wore when they were trying to kill the tracker, back on the plains) The guards also all had swords hanging from their waists, as well as a long dagger, and each held a loaded crossbow.

Inside, there was an inner, walled counter which had iron mesh lattice reaching to the ceiling to keep the customers and the three tellers separated. Furthermore, Ron could see at least one other man back in a large room behind even more bars. When a transaction needed a large sum, the teller would have to clear it with this fellow in the barred room, who would then hand over the amount.

Ron took with him as much as he and Lilea had decided he might need for his trip, and placed the rest into an account, which was redeemable at most any town having a similar bank. Ron was surprised that they were so well organized for such an industrially unsophisticated era, but pleased at the convenience.

The teller instructed Ron and Jarle both to return after noon on the following day since they each must witness the final transaction, and then the account would be completed. Ron hesitated at the request, but Jarle informed him it took time to make up the signet ring he would need to make any withdrawals in the future.

Ron hadn't counted on this delay, but he also understood the money could be of great importance in the coming times, so he relented, thanking Jarle for his assistance and bidding him good afternoon.

When they left the bank, it seemed the entire town was completely disrupted of its usual activities. The size of the crowd at Jarle's little shop had tripled, and the only thing on anyone's lips was the news of the "Piercellione Danecore"!

Ron had no idea what that meant, although he suspected it had something to do with those furs...but the translator was of no help to him. He saw no need to investigate the matter though so he just stood on the long front porch, scanning the area and wondering how he could pass the time.

After only a few moments his keen eyes spotted the women's produce rig, and then he saw Lilea at one of the unloading barns, so he strolled casually over to see about them. He could think of no danger that could come of his presence now, since he was rid of the pelts and saw no sign of Kreete activity. The town seemed to be a remote river terminal with only indigenous individuals, luckily.

The load from Lilea's rear wagon was already halfway moved onto a barge as ten men were scrambling about filling baskets and carrying them swiftly away.

"Hello!" Ron called to Lilea. "How's the market for parc?"

She beamed at him and played along until they were out of earshot of the men. Ron kept his arms folded, and a small distance between them, so as not to look too familiar with her. They stood side-by-side facing the large crowd down the street.

"Everything is set with us," she told him. "We received a very generous price on the produce, no doubt because of the remarkable distraction going on over there," she said as she pointed at the furrier's store. "Sharlese is off arranging for our list of supplies to be filled, and if everything goes well, we should be headed back to the farm by lunchtime tomorrow."

"That's good," Ron said, relieved that the ladies would be able to stay self-sufficient.

He then shared with her the happenings that had occurred at the hide store, and said he also would be moving on tomorrow, as soon as the bank finished with his account. Then he asked her about the "Piercellione Danecore".

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"If you will have your evening meal with Sharlese and me, I'll tell you," she said slyly.

Ron thought about it for a moment and, since there didn't seem to be any danger from three people having supper together, he agreed to her request.

He walked and visited with Lilea, moving slowly from one shop to the next for half a billot before they caught up with Sharlese. She nearly jumped into Ron's arms before her sister stopped her and introduced them as if they were strangers.

Together, they all shopped for supplies and taught Ron what was what as far as foods, drinks, and the like. Lilea found the need for such tutoring to be odd, but Ron explained that on the other side of the mountains, they had completely different staples. She could think of no other reasonable explanation for this abnormality of common life, so she accepted his reasons without further prying.

Ron kept his senses alert as much as he could while trying to be pleasant in the company of the ladies, but the constant attention...the pointing and whispering about him...was raising his anxiety level. He began to think he shouldn't have made such a grand display with the furs, but it was far too late to remedy that now. Anyway, at the time he'd been unaware such a thing would be so spectacular, and didn't want to be burdened by the huge pack any longer. He consoled himself by assuming all the excitement would fade soon, and he would be gone even sooner.

The trio made many trips to load up their supplies into the now empty wagons and, because of Ron's help, they were ready to relax and enjoy the sights and shops for a good while before sunset.

Even with the harvest celebrations commencing around town, the hustle and bustle of the Lampsh City life were fairly slow paced to Ron, especially considering the time it took for things to move there as opposed to Earth cities. Without cars and trucks, airplanes and powered moving equipment of every sort, motorcycles and even bicycles, it was like watching a turtle race...but it was too much for Lilea. She preferred the life of the country setting where there may be a visitor once a week, and the only social interaction they had with neighbors was at scheduled dates.

When they did gather with their families and their few closest friends it was always a wonderful time...but she firmly believed in her privacy, and granted everyone else theirs.

Sharlese was less annoyed with the amount of folks, enjoying the stimulation of so many things going on all around her. It had been almost a year since she'd been to a town the size of Lampsh and it hadn't been such a busy place, with no river traffic to elevate the commerce to this magnitude.

She paused at the glassmaker's shop, and the candle crafter's, and many other places where an artist was displaying his or her craft. She would have been inclined to spend a few days in the town had it not been for the constant stares she received from many strange men who were less appealing than she would have liked. They were rough looking fellows who'd been out on the range, or in the forest, or in some way without female companionship for a long period of time before reaching the trading post. She knew if it were not for the presence of Ron, she and her sister might not be having such a relaxing shopping trip. But he was there...a handsome, solid, and impassable barrier...and so she managed to put her discomfort aside and marvel at all she could.

Ron purchased each of them some expensive little bit of luxury in return for their aid in his schooling of the area customs, telling them he had more than enough currency to be a little frivolous. They tried to refuse, but when he insisted, they thanked him repeatedly for his kindness. He also bought them each another crossbow and some arrows. He knew they could use them competently, and with four shots at their fingertips, it was unlikely they would be overrun quite as easily as before.

As the sun set over the mountain range, turning the sky to a bright shade of amber with indigo streaks, a young man stepped up to their group as they closed up the last of the compartments of the wagon.

"Good evening, Sharlese," he said, removing his hat and smiling at the lovely young lady.

Ron looked at the man sternly and then turned to Lilea.

"Hello Janson," Sharlese replied, her expression jumping with pleasure.

Lilea slipped into the greeting quickly, seeing Ron's expression of concern.

"Janson...this is Ron Allison," she said to the young fellow. "Ron, this is Janson Raidene, a friend of the family and Jarle's younger brother. He delivers supplies to us all the way out to the farm, and has kept tabs on us since Crogan was taken away. Jarle and my husband have been close friends for many cycles."

Ron dropped his overprotective manner instantly and greeted the young man in Caronian fashion.

"Pleasure to meet you, Janson," Ron told him.

"Ron saved us from Tarvelle and his goons out on the Chavarre road yesterday!" Sharlese told Janson...a bit too cheerfully for the young man's liking.

Ron caught the look on his face...one of notable jealousy, no doubt over having some other man protecting Sharlese's honor when he was so obviously smitten with the gorgeous little green-eyed woman.

"Would you care to join us for supper?" Ron asked of the young fellow.

"Oh, I don't know..." he began, not wanting to intrude, or share his time with Sharlese.

"Please," Sharlese pleaded, encircling his arm with her own and standing very close to him.

That was all it took. His worry about Ron's position was gone when he looked into her blazing eyes.

"All right," the young man sighed dreamily as his face turned bright red.

"Good then!" Ron announced, extending his arm to Lilea. "Now, Janson...since you live here, where is the best place to dine?"

They spent the next two billots in a large café which had a wide variety of dishes and beverages to choose from. They enjoyed sharing stories about life experiences in the town and comparing them to those of the country folk.

Sharlese sat close to Janson, and toward the end of the meal they were exchanging long gazes, so Ron knew they wanted some time alone.

"Well," he announced, patting his belly and winking at Lilea, "I think it's time to stretch my legs and find a quiet room for the night."

"Ms. Lily," Janson asked quickly, "would it be all right if Sharlese and I take a walk down by the river?"

Lilea looked at Ron who was smiling coyly and said, "I suppose that would be fine...for a billot."

The two young people practically sprang from their seats and scurried away to the street immediately, arm in arm.

"Would you like me to look after them?" Ron asked Lilea.

"No," she laughed. "I think if that boy knew you were around, he wouldn't get within arm's length of her...and I like him a great deal. I've hoped they would get together for a long time. He is a good, honest young man, and he's been pining over her for more than two cycles now. And excluding Sharlese's instant infatuation with you...which is very uncharacteristic of her, but understandable considering you saved her life yesterday...she has talked of no one else for santaris. I couldn't find a better suitor for her if I tried."

They slowly walked out into a little side street that bordered the town's largest bakery and then headed back to Criege Street. The night was cool with a light breeze blowing in from across the river, and the stars were extremely bright. Lampsh was a town without any street lamps and so when they were away from the café, it got very dark in the shadows.

"Can you recommend a place to sleep to a weary traveler?" Ron asked of Lilea.

"Of course," she replied, brimming with excitement. "I'm headed there as soon as I get my bag. They have an indoor bathing trough with heated water!"

Ron laughed quietly to himself at her astonishment over such a common thing, but it was just another aspect of life on Caron he was going to have to get used to.

They went to the stables where the large wagons were being stored and retrieved a bag containing some of Lilea's and Sharlese's necessities. Afterward, they headed to Kavendell's Inn at the south side of town. The Kavendells were in their fourth generation of running the hotel and were known far out into the wilds for keeping an honest, clean, and comfortable establishment.

"Will your possessions be safe there?" Ron inquired, indicating the dark building they'd just left when he noticed no locks on the wagon or the stable's doors.

"Yes, they'll be fine. These stables are guarded at night and the owner knows me and Crogan well."

Ron and Lilea walked leisurely, enjoying the night air and the peaceful setting of the empty street, both sneaking a peek between buildings when they could, scanning along the river for signs of the young couple.

They were relaxed and at ease when they got within a block of the inn, but at that point Ron heard a muffled sound from an alleyway between a wood-right's shop and a seamstress', and he stopped abruptly. He cautiously scanned the empty street he was on, and then moved Lilea over to the opposite side of him, putting his hand up to her lips. He'd stowed his bow in the wagon just borts before, but still carried the long, heavy staff...not wanting to seem too easy a target for some form of trouble.

"Hold up here a lita," he whispered very softly into her ear, and then he moved off, making less noise than the slight draft of air that passed.

Lilea held her bag to her closely, her nerves quickly charging up with dread.

Ron slipped between the buildings carefully, finding the alley extremely dark because it was mostly overhung and so even the starlight didn't penetrate the area. He wished for a torch, or a lamp, but there were none of those things around, so he waited for his eyes to adjust as much as they could and then proceeded.

He stopped again when he heard a slight scraping noise, but couldn't identify it. His hunch was possibly a loose board drifting against a wall in the gentle breeze which wafted past him and down the dim corridor, but he felt compelled to verify it nonetheless.

About halfway to the next street Ron could just make out a shape against the wall...off to his right and roughly waist high. He guessed it was a barrel lying on its side, probably an empty tankard from the celebration down the block, so he reached out and nudged it with his staff to see if it was the cause of the noise.

With just a slight eddy of the breeze, a strong musky odor reached his nose and his reaction was immediate. His abnormally acute senses snapped into action at once, and he pulled back the staff to guard himself...but it was too late!

"Wham!"

In an instant, he was thrown back out of the alley a good twenty peors, and his body rolled to a stop against a shop wall on the other side of the street he and Lilea had been strolling down.

"It's a greel!" Ron grunted to Lilea after he slammed against the wall, wheezing painfully...straining to inflate his lungs and right himself. "RUN!"

### Chapter Sixteen

### Man versus Beast

Ron gathered his feet under him again and scrambled after the staff that had been hurled with him. He was exceptionally fortunate the creature's swat had merely smashed the wooden rod against him, taking the brunt of the blow upon itself.

A greel (mountain bear) had sneaked into town at dusk and was making its way to the riverfront, drawn in from its normal range by the scent of a load of fish remains which had been carelessly left on the loading dock. The owners of that river harvest had been coerced away at noon by the free-flowing spirits of the merriment at the furrier's store, and ended up drunk, unable to resist taking part in the nonstop festivities in the town. The bear was simply trying to hide in that dark space of the alley, preferring to remain secret, but when that didn't work out, it decided to defend itself.

The animal suddenly burst into view at a fast run and turned to attack the nearest potential threat...Lilea. Ron pulled out and hurled his longest throwing blade in one swift motion, and caught the bear in front of its left shoulder.

The creature wheeled around again to face Ron, allowing Lilea to reach the door to the inn where she promptly screamed for help. The animal then reared up on its hind legs and roared out its challenge, no doubt trying to clear the area of all threats with its frightening howl. But Ron Allison did not retreat. Instead, he brandished the long staff and answered that cry with his own wild, bellowing call...sending the battle sounds echoing down the river for several hoz, and bringing the harvest celebration to a quick and fear-filled halt.

Their intermingled wails sent women crying and screaming toward their children and their homes. Many of the men did the same while others rushed to get their weapons, not even considering such a sound could be uttered from a man.

Ron charged the young bear which stood over eight feet tall and outweighed him by two-thirds, the staff whizzing around and around. He stabbed the animal hard in the gut and then brought the other end around to smash it in the head.

The beast just got angrier and swiped at Ron, lunging and snapping, forcing him back. Ron really hated not having his bow now since close fighting with this powerful creature in the dim starlight was definitely not a winning proposition. And he didn't even consider the sword, as that would only force him closer in to the animal.

The greel kept coming, driving Ron down the next alley and out onto Criege Street where he was relieved to at least find substantial room for maneuvering. He jumped and spun and struck at the beast without doing any real damage to it, but killing the bear was not his plan. He just wanted to keep it busy until help arrived...and stop it from an all-out charge.

He managed to block the creature's teeth from reaching him a dozen times, but those powerful swipes hammered at his grip on the staff and threatened to leave him bare-handed. Ron retreated quickly twice more, pausing each time to send another of his knives into the animal that now sprayed blood at every swing of its paw. Ron was panting heavily by then, the struggle clearly in the bear's favor, even with its wounds, and he was beginning to wonder if anyone from the town was going to come to his assistance.

He backed all the way across the wide road and then turned and ran for a large wagon parked outside one of the loading barns. He hurriedly scrambled up to its summit just as the bear's claws blasted four deep gouges out of the heavy wooden sides of the vehicle. There he faced the animal again with the advantage of his higher position, cracking it on the skull with the staff several times as it tried to climb into the wagon with him.

The greel backed off after that and Ron reveled in the momentary break, his chest heaving from his exertions. He felt he was safe for the moment, hopefully long enough for the townspeople to gather weapons and come to finish off the creature...but that plan didn't work out either.

Just when the threat subsided, Janson came tearing around the corner of the loading facility at a dead run, foolishly wanting to see what all the commotion was about. He'd run nearly a quarter hoz and came to a sliding stop only ten feet from the pain-crazed bear. The beast instantly wheeled around and lunged at the young man, and so Ron had no choice. With a new battle cry ripping from his lips, he too pounced.

He soared off the driver's seat in a blink, tossing the staff aside to leave access for the black sword singing free of its scabbard in midflight. Twenty feet through the air Ron flew to land with all his strength and weight behind that blade, slamming the bear to the ground and sinking the razor edged weapon completely through it and into the hard turf.

Ron's momentum carried him across the animal where he rolled free, losing his grip on the blade, but only after nearly subdividing the creature behind the fore-shoulder.

Ron was on his feet again instantly, facing the animal...a rumbling growl escaping his lips and another knife in his hand, ready to continue the battle...but it was unnecessary. It was obvious the poor thing would never move again.

The primal fires of battle were burning brightly inside him by then. The adrenaline rushing in his system, mixed with the strong scent of blood from their fight to the death, surged through his body in a flash, yielding a horrifying auditory outcome. He raised his head to the stars, and from deep within his broad chest erupted a sound of pure and undeniable ferocity...his forefather's victory call...a long and terrible howl that challenged any and all within its reach.

None came forward. In fact, nothing and no one even moved. It was as if time was frozen.

After a short bit, when that petrifying utterance had faded into the dark night and only the hushed, quivering whispers of the astonished onlookers could be heard, Ron slowly recovered his composure, and his more tranquil deportment returned.

He looked first at Janson, who stood back in obvious fear of the man-beast who'd just saved his life, and then at the bear. The poor unfortunate beast had just wanted an easy meal, but now it lay lifeless in a large pool of its own blood, and Ron felt a strong surge of sorrow for it.

Ron saw no need to explain his actions in the least and so he went to work recovering each of his weapons again, as if this sort of event occurred with him every day. When he stood up once more, having stowed his gear, he found himself closely surrounded by a hundred of the town's folk, all murmuring and staring at him. They stood back twenty feet or so, unsure about what they should do.

"Ron!" shouted a female voice from behind the multitude.

Lilea squeezed her way through the crowd until she was at his side.

"Are you injured?"

"Not badly," he responded, finding some minor scrapes and scratches on his arms.

The bear had connected only slightly with some of its attacking swats.

Sharlese finally came flying up from the river's side of the street just then, and the two women nearly bowled him over with their hugs of relief. With that, the rest of the town's throng began to relax and approach the now legendary hero, immediately adding this story with that of the Yetsole cats' encounter. The men congratulated him profusely and slapped him on the back countless times before leaving him be.

Four men from the furrier's shop quickly went to work on the bear under the light of half a dozen torches, and dispatched the grisly scene promptly while the rest of the crowd eased back to their prior celebrations. Each of the onlookers hurriedly began recounting the part of the conflict they'd personally witnessed, until the entire bout was strung together.

Lilea and Sharlese wouldn't let Ron loose from their grasp as they led him back toward the inn...and the still stunned young suitor of Sharlese drifted off dejectedly to his own home.

"How am I supposed to compete with that?" he grumbled...wrongly assuming Sharlese would surely prefer to be with Ron now rather than him.

Ron's superstar status exploded across the city of Lampsh in under a billot. He was granted a free stay at the inn and the luxurious use of their tub as long as he wished. He was now the town's celebrity and hero, and everyone present knew this day would be talked about for generations to come.

When Ron finally made it to bed, after being begged to retell the story half-a-dozen more times, he was wearied from it all. At least he'd been given the best room in the simple lodge, far away from the milling crowd who clearly had no intention of sleeping that night, and it had a huge bed which he relished for its comfort.

As soon as he laid his head down though, his mind drifting quickly into a fog as sleep swept its way towards him, a tiny sound brought him back to life like a sharp jab in the ribs. The doorknob was turning!

Ron slipped his foot-long dagger out from his bedside stash and waited. He saw two forms sneak into the room, and then shut the door carefully before approaching.

"Ron!" a harsh whisper sounded out.

It was Lilea and Sharlese.

"You two nearly got yourselves into serious trouble, sneaking in here like that!" Ron lectured them as he sat up. "What's wrong?"

"We couldn't sleep!" Sharlese responded. "There are too many noises and strange sounds...people walking about, whispering outside our room, and such."

"We wondered if you would mind if we slept here with you," Lilea finally pleaded. "I haven't felt really safe since Crogan was taken...except with you. Please...we will make no sound...we promise."

Ron laughed softly at her request. He would be utterly mad to deny them...wouldn't he?

"You two vixens aren't going to take advantage of me are you?"

They both giggled like schoolgirls as they slipped into bed with the fearsome warrior and assumed their sleeping positions from the previous night.

Ron slept like a baby.

### Chapter Seventeen

### Ronin

The sun had just crested its midday peak when Ron and the two ladies finally sat down for a last meal together. All the women's provisions were loaded onto the massive wagons and the denkas were being groomed and fed, preparing for the long journey back to their farm. The townsfolk had been very generous to their newfound champion, overwhelming Ron with enough freshly made foodstuffs in his pack to last at least a santari, and he was rested and eager to get moving again.

After seeing to those preparatory duties, the three of them had walked away from the commercial traffic of the main street and worked their way onto one of the back avenues. That locale seemed to be a center for eating establishments, having several such places lined up all in a row, so they took their pick.

They sat at a covered outdoor café, comfortably relaxing, and ate and talked for a long while. Fully half the time ended up being filled with the explanation of what the phrase was that everyone used when pointing at Ron.

"I am so sorry, Ron," Lilea began after he reminded her of her promise from the previous day, "I completely forgot about my pledge to enlighten you about that reference. I guess I was distracted with Janson joining us.

"Anyway, the words "Piercellione Danecore" are from the ancient language of the people that lived hundreds of generations ago. It's one of few rare bits of the old world to have survived this long...being handed down over that huge amount of time verbally, from parent to child.

"Piercellione was the god of war, or more precisely, his sword that seeks vengeance against all his enemies. Our elders have come to believe its literal interpretation is somewhat skewed though, being from a long forgotten dialect. They claim it actually stands for the sword of justice, and it cannot be wielded by any other than the people's chosen champion...one of pure heart, absolute fearlessness, and uncompromising truth."

Ron's interest rose a few degrees with that little tidbit.

"The word Danecore stands for the god of life, immortality, or 'one who cannot be killed'. A long-standing myth of our people states that these two gods once faced an enemy of such malevolence that they joined forces and created an invincible being who could not be bested in battle, by man nor beast. Attacked at every turn by the evil forces of the demon world, he stood against, and finally overwhelmed his enemies, which allowed for this world...Caron...to continue.

"Now I know this is just a mythological story of the battle between good and evil, but what I think most people are actually comparing you to is the legend that goes with the myth. It's a tale even the very oldest of us believe is absolutely true to the core.

"Over a thousand cycles ago, a great warrior was born and raised in the grandest city on the known world, Heraitey. His name was Garnmole Trealnian. He was a miraculously gifted fighter, well trained and taught from an early age that strength and honor in battle were everything...and he believed it completely.

"Through his accomplishments on the battlefield, he rose quickly to the supreme rank in the kingdom's army, second only to his Lord in power and wealth. The kingdom was large, but he was still quite young when he found he'd fought and defeated all of its foes...and that fact brought him no satisfaction.

"He became restless quickly and voiced his wish to expand the realm, but Renni Deaton, the king of Heraitey, would not hear of it. It was enough for Lord Deaton to have peace in the land as far as half a cycle's march in every direction.

"Now it is told that Garn was not content with his position, feeling a man who could not face him in battle should not rule him, and so the king began to be wary and suspicious as his disgruntlement grew. The rift between them finally got so bad the king would no longer allow Garn within sight of him. The story suggested that the lack of battle drove Garn mad, or he'd been mad all along and his bloodlust and natural ability made him insatiable for war...but whatever the cause, he and the king became estranged.

"Lord Deaton finally sent him on a mission to conquer an uprising in a faraway edge of the kingdom, only to bid him never return when he got there and discovered no enemy lay waiting.

The majority of the army remained sworn to the service of the king and abandoned Garn with only a few hundred of his loyalist men.

"Garn knew then that he'd missed any chance of slaying his Lord, and even he could never overthrow the king with such a small band of soldiers, so he retreated as he was bid.

"Now the lands outside the kingdom were brutal and lawless, an excellent place for a war-mongering leader to be. It is said that Garn spent the next ten cycles making ties to the most vial men in that world, and even gained control over the beasts through some dark magic.

"He set about making inroads into the king's lands, pressing war at every town and down every road. When King Deaton sent his soldiers out to quell the invasion, they were too widely spread, and Garn broke through their lines easily. He then marched straight at the high-walled city of Heraitey.

"All hope was lost. The king's people were being slaughtered as they retreated to the mighty fortress, looking to their leader to save them. The king had no way of protecting the thousands of innocent families, as his remaining army could barely fill the ramparts of his castle's walls, so he asked the gods to save them. He prayed for the safety of his minions, not for his own life. He prayed for days on end, until Garn's army was within sight from the walls of his beloved city...and then it began!

"Word came like a whisper on the wind, of a warrior who would do battle against the invading forces. Some say it was only a desperate last hope of a doomed people, but the whisper quickly grew louder and began to have substance.

"The rumor was of an extraordinary man from the northernmost territory of the kingdom. He was an exceptional strategist and invincible in battle. He'd formed an army of only two hundred men, but they'd crushed Garn's contingent in that land...a thousand men...and were marching southward. It is alleged that these warriors fought so fiercely they killed half of their foes from fright alone. The leader was rumored to roar and growl like a beast during battle, his sword could not be stopped, and arrows would not even strike him.

"Meanwhile, Garn could tell victory was in his grasp as he set his men up to lay siege to the great castle. He knew every advantage and every weakness of that structure, and expected less than ten days of labor before it would fall. But then word reached his ears about this new threat...about a warrior that pushed a wave of fear before him like an encroaching tide.

"At first he brushed it off as mere rumor and continued his preparations for another day, but finally, late the following evening, the news that his northern guard had been destroyed forced him to abandon his position and turn his army north. He vowed to King Renni that he would return and finish the job after dispatching this would-be threat.

"Garnmole marched for a solid week through thickly wooded lands with five thousand men to meet this tiny army. He also sent word for his western force of two thousand to join him at a position which would trap the interloping band between them. It would be over quickly and he could get back to his victory. But when he reached his intended position, he found no one to fight. His western army never arrived either.

"He sent scouts in every direction for the next two days, but only one returned. He was just a young boy, but he brought word that stated the enemy which he sought now ordered his surrender.

"Garn was furious, but what was worse was the realization that his own men were beginning to lose faith in his superiority. How could such a small group be defeating the most powerful army ever assembled? He began to feel something he'd never experienced in his life...fear.

"He ordered the young scout to ride back and tell the leader he would talk with him about the terms of surrender. When the boy was gone, he gathered his lieutenants and planned an ambush.

"The two leaders agreed to meet in an open field approximately two hundred paces across and each would be accompanied by only one ally.

"When the meeting took place the next day, Garn strode out onto the field to face the leader of the opposing force with his finest captain at his side.

"Now even though he had men watching the clearing all night, they never reported the arrival of the enemy, yet nevertheless, at dawn a stranger was standing calmly in the center of the meadow, alone.

"Are you the commander of the army that dares defy me?" Garn asked when he was still fifty paces from the man.

"The stranger stared back at him calmly. 'I fight for those who cannot!' was all he said.

"Garn smiled broadly at the foolishness of this 'upstart' before he gave a sharp whistle and two huge cats, trained to do his bidding, burst out into the open and charged the man.

"This is where the story gets weird," Lilea then said to Ron.

"The warrior in the grassland moved so fast that none could tell how he did it, but he had his bow up and two arrows in one of the animals before it could reach him. And when the other leaped for him, he ducked under its flying body and split it in two with his sword...and didn't get a scratch."

Ron felt his skin leap with goose-bumps at that point.

"Garn exploded with rage, ordering a charge which sent ten of his men racing into the field. The leader slew them all. The legend says his blade was so strong and swift there was barely a fight at all.

"Finally Garn stood alone. He walked out into that grassy patch of ground and challenged the leader of the tiny army to a man-to-man fight.

"Garn was the best sword-fighter anyone had ever seen. He was reputed to be the best swordsman who ever lived. The leader of the little army crushed him, disarming him four different times, only to return the blade to Garn after each match as if he were teaching a student. Finally Garn was too exhausted and bloody to fight on and he collapsed at the feet of the other soldier, his body drained from the exertion and the loss of blood from a hundred minor wounds. The nameless leader asked for his surrender again, but Garn just spat at him.

"'If I let you live, will you swear to leave and never return to this kingdom?' he asked of Garn.

"'I'll be back!' Garn swore to him. 'In this lifetime or the next!'

"The leader of the little army beheaded him. Then he cleaned his sword on Garn's uniform and walked back the way he'd come. His loyal men emerged from the wooded glade and joined him on his journey back to the high mountains, and they were never seen again.

"The kingdom was saved, but King Renni Deaton lay dead...found in his bedchambers hunched over, as if still praying. It was believed that he'd offered up his life to save his people, and the gods had granted his prayer by sending the 'Piercellione Danecore'...the champion of the people...the invincible warrior.

"No one knows where this kingdom actually was, and it is believed by some to be pure folklore, but it's a good story, don't you think?"

"Yes it's a good tale," Ron agreed, "but, besides the bit about the two cats, I don't see anything that would link it to me."

Sharlese jumped into the discussion then.

"The warrior who defeated Garn was never seen before or after that event, except by one individual. The only surviving person who lived out that battle and returned to the kingdom was the young scout who'd acted as liaison to the two leaders. He'd watched from the woods and described the man to everyone for the rest of his long life as being very tall, broad shouldered, and deeply tanned with shoulder length black hair. This wasn't exceptionally distinctive of course, but the sword he wielded was as black as the rock that burns, and...this is where it gets really weird...when they were leaving, the boy asked the leader his name, so that he could tell the king who had saved his people. The fellow replied; 'Ronin Alsone, from the land of Erthania.'"

Ron's mouth nearly dropped open. The hair on the back of his neck jumped up and a chill swept through him.

"That 'is' weird!" he said.

"Especially since Erthania is a myth all in itself...said to have been destroyed by an evil from within, long before the origination of that legend," Lilea added. "That kingdom was believed to have been built somewhere in the Taerdrasseg Mountains and was rumored to be totally impregnable to outside armies since none but the mountain people could breathe the thin air of the land.

"Some believe this legendary super-soldier was an actual man, off to the aid of a friend when his home was destroyed, and now he roams the lands, searching for answers to what happened to his people. They think he seeks out those who are vile and contemptuous in a never-ending search for answers to questions that might give him peace."

The chill that still tingled inside Ron raised another notch at her statement.

"Nowadays, the title of Piercellione is commonly used to describe those fierce peoples who live up in the great mountains. They don't consort with outsiders, but they became known to all when their champion fighter made the entire 'Circuit' and defended his territory against every known adversary, even one of the Kreete themselves.

"He fought until the Kreete masters decided he was growing too famous and powerful, and tried to slay him in the Great Arena. He survived their plot and escaped, and then turned against them, creating a following all over Caron. The Kreete Lords claimed to have killed him earlier this spring, but no one believes that...and now that we've met you...we're certain he and his followers live on."

Ron mulled their story over for what seemed like a very long pause in the conversation, seeing far too many parallels to his own situation. Then he abruptly changed the subject to lighten the tone, preferring to discuss what plans the women had for their immediate future.

The food was good and plentiful, and when they finally pushed back from the table, none of them felt much like moving. But after they all let out a huge sigh in unison, it couldn't help but be followed up with a burst of laughter.

"Well," Ron said at last, "I suppose we'd better get you two moving."

"Do we have to go so soon?" Sharlese protested. "You haven't even finished with your business yet."

"I know," he replied, "and I would much rather spend the remainder of my wait with such beautiful company, but that might not be safe. I saw the way you two ladies attracted the attention of a great deal of men around here. I think you should get on your way while most of them either still have transactions to finish, or are off getting their meals. I don't want to have to worry about you too much. I'll walk alongside you until you're out of town, and then double back. That should dissuade most of any would-be thugs from bothering you."

Lilea agreed to accept his escort, and she and Sharlese were on the move again shortly, with the large cloaked figure of Ron carrying his long, heavy staff strolling beside them. Most of the crowds that had gathered earlier in the day were scattered once more, attending to their own duties, but not all. There was still a stirring in the talks of the townsfolk about the stranger who'd brought in the incredible prize.

No one paid much attention though as the two large wagons slowly eased their way back down Criege Street and out into the country again, except the bandit, Tarvelle. He joined them at the outer marker and fell in behind with two of his men. He had his broken arm in a sling and held a loaded crossbow with his good hand.

"Good day to you," Ron greeted him.

Tarvelle just nodded and strolled alongside the leading wagon while his men took up positions on either side. Ron noticed they were all business, and inwardly smiled.

Ron waited until they were well out of sight of Lampsh, and then he said his good-byes and set off perpendicular to the road, intending to reenter the town through the back streets.

Sharlese watched him until he was gone, her eyes draining tears down her cheeks as he drew further away with each powerful stride, and then she buried her face in her sister's shoulder and cried again. Lilea just tried to console her as well as she could, knowing just how she felt, and knowing also that she would be fine after some time had passed. She was still young and confused about such feelings and would understand the difference between love and infatuation someday. Then she too felt the hot moisture of tears sliding down her own face as she thought of her dear husband, and wondered about her own fate without him.

Ron slipped back into Lampsh quietly and joined in with the crowds. He milled about here and there killing time and trying not to be noticed, but eventually, someone who'd seen him the previous day would point him out and he would have to move on.

He came across Janson as the young man was carrying out some errand for his brother and flagged him down.

"Janson! Hey, Janson!"

The young man turned to see whom it was who hailed him and greeted Ron with a scowl and a threatening persona.

"You've ruined her!" he hissed at Ron...the man who'd saved his life less than a day ago and who stood before him, dwarfing him with his bulk. "How could you do that and then just cast her aside?"

"What? Who?" Ron replied, half surprised and half angry at such accusations. "What are you talking about?"

Janson took a step back and drew his short sword, trembling with rage. "How can you be so low? Is this what you do with your women...big man?"

Ron stepped back quickly and reached up for his blade, but then stopped. This boy was confused...not rational.

"Janson," he spoke sternly, "I don't know what you're referring to, so just explain yourself and we can work this out."

"Sharlese...you spawn of a whore!"

Ron's temper flared then. This boy was going too far. He gripped the dark blade firmly...it still in its sheath.

"What about Sharlese?"

"I went to see her at the inn last night," Janson growled. "to ask if I might spend time with her today.

"I saw her going into 'your' room...and she did not come back out," he finished as tears welled up in his eyes. "And now you just sent her away as if she were nothing!"

Ron then dropped his hand from his weapon, planted it firmly on his hip, and smiled.

"I see," he began. "Well, we should definitely talk then."

Janson nearly lost his temper...and his life...when he saw Ron smile, assuming he was mocking his love.

"You misunderstand, my young friend!" Ron told him, glancing about for anyone within earshot.

Ron quickly explained what had transpired in the hotel room...careful to keep his voice as low as he could. After his explanation was done, he saw the lovesick young fellow nearly fall over from relief. They ended the confrontation with a good slap on the shoulder, and Ron grinned at the youth.

"That is mighty brave of you, to be willing to challenge me for the honor of your love. I know she will be in good hands with you," Ron told Janson afterward. "I tell you what, if you take off soon, you could probably escort them all the way back home...and I would feel much better about them if you would."

Janson returned Ron's grin and promised he would do just that.

"Oh, by the way. Have you seen your brother about? I'm looking for him."

"No. Not for a while. He left the shop sometime this morning, but I don't know where he went."

"Well, you finish up what you have to and get going...okay?"

Janson nodded hurriedly, and rushed off to complete his errand.

Ron checked the furrier's shop again and was nearly at the point of leaving without the ring, wishing to be rid of the high profile, celebrity status, when he saw a man standing with Jarle outside the bank. Jarle looked up and down the wide-open ground of the street, scanning the crowds, and Ron took that as a sign for him to come forward.

"There you are," said Jarle, in a relieved tone. "I wasn't sure how I'd find you again, as I know so little about you."

"Is it finished?" Ron asked, trying to remain pleasant, but focused on concluding the transaction.

"Yes, it is," responded the other man, Verne Leelan, the representative of the bank. "Please, step inside and I will get it for you."

They all entered the building and Ron watched as Verne went back to the fellow in the vault and presented him with some documents. The man inside quickly turned and retrieved a small item from the desk beside the door and handed it to the clerk, who then walked it straight to Ron. It was the signet ring they'd discussed on the previous day. He explained how to use the ring for future withdrawals and deposits, and then handed it over to Ron.

"Thank you very much, and good day to you," Ron said to the clerk, who bowed curtly and returned to his business.

Ron thanked Jarle for his fair dealings as they stepped out of the money fortress and back into the blazing sunlight of the street. He felt a great relief to finally get back to his trek, but again, his wishes were not to be.

No sooner than the brightness of the Caronian sun was fractionated due to the auto-shades of his eyes, Ron realized he and Jarle were surrounded.

### Chapter Eighteen

### Criege

There was a group of about fifteen men standing in a half circle immediately around the entrance of the bank. All were armed in some way, and ten had crossbows trained on Ron.

The doors to the bank slammed shut behind Ron and Jarle, and a quick look over his shoulder revealed the guards had fled inside as well. Clearly they were to protect the investments only, and not the patrons.

A casual look down one side of the street, sweeping across and over to the other direction told Ron all he needed to know. The crowded shops and pedestrian traffic had come to a standstill. Every porch was occupied with a multitude of people, waiting and watching the armed group to see what was to occur. On three of the rooftops across the street, Ron spotted archers wielding longbows. They had great range with those weapons and could fire them quickly.

Off to the north, there was a large group of horses milling about the stables, and the back end of a small chariot could be seen just beyond that final building. The two animals that drew it were heavily lathered, streaming sweat, and were being tended with water while being uncoupled from their harnesses.

"I knew nothing of this!" Jarle whispered to Ron quickly. "He was not due back here for days."

Just then, a man came striding up and through the armed ring. He was tall, taller than Ron, and had a shaved head with tattoos displayed about it. He wore the reminder of some past foe emblazoned across his cheek from his left ear to the point of his chin. No doubt it had been a close call for him during some battle.

He was stripped to the waist and wore gray fabric trousers that were bloused below the knee with high boots of animal hide. There was a long sword and a short sword hanging from his belted hips, and he had leather armlets just above his wrists. He was well muscled, but lean of any fat, and he had the look of someone who expects, and receives, the authority he demands. His eyes were blacked out, as were all male Caronians in the blaze of the daylight sun, and he looked incredibly dangerous.

The fellow stopped four paces from Ron and stood there looking at him for quite a while, saying nothing. Ron remained where he was, calmly doing the same, his left hand still firmly holding the heavy staff he'd wrestled from Sreedar. The soldiers held their ground and did not waver...they were well trained. Finally the obvious commander of the troops spoke.

"I've ridden hard to get here to meet you, stranger," he said to Ron. "I received word of you and your fantastic boasts just midmorning this day and felt I had to see you for myself. I am Criege Printoge. What's your name?"

"I've been called by many names," Ron replied carefully, "none of which you would be familiar with."

Criege smiled broadly and gave Ron the once over again.

"You surely have the nerve to earn the title these people have given you," he said to Ron with sarcastic flamboyance. "But I asked you a simple question out of courtesy, and I would like a simple answer. Who are you?"

"A man looking for a simple answer wouldn't need twenty armed men to extricate that answer, would he?" Ron replied flatly. "I came here to do a little business with this local merchant," Ron continued, "and now that the transaction is fulfilled, I should like to be on about my own affairs."

"Now that is an interesting statement," Criege added. "Just what is your profession?"

Ron thought for a lita, before replying.

"Some would consider me a man for hire," he told Criege. "I've been known to do certain things for certain people, for a price...be it money or favor."

"Is that why you attacked my men out on the southern road two days ago?" Criege asked with a hint of anger in his voice. "For money...or favor?"

Ron felt his patience ebbing downward.

"If those were your men," he retorted, "then I suggest you find more capable souls. They were incompetent and foolish," and then he added his own inflection of anger; "And if it's by your order that those men rob and rape helpless women, then perhaps my accounting of the matter is yet unresolved!"

Criege seemed stunned at Ron's obvious disregard of his position of power. Jarle looked at him as if he were completely mad. Could it be that someone was standing up to Criege at the business end of a dozen or so arrow points?

"If this is your commerce," Ron continued, "the thieving, murdering, and slave trade I've heard so much about since I came into this land, then you can call me what the people here have dubbed me; 'Ronin'. And in the name of justice, I will not stand by and allow such travesties to continue.

"People may have to pay taxes and some penalties to have the freedom to live their lives in relative peace, but to pay and still be treated like the lowest form of beast is too much. If this is your business, then you have come to the end of your reign!"

Criege's face went from tanned to a dark red color, his anger rising quickly...and then he cracked a wry smile at Ron's announcement, and made one of his own.

"You people of Lampsh have heard what the newcomer said. He acts as if he's here to help you, but how vain is that...one man against two-dozen? He says my men are fools, well then what about him? He boasts like he did about the Yetsole cat hides. Everyone knows what he claims is impossible. No doubt he robbed and killed some poor woodsmen to take such prizes, for no one can kill two cats at one time."

"The animals made a critical error..." Ron interjected, his hand reaching up and unclasping his cloak, but not yet allowing it to drop to the ground behind him. "Perhaps they felt their position was too strong to be thwarted. They should have stuck to their normal mode of attack...by night, when the prey is more vulnerable...but they didn't. They came at us when we were fully armed, and they announced their intent with time enough to mount a counteroffensive. Many animals will fall into that lull of overconfidence; if something, or someone, doesn't come along every now and again to challenge their rule...wouldn't you say?"

Criege saw something in Ron's manner that made him quake in his boots.

"When you're fighting in the arena as my slave, for 'my' profit, we'll see who is a challenge! Take him!"

Several of the troops moved forward to overwhelm Ron, but they had no chance for that. He released his hold on the staff and the cloak and leaped straight up, grasping the overhang of the porch and flipping himself up and over, as quickly as snapping his fingers. He kicked his feet powerfully as he pivoted, and landed in a low crouch on top of the canopy, his bow already in his left hand and a dagger in his right.

One man had his crossbow trained on Ron, but he met with a ten inch long steel messenger before he could get his shot off. Ron then stood up rigidly and began his battle...arrows flying so fast that three more men were down before they could make use of their own weapons.

Five of the archers had discharged their crossbows out of reflex when they saw Ron move so quickly, hitting nothing but his empty cape. They were clumsy and overly eager. Now they stood in a battle like fools, unarmed and busy reloading.

Ron was targeting the others though, the ones who'd shown enough restraint to wait until they had a real chance at hitting him. But he now stood above them, and the intense Caronian sun was directly behind his position, hindering their ability to focus on their target.

Ron was completely aware of the sun's location, as he'd noted that immediately after realizing he was under these men's threat, and he meant to utilize every advantage he could.

An arrow launched from across the street sunk into the wooden supports at Ron's feet and redirected his attention momentarily. He sent his reply to that aerial message, but his aim was truer, and then he was back at the soldiers below. Two more crossbowmen fell before he received some of the punishment Criege had promised.

Ron felt a sharp burning in his right side, enough to tell him he'd been wounded, but far from enough to stop him. The arrow passed cleanly through his side, above the hip and below the ribs...a nonlife-threatening strike.

A scratching noise off to his left made Ron pivot to see one of the swordsmen pulling himself up and onto the roof. Twin edges of a razor sharp blade were the last glimpse of life that man would ever see as he careened off the porch and onto his comrades.

Ron let fly with another black arrow, and another of the attacking force was down before he took up his original position of defense again, refocusing on the remaining archers and feeling certain he could hold his vantage point.

Suddenly that fleeting bit of confidence was shattered as the structure he was standing on rocked violently to the left, nearly pitching him off. The soldiers were using a bench, normally intended for the waiting patrons of the bank to rest on, as a battering ram against the support posts. Ron dropped one more man before he abandoned his vantage point and leaped high and far from his lofty perch...and into the midst of them.

At the onset of the battle, all the swordsmen had rushed the covered porch and now the remaining group of those men was trying to tear down the structure. Meanwhile, the troops with the long-range weapons had backed up and were reloading.

Ron struck the ground at the feet of one of those bowmen, and the fellow's head met him there. The black sword was on the move! Ron lunged quickly and skewered the next man, pushing him back, then spun rapidly and hamstrung his partner with a passing slash, dropping them both in the blink of an eye.

The last of the men wielding crossbows went down at that point with a tiny shard of blue steel just protruding from their chests, and several inches of the blades piercing their hearts.

Ron was still well clear of the sword-fighters, as they were just then turning to charge, so he slammed the ebony sword into the turf and wheeled around to take down the remaining snipers on the roofs at his back. Two more arrows took flight, and that threat was gone.

He tossed the bow aside then and the dark blade returned to his hands as the balance of Criege's forces closed on him.

Ron parried three lunging blades in a flash of metal that rang down the wide street in an ear-piercing clang, carrying all the way to the edge of town. He beat them back easily, crushing their attack with the strength of his blows.

"Jarle!" Ron shouted above the clashing of metal. "My staff!"

Jarle had retreated off to the side of the building, stunned and amazed at the war being waged only feet from him, and so was still nearby the fight. He reacted instantly. His arm flashed back and he hurled the wooden rod like a javelin, having it sail neatly over Ron's head.

Ron leaped back and up, snatching it out of the air with his free hand. He spun around once, stowing his sword and whirling that weapon to feel its balance once more, and then he took up his stance. He faced the men now with the disadvantage of numbers...six to one, but the clear advantage of reach, weight, and speed.

Ron didn't let them regroup, charging into their ranks instantly, that heavy piece of wood just a flashing image. He brought the end of the staff down hard on the nearest soldier's blade, driving it to the ground, and then snapped it up quickly, slapping the first man across the jaw and dropping him like a stone.

The enemy troops found themselves thrown into an advanced school of warfare at that point, and they were the trainees. They were swiftly reminded that the material embodying such a weapon as Ron wielded was nearly impenetrable by a sword, which barely nicked its hardened wood surface, and felt like granite when it contacted their body parts. The beauty of the staff though was that it had two ends to fight with, and Ron used both of them with equal ferocity.

He swept the blades from two more men and then crippled them as the trailing edge of the device collided with their knees, elbows, collarbones, skulls, or shoulders. The blows fell so swiftly that the sound of them was a nearly uninterrupted crunching noise, blending with the men's cries of pain.

Ron leaped forward at times, then up and back to escape some attack, and always he spun the wooden tool of defense, pivoting on the end of it at times to allow his feet into the fray. He whirled that heavy length of timber into one after the other of his assailants, until all the swordsmen and archers were either dead or unconscious, or so broken they couldn't move...all save one.

As the last of them fell, Ron stood at the center of the downed men, scanning for any more threats...and felt a sudden sharp, burning sensation slam into his left shoulder. He didn't need to check the wound to know an arrow was now lodged deeply into his body, up under his left shoulder blade, but not quite protruding through the front of his chest. The tip of it was jammed between two of his upper ribs and pressing into a place which caused his left arm to tingle savagely. He knew immediately that it would hinder the movement of that arm greatly, making it impossible to handle the wooden weapon any longer.

Ron whipped around to find Criege barely thirty feet away, holding two of his men's crossbows...and he was firing another arrow!

### Chapter Nineteen

### Reliving the Past

Ron reacted instinctively, leaning back hard to spoil the man's aim. That worked pretty well as the missile only clipped the edge of his right side ribs and passed through the heavy muscle under his right arm, narrowly avoiding the much more lethal intended target of his chest.

Ron kept his feet only due to his grip on the staff, so far had he arched his back, but supporting his body weight with his left arm forced his shoulder to pull hard on the arrow lodged there. As a result, the limb went numb as he straightened up, causing his grip on that marvelous weapon to evaporate, and it fell aside. But he didn't hesitate in the slightest! Instead, he moved toward Criege quickly, before he could reload, disregarding the tingling appendage and the flows of blood which were streaming down his back and side.

Criege saw Ron's move and dropped the bows, pulling both his swords free as he rushed in. His blades flashed swiftly in a crisscross pattern, designed to confuse his opponent and open up a weakness in the attacker's style. It was a strategy that had worked well in the past...at least against normal men's abilities.

Ron slid the dark blade out once again and engaged Criege's assault in a single blazing motion. The resulting skirmish was even more spectacular than the fight with the previous men had been as their blades slammed together time after time in rapid succession until it sounded like it was raining metal from the sky.

The entire town quickly moved off the surrounding porches, boats, and backstreets, filling every inch of ground around the two dueling men, but left them a good circle of space to maneuver. The rooftops and every window of any two-story building in the area was crammed with spectators, but not a sound could be heard from them. They all held their breath and watched as Ron was pushed back halfway across the wide expanse of the street named for his adversary...his single weapon struggling to counter the onslaught of Criege's duel ones.

Criege was truly an expert swordsman, proving it by drawing blood from Ron on several occasions. He was very quick and had power belying his size, almost as strong as some of the Kreete warriors Ron had faced, and Ron was fighting at considerably less than full strength. But too, Ron Allison was learning quickly about his foe. Criege was extremely adept at his attack strategy, beating down his opponent and slipping in a blade at every opportunity. His shortcoming though was that he lacked the patience a truly gifted fighter needs and did not give ground well, apparently not having had much reason to learn such a skill in the past.

The next time they locked blades, Ron snapped his foot up and sent Criege sailing onto his back with a powerful kick to his midsection. The leader of the warrior band was up quickly and looked startled, but then he smiled.

"I have seen a hundred men die at the end of my blade, stranger," he boasted...his chest heaving and sweat pouring from his body.

Ron knew his boasting was merely a chance to get in a little recovery time without letting the crowd know what was happening, but he allowed it, resting himself.

"I've killed dozens of men better than you, and have even faced two of the Kreete warriors themselves in battle to the death, and I am still here! You cannot win. Give up now and you can live out your life in the arena. You could survive for another few years, if you're lucky. If you cooperate, I'll even let you pick out the women you like. Why die here for them," he added, indicating the Lampsh folks, "...for nothing?"

Ron scoffed at the offer, looking down to see if his hand was responding yet, and noticed the arrowhead in his shoulder was now pushed fully through his skin. He stepped a bit closer to Criege and spoke softly.

"I too have faced the Kreete," Ron whispered in a gruff tone. "More than two dozen of them...and three of those were of the rank of Master Killer!" he said as he reached up and gripped the arrow point, snapping it off like a twig. Ron then sunk his blade tip into the ground and reached around to snatch the arrow out from his back. Instantly the feeling returned to his left arm and he took up his sword again.

Criege's expression changed from gloating to fear as he heard and understood what Ron told him, and then he saw the man in front of him was nearly whole again.

"That is not possible!" Criege spat out. "No man can stand against a Kreete Master Killer! The only one who could have ever done what you claim is dead now, killed by a Redalien tracker. And even he, the great Kask"...his eyes flew open wider than Ron could have imagined they could, turning to round, black orbs.

Ron leaped at him then...both hands wielding the ebony sword...and it flew and crashed against Criege's defense in a barrage of cold steel fury that put him in a frantic retreat.

Criege tried to block that melee' of flashing blade, but he was now outmatched considerably. Even after the long fight and the loss of a substantial amount of blood, which was still flowing from his chest, Ron's strikes were calculated, smooth, exact, and powerful. Over the next few moments, Criege found himself to be in dire straits and bleeding from nearly every conceivable area of his body.

When Ron felt he'd done enough damage, he stepped back and spoke.

"You're finished, Criege! Surrender now and relinquish all your hold on these people, and you may live."

Criege staggered side to side badly, his long sword now lay on the ground, unable to raise it anymore.

"All right," he said, and then muttered some other statement Ron couldn't make out.

Ron approached him, still standing firmly but his entire left side was red with blood as well as a good streak down his right hip. He moved in closely to make out what the man was saying.

Criege lunged at Ron quickly with the short sword, but Ron was no fool and he parried the thrust aside, his free hand shooting out in a flash. He gripped Criege's wrist firmly and twisted it around to his back, snapping his elbow cleanly. Ron then wrapped his right arm around Criege's neck from behind the man and began to squeeze.

"Men like you disgust me!" he told Criege, close enough to the man's ear that he could be heard by him alone and not by the crowd, who now, were edging closer to the two combatants...only five or six steps between them.

"You have the skills to be a true leader and could have helped free your people from the Kreete, but you are a self-serving pile of dung that has no honor. I know if I let you live, you will recover and start building your little empire again."

Criege desperately groped and tugged at Ron's arm, trying to break a hold that was unbreakable. The limb encircling his throat may as well have been made of solid iron; so unyielding was it to the man.

"The Kreete are our superiors!" Criege squeaked, barely able to hiss out the words. "If you kill me now, you will just bring the wrath of our Warlord upon these people."

"We will fight them and win our freedom," Ron told Criege. "The Kreete will not rule Caron forever."

"Fight the Kreete?" Criege sneered. "Are you mad? They are larger, stronger, faster, and have weapons that cannot be stopped. There is no choice but to obey and eke out whatever life you can. The strong and the smart can still have a good life. You are a good fighter, no question about that, so join me and we can control twice the territory I have now. You could be a wealthy man."

"I already am a wealthy man," Ron growled at Criege. "Besides; power corrupts, or so I'm told, so I'll pass, but it ends here with you. These people will bow to you no more."

"For now perhaps," Criege added, "but as soon as my Lord, Neadorn, hears about this little uprising, he will see to it that order is restored...and he will not be as gentle on them as I've been."

"I have a feeling he won't be so easy on you either!" Ron mused.

Criege bristled at that comment, struggling fiercely again.

"I'll be able to talk my way out of it, I'm sure," Criege told Ron, "unlike that little whore of a wife of yours!"

Ron tightened his hold on the man to the extent that Criege nearly passed out, and then he eased up.

"What do you know about it?"

"I was there when ten Kreete scouts used her for their pleasure and then gutted her like a flarge; right in front of you, if you're who I think you are...Kaskle Dangarth, of the Aredanz."

Ron was stunned. Could this be true? The dreams...the flashes of that horrible scene which had haunted him since his second day as this hybrid man he'd become.

"If this story is true, why do you not recognize me now?" Ron demanded.

"You were pretty messed up back then. Your master had been punishing you for a while when they found the woman."

Ron tried to pull that recollection from his mind, but Kaskle's experiences were more feelings than actual memories, so he couldn't be sure.

"You thought you were invincible," Criege continued. "You thought you could stop the Kreete with your little band of 'rebel fighters', but you couldn't, eh? They used her to get you back in line."

Ron gritted his teeth.

"I guess it didn't work too well, huh?" Ron growled.

"It worked well enough to have you on your knees crying like a woman, begging them for mercy, saying you'd do anything they wanted if they would stop. It was soooo touching."

Ron's remembrance of the event was surfacing again, recalling that vivid dream of his, or rather Kaskle's, beautiful wife tied down in the street with a hundred people watching. His viewpoint was that of a bystander...forced to observe, and bound in some restraint he couldn't break. His desperation, anger, and hate, was so strong he could taste the bile in his mouth even now.

"Shut up you piece of shit!" Ron ordered him as the red haze of fury clouded his mind. "Or I'll snap this twig of a neck you have."

"Yes, yes," Criege said, regaining some of his composure, sensing that Ron was recalling how powerful the Kreete were, and that he shouldn't be so quick to anger them. "Your woman was begging for it at the end, you know. I guess she was enjoying having the Lords take her body, and she loved it."

Ron was fighting a mounting compulsion to kill this man. He knew Criege was trying to intimidate him, to make him remember who the real power wielders were, but Criege didn't know that it was working in the opposite fashion. Kaskle, and now Ron, were not the types of men who fell victim to that tactic. The harder they're pushed, the more resolve they gained.

"Shut up!" Ron ordered again, tightening his grip.

Criege wouldn't give up though. He figured everyone thought like he did...that fear and threat of reprisal were enough to control anyone.

"These people will all die if you kill me."

Ron started vibrating, so hard was he struggling to stay in control of his anger and heartache. Criege thought it was panic.

"Spare these people your whore's death, and your son's," Criege whispered. "They ate him, you know."

That was it! The memory Kaskle had passed on to Ron's subconscious became a bright, burning vision in his mind...as clear as if it was playing out in front of him at that very moment...and the sight was too much to bear.

Ron stopped vibrating instantly. His mission was perfectly clear. His struggle with right and wrong was over. One powerful flex of his bicep and there was a loud, "crack", and Criege's body went limp. His fury and hatred for everything the Kreete were and had done came flowing out of his form in a rapid, bestial barrage. It began with a resounding roar of challenge issuing from his throat in a long, horrible cry...guttural and prehistoric...carrying across the town like an earthquake.

The townsfolk nearest him pressed backward against the throng, fear chilling their souls and panic written across their faces.

The next move of the unassailable warrior in their midst was a feat of strength that shocked and frightened everyone who witnessed it. He lifted Criege's bloody body over his head like he was a straw doll and flung him nearly fifty feet, to fall in the dirt of the street which bore his name. Criege joined his men there, the end of one last battle he could not overcome.

Ron watched the corpse strike the ground and then his blade was out again, scanning the immediate area for signs of more enemies...searching, wanting them to come.

The inhabitants of Lampsh fell back quickly then, from fear and astonishment, not knowing what to expect from this fearsome animal in the shape of a man.

Ron's soul burned like fire, spurring him to fight, to avenge, to turn back the clock that had ticked away the life of his family so long ago. He was a specter of utter rage.

After a few moments of extreme quiet on the street though, Ron realized there were no more enemies to fight, and so the hate faded and he became aware once more of the people encircling him.

When he eventually focused on the face of a young boy who'd wormed his way through the cluster of nearby men and was now peeking out from under his father's legs, he sprang back to reality. He locked onto that tiny face and felt his body release the tension and aggression he'd used so well just moments before, and so he lowered his sword.

Finally, Ron smiled at him and stowed his dark blade.

As the adrenaline dissipated, and his heart rate and pulmonary system dropped back in the range of a normal man, he looked once again at the crowd around him. They still had not uttered a word, but many sighs echoed through them and they began to mill about. Before long, the talk began in hurried, nervous tones and a single phrase was repeated over and over, "Can you believe that?"

No one approached Ron for a handful of borts, not sure of the state of mind of the man who'd just vanquished such a large group of trained soldiers single-handedly.

Ron went immediately to retrieving his possessions, arrows and knives, and also took that time to examine his own injuries and assess his ability to continue his mission. It did not look good.

When he first crouched down to one of the deceased men, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his right thigh. It turned out to be an arrow from one of Criege's archers protruding from the inside of his leg but was broken off with just an inch showing. Ron felt for the tip and found it bulging the skin on the outside of his thigh. He cleaned off the shards of wood as best he could, then locked his jaw firmly against the coming pain and slapped the broken end of the arrow with his left hand, sending it through the other side. He then pulled the little missile free of his body and dropped it on the ground, watching for the amount of blood spilling out of the new hole. His luck was still holding, as the wound just oozed slowly...no major arteries hit.

Back to his duties he went, searching every downed man until he was satisfied he'd collected all his items from them, and then he turned to where the snipers had stood, atop the nearby buildings. As he looked across the sea of people who were now enthralled in conversation, he saw a single person pushing through their mass, heading in his direction. Ron stood where he was and waited to see what was coming before moving off to finish his task.

A young man, perhaps in his early twenties, wedged his way into the opening that still separated Ron from the townsfolk, carrying three black arrows. He paused at the edge of the multitude and looked at Ron with an inquisitive stare for a long moment before holding out his hand, the one holding the arrows, and walking forward.

"Thank you, young man," Ron said to him as he accepted the fatal devices. "What's your name?"

"I'm Saige," the fellow responded. "What's your name?"

Ron looked around at the town briefly, thinking about what Criege had said about the Kreete Lord, and replied, "Probably Mud."

Ron turned again, back to the bank...the beginning of the ambush...and walked over, limping a bit. He had one more of the throwing knives to recover. The guards from the establishment were busy bracing up the partially destroyed overhang to allow people to enter and leave the building again, and Jarle stood close by examining the blade he was coming for. Ron stopped where he was and his hand went to the butt end of one of that knife's identical siblings.

Jarle glanced up, saw the situation he was in, and his free hand flew up sharply, palm out.

"Wait!" he shouted at Ron. "I mean no harm. I was just looking at it."

He held the weapon out, hilt first, for Ron to accept...his other hand still up.

"I pulled it from that man," Jarle explained quickly, "and I've never seen metal that color before, so I was curious. Here, take it."

Ron relaxed his attitude and took the blade, stowing it immediately in one of his many sheaths.

"Sorry, but I'm still a little keyed up...you know?"

"No, no! That's understandable. No harm done."

"I want to thank you for your assistance, Jarle," Ron said then, holding out his right hand.

Jarle didn't know exactly what he should do, but he followed Ron's motion and their hands clasped.

"You're welcome, my friend," the furrier replied. "I figured it was the least I could do after they cornered you like that.

"I've seen men display the use of weapons on many occasions," Jarle continued, "and their skills were astounding, but I tell you now...I've never seen a warrior like you before this day. Had I not witnessed it here with my own eyes, I would still not believe it. In fact, I did have my doubts about your story of how you came to have those cat hides, until now."

"It really doesn't matter," Ron told him. "People believe or not on their own experience or intuition. I'm sure stories like that come and go over time, and either become legend or fairy tale depending on the tellers and the mood of the day."

"Well, I can assure you this day will not be remembered as myth or fairy tale!" the young man, Saige, proclaimed, grinning a wide as he could. "It shall be sung about for a hundred cycles or more as the greatest battle in the history of our territory!"

As the occasion turned a bit lighter, Ron felt the effects of his injuries sinking in. He needed to get someplace to lie down and recover before he lost too much more blood. His numerous cuts and punctures were clotting well, except for the shoulder where Criege shot him with the crossbow. That was draining heavily. Ron started to ask Jarle and Saige for help in finding a doctor when a man and woman approached their little trio. They were well into their fifties Ron guessed, and he greeted them in Caronian fashion, with a nod.

"I am Reginaud Dynte, and this is Flessete, my wife," the man said, returning Ron's greeting. "I'm the town's healer. I believe you may be in need of my care, young fellow."

Ron smiled at him, glancing down at himself and his rather haggard looking body.

"Yes sir," Ron told him, "I do believe you are correct."

"If you don't mind, Jarle," Reginaud told him, "I will escort this gentleman back to my shop, so we might clean him up and see if he will live."

"Ha!" Jarle let out. "After what I've seen here today, I don't think he can be killed...but you patch him up as well as you can." Then he addressed the mighty fighter, "I'll see you later!"

### Chapter Twenty

### Consequences

The townspeople eventually swarmed over every inch of the surrounding battlefield and removed all traces of the skirmish, carrying the dead soldiers to the southern end of town where they lay them until they could figure out what to do. The destruction of Criege's band of "Peace-keepers" would not be viewed well by the territorial Lord...that was certain.

By the time the sun vanished behind the distant mountain range off to the west, the Lampsh community was deeply divided about what course of action they should take from there forward. An emergency meeting was called and held in the largest covered building at the dock beside the river, the only place in the little city that could hold the size of crowd they'd gathered.

An elderly man stood at one end of the voluminous structure, atop a large crate of melons. He dressed much as any other man might, in a lightly colored shirt which laced up the front, and loose-fitting trousers of heavy, cotton-weave material. His hair was white and neatly combed straight back, and was a length that just brushed the collar of his shirt. He was tall and slim and had a deep, bellowing voice which commanded attention and respect as he called to order the assemblage. His name was Heath Sarvand, and he'd been the undeclared representative of the town for the last two generations.

"People of Lampsh!" he shouted to quiet the populace. "We have a great and urgent matter to discuss tonight, and so I will need your help and your patience."

The citizens quickly turned their undivided attention to the man, and the sound in the pole barn dropped until the gurgling of the nearby river could be heard lapping at the fringe of the rocky, unyielding land.

"This year's harvest has brought to us a man," Sarvand said, speaking slowly, so the echoes in the spacious complex wouldn't jumble his words to the folks farthest from him. "A man who delivered to us a tale of fantastic feats in the wilderness...of man versus beast in the ultimate battle of survival...and with him, he carried the pelts to prove it was true. That in itself would have delighted our territory and attracted untold visitors for years to come, to marvel at the place that first heard the extraordinary story and brokered the famous skins."

The crowd murmured for a short while, recalling for the present, where they'd each been when they first heard the news, and how long it was before they'd seen the hides for themselves. All who'd been there were still amazed at such a remarkable event.

"But before this man was able to complete his business in our fine community," Heath continued, "he was set upon by our appointed master, Criege Printoge, and his group of enforcers. He was ambushed outside the local financial depository and forced into a decision...fight, or surrender his freedom. He chose to fight!"

The crowd murmured again, recalling the ferocious battle they'd witnessed, or explaining it to someone who hadn't been close enough to see it clearly.

After a short pause, the leader spoke on:

"As those who have been unfortunate enough to have borne witness to in the past will attest, it is a choice which has been made time and time again at Criege's command. Only this time when the man decided to fight, he was well prepared to defend his wish for freedom. Criege quickly found he and his band were in a clash with the Reaper himself, so skilled was this man in the art of war.

"This fellow took the years of penned up frustration, the anger, the very hatred each of us who has lost one of our family to Criege and his warlord has felt...and he used it. This incomparable warrior unleashed his wrath...our wrath...on that group of scum who claim to be the peacemakers in this land we call 'our' home."

The populace was quiet, thoughtful, and agreeing.

"But now we have a very important matter to decide," the old leader said solemnly. "The Kreete warlord, Neadorn, who presides over this part of our world, will soon be notified of what has happened, and he will wish retribution. A messenger left with news even before the battle was done, when he knew Criege could not defeat this seemingly invincible man in swordplay. The response to that message is certain...there can be no doubt about that. The Kreete militia will be dispatched and a Kreete Squad, or worse, will be mobilized to restore order to their liking. I believe we all know what that will mean."

Fear and apprehension reverberated through the crowd then, and the volume rose quickly as families argued and cried and prayed. No one there had ever seen, firsthand, what was widely known to be the outcome of such a conflict, and no one ever wanted to see it. It appeared to them to be a forgone conclusion...half of them would be slaughtered and the rest would be imprisoned or enslaved. The Kreete were known for their uncompromising brutality and heartless behavior toward their subjects.

"This is why we've gathered here tonight," the tall spokesman continued. "We have a momentous decision to make, and we must be certain of it when we do.

"As I see it, we have three choices of how to proceed:

"One; We can pack up and abandon all the lives we've built here...leave behind our forefathers homes, trades, farms, and businesses, and move to somewhere where the Kreete may not find us."

The murmuring in the assemblage began to stir again as sidebars took up throughout the group.

"Two; We can stand together and fight as best we can to protect all I just mentioned against the most potent enemy anyone has ever heard of."

The whispering individuals doubled in number with that statement, and the level of their vocalizations increased as well.

"Three; We can hand over the man who has just done what we would have thought yesterday to be the impossible."

Now there was added disgust and anger to the already rising amplitude of the crowd.

"These are all terrible choices," Heath announced over the rising din, "I grant you that, but one of them must be chosen tonight, for I fear we have little time with which to prepare for any of them.

"Will we imprison this man to save ourselves?"

The murmuring in the crowd rose quickly to a low, grumbling argument.

"Will we run in the face of sure and bloody conflict that would likely end many of our lives?"

Most of the women began to plead with their spouses and relatives. They wanted very much to choose that plan.

"Or will we finally decide to act like the men our fathers would have wanted us to be?"

"We cannot hope to stand against them!" screamed a woman with a young girl wrapped around her waist, crying. "I've already lost my brother and son to those beasts, and I can't watch more bloodshed. I say we give the stranger to the warlord."

"Give him to the warlord?" yelled a young man. "Are you insane? We should all band together behind this man and make our stand against the Kreete. We haven't had a single santari go by where one of our community wasn't taken away to be a slave, or a breeder, or a martyr. I'll be sixteen next santari and will have to submit my name to the territorial lottery. I don't want to spend the next seven years of my life being a slave, or training to die in the arena for the sport of those monsters. I don't want to watch my girlfriend or my best friend's girlfriend dragged off just because one of those slags decides she's worthy of their seed."

"Marke is right!" agreed another young man. "Jenna and I want to be married and live our lives here! I don't want her to have to hide in fear of showing her face at the wrong time, or have her watch them haul me away in chains, or die in the street for their sport."

"Keep quiet, Warsel!" his mother scolded. "You're just a boy!"

Her shrill order brought everyone's attention to bear on her. "You don't know what they'll do!" she added, searching around from face to face of the friends and family nearest to her, while her own expression faded to a ghostly white.

"I have never spoken to anyone about this since I was young, but now I feel I must.

"I'm from a small community...Rasent...much like this one, which lies far to the south along another mountain-fed river. The people there had similar contempt for the Kreete overlords and their henchmen that everyone feels here, and they decided they would not live like that...to be the pawns of our monstrous rulers.

"I was just a girl when the Kreete marched on Rasent.

"The men all banded together and were resolute on this one point...they would not bend to the rule of their self-appointed Lords. They felt an honorable death was the better choice to being slaves. The whole town tried to do as you would have us do...they fought. They were confident, fearless, brave and strong men...and they vowed to protect their women and children!" she broke down and wept for a moment before she finished.

"My father and all his brothers stood tall as they met the Kreete warriors in battle. The men sent a wave of arrows into the attacking group, but it didn't even slow them down. Their armor was almost entirely oblivious to the attack, yet even the few bolts that pierced their shielding did little to quell the assault.

"There were over two hundred men against only two squads of Kreete...two hundred against fourteen! The men were cut down as if they were not even there! One Kreete had three arrows sticking out of his chest...he simply broke them off so he could swing his blade...he slew ten men by himself.

"Their archers picked off each of ours with such ease they seemed bored with the task. The Kreete warriors killed everyone...the men, the boys...even the small children.

"They raped and slaughtered the women who hadn't fled into the hills. They burned every house and barn and building to the ground. There was nothing left of the town! They even took the stone marker which held the name and crest of Rasent, and destroyed it, replacing it with a notice that no town could be built there ever again. Their decree was that the destruction of Rasent would be a permanent reminder of what disobedience would mean to any who would come that way.

"I watched it all from a small crag in the nearby hill, where I hid for a week with no food, too scared to move, drinking water from a puddle," she trembled and cried, sobbing through her words.

"Sometimes I can still hear the screams.

"They tore the bodies to pieces, sometimes with the person still alive. Then they scattered the parts across the ground to bring the vultures to feed. I couldn't even find the remains of my family when I finally felt safe enough to climb down from there. There were so many bones, they covered the ground!"

She broke down completely then and several around her held and comforted her.

"She's right!" yelled an old man in the middle of the crowd. "We didn't ask this man to come here. He's a stranger, and we shouldn't die because of what he's done. We can just explain it to Neadorn, and he can exact justice from him. We get by well enough...as well as anyone can expect under the circumstances, and I..."

"I cannot listen to this!" cried Jarle over the maelstrom of voices. "I will not agree to send this man to his death. I think his coming to our town is a sign...a message to us all about what it is to want freedom! About what it means for us to take control of our own future. About what it means to be men! This stranger would rather fight and risk death than bend to the will of a soulless master, and I for one would agree with him. We've cowered for too long! We should..."

"Would you sentence our wives, our children, and our mothers and fathers to death, Jarle, because of your opinion of what it is to want freedom?" responded a young man in the front of the crowd with a young pregnant woman leaning on his shoulder, weeping for the unborn child that was almost certain to perish from the evil of the Kreete. "Should I forget all of them and charge out to my death in a foolish show of bravery?"

"No!" shouted an unfamiliar voice coming from the direction of the street. "No, you should not!"

The crowd all dropped dead silent at the sound of those words. Then they each held their breath when they realized who was addressing their assembly. Many faces looked back at their spokesman, Heath Sarvand, but he too was taken by surprise, and offered no comforting advice.

Ron Allison slowly limped up to the group of Lampsh constituents, his body stripped of clothing to the waist, but wrapped in several places with bandages that seeped blood. He walked proudly, defiantly, boldly up the hastily constructed, makeshift steps to the raised platform next to Heath, who slipped aside to allow him center stage.

He stood for a brief moment and searched the crowd, reading the faces of them...some determined, some terrified, but most of them were unsure.

"I would ask none of you to die for me," Ron began. "I would ask none of you to put yourself or your loved ones in jeopardy for me. This young man is right!" indicating the last of the citizens to have spoken.

"You should not risk your wife and child for me," he said directly at the fellow. "I would have done anything to save 'my' wife and 'my' child. I offered myself to the Kreete in exchange for their lives, in fact. But they died horrible, excruciating deaths nonetheless...just to show me who was the master...just to show me who wielded the power over life on this world.

"The man you see today is just a shell. I died that day, nearly four cycles ago, and have been merely surviving without purpose until just recently. I've discovered that purpose again.

"The Kreete's rule will come to an end...to you all, I vow this. I cannot defeat them myself, single-handedly...not alone...and I may not even live past tomorrow, but I know the will of men will not be confined to another creature's whim, and it will be free again someday.

"The Kreete are extremely powerful and have extraordinary weapons, but they think themselves gods...and they are not. They are strong and big and ruthless, and it will take someone who is willing to be just as ruthless, maybe more so, to defeat them.

"I know this because I have been trained by them."

The crowd released a wave of muttering quickly.

"I have learned their methods and tactics, and even the use of their incredible weapons...aside from the sword and bow. They can die at the hands of men...I have seen it...I've done it. They know fear just as you do. I've seen that as well...I've even caused it. They fear defeat and shame above all else."

"Are you saying you think we can defeat them?" shouted a man from the rear of the throng.

"No!" Ron replied. "I don't know you people. I don't know what weapons you have, or how many, or what skill you have to wield them. I'm just saying the Kreete are not gods. Simple weapons can kill them. Their armor can be breached and they can be frightened.

"I tell you this because of what they have done to you. Across the face of Caron, accounts similar to this poor woman's story of death and loss have been pummeled into your minds for generations, to prevent you from ever even thinking of fighting back. So have they domesticated the people of these lands into accepting a servile position.

"I tell you this because you no longer realize you have a choice!

"Will battle result in death? Absolutely! No war can be waged without death.

"Will all be lost or won in a fight for this small town. No. This little city is just a thread in a large piece of cloth.

"But the day will come, soon, that will start the tide flowing the other way. The day will come when the Kreete fail to conquer and are forced to retreat.

"I plan to see that day, even if it is my last.

"Now, as Heath Sarvand has said, you have a decision to make. I will help you with that. I will meet the Kreete out on the street, alone. I will bend to whatever fate has been decided for me then. You people should all leave...take refuge wherever you can. Leave one spokesman behind to confirm what has happened here. No Kreete soldiers have been harmed, so it is unlikely they will destroy the town. They will probably just select a new enforcer to take over Criege's position. He will no doubt want some form of offering to show your loyalty...use the Yetsole cat hides to placate him. I give you back your money."

Ron removed the signet ring and tossed it to Jarle.

"To all of you, let me say that this was not my intention, and I am truly sorry I've caused you so much trouble. I thought I would be through your town in a mere few billots and never wanted to bring danger to your homes."

With that, he stepped down and made his way back toward the doctor's facility.

### Chapter Twenty-one

### Neadorn Bracor

Reginaud fed Ron a large meal and then he and his wife left him in the clinic as they went up the stairs to their living area.

Ron waited until they were gone and then rummaged through his pack, fishing out a few items he'd brought from Rauld...medicinal supplies. He used a salve on his wounds and drank a mixture of their healing powder and water. He then carefully replaced the items and lay down. He was out in moments.

When Ron awoke, the sun was high in the crystal-clear azure sky, and the town was as quiet as a tomb. His wounds didn't cause him much discomfort, but his throat was supremely parched and his stomach was as empty as a dried up well, so he searched around the clinic straightaway. He found a large pitcher of water, some bread, dried meat, and fruit...obviously laid out for him by his caretakers. He devoured it all. When he felt satisfied, he dressed and went out into the town.

There was not a soul to be seen. Even the dogs that normally wandered all about were gone. The only moving creatures he saw were a multitude of birds flitting around, looking for scraps or twigs.

Ron walked from one end of Lampsh to the other, calling out to anyone who might be there. Finally he gave that up and returned to the clinic. He was stretched and limbered up by then and so he restored each of his possessions to their proper place and slung his pack across his shoulders, heading back out into the midday heat.

For a moment he considered just leaving the town and returning to his mission...to find Cache...but he could not. He'd given his word to the townspeople and knew it was the right thing to do. He'd brought danger to this innocent community and couldn't just abandon them to their deaths.

"They have all gone into hiding!" came an announcement from off to Ron's left, behind the alley next to the clinic.

Reginaud emerged a lita later, and Ron's hand was already high in the air, a foot-long length of blue steel grasped firmly in it.

"I came to see if you'd awakened yet," he continued, matter-of-factly, "and I see that you have."

Ron had turned to address the man of medicine, but his eyes swept the entire area for any real threat, always on the alert.

"Yes...yes I have," Ron replied.

"Good!" said the doctor. "I was worried that the warlord would arrive before you arose and drag you off in your slumber."

"How long was I asleep?"

"A full day and a half," Reginaud replied. "I was beginning to wonder if I hadn't somehow poisoned you by mistake. Your heart beat was so slow and your breath so seldom that I checked you for death several times yesterday."

"I took some special medicine the healers use where I come from. It relaxes the body so it can repair more quickly."

"Well," the doctor continued after lifting Ron's shirt and examining the arrow wound, "I wish I had some of that myself then! This is already sealed! How is that possible?"

"Sorry, Reginaud," Ron responded, "but I probably know less about it than you."

Then to change the subject, Ron asked, "Is everyone safe?"

The doctor stopped his probing and regarded the warrior before him.

"Yes," he replied, "everyone from Lampsh is as safe as they can be."

"Good," Ron said, sweeping his gaze across the skyline, and then back to the doctor. "How long until this 'Warlord' arrives?"

"We don't know," Reginaud confessed. "It depends on where he is when he gets the message...and what he has his men doing. The messenger would have arrived at his post sometime late yesterday, if his animals held up. Giving him half a day to assemble his troops, and two days to get here...I would guess it would be tomorrow late in the day."

"Very well then," Ron told him, "You should join your wife and get well away from here. I don't think they'll hunt any of you down, but I'd feel better if you put some distance between you and me."

Reginaud hesitated briefly before he nodded and strode away, back the way he'd arrived. Ron got the distinct impression he wanted to say something more.

Ron walked to the northern edge of town, entered the large barn that served as the stables, and set his belongings there, keeping only his weapons on his person. He then spent the rest of the afternoon in rigorous practice with those devices of death, honing his skills and adjusting to his less than hundred percent abilities.

He was not planning to go quietly.

That night he slept soundly in the softness of the animal's feed stores, not concerned at all about his coming fate. What would happen was too uncertain to worry over just yet. Besides, the barnyard brought back good feelings, from Kaskle's life no doubt, and they comforted his mind.

The next morning delivered rain in torrents and forced Ron to exercise in the expanse of the barn until midday when the sun returned with a vengeance, boiling the water from the ground until it was a foggy steam-bath. The day was dragging by and he was getting fidgety, so he used the time to wander about the different shops in town, trying to keep from over-thinking his plans for the upcoming battle.

He thought he'd seen every store there was until he stumbled across what looked like an old outbuilding, behind the wood-wright's shop. What caught his eye was a stack of arrows that was on a worktable just inside one of the windows of the shop. He slipped into the small, one-room structure and was amazed at what he found there. It was completely full of arrow shafts in every stage of construction, from the newly seasoned blocks of wood to the finished masterpieces that were finely oiled and ready for use.

Ron examined them closely and even test fired some of them. Though well-made, they couldn't stand the stress his bow subjected them to. They either deformed to the point that they flew off in odd directions, or they snapped altogether. He was about to walk out when he noticed a long, narrow box which was packaged up neatly, as if valuable. He couldn't resist the temptation of discovering what lay inside, so he opened it.

"Jackpot!" Ron exclaimed when he saw the contents.

Undoubtedly, he'd found a batch of custom-made arrows meant for the very Kreete Warlord who was on his way to confront him, since Neadorn's name was on a note under the inner liner of the box. He gave two of them a try.

The arrows were larger in diameter than normal, expertly crafted, and flew perfectly straight. They were obviously meant for someone extremely strong, with much longer arms than he had because even at full draw, the metal tipped end was three inches from Ron's grip. He could use them like they were but decided if he had the time he would cut them down to his own specific length. They were an excellent match to the ones he already carried too, having been made of ebony wood and fletched with black feathers. Ron decided to take them back to his nest.

After he returned to the barn and deposited his treasure, a sound reached his ears that caused him to run out into the street again. A horse at full gallop was drawing near!

Ron watched the curve in the road which led off northwestward, and was rewarded in moments by the emergence of a cloaked figure lying down low on the animal that was making the best time it possibly could.

Ron stood his ground, but checked all his defenses quickly. He even nocked up an arrow and held the loaded weapon behind him as the outlines of the approaching figure gave way to the reality of who was on that mount. It was Lilea!

The horse was flying as it entered the boundary of the little town and she pulled up hard, forcing the animal to dig deeply into the softened dirt of the main street to obey her urgings. She bailed off the highly excited creature before it even stopped and was at a dead run to Ron instantly.

"They're right behind me!" she cried in a panicked voice. "Ron, please don't do this! You must go...now!"

"Lilea. How...when did you...why are you here?" he demanded from the beauty who was desperately trying to push him back into the barn and out of sight. "What's going on?"

"She volunteered to be our advance warning," came a voice from inside the barn.

It was Heath Sarvand. He calmly stepped out into the blazing Caronian sunlight, his eyes immediately blackening.

"We didn't know how long it would take for the Kreete to arrive," Heath explained, "so we decided to position a guard in the hills that overlook the next valley. Lilea is an accomplished rider of these animals, having trained and cared for them when she was younger. She is small and light and thus was a likely choice for the assignment."

"Where is Sharlese?" Ron begged of her. "Tell me she's not out there as well."

"No," Lilea replied, giving up the attempt to manually persuade Ron to move since it was as if she were trying to push a building. "She's with many of the rest of the town...far up in those hills," she said pointing to the southern mountains.

"Good," Ron sighed, "now you must go too."

"No."

"Water your steed and get moving," Ron ordered her in a stern tone, placing his hand at the small of her back and aiding in her retreat.

"I will not go!" she wept. "Heath, please...don't make him do this. He's a good man. Don't let him die just to save us!"

"He made his decision Lil, and we made ours," the older man told her gently. "This is unfortunately unavoidable. Now do as he says and go."

Ron set his bow back into place and watched Lilea as she watered the horse and then remounted it. She trotted off with her shoulders slumped and her face in her hand.

Lilea had barely made it out of sight at the other end of town before the ground began to rumble once again...this time audibly. Heavy chariots were coming!

Ron and Heath stayed where they were as the first of the huge, treen-drawn vehicles came into view.

The treen were something new to Ron. They were large animals similar in appearance to hyenas, having their front legs heavier and longer than the rear, but they were the size of buffalo. They had hard plating scales along their spinal ridge that gave them extra protection in a fight, and short nubs for tails. They were known to be especially formidable in battle, difficult to take down, and vicious. They could also run much faster than a horse and pull vastly heavier loads while maintaining that speed. Their great strength was needed too since the chariots carried three Kreete soldiers in each, with their supplies and weapons which were extensive.

Ron gazed at the approaching caravan of his hated foe like a lion watches his archenemy from another pride, but he was outwardly calm. Heath marveled at Ron's placid countenance as his own heart raced madly.

Very quickly the entire group pulled to a stop at the edge of the town's northern marker and dismounted. They took a few moments to receive their orders, and then spread out in a formation which had them two men deep in a precisely staggered arrangement. Then they began to march toward Ron and Heath, with one of their group in the lead wearing the insignia of a Tusepten and the 'Hunter' class markings of burnt orange on his armor.

"That is Neadorn Bracor," Heath told Ron.

Neadorn walked up to within thirty feet of Ron and Heath, and then he and his band of eighteen men stopped. Each of the Kreete wore what the Caronians called 'light armor'. It was a multilayered arrangement of animal hide and wooden segments which overlapped one another to form a scale-like appearance that was extremely tough to penetrate. This all was attached to a light chain-mail shirt that kept everything in place and allowed for fairly free movement. Typically, arrows could penetrate such protection only if they ricocheted up under the layers, or were shot at steep angles, and this material was able to withstand a full blow from a normal man's sword and not fail. It was that tough because of the amount of material which made it up, and was far too heavy to be worn by men. They would be nearly immobile if they did.

The Kreete topped off their battle-wear with a metal helmet decorated to appear as hideous as it could, to strike fear into their enemies at a distance. They wore the same calf-high brown boots as the scouts back on Rauld had worn, and their trousers were bloused at the top of those boots for freedom of movement.

Ron was reminded of the armor the Samurai Warriors once donned in battle on Earth. Each of the soldiers had a long sword on their right hip and a short sword on their left. Half of them carried a long-range weapon too...the longbow... which measured longer than Ron was tall. The rest each hefted a tall spear which was tipped with a two-foot long, triple-bladed metal head.

"Where are my servants?" demanded Neadorn.

"The Lampsh 'citizens' have all fled," replied Heath, bowing his head slightly and using all his focus to steady his voice. "They feared the wrath of your Lordship," he concluded, straightening again.

Ron stood next to him, on his right, about two feet away, taking in the beautiful skyline, with the snow-crested mountains around to the west and the Caitron River to the east, seemingly bored with the whole scene close-by.

"Who are you?" Neadorn asked gruffly, his manor unpleasantly short and to the point.

"I am Heath Sarvand. I speak for the townsfolk."

Neadorn had taken in Ron's lack of respect for the situation, and his temper grew even shorter.

"Who are 'you'?" he demanded more than asked.

Ron stared past Neadorn and took a moment to inspect the soldiers for indications of how experienced they were in battle. It would be helpful if things got physical.

At least half of them were very green, their eyes giving them away. Most men would have seen nothing in those silver spheres, but Ron had fought enough of them to make out the subtle twitches of nerves showing. Too, their body language was overly tense.

Five had reached the middle ranking of a scout, and displayed it on their uniform...another thing most men would not have noticed. Four were topped out and waiting for a promotion to Hunter-class, like the squad commander. They would be the biggest threat.

Ron's pause was more than Heath thought prudent, so he spoke up.

"He is just a man passing throu..." Heath tried to explain.

Neadorn motioned his hand and five bows went to full draw on Sarvand.

"I am speaking to him!" the leader roared, spittle flecking to his lips. "Open your mouth out of turn again and you will die where you stand."

He refocused on Ron. "Now! Who are you?"

Ron's attention was restored at the threat to Heath, who was unarmed. Now it was he who was struggling to manage the quaking inside, so he took a long breath before speaking. He was having a difficult time controlling the hate and contempt he felt for the soldiers before him, but was resigned not to provoke the Tusepten further. The town would pay for his mistake if he wasn't careful.

"I am known as Ron by these people," he responded calmly, outwardly cool and unruffled. "And you are?"

"I am Neadorn Bracor," the leader announced in a bellowing voice, "Lord over the territories south of the Yetsole pass."

He paused for a quick moment, adding weight to his proclamation. "Why are you here, Ron? If you do not speak for the town, are you this man's champion?"

Heath and Ron exchanged a quick look.

"I believe you have made this journey on my behalf," Ron explained, "You see, I'm the one who dethroned your last enforcer...Criege...and his sorry band of wanna-be soldiers."

Neadorn stood still as stone...shocked at the open confession. He'd never been confronted in such a way. Was this man deranged? Then his eyes moved swiftly about.

"Where are your men?" Neadorn asked.

Ron smiled a wry smile, understanding what the Kreete was implying. "They are all right here," he said waving his hands down his form.

Neadorn turned and motioned for his men to relax their weapons and then called a fellow forward. He whispered something to him quickly, and sent that scout retreating toward the animals and vehicles.

"You mean to tell me you murdered Criege and all of his men single-handedly?" the Kreete questioned.

"I didn't murder anyone," Ron responded. "I simply defended myself when I was threatened. I had committed no crime, and your man, Criege, and his troops attacked 'me'!"

The scout who'd left was returning with a man Ron had seen in Lampsh during the 'incident'.

"Is this the man you spoke of?" Neadorn asked the fellow who was obviously shaking from fear at being amid the alien group.

"Y...y...yes, Lord!" the man responded.

"And he was alone?"

"Yes, Lord."

Neadorn grunted at the informant and waved his hand to dismiss him. He returned his gaze to Ron, but then swept the town again.

"I travel alone, Neadorn," Ron assured the leader, "so the only assassins I know of are hiding behind me. They are your two men who crept into town this morning during the rainstorm."

Neadorn's hideous expression changed just enough to show his surprise.

"You know who I speak of...the scout on the roof of the blacksmith's shop on my left, armed with a crossbow...and the one on the roof of the loading shed behind me to my right with the longbow."

Ron's attention never left the leader's face as he described exactly where the troopers were positioned.

Neadorn studied him for a long moment after that. He was trying to decide whether he should make an example of this man for killing his servant, or to take him back as a slave for the arena, since he obviously had extensive knowledge of combat. His mind struggled with the dilemma...death for fear and control, or slavery for his own amusement and monetary gain.

"You have some talent for battle...no doubt," Neadorn admitted. "Therefore I will take you as my slave to fight for me in the Games," he then turned to Heath Sarvand. "I will spare your village people this time. The new governor will be dispatched within the santari. Have some reparations ready for his arrival and you just may live to see another cycle."

Neadorn turned then to his men. "Take his weapons and chain him. Then destroy the town."

### Chapter Twenty-two

### The Fight for Lampsh

"That will not do!" Ron announced to the retreating Kreete leader.

Neadorn stumbled a fraction before he whirled around to face the man who now clearly defied his rule.

"What did you say, puny flarge?" he asked, obviously enraged at Ron's audacity.

"I said; 'That will not do!' Are you deaf?"

Heath's face turned even more ashen than it already was. He stared at Ron as if he was truly insane.

"If I agree to go with you as your slave, you must spare the town," Ron explained, standing with his arms folded across his expansive chest. "These people had nothing to do with killing Criege's group."

"They did nothing to aid Criege either, did they?" Neadorn growled. "I am unaccustomed to explaining myself little one, so if I hear one more word from you, I will have my men beat you until you pray for death. And after that, they will hunt down every last person from this place and slay them in front of you. Then I will put you in the arena for the rest of your short life."

Ron could tolerate the Kreete no longer. He reached up and back and drew the ebony sword from its scabbard with a resounding high-pitched ring of metal sliding against metal. He immediately spun the blade around and imbedded it into the earthen road's surface.

Neadorn's sword left its sheath as well, thinking Ron was going to attack him. His archers all snapped into motion and drew down on Ron.

"I invoke the right of challenge!" Ron announced as his body began to flood with the natural stimulant of battle. He spoke using the Kreete's native language so Heath had no idea of what he said.

"You what?" Neadorn asked, lividly taken aback. He'd never heard of such a thing from a lesser creature.

"I invoke the right of challenge!" Ron repeated.

Neadorn stared at him for a long moment...then he broke out in a rasping laugh. His men stood motionless...totally stupefied. After a short while, he composed himself and faced Ron again.

"That right is only for the Kreete who have earned the respect of their peers in battle to the death...with 'Kreete' warriors."

"That is not correct," Ron told him, "The code does not mandate the challenger be Kreete...so it applies to anyone who has defeated a Kreete warrior in mortal combat!"

"So?" Neadorn continued, rapidly losing his patience.

"So..." Ron explained, "I have faced many of your 'superior' troops in mortal combat...and I am still alive, so what does that tell you?"

Neadorn's temper was spiking quickly to a new level of anger. This man had the nerve to claim victory over Kreete?

"I'll give you one more breath to name one of the men you claim to have bested in battle to the death."

"I knew the name of only one...Darrone Jartel. The others were mostly of the scout rank but two others wore the crimson color, as did Darrone."

"You lie!" Neadorn screamed...completely enraged. "You fought a 'Master Killer' and lived?"

"Yes. And against these, so-called 'Master Killers', I was unarmed," Ron added just to push the Kreete a bit further.

Neadorn was familiar with Jartel's name. The reports from the conflict on Rauld had been widely published, and the names of the defeated leaders were fodder for the usual gossip at these remote outpost assignments. It gave credence to Ron's claim...and suddenly Neadorn began to vibrate from a different emotion than anger.

"Tell me where this took place...and if you are wrong," he motioned for all his men who held bows to make ready.

"It happened on your home world!" Ron told him, "On your true planet of origin...the one called Rauld."

Neadorn froze where he was. It could not be true...but how else would he know?

"The birthplace of your ancestors, I believe," Ron added.

Neadorn's expression changed then from anger and contempt to awe...and uncertainty. He finally had his men lower their weapons once more.

"I believe you have the right to appoint a champion, if you are unwilling to face me yourself," Ron goaded the Kreete leader.

Neadorn was not of the elite rank as Jartel had been, so he thought for a quick way out of his predicament.

"I cannot disprove your claim at this time," Neadorn announced, "so I will have one of my men assess your abilities before I give you my answer. Falkeir!"

One of the scouts moved up to his leader. He was a large fellow and already had many tattoos showing prominently as he removed his helmet to speak to his commander. He was also one of the highest ranked soldiers.

Ron retrieved his sword and stretched himself out, stepping back a bit.

Heath nudged up to him, "Are you out of your mind?"

Ron looked at the older man intently and said, "You should leave now. Go through the barn and head up into the..."

Ron never finished that statement as a spear hissed toward them with blinding speed. Falkeir was nearly as quick as he barreled down on them right behind it with his sword flashing.

Ron shoved Heath away hard enough to send the man flying, and then he leaped to the side, dropping and rolling clear as the spear quivered in the ground. He was up in a flash, springing to his feet a good ten steps away from the soldier, with the dark blade firmly in his hands.

Falkeir followed him immediately, his own sword whistling in a figure eight pattern that was smooth and powerful, yet not exceptionally swift.

Ron could tell the soldier's armor was restricting his movements, slowing his reaction speed, and instantly knew this Kreete was accustomed to crushing his opponents with his strength, not his skill.

The heavy long-sword slammed into Ron's weapon like a falling tree. His arms and shoulders shook visibly at the brunt of the onslaught, but each time it fell Ron was able to turn the huge blade aside as if inside an invisible shield, the edge never getting close to its mark. The pounding was harsh and audible for half a hoz, but of no real threat.

Ron tolerated this attack for just over a bort before returning the favor. He knew the power and the speed of his enemy by then and didn't want to waste too much time and energy.

As the Kreete slashed horizontally, Ron leaped over the blade nimbly and came down with his own. Through the battle-tested armor, through the scout's gray, putrid, extremely tough hide, and then through the tendons, muscle and bone flew the black blade.

Falkeir's arm separated from his shoulder with it still clutching his sword, and the shift in weight, as well as the shock of the blow, spun him around twice as far as he'd intended...leaving his defenses totally open.

The big man's helmeted head lifted neatly off his shoulders as Ron's spinning backslash ended the soldier's life, and then the scout's body quickly fell over with a loud thud.

Neadorn was stunned. He stood there with his mouth agape. He'd never witnessed such a thing in his long career as a warrior. A Kreete scout killed so easily by a mere man!

A few litas clicked by while the scene was absorbed by all in attendance.

Heath Sarvand managed to slip away to the barn, but he'd been unwilling to go farther. His hopes residing firmly on the shoulders of that bronzed demigod of a fighter who was showing the 'superior species' what it meant to be a man.

Ron stood over Falkeir's body for a brief time. The wild beast of his Kaskle half tried to come out with a huge roaring challenge of his kind, but the Ron Allison part held it in check. He turned and faced Neadorn from beside the corpse whose brown life fluid now stained the hard Caronian ground.

"Is that the best you can do?" Ron asked the Kreete leader, verbally prodding him yet again.

Neadorn was visibly shaken but had to keep his composure in front of his men. He called for order in the assembly as his scouts began whispering down their ranks. Ron sensed the beginning of fear settling in on them. From their attitudes, he got the impression that Falkeir was the best they had, other than Neadorn.

"Accept the challenge or relinquish your men to me!" Ron growled at the Kreete, knowing what that provocation would result in. "That is the law!"

Neadorn had no choice then, so he bolted straight at Ron without further hesitation.

"I will gut you like a flarge, and eat your heart!" he screamed, his words falling on deaf ears.

The two warriors clashed blades like demons. The metal-to-metal clanging sounded like rapid-fire metallic explosions as the swords slammed furiously together a hundred times in a single bort.

Ron met the commander's strength equally, even though the Kreete was at least twenty percent larger and a full head taller. He stood his ground like a granite pillar and erased whatever doubt Neadorn might have had about his abilities.

Ron watched for opportunities and slipped his coal-black sword under the bigger man's guard time after time. He guided the razor-edged weapon expertly between the scaly armor plates to prick the leader, just enough to let him know he was not keeping up the pace. Then Ron caught Neadorn by surprise when the commander drew back just a bit too far, reaching for a little extra power. He raked the long cutting edge of the shadow-sword down the inside of Neadorn's right arm, slicing the armor loose from its bindings and opening up a nasty gash.

Neadorn jumped back, blood running down his arm heavily. He glanced at the loose protection in disgust since it would now just hinder his movements more, flopping about untethered, and he roared at Ron in utter rage as he attacked again.

He slashed down hard at the smaller, quicker man, out of pure frustration. Ron pinned his blade to the ground with his own, quickly following up that move by stepping on the Kreete's weapon and slashing upward as hard as he could before Neadorn could react.

The shell of armor that covered Neadorn's chest was cloven neatly in two, leaving a long gash up his newly exposed torso as well.

Ron jumped clear of that long sword as the big man wrenched it free while recoiling from the blow and standing up.

Neadorn stepped back, nearly stumbling to the ground, his silver eyes showing wide as goose eggs inside his helmet. He looked down in astonishment at the bleeding slash that ran from his waist to his left shoulder and gulped hard. It looked deep, though not mortal, but what it showed was his clear inability to thwart his opponent.

Keeping a close eye on Ron, he shook off his worthless armor, threw down his steel helmet and pulled out his short sword. He then began whipping the two weapons around swiftly, getting his feel of the blades without his protective coat. His head and upper torso were now exposed and his displays of ornamental tattoos were visible to the onlookers. He was an ugly beast and had many scars to go with the ink designs that flowed about his heavily muscled upper body in a flagrant display of his past victories. It was easy to see why the average man or woman held his species in such awe.

Ron allowed his adversary the time to strip without attacking. Instead, he pulled out his longest knife and readied himself for more blood-sport.

"Isn't that better?" Ron asked the Kreete. "Now, maybe you can put up a decent fight!"

"I will show you a fight!" Neadorn proclaimed as he edged up to Ron.

His power and quickness were much improved, but Ron was ready, deflecting blow after blow with an ease that confounded the enemy leader to even further aggravation. Neadorn's irritation allowed Ron to drop a few well-placed kicks into the mix as well...contacting the brute's face on multiple occasions where he snapped off two of Neadorn's four tusks.

Ron would first redirect the bigger man's long blade into the path of the shorter one and then he'd slip his own weapon inside the leader's defense, slicing at every opening. It wasn't long before Neadorn realized he was totally outmatched and began to feel real panic.

Ron finally edged by the newest offensive of the Kreete and hamstrung the leader's right leg...dropping him instantly and heavily to the turf. Ron then slashed his closest hand and the short sword was out of the picture. A very brief moment later Neadorn Bracor, Tusepten of the Kreete fighting force...ruler of the territories south of the Yetsole pass...lie bleeding profusely from countless wounds, totally defenseless.

Ron kicked the swords away and regarded his beaten foe, his chest heaving and sweat streaming down his body from the conflict.

"The battle is mine!" Ron announced, "I will take control of your squads now!"

"Not while I breathe!" Neadorn vowed..."Archers! Kill him!"

Ron had of course anticipated that reaction from the villainous creatures and managed to maneuver the fight over to the eastern side of the street. When the order came, he stood only fifteen feet from the dock supervisor's office which bordered the river. He spun on his heel, and the twelve-inch blade he'd used against Neadorn flew from his left-hand fingertips...straight and true into the neck of the Kreete sniper who was then only twenty-five feet away on the roof.

Ron didn't even see the impact because he dashed for the doorway of the shop the moment it was away. He dove through that portal and crashed hard against the wooden floor as five arrows slammed into the doorframe and one ricocheted around in the shop.

Ron was back at that entryway in a blink though, and gladly returned fire from a kneeling position, his powerful bow pulled to his cheek. (He'd stashed his bow and quiver in there earlier in the day) The sniper on the opposite side of the street felt the impact a moment later as the Raulden arrow blasted through his multilayered protection as if it were made of cotton. That Kreete drew one more time on his weapon but the shot went sailing out into the street and he tumbled off the building to fall hard to the still muddy ground.

Ron then focused his attention on the remaining archers in the large group. He thought he would find them on the move, taking cover and surrounding him, but instead, he realized four of them were down. They'd been felled by some large arrows, or small spears, he couldn't tell which...and didn't care. The rest were retreating from the incoming missiles which seemed to have appeared from thin air...from both sides of the street.

They fired back in those directions, realizing only now that they'd been ambushed. The remaining scouts began barking orders at one another in desperation and each searched for what cover they might use, which was nowhere around.

Like the good soldiers they were, they had remained where their leader last bid them stay. They would have done better to have immediately searched the entire area for an enemy, but they were the Kreete! Neadorn had relied on his advanced scouts to relay that kind of intelligence, but they'd failed miserably. After all, they feared no one and all bowed to their might...or so it had been.

Now they stood back to back in a tight circle and began the long march to their vehicles. One of the chariots set off down the road the way they'd come and Ron's first thought was that the animals had broken loose of their tethers and just taken off on their own. But then he saw a man huddled in the back of one of the vehicles trying to go unnoticed.

The last of the soldiers who carried a bow fired at the second story opening of the stable's loft. Ron targeted him and set a black missile to flight. Down he went with an arrow through the base of his neck.

Ron immediately set off after the remaining Kreete, his senses on full alert for more unseen allies. As he ran, he snatched up two of the wounded soldier's spears and heard the air over his head sizzle with more of the heavy arrows speeding by. Those hissing reports were followed up by deep strumming sounds from behind him where, undoubtedly, the projectiles had originated. Four more Kreete fell to the ground, and two of them did not rise. The cavalry was here!

The arrows were coming from four different locations, well hidden from the Kreete who, by then, could no longer return fire, as all of their archers were dead or badly injured.

The remaining eight scouts broke ranks and ran for the chariots with Ron closing fast. The distance was less than two hundred feet so Ron knew he had little time...and he desperately needed to stop any from escaping.

At a dead run, Ron attacked the nearest two with their own weapons...the spears. Those heavy, wooden shafted missiles sported long, barbed, metal blades at their tips...grisly devices that skewered their bodies easily and knocked them to the ground...and then he was among them.

One of the enemy soldiers shouted coded orders and then three of his comrades whirled around instantly, joining him to engage Ron while the others continued.

Ron drew his knives and grievously wounded three of them before the fourth fell to the dark sword.

The only two soldiers left unscathed were on one of the chariots by then. They had it turned around with the one driving desperately snapping the reigns and the other at his back as a defender.

Ron jumped the last ten feet and met the defending soldier's blade with his own, smashing it aside before driving the ebony colored sword completely through the driver's chest to the hand guard. Ron didn't waste a moment either, pivoting quickly to gain added leverage. He then used the dying driver's weight, combined with his own, to bowl over the defender and pin him to the deck. Finally, he threw the corpse and that last scout out of the moving vehicle with utter contempt.

Ron then stopped the chariot and leaped off to face the sole remaining Kreete soldier. The scout was either not very experienced or just a poor fighter because he gripped his long sword with both hands and the tip of it shook. He was terrified.

"Put the blade down and stand aside!" Ron ordered.

"I don't take orders from flarge excrement," he spat out, trying to bolster his own confidence.

The fight was short.

Ron looked up over the body of that scout and watched the speeding chariot with the man astride it disappearing around a bend in the road.

"Damn!" he cursed before turning his attention back toward Lampsh.

He dashed for the nearest treen-drawn vehicle and harshly urged the animal into motion, wheeling it around to begin pursuit.

"Hold!" Ron heard from behind.

Heath Sarvand was rushing up to him waving frantically, and Ron saw a half-dozen more men pouring out onto Criege Street from the nearest buildings.

"Ron...wait!" Sarvand cried again.

Ron didn't want to hesitate...his prey was swiftly getting away.

"He won't get far!" Heath proclaimed as he approached. "Fear not. He'll be back soon."

Ron halted his chariot and secured it, hoping the man was correct. He then strode quickly back to where the Lampsh group was congregating. They'd rushed the remaining living soldiers and killed them with axes and swords...except for Neadorn, who was shouting out warnings and threats at the men as he watched his 'elite' troops slaughtered without a single enemy casualty.

The Tusepten had failed in every way.

Ron strolled calmly over to the Kreete commander and Neadorn focused his new barrage of threats on him.

"All these people will die at your feet for what you have organized," Neadorn swore. "I warn you that..."

He didn't finish his curse due to Ron's boot smashing against his mouth and bouncing his bald head soundly on the hard turf. He spent the next several borts unconscious.

Jarle joined Ron then with the entire Lampsh battle contingent close behind. They were each extremely pumped up because of the fight, and speaking very fast, unable to stop congratulating Ron and one another on the success of the battle. Finally, the adrenaline surge tapered off and they slowed enough to take turns telling their parts in how they'd planned the ambush.

After Ron made his speech at the meeting on the night following his fight with Criege, there ensued a long and sometimes heated discussion about what recourse the citizens would take. When that finally drew to an end, they'd agreed if the Kreete would take Ron and go, they would do nothing in town and try to plan a rescue later. But they never really thought the Kreete would do that, so they brainstormed for any possible effective weapons they could use against the stalwart enemy, and one of the dockworkers came up with an excellent plan.

They secured four huge, heavy crossbows into the upper floors of the barn and the loading office...two in each. The weapons were originally built for shooting wild borials from a wagon at long distance. (Those animals sounded to Ron like an oversized cape buffalo.) In Lampsh however...and many river towns...such devices were used to launch ropes out to passing barges to haul them to shore.

Ron was totally amazed...with the brilliant adaptation of the weapon as well as the men's ability to avoid his detection.

"Well done!" Ron told them, slapping Jarle on the back repeatedly.

Neadorn recovered by then and began his rhetoric again.

"As soon as our runner reaches Flouret, there will be an entire Siege mobilized to crush this little rebellion."

Heath Sarvand regarded him coolly.

"You mean 'that' runner," he said to the leader, indicating an approaching chariot.

Neadorn's expression dropped to one of stern defiance.

Ron smiled at him wryly...breathing easier with the knowledge that all the attack party were now accounted for. A group of three hundred-plus Kreete would have been impossible to defend against.

"Heath, bring that man over here to me," Ron ordered as he knelt down next to the Kreete Tusepten. "I'm going to question him about a few things."

Neadorn lay still and stared with open scorn at his vanquisher. Ron just met his gaze and waited for the spy to get there.

"You men might not want to be here for this," Ron told the Lampsh attendees. "It will not be pleasant."

The men didn't falter from their positions, so Ron shrugged it aside.

"What is your name?" Ron asked the man.

"Morgant," the Kreete spy replied, looking from Ron to Neadorn and back quickly. He was quivering from fright and appeared to be on the verge of vomiting.

"Well, Morgant, I have a few questions I need answered, and I need them answered accurately. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Where did these disgusting animals," Ron indicated the Kreete leader, "come from? Where is their post?"

The spy looked even paler than he had before, and he stared at Neadorn for instructions.

"Tell him one word and you and every person you have ever met will die under our blades!" Neadorn proclaimed.

Ron casually looked over at the Tusepten and pulled out one of his knives.

"He," Ron said to the man with an expression that conveyed his most severe tone, "is not who you should fear."

The fellow saw the stone-cold demeanor of the unstoppable warrior before him and swooned dramatically, nearly passing out from fear. He didn't know what to do. Was he to die at the hands of the Kreete, or at the hands of this maniac who'd destroyed his masters?

As an answer, Ron demonstrated who was in charge at that juncture. The Kreete Tusepten let out a series of cries that were clearly heard at the other end of town...and then the man, Morgant, began to speak extremely fast. As it turned out, he was well-informed of the Kreete's activities in the Lampsh territory...and beyond.

A billot later the people of Lampsh hauled away the traitor to be incarcerated. He was more than willing to go with them too, as that would take him away from the big man whom he swore was a living devil.

The Kreete came from an outpost-town called Flouret, two days journey north, and would be expected back within the week. The Kreete provincial patrols would be by in approximately two santaris for the next tour of duty exchange, when they installed a new group of subordinates to relieve the ones stationed there. If Flouret fell, it would buy the Caronians some valuable time.

Ron bid the men in the gathering to take Neadorn's body and lump it in with the rest of his scouts, at least until they could figure out their next move.

Jarle turned to face southward and raised a large horn to his lips, blowing out a long bellowing note and four shorter blasts. He then gathered his ambush members all together and they developed a plan to get rid of the evidence of the battle.

They would get a few wagons; load all the Kreete into them and drive out to a well-known bottleneck in the road to Flouret, about a day's distance north. There they would provide evidence of a different ambush which would appear as if a large force had destroyed the Kreete group and headed off into the western hills.

As for Criege's militia, the bodies of the dead would be hauled by pack animal up a narrow, winding trail across a highland pass to the southwest of Lampsh. There, they could be dumped down a ravine that would forever remedy anyone's chance of finding them. The still living members of that group would be taken south and imprisoned in a territorial jail for the next few santaris and then released on their honor. By then, all who'd participated in the battle would be long gone and couldn't be harmed with whatever accusations may arise.

Shortly after those plans were set in motion, the townspeople started flooding back into the small city, and they talked and pointed and cried and congratulated the heroes...but stopped well short of celebrating at the urgings of their own fellows.

Heath and Jarle quickly organized three groups of residents with orders to scour the battlefield and gather every arrow, spear, and sword. No souvenirs were taken...all evidence of the town's involvement was removed, and they even began patching the arrow holes in the doorframe of the dock supervisor's office.

That night they told and retold the story from every possible perspective there was, and the exhilaration of it kept a dozen fires burning very late, until all were exhausted from the ordeal of the day.

As a final point, their own fatigue sent them off to retire with more hope than they'd felt in any of their lifetimes.

After all that was over, when they did eventually submit to sleep, they each drifted off with a mixture of elation for the moment, and trepidation for the future. They knew this was just a tiny spark...this was only the beginning.

One thing was solidified in the minds of the Lampsh people though. Ron Allison of Earth was indeed the reincarnated form of Ronin Alsone of Erthania, and news of him swept up and down the road like a flash flood.

### Chapter Twenty-three

### Allies

The morning after the battle for Lampsh, the town awakened very early with the buzz of that skirmish still on everyone's lips. The dawn broke with an amber glow which soon turned to deep rose as it refracted through the scattered, high-altitude clouds dotting the sky.

Most of the people who had decided to return to the little community were up and trying to restore the normalcy of their lives, albeit with a great deal of apprehension. The food merchants were plying their wares on the usual back streets, the bakers filled the air with the smell of fresh bread, and the blacksmiths had their forges stoked and the ringing of metal on metal began again. To the casual observer, the town looked like it always had.

While having breakfast at a small café behind the inn he'd stayed at after the fight with the bear, Ron was summoned to a meeting via an urgent note delivered by messenger...a young boy no older than ten. He inhaled the rest of his meal and then followed the written instructions to that gathering, but not without a high degree of safety concerns on his part. Caution was on the forefront of his thoughts as he made his way since he was easily recognized by all, but nearly every person in the Lampsh area was a stranger to him.

When he finally approached the noted location, and verified that he had not been followed, he found Heath Sarvand there waiting for him, glancing about nervously. The spot was a sparsely wooded little hollow at the base of a fifty-foot cliff, nestled remotely in the southwest edge of the town. It was well concealed.

Heath bid Ron join him at the entrance of a rather drab looking wooden portal which appeared old and seldom used. The thick, wood-slatted door swung open smoothly, with little sound, and Heath motioned for Ron to enter.

Ron was a bit hesitant at first, but a figure moved to the doorway and set his mind at ease...it was Jarle. When he entered the dark space, Ron recognized another individual to be his brother Janson, and then the rest of the group who'd all pitched in during the fight...even Lilea.

They each met Ron at the door and welcomed him in warmly. The group was convening in a forgotten storage facility which only a very few in the area knew of. It was actually a shallow cave, naturally cut into the hillside, and had been virtually abandoned over a generation ago when the town's growth made it too small for practical use. The close space was cool and dry, and many different products were crated and stacked to the ceiling all around inside, making the space seem very cramped for the congregation. Two lamps were lit and hung from a rafter which seemed to be in place to serve that sole purpose, as it held nothing else.

"Please sit and talk with us Ron," Heath pleaded, motioning to a crate next to the door. "We have many questions for you."

Ron felt the need to get moving again, to get to Flouret and make sure the Kreete post didn't get suspicious about an overdue report, but he adhered to the request.

"Very well," Ron replied, "but we must be brief. There are important things I must attend to that I have put off for too long."

"Good then," Jarle said, standing off to the side of two other men who were also sitting on storage boxes at the back of the room. "First, we would like to know who you are."

Ron looked at each of the five men in the room and studied every one of them for a moment, not willing to be rushed.

"I will vouch for all of these men, Ron," Heath spoke up as he saw the uncertainty in Ron's manner. "I've known them all since they were just boys, and we each have a similar hope in the future of Caron. So if you feel you can trust me, then please speak freely."

Ron looked to Lilea, whose face shined in the light of those two lamps hanging in the center of the room. He saw her expression of ease and realized she trusted these men as if they were her own husband, or kin.

"I have come here to assist in whatever way I can," Ron began slowly, careful to let on only what he felt these people could accept. "My mission is to aid you in freeing the people of this area, and whoever else would wish to live without the tyrannical yoke of the Kreete around their neck."

The men looked back and forth to one another silently, obviously having something specific on their mind.

"I am Murtil Garrson, the head blacksmith of the Lampsh Territory," said a huge fellow who reclined casually in a corner. "We've all heard of a warrior, some say a traitor, who came out of the southern region of the western side of the great mountains many years ago. First he collaborated with the Kreete only to later escape them and join in the rebellion against their rule."

Ron looked hard at Murtil. He was a man whose gaze would not shift, who was used to speaking frankly and expecting answers in the same manner. He was a great hulk of a man with long black hair pulled back and braided neatly behind him. He was clean-shaven and his arms were totally devoid of hair, probably from working too close to the fires of his profession.

"I know of whom you speak," Ron admitted. "But I don't know the whole story of his life."

Murtil stared at Ron intently.

"Are you this man?"

"No, I am not," Ron told him without the slightest movement of his eyes or shifting of his figure.

He assumed these folks knew little if any of the concepts of space travel, and so monitored himself closely. Even Ron wouldn't have believed the truth of who he really was if all the incredible events which had occurred over the past year hadn't happened to him personally.

"However, I must look and act much as he does as I have been mistaken for him on several occasions...and sometimes, I admit, I have used that to my advantage."

"Fair enough then," Murtil concluded his question and looked toward Jarle.

"Our main concern, you see," Jarle said, taking over the line of questioning, "is that of our fellow patriots' grisly deaths about a cycle's past. They were supposed to be getting aid also...from a far-off ally who they never met. These people claimed to have some type of near magical ways of crippling the Kreete's flying machines and destroying their ability to communicate from one part of the land to another far distant area without visible means. It was even rumored that this ally was not from our world."

Ron matched his gaze calmly and waited for his question.

"Is any of this true?"

Ron waited for just a moment, weighing once more his options of what he should divulge. He knew that sooner or later they would witness the technology of the Rauldens and know he was at least working with off-worlders, if not one of them.

"Yes, much of it is true," Ron admitted. "You tell me something now. Do you know who the Kreete really are...where they're from?"

"Yes, we do!" Heath replied. "They came from the stars when my grandfather was just a small boy, and it was at that point the people of Caron learned about other worlds. They came in enormous airships that could incinerate an entire town in just a few borts. They proclaimed themselves gods over us and have built a mighty city far to the north of the Yetsole Mountain Range, which extends a hundred days march to the north and fifty to the south of Lampsh.

"They use our women to breed with, and our planet to train their warriors because it makes them stronger somehow. They use our men for their sport and as their slaves to dig special minerals they need to build more flying ships. Those of us who aren't physically chained to a task must provide them with half of all our products...food grains, animals for eating, as well as work beasts, things like that. We are all slaves to them in some form or another. That is who the Kreete are to us!"

Ron absorbed every slight nuance of Heath's body language and tone of voice.

"It is good that you know your enemy," Ron acknowledged. "You must understand also that they cannot be truly beaten without help from a race who is as advanced as they are...or more so."

"Can this be true?" Janson asked excitedly. "Are there such people? And will they help us?"

"Yes there are," Ron told them, "and, yes they will."

"Like they did with Pretarz and his men?" asked a tall, lean man who was sitting across from Murtil. He stood up quickly, agitated with the naive attitudes his friends were displaying.

"These 'advanced' allies didn't stop the deaths of my brother and his group. Why should we trust what he says? We don't know him or what his agenda might be. We know the 'Lords' are extremely efficient at inserting spies into our ranks, and as far as I'm concerned, we should just kill him now and take our chances with the Kreete."

"I understand your worries, Freaste," Heath jumped in, "but this man," he said while indicating Ron, "didn't ask to meet with us. He didn't ask a single question about the rebel underground network, or our plans. He didn't even solicit names that could associate any of us with that project. And as far as 'I' am concerned, he has much more to lose than any of us...after all, it was he who just destroyed the Kreete's governor and all his subordinates in this territory."

"And if you want to try to take him," Janson added, "you're on your own. I was there when he killed that greel, four nights past, and I saw what he did to Criege."

"If these people are so advanced," interjected Murtil, "then why don't they just dispose of the Kreete? Where is their army...their weapons?"

"They are not warriors," Ron explained, "They know nothing of combat and are only now learning how to wage war. They are slight and meek...but they were attacked by the Kreete, narrowly escaping with their lives, and have vowed to assist any who asks them for help. They are developing weapons, but that will take time. As far as their army...well...they sent me!"

"You're working with these off-worlders?" Lilea finally spoke.

"Yes, I am."

"Or for them?" asked Murtil.

"I'm one of their ambassadors, and I was supposed to rendezvous with my partner and the leaders of your rebellion in the town I spoke to you about, Lilea...and please keep that to yourself. It's not that I don't trust you men, but rather the less you know about my particular mission, the less you can accidentally let slip."

"You 'do' mean that you don't trust us!" Freaste growled, even more irritated now.

"He's right," Murtil said harshly to Freaste, his voice deep and gravelly. "We should only share information that we all 'have to know'. The Kreete are very skilled at interrogation...as you are all aware...and they have ways of ensnaring one's mind and making them their puppet. I have seen it myself, in someone who I once knew well."

"What can you tell us about your mission?" Lilea asked.

"There is a device which is being constructed in secret," Ron began, "one only my partner and I know about. Its purpose is multifaceted. First, it will disrupt their electronic capability...their ability to speak to one another over the air, like you mentioned. Second, it can keep their ships from firing their energy cannons, thus bringing the fight primarily to the ground forces. Third, and probably the most important function; it will actually establish an invisible shield around your world that the Kreete cannot penetrate...ever. There would be no further possibility of more of them, or any other beings, coming to Caron unless you wished it."

The group looked astonished and all were silent for a long while...even Freaste was speechless as they contemplated what that would mean.

"What about the Kreete who are already here?" Heath asked.

"That is exactly the matter we want to meet with your leaders about," Ron explained. "They will still have to be dealt with, but it would have to be done mostly by Caronians. We have only one flying machine, and even though it is very fast and powerful, we can't ferret out the enemy with it. And since they live in such close proximity to your own people, to wage widespread war against them in such a fashion would doom a great number of innocent Caronians.

"Now as I've explained, the people I represent have no army, and my partner and I will help in whatever capacity we can, but the fight will inevitably be up to you. Your rebel forces must be ready to act quickly when this machine initiates...and the Kreete will still be a terrible enemy, even without some of their equipment.

"Be very sure about one undeniable certainty...many will die in the fight for this world, but those who manage to survive that war will live in peace for the rest of their days. And should Caron succeed in this nearly unbelievable endeavor, their descendants will never have to fear the same fate as your ancestors."

The assemblage was lost in thought again after his explanation.

"When will this machine be ready?" Heath asked finally.

"My partner could give you a better estimate, but it should be active before the end of the next season," Ron told them.

"How will we know for sure when that occurs?" Lilea wanted to know.

"There will be a definite change in the way the air feels, for a short time, possibly a day or two," Ron explained to them. "It will feel like the atmosphere is charged...excited. The birds will be the most affected because they use the planet's energy field to guide them, and they will probably go crazy for a while. Your body will adjust to it rather quickly though and then you will be completely oblivious to it. Nothing else will be different...not the color of the sky, or the sounds, or the smell of the river, or the woods."

"This machine will last forever?" Heath inquired further.

"The way those people build things," Ron mused, "I wouldn't put that as entirely out of the question, but there will be some smaller machines to take care of the device. You will never know it exists."

The group spent the next several borts exchanging hopeful scenarios of their children living free, and how wonderful it will be when the war is all over with.

"What are your plans now, Ron?" Lilea asked after a bit.

"First I must go to Flouret and see about delaying any follow-up force that may go wondering what happened to Neadorn and his men. After that, I've got to contact my partner and, together with the rebel leaders, we will form a plan to deal with the Kreete. I don't know right now what that might be."

"What should we do?" inquired Heath. "We have contacts in the resistance as well, as you may have guessed. Should we prepare for war?"

"I honestly don't know. I would at least begin building as many of those heavy spear cannons as you can. They were very effective against the soldiers. Perhaps join heads and plan different tactics for the country you know...landslides at certain bottlenecks, ambushes, that sort of thing. But always keep in mind one fact; the enemy will give no quarter to anyone. You must protect your families first, even if it means your own lives.

"Now, if that's all you need from me, I give you my thanks once again for your help yesterday and I wish you all good fortune in the future. Perhaps we will meet again."

Ron left the small group and headed directly for the north end of town where he got two of Criege's horses ready to go. He went to the barn next and gathered all his belongings...his provisions, the gifts of food and clothing from a few of the enamored townsfolk, and another box of arrows. Then he set out of Lampsh at a high rate headed north.

### Chapter Twenty-four

### Flouret

Ron rode as hard as he could to get to Flouret, alternating the duties of the horses, and was at the outskirts of the community by late afternoon on the following day. He made his way into some thickly wooded hills just to the west of the town where he watered his animals and left them grazing in a tiny open glade, waiting for the cover of darkness. He ate a cold meal of the rations the Lampsh citizens had given him while clouds to the west grew ominous and thunder crashed and rolled through the village, threatening a heavy storm.

Flouret was little more than a wayside post for the Kreete, having only a dozen or so buildings that provided the warriors with refreshments and diversions. The town itself was fenced all around with a ten-foot high barricade of sharpened wooden poles, and there were gates at either end, guarded by two Kreete scouts. There were no ramparts or any elevated positions from which they could defend...a poor arrangement if attacked by a foreign army.

The informant had told Ron the armed forces assigned to this post lived a Spartan life. They were typically on patrol, on leave in another locale, or scattered throughout the town engaging in female sport, or in mock battle with one another as they constantly trained for hand-to-hand combat.

As the day ended, Ron secured his mounts in the forest and made his way back to the southern end of the village where he maneuvered himself into a position overlooking the main street. The central building was clearly the Kreete's command post. He saw several of them come and go over the next few borts, merely milling about, which eased his mind about the little coup in Lampsh. Obviously their secret hadn't gotten out yet.

He watched a while, long after the sunlight was obscured by the oncoming storm clouds, and then his visual perception was lost in a deluge of windswept rain which blotted out everything not within arm's reach.

That downpour was just what Ron needed to make his attack however, and he smiled a sinister smile as he crept forward like the shadow of death.

He moved first on the guards who stood out in the torrent at the southern entry gate of the town. His bow strummed only twice and the way was clear. The Kreete scouts never even pulled their blades before they dropped.

Ron took enough time to drag those men into hiding and remove his arrows before he continued on his way. He didn't have to concern himself with subterfuge or stealth from that point on, but rather walked right into town and straight to the control center.

The Kreete's command station was not much more than a singular room with a large desk resting in the middle which wrapped almost completely around the seat of the person manning it. There was little else in the stark chamber save for paintings hanging about depicting certain ranked officials of their differing chains of command on Caron. The dimly lit interior of the building facilitated Ron's covert task tremendously, as did the fact that only one scout remained inside. The rest had sought out more comfortable settings to ride out the storm.

Ron swung the door open and stepped in quickly, water draining from his hooded countenance onto an already dampened tongue-and-groove floor.

"What do you want?" the scout asked while reclining in a massive wooden chair next to what Ron could only imagine was a radio, nestled neatly under the counter. It was utterly foreign in appearance but the near constant chatter emanating from it confirmed Ron's suspicions.

"I have an urgent message from Neadorn," Ron told the unsuspecting scout as he approached to the edge of the desk. He tossed back his hood to reveal himself, and reached up and behind his rain-soaked hair as if retrieving some item, or document. The Kreete leaned forward to receive his commander's message...but it was not what he anticipated. The black blade flew out and through the neck of the unwary watchman, painting the wall with his carelessness.

They were so overconfident, so completely arrogant, that they no longer even gave thought to the possibility that a man might actually attack them. How wrong could they be?

Ron cut the power connection from the communications unit and then retraced his steps to the beginning of the village and systematically searched each building for more of the vile beings.

The first structure was a combination of an inn and a tavern; a good-sized building made of stone, as was most of the town's fabrication.

He pushed open the large door and entered a dim foyer furnished with a couple of chairs along the wall beside the door, and a rack with pegs protruding from it...for hanging coats, cloaks, hats, or whatever. The other end of the small vestibule opened into a larger area which had tables and benches, and a long counter across from the portal. There were a few men leaning on the counter, speaking to the manager of the facility. Ron found no scouts there, but got several frightened stares from the patrons.

"What can we do for you, sir?" asked a slender old man from behind the counter. He looked bone-tired and beaten down from long years lived in fear for his life, and in fear for the lives of the thousands who'd come through the post on their way to hopeless futures in bondage.

There were only three others in the tavern. Two men were sipping some beverage...standing at the edge of the bar because there were no stools...and an old woman, frail and withered-looking was cleaning one of the four tables that adorned the cramped room. There was a flat bench on either side of each table which accounted for all the sitting arrangements they had. Apparently, there were not many patrons for his business...no doubt because of the proximity of the Kreete guards.

"I'm looking for the scouts who man this post," Ron announced to the small group.

They all stared at the large figure of Ron who stood unmoving in a growing water puddle as the rain drained off his cloak. He appeared extremely threatening to them standing in the diffused light as he was, his looming bulk looking portentous and foreboding. He cast off his hood and the people jumped a bit, like they'd seen a dark omen and were afraid.

"They will probably be spread out at the other end of town," the old man replied, shaking as he spoke. "This side is mainly for folks who are passing through, or seeing off some loved one who is going into service for the Kreete. The scouts rarely come here, and spend most of their time drinking and brawling over at the Bloody Sickle, or at Lyumar's Brothel, next door. Their barracks are adjacent to the command center, on the east side, and just passed that are the animal pens and stables."

"How many of them are there?" Ron inquired...his voice calm and deep.

"Counting the soldiers that are off duty, I think there are thirteen or fourteen," replied one of the other men.

"What is it you're planning to do?" asked another.

"I would not go outside this building...it will not be safe," Ron said as he let out just a hint of a smile and then bid them adieu. "My thanks to you, gentlemen," Ron told them before he turned and left, heading back out into the heavy rain.

Ron walked up to the next building and found it empty. There was no sign proclaiming its function, though there were stacked crates of various items on the covered porch, so he assumed it was some sort of general store; but it was closed. The time wasn't that late, but he guessed the closure was probably due to the lack of customers, and the small prospect of any until the weather had passed.

He strode past the command center, glancing in to note no activity, and then proceeded to the barracks. Guardedly he opened the entrance to the large building with an arrow knocked up. That door led to a long hallway with four others, two on either side. Ron cautiously listened at each threshold and then slowly opened the first one on his right.

It was the sleeping quarters for one squad, with seven beds lined up along one wall and a rack for their weapons directly opposite each one. The 'beds' were little more than beefy slabs of wood with a mat woven from some thick material laying on each of them. A truly austere lifestyle, Ron mused.

The other rooms were exactly the same, so Ron assumed the maximum number of scouts stationed at the post would be as Morgant had said. He headed back to the front door and reached for its handle when the loud thud of heavy feet resounded through the corridor.

Someone was on the entry step.

### Chapter Twenty five

### Ronin Was Here

Ron ducked into the first doorway on the hinge side of the entryway as the door swung open violently.

A scout stepped through the portal dragging a woman in behind him.

"Get in there and strip!" the huge, ugly beast ordered to the accompanying woman, propelling her into the bunkrooms across from Ron. "You go and relieve Harge at the radio!" he shouted back through the door. "I will be finished with her when your shift is done. Then 'you' can have her."

Ron felt his temper flaring at the thought of what those two vile beings were going to do with that woman. Ever since his first encounter with a squad of soldiers on Rauld...when they had killed Cache's adopted father and threatened to do the same to her...those despicable creatures turned Ron's stomach like nothing else he could imagine.

He peered across the hallway at the drenched and shivering, hunkering form of the Kreete's remarks. She was tall for a woman and very voluptuous, with raven hair that would have reached her waist even without the weight of the water tugging at it. Her expression was one of vacant fear and she wore the signs of abuse that come with having been a captive of the Kreete for even a short time. She'd given up long ago on any hope that some miracle would save her from the humiliation, the shame, the disgust, and the sheer pain of her life, and it showed in her eyes.

She turned her back and began to undress; her mud covered clothing dropping in a wet heap at her feet. She would have been quite lovely, but now she was a pitiful sight to Ron, which caused his anger to rise even more.

"People should not be used as amusements for these loathsome animals," he thought while his teeth ground together.

The scout slammed the outside barrier of heavy wood and shook the rain off himself as he removed his own cloak and tossed it into the barrack room. He wore all his weapons; a long sword on his right hip, a short sword on the left, a long knife in his belt at his front, and a crossbow hung down his back, unloaded.

Ron let him step into the chamber, behind the woman, and then he lunged. The ebony blade pierced him with ease, and the hilt of the weapon slapped soundly against his spine as its point appeared from his chest as if out of thin air. The surprise on the face of the large fellow was absolute. The Kreete scout reached over to touch the blade, dazed and confused about why he was falling, but Ron withdrew it as quickly as he'd used it. A moment later, the Kreete's face smashed into the hardwood floor, rattling the entire building.

The woman spun about in a startled jolt...forgetting she was nude to a stranger's glare...and stared at the Kreete's motionless body with stark fear in her eyes.

"Stay here and make no sound!" Ron ordered the woman as he spun about.

He didn't pause to see the reaction of the slave girl because he was headed through the door to intercept the other soldier, flying out into the rain and pulling his bow around.

The large water drops sounded like a raging river rapid as they crashed to the ground and into the already running rivulets which flowed down the dirt street. That sound merged with the splashing feet of Ron Allison as he found his way swiftly through the murky darkness, back to the post's command center with an arrow at the ready.

He didn't have to wait long either before the scout reemerged in great distress, his seven and a half foot tall frame poised clearly in the doorway with his short-sword drawn. He was frantically trying to decide what course of action he should take.

Ron took the decision away from him when an arrow slammed into his right eye socket, and the impact threw him back into the building.

Ron then set off up the street again to continue his search. The next nearest structure past the barracks was the post's doctor's clinic. He drifted inside like a wisp of smoke, and slowly surveyed the building, finding it to be rather large for such a small town. There were six rooms which could hold four or five beds each, and an operating space containing a vast array of equipment surrounding a central table. That stout, wooden platform was obviously large enough to handle the size and weight of the soldiers, and by the looks of the place, it had seen quite a lot of use.

Ron crept stealthily from doorway to doorway, and the driving storm outside drowned out the creaking sounds of the floor as he moved. There were four patients in the clinic...all human and sleeping soundly, and the doctor was in the back-office cleaning up from what must have been a recent surgery. Ron slipped back out of the little hospital without even pausing.

The next building was the brothel, and Ron took much more caution in his intrusion of that place. There were at least nine more Kreete soldiers still moving about in the village and he wanted all the advantages of surprise.

Ron entered the sexual recreation center for the post and was surprised at the smell of the place. It was extremely fragrant in rich bouquets of flowers and scented candles, and he found that to be totally opposite of what he'd expected.

The lobby of the business was adorned with numerous tapestries and paintings that were pleasing to the eye, and gave the room a sense of luxury and sensuous ease. There was a counter to the right, two sets of stairs to the upper level, and plush couches all along the wall of the main floor with deep, robust colors and bright patterns decorating them as well as the walls.

The two-story building also had several doors leading out the back of the large entry area, apparently to rooms used for the pleasure trade that was plied in such an establishment. Fur floor coverings were scattered all about, giving a feeling of softness to the hard wooden understructure, and a moderate fireplace at either end of the space produced lighting that was quietly calming, further enhancing the sexual mood of the room.

As Ron allowed the entry door to swing shut, a woman appeared at each of the doorways on the main floor in various stages of dress. The spectrum ran from fully clothed in a long, proper gown, to a lovely young woman in a torn and ragged bit of cloth which barely covered her hips and nothing on her top other than her long brown hair. Ron saw six in all, but as soon as they knew it was a human caller, three times as many women crowded in. Ron threw back his hood and the women moved forward even closer.

A mature, yet still very attractive woman approached Ron smiling and bowing her head.

"For mating, or for sport?" she inquired, her head held low, not daring to meet his eyes.

"What?" Ron asked, thinking he'd misunderstood her words.

"Are you looking for a woman to mate with or just for pleasure sport?" the woman repeated sweetly, trying to clarify.

Ron carefully scanned the room again.

"Are there any Kreete soldiers here?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"No, not at the moment," the lady replied, still bowing lowly, "but one...Shreate...took Carinna a short time ago, back to their barracks."

"Yes, I met him...briefly."

Just then the door flew open again and Ron whipped around, very nearly skewering the woman, Carinna, as she ran inside, dripping from the rain and only partially clothed. She was shaking violently and collapsed on the floor weeping.

Ron stepped to the doorway and peered out. The rain was unrelenting. Without another word, he strode onward to the last building...the Bloody Sickle tavern.

He looked into the saloon through one of the pane-free windows, and took note of the inner happenings. This was the largest of Flouret's structures and was basically one huge room with a ceiling twenty-five feet high. Its walls were decorated with animal heads covering every inch of usable space that didn't hold some weapon...be it swords, axes, maces, spears, or several other tools of war.

There was a large open grill over at the right side which served as the kitchen, and there were several good-sized tables placed around a central ring. This ring was some type of fighting stage that was thirty feet in diameter, well lit from above, and was made of some pliable, giving material. The boundary had no ropes like Earth boxing venues, but rather was designated by its dark red color...the color of blood.

The front of the building had a wide, covered porch with stout posts and heavy railing along the length of it. It was open at both ends and at the center with short stairs to the ground.

Inside, two Kreete soldiers were engaged in a bloody hand-to-hand duel with five others cheering from their tables, or beside the ring. There were three human men in the 'kitchen' and three others enjoying the bout.

Ron was formulating a plan when a loud horn suddenly sounded inside the tavern...blown by one of the onlookers. The two in the ring immediately stopped their fight and roared, grunting and pounding each other on the shoulders. Apparently this was just a match between friends.

The pair left the ring and went to a nearby table where they finished off two huge drinks before gathering their possessions and heading for the door. A few moments later they walked through the doorway and crossed the covered porch quickly, each commenting on the other's fine performance in the match.

Ron let them step off the wooden decking and into the still pounding rain before he launched himself at them, the ebony razor high in the air.

Ron kicked the nearest scout in the head as he carried his flight to the second fighter. The fellow never had a chance as Ron's weapon sliced two thirds of the way through his skull, neck, and shoulder in one strike. The seven-foot-tall Kreete went down in a splash of brown blood, and the rain immediately began slowly washing it away.

Ron whirled around to face the quickly recovering other soldier who'd taken a nose dive into the muck. That fellow shook the mud from his hands and cleared his short sword as Ron came at him, but he managed to parry Ron's blade only twice before he was gone.

The Kreete do not see well in the dark, and the natural diffusing action of the rain made it even worse for them.

The sharp ring of blade against blade was heard inside the pub however, even over the tumultuous rainfall, and that attracted eager viewers racing out to see the fight, always ready to watch bloodshed. Ron ran to the side of the building just as three scouts clambered onto the porch, all straining to find the combatants in the gloom, but reluctant to venture into the nonstop inundation from above.

Ron pulled out his bow and waited. He was standing just off of one end of the wooden deck, watching from a good vantage point for his opportunity as the pelting droplets hammered down on his back. Finally two of the enemy thought they saw something and moved quickly to the far side of the overhanging shelter. The nearest scout was barely fifty feet from Ron when the arrow left the string. Another head shot and he let out no warning to the others, but simply tumbled over the railing and into the deepening puddle at the edge of the roof runoff.

Ron took one more shot before a three-bladed spear flew out the side window and narrowly missed his head. As it was though, the string on Ron's bow was severed, and the springing action of the limbs recoiling made the weapon jump from his grasp.

Ron flinched just a fraction when the string whizzed past his face, and then he was on the move again, charging the last scout on the porch. The fellow saw him coming and leaped over his fallen comrade just in time to feel a foot of steel pierce his chest as a superbly balanced knife plunged deeply into him. He was strong however and kept on attacking, but he mounted little real defense, so Ron had no problem dispatching him.

Ron then vaulted the railing and disappeared into the torrent as the next two soldiers reached the porch with crossbows in hand. He felt an arrow graze his shoulder before he changed direction and eventually turned back to the tavern protected by the night and the rain.

The Kreete troops ordered the lights in the tavern put out at once before they set themselves up for sentry duty, pacing the porch quickly.

Every now and again, an especially strong flash of lightning would light up the scene like it was daytime, and in one of those moments, Ron was revealed. He was standing calmly out in the muddy street, waiting patiently. It was as if he were a leopard watching for its prey to venture out into the night which he owned. The two men wheeled and fired their crossbows, but by then the light was gone...and so was Ron.

Ron could see just a few peors distance in that dim setting, but he knew the Kreete were even more hampered. Because of that visual disadvantage, he felt sure they would try to get to the command post to call for help.

He made his way over to the side of the central building and crouched down carefully, trying to look like a shadow, his blades at the ready. It wasn't long either before one of the scouts did exactly what he expected.

As the larger being stepped past, Ron struck him twice, once with the sword and then with the knife...both were killing blows.

Back to the tavern's porch Ron went, carefully scanning the way ahead, but he found no one on the veranda of the place. He considered what alternative action the Kreete may have taken and then went over to one of the dead scouts lying on the wet planks of the porch. With considerable effort, he pulled the corpse up in front of his body like a shield, and then he stormed into the bar.

Two unmistakable sounds reached Ron in that instant...the reports of crossbows delivering their missiles, and of those arrows impacting flesh. Ron threw the dead man down and rushed the archers with bestial growls escaping his lips and a hate-filled glare burning from his eyes. They dropped their long-range weapons and met him with swords drawn and battle cries blasting away.

The room was very open, designed for the type of scenario being played out now, but the architect of this establishment would hardly have considered the battle taking place. Two Kreete scouts waging battle against a single man? It was insane! No human can stand against a Kreete!

Ron had robbed the dead soldier of his short sword, so now he swung it and the black blade in concerted grace, with amazing speed and incomparable power. The barrage of sharpened steel he threw up confounded the Kreete badly and kept them off balance until he got an opening. A clang and a thump resounded in the chamber when one of the soldiers suddenly dropped his sword as the black razor severed his forearm. That let Ron attack the last warrior with all his focus. The fellow was skilled with his own blades, but the speed at which Ron's weapons moved got ahead of his defenses in short order. In a lightning-fast assault, the newly acquired sword Ron stole swung up sharply and sank deep into the bigger man's throat.

Ron let go of that weapon and returned to the only scout still alive. He'd taken up his weapon again and his stump was only oozing blood as his body's outstanding survival mechanisms did their job well.

Ron crushed his defense in less than a bort and as he swept the room for more challengers, he bellowed out his victory in the long guttural call that was now his instinctive ritual.

The human men who were in the tavern when the skirmish began had all wedged themselves into the back corner of the kitchen area...too afraid of their masters to leave the building for a safer locale. But now, with the fight over, they cautiously came out to see this unstoppable demon with a blade. Ron stood over the fallen enemy and looked up at the men with blood lust still heavy in his eyes...adrenaline surging through him. His wet hair hung down across his brow, and his seething gaze gave them the impression of the devil himself...his massive shoulders rising and falling with his deep breaths. Ron raised his sword at the men and they all threw up their hands.

"We are unarmed!" one cried quickly, fearing the wrath of this super warrior.

Ron looked long and hard at the men, frightening them even further before acknowledging there was no threat in them, and he relaxed.

"Stay here!" Ron ordered, and then he scavenged two crossbows and a pair of arrows before heading back out toward the street.

Almost as if a switch was thrown on the weather, the rain dropped to a light drizzle as Ron stepped onto the porch. The night was still dreadfully dark with the cloud cover, but not so bad that Ron couldn't search the town again. He found one last scout at the northern end of the village, guarding that point of entry and looking extremely agitated. He'd heard the awful, heart-stopping roar from Ron but couldn't understanding what was going on and was unwilling to leave his post to investigate. He expected his comrades to come by and inform him of what animal was running loose in the town, but he nervously watched for it all the same.

Ron slipped through the shadows until he crept up close enough to send his two arrows into that guard before rushing in and separating his skull from his torso.

The other northern sentry must have been in the tavern Ron guessed after he spent the next billot combing the post again but found no more of the enemy troopers.

During the final search, Ron instructed all the folks of Flouret to meet in the 'pleasure house' where there would be a brief town meeting.

Every person residing in Flouret soon stood in the entry parlor of the whorehouse, and Ron was glad to see the women had all dressed since further distraction wouldn't be helpful.

When he stepped into the room everyone snapped to attention with unblinking stares. He set about immediately replacing the string on his bow with one of the spares he carried, giving no attention to the assembly until that was done. They all stood by as if made of stone, watching the man who had just slaughtered their masters...and wondering what he was going to do next.

"Do you people wish to go back to your homes?" Ron asked matter-of-factly when his weapon was whole again.

The populace looked at him...then at one another...then back to Ron.

"Do you people wish to go back to your homes...to your lives away from here?" Ron repeated...louder this time.

"Of...of...of...course we do," the old man from the inn stammered. "But..."

"Make ready then to leave tomorrow!" Ron announced. "You men," he pointed to six young fellows, "will help me carry the Kreete soldiers to the barracks! Come with me. You women get torches and lamps and help guide us."

The Flouret citizens did as they were ordered without hesitation and without a word, all too afraid to anger such a formidable man.

Thirty borts later, the dead soldiers were all lying in their beds. Ron destroyed their communication equipment after that and then set the command post and the barracks on fire.

Even with the freshly fallen rain, the buildings went up quickly and burned for two billots. When that was going, Ron sent the townspeople off packing and scrounging what supplies they could find. He commandeered three wagons from the stables to provide them transportation, and stationed them about the small town. There were plenty of animals in the stables to pick from for pulling the wagons...denkas, horses, roukers, and treen, so Ron and two others made sure the beasts were all fed and watered well. Even Ron's horses were retrieved from the woods and tended. He wanted them all rested and ready early in the coming morning.

They all slept in the brothel that night with the door barred and Ron slumbering in front of the entrance...just in case. He dozed lightly, his keen woodsman senses deciphering every cry, every chirp, and every snap of twig within a hundred peors.

Nothing more happened that night though, so when the sun rose into a crystalline sky on the following day, the people from the Kreete security post of Flouret ate their last meal there.

They felt a widely varied mixture of emotions as they went about their duties...relief, confusion, elation, and terror all at once.

Ron ordered the four men that normally worked the stables and tended the beasts for the Kreete to hitch up a team of treen to one of the chariots. His command surprised and baffled them, but they did what he wished. Afterward, he bid them get all the other draft creatures prepared and lashed to some mode of conveyance...be it cart, or wagon, or merely saddled.

The infirmary patients were loaded into the largest wagon and went south with the doctor, toward Lampsh, where Ron told them they would receive aid.

The remainder of the tiny group of Flouret's citizens immediately began scattering in three directions, each headed for the homes they'd been torn from so long ago.

By midmorning the wagons, sleds, carts, and horses were gone, and Ron went about setting the rest of the guard-post ablaze. He then yanked the town's signs out of the ground and tossed them in as well. By midday the Kreete's ruling outpost would be nothing but ashes, erased from the surface of Caron.

Finally he mounted the heavy chariot of the Kreete and grabbed the reins controlling the two treen that towed it. The vehicle was loaded with all his gear, some food and water rations, and fifty extra arrows he'd found in one of the storage buildings which were originally the property of Neadorn. They were exactly like the ones he confiscated in Lampsh and even though he didn't see the immediate need for them, he wasn't about to leave such a treasure behind.

Ron also sported a new weapon...a short sword he took from one of the enemy soldiers. It was nearly sixteen inches long and slightly curved with a beautifully carved handle that felt firm and gripped well. It reminded him of the short swords the Samurai once carried on Earth, and that undoubtedly added to his attraction to it.

He started to ride off, intending to return to his primary mission at last, but then he stopped, dismounted, and went out into the middle of the main thoroughfare on a whim. Once there, he used his sable weapon to spell out a message across a wide, flat section of stone...one for all who passed that way.

'Ronin was here', he wrote, and then he mounted his chariot again to start down the road to Shavore.

"Nice little message!" he heard a high female voice shout from behind him.

He bounded off his perch and had an arrow at full draw before he hit the ground, only to find himself staring into the deepest green eyes he'd ever seen surrounded by a chestnut mane of elbow length hair.

Lilea was calmly walking out of the shadow of the town's stone well. She'd traded in the long dress she wore to the secret meeting back in Lampsh for a snug fitting pair of riding trousers that encased her splendid hips marvelously. She sent those feminine curves swaying sensuously from side to side as she walked toward Ron as if she were strutting the "Catwalk" of some fashion show.

Ron eased off on the arrow, let out an audible sigh of relief, and stood up, gathering the reins of his steeds in his hand before heading over to meet her.

"Jarle!" she called over her shoulder.

She ran up and gave Ron a huge hug as Jarle came out of hiding at the edge of town, leading two horses.

"What are you doing here?" Ron asked the dark-haired beauty.

"I'm going to Mardesh to find Crogan, and see if there is some way to get him released."

"What of Sharlese?"

"She, Janson, Jarle's wife, and their three children are heading back to our farm and will stay there until this is all over. They should be safe enough since it's so remote, and will be able to get by without outside help."

Jarle caught up with the pair then, and he and Ron clasped arms like brothers.

"I didn't expect to see you again anytime soon," Ron told the man.

"Nor I, you. But when Lilea gets her head set on something, she doesn't turn loose, and I couldn't let her go alone. She's practically my little sister."

His expression turned firm at that point, so Ron knew something important was on his mind. He hesitated, looked at Lilea, and then spoke.

"I know this is much to ask of you, Ron, but would you go with us?"

Ron was surprised by the request, and just looked from one to the other for several litas.

"My mission is already..."

"I know what I'm asking is a burden to you," Jarle continued, "but Crogan was an important figure to our group and could help our cause tremendously. We will go on without you, but I know together we stand a much greater chance of success."

Ron's first instinct was to refuse them their request. He was getting desperate to catch up with Cache, and worried more with every delay that he would not. However, he'd been made aware that after he addressed the Lampsh citizens and retired to the doctor's clinic, it was Lilea's impassioned persuasion at the town meeting that managed to sway their overall decision into helping him.

After the fight with Criege, Janson had ridden out to escort her and Sharlese home like Ron and he had discussed, but when Lilea heard of that terrific battle, she immediately demanded to go back to Lampsh. They arrived just after Ron's speech ended, and she was appalled that such discourse had risen in the city. She, Sharlese, Janson, and Jarle campaigned brilliantly to aid Ron, and he knew those Caronians had probably saved his life with their little ambush in Lampsh. He also knew that having some friends at his side was a very valuable resource if things turned bad.

"How far is it to Mardesh?" Ron asked.

"Two to three weeks on horseback," Jarle replied. "Why?"

"What about Shavore?"

"On this?" Lilea began; her eyebrows lifted high. "Are you aware that traveling in this is strictly forbidden for humans? The Kreete will kill you on sight for such an act."

"Not if I see them first."

Lilea stared blankly at the composure of Ron's demeanor. Was there truly such a man who could defy their Lords' laws as if they were merely nuisances? If she hadn't seen him in action firsthand, she surely would have thought him mad. As it was though, she just smiled and shook her head before answering his inquiry.

"I have cared for such creatures many times and know them well. The treen are very impressive animals and will triple the speed of a horse since they can go longer between breaks and water stops. You can make it to the end of this road in a couple days. You will have to leave the chariot then and continue on foot or horseback through the steep trails of the Gruinshawe pass...another week after that and you're there."

"That's as I'd hoped," Ron agreed, inwardly feeling he could make the trip in a third less time than that. "There's a major thoroughfare from Shavore to Mardesh, correct?"

"Yes. And there's a river that connects the two as well. That would probably be the quickest route."

"Very well then," Ron announced. "I'll meet up with you two in a santari or less. Where will I find you?"

"We will stay in an inn called the Urion Way Station, at the southeast part of the city on Liinone Street. I stayed there once before, so I know where it is."

"Now, Lilea, since you are familiar with these beasts, how about a quick overview of what I can expect from them."

Lilea stroked the nearest animal affectionately on the fore-shoulder and recalled the information.

"They are powerful creatures and will have little trouble running for half a day at a time with the light weight you have. They're accustomed to pulling a three-man team of Kreete soldiers with all their armor, weapons, and provisions, as you know. There are water and food stations along every large road, and when you reach them the animals will know. They'll slow down and pull into the rest areas without worry.

"If you push them hard you'll need to let them rest for at least a billot, maybe two. You should be able to tell by the way they act."

"Excellent. Thank you, Lilea. Now let's get moving," Ron told them decidedly and they all mounted their animals once more.

### Chapter Twenty Six

### The Road

Ron started off at a pace his friends' horses could manage until they turned off and headed eastward. Their route would cross the wide Caitron River and continue onward through the rolling hills of the inner Yetsole Valley to Mardesh.

Ron was going north though, so at that time, he set the treen loose to run...and run they did!

The two treen moved at a quick, yet smooth gait, much like that of the trotter horses on Earth but with substantially more power. They matched each other's pace well and towed the large cart effortlessly along. The speed couldn't come close to the mechanical transportation he was accustomed to back on Earth of course, but these creatures were remarkably swift for the level of technology present on Caron. Nonetheless, just like the performance cars on Earth, there is always a tradeoff.

The dirt road looked level and smooth to a man on foot or horseback, but at the speed he was moving...and the lack of a true suspension under the vehicle...it made for a bone-jarring ride. Ron managed, after a short time, to adjust his posture to absorb the constantly vibrating and pounding inputs of the wheels, but he had to use his legs to soak up and dampen the jolts and it was exhaustive work.

His experience caused him to wonder at how anyone could travel in such a way for any distance. However, once he fine-tuned his stance, and learned the subtle ways to balance himself, it allowed him to better take in the majestic feeling of such a conveyance.

The wind pulled at his long black hair and whipped his cloak behind him like a flag, giving him a sense of freedom and elation he couldn't understand fully. He likened it to the thrill of riding a motorcycle on a backcountry road, but of course there was no true comparison between the two. Nonetheless, in less than a billot he'd passed all the people he'd freed from bondage in Flouret, even though they'd left long before he had. And each time he overtook one of them, they turned with horror on their faces, expecting the chariot to be carrying their former masters, but Ron waved to them grandly and they ended up cheering him as he hurtled past.

He flew along for several billots and blasted through three little villages before reaching the first way station. In each of those communities the townsfolk jumped out of the way at his approach and then just stared at him as he passed.

"A man in the position of a Kreete soldier? What madness was this?"

Ron didn't even respond to their stares but kept the team wound up and moving fast. It was as if he had a permanent green light, and all the traffic yielded to his passage. He was well out into the country once more when the treen suddenly dropped their pace to a slow trot and began acting agitated as they headed for a turnoff in the roadway.

Ron was still used to driving for hours and hours at a time in an automobile and so was momentarily perturbed at the change, but his annoyance didn't last. The sweat streaming off the animals reminded him he was dealing with flesh and blood beasts, so he returned his focus to the reality of this world.

The rest area wasn't much more than a set of buildings down a looping fork in the rolling, forest-lined road. It was barely visible from the main thoroughfare, but he trusted Lilea's advice and allowed the treen to glide into the station without hindrance.

There was a human attendant on duty who promptly rushed out to greet the animals. He was a short, squat man who moved about his business without once looking in Ron's direction. He was undoubtedly quite skilled at avoiding any interaction with the soldiers.

By the time Ron stepped off the chariot long enough to stretch his aching back, the treen were already loose from the vehicle and being led away. The fellow brought them to a watering trough first, and as they drank deeply from the clear, flowing water he took buckets of it and doused them thoroughly...and then he scrubbed them down with a stiff brush. The ferocious animals enjoyed the attention immensely and even nuzzled the man like a dog would have as he worked, which Ron found somewhat odd. The man also quietly talked to them nonstop as he went about his tasks which further intrigued Ron.

Ron didn't want to interfere, so he just stood off to the side and ate some of his food rations. It was nice to be on solid ground once again and his legs tingled from the change.

In less than a quarter of a billot the treen were briskly shaking the remaining water from their coats and headed off toward a pen. The attendant opened the gate to a large fenced-in area and the animals fairly jumped into the opening, their heads down and searching intently.

The corral was at least two hundred feet across and the fencing was solid wood up to about four feet from the ground where it turned to a slatted 'typical' fence design for the top two feet of railing.

Ron walked up to that barrier and peered inside curiously to find out what they were looking for. As he reached the perimeter he heard a deep grunt from one of the treen and then a loud, high-pitched scream from something in the corral. Ron stooped to look through the slats and saw exactly what was going on. There were a good number of large rodents running around inside the pen. They appeared to be huge rats of some sort, reminding him of the muskrats and nutria rats from his home marshlands of Louisiana. The treen that had grunted was feeding on one of them, and the other pounced and snatched up one of the creatures while Ron watched.

They each finished off two of the scurrying critters before strolling casually over to another trough which was located inside the pen. It was divided into several sections and overflowing with large-leafed green plants in one of them...the largest of the group. Ron climbed onto the fence so he could see better and found that two of the sections were filled with grain and the last was another water container.

"What are those animals the treen feed on?" Ron inquired of the attendant.

The man nearly jumped out of his skin, spun around twice, and searched the area completely with his eyes before replying.

"The...they...they're called chinches."

"Oh yes! I have heard of them."

The short man looked about again and then turned back to Ron.

"Where's the driver?"

"That would be me."

The station-hand stood there befuddled. He looked Ron up and down a couple of times and then shook his head.

"You have a death wish?"

Ron laughed heartily at that. This man was as direct as he wished everyone would be. He found it refreshing.

"No," Ron responded, "I'm just in a hurry and took the fastest transportation I could find."

"You know there's a Kreete garrison half a day to the south," the attendant told Ron. "They'll send a squad to recover their chariot when they find it missing...and they won't be courteous about it either."

"You don't have to worry about that," Ron told him. "They have no further need for it."

"What do you mean by that?"

Ron just waved his hand and changed the subject.

"I'm Ron," he told the shorter man, tilting his head in respect.

"I'm Hoirgh. I'm the keeper of this way station."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I was wondering if you might spare a little of your day to tell me about these animals...the treen?"

"I'd be happy to. I rarely get to speak to other men since they tend to avoid spending any time around here...in the chance the Lords might happen by."

The two treen, whom Ron had begun thinking of as Tom and Jerry, lay down and drifted off to sleep while Ron and Hoirgh spent the next two billots talking about the animals, the surrounding countryside, and the way north. Ron was already fairly well schooled about the animals due to Lilea's instructions and Cache's study material, but he saw an opportunity to visit with a pleasant individual and enjoyed the conversation very much.

Hoirgh was the appointed custodian of that station for the past ten years and worked a santari on sight and a week off, rotating with another man in the nearby town of Purntos, half a day away on foot.

Many wagons and riders traveled past the waypoint while Ron and Hoirgh visited, but when they got a glimpse of the chariot they urged their pace along nervously and didn't investigate who the driver was.

Finally, after the treen awakened and fed again, they began to get excited and restless, so the station attendant hitched up the team reluctantly, feeling the weight of his isolation beginning to creep back in. With a broad smile and a wish for a pleasant trip he said goodbye and thanked Ron heartily for his companionship.

"Purntos has a clean inn for you to stay the night and the stables will take care of your rig. No one in town will bother the property of a Kreete soldier, so your things will be safe."

"That won't be necessary," Ron returned as he climbed aboard. "I'm going on to Gruinshawe."

"But it'll be dark before you can make it halfway there!"

"Yes," Ron agreed. "I should be there just after sunrise tomorrow if I take it sparingly on the team and don't wear them out."

"I ask you again, my friend. Are you mad?"

"Not that I am aware of...why?"

"There are creatures moving in the night out there that you don't want to meet. This area is wild and remote, and full of beasts that think they are in control...that think they're at the top of the food chain."

"Thanks for the concern, but I have business to attend to that won't wait."

With his proclamation, Ron snapped the reins again and the chariot tore off down the side road and out onto the main one heading northward once more at a fast clip.

Hoirgh just shook his head and wished Ron well. He doubted he would ever see that man again...at least, not alive.

"If the beasts let him be, the Kreete surely will not," he said to the vanishing team.

Ron sped through the little town of Purntos in a flash since it wasn't much more than a farming community that specialized in a strange type of tree which grew extremely well in their particular ecological location. The produce was actually the pod of a tree-born vegetable called a purnto and it reminded Ron of an enormous string-bean. The tall trees each produced hundreds of the four-foot-long pods, and it was a plant that needed just the right sort of firm, rocky soil, combined with a great deal of humidity, to thrive. And since it took most of its moisture right out of the air, the deep gorge of the area, wedged between two mountain peaks, was perfect because it was often shrouded in dense fog as the air roiled through the vicinity.

Ron rode through several hoz of the stuff...great, long, stringy pods hanging down from branches everywhere he looked. The pods were the lone source of material to construct a tough, fibrous, braided rope, which was extremely strong, resistant to rot, and widely used in the region...and these folks made the most of their space. There were trees planted on every conceivable parcel of land. Even the road was narrower to accommodate the crop.

After another billot, Ron was past that district and moving quickly up the darkening valley. Dusk was approaching rapidly, and he watched the sky as often as he could glimpse it through the trees. Out toward the west, the rays of the setting sun played off the clouds which managed to drift into his view. It was amazing...the colors were so bright he could almost hear his dead wife's voice gasping at them. She would have been left breathless at their splendor.

He let his thoughts return to some memorable moments with her, walking in the sunset of a faraway world...so in love, and happy, and peaceful.

Then in the blink of an eye he was in a dense forest that erased all views of the heavens and his attention was back on his trip. He brought his mind to full alert status straightaway, not needing Kaskle's abilities or experience to tell him this was a dicey move on his part. The forests of Caron at night were places few were willing to brave, and none did lightly.

He even felt more vulnerable now, in a way, than he had when he was alone during his trek from the mountains. At least then he could measure his safety by his own skill at staying hidden and stealthy. Here, he was hurtling down an open, yet narrow roadway, in a dark, gloomy, natural tunnel surrounded by hiding places for whatever man or beast might be lurking about. And there were plenty of predators that wouldn't hesitate to attack a lone man.

He decided a change was needed to add a small amount of extra security, and knew just the thing. He balanced himself as best he could on the vibrating, rocking, lurching deck of the chariot, and fished through the stores of equipment he'd lashed there at his feet. Up he came in a few borts hauling a heavy object from its berth.

Back in Flouret he'd rifled through the entire settlement for whatever he or the town's people could make use of, and came across an interesting item...a suit of Kreete armor built for one of their smaller soldiers. It had been cast aside in a storage closet, probably due to the fact that it was rare to have a scout of such a slight build as the armor was modeled. Whatever circumstance had caused it to be placed there was moot however. Ron had scooped it up in the chance it might prove handy...and he was glad now for that impulse.

He struggled to don the gear while handling the reins and managed to get it all strapped in place in short order. He also thanked his good fortune that whoever owned the armor had long since discarded it, so it didn't reek with the musky, acrid stench of the soldiers.

Once he had the heavy leather and wooden layered plating on he felt much more at ease even though it was cumbersome. He placed the helmet at his right side, on a hook designed for that sole purpose, so it might be at the ready if needed, and then he went back to his watchful state.

The treen were remarkable beasts indeed. They didn't hesitate in their duties and didn't seem unduly skittish in the menacing setting of the road. Ron wasn't pushing them hard and so they loped along comfortably for another two billots before any alteration in their behavior.

The change came suddenly however, and was obvious to Ron who was quite used to their gate by that time, as well as the surging ride of the vehicle.

Ron's eyes had adjusted as much as they could to the darkness of the lush forest, which wasn't much. The starlight filtered through only enough to allow him to see distinct outlines of the treen, the chariot, the nearby trees, and the guiding edges of the roadway. But he didn't need to see clearly to know when the animals stiffened up and the short hair on their backs jumped erect. There was a noticeable change in their stride, and they practically radiated energy as they grunted back and forth to each other softly.

Ron knew something was up ahead from those beasts' reactions. They were trained warriors in their own right...chosen to lead the Kreete into battle and even to fight if needed...and they seemed ready for just that.

Ron took their response as a warning to prepare himself for battle as well, so he slipped the helmet off its rest and strapped it firmly to his head. It wasn't made for him but was snug enough to keep it from bouncing about too much. The metal headgear was well crafted, provided good visibility, and even had slits at the sides for better hearing.

They raced over a few more rises in the terrain and around another sweeping turn...and then Ron saw it. It was a scene that made him cringe, and at the same time made his heart race with anticipation. It was a battle to the death!

An eighth of a hoz further down the earthen path was the perfect reason not to travel this area at night. There was a bright ring of fire directly in the center of the narrow road, and inside that circle were several individuals, a wagon, and two large draft animals of some kind. Outside the blazing barrier was a large, undulating mass of bodies...wolves.

As he approached, Ron estimated at least thirty animals circling the central group...all snarling and scanning the area for a chance to get into that loop of fire. There was food in there and they meant to have it!

At a tenth of a hoz Ron could make out two grown men and two teenage boys waving burning fags of timber at the circle of dozens of eyes glaring back at them. In the very center were a woman and two young girls, cowering under a wagon which had a broken axle. The animals were roukers, he could clearly tell now...similar to oxen but not quite as large and a bit faster of pace. Their heads had two large horns sprouting from their skulls that swept away and forward, and another one growing from their nose ridge that went out and then down...for digging up roots and the like during foraging. They were standing on either side of the wagon and seemed oblivious to their plight.

Ron took careful notice of the treen as they gathered themselves for a fight. They synchronized their steps to a degree where he could feel no surging whatsoever, leaving him free to take as good aim as he could from the moving platform of the chariot's deck.

Ron had his bow up and at full draw at a hundred peors from the group. At fifty there were three wolves down and another mortally wounded. He was firing as fast as he could possibly manage, and when the men in the circle finally saw the chariot coming, another four of the animals were out of the fight. The treen didn't fear fire at all and they skirted the edge of the rapidly dying blaze close enough for the wheel of the chariot to scatter burning embers high into the air.

Ron was forced to lower his bow for a brief moment as one of the wolves leaped over the edge of the chariot, lunging at him with gaping jaws and savage snarls. The black sword flew up to meet that challenger and sliced the animal from shoulder to flank as it passed, causing the beast to miss its target and tumble from the chariot's platform as it landed.

Ron was firing once again as he cleared the group, and then the vehicle continued down the road for only a minimal distance...enough to exit the scene and turn around for another pass.

Ron stopped the team there though and reached for the disconnect pin on the treen's harnesses. They would do better without the weight of the chariot to hinder them.

As their bindings fell away, four wolves attacked in a coordinated effort. The pair of treen, at least five times their size, met them in a ferocious battle of teeth and claw.

The match was over quickly.

Ron leaped down to the hard packed dirt of the roadway and his legs made some quick adjustments to the solidity of the surface. He'd been in the moving vehicle for billots and felt grateful for the chance to return to the stationary turf. He continued to blast away at the wolf pack with the black missiles, and pushed ever forward towards the trapped souls.

The pack then separated into two large groups: one maintaining the attack on their original prey and another heading for Ron and the treen.

Another pair of wolves made the mistake of challenging the treen and then the rest were clear about staying away from those two.

Tom and Jerry were exceptionally well trained, Ron found out, as they flanked him securely and guarded his path to the fiery ring. The wolves tried to attack him from the forward position, away from the reach of those fearsome allies of his, but the bow would not allow that. Six more animals were put down before he reached the trapped group, but he couldn't hesitate as the fire on the far side was ebbing and the wolves had converged at that point.

Ron took down two more of the beasts before he leaped the fire ring himself and engaged them in close-in warfare.

The men and boys in the circle had their swords out and looked terrified as the wolf pack rushed at them. One of the men was driven to the ground by an animal that weighed at least as much as he did but was twice as strong and infinitely fiercer.

Ron had to drop the bow there, as the numerous creatures were too close. He pulled the dark sword out, joined it with his newly acquired short sword, and roared out the challenge of the mountain clans...his blood now boiling for battle.

The animals all whipped their heads around to see what manner of beast was uttering such a cry...and then they found out.

His blades were set into such a furious motion that afterward the survivors all swore he had no weapons at all.

Ron confused the wolf pack by attacking 'them'...meeting their snarling, gnashing, foaming jaws with razor sharp edges of death...and his own growling persona. He was a fiend of rage and power that they couldn't contend with, and ten more of their number went down under his blades. He spun and leaped and dodged their attempts at him, all the while those extensions of steel slashed and jabbed their members.

Ron managed to work his way over to the downed man but was too late to render him aid so he slipped backward quickly next to the wagon the women were under, and took up a position there.

One of the roukers was dead and being hauled out of the now smoldering ring so Ron filled the gap on that side with his back to the wagon. The man and boys on the other side held their ground well enough and it wasn't long before the wolf pack was so decimated that they reconsidered their position and decided to take the rouker carcass and go.

Ron let out another long howling wail to signify his victory...and challenge...to any others who might feel the need to engage him in further combat.

Once again it went unanswered.

When the sounds of the pack dragging the draft animal into the forest were far enough away for the men to begin to relax, Ron dropped his vicious posture and began a survey of the area.

"Are you all right?" he grunted to the woman under the wagon with her girls. His voice sounded abnormally deep from inside the helmet's protection.

They jerked sharply but didn't respond, still too terrified to speak.

Ron searched out his team of treen and found them feeding on a couple of the wolves. He smiled at that...it was the way of the beast.

He walked around the wagon and confronted the men who'd held their ground.

"You did well!" he told them with pride. "It was a good fight!"

The two young men both dropped to the ground and promptly vomited. Ron smiled at that too...it was the way of man. These lads had just engaged in their first true test of manhood...and lived. They would be fine, and they would have one hell of a story to tell as well!

The older man with them looked at Ron without a word and then rushed to his partner's side. That fellow was dead. His entire throat had been ripped from him.

"I'm sorry, but there was nothing I could do...nor you," Ron said to the grieving man.

Ron took count of the battle and found twenty-five dead wolves.

"That was a large pack," Ron said to the group who still hadn't uttered a word. "We've weakened them considerably, so you needn't fear their return. They'll stick to smaller game until they can regain their numbers."

The woman and girls were sobbing loudly by then, but Ron ignored them and began gathering his arrows. The thrashing animals had broken most of those wooden missiles as they died, but he took everything he could make use of and put it all in the chariot. After he finished that task he returned to the wagon. The fire had burned down low by then and he had no difficulty going where he wished.

"Do you need assistance?" he asked, knowing without doubt that they did.

The people just kept their heads down and didn't regard him directly. He waited a few moments, puzzled at their attitudes; then he shrugged his broad shoulders and turned to leave.

"You have our thanks, Lord Kreete," the remaining man finally said.

At that moment Ron realized what was happening. He looked at his armored arms and chortled, stopping abruptly before turning back to them and removing his helmet.

"Sorry about that," Ron told the man. "I forgot I had this stuff on."

The six members of the group all snapped their heads around to regard Ron. They blinked, looked from one to the other and then at him again, and then they all rushed to him at once.

"Thank you sir!" the woman and girls belted out in unison.

Ron was a bit startled at their enthusiasm but accepted their thanks as they gathered around him. The others too came rushing in, suddenly animated to a high degree.

"Mister, that was the most excellent swordplay I've ever seen!" the man told him. "Thank you so much! You saved my family!"

Ron saw that they were a simple family, farmers or roving laborers of some sort, without fancy possessions or clothing, and more than likely no formal defensive training. He was suddenly very proud to have helped them, as they surely would have all been slaughtered.

"Again, I'm sorry about that guy."

"Well I'm not," inserted one of the boys. "If it hadn't been for him forcing us to be out here, we would never have been in this nightmare forest!"

"Hinly is right," the lady said. "Borc is dead and I'm glad too. We're finally free to go where we wish."

Over the next billot Ron and the family spoke about why they'd gotten stranded out there in the forest...at night...and what they would do now.

"Well, we'll continue to Gruinshawe and see what fate has waiting for us there," the patriarch told Ron. "We're nearly there now, and I know we won't make it back the way we came...at least not in this wagon anyway...until it's repaired."

Ron then shed the armor of the Kreete and put his former life's skills to work. Another half billot and they had the axle patched up with a splint that would hold until they could get to town. Then they all loaded up into the wagon and set off again, with Ron and the treen-pulled-chariot leading the way.

Luckily for the group, the road was fairly flat, since one of the family's animals was gone and the other was having a difficult time with the load. At two points, Ron even threw them a long rope and his team helped tow them up the steeper grades.

By dawn they were clear of the forest and on a downhill leg to their destination, so Ron bid them goodbye and raced away to the mining town of Gruinshawe.

### Chapter Twenty-seven

### Gruinshawe

The treen knew they were close to their destination and loped along at an ever-quickening pace. Ron noticed several abandoned dwellings along the roadway and up the side trails that were once well-traveled streets of a flourishing town, and it made him wonder why that was. The size of the community appeared to have dwindled considerably some time ago, as many of the structures were now overgrown with plant life, giving the area a disheartening ambience.

There was no traffic coming southward in the early morning, and the air was dead-still with a thin fog hanging about, so it was almost eerily quiet. He could see the smoke plumes of the living part of the city only a short distance away, so he pulled up on the reins and brought the chariot to a stop at a half-hoz from the nearest smokestack. He felt it would do him no good to have a couple dozen people see him ride in on an illegal vehicle since he had no idea what Kreete presence might be there besides the single scout whose station it was.

The powerful beasts were noticeably confused as he forced them to halt. And when he unloaded all his things and let the reins drop freely into the chariot, they looked at him with as much puzzlement as two beasts of burden could muster.

"Go on!" Ron shouted to the creatures, waving his hand in a grand gesture.

They stepped forward for a few steps and then looked back at him again.

"GO!" he shouted again, slapping one of them on the hindquarters with a loud report.

That did it. They set off at a fast gait and were out of sight in mere moments, around the turn to the waiting stables. He gathered his gear, checked his weapons for ease of access, and then followed at his own pace, his legs extremely happy to be in full control once more.

Ron strolled into Gruinshawe with a large pack across his back and the heavy staff in his left hand, but his gait was chipper and light, with no outward sign of threat whatsoever. He cheerily greeted the folks passing by and took in the sights and smells of the little community, all the while panning the area for evidence of the Triad's presence.

Gruinshawe was a mining town. The village was built right up against a steep wall of rock the mine bored into and the occupied portion of the remaining town was now only about three hundred peors across. He guessed there could be no more than fifty families still calling this place home...no doubt people who were either too set in their ways or too afraid to move to another environment.

Ron stopped at the first vendor of cooking food he saw; 'Vi's Foods and Drinks'. The place wasn't much larger than a good-sized kitchen with a storage room connected to the side, but he wasn't exactly looking for anything fancy anyway. The only person around was a woman who was tending the cooking while watching for customers, surrounded by a wide bar that had stools placed every couple of feet. It was covered and clean so Ron bought a huge meat sandwich from her and chased it down with a tall glass of parc cider. The bread was still warm, as was the roasted meat, and he relished that simple meal as if it were his last. He knew he'd be out of range of any cooking as soon as he headed up the mountain and wanted this final hot meal badly.

"Where you headed?" asked the owner-cook-waitress of the small eatery.

"Over the pass to the north," Ron replied as he wiped the dripping juices from his chin.

He stared up the mountain, at the far-off peak of it. There, the clouds appeared to be just grazing its height and were in a state of dramatic contrast...their stark white edges seeming to jump out against the deep blue of the sky.

"You can't do that," Viall returned, leaning back against the inner wall of her wide window-bar. Her back was toward Ron, and her head turned to speak to him over her left shoulder as she kept an eye on her cooking.

Other patrons were drifting up then and they were also in the mood for her breakfast services as Ron continued.

"And why is that?"

"Here's your usual lunch Rica," she said to a man as he picked up a basket she'd prepackaged for him. "The Lords have closed the pass, and we have no way to know when it'll open again...if ever. Here you go Jhakii."

"Thanks Viall!" the miner said as he moved on.

Another fellow scooped up a basket and headed off, Ron noticed, in the same direction as many others.

"Where are those men going?" Ron asked.

"They all work the mine. It still puts out a bit of the rare stuff, but mostly they're digging ortowe."

Ron's translator device converted 'ortowe' to 'iron'. That mine was a point of origination of the mineral the Caronians used for making tools and weapons.

"We have four of the finest blades-men in the territory working up there at the blacksmith's barn," Viall added, pointing off to the left, up the street.

"You can't find a better sword or knife than we make right here," she added with vigor. "My husband, Meersh Jandere, is the head smithy!"

Ron smiled at her and just looked up the ridge. His plans were being foiled again, but he wasn't about to turn around and go back that easily. He set his jaw firmly and determined to find a way. Then he returned to his meal and devoured it at once.

"Thanks Viall!" he called to her as he tossed a coin to the bar's surface and marched away.

Ron walked the length of the small town, passed by the remaining working part of the metal foundry, and on to the out-of-the-way corner of the cobblestone pavement of the city proper. In that area he quickly found the well-marked trail to the northern pass. The pathway was dirt but was as firm as stone, beaten and compressed by countless hoofs and foot traffic over many years of use, and it was over six feet wide...at least there. The natural avenue went north for a few hundred feet before disappearing around the first turn in its mountain-hugging, twisting, dizzying route.

Beside the entrance to the path was a broad, handwritten sign which stated simply:

"To the Gruinshawe pass. Three days hard climb."

Across this sign was another...one written with typeset characters in a machine-made print of some kind:

"Closed! Death to any who dare pass this point! By order of Neadorn---Ruler of the Yetsole valley!"

Ron snorted at the proclamation of power Neadorn had wielded. He reached out and ripped the overlaid message from the sign and tossed it to the ground before he stepped swiftly past the entrance.

"No!" came a shout from behind him...frantic and afraid.

Ron spun about instantly, dropping into a crouch with the black-bladed sword at the ready, searching for the meaning of that cry. His eyes saw the entire town in a single sweep. The surrounding area was clear. The roofs were empty; the street was devoid of any armed individuals save himself, and no dangerous beasts were about. A single soul was running toward him and waving his arms. He appeared to be about sixteen cycles old and was carrying one of the meal baskets the miners were picking up from Viall for their day's work.

"What are you doing?" the teenager called out to Ron as he rushed up.

Ron looked the young fellow over and stowed his weapon.

"Nothing boy," he said calmly, "I'm just going over the mountain. I have need of this trail."

"You don't understand. The Lords will kill you for that. They have forbidden us..."

"Yes, well they haven't forbidden me, and I go where I please."

"You don't know what they've put there!" the youngster added as Ron spun and strode away.

Ron halted again...his patience ebbing. He was beginning to feel his disposition turning sour. He faced the boy again.

"What do you mean?"

"The soldiers who rule this village have placed something up the trail so that it can't be used. Four men have tried it in the past season, and only one came back alive, but he was so weak and sick he died the next day."

"Why? What killed them?"

"We don't know. He was unable to speak. It's some creature that punctures your skin and puts poison into your body...poison that caused the flesh to die...to dissolve."

"Bong! Bong! Bong!" rang out a loud bell, chiming from the town square.

Ron and the boy both turned to face the ringing noise in unison.

"What's that?" Ron inquired.

"Oh no!" the young man replied. "The Lord's emissary is calling a meeting of the village!"

"A Kreete?" Ron asked quickly.

"Yes, of course!"

The boy tore off to the left and up the street which angled off that way.

"I have to get my mother!" he shouted back over his shoulder. "Everyone has to report to the square!"

Ron cursed this delay but felt he shouldn't leave a scout behind him who could possibly raise an alert of his passing and of his destination. Also, he wanted to find out what he could about this creature that lived up the mountain. Was it a snake...a beast...or a trap of some kind?

The best person to answer that question would be at that meeting...right up front.

He checked his armory again and headed back to the square, slipping around the nearby buildings to avoid the immediate attention of his enemy. He cataloged every movement, and watched for any stragglers...the Kreete always had someone helping them keep tabs of the populace of a given area...spies and information brokers.

After a short time, Ron rounded a final sod-and-earthen structure and saw the assembly. The scout stood on a raised platform which was normally used as an auctioneer's podium. When there were no more people drifting into the square he roared out; "Quiet!" raising his arms with a sword in one hand and a huge battle-ax in the other.

The crowd's murmuring stopped immediately, and he then addressed the gathering of about a hundred and fifty, or two hundred Caronians.

"A Kreete chariot arrived this morning and there were no riders on it!" he announced. "Is there anyone here who has seen these soldiers?"

None in the town made a sound.

"There are normally three scouts on a chariot, and since none have appeared here in this town, I want to know how this vehicle arrived without them."

No one spoke, but a general nervousness began sweeping through the crowd.

"Well then, if no one will admit to what they saw, I will just start killing you one by one until we either find out, or have to recruit more miners!"

The throng became frantic at that and turned to run...but the scout was ready for them. The town kept three sets of treen always encamped there, for a quick turn-around of Kreete troops, should they have the need. With the two additional animals Ron brought in, there were eight of the massive beasts at the scout's disposal. He blew a quick series of whistles and the treen took up positions around the crowd like eight attack dogs...only ten times more deadly. They could probably kill half the people by themselves before any could escape.

The townsfolk began to scream and plead and beg, but did not run away.

Ron's temper was spiking again as he witnessed the abuse of authority against those innocent people. He also noticed that there were no other soldiers at the gathering. With a quick flick of his fingers and a shrug of his shoulders, his cloak and pack both hit the ground.

"HOLD!" Ron shouted above the din that was rising in the square.

All turned to see who was addressing the meeting...and all grew quiet again as they saw this large, dark figure step out from the shadow of the storage building. Long, black hair framed a stern face that was unfamiliar to the Gruinshawe folks but his piercing gray eyes drew more than casual looks from the crowd...especially the women. His stride was regal and steady, and his broad shoulders and muscular arms suggested a strength that was uncommonly well appointed. Those in his path pressed back to give him room, not knowing his temperament, nor wanting to challenge it.

Ron recognized one of the team (the one he called Jerry) he'd so recently made use of and slipped right up beside it. He patted its flanks hard and slapped it affectionately on the neck as he went by...not even flinching when he passed those terrible jaws and metal-shod front claws.

The crowd parted and allowed him unobstructed access to the podium, although he stopped at the outer edge of the ring of individuals; the treen's breath close enough for him to feel it on his neck.

"Who are you?" the scout asked in a gruff fashion.

"I'm the man who rode in on the chariot. I'm known as Ron."

The scout was taken aback at the brashness of the man. He hesitated for a moment or two before remembering he was supposed to be in charge.

"You rode the chariot?" the Kreete asked again in disbelief.

"Yes, it's a fine vehicle...very fast and agile. The treen are remarkable beasts...wouldn't you say?"

The scout huffed so loudly that spittle and mucous flew from his nose and mouth.

"I am Treay Poortes, the commander of this town...and that little ride is a death sentence, flarge!" he announced as he stepped down from the raised position, his weapons still gripped in his hands.

The crowd tried to move away from him but the treen held them in check so he whistled again and they retreated, heading back to the stables. The townspeople immediately rushed aside as one, leaving a large circular clearing for the two combatants, and then they all turned to watch.

Ron made no move to draw his sword, but held on to the heavy staff as he moved to the side. His pulse began to quicken and his hatred for the Kreete swelled with the rising flow of his body's auto-amphetamine gland pouring its stimulant into his system. He noted from the soldier's uniform that this scout was a low ranked individual, and had few ornamental tattoos about his person. He could probably handle most of the workers in this little town, but he was no real threat.

"The ax will be too slow to wield effectively," Ron instructed. "I recommend you discard it."

The scout stopped his advance and checked his weapons. He'd considered the same prudence, but now he would look like an obedient student if he did as this man said, so he held on to the ax.

Ron smiled.

The Kreete attacked with huge, powerful swings...the broadax blade preceding the long sword. Ron set the hardened wood staff into motion at that point. It was incredibly fast yet remarkably fluid. He turned the ax aside with the leading end of the staff and then the trailing end pushed the sword up and away as if the scout had struck and invisible force field.

Ron then spun around quickly and smashed the soldier on the right shoulder with a jarring blow that caused him to lurch forward a step.

The Kreete's eyes widened as he realized this man was a true adversary...not just a simple farmer or miner who had no abilities with weapons.

"You are unskilled!" Ron told the larger fellow. "Is that why you're all the way out here at this meaningless post...as punishment?"

The warrior of the Kreete Triad burst into a rage and came at Ron again. Ron jumped back as the ax stroked down, then in as the sword came around, guiding that long, clumsy blade with his wooden staff. He forced Treay's sword arm across the one with the ax and caused the big man's weapons to tangle, leaving his face unguarded.

Ron smashed him in the skull with the spinning staff and then leaped up and kicked him hard on the jaw. That solid strike clearly hurt Treay, yet sent Ron's body sailing in a spectacular arc, clear of the soldier's armaments as he landed. The Kreete fell back onto his knees as the shock of the blows dazed him badly...blood flowing from a two-inch long split in his lip.

The crowd began to murmur loudly. Could it be that a man could defeat a Kreete warrior?

"You should have listened to me," Ron told him as he got to his feet. "You're too inept with the ax and should stick to the sword until you've had the proper training."

The scout released his hold on the ax...and his pride...and rushed Ron with the sword alone. As the massive soldier closed on the smaller human, Ron suddenly tossed the wooden device aside and the sable blade leaped into the fray with a resounding "clang"!

The sound of the two blades crashing together caused the viewers to wince at the sharpness of it...and then they cheered. Ron's sword was locked with Treay's and he was pushing the larger being back.

Ron never heard a word but there were several remarks through the crowd about the "godlike" warrior who fought before them.

Ron released the lock and struck the Kreete quickly with a stone-hard fist, drawing more blood from the side of his face. The duel then broke into a fast-paced contest of sword-fighting skills with Ron outpacing the bigger man's blade easily, soon having him dripping from a dozen wounds.

Treay lunged and stabbed and swiped and jumped at the smaller, quicker fighter but hit nothing but air. He was badly outmatched and he knew it. He fought on though until he was too wounded to continue, and then, out of desperation, he stepped back and whistled for the treen before Ron could stop him.

The beasts were back out into the square in a flash and would have torn Ron apart except for another sound piercing the morning air.

Ron rushed in just then and shoved his blade through the Kreete's shoulder and crushed the large fellow to the ground with his weight...the black sword pinning him to the turf. He then pulled his short sword free and laid it against the scout's blood-covered neck.

Ron was well aware of the abilities of the treen in battle and had listened carefully when the Kreete had sounded the "dismissed" signal before the fight. He had little trouble repeating it and smiled as he watched the confused animals turn around again, heading back to their pen.

"Now that I have your undivided attention," Ron said calmly to the Kreete who lay under his blade, "I will make you a deal...your life, for information about what is up that mountain path."

The Kreete was weak from the battle and from the loss of a large amount of blood. He looked fleetingly down the road to the south.

"There won't be any of your kind coming from that direction...I can assure you of that," Ron growled at the battered guard.

Treay understood his inflection.

"You?"

"Yes. Now, about my proposal."

"The Kreete do not make deals with lower species!" the scout growled back as he struck Ron hard with his free hand.

Ron was thrown clear of Treay by the blow but his blade had done its work efficiently. Treay tried to roll over in an effort to attack him, but his throat was sliced halfway through and so he just quivered to an end where he lie.

Ron stood up casually, brushing himself off and regarding the former soldier. He returned to the corpse and cleaned his blades on the uniform of the fallen fellow, and then he turned to address the crowd.

"Are there any more Kreete troops in this town?"

The gathered multitude spoke quickly among themselves...many frightened and many others exalted.

"No!" came a shout, finally.

A young man stepped from the group and approached Ron timidly. It was the boy that he'd spoken to at the entrance to the highland path.

"He is the only one...but his relief should be here any day now."

"I'm quite certain that no more soldiers will be arriving any time soon," Ron assured him.

Ron hadn't planned on a crusade to free all the towns he passed through, but it sure looked like that was what was occurring. He decided then to make an announcement.

"The way to the south is clear now!" Ron said to the people around him. "I don't know for how much longer, maybe a week, maybe a santari, but if you have the urge to escape this place, you have an open highway."

The Gruinshawe inhabitants suddenly enjoyed another marvelous revelation. Not only could the Kreete be overthrown as they'd just witnessed, but they themselves could return to their former lives.

"I'm heading up the mountain and over the pass!" Ron continued. "Does anyone know what awaits me there?"

Everyone looked at one another and shook their heads.

"Very well then," Ron said to them as he threw up his hand and headed off back to the trail.

"Bugs!" came a deep-voiced shout.

Ron whirled around once more and looked into the face of an old man. He was a grizzled, ancient-looking fellow with a long white beard, white hair spilling out of his filthy, crumpled hat, and a long, torn cloak that dragged the ground behind him as he walked. He looked like he'd been homeless for a long while.

"Bugs?" Ron asked.

"Bugs...big ones, about the size of a full-grown chinch."

"What kind? How many?"

"No one knows what kind," the old man replied, "but the soldiers were sure nervous around'em...wore full metal armor when they handled'em. All I saw was a quick glimpse as one moved in its cage...but the clicking sounds they made were real scary! As far as the number, that depends on how fast they reproduce, I suspect. They brought in a dozen crates at the beginning of the season, and I think they had one in each crate. They're from some faraway place, across a large body of water, I guess, cause I heard'em say they came by ship."

Ron thought about what that simple phrase might mean. These "bugs" could be from some planet light-years away, or from across a river. Either way, it didn't matter.

"Thank you, friend," Ron told the man before tossing him a large gold coin. He then turned north once more.

Ron scooped up his possessions and left the townsfolk of Gruinshawe in a highly confused state. The people were all talking of plans for their future with rapidly increasing fervor.

As he entered the mouth of the trail to the Gruinshawe pass he wondered if he was doing the right thing by these people. They were simple country folk who knew nothing of the planetary war of supremacy that was being waged all around them, but he decided to give it no more thought. It was done. They were on their own. His total focus now must be on what awaited him up the trail.

### Chapter Twenty-eight

### The Highland Pass

Ron set off at a fast walking pace up the mountain. He was confident that whatever was out there was a good distance from the town since the danger of the creatures would surely be well-known within the community if they were nearby.

The way was tortuous, steep, rocky, and narrow in places. He couldn't see how pack animals could make the trip, although he remembered that on Earth, burros were used in exactly such environments for transporting goods since their surefootedness was remarkable.

He pressed on till dusk without any breaks for his weary legs, even though it had been two days and many hoz since leaving Flouret. He snacked as he trudged, and stopped only once to relieve himself and to replenish his water flask in a mountain spring. He was hoping to see what deadly menace awaited him before sundown, but had no luck.

The shadowy forest was very much alive though with birds and animal life, like any other part of the valley, and that assured him no strange menace was nearby. Ron took that into account and allowed himself the rationale of merely being wary for the normal predators of the woods, which were bad enough in his view.

After a long, grueling day of uphill hiking, the night began to fall quickly as the sun settled in the west, causing the valley to be shrouded with darkness. Ron decided it would be wise to make his little camp in the middle of the trail, and a short time later, he came across an unusually wide point in the path that looked perfect. It was a spot where the forest fell away below so steeply that no trees overhung it, leaving it open to the sky on the one side. Also, it was broad enough to get him away from the confining press of the mountain's rocky face on the other.

If giant bugs of some sort were indeed out there, he didn't want to leave them the opportunity to come crawling down the cliff or drop on him from overhanging trees. And if they were in fact as large as the old man described, and they flew, he felt confident he would be able to hear them coming in time to defend himself.

Ron gathered some dry leaves he could collect in the immediate area and spread them out at a ten-foot radius to his camp as an advance-warning perimeter. He then sat down, relaxed as much as he dared, and stretched out for the first time in what felt like a week.

The camp was very meager. He built no fire that would advertise his position, kept all of his belongings tucked away for a quick escape should he need it, and simply leaned back on his large pack. Lastly, he threw his cloak about himself for his only protection from the coming night. The dew would be heavy in the morning out there in the open, but he preferred that to the possible alternative. He just hoped it wouldn't rain.

Ron dozed lightly and restlessly even though it had been long since he last slept. His subconscious was still plagued with concern for Cache, and he dreamed repeatedly of her being in great peril. He awoke several times that night and scanned the surrounding area for danger...convinced that an impending threat existed and was causing his dire nightmares...but he saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary.

The starry night was moonless but bright nonetheless, and the nocturnal creatures normally prowling about were either harmless or far away, so he forced his mind to unwind each time and managed to return to his slumber.

At the first glimmer of dawn though, he was on his way once more, munching on his rations as he climbed the time-hardened trail. It was a spectacular sight, the sky a deep blue, dotted only sparsely with puffy, white clouds and the world laid out beneath him, and he couldn't restrain a smile at the splendor of it. By midmorning though, he was several hoz farther along and noticed that the rising trail brought with it a change to the sounds of the region. The wind picked up at that altitude, morphing and obscuring many of the typical noises, but that wasn't all. Gone were the scurrying creatures and flitting birds that had permeated the previous day's trek. He knew the steep slopes would deter some of those critters from making their homes there, but the birds should have been constant, so he warily slowed his pace to allow for better stealth on his part.

Another billot went by before his caution finally paid off when he detected a faint clicking sound from up the trail. He instantly froze where he was and listened. There was thick forest foliage growing along both sides of the trail, with the side to his left rising steeply upward and the one on the right dropping off precipitously. The clicking sounded like two dried sticks slapping together in rhythmic patterns...totally foreign to anything he could recall or even guess at. He used his uncannily fine senses and determined there were five or six distinctly different pairs of clicking patterns...and they were scattered in location.

Ron slipped his bow around and nocked up an arrow. He then secured the long staff to a sling across his back and checked each of his throwing knives for freedom of movement. He was on extreme alert now as he started forward once more, singling out every sound reaching his ears from that point forward and excluding all he could identify.

After another hundred peors he began to hear the clicking coming from behind him...and he stopped once again, dropping to a crouch instantly. At that point he began searching the area very slowly...knowing he was surrounded and the attack would begin soon. As a further precaution, he stuck five extra arrows tip-first into the ground around him, at the ready for any direction, and waited. They would come in concert...he was sure of that.

"Who ever heard of bugs hunting in packs?" he mumbled to himself.

Ron's eyes began to dry out with his constant straining to see what he could not...but then he did. One of them was gliding down the trunk of a tree off to his right.

"Geez!" he whispered. "That thing's as big as a basketball!"

It was a gigantic spider and its long spindly legs spread out over seven feet in diameter. Its skeletal shell was gray and black, with dull-red mottling, making it well camouflaged in the trees, and it appeared to have an extra leg at the front. As Ron stared directly at it while it sat perched on a large branch facing him, the creature apparently returned the scrutiny, patiently studying him as well.

"Why is it showing itself?" Ron wondered as his warning senses went into overdrive.

Ron decided not to wait for the attack. He drew back on the bow slowly and brought the spider into his aim.

'Fliiiiitttt'...came a sound at his back, and he heard a mass of something strike a limb above his head.

"Shit!" he hissed as he wheeled about and fired.

The spider was barely five feet away when Ron let go the arrow. The giant arachnid was in midair, hanging from the strand of web Ron heard shoot out and splat against the overhead branch. The "extra leg"' Ron had seen and wondered about was now splayed out for him to realize precisely what it was...and what it was for. It was a sickle-shaped implement with sharp, jagged, bony projections along its inner ring resembling a curved, serrated blade. It was designed to maim or decapitate, of that Ron was positive.

The arrow ripped through the creature's shell neatly and the spider fairly exploded upon its impact.

"Fliiiiitttt"..."fliiiiitttt"..."fliiiiitttt!"

Ron spun about and fired twice more before he dove for a new position. Two more of the animals were gone, and the third got close enough to rake its sickle on the end of Ron's staff as he moved.

Ron dashed up the trail but immediately slid to a stop on the loose gravel of the pathway. A barricade of web strands was strung across the narrow avenue in that direction.

"Oh no!" he grunted.

'Fliiiiitttt'!

Ron jumped as high as he could, somersaulted in midair, and landed ten feet behind where he'd left the ground. Another arrow took flight and another sickle-spider exploded.

"Fliiiiitttt!" Something struck the shaft of his bow. It was wet and thick and destroyed the function of the weapon as it glued an arrow to the rest instantly.

It was a ball of web.

Ron tossed the bow to the side and leaped backward again, landing this time with a throwing knife in each hand. He spotted one of the creatures above him, dropping quickly, and another swinging at him from the right.

Ten inches of blade sliced through the danger from above, but the other was barely arm's length away until the black sword bisected the incoming menace. Ron panted heavily as he whirled about...the sword in one hand and a second throwing blade in the other.

"Fliiiiitttt!"

Ron's legs were hit! The incoming angle pointed to the assailant and Ron pinned it to the tree that it clung to with his knife. He pulled another of the beautiful blue daggers free and tried to maneuver but could not. The web connected his two calves securely and was shrinking as it dried, pulling his legs together. Ron rolled backward and sliced through the stuff as his legs came around. It was tough, but the ebony blade didn't fail him.

Ron scoured the area in a quick glance, moved forward quickly, and then scanned it all over again. There were no more attacks.

"Aaaahhh! Help!" came a cry from down the trail, in the direction he'd come.

"What the hell?" Ron exclaimed as he rushed back that way.

Around the second turn in the trail he saw a frightful sight. A boy was on the ground covered in web, and three spiders were descending on him.

Ron sent the last of his larger blue knives into one of them and dove at the other two. He sliced one in half and attacked the other with a leaping, spinning kick that propelled it away from the prone boy far enough for him to bring the sword into play again.

"Fliiiiitttt!"

His sword was hit! Ron tried to hang onto it, but the shrinking web was extremely strong and pulling it toward the cliff where one of the creatures lay in wait. The other end of the web was attached to the rocky surface, and as Ron held on, the spider quickly sped down that thin strand directly at him.

The previously swinging attacker was quickly coming back at the boy Ron now protected, so he released the ebony razor and pulled his shorter weapon, jabbing it smoothly into that threat. Ron tried to extract the blade from the dying creature, but it had glued the blade to itself before he could do so.

He dropped the rapier and reached around to free his staff. An instant later, that length of hardwood began whirling, and Ron kept it going at a blurred pace as two more of the spiders came at him. They took a few shots, but couldn't get a fix on that fast-moving device, so they simply made a play for Ron instead...bad idea.

Ron crushed them both as easily as swatting a couple of watermelons. Their shells cracked open and spilled their life liquid out onto the trail where they lay twitching for a short while but offered no further threat.

Once again Ron scanned his surroundings for more danger. He kept the staff, as well as his feet, swiftly moving about the still prone lad while he swept the area again and again with intense scrutiny. Finally, convinced they were alone, he pulled out one of his last knives and began cutting the boy free from the webbing that held him pinned to the ground.

All Ron had left were his smaller daggers, but the cutting edge of one of them did well enough against the now-dried webbing.

A few borts later Ron was looking into the face of the young man he'd run into at the beginning of the trail.

"What are you doing here?" Ron asked gruffly...irritated at the foolishness of the adolescent young man.

"I wanted to see if you made it."

Ron just stared at the boy, disbelieving that anyone would be so rash.

"Did you ever consider that I might make it through and still not have killed them all?"

"I was prepared."

"Really?"

Ron looked about the scene and saw evidence of a prior battle. Three of the sickle-spiders were on the ground around the immediate area. The boy had accounted himself quite well it seemed.

"Not bad!" Ron said admiringly. "You got them with knives?"

"Yes. I'm rather good with them, huh?" he said smiling broadly. "And so are you!"

Ron searched the vicinity once more and then began retrieving each of his survival tools. It took a good while to remove the sticky web from the surface of his weapons, but he eventually found that the stuff dried to a hardened resin that chipped off easily enough if left in the sun for a while.

They worked together and kept watch in turns.

"What's your name?" Ron asked the young man.

"Geoff...Geoff Barnson," the boy replied. "I am the son of Hulle...he's a blacksmith."

"I see. That's why you are so good with knives...right?"

"I suppose so. My dad makes the finest blades in the whole valley!"

Ron examined the knives Geoff had used and complimented the workmanship. They were well made, and finely balanced. Ron then allowed Geoff to inspect his own arsenal, and the young fellow from Gruinshawe was shocked at the superb craftsmanship of those weapons. They spoke of the art of manufacturing such devices as they worked, and of the different ways to use them.

A billot later Ron was refitted and ready to continue his mission. He'd run across the skeletal remains of three individuals and dozens of animals as he regained his tools of war, but now there were no more signs of the spiders, so he turned to the young man.

"You should be heading back home now, Geoff," Ron told the lad. "The way appears clear back to Gruinshawe, and you can warn them all about the spiders and how best to defend against them."

"No way! I'm coming with you!"

Ron looked at the eager face of the boy and saw a young man who desperately wanted to grow up too fast.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that. Where I'm going and what I'll have to do there will be dangerous to the extreme, and I won't be able to protect you."

"I don't need protecting!" Geoff announced...his feelings hurt at Ron's accusation. "I'm no 'woman'! I've been the runner between Gruinshawe, Vapsoder, and Shavore for two years before they closed the trail! I'm not a child!"

Ron saw how he'd insulted Geoff and tried to make amends.

"I'm sorry," he told the boy. "I didn't mean that like it came out. I just meant that I'll more than likely end up in some bad situations...like when that Kreete scout threatened to kill the townspeople...and I don't want to drag you into that with me."

"Well I'm going on to Shavore anyway to let them know the trail is open again. If you don't wish to accompany me, that's up to you."

"If you go forward, who will tell the folks in Gruinshawe about the sickle-spiders?"

Geoff turned and whistled a long, repeating signal, and then waited.

"My friend will take care of that," Geoff replied. "We had a signal set up so if I got through, he would return and explain what had happened."

Ron listened and soon heard the fast approaching footsteps of another teenaged young fellow.

Ron headed off up the sloping trail as the two friends rejoiced in their good fortune, and then Geoff explained what all had occurred, and what he was planning to do.

Ron was taking his time with the hike; still mindful to be on the alert for more of the spiders, so it wasn't difficult for Geoff to catch up to him after he visited with his comrade.

"So," Geoff began, "where is it that you're going?"

Ron thought for a while, wondering if he should speak to the young man about his destination. He was skeptical about trusting anyone he couldn't absolutely justify to himself as trustworthy.

"Who do you correspond with in your trips across this pass?" Ron asked, trying to buy himself more time to think.

"I'm an information dispatcher for the resistance to the Kreete occupation of Caron."

Ron stopped dead in his tracks and faced Geoff. He looked at the boy and saw an unwavering stare glaring back at him. This young man was telling the truth.

"What makes you think you can trust me to keep your secret?" Ron asked.

"Oh, I think one dead Kreete scout, destroyed in front of a hundred witnesses, should be enough to convince anyone. Also though, I caught the story of how you saved those travelers back on the southern road too, and about how you defied the 'Lords' by riding their chariot. You ask for no help and obviously expect none...not that you'd need any...but if you were a spy, or trying to infiltrate our ranks, you'd be more...subtle, I think."

Ron smirked and took up the hike again...his youthful companion now beside him.

"This young man is very wise for his age," Ron thought as he marched.

They walked until the sun was high in the heavens before calling a halt to the trip next to a good-sized mountain stream. The water flow was heavy, cascading down the rocky face and running under the path where someone long ago had erected a fine arched bridge to stay dry and on firm footing. The two travelers ate from their respective supplies, filled their water skins, and then sat for a short spell on the bridge. It was extraordinarily peaceful watching the water splash and pool and gush as it made its way down the precipitous face of the area.

Ron didn't dally long however, even though he would have liked to, because he was determined to be over the high pass before dark, and rest would have to wait.

Up...up...up he went, never ceasing his sweeping attention to the surrounding woods as he moved, and Geoff was left in his wake, struggling mightily to keep up.

Ron's long legs pumped like the pistons of a living machine, his breath calm and regular...he was on autopilot. The teenager was accustomed to the trip over the ridge and was in excellent shape, having lived his entire life in the high ground of Gruinshawe, but this was something new. He'd trekked the route numerous times and felt proud to have done so, but he was in absolute awe of the man who led him now.

"How can he keep up this pace?" he asked himself a hundred times as they steadily ascended. "Is he not human? Does he never tire?"

Every now and again Ron would pause for a few litas and listen to the noise of the woods. He would also test the air deeply, categorizing the smells into animal, tree, flower, or rotting vegetation...memorizing it all for future use. He recognized much of the aromas of the area and was comfortable with them, feeling Kaskle's homeland was probably much the same as this region, and then he would be off again...up...always up.

Ron could tell he was pushing his travel companion hard, and even added an extra few pauses to allow the boy a quick respite, but he would not delay much. If the lad couldn't keep up, he would be left behind.

They crested the peak of the uppermost ridge a billot before sunset, and Ron stopped to survey the land which was now laid out before him, very far below. He could see for twenty hoz in the northern and eastern directions, an area of lush tropical forest and rolling hills. He waited there for Geoff to gain his side and then inquired about the terrain in front of them.

The boy stood next to Ron who was a head taller than he was and tried not to show how fatigued he was.

"Show me where Shavore is, please," Ron said to his partner.

"Off in that direction...almost due east," Geoff replied between chest-heaving gasps, pointing at a far-off spot that was cleared from the jungle-like woodland of the valley.

Ron could see the haze of the wood stoves' unending use...the classic mark of a town or city. He gauged the distance he would have to travel and set his mind calculating the time he would allow himself.

"We made it all the way here a half-day faster than the best speed I've ever done before," Geoff told Ron, hoping this was a goal which would satisfy his plans. "And that's including the time it took to fight the spiders!"

Ron looked into the eyes of the youth and smiled.

"You have done well, Geoff. I am impressed with your determination...but it will be long before I stop for rest. The night here is cool and invigorating, and I intend to keep going into at least half of it. I'll sleep then until morning. I intend to be in Shavore by nightfall, the day after tomorrow!"

Geoff smiled back at the deeply tanned warrior before him. Inside, his heart fell.

"There's someone at the pass!" cried the watchman on duty. "Birtsoe! There's someone at the pass!"

"Guardian above me...I don't believe it!" Birtsoe Ingstran muttered before he dropped his cards and leaped to his feet. He then bolted across the wide veranda of the remote lodge which served as a command post, rushing to the side of the excited lookout.

The watchman stepped aside and Birtsoe peered into the telescope for a moment.

"So, the information we received was correct after all," he muttered. "They're gone now," he said as he lifted his head from the device.

"Is it him?"

"I don't know, Nersom. I'll ask him when we're face-to-face! Get the squad together! We move out immediately!"

Birtsoe had been briefed about their intended target...about his abilities and his achievements. He would soon find out which were true and which were not...if he lived.

"Aaaaaargh!" grunted Shivron, bringing his six comrades to instant attention. "Like an arrow in the heart of the Emperor...he is here!"

"No...it is not possible!" Wutaine said quickly, never having believed the man could still live. He looked at the viewer intensely for a moment. "How can you be sure? The sun is at his back and his face is in shadow!"

"I have seen this man before," Shivron replied with confidence, "close up...when we fought that battle in Protorn on the west side of the Taerdrasseg Mountains...remember? Anyway, who else could get passed the Freinzine spiders?"

"I do not know, but we had better inform Treage...right away!"

"Inform me of what?" Treage Vitrauge demanded as he stepped into the monitoring station at the Kreete command center in Shavore.

It was the only place where electronic devices were allowed in the entire district. And that was only due to the overwhelming interest the Kreete commander had for finding a certain rebel leader who'd managed to escape him too often in the past.

Information had been attained suggesting Kaskle Dangarth, of the Rokore Clan, from the Aredanz Mountains, was on his way to that city...coming from the south.

They'd set up the station in tight secrecy, alerting no one else about the man. That Mountain Clan champion had always somehow known when he was walking into a trap, so they'd laid in wait, almost totally sequestered from the outside world for more than three weeks.

"Krosepten Treage!" the two men spouted as they jumped to rigged attention out of respect for the commander of the Kreete Legion that spread across the eastern side of the great mountain range.

"It is he whom you seek!" Shivron replied, his vision locked straight ahead as he exposed his claws and raked them downward before his face in salute of his commander.

"What?" Treage asked with clear surprise in his deep voice. "'He' is here?"

"We think so sir!" interjected Wutaine. "It is not a clear picture."

Treage practically vibrated with exultation. His long wait was nearly over.

"Replay it for me...NOW!"

The men snapped into action and the peak of the Gruinshawe pass jumped into rapid reversal of time. The two individuals sprouted into the open gap in the treetops as they crested the high point of the mountain trail, and then disappeared to the far side, where the rewind function released and normal play was restored.

The Reaper Class leader of twenty four hundred elite Kreete troops stood silently frozen as he watched, unblinkingly, at the screen. A large man strode quickly out of the southern section of the pass and stopped while a smaller man joined him. They stared off in an easterly direction, pointing to something. They spoke for a few litas and then continued onward. The faces of the two were obscured in shadow, and even with the magnification pushed to the maximum, zooming the twenty hoz distance to appear only a hundred peors away, the star's position was too directly behind them. That being so, a positive identification could not be made...but still.

"Assemble the troops at once!" Treage ordered.

The scouts manning the station left instantly; at last free to venture out into the world again. Treage then stood alone in the room. He rolled the recording back until the men were at the pass again, and there he halted it.

He pulled out his long sword and held it as he would in the face of a mortal enemy.

"We shall see about you, my friend!" he spoke to the screen. "You and I will reunite after all this time. But this time it will be in the dance of death...for Kale!"

### Chapter Twenty-nine

### The Trap

Ron and Geoff started down the steep grade with care, but when he could, Ron broke into a trot, throwing caution aside for the moment because his drive to meet with Cache was pushing him harder than ever. She needed him...he knew it...he could feel it!

They made excellent progress through the dimly lit forest, with Ron setting the pace and Geoff barely able to keep him in sight. If the youngster hadn't memorized every turn in the trail though, he most assuredly would have gone off the edge on several occasions as he stumbled often from pure exhaustion.

Several billots past the apex of their journey, Geoff suddenly found he'd been through too much and as he tripped once more, he went down hard and couldn't rise again. The dust from the packed ground puffed in front of his face as he gasped and huffed and panted for relief.

Ron heard the boy's body strike the earthen roadway more than two hundred peors behind him, and his first reaction was one of irritation. This was going to slow him down!

He stopped his progress with a low growl, his opposing thoughts battling once more. "Hurry" waged war with "caution".

But then, as he too breathed deeply from the strain of the trek, he took note of his surroundings and the raucous nightlife of the wooded land. The screeching, the calling, the fluttering, and the roaring of the place, reminded him he was not on a marathon course through a city park back in the good old USA. This land could present the direst creatures he'd ever faced...or heard of...and his mindless desire for speed was making him reckless.

"She's fine!" he told himself as sternly as he could, trying desperately to accept that restraint-bolstering decision. "There's no reason to believe otherwise!"

He then stood quietly in the dark shadows of the jungle-like canopy and did what he should have been doing all along...he studied those night sounds. Ten borts passed while he used his woodsman senses to ascertain information from the dozens of cries all about him. He at last concluded the natural inhabitants of the area were all at relative peace...large predators were nowhere around.

Ron then went to Geoff and picked him up, setting him back against the nearest bank of the sloping ground. He fetched the young man's water and poured a bit down his throat.

"I am sorry, Ronin!" Geoff said to him with a deep feeling of utter shame. "I didn't mean to slow you down."

Ron was surprised at the name the young man had addressed him with, but he didn't question Geoff at that time. Instead, he set himself into the preparatory mind-set of making camp for the night.

"Stay here and rest," he said softly to the boy. "I'm going to find a good spot for us."

Ron drifted off into the nighttime shadows like a gust of wind. The young man from Gruinshawe tried to watch him but when he blinked, Ron was gone. He listened as intently as he could, but never heard a crunch of leaves or the crack of a stick.

Ten borts went by and Geoff was beginning to think the ferocious warrior had decided to leave him, since Ron had gone off in the direction of Shavore, but then...

"There's a fine place for us to camp just down the path a bit," Ron whispered to the youth from behind him...up the trail.

Geoff nearly jumped out of his skin.

"How did you get around to there?" he stammered as he got to his feet and his weary legs shook from exhaustion.

"This way," was all Ron said.

They made their way down the trail another ten borts before reaching the spot Ron had picked out, and immediately set up a very sparse camp.

Ron let Geoff eat all he could, and then directed him to a dark little niche at the base of a rocky bluff so he might sleep. Afterward, he prowled the area for another quarter billot before finally accepting the rest his own body was urging him to take.

Ron moved off the path a few paces, into another shadowy depression, and threw his cloak about his body. The warmth of it was inviting, and he was asleep almost immediately.

Geoff awoke with a sharp feeling of panic in direct reaction to a firm hand clasped over his mouth. It was still very dark, but the sunrise was beginning to glow gently over the horizon to the east.

"Do not speak!" a gruff voice ordered to him so quietly he could barely hear it. "Someone's coming!"

Ron released the boy and carefully pulled him over to the edge of the trail where he could feel the slightest breeze wafting up from the base of the mountain.

"Listen!" Ron urged.

Geoff was still trying to become awake and heard nothing but the morning calls of birds and beasts that were stirring for their first meals of the day.

"There!" Ron said to him softly, pointing off to the south and down the hill. "Do you hear that?"

For the life of him, he couldn't understand what it was that Ron was alluding to. He was an accomplished woodsman in his own right and recognized each of the sounds of the multitude of creatures that were out and about, but he heard nothing out of the ordinary.

"The animals are not so enthusiastic there," Ron explained, pointing downhill. "There is a slight change in the pitch of their sounds...do you see?"

Geoff wanted badly to impress his new idol but he had to shake his head in the negative fashion, as he would not say he heard something he did not.

Ron saw the look on his face and understood. He smiled at the boy and walked him back to the bluff wall.

"Stay here and get some breakfast down. We will be moving out soon and will have a long day. I'll reconnoiter for a bit."

Ron moved off in the dim light and disappeared again. He'd already eaten and packed, ready for the next leg, but took a moment to set his things down and dig through them quickly. He removed what he needed and then stashed the lot, leaving his staff as well so he might move with greater ease. The last thing he did before heading out was to remove his boots...he wouldn't need them where he was going.

The forest was his ally now.

Geoff gulped down as much of his rations as he felt he should in the nervous state he was in, and then gathered his possessions. The morning was brightening quickly, but the chill in the air was compounding his inability to manipulate his fingers, so they were shaking, or more precisely, vibrating.

He knelt as he slipped his pack across his back, and when he looked up to get moving he was suddenly staring into a loaded crossbow at full draw.

"Make no cry for help!" ordered the operator of that weapon between deep, quiet breaths. The fellow was winded badly, but controlled it well. He was an experienced warrior!

Geoff was a statue. He'd been through this route many times and had come across scores of men who were less than lawful, but this particular situation had escaped him until now.

"Where is the other?" the man asked, his eyes darting this way and that. "The big fellow. Where is he?"

"Twang!"..."Thunk!" sounded two noises almost simultaneously.

The crossbow's string unexpectedly broke...or more precisely, had been cut...and a blue object was now imbedded in the packed surface of the trail. The bow nearly jumped from the man's grip as the steel arms recoiled and the string whipped across his trigger hand, lifting the skin there.

"Ow! Damn!" hissed the fellow, jerking his wounded hand back sharply.

The bowman had little time to react to that however as he felt one other thing happen which drew his attention away from his injury. Out of seemingly thin air, a loop of rough, handmade rope had dropped around his neck, and he was being hauled off his feet...straight up.

Ron used his heavier frame as a counterweight and came down the other end of the rope, passing the archer as he went up.

After he'd checked Geoff over, he lowered the fellow back to within seven feet of the ground...still too high for the struggling man to kick at him. Ron waited until the intruder was a deep red tint, and then lowered him to where he could touch the turf...barely.

"You are looking for me?" Ron asked...a question that could be answered without vocalization.

The man just stared back at him. Ron raised him off the ground again. He nodded his head to the affirmative, and Ron lowered him again.

"How many are there?"

The man didn't reply. Up he went into the air. He stayed there for long enough to turn light blue before holding three fingers up. Ron lowered him again.

"If you lie to me I will return and kill you in a very painful and ghastly manner," Ron promised the man.

The wheezing man held up an open hand.

Ron let him down far enough to breathe again...if he stood on tiptoes.

"Who sent you, and why?"

The intruder recovered enough to remember he was armed, and quickly pulled a knife from his belt and cut the rope above his head, dropping himself to firm footing once more.

Ron stepped up to the man in a flash, and, as he swiped the knife at Ron, a large fist of the hardest substance that fellow had ever felt crashed into his face, and he was out.

Ron used the short piece of rope and tied the intruder up. He then fashioned a gag on the man and promptly threw his limp form over his shoulder before moving out into the wooded landscape.

"Start down the trail as fast as you can," Ron ordered to Geoff over his shoulder. "I'll catch up with you."

Ron made his way back to his stash and picked everything up as he swept by, heading down the steep hill with the soldier in tow.

Geoff set off at a trotting gait on the slight grade and walked as fast as he could at the steeper parts. He kept looking over his shoulder for Ron to overtake him, but after a half billot he'd seen no sign of the forest demigod.

"That guy's a dragen ghost!" he said to himself, totally in awe of Ron's abilities.

He continued onward for another bort when he realized his own senses were starting to ring. He immediately slowed down to a walk and listened carefully. The forest creatures were abnormally quiet. There was definitely something or someone just up ahead. He unslung his bow and made ready with an arrow, moving forward with added caution until he was sure about his intuition.

"Come out!" he ordered at the open trail in front of him.

The narrow path was cut through some dense brush on either side, and he stood halfway behind a large tree to his left as he made his announcement.

Three men armed with crossbows stepped out of the concealing foliage and into the open trail. They were each separated by a good ten paces and the weapons they carried were all trained on the teenage boy.

"What is it that you want?" Geoff demanded in his deepest, almost steady voice.

"You travel with a man!" stated the apparent leader of the group. His eyes flitted about nervously, just like the last fellow. "Where is he?"

"As you can plainly see, I'm alone. I was sent to tell the people on this side of the pass that we are once again able to travel to and from Gruinshawe."

"You lie!" growled the leader. "Tell me where he is or I'll have one of my three men put an arrow into you, boy!"

"Three? There are only two!"

The face of the leader turned ashen white instantly. He stole a quick glimpse behind...and then something else occurred to him.

"How is it that you got past my-point man?"

Geoff grinned broadly.

"Oh, he dropped in...but couldn't talk...so I just kept going."

At that moment, an old tree which had been clinging to the steep slope of the nearby cliff for a hundred years decided it could hold on no longer and came crashing down into the trail.

The leader jumped forward and his men leaped back. The dried wood fairly exploded on impact, and limbs rained down all around for several litas.

The leader of the armed band recovered his composer and looked back for his troops. They were nowhere in sight.

"What were you asking again?" Geoff spouted when the dust had settled.

The leader glanced back at the boy and grunted.

"Harke...Gill...Breen...Coord?" he called.

There was no response.

"Thwack!"

The crossbow was ripped from the leader's hands when a black-shafted arrow slammed into it with such force it was thrown clear of the path and into the underbrush.

A large, deeply tanned, broad shouldered man then stepped out of the forest and approached the leader. He was ten feet away and holding a bow at maximum draw with an arrow sporting the most evil looking blades the leader had ever seen pointed directly at him.

The man looked like a specter of death...a wicked and menacing fiend. His eyes were as gray as a thundercloud, and his hair was black and shaggy down to his shoulders. He had a beard growing thick, and it made his face even darker and more intimidating. And to add to his already daunting appearance, the rippling muscles of the phantom's arms and shoulders proclaimed he should not be tested.

"Who are you?" Ron asked the leader of the defunct squad.

The man faced Ron with pride and honor, and spoke well, even though he knew he was completely defenseless.

"I am Birtsoe Ingstran. I'm the leader of this small squad of soldiers you so easily destroyed. Are you the one known as Ron Allison?"

Ron paused to think about how the man could possibly know that. Familiarity with Cache was the only way. But was it from friendship, or some unsavory means?

"Yes."

"From what planet?"

Ron was surprised to hear that question, and hesitated for another quick moment. But Birtsoe had shown him he was sent from Cache, so it was Ron's turn to prove his identity.

"Earth," he finally replied.

"Then our long wait is at an end, my friend. I was sent to intercept you!"

### Chapter Thirty

### So Close

"Disarm yourself!" Ron ordered, not yet ready to completely trust this fellow. "Geoff, collect his weapons." Then, back to Birtsoe; "If you were expecting me, then why the show of weapons?"

Birtsoe did as he was told, handing over his sword as well as three daggers, and then he stepped away from the boy.

"Why do you think? The Kreete are masters of deception and infiltration. We had to be sure."

"As do I," Ron retorted.

Ron let the pressure off his bow and stowed it and the arrow.

"Geoff, do you know this man?" Ron asked.

"No."

"Nor do I. Who sent you?"

"A woman."

Ron's heart leaped. He was close now, but the information he gave could have been coerced from her. That thought made Ron grind his teeth. He needed proof that these men worked with her and were not merely using her.

"What is her name?"

"Cache is all she would say. She is from a place faraway...not of this world."

"Is she well?"

"When last I saw her, yes. That was a week ago."

"Prove to me that you're speaking the truth," Ron told him. "What does she look like?"

"She is this tall," the leader said, holding his hand out even with his chest. Her hair was jet black when she arrived but she let it go back to its natural color of brilliant blonde. Her skin was darkened as well but now she is her old self...a golden shade with a short, almost invisible, fuzzy covering. And her eyes! She has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen!" Birtsoe recalled, smiling. "They're murge." (Murge is a Caronian plum which has a deep, lavender-colored skin)

"Did she give you a message for me?"

"Yes, she did," Birtsoe answered. "She said when I saw you...she was absolutely confident you would come, by the way...to tell you she hoped your grief was not so deep now, and she was sorry she could not wait...could not help you with it."

"Why is she not here now?" Ron prodded suspiciously.

"The territorial leader of the resistance asked her to go with him to Mardesh, to meet a great fighter...the leader of a large contingent of men in the south."

"Mardesh!" Ron thought, inwardly smiling at his good fortune; knowing he was headed there anyway to meet up with Lilea and Jarle.

"They felt it critical to the future plans of the rebellion. She wanted to delay the trip until you arrived, but they could wait no longer. A Kreete strike force secretly moved in at the Shavore military post and their human spies have been carefully combing the city and surrounding area since then. They had to get out before she was discovered, or the Lords imposed martial law on the town. Timing is a great factor for many things it seems."

Ron's head was spinning with anxiety now. He had a thousand questions.

"How long has she been here?"

"Over half a santari. She would have been with us sooner, but the Gruinshawe pass was closed and she had to go around the main highway."

"How did you know I was on this trail?"

"We have been watching the high pass from our post, halfway to Shavore, with a magnifying device Cache constructed from items she smuggled in with her. We have watched it day and night since she came to us."

If you were halfway to Shavore, how did you get here so quickly?"

"We just spent one hellacious night racing to get here, that's how. Three sets of horses got us to the base of the first sharp rise in the trail about three billots ago. We left the mounts there. They were spent anyway. And even if they could've made the treacherous climb in the dark, we were warned you would certainly hear us far in advance, and you'd be waiting to ambush us, thinking we were an enemy force. We thought we could do better on foot. Obviously we were wrong. Our goal was to rendezvous with you before any of the Lords' spies could get to you."

"If you knew the pass was closed, why did you think I would use it?"

"She said you would," he said with a light chuckle. "We explained that we'd lost three good men to whatever menace had been installed there. We told her no one had dared try that way for santaris, and that it was a lost cause."

"What did she say to that?"

Birtsoe scratched his head firmly.

"She laughed for a bit and then said, 'You do not know him. He will not go around...and he will not be stopped!' So we watched...and here you are."

Ron stared off at nothing in particular for a few moments.

"She is your woman, yes?"

Ron just smiled back at him before he stepped over and embraced the man like a close relative, slapping him on the back heartily. He was satisfied with Birtsoe's story.

"Geoff, return this man his weapons and let's go collect his men."

"You didn't kill them?"

"No. I was able to avoid being unduly threatened. They're this way."

After another half billot of reviving Birtsoe's men and getting everyone introduced, they all started down the trail together.

Ron and Birtsoe walked shoulder to shoulder and spoke in low tones, discussing the immediate plans of the resistance, and so the others gave them room. There were some bruised egos, as well as many bruises that showed, but after Geoff shared with them what he'd seen Ron do, they didn't feel too badly about being so easily overrun by the enigmatic warrior.

When they'd covered all the pertinent information Ron felt he needed, he found himself nervously excited and extremely impatient to get back on his way to wherever Cache had gone.

"I would like to take the fastest route to Mardesh, Birtsoe. Would you guide me?"

"We can take you as far as the river town of Tyione, but that's it. We can't afford to be gone for too long or the Shavore Lord might realize we're missing and start asking questions. At their docks you can get transport to Mardesh. Do you have money?"

"Yes...plenty." Ron replied, recalling the signet ring that Heath had returned to him.

Ron pulled up sharply just then. He went instantly rigid and then pivoted slightly to the northeast. His manner turned extremely intent once again, and Birtsoe watched him closely, listening as well.

"What is it?" the Shavore man asked.

"There's a small group of men heading in our direction...from that way," Ron replied indicating the northeast. They're coming at a dead run!

Birtsoe waved to his men, and they all slipped into the forest and waited.

"Barte!" Birtsoe called out after an individual racing up the trail reached his view.

The man slowed to a walk and looked about, heaving from his exertions. Two more men caught up with him then and waited, panting in the path.

The Shavore leader cautiously walked out of the brush and spoke with them.

Ron stayed hidden and kept Geoff secluded as well. When the conference was over, Birtsoe dismissed the three men and watched them set out back the way they'd come.

"Ron!" he called after they were beyond earshot.

Ron joined him in the open trail.

"I can't explain it, but there's a Kreete strike force headed this way on treen-drawn chariots. They'll have to dismount because the trail is far too narrow and rocky, but still, they're no more than a billot away and moving fast, covering every road and trail we have."

"They're looking for someone!" Ron concluded with a grim smirk.

"Yes, and I bet I know who."

"How could they possibly know?" Ron asked.

"I'm telling you, they have spies everywhere! Who else knows you're here?"

Ron thought about that for a long few moments, realizing he'd been far too reckless since arriving in Lampsh, but it really didn't matter at present since he couldn't possibly figure out who the culprit might be.

"One too many, apparently! Which way is it to this town of Tyione?" Ron inquired quickly.

Birtsoe looked about for a few litas to get his bearings, and then pointed to the southeast.

"If you were a bird, you would fly straight in that direction. It's ten days journey if you press hard, and is situated at the joining point of two smaller rivers...the Tangei and the Sharvir. They meet at the Tyione Falls, which is the most northern point that a barge can navigate the river ways of the Yetsole Valley. That is the headwaters of the Tresse River."

"Thank you for your help in finding my partner," Ron said to the men. "Sorry if I injured you fellas. Birtsoe, would you help Geoff get out of this predicament?"

"You mean, my nephew here, who's been staying with me for the past two santaris?" Birtsoe asked slyly.

"Great! Good luck to you!"

"Wait, Ronin!" Geoff pleaded. "I want to go with you! I can..."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, my young friend. You are brave and strong, and will be a fine man one day...a natural leader. But today I'll be moving very fast, and the danger that trails me is too great. Be patient. Don't try to grow up so quickly."

With that said Ron dove into the tangle of the jungle and disappeared. Birtsoe and his men split up and did the same, only in the opposite direction. Geoff would have loved to be able to follow Ron, but knew he could never keep up with that incomparable man, so he followed up on his "cover story" with Birtsoe and headed for Shavore.

Ron moved through the woods like the wind...swiftly and with little trace to his passage, but the enemy posse was widespread and well organized. They meant to get what they came for! Twice over the next five days he came within bow range of at least one member of the Kreete hunting party.

He thought about winnowing out their numbers, but attacking them would have been foolish. They were linked by their radios, and any disruption to their connection would have pinpointed his location. He simply bided his time, cursing every delay, and reined in his wish to destroy them until, after that fifth day, they were far behind and he had smooth sailing.

He spent the nights high in the dense, tangled limbs of the trees, and the days in dogged pursuit of his goal, which he reached on the eighth morning.

The city of Tyione was three times the size of Lampsh, and its docks were a flurry of well-coordinated movement, it being the most prominent business of the area. Ron casually milled through the town, listening to the residents chattering about the usual local news. There was no agitation or unusual worry in their speech, and he heard nothing about a search for any fugitive, so he continued his tour undeterred.

Talk of the weather and the cost of living prevailed throughout the area, making him think of comparisons between small town living here and on Earth. People were people, no matter where they were from he concluded, although he did notice the mention of "Ronin" dance across several people's lips. At first it drew his attention, but the chatter was mostly in an almost fairytale fashion:

"Have you heard about the guy they say is Ronin reborn?" one traveling fellow asked, leaning on a bale of straw while others unloaded a wagon.

"You been into the ale this early?" was the reply from his friend.

That was the most serious remark Ron caught, so he relaxed. There was a squad of Kreete soldiers in the town too, but they merely patrolled the area as usual, with no real specific interest shown toward anyone.

At noon, Ron enjoyed a huge, freshly cooked lunch like hundreds of other strangers in the area, and then he arranged passage downstream on a wide barge. It was loaded with sacks of grain stacked ten feet high and covered with waterproofed skins woven together and sealed with a pliable adhesive. The barge was ready to depart when he arrived at the dock, and the captain saw no reason to turn down some easy extra money, so he welcomed Ron aboard. It was as inconspicuous a mode of conveyance as there was, and Ron's bearded, gruff, disheveled appearance blended in easily with the work-hands of the craft.

The air was filled with the smell of the river churning up silt, and tinged with the scent of fish. Those odors sent Ron's mind cascading back to his youth...to the hours spent water-skiing and pleasure-boating in the muddy rivers and bayous of southern Louisiana, or just lazily watching the day go by.

He was quite cheerful when they pushed off and were finally on their way, but felt an odd loss at never actually having reached his goal of Shavore. On the other hand, he was exhilarated to be on the last leg of his journey to Cache, and felt much more at ease.

Ron took turns with the barge's pole-men, guiding the vessel around sand bars and tight turns. It was hard, physical labor and he enjoyed it tremendously. Too, the work burned off much of his nervous energy, making him able to sleep at night more soundly than he had in the past week, the gently gurgling water soothing his weary mind.

At dawn of the third day, they passed the outer marker of the city of Mardesh!

### Chapter Thirty-one

### Mardesh

Instead of traveling in the direction Ron was headed... north out of Flouret to the highland pass of Gruinshawe and on to Shavore...Jarle and Lilea had set off down another road.

The road eastward, across the Caitron River and through the lush, jungle-like forest of the valley floor was a completely different adventure than the one Ron had survived.

The necessity of easy access to the territory's Kreete command post of Flouret was such that they had constructed a wide bridge across the river which lay two hoz to the east of that station. It was made of stone and steel...one of the few "modern-style" constructed structures in the entire area, and the two Lampsh area residents marveled at the architecture of it as they approached.

When the pair left the shady confines of the forest-encased roadway to cross the bridge, they were greeted by a strong breeze worming its way through the valley following the winding river. Their spirits were high and their hopes were even higher. If all that Ron Allison had told them was true, this could be the dawn of a new era on Caron.

On the far side of that incredible transit, the road was steep and hilly for the next two days and then gradually grew more subtle and rolling as they continued.

They passed many side roads, much smaller than the one they traveled, and saw a great amount of traffic going east as well as westward. Most of it was of the merchant type, and wares of every different application were prominently displayed on the wagons that carried them...even of the human sort. The Mardesh road was a heavily traveled thoroughfare, and much of it was, in some respect, connected to the main product the city was known for...fighters.

After fifteen long days of riding, Jarle and Lilea began to see the outer reaches of the gladiator-training city of Mardesh, and the air clung with smoke from the urban thrall still in the distance.

The farmland off to both sides of the roadway was worked by slaves and condemned men, of which there seemed to be abundance. The lands were rich and fertile for a wide variety of crops and provided all the needs of the nearby city, as well as that of the Kreete's demands. The Lords' share accounted to be a forty-five percent taxation...shipped directly to their own section of the municipality.

As they grew closer to town they passed by more and more strings of men and women lashed together by lengths of chain, and Jarle and Lilea scanned each group carefully for her husband...although neither was really expecting to find him so easily. Those poor souls were disheartened, desperate, and forgotten creatures, and the entire area was heavy with an ominous foreboding of gloom.

Too, on either side of the road were vendors hawking hundreds of different types of cutting edge weapons, as well as shields, chains, staffs, and clubs...and that only added to Jarle's and Lilea's feeling of trepidation and anguish.

Jarle maneuvered his mount to graze closely beside Lilea out of instinctual reaction to the growing murk of the area. This was a vile place, and care was needed to travel unscathed here. She never let on, but was trembling inside as they passed by dozens of slave sale facilities with hopeless individuals chained out in front to attract the passing traffic. They were mostly of the female gender.

Late in the afternoon the Lampsh pair passed the sign which proclaimed the town's name and noted it had a well-painted depiction of two combatants clashed in battle with several onlookers in the background. Lilea's stomach clenched and she felt nauseous at the thought of her loving mate in such a dangerous place.

Once inside the city, they moved off Arena Avenue, the central commercial road into Mardesh, and meandered through the smaller, narrower paths until they found Liinone Street, and the designated lodging for themselves and their animals.

The place was a small, dreary looking stone building having two levels and ten moderate rooms...one of which would suffice well enough for their needs. The stables were only a short walk away, and the bathhouse was just across the alley. Lilea had never been to Mardesh but had heard stories of the place, finding it to be exactly as she expected...a cheerless, soulless city with little hope and no appeal.

Jarle stepped up to the attendant of the establishment and inquired about a room for him, Lilea, and one other.

The rather robust man looked him over, then the horses, and then Lilea.

"What town do you come from?"

Jarle was surprised by the question and nearly refused to give the man that information, due to the recent happenings there. But since he couldn't see how this fellow could possibly know about the skirmish, or his involvement, he answered honestly.

"I see," the portly manager returned. "A rather serious-looking individual stopped by and described you to me."

Lilea's heart leaped, and a broad grin flashed across Jarle's face as well as hers.

"He described 'her' perfectly," the man added with a lingering look. "She does have the greenest eyes in the territory. He said you would be arriving soon and bid me give you a message. I've been paid...that is, 'asked'...to direct you to different accommodations."

Jarle and Lilea both looked at each other with open puzzlement, and then followed the manager's directions to a new address. It was half a billot away and when they arrived, they both stood out front with blank expressions. Lilea checked the name of the place and the location twice before accepting that they were in the right place.

The large, silver nameplate was as grand as the name: 'The Ceatary's Nest'.

It was the largest inn in the city...a huge, sprawling building encompassing an entire block. It even had its own stables and blacksmith shop. The exterior facade was decorated with ornate symbols and trappings and was clearly an "upper-class" facility. Each floor had its own balcony, with sheer, as well as heavy, curtains which could add to the privacy of the clients.

The "Nest" employed its own security guards and appeared to be the safest place Jarle and Lilea had seen in days, which enhanced the plan they'd made weeks ago.

Before their parting back in Flouret, Jarle and Ron agreed that when they regrouped, they should stay together as much as possible, especially at night, and never leave Lilea alone. Now, with the dark-haired beauty having already drawn far too much attention for Jarle to rest easy, this little development of added safety was a boon to him. A woman such as she wouldn't last the afternoon alone in this city.

Lilea quickly found the room clerk's post at the lavishly designed, arched entrance to the inn and approached timidly with Jarle close behind. The attendant sat behind a ten foot wide, half-round, pearl colored, marble podium with a large multi-slotted cabinet behind her. Each slot was framed in black slate, labeled with an inlaid jade number, and had a removable plate with the corresponding symbol. The plate was a beautifully carved wooden frame, like a picture frame, which was filled with a firm, yet pliable clay. The clay could be written on or imprinted with a symbol, whatever the designated individual wanted to use as an identification mark.

They were greeted with a dazzling smile from a young, beautiful woman asking if she might help them. Lilea couldn't help but notice that the frontline staff were all exceedingly lovely and clad in sensuously provocative clothing. She was no fool, and recognized an excellent business technique when she saw it. She began to ask about a room reserved for them when a different woman glanced up and approached quickly from behind the concierge pedestal off to the right. She was examining some notes that normally hung on the assigned room slates...special instructions for the guests...but she dropped what she was doing and hurried over to them even before Ron's name was mentioned.

"Your name wouldn't be Lilea, would it?" the gorgeous female clerk asked with a stunning, friendly grin.

"Why...yes...but how...?"

The other young lady eased back gracefully to allow the concierge to take over.

"The gentlemen in this room," she said as she removed a plate and showed it to Lilea, "described you and your companion, and asked if I would take care of you personally when you arrived."

It was emblazoned with a clear impression of Ron's signet ring pressed into it, and Jarle recognized that mark immediately. He looked at Lilea and grinned.

"You are in the 'Sunrise' room on the fourth floor. I shall have your animals taken care of and your things brought to your room right away."

Lilea smiled brightly. "He is here then?"

"Yes," she replied, "He arrived just this morning. I'm Sercie...one of the caretakers assigned to the top floor. I've been handling all his needs."

"Really?" Lilea said with a decided acidic tinge, scanning the striking girl from head to toe.

She wore a canary yellow halter top that exposed her perfectly tanned figure fantastically, with a matching, dangerously short skirt and pair of sandals whose lacings wrapped up her well-toned calves like delicate ribbons. Jarle too gave the young lady a careful inspection...but for totally different reasons than Lilea.

"And just what services do you provide?" Lilea asked as innocently as she could, but not completely without a slight hint of sarcasm.

The young woman merely smiled and said, "Well, he has purchased a premium suite, so we manage his comforts, any laundry needs, stable his animals, provide drinks and meals from any restaurant he chooses,...that sort of thing."

Lilea seemed relieved at her explanation.

And then the clerk added with an obviously envious note, "He is quite a beautiful man...you are very fortunate?"

Lilea's expression must have showed her confusion. "What do you mean?" she asked, wondering why Sercie said she was "fortunate". She didn't fully understand that the girl viewed them as a couple...they having the same room and all.

At the other end of the conversation, Sercie thought Lilea was asking how she knew Ron was "a beautiful man", so she leaned in to speak quietly, "I groomed him, of course."

That startled Lilea even further, so she simply smiled sweetly at her, not knowing how to respond. "Groomed?"

"Yes. We bathed him, shaved him, trimmed his hair, and gave him a massage...you know, the usual!"

Lilea nearly choked at the cavalier way Sercie described her duties, since she couldn't imagine doing such intimate "services" for a total stranger.

"Is 'he' yours as well?" she asked softly, referring to Jarle who stood behind her, his mind racing through what she'd just told Lilea.

Lilea blushed beet red and thanked the clerk without answering. She then turned as calmly as she could and headed for the stairwell at the end of the entryway.

Jarle let out a huge grin as Lilea tried to hide her embarrassment when they walked away, and he couldn't resist chiding her a bit.

"I would expect a married woman to be a bit less brazen than to have two 'man-toys'!" he said to her.

She blushed even deeper and swatted him firmly before beginning the climb to the top floor of the structure.

Once they got to their assigned location, they found the suite empty. Ron was out prowling about the city no doubt, so they set their possessions down and had a look around.

The room was exceedingly spacious, with indoor plumbing which had impressed Ron greatly since he had no idea how such things worked back during the more primitive eras of Earth's history. Here, water was hauled into the building from a well on the first floor by a chain-driven bucket lift that was denka-powered. It was then kept in good-sized cisterns on every level of the four-story building. The attendants assigned to each floor merely collected what the patrons needed from those accumulation points and distributed it to the individual rooms as necessary. After use, the water was sent down the basin. The plumbing was tight and well-made, making it workable and exceptionally clean.

Lilea felt of the beds and sighed with relief. They were large, thick, and comfortable...and a welcomed change from sleeping on the hard ground. They also found the room opened to a balcony which had a grand view of the city from their top-floor location.

"You made it!" came a thundering voice from the doorway, startling the pair.

Jarle and Lilea both jumped and whirled about to see the intruder, only to find a smiling, clean-shaven Ron Allison filling the portal with two drawn swords.

He quickly stowed his weapons and apologized for brandishing them.

"I saw the door ajar and was concerned," he explained.

Lilea ran to Ron and leaped into his arms, and he held her two feet off the ground as they embraced. He'd grown very fond of Lilea during their short time together, thinking of her like Jarle did...as he would his own little sister.

"I was so worried for you!" she said as she clung to him. "I'll rest easier now. Did you find your partner?"

"No, not as of yet," Ron told her as he set the lovely woman on her feet again, "She is thought to be here though...in this city."

"She?" Lilea puzzled as Ron's attention was diverted.

He and Jarle grabbed each other by the shoulders...a man's greeting.

"It's good to see you again, my friend," Ron told the man, "How was your journey?"

"It was of no real concern. And you, Ron...are you well?"

After the quick hellos, Jarle and Lilea immediately balked at the lavishness of the room. They needed nothing so elaborate, but Ron recounted the wealth of the yetsole cat skins by a flash of the signet ring and simply brushed their concerns aside. He had plenty of money with him and felt confident he could make more easily enough in this den of gamblers and thugs, should he need to.

They took the opportunity to each recall the details of their recent travels as they watched the city traffic from their lofty perch. Ron skipped over much of the danger he'd faced, not wanting to cause any further distress, and then they began to develop a plan for finding Crogan's whereabouts.

The sun was quickly setting across the bland looking, sandy-colored, stone buildings of Mardesh, and the light that refracted off it painted the scene with deep maroons and bright yellow shades. The city had little fauna throughout the tight alleys and streets, and Lilea got the definite impression that the citizens of Mardesh cared little for that type of beauty.

Jarle suggested they would be better off beginning in the morning with their search, but Ron still hadn't made the full transition from the high paced life he'd known back on Earth. He felt guilty to rush his friends, but he was impatient to get their task completed, having his own "side agenda" to deal with as well. So far, he'd barely touched on a few possible locations in his hunt for Cache, and rejoining her was his mind's chief objective. From his perspective, he desperately hoped he could combine the two quests without much loss of time...but he really had no idea where to begin with either.

Lilea was also anxious, and in a constant state of worry for her mate in this depraved place, so they finally decided they would brave the nightlife and start right away.

As the three of them prepared to leave, Ron rechecked the security of their accommodations. The door to their room was very thick and sturdy, with heavy hinges and a beefy, iron latch. It also came with an excellent set of twin iron bars mounted in such a way as to drop down across it when they were inside...but there was no visible means of locking it when they left. Ron had puzzled over that for a short while when he first arrived. It was odd not to be able to lock the door from the outside, but since he carried all of his true valuables on his person, he didn't worry over it too much. The most a burglar could make off with would be his change of clothes and his packs, so he'd disregarded it.

Now when he moved to leave, he didn't think of it...that is...until Jarle reached out and grabbed the latch, turned it three times to engage the bolt into the frame, and then removed it, placing the concave shaped triangular knob into his pocket.

"So, that's how it works!" Ron said to himself, feeling as foolish as a five-year-old at a magic show.

Ron, Lilea, and Jarle set out then to start their mission at a restaurant Sercie had recommended which was just two blocks away. Beginning with a meal, and hopefully some general information about the municipality, they would continue around in a counterclockwise inspection of the city.

Mardesh was a city only in comparison to other Caronian towns and villages, but wasn't more than two and a half hoz across. It did contain a grand arena in the center of it nonetheless, with all other main roads leading to and away from it like the spokes of a giant wheel.

Ron and Jarle took up their positions on either side of Lilea with their weapons in clear view to all...and then they strolled casually toward the eatery. The narrow streets were not well lit and Ron was keenly attentive as they walked, never having liked the cramped, overcrowded life of urban habitation.

The night was warm, but he and Jarle both wore their cloaks at Jarle's suggestion, thrown clear of their shoulders to drape down their backs. He hoped such covering would deter thieves and pickpockets from targeting them since they would have to make their attempts from the front...in full view. Also, he and Ron each kept their money pouches well hidden inside their garments and their hands on the hilt of their swords...constantly at the ready.

Ron left his heavy staff back at the room since there were few areas open enough to fully utilize it anyway, and being rid of it would allow his hands more freedom.

There were many dark figures moving about in the shadowy side-niches of the buildings, and Ron quickly determined most of that had something to do with the "pleasure trade", which was abundant in the seedy town. Still, they stayed well away from any connecting alleyways.

The trio reached the eating establishment without being accosted and breathed a little easier thanks to its well-lit portico and wide-open street. The place was called "Targe's Refuge" and smelled of roasting meat of several varieties.

Jarle stepped gingerly inside the arched entry opening which was at least ten feet wide, fifteen feet tall, and had two heavy doors able to close that large portal lashed against the interior walls. He scanned the restaurant quickly and headed straight in.

"Hold," urged Ron as he and Lilea stepped in behind the Lampsh man. "Perhaps...that table over there," indicating a smaller area off to the side and out of the mainstream of traffic, "would be a good choice for now."

Jarle understood immediately and acknowledged his acceptance of the caution Ron was interjecting. They slipped around the other patrons and nestled into the little corner niche that was dim of light and had no windows to their backs.

A pretty young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, came over to their table almost immediately and began her pitch to get them drinks, food, and the like. Her name was Rosilyn, and she had deep brown eyes and long black hair that was braided straight back and down to her slim waist. She was a petite woman wearing a long, conservative, dull blue dress which covered her well and didn't advertise her features; for a good reason no doubt. She was quite pleasant, bursting with energy, and beaming with a great smile that brightened the dusky room.

They all ordered the specialty of the house...roasted pravort...and heady beer for Jarle and Lilea, while Ron ventured the parc cider, non-fermented, he specified. He didn't want to lose his coordination even the slightest bit before he could at least get a feel about the goings-on of the city. They briefly discussed their plan to search out someone who could point them in the right direction, and then Jarle and Lilea drifted off to wondering about how things back home were going.

Ron was never the great conversationalist when it came to small talk, and fell quiet while they spoke, preferring to scan the room and watch the other patrons and the workers. The head of the eatery, possibly the owner, was very adept at marshaling his staff around to keep the customers serviced quickly and efficiently, but Ron noticed he kept an unusually keen eye on the young Rosilyn. Ron surmised she was either a new employee or his daughter, or both.

Ron was surprised to find the customers were not an unruly bunch, and mostly kept to their meals and their table discussions. However, one man who'd drunk a bit too much reached out and grabbed Rosilyn by the arm as she whisked by, and hauled her to him. The headman was over at that table in three steps and quickly tore the drunkard's hand from the girl. He lifted the inebriated fellow out of his chair by the shirtfront to be dragged and then physically hurled from the restaurant to land in the dirt of the street with a loud huff of expelled air. The headman then returned to the table and warned the rest of the four-man group to watch their hands, or he would do worse to them.

He was a large, burly fellow and undoubtedly was known for his ability to carry out his threats because they all nodded quickly, and the ousted man didn't even try to return. Ron smiled at the scene. It was nice to know this place wasn't a hangout for degenerates.

Rosilyn finished her rounds of drinks for another table and then assisted a young man in delivering Ron, Lilea, and Jarle their meals. The food was sizzling hot and bountiful, with side vegetables and bread. It looked and smelled delicious, and the three of them practically drooled as it was placed.

"Are you all right?" Ron asked the girl softly, his eyes showing his concern.

"Yes, thanks," she replied, blushing deeply and glancing at the man who still kept his attention on her. "Papa keeps me safe from that sort of thing," she added as she smiled broadly again and finished her duties. "Anything else?"

"What is his name," Ron inquired, "if you don't mind."

"Targe Hernue. He is the owner of this place."

Ron locked gazes with the large fellow and tilted his head respectfully. Targe did the same in return, understanding Ron's demonstration of esteem in the presence of the young woman, and then he was about his business again.

The trio devoured the wonderful meal in short-order, paid with a generous tip, and were on their way in less than a billot, not having any real opportunity to interact with the others in the restaurant. Jarle had tried to get a conversation going with two men to his left, but everyone seemed extremely guarded when it came to strangers.

It didn't take them long though; to figure out they were in an area of Mardesh which was the trade and tourist, or visitor section. Most of the shops were needs-related, and every other building was an inn, a tavern, or a restaurant.

They moved north, on the eastern side of the arena, and began seeing more congestion in the streets the closer they got to the popular gambling areas. There were side alley bets calling in the dimly lit avenues, and bare-knuckled brawling for money as well. Even an occasional clash of metal rang out from inside some of the more menacing-looking bars.

It was clear the residents didn't get nearly enough action from the arena alone since there were wagers on everything one could imagine. Those games ranged from which of two hawks would survive in a small cage, to what side would land upright when a large, multicolored block was tossed into the air.

Ron's group stayed on the larger streets which had better lighting and plenty of pedestrian traffic, and cataloged much of the southern third of the city by the time they decided to turn in for some rest.

Before they resolved to call it a night however, they approached several fellows about where they might find the training camps where Crogan would more than likely be held. All those men wanted to do though, was get them involved in their gambling.

"We'll begin again here tomorrow," Jarle suggested when they finally turned back toward their quarters feeling discouraged.

It had been a long day, and they weren't in the mood for dealing with the unsavory types they knew they'd inevitably have to, so they put that area behind them and swung west. Before turning in, Lilea had an urge to have a look at the largest structure in the city...the arena.

They could easily see it from their hotel-room balcony, but it was quite the sight up close. It was five stories tall; with huge supporting columns around each level, and every column on the first floor was crafted into a statue of some great Kreete warrior. Those supports depicted individuals who'd set themselves apart from their fellows by fantastic deeds of conquest and glory...with each story carved into the base of it for all to read.

The structure itself was a magnificent achievement and was extremely striking in its artistry and size. Jarle and Lilea marveled at it for a long while as they passed along one side of the huge complex. The coliseum took up a quarter-hoz block and was completely round, with dozens of entry points that would allow patrons, either walking or riding, to pass in and out of it at nearly any position. It had a fine stone stairway to every level placed between each of the entry portals, and there wasn't an inch that didn't have some elaborate figure or story carved into that rock.

Ron spent most of his time checking the immediate area around the three of them. He'd seen bigger and more impressive buildings on Earth, and was more concerned with their security than sightseeing. There were still a good number of people on the streets too, even at that late billot, and diligence was needed...he could sense it.

They finally left the huge building and started back to the inn, now walking down one of the large "spoke" streets built wide enough for wagon traffic. Jarle was telling a story of the first time he'd seen one of the gladiator types of events. He was only twelve and the excitement and brutality of it had shocked him, burning the image into his memory.

"Give me your purse!" came a demand from off in one of the cross-alleys.

(Caronians kept their valuables in small bags which tie at the top with a drawstring and then hang from a belt or loop inside their outer garments...they called them purses.)

"No!" someone said in a struggling feminine voice, sounding rattled and afraid.

Ron, Jarle, and Lilea could see the two silhouettes, and the man drew back his hand and slapped the woman to her knees, pulling out a long knife.

"Now you will pay with more than just your gold!" he proclaimed.

Jarle's pulse quickened and he moved a step toward the fighting pair, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword...but Ron put out his hand.

"No," he told the Lampsh entrepreneur. "Look there...and there," he added as he pointed out a large figure plainly waiting alone at the edge of one of the closed shops fifty feet from the alley, and another along the wall the other way. They seemed to be just leaning against the building, partially hidden in shadow, oblivious to the mugging occurring so nearby.

When Ron pointed them out, they quickly drifted away around the other sides of the buildings, and then the pair in the alley stopped struggling and vanished into the darkness of the narrow corridors as well.

"How did you know?" Lilea asked, trembling lightly as she reached out and rested her hand on Ron's arm, her head now practically swiveling on her neck as she tried to look in every direction at once.

"I didn't see a woman walking alone in front of us," he replied as if it were nothing. "If she wasn't in front of us, then she would've had to come from the next street down that alley. I have seen no other women this night...other than those earning money, and I don't think 'they'd' be that foolish. And if I'd somehow missed her, to be a woman walking these streets after dark would be extremely reckless, and no one would slip down such a dark alley without an armed escort. Also, she didn't seem frightened enough."

"Well done my friend," Jarle told Ron, nearly awestruck at his cunning.

The remainder of the outing saw the two men sandwiching the smaller form of Lilea tightly, each of them now carrying a drawn sword and long knife at the ready, under the shadow of their cloaks.

The faces worn by Ron and Jarle exuded the seriousness of their demeanors with such intensity that, even in the dimness, an invisible wake preceded them. That barrier urged all others to make a wide detour of their company as they moved swiftly through the night.

Lilea's shorter legs were forced to work hard and quickly to keep up with the long, powerful strides of her protectors, but she managed. In the end, when they made it back to their quarters unmolested, she slumped into a chair, bone-tired and drained. She had no idea that her quest to save her husband would be so filled with unending peril, and wondered if she could continue. Her nerves were worn thin and she drank a large glass of water with shaking hands, trying to hydrate her parched throat.

Ron saw her condition and called for the staff.

Half a billot later, Lilea held no more qualms about the extravagance of the room when she slipped into a hot tub that the servants prepared for her. She soaked her fears away in thick, scented bubbles, remembering exactly who her guardsmen were, and that calmed her immensely. When the adrenaline rush of their outing finally wore off, she was dried off and cozy in her huge, down-filled bed...out for the night.

### Chapter Thirty-two

### The Arena

The next day Lilea rose late in the morning, the long night having taken a toll on her. And even then she was only awakened by the sun cutting through the window and blasting away at her delicate face. She washed herself and grabbed some fruit that Sercie had delivered on the previous evening, and then searched out the men.

It wasn't a difficult task...finding them out on the open veranda, stretching and mock-sparring at hand-to-hand combat. Ron was instructing Jarle on some moves that would be useful in multiple-enemy bouts...redirection and manipulation of the assailants' attack.

The men were stripped to the waist, barefoot, and each was wearing the Caronian version of short pants, which was fairly snug and reached only to their mid-thigh. There was a soft breeze blowing across the balcony from the south which carried the scents from the jungle-like forest at that location, it having a heavy floral smell to it. The comrades were laughing and enjoying the fresh morning air as they sparred...and Lilea wasn't above admiring the two of them.

Jarle was a tall man...eye-to-eye with Ron, and well-muscled...leaner than Ron, but taught and defined. She'd known him all her life and found him to be very handsome. He and his family had been to her home many times because Crogan and he were so close. She had no amorous feelings for him but her vision was perfect and she was still a woman.

Back at the river, that first day she met Ron Allison, she hadn't seen him as completely as her sister had, so now she understood why Sharlese had been smitten so hard. She noted every ripple and flex of his perfectly chiseled torso, and bulge of his powerful arms. His face was closely shaved once more, and a finer looking man she could not imagine...her husband not withstanding of course.

"Good morning!" Jarle called out as he caught her looking at them from under the overhang of the covered porch.

She had to tear her stare away from Ron's glistening body and focus hard to speak to Jarle without stammering, giving him a polite reply. The men collected their gear and dressed into more fitting attire, teasing her for sleeping so late...although neither could be very serious about it after she gave them an innocent, full-lipped pout.

She was still barefoot and wearing her nightgown, which was rather sheer but not as revealing as the "barely there" slip she'd worn in the wagon. That tantalizing sight though, with her hair all tousled the way it was, won her enough distraction with the men to escape any further ridicule.

She went into her private boudoir and made herself fit for going out, and so they began their planning again from that point.

The day was promising to be a hot one, with only a few clouds visible across the deep blue of the sky. Ron and Jarle hurriedly equipped themselves with the usual safeguards and then they all went out for breakfast, choosing the same little restaurant they found on the previous night.

It opened for three billots in the morning, two at lunch, and six at night Ron noted as he scanned the information on the slate at the front door. They just made it in for the morning meal, apologizing for their tardiness to the young man who came over to wait on them.

There were several families sitting down for the last-minute meals before heading out to their business, of which Jarle couldn't understand. Who would bring women and children to this despicable town? Then they overheard one of the groups discussing the news of a relative trying to win his freedom from the arena overlords.

"I'm sorry to bother you folks," Lilea said to the woman who was approximately fifty years old and the obvious matriarch of the family, "but could I ask you a question?"

There were six people at that table, two women, two teenage girls, and two grown men roughly twenty years old. They all turned to Lilea.

"I overheard you mention that someone you know is trying to win his freedom from this place...is that true?"

"Yes!" replied the woman. "My son has at last made it to the final day of his journey. I am Serei Kasdor of the Primona Territory."

"I am Lilea Sevraign of the Lampsh Territory, and these are my good friends, Jarle and Ron."

The woman smiled at them and continued her story.

"My son's name is Leeson, and he is the champion of Primona. He has defended us with great success in thirty-five straight matches, and has finally earned the right to challenge for his own freedom. He will be coming home with us today."

Jarle and Lilea exchanged glances. They'd never heard of anyone truly winning their freedom from the Kreete...only rumors. Even the legend of Kaskle's victory was believed to be just that...a legend.

"How is it possible for him to do that?" Lilea asked. "I've never heard tell of such a thing."

"Are you new to Mardesh?" Serei asked.

"Yes, my husband was ordered away nearly a cycle ago, and I'm hoping to find a way to get him back."

"Well, I've been here four times in the past two cycles and have seen Leeson reach the last steps to this final level over the past two santaris. It's not easy to watch, but I feel sometimes he needs me here to keep him going...he knows when I'm in the stands.

"Anyway, there are many stages a man must surpass to reach the point where he can make a play for himself. It begins with the early training of defensive arts, and the quicker you get through those stages makes a great deal of difference on how long it takes to complete them all.

"Second is the beginning of the bouts, which start out as bare-handed duels until one contestant is rendered unable to continue. Sometimes those fights are nearly as brutal as the death matches, and many are crippled, which forces them into common slave status. If that happens...any time during their tenure...they have to finish out their commitment to the Kreete at twice the normal length. Fourteen years of slavery! They say the masters use it is an incentive to fight harder.

"Third, they move on to what's considered nonlethal and wooden instruments...staffs, swords, whips, and nets for example. Those fights go until submission, or failure to respond to attack.

"Fourth begins the blunt metal-edged weapons and the outcome is often quicker and more clear.

"Fifth is when things get really dangerous, when sharp edged swords, axes, spears, and the like are introduced, and they fight until first blood of the torso...even a lost limb is not the end unless they pass out.

"Sixth involves more blood, and flesh wounds...not death...are the goal. To bleed the opponent as much as possible, showing control of the terrible devices they wield. At this stage, the fight goes on until one contestant is too weak to continue, yields, or unconsciousness takes over.

"Seventh is when they are fighting to the death. These death matches give sanctuary to the fighters.

"The champion has seven days in which to rest and heal between matches. After that, or any time during that period if he so chooses, he must face another person trying to do the same...of the same rank. He may elect to remain at any rank if he wishes not to move up, but he can never be free unless he does continue onward to greater risk.

"The first seven bouts at the fatality stage represent immunity for themselves from slavery in the fields, or in the mines of Predoone. Then, in the next seven, they fight for their family...their wife and children...to protect them from more incarcerations. The following seven, they defend their siblings and their families. Then it is for their town, then their territory. After that, they must go to the Kreete-occupied city of Fardom and defend their title in the 'Warriors Games'. It is there that they are placed against other champions from around the planet or from 'off-worlders' looking to qualify for the 'Triad Games'."

Ron found it extremely odd to hear this woman talk of otherworld aliens in common conversation. She clearly could possess almost no true knowledge of the heavens and what lies out there...her being from such a primitive culture.

"Finally, if they have done all that, they can elect to challenge for their own freedom and seven years of safety to all whom they represent."

Lilea suddenly broke down in tears. It seemed too much...that there would be no way she would ever see her husband again. Two years! It had barely been one, and she was nearly crazed with worry. And to think of the constantly escalating danger made her nearly swoon.

"Now, now, dear," Serei said softly, "The time will go by faster than you think. What's his name?"

"Crogan Sevraign," she managed between sniffles.

"Oh! Yes, I've heard that name," Serei told her with earnest.

Lilea's eyes lit up, and her interest peaked. "Tell me!" she urged, wiping her cheeks nervously.

"The last time I was here, he fought before Leeson. He is quite impressive. I can't remember how far along he was in his ranking, but I recall thinking I was glad my son didn't have to face him. He was pitted against three other men that day, one with a spiked mace, one with a sword, and one with a staff which had a curved blade on one end...a gafous, I believe it's called. Your man had only a light ax and a shield, so he was clearly at a great disadvantage, but it mattered very little in the end. He was injured in that bout, but not too badly, receiving a long cut on the thigh, but two of the others were taken away on stretchers and the third was dead. He was cunning and ruthless in the ring, a natural killer."

Lilea's face went white. Could her loving and gentle husband have been truly turned into a murderous brute?

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Serei interjected quickly, "but you must understand one thing. In there, you fight for your life. There's no second place. You do what you must to survive the match."

Jarle hugged Lilea's shoulders firmly and tried to comfort her. Ron ran his thoughts through about the training for such events.

"How might we find Crogan?" he asked Serei. "Is there some manifest for the camps that train the warriors?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I don't know with any certainty. I came here six santaris after my son was taken and watched every bout until I saw him. That's when I found out who held him...what master he fought for...so I asked around town until I found the camp. I bought information from his master's guards about when he was to fight, and have kept up with him that way to this day."

"If one opts to stay at a particular level, how long does he have to serve as that champion?" Ron pressed.

"Until he is defeated...or dead. If he chooses to stay at one of the less lethal levels and loses seven times, he is sent to the slave sales. From there, no one can tell."

"I thought his first level was to prevent his slavery."

"Only omission from Predoone or the Kreete-run farms. There are many other places nearly as bad to end up."

He considered that life. Nonstop duels or death, and each time he won it allowed the Kreete to destroy someone else's life so his might endure. The Kreete had every angle covered. No one could win forever.

"Who must your son fight for his personal freedom?" Jarle asked.

"One of the other's training masters...of which there are seven. It is a test of those men's abilities as well, since they must stay on top of their skills or meet their fate in the arena. They have the clear edge though. They are well rested and have the opportunity of watching their opponents fight dozens of times before they have to face him.

"These different training facilities are scattered in and around this city, and are well guarded. Their techniques are kept confidential to sustain some advantage, so no one is allowed in."

"Oh my! Look at the time!" she suddenly chirped. "We have to get going!"

Ron wished the woman well as she and her escorting family members finished their breakfast and made their way out into the brilliant Caronian day.

"We should go to the stadium and witness those contests ourselves," Ron announced when they had completed their meal. "I've never seen these games and would like to know what they're all about...that is...if you're up to it Lilea."

She blanched at first, but after a moment, she saw the logic to it. "No, you're right. We should see for ourselves. I'll be fine. Besides, we might spot some weakness we can exploit."

The trio left the restaurant and immediately went to the coliseum where it was just then opening to allow the public in. They checked the written listing and saw what types of bouts were scheduled that day, of which there were many, but names were not on the list. Each contest would be announced with a half-billot's time to place wagers on the outcome as the contestants were paraded around the venue and then set to fight.

They saw everything from the boxing type duels to the man versus animal contests with three men against a full-grown mountain greel. Two of those fighters were maimed badly before the bear fell.

At the end of the day's events came the most important fight. It was announced that a champion of the eastern province had challenged for the right to be a free man, and that no such challenge had been made in the past two seasons.

The champion strode into the arena beaming with confidence and slowly circled the round pit set twenty feet beneath the high walls, which was the beginning of the stadium-style seating area. The floor of the arena was over three hundred feet in diameter and perfectly round. At the top of its retaining wall there were banners every ten feet, all the way around, and flags of every major town in the competing area were flown.

As the crowd cheered at a fever pitch, money began swapping hands, and bets were laid down in hasty fashion.

The man was a giant, at least seven feet tall and heavily built. He had almost no neck, and his arms were like tree trunks. He wore some light armor and carried a spear in his left hand, a long sword at his right hip, and a shorter version at his left. He had heavy gauntlets on his forearms and calf-length boots with his trousers loosely fitting and bloused at the top. He sported shoulder length, dark brown hair and carried a helmet in his right hand. His wins were read off and were many and notable, but nothing was said about the trainer captain.

Finally the wagers were all in, and the champion took his place in the very center of the arena as a heavy iron gate screeched open off to the left of where Ron, Jarle, and Lilea were seated.

There was a long pause, and then a truly enormous individual stepped through that opening. He had to bow his head a bit to keep from scraping the upper header of the nine-foot tall frame.

"The Uridone's representative is by proxy. Their own training champion from the northern province of Meedriez, Kragen Pianbren is unavailable. In his stead, we have a volunteer from Pigonta!"

There was a loud gasp from the crowd and a horrible lurch of dread swept through the stands like a gust of ice-cold wind.

"He wishes to be called Coordiesh!"

Coordiesh in ancient Caronian meant "harbinger of death!"

It was a Kreete officer wearing the blood-red-colored uniform of a Master Killer but had seven ragged black stripes sweeping across him like long claw rips that signified he was of the Reaper class.

"Oh, no!" Ron growled.

Lilea and Jarle were too wrapped up in their own shock to hear his angry statement, so they did not respond.

Ron's heart began to accelerate and his temper spiked as he watched the gargantuan fellow stride out into the arena with no armor at all. He carried only a short sword and battle-ax in his hands. Ron wondered how many individuals in the audience even knew what they were looking at. This gigantic warrior had survived at least ninety-eight contests to the death with those of his own kind...other Master Killers...to receive that ranking. A human man against such a creature was a purely wasted effort. He felt his stomach turn as he thought of Serei and her hopes for her son to be reunited with her.

Leeson didn't hurry the match...he was very experienced. He backed away and circled as the Kreete closed with him, using his spear to keep the enormous adversary out of reach. They went round and round four times before the Kreete lunged in sharply. He was much quicker than Ron would have thought possible for such a large figure...dropping the ax and snatching the spear away from the man with one hand like Leeson was a child.

Coordiesh let Leeson back away without pursuit. The huge being hefted the seven foot, metal tipped weapon lightly in his hand and then he turned it around slowly, seeking its center of balance. Once he found it, his arm shot back and then forward in a blur, hurling it at the stone wall of the arena with phenomenal speed. It struck so hard that the resonating "crack" forced the entire crowd to jump at the same instant, and that long wooden shafted spear stood out straight, vibrating up and down, its eighteen-inch-long tip sunken halfway out of sight.

"Guardian above us!" Jarle hissed.

Leeson didn't let the awesome show of strength shake him though. He whipped his swords out in a flash and prepared, swinging them around quickly to feel their weight and balance. He was smooth and controlled...he was not afraid.

The Kreete retrieved his ax and started after the man once more. He had at least a foot and a half of reach on Leeson and as they clashed, Ron held his breath. Leeson crossed his swords and halted the ax of the Reaper as it came hurtling down on him, but the force of that act knocked the huge man from his feet.

The alien commander had swung the ax one-handed!

Coordiesh stepped back and let his opponent regain his footing, and then he went in again. His sword sizzled through the air as it swept through, but Leeson managed to redirect it and lunged for his own strike. Instead of flesh though, he met the broad face of the Kreete's battle-ax and a heavy forearm against his head instead, sending him back to his knees and knocking his helmet from him.

"The Kreete is just playing with him," Ron announced to his partners, disheartened and disgusted by the spectacle.

"What do you mean?" Lilea asked, confused by Ron's faithless comment. "He hasn't even drawn blood from Leeson. Perhaps he can still find a way to win."

Ron just shook his head and watched. His stomach churned with angst.

The Kreete Reaper waited for Leeson to stand and face him once more, and then he began schooling the smaller man in the lessons of battle. His heavier sword whistled in and around, crashing against Leeson's blades over and over. It never touched him, but hammered away at the fellow's defense until the man was exhausted and could raise his blades no more in his once smooth and powerful strokes. Then the Kreete began to cut him...just a slice and a jab here and there...and then Leeson started to falter badly. He dropped the heavier long sword and made a decent recovery for a short while, his desperation clearly showing to the experienced swordsmen in the audience.

Jarle shot Ron a fearful glance, now seeing exactly what he'd said earlier. Ron looked as if he was burning inside, so flushed with anger that his skin was bright red.

The Kreete warrior finally grew tired of the match nevertheless, and struck suddenly with a powerful blow that tore the sword from Leeson's hands as if by magic, leaving him defenseless.

At that point, the Reaper took his own weapons and threw them far to the side...and then got down to business. He beat Leeson for the next twenty borts, punishing him horribly, with tremendous blows that broke bones loud enough for Ron to hear. He went round and round again, crushing Leeson's meager defense in grandiose fashion until the champion of the eastern province was a staggering, bloody mass of broken and torn flesh.

The Reaper stopped his torture at that juncture, long enough to make an announcement to the crowd.

"Let this serve as a warning to any who would challenge the Kreete's rule! This is what will happen to all who dare defy us!"

With that proclamation, he walked over and grabbed the wavering man from behind by his long hair. He then held his own right arm up for the crowd to see unmistakably as he exposed the built-in weapons of his kind...cat-like claws shooting out four inches. Next, he slashed the man's thick neck deep enough to rake his vertebrae, and showered the arena with his blood. And as if that weren't enough, the Reaper dropped Leeson's quivering body to the ground and pulled out a long knife. A moment later he had the former champion's heart in his dripping hand, and devoured it in front of the man's mother.

A few moments later, he casually strolled from the arena, back through the iron gate from whence he arrived.

Lilea had stopped watching long before that time and hidden her face in Jarle's shoulder as she wept heavily for Serei's loss.

The crowd dispersed with little of the raucous nature that had been prevalent during most of the day, and the three friends quietly made their way from the stadium with saddened spirits. Their hope that Crogan could somehow manage to win his freedom was irrevocably gone. Who could stand against such a monster?

They went back to the inn without speaking once, and sat out on the balcony for a long while before Ron pursued the only question he could think of.

"What now?"

Lilea burst out crying again, and the men let her grieve for a few borts.

"I don't know," she said finally, "but I still want to try to find him. Maybe some solution will present itself."

By then the sun was setting once more and after Lilea was composed again, the threesome decided to strike out as planned, in search of someone who might be able to lead them to her husband.

They returned to Targe's Refuge for dinner and found their table open and waiting. Rosilyn greeted them warmly as usual, and they were soon enjoying a huge roasted bird called a 'grentille' with the same hot buttered bread and vegetables as the previous night.

They enjoyed the food a great deal, and talked about nothing having to do with their current situation. When they finally slid their chairs out to leave, the payment already placed for Rosilyn to collect, their morale was lifted considerably from earlier in the evening.

It was at that moment though, when the peace and calm of the night drew abruptly to an end. First came a quick, squelched scream, just as a loud, deep voice boomed at the entrance of the place with an indistinguishable order. A few litas later a Kreete scout entered the restaurant.

He was average sized for their soldiers, seven and a half feet tall, and armed to the teeth with knives, swords, a crossbow at his back, and a quiver of heavy arrows. He was dressed in the drab brown of an ordinary scout, not far from the bottom of the military's ladder, which reminded Ron of the fellow at Gruinshawe...loud and arrogant, but not especially well trained.

He stood at the entryway and scanned the room while the patrons all sat in their seats and tried not to be noticed.

"I hope you all had the chance to go to the arena today and witness firsthand what the difference between a man and a Kreete is," he bellowed, ending his statement with a loud laugh.

He then stepped to the nearest table...one at which six men sat.

"Get out of my sight!" he ordered.

The men all leaped up, and two of them fell backward to the floor in an attempt to hurry from the reach of the soldier who promptly plopped down and barked for service.

Targe motioned his staff to stay away and approached the warrior's table alone.

"Sir," Targe began in a subdued tone, "by the city decree, Kreete soldiers are not supposed to come down here."

The scout stood up quickly and slammed the owner in the chest, sending him flying off his feet to land hard on the wooden planks of the flooring. Rosilyn screamed and ran out from behind the wide bar to her father's side.

"What do we have here?" the scout said as he sat down again and scrutinized the dainty figure of the young woman. "You! Come here!"

Rosilyn shook visibly and stood up.

Ron Allison clenched his teeth.

The Kreete scout waved the girl over to him and as she inched her way in his direction Ron flexed his hands, his knuckles popping loudly. The room was drifting out of color in his eyes.

The scout reached out and grabbed Rosilyn by the front of her dress and pulled her close to him, sniffing her audibly about the waist.

"You have not been plucked!" he told her as he smiled and stood up. "I think I will remedy that for you."

Targe Hernue leaped to his feet and charged; his only thought being to protect his daughter. He dove at the Kreete but the scout was ready. He met Targe's attack with his left hand outstretched, and stopped the big man cold, grabbing him by the throat.

Ron knew what that grip was like, and so he also knew that Targe was done. His vision then turned to the full red haze of unbridled fury.

"Should I kill him like the 'champion' died today?" he asked the girl as he brandished his long claws.

"No! Please! I'll do whatever you say."

The scout choked Targe until his face was blue, and then he smashed the man to the floor where he struggled to rise as he gasped for breath. The soldier then grabbed the now crying Rosilyn by the waist and flung her onto the table. He would take her right there in front of all her customers.

### Chapter Thirty-three

### Payback

Ron's control snapped like a balloon that had been expanded too far.

"Take your hands off her...RIGHT NOW!" he ordered the Kreete in a voice that sounded like rolling thunder in the large room, each word vibrating with his anger. He kicked his chair aside and slung the heavy wooden table away from him in a backhanded gesture as if they were both made of balsa wood.

Jarle was trembling from anger and frustration as well, and had even leaned forward as if to leap into action, but when the table sped past him in a blur, he and Lilea flinched hard and looked to Ron. They clearly saw the flame in his eyes...and both backed away in awe. His cloak was gone, his face was granite, his chest heaved, and his muscles rippled with his movement. He was a demon of pure hate!

The Kreete scout stopped instantly and turned his attention on this dark figure looming out of the dim corner of the room.

"What did you say?" he asked, slightly shaken at the gall of this man.

Ron was striding toward him quickly, and everyone in the nearby vicinity stumbled out of his way.

"I SAID, TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF HER RIGHT NOW!" he repeated, unwavering on his menacing approach.

The Kreete spun around to meet the fool of a man and his arm shot out again, attempting to repeat what he'd done to Targe...but it was not to be so.

With his chest emanating rumbling sounds like an enraged tiger, Ron moved with the speed of light as he grabbed that huge maul with his own powerful hands and wrenched it around violently. That act forced the Kreete's shoulder to drop abruptly before Ron leaped and brought his knee up hard, slamming it into the larger man's face. The force of the blow stood the scout up again as his head whipped back, blood flying from his mouth and nose. His senses were obviously scrambled and he stumbled roughly against the bar like a drunk.

The scout latched onto that solid support and shook his head to clear the cobwebs clouding his mind. The room was spinning and sliding around him so he reached out to steady himself, but instead of giving him that luxury, Ron rained blows on him like a jackhammer. He pounded the midsection of the brute with enough power to snap several ribs and force the far bigger soldier to release the bar and stagger back several steps toward the entryway.

The Kreete groped blindly after his assailant, his eyes still unable to quite focus, and so that maniac of wrath simply dipped and dodged and swatted his arms away.

Ron suddenly took a half step back and jumped straight up, spinning quickly to have his foot crash into the Kreete's face with a loud 'crack' before he landed and attacked again.

The scout swayed and stumbled badly, blood now running heavily from his mouth, but he somehow stayed on his feet...barely. His only counter was to swing and fumble pitifully at his adversary with one hand while pulling at his blade with the other. Ron took hold of his free arm again, pivoted quickly, and slung the bigger man up and over his back to drop him onto the floor with a ground rattling jolt.

The scout was so astonished that he just gasped and looked up at Ron for a moment, his eyesight blurred and the room swimming in his head.

Ron still gripped the bigger man's arm in his vise-like hands and refused to let go. Instead, he planted a foot on the soldier's chest for leverage as he twisted it hard, pushing to the edge of that shoulder's mobility. He was trying not to take this fight too far...not to kill him.

"Leave this place and never return!" Ron ordered.

The scout felt his shoulder separating and groaned through gritted teeth, his mind racing with shock at his predicament and the rush of adrenaline sharpening his thoughts once more. He was confused at how someone of Ron's race could have so easily subdued him.

"I am Kreete!" he replied through his gnashing teeth as he tried to spin out of the hold and kick at Ron.

Ron didn't fall for that pathetic maneuver however, and he growled deeply as he carried forward with his hold. The scout's shoulder tore with a sickening crunch and Ron dropped his knee down on the attempted rapist's elbow, folding it backward instantly.

The scout let out a long, horrible wail of pain before lying still on his back, his stomach churning from the destruction subjected to him at the hands of the Caronian.

With another bestial rumble emerging from his primal half, Ron's hand flew back with the edge ready to strike the Kreete a deathblow to his throat...

"Ron!" Lilea screamed, "Don't kill him!"

The Kreete howled in agony and swung his working hand at Ron who swatted it aside easily and smashed his fist into the face of the scout. Ron pummeled the soldier then with the rock-hard knuckles of his transfigured body, allowing some of the contempt he held for those creatures to unleash...but only until the vile fellow lie still.

At that point he grabbed the massive beast-man and dragged him out of the restaurant by one foot, like he would a drunkard. There Ron hoisted him onto his shoulders and tossed his unconscious form over the railing and onto the hard-packed ground of the roadway.

That wasn't enough to satisfy him though, so he followed that disgusting body out into the road with white-hot anger still burning in his soul. A moment later, as he stood over the now motionless attacker, the call of victory from the mountains of the Aredanz...Kaskle's home...was sent roaring through the streets of Mardesh, setting every ear on end, and a shiver down every spine.

Ron quickly searched the surrounding street for more danger, looking into the eyes of scores of men and women who had rushed out at the sounds of the commotion.

The world had turned incredibly silent...frozen in time. There were no more enemies to fight.

With the threat gone and the adrenaline ebbing, Ron swiftly returned to the quiet and withdrawn attitude he normally displayed. Lilea recognized the change and rushed to his side with Jarle close behind her.

"Is Rosilyn all right?" Ron asked of the pair after a moment.

"Yes, my friend," Jarle answered with a broad grin, "she's fine."

Ron took a while to look around again at the crowd. There were expressions of admiration, even amazement in the faces of the men...and fear and apprehension on those of the women.

Targe Hernue made his way out of the restaurant a moment later and stepped up to Ron. He stood there for a long lita before he grasped Ron by the shoulders and embraced him.

"Thank you stranger!" Targe told him with a rough, ragged voice as tears drained from his eyes.

It was extremely moving to Ron to see a gruff, hardened man such as he show that level of emotion in public view. He was clearly overwhelmed at Ron's timely, astounding assistance.

"You have saved my daughter's honor, and possibly her life!" he croaked to Ron. "You and your friends are my guests from here on out...anything you want, I am your man! I am Targe Hernue."

"I'm Ron Allison. This is Lilea Sevraign and Jarle Raidene."

They each exchanged greetings with the large man and his daughter. Rosilyn's face was beet red, and she was so grateful and excited she literally vibrated with energy.

"You're injured!" she cried as she saw four nasty scratches on Ron's right arm. The scout's claws had apparently raked him during the bout.

"Oh, yeah. It's nothing. Don't worry..."

"I'll clean it for you," she squealed as she raced back into the restaurant and disappeared into the back.

"What about this guy?" Ron asked of Targe. "I'm afraid I may have just gotten you into more trouble. Won't his friends want to retaliate for his beating?"

"Well, we'll just see about that. You must understand something though; this kind of thing has happened before, although not by one unarmed man of course. Usually four or five men team up against a rowdy scout and take him down at the end of their swords...and often someone is killed. You see, the Kreete aren't supposed to venture beyond their own compounds in this city. It's one of the agreements they made to keep the peace and the enthusiasm high for the games. Caronians, as well as the occasional strangers from 'other' places, enjoy the freedom of a master-free social scene in which to conduct their business. It's a formula which leads to better profits...and therefore better fighters...and that's what the Kreete want. They're after the finest warriors we have because they live for the games.

"They make examples of some, like that poor bastard today in the arena, but generally they look forward to great fights. I heard they even cheered the time that mountain madman from the western lands won his freedom some years back."

"I thought that was just a story," Ron interjected, searching for how much this man really knew.

"Not to many of us around here. The Lords tried too hard to downplay it, so it had to be true. Anyway, that fellow was a real fighter, from what I've heard. I never saw him, but those who did were convinced he was the finest swordsman who ever lived. Every step and swing of his sword in his historic fight with the Kreete Master Killer, Lorc Paecder, has been told and retold in exquisite detail.

"He was a magician with any weapon there was...and he gave us all hope...at least for a while. I heard they finally hunted him down with one of those 'tracker' animals, and although there are still rumors he'd somehow escaped, I kind of doubt it, because he hasn't been heard from since."

The restaurant owner then recruited three men in the crowd whom he knew, and the four of them hefted the scout into an empty wagon nearby and set it off to the nearest Kreete occupation camp. The wagon master protested at first, until Ron tossed him a bit of coin, and then he was all smiles.

After lifting the bulk of the soldier's limp form, with considerable help, Targe gave Ron the once-over again as the cargo eased away, wondering at the strength of the man who'd saved his little girl. He didn't say anything, but guessed a great deal about what that dark stranger could really do, should he have need to. And the fact that he growled during battle and roared out his victory, just like he'd heard was the typical fashion of that fantastic champion from the west, set the man's imagination into motion.

The patrons eventually all returned inside the restaurant, with several new couples and groups crowding in as well. After resetting the overturned tables, they continued the meals that had been interrupted, although suddenly there was only one subject on everyone's tongue.

Ron, Jarle, and Lilea returned to their place and waited for Rosilyn to come and doctor Ron. He would just as well have left the place, but he knew if he did that it would hurt the young girl's feelings. She wanted desperately to return the kindness he'd shown her, and so Ron allowed for the short delay.

Rosilyn was there quickly and set about gently scrubbing the injury while thanking him repeatedly. Jarle and Lilea remained quiet, not wishing to discuss their plans openly, but the other patrons whispered and motioned over to Ron's table, and all the separate conversations' focus remained extremely narrow for the balance of their time there. The girl carefully applied a healing salve, then wrapped the wound neatly and was finished in short order, still shaking a bit.

Ron picked up the gold that had been thrown to the floor during the fray and tried to pay for the meal but was firmly denied by Targe who asked again to be of some service.

"Well actually," Ron ventured, "there is one thing. We're looking for a certain fighter named Crogan Sevraign...Lilea's husband and I was wondering if you might know someone familiar with the city who could help us locate the training facility he's in?"

The restaurateur brightened up at that request, as he badly wanted to aid Ron in any way he could.

"Yes, I do," he replied, and then he turned and motioned at a young man cleaning tables. "Noorson! Come here!"

The young fellow came right away at his call, thrilled to be so close to the mighty fighter he'd just seen in action.

"This is Noorson. He knows the city better than any person should at his age and will be of great help to you."

"That was the greatest fight I've ever seen!" the young man told Ron, quivering with excitement and bowing deeply to the warrior. "You name it and I'll do what I can for you!"

The trio greeted the fellow warmly and then explained their situation to him right away. He retreated to the back of the establishment for a brief moment and returned with his own cloak wrapped about himself, and then they all set off for the far side of Mardesh.

Noorson took them straight to the northwest portion of the city, to a tavern called 'The Pit' where there was supposed to be a man who dealt with such information...Reese Donmar.

The Pit was housed in a sprawling, two-story building that encompassed an entire block, and the noise from the place carried over a quarter hoz. The tavern itself was larger than any of the others they'd passed and had tables set up outside as well as within.

Ron wrinkled his nose when they were still a hundred feet from the place. It smelled too strongly of liquor, smoke, and sweat.

There were three separate sections to the nightclub, each having its own variety of music playing, and the crowd was thick in every area.

The trio stopped abruptly once they'd entered the place and just stared at the raucous scenes. It was dimly lit, loud, and the air choked with burning things of differing kinds; cigars, pipes, incense, scented candles, and cooking. The sights were difficult for the small-town folks as well. Women danced nude on the bar and men openly took their pleasures of them at the tables and on the floor.

Ron was startled at the depravity of the place and he and Jarle sandwiched Lilea tightly between them without even thinking. Their free hands gripped their swords firmly but the people inside just stared back at them with no visible signs of actual threat in their faces.

After a moment the trio put aside their distaste for the venue and followed Noorson through the main room and up to a private chamber on the second floor.

There were two large, menacing-looking guards at the wide opening of it, and they barred the passage of the four searchers with crossed swords.

Noorson gave them a message to deliver to Reese and waited as a lovely woman appeared at the doorway and accepted the correspondence. She had short-cropped hair which barely touched her neck and was draped in a robe made of some sinfully sheer material. For all practical purposes she was unabashedly naked, and stood posed in the doorway far longer than was necessary, allowing the visitors a good look at her. Jarle swallowed hard and tried not to be embarrassed in front of Lilea who was thoroughly peeved at the woman's brashness.

Ron was a statue. He cared not for the show and was more concerned with the security and layout of the building. The two men at the doorway never took their eyes off him as they all waited for the reply to the young man's request.

After a drawn-out couple of borts there was a call from someone in the room, and the guards gruffly retreated to the sides of the opening.

Ron, Jarle, Lilea, and Noorson stepped through the portal and across the fair-sized room to where a large man dressed in expensive, finely tailored clothes lounged in the company of ten women...all of whom were lacking of any attire. He clearly preferred the sight of such lovely bodies unhidden by the trappings of cloth. His own outfit appeared to be made of silk, and was especially flowing and soft. Atop that was a flashy robe of quilted satin fabric with many intricate designs woven into it. Ron got the distinct impression that this was the Mardesh version of the "Playboy Mansion".

"What is it that I can do for you?" Reese asked without a moment's hesitation.

"We're looking for a man who fights in the arena," Jarle answered. "His name is Crogan Sevraign, but we don't know which training camp he belongs to."

"And what do you want with this man?"

"He's my husband, and I wish to try to free him," Lilea piped in.

Reese stared at her a short while and then burst out laughing. The nude Harem giggled along with their master until he motioned for silence with his ring-adorned hand.

"There is no freeing a man who's been sent to the arena," Reese told her. "He will fight until he is killed. It's just that simple."

"But there must be some way!" she pleaded.

"How naïve are you people? If he were just some slave out in a field, then maybe I could work something out, but this is beyond anyone's control!"

"Why?" Ron asked...his tone deep and serious. "In my experience, there is always a way. Nothing is without a price."

Ron removed his purse and tossed it to the man. It was heavy with precious coins.

Reese was stunned.

"You're serious?"

Ron stared at him unblinking...his body language was all business.

"I will make some inquiries and let you know," Reese told him as he hefted the pouch. "If you're lucky, by tomorrow night I might have an answer for you."

Ron bowed slightly, without ever breaking his stare at Reese, and then spun about smoothly. With his three allies in his wake, he left the decadent establishment quickly.

As the sounds of the place drew faint...

"Do you really think we can...?" Lilea began.

Ron quickly placed his hand over her mouth.

"Shhhh!" he ordered, his ears and eyes on red alert. "Not here. Wait."

They proceeded down a well-lit avenue for another block before he spoke to her again.

"There are many rats listening in burrows such as 'The Pit' and many who lie in wait nearby for those desperate souls who might be their prey."

"Do you really think we can just buy him from his masters?" Lilea finally finished her question.

"I don't know," Ron replied suspiciously. "We'll see."

Ron was distracted just then, by a form off to his left and over one block. He and his friends were presently crossing a nondescript intersection of an alley and a street, and he noticed a slight figure knocking on a door. Ron slowed his pace while Lilea and Jarle strode quickly out of the line-of-sight of the person, just as the door opened a bit and the light from inside shown on a woman's face. He wouldn't have bothered to even think of it except the individual had a plait of long hair reaching down to her shoulder blades, and it was bright like the sunshine.

The petite young woman wasn't regarding the door however. Her face was locked in Ron's direction, as if surprised...even shocked. Ron couldn't make out her features clearly because the building's corner blocked out his view as he walked, and it was too quick a look for him. Also she was only partially illuminated...but something in her manner made him stop.

He turned about and went back immediately but she was gone and the alley was dark once again. Jarle and Lilea noticed his absence right away and so they and Noorson halted as well, watching as he took a detour to investigate.

The alley was very dark...purposefully so, Ron suspected, and there was no sign of the woman. He even knocked on the door, but no one responded to his advancements. It was true that the woman had met the general parameters of who he was looking for, but for her to be out at that late hour and skulking around in such a dangerous place made no sense at all to Ron. It was more likely that the woman was the "working" sort plying her trade. And since he'd already seen several women in Mardesh with blonde hair he found no reason to be unduly suspicious of this one.

"She was staring straight at me," he told himself, trying to clear the tingling of his intuition, "so if it was Cache, she'd have called out...surely."

After another few moments of contemplation he finally walked back to his friends and continued to the hotel discussing the possible outcome of their transaction.

Ron didn't allow himself to become too optimistic about the deal. It would be extremely easy to recover Lilea's spouse if all they needed was money, and that in itself was too good to be true...at least to him.

They heard nothing all the next day and were getting impatient at sunset on the day after that when the door suddenly erupted with incessant pounding. Jarle opened the heavy wooden barricade to reveal an out-of-breath Noorson panting and leaning against the stone framework.

"I have word!" he belted out between gasps.

Jarle hauled him inside and checked the corridor before following the young man out onto the balcony where Ron and Lilea had escorted him.

"This is the message I was given! It's from Reese."

Lilea took the folded paper that was sealed with wax and hastily opened and read it. Her face fell with disappointment.

"At midnight, we are to take a thousand pieces of drauka to this address and meet with a man named Orick," she informed them. "He will then tell us if we can have Crogan."

Jarle glanced from her face to Ron's. The two men exchanged a look and a mental warning, and then they escorted Noorson from the room, thanking him for his help.

The three of them hastily gathered their belongings and checked out of the suite. Ron settled the bill with the remaining currency he'd kept, and then they went immediately to the bank. A billot later, they were back in the shadows of the Mardesh night.

While they were indoors, a powerful thundershower sprang up from the heat of the day, drenching the city with a heavy downpour, but it passed quickly, leaving the entire area shrouded in a thick, steamy fog. Due to that, the torch-lit streets and businesses appeared excessively eerie and dangerous, like something out of a Sherlock Holmes novel.

The air seemed almost too humid to breathe, and emotions began running high as they waited until the designated time, the tension of their search mounting by the bort. They found the spot that was their destination and Ron bid the Lampsh pair stay back, requesting Jarle cover him with his bow while he investigated the scene.

The narrow passage between buildings was suspiciously quiet, and cluttered with a few crates and barrels which were strewn about in haphazard fashion. Ron carefully slipped around each of them but found nothing, so he approached the specified door as the proper time ticked away.

Ron hammered on the thick wood and waited.

A few moments later he heard feet shuffling inside, and then a small portal opened, streaming light through it. Ron could see nothing but the glare of the light.

"What do you want?" asked a faceless voice from behind the door.

"I was summoned here to barter for a slave," Ron replied calmly. "Are you Orick?"

"Yes. Do you have the amount we specified?"

"Yes!"

"Show me!"

"Show me the slave."

"I see the money or this ends here."

Ron hesitated for a moment and then pulled out two large sacks. They were tied together with a length of rope which went around his neck like a yoke...so that he might support the weight, yet still conceal it from others under his cloak.

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Good. Give me a bort to get this door open."

The small portal slammed shut, and as he waited, there was a scraping of metal on wood.

Suddenly the ground under Ron's feet was gone!

### Chapter Thirty-four

### The Maze

Two litas after the trap door was sprung, the small portal in the door opened again so the guard might verify it had worked before resetting it. He was extraordinarily surprised when a hand with the strength of a vise shot through that opening and grabbed him by the throat. His face was then slammed against the door hard enough to loosen two of his teeth.

"Open this door!" growled an order through the portal.

The guard tried to escape the stranger's grip but his windpipe was on the verge of imploding so he began hastily fumbling with the hasp of the heavy door.

"No!" came a hasty, breathless shout from behind the struggling man.

Ron recognized the guttural delivery of that voice and the hair on his neck jumped up. There was a sharp metallic "zing" from behind the man Ron held, and then the door rattled as something slammed into it. The guard went limp instantly.

Ron released the dead fellow and stepped away quickly, walking backward while balancing on the edge of his staff which spanned the still open trapdoor.

The door shook again as the sword pinning the guard was removed, and then the small viewing portal slapped shut.

"Oh, no you don't!" Ron growled, his teeth gnashing in a ferocious snarl.

Ron then tossed the heavy bags of coins into the darkness behind a barrel and bolted for the street. He remembered having seen a bench there, and now he made for it with all speed.

The bench was made of a four-inch thick slab of stone which was six feet long and two feet wide. It was set on two legs that were also stone and were secured to the seat with four wooden dowels.

Ron gripped the heavy seat and yanked with all his strength. The enormous weight of the bench was of no consequence as it was torn from its mooring in the moist soil and hoisted over the dark, shaggy head of Ron Allison.

Jarle rushed up to help before he saw the bench fairly leap from the ground and shoot up over Ron's head, so he held his distance as that indomitable man set off back down the alley.

The trapdoor was closed again when Ron returned and that aided him in his goal since he was nearly at a dead run when he heaved the bench with a mighty grunt...straight at the stout door.

The wooden barrier which was undeniably designed to keep people at bay was very thick and lined with steel along all four edges, having two, wide, steel straps across the mid area for additional bracing. For all intents and purposes, it was impenetrable.

It exploded in an instant and rained wood into the interior of the building as if it had been hit by a rhinoceros at full gallop.

The bright light which had glared out from the interior of the building only borts earlier was now gone, so Ron took the lantern Lilea was holding and leaped over the dead body of the guard. He moved swiftly with the black sword at the ready and Jarle and Lilea followed close behind.

Inside was a small room...an ante-room...designed to be a staging area for some unknown purpose; presumably just to accommodate the trap operator. The three Caronians flew through it and into a short hallway at the far side which was blocked by a lesser door.

Ron plowed through that barrier by sheer strength and a solid shoulder, tearing it from its hinges and sending it careening away into a much longer corridor. He followed that hallway until it ended suddenly at a stairway leading downward.

He surmised the intent of the trap was to get someone to plunge down the false floor and, no doubt, into a snare of some kind, so that was where he guessed the dead guard's accomplices would be.

Ron descended four stairs at a time and abruptly found himself in a dimly lit labyrinth of tunnels under the city. Those passages were easily ten feet high and six wide, cut into the hard-packed natural earth of the area with great precision. They were well made with fairly smooth walls and timber bracing every ten feet or so, like a mine shaft. Hanging from each wooden support was a single lamp.

The corridor the three searchers were in led off in two directions and had intersecting passageways at odd angles every hundred feet or so. It was an elaborate maze that seemed unending since the lamps continued out of sight in both directions.

Ron gave the lamp back to Lilea and put his keen directional sense to use, pivoting around as he headed back in the direction that would lead to the underside of the alley.

He hurried forward until he heard voices arguing up ahead in the next side corridor and then slowed to a pace which kept his approach silent. Jarle saw his caution and held up his hand to Lilea for her to stay back. She quickly doused the light as the two men both drew their bows and advanced slowly.

"Get some men moving and find that flarge!" said the Kreete whom Ron had heard upstairs. "I want that gold!"

Ron and Jarle sprang into the same passageway as the arguing men and each drew back on their weapons.

There was a group of four men...each armed with a crossbow...and a Hunter-class scout similarly equipped standing fifty feet from them. The Tusepten was looking right at them and reacted instantly, dropping to a knee and pulling his weapon to his shoulder. Ron loosed an arrow but one of the humans stood between Ron and the Kreete, blocking his shot, so he had to settle on a wounding target instead of a kill. The missile tore through his massive, tattoed shoulder, causing the return fire to clatter against the wall harmlessly.

"Aaaaaaahhhhh!" roared the Hunter as recoiled from the impact. The bow fell from his limp fingertips, but he was already drawing his short sword with his left hand. The giant slapped one of his own men aside and charged, trying to get to Ron before he could fire again, but that would have been impossible.

Ron put another arrow into the Kreete, but the huge being twisted abruptly, took the shot in the already damaged side, and continued on. The Hunter then closed quickly while Ron was forced to address one of the still standing archers who was about to get his own shot.

By then, Jarle had mortally wounded two of the other men and was pulling another arrow from his quiver, but not fast enough to aid Ron.

Ron dropped his bow and met the Kreete head-to-head, bestial growls hissing from his lips and his sword singing free of its scabbard with that now familiar metallic chime he so loved.

The hall was tight for swordplay and so Ron had an obvious advantage over the wounded soldier who swung a much longer weapon. The fight was over quickly.

As the head of the Hunter bounced freely down the corridor, Ron turned on the final enemy; his blade dripping with the Kreete's blood and his visage cold and uncompromising. The single torch mounted on the wall illuminated the scene ominously, lending a portentous slant to the already grave situation. It was a sight no sane man would ever want to see.

Jarle had the fellow in his sights with an arrow pulled back to his ear, and the crossbow the guard held was empty. His shot had been hasty and erroneously wide of its target.

"Live or die!" Ron stated plainly. "It is your choice. Make it now!"

The man dropped his weapon and disarmed himself of all others.

"What's your name?" Ron asked the man after he'd cleaned and stowed the black sword.

"Elsdon."

"Well Elsdon," Ron began, stepping up close to the trembling, frightened man. "We are in need of some information. Come with us!"

He then retraced his steps to the outer portal, where it had all begun.

Ron recovered his moneybags and staff while Jarle and Elsdon fashioned a barricade for the opening which had once been sealed with the heavy door Ron destroyed. When they were done, all access from that location was effectively blocked off.

Next, they rid themselves of the bodies of the dead would-be kidnappers by stashing them in an upstairs room that Elsdon told them was used for spying on and targeting any passersby. Then, he, Lilea, and Jarle spent the rest of the night with the man, Elsdon Porteman, finding out exactly how things really worked in the city of Mardesh.

Elsdon needed little encouragement after he witnessed the wrath of Ron and Jarle, and so was an enthusiastic source of knowledge and experience in the ways of the municipality. He was also a very good guide around the urban expanse, eagerly escorting the Lampsh contingent to the far reaches of the tunnel systems under the city and avoiding Kreete patrols. By morning they knew how the prisoners were brought to the arena, the typical guards' routines, where the fighters were held until their matches, and how the "recruitment" of those poor souls was conducted.

Each of the seven different Commandants of the arena bouts was allotted a section of the city in which they made their "draftee" selections and captured whom they could. Most of those men and women were used as slaves or commerce. Some...the cream of the crop...were trained for the games if they were men, or sold into the pleasure trade if they were women.

Before the night's shroud had lifted, Ron took the Mardesh fellow out of the tunnels and escorted him well beyond the city's borders. The informant trembled from fear that this demon of a man was going to slay him in the remote area where Ron led, and so repeatedly swore he was only following his master's orders and not profiting from the waylaying of the innocents. He nearly fainted when Ron finally stopped and told him to go. He begged Ron not to shoot him in the back, but received only a single harsh reply.

"If I were going to kill you...you would have a clear view of it."

Elsdon set off westward at a fast pace, glancing back often to see if the dark menace followed, and vowing on the grave of his ancestors never to return.

Ron rejoined his Lampsh companions after midday, and together, they all snaked their way back down into the darkness of the underground maze. Elsdon, as it turned out, had also been very familiar with the champions of the arena, so the trio found out exactly where Crogan was being held and immediately began devising a plan to attempt his rescue.

That night, they found a secluded spot where dozens of barrels of ale were stored to age, and set up camp. One stood sentry while the others slept, rotating the guard duty every four billots.

The next day they carefully noted the comings and goings of the training facilities and timed the passage of the guards. The prisoners were held in a jail-like compound a third of the way from the arena to their internment camps. This allowed the bout coordinator to organize each of their matches and still maintain only the minimum-security concerns while they escorted the combatants to and from the coliseum. There were no Kreete soldiers in the holding area, which was a huge additional benefit for Ron and his cohorts.

The security details normally did little talking as they trudged along with their captives, which was another boon for the trio because they would likely not have to converse with the other guards after they made their move.

They never saw Crogan that day, but the routine of the sentries was well known as night drew near once more. When it came time to take all the slaves back to the training compound that evening, the guards were tired and not keenly alert.

The last group of them to exit the holding pen area was in charge of inspecting and locking up the cells, so two stayed back and completed that task while the others took the prisoners along to the encampment. Those men went missing and a new pair of guards in the old ones' uniforms completed the head-count of the group once again further on.

Ron and Jarle kept their hats pulled down low and walked purposefully at a small distance from the others, so in that dreary place none were the wiser. And when they reached their goal, the only inspection was of the slaves, so they strolled right through the gate.

Lilea stayed in one of the safe "crow's nest" hideouts where she could watch for any alarms or coming enemies and thus have a quick exit into the tunnels and out of the city. That was a tough decision for Ron and Jarle, but the men had no way of taking her with them, so it had to be done.

After entering the training camp, Ron and Jarle broke away from the chain gang and immediately began their search. The facility was enormous, and there were hundreds of guards and twice as many slaves and fighters. The place was mostly open to the sky, and a gentle falling drizzle dropped the temperature and allowed them to wear their hoods without suspicion, aiding them further in their deceit.

It took them well into the night to get around to only half the compound. They searched the infirmary, which was very busy, as was the dining hall; they being two essential services in that dreary place. The practice facilities were well lit with torches to allow the maintenance and repair of the vast array of devices they employed to sharpen their men's skills, but no fighters were present.

Next, they visited the holding pens where the prisoners were housed, but again, no sign of Crogan.

The section of the compound they neglected altogether was the part that housed the large number of men who presided over the complex, and the small section where the Kreete masters resided.

Most of the pens were walled in heavy stone, situated along the outer perimeter of the camp, with the cells' bars open to long corridors which separated them...much like a huge barn full of animals' cages. This arrangement was convenient for the guards because the inmates could be watched and monitored constantly by minimal patrols.

Unfortunately they soon found out the most prized fighters were housed in a different way altogether, one that did not allow for such easy inspection. When Jarle and Ron came across that building, they felt they were at the end of their search, however, they couldn't breach the security of the place. It was heavily guarded and authorized entry was strictly enforced. No one was allowed into the structure without being cleared first by the Overlord...a Kreete soldier...or his right-hand man...Froege Landon.

As the night slipped away, they decided their only real hope was to stake out the dining hall. Every inmate had to go through there for their meals and so they knew Crogan would show up eventually. With that objective set, they found a dark, isolated little niche in the main compound and hunkered down to wait.

The cafeteria jumped to life well before sunrise, when the wood stoves belched into operation, churning up an abundance of smoke that alerted everyone around. The smell of cooking and the sounds of clattering utensils woke Ron and Jarle easily, so they immediately got themselves into position.

They filed in with a large group of guards who were still bleary-eyed and moving slowly at that early billot. They grabbed a plate of food and hot drink and settled into a couple of seats at a little distance from the others, outwardly consumed in their meals and inwardly tensed for what was to come.

The food was good, and Ron silently thanked the cooks for such a fine breakfast. It had been a long while since he and Jarle had last eaten, and they relished it. When they were nearly finished though, they slowed their pace to drag out their time in the room.

That plan appeared to have failed when one of the supervisory guards swept by and ordered them to clear the seats of their lazy carcasses so "working" men could eat! That turned out all right though through pure happenstance, because the most important fighters were fed before the rest of the prisoners and were just arriving.

As Jarle and Ron took leave from the long bench, a group of fighters filed in across the room, less than fifty feet away. The third man into the room made Jarle perk up noticeably. Their search was over...it was Crogan Sevraign.

He was a large fellow, nearly as tall as Ron but heavier. Ron recalled the fit of his nightshirt, back on the road to Lampsh and realized the physical regimen of the training camp must have added considerably to the man's dimensions. His hair was dark brown and cut very short, with the top sticking out straight like a military flattop. He wore a sleeveless shirt of some animal hide that was laced in front, and trousers of a heavy woven material. His boots rose above his ankles and were old and worn but gave him good protection from the hard dirt of the training camp. Ron could see numerous scars on him; some old and faded and some still flaming pink. The man had seen a good deal of action.

Ron and Jarle split up then. Ron refilled his drink and walked slowly about the large hall, taking up a position near one of the double doors which led out of the building. Jarle strolled unceremoniously down one aisle between the long bench tables which were now filled with hungry men, acting as if he was inspecting the incoming prisoners.

He waited until they were all sitting and distracted with their meals...then eased right up to the back of Crogan and kneed him sharply in the back.

"What did you say, you flarge?" Jarle snarled at his friend before he promptly grabbed the large, unsuspecting man and pulled him from his seat to the floor.

"I'll teach you some respect!" he vowed as he grappled with the Lampsh leader.

An enormous brawl instantly broke out among the guards and the fighters, which resulted in many of the guards being seriously injured, as the trained warriors were extremely efficient at damaging the average man.

By the time the fracas was under control, Jarle had at least managed to find out that Crogan would fight that evening, and was able to pass along his message of escape to his longtime chum. Now all he and Ron had to do was exit the compound undetected and make ready for the attempt.

The encampment had good security and an immediate lockdown sprang into effect as soon as the fight broke out. As a result, not one gate opened for the next billot...not until every slave was accounted for and the governing commander had given the "all clear".

Ron and Jarle received their opportunity at that time, due to the in-house infirmary being overwhelmed with the casualties of the fight, and was forced to send a dozen of their guards to an outside hospital. They slipped into the wagon transports posing as the drivers' aides, and off they went, breathing much easier once the heavy gates were shut behind them.

After off-loading the injured men, Ron and Jarle simply faded away into the early morning darkness just as the sun began to peek over the horizon. They strolled about the waking streets for a time to ensure their covert actions had gone unnoticed before making their way cautiously back to Lilea...who, by then was nearly panicked with worry.

"We found him!" Jarle said to her, his face jubilant with satisfaction, although his eye was swollen and his jaw was obviously bruised. It had been a very exciting fight.

"You found him?" she responded as her knees failed her and she dropped to the floor of the little room. "Is he well? Is he injured?"

Jarle smiled a huge grin and rubbed his jaw.

"He was in perfect health when he nearly took my head off with that heavy right hook of his!"

Lilea burst into tears for a short while; so relieved was she to have confirmation of his life status. She then grilled the men for every detail of the visit until she was positive she knew all that had occurred.

"We must get ready if our plan has a chance of success," Ron finally confessed. "We have little time to waste before his match this afternoon."

They then went over the entire plan from beginning to end several times, until they each knew every step and every contingency they'd thought of. After all phases were clear, Ron separated from Jarle and Lilea and went off to get into position.

While the sun began to burn through the light fog still trying to dampen the day, they managed to get a couple billots sleep...just enough to keep them going.

The day was going to be extremely exhilarating!

### Chapter Thirty-five

### Crogan Sevraign

The matches went on as usual in the morning, attracting crowds in droves like Sunday football on Earth. Those who gathered came from all walks of life and every corner of the surrounding territories, each cheering for their representative combatants, or just someone who caught their eye.

As usual, it was late in the afternoon before the more important (more dangerous) clashes began, and as Crogan Sevraign, champion of the Lampsh Territory, stepped out into the arena, one person in the stands wept with joy.

She desperately tried to let him see her, but he had little time to scan the crowd before his attention was focused elsewhere.

Three others also entered the large round enclosure across from Crogan, and they were hastily discussing their strategy as they drew closer to him. One had a long broadsword; one had a heavy spear; and one had a short sword with a shield.

Once the bets were all placed and the announcer rang the heavy gong used to start the match, the three-man team went quickly to work. They parted smoothly, none of them in a hurry, and began to maneuver around Lilea's heartthrob.

The Lampsh hero simply strode forward until he was in the center of the circular venue and waited...his own sword and shield at the ready. He looked to the heavens and noted the fairly light wind that nudged the lower clouds along through the deep blue of the surrounding sky, and that sight made his heart ache. There were birds swirling above and diving into the crowds, hunting for scrap pieces of bread and crackers...whatever they might find...and he remembered the freedom of his home. He longed for it terribly...the clean, sweet air and the quiet of the mountains...the joys of time spent with friends and his siblings, and the solitude of the parc farm. But the one thing he missed the most was his wife. The only way he was able to make it through each day was by closing his eyes and remembering their time together.

They'd lived their entire lives in the Lampsh Territory, and he'd watched her grow into the beautiful woman she now was. He was six years her senior, and had begun to care for her in his twentieth year. He matured and became well respected in the community as his leadership qualities surfaced, and when she came of age, he immediately responded and was well received. Two years later, when Lilea turned seventeen, they wed and moved to the parc farm where they lived in utter contentment for five years...before the Kreete finally tore them apart.

He could see her clearly when he wished. He could recall the fragrance of her and the feel of her heavenly, curvaceous body. His entire motivation of living was just to return to her arms...to hold her again.

As the three warriors closed in on him however, her memory went into a vault in his mind...closed to all around him. His jaw set firmly in an instant, and his thoughts went back to survival.

The fellow with the spear lunged in; trying to drive him back to the other two, but Crogan was no fool. He'd been well trained, understood such simplistic tactics, and had fought dozens of matches. He met the spear with his shield cocked at an angle which sent the sharp head glancing away, and then he swiped at the man with his sword as a warning...not intending to actually reach him. He got the desired effect though, driving him back a step or two.

Crogan then spun quickly about and dropped to the ground with his shield now held high to meet the downswing of the long sword. The precision of his moves seemed almost choreographed but he'd never seen those men before and merely acted off instinct, subtleties in their body-language, and the sounds around him. The noise of feet shifting and sliding across the arena's floor...the whistle of thin steel through the air...the grunt or gasp from an opponent...all told him what was occurring in his immediate vicinity as clearly as his eyes would have. The roar of the crowd was blocked out completely.

The ring of hardened steel on the metal strapping of the shield rang out clearly in the stands and Lilea flinched hard, holding her breath. Her heart was beating faster than that of her mate as she watched him roll from his position and spring up directly at the man who was armed as he was.

Crogan crashed into him with blade and shield wailing away. The combatant was a large fellow...equally Crogan's size and strength...but he couldn't match the ferocity of the Lampsh champion. They exchanged several powerful blows in rapid succession as the other two of the trio moved in again, and then Crogan danced away nimbly. Ron could tell he was just testing their coordination.

Crogan managed to get outside their initial circle and kept his barrage up with a fast-paced charge of swinging steel. That maneuver quickly encompassed the two sword-wielding adversaries in an arcing move which forced the spearman to break into a run to outflank him.

When that opponent finally made it around and attacked, he found out why Crogan Sevraign had managed to reach the level he was at. Lilea jumped as her husband disengaged the two other men, whirled around swiftly, and parried the spear aside once more. He expertly allowed it to shoot through the small gap between his arm and his ribs before he dropped his sword and shield and gripped the long wooden shaft with both of his large hands...all of this happening in a split lita.

The crowd gasped at that move, fearing a grave injury to the big man because of the way the spear appeared to pierce his body.

The spearman was merely inches away from him then as Crogan locked the weapon in the crook of his arm for leverage and went on the offensive. In a blindingly quick move, he pivoted and kicked its owner hard enough to propel him into and through his allies, bowling one of them over completely and forcing the other to stumble and swing wide.

The crowd could see the surprise on the man's face clearly, even through his helmet, and they gasped anew. Crogan wrenched the spear free of his adversary's flying form and charged straightaway. The fellow wasn't without some skill, so he rolled nimbly and regained his feet in a beautiful maneuver, but it didn't matter.

As the multitude of stunned onlookers leaped to their feet in the stands, Crogan whirled the heavy shaft around and crippled its former owner with a bone-shattering blow to his left shin. The leg gave way and the man screamed, but he didn't hit the ground before another blow crashed into his right shoulder, snapping his collarbone.

Crogan continued his motion, carrying his focus back around to the remaining two as if he'd just completed a fine dance move. He was smooth and controlled and at the ready again instantly.

Ron had slowly worked his way to his designated position for what was to come next and then blended in with the crowd of gawking, screaming fans all around him. He smiled at the battle. That's what he called a fighter!

The fellow with the shield and short sword moved in quickly and tried to occupy Crogan's attention while the other slipped to the right. The spear spun about briskly, rotating quickly between the wooden end of the shaft and that of the metal tip, slamming into the man's shield heavily as he swiped his sword harmlessly beneath that barrage. He found out immediately that he could not get within reach of his assailant without exposing himself openly to Crogan's attack...and that was not a gamble he was willing to make just yet.

Crogan kept this assault going for a good while, showing no sign of tiring, as the two desperately tried to keep up with him. When the long-swordsman would swing, or lunge, Crogan always met his blade with a countering blow to drive it aside, setting up a perimeter of defense they could not breach.

Finally, the long-sword-swinging fellow encroached a bit too far and was immediately rewarded with the metal tip of the spear raking the armor on his chest hard enough to send him sailing to the ground.

Crogan swept back around to the other man, but instead of showering his shield with blows as the man expected...he pulled up short of the warrior's reach. The sword-fighter swung the shield up again, expecting the hard shock of the spear to be felt as it had so many times before, but for some reason, it didn't come. That surprise was negated quickly however, because he found his guard was suddenly opened...and the tip of that weapon was racing at him. He held is blade at the ready to make a counterstrike, but that was only good if the spear slammed into the shield. As it turned out, the blow wasn't at the expected location, so his parry was utterly foiled.

He had time enough only to gasp before sixteen inches of spearhead penetrated his upper chest and shoulder. The sword fell away as his arm went completely dead, and then Crogan withdrew the spear's tip and whirled around to the final fighter.

Before the man regained his feet, Crogan tossed the spear aside and took up his sword and shield again. The man with the longer blade gripped his weapon with two hands and took a moment to get in some well-needed deep breaths of air. Then he charged!

Crogan swung the smaller blade with both hands as well, but it was far lighter and faster so he easily turned the attacker's weapon aside time and time again. It wasn't a long battle before the newcomer was growing weary from the weight of the blade, and Crogan slipped inside his guard and cut him.

The contest was to continue until there was only one left standing, and it reached that state a few moments later when the last of the initial trio dropped to the turf unarmed...bleeding from numerous wounds.

The crowd roared with elation as Crogan turned from the match and started back to his designated point of entry...his body shaking with adrenaline and surging from bloodlust. As the guards filed out, he dropped his blade and waited for them to chain him again before they led him slowly out of the arena and into the underground access tunnel.

Medical teams poured out to attend to the other men, and the audience members began reliving the fight in great detail. The crowd milled about as they spoke, twirling and jabbing in mock battle while either slowly moving toward the exits, or preparing for the next fight.

That's when Ron, Lilea, and Jarle made their move.

They each reentered the underground labyrinth by way of a different portal, and took up their positions.

As the group of six guards leading Crogan went by, Lilea doused the fires which lit the side passages behind them, rendering their view in that direction extremely limited.

When Crogan reached the chosen crosswalk, a large cloaked figure stepped into the path of the group. Two of the front guards fell away to the reports of crossbow fire...the other went down with a sliver of deep blue metal buried in his chest. Crogan dove to the side path and blades crossed in rapid succession as the remaining guards succumbed to attackers at their front as well as their rear.

"Well done!" Ron said as he stepped into the light at the feet of Crogan, his cloak still shrouding his figure. He was facing the darkness, his eyes quick and sharp.

"Who are you?" Crogan asked Ron.

"An ally!" came a voice from the darkness of the main corridor.

Crogan turned his attention to this newcomer and immediately let out a massive smile.

"Jarle! My old friend!"

Ron plucked his knife from the deceased guard and disappeared down the darkened corridor as the two friends were reunited.

"How have you managed all this?" Crogan asked.

"Later, my friend. We have little time right now," Jarle replied as he went to work on the shackles of his lifelong chum. "Our plan has only a small window of opportunity."

They then heard some echoing noise from down the tunnel that sounded like rapid footfalls of sandaled feet, and it was coming from the direction of the holding cells of the training camp. The fight had been heard and reinforcements were on the way. It was time to move out!

Jarle rifled through the keys he took from the guard and in moments Crogan was rid of those heavy manacles. He got to his feet and followed Jarle into the main shaft where they went to work with two pry bars Ron had stashed along the dark edges of the nearby hallway. Ron had previously loosened the central ceiling supports, and so they both attacked those header-stones vigorously.

Ron returned then and whisked a smaller form around them and into the lighted corridor where that slighter individual continued onward to open the locked door at the end. Ron then pulled his dark rapier free and, using it as a third prying tool, bent his back into the job the other men were engaged in. A moment later, the stone slid neatly to the edge of its berth. Ron put one hand on that stone and sheathed his blade quickly. Then he grabbed Jarle by the arm, and slung him out of the way as the rock teetered on the verge of collapse. Jarle's eyes opened wide when he felt the force of Ron's urging, feeling almost childlike in the grasp of that fierce warrior, but he didn't protest or dawdle.

"Move!" Ron ordered to Crogan while he held the keystone in place.

Crogan didn't hesitate either. Something in the voice of that man was not to be denied, so he was away instantly, joining Jarle in the side alley, well clear of the main one. The sounds of the prison guards were loud now...they were within bow range. Jarle and Crogan heard a loud, deep grunt, and then the entire tunnel rumbled and shook.

They fell back several feet farther, and then looked up to see that dark figure stepping past them at a fast clip...apparently unaffected by the billowing dust and debris enveloping them all.

"This way," Ron said without slowing.

The torch at the junction then went out too, leaving them in near total darkness to follow the cloaked man by feeling their way along.

Two hundred feet down the passageway they began to see a dim light emanating from a portal to the right, and that's where they headed as swiftly as they could.

They followed a retreating torch for over half a hoz. It was moving at a fast pace and made three more turns through the maze before the trip brought them to a narrow, arched door. They entered that doorway and up they went. Three flights of stairs later they broke out onto an open-air balcony that was used as a lookout over the eastern end of the city of Mardesh.

It was nighttime again when they emerged and Crogan nearly shouted with delight at the sight of the open Caronian sky. He took a deep, cleansing breath; relieved to be out of that dismal tunnel at last, and then faced his two rescuers.

"Now, Jarle," Crogan finally said, "you must tell me, how is Lilea? Is she all right? Is she safe?"

Jarle smiled at his boyhood friend and replied, "Fine, yes, and yes!"

Crogan stared at him confoundedly for a moment. "Good. I've worried for her every day since our separation."

"You need not worry any longer," said a soft, feminine voice from behind the bulk of the cloaked man who accompanied his friend, one who was carefully scrutinizing every inch of the cityscape.

Crogan visibly jumped from the shock of hearing that sweet sound and his head snapped around to find it. The large man who'd ordered him away back in the main tunnel stepped smoothly aside and revealed the petite figure that had led them down those long tunnels.

Lilea then stood motionless in front of her husband, barely five feet from him, and smiled up at his face.

Crogan was dumbstruck! He couldn't move. He gazed at the woman as if she were a beautiful statue he could not touch...and then the champion of the Lampsh Territory did something he'd never done in his adult life. The man who'd defended his people in scores of matches against the fierce beasts of the Triad as well as hardened warriors who would've taken his life gladly had he not been so gifted a warrior, wept like a child.

She rushed to him and he enveloped her completely, crushing her small figure into his embrace. She kissed his face and held him with tears of her own pouring down her cheeks, her feet swinging in midair all the while. He finally held her out from him, to behold her at arms' reach, still with her hovering a full foot off the ground.

"Is it really you, Lilea?"

"Yes, my darling!"

They embraced again for a long moment until:

"Forgive me," said Ron, glancing about the rampart. "We must get going."

Crogan turned to him then and set Lilea down, although he didn't let go of her.

"Who are you?"

"That's for another time, Crogan Sevraign," Ron replied. "Right now, we must move. We have to get you out of this city before sun-up. Come this way!"

Ron stepped to the wall and scanned the area once more before sending Jarle down a rope he tossed over the edge. He then sent Lilea, and right behind her went Crogan. Lastly, Ron hauled up the rope and lowered himself with the winch cable, leaving nothing behind to show they'd ever been there. Once they were together again, they set off for the nearest concealing building.

They worked their way quickly through the fringe of the city proper and were out in the ever-thickening woods of the nearby forest in fine fashion. The four of them followed a clear trail made by the residents that frequented the Tresse River and were soon at the only obstacle which threatened their safety...a bridge spanning the waterway.

The bridge was wide enough for two passing wagons to cross at the same time...not the giant produce haulers Lilea and her sister had used, but rather the common cart and run-of-the-mill type of vehicle.

On the side where beasts were used to tow barges upstream, the elevated structure of the bridge was designed so there was a walkway underneath it large enough to accommodate the rouker teams pulling the watercraft. The river was wide, and so there was a center support column too, which aided the spanning of its breadth. It was built out of stone to a height of six feet above the river's surface, and then of heavy timber to the base of the roadway. Those massive wooden legs were further bolstered by lashing them together using steel bands and chain. The bridge also had a small stone edge constructed into its upper surface along both sides like curbs. They were installed to help keep the wagons from accidentally slipping a wheel off and plunging into the water. The bridge wasn't the most elegant design but was well built and very sturdy.

Ron went around to approach the causeway from a different direction, and calmly walked across the wooden structure arching well up and over the eighth-hoz-wide waterway. The sentries stationed at the base of the well-trodden route looked him over but did nothing to stop him.

According to their plan, Lilea went next and started a conversation with the men on the nearside. She behaved as if she was lost and in need of directions to the town of Ospui, which lay just two hoz to the east of the river.

Crogan slipped out of the wooded thicket and around them while his lovely wife managed to engross the men with her predicament. Her normally tightly laced bodice had "accidentally" loosened up quite a bit, allowing the reflected light from the Caronian moon to accentuate her heavenly figure provocatively.

Jarle finally made his appearance once Crogan was safely across, and collected his "sister", as he addressed her, from the helpful guards.

"I knew you'd get lost!" he complained to the apparently confused woman. "Come on...it's this way. I'm sorry fellas. I hope she didn't annoy you too much."

"No, no, no," they both blurted at the same time. "It was no bother at all."

Jarle whisked Lilea along hurriedly then, to the dismay of the guards.

With that behind them, they followed the distant forms of Ron and Crogan well beyond sight of the watching soldiers, keeping their distance until they were all in the protection of the woods again.

The four of them then turned south and headed off as quickly as they could for the next two billots. When they came to a small community called Minster, they settled into a little hollow beside the trail to wait for the coming sunrise. This out-of-the-way town was where Ron had boarded Lilea and Jarle's horses after releasing Elsdon. He'd also purchased a third one during his short stay, so they'd be ready to go as quickly as possible.

As it was though, they didn't want to draw too much attention by barging in at such an early time of day, so they forced themselves to languish about until the town was fully alive again. Lilea and Crogan were enthralled with each other, and Ron and Jarle kept a watchful eye on the road leading back to Mardesh.

No one spoke much as the time clicked away agonizingly slowly and the citizens of Minster began to stir.

They counted on the announcement of the escape being delayed because of the cave-in of the tunnel so when all was quiet in the morning, they enjoyed a leisurely breakfast like everyone else and tried to look nonchalant. A billot later they gathered their belongings from the stables and made ready to ride off like any other travelers.

"I wish you all well," Ron told them as he stepped back.

"You're sure we can't talk you into coming with us?" Jarle asked him.

"I must find my partner...and her last known destination was Mardesh," Ron explained. "I'll stay until I either find her, or I'm certain she's not there."

"But where will you look?" Lilea asked, concerned that he might be in serious trouble should the training facility lord find out he'd helped with the escape. After all, he'd made it pretty clear to a number of people that he was out to free Crogan...and he wasn't someone most people forgot easily.

"I believe I'll pay another visit to our old friend...Reese."

"I'll come back with you then," Jarle told him as he made ready to dismount.

"Thank you, Jarle...but no! You two must escort Crogan to your people so the future plans we discussed are in order when the time comes," Ron returned. "I can handle Reese."

Jarle nodded his understanding and moved his mount away with Crogan, but Lilea stopped. She looked toward her husband first and then she leaped down from her saddle and ran to Ron. She jumped into his arms and hugged him tightly.

"Thank you for everything, Ron Allison!" she told him as they embraced. "Will I...we...ever see you again?"

Ron hesitated.

"I hope so Lilea...I truly do."

She released her grip around his neck and pulled back enough to kiss him on the lips.

Ron was surprised, but received her affection warmly.

"I'll miss you too!" he told her as he lowered her down to where her booted feet stood firmly again.

"I will pray that you find her quickly!" Lilea said as she regained the seat of her horse. "And that we are all rejoined soon."

"Tell Sharlese not to worry," Ron called to her as the three Lampsh natives rode away.

"I will!"

Ron watched with a heavy heart as they disappeared from his view...and then he turned himself back toward Mardesh.

"Reese!" he grumbled as he headed back to town.

### Chapter Thirty-six

### An Accounting

Ron reentered Mardesh without difficulty, and went immediately to the establishment where he and his friends first met with Reese Donmar...The Pit...but it was closed. Apparently it only opened after dark, when the trades he dealt in would be most prevalent.

There was a hint of excitement in the air...a buzz he couldn't quite pinpoint as he could hear none of the whispered talk the residents were passing between one another.

"Word of the escape is getting out," Ron surmised but had no confirmation.

Ron spent that entire day in search of Cache. He wasn't hampered in his endeavor but there were a great number of men clearly combing the town for information. One of the searchers began to approach him but when Ron locked his stern gaze with the young fellow; that man veered away and continued onward.

After lunch, Ron tried the arena, where much of the city congregated each day. He strolled up and down the aisles for billots, covering every inch of the place except for the private rooms that had their own balconies from which to view the action.

He was surprised to find not a single word uttered concerning the breakout. Undoubtedly, the secret was being suppressed by the Kreete overlords, or by the training camp owner, and covered up by continuing business as usual. He did take note however, that no fighters were coming from the tunnel he'd helped destroy.

Ron kept up his vigil until the final event was complete and the patrons all began filing out. The sun was setting so he took up a new position on a balcony across from the arena that allowed him a good view of the crowds as they headed back to the hotel district of the city. There was no sign of her.

He felt disheartened and agitated when he finally gave up the hunt and went off to get his evening meal. He found an eatery close by, not daring to go back to the restaurant he'd been frequenting for fear he'd be traced to that point by those who knew of his inquiries about Crogan.

Well after dark, Ron returned to Reese's hangout. The Pit was a typical enterprise geared toward unsavory gains...very interested in anyone who might be spending a large bankroll in their facility. And since gambling made up two thirds of its business, they welcomed anyone with deep pockets. He flashed a heavy purse to the guards at the entry door and they smiled and waved him through. That was good. It told him he wasn't personally being hunted yet.

Ron checked Reese's private room, but the guards weren't around and no one answered when he knocked.

"He's not in yet," called a high, lilting voice from downstairs.

Ron turned to see a scantily clad young woman sauntering up the steps, her eyes scanning him from head to toe.

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"You never can tell with him. When he's bored, I guess. I can keep you company while you wait though...if you like." She flashed him a sultry smile and winked.

Ron just smiled back and glided down the stairs. He didn't want to insult her, but he wasn't about to entertain her either.

He casually made his way around the interior of the large building several times, avoiding the areas which were prone to sexual favors and noting every other type of game they sponsored...even partaking of some to kill the time.

There were games of chance, like the typical shell game, and games that used skills such as knife throwing in a contest much like darts. He did well at that and earned a little more money, but moved on so as not to become too familiar to the various seedy onlookers. There were also card games he didn't understand, strength contests involving lifting of weights, and wrestling in a ring. There seemed to be no end to the ways one could amuse one's self.

Eventually Ron came across a rowdy fellow at a table challenging all patrons to best him in arm wrestling. He would give ten to one odds on anyone brave enough to sit at the table and face him. Ron saw no harm in that simple game, so he slipped into the chair and addressed the man.

"I'll put down one hundred draukas," Ron told the fellow, setting his purse on the table next to him. It was filled with the coins he'd just won with his knives, so he felt no hesitation at losing it.

The fellow was a huge beast of a man who looked as large as a lineman for a pro football team. His arms dwarfed Ron's in comparison and he had no visible neck, as his heavily muscled shoulders looked like they connected right to the base of his skull. He had long, brown hair pulled back and braided behind him, and he was missing a front tooth. The big man grinned at Ron like a bully in a playground watching the smaller children.

"All right, friend!" the fellow told Ron. "I am Sorpen."

"Good evening. I'm Ron."

The burly man then turned to the crowded room and announced the contest.

"Come one and all! Witness the contest of true men who would wage battle with no weapons other than those in their arms! I have a poor soul here in need of a lesson in such warfare! Come on and place your bets! Who among you think this little fellow has a chance against the undefeated champion of The Pit?"

This hawking routine drew a quick group of onlookers, and when Ron threw back his cloak and could be seen more clearly, he attracted equally as many of the pleasure girls. Ron stretched his shoulders for a few moments and then sat calmly at the ready. Sorpen continued running his mouth for a while longer, hoping to build a larger audience for his feat of strength. He was quite the showman.

Finally, he turned his attention to the game before him and regarded Ron.

The table was anchored securely to the floor and set with the usual objects for such a sport. There was a pad for each of the contestant's elbow on their respective side and a heavy peg anchored into the side of the thick wooden surface, for leverage of the free hand. Beside each of the pegs was a dark spot in the table, as if the wood had been heated on numerous occasions. Ron mused at those blemishes as he adjusted the pad to suit his position, and then he locked hands with the Mardesh brute.

As soon as they were ready however, another gentleman walked over from the nearest fireplace with two flat plates. He set them on both sides of the table, where the back of the loser's hand would eventually end up if he lost. The plates were glowing cherry red and had a raised impression of "The Pit's" logo on each of their surfaces.

"Wait a bort," Ron said. "I think I should withdraw."

The crowd around the table erupted in surprise and then turned angry. Sorpen just grinned.

"I thought you might change your mind, little one!" he said without releasing his hold on Ron's hand, "You look a little soft to play games with the men of this town!"

The crowd continued to compel Ron into changing his mind.

"I'm only thinking of your safety," Ron told the great bear of a man. "I don't wish to injure you."

Sorpen turned beet red at that little jibe. He gripped Ron's hand even tighter, not willing to let him release now.

"You see the back of my hand, stranger?" Sorpen asked, still red in the face with the heat of anger. "I've never been pinned! And I've been here for two years!"

Ron just smiled at him. The crowd sensed the building tension and stopped their complaining...focusing on the match now with intense interest.

One of the bar workers stepped up and placed his hands on the two contestants'.

"Ready?"

Ron and Sorpen both nodded without blinking...their glares radiating heat.

"Begin!" the man said as he released them and stood back.

Their arms locked into a bridge of sinew and bone that was as solid as the stone floor of the bar.

Sorpen was immensely strong. His grip could easily crush the heavy metal goblets in which the bar served its brews, and Ron both accepted and gauged that strength carefully. The big man's arms were not visibly defined, but he was a solid fellow, and his strength as a smithy was well known in the crowd of spectators...a detail Ron heard them whispering about before the contest. Ron could tell Sorpen could swing a heavy hammer all-day long without a hint of exhaustion, and inwardly he admired the man.

The onlookers noticed a marked difference in the limbs of the two men as Ron's arms and shoulders were a clearly discernible show of his strength. Every cord of muscle stood out and defined its existence with absolute clarity. As the contest continued, the blood flowing into those tissues coursed, the knot of his biceps increased, and the sheen of perspiration only magnified them all the more.

The women in the audience whispered in breathless tones.

Ron watched Sorpen's expression closely. The man was powerful and confident...he could tell that by the ease of his gaze, but what he was looking for was a sign of weakness...of fatigue. He increased the pressure of his own arm.

The Mardesh blacksmith felt the increase and his eyes told the story...he was already maxed out! He had no reserves with which to draw from. Sorpen tried to appear calm and in control, secretly hoping he could outlast his adversary as he'd always done in the past, but he'd never felt such an opponent. Ron increased the pressure a little more.

Sorpen's lids pulled back wide...and then his hand began to slide downward, rotating to a position completely foreign to him...the wrong way!

Sweat jumped out on the huge brow of the smithy. He knew he was lost. He became frantic and Ron felt him pull back harder for a moment, reaching down where he never had to go before. Ron increased his pressure even further.

Sorpen fought that losing battle a few more litas, watching his hand disobey his mind's commands in slow motion until he could hold on no longer.

There was a quick sizzling sound and a waft of burning flesh...and then Ron released his grip and withdrew his arm. Sorpen took his punishment through gritted teeth, and pulled back his injured hand quickly, his whole arm quivering from the strain. Ron showed no sign of fatigue at all. The big man glared at Ron for a moment, and then his expression took a quick turn that surprised everyone. He burst out laughing.

"Well done!" he cried loudly, smiling at Ron's reclining figure. "Let me buy you a drink!"

He then ordered the attendant to get Ron his money and called for a server.

A group of lovely women who were looking for a wealthy customer swarmed the two men quickly before Ron glanced up and saw Reese's personal guards had taken up their posts at his private chamber.

"I'm sorry, but I must be going," Ron apologized as he gathered his coins. "I have business to conduct. Thanks Sorpen...it was fun."

The smithy was too busy with his drinks and the ladies to mind Ron's leaving, and the crowd was already analyzing the match in fine detail, so he slipped away easily.

He went immediately up the stairs and bid the guards good evening as he tried to pass by them to see Reese. When they refused, he changed their minds for them. A few moments later, Ron pushed open the large, heavy door and entered the "secure" apartment of Reese Donmar.

Ron closed the door behind him, bolted it shut, and then stood there watching Reese take a massage from two of his nude beauties. He paid no attention to Ron at first, as his face was down in a pillow. He was stripped above the waist and surrounded by at least six lovely women, each clad in nothing but the jewelry he'd adorned them with.

"I'm looking for information!" Ron announced in a stern tone.

Reese's body went rigid immediately, and the girls attending him suddenly stopped their duties. The power broker raised his head slowly and regarded Ron.

"I must say that I'm surprised to see you," Reese told Ron as he sat up and motioned for the women to go.

They all disappeared to Ron's left, out a well-crafted door that he hadn't seen before, making him assume there were probably more such exits. Reese slipped his fine tunic on and sat down in his plush chair across from Ron.

"Why is that?" Ron questioned the man, "You have taken payment for a service that was not performed. I'm here to collect my money or make good on that deal. Either one can be your choice."

Reese smiled and then his eyes darted to the sides of the room. He was obviously expecting something to happen.

"What are you talking about?"

"I paid you to arrange for the release of one of the arena fighters. That didn't occur. You have my money, so I want you to either give it back or supply me with information that is reliable."

"I tried to tell you before...you were crazy to try to free a gladiator," Reese told Ron as doors at either side of the room opened. "So now these men are going to add you to 'my' stables."

"I think not," was all Ron said.

He burst into motion so fast two of Reese's guards were down before the rest could jump into action. Ron's sheaths emptied of their sleek weapons at a furious rate, taking four of the six guards with them. The dark sword clashed a dozen times, crushing the defenses of the remaining men utterly, and then they all lie strewn about the room, either grievously wounded or in some other way unresponsive.

Ron turned to Reese once more...his face unfeeling and his manner calm. The guards had barely raised his pulse.

"Must I repeat myself?" he asked.

Reese's face was exactly the opposite. It was blanched and drawn...his eyes wide and his hands were shaking.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said cautiously, his eyes nervously twitching. "The slave you were interested in was killed in a training accident two days ago. There's nothing I can do about that."

Ron inwardly smiled. "So that's the story they came up with," he thought before returning his attention to the moment.

"So I've heard," Ron told him, leaning forward and glowering at Reese menacingly. "I know about the practice of capturing and enslaving unsuspecting visitors in this town. What I demand is simple. I need for you to tell me if there has been a recent acquisition of a female of this description," Ron explained to him, and then he carefully described Cache to the man.

Reese listened nervously, and his mind reeled as he searched his memory. Suddenly, his face lit up.

"Yes!" he responded, his gasp letting out a sigh of relief, "She is here, in this very place!"

Ron was skeptical of such an easy end to his search.

Reese saw his expression and waved his hands.

"I swear to you! It's true! I'll take you there right now!"

Ron retrieved all his equipment and then motioned for Reese to lead on.

"I will gut you like a fish if you're lying to me," Ron promised.

Reese smiled apprehensively and exited out the right side door his guards had entered. He went through a long hallway which led over and behind the large club Ron had been spending time in, and into an adjoining structure.

The next doorway opened to a noisy, dimly lit, expansive room that reeked of incense, sweat, and sex. Reese led Ron across a high balcony overlooking the large room where a huge group of individuals were intertwined on the floor, in chairs, on couches and cushions, in a furious orgy of screaming, grunting bodies. The place vibrated with repetitive drumming music that seemed to pace the action, and they paid no attention whatsoever to the two men overhead.

Ron cared little for such behavior and didn't dally there.

They continued into a separate complex that was obviously a scaled down version of the city's coliseum. It looked to be about the size of a common hockey stadium, with descending rows of wraparound steps which served as seats as well. Those steps led down to a small, sandy-floored enclosure, where the event was to take place. The aisle ways were painted a bright yellow color to denote their function, yet were clogged all the same.

Reese and Ron stood at the very back of the complex, a hundred feet from the central focal point. The center of the place was an oval ring about three times the size of a boxing venue and was set down ten feet below the spectators. The crowd was at capacity of just over two thousand.

The ring was well lit from the ceiling, which used a large circle of fire reflecting downward by polished metal panels. The patrons were highly excited, and it was obvious there would be some event shortly since they were all on their feet and talking fast, expectantly.

"The woman you described will be out in a moment. She is scheduled to fight here, now, and is very gifted in the art of self-defense. She has already made herself famous by defeating several men during "challenge call".

Ron gritted his teeth and asked what he meant by that.

"She is challenged by men from the crowd, and if they win, they get to have their pleasure of her."

Ron had a stiletto at Reese's throat in a blink, holding the back of the man's neck with tremendous pressure. Reese nearly fainted.

"And did she lose?"

"No! No! She did not. Five nights in a row, she has escaped."

One end of the arena opened then, and a small figure wearing light armor and a helmet was ushered into the light. Ron could tell it was a woman and his heart lurched, but the crowd at the edge of the retaining wall blocked too much of his view, so he couldn't make out her features. He stood stock-still, unblinking, waiting for her to move farther out into the arena so he could see her carriage. A large man...one of the arena guards...threw a sword into the ring and she scooped it up swiftly, spinning around and around while watching the crowd with a wary eye.

Ron lowered the knife from Reese's throat and strained to see the woman. There came a loud order from someone at the edge of the circle and she reached up and removed her helmet, turning yet again to allow the crowd to see her. She had long straight black hair, dark skin, and dark eyes. She was an attractive, mature woman, well into her forties, and was clearly Caronian.

Ron was leaning forward to see the female warrior better, so Reese used the distraction to make his break for freedom. He shoved Ron hard, causing him to drop down a few steps to catch his balance, and then he ran for the far wall.

Ron growled deeply and set off in pursuit. Reese slipped through another well-camouflaged doorway and was pulling it shut when Ron caught the edge of the door with his fingertips. Reese was a large man and found enough strength to force Ron to brace himself to wrench the portal back open.

He had both hands on the edge of the door and one foot on the frame. In another lita that portal would fly back open and he'd have Reese's neck once more in his iron grip...but then something completely unforeseen occurred...something that stopped him cold!

His heart shuddered so forcefully he couldn't even think. He was entirely frozen in time as an astonishing, unexpected sound reached his ears.

A long, high-pitched, soulful call resonated around the room, immediately causing the crowd to go silent. Ron's head whipped around to find the source of that cry and instantly focused on the woman in the ring.

It was the call of the Rokore Clan of the Aredanz Mountains!

### Chapter Thirty-seven

### Kinship

He didn't give Reese another thought, releasing the edge of the door and racing down the stone steps toward the arena. The aisles were crowded with spectators trying to see the match which was just getting under way, and he plowed through them roughly, knocking several from their feet.

When he reached the edge of the arena, he saw the adversary the woman had been pitted against and his mind raced. It was a full-grown vorax!

Ron's memory blitzed through the data file he'd read during the long trip to Caron and the necessary information immediately surfaced.

"The vorax is native to the lowlands," it read. "The swampy, stagnant areas of the jungles and forests are where it thrives. In such places the larger animals are often hampered by the soft ground, slowed down enough to become its prey. It is a large creature, barrel-chested like a bear, with abnormally long arms which have three toes, each sporting eight-inch-long claws. Those natural weapons have the capability of ripping open a hollowed-out log with ease when in search of food...or completely decapitating a horse, as was known to have occurred.

"It is equipped with overly wide, flat hind feet that are webbed between its six toes...not for swimming, but rather for spreading out its substantial weight over enough area to support it in the mushy land. The beast will feed on anything it can catch, which is just about everything, and has two serrated tusks which work as well at crushing through wood as they do at ripping out the throat of an enemy.

"It is a quadruped, but moves surprisingly well on just two, and has a narrow head with an eerily elongated snout, no doubt enabling it to get into tighter avenues for a meal. It has small, forward facing ears that help it pinpoint prey moving about in the watery realm and a shrilly, chattering shriek that paralyzes most animals, giving it even more of an edge in the wild.

"Humans do not hunt it, and will generally steer clear of most any area where it leaves its marks on the trees. It is known for being extremely difficult to kill...and for being extraordinarily lethal in a fight."

Ron was over the barrier by the time that recollection had run its course, and he dropped into the lighted amphitheater a lita later, roaring out his own challenge to the beast that was rushing the woman.

The vorax abruptly stopped its charge and wheeled around to meet this newcomer. It was confused for a quick moment, and then it reared up on its hind legs and returned Ron's challenge.

The creature was a good twelve feet tall and had long, shaggy, dark brown fur. Its jaws opened wide enough to engulf a man's chest and those serrated canines were easily four inches long. The beast spread its forepaws to a span of over fifteen feet and brandished its long, deadly claws splayed apart like triple sickles.

Ron was at full draw on his bow in an instant and three missiles swiftly exited that powerful weapon in such rapid succession that they'd all disappeared into the beast before it realized it was in mortal danger.

The vorax dropped back down abruptly and hastily charged the smaller figure of Ron before he could get off any more shots. He met it full on with a matching level of snarling ferocity and the black, razor-edged blade of death leading the attack.

Ron didn't even try to evade the beast, but rather set his two swords moving in a furious, overlapping figure-eight pattern that stymied the enraged creature's charge with its flashing movements. The bewildered animal turned away briefly, buying Ron a precious few litas for the arrows' horrific cutting edges to do their grisly work, and for him to think. The huge vorax swatted at its smaller adversary a few times and roared again as its paws got lacerated in that gnashing blender of hardened steel that was Ron's defense.

The next time it reared up to roar, Ron slammed one blade into the ground and a foot long dagger took flight...straight into those gaping jaws. The beast cut short its cry and coughed hard as the metal device jammed into its upper palate preventing it from closing those deadly teeth. As it bit down, the double-edged dagger sent even more pain through its already tortured synapses, blood now spewing heavily from its many grievous wounds.

The screams from the attending crowd would have been deafening to the combatants if they hadn't been so consumed with the task of survival, but as it was, they never heard a bit of it.

An arrow grazed Ron's shoulder, fired from the direction of the audience, and he glanced around to see a security guard reloading his crossbow. Ron dove to his right in a quick tumble that put his bow back in his hands, and then he snapped around and drilled the guard with one of his own arsenal.

The instant that arrow left its rest, the enormous animal did something that took Ron completely by surprise. It leaped forward at him from its standing attitude, covering him like a huge, shaggy umbrella, and was too massive for Ron to elude.

The bow was forgotten again as he fell backwards, his hands wrenching his swords free and into the fray once more. He moved as quickly as he could but the vorax was too far ahead of him and the creature's breadth enveloped his relatively small frame with ease, crushing him to the turf.

Having little options, Ron simply hit the dirt with his weapons in a shielding posture across his chest, hoping for the best. When the creature's body went limp instantly, and didn't begin mauling him, Ron let out a grunting thanks to whoever was watching out for him.

His swords were buried in the great animal's chest and his head was just clear of the monster's shoulder so he looked quickly about him. It was only then that he saw the hilt of another sword protruding from the back of the beast's carcass. The woman had made a fantastic throw and done her part at finishing the creature before it could finish him.

Ron shoved the colossal beast over enough to slide out from under it, and then he and the woman freed their blades from the vorax before they lifted their voices to the sky once again; this time in unison.

The cry of the feared Piercellione tore through the coliseum like a verbal earthquake in an ardent show of superiority of their people, daring any among the crowd to step forward and face them.

As if responding to that challenge, the door into the arena opened immediately and a dozen men streamed through it with body armor and a wide array of weapons, half of which were crossbows.

Ron dived behind the carcass, hauling the woman with him. He rolled and came up with his own missile launcher at the ready. Three of the archers had fired at the retreating pair and missed, the evidence of their error sticking out of the hide of the vorax.

Ron sprang up and pinned one of the still armed soldiers to the wooden frame of the doorway; then he dropped prone as two more arrows searched him out with wayward results. Ron was up again and sent another two men to their deaths as they tried to reload.

The woman of the Rokore Clan spied Ron's blade in the mouth of the deceased animal and quickly freed it before hurling it expertly into the thigh of the nearest swordsmen. He went down hard as his leg gave way, and then turned ashen white as quickly as the nearby wall turned red. His femoral artery was cleaved in two.

The rest of the guards' group rushed the pair then, and Ron let fly with one more arrow. At that point he had to give up that long-range weapon to quell their attack with his swords as they were upon him and his female partner.

Ron stood back to back with the woman, and the crashing of steel on steel was literally painful to all in close proximity to the small arena, the echoing sounds nearly overwhelming in that small space. The guards didn't work well together though and quickly succumbed to the more skilled swordplay of the Rokore duo. All the while the attending patrons roared and screamed from the stands, elated that they could be present to witness such a fearsome battle.

Before long there were only two guards left standing, and they quickly decided to back off rather than follow their fellows to the grave.

Ron scooped up his bow, gripped the woman firmly by the upper arm, and hauled her with him out of the arena and through the tunnel the guards had used. He stopped only long enough to bar the door to the mini-coliseum, and then they were on their way.

The corridor to the establishment wasn't the intricate maze of the Kreete's fashioning, and so they were out and into the streets of Mardesh in mere moments, heading for the same region Ron had used on the previous night.

Ron once again took to the shadows of the buildings to allow them unfettered escape of the city, but this time when he reached the bridge he was forced to reconsider his hastily laid plan. The guards at the bridge weren't men this night, but rather Kreete scouts...a full squad of them...and they were allowing no one to cross.

Ron listened intently for pursuit but no alarm had been raised to stop them just yet, so they simply faded into the darkness of the woods.

He guided the woman through the forest, heading downstream for a couple hoz, and then they swam for the opposite bank with all they had. Ron did better than he thought he would, worrying that his heavy-worlder body would drag him down. He'd always been a strong swimmer though and his powerful strokes and kicks served him well, even with his personal armory adding to the burden. They were out soon and on their way again through the concealing woodland without incident.

The pair felt safe again in the dimness of the forest, even as they heard a commotion start to build from the direction of Mardesh. They were among the trees once again...and that was their domain.

Since Ron didn't want to alert anyone to his previous actions with his Lampsh friends, he decided to change his point of regrouping. To that end, he set off to the east, and as they made their way through the wilds to the city of Ospui, Ron finally had a chance to speak to the woman.

"How is it that you find yourself so far from home?"

She ceased her nonstop sweeping of the surrounding forest and gazed up at him, pausing for a long moment before speaking.

"I have been searching for a kinsman of mine for quite some time," she replied, her piercing stare never wavering. "He went missing nearly a cycle ago and was rumored to have been killed...but I don't believe that to be true."

Ron broke her gaze by checking their environs again, listening for any signs of pursuit or that they were not alone.

"Why do you not believe it?"

She looked at Ron once more with a level of intensity that suggested she knew something he did not.

"I have seen this man in battle...against unbelievable odds...against men and beasts...against the elements themselves. He cannot be killed!"

Ron chuckled at the thought, dismissing it totally as pure faith in someone whom she refused to give up on. It was simply nonsense to him.

"How did you end up on the wrong side of the great mountains?" he pressed.

"I was caught up in a great battle and received a grave injury. When I awoke, I was strapped in a bed in a remote infirmary. It was then that I realized I'd been captured. The Kreete slags used one of their airships and carried me away with a large number of others to the eastern side of the range where we were all sold into slavery."

"I'm sorry about that," Ron told her, "but it seems to be a common occurrence here on Caron."

"How is it you are on the wrong side of the range?" she returned.

"My story is one that is both long and fairly unbelievable, but let's just say I'm looking for someone as well. She has gone missing, and it's been at least several days, possibly weeks since she was seen. I have exhausted all my resources and have come up with nothing. My last chance escaped in the arena where I ran into you. An information merchant, Reese Donmar, led me to believe you were the woman whom I sought. I really don't know what to do now."

"Thank you for saving me from that life. I think the vorax was supposed to be my final match. My "uniqueness" was fading, I'm afraid."

"Forgive me," Ron apologized, stopping his walking to introduce himself, "I'm Ron Allison."

She laughed briefly and inclined her head in Caronian fashion. Ron puzzled at her reaction.

"I am Terista."

They set off again at a brisk walk, comfortable in knowing if they heard anyone coming they could simply fade into the woods and disappear, but that did not occur.

For the rest of the night, they took a roundabout path to Ospui, and Ron instructed Terista about how to find Jarle, Crogan and all the Lampsh Territory warriors.

When they arrived in the small community, they had little trouble purchasing Terista the means by which she could make her expeditious retreat of the Mardesh area, and Ron gave her half of his gold. She pleaded with him that he had done too much, but he was adamant. In the end, she relented and readied her new mount for the long journey.

When they separated, Ron handed her a small leather pouch and told her, "When you're asked to prove you were sent by me, just show them this."

It was his signet ring.

"Won't they think I stole it...or killed you for it?"

Ron smiled broadly at that, recalling the way the Lampsh folks spoke about him with such high esteem. "No...I don't think you could make them believe either at this point."

Terista considered the ease at which he'd so miraculously saved and then freed her, and she figured what he said was true enough. "Farewell then."

She started away at a trot, and then spun her steed back around.

"I nearly forgot to return this to you," she said as she slipped the throwing knife she'd borrowed back in the arena out of her belt and flipped it to the dirt at Ron's feet.

He was startled that he hadn't noticed its absence and thanked her for returning it.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"I haven't thought about it much really. I've been a bit preoccupied," he smirked. "I guess I'll have to start searching again...but I'll have to be much more cautious since so many people have seen me now."

"This woman you search for," Terista said, pausing a bit to think. "Is she your heart-song?"

Ron was taken aback at that question. He considered it for a long moment before replying.

"I...don't know. I've been through a great deal in the recent past, and my life has been turned upside down...but I think...maybe."

She smiled down at him warmly.

"You know, it might be a waste of breath, but I've been here for several santari recuperating from my wound, and have seen many women pass through Mardesh. If you describe her to me, I may have seen her."

"I'll try anything at this point, no matter how outlandish.

"The last time anyone saw her was about three weeks ago. She has bright blonde hair, down past her shoulder blades, and has light skin...much lighter than a Caronian native."

"That certainly narrows the field down, but many exotics have come through this vile place."

"Well if you've seen her close enough, you would never forget her eyes. They're..."

"Murge?"

Ron was stunned. He stood there looking up with his mouth open, staring at Terista. Time seemed to stand still while his mind tried to wrap itself around that news. His heart felt as if it had stopped for a long few litas while he held his breath.

"Yes!" he finally croaked. "That's right! You've seen her then? Where is she?"

"I don't know. I saw her two days ago with a group of slaves going to a dealer at the southern marketplace. A place called Berg's Bevies."

Ron remembered seeing that place when he'd walked back from the town of Minster yesterday morning. He may have passed right by her without knowing it.

"Shit!" he grunted.

"I overheard my owner say that she'd been purchased by a slag leader of great importance, and was to be shipped to some small city via water barge, and then on to the town of Huinrag. I don't know where it is though. I'm sorry."

Ron quickly thought of the quickest way back to that market. They would know when and where the transport had gone. He calculated the distance quickly. It was just about ten hoz through the forest to the northeast.

"Thank you Terista. Good luck to you," he called as he set off toward the market at a dead run and plunged into the thick woods.

"I will see you again...Kaskle," the woman said softly to his retreating figure.

Ron flew through that densely wooded stretch of land like a running buck, plowing along with no regard to any potential danger, and reached the place called Berg's Bevies in just over a billot, winded and tired, but exhilarated. It was one of the simple roadside stands which were little more than a raised, wooden-floored deck. The platform was partially covered, which kept the women out of the glaring sun and any poor weather, and provided enough space to display a dozen girls at a time, each chained to a heavy wooden post.

There were four men at hand, two were browsing the selection and two were engaged in the speech the owner was voicing. Ron rushed up to the robust young hawker who was displaying his latest merchandise and interrupted him in the middle of his sales pitch.

"I need some information about one of your recent sales!" Ron told the man gruffly.

The fellow didn't seem interested in someone who was not intending to make a purchase, so he tried to ignore Ron's request, breaking back into his pitch to the pair of interested customers.

Ron's temper flared briefly into open flame before he reached up to the man and yanked him off the dais and pressed him roughly to the ground, a deep growl rumbling from his chest like a tiger. The prospective clients quickly evacuated the scene, preferring to move on or come back at another opportunity.

"I said I need some information about one of your recent sales!" Ron growled at the now quivering man splayed out on the hard-packed dirt.

Two large individuals that provided his "product's" security rushed forward to his aid. Ron looked up at them with blazing eyes and they stopped short of him.

"Stand down or die!" he ordered with his right hand on the hilt of the ebony blade.

The men noted his glare, the ease with which he'd overwhelmed their boss, and his short-tempered disposition, and suddenly decided they were not paid enough to engage such a foe. They decided to keep their distance at that point...after all; their employer hadn't really been harmed...yet.

"Yes! Yes! Of course!" the man responded...now completely focused on the matter at hand. "What can I do for you?"

Ron described Cache and repeated what he'd been told by Terista.

"Yes!" the man replied. "I remember her. Her eyes were so stunning. I wish I had more like her. She brought an extremely high price!"

The thought of Cache being sold like an animal forced an eruption of deep growls from Ron, and his grip on the man tightened.

"Where is she headed? In what direction?"

The man pointed a shaking finger to the southeast.

"Downstream for two days to Haadel and then due east across the Preensel Mountains to Huinrag," he said quickly.

Ron relaxed his hold and lifted the man to his feet, brushing the dust from the fellow's tunic.

"What is the fastest way down the river?" Ron asked pointedly.

The man was still extremely excited, and responded quickly.

"The roads don't follow the river in that direction," he said, his thoughts of travel leaping to the differing modes that were available. "And in many places, the towpath is nonexistent...they have to haul the barges upriver by hoz-long ropes that pull them through the most treacherous parts of the waterway. The quickest route would be by niytone."

The blank expression on Ron's face convinced him to elaborate.

"A niytone is a vessel powered by slaves...oarsmen. It can travel three times as fast as by drifting and poling."

Ron understood then.

"Where might I find such transport?"

"Normally, you could just walk up and purchase passage at the Mardesh docks, but I heard Darton Wasch, the Kreete Lord over Mardesh City, shut down those docks. Something about a fugitive on the loose who killed some guards in the city two nights ago. You'll have to wait until the security net is lifted."

Ron's mind shifted into high gear. He would not wait. There must be a way to get around the system. Then it hit him.

"You seem to be quite knowledgeable about such things," Ron told the man slyly, shaking his money purse just enough to make a subtle suggestion.

"Oh! Uh...I could ask...uh...it would be very costly!"

"Get me on a boat and you can name your price!"

By the end of the day, Ron Allison was speeding along down the Tresse River...and Wess Berg was counting a small fortune.

### Chapter Thirty-eight

### Deadly Pursuit

Nighttime in the midst of a strange, black forest is a terrifying experience for men who are accustomed to the more familiar...and identifiable...sounds of the city, or the open expanses of the plains. Trained warriors or not, the beastly grunts, shrieks, and cries in the dark can be eerie and unnerving, sending one's imagination reeling with indescribable dangers. Terror seeps into one's thoughts at such times, especially when there is someone, or something out there you know has been tracking you for the past two days like the prey of some hideous sport. Shadow and dread soon become all too familiar as you wait for it to come again...that something in the dark that makes no sound, has no face, no form...and no pity!

The narrow mountainous path where the remaining dozen men were taking shelter was meant to expedite them to a place of sanctuary, not end their lives...yet it was the latter, not the former, that was quickly coming to be. The woods were alive in every direction...alive with the kiss of death.

Haadel: two days earlier.

Graen Urian, a Kreete soldier of the Slayer class, stood brooding at the bow of a barge as it drifted slowly toward a dock at the port of Haadel. He was in a foul mood and the dreary, drizzly weather did nothing to help his disposition.

He contemplated his choice of assignment while the human crew guided the craft skillfully in, and wondered at what might have been, had he not left his last position.

He was a brand new Slayer, having moved up in rank less than a santari ago, and had requested a spot on a Vanguard patrol unit. Those slots were difficult to get and required diligence, patience, and an exemplary record...and it didn't hurt to have some well-timed recommendations from a senior officer as well. His former commander was just such a fellow, but that mattered little now since he was dead. Grean's last station was Flouret.

Neadorn's glowing appraisal had gotten Graen assigned to Huinrag and had even caught the eye of the city's governor, Meerstal Trealnian. But when word got out of Neadorn losing his entire strike team to some unknown Caronian army, Neadorn's past record was good for nothing but verbal fodder. Instead of sliding into a place of respect among his own kind, Graen suddenly found himself saddled with a group of mere humans and shipped off to Mardesh to oversee the transport of a string of slaves. He was certain his humiliation could not get any worse.

Graen looked up from his sullen stupor and his silver eyes searched the fog-shrouded shoreline for his troopers. Seeing no one, he turned to the only member of his team accompanying him on the boat, Darcon Koorn, the senior human of the group.

"Where are my men?" he growled.

Darcon broke out in a cold sweat at that because he'd been looking for them too, and feared what to expect if they disappointed their commander.

"Maybe they're just hunkered down somewhere out of the rain," he thought desperately. "After all, it's still early morning."

He put his fingers to the edges of his lips and blew a loud, shrill, blasting whistle out into the little town...and then prayed.

As the barge bumped into the wooden dock a few borts later, the thundering of horses' hooves approaching let him breathe freely again. By the time the barge's ropes were taught and secure, thirty-four serious-looking riders had pulled up and surrounded the land-side area of the dock. They were all well armed and one of them was leading Graen's mount...a reenack.

The reenack was a bizarre creature to Caronians. It was as large as a Clydesdale horse but had stout, broad feet instead of hooves, and a shorter, thicker neck. The head of the beast had three horns sprouting from its cranial plate that spread out and a bit forward, lending exceptional protection from an attack at that end. The animal's legs were as long as a horse's but much more robust, to support the massive weight of its body and that of the rider. At its flank, it had a very short tail which stood straight up like a flagpole, with long, white hair sprouting from it splayed in all directions. (To an Earth man it would have resembled a cheerleader's pom-pom) The creature's head was what drew most of the attention however. It had large, oval eyes the color of cinnamon and cone-shaped ears much like a rhinoceros'. In another odd twist, its mouth was much like that of a typical feline...short, wide, and fairly covered with whiskers...but the reenack was primarily a grazing animal as strange as that might seem.

The beasts were the very opposite of skittish, could travel long periods without water, and had little trouble hauling the Kreete soldiers and their gear. Too, they did not seem to tire easily and were intelligent enough to take commands well.

"Get them loaded!" Graen barked at Darcon before he stepped from the barge.

"Yes, Sir!" replied Darcon. "Beirst! Get them off the boat! Dax, lay out the chains. Pince, you and Chet transfer them to our set and double-check the locks. Then load them in the wagon.

"The rest of you stand guard!"

Thirty men then took up sentry positions around the wharf. Fifteen were astride horses and scanned the busy streets while ten others dismounted and covered the off-loading of the human cargo with loaded crossbows. The last five double-checked their provisions on the supply wagon for any signs of shifting.

There was little chance of an incident in the small town, but Graen kept the men on their toes by constantly sweeping by them as they worked. He deplored associating with humans and didn't hesitate to snap at them, with his tongue as well as a well-handled whip.

They were moving out in less than a half-billot with the prisoners riding in a large wagon that was little more than a cage on wheels. It was barred all around, with wood planking overlaid across the floor area and a rolled-up tarp as a roof. That cloth could be dropped quickly in the event of a storm.

Eleven large fighting men and one small woman of exceptional beauty made up the condemned group. The woman had been sequestered from the others on the boat, but now there was nothing between her and the rough-looking souls with her, and they all looked like starving men at a banquet. She of course watched them all closely.

Graen eased his mount alongside the cage and stared at them. He did not fail to see the anxiety in the woman's expression. The men quickly gave him their undivided attention when he approached, having been well trained about showing the "Lords" the respect they demanded.

"She is worth more than any three of you put together," Graen grumbled at the men. "So unless you want to find yourself dragged behind my reenack at a full gallop, you will keep away from her."

The men replied in unison; "Yes, Lord Graen."

They all pointedly turned away from her after that.

The caravan was able to make good time, even in the wet weather, because the road was so well maintained. That was one positive thing the Kreete's presence had on the Caronian society. Of course the downside was that they used the indigenous population as slave labor to do it.

That master and minion arrangement had been commonplace for so long that the men who guarded the slave wagon were used to it and didn't give it thought. They worked for the Lords and counted themselves lucky not to be the ones on the other end of the spectrum. Still, they did their duty without speaking whenever Graen was nearby...too afraid a miss-step might leave them out of favor. It was a tense band of souls that negotiated the soggy landscape.

The rain stopped just after noon and the drab, sullen group began to feel a bit more alive. The skies cleared with a nice, warm breeze and by evening, they were well dried off and free of their cloaks and rainwear. They even began taking in the sights of the rolling countryside with an air of ease and cheerfulness.

What they could not have foreseen was how fleeting that feeling would be. The change came about a billot later.

"Rider coming up hard, Lord Graen," Darcon shouted up the line from his position about halfway in the column. "It's Oran...the rear guard."

He had his men riding half in front and half behind the wagon, with one man far ahead as a scout and one man a hoz behind to watch their flank. Graen rode at the lead of the column and quickly pulled his mount aside to wait for the messenger.

Oran flew past the other horsemen who were making a fast walking pace, and straight to Graen.

"Lord Graen!" he said as he forced his racing steed to a standstill and the beast pranced about, still excited from the fast run. "We are being followed!"

The road was a well-travelled one and so someone following wouldn't normally raise concerns, but the Kreete had ordered them to report anyone approaching group or individual, no matter how insignificant.

"Explain," growled Graen.

"Well, about midday I saw a rider coming fast in our wake, but as soon as he got within sight of the caravan, he dropped to a slow trot. That didn't worry me, of course, because no one riding alone would want to chance a confrontation with such a large band as we have. The thing is, after the last bridge before we crossed that little valley; he broke off and rode north. I thought that was the end of it, but when we rose out of that low area and hit the flat ground again; someone was up on the ridge, just inside the trees. Whoever it was got a good look at our strength and our cargo. Again, I just thought it was someone keeping their distance. However, now the rider is back, pacing us. I think it was the same man in the trees...and I think he is waiting for dark."

Graen broke his eye contact with the fellow and looked east, down the road they'd just traveled. It might just be a fellow who wanted to pass after dark, to avoid any contact...but still, he had an odd feeling about it. He stayed motionless and continued staring for a long few moments...enough so that the men who'd gathered began to grow nervous.

"What are your orders, Lord Graen?" Darcon finally asked.

Graen's mind was not on that question just then. It was whisked away to matters far different than those of his immediate attention.

"Could it be a coincidence?" he thought.

The life of a Kreete soldier was one of constant vigilance. A true warrior had to be ready to defend himself against many threats, from those he knew, and those he didn't. If Neadorn had an enemy willing and able to destroy him and his entire strike team, was it possible that rival would now hunt him down? It was not the norm, but also not unheard of.

"Lord Graen?"

Graen turned slowly to Oran. He didn't want to give the impression that he was concerned about a single horseman. "Take three men and confront this intruder. Find out if he is truly alone and what he wants. If he refuses to cooperate, kill him or bring him back here to add to our cargo."

"Yes, Lord!" replied Oran.

As soon as his men were dispatched, Graen called Darcon over and gave a new command. "Pick up the pace."

From that point the caravan transitioned from a fast walk to a strong trot.

Two billots later they slowed once more to allow the animals to rest, and Graen circled back to the rear guard.

Darcon saw him coming and suspected his interest.

"They have not returned, Lord Graen," he said sheepishly, worried about what the Kreete would do if his men turned out to disappoint him.

It was getting late by then, the sun sliding more than half way down to the horizon, and Graen began to think about camping for the night. There were no roadside garrisons or way-stations on that route so if some band of Kreete soldiers, or Caronian soldiers for that matter, were trailing them, he would be hard-pressed to defend himself out in the open.

"Send two men to scout our flank. Tell them only to observe the road and not to engage anyone. Have them report back in one billot...no more!"

"Yes, Lord Graen."

Darcon then picked two men who were nearby and gave them their orders. When they rode off, he caught up with his commander at the head of the line where he'd just dispatched another pair of guards. They were riding off in a full gallop toward the east.

"Sir, what's the plan? Are we going to wait for their report?"

"No," Graen told him. "Get everyone moving the best pace we can with the wagons. There is a narrow path that goes south up ahead. I sent those men," he said indicating the forward guards, "ahead to scout it and see if we can get the wagons through."

"But Lord Graen, it's nearly dark."

"So?"

"Sir, no one travels that route at night! It isn't safe."

"Look! You tell those cowards you call men that they go where I tell them! There is some group trailing us and their strength is unknown."

"I thought it was just one man," Darcon interjected.

"Do you think one man could have wiped out the men you sent after him?"

"Well...no...that seems unlikely."

"Exactly, and if I am right, we will never see those last two either."

Darcon looked fearfully toward the west. "Then why did we send them?"

"As a test, and at the very least, dealing with them may slow the advancing army down since they are trying so hard to stay secluded. They must have a force at least comparable to ours if they mean to attack us.

"Now we need to take advantage of the diversion and find a defendable place to camp. The only place within reach tonight is that trail. We have thirty armed soldiers and fearful superstition is not an option, so get them moving!"

"Yes, sir!"

Darcon passed the word around to a less-than-receptive group. They all thought the plan was insane but none were brave enough to challenge Graen about it so they merely held their tongues and followed their orders. All were outwardly anxious though and the slaves began to pick up on their agitation.

"What do you think is going on?" Deek (one of the fighting slaves) asked of his comrades.

"I don't know, but something's up," said another by the name of Gant. "Those boys sure are nervous. Look at the way they keep checking the road west."

"Someone's following," replied Werner, the most accomplished fighter of the group. He was also the man chained to the very back of the cage and so was closest to the riders. "They ordered four men to check it out a good two billots ago, but they never returned. They just sent two more. And by the way Graen's acting, he's nervous about whoever it is...really nervous!"

At the other end of the wagon, the petite woman stirred in her corner. She was short enough to stand up inside the cage so she could see over the sitting men, and her violet eyes scoured the horizon behind them with fiery intensity.

"Did they say how many?" she asked after a few moments.

The male slaves' heads whipped around in unison and then they stared openly at her. It was the first time they'd heard her speak and her lyrical voice was both peculiar and entrancing. Also, even though covered in a layer of road dust she was stunningly beautiful. The tiny, sleeveless mini-dress she wore did little to hide her exquisite figure and her long, blonde hair fluttered sensuously in the wind.

When no reply came she repeated her question.

"Werner!" she snapped, bringing the big man out of his lustful stupor. "Did they say how many followed?"

"Uh...as far as I could tell, they've only seen one man."

Cache Kuar's face lit with a smile that further stunned the imprisoned men, but one had the composure to speak to her.

"What are you smiling about?" Gant asked, his expression showing his confusion.

She looked straight at him and her eyes twinkled with delight and mischief.

"They have no idea what's coming!" she said triumphantly. Then she plopped down in her corner again and got as comfortable as she could. "You all should get what rest you can because there will be little of it tonight."

With that, Cache closed her eyes and drifted off. Her worries fell away with a single thought; he was here. It was like a thick, comfortable blanket of reassurance. There was nothing that would stop him from securing her rescue. She was certain she would be free by morning.

The men didn't know what to make of her announcement, but as fighting slaves, they lived at death's door every day so the fear of it didn't trouble them as it did the riders. They were at the mercy of fate's whims. So with little else to do anyway, they followed her example and let the rocking and pitching of the wagon lull them quickly to sleep.

As the sun hung low in the sky a billot and a half later, the caravan reached the wooded turnoff. No word had come from the men that had gone searching for answers and Graen was even more anxious than before. He questioned his forward scouts quickly.

"What have you found up the trail?"

"Sir, it is just wide enough to get the wagons through for the first hoz or so, but then it shrinks to a horse path, and not a very clear one. We can't go that way, Lord Graen."

The Slayer class soldier glared down at the men and huffed. "Get moving up the trail."

The men hesitated, staring at the huge being like he was mad.

"Move!" he growled, setting the fellows into motion again.

As the supply wagon headed into the dark woods, followed immediately by the slave cage, Graen dropped to the ground and bellowed for Darcon.

"Get some men down here and erase the wagon tracks. Then have your horses ride across the ground a few times to make it look like we kept on the road."

"Yes, Sir," his second in command replied.

When it was done, Graen inspected the work and felt confident that it was obscured enough to fool almost anyone, especially in the dark. He then carefully worked his way up the first rise and remounted his steed.

Those Graen had held back caught up with the caravan less than a quarter hoz later. The procession was stalled because the horses were having a difficult time hauling the heavy supply wagon up a steep incline. Three troopers were pushing, but still not making any progress. They considered lightening the load to help, but Graen arrived first.

"Dragen weaklings," Graen hissed in disgust.

He wanted more distance between his group and the main road but he didn't want to take the time to off-load the wagon, so he promptly dismounted and strode forward.

"Out of the way!" he growled at the straining men who practically ran from him.

The eight-foot-tall Kreete warrior didn't even take a moment to brace himself. He simply dipped his shoulder and slammed into the rear of the huge wagon. It pressed forward immediately.

The humans all stood marveling at the strength of their leader, none of them having ever witnessed one of the Lords displaying such abilities up close. His huge legs churned the firm soil easily and up they went.

The caravan repeatedly struggled over the tight, hilly terrain until dark closed about them and they could go no more. The men, as well as the beasts, were utterly spent.

After a short rest they hacked out a clearing in the underbrush wide enough to accommodate them and built a large fire. They didn't intend to cook, but the blaze gave them peace of mind. Graen was confident they were far enough from the road and had negotiated so many turns and hills as to prevent any sign of the fire from being spotted, so he allowed it.

Next, they ate a well-needed meal and then began arranging their bedding for the night. While most were vying for comfortable spots on the ground, their Kreete commander strolled casually to the wagon and removed three bundles wrapped in some heavy fabric bags. That drew the men's attention because they'd all seen those bags on the wagon, but over the many months they'd worked alongside one Kreete soldier or another, no one had ever seen them opened. Soon everyone had their eyes on Graen until he slid the first item out, and then they understood. It was a heavy silver chest plate.

Over the following half-billot, Graen donned chain mail, metal-clad boots, armored sleeves, as well as leggings, an enormous chest plate with matching back protection, and then a helmet that appeared even more hideous than his normal face. Once he was finished, he stood like a statue in the center of the camp, allowing all to witness his supremacy. Kreete heavy armor could not be breached by normal human weapons.

When all was ready, Darcon set two sentries to guard duty...one for the camp and one for the animals.

"You will be relieved in two billots," Darcon instructed before moving to his own bed mat.

No one spoke after that but the night was loud in the black forest nonetheless. It sounded like every creature that lived in those woods was awake and furious at the intruders, harshly scolding them with barking, screeching, and crying wails. The clamoring animals had little effect on those in the camp though. They were all exhausted and fast asleep before anyone had time to worry about it.

Their slumber lasted until the first changing of the guards.

"TO YOUR WEAPONS!" screamed one of the men who'd gone to his watch.

The camp exploded with a flurry of movement then, and Graen fairly leaped to his feet from a prone position, his sword and long dagger already in his hands.

"What has happened?" he roared immediately.

Hecktor Noone ran up to him in a panic. "The guards are gone and so are the animals!"

"How the dragen sark?" Graen grumbled while he scanned the edge of the woods.

The massive Kreete Slayer gripped his sword tight enough to hear the leather creak.

"Your orders, sir?" Darcon asked anxiously, his own eyes flitting across the darkness.

"Find their trail!" Graen growled.

"Get torches!" Darcon ordered as he followed his men to the spot where one of the guards should have been.

It didn't take long before they found clear indication of where the man had been dragged away, and two more men rushed forward before their leaders could stop them.

"Wait!" Graen shouted.

It was barely a few litas before some loud snapping sounds were heard and the two men each screamed...then nothing. It was mysterious and unnerving to the point that even the wild animals paused for a moment before returning to their raucous behavior.

"To the fire!" Darcon ordered as he pack-pedaled swiftly.

Before he could consult with his commander though, something came swinging into the camp, tied to a long vine. Three of the crossbowmen let fly with their weapons without hesitation, striking the object with all three shots.

That started a new sound of screams, only those were heavily muffled.

That's when the men of the caravan realized what was flying through their camp...one of their sentries! He hung inverted, his hands were tied, and he was gagged.

Graen tried desperately to peer through the darkness beyond the campfire light, but it was no use.

The guardsmen all brandished their weapons, expecting an attack, but when a few borts slipped by and none came, they began to ease their stances.

The swinging man was stationary by then and his muted cries drew their attention again.

"Cut him down," Darcon said to two men next to him.

They tried to do as he commanded but could not reach the vine, so they began looking for another avenue to pursue.

"Grab him," Graen said gruffly with an annoyed huff, before he swung his four-foot-long sword neatly through the vine a full two feet above the man's boots.

They lowered him to the ground and removed the gag in his mouth. It was made of wadded up leaves from a wild banana tree. Graen studied the bindings and the gag, wondering at them curiously.

"Why did they not use rope?" he puzzled.

The wounded fellow was the man who had been stationed to watch over the animals, Jint Yannes. He moaned and grimaced painfully while Orin got him some water from his rations. He had an arrow in the hip, one in the shoulder, and one in the stomach.

"What happened?" Graen asked straightaway, not caring about his discomfort in the least.

"I...I...don't know," Jint replied. He was terrified of the Kreete, but didn't want to get caught in a lie either. "I was standing my watch when something hard smacked me in the back of the head. I woke up when somebody shot me. I was swinging from that vine."

Just then the group whirled about at the sound of crashing underbrush, five bows all aimed at the noise. This time though, they held their fire when another of their guards fell into the camp. His hands were tied and his legs had a length of vine between them that hobbled him severely. That's why he stumbled and fell. He also had a gag like Jint had.

Darcon rushed over to him while the bowmen spread out and covered him. They couldn't believe he was still alive.

"What happened?" he asked as he pulled the gag loose.

"Someone attacked me from behind and choked me out," he reported, taking an offered drink. "I woke up tied to a tree. I was gagged and bound as you see me. I could see the camp through the brush but couldn't signal. I watched Jint swing into the light, and then a few borts later a voice spoke to me from behind."

"What did he say?" Graen growled.

"He said; 'You are surrounded. Release the slaves and go!'"

### Chapter Thirty-nine

### Intimidation

Graen made a fist and his huge knuckles popped loudly. "Did you see them?"

"No, Lord Graen."

The slaves had all been sequestered in the wagon during the entire ordeal, not even being allowed out to relieve themselves. They were fed and given water, but had to do their business through the bars. That was the price they paid for being property. Now, with the discussions only a few feet away, they all heard the report and inwardly wondered at just what it meant. That is, all but one. She smiled an icy smirk.

Graen glanced around the small confines of the camp and then stepped over to the wagon. The cover was down so he threw it back and stared at each man, one at a time. He ignored the woman.

"Which of you knows what is going on here?" he asked.

No one answered, but they exchanged furtive glances...enough to get Graen's mind running.

"Get them out of the wagon!" he ordered. He then removed the only key to the cage from a pouch at his waist and unlocked it. "Line them up!"

Darcon did as he was told. Shortly they were all out and kneeling in at the feet of Graen. He went to stand before the first man...Werner.

"Who is attacking my men?"

Werner just stared back blankly. "I have no idea, Lord."

Graen glared back at the man for a while, and then turned to Orin who stood next to the slave.

"Kill him."

"Lord?"

Graen drew in a deep breath, trying to hold his temper. He hated being questioned by his underlings. "I said 'KILL HIM!'"

Orin jumped and hurriedly drew his sword. He gripped it with both hands and raised it above his head...but then...

Zzzzzziiiiiiiittttt!

From out of the darkness sped a black-shafted missile of death, and it slammed into Orin with enough inertia to pitch him forward hard, right onto Werner. He was stone dead.

"Take cover!" screamed Darcon as he dove under the supply wagon.

Several of his men did the same since that was the only real protection there was.

Grean dove clear and rolled up next to the same wagon, his sword in one hand and his crossbow in the other. There were no immediate enemies within sight so he stuck his blade in the ground and grabbed the bowstring. In a blink he had it loaded and the sword back in his grip.

The only person in the entire camp that didn't panic was Cache Kuar. When Graen took cover and turned his back to them, she leaped to her feet and tried to make a run for it. The problem was that she was still chained to the other slaves.

"Move!" she urged them as covertly as she could, hoping the confusion would last a moment longer.

The gladiators were huddling down like the troopers though, hoping to stay out of the line of fire. They didn't know what to make of her order.

"If we can make it to the trees, we will be safe!" Cache explained, still tugging at the chain desperately. She was strong for her petite size, but still couldn't budge the string of large men.

"Out there?" one man asked, his face filled with horror at the thought of entering the black tree line.

"Go!" hissed Werner savagely. He was of a mind to chance any place other than there. It was clear to him that his life meant nothing to the Kreete. "Come on!" he said, dragging the man next to him to his feet.

They were barely a half-dozen steps from the forest, and would have made it had it not been for a tree root sticking up a hair too high. The chain that connected their ankles caught on the root and brought one of the slaves down hard, knocking the wind from him and causing a rapid domino-effect that sent them all sprawling.

Cache fell at the very edge of the darkness, her tiny dress failing miserably to hide her sensational figure amongst the rough group of men. She didn't even give it a thought though. Her mind was focused just ahead. She couldn't see into the pitch dark woods but she definitely heard a sound that could only be him who she most desired.

He must have dropped a good distance to hit the ground so heavily, his movements normally completely silent. That was evidence of the desperation that burned in him. She could hear him running then, the push of his body through the underbrush growing closer quickly, and couldn't resist reaching her hand out to him. Ten more steps were all he needed!

Cache then stole a glance behind her and gasped. Eight men crouched around the wagon with their crossbows pointed just over her prone form.

Graen could see exactly what she was thinking through her body language. He knew someone was there...and that they were close.

"Fire!" Graen ordered, and eight missiles raced into the forest to meet her would-be rescuer.

Cache's head whipped around and she screamed out a single word; "Down!"

A heavy form slammed into the leafy ground instantly, and the crashing of brush was clear to the entire group.

"Get him!" roared Graen, sending four men sprinting after the sound, their swords clear of their sheaths.

In the stillness of the forest, they all clearly heard the clash, but saw nothing. What they could identify were bones being broken, men screaming in pain, and all the while there was a constant, deep, vibrating growl echoing across the clearing.

"They have some kind of beast with them," one of the guardsmen said with a pronounced tremor in his voice.

Cache smiled.

The fight in the blackness was short, and not a single man returned to camp.

The troopers that crouched in the clearing strained their senses for more information, but all they got was the return of the normal nighttime sounds. Then, just when they thought it was over, a new sound ripped through the air that made the stalwart men of the caravan cringe back in absolute terror. It was a long, horrible wail that ended in a haunting, angry roar...and it seemed to be daring anyone to venture into the jungle again.

"What the sark is that?" Darcon whispered.

"I don't know, Dar, that wasn't anything like I've ever heard," Laan Hemsin replied.

Graen saw the reaction of his men and cursed them, even as he felt a shiver course down his own spine. He quickly shook it off though, and dragged the slaves back into the midst of the guards. Once there he used the frame of the wagon to cover his flank and then draped the weather tarp over them and his remaining men in the form of a large lean-to.

"You in the forest!" Graen bellowed. "If you want the slaves alive, you had better hold your fire and stay back! We can kill them all before you get to us!"

There was no verbal reply, but one of the men that had run recklessly into the woods abruptly returned to the camp, from a tree limb almost twenty feet off the ground. His body struck heavily and startled the hiding men.

Two of the dead man's friends couldn't quell their anger, jumping out of their safety zone to fire blindly into the night.

"You dragen whores!" they screamed.

They both fell dead in less than a lita...black fletching standing out prominently. Those missiles had come from and area fifty peors to the south of the tree the dead man's body had been thrown from.

"Stupid fools!" Graen groaned, his silver eyes scanning the forest for signs of the enemy. "How many are out there?" he thought. "The next man that leaves without my order will die by my hand," he then warned the remaining troops.

That corralled the men's focus enough to get them to pause and think.

"The attacks will stop now," Graen assured them. "They won't risk us killing whoever they want so badly. Get hold of yourselves and settle down. Tomorrow will be a long day so you had better find a way to try and get some sleep."

The area under the improvised tent was cramped though and it took some time before they could adapt an arrangement that suited all of them. Darcon set a guard at each end of the lean-to and hoped the enemy would be as accommodating as Graen had surmised.

Half a billot later though, when the last of the troopers was finally drifting off, a repeat of that hellacious cry ripped across the camp and made everyone jump with fright. That is, everyone except Cache. It woke her of course, but she just smiled a thin, wry smile and went back to sleep. She realized her rescue would not be as easy as she'd thought, but she was confident it was only a matter of time.

For the remainder of the night, the band was harassed repeatedly, allowing no one any rest at all. First, a mordac (a large venomous snake) dropped from the overhead canopy, right on one of the guardsmen, Neevan Mann. He screamed and tried to escape the beast, but it had its teeth in his neck at the onset and he was dead in less than a bort. Two other men started to rush out of the tent to help him, but when they got to the edge of the tarp, they pulled up short. They recalled what happened to the last pair who charged out into the open. Neevan was already rolling on the ground and wrapped by the viper though, so all they could have done was kill the snake. The poison of the mordac was unstoppable. He was a dead man from the first strike.

From there the men began jumping again at every little sound, fearing another of the slithering attackers might be about to get at them. It took another billot to get the group calmed down, but that lasted no time at all because a totally different threat took center-stage.

At first it sounded like a falling tree in the distance, snapping limbs as it fell. But instead of ending, it grew and grew until vibrations were finally felt through the ground. By then it was distinctive and identifiable. Some kind of animal was approaching. Graen and the men leaped from their almost-horizontal positions and watched the area to the north.

The crashing of brush got louder and clearer until suddenly an enormous lamdis (Caronian elk) exploded from the jungle and galloped into the camp. Its eyes were wide with crazed excitement, and before anyone could move, it raced headlong at the tent and began attacking it with its rack of antlers that spread over twelve feet across.

No one had noticed the few tiny dribblings of liquid on the surface of the tarp...doe urine.

Screams filled the night again. Some were orders, some were attack cries, and some were from the pain felt by four more guardsmen who clashed with the beast and were promptly gored or tossed across the clearing to land broken and bloody.

Graen himself finally had to bring the beast down with a combination of arrows and one plunge of his long-sword into the creature's chest.

It was another two billots before they tried to sleep again.

By then it was more than halfway through the night and the men of the caravan were almost too distraught to lie still. They cursed their misfortune of being assigned to that duty and feared whatever was surely to come next.

Their fears were answered almost immediately.

This new noise rose like a coming storm, but not one of wind and rain. It was a living squall. The chatter increased quickly, coming from the east, until it was almost deafening. A band of over a hundred icheroes (deep-forest monkeys) descended on the group like a flock of locusts. They were only the size of lemurs but they were smart and crafty thieves. They raided the camp's supplies, streaked through the dark tent by the dozens, tossed burning sticks haphazardly about the clearing starting fires everywhere, and generally created chaos for the next few billots. And they shrieked with ear-piercing amplitude the entire time.

By the time the camp had recovered from that, the hour was very late.

It was a weary, distraught, and anxious group who stirred with the coming dawn and made ready to move out. They nervously ate breakfast from their remaining rations and transferred everything they could carry from their saddles that were left behind when the horses got away, cursing their bad luck the entire time.

"Fill your water skins if you need to," Graen instructed them. "This route offers little chance to do it later."

More than half the men went to the storage barrel on the forward end of the wagon, thankful that it hadn't been damaged during the endless conflicts of the previous night. One man watered the slaves from a separate container...one reserved for the animals. It wasn't kept as sanitary as his troopers' was, but he felt it was good enough for them.

When they finally did take up the march, they had a plan in place to keep them safe.

Each of the slaves was roped to a crossbow in such a way so as if the guard was attacked or injured, their arrow would plow right through the neck of his captive. Darcon had his bow secured to the woman and stayed right on Graen's heels. The men with no captive hovered as close to the main group as they could without slowing them down.

They then set out deeper into the wooded land because they figured to go back would put them completely at the mercy of the attacking horde, but the route Graen chose was arduous. The trail wasn't much of a trail at all with the constantly encroaching jungle squeezing it down until they had to hack their way forward and could only walk single file. The only saving grace was that they knew the attackers couldn't possibly outpace them by moving through the dense woods.

By midday, the toil and the hot, humid climate of the jungle had sapped their energy even more than the sleepless night had and many of the men were complaining of cramps.

They were rationing water carefully, they were scared nearly witless, and tempers were short, so Darcon and Graen didn't notice a change at first.

It wasn't until the first of their troopers doubled over and dropped to the ground...his dire discomfort clear on his face. Then it was as if he'd set off a cascade of pain. Two more men went down and vomited violently and four more dashed into the brush for relief of another sort.

In a matter of fifteen borts fully half the guardsmen were on their backs with heavy sweats, twitching and writhing in agony. Graen watched it all with his mind reeling. Why were some so sick while others stood calmly by. They had all eaten from the same stores of food and drank from the same...

"May the Guardian strip their cowardly bones!" he grumbled angrily.

Darcon looked to him for answers. "What is it, Lord Graen?" He asked. He was fine.

Graen ignored him, turning to address the men still standing.

"Who of you filled their water skins this morning?"

They all looked from one man to the next. None raised their hands.

Graen shook his head in disgust. Then he turned to Darcon.

"The attackers poisoned the water barrel!" he announced. "Everyone who drank from our stores is now incapacitated...possibly dying."

"What about the slaves? Didn't they drink from...?"

"Dangey watered them from the animals' share," said one of the still standing men. "We don't normally waste our water on slaves."

"But how would they have known?"

Graen snorted. "That rider who was trailing us, and watching from the wooded ridgeline...he must have noticed."

"What now, Lord?" Darcon asked then.

"We must press onward. Those who can still travel must take what weapons and rations they can from the fallen. Give the order and hurry it up!"

Twenty borts later the caravan set off again with half its former compliment. And those who marched did so with ragged nerves and panicked eyes.

It was only a matter of time until something snapped...and that happened a couple billots later. One of the male slaves stumbled in a depression covered with a soft patch of leaves and his guard flinched. That was all it took...the fighting man was dead.

"Sark!" the guard blurted suddenly, his hand dragged to the ground with the corpse because it too was lashed to the crossbow.

Graen heard the twang of the weapon and the thud of the fellow's body, so he wheeled about. "What happened?" he growled, seeing part of his valuable cargo lost.

"The dragen chinch tripped, Lord G..."

He didn't get the opportunity to finish his explanation. Instead, his head pivoted hard to the left and he cart-wheeled off the trail and into the thick brush. His feet quivered for a short time, but then lay still.

One of the guards that wasn't assigned a captive to protect him, whirled around and fired at the spot he guessed the arrow had come from. A retaliatory missile slammed into his chest, dead-center, and he slumped to the forest floor...his eyes wide from shock.

Graen saw the exchange, saw that he still had two men in the open without protection, and acted.

"Get behind the slaves!" he ordered.

There was a quick shuffle in the tight space of the trail, and then all eyes searched the trees. Graen spoke again.

"You in the forest!" his voice boomed. "If any more of my men die, every one of the slaves will!"

The woods absorbed his threat silently, and then they waited.

A full two borts later, a new proclamation rang out. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"Any man who wants to live...drop your weapon and go now! Keep the slaves alive or you will all die!"

Graen's throat rumbled with anger. "Each one of you is known to the overlords in Huinrag," he reminded them. If you try to escape, you and your entire families will be butchered in public. Stick to your duty and move out!"

Then, in his native tongue he grumbled, "How did I get saddled with such a group of spineless cowards?"

Cache was only a foot away and couldn't suppress a soft chuckle. She understood him perfectly of course since the Kreete language had originated with her own Raulden tongue and she'd listened to communications chatter for years from her home-world so she recognized all the subtle dialect nuances. She had witnessed Ron drive other Kreete commanders crazy with his elusive, yet deadly, tactics, and knew that Graen didn't stand a chance at thwarting him.

Graen noticed her reaction though, and it sent his mind skittering along a new line of thought.

"How could she possibly understand our langu...?" he thought, suddenly remembering a briefing at Huinrag. "Be alerted to this new decree!" Therion Boone (the day-shift commander of the garrison at Huinrag) had said. "It states that a female human from the planet of Rauld has somehow infiltrated this world's populace and is helping organize the Caronian rebels. She is to be captured alive at all costs. However, her description is unknown, as is her location. It was recently suspected that she was somewhere in the Yetsole Territory, but that was never confirmed."

Graen's mind went into overdrive at that. He needed to be certain about his suspicions before deciding on any course of action. If this little slave was that woman, she would be invaluable to the Kreete, and had to be delivered to his superiors no matter who else perished. She could be his ticket to the promotion he most wanted. He also knew if she were truly a Raulden, she would be incredibly intelligent and not easy to manipulate. But on the other hand, if she were so advanced, how did she end up captured by a simple slave merchant, and why not adjust her appearance to blend in instead of standing out? Although he had to admit that hiding in plain sight as an imported female play-toy would hardly get her any extra scrutiny either...at least, not the subversive kind.

"Get on your feet," he ordered her in Caronian, not letting on that he suspected a thing.

With that, they began to march once more.

The trail was even more brutal than before as the heat of the day climbed, and they didn't stop again until nightfall. Everyone was exhausted and half starved, collapsing to the ground as soon as Graen allowed it.

They made a quick camp and started a fire as the sun disappeared.

Half a billot later, they were fed and arranging themselves for sleep again, fearing a repeat of the previous, hellish night.

During the march Grean had unchained Cache's hands so she could move easier and not slow them so much. Now, after she fed herself, he ordered her to give him her wrists to be secured for the night. She did as she was told, turning her back to him and crossing her wrists so she could be restrained as she'd been the past two nights. She was tired and her lids drooped heavily.

"No," he told her. "Hands in front."

She complied without thought. When she crossed her wrists at her belly, she suddenly stiffened.

He'd spoken in Raulden.

Cache kept her eyes down but her breath grew shallow and her pulse raced.

Graen reached down and locked her in the metal clasps. "Excellent!" he whispered in her home-world tongue.

Cache's stomach knotted and her heart lurched.

The protection of the wagon was gone, as was the tarp, so the troopers slept with the weapons attached to the slaves. It was a good plan too because if they were frightened and jumped, they would kill their charges, so the antics of the previous night did not occur. Everyone slept soundly.

Another day's trials followed much as the last had, with more of the caravan's men dropping away simply from attrition. Water was all but gone and none was found in route. They even left five of the slaves because they collapsed into unconsciousness from dehydration, and without horses, they could not be carried.

Sundown arrived to a band of thoroughly exhausted and disheartened souls, and it was beginning to look as if none of the humans would survive the march.

### Chapter Forty

### Last Chance

In the small, open space of a grassy knoll, Graen Urian, the leader of the soldiers, placed two sentries to stand guard while the other six attempted to sleep. Those heavily armed men stood their watch with weapons drawn, knowing without doubt that they were, for all practical purposes, completely defenseless against an enemy which seemed to be everywhere at once, surrounding and taunting them with its very silence. They jerked at every rustling sound, at every movement of foliage as it swayed against the gentle breeze pushing through the woods, and at every shadowy ghost that was created by their own firelight.

On a cool, comfortable night, when they should have found rest from the exhausting heat and trials of the day, they shivered as if it were the dead of winter. They quaked from fear as they did their duty, expecting every next moment to find themselves skewered with one of the demon's black arrows, or slashed in two from whatever creature lurked just beyond the light's penetration.

"Why did Graen not just leave the prisoners and go like the hunter ordered?" the men thought while they hastily switched their attention from one ghastly animal call to another.

There had been thirty-five hardy soldiers when they first started out on their mission...but now only eight remained. The others had been wounded, poisoned, exterminated, or had fallen by the wayside, too spent to keep up anymore.

The surviving men began arguing in secret about releasing the rest of the prisoners, preferring to deal with the punishment of their employers rather than spend another lita at the mercy of the faceless foe. But their leader would not falter, determined to at least bring the woman to his master. She was worth a king's ransom as a trophy, but also, she represented his pride and ability to succeed. He made it clear that he would not let her go!

Now, at the beginning of the fourth day, as dawn approached in the small camp, they awoke to only four soldiers. The last set of their sentries lie on the ground, dead...black fletching protruding from their chests and the ground red from their blood. Two others had fled in the night.

Graen roused his weary band and got them moving again after a cold breakfast and their last sip of water. Even though he still wore his armor, he'd dozed lightly with his crossbow booby-trapped to the woman just to be sure the enemy couldn't get at him without endangering the female. He was finally certain that she was the prize this band of gorillas wanted so badly.

The Slayer class commander was down to three prisoners and four soldiers, a pathetic group to be sure, but he had every intention of getting his job done. He knew where he was and felt confident that if he could get through this day, he would make it, with or without any of his men.

They moved on quickly, leaving behind one of the captives at mid-morning because he'd grown sick and could no longer keep up the pace. This time however, they left him alive. The woman and the last male prisoner were pressed on savagely, each believing if they fell, the other would be slain. They felt absolutely confident the mysterious hunter in their wake would avenge their deaths, but that would still be little consolation to a dead person.

Many hoz passed, and by midday the forest fell behind to give way to the "Barrens"...an inhospitable, expansive plateau of desert-like scrub-brush and rocks. It was a wide, desolate plain that went on to the horizon before them.

There was still no sign of water, and the shrinking band was growing desperately dehydrated. The sun too was extremely intense out in the openness of the bleak ground and the wind blew fiercely, further sapping them of their vital fluids.

The horizon shimmered into obscurity from the noontime heat baking the rocky terrain, creating a stifling thermal layer at ground level. Even the mighty Kreete soldier was forced to gasp painfully in air which seemed nearly devoid of oxygen. Before the first billot out in the heat, Graen stopped and shed his armor, fearing the sun's threat more than that of the following army.

Onward into this land they trudged with heavy feet, following their leader out of fear alone. Duty and pride had long since left them and they held onto the only thoughts left in their overheated minds...if they obeyed the massive Kreete soldier, maybe they would survive.

Late that evening, after eight solid billots of marching, they followed their own elongated shadows in a dull haze of exhaustion. They all swayed unsteadily at each footfall and were so numb to any thought other than "keep moving" that they didn't even notice a change in the terrain at first. It wasn't until Graen veered sharply to the south that they took note of their surroundings. That's when they reached the next stage of their odyssey; a stony, crag-strewn landscape that was cleaved apart by a narrow gorge almost seven hundred feet deep.

On the opposite side of the rift they saw a lush forest which marked the beginning of a sweeping mountain range bursting with plant and animal life, totally opposite of the naked topography of the side they were on.

They all longed hungrily for the coolness of those woods but were only taunted by its sight as the gorge clearly prevented any such relief.

"How could such a contrasting landscape exist?" they cried inside their minds as the nearness of the beckoning foliage merely tortured them further.

They even saw several runoff rivulets pouring into the chasm on the far cliffs, but there were none for them. It was like they strode across a cursed environment that wasn't meant to support life, and every step gave the group an overwhelming feeling of dread as they traversed its dead surface.

The Kreete drove the prisoners onward for several more hoz, to a point where a long suspension bridge was moored deep into the side of the rocky bank. They wanted to cheer at the sight of it...a passage to the reprieve they so desperately sought...but they were simply too exhausted.

The causeway was constructed of handmade rope woven together to create a seamless support rail that was as thick as an average man's arm. The base of the bridge was another such rope, only slightly smaller, and it was connected to the handrail by thousands of smaller strands. Such a design stabilized the entire contraption as well as provided a point of attachment for the rough-cut wooden boards that served as the walkway. It was barely one peor wide, looked old and fragile and rarely used, yet still it would save them.

The Kreete leader stopped short of that transit and climbed up atop a huge, wind-worn boulder to have a look over the last half-hoz of their trail. He sighed with relief when he found the path clear. He could see no sign of the pursuing army in that direction.

He stood up there with the wind whipping through his tunic for a short while, and then, with a triumphant grin on his ugly face, jumped down to address his men, only to have that grin swept away in a flash. He watched one more of his troops fall right before him, grasping a short bit of feathered wood penetrating his body. It had come from the other direction!

They had somehow been outflanked!

He snapped into immediate action.

"You three guards stay and delay the attackers until I can get across the bridge with the cargo!"

"Yes, Lord Graen!" Darcon replied.

The men had all taken cover behind some of the scattered boulders in the area and had their crossbows at the ready, obeying their leader without hesitation. It was a good, defensible choke-point and they should be able to hold their ground well unless the enemy overwhelmed them with sheer numbers. The men each knew they were doomed, but at least their families would benefit from their sacrifice. Kreete law absolved their immediate families of further duty if they gave their lives in the Lords' service.

Graen pushed the two captives forward roughly and the tethered duo move on once again, by now barely conscious. They were in terrible shape by then, from thirst, exhaustion, hunger, and heat...beaten down by the unrelenting exposure to the intense Caronian star.

They were just midway across the eighth-hoz wide expanse when Graen stopped to look back.

The wraith was upon his men!

That was when he got his first clear glimpse of the enemy horde. He couldn't believe his eyes. It was a single individual!

His only remaining troops were engaged, all three at once, with the attacker. Graen was still trying to rationalize what he saw but at last he could finally see the man who'd stalked and destroyed his entire band. The fellow was large, barefoot, and wore only short trousers in the oppressive heat with a thin harness surrounding his torso. He was deeply tanned, and the reflection of the sun against the curves and knots of his body accentuated his muscular build.

It was clear the man was powerful as he held his position against the combined attack of three experienced sword-fighters. He performed this deed by engaging two on one side, grasping a long sword one-handed, while fending off the other soldier with his other hand, gripping some type of short sword, or large dagger. The dark-haired newcomer swung a dark blade and he was doing it so quickly it could hardly be seen...the arduous trials of the last few days seemingly a nonissue to him.

The first man fell suddenly, impaled by the dagger, while the other two battled on. They were fighting now with renewed desperation as their comrade dropped, and they tried to maneuver to opposite sides of their foe, but he cut them off easily with a move so fluid it made the Kreete leader gasp. Graen knew at that moment he could not face this man in battle, sword to sword, and hope to survive.

Graen hurried forward, refusing to admit to himself he could fear a mere human. His chest heaved and his body strained to comply with his mental orders, feeling severely drained from the exertion of the recent past.

He was nearly across, only two hundred feet to go, and could almost feel the ground beneath his feet, but just then the man he was ushering before him stumbled on the rocking, undulating walkway and went down. The spent prisoner's fall to the floor of the bridge tripped the trio up, and they all fell sprawling to the wooden planks in a heap.

The bridge decking wasn't designed to support someone of Graen's weight when it was new, so now his hand plowed through a board with ease and his face snapped two more. He let go of the crossbow he held and snagged the lower support rope just in time to keep from going all the way through. He watched his only long-range weapon tumble away beneath him with open dread, but felt very fortunate not to be still attached to it.

Cache had been in the lead position when they fell and was yanked backward and choked cruelly from the pull of the tether encircling her throat. While Graen struggled to right himself she writhed beside him and nearly passed out, fighting weakly for air.

The Slayer class Kreete growled at the two slaves and angrily cut them free of one another, allowing Cache to cough and gasp desperately with relief. Werner lay prone where he fell, the wind knocked out of him and half of Graen's body still astride him.

Graen scrambled to his feet quickly but not before he felt a new vibration pulsing through his boots...the rocking of the bridge! The phantom was coming!

Graen snatched Cache up with one arm and kicked the man aside in his last dash for the safety of the far side of the gorge. It was a difficult task due to the movement of the bridge and the loss of one steadying hand, but he finally made it.

As he cleared the edge, he threw Cache roughly to the ground and tore his sword free from its scabbard weakly. He then sucked in a great gulp of air with a deep, wheezing grunt and faced west. The hunter was flying across the bridge at a dead run!

"How could he move so swiftly?" Graen thought with amazement.

It didn't matter though. With one powerful stroke, he hacked through the handrail's support ropes at their mooring points on his southern side, and that section of the bridge fell away, causing the entire structure to list harshly.

He raised the heavy blade slowly; certain the menace was now behind him, but then a glance back at the bridge stunned him even further. His eyes flew open wide...the creature was still coming! The demon in a man's body was clambering forward with good speed, even with the wooden base leaning at a steep angle.

"What type of being is this?" Graen thought. "He cannot be human!"

Graen instantly found a burst of energy and jumped to the other side of the bridge where he slashed the northern supports. The remaining handrail dropped limp in a flash, leaving only the planking and its bindings still spanning the wide ravine.

The shaggy-headed barbarian on the bridge dropped to all fours instantaneously and paused for a moment, gripping the lower ropes tightly while the structure swung side to side. When the violent swaying stopped, he slapped the wood beneath him with one hand and growled at his only alternative. He then spun around quickly and headed back as smoothly as he could, still on all fours.

Graen watched him crawling back the way he'd just come and took in another deep breath, at last enjoying the sight. The man had made it almost two thirds across to the forest side, but now he was at the mercy of the Kreete, and that made Graen laugh.

He gloated for a bit, and then his sword was on the move once more, slicing through the smaller ropes easily in two powerful swings. As if in slow motion, the free end of the bridge began its graceful drop downward toward the water flashing by so far below. The fallen gladiator who Graen had kicked aside lifted slowly from the surface of the bridge and fell all the way to the raging river below. He never even screamed.

Graen watched with delight as the phantasmal hunter scampered back as fast as he could, frantically trying to reach the other side before the bridge slammed against the jagged shards of rock on the now distant wall.

At the last instant, the fellow stopped and gripped the boards firmly while tangling his legs in the cords of rope still connecting the boards to the thick handrails. He then rode it out, plowing into the unbreakable face of the cliff with tremendous force.

Half the bridge's planks exploded from the shock and rained wooden shards downward into the gorge for half a bort.

Graen then stepped back and loomed over the small figure of the woman. She was lying on her side and had watched the entire scene unfold. Her face was filled with absolute horror. He basked in his glorious victory as she watched her hero slam against the rocks and fall back limply, as if dead.

The Slayer then stared across the chasm for a long while, confident and jubilant...smiling a sarcastic, hideous grin while his adversary dangled upside-down precariously, only supported by the tangle of ropes about his lower limbs.

At last, he raised his sword in a triumphant show of superiority.

"I am Graen Urian!" he screamed across the gorge, trying to regain his deflated bravado. "I am Kreete! Those who oppose us all die!"

### Chapter Forty-one

### Desperation

Cache Kuar lie on her side holding her breath and clinging desperately to the hope of Ron's survival, but as the moments dragged on without a twitch from the valiant fellow, tears welled up in her violet eyes. She continued to gape unblinkingly, refusing to believe he could be dead, but as litas turned to borts in what felt like an eternity, she began to lose faith.

She had almost given up on him when he suddenly jerked back to consciousness and looked about.

She choked back her sobs as she saw his movement, and then rolled onto her back and tried to breathe again, her relief clear and pronounced on her decimated face.

Ron was obviously dazed and didn't move much for quite a while. He then slowly and systematically worked each of his hands, his arms, and his legs to gain some assessment of the damage to his body and to reestablish a clear picture of his predicament. A few borts later the fog in his mind lifted and so he quickly righted himself and began the climb back up the remaining hundred feet to the rim of the canyon.

Graen couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Can the man not be killed?" he roared, slamming his sword into the ground.

Cache just smiled a weak, contented smile.

He spat at the small figure so far away now.

"I have won!" he screamed at that distant focus of his contempt, "I have beaten you, little man!"

Graen glowered at the stranger he'd grown to fear as the fellow completed his chore and flopped to the ground at the edge of the cliff, his wide chest heaving visibly. In the depths of his thoughts, from a place he would never admit to exist, the huge Kreete soldier was grateful the gorge now separated them.

Ron lie there briefly, checking himself more thoroughly for damage, before he leaped to his feet once more. His battered and bruised body dripped with sweat, and there was more than a little blood draining from dozens of minor wounds, but he showed no sign of pain...only rage...coursing through his body in rampant waves.

"Now, I will have a little reward," Graen gloated as he slapped Cache awake again and dragged her over to a thick patch of grass.

She was, by that time, too exhausted to resist, and just stared up at him, tears flowing freely from her eyes. Her tears weren't for what she was afraid was about to happen to her, but rather were for thanks to the Guardian above. The man she loved had escaped death yet again, and so her plight was only secondary. She knew with absolute certainty that whatever happened to her, he would come.

He was like the tide of the ocean...at times as ferocious as its giant waves and as immutable. He was an unrelenting, undeniable, and inescapable force. She knew he would cross the globe, cross the stars, breach any barrier, and crush any foe to reach her. Through the very center of the Kreete capitol if necessary, over the countless bodies of all those who resigned to stand in his way, he would trudge.

In the end, no matter what the Kreete might do, what she was forced to endure, she was profoundly confident of one thing...Ron Allison could not be stopped...and he would come for her.

"CACHE!" Ron screamed across the rift.

Ron reached into his quiver one more time, but there were no more arrows. He went to one of the dead guards and ripped the sable bolt from his body, quickly wiping the gore from its shaft to restore its all-important balance. It was his one last chance to save her from a fate he couldn't fathom.

The possibility that he might miss Graen and strike Cache didn't even enter his mind. He gauged the wind across the open space in a quick blink. It was strong but fairly steady. He then measured the gap for distance, a tricky thing with nothing between him and his target, and it was so incredibly critical, but he decided in a heartbeat...there was no time.

He drew back on the bow as far as he could, the razor tip firmly touching the knuckle of his index finger, and then slowly released his breath, calming his hands and his mind. One last glance down the length of the shaft and the sable arrow was set a-flight.

His entire world ground to a halt in that instant, as the tiny missile carried across the four hundred peors of wind-gusting gorge. He tracked it with absolute clarity as it arched up, up, up...and then it began to fall.

Graen dropped the sword belt from his waist and then sat atop the tiny form of Cache Kuar, pinning her down with his tremendous weight. She wouldn't have been able to move even if she hadn't been so drained, such a huge creature was the Kreete soldier, but now she was barely more than a flaccid mannequin.

"I am going to enjoy this to no end," he claimed. "I will be the first of many you will call, Master!"

Suddenly he stiffened upright with a jolt, his eyes spread open as wide as physically possible. He was so surprised that he couldn't even move for a moment. Then he looked down at the point of his distress...the tip of a black arrow was barely showing at his left side; the fletching nearly buried on his right, and a terrible pain was tearing and burning its way through his body.

His shock turned from disbelief to rage as the sickening brownish-red fluid that flowed through his veins began pouring out of the grave wound. He knew instantly that he would not survive the strike, but it would take some time; enough to finish what he'd started. He took in a deep, searing breath to taunt his distraught opponent one last time.

"You are a worthy adversary!" he called to the man who stood anxiously waiting for him to fall over dead. "But it seems you have used up your last chance," Graen added when he saw the fellow had no more arrows. "I will take her and then kill her! My last stab at you!"

Graen looked down at Cache and then ripped her battered garment from her as she tried to fight back. She was so feeble that it did her no good.

"Now I make you my whore!" he announced, struggling to breathe as his blood rained down on her naked waist.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" Ron screamed from across the chasm, his mind racing, blazing from anguish. His head whipped back and forth in a panic for some means of stopping what he couldn't believe he was witnessing. He went to the other two guards he'd defeated only borts before, but the arrows they carried were made for a crossbow and were nearly a foot too short for him to use.

As a last effort of desperation, he pulled out one of his long throwing knives and hurled it with every ounce of his adrenaline-enhanced strength. The distance was far too much though and it barely reached halfway up the other side of the gorge, where it stuck into the hard-packed ground there, more than fifty peors short of his target.

Ron lifted his head to the crystal blue skies above him and roared out his challenge to the world, a deep guttural growl that echoed down the canyon for several hoz. His soul was on fire from the hate he felt at that moment, and the helplessness.

Suddenly though, off to the south of where Graen had Cache pinned down, there came a reply to his challenge, but not from a human...nor from a Kreete!

The dense foliage erupted with the reverberations of a beast...a creature of nearly unimaginable power, speed, and viciousness. It was enough to stop the heart of every creature in the forest, and enough to snap the Kreete to full attention. His head whipped around fast enough to cause the air around him to hiss, and he reached instinctively for his sword...but that was a purely futile thought because he had no chance whatsoever to defend himself.

The pint-sized offspring of the ferocious female tracker was an utter blur; so quick in its motion that Graen could barely focus on it before it struck.

The animal was a fourth the size of its mother, but it had enough power to grab the seven and a half foot tall Kreete soldier by the head and fling him over sixty feet into the trunk of a large tree. It then crouched down next to Cache's limp form, prepared to pounce again, until the broken figure of the Slayer rolled to the ground in a motionless heap.

After a quick look at Cache, it blazed over to check the body for life before letting out its infamous cry once again, causing the nearby foliage to literally vibrate.

The beast then swept the area with its eyes several times and tested the air, trotting back and forth repeatedly. Not a creature within a half-hoz dared take a step, nor a breath, lest it draw attention...and assuredly die.

Once the pup was satisfied that danger was nowhere nearby, it turned back to the prone form of Cache. Cautiously it crept up to her and sniffed her from one end to the other. She was apparently unconscious at that time, from her physical, as well as emotional state, because she was as still as a corpse. The animal paused when it got to the fresh blood and then looked over at the dead Kreete and snarled loud enough for Ron to hear it. It sounded like a lion growling through a megaphone...extraordinarily deep, and filled with hate.

Now it was Ron's turn to hold his breath while the beast evaluated the scene, not knowing what it would do. He watched every move with incredible intensity, powerless to prevent the ferocious beast from doing what it would. He nearly dropped to his knees when he saw it open its mouth and envelope Cache's slim figure in its cavernous, gaping set of jaws.

The tracker scooped her up and looked directly at Ron, who was by then a statue of worry and trepidation. The creature locked stares with him and then turned and trotted off to the cover of the overhanging branches of the forest, out of the blistering heat of the late day sun. The pup then set her body down with amazing gentleness, even to the extent that it nudged her softly to have her settle onto her back again. It stared down at her for a moment and then blasted off once more, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Ron let out a short, ragged sigh, but was nearly frantic and at a total loss for what he should do. He scanned down one edge of the gorge and then the other. It was obvious there wasn't another crossing point anywhere within his visual range and he was completely unfamiliar with the area he was in. It might be a day's march, or more, to another bridge for all he knew.

He looked across at Cache's motionless figure, and then down at the bottom of the ravine. The decision was clear as he saw no recourse to his next move.

He rushed off to the far side of a massive stack of truck-sized boulders that had collected in the area more than an eon in the past. There, he retrieved his belongings from where he'd hastily stashed them after outracing the Kreete's party to the bridge crossing.

Returning fully dressed once more, with a large pack secured across his back, he gripped the rope of one of the bridge's handrails and slipped over the edge of the cliff.

No sooner than he'd started down, the tracker returned to the area across the way. Ron caught a glimpse of it when he cast one last peek to see if Cache had awakened. He paused nervously and observed the beast.

The animal's head was held high in the air and he wondered about that for a moment until it lowered its toothy skull and drizzled water all down Cache's body. The beast then dropped to the turf beside her and settled in for a nap as if it was her childhood pet.

"It's caring for her!" Ron surmised...his brain in a wild spin as he tried to rationalize his conclusion.

Ron saw that she didn't rouse, so he began his descent again as quickly as possible, content to allow himself to think she was safe for the time being. The aches and pains from his collision with the rock were pushed to the back of his mind as if he'd merely scraped his knee.

He fairly flew down the convenient rope ladder until it ran out. There, he searched for a way to transfer himself to the granite face of the cliff.

With a few swings and a daring leap, he was halfway down the side of the chasm in good order, picking his way from one precarious hand and foothold to the next. Caution was a luxury he wasn't interested in. Getting to Cache as quickly as possible was all he thought about as he swiftly drew closer to the floor of the deep ravine.

When he reached that point, the coolness of the water had dropped the air's temperature to a wonderfully refreshing level, aiding him in his exhausting trial. His auditory senses however, were totally engulfed in the roar of that fluid ripping its way through the rock-strewn canyon much more violently than he'd imagined when he was up at the rim.

The river was only chest-deep, but it was moving so fast he knew he couldn't hope to cross it on foot. Also, the spot he was at had several boulders scattered about that made it look exceedingly treacherous to try and swim. As Ron stared at this new hazard, he at least had the intelligence to realize this was not a place to be reckless.

With a dejected huff of air at the delay, he started off immediately downstream at a fast run, praying for a convenient location that would allow him to traverse the rapids with at least some degree of safety.

He'd spotted an outcropping of rock...evidence of a recent fall...while he was still working his way down the face, and was hopeful it would prove useful to his needs.

Ron soon reached the point he sought and found that the long shard of stone extended almost halfway across the river, but unfortunately it would not allow him to make it all the way, even with his best jump...he would be getting wet.

He stood there atop the boulder gauging the speed of the water, and then took off all the belongings he'd strapped to his back. A couple of spins later, he threw the bundle across like an Olympic hammer thrower, clearing the river-way with ease. Then, hesitating no longer, Ron dove as far out as he could.

The water was very cold, running directly off the snow melt at the base of the mountains far to the east, and it pierced his senses like a thousand needles. The initial shock hit him like a solid barrier, and he expelled half the air in his lungs before he got hold of himself and broke the surface.

His dense molecular structure helped him fight the cold but did nothing to aid his buoyancy. In fact, it only added to what he found to be a terrific struggle. The current was extremely strong and was careening violently off the large rocks on the other side of the bank, fighting to push him toward the middle of the watercourse, to keep him from his goal like a living enemy.

He battled the current for what seemed like billots with powerful strokes that pounded away at the relentless pressure of the water, until he was finally able to slip into a good-sized eddy and came to a halt. The swirling action of that mini-vortex was forceful enough to pull him behind a sharp ledge which then shielded him from the mainstream torrent and allowed him the chance to crawl out of the frigid fluid.

He'd been carried more than a hoz downstream, slammed into numerous rocks, and sent over three small waterfalls as the icy liquid tore its way through the gorge...but he'd made it. Feeling half drowned, he hauled himself out onto the bank and lay there coughing and gasping for several borts. His body was trembling steadily from the exertion and his body temperature was down nearly ten degrees.

Somewhere during that ordeal he'd felt a tremendous yank on his right leg and worried that he'd possibly broken it on the jagged riverbed, but was relieved to find it intact and responding...sluggishly to be sure, but responding. He now understood exactly what had occurred. His boot had been ripped from his foot when it was unexpectedly wedged between a pair of large stones, and the cold had left his joint numb and stiff.

He snorted at his astounding luck once again, knowing the Raulden influence on the construction of the boot had assuredly kept his ankle from being obliterated in that moment.

After a few gulps of dry air, he removed and discarded the other one and was on his way again, barefoot...headed back upriver as fast as he could. He staggered from the cold at first, rocking and teetering badly, and even bouncing off the cliff at times while his body was racked by waves of shivering spasms. It was an ungainly and painful process but nonetheless Ron picked his way hastily along the narrow embankment. Half a hoz later, his internal temperature showed good recovery and he sped up until he was running flat-out. Another fifteen borts and he'd returned all the way back to the point across from the dangling bridge, having scooped up his things as he went by.

The gorge was, by then, ensconced in shadow, and daylight was fading quickly as he took a moment to collect his thoughts and plan his ascent, and then he was off.

The climb was actually easier than the descent, since the weathering on that side was not quite as pronounced, but toward the end even Ron's Herculean strength was fading as fast as the light. He at least had the forethought to work his way up a route that allowed recovery of his throwing knife, so when he reached the upper lip, his survival gear was complete once more.

Ron popped his head up enough to scan the area, quickly picking out Cache's unmoving form lying a hundred feet away, exactly where he'd last seen her. There wasn't another soul around as far as he could make out, but his vision was obscured quite a bit due to dusk having dropped its murky cloak heavily upon the land. He used his other senses at maximum capacity as he scrambled up and made his way quickly toward her, registering nothing to denote a need for concern.

He barely made a dozen steps though, when a low grunt froze him in his tracks...his heart accelerating once more and his hand on the hilt of the ebony blade. Unable to see it clearly, Ron had completely overlooked the tracker, which was still nestled next to Cache. Its coat of fur blended in with the surrounding shadows perfectly.

"Well, my fine chameleon," Ron whispered, "what exactly are your intentions?"

Ron stared hard at the silhouette of the beast until he felt confident it meant no harm, receiving the same calming thought he had before, back in the grassland at their first meeting. He soon convinced himself it had only grunted to make him aware of its presence, so as not to unduly alarm him as he approached.

Ron continued to Cache's side, his gaze never completely leaving the spot the tracker occupied. He checked her for vital signs and found her to be sleeping soundly, but her skin was starting to feel chilly with the coming of night. He hated to see her beautiful body in such poor shape...deeply bruised, scraped and torn in uncountable spots, dehydrated, and badly sunburned. She was a real mess.

Ron slipped one of his knives free and cut the rope that was still fastened around her neck. He then silently thanked the fierce creature next to them for sparing her any more abuse at the hands of the Kreete; eternally grateful for its superb timing.

The animal gave a soft snort in return.

Next, he wrenched his cloak lose from his trappings and wrapped her in it tightly, cradling her in his arms as he reclined against the tree that now overhung both of them. Once settled, Ron hauled his pack around next to him and sighed with relief when he found what he needed.

Through the frozen expanse of the mountains, through the long days of relentless plodding and riding, through all his scuffles and all-out battles, he still carried the medical supplies he'd packed back on the Darlile.

He mixed up some of those emergency provisions he'd hauled across all those many hoz and nudged her awake long enough to get a few good swallows of that healing concoction down her throat. He followed it up with as much water as she would accept, and then he laid her head on his chest while he dug through the pack for his own hurried meal.

Ten borts later, he was positioned as comfortably as he could get, with the misery of the last few days behind them at last and his whole body groaning from the strain.

He'd finally done it! He and Cache were together again!

He hadn't really considered just how important that goal had been to him until that moment, but now he found it almost deliriously satisfying. He smiled down at her and rocked her gently as he would a child, stroking her hair softly.

Surprisingly, Cache stirred. She lifted her head to look into his eyes in the moonlight, smiled a weak smile, nuzzled herself warmly against his chest, and then fell back into a deep sleep.

### Chapter Forty-two

### Escape

Ron spent the evening making sure Cache was safe. After resting and holding her for over a billot, he slipped out from under her slumbering figure and set off to the south until he found what he needed, leaving the tracker pup dozing beside her as a guardian.

He foraged around in the bright Caronian moonlight fashioning a thick bed of leaves in a place of soft turf a quarter hoz away from where she lie, and then gently carried her to it with the pup in tow.

She still slept soundly as he adjusted his cloak about her so only a small part of her face was exposed, blending into the area thoroughly. Junior was still milling around the area, testing the air and listening intently, so Ron decided to recruit his help.

"Will you stay with her for a while?" he asked the young creature as if it understood his words perfectly.

In response to that question, the tracker infant took up his position at her feet and lie down with his head upright, constantly scanning the surroundings.

"Now that's a sentinel!" Ron told himself.

He then retraced his steps to the bridge and retrieved the Kreete's body. He hacked his arrow out of the dead man, but it was broken from the force of the scout's body slamming against the tree, so he tossed it over the edge of the ravine.

Ron then hefted the huge bulk of the leader's corpse up onto his shoulders and carried it over to the ledge where he promptly discarded it with disgust and hatred in his heart. Down into the deep gorge it went, with Ron hoping the rapids would carry away all traces of what had happened to him.

He stood there for a long while deliberating about the need to get rid of the rest of the group...the ones across the chasm. But to accomplish such an act would mean a long climb down to the river, a repeat of that perilous, icy swim, and then back up the other side...in the dark. That was bad enough, but he would then have to repeat it all to get back to where he now stood.

He ultimately decided the risk was too great. Also, he would not leave Cache out of his sight that long. She was in such a pitiable condition, and he felt a great need to watch over her himself, so for the balance of the night, he roamed the area. He checked back on her often, but cataloged their surroundings for possible escape routes, should they need one. The trail to the defunct bridge looked seldom used, but he scoured the forest's edge nonetheless, as well as the desolate horizon of the distant plain, for any signs of pursuit. The night was fairly well lit from the open expanse of stars above, but he saw nothing on the move to cause him worry.

As the sun rose on the following morning, Ron was exhausted but still alert and restless, his worry about that little woman weighing heavily on his mind. He ate a cold breakfast and managed to get her to drink another batch of his healing mixture, but she was still too weak to eat solid food and he didn't know what to do for her. He wished briefly for Fortell's help because he was sure she was running a high fever, but such fantasy was of no real use so it passed. He hoped her temperature spike was only due to her rundown condition and sun exposure, but he needed to be certain.

Ron decided he had better examine her more thoroughly now that it was bright enough to do so.

"Cache, if you can understand me, I'm going to have a look at your injuries. I hope I don't offend you."

With that said, he carefully unwrapped her from the cocoon of his cloak, unable to keep a choking gasp from escaping his lips. There wasn't a single spot on her body that wasn't, in some way, injured. From the black and blue bruises on her face where Graen had accosted her, to the torn skin around her neck from the tether, to innumerable scrapes and cuts on her once perfect skin...and on the damage went. Her lips were cracked open from dehydration, and she looked as if she'd lost twenty pounds from her petite figure. She was blistering all over from the terrible sunburn she'd received, both her knees were badly swollen, and her feet were torn and bloody from traversing the desolate plateau without proper coverings.

Her injuries were abundant and heart-wrenching but didn't appear life threatening, which came as a great relief to Ron. His assessment concluded she needed rest more than anything else...but their position was far from secure, so he decided to gamble.

Before midmorning, with a full belly but no sleep, he scooped her little frame up as if she were a feather, cradling her tightly against his broad chest, and set off deeper into the wilderness.

To their good fortune, the morning brought with it a change in the weather. The ruthless Caronian star was soon blocked out by a thick layer of clouds, and the wind picked up sharply, threatening to storm. However, even though the sky turned exceedingly dark and the air shook often from mighty claps of thunder, only a light rain fell on that large machine of a man who pressed on as if time, distance, and physical exertion were no consideration at all.

That day passed without another glimpse of the sun, but the sky begrudgingly gave way to the moon's return late in the evening. When it did appear, it was high in the breaking, cloud-covered night, and Rauld's two ambassadors were many hoz from the vicinity of the ruined bridge.

At that time Ron snapped out of the unfocused, near catatonic state he'd lulled himself into and wearily looked about. He'd allowed his confidence in the tracker's senses to give his own a rest while his body slipped into the autonomous mode of the trek. It was the only way he could endure the task he'd committed himself to. Now he took control once again and sought refuge under the low-hanging branches of a nearby tree. The ground was soft there and the thick, leafy foliage would protect them well from the certain fall of the morning dew.

He carefully set his charge on the yielding turf and checked her for any change in her condition before sliding down next to her for a badly needed break. They camped there much like the previous evening, him accommodating Cache's needs before settling her in for the night.

When he was fed again, the meager safety Ron felt from distancing them from that last battleground allowed him a slight respite, and he finally succumbed to the exhaustion he so thoroughly felt. Once he and Junior surveyed the area, he laid down next to Cache, pulling her delicate figure tightly against him, and slept completely through the night for the first time in weeks.

The following day, Ron rigged a large sling out of his cloak, and Cache's still unconscious body suspended from it rather well. He felt much like a television cartoon, "the stork delivering a baby", and that thought made him smile as he took up his march again.

She moaned often in fits of fever, and he stopped frequently to get her to drink and to cool her brow with a splash of water, but onward he marched just the same. Many billots and hoz passed in their wake, but Ron's determination to keep going didn't waver...nor did his strength.

He grew gravely concerned for her as the day went on though, not really understanding why she hadn't regained consciousness yet, but felt he couldn't risk trying to find a town that may have a doctor.

The Kreete slave caravan would have been considered well overdue for their next check-point by then, and he wanted no one to know she'd escaped.

As the long day dragged into dusk however, he was having a terrible battle with his conscience about the difference between keeping her safe and getting her the care she needed. He finally decided to risk it and began searching for any well-marked trails that might signify a nearby town when:

"Why do you look so worried?"

He jumped at the sound. His head snapped downward quickly and he saw Cache looking back at him with deep concern in her sleepy, violet eyes.

Ron's hand went to her cheek in a flash. Her fever had broken!

"Oh! Thank God!" he whispered gruffly, his relief easily visible to her.

Ron dropped to his knees and pulled her to his chest firmly. She couldn't return his hug because of her cocooned wrappings, but welcomed it with all her heart.

"Are you all right, Ron?"

"Am I...am I all right?" he repeated as he burst out laughing and hugged her ever tighter. "Yes...yes! I'm fine...now!"

Ron immediately set up camp right there, and Cache joined him in a light meal...her withered state still not allowing for a good appetite. They slept through the night again and met the sunrise with a new, invigorated outlook. Ron was so relieved he practically vibrated.

Cache still couldn't walk at all, so Ron convinced her to allow him to carry her one more time. She protested vehemently but was too weak to fight him for long.

After a billot of feeling embarrassed at her dismal, helpless condition and the burden she felt she was putting on Ron, the gentle swaying of her cradle combined with the Raulden medicines to lull her into a thoroughly relaxed state. She finally drifted off to sleep again, not rousing until well after midday.

Toward the end of that third day, Ron came across an area he felt would suit them well. It was a small cleft in the mountains, barely a hundred peors across between two tall peaks, and had a good watershed spilling down into a wide pool with several smaller, shallower pools scattered about. There was also a convenient open area on the east side of the little brook which was covered in moss and short grass...an excellent place for their camp.

Ron set Cache down next to one of the shallow pools, in a shady spot thick with a coating of plush greenery. When she was comfortable, he coaxed her to eat and drink again. She was feeling stronger and managed to keep down what she took in, but she began to fade out again soon afterward...the advanced medicine forcing her to relax while it worked its magic inside.

He let her doze there while he inspected the entire area and scrounged for materials to build a fire. In no time at all, he had a fine blaze going and started thinking of his own empty belly. As if he were reading Ron's mind, a few borts later the tracker pup, which Ron had started referring to as Flash, trotted up and plopped a large rabbit on the ground at his feet.

"Thanks!" Ron told the pup, giving it a quick, rough tousle of its shorthaired head.

Flash dashed off in a blink, and Ron made quick work of skinning and cleaning the animal before setting it up to roast over the fire.

When that was going, he turned his attention once more to Cache. As gently as he could, he lifted her again, causing a pitiful moan to escape her cracked lips.

He carried her over to the edge of the pool, and at a place where the water was shallow he unwrapped his cloak. Ron grimaced at his clumsiness because she winced sharply when he once again lifted her body, but that was the only show of distress, so he continued. He then eased her into the little pool with him.

The water felt good to his senses, and he knew the cool liquid would be soothing to her as well. Ron then began carefully bathing her, trying to be as gentle as he could, and after shuttling back and forth a dozen times to attend to the roasting rabbit, he had the animal cooked and Cache cleaned up nicely.

When he lifted her out of the water, she managed to give him a light hug, making his heart leap. Ron still had no clothing to put on her, so he just wrapped her back into his cloak and returned her to warmth of the fire.

It was nearly dusk by then and he watched her carefully in the flickering light while patiently feeding her. She chewed weakly at first, and then more vigorously as her survival drive kicked in. He also gave her a full dose of the Raulden medicine. Her injuries were wide in variety, but he could already see signs of her body recovering and so his angst was settled a bit at that.

When she'd eaten enough, she slept the rest of the evening away and that allowed Ron time to begin building a shelter for them.

He worked swiftly in the vanishing light, using his sword to down dozens of small trees and vines, gathering them at a carefully picked spot. With the mountain's rocky surface as his back wall, Ron built a large lean-to with the saplings, far away from the spray of the waterfall. He covered the roof with a thick layer of broad leaves to make it water-resistant, so they were dry and well sheltered when the nighttime brought an unexpected shower to their camp.

Ron slept right up next to his female companion, holding her tiny figure pulled securely to him as if she might blow away in the wind if he let her go.

She was safe now, and he planned to keep her that way.

Cache began to show real signs of regaining her strength again by morning. She was able to move about then with Ron's aid and after two more days, she was walking on her own once more.

At the end of the next afternoon, Ron realized the need to make a journey for supplies, and so he decided it was time to introduce her to Flash...whom she hadn't seen as of yet. Ron and the tracker pup had agreed earlier on to keep his existence as their secret for a while, so the fearsome creature was being very careful to keep out of sight.

Ron made sure Cache was comfortable as twilight fell, and then suggested he go in search of food and provisions, even hopeful that he might find her some clothes to wear. She admitted she was somewhat self-conscious in just the cloak, and even though Ron had rinsed it out thoroughly, she would prefer more suitable attire...but his leaving was another matter.

"I'm fairly certain there is a small village two or three billots away over that ridge," he told her, knowing for sure it was there because Flash had been there and reported back to him. "When we first arrived, I explored the area thoroughly and noticed smoke off in that direction. I could be back by morning."

Cache tried to act bravely by agreeing to his leaving, but Ron saw the tension in her eyes and how they teared up.

"I will be perfectly fine," she assured him. "Do not worry."

"I know you will be, Cache," Ron began, "because I'm leaving you a guard."

She gazed at him questioningly as he looked off to the north end of the small clearing and called softly.

"Flash. Come here."

Cache's confused stare followed Ron's, and then it turned to open fear. She shook with a powerful jolt and latched onto Ron's arm like a vice as the incredibly fearsome creature trotted steadily toward the two of them.

Ron felt her recoil and laid his hand on her thigh to calm her.

"It's okay!" he told her. "He's with me."

The tracker pup came right up to Ron, stopped and looked in every direction while lifting its head to test the air, and then it pushed its nose against Ron's outstretched hand.

"Cache," Ron said easily, "meet, Flash."

Cache's eyes were still wide with apprehension, but she timidly held out her hand to the large, hideous creature with its dreadfully ominous jaws showing three-inch long daggers serving as teeth.

Flash looked at Ron, who nodded approvingly, and then he nuzzled her hand, sniffing her.

"He saved you from the Kreete, back at the bridge...when I was trapped across the gorge. If it hadn't been for him..." Ron closed his eyes and shuddered. "Anyway, he cared for you and protected you until I could cross over."

While the tracker carefully tested every inch of her with his snout, she watched him closely...unblinkingly.

Flash finished his inspection, then turned back to Ron and locked his gaze. Ron got the impression the pup was questioning her importance, or status.

"Yours?" the pup seemed to be asking.

Ron couldn't be completely sure he was actually in contact with the animal so he hesitated.

"Your mate?" Ron received a moment later.

He was positive now so he responded out loud..."Yes!"

Cache looked to Ron in utter amazement.

"Are you talking to it?" she asked, still in disbelief.

Ron grinned at her.

"I know it sounds crazy but...yeah," he replied. "It's more like a feeling I get from him than actual words, but I'm quite sure he understands me perfectly well."

Cache looked intently at the fearsome creature and it gazed back at her, transfixed, for a long while. After a bit, Cache felt herself blush thoroughly, her body temperature jumping sharply.

"Yes!" she replied to it, her eyes suddenly cast at Ron and then at the ground.

She cleared her throat and regarded Ron again, her eyes dancing above a broad smile.

"Amazing isn't it?" Ron asked, grinning back at her.

Flash took off again and resumed his watchful attitude. It covered the entire area in just a few litas and returned to their sides.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Ron told Cache then, squeezing her trembling hands.

Ron spoke to the pup again, "I'll be back around dawn. Will you stay with her?"

The animal rubbed its snout into Ron's chest and then moved over and lay down next to her. She stroked its side a few times, surprised at the softness of its coat, and smiled up at Ron.

"I'm off then!" he said to her with a wave, and then ran out into the forest at a fast pace.

Ron could see fairly well with the bright moon, Urac, blazing through the overhead foliage, so he made good time. He kept on some clear game trails for most of the way before crossing through a wide, run-off gully and up to a small stream. After following that for a long while, he finally came up to the little village he'd mentioned. As suspected, there were only half a dozen houses, but he didn't have to look too hard to find someone's wash out on a line drying.

"Some things are a constant, no matter what planet you might be on," he said to himself.

Ron quickly found he had limited choices, but managed to procure some items that would work. He also gathered some foodstuffs and other goods he could carry easily from a storage shed and left a compensatory payment on the steps of the dwelling...and then he was gone.

Cache awoke late the next morning feeling much better. The Raulden wonder drug was doing its work very well. She rose to the heavenly smells of a cooking breakfast and the sight of Ron, crouched low over the meal.

Flash was out and about by then, not one to stay in the open for long without good reason, so the area was remarkably tranquil in its natural, secluded splendor. The morning was warm and cloudless, and her spirits were on the rise. At that moment she realized she felt as safe as she had back in her mountain home of Gammone.

What could possibly harm her with this man at her side...and especially with his multi-legged friend as an ally?

### Chapter Forty-three

### Happy times

They spent the next two weeks in that little waterfall cove encampment. The weather cooperated wonderfully, and Cache and Ron talked at long length about what they'd been through prior to their final dramatic reunion. They spent billots walking through the forest and swimming in the larger pool that the waterfall had dug out of the rocky ground.

Cache's journey to Shavore had been interesting as well. She'd spent a week organizing the Cnauts up in the mountain complex and programmed everything they needed to keep the construction project going.

About the time Ron was launching the Darlile on Rauld, she was in the middle of working her way down the frozen landscape of the Taerdrasseg Mountains. She at least had the good fortune of picking the perfect time in which to make the journey and had run into little difficulty, outside the obvious physical aspect of the trek. The icy slopes were not her enemy as they were to Ron, but she did have her own test of nerves and determination.

When she reached the forest, with its myriad of creatures each climbing, crawling, jumping, swinging, or flying, she was nearly overwhelmed.

During her entire life on Rauld in the underground city of Gammone, as well as her brief exploits on the surface of her home planet, she'd never seen so much as a single insect. In fact she'd only just gotten used to the various differences of heat and humidity out in the "surface" environment of Rauld as part of her training to explore new worlds.

On Caron, everywhere she looked was teeming with life, every inch of it utterly writhing with it in fact, and she feared at first she'd go mad before she could adjust. Her mind was constantly inundated with visions of what those creatures would do to her, should they actually touch her person.

She'd remained in her sealed, high altitude gear until she almost passed out from the rising temperatures of the lower altitudes, nearly panicked at the thought of what she must do. Finally though she pushed through her fears of the unknown, at which point she shed her hermetically sealed safety envelope and began her long and horrifying transition to the Caronian ecosystem.

As if that were not demanding enough, the dissonance of the living jungle was an incessant barrage of ghastly and frightening sounds to her, tweaking her frazzled nerves raw. The endless chirping, screeching, wailing, croaking, screaming, and roaring bored into her anxiety-packed psyche to the point that she felt she was on the verge of a breakdown. In fact, it was so draining to her perfectly organized mind that she considered abandoning her mission and returning to the mountain laboratory every moment of the first week below the snows.

Ron was very curious about how she'd avoided predators such as those that had attacked him, and found her Raulden wizardry alive and well. She'd taken with her a vial of liquid which was as good as a shield to any animal. It was derived from artificial pheromones yet worked exactly opposite as those attraction compounds. It was formulated to coalesce in the scent orifices of any creature and to exude the call sign of that animal's natural enemy, thereby making her completely repellent to everything. It was the only way to manage her fears until her brain could make such a monumental adjustment to the harsh Caronian world.

She had also carried a lightweight harness, much like a mountain climber's sleeping cradle, which allowed her to hoist herself up into the canopy at night where she hung freely and safely out of reach. It was an extra precaution, just in the off-chance that Caron might have any beasts immune to her scent barrier. Too, it could be sealed like a tent and eased her mind to think she had a physical separation from anything crawling on her while she slept.

Once in the foothills, Cache had negotiated a more easterly path than Ron, and joined with the Caronian population in a town called Bretean at the northern edge of the Chavarre Territory. Her next big adjustment came then, when she was exposed to the odors of the Caronian peoples. This planet was in the era of development that was almost completely ignorant of hygiene; and coming from her sterile, immaculate society of filtered air and purified water... well, that was almost as horrifying as the jungle.

She giggled as she recalled having to stay on anti-nausea medicine for a full santari before becoming accustomed to it.

Bretean was a quiet little community which offered probably the easiest avenue of engaging the populace that she could have hoped for, and she found work easily, offering her services to the local healer there. She also quickly found out that men were extremely sociable with her for some reason, and she was able to inquire about anything she wished without drawing suspicion in the least.

"It was as if they would do anything, or offer anything, as long as I gave them my attention," she told Ron, still seemingly surprised by that fact.

"Is that so?" Ron asked lightheartedly while gazing at her returning incomparable beauty and the effortless grace she radiated. "Imagine that."

She stayed in Bretean for two weeks, until a caravan heading north passed through and she bartered passage with them.

That convoy traveled the same route Ron had, through Lampsh and Flouret, but luckily went unbothered and eventually headed east at the main road to Mardesh, which is where she separated from them and continued northward alone to Gruinshawe. She kept her identity, as well as her exquisite figure, hidden as much as she could during the trip, to avoid the interest of unscrupulous men, and reached the mining town with little delay.

Once she found the pass over the mountain was closed, she realized she had a long ride back around, and ended up staying there for a few weeks to earn enough money to supply her with the provisions she required.

She took interest in the Gruinshawe foundry and the hardened, burly men of the mountain were instantly taken by her charms, willing to listen to her merely to enjoy her company. She coaxed them into a discussion about their trade and the smithies admitted some metallurgy problems they were working on. The steel they created was strong and durable, but for knives, swords, and axes, it needed sharpening too often. Cache suggested adding charcoal to the furnace, which would allow carbon to bond with their steel, making it harder and able to hold an edge even better. A couple of them gave her idea a try and were amazed. That simple step substantially enhanced their heat-treating processes, and therefore their products. It also gained her their deepest appreciation and enough currency for the supplies she needed.

One of the men of Gruinshawe was a freight hauler by trade, and had a regularly scheduled delivery of weapons and other metal goods from their town to Mardesh, and then to Shavore. She asked to accompany his band and was permitted to ride along with him and his two sons.

The master smithy of Gruinshawe, Meersh Jandere, whom she'd helped, had taken a liking to her and made it extremely clear that she was to be kept safe. Travers Hindlen, who was a gruff, grouchy, weathered deliveryman, became especially polite and obeyed the enormous blacksmith to the letter.

Aside from the same type of shock and abhorrence of the human trade Lilea had expressed to Ron, that portion of Cache's trip was fairly uneventful.

The journey was extremely slow to her however, taxing the limits of her patience and restraint, but at last, a santari later, they left Mardesh, turning north onto the Shavore road, and on to her long anticipated goal.

When she finally arrived there, she was jubilant, although exceedingly nervous, so she waited another two full days before going forward with her plans. That allowed for a good look about the town and permitted her to get comfortable with the place and how to get around before making contact.

At that point she went to see a man named Brice, a local treen dealer, on the pretense of purchasing some animals for breeding purposes. That was when she was sent to the Shavore group of resistance fighters...all according to her prearranged communications protocol.

They kept her well hidden, and spoke with growing excitement as they planned the future of the upcoming war. Cache was hoping to wait for Ron, certain he was following, but of course she had no way of knowing how far behind he was. Her delay lasted until the Kreete's lackeys unexpectedly began a building-by-building search and census of Shavore. Cache's cohorts knew something was amiss, so they disbanded the group and all went back to their own duties in the community with the plan to meet again when the search was finished.

At that time she and Gordan Farnsede, the head of the rebels in the area, were forced to sneak out of town and work their way to Mardesh. There was supposed to be a southern man of significant influence there...a man who was going to combine his considerably larger army with that of the north. He was a great champion of the "games" who was a valued leader of the resistance in the southern valley area.

They made all the required contacts in Mardesh, but while Gordan was out in the city one night on a simple business errand, Cache was left waiting in her hotel for word of the final meeting. A messenger delivered a note to her that explained this man of influence would only meet with Cache...alone...and it was a take-it-or-leave-it proposition.

The billot was late and the time for the indicated meeting was upon her, so she felt she had no other choice and so went to the specified location unaccompanied. That was when she got caught in the trap where Ron had seen her.

"It was you I saw that night, was it not?" Cache asked when she got to that point of her story.

"Yes," Ron replied, kicking himself for not following his instincts. "I caught just a glimpse of you and investigated, but when I examined the alley I didn't find anything, so I just assumed I'd been mistaken. I failed to notice the trapdoor too...but it did make me suspicious enough to keep me from falling into the same ambush later on.

"I can't believe I was so close!"

She never met the man she was supposed to however, because she was captured in that trap. She fought her captors bravely, wounding two of the three men who met her at the bottom of the shaft. They sent her to a large women's holding facility where prospective buyers were paraded in to make wholesale purchases of such commodities.

She'd displayed remarkable spirit in those early billots of her capture, and an excellent knowledge of the use of weapons, so she was quickly separated from the other females for some added sport.

Reese hadn't lied to Ron completely because he found out she did indeed fight in the five bouts the information broker had spoken of, but she was sold afterward to Meerstal, who happened by during one of the matches. He wanted her for his own breeding, finding her beauty and fierceness irresistible. Also, he was the only patron who could afford her astronomical fee...her owner's regard for her being high as well.

That initial owner, Erlin Noune, tried to take his way with her after her abduction, and had nearly been eviscerated by her when, instead of submitting to him, she attacked him, stripping him of a dagger he wore. If it weren't for him screaming to his guards, she may have escaped at that point. Either way, she left him with a nasty gash which put his sexual exploits on hold for a few weeks, so he sold her.

From that point Ron knew the rest of the story.

### Chapter Forty-four

### A New Beginning

Cache healed quickly and regained her former health and beauty over those weeks in the cove, much to Ron's delight. He worried a great deal at first, that she wouldn't recover fully, but once again he underestimated the powers of that little Raulden woman.

Thanks to the abilities of Flash, Ron didn't have to hunt once during that whole time either, which was a great relief, especially during the first week when Cache was still very weak. And with no arrows, he would've had a difficult time of it, to say the least.

Another thing Ron didn't think about at first was the protection from wild animals the tracker pup was providing. When he finally considered it, he was sure the lack of predators in their area had something to do with that pint-sized menace. He guessed the youngster was more than likely marking the area with his scent, which was probably better than an eight-foot high stone fence.

Finally though, Ron came to the realization that they couldn't stay put forever. There were issues he and Cache had put in motion that must be carried forward. Their daunting undertaking was still ahead of them and they needed to get back to work. That night as they lie down, Ron informed her of his intent to break camp in the morning.

"As much as I'd like to stay here, Cache, I'm afraid we have to get back to the business we came here for...the Kreete need to be dealt with soon."

"Yes..." she agreed reluctantly, "I suppose you are right."

Her heart suddenly grew as heavy as it had ever felt. She was so happy there. The rest of the world's problems were so far away that she hadn't given them a single thought for days, and now she didn't want to. She lie awake a long time after Ron drifted off, thinking and wishing.

The next morning was another gorgeous sunrise with a gentle breeze carrying the aroma of hundreds of different wildflowers into their little encampment. The air was cooler than it had been, and felt crisp and clean. They sat and ate breakfast together, but Ron noticed Cache was unusually quiet and assumed she was apprehensive about going back into danger so soon. He made a mental note to talk with her about that after they were on their way again. Flash raced into camp while they ate and Ron took the opportunity to let him know their plans.

"Thank you, my young friend! You really were a lifesaver. I guess that evens the score, doesn't it?"

Flash slid up next to Ron and rubbed him hard with the side of its body, reminding him of a cat's affections. He did a similar action to Cache and then strutted to the edge of campsite where he paused and looked back.

Ron held up his hand and waved.

"Farewell," Ron called to him...and the tracker youth bolted away.

When breakfast was finished, Ron packed their gear and Cache disappeared for a while. He was about to call for her when he glanced around and saw her walking up from behind him. He slung his bulky pack over his shoulder and turned to face her before he noticed she'd taken a swim, a final chance to be as fresh as possible for the trip, he assumed. Her hair was wet, and she was wrapped in his cloak for warmth, trembling slightly. He also glanced at her little bare feet and knew he would have to get her some proper footgear right away.

"Ready then?" Ron asked as she approached, but she did not reply.

She strode right up close to him, her gaze locked on his eyes, until she stood mere inches from his chest. Her face was so lovely, with water droplets still clinging to her skin and her eyes sparkled like violet diamonds in the morning sunshine.

"I know...I mean...I think I know what you have gone through over these past many santaris," she told him softly, "since our trip to your home world."

Ron felt a rush of heaviness sink into his gut as the memories of his grieving period flashed across his mind, but it was behind him now and so it washed away almost as quickly.

She trembled suddenly and broke her gaze from Ron for an instant, looking shyly at the ground.

He could tell she was extremely nervous...wanting to tell him something of great importance...so he gently lifted her chin to see her beautiful face. It was as lovely as the time he'd first seen her in the council room back at the Gammone complex on Rauld. She'd been so excited about introducing him to the Raulden Council that she glowed, like she did now. He smiled down at her calmly, allowing her the time to gather her thoughts.

"I have watched you, and studied you, and talked with you for a long time now, Ron. And I want to tell you I have never met, and I am sure will never meet, any man who is as noble, as brave, as strong, or as beautiful as you are."

Ron started to shrug off her comments, never being one to be comfortable with such praise, but she refused to allow it, holding his eyes with her stare.

"I know that one's first love is a permanent thing and can never be removed or replaced by another, but I need 'you' to know something too. I would never presume to take the place of the memory of your wife...it cannot be done and should not be attempted. But yet, I feel I must tell you..." she paused a long while, her heart racing and her chest heaving. "I am entirely...absolutely...hopelessly in love with you, and if you would allow my boldness, I would gladly and willingly help you to heal your broken heart."

She then released her hold on the cloak, and as it dropped to the ground Ron could not suppress a gasp. She had indeed recovered entirely. Her body was as flawless as he remembered from that heavenly shower back on Rauld.

He didn't say a word...couldn't have even if he tried...while his eyes feasted on the exquisite perfection of her figure. He traced every glorious line, curve, dip, and peak of her body, and his internal temperature soared. His mind flooded with lustful cravings he'd held in check so many times before, but could not allow to develop. Now it was different!

He just dropped the pack he was holding and slipped his fingers around her tiny waist, his large hands completely encircling her. His heart was now racing madly, beating in rhythm with hers, adrenaline surging through him.

He'd felt a strong connection to Cache from the first time he met her in the forest of Rauld when she was forced to watch her adopted father die at the hands of the Kreete. She too was brave and strong and compassionate, and she had earned his respect during the days following that life-altering encounter. Ron fought hard to control the feelings he developed for her back then, even when she displayed hers quite obviously. He'd been a devoted husband at the time.

Dealing with his grief had been a bitterly fought battle, but he finally came to grips with his wife's untimely death and felt sure that she wouldn't have wanted him to live his life alone. She would want him to find happiness again.

His own desires were a large part of the equation as well because he wanted very much to feel whole again...and such a huge part of him had died with her.

Now, as he felt the velvet smoothness of Cache's peach-fuzz covered skin, his senses tingled as if she were radiating electricity. He'd waited for this chance for so long, his every thought over the past santaris were to get to her, to hold her, to...

He pulled her to him forcefully, her feet leaving the ground far behind, and they finally enjoyed their first kiss with all the passion they'd kept buried for so long. Cache wrapped her arms around Ron's neck with all her strength, and Ron encircled her body with his. It was sweet and wet and hot and...heaven.

They stayed locked in their embrace for a long time, their penned up desires both releasing and rising at once. Finally Cache pulled back and peered into Ron's eyes...seeing his gaze smoldering with the heat of desire she was feeling.

She released the clasp on the weapon's harness that supported Ron's arsenal and began unlacing his shirt, her eyes never leaving his. As she parted the front of it, he pulled her to him again. Now her exquisite breasts pressed against his bare chest, their hardened points trying to bore into his rock hard skin...and his need for her grew even more.

Ron cupped her bottom with one hand, marveling at the firmness and flawless curve of it, and he lowered her to the soft ground as smoothly as if she were a feather pillow...their lips never parting. He lie next to her, still holding her tightly to him, and began to slide his hands up and down her body. The swells and valleys of her vibrated in pulsing waves at his caress, and were hot with the flush of her, her inner engine running at maximum...and she squirmed ever so slightly.

Ron enjoyed this for a while longer, until Cache pulled her lips from his in desperation.

"No more!" she begged...her voice husky and weak as her hands darted down to strip him at the waist. "I cannot wait anymore!"

Ron kicked his trousers off as he crushed her wet lips to his again and then wriggled free of his shirt as well; his own needs running high now. He gripped her tightly again and rolled his body into position above hers.

Cache opened her eyes to see his face as their lips separated and then she parted her body to his.

Ron felt her fingers pressing into his skin firmly as he slipped inside her, and he inhaled deeply, his own pleasure nearly shocking him into instant climax. She gasped and stifled a scream as her virginity was torn from her, and their bodies shuddered and writhed in the primal reactions to the act of love...and neither could breathe for a long moment.

Cache intertwined her legs with Ron's then, and they began to move together ever so slightly. He felt her hands slip to his waist and he began to obey her guiding pressures. She breathed in ragged huffs and jolts, the sensations of her first lover coursing through her as her mind tried to accept, understand, and enjoy it all.

She felt as if her entire body would melt from the heat of him in her, and when the first wave of her orgasm caught her off guard she screamed. It was a short, grunting, high-pitched release of air, her body jumping and arching in spasms she couldn't control...and didn't want to.

Her cries and jerks sent Ron over the edge as his own reactions tried to match hers in concert. Cache tried to pull him deeper into her as her eyes fluttered, and she screamed again when she felt his releasing pulses flood into her.

The two lovers stayed like that for many long litas, each uncontrollable explosion of pleasure rocking them with emotion and elation as they clung desperately to one another. Even after it was over they remained locked in their lovers embrace, panting and savoring the experience...sweat bursting from their pores in response to their exertions.

After a time, once they caught their respective breaths again, they kissed deeply and held on to that distinctive feeling two lovers attain on their first encounter, burning it forever into their memories.

At last, they parted enough to gaze at each other again and read the other's thoughts through their expressions. Cache had tears in her eyes, and her hand reached up to Ron's face. She stroked his cheek so lightly he barely felt it.

"I am yours, Ron Allison of Earth!" she whispered to him, her voice still husky from passion fever. "I shall have no other for as long as I live!"

"And I..." Ron tried to say before she pressed her hand to his mouth.

"Shhh..." she stopped him, "Do not make promises you may not be able to keep, my love," she told him and then smothered his mouth with her lips.

They lay together a good while before rising and taking a long swim in the large pool, and then an invigorating shower in the waterfall.

They talked and laughed a great deal that day...forgetting their mission and just being silly together. They dried themselves in the sun and made love again before lunch...this time taking it slower and more deliberate.

Cache writhed and gasped again as Ron slid back and forth inside her love canal in ever increasing strokes of spine tingling pleasure. She felt his rippling muscles contract and release, and the feel of his godlike body sent her once more over the threshold of control. She clamped onto him as spasms wracked her figure again, and then she screamed once more in exultation.

Ron allowed his own orgasm to join with hers, and soon they rocked to and fro once more...two souls welded together as one.

They kissed and cuddled a long while before drifting off to sleep, only waking when Ron's empty stomach launched a loud protest to them both.

They ate and swam again, and he took her in the pool. She returned the favor by attacking him in the late afternoon...and then once more just before they settled down for a well needed night's sleep under the cover of Ron's cloak.

Ron slept soundly, and his dreams were peaceful with Cache's nude figure pressing against his own bare skin. She did likewise, enjoying a deep, relaxing sleep with carefree thoughts, snuggled up tightly against the man of her dreams.

The next day Ron woke up well after sunrise with Cache still sleeping soundly. He got the fire revitalized and then went for a swim. The water was cold at first and it roused him instantly, charging him up with the brilliance of the new day's light shimmering through the pool. He swam out to the waterfall and stood under it for a time, reveling in the pounding massage from its cascading stream.

When he felt ready for breakfast, he dove into the pool again and swam under water like a frog, heading straight to their little camp. At about midway back though he received a surprise as two hands grabbed his foot and pulled him firmly back. Ron reacted quickly, spinning and twisting around to haul his assailant into his grasp.

His attacker turned out to be the bare form of Cache, and they broke the surface of the water laughing heartily at each other. Cache threw herself at him and kissed him hard.

Ron accepted her eagerly, and his body responded in turn.

Cache felt this obvious reaction and deliberately pulled free of his lips.

She flashed her gorgeous eyes at him lovingly and stroked his face.

"My darling," she said to him in a very happy tone, "I am afraid that I have had more than I can take of you for the next day or two."

Ron looked at her, puzzled for a lita...then it hit him.

"Ooohh..." he replied, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."

"I am not...and yes, you should have," she corrected him, smiling and rolling her eyes behind half shut lids. "It was worth it...belieeeeve me!"

"Okay then," Ron replied, returning her smile and hugging her tightly.

Ron then went to get dressed but ran into a little problem. He found a nest of ants infesting his clothes from where he'd so hastily tossed them the night before. He didn't worry over the delay it would mean however, since they had no real plans or timetable, so he just walked back and washed out his things in the waterfall, laying them out afterward on a flat rock in the sun to dry.

They spent the rest of the morning eating and packing up the camp again.

Cache disappeared for a while to attend to her personal needs while Ron put out the fire and did the same in another location. When he returned, he began stuffing the last of his supplies into the pack he carried with a lighthearted smile on his face...the previous day's exploits were still firmly in his thoughts.

Cache strolled by silently, still wearing the thin nightshirt Ron had gotten for her in that little village, and he grinned at how it engulfed her petite body. The sun burned through it easily as she walked into the light and he stole a look at the silhouette of her shameless display.

"I'm just about ready," he called to her as she slipped slowly away, sashaying pointedly and giggling. "Would you bring me my clothes? They should be dry."

He then returned to the pack he was reorganizing.

"I just need to stow my knives," he called over his shoulder as he scanned the small shelter for his weapons. "Hey, do you know where all my stuff went...the harness with my sword, my bow...what the hell?"

"Looking for these?" came a reply in a deep, man's voice.

Ron's head snapped around instantly, finding a large fellow standing in a tree's shadow a hundred and fifty feet away...and he had his arm around Cache's waist.

Ron cursed his luck! The wind was blowing the wrong way to have alerted him. He stood there naked and unarmed, facing the man.

"Take your hands off her!" Ron ordered, moving a couple of steps forward, "If you harm her, I'll..."

"Harm her?" replied the man with a grunting laugh, "Why would I hurt my favorite whore?"

The man then pulled Cache to him and kissed her lips...and she received him willingly, her arms reaching up to grip his neck.

Ron's blood boiled with rage and confusion.

"Cache?"

"She's good, is she not?" he added as he grabbed her butt with one hand and squeezed it proudly. "Go now!" he ordered her and swatted her on the rump as she left.

The man started toward the camp then while Ron's whole body quivered from his climbing rage. When the stranger stepped out of the shade and the sun struck his face though, Ron took another hit to his reality.

The man was Roelantish Sonebane of the Chavarre Territory!

Ron stood where he was, dumbstruck. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move.

At a single motion of Roe's arm, an entire strike team of Kreete soldiers stepped out into the line of sight of Ron Allison.

Ron scanned the proximity of the camp and found himself totally surrounded, and then his stomach turned over because he knew he'd seen his last day. He looked to the one person in the whole universe who he implicitly trusted, and found her calmly sitting on a boulder behind Roe, her legs crossed and gazing off into the distance as if bored.

"Take him!" Roelantish ordered, and the Kreete soldiers went into action.

Ron still couldn't move. His mind was thrown so far off track that he couldn't form a plan of defense. He stared at Cache's back without blinking and confusion turned to all-out emotional fragmentation. His heart was destroyed and his will to fight was crushed.

The Kreete didn't share in his affliction however and swarmed him. They pulled out their agony wands, but with so many of them in such a tight attack, they opted to use them unpowered, as clubs. He grabbed the first bludgeon in a halfhearted defense, but was showered with so many others that he was unconscious almost straight away...but that didn't stop the Kreete. They merely tossed the weapons away and took turns on him...and they beat him...and beat him.

Look for the continuing trials of Ron Allison in:

A Leap of Fate: Retribution
