 
Storm

of   
Prophecy

Book I

Dark Awakening

Michael von Werner

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious; any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-935691-01-3

STORM OF PROPHECY: DARK AWAKENING

Copyright  2009 Michael von Werner

All rights reserved.

Wodan Publishing  ™

Smashwords Edition

This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.

Cover Art: Felix Diroma (http://samurairyu.deviantart.com/)

To the Readers,

this book was written for

you and you alone.

Storm of

Prophecy

Book I Dark Awakening

Book II Pillar of Light

Book III Flames of Retribution

Book IV Cage of Mist

Book V Pyres of Sacrifice

Book VI Gathering Clouds

Book VII * The Living Fire *

Book VIII * Tides of Chaos *

Book IX * Captive Souls *

Book X * Edge of Fate *

* Forthcoming*

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

#  Chapter 1

Vincent was feeling tired but instantly snapped awake the moment he thought he heard a slight swishing sound against stone. There was no one there in the hallway and so he ignored it. His mind was playing tricks on him again. He assumed the certainty of having heard nothing.

Unable to stand the itching sensation any longer, Vincent reached his right hand back behind his neck and scratched himself under where his thick black hair cut off. A faint scraping sound ensued when his fingernails moved against his skin. There was another itch just below it on his upper back, and so he sent his hand down well under his dark blue cloak and tan leather shirt to reach it, having to bend his head forward to have it out of the way.

When he did, his eyes came to rest on his black boots atop the interlocked gray stone blocks, which lay below his dark leather pants. After scratching, he folded his arms again and resumed standing in a firmly dedicated, solitary stance, a statue once more. Inexplicable itches often resulted from holding still for too long, and long hours of standing guard duty required him to do just that.

All around him stood the cold gray stone walls of Gadrale Keep's most inner sanctum: the stretch of hallway leading to The Crafters' Vault. It was a storage area for complex and exquisitely constructed items of great magic power. Laying deep within the stone recesses, it was like a locked chest buried under tons of dirt and rock. Vincent often felt as though he had a mountain of stone resting above him.

At this bottom floor, five stories below ground level, nothing stirred save for him. Behind where he stood, hidden from his view, was the golden disc-shaped door. The hall leading out lay ahead in his vision. Large stone slabs made up the walls going outward, each carefully cut, each flat and long, showing only a lengthy rectangle on the sides.

The air was cool and damp on the skin of his face and hands. Despite the excellent design of the fortress, moisture still accumulated on the rock surface at this depth. Because of this, mold had invaded the dark recesses and plastered itself in various places along the wall. The area smelt like stagnant rainwater had been forever trapped in a frigid, empty stone coffin. A single bright orb with sunlight essence trapped inside was affixed to the ceiling in the middle of the hall and provided the only source of illumination in the otherwise dismal alcove.

Imperceptibly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His appearance and overall posture did not change, but doing this allowed him to remain fluid should he need to respond. It was one of the things he was taught to do when he was trained for guard duty. Most guards, like he, had mastered the fine art of making this change less visible. Vincent doubted that anyone would have noticed him doing it even if they had watched.

No matter the intense tedium that he was faced with during his duties, Vincent would not trade his hard earned position at the mage academy in Gadrale for anything. It had been his ambition since childhood to become a wizard who served here, and he still considered it an honor despite his low status and the little regard his particular gift engendered. Being assigned to guard a magically locked and secure vault door, which already had powerful spells protecting it, was perhaps a sign of this, but he didn't care. He reasoned that anyone with enough power to break in would be better met with direct resistance than none. They could disarm the spells, if they were exceptional, but they couldn't disarm Vincent without a fight.

He heard the swishing sound again, perked up his attention and looked carefully at the hall intersection, ultimately dismissing it once more. His nerves were a little on edge because of what had been happening lately in the city just north of the keep and in the area around it.

People had been going missing and had never returned. Only a few, the crumpled, broken bone remains of children, had turned up. The bones had bite marks on them that were consistent with that of a dragon or a wyvern, so the deaths were all written off as that: no more than a feral winged beast consuming the unwary as they traveled alone foolishly into the wilderness.

Vincent would have believed this too except that many were reportedly nowhere near the woods when they turned up missing. In fact, many lived in the city. With the number unaccounted for, there should have been more Human pellets regurgitated than had been seen. Adult sized ones should have been among them. Dragons and wyverns often hunted larger game like cattle, elk, or deer. A full grown person might still make a decent meal, but the bones found broken in piles were still, frighteningly, much too small.

Among the victims of these strange disappearances was Harold, Jessica Valens' younger brother. Jessica was a botanical sorceress Vincent spent a lot of time with. He helped her tend the campus gardens whenever he could. She was a close friend that Vincent wanted closer, much closer.

Vincent had met Harold only a few times before and could sense certain things about him. He was not magically gifted. That much was obvious. Whenever he came to the keep it was to visit Jessica. Overall he was kind to his sister, though sometimes he was mischievous and played the occasional practical joke on her and on others. Like most people, he was many things. One thing he was not was fool enough to travel into the wild alone and unannounced. Something sinister was responsible. Maybe something had dragged him there.

In his spare time, Vincent had ventured many times into the woods north of the city, searching. Each time he feared for his life and jumped at every sound yet was always compelled to go again the next time, hoping that something would give him a hint as to what was really going on. So far, he had only found more of the small remains. The real investigators, with whom he had accompanied even before Harold turned up missing, had long since given up. They declared these incidents to be unavoidable predation and warned people to stay indoors at night.

They also warned him to stop searching as well, telling him that if the best animal trackers and wizards could find nothing, he could not hope to accomplish more−he would just be added to the list. The local magistrate commanding the city garrison didn't want to touch it either; the city had a high population and his hands were full as it was. The wizards at the keep abandoned it since the people lost were thought careless and they were unimportant. They had better things to do. Life had to go on, they said.

That left only him, yet he was unfortunately finding himself not suited to the task just as they had said. Vincent felt that it was his obligation as a wizard of Gadrale to continue investigating, and continue looking for the missing people. He kept venturing into the woods and kept asking around. When described to him by others, the men and women could have been someone he knew but didn't. He kept the mental image of each in his mind along with Harold's every time he searched. They didn't deserve to be ignored, and despite all the reassurances and uncaring dismissals...

The strange disappearances hadn't stopped.

Vincent was not a normal wizard himself by any means. To those he consulted, he appeared more a rider, a traveler, a scout. None thought he was a wizard until he actually told them. His sword and cloak made them think he was working for the magistrate when he asked them questions. They were surprised to find out he did not.

The sound of scraping against stone suddenly caught his attention again. His nostrils sharply drew in the damp, cool air as his mind came to a full and startled alert. Vincent decided that three times couldn't be coincidence but saw no one in the hall.

He had already spent most of the night here when his time should have ended much sooner. By his own estimation, he was two hours into a third guard shift in a row, another that was not his own. The sound couldn't be anything real; no one ever lurked down here at these hours besides him. Sleep deprivation was obviously driving him insane. He was starting to feel resentful toward the two young wizards who were neglecting their duty to relieve him. Though the sound was strange and out of place, he couldn't imagine what it might be. It couldn't possibly be the thing he had come to fear.

Unless it couldn't be seen.

Vincent found himself worrying that there was a legitimate reason for Stan and Craig's absence this time. They were often late, and one night they had skipped on their shifts altogether, leaving Vincent to stand guard through the night and ultimately for a full day. Their punishment had been unpleasant for them, and he couldn't see why they would desire a repeat of it or something worse, maybe even a demotion or expulsion from the Academy Guard.

If someone wanted to break in here, incapacitating or killing a relief guard might be a good start. The guard on duty would be run down by exhaustion until they were either asleep or otherwise completely ineffective at their post. Vincent found himself wishing that Stan and Craig were negligent because otherwise they were dead and something was coming for him.

His arms remained folded while his dark brown eyes continued to gaze at the other end of the stone hallway. Vincent's right fist was not high above the black handle of his sword. At the beginning of his shift, he had checked to make sure it was loose in its scabbard. It still should be.

Another swish came from the hall. Anxiety tore through him like it had a life of its own, screaming at him to avoid what was coming. Take action. Action against what? He could see nothing in the hall. He forced the feeling away and became angry with himself for giving in to paranoia. At least he thought it was.

Whenever Vincent needed to, he could draw his weapon quickly. It was a well-practiced reflex that had become deeply ingrained in his mind and body. His was a rare magic tied to metal, but was seen as inferior to other natural gifts. There were no schools for his ability, not even a name for it. Around the keep, he was known as "The Swordsman," more often than not as a derogatory appellation. He didn't see it as an insult. He liked his sword more than he liked many of the other wizards.

So far, he had never had to draw it for combat purposes; he had never had to kill anyone with it. He didn't think he ever would either. The keep hadn't been attacked in centuries. This suited him just fine because even though he was a member of the Academy Guard, a combat wizard who was charged with the defense of Gadrale Keep, he abhorred violence and was largely a pacifist.

The swishing sound came again, slightly louder this time. He looked at the end of the hall from one side of its opening to the other and strained his eyes frantically. What in the world could be causing it?

"Hello?" He called out. There was no answer.

He felt a tingling dread creep through his chest.

He knew at the very core of his being.

He was not alone.

#  Chapter 2

His right hand found his sword handle and gave it a gentle tug to make sure once again that it was indeed loose. He knew something was there. Frustration overtook him. Why couldn't he see it! It was there. He could hear it.

And it was getting close.

He kept his hand close to his sword.

The danger made several thoughts hit Vincent's mind all at once. He immediately thought about Arrendis, the old wizard who was his mentor and friend, the closest thing he had to a teacher. There was much that Vincent was indebted to him for. He had done things that could never be repaid, like fighting to gain him admission into Gadrale Keep in the first place. Every time Vincent was tested by circumstances in some way, be it to prove his ability to others or to accomplish something asked of him, he tenaciously pursued the endeavor partly to justify Arrendis' faith in him and for his own pride. These thoughts were surging forth in Vincent's mind at this moment especially because he was getting a bad queasy feeling in his stomach, and he was developing an itch.

A nervous itch.

There was another small swish. His pulse quickened and his muscles tensed. If it was what he feared, this time it was coming for him. He could feel it. He had to fulfill his duty as a guard. This was the defining moment. He knew that his mind could not be responsible for these orchestrated and methodical sounds.

"Show yourself!" He shouted loudly at the top of his lungs to whoever might be in the next hall. Again there was no answer.

Vincent's mind dove backwards in time, trying desperately to discern the phenomenon. He knew that illusionists could create images that were not real in order to trick the unsuspecting. The problem here was that Vincent wasn't seeing something not real. He simply wasn't seeing anything at all. A brief childhood memory of when he had glanced at a picture in a book suddenly surfaced. This time it was different. It was real and frighteningly so. There was only one thing it could be.

A Seal of Cheated Light.

Vincent's nerves were really on edge now. It was an evil and forbidden spell, not something taught here. It required a sacrifice. The spell's grisly and horrific nature alone kept it burned into his memory. He even recalled being partially traumatized as a child when hearing about it.

It involved an elaborate ceremony in which one carefully cut open a person's chest, held their still beating heart in their hands without killing them, and then magically extracted their living essence while they still breathed. Removing the flesh, tissue, and skin surrounding the heart somehow removed the barrier to this insidious reaping of life. When performed along with the proper signs drawn and incantations uttered, the user was made invisible. Light would not reveal them, because they had cheated it.

He also remembered that it was a delicate spell and could be easily broken. If they were harmed or did something too drastic, the spell would begin to falter and they would be exposed earlier than desired. Despite this, Vincent was still firmly aware that what he couldn't see could kill him.

His blood was racing. His eyes widened as he looked ahead. There was another swish that had almost a patting quality to it. Instantly he knew why it was familiar to him. It was the sound of soft shoes against stone.

He had never fought for his life before. Mortal terror was gripping him because he knew that in another instant either someone would take his life, or he would be forced to take theirs. He abhorred killing and was deeply horrified at being thrust into this situation.

Vincent tried to judge their proximity by the last swishing sound. They would have been moving slowly, but he now guessed them to be very close. A person's muted and controlled breath rose barely above silence for only a small moment. He gritted his teeth and began to sweat, his own breath began to accelerate. How could he make himself take another's life?

The Vault. He couldn't let them take what was in it.

He let his arms down from their folded position and gripped the top of his scabbard with his left hand. The other was not touching the hilt just now because he didn't want to tip them off yet. His left foot casually and discreetly stepped back slightly as he steeled himself to the intense and miserable deed, reasoning that if there was no one here who shouldn't be here, then he could do no wrong. He put the other possibility out of his mind and concentrated on judging distance and his intended stroke.

In a terrible flash of speed, there was a streak of blood across the air where his sword had traveled. The figure of a man wearing a tight black suit with a short round hood and cloth covering his face was revealed when the severed lower parts of his arms fell to the ground and his torso soon followed it. His legs were last to crumple and drop. The spell keeping him invisible dissipated due to his grievous wounds. There was blood all along Vincent's blade and the red liquid had splattered in a sharp line streak on the wall to the right of where his stroke had ended. The stone floor was being covered by it, especially in places where the person's arms and torso had been rent. Parts of organs, the visceral tubes used for digestion, were spilling out on the floor from the top half in a nauseating mess.

Vincent could feel the color draining from his face but forced himself to concentrate on his sworn duty. Before the sight could sicken him into inaction and total revulsion, he immediately advanced forward and to the left, turning away from the gruesome heap to frantically swing across at any additional intruders who might be there. Drops of blood from his sword briefly hit invisible forms in the air before becoming invisible themselves, and his strained ears in full panic heard feet thudding hard in a sort of jumping back fashion while others stepped quickly to avoid his blade.

Fear powering his every move, he charged forward and yelled as he closed the unseen distance to attack again. The tip caught another assailant below their chest, slitting them deeply in another red streak. It cut off their spell, they stumbled back into the left wall, he moved in for the stabbing kill−and froze in his tracks.

It was a woman.

The tight black suit revealed her feminine shape, and the long, deep cut formed a red swath right below her breasts. Having killed at all terrified him; knowing that a woman was about to die because of him was even worse. True revulsion, guilt, and surreal horror held him trapped in place and made the moment seem an eternity. Unable to move, he continued to stare openly, looking above the black cloth covering her face into pretty blue eyes that were laced with pain as sweat from the trauma dripped on the paled skin to the sides of her face.

Vincent soon regretted his hesitation.

No longer hindered by a self-induced restraint of avoiding magic since the spell hiding her was already broken, she used her dying breath to lift a black gloved hand and sent a harsh wind throwing Vincent fast and hard at the opposite wall across from her at a high, oblique angle. Vincent's right back and shoulder painfully crashed high up near the ceiling and he was sent turning and falling along the wall's side. Agony hammered into his chest and abdomen when he hit the stone floor face-first.

He was stunned and still couldn't breathe after the air had been knocked out of him. Worse yet, he landed facing away from her or any others. The woman had expected the impact to kill him, and it nearly had. He was barely conscious and was struggling to get air against the weight of his own battered body that was pinning him down. Blood came out of his mouth. He spit and spit again, but there was always more left.

Disoriented, he barely lifted his head against the awful throbbing ache to look forward and saw that across the short distance on the stone floor his sword was still clenched in his bruised and scraped right hand, which was numb. His entire body was racked with terrible pain, and the thumb and fingers from the hand that held his sword were beaten from hitting the hard stone during his fall, having been almost crushed by the impact of the hilt's weight itself. Despite this, he had somehow forced it to remain where it should be: in his hand. Something within him had kept it from being lost during the near fatal blow he had suffered. The blade's shiny polish amongst the crimson stains was like a beacon of shining metal hope in the middle of what he knew would be the hour of his death.

Vincent tried to move himself and felt an intense burning pain throughout his every fiber. The things in the vault could put a great many innocent lives at risk if they fell into the wrong hands. He was already the worthless "swordsman." He swore to himself now that he would not be the one to fail in this. His will to fight on burned strong.

There were careless footsteps on the stone behind him.

He suddenly realized that the woman he had just killed had been faced with a similar moment. She knew she was finished; she had not merely retaliated against him for revenge. From the sounds, he guessed that there were two intruders left. She had done it for them, so they could succeed at the break-in. Unlike before, they were proceeding toward him and the vault door loudly without concern for opposition. Vincent was the only person who could resist them. And he would resist them. Even with his dying breath. Deciding to make his effort count, he waited.

A moment later when they were closer, he sprung into action. Every bit of motion was like a thousand hot needles stabbing into his muscles as he pushed himself up while turning around and slashing out with whatever strength he had left. The tip of his blade cut a shallow gash in one of their legs, the blood partially dampening the effect of the spell and making the black clothing of its owner visible. Unfortunately, the small hurt he had inflicted on their leg had come at a high cost to himself.

When Vincent's arm was out of position from the swing, it left him vulnerable. He was not able to pull the sword back to recover for another swing fast enough before the barely injured assailant rushed forward and with their good leg kicked him squarely in his face. It should have knocked him out, but somehow Vincent barely hung on to a strand of consciousness. Vincent could feel more than see the blood coming from his own nose as it ran down his face. The invisible intruder then stepped on the wrist of his hand holding the hilt of his sword to keep him from moving it.

"Come on!" He quietly shouted to others, ushering them to continue on.

Vincent focused all his will power into his left hand and pulled out his knife. He viciously buried it into his invisible assailant's good thigh. The man growled in pain as he tried to pull it out but Vincent kept his grip firm on the handle. Another invisible assailant rushed forward and kicked him in the head again.

"He just won't give up!" Vincent thought he heard the rescuer comment in frustration to the other. As the world started to go black, he felt his fist still clutching the knife being pulled to dislodge the blade from the leg, skipping any attempt to get it out of his hand.

* * *

Stubborn bastard!" The wounded intruder said in anger after pulling out the fist clutching a knife. "I'm going to kill him!"

"There's no time!" The leader exclaimed, pulling him by the arm. "Our spells are going to wear out, and yours is already failing! We have to get what we came for and go!"

"Just let me pry his knife out of his fingers," the first insisted, "I'll use it on him."

"Forget about it!" The second yelled at him, furiously pulling him away by the arm. "He's dead already!" They both walked toward the door to the Crafters' Vault, one with a limp while the other helped him move along.

At last they stood before it: the gold colored disc that was the only entry into what was one of the richest arsenals of potent and dangerous magical constructs in all the lands. His injured companion's breathing was still ragged from the pain of his wounds and the lurching needed to carry him. The door was protected by more than any novice wizard they may have left to stand guard. Spells that could kill someone just for touching the metal plate in the wrong way had been woven into it. Numerous runes both seen and those which could only be made visible by applying the right kinds of magic abounded in its protection as well. The largest of the rune sets were inscribed in a circle around the edges. Rather than compete with their power, he and his fellows had spent months preparing a Seal of Cheated Light for each of them so that they might slip past one spell ward in particular.

His less apt subordinates had perished, and now only one other remained. The invisibility spell flickered and faltered, revealing the blood dripping on his fellow's black pant legs. What fools. But then again, how could they have suspected that the lone swordsman would be such a competent guard. He was hardly more than a normal, yet if not for his inexperienced hesitation after seeing Jeanette's grievous wound, they might not have made it past him at all. At the time, they were restricted from using any magic on him because it would have destroyed their invisibility spell, and it had put them at great risk when he somehow detected them. At least that man would trouble them no more; he would no doubt perish by suffocating on his own blood. Regardless, stealing the artifact was now going to be much harder than they had originally thought.

The somewhat bulbous dull gold plate waited for him to act. Due to the deadly nature of the enchantments placed upon it, no one dare try to polish it. The surface was smudged in places and not what one would expect of clean gold. He desperately wanted to attempt to open its lock but found the prospect unsettling.

"What are you waiting for!" His injured companion scolded. "Hurry up and open it!"

"It's got light trackers on it, you dolt!" He fired back with indignation. "You shouldn't have injured your leg! They're going to see you!"

"Well we can't just stand here!"

For once, he and his colleague were in full agreement. He left him to stand under his own power and moved to the right end of the wide disc near the edge that could be gripped. His injured associate would simply have to die or not. "Find a way to keep your legs out of the trackers' sight, my friend. Otherwise, farewell," he said to him.

"How am I supposed to do that!"

"Not my problem," he replied, sending the tiny trickle of magic that would trip the release, just enough to do what he wanted, but not enough to undo his own shroud. The other growled in annoyance.

A great swath of light shot out near the ceiling and moved across to the other side. It was not that much shorter than a man, and moved down before cutting back across, tracking them. On this second sweep, it passed through the invisibility screen of his fellow but only barely missed his wounds. As it began its course along the bottom, he watched as the injured other quickly made a leap toward the other wall and tried to stand on his hands while putting his legs as high in the air as he could, leaning against the stone of the wall for balance and support. With a hissing sound, the light beam instantly incinerated into ash several stray drops of blood that had fallen from his leg during the maneuver. Distortions on the legs he held high in the air were barely missed as the lowest and most threatened portions disappeared only just in time while it swept past. It ignored the others in the hall because they were either dead or their life signs were too weak. After the light beam detected no one, it shut off.

It took longer to bypass the other spells since there were only two of them to work on each, sometimes combining their efforts when certain spells were too difficult. There were a few close calls that could have resulted in a quick death for both. Once they finished, the rounded gold plate began to slowly swing open. He stayed out of its path and let it by, he dared not touch it. It was time-consuming and exhausting work, but now they were finally being granted entry.

Past the doorway, interlaid stone block walls gave way to a pitch black, perfectly smooth floor which seemed to reflect no light, only absorb it, and smooth white walls and ceiling. The large light orb at the top of the ceiling, which he knew to be there, only radiated the same hue as the walls and was camouflaged against the ceiling's white so well as to not be seen. As a whole, the intensity and flawlessness of each color could not be more in opposition to the other. When one walked on the floor, it felt like there was no floor, only a black void in which one could fall forever. Upon glancing up around from it, one felt like they were hovering in the middle of a bright cloud on a sunny day. The effect was visually disorienting yet in complete harmony with the maze that lay beyond. A person not knowing their way through the interior would soon find themselves lost.

Though it did not appear so from here, since all that could be seen was the seamless illusion of a white and black room, he knew that it had many twists and turns leading to various chambers housing a multitude of different talismans. He needed to find his way to the one he wanted and extract the desired item.

As he started walking forward, his injured fellow tagged along. He stopped partway through the visually perplexing hall to find his bearings to the next and then turned in the direction of his lurching companion, seeing his legs flickering into visibility. A few red stains showed up on the otherwise unspoiled black floor. He inwardly sighed with disgust. His companion was outliving his usefulness, and there would have to be a moment of reckoning between them sooner or later, before he could make his full escape. However, that moment was not now, and so he set his mind to the task at hand.

It was difficult to discern the passageways since everything looked the same: a black floor with white all around. Eventually he did. Finally he was coming toward the end of the one he wanted. What soon gave the illusion of a black hall running through the white void eventually ended with the opening to a black room which had otherwise been obscured to the senses when viewed at a distance.

He went in to retrieve the object of his desire, and quickly returned to his injured companion. It was a magical silver-colored feather that was a quill-pen. This one, like many others, did not run out of ink on its tip, but this pen was also very different from the others in one distinct way. However, it wasn't the object itself so much as the rarity of the one ingredient in its conception that was important. This seemingly harmless ingredient would be carefully extracted, and the magical elite here would never be able to guess for what.

The heavily sought after item−the last piece of the puzzle they needed to initiate their lord's plans−was finally in his possession. Their sovereign, whose coming had been foretold in the prophecy, would be completely victorious. Nothing, no power in the world, could prevent that. Only fools chose to stand against the full wrath of a god's firestorm, and only the sane of mind sought to appease him so that their righteous deeds would be rewarded. Now that he had the talisman in his possession, there was only one thing left to do:

Escape Gadrale Keep alive.

#  Chapter 3

Finding the path out was much easier than finding the way in. His injured companion had left a dotted trail of red from his legs. He avoided stepping on them. The man's incompetence was going to show any investigators the way to the exact room they had visited, but it was also making exiting The Crafters' Vault quite simple.

Since there was nothing the fools could do even if they did discover the room he had stolen from, he put any resulting consequence out of his mind. Their progress getting out was effortless for now, but that would be where the helpfulness of the bleeding would end. A trail marking his escape route was not something he needed, and he didn't have time to stop and tie off his friend's wounded legs with torn off strips of cloth either. He didn't even suggest it, nor did his fellow remember to think of doing so. The Seal of Cheated Light only lasted so long, and they had to get out of the fortress before its time expired. Sooner or later, his fellow would simply have to be dealt with before he became a liability.

With their loot in hand, the two intruders moved back toward the door's opening. The gold disc was still extended into the open hall. It was now a matter of making their way out of the fortress and the surrounding campus without being detected by any more of the Academy Guard: deadly wolves who would undoubtedly catch their scent. The first of which had caused them too much trouble already. They were in no condition to fight and needed to escape with the talisman. For now, it was kept concealed by physical contact with his spell, as were his clothes, but getting out still wasn't going to be easy. There would be a constant urge to run. He controlled this impulse within him and continued to help his injured colleague walk along, the spell near his legs continuing to flicker and falter.

Out in the hallway, they kept moving steadily without concern for whether or not someone might hear the soft echoes and scraping of their footsteps. Everything looked much the same as it had before. The light orb at the top of the ceiling still bore mute witness to the carnage below as it cast its white glow over the floor and walls, the bodies, and the pools of blood. The scent of the red puddles mixed with the stagnant and damp smelling air.

They walked past the stubborn swordsman whose unexpectedly skillful opposition had caused them so much woe, being careful to avoid stepping in the splatter of blood that came from his mouth not long after he landed. He was laying on his back with bruises all over his face, and blood continuing to flow out of his nose and down the sides of his mouth, forming in a pool and soaking his hair. His wretched, menacing sword was still clutched in his right hand, his knife in his left. Both remained bathed in crimson from the encounter but with small stretches of shiny metal where the fluid had drained to other portions. Certain that this man was now deceased, they ignored him and continued moving forward.

Next they passed by the severed gore of the first of them to fall to that guard. Although his guts lay strewn about motionlessly, the blood that had spilt from his remains continued to spread on the stone floor. A third smell had been added to the already revolting concoction: the smell of sliced viscera and internal fecal matter. He could feel the nauseating taste in his own mouth of added saliva much like what one had just prior to vomiting.

The disgusting appearance and stench of the remains drove them on even faster, and all was silent except for the sound of their ragged breathing. Such a waste. He should have been more careful than to walk right up to that guard. The trackers built into the door would have done the job for them. He and his limping fellow skirted the mess to avoid stepping in any of it.

They passed Jeanette last, whose corpse still lay with its back and head partially propped up by the wall. She seemed to be sliding down against it at a visible, yet infinitesimally small rate. Her face was pale, and her dead blue eyes stared vacantly at where the swordsman had been just before she had thrown him. Blood from the deep horizontal slice in her torso, just under her breasts, had spilled out to cover the front of her black clothes and then to drip and settle in a large pool where it continued to spread underneath where she lay. He stopped helping his companion long enough to move closer and use his fingers to close her eyes, giving her death at least some semblance of dignity. A faint scent of perfume masked other odors in the hall, for which he was grateful. Such a waste.

The two continued moving through the hall and exited on the other end, taking a right at the split intersection. They walked along as quickly as they could, caring far less about silence than speed since they knew they wouldn't encounter anyone else for a while. His injured companion's wounded legs continued to falter and fluctuate, revealing his black pants and bloody cuts amidst the thin air. Some blood dripped on the stone floor as they walked along, leaving a trail.

He contemplated how best to dispose of him so he could make an easier escape. He hadn't told him yet that his part in their carefully planned theft was clearly over. He was useless to him now and nothing more than a hindrance. He thought of merely leaving him behind and running ahead, but he didn't want to risk his colleague shouting out and alerting others out of spite, nor did he want him to be captured and reveal any information about their plans. For now, he would merely help him along until an opportunity presented itself to get rid of him.

The structure of the bottom floor of the keep went in a long winding loop down the hallway they now traversed. Their footfalls echoed faintly on the stone beneath them. Light orbs spaced at even intervals along the ceiling revealed the wide hall. In the deep stone recesses, the air smelt of rot, but it was a comfort compared to what they had left behind. The path turned right at a corner and continued on for another long stretch. They turned right at yet another corner after that and then eventually entered a massive stairway in the center of the next stretch of wall on the left. There was a slight scratching sound as their feet anxiously scraped along while they made their ascent, proceeding as quickly as they could up the steps.

When they got to the floor above, the layout became different. A straight hall led for a good distance to the next set of stairs on the opposite side. Several open doorways to their right were cut into the stone wall, revealing a vast and enormous chamber densely packed with a wide array of rows upon rows of immensely tall bookshelves. The odor had changed from a damp, cool smell of decay to the dry, musty smell of old paper, parchment and wood.

The ceiling inside was high enough to accommodate the shelves but only barely, and light orbs illuminated the gaps between each one. By what means the shelves were held in place, regardless of whether they were leaned against walls or standing in the open, he didn't know. Each shelf was so tall that it seemed absurd that it didn't fall over. All but the ones against the walls had no backs to them, allowing one to see through to the other side. Books at the top could only be reached by either using mobile wooden-stair platforms with wheels on their bottoms, ladders, or by levitation of the desired volumes.

In the less tightly packed sections where there was more room between bookshelves, there were tables and chairs for study. A smaller light orb hovered several feet in the air above each table, scantly bobbing up and down an inch or two from their positions, though by no means in unison with the others, and provided enough light for reading. This deep library housed the more advanced texts for instruction though none which were magically dangerous in and of themselves were kept here. Those were held in the vault.

Now that they had what they wanted, it seemed like they just couldn't get out fast enough, like the keep was almost sucking them in to prevent them from leaving. Even though it was still kept invisible by his touch, the quill pen in his hand felt like a red flag that gave immediate testament to their violation of The Crafters' Vault, justifying their immediate destruction.

They bounded quickly up the next set of stairs, which turned around to face the opposite direction once with only one stairway landing in between. Their steps and their slightly quick breath echoed as they passed through the enclosure. Upon emerging at the top, another hallway went off to their left. This floor was another library level, and the same stale air greeted them. They ignored the area as they hurried onward to make their escape. The floor above that, was also another library section. Gadrale seemed to hold more books inside the keep and elsewhere than there were people, including the outside city.

A right turn at the corner end of the hallway followed by another took them to the next staircase going up. Soon they were on the floor that was second below ground level. It was arranged differently, and was little more than an access hallway with closed doors that granted entry to the vast and deep chambers of the external basement level to each side.

The chamber that the doors on their left entered was the way they had come in and the most ideal place for them to get out, yet they couldn't. Past the doors, ramps would lead up through the lower recesses of the basement to the external shafts. Though he said nothing to the other, he felt his anger and frustration mount since he knew that they couldn't go this way now. His friend's appearing and disappearing leg prevented it. Very few people, if anyone, would be standing guard in those vast empty, and ramped storage areas but only because they didn't need to. The geomancers left their elementals, creatures with arms and legs who were made entirely out of rock, to stand about and guard the area. With the wounded legs occasionally flickering and showing their existence, there was no getting past them. Neither one of them even thought to try; they just kept going toward the next set of stairs, the way normally used for entering or leaving these lower levels.

His fellow had just cost him a direct escape. He couldn't dispose of him with magic, that would only destroy his own spell shroud. If only he had a knife, he thought, if only he had a knife. The insufferable dead guard on the bottom floor had one, but he was not going all the way back down for it. Probably still clenched too tightly in the bastard's cold, lifeless hand. Somehow he knew that it would be.

Each new floor from that point on that they approached had to be done so with caution. Their elaborately contrived plan had originally sought to bypass these levels entirely in order to avoid as many wizards as possible. At the time, the one on the bottom floor was thought to be of no consequence. They hadn't anticipated having to risk running into more wolves on the upper levels. Their error of misjudging his strength had cost them far too much.

Holding their breath to mask any noise, they peered past the edge of the stairway leading to the first floor below ground level. Seeing no one, they let it out and kept going at a hurried pace. This floor was little more than a storage area for food and other supplies. A multitude of aromas from different barreled goods permeated the air despite being locked behind closed doors. He distinctly smelt potatoes and onions among the mix. Several hallways branched off from the main intersection, leading to the door openings of the large cellars. Jeanette had once told him that there were other rooms just below ground level, used for laundry, but that they did not connect with the main series of floors leading down.

Since they had not seen a single member of the Academy Guard anywhere, his tension eased, and he allowed the two of them to go more quickly again. He doubted there were any more. At this time of night, it was only to be expected. Most of Gadrale Keep was defended at the gate of the wall to the fortress or else by the enclosure of the walls and towers themselves. It seemed as though that was where the two of them would need to focus their concern next.

His friend was still leaving a trail of blood on the stone floor and seemed to be getting weaker as time went on; he held no false hope of him reaching safety to receive treatment. He had to think of how to get out himself. Perhaps he could even break from his companion when they came in view of the gate and run with the quill pen, leaving him to be slaughtered. An easy enough plan, all it required was that he witnessed his fellow's destruction to make sure that he revealed nothing.

He relaxed further. Even with the losses their team had taken, and would take, this was going to be easy. Their lord would be pleased. Despite there only being one of them left to return to the others, their theft was already a resounding success. Gadrale Keep, though dangerous, was little more than a house of fools.

They steadily proceeded up the steps toward the ground floor. He knew from the layout information provided by Jeanette that the opening for the passageway toward the exit was down a hall on the right. He came to the top opening of the stairs with his companion and immediately took a right turn.

"What the...?" He suddenly heard a voice say from behind him. He froze for an instant and his pulse began to race. Immediately he pushed away from his companion while turning around to see a tall man with red hair, a red mustache, and the crimson wizard's robes of a pyromancer.

The beast had caught sight of them.

Things seemed to be moving slowly. The red-robed man's now angry blue eyes stared in consternation at his fellow's flickering legs while his hands made their dreaded journey to a raised position. In a terrible grip of fear, he didn't wait to see the result: he began turning as fast as he could to run but knew he would gain little distance before the attack came.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a bright flash from flame and heard his companion scream in fiery agony just before there was a hard exploding sound. Burnt pieces of his friend flew past him through the air, and something he thought was his arm along with other charred debris hit him in the back, momentarily causing a distortion in his own invisibility. He desperately hoped the fire wizard hadn't seen it.

"Intruder!" He heard him yell loudly to alert others. "Intruder in the keep!"

Without looking back, he weaved, jumped and rolled to the other side of the hall, a thick bright streak of flame streaming past him as he did. In the mortal terror and panic of a hunted animal about to be killed, he quickly scurried to regain his feet and resumed his mad dash down the hall, not caring about the sound of his footsteps. Even as he ran, he could hear the man's own hurried footsteps chasing from behind. He could hear the high-pitched screaming whoosh of another blaze closing in on him, and could feel the heat touching his back.

"He went this way!" He heard the same man yell again, fearing that a silhouette against any brief flames may have revealed him. He could hear more sounds of running and yelling, and it seemed that the whole fortress had awaken.

The hunt was on.

They would be shutting the portcullises to the gatehouse soon; he had to hurry. Blood raced through his veins, and his breath was heavy and seemed too noisy, but he dared not stop running even for an instant. He soon entered the vast communal dining area laden with rows of tables and benches for eating, and took an immediate right to dash out the main door. He saw the flash of light and heard the roar from another widely placed blaze with his name on it exiting the hall behind him. From the feel of the heat, he knew it had come out a good distance and was close. Faster, he told himself, faster. There was no room for any more errors; success or failure now depended entirely on him.

"Where are they!" He heard someone yell out to the red-haired pyromancer.

"I don't know! They have a Seal of Cheated Light! I've been trying to expose them with fire but they seem to have outrun it!"

Another frantic person's voice immediately added their opinion, "I hear heavy breathing and footsteps in that direction!" He pushed his body harder and harder for as much speed as he could possibly muster.

The door was just ahead of him, down the tunnel in his vision. He held the quill feather tightly in his left hand as his arms swayed, his legs pumped, and his breath was quickly convulsing in and out. Slowing down was death, stopping was death, and unbolting and exiting the iron double door at the end, revealing his position, held a good chance of the same.

He heard another whoosh from another streak of flame. It briefly lit part of the passage. Fear kept him running for the door, but fear was also greeting him as he got closer to it. Once he did, he wasted no time in unbolting the latch and pulling one of the heavy metal doors open. It made a deep, squeaky grating on its hinges, but they didn't need the sound; they could simply look at the door as it opened.

"There he is!" He heard someone scream.

In a frenzy, he pushed himself through the small opening before bringing it fully open, desperately trying to get out as quickly as possible. His frenetic haste caused the door to close on him prematurely, and for a brief moment he was stuck, the tight pressure of the cold metal compressing his chest and not letting him breathe. There was another screeching whoosh of flame. In a panic, he shoved it again with all his might and scrambled outside. It closed behind him with a loud clank as he ran immediately to the right.

Out in the courtyard, he sprinted for the gatehouse, which rested between two tall square-shaped flanking towers. Larger white light orbs still kept the courtyard and many parts of the keep lit even in the nighttime darkness; a wizard's stronghold like this rarely used torches. Both of the portcullises in the gatehouse were normally left raised and open even at night since the surrounding outer wall and gate of the campus normally kept intruders out. Professional infiltrations like his were neither commonplace nor expected. Tonight was different.

Panting from the effort, he kept running for his life, not caring about any physical pain, discomfort, or exhaustion. Failure was death, and so anything he felt was meaningless. Already, alerts were sounding all around the keep, and soon the portcullises would be closed to seal the intruders in.

"I hear something down there!" A soldier shouted from on top of the ramparts of the defensive wall.

Another voice from an officer immediately took action. "Archers open fire! Spray the courtyard!" Soon arrows were hailing all around him. They didn't know where he was, they were just trying to get lucky, but some of the missiles were coming far too close. As he dashed on, a few more pyromancers who happened to be on the wall began saturating certain spots with wide downward spirals of flame, hoping to reveal him to the archers. He had to occasionally run around them, and stopped only when one burst right in front of him. He was so close to escaping.

"We can't hit him!" Someone complained.

"Close the gate, you idiots!" Someone else shouted to the gate crew. There was a grating sound. Large chain links rustled and moved. A fast ticking sound was soon to follow.

The portcullises were being dropped.

Constantly trying to run beyond full speed, he managed to dash past the first one, but his luck was running out. The outer one was already falling at an alarming speed like the jaws of death trying to close in on its prey. He madly put every effort into his legs and made one last insane dive, launching himself forward with arms up to land and roll just as the metal spikes were coming down. They barely missed his flesh before clanking loudly into place, yet a fold in his left sleeve had been pierced by one. He hurriedly started pulling and tearing it.

It wasn't just the central fortress that was transforming into a pandemonium. As the alert spread, he glanced away from where he was pulling his arm and saw Academy Guard wizards hurriedly patrolling the campus grounds between buildings with torches and hand-held light orbs. Apparently they had already realized something was amiss but didn't know of his invisibility shroud yet. He pulled harder on his shirt sleeve, not wanting to be here to discover the more clever means they would use next in trying to ferret him out once word finally reached them.

He tore harder and finally ripped his shirt sleeve free. In no time at all he was back on his feet. The part of the outer wall where his team had entered was on the left side of the campus when looking out from his position near the gatehouse. This time instead of running, he walked quickly while trying to control the sound of his ragged breathing. He tried as much as possible to avoid getting close to the prowling wizards and sorceresses who were searching for him.

The circular lawn in the middle of the buildings had a cobblestone road running through its center, straight toward the gatehouse of the fortress behind him. On the other side of the distant stretch lay the iron bar gate of the outer wall. There were a few people in the open expanse of the lawn, but it seemed most were searching elsewhere. This was troubling since many of the buildings enclosed within the campus walls were not always so far apart, certainly not as far as he would like. He just wished that he could recover his breath faster and be silent once again.

He stealthily moved onward, passing by an unusually tall wizard's tower which widely twirled and spiraled upward in a coil yet somehow maintained its structural integrity without collapsing. Thickly foliated stands of leafy trees stood to its sides save for the entrance at the bottom. Parts of it seemed like simple stone much like the fortress. Others appeared to be made of a smooth, glossy, wavy material that was greenish in places and opaque, rugged, dull silver in others. He didn't bother to look up at the clear crystalline pointed roofing that he knew blanketed the very top. It was obvious to him that this was the notorious Tower of Prophecy where atmomancers were trained to read the arrangement of the stars in the heavens, attempting to discern what fate had in store.

He smiled smugly to himself while he moved along, wondering if the fools had foreseen this or the full fury of the coming storm on the horizon. His own sect had known for several millennia. About the coming of the dark one. The one who would rain death upon all the land yet also be death's master. The dark but true beliefs of his cult were not widely shared, and they dared not worship openly.

The magic they used that was associated with it, necromancy, was also completely forbidden and punishable by death. Nonbelievers in fact frowned upon everything they did, even the necessary sacrifices of people which had allowed him to penetrate this far unseen. Gathering in secret, often at night in the forests, their numbers were few. It was therefore always more efficient to rely on captured heathens for use in their ceremonies.

And their children were often easier still to capture.

They had served their purpose and now he needed to serve his. He just hoped that the essence of the one shrouding him would be potent enough to last until he cleared the outer wall, the one thing foremost in his mind. He and the followers he led would be amongst the favored. The reign of the dark one was at hand.

He maneuvered through buildings and ducked through alleyways, slipping past prowling initiate wizards as well as their instructors. Soldiers ran past. Often he heard some of the people call out to him to surrender, promising that he would be unharmed if he did. When they did this, he sometimes ducked behind tress even though he knew they couldn't see him, such was his fear, and he didn't want to take any extra risks since his shroud's time was running out.

It seemed that the entire academy had awaken this night to join the search. Some were now starting to use flame in certain places, testing for his presence. Others used small weak crackles of omni-directional lightning, sparkling out from their fists, that was attracted to the nearest solid contacts. They controlled the small tingling threads of light to flow without jumping to themselves or to their fellow searchers. The strange hum caused by this was unnerving, and he hurried along to avoid it.

Soon he was past many of the buildings and within view of the section of vine covered outer wall where the rope they had used to come in was still hanging. It had been found, and there was a knot of armored Rygan soldiers wearing red colored tabards with the crest of a black lion standing in an attack posture, which covered over their breast plates and chain mail. Several in the back sported halberds and great swords while the rest in the front formed a tight phalanx with shields and spears. To their sides, stood several wizards in blue robes using the small humming lightning fields while others in red brandished angry-looking, compressed fireball sparks in their hands like the one used to blast apart his friend back in the keep. If only he had killed his companion sooner when he knew he had to, he thought, then he might not be facing this problem. Next time he would be the wiser.

Without dwelling on it further, he turned away, not wanting to be seen by this fierce-looking group when his shroud finally failed. He needed another way out. As he walked south along the inside of the outer wall, going back more or less parallel to the road leading to the keep, he tried to assess what his best option was.

Every time he heard the humming sound come closer, apprehension gripped him fiercely and he nervously looked around. The nagging, rising panic, caused by the knowledge that his invisibility was nearing its end, was making it difficult to think clearly. He was overly anxious to leave in any way he could.

He took a deep breath to try to calm himself, smelling the pleasant, fresh scent of grass and trees. The outer gate would be guarded, and he knew it would be poor if not impossible climbing to get over the metal bars. It would definitely be guarded in a similar way as the rope; they would never allow him to use that exit. That left him with no other choice than to attempt to climb out on another wall section. He didn't even know if it could be done. He started running again since there was little time.

Once he was far enough away from the knot of soldiers and wizards, as well as concealed by another building between them, he took a hard look at the vine covered wall. It stood at least three times as tall as he, and the vines didn't seem too likely to support his weight for long without snapping. If they were disturbed, they might give him away. He had no choice but to try. He briefly gave thought to using his magic on them to strengthen them in some way but couldn't risk it. It would destroy what was left of his slowly weakening shroud. If he was seen, death would be immediate.

He looked around and backed up a good number of steps so he could get a running start. He put the quill pen in his mouth and bit down, clenching his teeth tightly so it wouldn't fall out. Flexing his hands and taking a few nervous breaths to ready himself, he charged ahead at full speed. When he came close, he jumped and used his foot to try to catch the wall to jump himself up higher. At the apex of his leap, he grabbed tightly a wad of the vines, hoping that enough of them together could hold him. They did for the moment, but he could feel them stretching and being pulled apart. He quickly grabbed another bundle up higher and resumed his climb. The rustling of the disturbed leaves and stems still hadn't revealed him yet. When he got near the top, they had taken all the strain they could and were starting to break. Desperately, he reached his hands to grip on the stone edge and tried with all his might to pull himself up. He could only get himself so high before he had to reach over the top and desperately grab hold of more of the vines. He pulled and pulled until finally he was able to swing a leg over. Once atop the wall, his invisibility shroud failed.

"Over there!" A woman's voice screamed.

Lightning bolts and flame sparks streaked just over his head as he frantically rolled and dropped off on the other side, grabbing the vines there to ease his fall. The speed and force of the trauma was such that he dangled dangerously for only a brief moment before the stems broke and he landed on his feet with a hard thud, clumsily falling backward right after. He got up immediately. His black clothing would just have to conceal him for now. He took the feather out of his mouth and gripped it tightly in his left hand before he started running again.

Amidst the chaotic sounds of yelling beyond the wall to rally a pursuit, he disappeared swiftly into the night.

#  Chapter 4

Try again. Both of you," he dimly thought he heard a man's voice say. "This time don't give up so easy. Give it all you got. He's almost back, I can feel it."

Vincent felt a surge of warmth go through his chest and permeate his entire body. It caused him to open his eyes and mouth while he made a sharp gasp. During the brief time that his eyes were open, he saw the ceiling of the infirmary section of the keep. After that, he saw only darkness. Somehow, much of the blood he knew had been in his breathing passages was already gone though leftovers of the coppery taste were still in his mouth and throat. The smell of clean, dry sheets with the lingering scent of soap as well as balm-like medicines he couldn't recognize, filled his lungs. He still couldn't open his eyes again after that one moment and was only faintly conscious.

"Good," he heard the voice congratulate. "Good. He'll probably sleep like that for a while. Eventually he'll come around. Lay him on his side so he can breathe better." Vincent heard soft breathing as he felt two gentle pairs of hands grabbing him, one twisting his shoulders and the other pulling his right leg over so he would lay on his left side. The left half of his face was smothered against a pillow.

The next deep and grating voice he heard shocked him. "When do you think he'll be ready to submit a report to us?" It came from Grandmaster Treyfon, the old Elf man who was currently the leader of their institution. He recognized it from a public speech Treyfon gave during the promotion of a class of initiates.

"You must be kidding," the voice directing the healing admonished. "We've only just got him breathing again. He's been through a lot, can't it wait?"

Another voice, old yet not weary-sounding, spoke up. "We would very much like to question him." He recognized it as belonging to Master Anthony, Dean of Atmomancy. Was the entire council of masters assembled near his bed? He wondered.

"His body was damaged pretty heavily during the assault on The Crafters' Vault. It's taken several treatments just to get him back this far. I don't know when exactly he'll wake. It probably won't be any sooner than by tomorrow though. We've done all that the healing arts can allow for someone in his condition; his body needs time to recuperate from both traumas and come back the rest of the way on its own. Only time can help him right now. I'm sorry."

"Keep us posted," Treyfon's grating voice reminded in a gentle manner.

With what little of himself that was dimly aware of the world, Vincent tried to make himself struggle to get up so he could greet the masters with more dignity before they left. Somehow the strength to do so just wouldn't come; his body wouldn't move. He heard the footsteps leaving.

In horror, he recalled what had happened. Had it really happened? Or was this some nightmare where his worst fears simply came to pass? It certainly bore the mark of mortal terror and dire failure followed by the impending oversight by his superiors. Was he really just back in his bed inside his quarters? It felt like he was asleep though he couldn't dismiss the other senses he had experienced. The bed he lay on was indeed comfortable, and the rest seemed too horrible to contemplate. Wherever he was, he was safe now. That thought carried through foremost before he blacked out once more.

It felt like no time had passed at all before he heard the voice speaking again. "Please go let the masters know that he is close to reviving. In fact, please go let everyone know, including that boisterous red-haired friend of his...you know, the one with the mustache that wouldn't leave yesterday." A woman acknowledged with a quick umhmm and went off to do as told.

Vincent immediately knew they were talking about Rick Miller, an overly energetic and ambitious pyromancer who seemed to get along well with him despite Vincent's less than spectacular power and low standing within their institution. In his groggy state, he felt touched to know that Rick was also the kind of friend who would come visit him like this and not just a passing acquaintance.

Suddenly he came fully awake and sat bolt upright, taking sharp breaths while his wide-open eyes were taking in the scene of the infirmary with its rows of beds, each with white pillows, sheets, and blankets. Sunlight illuminated the entire room, coming through the killing slits carved into the wall on this, the third floor of the fortress. He had to blink several times because his eyes weren't accustomed to the brightness. A thick crust of sand at the edges irritated them and so he wiped it away. He didn't even remember having twisted to lay on his back again, but it was obvious he had by the way he was now sitting up.

With a deep chill, he remembered the attack. All of it. The horror and mental imagery of having cut apart and killed two people, the spilling of their blood and viscera, it all nauseated him and made his skin pale. Then he remembered the masters wanting to speak with him, and knew that he would be shamed for letting his weakness and revulsion allow the other two to slip by. More people would die, and it would be his fault. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his head, and he began to sweat.

One of the healers, a brown-haired middle-aged woman in a white dress, rushed up to his side and slowly pushed him back down with her warm hands on his chest. "Whoa, not so fast now," she cautioned, "don't put so much unnecessary strain on yourself just yet." She had a kind and easy manner about her. Another healer woman with yellow hair showed up on the other side of the bed.

Her words were not enough to soothe his anxiety; worry overtook him. "The vault." His voice was firm at first when his head came back to rest on the pillow, but his distress was soon betrayed. "They broke in! I couldn't stop them! Where are they!"

"There, there, it's okay now," she comforted. He didn't know if he had ever heard words that were more false.

"How can it be okay! They must have stolen something! What was it!" He started fighting and scrambling around to get up against the pressure of her hands.

Vincent was winning until the other grabbed on to help try and subdue him. "Sir, just calm down," she implored in a strained tone. When he didn't listen, they each put a hand to the side of his head, and against his own will, he fell back into a temporary slumber. He heard only their heavy breathing and then all was black.

The next thing he knew, the same hands were touching the sides of his head and using magic to wake him again. When his eyes came open, his bed was surrounded by the same two women, and a short distance across the room past the foot of his bed there was a crowd of people wearing wizard and sorceress robes of every color. They had all gathered in the infirmary to witness his recovery. Three from the council of masters−Master Crafter Clemens, Grandmaster Treyfon, and Master Anthony−were among them.

Master Clemens' presence was to be expected since he was Vincent's supervisor for his duties regarding The Crafters' Vault. A number of things stored in there were made by him, but most were made by others in past centuries. Regardless, he was in charge of instruction for those whose gift it was to craft and construct objects fused with magical properties. As a high ranking wizard master within Gadrale International Mage Academy, Clemens did not appear at all like one would expect. Instead of wizards' robes, he wore clothing far more reminiscent of a blacksmith: dirty, faded blue pants; tan leather boots; a white apron smeared in places with black grime; and a loose brown leather shirt underneath with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscular, hairy forearms. He appeared middle-aged, young for a master, and had graying dark hair on his head and on his thick full beard. He was balding on the top with hair receding from the front and corner edges. A strong, and portly individual, Clemens often seemed intimidating to others. He was fairly strict, had a loud, deep voice, and seemed overbearing, yet Vincent knew him to be a fair man. At the moment, Master Clemens' brown eyes looked on eagerly toward him with a serious expression on his face, but occasionally his eyes darted around toward others in the room. What he felt about Vincent's performance, Vincent couldn't guess at but feared the worst.

Grandmaster Treyfon was obviously here in an official capacity. His old deep-blue eyes had the strange quality of all Elves: they seemed pointy even though the eyes themselves were round. Currently they were pointed at Vincent. His face was slightly wide, and his eyes were particularly large and round, more so than other Elves much less Humans, and were a distinct feature of his face that set it apart from others, making him easy to recognize. His straight gray hair ran down the sides of his head and was parted by his pointy ears before it reached his shoulders. His gray hair and slightly wrinkled face, more than anything, was a profound symbol of veneration since Elves were extremely long-lived, often living for centuries or even many millennia before dying in an accident or other conflict. They were rarely culled purely by the natural force of time.

The fact that his hair was gray meant he had lived for countless thousands of years. It was well known to everyone at the academy that Treyfon had spent the majority of this time learning all there was to know about every plant in existence and honing beyond mastery the skills of his gift, botanical magic, to the point of complete proficiency. None could hope to match his level of skill or intimate knowledge regarding the use of plant life. This magical discipline might seem harmless enough, but Vincent knew that deadly, ravenous plants shooting up out of the ground, growing at an incredible rate and devouring all that crossed their path, were not something to be laughed at. Because of his incredible wisdom, age, ingenuity, and power, he had long ago been chosen to hold the position of Grandmaster within the international mage academy of Gadrale Keep. More than these qualities though, he had a keen sense of leadership, problem-solving, and was a fine negotiator in times of dispute. Regardless of the drab tan robes he wore, everyone held the deepest respect for him.

Master Anthony, an old Human in blue wizards' robes, was Dean of the Atmomancy Department and in many ways no less venerable. His white hair was short and his face had a short, neatly-trimmed white beard along with one or two more wrinkles than Treyfon's. Astrology, the heavens, weather, wind, and lightning were his domain, and he could command the latter three with ease and read the former two with great insight, Vincent had been told. Though he might look a little older than Treyfon, he was in actuality a great deal younger. Atmomancy was nothing to laugh at either, and Vincent suspected that the woman who had thrown him into the wall with near fatal force had at least partial skill in its use.

Both masters besides Clemens had a calm expression on each of their faces that showed nothing other than small interest, perhaps centered around their reason for being here. Master Clemens on the other hand, appeared more anxious to dispense with the formalities so he could speak with him personally. Everyone else's face seemed to brighten when he showed himself well enough to sit up, and they began clapping.

When Vincent looked down, he noticed that under his white blankets, he was wearing a white gown typical of those kept here in the infirmary who were seriously injured. His normal clothing lay cleanly washed, and neatly folded in a pile next to the bed. His sword was there too, in its scabbard, and looked much cleaner than it had been the night of the attack. He had secretly hoped that they wouldn't have changed him, since that act was embarrassing for him and this attire now made him feel more vulnerable. The clothing itself was comfortable enough, he supposed, yet felt inappropriate somehow.

Vincent looked on at the other guests assembled. Though the old wizard, Arrendis−his lifetime friend and mentor−was not visible, Vincent knew he was present, standing in the back somewhere as he always did on such public occasions. Among those gathered toward the front of the crowd were his other three closest friends.

One was Rick, the red-haired, red-mustached pyromancer wearing crimson robes, whose energy and enthusiasm for most things was staggering at times. He was always positive, always on the go, never being disheartened or discouraged by damn near anything. Rick was also polite, encouraging toward others, and sometimes his vigor seemed to rub off. At the moment, he clapped more fervently than the rest at Vincent's seemingly good health and even hooted and hollered. The other two were a girl he knew named Stacy and his cousin, Karl.

Stacy was a talented and close student of Anthony's who had long lovely brown hair, pretty blue eyes, and proudly wore a blue dress that signified her atmomantic calling. Her temperament was that of a hardworking scholar, yet she was never afraid to lend a helping hand to others who had trouble understanding. She often but not always looked at the endeavor, even assisting in some of the research, as an interesting challenge rather than an annoyance. Nevertheless, Vincent felt surprised and touched that she had come, and he knew right away that the recent events had given him much to look into that he might normally consider seeking her help for. If...he didn't even know if he really wanted to stay, but if he did, he would certainly need her help now more than ever.

His cousin, Karl, was only just over a year younger than he and wore the green robes tied to geomancy, a gift Vincent would have been glad to have been born with involving levitation, manipulation, and control of earth materials, even sometimes infusing it with life to create elementals, beings made of rock and other substances. Geomancers even had some control over water. He had once heard that his own gift, a control over metal, was thought by some to be a genetic offshoot of geomancy that only occurred randomly and was thus quite rare. The gift of magic was largely hereditary, and so he guessed this made sense since they were related.

Lucky or not though, Vincent was stuck with what he had, and neither he nor Karl seemed to care much about the differences between their two abilities; it was simply a part of who they were. Karl's blond hair was thick and full, and hung down to is shoulders, another contrast between them as Vincent's was shorter and black. His eyes were a lighter shade of brown than Vincent's and looked on warmly with a smile at knowing that he was alright. Both he and Stacy clapped quietly with Rick's cheering while Rick put his thumb and first finger to his lips and blew with a loud, shrill whistle. Vincent could never understand how some people were able to do that but was grateful for the gesture amidst his own burgeoning despair.

He noticed that those who he knew had no respect for him were not present. It didn't bother him in the least since he didn't feel much like seeing them either. To his dismay, there was one face in the crowd that he searched for and didn't find: the face of Jessica. Why wasn't she here? Did she not care? Perhaps she didn't know he had awoken. He was also certain she didn't know that he secretly desired her heart. He let her absence go for the moment. It wasn't as though he was about to surprise her by bringing back her brother Harold anyway.

He had learned about Harold's disappearance when he found Jessica in the gardens, crying. Her head was hung low and her long dark hair was draped down across her face while she picked at the dirt with her shovel. He cautiously walked toward her. Her hands stopped. It wasn't easy to ask her why she was so distraught, so he couldn't make himself do it right away. He didn't think she would answer him, but she did. His eyes went wide when he realized that the unknown menace had struck again. He moved closer to her. Tentatively, he pushed some of her long black hair out of the way with the back of his fingers and drew her to him. She hugged him and held on while the sobs took her.

It had torn his heart out to see her like that. Vincent would have done anything to take away the pain she felt. Vincent would have done anything for her period. Though it wasn't his place and though he said nothing else to her that day, he had made up his mind. Seeing her so upset was enough for him. He was going to rescue Harold for her. He wasn't an officially sanctioned investigator: he was just a private individual. And the task was more than dangerous. If Jessica knew what he had planned, she would have tried to stop him. She wouldn't understand. He couldn't leave Harold to his fate, and he couldn't stand to see the woman he loved suffer. He was going to rescue Harold for her.

Memories of this search or of visiting her in the gardens seemed distorted or drowned into insignificance somehow, like a childish dream crushed by the weight of a cruel and devastating new reality: that he was a murderer and a failure. Despair took him. He felt like he couldn't do anything right. He couldn't find her brother. He couldn't protect the vault. He stared down at his clean hands and imagined them covered in blood.

He had killed.

Different feelings conflicted within him. At once he was sad that she hadn't come, and yet he was also grateful for it. Right now he felt so much shame and revulsion toward himself, at what he had done and at what he had failed to do, that he didn't feel like seeing anyone.

He looked at those gathered and forced a small joyless smile on his face so as to hide it. As much as he appreciated the shower of support from his visitors, it still came as a great shock to him and felt misplaced. He had failed. Worse yet, he didn't feel like the necessary acts of violence he had committed, or had failed to commit, were something worth celebrating.

When the clapping died down, Masters Clemens and Anthony continued to look on at Vincent while Grandmaster Treyfon addressed the crowd in his grating voice, looking around with his pointy Elf eyes as he spoke. "It has been many generations since one of our own has needed to place their life on the line to fight in defense of Gadrale Keep and all that it stands for: peace and cooperation between the lands." He looked back to Vincent. "You have succeeded in staying alert and steadfast where others might have overlooked a serious threat. The Seal of Cheated Light is not something easy to notice." His face took on an expression of dismay and regret. "And as I understand it from what Master Clemens has told me,"−he and Clemens glanced at each other from the corner of their eyes−"you were serving beyond the call of duty by continuing to stand guard two shifts beyond your own, protecting The Crafter's Vault when both replacements failed to relieve you."

Seeming to know what he was going to say next, the crowd took on a more somber appearance, and many stared at the ground. "It comes as an even greater disappointment that while two of our pupils were neglecting their sworn duties, another, whose name I won't mention, had betrayed us to join the attackers and fell by your hand during the assault. This is deeply unsettling to us all and feels an even deeper wound than the theft that took place." He looked off distantly while thinking. "Thankfully, the artifact stolen was of little importance."

Vincent felt guilt and shame coursing through him worse than at any other time in his life; that the object was less valuable didn't seem to matter. For all he knew, Treyfon had merely said that to be kind. Treyfon stood quietly for a few moments and then came out of his thoughts, seeming to remember where he was and what he was doing. His distant expression faded as he held up a hand to gesture toward Vincent. "Despite your unusual gift, which has been the subject of much controversy over the years, you have through your deeds proven yourself as true a member of the Academy Guard as any. Even better still, you are fortunate enough to have miraculously survived by the most hair-slim of chances. We give you our thanks and congratulate you on your efforts." Everyone began clapping again.

So that was it, Vincent thought, just minor recognition for the now rare event of having fought for the keep at all−and for not having died. No mention of a possible tie between the intruders and the unexplained deaths and disappearances. No reprimand, no being called in to account for his actions, nothing. Then again, no one had been there to see him hesitate. No one knew of his guilty conscience. Or the horror of what it had been like to slice people apart and kill them. Having never killed anyone before, they couldn't understand what it was like. How could they? If he had known ahead of time, he didn't think he would have ever come here. The experience was making him rethink his life entirely: he felt very distraught and disillusioned.

As Grandmaster Treyfon had said, their institution was dedicated to preserving the peace and to stopping wars from happening in the first place, not to fighting in them, though they sometimes had to fight to make this so. Ryga was the home country of Gadrale Keep and its nearby city, but the mage academy was international in its scope and membership, truly a symbol of peaceful exchange and cooperation. All the lands represented in the student and instructor rosters contributed to the upkeep of the campus, shoring up what King Glidewell readily provided. It was a place where people from different races and lands all came to learn and share what they knew, thus maintaining a balance of power while fostering mutual awareness and respect at the same time. Vincent hated violence and appreciated the academy because of its firm belief that it was only to be used as a last resort. He felt a new distaste for himself for not honestly knowing the answer to whether or not he was cut out to pursue their noble cause.

As soon as the applause once again ceased, Master Anthony this time gently spoke to him without raising his voice for the crowd. "Whenever you're feeling up to it, we would like a small audience with you to hear a report on the matter,"−Vincent suddenly felt intimidated but tried not to let it show−"we know you can't tell us much since the thieves were mostly invisible at the time, but any small detail might be important."

"I'll try my best, master," Vincent replied, feeling even more terrible. The whole affair was bad enough; the idea of having to recount it to the masters, including all his shortcomings, seemed even worse.

"That's all we ask," he replied kindly. After sharing a brief look, both he and Treyfon turned toward Vincent's right and began walking out of the infirmary.

Perhaps because of this, one of the healers at his side decided to cut the visit short, and he found himself feeling grateful for it. "Okay, I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you all to leave now. He still needs to recover from his injuries. We'll allow a few friends or relatives to stay a little longer if you keep it short. Everyone else please leave."

As they all started shuffling out of the infirmary, Rick, Karl, and Stacy walked toward him but stopped a few steps further back and waited their turn while Master Crafter Clemens moved next to the right side of his bed. The healer lady stepped out of the way. An acrid smell of the forge greeted Vincent's nostrils. Clemens held his filthy, grime-stained hand up for Vincent to shake, and when Vincent raised his, he took it and shook vigorously with a tight grip. Vincent's supervisor normally gave a firm handshake, but this time he was squeezing so hard it was hurting Vincent's hand. Vincent hid the pain.

"Thank you, thank you so much," he said in his strong voice, continuing to shake Vincent's hand up and down quickly. "You were outstanding!" He slapped the side of Vincent's right shoulder once and then finally let go of his hand. "Vault guard duty is serious business. Most people don't see it as such because of the harsh spells on the door, but there's no lock a clever man can't pick as I always say. It's usually impossible for me to find people to stand watch over the door; most have to be assigned by force since no one wants to do it. When we met, you came to me as the first person to ever actually seek the position, and I have never been more pleased that you did."

Vincent knew what he was talking about. When he returned to Gadrale from his training in the army, there were few opportunities for service within the keep; at least few opportunities for someone like him, whom everyone considered the same as any soldier. Arrendis had assisted him in perusing the rosters to find something that was within his means to do. The list of open positions within the Academy Guard had been short.

"Thank you, master," Vincent said politely. Shame at his failure to prove himself, much less prevent the break-in, kept him from feeling touched. "I'm not so sure when I'll be able to return to my post. I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Dedicated to the end," he remarked deeply under his breath. "Don't worry about your duties while you're healing. I'm having Stan and Craig serve extra shifts to fill the vacancy. During a talk with them the other day in my office, I gave them some additional incentives to start being as unwavering as you."

Vincent didn't ask what they were. Even though he was angry at them for leaving him up that night, if they hadn't, one of them would have been there when it happened. He didn't wish what he had just experienced on anyone, not even them.

Vincent looked down while idly rubbing at some of the dirt on his right hand with a thumb from the other. "They are just boys," he said, "but I would have thought that after what they went through during their last punishment, they wouldn't have skipped out again. They've been diligent at reporting-in all this time since." Vincent looked up slowly with a confused expression. "I'm afraid I don't understand it."

Master Clemens kept his voice down and looked on at Vincent with stern brown eyes; the subject was clearly agitating him. "Those rats say they were spying on some strange people in the woods outside the city, yet others claimed they saw them just outside their quarters during the search for the intruder. It sounds like just another fanciful story like the one they made up last time. They'll say anything to get out of trouble." Vincent wasn't so sure it was a lie this time and wondered what they claimed to have seen but didn't say so. He also couldn't be sure it was true either. They had been untrustworthy and unreliable in the past, and his desire for such information on the strange happenings could be clouding his judgment.

"I'm sick to death of their excuses," Master Clemens continued irately, "being boys doesn't excuse them. They're fifteen and sixteen years old, and it's time they started acting like men. I told them that I'm going to randomly drop by to see if they are still standing guard. If one of them isn't when he's supposed to be, I'm going to put in a request before the rest of the council that he be expelled from the academy. I think they got my drift and will serve well or not at all."

"I'm sure they will." The master crafter stared at him without saying anything. Vincent blinked and stammered, "...perform their duty, I mean."

His supervisor stood up straight and took a breath to calm his frustration. "I hope that you recover soon in case they don't. Then I'll at least have you to protect the vault." He held his hand out for Vincent to shake once more, and Vincent took it without hesitation. He was surprised to find it more gentle this time. "I'm supposed to be teaching a class right now, and I'm afraid I must leave. Take care." Vincent nodded to him and then he left.

With the master crafter gone, his friends approached the rest of the way to share a few words. He was sure they had heard everything. Stacy looked preoccupied and anxious to leave, which wasn't unusual with how busy she was. The fact that she came at all was a nice courtesy and not one that many others of her stature would dare pay to one as low as him. In fact, most who shared her rank had no respect for him at all.

Karl looked mildly pleased, and Rick looked alive, awake, and alert as always. Since Stacy seemed most eager to be off, she said her peace first. "Well done, Vincent. I'm sure it was quite an ordeal. I'd stay but I'm needed in an advanced class with Master Anthony, which he's heading back toward right now. Try to get better soon. We all appreciate what you've done for us."

"Thanks for coming," Vincent acknowledged. She gave a quick, polite smile as she backed away and walked quickly to catch up with Master Anthony down the hall. Rick and Karl watched her leave briefly before returning their attention to Vincent.

"She has a skill for using few words when she needs to," Karl noted.

Vincent nodded. "It was still a nice gesture though. From all of you."

Rick couldn't contain his flippant tongue. "You'd think that with all the words our illustrious Grandmaster uses, he wouldn't have left out the most crucial thing you did for us." Vincent felt slightly puzzled. Though Rick lowered his voice, his enthusiasm was undiminished, nor was his emphasis on certain words. "He never mentioned how without you, we would have never even known that they were here."

"I'm not sure what you mean," Karl said. "I thought you raised the alarm."

Rick's teeth were showing with a devilish grin beneath his red handlebar mustache as he turned to look at him. "After I got off of guard duty myself, I was about to go talk to Vincent before I went to bed, and that's when I ran into those bastards. One of them had both of his legs showing, not much mind you, but they kept appearing and disappearing in certain spots. That's how I was able to catch him in the hall. And boy was he sorry." Vincent looked down, feeling disinterested in this part of the conversation. He wasn't fond of killing, even if it was necessary, and knew that Rick's attack could have only been just as gruesome.

"Why were his legs not fully covered by the seal?" Karl asked next.

"I don't know. I saw some blood dripping on the floor, and I'm sure Vincent had something to do with it. Too bad the other one was such a slippery little cuss, otherwise I would have had him too."

Karl then asked the next question that Vincent dreaded answering. "Exactly what happened down there?"

Deciding to answer only the relevant part, Vincent slowly looked up and eyed each in turn. "I was on the ground and I only managed to barely gash him across one of his legs before he kicked me in the face and stepped right down on my sword arm. That's when I pulled out my knife and stabbed him in the other leg."

"Hah!" Rick exploded. "Brilliant!" Vincent didn't think it was so brilliant. If he could have from his present position, Vincent was sure that Rick would have slapped him on the back. "Karl didn't think you had it in you," he teased. "He thought you were too much of a softy, but I always knew you could do it." Karl just shook his head and let out a sigh of a breath through his partially closed lips, making the blowing sound one sometimes did when finding a joke silly or immature.

"It wasn't pleasant," Vincent admonished.

"I know," Rick conceded, "my encounter wasn't either. I finished mine off quicker just so I wouldn't have to hear him scream anymore while he burned alive. We were both just doing our jobs, Vincent. Whenever you feel any sympathy, just remember what those people had to do to become invisible like that in the first place. They were sick and they deserved it."

"True enough," Vincent admitted, looking down at his blankets once more. Somehow, Rick's words still didn't make him feel any better.

"You also know that they couldn't have been down there for anything good, right? Who knows what they stole from us. Or what they plan to do with it. We better be extra careful from now on."

That part made Vincent feel even worse. When he said nothing, his cousin Karl stepped in. "I'm sure the masters have already figured out what it was and will give us the proper instructions when the time comes." Then he observed something that Vincent really wished he hadn't. Karl shook his head. "To suddenly be attacked from thin air..."

"I wasn't. I managed to attack them first."

Silence.

Vincent wished he hadn't been so honest and had kept his mouth shut. Now they were only going to pry more. Karl was already putting pieces together. "Then how did you get hurt so badly, and why were you on the ground? From what I remember, wizards and sorceresses who use the Seal of Cheated Light are left vulnerable. Even carrying a knife would have been a drain on the limited time and energy of the spell. If you figured out they were there, you should have had the drop on them."

Vincent raised his head with a sad look on his face. "I'd rather not talk about it right now."

"We'll you're going to have to when you give your report to the masters," he reminded. "They're going to want to know everything that happened."

"What I'd be more interested to know," Rick interjected into the exchange while loosing none of his excitement, "is how he noticed them in the first place?"

"It's normally very quiet on the bottom floor outside the vault," Vincent answered simply. "They just weren't being nearly quiet enough with their footsteps."

"Hot damn!" Rick exclaimed. "Just like that! You caught them!"

"Yeah, I caught them alright," Vincent replied, feeling unenthused. He saw one of the healer women returning with a cup and a pitcher of water, and decided to seize upon the opportunity. "If you two don't mind, I think I would like to get some more rest now."

She heard what he said and shared a look with the two of them. Karl concluded his remarks. "I know this must all be hard on you, but you can't let it stop you from living." He didn't know the half of it, Vincent thought. "Get well soon."

"And quit feeling so bad," Rick put in as they both started leaving, "you did your part and we'll be back to see you again later."

Vincent nodded. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

After they left, Arrendis came and approached him last while the healer lady poured him some water and gave him the cup. It was his way to let Vincent stand on his own with others while watching how he fared from afar, observing how his pupil performed without his interference. Vincent drank as he came closer, following his arrival with his eyes. Vincent wasn't feeling so eager to see him. He felt like he had let him down and betrayed the faith he had placed in him as well as all his efforts on Vincent's behalf, but he tried his best to put on a show for him.

The healer woman departed as Arrendis approached him, his long white beard swaying against the front of his gray robes. The staff he walked with was a twisted, furled wood that curled into a coil at the top. It made an audible tapping sound as he slowly walked along. His flat glasses with circular lens gleamed once with the reflected sunlight in his face. Beneath the wide hood that was round, not pointy, at the top, his kind old blue eyes looked Vincent over carefully, seeming to wonder if he was alright. Arrendis almost never had a scowl or overly cold or serious expression on his face, and he appeared genuinely concerned.

When he came, he asked in his weary voice how Vincent was, and Vincent amiably told him he was alright and should recover. Arrendis didn't ask for specifics but instead told him that he was proud of him and that he defended the keep well. Vincent didn't argue and simply agreed though he felt like the biggest liar in the world when he did. Arrendis wished him well and then left. After he was gone, Vincent lay back on his bed and brooded.

Vincent felt horrible about everything, but Arrendis' visit was the worst. He didn't have the heart to tell him he had failed, that he had hesitated when it counted most. Arrendis, like everyone else, also knew nothing of Vincent's unproductive wanderings, investigating and seeking anything that might be traced to those who were responsible for the deaths and disappearances of so many.

Vincent wondered if the intruders in the keep were somehow connected with it but felt like a fool for having ever tried to find them by himself against everyone's wishes. He was clearly no match for them. He had so much trouble with killing, absolutely abhorred it, and yet he had gone in search of them anyway. What would he have done had he found them out there? He probably would have been killed. The Seal of Cheated Light had kept him safer from them, but even then he still failed. What an idiot he had been. They not only eluded his grasp when he had searched, they had also dropped right in his hands, and he let them get away.

Two different feelings threatened to rip him apart. One was his hatred of what he had done; the other was his anger and frustration, making him wish he had done more. Overall, he felt like simply quitting.

He now firmly realized that his own magic had in fact been mediocre and ineffective compared to others this whole time, as was his ability to succeed without it, and he had just been deceiving himself. What was he to do now? He felt like he had wasted his life, like his life meant nothing, and a part of him wished he really had died down there.

His anguish was compounded even further when he thought of Jessica again. No wonder she never seemed interested in him. Why should she? He was nobody. Nothing. A waste of space. He was not even fit to serve in a wizards' keep such as this. Was he even really a wizard himself? Or just some freak occurrence, a person who happened to carry a tingle of magic?

He would quit. That was what he had to do. He would go home to his parents, to the farming town in northeast Ryga where he was born, and be a farmer just like his father had wanted. His parents would miss him and would welcome him back. Unbearable as it was, he would have to do something else first before he left. He would have to say goodbye to Arrendis and thank him for all that he had done. He at least owed him that much. He didn't have it in him to tell Karl and everyone else; he was far too ashamed. They would just have to hear it from Arrendis.

He was also starting to realize that he hated his sword. What a waste his life had been: learning to use something so awful, to do something so awful, and he wasn't even really needed. He hated all of it. As soon as they pronounced him able, he would leave the infirmary and leave Gadrale Keep. Forever. For now, he would rest and wait until he could.

A healer woman came by later and he asked her how much longer he would have to remain. She told him that another day and night of rest should be enough. Then before she left again, he asked her to use her power on him to help him sleep since he didn't think he could manage it. It was due to his own personal anguish, but he didn't tell her that. He blamed it on the anxiety caused by his traumatic experience, which was partially true. She agreed to help him, and soon he fell into a dreamless sleep.

#  Chapter 5

Vincent awoke when he heard some unusual sounds: breathing, the stepping and scraping of shoes against stone, and a wet click. Perhaps it was only his restless and tormented mind that kept him from sleeping longer, but he awoke nonetheless. Everything was dark, and so he guessed that it was sometime during the middle of the night or early the next morning.

He heard the sounds again. Immediately he tensed and could feel his pulse throbbing through his head. He held perfectly still, fearful of the possibility that the keep was facing another infiltration. He opened his eyes only a small crack and saw little since the infirmary was lit only by moonlight coming through the thin windows in the wall that were once killing slits. Thankfully, he saw no one directly near his bed though this was small comfort due to the fact that the intruders could become invisible.

He was just about to roll out of his bed when he looked toward the left side of the room and discovered the source of the noises. A man and a woman that he couldn't recognize were standing next to one of the infirmary beds in in the row across the room from him. They were holding each other in a tender embrace and were kissing passionately. The most he could tell was that each were wearing white, he white robes, and her a white dress. White was the color worn by healers. His hair appeared dark in this amount of light while hers appeared a lighter shade, possibly blonde.

The two of them were not what he had feared, but he was shocked nonetheless. He immediately guessed that the lovers were here at this time of night because they wanted to keep the affair a secret. He didn't know why this was. It could be that one or more was cheating on their intended. It was nighttime and the room was otherwise empty. Vincent was the only patient in the entire ward and was supposed to have been put asleep by magic. No wonder they thought this location would grant them the secrecy they desired.

They didn't know it had worn off.

The man pulled her even closer and tighter against himself as they tasted each other's lips more intensely, caressing and feeling her back with his hands. She held his head close in one hand while holding and squeezing his shoulder with the other. The complete silence made their breathing seem fairly loud. Vincent continued to hold still, wondering just how much further they were going to take this.

It wasn't long before they parted just enough to begin taking off their clothes, having trouble keeping their lips separated long enough to do so. He pulled his white robes up over his head, revealing his bare back and strong muscles while she unbuttoned something in the back of her dress. It soon came off as well, exposing to the moonlight the fair smooth skin of her supple breasts, hourglass form, and pleasantly shaped legs. They set their clothes on top of a bed further left in Vincent's view, and she lay her lush body down on the bed just right of that, raising one knee in the air. They hadn't bothered to remove the covers and were going to commence directly on top of the bed.

Vincent reasoned that he probably should have said something when he first saw them, and was regretting having not since now it seemed too late. He didn't want to interrupt their love-making. He felt it was wrong to disturb upon their bliss, and kept perfectly still and quiet. It felt like the infirmary room, large and empty as it was, was starting to heat up.

The man, whoever he was, got in between her legs on top and carefully inserted himself with the help of her hand to guide him in. Once the penetration was complete, he pulled closer and wrapped his arms around her back, using his elbows for support. She enfolded her arms around his neck and squeezed with her bare legs. They kissed while he moved back and forth within her, back and forth, making love on top of one of the infirmary beds. Their bodies were intertwined as one.

Vincent felt his face flush red and thought that maybe he shouldn't be watching this but was unable to make himself stop. He was too caught up in their passion. People making love wasn't a bad thing, he supposed. In fact, it was actually beautiful, but meant to be private.

Eventually though, he became less amused by the eroticism he was witnessing. It was intriguing at first, but amidst it all he was forced to think again of his own situation and everything that had happened. A lack of consciousness could no longer prevent it. The lovers in their embrace only reminded him that Jessica, the woman he was in love with, would most likely never be his, and he would never be able to share his love for her the way these two were sharing theirs.

Vincent laid his head back again and closed his eyes, deciding to give them their privacy, but still had to endure the heavy, passionate breathing from both. Each were also verbally exulting their ecstasy in their own personal way as well. It went on for hours, and now that Vincent was awake, he found himself wishing that they would just finish so he could get up and be on his way. When he thought it had stopped, he would open his eyes again a crack to look, only to find them changing position to have the woman on top, riding him like a horse. These readjustments to different positions would happen periodically through the night and annoyed him each time since it always held the chance of it coming to an end.

It was early summer, roughly the eleventh of June, and so the morning sunlight's first rays were tinting the black nighttime sky a dark blue earlier and earlier in the day. When Vincent first noticed this happening, he knew they couldn't be much longer. Shortly after when he opened his eyelids to a tiny slit again, when he thought they were changing positions, he saw that they were finally putting their clothes back on. The infirmary was often empty at night like this, and Vincent was getting the sense that these two perhaps came here regularly in his absence. He was just in their way. He was always in everyone's way. It was just one more reason why he had to leave Gadrale behind.

As soon as they were gone, he got up and sat on the right side of the bed, finding his own clothes, boots, and things still in the neatly folded pile not far from his feet. He stood and started changing out of the patient's gown, glad to be putting them back on. Everything but the sword, anyway. They had been washed and dried and smelled of clean soap. Vincent felt much better now that he was free to move with at least some small semblance of dignity. Pulling his boots on his feet felt best of all yet also painfully reminded him of what he must do; he could not stay. He pulled on his dark blue cloak last, not bothering to pull up the hood.

It was still quite early in the morning, and as much as he dreaded it, he still needed to pay a visit to Arrendis. It would be hours yet before the old man would even come awake. Vincent also suddenly realized that he was famished and should probably eat before he left on his long journey home. Since there was nothing better to do, he decided to go to the central dining hall. He would have to wait there too, but it was better than staying in the infirmary one moment longer.

After navigating through stone hallways and down two flights of stairs, Vincent was finally on the bottom floor. As he walked through the hall leading toward the dining room, the area lit by light orbs attached to the ceiling, he looked toward the opening of the staircase leading down. It was the one leading downstairs through the many floors to finally reach the vault. The intruders must have passed through this very intersection.

He smelt the slightest hint that something had been burning here. When he looked around, he noticed one tiny charred flake of black material sitting on the stone floor. Whoever had done the cleaning had missed it. Vincent's stomach began to turn and he was losing his appetite. He walked on faster toward the dining hall as much to flee from the unpleasant thoughts as the smell. His hurried footsteps echoed on the stone.

Shortly after, the hall opened up into the central dining room of the keep, empty as it was. Light orbs hovering high in the air near the ceiling kept the vast square-shaped room lit even at this early hour. Rows of wooden tables with long benches on the sides of each were lined up in more or less the same direction he was walking. At the far side of the room was a lengthy rectangular window opening into the kitchen area. The window was where food was normally distributed. Another window in the stone wall opened into an area where dishes were returned for washing. Both were empty; he was far too early and would have to wait. He pulled the scabbard of his accursed sword out of the way so he could sit down but kept it hanging near his leg so that it wouldn't stick out in the aisle between the two rows of benches.

Vincent leaned over the table, placing his elbows on top, and rested his face in his hands. He felt deeply disturbed that he had killed anyone and even more disheartened because he was somehow not fully up to the task. He wasn't good enough at killing people, and that was what everyone expected him to be. If he remained, he would have to do better, be better, at such a morbid, terrible deed. He wanted no further part in it.

He was wrong to have ever come here in the first place and saw that clearly now. So many years, so much time and effort, and it had all been for nothing. Vincent had no purpose for being; his life was without meaning. He tried to keep his composure and to keep his eyes from glistening since he knew that sooner or later people would be coming along. He didn't want them to see how distraught he was.

At first, only the cooking staff arrived. Vincent ignored them but could hear the banging of iron pots and pans and the clanking of silverware and dishes as they prepared to feed the entire keep its morning meal. Later on, some of the earliest risers came, and one or two began to form a line to wait. Vincent reluctantly rose from his seat and took his place behind them. It wasn't long before more people filed in behind him, and the food was finally being served. A few of the staff placed stacks of wooden plates on a table to the side of the window last, seemingly so that they would be taken now that the cooks deemed the first batch of food ready.

Vincent took one of the wooden plates and forks when the line progressed and moved along to where the food was being given out. There wasn't much choice this morning. It was just some scrambled eggs, a few pieces of bacon, and a bun. The serving persons dispensed each on each person's plate by just slopping it on. Vincent thanked them and then went to go sit back down.

He ate not seeming to care so much about what he was eating or how it tasted, wanting only to get it over with so he would be not hungry. He had unpleasant business to take care of, and this was nothing more than a trivial obstacle to it. How he would make himself do what had to be done, he didn't know. He only knew that he had to.

When he was a boy living in northeastern Ryga, Arrendis was the wizard who had visited his shabby farming village to test the children to see if they were gifted. It was a simple test in which they were each given a daisy and urged to concentrate on it heavily and will their magic into it to do anything they liked. It didn't matter what they wanted to have happen; if they had magic, something would, even if it was not what they intended.

Vincent's daisy had blackened and wilted. He was worried because he had been trying to make it become red like a rose. Master Arrendis told him that it was alright, that he was gifted. Vincent asked him what his gift was. He didn't have an answer. He told Vincent that if his gift was for pyromancy, the flower would have burst into flames. If it was for botanical magic, he might very well have changed the flower's color. He had produced an unexpected result that made identification difficult. Vincent was slightly older than his cousin, and so at the time he was the only gifted child in town; Karl wasn't recruited until later.

When Arrendis had discussed with Vincent's parents the prospect of taking Vincent to Gadrale Keep so that he might train to become a wizard, they were both shocked. His father had refused, but his mother later convinced him to agree to it because they were poor and it gave Vincent a chance at a better life.

He was brought here. The fortress and its surrounding campus was the most impressive place he had ever been. It struck him with awe. Arrendis ran further tests to see what his gift was for. Nothing worked. They found out later only by accident. Right after Arrendis had him try to focus his magic several times to no avail, Vincent became frustrated while he continued sitting at the table. Idly, he reached over and with his finger traced the designs on the metal candle holder. It began to glow a bright red.

Arrendis did some research and found a few vague references. He remembered feeling disappointed when Arrendis told him that throughout history those like Vincent were regarded as less worthy wielders of magic, practically useless individuals who occasionally performed sword tricks. It seemed like the end of it. At the look on his face, the old wizard told him not to despair, for no magic is ever really what it seems. He was convinced that through hard work, scholarship, and active attempts to explore it, Vincent could become far more than someone who juggled swords at a fair.

He warned that it would not be easy. Aside from the mental and physical effort Arrendis promised to put him through, even to continue training for what little Vincent knew how, there would be some harsh attempts at experimentation to stretch Vincent's understanding of his own magic. There was much he would have to learn about Gadrale Keep and much he would have to discover about himself on his own.

And there would be barriers.

He was honest in telling Vincent that because his gift was for an obscure magical discipline that was neither highly respected nor well understood, there would be those who wouldn't take him seriously. Worse yet, there would be those who might stand in his way. Arrendis could at best only offer him guidance, not instruction. Because of these reasons, there was a chance that his admission into Gadrale would be rejected by the Council of Masters.

Vincent was a stubborn child. He helped his father on the farm because there was need and because he would be punished if he didn't. He never wanted to be a farmer. Even as young as he was, he saw this as his only chance for something else. He had wanted so badly to learn at Gadrale that he had begged Arrendis to let him stay and earn his keep by doing odd jobs.

Arrendis laughed and told him that he was growing fast: he was already learning to bargain. His mentor didn't know if Vincent's additional offer would be enough to convince the council to change their minds if they weren't interested in retaining him, but out of kindness, he agreed to plead Vincent's entry on his behalf.

It was a long uphill battle to convince the masters. They didn't see what they were supposed to do for someone who could not be taught by them. Arrendis was persistent, and finally the masters capitulated, but only because they could put Vincent to work on the campus. Without having asked for the duty yet, they placed Arrendis in charge of Vincent's attempted teaching since he was so set on his entry in the first place. After that, Vincent was his responsibility.

Arrendis was his oldest and best friend. He was not like Vincent. He was a wizard with many talents but unfortunately none of them were what Vincent had. Though he was not strongly specialized in any of his gifts, he had a flexible mind. Perhaps it was this that made him one of the greatest mentors Vincent could have hoped to have.

The old wizard had taught him most of what he knew and helped him to learn for himself whatever he could not teach. There were no teachers for what Vincent had been born with. No classes and no fellow students. There was only Arrendis who had taken him under his wing.

Vincent's strange gift was that he had the ability to alter any object made of metal through physical contact with it. A sword was typically the thing he carried and used due to its inherent utility as a weapon comprised of metal. Because of this and because his gift was so rare as to not be named, at least not one that he knew of, within the keep he was called simply "The Swordsman." Vincent would have been just as pleased with a metal-rod staff like those favored by some atmomancers, but Arrendis had long ago taught him that relying purely on magic was foolish. Magic could fail. One's concentration could falter or be taken up by something else even when realizing an additional threat. Being able to fight without it, if he could, was important.

The old man was like family to him. Arrendis had been a surrogate parent in the absence of his own, watching over him and teaching him just like he had promised Vincent's mother and father he would. An anxious pain of regret soured his insides. Vincent was grown now, yet all that care seemed to have been for naught. He didn't deserve it, and it had been wasted on him. Now he had to simply pay the courtesy of telling this to his greatest teacher and friend before he left for good.

Vincent got up and returned the plate and fork to the collection window on his way out. Arrendis' quarters were also his office and his study. The room was on the sixth floor of the fortress: the last not devoted to defense and thus did not include archers and retaliatory siege equipment like ballistae.

Those were located on the roof above, which just so happened to have it's own wide, pointed roof of light-blue stone shingles, shielding it from arrows and boulders while providing a panoramic series of openings for shots fired by defending troops. Gadrale Keep had been remodeled and expanded upon over the centuries to become one of the most formidable strongholds throughout the lands. However, the increases in its size and stature were due more to the necessity of making the structure large enough to accommodate the needs of both the mage academy and the king's army. In the early days, the fortress had been smaller, only a mere outpost for blocking and stemming occasional Orc incursions from the Badlands. Since that time, the campus had been built around it, mostly to the north, and a city sprang up northwest of that.

Vincent found the staircase he needed and began his lengthy climb. He took each step one at a time, feeling too depressed to go faster. While he climbed, he took off his sword's baldric that held the scabbard, pulling the black leather strap over his head. He thought that he should at least leave the weapon with Arrendis; he would know who to give it to so that it was returned to the king's army. Vincent continued climbing while holding the weapon in his left hand; he couldn't wait to be rid of the damn thing.

The army. He looked back on those six years of training with disdain, now that he knew what he had gotten himself into. Arrendis was instrumental in having him train with them at all. So many memories, and his combat training with the army was the least of it. The old wizard had been there for him throughout.

Arrendis had helped Vincent by having him try to focus his power on all sorts of different things. Mostly metal objects, to see what his magic could do. When Vincent worked at the stables, Arrendis had him try to use it on horse shoes. One time when they had gone to the dining hall together, Arrendis had used utensils to help test Vincent after they ate. Whenever Vincent destroyed anything, be that horseshoes or silverware, Arrendis had always taken responsibility for it. Instead of letting it become a problem, Arrendis had turned it into a workable solution. He didn't allow the cooks to throw out the ruined metal, and insisted that they be given to Vincent to continue his training, thus maintaining Vincent's education and the kitchen drawers.

Eventually, Vincent had learned how to use his power with enough finesse and precision that he was able to repair and return the things he ruined. He remembered smiling at Tabitha's stunned expression when he gave her back the reformed silverware that he had ruined as a child. The old kitchen matron couldn't believe how new they looked. By then Vincent had also grown large enough to wield a sword.

At one point, Arrendis decided that Vincent should no longer be confined to simple grounds-keeping, and had petitioned the masters for him to be promoted to some other form of duty. The Academy Guard seemed most ideal. When they discussed it with the council, it became apparent that there was little Vincent could do against a foe with magic. It was then that Arrendis called for a recess in the deliberations and pulled him aside. He told Vincent that he needed a sword; it was the only way that he could have something to focus his power into while still giving doubters the appearance of being armed. There was a great deal of truth to the fact that without something metal, Vincent was indeed unarmed, and so he had agreed that it was a good idea. Then Arrendis suggested that he should also have a formal training with it. They brought these things to the council's attention once it reconvened. The masters accepted the offer of allowing him into the fold not only after he was taught and equipped but could justify his magic prowess as well.

He didn't have to travel far to receive his combat education. The encampment outside of Gadrale was where the recruits being assigned to garrison the keep had trained. However, Vincent had gotten into trouble because the army didn't want to train him. They took this stance because he had rightly refused to enlist in the army as part of the unit and wear the armor. At first, they didn't understand that he was a wielder of magic and not a normal volunteer for military service. With Arrendis' help, he was able to avoid becoming a soldier yet still train with them and forgo such restrictions. Vincent was given this leniency on the grounds that he was technically not a soldier of Ryga but a wizard that was going to be relegated to defending the academy. Though some were not happy about it, the army still relented and allowed him to be admitted for instruction.

At first, Vincent had just stuck to practicing conventional swordsmanship along with all the other recruits. Because he did not openly display his magic, the soldiers he trained with gave him a hard time. They had picked on him and asked why he was so special that he could be there but didn't have to be one of them. Vincent was only fifteen at the time and so thought a demonstration was necessary. He showed them first by flaring his sword and letting them see the flames on it. They were impressed, but then one of them asked, "is that it?" Then Vincent asked one of them to hold out a sword so he could strike it. He cut right through it instantly, melting it on the edges where he did. When they asked him if he could do the same with armor, Vincent asked who wanted to volunteer in order to find out. Not one did.

After that, the soldiers didn't need much more convincing that he was indeed a wizard and accepted him. In fact, the commanding officers and sergeants said they liked him more than regular wizards they had served with because he was not so mysterious or arrogant. He was a wizard who would fight in the thick of it along with them, one whom they could at least understand.

Within the army unit everyone had referred to Vincent by the nickname of "fireblade" and were glad to have him along. They still teased him of course, and were often crude, but at least they respected him. Since wizards and other people with magic outranked them, the officers and soldiers all found it amusing how they were the ones who had to teach a wizard. Especially since the ordinary wizards were always acting like wise sages whose divine duty it was to teach everyone else about the world, whether they merited that veneration or not.

Vincent had continued to train conventionally while experimenting on the side with focusing his magic into the sword. The training was intense, and he had worked far beyond hard to become an expert even when fighting without the aid of magic. He had strived to become the best, and constantly tried to improve upon himself afterward.

It worked.

Later at the age of twenty-one, when he was officially recognized as the best swordsman in the unit (in the conventional sense), he considered the time ripe to return to the Academy. After he demonstrated some of what he could do in another meeting with the masters−simple freezing, heating, or the setting on fire of his blade−he was finally allowed to take up duty guarding the keep. He had been doing this for two years.

And yet all of it, everything he had worked so hard for, had been for nothing. He had failed his duty when it mattered most. Killing people was never something he thought he would have to do. He thought that the mortal terror and pain of near death should have meant something. It didn't. They got what they came for anyway and succeeded in validating the misgivings of those who didn't want him here in the first place.

Inevitably, Vincent's feet at last carried him to the sixth floor of the keep. He didn't want to tell Arrendis what was troubling him so much and why he had to leave, but he felt he had to. He owed him that much.

The hallway that led toward his quarters loomed in his vision. On this floor, smaller light orbs providing less light were affixed to black metal sconces on each side of the hall. There was typically more illumination on this level as a whole from window openings; therefore, greater means of providing light were unnecessary. The air in the fortress well above ground also smelled much fresher than what Vincent was used to.

Within Gadrale Keep, the door to each person's quarters did not require a key. Every lock was comprised of a gold colored pad on the wall near the door, engraved with the image of a flower with its leafy petals all coming out from the center. The doors were unlocked with a touch of the owner's hand to the pad, and the spell built into each was keyed specifically to that person.

Whenever Arrendis slept, he closed and locked his door, but whenever he was awake, his door was always open, both figuratively and in truth. Vincent could see the opening on the left side of the hall toward the end and could tell that it was in fact open now. He felt the tiniest bit grateful that he had not wasted the trip.

As Vincent approached, he stopped just before the door's edge and took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When he turned to look inside, he saw the old wizard sitting hunched over his desk up against the left side of the wall, furiously scribbling something on a piece of parchment. He glanced occasionally at something written on an open book next to him while a small light orb floated several feet above, bobbing up and down slightly as it hovered. The pungent smell of ink on parchment permeated the air.

The whole desk was cluttered with piles of books and other materials. Toward the back of the room, there was a wide window with its wooden shutters completely open to the cool morning air. The sunlight coming through was almost hitting Vincent in the face. A good distance to the right of the open window, Arrendis' bed rested in the corner. Just in front of the window, a ways to the left of the bed, stood a waist-high wooden pole from which a hawk often perched on the crossway extensions at the top. Arrendis practiced falconry, training a bird of prey to return its latest kill to its owner, and often cooked and subsisted on what it brought him. In return, Arrendis always made sure his hawk had food whenever game was scarce. Right now, the perch was empty.

Vincent reached up his right hand to knock several times on the open door. The bones on his curled up fingers made a sharp sound on the wood. Arrendis stopped for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, and then turned to look his way. As soon as he saw Vincent standing there, he made a slight jump in surprise. "Well young man, I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon. You seem to have recovered nicely." He looked down across the length of Vincent, his eyes stopping on the sword's scabbard being held in Vincent's left hand with its leather straps tangled about. A frown creased his brow before he looked up at Vincent once more. "What can I do for you?"

Vincent managed to keep his eyes dry while struggling to keep his voice steady. The moment seemed unreal to him, and the words came out on their own as if they weren't his. "I've come to return this to you, master. I'm resigning from the Academy Guard, and I won't be needing it any longer. It was my deepest honor to have known you, and I'm very grateful for everything you've done for me over the years. I'm only sorry that it was all in vain." Arrendis' eyes blinked behind his glasses, and he appeared truly shocked as Vincent walked up to him and handed him the sword. Arrendis held it in both hands and looked down at it. Despite Vincent's best efforts, his eyes began to glisten. "Goodbye, my friend," he managed before turning around to walk out.

He only made it halfway toward the door before Arrendis finally spoke. "You seem deeply troubled," he began. "I don't believe I've ever seen you like this. Before you go, might I make one small request?"

Vincent answered without turning to look back. "Anything. What is it?"

"May I ask why you are leaving us? It has something to do with what happened down there the other night, doesn't it?"

Images and sensory perceptions of the horror, fear, blood, and revulsion flashed before his mind's eye again. He scrunched his eyelids closed and released a distraught breath. His anguish surfaced anew, and he still couldn't bring himself to turn around. "It is not something I care to discuss. I'm sorry."

"Too late, you already agreed to grant my request. Now you have to fulfill it."

Vincent turned to face him. His voice at last broke somewhat. "I am not sure that I can continue on in this capacity any longer, master. My aspirations were all childish dreams. My sword, a toy. Now that I have seen what it is really like, to take the lives of others and have their blood on my conscience, and to be nearly killed myself, I feel that I have made the wrong choice of profession."

"Oh? And what profession will you choose now?"

"I...I don't know, master. But anything is better than being afraid all the time, or feeling like this. I don't ever want to go through that again."

At first, Arrendis didn't say anything; he just looked down at the sword he was holding in his lap while he nodded. "I see," he said. "Tell me then, whom would you like to go through it for you? Maybe I could take your place. I'm an old man and not very quick, but I suppose I could still try to stop the next thieves when they come."

Vincent felt his insides ripping apart. He had thought his mentor wasn't going to give him a hard time because of the trauma he had experienced. He had thought wrong. "Master, I..."

Arrendis looked up at him. "Well if not me, then perhaps one of my students would suffice? They're only about seven. Or one of your relief guards? If they bother to show up, that is."

"Master, please don't be like this...just let me go."

Arrendis sighed with a deep breath while he looked down once more at Vincent's sword, speaking without further subterfuge. "Vincent...you'll find that certain things in life are not only hard or unpleasant but downright awful. Even more so because they are unavoidable." He paused a moment to let his words sink in. "You'll also find," he began, "that there are people who are not only mean or cruel but really quite wicked." He looked up from the sword, right into Vincent's eyes. "The people you killed could only have been those. Their use of the Seal of Cheated Light alone, shows that they have no respect for the lives of others."

Arrendis took another breath. "The point is, we can't prevent those things from coming into existence. Evil people and injustices will always abound; we don't have a choice in that. What we can choose, is what we decide to do about it. No one wants to kill, Vincent. No one likes it. Do you think you're the first person to say so? You're not. The only people who seem to genuinely enjoy it, or care nothing about the suffering they inflict, are people like the ones who fell to this blade. You did the right thing, you protected us."

"Master, noble as that sounds, I still think that maybe someone else could...deal with these things. Someone better suited than I."

"You're right," Arrendis agreed unexpectedly. "Someone else could take care of it. But what about everyone beyond this keep who can't? I'll bet you anything that the people who had their still-beating hearts carefully cut from them wished they had your strength, your sword, your magic, some kind of fighting chance at all before they were captured and put under the knife. Part of our purpose here is to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. And where magic is concerned, we are the only ones who can fight for those who have none."

"I'm still not so sure that I am the person to be doing this. I don't think that I am cut out for it."

"And why is that?"

Vincent had difficulty putting it into words and so didn't. He said something else instead. "My power is nothing special, just a small amount of metal manipulation. Someone with greater magic could have defended the vault better than I."

Arrendis looked incredulous, maybe even slightly hurt. "You mean to say that after all this time, and after all we've been through to get you this far, you have finally let the criticisms of the ignorant and insecure few make you believe that you don't deserve to be among us? You're lying."

"I failed!" Vincent burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. It had been eating him up inside, and he had to tell someone. Tears began to flow freely from his eyes.

Arrendis got up, the sword still in his hands, walked behind Vincent, and closed the door so that they wouldn't be heard. Vincent waited while he walked back around him and sat back down. "How can that be true, Vincent?" He asked. "I heard that you defended the keep bravely, that two of the attackers were slain by you. If you did your best, then you didn't really fail. Don't ever think otherwise."

Vincent stared hard at him. "I'm not a good enough killer," he said contemptuously when he was able to control his voice enough to do so. "I hesitated. There was a single moment of truth that could have meant death for them, or at least catastrophe for their theft...and I faltered."

Arrendis didn't prod him to go on, and continued to stare back and listen intently while he allowed him to go at his own pace. Vincent started feeling nauseated at the recall and could feel his face pale again. He wished he hadn't eaten breakfast.

"After I...killed the first intruder, and he fell apart with all his blood and...nevermind. After I killed him, I tried not to let what I saw bother me, and I moved on to attack the next person I thought was there." He swallowed. "It was a woman. I had cut her deeply across her torso, and I got to look right into her eyes as I watched the life drain out of her. In that last instant she had to live, she...retaliated. I was thrown against the wall and almost killed. That was how I wound up in the infirmary, and how those vile people walked away with whatever it was they stole from us.

"All this time you've helped me, I trained, and when it really mattered...I failed." Vincent swallowed again, his eyes wet. "I know that you are fond of me because you practically raised me, and that you have no desire to see me go, but one way or another I will have to. My career will be over when I give my report to the masters. They'll want me expelled for allowing this to happen; I might as well announce my intention to quit. I'm not going to lie to them about my mistake just to have another chance to go on..." he made himself say the right word "...killing."

Arrendis took a long time before answering, seeming to wait to see if Vincent would say more. His visage was that of someone genuinely concerned. "If you tell them the truth, I'm sure they'll understand that the first time is never easy..."

"How would they know!" Vincent interrupted rudely. "Have they ever killed anyone before! Have you!"

His mentor didn't take offense. "As a matter of fact, I have. When I was about your age, long, long before I ever brought you here, I was part of a council-ordered mission into the Badlands. We were sent there to uncover the plot of a powerful Orc shaman who was rumored to be attempting a unification of the tribes. We ran into trouble many times before we finally found him, and he was trouble enough."

"Why have you never spoken of this before?"

"You never asked."

Silence.

"But they were just..." Vincent stammered, unable to put words to his thoughts.

"Orcs," Arrendis finished for him. "I told myself that many times. In some ways we're more alike than you think. And it didn't really matter which ones we encountered. Females, offspring...we had to slaughter any who saw us in order to conceal our presence while we traveled. And of course we also had to make it look like other Orcs had done it so they would continue attacking each other. The greenskins are foul tempered and dangerous, not to be trusted or shown mercy.

"Apparently so were the people you had the misfortune of dealing with. You shouldn't blame yourself for not having perfect resolve your first time during a crisis; almost no one does. People can train, but there is no way to know how they will react until it actually happens. Given the circumstances, I think you responded pretty well. Just learn from your mistake and don't repeat it the next time you should find yourself in a similar situation. If you can do that, you should be alright."

Vincent's anxiety was not eased. "What if they don't understand this as you do? What if they don't see it that way?"

"Then stand your ground and explain it to them. Apologize and promise never to let it happen again. Even if one or two aren't satisfied, the rest should be. You'll be alright, trust me."

Vincent wasn't entirely convinced that he would be. "But...I'm a coward. I was afraid. More afraid than I've ever been in my life."

"That wasn't the true test of your bravery." Vincent looked on in confusion, wondering if Arrendis was comparing Vincent's experience to his own. "The true test, believe it or not, is right now. A wise man once said that 'to convince men to go into battle for the first time is a very easy thing to do: anyone will volunteer. To convince them to return a second time is much more difficult.'"

"I'm not a soldier," Vincent pointed out, "and I didn't come here to become one either. I came to try to prevent the killing."

"Well I'm not going to lie to you, Vincent," Arrendis said. "Sometimes to prevent killing, you have to fight back against or even kill those who would. And if you did resign, where would you go? What would you do?"

"I guess I would go back to my hometown, become a farmer, and build myself a house. Maybe get married and raise a family."

"Very well," Arrendis said, playing along, "and if someone came and tried to murder you or your family, to take your money or your possessions, or perhaps just to kill you and rape your wife, what would you do then? You would have to fight back, maybe even kill again."

"The chances of that happening are slim," Vincent maintained.

"Ours is a world full of dangers. As I recall, your hometown is located in northeast Ryga. Orcs are abound in the Great Northern Plain almost as much as in the Badlands. If even one tribe were to stray from their relentless attacks upon the Dwarves or from their constant fighting with the barbarian nomads to the north, your village, your family, and everyone you know would be slaughtered. You would still have to face death, and you might still need to kill. Given the choice, don't you think it would be much better to face the dangers here with us? Fighting to prevent such atrocities?"−he lifted up Vincent's sword as he spoke−"At least here you would have a sword instead of a pitchfork. Out there you would have no more chance than any other poor fool or simpleton. Someone else would have to protect you or investigate your murder if they couldn't."

Vincent's memories of launching his own covert and unauthorized investigation into the murders of others resurfaced, fruitless as it had been. He couldn't find fault in what his mentor was saying to him; it all made sense. Death and fighting were a part of life even if one didn't wish it so. Feeling sorry for himself didn't make it better. It was what it was. Running away wasn't going to help. There was no escaping it.

Vincent wiped away the wet edges that were left from his tears. It seemed as though he was starting to feel the slightest bit better. "You are wise as always, master. Everything you've said is absolutely true. I just wish that I was a better student."

"You are a good student, and you've made me proud. It may not seem like it to you because they escaped, but what you did down there was no small thing. Through alertness and dedication, you noticed what others might not have, and you defended the keep with honor." He looked to the side for a moment before returning his gaze to Vincent. "And if things hadn't turned out the way they did, you would have died and the theft would have gone unnoticed for some time. Stop being so hard on yourself."

Vincent took another breath to calm himself and help return to normal. "I guess you're right."

That said, Arrendis turned around to look back toward the empty perch near his window. "Gracie still isn't back yet. Looks like I'm going to have to fend for myself. Would you like to join me downstairs for breakfast?"

"Thanks for the offer, master," Vincent replied, feeling simply drained. "I've already eaten." He didn't bother telling him that he had almost lost what he ate.

Arrendis stared at him with a curious frown on his face. What he was thinking, Vincent didn't know. "Before I go downstairs, I think I would like to take a look at the city from the roof on this bright, clear day. I want you to come with me."

Vincent could tell that this wasn't a spurious request, that he intended to speak with him further and impart some other lesson or counsel. He couldn't refuse. "Of course."

From beneath his widely draped gray hood, Arrendis made a quick, tight-lipped smile and grabbed his wooden staff from where it lay, leaned up against the left side of the desk. As he walked past Vincent, he held out the sword without looking, and Vincent took it. Then he went out the door. Vincent followed him from behind and rubbed at his eyes further in order to compose himself better before appearing in front of others. Once he was out in the hall, Arrendis closed the door and put his hand over the gold-colored metal pad to lock it.

As they walked through the hall toward the staircase leading to the roof, Vincent took off his cloak and fit himself through the straps of his baldric. His hated sword hung at his left side once again. He then put the cloak back on.

Though weary, he found himself asking his mentor a poignant question. "Why are we visiting the roof of the keep?"

"I'm still not entirely convinced that you won't change your mind and then later decide to leave us anyway," Arrendis began as he stepped along with his staff, making solid taps on the stone. "Change is difficult. Especially when it is a type of change we don't like. You also seem to forget that I know you. You're probably having second thoughts right now as we speak." He paused to take a breath. "You're always having second thoughts. What I told you could easily wear off in a matter of hours or days. It is easy to agree with something that sounds right but much harder to remember it always and apply it when needed."

"I can assure you that I will not soon forget your words, master. They were...enlightening to say the least. It may take me some time to fully accept the meaning behind what you have tried to teach me, but I will try."

"Even so," Arrendis replied, "I still have some things that I would say to you." Vincent said nothing and continued walking with him.

The roof of the fortress appeared like a single wide room large enough to cover almost the same area as the keep below it. There were stone supports for the shingled roof above it that protected those stationed here from rain, arrows, and unusually high-flung boulders. There were no windows along the outer edges, only a gap between the sheltering roof-edge above the parapets that provided cover. Together, the openings beneath the wide roof granted a panoramic view of the entire countryside from this height. It also granted defending troops the same full circle for shots fired back during a siege.

All around them as they strode toward the north side of the roof were rows of barrels upon barrels of arrows, their white fletching sticking from the top of the openings like a layer of white cloud. Along the north edge and all others, stood a row of men just behind the parapets. They each wore shiny metal helmets that came to the top in a point, long red tabards that hung low over their leather pants, and a full quiver over their backs. Each man carried a bow on his shoulder, and a few standing near the interior stone supports stood guard with swords. Those men wore armor, including shoulder plates, and the standing black lion crest was more easily seen on the front of their red tabards because of how they stood.

Near each stone support on either side of the outward edge were two men that formed the crew for the roof-mounted ballistae. The long, thick bolts were sitting face up within a few wider barrels to the side of the weapons. Each machine was currently not loaded or ready so as not to wear out the strength of the draw with unneeded tension. Though the men standing guard near the supports stood stolidly at their posts more or less the same way Vincent had stood at his, the archers and others were far more lax, and many appeared to be engaged in conversation, telling stories or jokes. Most threats to the keep would be noticed by those manning the towers and defensive wall surrounding the fortress; their role was merely to provide additional fire.

When they came closer, Arrendis politely asked the soldiers in question along the north stretch to clear out and stand guard elsewhere on the roof for the time being, saying that he would like to share a word alone with his pupil and that the two of them would watch that side for now. They looked curiously at Vincent, perhaps not thinking him a wizard because of what he wore, but said nothing and moved aside. After they did, Arrendis moved up closer to the crenulations and held steady his wooden staff while placing a hand on one of the stone protrusions and looking out at the vast expanse. Vincent stood to the right of him and leaned his right forearm on top of one, resting his left hand on his sword handle for lack of something better to do with it.

Arrendis took a few deep breaths of fresh air and then finally spoke. "Take a good look out there, Vincent. Look carefully at the campus, the city, and the farms. More importantly, think thoroughly about all the people involved in each." Vincent did as told, looking at each part of the city in turn and the busy streets. He also gazed over at the farms, wondering what sort of lesson Arrendis was about to impart to him. "All of it, every person, thing, and place has something in common. What is it?"

Vincent kept looking out, trying to discern what it was that his teacher was hinting at, but could find nothing. "I don't know, master. They all look pretty different," he replied truthfully.

"Perhaps on the surface," the wizard said. "The thing they all share in common is that they have a purpose. If you look there, you will see a baker, over there, a shoemaker, a weaver, a blacksmith. In the city, you might see a soldier patrolling the streets to enforce the law. Out in the country beyond, you will see a farmer growing crops. Each are different, yet each are an important part of the larger tapestry, and they are each good at what they do. They pursue whatever it is tenaciously and work toward their own betterment while at the same time providing stability and prosperity to the whole. It is the same with nature out in the wild: each plant, each animal, each bug has a purpose, even if it is not readily apparent. People are perhaps more flexible in what they choose to do, but even in people there are things that shape and determine what course their life will take."

"You're saying that I was meant to be here, doing what I do."

"Precisely."

"I'm not so sure about that, master. If you look around us up here, you will see that many other men can wield a sword. If you go downstairs or to any part of the campus, you will find that other people can wield magic, magic more powerful than mine. I find the idea that I'm particularly useful or special somewhat hard to believe."

The old man looked over into his eyes with a crease on his brow. "That's where you are wrong, my young friend. Your skills and abilities may not seem unique or useful to you, but they are important nonetheless. Could you go home and learn to be a farmer? Possibly. Could you learn another trade? Perhaps. Yet how many out there"−he waved his hand in a gesture toward the expanse−"could we grab and make them learn to do what you do?" Vincent sighed through his nose, starting to tire of this line of discussion; it seemed like just a handful of pitiful reassurances. Arrendis answered for him. "None, Vincent. The answer is none."

"But master, I just said that..."

"Nevermind what you just said," he cut him off. "You were wrong." He started to give examples again. "You've never told me yourself, but in the past I did some asking, and I heard that you're pretty good with a blade: fast, strong, clever, innovative, and unpredictable."

"There could be someone better," Vincent offered.

Arrendis pretended to be persuaded as if Vincent had brought something new to his attention. "Really?" He asked. "And if they were at least as good as you, perhaps even so much better as you claim, what do you suppose would happen if the two of you were forced to clash swords?"

Vincent was reluctantly forced to be objective. "He would probably die."

"And why is that?" Arrendis coaxed.

This was one of his mentor's ways of teaching him: trapping him with a series of questions, the answers to which left him no choice but to realize and admit to himself what should have been obvious. "Because all I would have to do is make the first swing. When he raised to block, I would cut right through his sword and right through him. If there was a danger where cutting his sword apart while he tried to strike at me would bring both of his broken ends down on me, I could either bide my time, or send magic into my blade to make it much lighter and faster than his. Speed often determines the victor in those bouts."

"Aha, I see. And so someone who could potentially kill even the best swordsman alive with relative ease is not useful to Gadrale Keep? Someone who could cut through the hides of trolls and dragons, no doubt? We should replace him with any stable boy, you say?" Against his own will, Vincent let out a few small laughs. Arrendis joined him with a chuckle or two, and then continued. "We both know that you are also capable of other things, and I've yet to see you slay a troll or a dragon. What you should understand is that you are valuable to us here, and to all outside the keep whom you also serve, both because of your abilities and because of what you personally choose to pursue. Not many would take as seriously to heart the guarding of The Crafters' Vault, for example. They would have seen it as no more important than shoveling dung and would have fallen asleep on the job or been less aware. Others have been in absent dereliction entirely."

The last part of what Arrendis said made him think of something else. Since he was no longer in the vein of hiding things from his mentor out of shame or remorse, he decided to share it with him. "I should have seen that myself, but I lost touch with it. I'm too used to being looked down upon by others, seen as a lowly swordsman and not a wizard. Vault guard duty is not something assigned to the more favored; the more favored and more powerful have a wider range of choices. I guess I just felt that for so much toil, especially what I went through the other night, everyone, even you, could find someone else to be their fool."

Vincent took a deep breath while he gazed out at the open countryside and slowly let it out, his mind finally returning to a state where he could focus on his current obligations. "I do realize the significance of everything you've told me. There is something else though, that I wish you to know. Something that could perhaps be detrimental to me if not shared in confidence."

Arrendis looked back to him with a bewildered expression. Vincent leaned in closer to the side of Arrendis' gray hood and kept his voice at a whisper. He told him everything about how he had been personally taking it upon himself to continue the investigation into the strange happenings surrounding the disappearances of people, and the occasional, bizarre piles of children's bone remains that had been left behind. It was detrimental to Vincent if widely known because it had been forbidden due to safety reasons among other things. That Vincent had been looking into the affair, officially on behalf of Gadrale, when not authorized to do so was not a mere trifle either. Arrendis listened to each detail with rapt fascination and curiosity, somewhat surprised by the things he heard.

Vincent had much to tell, and kept going. "...I don't know what kind of trouble this gets me into if I'm found out, but I will stand by my convictions and argue my point to the council if need be. There have also been two other developments that I think are worthy of attention. As you know, the attack a few nights ago was perpetrated by wizards who were not affiliated with the keep. All except one, that is. We had a traitor in our midst. They used a Seal of Cheated Light to conceal their entry. It is possible that they are partly responsible for at least some of the deaths and disappearances we've been seeing. Of course this now seems obvious to all since we were struck directly and since murder is a part of the spell's conception. The other development is that the two young wizards who were supposed to relieve me that night claim to have been shadowing someone and to have seen something suspicious happening outside the city. It might turn out to be completely false, they have been untrustworthy before, but I still think I should go have a talk with the two of them."

"Interesting..." Arrendis remarked, "...very interesting indeed. And this whole time you thought you served little or no purpose?"

Vincent guffawed at that. "I haven't been able to find anything substantial during my entire investigation. It only fed into my despair. And now all I have is one small unreliable lead and maybe some meaningless speculation."

A cool breeze began to blow across their faces. Arrendis looked off distantly toward the city and the sights again while he considered everything Vincent said. He seemed to also be able to read Vincent's mind and the implied thing that he was asking him for. "I won't be able to help you," he said with regret. "I have too many youngsters and too many classes I need to teach. There is not enough free time, and I would be missed if absent.

"All I can offer you is a word of advice:"−he turned to look directly into Vincent's eyes−"don't pursue this by yourself any longer. Find some people you trust, even if it is only one other, and take them into your confidence as you have with me." He looked back to the city. "I fear something else is at work here, something very dark. The theft was more than it seemed. I am certain of it.

"Unfortunately, I am not on the council of masters; I am not powerful or specialized enough, and I do not know what they currently plan to do about the recent attack. If they are continuing to disregard the events you described, more or less due to a lack of leads, for example, or a desire not to waste resources, or for whatever the reason, then we should all be terrified." For a moment he said nothing. "Lions in a grass filled with snakes," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

He looked back at Vincent. "Feeling overly safe or sure of your dominance can be the death of you. Never forget that in your search. It seems that at least a few of us have."

"I won't forget, master."

Arrendis glanced out once more. "Ah, looks like breakfast is here after all. We better step back a few paces to give Gracie some room." Vincent looked too and saw a large bird in the distance flying toward them with something in its claws.

They both stepped away from the crenulated edge, and as he glimpsed again, he noticed that Arrendis' big hawk had a dead white rabbit clutched in her talons. As she flew in, she dropped it on the stone floor, flapping and fluttering her wings as she perched herself on Arrendis' outstretched arm. She appeared grateful for the chance to rest after making such a high ascent, carrying her heavy load. Once she landed, Arrendis switched her to his staff arm and bent over to pick up the dead rabbit. Vincent knew that he cooked every meal brought by Gracie and shared it with her. He was not one to exploit an animal either; when Gracie could find nothing, he fed his pet and kept her alive.

Arrendis' magnificent hawk was brown and speckled with black and white dots all over her silky back plumage. Her raptor eyes darted about and blinked as she twitched her head, taking in the scene of the roof level. She appeared as majestic a bird as any: proud, beautiful, triumphant. The white rabbit on the other hand was limp, dead, and lifeless−something to take pity on. Its eyes were closed and its fur was matted with blood in the places where Gracie's talons had pierced its flesh. Arrendis had been careful not to get any on his hands when he picked it up, yet a tinge still got on his sleeve from where her talons rested. He looked the rabbit over, seeming to be judging the value of its meat.

"Good girl," Arrendis complimented. "You brought a nice fat one." He then inspected his bird as closely as he dare, keeping a safe enough distance so as not to startle her. He redirected his voice toward Vincent but not his gaze. "I have some things I need to take care of today, but I will leave you with one last thing to think about." He turned toward Vincent. "I know that even after all of this, there is still a small chance that your hatred of violence will drive you away from everything that you've worked so hard for. However, consider this,"−he held up the dead rabbit and motioned with his head toward his hawk−"which one would you rather be?"

#  Chapter 6

After Vincent said farewell to Arrendis, he left on his way downstairs to the first floor where the council chamber was located. As he went down the stone steps, he pondered the philosophical conundrum posed to him by his mentor. Exactly what was meant by it was still uncertain to him. Did he mean that Vincent should prey on others or be the hunter instead of the hunted?

It was soon overshadowed in his thoughts by his impending meeting with the masters. He found himself worrying about what he would do and what he would say. The future course of his life hung in the balance, and he wasn't entirely sure which fate was worse. Once Vincent reached the ground floor, he took off in the direction of the central dining hall, and then proceeded down the hallway branching off from it that led toward the council chambers. He felt a kind of nervousness as he walked along, wondering what the outcome of the meeting would be.

The hallway leading toward the chamber where the council convened was otherwise dark if not for the pairs of light orbs placed on pedestals near each wall at even intervals. Also on each wall, in order from most recent to oldest, were the stone relief depictions of Gadrale's historic grandmasters. Vincent felt as though they were all staring at him and passing judgment over his worthiness; the grandmaster who was still alive would be doing so along with his subordinates soon enough.

The large gray-iron double doors to the council chambers lay ahead in his vision as he walked along, his footsteps echoing off the stone-block floor. The doors were closed. Vincent almost never visited the room, but knew that the doors were normally left open for students to pass through the meeting room and into the adjoining halls that led to the twelve offices of the major department heads. Masters conversed there with their students on a regular basis. The only time the doors would not be open was during a meeting or perhaps during night hours. They should have been open now, and it made Vincent think something was wrong. Was another meeting already taking place? He didn't know what to do and so stood and waited just outside of them, standing beyond their reach should they suddenly open.

The waiting somehow made things seem worse. It not only made him more apprehensive, he also found himself feeling frustrated. What was he supposed to do? Wait here until someone came along? He didn't like that idea very much, but there was no other option. Moments ticked by while he thought back painfully to the night in question and tried to remember every detail he could. They would want to know everything, and like it or not, he would have to tell them.

"You're here sooner than expected," a man's voice noted, bringing him out of his thoughts.

Vincent lifted his head from staring at the stone floor and was surprised to see Master Anthony, Dean of Atmomancy, standing in the hall with several students including Stacy in tow. They all wore blue robes, or in Stacy's case, a blue dress, which swayed the slightest bit at the bottom after they had stopped moving. It was of a shade that matched the sky, and made them look as though several pieces of the firmament itself were standing amongst the poorly lit hall and gray stone. Master Anthony's white hair and shortly trimmed white beard added a wisp of clouds to the mix.

When Master Anthony had visited him in the infirmary, he had been the one to personally inform Vincent of the council's desire to speak with him about the incident. In his ancient looking blue eyes that stared back, Vincent could tell that he was no doubt looking forward to it. Vincent tried to hide on his own face the fact that he was not.

Vincent straightened himself up. "Master," he acknowledged, bowing his head slightly. "I feel now that I am in good enough health to submit my report to the council as requested. Once the meeting currently in progress is over, I'm sure we can..." Vincent stopped in worry when Anthony closed his eyes and began to shake his head.

"There's no meeting taking place. The door has been sealed to masters only. Only we know the right flow pattern of magic to open it. Recent events have caused us to take precautions."

"I see," Vincent said in understanding.

"Stand aside, please." Vincent did as told and Anthony held up a hand. The door opened of its own accord and they all entered.

The council chamber was a large circular room with ancient arcane symbols and creatures carved into the glossy black stone walls, which were silhouetted against the gray stone-block floor beneath. Aside from the main entrance, there were several doorway passages connecting the meeting room with the office sections for each of the twelve departments and another for the Grandmaster's private quarters. At the moment, the door to each passage was closed, and the markings for each profession were visible on them.

The center of the room was dominated by a single large black circular table with twenty or so reflective silver chairs. There were more than twelve chairs because the council often conferred with numerous guests ranging from students to kings and ambassadors. High above the table, there was a single light orb which was larger than any of the others found in Gadrale.

Vincent had seen the interior of the council chambers only twice before in his life: once when Arrendis had brought him here as a child to petition for his entry into the mage academy, and once when he had come here with him to help make his case to the masters for Vincent's ascension into the Academy Guard. This seemed like another of those turning points, and he still found the room impressive.

As soon as everyone was inside, Anthony immediately set things in motion. He told his students that the council was conducting its own investigation into the theft and that Vincent's testimony might yield a shred of vital information. Because of this, he would have to postpone answering their questions, and asked them to help him fetch the other masters from the classes they were teaching. He promised them that if the delay caused any problems with any classes they needed to attend, he would vouch for them. He also pointed out how Vincent probably had little to tell and the sooner they dispensed with the meeting, the sooner he could get back to the business of instructing them. Vincent politely offered to help send word of the summons, but Master Anthony declined and asked him to wait in the council chambers while they did this. Though Vincent felt somewhat embarrassed that everyone was going through so much trouble just for him, he also felt grateful that the whole affair was being expedited, wanting badly for it to be over with. He stood as he waited, and tried as much as possible to gather his nerve while they rounded up the council.

When all the members finally arrived, Vincent continued to stand while the panel questioned him. Elvin Grandmaster Treyfon began by asking him to tell them everything that happened the night of the theft, beginning with how he had detected the intruders. Vincent kept himself steady as he began telling them the whole story from start to finish. He struggled to maintain his air of professionalism as the gruesome details he wished he could forget resurfaced. During the recount of his hesitation and the near fatal injury that he suffered from it, he did as Arrendis suggested and explained why he made the mistake. Steeling himself to the choice of trying to stay, he then promised the council that if they would allow him to remain in the service of the keep, he would never again repeat such a grave and costly error. He left out how he strongly wished to never have to kill again.

The council said nothing and did not display any intention of deciding immediately upon whether or not to retain him. Vincent began to sweat nervously. Grandmaster Treyfon's face remained calm and neutral, as did Master Anthony, who sat to his right in Vincent's view. Unfortunately, Master Magnus, who was seated at his left, appeared far less amused and Vincent could tell there was going to be trouble.

In appearance, he looked like just a bitter old man. His bushy gray hair around the sides of his head had a trace of brown, and the clean shaven face with a few wrinkles amidst his deep scowl lent to this notion, but Vincent knew it was false. A person's eyes never lied, as the saying went. Though Magnus' face showed anger and disgust, his brown eyes exposed a keen intellect compounding an even more profound dislike. It was clear that he was not going to be forgiving of Vincent.

Magnus was one of the greatest pyromancers throughout the lands. It was said that as an institution, Gadrale attracted some of the most elite magical talent known to exist, but with Magnus this often seemed like an understatement. He had a reputation for being a hard man, and his students claimed this to be due in part to his skewed perception of weakness in others: his astute capability and immense power led him to see the strong as adequate and the average as hopelessly weak. He considered no student excellent. Advancement was arduous, and those who could not keep up were left behind to retake several times what they had tried to learn or to simply quit from the heavy strain. This was not uncommon. Even Rick, his friend, had spoken to Vincent without shame about being barely able to squeeze by as one of his pupils. Other red robes also complained of having the growth of a new flame muscle being forced upon them during each class session. Magnus demanded only the best and produced only the best. Rumor had it that in battle, a pyromancer on either side who had been trained at Gadrale could be easily discerned from one who was not. Such wars had not taken place for centuries, yet Master Magnus was known for continuing to perpetuate in the present day this higher standard that the Academy had held throughout the ages. Pyromantically gifted Elvin students, Dwarves, and other foreigners from afar often sought to enroll at Gadrale instead of learning elsewhere due to the well-renowned, superior quality of instruction, though not all could handle it.

Finally, after hard staring that made Vincent fearfully uncomfortable, Master Magnus glanced around at his colleagues before returning his withering gaze to Vincent. "You're sorry," he said derisively, "is that the only thing you have to say for yourself?"

Vincent stood frozen and swallowed. "It's all I can say, sir."

Magnus slammed his fist on the table and stood up, his face red. "People are going to die because of you, swordsman! Are you aware of that!" Vincent felt a chill. "You have allowed dark miscreants to violate our sanctity and steal sensitive materials! When your classmates are dying in my arms, I'll be sure to tell them that it's okay because you're sorry!"

Silence hung thickly and oppressively in the air during the next eternal seconds. None of the other masters seemed shaken by Magnus' outburst, and his gaze continued to pierce Vincent's soul. It made him wish once again that he had died during the attack. Grandmaster Treyfon also calmly gazed at Vincent while he gently put a hand to Magnus' arm, silently asking him to be seated once more.

The master pyromancer complied and then looked around briefly at his associates before returning his scowl to Vincent. "I motion that this incompetent be expelled from the academy at once. His weak stomach is useless to us; there are normals with greater resolve that might serve us better." Vincent felt his eyes glisten the slightest bit and noticed Master Clemens, his supervisor, glancing at Magnus and twisting in his chair in silent disapproval of his harsh words.

Instead of saying anything about his mistake at all, Grandmaster Treyfon asked him to finish his story. With trepidation over the matter clutching him fiercely, Vincent did as told and reported everything he could remember. They all listened intently to every word he said, overlooking nothing, and several asked him questions about some of the finer points in the tale, sometimes at unusual places. Magnus kept silent but continued to glare. Vincent was nauseated and discomforted at recalling the events repeatedly, but answered them anyway, not sure what relevance such details had.

At the end when everyone was quietly thinking about what he had said, Vincent couldn't keep himself from tensely yet politely asking them if he was to be expelled for his mistake. The only reaction he got was indifferent silence from all of the masters except Treyfon, who merely told him it was alright and asked him if there was anything else left in his story. Vincent told him honestly that to his knowledge there was not.

Afterward, Master Magnus folded his arms and leaned back against his chair. "I have not withdrawn my motion," he reminded sternly.

To Vincent's surprise, the old green-robed Dwarf man in charge of the Geomancy Department sitting at Magnus' left, came to his defense. "Granted that his detection of the intruders and survival are both products of chance, he still stood against many of greater power and shows promise. Perhaps we should show him leniency."

Master Magnus' angry eyes flicked to the side of his head in the Dwarf's direction once, but he said nothing. The brown eyes within the master geomancer's fluffy white hair and beard hadn't even noticed. Most of the other masters save for Treyfon seemed less concerned with this disciplinary action and more preoccupied with the small bits and pieces about the attackers that he had been able to tell them.

The Elf grandmaster appeared neither to hate him nor harbor sympathy, and instead projected an objective and impartial air as he passed Vincent's verdict. "These circumstances are unusual, though a gross negligence on your part has not yet been established. Unless someone else is willing to second your removal, I do not feel that an expulsive hearing is warranted at this time." Treyfon looked around expectantly at the other members, but no one voiced anything.

Master Magnus noticed this and then pointed a finger at Vincent, making it clear that the matter was still unsettled. "Don't fail us again," he warned.

"This meeting is adjourned," Grandmaster Treyfon concluded.

When the masters began to get up and leave the conference room, Vincent waited until Master Clemens came closer and spoke with him while they walked out together. He informed his supervisor that he was fit to resume guard duty. The master crafter, whom appeared more a blacksmith than a wizard, kindly told Vincent to take the week off since he was still having Stan and Craig serve extra shifts as punishment. Vincent thanked him, but made no mention of his intent to speak with them personally.

Past the hallway leading out of the council chambers, everyone broke up. Many masters headed straight forward to exit the keep and resume teaching classes in buildings out on the campus while others split up to go to different places within the keep. He had always had orders or duties to carry out and now for the first time, Vincent stood there at the edge of the central dining hall, which was busy and full of people, wondering what to do. People talked, plates and dishes clanked, and the air smelt of the same eggs, bacon, and bread he had eaten earlier that morning. It all seemed to fade into the back of his consciousness.

In a way, he felt a sense of relief, but there was also dread. His exoneration had happened so quickly that it hadn't fully sunk in. Vincent was left worrying about the choice he had made: the choice to fight rather than flee. He also wondered, and worried, if this was just the opportunity he needed. If he was to fight on behalf of Gadrale, and on behalf of the defenseless whom Gadrale's duty it was to protect, then those who had died or disappeared at the hands of magic, or otherwise, could not be ignored. Arrendis was right: if he had run, someone else would have to do it, even for his own corpse if he ever fell prey as well. Now it was up to Vincent to do something for those who had vanished.

However, this was still not without personal risk himself; potential dangers outside the keep were the least of it−he could get into trouble here. Was it wise for him to continue his investigation if the masters were already conducting their own? He reasoned that if he was still as unsuccessful as he had been up to this point, then it made no difference to others what he did with his free time. He also considered that the masters might be limiting their concerns only to those who had broken into The Crafters' Vault; in which case, it was his moral obligation to take action where no one else would.

It couldn't be done the same way though, not if he actually wanted results. His treks into the woods so far had been fruitless. He attempted to take stock of his best alternatives. His highest priority was to pursue leads, his second to seek help. His only lead at the moment was Stan and Craig. If there was a chance they really saw or knew anything at all, he had to talk to them. His mental list of potential help was almost as short. However, if there was nothing for him to go on, that help would be meaningless. He headed toward the first hallway leading right.

Several people in different colored robes passed by him on his way. Some were in the middle of reading books, others were talking with friends on their way to the central dining hall. During the day, the keep was a busy place. Vincent paused outside the opening to the stairway on the left, waiting for a small crowd to come up from the stairs below.

"Do you smell something burning?" A brown haired girl in a healer's dress asked one of her friends. Vincent did, the smell was still there, and his stomach began to turn again.

As soon as they were out of the way, he rushed past and began descending the many stairs down to the vault. He traveled through each floor as quickly as space permitted. The first below ground level was busy with many students coming up or going down and a few laborers carrying sacks of food upstairs, intending on delivering them to the cooks at the dining hall. The air seemed slightly cooler at each deeper floor. He was fortunate that the thinner, shorter passages of the second floor down, which held doors accessing the external basements, was momentarily free of passerby.

The two library levels below it, however, were not. Crowds had gathered in the first one for classes that were being taught there that day. On the second lowest level, the one above the vault, there were a slightly fewer number of students quietly studying and doing research, the only sound the flipping of pages. Each person sat at tables with open books while small light orbs bobbed up and down above their reading surface. The stale smell of old parchment and paper filled Vincent's nostrils as he walked through the hall alongside them.

When Vincent finally passed them all, he stepped down the wide massive stairway leading to the bottom floor. He didn't remember being brought out of here, he had been unconscious and nearly dead at the time, but someone had obviously healed him enough to safely carry him all these flights of stairs. At the bottom there was a split into two halls, yet both directions would eventually loop around to merge into one on the far side that led to the vault's entrance. He took a right, then a left around the corner, and then another left around the next until he was slowly coming within view of the opening to the hallway where he had fought for his life. The carnage had been cleaned away. With how much there had been, including his own blood, he was surprised that there wasn't a trace left.

He sighted a young man only slightly shorter than himself at the other end, wearing blue atmomancy robes and small glasses with circular lenses. Behind the glasses were brown eyes fraught with worry, and atop his head, curly auburn hair. It was Craig.

Craig immediately spotted Vincent and tensed up visibly. Neither said a word as Vincent approached, and Vincent tried to make his face appear as non-threatening as possible. He could tell already that Craig had probably received a lot of scolding from Master Clemens and expected the same from him.

Craig looked nervous, maybe even upset, and before Vincent could say anything, he preemptively voiced his preconceptions. "I know what you're going to say, and I'm sorry," he said emphatically, closing his eyes first and gesturing with his hands, "we stood you up and ran off when we should have relieved you, and you almost got killed. I know it should have been me since it was my shift, or at least one of us, I've been reminded of that constantly by everyone. Everyone hates us." As soon as Vincent was about to slip in a word, he raised his voice in fretful frustration. "You hate us both too, and I understand that, so please just cut the sermon short and leave me be!" Craig folded his arms and looked away from Vincent at the side of the hall.

"I didn't come here to scold you," Vincent said.

Craig didn't look back and didn't appear convinced either. "Well however you tell it, I don't care. I don't need any more lessons or reprimands about duty and honor."

"I'm not here for that either."

Craig finally met Vincent's gaze with troubled eyes and seemed less sure of himself. "What do you want?" He asked, still looking shaken.

"First of all, so you don't misinterpret my question, I want to tell you that I harbor no grudge against either of you for your absence. You either would have went through what I did, or you might have been killed. It was not an experience I would wish on anyone, not even you or Stan. I came here to ask what you were up to the night of the attack. Master Clemens said you saw something suspicious taking place in the woods outside of the city. He doesn't believe you, but I would like to at least hear it for myself."

"Why?"

"I need to know."

Craig's eyes became slightly watery. "He told us he doesn't want us to repeat our lies to anyone or try to get undue sympathy, because we don't deserve it. He said that if we did, he would punish us with even more shifts. I don't know who said they saw us on campus, but they were wrong."

Vincent's resolve was unhindered. "I swear to you that if you tell me, he will never hear of it."

"Why are you so interested?"

"A lot of strange things have been happening." Vincent paused, but didn't elaborate, and steered the conversation back to Craig. "So what exactly did you see out there?"

"You probably won't believe me either."

"I'd still like to hear it. If you really do feel bad about leaving me down here all night, then you can consider it payment in full." Vincent then repeated his question, sternly stressing each word. "What did you see?"

"Alright fine, I'll tell you," he relented at last. "But it's a long story."

"I have plenty of time," Vincent assured him.

"There was this older girl that I really liked. Her name was Jeanette. She was beautiful and smart, and like me, she was also an atmomancer. She never gave me the time of day though, and mostly I would just admire her from afar. Sometimes I would watch her leaving one of her late classes, sometimes I would just send her flowers anonymously. Anyway, Stan convinced me that I should just approach her one day after her class got out and let her know that I was the one who had been sending them. He came with me and said that he would wait further away and watch from a distance, that way he could console me if it went badly.

"The building for her last class of the day was not far from the gardens, and Stan and I waited a distance out on the lawn beyond it. When the crowd came out, we couldn't see her at first. And when we finally figured out which one was her, we saw her standing near the entrance to the gardens, talking with some man we couldn't recognize. At first, we thought she already had someone else and that she was going to leave with him, but he looked strange and they didn't touch each other in any kind of familiar fashion as they talked, so..."

"Strange how? What did he look like?" Vincent interrupted, wanting to know in case he ever saw him, or at least have an idea of whom to seek.

"I don't know quite how to describe him, I guess he had dark hair, though more straight and less wavy than yours. His clothing was more like that of peasant or common folk, but they were too tight and didn't seem to fit him..." like they were someone else's, Vincent thought, "...his eyes and his face though, more than his body, didn't seem to fit the clothing. There were dark circles around his eyes that looked like paint had been washed away, but not enough, and his bearing, the way he carried himself while he spoke with Jeanette, also made us think that he was more than he appeared to be. He didn't look like he belonged here, and why would Jeanette be nodding or bowing her head to show such deference to a commoner? Anyway, he didn't look like he was her boyfriend.

"Stan claims to be able to read lips and thought the man said something to her at one point like '...it is time, we must go,' or something like that. It made us curious because he didn't look as if he were someone employed by the keep. If he was, they were already here, where would they go? He just gave us a bad feeling altogether. If we were wrong, and it looked like they were just going somewhere private to...you know, then I would be embarrassed and we would merely have to leave them to it. It was already late, almost nighttime, and what made us really suspicious is that she didn't turn to go back to her quarters in the keep. Instead, she walked with him toward the gate to leave the campus. Stan and I tried to act casual when we walked by them, going in the other direction as they passed, and we pretended to be talking and laughing about something so they wouldn't think we were paying any attention.

"After we walked by a good enough distance, we ducked behind a building and then turned around to follow them. It was around the same time when Stan was supposed to relieve you. I'm sorry Vincent, but we were so caught up in what was going on that it was the furthest thing from our minds."

"No offense taken," Vincent replied, "please continue."

"We were right, they were walking to the gate, and we knew that something unusual was afoot. After the gatekeeper unlocked the gate for them and let them out, Stan and I kept a safe enough distance and waited an extra amount of time before asking to go out ourselves so we wouldn't be noticed. We followed them from afar as they went down the open road to the city, wondering if they were going to spend the night there and I was just going to be embarrassed. It got dark by the time they left the city behind, and we continued following them on a dirt road out into the country. Eventually we left the road and followed them when they entered the forest.

"It was tough going. We had trouble seeing them and proceeded slowly, following any sound they made while being careful not to make any of our own. Finally, we started to see something that looked like a fire."

"You're lucky you weren't caught," Vincent pointed out.

Craig looked him in the eyes with a wild expression while he nodded. "We were already scared half to death, but what we saw there made me more frightened than I have ever been." He took a deep breath as his eyes became lost in thought, he looked almost too troubled to go on.

"I too had my own fright that night," Vincent commented in reassurance. "What was yours?"

Craig gazed back at him with wet eyes. "I saw...a crowd sitting in a wide circle around a bonfire. Everyone was wearing black hooded robes that covered their faces while they stared downward and chanted things I couldn't understand." Craig stared away distantly, looking disturbed at what came next. "Between them and the fire lay four children: a boy and three girls. Their hands and feet were bound with rope, but there were no gags..." he had difficulty uttering the words past his own tense breathing, "we could hear them...crying out for help, to anyone who would listen, asking for their mothers, begging to go home, but we were helpless to do anything about it. I had never felt so powerless and ashamed in my entire life. We wanted to run away, to get help, and the only thing we could do was stay crouched, hiding. I remember shaking from being too scared to move−afraid we would be caught. I knew that I was no match even for Jeanette if there had been a confrontation, and there were many more besides her, and she..." his voice broke and he couldn't go on.

"Take as long as you need," Vincent comforted, "I want to know everything."

Craig removed his glasses and tried in vain to wipe away his tears, more kept coming. His voice was unsteady but controlled enough to continue speaking. "First, she took off her clothes and changed into something black. It covered her head and face, except for her eyes, and was tighter than what everyone else was wearing. The strange man did the same thing. Two other people already wearing that clothing left from the circle to stand near them. They each waved a hand over a child, and their cries stopped; something they did paralyzed them and made them quiet. Then they each took out a knife..."−Craig's face paled−"...Stan and I could only see enough at that distance to know that they were doing a lot of intricate work. The most we could tell was that there was a lot of blood on the front of each child's chest. At the end...it looked like they were holding something in their hands, and then not long after, Jeanette and the other three were gone, they vanished.

"Stan and I stayed concealed in the bushes, too afraid to move or breathe. We waited and waited for them to leave, and worried we would have to hide there for the entire night. The circle started chanting different things but kept repeating one line over and over. I counted it to keep track of time. After they said it about a hundred times, we backed away, hiding in the shadows, and started crawling out of there really slowly so as not to make a single sound. We didn't follow our trail back. Instead we took the longest possible route back around to Gadrale Keep so that if they were headed for the city, we wouldn't run into them.

"By the time we got back, the whole campus was in chaos, sending search parties of trackers, mages, and troops to try to find the thieves' trail. When Master Clemens found us, he was furious."

"You told him all of this, and he still didn't believe you?" Vincent asked in shock.

"We didn't get that far with it before he started yelling at us. We only got to tell him that we were spying on someone"−Craig's eyes found the floor−"because of the time that we stood you up before that, without good reason, I guess I can kind of understand why." His eyes frantically looked back up at Vincent. "But this time it wasn't for something stupid! If Jeanette is still somewhere here on campus, she must be found and taken into custody! She's a monster!"

"I don't think we have to worry about her any longer," Vincent said uneasily.

"Of course we do! She's a sick person! She must stand trial for her crimes!"

"I guess no one bothered to tell you, did they?"

"Tell me what?"

Vincent dimmed his eyes and shook his head. "Forget it," he voiced slowly and without enthusiasm.

"No. Tell me what? I want to know."

Vincent sighed. "She's dead."

"Oh," Craig replied, looking shocked and then depressed afterward.

"I killed her," he added.

Craig straightened and held Vincent's gaze. "I regret only that I ever had feelings for her in the first place. She got exactly what she deserved." He may have said the words, but to Vincent, he didn't look entirely relieved at this news.

"So I've been told," Vincent muttered to himself. He started to feel lost, like he had run into another dead-end. He searched his mind for where and what he would look for next. There was nothing except the vague description of a man, nothing substantial. He had to learn whatever he could. "What else were you able to tell about the people you saw?"

"Not much. I think they were some kind of cult."

That much was obvious, but Vincent didn't say so. "Did they have any other prisoners?" He asked, hoping for a clue about Harold.

Craig seemed to think about it. "No."

He kept grasping at any shred he might find. "What about the words they were chanting, do you remember any of them? Do you know what they were saying?"

Craig looked really confused as he thought back, trying to remember. "I don't know the language they were using. It all sounded like gibberish to me."

"Just give me anything," Vincent insisted, "anything at all. Even if you remember the words but don't understand them."

"I didn't pay attention to most of it. Most of the words in the refrain were more slurred, but there was one word that never was, one word that stood out time and time again."

"What was that word?" Vincent asked anxiously.

Craig fumbled with it, trying to pronounce it right. "...ar...no...kar...'kargoth,' I think. 'kargoth.'"

"What is 'kargoth?' A name? A thing?"

"I don't know, but it was important enough for them to say it over and over again."

Vincent considered other sources of information. "Do you think Stan might remember anything else, something you don't? When might I be able to talk with him?"

"Master Clemens has us alternating the vault constantly. When one of us is on shift, the only chance we get to eat or take a break is if the other relieves us for a few minutes. I'm due for a lunch break in a little while; you might be able to talk to him then."

Vincent realized he hadn't eaten anything himself since early that morning, and it had to be well past noon by now. "I'm feeling quite hungry myself. If I were to go there right now, would he be down here around the time I got back?"

"Probably," Craig said. "I'm still not so sure I understand your interest in all of this though. I don't mean to demean you in any way, but what can you really do about it? Why do you care so much?"

Vincent countered with a question of his own. "Why did you follow that girl instead of relieving me?" Craig said nothing and so Vincent answered for him. "Because of all those things you've been getting lectured about. And because defending the academy sometimes requires us not to show a blind eye to potential threats. You also forget that I was almost killed over it."

"Does this mean you believe us?"

"It means that I'm willing to look into it and give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Maybe you could tell some of these things to Master Clemens. He'll listen to you, maybe he'll..."

Vincent held up a hand as he cut him off. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he warned sternly. "Until any of this information actually proves to be reliable, Master Clemens isn't likely to cut your punishment short. You even said yourself that he would increase the duration if he found out you were spreading your 'lies.'" Vincent left out how he wasn't entirely sure yet that it wasn't a farce either.

Craig didn't look dismayed at all. "Actually, I was going to suggest that if you brought these things to his attention, he might involve the council and then they could mobilize more people to seek out the cultists."

"No offense," Vincent started, "but I doubt they would mobilize the entire academy on your word alone. Or mine for that matter. We need tangible evidence, something to follow. Telling the masters that a dark cult killed children and harvested their life's essence for a spell accomplishes nothing. They already know which spell was used and that its use can only imply wrongdoing. We need something that lets us know how and where to find those who committed these atrocities. Until we have that, we have nothing."

"Perhaps one day, I could take you to where their fire was," Craig suggested.

"I'm sure they're all gone by now. And the ashes of a fire don't prove anything; the council will not be convinced."

Craig nodded, his mood sank even more. His eyes met Vincent's. "But how do we find more? Clemens isn't excusing us for any of our classes. Our instructors know what is going on, but we still have to just catch up whenever we can. That doesn't leave me or Stan time to do anything."

"I'll try to find out what I can for the time being. It will only be a week before you're able to start helping me. Just hang tight." Vincent started backing up down the hall. "I'm going to go eat now so I can be back in time to talk with Stan." He turned and started to leave.

"Oh, and Vincent?" Craig called out to him. Vincent stopped and turned around. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "For coming, and for listening." Vincent nodded and then walked out.

When he reached the dining hall, it was packed. A few people cast curious glances his way and gossiped to each other in whispers. Vincent did his best to ignore it and got in line. Lunch was a simple bowl of meat and vegetable stew, and Vincent began to wolf it down as soon as it was cool enough. He kept thinking about what he had learned, but was eager still to speak with Stan in the hopes that he might learn more.

Soon after he was finished with his meal, Vincent went back downstairs to the outside of The Crafters' Vault, passing Craig on the way with a slight nod. Craig only winked during that brief encounter, saying nothing out of fear that it might draw further attention to himself or that he was on speaking terms with Vincent. Vincent later found Stan guarding the same hallway to the vault and spoke with him.

Unlike Craig, Stan wore red pyromancy robes, no glasses, and had dirt blond hair and blue eyes. His conversation with him was far more expedient because Craig had already told Stan about the discussion they had had just prior to it. Stan told Vincent much the same story and was able to remember little else. One thing that Stan did provide Vincent with, was a little more certainty of what he had heard. When two people contrive to lie and make up a story, the story that each one tells rarely matches up completely with the other. Theirs did. Perfectly. What was more, both were able to remember what the man they saw leaving the campus looked like and that one word: kargoth.

Tired from having been awake since well before morning, and enduring so much anxiety, Vincent set about returning to his quarters on the fourth floor to rest and plan his next move. There was still time left in the day, and he couldn't afford to waste any of it. He was certain that those he opposed would not be wasting any of theirs.

Vincent put his hand to the gold colored pad on the wall near his door, feeling the engraved flower with its leafy petals all coming out from the center. It was cold and solid under his hand, and he could feel the bumps on the surface. As per his touch, there was a click and then he pulled the door open. Once inside, he closed the door and put his hand to the identical pad on the other side. There was another click, and the door was now locked.

Vincent's room was small and for the most part utilitarian. The room had one bed and an open chest at the foot of it where he stored some of his clothes and a few other belongings. Vincent had few possessions, and so the chest had plenty of space left in it. A light orb that was smaller than his fist was attached directly to the right wall, and always kept the room lit with a dim glow even when he was sleeping. There was a way to increase its intensity, but Vincent had never mastered it, and so did not bother with it right now. He took off his cloak, set it atop the open chest, and pulled his sword's baldric over his head, leaning it against the bed next to his side as he sat down to think. He held up the right side of his face with one hand, keeping his elbow resting on his knee. His other hand rested atop his other knee.

A prolonged search of the city or the surrounding countryside and forest was out of the question. There wasn't enough time left in the day to try and scan the forest, and a trek there would probably prove equally as futile as all his others. He could walk the streets of the city forever without seeing even once the man that Stan and Craig described to him. And that search would only have meaning if he hadn't died during the raid or if they were even telling the truth. At the moment, their information was all Vincent had, and it wasn't much. He thought back to the word they both remembered and tried to think of where it might take him.

He eventually concluded that the best possible way to make use of the word provided would be to research it in one of Gadrale's libraries. But which one? There were two inside the keep and at least three others in buildings out on the campus. He found himself getting frustrated at the difficulties. Looking up a word like that could take a very long time, and he wasn't even sure which language it was in. Vincent was a fluent speaker of Elvish since there were many Elves at Gadrale and it afforded one the chance to learn, though he had never studied the written language. Kargoth didn't seem like an Elvish word to him; it was too coarse, too rough, more like a Dwarven word, or else a primitive word in one of the ancient dialects of men.

He reminded himself of his time constraint. While he was debating in his mind where to look for the translation of a single word in their chant, the dark cult was probably plotting its next move. He absolutely hated the disadvantage that put him at. They had already stolen something from the vault, and now they were far ahead of the game simply because they were so hard to trace. What he needed to do had to go faster. Try as he might, the only way he could think of to make that happen was to take Arrendis' advice, and seek to involve others in his clandestine intervention.

If Stan and Craig were telling the truth, then he already had two allies. Unfortunately, he couldn't be sure of that, and Master Clemens had seen to it that they would both be far too occupied with guarding the vault to be of any help to him, at least for the rest of the week. After that week was over, his own time would become more limited again when he would be forced to resume guard duty himself.

Vincent had many minor friends and acquaintances who at least treated him fairly and held no open prejudice toward him. These ranged from those who liked him and got along well with him to those who merely tolerated his presence or kept any dislike of him to themselves. The rest either didn't have contact with him and didn't know him or were his direct adversaries.

With Arrendis unable to spare himself for fear it would look suspicious, and Stan and Craig keeping constant guard, Vincent had very few people he could rely upon. Those that he thought he could, would have to be convinced without them potentially revealing his activities. The only person besides Arrendis he now felt safest about trying to involve in his search was his cousin Karl, yet his own cousin had before expressed displeasure when Vincent had suggested the idea of pursuing it, and warned him not to. He still didn't know that this whole time Vincent had been doing it anyway.

Instead of trying to speak with him outright, Vincent thought it might be wiser if he arranged to have a private meeting with Karl. Karl might not be the only one he could count on though. There was one person he knew for sure whose endless energy, enthusiasm, and ambition would never let him get away without taking up the challenge of seeking out and battling hostiles. That person was Rick, the boisterous red-mustached pyromancer. It was a calculated risk, but if he was going to take a chance with Karl, then he thought he might as well take the same chance with Rick.

Vincent immediately formulated a plan in his mind to visit them right after they got out of their classes and arrange a meeting later that night. In the meantime, he set about finding something useful to do. The thing that came first to his mind was to get in some more sword practice. It was what he did most before the bloodbath in the vault's hall the other night, and now he had more reason than ever to try to be the best wielder of a blade that he could possibly be.

Though he feared another encounter, and absolutely detested the prospect of killing again, he had to be ready when the time came. Toward that end, he put his sword back on but left his cloak behind as he went out of his quarters and ventured to the stone courtyard that lay between the fortified wall and the keep. He had taken a left after exiting the keep's main doors instead of a right, and had gone to a wide space near a corner of the wall where he knew that there wouldn't be very much foot traffic.

He practiced every stroke and every form that he knew, and built up a sweat from the exertion. When he was done, he climbed the wall's stairs to the ramparts surrounding the keep. He first asked an army officer's permission if he could borrow a few of his men for training. As usual, the officer agreed; he and any others leading men on different parts of the wall were already used to having Vincent come to them with this request. Since there were more than enough soldiers manning the wall, Vincent never had to train with the same men each time unless he felt like helping give them extra practice to maintain their own skills.

Wizards saw Vincent as not really one of them, but the disposition of the soldiers manning the keep was somewhat different. Since they recognized that he was not quite an ordinary man like they, he could never quite fit in, yet it was also noticeable even to him that they did respect his prowess. Far from being considered one of their brothers in arms, Vincent caught whispered rumors passed around behind his back that he was a demon with the blade and that his incredible skill was the result of "black magic tainting his sword." They seemed to think that this was the source of his fighting talent and not years of harsh practice without its aid. Vincent had long ago given up on trying to convince anyone otherwise; he didn't see the point. Those he had tried with had never believed him, and fame was never something he really wanted. It was not important to him that they know how good he was: There was only good and then there was dead; impressing others was the most inconsequential aspect of training. Today, like on other days, he proceeded without paying heed to any such attention he received.

Vincent asked for volunteers and selected four that had swords and shields. He then instructed them to stand around him in a circle. As a speed and endurance drill, he had each of them meet one of his swings in sequence while he tried to move as fast as he could to build up a rhythm.

The pattern was forward, rear, left, right. Vincent would make an overhead swing, and the man in front would block. Each of the others had to block a diagonal swing or a horizontal slash, which he alternated the direction of during every round. It was safe since each man knew what he was supposed to block and when. Since there were four, each man was also guaranteed enough time to keep up for his next turn.

Soon the clanking from the sword clashes became so rapid that it transformed into one undulating and unending sound. Vincent swung furiously, bringing forth all the speed he could and then kept trying to go beyond it. He thought only of where to move his feet and where to bring the blade; he was oblivious to all else. The shock from the impacts kept traveling through his sword and into his arms, adding their own peculiar ache to his muscles.

One man shouted out, asking another on the wall for a replacement. Vincent clashed swords with him several more times before the new man finally stepped in just in time to meet Vincent's next swing. Vincent ignored the switch, too lost in his own world to care. It didn't matter to him that one man had become bored; he just kept swinging anyway. After two other men did the same, Vincent felt his own strength start to wane. When he finally stopped, he noticed that some of the new men were slightly winded, and realized that the others hadn't actually switched off from boredom. Vincent thanked all the participants and slid his sword back into it's scabbard while he tried to catch his breath.

A breeze swept across the battlements, cooling his sweat and his damp shirt. While Vincent recovered, he went to stand near a gap in the crenulations of the wall's edge, looking out at the campus below, and then he looked further to see the city of Gadrale beyond. As he continued panting from the exertion, he thought back to the things Arrendis had said to him on the roof of the keep and thought about his own place in all of it. When he was done, he went and asked the same officer which of his men was most in need of training, and offered to help give him extra practice.

The soldier brought to him, Patrick, was a little shorter than he and appeared young, perhaps not even eighteen. According to Lieutenant Johnson, he was the worst in the unit. Vincent practiced with him by having him press a constant attack to Vincent while Vincent blocked. At each turn, Vincent gave him pointers on how to swing and complimented him each time he improved in order to encourage him. Vincent was exhausted, and so for his own gain, he wanted merely to practice thinking of and using reactions. The mutual benefit occurred because he was also able to help any weaker soldiers he did this with to grow stronger. At the moment they didn't have any sticks to use for practicing more sophisticated dueling in a safe way, and so Vincent congratulated the young man once again before parting and heading back to the keep.

He glanced up once at the position of the sun before he went down the steps and noticed that it was late in the afternoon, almost evening. There were a few more hours left before Karl would be getting out of his last class. In a way, Vincent felt as though he had just gotten out of one of his own. It pained him that he had to think that he was sacrificing research time on training, yet he also felt relief since he hadn't been able to train for a few days. Tomorrow would be a rest day for him, and he and the others could begin looking for that word in the texts. Regrettably, his friends would be able to spare less time for it than he. Though he would have to do most of it himself, any help was better than none.

Vincent visited a well on the first floor of the keep and drank his fill. Afterward, he went to the dining hall and stood in line while he waited for it to settle in his stomach. He reasoned that either Rick or Karl would have eaten their supper already and were now in their last class of the day. Dinner was steak with a potato and a small piece of bread on the side; it was satisfying.

When Vincent finished eating, he went back to his room and took off his sword's baldric so he could sit down more comfortably on his bed once again. Time management was constantly on his mind, and there was still some left before Rick and Karl were free to talk to him. To pass the time, he fished out a whetstone from the open chest at the foot of his bed, drew his sword, laid the blade flat on top of his knees, and began sharpening it. It's edges had sustained only minor damage and dulling despite the punishment he had put it through, but it was important to maintain discipline. There were times when he used his magic to sharpen or repair it; today that wasn't necessary.

To wait for Karl to get out of his last class, Vincent traveled to the second story below ground level and stood outside one of the many doors attached to the single hall that this floor comprised of. Karl's last class took place in one of the external basement levels. Vincent was just starting to think he should have brought his whetstone with him when a door on the left side of the hall opened up, and students wearing green robes and dresses started pouring out. Strangely enough, each were carrying a rock in their hands of varying sizes, or else floating it along in front of or behind them. A few merely used their power to pull theirs along the ground to follow them as they walked. Vincent knew that geomancers were concerned with the knowledge and control of such earth materials, but he didn't understand the purpose of their keeping a rock handy in this way.

Karl came out last, dragging along with his power a wide flat rock bigger than his head. It was a bluish gray and made a scraping sound as it was pulled. He was talking with a stocky old Dwarf man with long white hair and a long white beard. Vincent recognized him as one of the masters on the council he had spoken in front of that morning. Though he didn't know his name, he had already guessed by his green robes that he was the resident Master of Geomancy at Gadrale's campus.

The gruff deep voice was imparting some final lesson of the day to Karl. "...control, understanding, and awareness of the very rocks and dirt beneath your feet is perhaps the most crucial thing you can learn and be conscious of. Much more so than the construction of elementals or any of the dynamics involved with them."

Karl stared at the ground while his long blond strands hung around the sides of his face. He was still too engrossed in the discussion to notice that Vincent was standing further down from them. "But once the elementals are infused with a life of their own, they become extremely potent combatants as well as loyal servants," he pointed out, "they hardly require any effort from their owner at all."

The old Dwarf shook his head. "Throw that nonsense out of the window and out of your mind. Even though elementals are useful, they are only pets and nothing more. A geomancer's true strength comes from the rocks around him and the ground beneath him. You will never have a more powerful weapon than that. If you reach the level of skill where you can levitate and manipulate vast amounts of stone and earth, an army of a thousand elementals could not stop you. That is why the focus of this class is on levitation and control, and why it is so important for all geomancers to stress these aptitudes first and foremost."

"Fascinating," Karl remarked, his own rock still skidding and tagging along from behind, "I always thought that...oh hi, Vincent." He looked back toward his teacher. "Now, if that's..." The full realization of Vincent's unexpected presence came fully to him and he jerked his head back with a jostle of his hair. "Whoa! You're looking pretty good. I didn't think you would be out of the infirmary so soon. I was planning to come visit you again. How are you feeling?"

"Our healers are quite talented," Vincent replied, "I feel fine, thanks."

He turned to the Dwarf while gesturing with a hand toward Vincent. "Master, allow me to introduce my cousin, Vincent." He turned to look back at Vincent, "Vincent, this is Master Gautrek, my instructor for this course."

The two shook hands while the master geomancer seemed to make the same recollection that Vincent had. "We've already seen each other once before: this morning when you were submitting your report. It's nice to meet you again under different circumstances. I didn't know you were Karl's cousin." Vincent gave a polite half-smile.

"Oh I see," Karl began with an incriminating tone that was meant more in jest, "so you'll tell the masters what really happened, but you won't tell your own cousin."

Vincent didn't feel the slightest bit of guilt. "You're going to be hearing it very soon. That's part of why I came to talk to you."

On that note, Master Gautrek decided to part company discreetly. "Well gentlemen, since I'm old and weary, and I've already heard it, I think I shall be turning in for the evening."

Both Karl and Vincent bowed their heads in respect after Vincent stepped out of his way. "Goodnight, master," Karl voiced. Vincent kept waiting to speak even though Gautrek was well up the stairs. Karl was less eager to wait. "You normally have guard duty during this hour. This has got to be the first time you've come to wait for me outside of a class in years."

Vincent turned away from the stairwell to look back at him. "Master Clemens gave me the week off," he explained, "I'll tell you the rest later. Right now we should go find Rick."

"Why?"

#  Chapter 7

They proceeded through the halls and up the stairs until they exited the keep and stood within the courtyard just in front of the gatehouse. Karl's rock followed him the whole way there as he kept trying to get Vincent to say more. Vincent kept refusing and promised that as soon as Rick was with them, he would. They chose to wait just inside the keep's walls near the gatehouse because neither knew the exact location within the campus of Rick's last class, only that it ended at about the same time as Karl's.

Rick passed under the raised front and rear portcullises, dripping with sweat, exhausted, and looking to be in as sorry a state as either of them had ever seen him in. As they all headed inside with him toward the well so he could drink, he explained that he had just gotten out of a flame intensity class with Master Magnus. They were forced to compress hotter and brighter flames into as small a space as they could and then keep going, building up heat while continuing to shrink the size. He said that he was sweaty not from the heat, which he was well shielded from, but from the incredible amount of effort.

Vincent needed to talk with them alone and was unable to think of a better place than his own quarters. After they entered, he took his cloak off and threw it on top of the chest. He sat down near the head of the bed and merely pushed his scabbard out of the way instead of taking it off. Out of sympathy, he invited the exhausted Rick to take a seat near the foot of the bed. Rick accepted and didn't bother to smooth or adjust his red robes before plopping down. Strands of his short red hair matted his forehead while he twitched his mustache. Karl preferred to stand, and his flat wide rock chose to stand with him.

Before Karl could ask Vincent why he had brought them there, Rick asked Karl a another question first. "Why do you have that with you?"

Karl tried to answer quickly to get it out of the way. "It's an assignment from Master Gautrek to teach us to constantly be aware of our surroundings and what we have that we can use. It's also builds strong focus and mental discipline."

Rick was still curious. "Why do you need to carry around a rock to teach you that?"

Karl seemed annoyed and tried to answer as best he could in very little time. "So that we learn to never forget these things for an instant. Part of the assignment is that we never leave our rock anywhere. He says that if any of us leaves it somewhere without bringing it with them, and he finds out, he will fail us and we'll have to take the class over again." He turned to Vincent. "Now are you going to tell us what this is about or not?"

While he still feared that they would reveal to the masters what he was doing, he decided to trust them. Vincent looked down and began to tell them everything. He started with his own personal investigation, then held his composure as he discussed the incident in the vault. Lastly, he told them what Stan and Craig had been able to offer. "...maybe they're some kind of dark cult, we still don't know." Vincent's voice was grave as he continued looking down. "Whoever they are, I think they're also responsible for the missing people and the devoured remains of children." He looked up as he finished.

When Vincent lifted his head, he noticed that both looked uncomfortable. Rick's eyes occasionally glanced to the side, but neither looked entirely unwilling to accept the possibility. Even though he hadn't told them that his actions were forbidden, they seemed to know just by looking at him that he had pursued this even when instructed to do otherwise by a higher authority, taking actions on behalf of Gadrale that were not sanctioned. They knew that those officially commissioned to look into it had long since given up.

Karl folded his arms and spoke first. "I take it that you have been doing all of this, alone, even against my better wishes or that of the masters?" Vincent nodded slightly. "The last time you and I had a talk about it, you even promised me that you wouldn't go out there." He slowly looked up at the wall above Vincent and took a deep sigh. Gradually, his eyes found his way back down to him.

Vincent held his ground. "I couldn't have very well declared openly my intention to seek out the killers. How far do you think I would have gotten if I did that? No matter what I said to appease you that day, I still believe this bears greater consideration than it has been given." They continued to glare at each other. "And so should you," Vincent added.

Realization seemed to creep over Karl's face along with disdain. "You just want to rescue Jessica Valens' brother," he accused. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You're trying to get under her skirt."

"And what if I am in love with her?" Vincent shot back.

Karl buried his face in his hands with a groan. "...oh gods." He turned to Rick. "Can you believe this?"

Rick smirked. "I think it's cute."

Vincent felt his ears burning. "Look, Harold wasn't the only one. How many more have to disappear before we realize that we're all being threatened by this." He sternly held Karl's gaze. "I went because I wanted to try to rescue them before it's too late."

"What you did still wasn't safe," Karl scolded, "you could have been killed, or turned up missing like the others. That was foolish."

"With what happened to me down in the vault, it doesn't appear to be that safe over here either," he countered.

Karl closed his mouth and let out a small sigh through his nose. "I know you meant well," he said patiently, "I'm just worried about you. What do you think would have happened if you had been attacked out there instead of here at the keep?" Vincent didn't have a good answer. "My point exactly," Karl finished.

"I just had a thought," Rick said. They both redirected their attention to him, seeming to have forgotten him in their quarrel. "What if there are others besides Jeanette who have betrayed us?"

"I considered that," Vincent replied, "but Stan and Craig's story doesn't support it. She was the only one they saw leaving with that strange man. And I have to admit that I don't think they're lying this time."

"Even so," Rick pressed, "it might be possible that others left to join that...ceremony or whatever before he came to get her. We shouldn't rule out the danger."

Karl began recriminating his rashness again. "See? You were careless. How do you know that Rick and I aren't with them? You could have invited two potential cultists right into your room!"

"I made no mistake about that," Vincent maintained.

"How so?"

"Karl, I know you far too well for that. I know that you couldn't be one of them because you're my cousin, and even though we argue sometimes, I really think you're far too busy keeping pet rocks and learning about strata to be dabbling in that sort of thing." Rick chuckled.

Karl looked enticed. "What about him?" He asked, pointing at Rick.

Vincent looked over at Rick, who sat staring at the ground with a smile on his face. "He is one of the few people I know with absolute certainty to be on our side. If he was on theirs, why would he destroy one of his own?"

Karl considered it a moment. "For show, there could have been other people around."

Rick shook his head as he looked up. "There weren't," he said, finally coming to his own defense, "and I raised the alarm, remember? You can ask anyone. No one else was there to do it for me. Some may have heard my compressed fire spark go off, but that was about it."

"Fair enough," Karl relented, "but what do we do now?"

Vincent answered, "follow the one lead we have, search for that word's meaning, and hope that it leads us somewhere useful." He shared a deliberate look with Karl. "And yes, it might even take us somewhere dangerous." When he considered the next part he had to say, he felt a wave of fear go through his gut over his own status within the keep; he still didn't know if either would report him. "It must also be kept secret unless we want to face a hearing before the masters, after being charged with stepping outside our jurisdiction." He looked back and forth between Karl and Rick. "Are you two going to help me, or was my bringing you here a mistake?"

Karl folded his arms again, his tone condescending. "You're my cousin, Vincent. You know that," he said, thinking it a sufficient answer.

Rick nodded while he looked off, seeming lost in thought again. Vincent didn't think he had ever seen Rick tired. "We have to. The keep is at risk. Countless innocents are also." Vincent was silent and when their gazes met, Rick felt the need to explain further. "We're you're friends. You didn't honestly think we were just going to let them get away with what they did to you? Or with stealing from us for that matter."

"Thanks, Rick," Vincent replied, feeling heartened by their outpour of support. "I have to warn you both that things might not go as planned. We might end up finding nothing at all. The word could mean 'fruit basket' for all I know. If something like that happens, we might have to search the wilderness again, starting where Stan and Craig claim to have seen them last. We may never find the people we seek."

They were all quiet for several moments.

"At least we know one other thing about them," Rick said, breaking the silence.

"What's that?" Vincent asked.

"That they had no idea you were on to them or that you've been secretly investigating them this whole time. Their running into you at the vault was a coincidence. You just happened to be the one guarding it."

Vincent was perplexed by this perfect knowledge. "What makes you think that?"

"Because the goose rarely comes to the hunter's doorstep and bites him. That's why they call it a wild goose chase, because you can't find the geese. Geese don't just come to you. If they knew you were on to them, or if you were close to discovering something, they would have attacked you out in the woods where they roost. Coming here just to deal with little old you, no offense, would be foolishness in the worst. Three were lost as it was just to get whatever it is they came for."

"I suppose you're right," Vincent replied, "it's not like I ever found anything out there that would lead us to them. They would have no reason to care about me specifically. How does that help us?"

"What it does, is it gives us the chance to catch them off guard the way they caught us off guard. They won't suspect it. They think we're being complacent."

"Well I just hope that we can make use of that," was all Vincent could say.

"Maybe we shouldn't jump to conclusions just yet," Karl speculated. "The different murders and disappearances could all be unrelated, perpetrated by separate fiends. The crumpled-bone remains of children, for example, could be nothing more than a dragon or some other beast devouring the unwary. We don't have any proof tying them together."

"True," Vincent noted, "but at least four of the dead individuals, possibly a boy and three girls, now have an explanation. We owe it to those four and anyone else these people killed to seek justice. Three cultists died, yet how many are out there? Stan and Craig couldn't give me an exact number." He turned to Rick. "Did one escape that night, or two? Exactly how many got out because...exactly how many got out anyway?" Vincent was having trouble uttering the last without being overwhelmed with remorse; the guilt and pain from his failure was still too great. He was realizing the magnitude of what his failure would cost.

"Only one that I know of," Rick answered. "And I think the burning spray of bits from his friend would have let me know if there were any more." Vincent turned away, feeling he didn't need that mental image. "I told the masters as much when I was questioned."

"So what are we left with now?" Karl asked. "A word hunt? A few hikes into the woods?"

"Finding the word alone will be a formidable challenge," Vincent explained, "that's one of the reasons why I sought to include you: three people pouring through books is better than one."

"We should get Stacy to help us too," Rick suggested. "She's really good with these sorts of things."

"I don't think it's such a good idea," Vincent said.

"Why not? If three people are better than one, then four is even better."

"A student as upstanding as her would never want to be a part of something that goes behind the masters' backs. And how do we know she's not one of those we seek?"

"She rarely leaves Master Anthony's side," Rick insisted. "She's an expert atmomancer. How could she be?"

"How could Jeanette be?" Vincent countered. "She was an atmomancer too, and her windblast almost killed me. It proves nothing." Rick still appeared as though he wanted to include Stacy but looked stumped as to what to say.

Karl sighed. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to take Rick's side on this. If you said I was too busy studying to be one of them, then there's no way the same couldn't be true of Stacy. She works way too hard. And we have to assume that cultists in our ranks are a rarity. Speculating that others left from here before Jeanette is just that, speculation. I'm not saying we should trust just anyone; I'm only pointing out that she is perhaps the least likely."

"What about the other risk?" Vincent asked, still concerned. "What if taking her into our confidence means that she'll rat us out to the masters?"

Neither of them seemed to have an answer to that. Then Rick seemed to draw on an idea. "I know! We'll bring her here and then all three of us will gruel her and convince her to join! It's much harder to turn down three people than just one. She'll have to think her reasoning is better than all of ours," he had a doubt, "well maybe it is,"−he inserted quickly−"but I still think we should try anyway."

"I don't know, Rick," Vincent said. "I believe in my reasoning with this very firmly. If hers doesn't see things the same way, then I hardly think it's better."

Rick's enthusiasm was undiminished. "Well there you go! Your convictions are strong! Your attempts won't appear half-hearted, and she'll pick up on that." He seemed more energetic now that he had had a little time to rest.

"We have to do everything and anything we can to stop them," Karl added, trying to convince Vincent. "Even if that means starting our own little cult of hunters wanting to expose them. If showing Stacy some charisma can get her to join, then I say we do it."

From the effect of having just two people trying to persuade him, he was starting to see what they meant. Vincent let out an aggravated sigh. "Very well," he conceded at last, "but if she turns out to be one of them," he hated to say it and hated what it implied yet had to "then we have to kill her. Understood?"

Both had an expression on their faces that said he was being paranoid. Karl was the first to speak. "Since that is completely impossible, I'm going to go ahead and agree to it. If it happens, I'll do as you say."

"Me too," Rick added with a smile that said Vincent was being silly.

Vincent felt the slightest bit more at ease since they both seemed so sure. "Okay then, so how soon can we find her? Where will she be, and when?"

"I don't know where she might be right now," Rick admitted. "She's a more advanced student in her learning, and I don't really see her too often. I just occasionally run into her at the dining hall or in one of the libraries."

"Same with me," Vincent commented.

Karl seemed to be racking his brain just like they. "If she's an advanced student, then that means she should be taking at least one of those classes in the Tower of Prophecy where they're supposed to look at the stars and learn to read the future, oh what was it called..."−his brow scrunched while he looked at the ground and kept snapping his fingers in frustration since it was so close−"...Astral Divination!" He finally said, looking up excitedly. Then he pondered when they might find her. "Don't those classes usually run much later than the others? You know, since they have to wait until it's dark?"

Vincent looked at Karl with a frown while he wondered and then turned to Rick. "Are they having a session tonight?" He asked.

Rick lifted his hands slightly in a helpless gesture. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"It wouldn't hurt to check," Karl put in, "and it's got to be past dark by now. I say we go pay a visit to the tower."

Vincent and Rick were in agreement, and so the three of them left his quarters with Karl's rock tagging along. When they passed under the raised portcullises in the gatehouse, Vincent idly asked why they were continuing to leave them open at night after the recent break-in. Rick said that the gate to the outer wall surrounding the campus was still closed at night as usual and the vines on the shorter perimeter wall had been replaced with killer vines by the botanical mages; no one was getting in again quietly, if at all. He then reminded Vincent never to stand too close to the outer wall, if he felt like going on a stroll.

It wasn't long before they came in front of the fabled tower where the fates were revealed. It was a thick and broad yet unusually tall structure which widely twirled and spiraled upward in a coil. Vincent didn't know how it could even stand, much less have been built, yet in all the time it had been here, it had never once collapsed or shown signs of deterioration, and remained a source of pride for Gadrale. The entrance was the most normal thing about it: Inside the doorway, they could see stone steps that were not that different than in the keep except that they were wider, flatter, longer, and circled upward inside it.

Vincent and Rick were about to go in when Karl nudged them and pointed toward the sky. They both looked up at the clear, crystalline pointed roofing that blanketed the very top, and saw a few small flashes of light. Class was in session. They resigned themselves to standing and waiting patiently at the bottom near the entrance.

The walkway through the grass toward it was the only gap in the otherwise complete ring of tall, bushy, green-leafed maples surrounding the tower. In the dark, the leaves moved and rustled in waves when the wind passed amongst them. In Vincent's mind, it could hardly be called a tower, at least not in the conventional sense. Along with it's strange shape, the materials used in its construction seemed quite out of the ordinary. Some surfaces looked like simple stone much like what was used in the fortress while others appeared smooth, glossy, and wavy, greenish in certain places, opaque or a rugged, dull silver in others. To him, it was an oddly colored bizarre stone tree that had twisted itself around as it grew upward.

As Vincent waited, he checked to make sure that his sword was still loose in its scabbard, not knowing what to expect. Unlike him, the other two were not made edgy by having had someone try to kill them yet. For something to do, Karl levitated his rock higher and held it in both hands, inspecting its surface closely while Rick used his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his brow and then tried to fix his hair. Rick then folded his arms and switched his weight from one foot to the other several times. He seemed to dislike waiting even more than Vincent or Karl.

After a time, they heard talking and the sound of footsteps echoing out of the bottom as class was dismissed. People in sky blue robes and dresses began coming noisily out of the opening. Vincent stepped to the left side of the path into the grass while Karl and Rick stepped to the right side to let people go by, Karl's rock skidded into the short green grass along with him.

Students came and students went, and still there was no sign of Stacy. Then there were no more students left. Though no one said anything, it was easy to tell that they were all thinking the same thing: that this was not one of her classes or else the wrong night.

Eventually, when they were just about to leave and were feeling dismayed, an old man with short white hair, a short nicely-trimmed white beard, and ancient-looking blue eyes came alone down the steps. It was Master Anthony, Dean of Atmomancy. For some reason he always appeared the wisest and most capable of all the masters aside from Treyfon. His appearance gave them new hope because at the very least he was a source of information.

When he looked at each of them curiously, Rick jumped right in. "Great one," he said as he bowed, Vincent and Karl did the same, "we wish to speak with one of your pupils. Can you tell us where Stacy is? Or at least where we might find her later?"

"She's still in the tower," Anthony explained, "that girl hardly ever sleeps. What do you need her for?"

When Rick hesitated, Vincent fought past his own misgivings to provide a quick answer. "We're friends of hers; we just want to catch up."

He seemed satisfied with that. "While you're at it, tell her to take better care of herself."

"We will, master," Vincent replied.

"Good night then," he said.

"Good night, master," all three said as one, bowing just their heads as he walked past.

As soon as he left, they entered the tower and began climbing the widely spaced flat steps. There seemed no end to them, and Vincent was starting to become accustomed to the echoing sound of Karl's rock scraping on the stone, though he could never quite get used to seeing a rock falling up a set of stairs instead of down. He wondered if they were going to be spending all night climbing or if Stacy would eventually meet them partway. It was dizzying the way the stairwell kept going in circles.

The stairs ultimately led them up and through an opening in the roof above them to stand on a stone block floor that appeared more familiar. The top of the tower was a wide, flat disc which also had stone crenulations on its edges like any round tower at the corners of the keep. That was where the similarities ended. All around them, even in the gaps of the parapets themselves, and above, coming to a point, were sharp scale-like shards of crystalline glass forming a shingled roof and exterior. At least Vincent thought it was glass. With how all the large fragments fit together, the outside of the tower was blurred and distorted. One could tell that it was nighttime but little else.

They looked around and saw Stacy standing to their right with her back to them. Stacy's long brown hair flowed gently down her shoulders and back, and her blue dress played off her hips in a way that at once hinted at and yet concealed her lovely figure. Vincent felt bad about trying to involve her: as though he were intruding upon her life−she might even sympathize with their plight but not be interested.

The portion of the roof in front of her did not appear as though it was there. In its place was a rectangular stretch of black with stars that appeared far too large to actually exist in the sky. As she waved her hand, the rectangle shifted further right and crystalline shards once again appeared where the gap had been. She seemed to be looking at a slightly different set of stars. The three of them walked closer and still she hadn't noticed their presence, seeming too caught up in whatever it was she was doing. Rick cleared his throat noisily to get her attention, and she slowly spun around.

"Oh hi," Stacy greeted, looking surprised to see them there. She eyed Vincent up and down. "You're looking well, Vincent." Her pretty blue eyes then looked at each in turn. "What are you three doing up here at this time of night?"

Karl started briefly explaining what Vincent had done and made sure to mention the recklessness of it all at least once. Thankfully, he spoke more in a manner of conveying the trouble they were all in than in pinning blame. Stacy's eyes followed each of them as they took turns speaking. Instead of looking shocked or showing any emotion in response, her face remained calm.

Stacy was about Vincent's age, maybe a little older, and usually had a more cynical attitude and approach to different things. He guessed this was why she seemed unmoved by what she was hearing. Her magical skill was atmomancy, the discipline associated with the sky, the weather, and the heavens, but in conversation, she usually provided unique and critical insight into the most unusual subjects and frequently had something constructive to offer about the mundane as well. If there was ever a time when they needed her on their side, and to offer up her unique perspectives, it was now.

Rick was just finishing up. "...if we search for this word's meaning, it might provide us with..."

"You three are bent on hunting down this cult by yourselves, aren't you?" She asked, cutting him off. "Without consent from the council and outside of your legal range of authority."

It sounded like a recrimination.

Vincent held his breath.

"That's right," Rick answered cautiously before continuing, "and we would like to..."

"I'll help," she volunteered before he could say more. They hadn't even asked her to yet.

"What?" Karl asked in shock, unfolding his arms.

"Just like that," Rick said, "you don't want to hear more? There could be trouble if we're caught."

She dimmed her eyes as she shook her head in a way that reminded Vincent of Master Anthony early that morning; she seemed to be picking up his habits. "Dust in the wind," she answered cryptically.

Vincent felt his brow form into a suspicious frown. "Still, you're well respected. Why would someone like you be so eager to tarnish themselves with something like this?" By the expressions on Rick and Karl's faces, they seemed to share his concern.

Stacy looked around at each curious face. Then she took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. "Because it's actually much worse than what you've told me, and I want to put a stop to it at once."

Vincent was intrigued. "How do you know it's worse?"

"Because Bawsenneji's approach is masking Xabran as it recedes from its perihelion with..." she caught herself when she realized they didn't know what she was talking about. "Oh it's probably better if I just show you." She walked past them, heading toward the center of the room. "Come this way."

They followed her, as did Karl's rock, to the middle of the circle that was the vast floor. Above them was where the crystalline shingles all met at their apex. It felt like they were standing inside of a diamond.

Stacy looked up and was about to start lifting her hands but then stopped and turned to the rest of them, seeming preoccupied with something else. "The three of you took quite a risk in telling me what you did," she pointed out. "Am I to assume that is because you are trusting me not to share it with anyone else?"

"That's correct," Vincent affirmed.

"I'm touched, really I am. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to ask you to do the same"−she shared a look with each in turn, pointing a finger at each of them as she spoke−"don't share with anyone what you are about to see," she warned. "It is a dangerous prophecy that should never become public knowledge−it would wreak havoc and cause mass hysteria." She paused a moment. "Even more so since it is almost upon us." Vincent felt a chill go through his body. "Understood?" They all voiced that they did.

Stacy glanced carefully at each of them again before looking upward once more at the ceiling. As she cast her arms out, not stiffly but with a bend at each elbow, the entire roof of the tower appeared to slowly vanish. In its place, and all around them, was the night sky without any trace that the mesh of glass shards had ever existed. The nearly full moon shone down on them from its position in the southern sky and had a plethora of stars surrounding it. The beauty was astounding. When she raised her open hands upward, her widespread fingers seeming to caress and cradle the heavens, stars flew down by the edges of the tower as if it had shot upward toward the sky.

She let her arms fall down and their ascent was halted. She continued looking up as she spoke. "Not all people or events have their fates written upon the stars," she began. "The life of one person, for instance, does not weigh so heavily upon the heavens. Only sufficiently large forces of nature disrupt the celestial alignment, leaving the slightest wake in the stars before they take place."

She waved her right hand above her and a part of the sky with the specific stars she wanted them to see became larger and closer in their view. Vincent could see clearly two bright stars, a smaller blue one on the left and a bigger, more menacing red one on the right. "This star," she said, pointing to the blue one on the left, "is Zugon, 'The Witness to The Ages.' It's place is a relative constant with the shifting of the seasons. When Xabran, a smaller white star, can be seen circling it, the usual cycles of nature are in play, and if it passes behind Zugon, an age has passed." She pointed to the menacing red star on the right. "This is Bawsenneji, 'The Raging Tempest.' Where he passes, only destruction follows, and then nature must replenish itself afterward. If it can. This time, he is masking Xabran directly, striking at the very heart of the natural order."

"What does that mean?" Rick asked.

She gathered herself by taking a deep breath before answering. "It means that we are about to face a calamity of enormous magnitude."

"What kind of calamity?" Rick asked next.

"I'm not sure," she said, "something really bad, and really out of proportion."

"Could you be a little more cryptic? I think I understood part of that," Karl mocked. "A crazed fortune teller on the street could have said the same thing, and I'd put just about as much stock in it."

"How dare you!" She snapped back, not looking at all pleased with his remark.

Rick stepped between them and put his hands up to prevent any further altercation. "Now, now, we're all on the same side here."

Vincent was too busy racking his mind over the significance to pay too much attention to the exchange. A new approach suddenly struck him, and he turned to Stacy. "If you can't tell us exactly what it is, do you think you could tell us other things about it?"

Stacy looked back toward him, most of the ire seemed to be leaving her face, but the trace of a scowl remained. "Like what?"

"Like what it is not, for instance?"

Her eyes looked around, considering. "Possibly," she offered with caution. Rick stepped back and gave them each more space when he was sure they were going to be civil.

Vincent folded his arms and put a hand to his chin as he thought long and hard on what to ask her. He decided to start first with eliminations. If she didn't have an answer, he could eliminate that by starting with something else, something more general and less specific. "Is it an earthquake?"

Stacy looked back up at the two stars, making a skeptical um sound. "No."

"Is it a tidal wave or a flood?" Rick asked.

It took her less time to think about it. "No."

Intrigued, Karl also joined in. "What about a volcano or a large forest fire?"

"No."

"Could it be a..." Vincent started.

Stacy scrunched her eyelids closed and held up her hands, waving them as if to try to shield herself from their questions. "No, it's not any of these." She opened her eyes. "The events you are all describing are catastrophic, yes, but are still a part of the natural cycle. They are also very short in their duration, short and violent."

"So you're saying that this disaster is much more permanent?" Rick asked.

Stacy's eyes widened when she looked at him, and she appeared a little more frightened as she nodded her head slightly. "Yes. Most definitely."

Vincent still needed more. "Can you tell us anything else about it's nature?" She looked confused, and so he clarified further. "If you were to imagine it were something, anything, could you guess at how much damage it would cause?"

"There are many kinds of damage," she pointed out.

"Let's take lives," Vincent suggested, a knot growing in his stomach, "how many deaths would this cause?"

Stacy looked back up at the two stars, then she looked at some of the nearby phenomena for a good while. The other three looked up with her. Vincent saw a comet and a shooting star, appearing much larger than one would normally see. There was even a small patch of stars that were wreathed in a cloud of other colors. When he interrupted Stacy to ask what it was, she said it was something called a nebula. They were all silent after that, and when Stacy finally sighed, they redirected their attention to her.

"This cataclysm," she began, turning to look at Vincent, "if directed at lives alone, would be the same as if every living thing in our world were to suddenly die."

They were all pretty shaken by that, and were quiet once more, feeling the enormity of it. Karl recovered from his shock first and asked a more pertinent question. "How do you know that this is in any way connected with the cult we seek?"

"Cults like theirs usually like to remain hidden. They live in constant fear of being discovered and purged. The attack on our vault was a pretty bold move on their part. Even gutsy, wouldn't you say?"

"You believe then, that they stole from us because of this?" Karl asked next.

"Yes," she answered. Then she looked him in the eyes, dimming hers slightly and spoke quietly with foreboding, "they might even know more about it than we do."

There was an oppressive stillness to the air as they all stood silently. They were each horrified in their own way at the thought that the cult might know more or even have a hand in it. Vincent felt as though the challenges he faced had just become overwhelmingly more difficult.

"No wonder you're less worried about your academic standing," Rick remarked, breaking the silence. "You don't have much to lose."

"None of us do," she pointed out.

Vincent felt hopelessness and despair clutching at him. "Is there no way to stop this? Can destiny be changed?"

Stacy folded her arms under her breasts as she looked off. "No one knows," she said distantly, a sad expression on her face. "If there is a chance that this fate can be altered, then it's definitely something worth fighting for." She looked back up at the ceiling. The blue star and the menacing red star stared back. "Or dying for," she added as an afterthought.

Vincent was still worried. "When will it...take place?"

"Soon."

#  Chapter 8

At the conclusion of their meeting that night, they exchanged information about when and where they might contact each other if needed and divided the research task somewhat equally amongst themselves. Karl, Rick, and Stacy each took one of the libraries out on campus to begin their search while Vincent, who had more free time, agreed to start pouring through the texts in the library level two floors above the vault since it was much bigger. If someone finished early, they were to go to another library to assist someone else. Once they were done, they would all converge upon the last library located on the second deepest floor of the keep.

Vincent spent most of the next few days meticulously checking different volumes for the word that Stan and Craig both remembered. He checked lists in spell books and dictionaries from as many languages as he could, and still he found nothing. People occasionally stared at him, thinking it strange to see someone in clothes like his and wearing a sword studying in a library. Vincent had become used to it over the years he had lived at Gadrale. Lately, he spent what little time he had when he was not engrossed to occasionally stop for a meal or to practice his swordsmanship. When he became frustrated, he would duel some of the better soldiers with sticks in order to vent his aggravation at not having found it. There were a few that almost won. One time when he visited the dining hall, Stacy passed by him on her way out and told him that she was almost finished with her library. Vincent felt like he was lagging behind, but was grateful for her offer to help him with his once she was done.

On the fourth day in a row, Vincent continued his relentless search for hours and hours until his eyes could bear it no more. Disappointed, he tried his best to calm himself and decided to take a break. He normally enjoyed visiting the gardens in the morning; breathing in the fresh air seemed to revive him and better prepare him for the day.

He hadn't visited them lately because of all that had happened and because he had no desire to trouble himself fretting over Jessica. This was bigger than his original selfish reasons for getting involved. It was silly to think that rescuing her brother would make her love him if she didn't. Since she hadn't showed any interest in whether he had lived or died, he guessed this was the case. His heart sank as he headed for the gardens.

It was late afternoon. The mornings were when she usually worked there, and so Vincent felt it safe to assume that she wouldn't be there now. He felt glad to leave the confines of the vast library on the third floor down of the keep and to escape what was starting to feel like his prison of paper, bookshelves, and stone.

As he passed through the hallways and steps, he was only barely aware that other people traversing them even existed. Try as he might, he could not take his mind off of the word 'kargoth' and what it could mean, what it could be. It was exhausting, and he needed this reprieve to fight off the feeling of being fed up.

Once outside the gatehouse, Vincent breathed for the first time this day, air that did not smell like stale old parchment. He allowed his eyes to gaze across the expanse of the campus grounds and its many lawns and buildings. To his left and further across the grass and paths, was the Tower of Prophecy where Stacy had foretold their doom. Past the lawns and other paths to his right, were the gardens set in the middle of several low buildings with pale orange walls and red tile roofs.

The gardens did not have a fence to speak of; one could walk through the path provided and view the trees, bushes, and flowers on the sides. Vincent was bombarded by a mixture of different fragrances, each with a pleasant smell of its own. The breeze carrying them rustled against the leaves. He must have walked this path hundreds of times, yet he still found the beauty extraordinary.

When he arrived at the clearing where there were less trees and bushes and more flowers and other plants in a wide circle surrounding the path, the peacefulness and beauty brought with it a hard streak of melancholy. This was where he had always spent time talking with Jessica and occasionally helped her to pull weeds, plant flowers, or water plants. He had been a groundskeeper here at Gadrale in his youth, and so it came naturally to him. Although he desired her while keeping his feelings for her a secret, Vincent would have thought that he and Jessica were at least friends. It hurt him deeply that she hadn't come to visit him in the infirmary. It meant she didn't care. Everyone else who was at least his friend had, as had a number of curious strangers. He knew now that his hopes of winning her heart had been in vain. She had never shared his feelings; she had merely tolerated him.

Having now faced death, he knew there were worse things than a broken heart, yet was unable to shake the sadness. Though no tears came, he still felt empty inside. Of all the women at Gadrale Keep, Jessica was the one he had gotten along with the best. Even more, he had fallen for her; he didn't know if that could happen with anyone else. Most women didn't think much of him. They thought of him as the same as any normal. When they saw him, they saw a commoner with a sword.

For some reason, he could not force himself to find fault with Jessica. It seemed there was nothing about her he did not adore. She had long beautiful, silky black hair, and gorgeous light blue eyes which shone like diamonds. Her pretty face, the way she smiled, and her lovely curvaceous figure filled him with such intense desire at his core that he felt a completely deprived and insufficient being without her. He didn't know why she felt nothing for him. He guessed there must be something about himself that she didn't like, but didn't have any idea what.

Whatever the reason, Vincent started to feel as though coming here was a waste of time. In the face of his obligations, his own personal feelings and issues had to come second. If his venture to the gardens could not provide him with the solace or relaxation he sought, then he had to leave and do something else. At the moment, the very thought of pouring through more books made him dizzy, and he could think of no place else he would like to go.

Vincent crouched down next to a peculiar purple flower he hadn't seen before and gently touched its petals from underneath with his fingers while he gave more thought to the investigation that he and his friends were conducting. Though the masters had not made public the object that was stolen, Vincent felt that this piece of information was vital. If they knew what it was, it might give them a hint as to the cult's intentions. He had wanted to know all along, but wanting was one thing, and getting was quite another. Only the masters and their closest and most trusted knew; he would only find out if there was a way to get one of them to offer it.

As soon as Vincent had a plan in his mind, he stood up straight and turned around to leave the gardens. Off to the right of the path, closer to the edge of the circle near the opening, he saw a woman in a drab light tan dress bending over in a tall patch of flowers to pull weeds. One of the botanical mages assigned to garden maintenance at this time of day, Vincent thought at first. Her head was facing toward the path, and her long beautiful black hair gave her away. It was Jessica. These weren't her hours, but she was here just the same. Vincent didn't bother to wonder why. He didn't think that a conversation with her would be necessary or productive either; there was nothing for him to say. He tried to discreetly walk past her without saying anything, hoping she wouldn't notice him.

Just as he came closer, she stood to her full height and did.

A shocked expression came to her face as she momentarily disregarded the collection of weeds in her right hand. "Vincent..." She acknowledged in surprise. Then she looked him over, seeming to check to see if he really was still intact. "...you're well, I hope?" Her beautiful eyes met his and Vincent felt like his heart had stopped.

"I'm alive," he affirmed, volunteering nothing.

"You haven't been visiting the gardens lately."

He wanted to cut this short. "I haven't been interested," he replied.

"You look troubled, is something wrong?"

"Something was wrong, but it's alright now."

Curiosity came over her expression and she seemed to wonder at what he wasn't saying. "I heard about what happened down in the vault."

"Then you know everything," he said, trying to brush it off so he could leave. He had better things to do.

"Wait," Jessica said, holding up a hand when he started to move. It didn't appear as though she was going to let him get away that easily. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

Vincent had already done so a number of times with other people, and had no desire to do so again, especially not with her. "Not particularly," he answered.

Jessica seemed to sense his distance but didn't let it stop her. "Well, weren't you hurt? I mean, badly enough to land you in the infirmary?"

"That's true." Vincent saw that Jessica had a look of concern on her face, and didn't know if it was genuine or not. He hated that. He wanted this over with as quickly as possible. The sympathy of a bystander meant nothing to him, even if that bystander was beautiful.

Jessica continued to pry. "It created quite a stir. I heard that the masters got involved."

"Yeah, it's a shame you missed it," he replied in a completely neutral and disinterested tone, purely for the sake of small talk, "there was even a speech."

Despite his tone and the façade of not caring, Jessica still stared at him for a split second as if to try to read some meaning into what he said. He suddenly feared that she was better at reading him than he thought, maybe from having spent time with him before, and now he wished that he had kept his mouth shut. Quietly suffering her was better than a meaningless confrontation. He had no right, and it would come to no good end.

The realization seemed to instantly wash over her like water falling from a cliff. She let out her breath all in one rush as she blinked and her eyes momentarily broke contact. "I wanted to come visit you," she explained. Vincent felt a nervous anxiety clutch at him. "I was in the middle of a class taught by Cassandra. She's an Elf woman from Edmar, an associate professor and one of Treyfon's first students. Anyway, they both teach the same course, but I'm in the section taught by her. No one interrupted the class to let us know you had awakened. When I came by the infirmary later, they wouldn't let me see you because they said you were asleep. When I tried again the next day, you were already gone." Vincent's eyes were somewhat wider at hearing this. He felt a warm sensation flowing through his chest as if what was frozen had now melted. He said nothing.

"You haven't been a very easy person to find lately," she went on. "I thought that after you left the infirmary, you would show up around here sooner or later, but you never did." A peculiar sensation went through his stomach at the very thought of her checking up on him so, and he once again allowed himself to imagine that there might be something more between them.

Her gorgeous blue eyes looked on, waiting for a response, and he could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest. "I've been busy," he stammered.

"I can see that," she said, a lovely smile gracing her lips while she let out a small giggle. Vincent returned the smile and let out a small awkward laugh of his own.

Afterward they strolled the gardens and talked while occasionally patrolling for weeds and inspecting the health of various plants. Jessica told him that she was filling in for someone else today, and Vincent silently marveled at the coincidence of having run into her at all, his foolishly smitten mind conjuring up the thought that they were meant to be. As they talked, he stuck to giving her an incomplete list of things he had done since he had left the infirmary, such as talking with the masters and so on, and tried to avoid some of the specifics. Especially those that dealt with what he and his friends were doing. He also made no mention of the time off he had been given so that the question of what he was doing with it wouldn't come up.

His feelings toward her were clear enough to him, but he still didn't know if it was wise to trust her with these things yet. It was too much of a risk and wouldn't be fair to the others. Deep down, he also felt like he was protecting her by doing this, keeping her safe both from the trouble it might cause as well as other dangers that might arise. It was safer for all of them this way.

At the end, he feigned the excuse of having to arrive for his guard duty shift, and they parted company amicably. Though they had spoken in a friendly manner, Vincent couldn't help but be excited. His heart was fluttering and he was in a good mood as he journeyed alone back to the keep. He smiled and exchanged warm greetings with passersby, and there was an occasional skip in his step. Not even the prospect of returning to the vast and dreary library was enough to dampen his spirits.

When he resumed his work, he pushed on with renewed determination yet was only barely noticing the words on the pages. He couldn't stop thinking about her. Eventually, Stacy joined him since she was done early. Before they started searching through the books together, Stacy couldn't help but be inquisitive because his joyful preoccupation was so apparent. He told her and she momentarily shared in his mirth. Unfortunately, it was soon tempered in both of them when they remembered why they were there and the disastrous fate they were trying to prevent.

Because of what had happened with Jessica, he had almost forgotten the plan that he had come up with before he had spoken to her, almost. While he and Stacy continued searching for references to the word, he put it off until the last possible moment since it wasn't something he took lightly. After the library had emptied of even the most committed students and the two of them were putting books back on the shelves, he finally brought it up. It wasn't easy asking Stacy to exploit her close ties with Master Anthony to discover which object was stolen, but it had to be done. They shared a moment of silence as she thought it over. He could tell that she understood, even if she was reluctant to voice it, and she at last gave her assent.

The morning after, Vincent went to the gardens again to be with Jessica a short time before going back to the library. It was almost a return to their usual routine, yet it also felt like they were getting closer. A few times when she looked his way, he could swear that her eyes brightened just for him, and he had never felt more elated.

Later, Vincent returned to his task and poured through the books like mad. He was already well motivated by his desire to punish the culprits in the murders and disappearances and even more so after learning what he had from Stacy. How it was connected with the catastrophe she foresaw, other than fear on the part of the cult, he didn't know. All he knew was that he felt invigorated like never before, as though he had a future worth fighting for. He would not let anything stand between or ruin his love for Jessica.

Sometime in the evening, Stacy arrived again to help look through the books. He was almost too afraid to ask what had happened, but did. To his relief, she told him that she hadn't encountered any difficulties. Master Anthony had been forthcoming and easy to approach. Unfortunately, the information provided only led them to another dead end and another baffling mystery. The object stolen was nothing more than the Arkiban Quill Pen, a pen made from the feather of an extinct bird and infused with magic so that its ink never ran out.

A mere writing utensil! Vincent asked if it had some other property to it, and Stacy told him there was none. He stormed off to go find out more about it, and she followed him and told him not to bother, but her words were dross in the cauldron of his furious disbelief. Beside himself in livid anguish, he frantically searched for the proper volume. He found a book about magic pens and flipped through it only to find that Stacy was correct. Enraged, he angrily threw it hard to the floor, its pages flopping about in disarray. People stared on while he grabbed his hair in his fists and let out a harsh, loud growl of aggravation. It resounded through the entire floor.

When he was done, a library attendant, an older woman approached him and asked him to please keep his voice down and not to destroy Gadrale Keep's property. Embarrassed, he apologized and returned the book to its shelf. He returned with Stacy to the table they were using, seething and still unable to accept that he had killed people and had nearly been killed himself over a stupid quill. It just couldn't be true; it made no sense. This thought hammered into his mind over and over again as he sat down in a huff and put his forehead in his hands, his elbows resting on the table.

Stacy first put her left arm around his back and then her right across his chest, folding her hands over his shoulder in a hug to comfort him. "I don't think that's all there is to it either," she consoled while her chin was atop his other shoulder.

As she stood up, she patted him twice with her hand and then went back to work. He quietly brooded for a while longer and then put it aside so he could help her. The anger still remained below the surface...waiting.

Some time after, when it was getting late, Rick and Karl showed up with Karl's rock still tagging along. With regret, they reported not having found anything either. They were dismayed as well when Stacy told them what was stolen but nowhere near as much as he was. The four of them spent the last few minutes of the day sharing what they had been able to find out, which wasn't much. The only thing they all seemed sure of was that 'kargoth' was not a word in a spell, unless it was an obscure one in the bottom library yet had to admit that the chances of that were very small.

As much as he hated to, Vincent skipped the next morning's trip to the gardens. It was painful, but he was becoming obsessed. It was the second to last day of the week that Master Clemens had given him, and he had to make it count. He went as far as he could until evening when the other three arrived. The work proceeded much faster with their help, and they were already beginning to look through the last library above the vault before it was late and they had to quit.

* * *

Shortly after her morning shift in the gardens, Jessica returned to her quarters to retrieve her leather bound journal, quill pen, and small ink bottle. Books were expensive as they had to be written by hand, and so they were issued no texts for their personal possession. Subsequently, every student at Gadrale who wanted or needed one for their own personal collection or reference had but one choice: to record what they had learned themselves. When learning the properties and attributes of plants and what alterations could be made to them through magic, keeping meticulous notes with illustrations was a must.

She tucked her class journal under her left arm, holding it against her brown dress, and with her scribe tools in hand, left the keep to attend her plant morphology class taught by Cassandra, an Edmarian Elf. The sound of her soft footfalls was later drowned out by many others in the halls. Out on the walkways of the campus grounds, Jessica once again wondered about Vincent's morning absence in the gardens. He had been acting strangely lately, and she thought it had something to do with the night he was attacked.

Who wouldn't be shaken, she thought, but there were other differences as well. Aside from the misunderstanding they had, he seemed unusually preoccupied. "Busy," he had said, that's probably what it was today; she might see him again tomorrow. At least certain other things had also come about, things that warmed her heart and left her smiling at times for no reason. A small smile creased her lips now. Terrible as it was, what had happened to him, she couldn't say that she was completely displeased with the overall outcome. To her, it looked like his displeasure from thinking she had forgot about him was a little bit more than what a mere friend might have, and yesterday when he had come to visit her, there were several moments where their eyes met and...it was wonderful.

And he appeared to sense it too.

Jessica went around the opening to the gardens and entered one of the orange-clay buildings on the other side that had a red-shingled roof. She was immediately greeted by the smell of old wood and dirt. This one building enclosed her entire classroom inside it, and everything within was earthen including the long tables and chairs of dark brown wood arranged in rows with an aisle between each half of the collection. A number of other students in brown or light tan work clothes or dresses had already arrived and were shuffling papers or talking. A noisy cough echoed. In the front of the classroom sat a podium of the same color as the chairs and tables, as well as filthy tables for placing pots. In the corners of the room, large light orbs placed atop black metal tripod sconces provided illumination. Since many of the chairs were already being used by her classmates, Jessica chose to sit in the left group, third row from the front, at a table near the aisle.

After being seated, she casually set her ink bottle on the table in front of her and thumbed through her journal to the appropriate page before laying it flat near the bottle. The rustling of chairs and people was all around her while she opened the stopper to her ink well, dipped the quill, and began scribbling today's date. The ink's bitter odor immediately wafted toward her face. She blew to keep the strongest of it away. Plant morphology required precise notes and illustrations for study, sometimes even more than her other classes, due to having to keep track of more life stages and the magically induced structural transformations to each that couldn't occur naturally.

Soon after she was situated, the din of talking, murmuring, and the shuffling of pages lessened as their instructor, Lady Cassandra, walked in carrying a clay pot with dirt in each arm and wearing a leather bag hanging from a strap across her right shoulder. She set down the two pots on the table, let her breath out in a huff of relief, and brushed off her hands on her drab brown pants. Her strange green pointy eyes moved toward the left when a male student approached her and asked a question. Jessica couldn't tell what it was because he had spoken quietly but heard Cassandra hurriedly say "don't worry, we'll go over that." The student left to return to his seat while she took off her bag and put it on the table beside the pots, absent mindedly pushing her blonde hair back behind her Elf ears.

Everyone went silent as Cassandra leaned forward with her hands on the table on either side of the two pots in front of her and addressed them. "Alright class, today we're going to talk a little bit about gametophyte forms and how to manipulate them." Jessica began hurriedly writing this down. "As you already know, sporophytes are usually the dominant generational life-cycle stage that is most visible in everyday plants, and most of the magic you've been taught so far has focused on them. Even though that has its uses, one must never forget the importance of their gametophyte counterparts or the roles they can play."

She reached in her bag and pulled out a round hard seed. "I have here a perfectly harmless chestnut encased in its shell," she placed it in the moist dirt of one of her pots, "and watch what happens when I apply the most basic growth magic that you're all familiar with." As Cassandra applied the invisible threads of beneficial energy, Jessica watched a chestnut seedling sprout from the dirt and grow two feet high, shedding its cotyledons along the way. "As you can see," Cassandra went on, grinning lightly "it grows into a healthy young sporophyte." She opened the flap to her bag and stuck her arm in, digging around again. "Unfortunately, if you try the same thing on its gametophytes, you'll get way more than you bargained for," her hand kept digging and digging, her voice taking on a slight strain of frustration, "gametophytes are normally very small and come in male, female, and bisexual types, though in trees they're almost always sex-segregated."

As her hand searched, she explained further. "A sporophyte this young can't grow flowers yet, but in here..." she stopped and gave a cross look at her bag. Cassandra grunted and opened the flap of her bag wide and began searching with both hands. "Oh I don't believe this," she said in dismay. "Class, I think I must have forgotten the chestnut flower sprig in my office. Please excuse me while I go retrieve it." And with that, she left the room.

After she was gone, some of the talking resumed, starting with a remark from a male voice on the right hand side of the room, mocking the lesson. He raised his arms and waved them in pretend fright. "Oh no, please save me from the chestnut gametophyte!" A few other students snickered and joined in the laughter, but Jessica didn't find it that amusing. She thought the fool should have realized by now that nearly any plant, with the right magic, could be turned into something horrid and deadly. Or at the very least, something useful.

Jessica waited patiently while overhearing two of her friends, Audrey and Samantha, gossiping behind her. This was not unusual for them to do, and Jessica ignored it at first until part of what Audrey was saying caught her attention. "...and you'll never guess who of all people I saw Stacy, the star pupil, having a romantic moment with in the library yesterday." Strangely, a curiosity overcame her, and Jessica turned around to look at them.

"Who? Who did you see her with?" Samantha pressed, neither of them seeming to have noticed her looking.

"The swordsman!" Audrey spurted out excitedly while in a hushed tone.

Samantha's mouth hung open. "Impossible..." she said in disbelief.

"It's true," Audrey maintained.

"What is she doing with him?" Samantha frowned in confusion. "I mean sure he's cute, but he's just so... beneath her. He's practically a normal. And what were they doing together in the library?"

"I don't know, but I heard someone say they stayed in there late, even after hours. Who knows what they were doing there together...alone." Jessica turned back around, letting out a short distressed breath. Her troubled eyes slowly moved from one corner of the room to another, not knowing where to look.

It felt like she had just suffered a serious blow, struck by lightning. Her whole world was falling down around her. How could it be true? How could he...with her? It didn't make any sense. What...why? It was only gossip. It had to be. Though she said the words in her mind, her eyes became wet and she could feel a deep pain welling up inside her.

It was difficult to pay attention to the lesson after that.

* * *

On the last day before he had to resume guard duty again, Vincent proceeded in the same manner, skipping his visit to the gardens and trying to give his friends and himself a head start. When they arrived to join him, they relegated separate tasks to cover material more quickly. Rick took spell books, Stacy took Elvish archives, Karl took Dwarven ones, and Vincent searched through ancient lore and myths.

As it was getting late, and everyone else had left the library, Vincent flipped through a book so old that it was practically falling apart. He had to carefully wipe away a thick layer of dust before he could even view the title. It was an obscure text in an archaic Human language. He was able to tell from its format and some of the words used that it was about gods and goddesses.

His eyes slowly and carefully glided over the worn pages, looking at each word carefully, even if he didn't understand it. Just as he heard Stacy sigh in the back and suggest that they call it a night, recognition hammered him into a near panic.

"I found it!" He screamed to the others.

Vincent stared hard in shock at seeing the word at last while he heard the hurried footsteps of his friends running toward him. There was a long screeching and scraping of stone on stone as Karl's rock struggled to catch up. He was amazed that his cousin was still able to concentrate on it. Holding the book reverently like it was the most valuable thing he ever would, he kept a finger pointed where it was and lifted his head to see his friends rushing in.

They wanted to grab at it, but he recoiled for fear they would damage it. "Careful," he admonished, "this thing can't take much abuse."

"Let me see," Stacy said.

He held it closer to her, continuing to point at it with his finger. "Right there. And look at how it's spelt, it's 'Kargoth,' with a capital. That means it has to be a name."

"Let's bring it to a table and get the other words translated," she suggested. "The context it's in might tell us something."

As they brought it slowly and carefully to the table they had been working at, Stacy looked at a few of the words on the title, attempting to discern what language it was in. It was an ancient dialect of men. She made her guess as to which ones it could be, and Rick hurriedly ran off to find the appropriate dictionaries. The light orb floating above the table where Vincent sat bobbed slightly up and down, but the illumination was unchanged. He felt almost like he was in a trance from at last beholding what they had searched so long and hard for.

Rick returned with several books in his arms and laid them quickly down in front of Stacy, who sat to Vincent's right. Karl and Rick hovered over them to watch. They were all tired but were far too caught up in the excitement to even consider rest. After some contemplation, Stacy was able to deduce which tongue the book was in, and so began the translation efforts. Karl took out a quill and a piece of paper and sat down next to her. Stacy asked Vincent to see where else the word appeared, and he was only too happy to comply, being careful not to tear the pages. In the entire book, it only appeared just this once.

There were several times where Karl asked them to go back further into the book because what he had written didn't make sense yet. When they did, he continued translating each word, his face paling whenever he stopped for a moment to think about it. Vincent became deeply concerned about the portent because his cousin was usually not one to take such things seriously. Despite how long this was taking them, none had any intention of quitting. Rick stood above them, leaning forward with his hands on the tops of their chairs, and occasionally offered a word of encouragement.

"Alright, here it is," Karl announced once he had all the pieces he wanted in the right order.

"'When the eyes of the witness can see only the raging tempest, there will come a time of great Armageddon. Ornak, The Betrayed, will rise again as Kargoth, Lord of Death, and his vengeance will be at hand...

...All rival gods of the underworld will be slain by his merciless wrath, and the world of the living consumed in his fire before the heavens themselves finally quake and succumb to the dark one's will. War, pain, and death will rain upon the land as all are joined unto him. Living and dead shall become as one for all eternity.

His dominion will have no end.'"

They were all silent for a moment.

Stacy seemed the most shaken by this pronouncement. "That fits exactly," she whispered gravely in a slow and hushed tone, "a disaster striking at the very heart of the natural order."

"Even if it is just a myth," Rick speculated, "that's a pretty big coincidence."

"The stars never lie," she maintained, brushing his comment aside, "unless there's other..." she started in thought but didn't finish.

Vincent was enticed. "Unless what?"

Stacy ignored his question for the moment. "Karl, may I see what you have written down beyond what you just read to us."

"Sure," he said, handing her the papers.

"Are these in the right order?"

"Yes."

She spent a few moments reading them over. "The text makes references to the positions of other astronomical phenomena for confirmation." She let out a depressed sigh. "Unfortunately, they all match as well."

"Now I'm really worried," Rick remarked. "Aren't the chances of all those...things being aligned properly nearly impossible?"

"They are."

Karl folded his arms. "What do we do now?" He asked in despair to no one in particular. "We went through so much trouble to find this, and it hasn't gotten us anywhere."

"Then we keep trying," Vincent insisted, "we'll travel to the forest and search under every rock and tree until they can't hide anymore. The cult must be stopped before more innocent people, more children, are murdered."

Rick took a deep breath and let it out with a yawn. "Excellent plan," he said, patting Vincent on the shoulder, "I think for now though, we should all get some sleep." Vincent only nodded.

* * *

Things returned more or less to normal over the next few days, with a few exceptions. Vincent resumed standing guard over the vault, and he continued visiting the gardens as he always had, though Jessica had started to become more formal, as if she were trying to keep him at a distance. She seemed even sad, perhaps bothered by his visits, and he had no idea why. At times he sat in his room, pensively trying to think up ways to renew her interest in him but kept running into the dead end of thinking that perhaps she just didn't like him. The only thought that would cheer him up was that maybe she would tell him one day, when she was ready, what was troubling her. Another change he saw was his own renewed determination while he guarded the vault, every time he heard the feet of a rat or mouse skittering on the stone in an adjacent hall, his nerves went on edge before he realized what it was. Because of the now very real danger he knew threatened his post every night, he kept up his sword practice and tried harder than ever to perfect his skills.

When they were able to arrange it, he and his friends gathered together again and took a trip to the woods surrounding Gadrale near the mountains. Craig went with them and showed them the site where he had witnessed the horrible deeds taking place. They found the ashes of a large fire pit and nothing more.

A few more nights of guard duty passed without incident, but it never put Vincent at ease. Stan and Craig never failed to relieve him on time; they became diligent guards who were very punctual and showed him more respect. Whether this was because he had showed them enough to hear their words, or because of what they had seen, or even because they had finally learned their lesson, it was clear that they had changed. They were no longer quite the same carefree boys as before.

To keep their ties strong, Vincent had made a habit, along with Karl, Rick, and Stacy, of all eating their meals together in the dining hall at the same time. It afforded them the chance to talk and share anything that came up without curtailing any time that they each preferred to spend on doing other things. It also avoided any suspicion from secretive gatherings. Since their occasional treks to the wilderness were not providing them with much more than recreation, these meetings allowed them to collaborate and try to plan other ways of continuing their investigation. They discussed Vincent's prior interviews with some of the friends and relatives of the deceased, but there was little that could be derived from it. At one such meal, when he and the others were feeling overly anxious and troubled that maybe the worst was already taking place somewhere, Stacy waved off their concern with her hand and assured them that when the cataclysm actually began, there would be no mistaking it.

The next day, Vincent proceeded with his routine as usual. He visited the gardens in the morning and exchanged smiles, kind words, and plant care tips with Jessica. But nothing more between them would happen, and she would act as though she didn't want him there. Like before, he felt like asking why but couldn't. It was just too uncomfortable, and he didn't want to push her further away. He almost didn't want to know, especially if it was what he feared. Instead, Vincent took a deep breath, sucked in his pride, and left.

In the afternoon, he spent a good deal of time practicing his blade skills, and by evening, he experimented with his magic, using his knife for tests on a small scale instead of running the risk of ruining his sword. He started with what was familiar to him, heating and freezing the blade, setting it on fire, and melting and reshaping it. Toward the end, he plied his will into forcing the knife to be as light as a feather and was able to do so; he could feel the weight lessening. When he held it out flat on his hand and turned it sideways, the speed of its fall was dramatically lessened up until the point the knife lost contact with his skin. It clattered on the stone floor. Though this was interesting, it was not outside of what he was already capable of. He had achieved this same effect with his sword on many occasions, and could feel it become lighter, easier, and faster to swing. During his sword practice however, he avoided using this power in order to increase his strength later and multiply further the effect the trick had on the fierce speed of his swings. Relying on it too much would only make him overly dependent on it for fighting and introduce an unnecessary vulnerability. He knew that could only be a mistake.

Vincent picked up the knife and stared at it while he sat on the bed in his room, fully aware that he was due for his guard duty shift soon. He kept wondering if there was something he was missing, with the learning of his magic, that had eluded him so far. Vincent was different; no one, not even Arrendis, knew enough about his power to teach him. What he had achieved in the knowledge of its use had been through careful trial and error and a lot of effort. Throughout it all, there had been one other component that had allowed him to progress and that was his own imagination. He had to think of what he sought to learn first and then try to make it happen. To do this, he had to have some idea of what was possible. Vincent thought he had already tapped into what could be done. Perhaps there was more that he was unaware of, but he had trouble thinking of what it might be. Especially since it seemed that he already had all that he might need in a fight, at least against normals anyway. In a sense he had always felt somewhat outmatched by others who had magic, even his own friends. What was his power compared to theirs? It didn't matter, he supposed. It mattered only that he continued trying to do the best he could with what he had.

He put on his sword and cloak, and began descending the many sets of stairs within the keep toward the vault level. The lingering odor of burning flesh near the entryway to the floors below ground had finally faded away, for which he was grateful. As always, he could feel the air become cooler as he descended lower. There were few other people at this time of day roaming the halls, and his own footfalls on the stone were often the only sound.

As he walked, he found himself thinking again of his own power and of the investigation that he was trying so hard to bring to a successful conclusion. He wasn't sure that if his power was greater it would actually help him to find the ones he sought, only to better fight and punish them once he did. His mentor would not be able to help him any further with this; it was for him and his friends to do.

Arrendis had basically raised Vincent and was like a grandfather to him. In the absence of his own parents, Vincent felt deeply fortunate that such a kind and generous man had taken care of him and had stood up for him and his dream to become a wizard, time and time again. Arrendis was a shining example of how one didn't always need training to accomplish a feat, so long as they just had enough encouragement and support from others to learn to do it themselves.

Vincent was a grown man now, and his independent pursuit of murderous fanatics was exactly the sort of thing that Arrendis had been preparing him for all along: to rise to the occasion and stand without his help. Vincent and his friends had to do for others what they could not, and had pursued every potential lead, continuing to search where there was only trees, grass, and brush. Despite their setbacks, they each remained committed. He only hoped that it would be enough.

Outside of the door to the vault, Vincent shared a few words with Craig, asking him if he had seen or noticed anything strange lately, and like every other time he had done so, the answer was the disappointed shake of a head. Vincent bid him goodnight and took position in front of the vault's door. And just like every night since he had resumed his duty, Vincent listened carefully to Craig's footsteps disappearing in the distance and then began straining his ears to hear anything quieter once they were gone.

The minutes and hours dragged on and he began to let himself fall into a trance as he continued to stand and stare forward. Time had dulled his fear somewhat; he no longer felt like he was in severe danger of attack every time he stood guard, yet he still remained alert. He knew that he had to be ready to act.

Vincent stood for the proper amount of time, but it wasn't long before he realized that something was wrong again. Stan should have been here by now. At the moment, there was nothing he could do except continue to stand guard. Someone had to do it.

He didn't know the reason for Stan's tardiness and hoped it was for nothing serious. Even so, it could not be permitted. He changed his mind. A serious reason was better than one that wasn't. Vincent did not enjoy either of the other times he had been left to stand without relief, and hated the second time much more than the first. He decided that Clemens, the Master Crafter and his supervisor, would hear of it later. It was a shame that he had to report him and have him face additional punishment or even expulsion, but Stan had been warned. A guard that could not be depended on was almost as bad as no guard at all.

Finally, though strangely, Vincent saw both Stan and Craig walking together and approaching him at the other end of the hall. Their steps were hurried and their expressions grave. He didn't know the reason for this second infraction, but decided that being angry right now wasn't important to him. "What is the meaning of this?"

Stan spoke up first between his ragged breaths and seemed in quite a fix. "I saw him again!"

Vincent's eyes became wide. "Saw who?" He asked, already suspecting the answer.

"The man who left campus with Jeanette! He's here!"

Vincent felt thunderstruck. He and his friends had become so used to nothing happening that even he had come to question the prophecy. Even so, this was no time for rashness; things had to be handled properly. "Where did you see him?"

Stan was a nervous wreck. "I was on my way here and I saw him messing around a building near the gardens! I think he stole something else from us! He's trying to walk out with it! We have to catch him before he gets too far outside the gate!"

"Wait, just calm down a moment. We can't leave the vault door undefended. Someone has to stay and stand guard. Now that you're here, one of you can take my..."

"We didn't come here to relieve you," Craig quickly clarified, "we came here to get you to join us!"

"We have to go after him now before he gets away!" Stan exploded.

Vincent didn't want a repeat of history: them tracking the responsible party and then having nothing to show for it later. Or them getting hurt. He was getting almost as anxious as they and also frustrated at their lack of planning. "If it was that urgent, why are you bothering to bring it to me! We have an entire keep full of wizards here! You could have told somebody else!"

"We tried!" Stan exclaimed in near panic. "No one would believe us!"

Craig's suggestion was laced with harsher underlying insistence than his words let on. "I really think we should probably leave right now if we expect to catch up with him."

Vincent looked from one desperate face to another, feeling more convinced than ever that they were telling the truth. Their intense stares were hanging on his next response. "We could get into a lot of trouble for abandoning our post, and the thieves could try again while we're gone. I've already served my shift. Maybe one of you should stay behind."

"We don't care about that!" Stan burst out. "It's not very likely! He's out there! We need you to come with us now!"

"Strength in numbers," Craig added quickly. "We're only junior guards and we thought to seek the aid of a full fledged one." When Vincent didn't respond immediately, he started losing his grip just like Stan. "So far you're the only one who will even listen to us! We have to put a stop to their foul deeds before it's too late!"

It meant a lot to know that they respected him, despite his unique ability, and that they would turn to him for guidance and help, but this feeling was sobered by the current crisis. Vincent understood that action was paramount yet was worried about something else. "We can't just leave The Crafters' Vault undefended."

"This is more important!" Stan nearly screamed. "If you won't come with us, then we'll have to go without you!"

"No you won't!" Vincent yelled back, his memories of the recent attack still fresh in his mind. Stan and Craig stared back in disbelief, apparently thinking that he more than anyone would have been interested. They had no idea of the horror they were dealing with and he was becoming concerned for them. "This is not something that junior guards should be dealing with on their own! And it's not training! This is serious! You could be killed!"

"Then come with us!" Craig insisted.

"The vault has protective spells! Even more of them since the attack!" Stan shouted worriedly. "There is no one to stop this person except us!" Vincent continued to stare him in the eye. He softened his tone in an attempt to compose himself and tried for a moment to resume speaking in a formal manner. "Sir, as members of the Academy Guard, is it not our first sworn duty to defend the academy from outside threats?"

It was quite a dilemma. Hearing him repeat the obligation made Vincent feel like he was being torn in two. In order to uphold the Academy in one way, he would have to betray it in another. His nervous and racked mind quickly battled with it back and forth until one set of reasoning finally won out. It went against everything he believed in, and he knew there could be severe consequences, but Vincent finally made his decision. He had almost made the other.

"Alright, I'll help you," Vincent said. They both looked more hopeful and excited as well as eager and ready to leave. Vincent then immediately lifted up a finger in warning. "Under one condition," he added.

They both froze visibly. "Name it," Stan implored hastily.

"We do this my way," Vincent asserted, "neither of you jumps or does anything stupid unless I say so. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Stan answered.

Vincent looked to Craig. "Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Vincent started hurrying out of the hall with Stan on his left and Craig on his right, walking fast but not running. He filled them in as they went. "Alright, here's the plan: we're going to follow him without tipping him off and without engaging him in combat."

"Why?" Craig asked.

Against his own nature and his deep hatred of violence, Vincent felt a grim expression overtake his face. "I want him to lead us to the others."

"There's too many," Stan protested. "We don't stand a chance. We should just capture him and beat it out of him."

Somehow, Vincent knew that wouldn't work. "Is he still wearing peasant clothes?"

"Yes."

Vincent had suspected as much. "If we brought him before the masters, it would be very easy for him to just pretend that we were torturing an innocent man into falsely confessing. And I don't want just one man, I want them all. If we're careful, we can still win. Besides, I know a few other people who can help us."

"We better hurry then," Craig said, "there's not much time." Right after he said it, Vincent gripped the top of his sword handle with his left hand to steady it, and all three of them began to run.

#  Chapter 9

As Vincent ran with Stan and Craig up the stairs, he suggested that he go rally his other friends for support while they tailed the culprit. In their haste, they agreed and promised to leave a trail with magic that he and the others could follow and use to catch up. Vincent separated from them at the ground floor and ran up the many flights of stairs as fast as he could.

His blood was racing as he went to knock on Karl's door first. "Come on! Get up, Karl! We have to go!"

"Is that you, Vincent?" He asked groggily.

"Yes! Come on! You have to wake up!"

"Why?"

"They spotted him again! This is exactly what we've been waiting for!"

Sleepy and weary, Karl opened the door, brushing his shoulder length blond hair out of his face and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Spotted who?"

"The man they saw leaving with Jeanette!" Vincent explained frantically. "He can lead us straight to the cult!"

Karl's brown eyes came wide awake. He floated his rock into the air and tucked it under the green sleeve of his left arm as they ran together through the hallway. "Let's split up," he suggested, "I'll go wake up Rick, you go get Stacy."

"And we'll meet up under the gatehouse if not before," Vincent immediately voiced next.

"Agreed."

In his mind, he hurried to remember where Stacy's quarters were, and had to stop and run back the way he came once he realized he had just passed the hall that led there. This time he tried to be more deliberate in how he roused Stacy, but was unable to conceal his excitement as he knocked, much less as he spoke. "Stacy, it's me, Vincent. Stan saw the same man again on campus, trying to steal something else. I think it's in the best interest of our investigation to pursue him before he gets away."

The instant of silence seemed much longer than it actually was.

"Just a minute," he heard her say.

Vincent paced in earnest until a few moments later when Stacy opened the door and came out. She fell in beside him as they raced through the hall. "Where is he?" She asked.

"Stan and Craig are following him right now as we speak," he explained hurriedly, "they promised to leave a trail for us so we can catch up."

"I just hope no one else sees it," she remarked, "what about Rick and Karl?"

"They already know, and if they're ahead of us, then they're waiting under the gatehouse."

"Let's be quick then."

Stacy gripped the hem of her blue dress in one hand and they both ran through the halls and down the steps as quickly as they could. Their footsteps scraped and patted the stone beneath them in a staccato of quick succession, and the walls passed by in a blur. Near the bottom of the last step, Stacy lost her balance and Vincent had to catch her in his arms to keep her from falling. Some of her brown hair whipped in his face, filling his lungs with the scent of lavender while her soft breasts pressed up against his firm chest almost like they were hugging for a moment. Vincent was already hot from the exertion and the contact only made him warmer. It was inappropriate yet strangely felt nice.

"I'm alright," she said, regaining her footing, "let's keep going." He released her and she brushed her hair out of her face as they ran on.

Stacy was not at all an unattractive woman. He had to scream to himself in his mind to quit being lewd. It was only an accident; his heart belonged to Jessica, and right now he had bigger things to worry about.

They passed through the dining hall at top speed and started going out the tunnel-like passage to exit the keep. Light orbs spaced evenly on the sides flashed by quickly in their vision and soon Vincent found himself pulling on one of the heavy metal doors to help Stacy get out first. The sound of his loud breathing reverberated off the solid, cold surface. Once in the courtyard, he dashed onward to catch up with her. In a matter of moments, they rendezvoused with Rick and Karl under the gatehouse.

They both looked at Vincent expectantly. Rick was so alert and awake that one couldn't even tell that he had been sleeping. His red robes were smooth and unwrinkled, and he seemed eager for action. He already had fire in his blue eyes even if there was none yet at his fingertips. When Vincent said nothing, he became impatient. "I don't see him. Why are we out here?"

In his haste, Vincent had forgotten to tell that part to Karl and thus Rick. "Stan and Craig are shadowing his footsteps. They're leaving us a trail of some sort to follow. Keep your eyes open for it. I told them not to engage until he leads us to their camp."

"Alright, let's go then," Rick said, anxiously twitching his red mustache and turning to leave.

"Wait," Vincent said quickly, checking his sword to see if it was loose in its scabbard. It was a nervous tick since he would have to do so again later anyway. "I just want to say a few other things."

"What is it?"

Vincent looked up from his sword handle directly into each of their eyes. "Be prepared to fight. And don't show them any mercy"−he held each of their gazes to make sure they understood−"mercy will only get you killed."

"Noted," Stacy put in.

"Let's go already!" Karl insisted out of annoyance.

They all started off in a rush with Rick and Stacy on Vincent's left and Karl on his right. It was dark, and so there were almost no people at all to notice, but Vincent still didn't think it wise. He cautioned them all to walk fast instead of running since it was a long way, they needed all their strength once they got there, and he didn't want to startle their quarry who would probably be walking. The others quickly saw his point and cooled their impatient fervor enough to heed it, slowing to a quick, steady gait.

There was a rustling of their clothing as they walked. The night air was becoming cool against Vincent's face, and he could smell the day's leftover breath from the grass and trees. They kept going along the paved middle road that led from the keep through the lawns and buildings of the campus and headed straight for the outer gate. Vincent's mood was darkened by thoughts of another impending life or death battle: one that his friends would now be a part of.

"The nerve of that scum to come back!" Rick remarked in frustration under his red mustache. "I'm going to make him regret it."

"Let's be careful though," Vincent warned. "There's no telling what we might be walking into."

"I'm ready for anything," he replied. Vincent checked his sword again to make sure it was loose in its scabbard, wishing he shared Rick's confidence.

In the middle of the vine covered stone wall ahead rose a blue iron bar gate that was taller than the wall. The iron rods were vertically arranged; there were a few flat crossbeams at several points along its height, and at the top there was an arc across the center where it was split down the middle. To the right of the gate, an old peasant man sat on a wooden stool. He took a bite on a loaf of bread in his hand and chewed on it while he watched the four of them approaching. Vincent knew that this was the gatekeeper and that he possessed a key that would open the lock.

"What's this about?" He asked in a weary voice after swallowing a mouthful.

"Please open the gate?" Stacy asked nicely. "We need to leave."

"I'm not supposed to open the gate so much after dark."

"You already let three other people out!" Rick exclaimed.

The old man looked surprised at Rick's knowledge but held up both his hands, including the one holding the bread, to try to calm him. "Now wait just a minute. That was one man going home late and two wizard boys who said they would be back by now."

Vincent decided to confirm their target. "The man you let out, did he have dark hair? Like mine, only straight?" The old man nodded. "Did he have faint dark splotches under his eyes? Were his clothes a little too tight?"

"Yup, he lives in the city. He is a servant here at the keep."

Karl was getting far less tolerant of this interference. He held his hand up and floated his large flat rock above it. "He is a dangerous criminal, you dolt!" His voice went even louder, angrier, and more desperate. "Now open the gate before I crack your skull!"

The old man nearly leapt out of his clothes, dropping his bread. He rose and scrambled to the gate as he fumbled in his left pocket for the key. He found it and then nervously worked it into the keyhole, shaking and having trouble getting it open.

"Open the gate now!" Karl shouted to speed him along. The old man jumped and finally was able to twist the key. Vincent would have felt sorry for him and the fright he was getting from his cousin, but there was much at stake and they didn't have time for this.

The arc was divided in halves when the old man swung one large gate open with a loud, grating creak. "There you are," he said quickly.

A scowl on his face, Karl tucked the rock under his arm once more and went out first, followed by Rick and Stacy. Vincent went out last behind the others. "Don't let him back in," he reminded. The other only nodded. The gate began to noisily squeak as it closed shut with a loud clank followed by a click.

After they went out the gate, they were immediately shrouded by darkness except for the dim outline of the dirt road ahead. It was a cloudy night save for what could be seen along the western horizon. In the distance, Vincent could see lights from torches in the city downhill and to their left. Up ahead, one side of the mountains and spruce treetops was black while the other was partially revealed by the fading light from the western sky. Tall dead grass on either side of the road swayed and undulated with the wind, barely noticeable if not for the sound and the motion.

They walked hurriedly with Karl furthest on the left, Rick beside him, and Vincent furthest right with Stacy in between. Perhaps it was because the old man had put him in a foul mood but Karl was becoming less amused. "I don't see any kind of trail, Vincent," he complained. "How are we supposed to find it in the dark?"

"I could light the way for us," Rick offered.

"Bad idea," Vincent pointed out, "we might as well just yell at them that we're coming."

"There are ways of making visible trails even at night," Stacy said, "maybe this means they're in trouble."

"I hope not," Karl put in.

Vincent wasn't turning back. "They didn't tell me what kind of trail it would be. Just keep looking." They walked on quickly, and Vincent strained his eyes so much to try to see it in the dark that they became watery several times.

A short while later, Stacy halted. "Wait, I think I see something."

"What? What do you see?" Karl asked.

Stacy lifted the hem of her blue dress to crouch down, and Vincent quickly crouched down beside her. "Right here," she said, "on the road. It's hard to see, but it's there." Vincent saw what she was pointing at: a thin stream of faint dust specks sparkling in the dirt. They were brighter than any one would normally find in soil, but the darkness was keeping them well concealed. It was obvious to him that this was indeed the trail that Stan and Craig meant for them to follow.

"I still don't see anything," Rick voiced, standing over them.

Vincent pulled out his knife and held the tip close to the ground. He then used his power to make a small, flickering flame at its tip that only they could see. When he did, the sparkling dust within a short distance ahead and behind them lit up dramatically. "How about now?"

"I see it."

Vincent shut the flame off and their eyes readjusted.

Karl was dubious. "Stacy, do you think you'll be able to see it well enough the whole way there. Otherwise it's not much use to us."

"Right now it's only following the road, I think I can manage." She looked up again at the sky before looking back down. "In an hour or two it's going to start raining. We better hurry before it gets washed away."

Among other things, trained atmomancers were notorious for accurately predicting the weather. No forecast of theirs like this ever proved false, and so Vincent and the others immediately hurried along at Stacy's insistence without giving it a second thought, greatly fearing the cost of delay.

Crickets chirped from within the tall dry grass on each side of the road as they rushed past. The night eventually grew so dark that not even Stacy couldn't see the sparkles anymore. Vincent was forced to agree to let Rick use a tiny speck of flame to light the trail of dust, provided he kept it as small as possible and hovering very close to the ground. This solved their problem but kept them each worrying if this magic use would be sensed from afar.

The dust trail never once put them on an adjacent road that led to the city. Instead, they were left running or walking quickly along roads that passed by numerous farmsteads, crop fields, and open terrain. Past these, it hooked a right on another road that led them near the forests along the mountains. Vincent and the others went on swiftly, hoping soon to catch up with the two boys while dreading that the dust trail, their only guide, would shortly be washed away by the rain like wet sugar.

Vincent was becoming concerned for Stan and Craig. He would have thought that as fast as he and his friends were going, they would eventually see their backs, but they never did. He hoped that for the time being they were staying safely hidden.

The area around Gadrale Keep, the city, and it's outlying farms lay on the borderlands of Ryga, and the dust continued on the road only for as far as the road went. Once the road ended, it was harder to find. They had to push aside tall grass and brush before they could even catch a glimpse of it.

Their plight was increased further when the trail abruptly turned around a large rock and went straight into the forest. It was so dark that Rick's tiny flicker of light was also the only means of seeing anything at all, and yet it was also an uncomfortably bright beacon should their foes be close and happen to look their way. In a hushed whisper, he assured them that if they needed to hide, he would be able to put it out instantly. After that, they all kept silent and no one said a word.

They each hated this in their own way though Vincent was unsure if the others were quite as fearful or sullen about it. He supposed he had a right to be; he had experienced mortal danger before in a way they had not. However, their choices were limited: it was this or be unable to proceed altogether.

Either because of the oppressive, chilling silence or because of some deeper instinct within him, Vincent knew they had to be close, and so he checked his sword again to make sure that it was clear in its scabbard. He kept his right hand gripping the hilt when he did, and kept his left hand holding onto the top of the scabbard for a faster draw. Seeing this, Stacy gave him a wider berth, just in case.

The forest was eerily empty of all sound as if every living thing nearby had chosen to burrow in someplace else for the night, perhaps because they loathed the presence of what was ahead. Vincent wished that so much as a bug would make some sound just to calm his nerves, and maybe to help hide any sounds of their passing, but none did. The group proceeded even slower because of this, going as quietly as they could so as not to be heard. Vincent knew that a deadly attack could come from any direction, at any time, and his nerves were on edge. It was crucial that they hear their enemy and that their enemy not hear them.

Like his friends, Vincent was being overly methodical in how he traversed the terrain. He watched his feet carefully at times, making long, slow, awkward steps to avoid jostling loose rocks, which were occasionally stacked close together. Later, he had to fan out further to the right and put his back to a pine trunk in order to give Stacy enough room to squeeze by and brush up against a bush as quietly and gracefully as possible. He imagined that Rick and Karl were facing similar difficulties on the other side. They were all anxious to get there, but not anxious to be discovered prematurely, and were grateful once they were past the obstacle. Rick's speck of light showed the way for them once again when they were.

Suddenly, he heard a twig snap to his left and froze. His breath caught in his throat, and he whipped his head over to look in the direction it came from. To his relief, it was only Karl, who had taken a misstep. Rick and Stacy quietly let their breaths out while Vincent shared a look with Karl and formed a tight-lipped, humorless smile while he shook his head in disappointment. Karl gestured silently but quickly and emphatically with one hand toward the ground, and his message was clear; Vincent understood perfectly well that he was trying his best.

After that, there was not a single leaf rustle or small creak from a dead branch that they ignored, even if it was they that had brushed or stepped on it. Amidst his own tension, the pleasant smell of pine filled his nostrils but did not calm his unease. Often, he was only barely aware that the fresh smells of the forest even existed.

Something was waiting for them. His apprehension was such that when Vincent heard a faint hoot from an owl far in the distance back the way they came, he oddly felt a small amount of relief. The feeling passed quickly when all went strangely quiet again and he had to concentrate on dangers he could not see. Dangerous things unknown to him.

Things hiding in the dark.

* * *

Eventually when Vincent thought he would be driven close to madness, something finally came into view. In the distance, amidst the blackness of a forest floor shaded even from moonlight, they could see the faint orange glow from a campfire up ahead. Rick's tiny flame could not obscure it from their eyes, and their group came instantly to a halt. It was very dim. If it were daylight, the campfire would be invisible at this distance; the darkness gave it a luminescence it would otherwise not have. The black outlines of pines and firs, twisted branches living and dead, seemed to claw out into the night. A quiet, gentle breeze carried the acrid scent of wood smoke. Vincent guessed that the fire had been burning for some time.

They were about to continue creeping toward it when Vincent snatched a glimpse in his peripheral vision of Stacy seizing Rick's arm by the wrist before he could move or extinguish the tiny speck of flame that had been guiding them. She pointed down at the ground and Rick froze. Karl stopped instantly in his tracks and joined the others in staring down at the dust trail. Vincent looked carefully and intently down at Rick's fire speck illuminating the tiny portion of the forest floor and noticed right away what was troubling Stacy.

There was blood. Not much, only a few drops, hardly even a small splatter to be found, yet there was enough to know that violence had been committed. None of them were naïve enough to think that it had happened by an accidental scraping against a branch. And they all knew who it had happened to. Rick floated the speck of flame closer toward Vincent's boots, and more of it was revealed amidst the darkness. Whatever had happened, had happened in more than one place. Rick floated the point of light slightly ahead of their group, and they were able to make out only a few more drops alongside the trail of sparkling dust.

Heading straight toward the camp.

Rick quickly floated the tiny light speck back closer to their group out of fear it would be seen.

In shock at what this could mean, the four of them stared silently at the ground where the blood lay. As they did, it began to rain. It was only a slight mist at first, and then it became a soft drizzle. Soon water was dripping all around them in a steady cadence. The air was saturated with the fresh smell of rainwater mixing with leaves and bark.

Vincent could feel the big, fat drops of cool water falling off pine needles and branches to hit his head and run down his face. Unfortunately, they did nothing to dampen the heat of his anxiety. Before it could become a downpour, he stepped forward to the other side of Rick's tiny flickering flame while turning around to face his friends.

Stacy's blue eyes looked up at him, but her head didn't. Rick gazed on at him with a troubled yet angry expression, clearly wishing to destroy those responsible. Karl stepped slightly forward, still eyeing the camp with a glare as he turned toward them, and Vincent was afforded only a profile view of his face. Vincent took only his left hand off his sword and made a waving-pulling, "come here," gesture to them, taking a few steps to get closer to Stacy and Rick as he did. Karl noticed the gesture and moved in closer to the three of them, holding his wide flat rock in his right arm while still warily glancing toward the camp every now and then.

The rain was beginning to soak Vincent's hair, but he still didn't want to put on the hood from his cloak because he needed to be able to see everything. Stacy, Rick, and Karl were also getting wet. The rain was also having another unexpected effect. Its sound was providing them with a precious opportunity: the opportunity to talk, if they were clever enough to do so in whispers.

Vincent crouched down, and one by one, the other three slowly did as well, sensing this also. Rick's tiny fire speck floated between them, and it's dim glow was kept hidden from outside view by Vincent and Karl blocking the way. Each of their four wet faces were lit up only barely enough to be seen by the others.

They kept their heads close, and Vincent whispered his first immediate impressions. "They're dead, it's a trap, but if we don't strike now, we may never get another chance. We need to plan an attack, and we need to do it now."

"How can you be sure they're dead?" Stacy asked as quietly as possible. It was barely heard even though her face was only a few inches away. "If they're alive, then rescuing them should be our top priority."

Water dripped off his nose. He could feel the body heat and warm breath from the other three. Vincent felt tremendous guilt and responsibility weighing down on him. He didn't see the use in arguing it one way or the other, but she was right about one thing: Stan and Craig deserved better. The rain continued its pitter patter, dripping off pine needles and hitting bush leaves around the forest floor. A moment of silence passed with each of them thinking about what should be done or rather how to do it.

Vincent finally made up his mind. "I'll go in first."

"What!" Karl asked in a heated whisper. "Just like that, you'll walk into their midst! That's crazy! You'll be killed!"

"There's a chance that will happen anyway. Let me explain my plan."

"I don't know, Vincent," Rick said, keeping his voice at a near deaf silence, "it seems pretty risky."

"I got us all into this, and I'm the best choice for trying to pull Stan and Craig out. Now listen carefully." He glanced at each of their eyes. It seemed that they were doing just that partly because of the need for quiet. Vincent explained slowly and kept his voice at a low whisper. "During my training in the army, we were taught how to handle this very situation. Since the enemy discovered our scouts, they have two choices: they can either abandon their camp and flee our forces, or they can set up an ambush. If they've already fled, then it won't make one bit of difference if I walk into their campsite looking for Stan and Craig. If they are planning an ambush, then it's much better if only one of us is put in harm's way...I want you three to wait behind cover at the edge. That way if they attack me, you'll have a much better chance of hitting them unexpectedly and killing as many as possible."

Stacy slowly shook her head and let out a small groan of disapproval, the drops of rain almost masked it completely. "I still don't like it," she whispered, "it puts you in an awful lot of danger. What happens if they're too strong for us to save you?"

Vincent swallowed and felt a cold fright come over him even though he had tried to suppress it. That was the contingency he dreaded, but his plan also had a justification for it as well. "If that happens, then it's probably best if the three of you hold off on your attack and then retreat without drawing attention to yourselves. Either way, they won't know about you at first and I'll be the only one at risk."

None of them said anything in reply as they thought about his plan, but it was clear to him that they were all concerned about the outcome. "Fighting the cult is dangerous no matter what," he reminded them, "one or more of us could be killed. Maybe Stan and Craig already have been. But if we're not going to stand up to them now, then we may as well run away and leave those two boys to their fate. And we better hope that the masters someday get around to sending people to finish what we started...if they can ever track them down."

"I suppose you have a point," Stacy conceded in a barely audible whisper. Drops of water ran down the sides of her face. Her blue eyes met his. "Let's not get ourselves killed though."

Karl seemed strangely optimistic, though his voice and his thoughtful visage were still cautious. And quiet. "If we fight hard and remember to look out for each other, very closely, maybe we can still pull this off." Vincent looked to Rick next, wondering what his thoughts were.

Rick was once again eager to fight. "You don't need to ask my opinion. I'm with you all the way."

Vincent shared a last look with all of them. "Is everyone ready then?" He asked in a whisper. He looked to Karl, who nodded while staring off. Rick winked when he turned his way.

"I'm ready," Stacy whispered when his gaze met hers.

Vincent nodded. "Let's do this," he whispered as he stood up. The others rose with him.

After Vincent turned around and slowly began creeping forward, Rick waited until he was several feet ahead before putting out the spark so that it wouldn't give away their advance. Rain continued to fall all around them. The glow from the fire at the campsite grew ever so slightly brighter the further Vincent went, tinting the dark pine and spruce barks a faint orange.

He kept his hands on his sword and scabbard, squeezing tight the wire on the hilt. Nervously, he checked all around him at his sides, fearing that the ambush was not set up at the camp. It was unlikely that they would do this since they needed to see also, but one could never be sure.

He stopped a ways out and checked around him one last time; this was the furthest extent a reasonably planned ambush could be placed. He put his attention forward, his thoughts becoming more morbid with each passing instant. Killing was an abhorrent practice, yet he knew that in this situation there was no other way; murderous thieves and fanatical worshipers could not be reasoned with.

Grim resolution coursed through him as he crept forward.

Vincent slowly drew his sword.

#  Chapter 10

As stealthily as possible, Vincent moved straight toward the edge of the clearing, gripping his sword tightly in both hands. He stayed hidden behind one last bush only for a brief moment before peering past to get a look at the campsite. He was troubled by what he saw.

The campsite was almost completely empty. Over the fire, there was a large black iron cauldron that was held up by three curved iron pegs protruding from its base. The cauldron shielded the hissing and popping fire beneath it from much of the rain, and there was something brewing inside of it. Vincent smelled smoke mixed with the wet, fresh forest air. He saw no bubbles, but there was a lot of thick whitish steam coming out of its opening. Whatever was in it, he didn't think they were merely trying to prepare a harmless soup. His eyes shifted to the left. On the far end of the clearing, the bodies of Stan and Craig were laying down face up. The fire, which burned brightly despite the rain, revealed only the color of their clothing: Stan's red robes and Craig's blue. He could not tell at this distance if they were alive or dead.

The cult of Kargoth had either left in a hurry and abandoned these things to them, or this was a part of a trap. Vincent couldn't be certain yet of which it was. The cauldron could be troublesome, but of the two, Vincent thought it better that he first approach the two boys to see what their condition really was.

His hair, his face, and his clothes wet, Vincent stood to his full height and began walking in their direction, trying to appear calm and holding his sword in his right hand with the point low but not touching the ground. A weak breeze made his dark blue cloak billow out behind him the slightest bit. The rain created a soft low rattle in his ears. He glanced around occasionally, expecting an attack to come. His eyes frequently returned to Stan and Craig, who appeared larger and larger in his vision as he came closer. There was still no attack. Not yet at least.

When he finally closed the distance, Vincent looked around him warily and crouched down to check on the boys. His worst fears were realized. Neither body rose or fell with a single breath, and their skin was completely pale. Lifeless. They were dead. Craig's glasses were cracked and covered in drops of rainwater, and his reddish brown hair was wet and covered with debris from the forest floor. Each still young face bore an innocent and neutral expression that belied the pain they had suffered in death, making them appear almost as if they were merely asleep. A deep sorrow came over Vincent but was instantly replaced by alarm.

Nervously, he looked about, wondering if the cultists would spring the trap now that he had gone for the bait, but nothing happened, no one came. Vincent looked back at the boys and noticed that neither appeared to have a wound, at least not on the front. With his left hand, he gently rolled Stan over. Stan's red robes could not hide the opening cut in them from a knife stab to his back, nor the blood. He guessed that Craig had something similar and so didn't bother checking. He felt tremendous regret, wishing that he had not let them go ahead, alone. It was a terrible and heartrending mistake. He felt that he had failed them. It was suddenly made worse because there was one other mistake he now realized that he had made, but it was far too late to be avoided.

He scrunched his eyes closed.

There was a rustling in the thicket behind him. Vincent tensed at first and then realized it was the other thing he feared: his friends coming out from hiding too soon. If their foes were still here, they would be waiting in the shadows for any of his confederates to show themselves. He had forgotten to tell them about this. Telling them now was useless because that would also only serve to alert the cult of their existence. Vincent mentally cursed at his own stupidity−he should have told them to wait longer. Soon he could feel Karl, Rick, and Stacy standing around him from behind as he continued to remain crouched down near the bodies.

"They are dead then," Karl remarked.

Even from behind, Stacy's voice sounded sad to him. "The poor things...they were just boys..." He could hear her start crying.

If not for the palpable fright pressing in around him, he might have felt at ease enough to release tears. At the moment, a heightened awareness prevented it. He felt like he was the helpless prey who was about to be pounced on and devoured. It was more than the probability deduced from his own combat reasoning and instincts that filled him with anxiety−a sense of grave premonition was threatening to drown him. As yet, he could not place its source.

Even though he could not see Rick's face, he could tell from his voice that he was unusually irate. "And the fiends didn't even have the courage to stick around!"

Vincent looked around, trying to take everything in again. There was no one he could see in the surrounding woods. His eyes stopped when he glanced back toward the fire with the cauldron sitting atop it. Something about the flames seemed peculiar, out of place. At first, he could not tell what it was. Then he looked closer at the wood fueling it; it didn't seem like there was enough. The flames continued their bright blaze in outright defiance of the rain, much less the shortage of wood. His mind worked quickly to deduce what was wrong with it, and he felt a wave of fear like no other he had felt before travel throughout his entire body.

They were not alone.

Vincent stood and slowly readied his sword in both hands. "I wouldn't be so sure," he said in a fright filled calm to the others, "prepare yourselves."

A moment later after checking, Karl spoke. "Don't you think you're being a little paranoid? There's no one out there. It's time to face up to what has happened, Vincent. These boys are dead. The people who did it are gone. And now we have nothing. Again." He let out a sigh of disappointment and frustration. "There isn't anything left for us to do except carry them back." His voice took on a sad, fretful tone. "How are we ever going to explain this?"

The rain continued to pour. Vincent kept his eyes to the surrounding woods, staying alert to even the slightest movement amongst the bushes, and didn't respond to him. Instead he addressed the pyromancer, still unsure of his hunch. "Rick, take a look at that fire under the cauldron, tell me if you see anything unusual."

"What has that got to do with..." Karl started.

"He's right! They're here!" Rick exclaimed. "Someone nearby is feeding those flames with magic!"

Karl cursed obscenely and set himself in motion.

Vincent could feel Rick pressing his back against his while Karl stood to his left, hovering his large flat rock to keep it at the ready. He was jostled the slightest bit when Stacy hurriedly put her back against Karl's. She had stopped grieving and was now concentrating on the danger at hand.

The fire hissed while the four of them waited.

Still no one came.

He suddenly felt Karl jump with a start at his left. "Did you see that!" He demanded.

Vincent's eyes desperately searched the forest in front of them. "See what?"

"Not out there!" Karl screamed in a near panic, his voice accelerating in fright. "It's Craig! His eyes just opened! He's alive!"

As he looked down, Vincent's own eyes became wide and his hairs began to stand on end. Craig lay still as stone, his skin just as pale as before. A motionless and inert form, his corpse exuded only the hollow aura of a rock or a stick with none of the vibrant energy one could sense from something living, yet behind his cracked glasses, his eyes were still open, just as Karl had said. They stared upward blankly and had an eerie gray cast to them with small streaks of black. Vincent felt his skin grow cold.

"Keep your head, Karl," Stacy admonished, not seeing it, "you know that's impossible."

"It's true," Vincent said quietly, hardly realizing that he had spoken the words.

"You two are nuts," she concluded, "it's just a trick of light. We need to stay focused or we're dead."

"I'm telling you his eyes are open!" Karl protested.

Stacy growled in aggravation and broke from her position to turn around and gaze past Karl to see for herself. She let out a gasp and was quiet a moment. "What does this mean?" Craig began to sit up and Stacy let out a scream. Stan, who was laying face down, started to get up as well.

Rick had stayed where he was, keeping his back to Vincent. "What? What's happening?"

Stacy was just as horrified as Vincent and Karl. "They're moving!"

"Maybe they weren't dead, just unconscious," Rick offered.

"No," Karl insisted, "something's definitely not right here."

Although Vincent was worried and astounded, he had to consider other threats as well. "Stacy, guard our backs." She still stared in shock at the two rising forms. "Now, Stacy!" He shouted. In his peripheral vision he could see her returning to her position. The two finished rising to their feet.

If Rick was correct, the boys shouldn't be a problem, and could maybe even provide some assistance. Somehow, he couldn't make himself believe that but tried talking to them anyway. "Craig, we're here to help," he announced cautiously. "If you're hurt, we can get you back to the keep, but right now there are dangerous people around and we need you to fight with us." Craig ignored Vincent's words, as did Stan, and they began lurching forward without expression on their pale, ghastly faces.

"I don't think that's going to work, Vincent," Karl remarked.

The two crept forward with Craig getting closest.

"Perhaps they're just deranged," Stacy suggested from back in her position, "something the cultists did to their minds. Maybe they're in shock."

Before they could answer, Craig suddenly lunged at Karl. He swiftly ducked to the side and put him off balance while Vincent instinctively hammered Craig over the top of his head with the bottom of his sword hilt, knocking him straight to the ground. He had hit him much harder than he intended to and hoped that he had not caused any serious damage.

The next moment, Stan was grabbing Karl and trying to bite his throat. Karl struggled with him and was able to keep him away from it but only barely. Before Vincent could say or do anything, Craig suddenly bit his leg, his teeth painfully sinking in when he clearly should have been unconscious.

Vincent furiously kicked him in the gut with the other leg to no effect. "Get off!" He growled angrily through the pain of the bite. Craig retracted his teeth, not because of what Vincent said or did, but to claw and grab higher, no doubt to go after his throat as well. Enraged, Vincent beat him down again and pressed his right foot down on his chest to keep him from moving or biting. Craig continued grabbing and clawing at him, digging his fingernails painfully into his flesh and trying to pull and push the leg off.

"Are you alright?" Stacy asked.

"Stand your ground!" Vincent yelled back.

He looked up from Craig and noticed that Karl was fighting a losing battle against Stan to keep him away from his throat, and the split second instant of decision was upon him. Time stopped. Vincent held his sword high in both hands while looking down at Craig. Craig looked dead, but what if he wasn't? How could he kill him? Had something truly terrible happened to him, or was it possible that he was still alive but mentally deranged? If that were true, it would be wrong to take Craig's life. Craig wasn't a cultist, he was just an innocent boy. One of their own.

The memory of his hesitation to kill Jeanette flashed through his mind again.

The objective realization came fast. Indecision fled his being to be replaced by a frightened fury as the sword came down. Once Craig's head was severed, the corpse twitched and then moved no more. Blood oozed out of the opening.

Despite his revulsion at seeing Craig's head removed, Vincent did not waste even a fraction of a second as he rushed to help Karl. He helped push Stan back with his left hand and then ran him through with his blade on the side of his rib cage.

Nothing happened.

Vincent's eyes widened in surprise. It made no sense. He tried again, thinking he had missed. He knew he hadn't missed. The blade passed through Stan again; he even checked and looked at the blood on it. No effect. With the two of them so close like that, Vincent's choices were limited.

Frantic to save his cousin, he buried his sword in Stan again, all the way to the hilt, and then twisted it, using it to push Stan while grabbing a hold of Karl's shoulder to force them apart. At first it gained them no purchase, but it allowed Karl a free hand to start pulling Stan's off. Pushing hard, Karl was finally able to get himself free and was flung off to the left, losing his balance.

A chill ran down Vincent's spine, he looked up and instantly realized the obvious. Just as Stan was turning his attention to Vincent, starting to move to grab at him, he brought up his right foot and used it to kick-shove him off the sword. Stan was forced away a good distance and fell to the ground. Vincent's chest heaved, more out of unrest than weariness as he held his bloody sword at the ready in both hands toward Stan.

Karl was at his side next, floating his rock above his left hand and breathing even harder from his prolonged ordeal. They turned their heads toward each other and shared a brief look of shock. The next moment, Karl curled the fingers on his left hand like he was holding a ball and flicked it. With incredible speed and power, his large flat rock flew through the air and smashed down on Stan's dirt blond head, causing his skull to burst apart in a spray of blood, bone, and brain, like a tomato battered by a club. Stray drops of blood were flung on their faces. As if alive, the rock floated back up afterward, covered in gore, and hovered in the air a few feet in front of Karl once again, dripping red.

The two of them waited.

Stan did not get up.

They exchanged another look, eyes wide and still feeling stunned by what had happened. Then they turned their gaze forward at Stan's corpse again. Vincent thought he might be sick.

"Just what the hell is going on here!" Karl demanded, breathing hard and brushing off in frustration some the disheveled strands of his blond hair out of his face. "Why did they attack us!"

Vincent had no answer, instead he just looked at the bloody mess that was left of Stan's head, letting his eyes glide over to the grievous yet ineffective wounds he himself had inflicted. He then glanced down at Craig's bloody, headless remains at his feet, pushing it away with his boot while wishing it had landed somewhere else. "There's something else about them that doesn't quite make sense." He grimaced, feeling a deep revulsion.

Karl looked from one to the other like he and immediately caught on to what he was saying. "You're right, for some reason their heads appear to be their only weakness."

"What are you two talking about?" Stacy asked, her back still to them.

Though he didn't want to, Vincent dutifully shared it with Stacy, his tone grave. "I don't know what was wrong with Stan or Craig, but if you see anyone like them again...blast them apart or go for their heads," he explained, "I think it's the only way." He kept his wary gaze to the woods once more, the grimace still on his face, and started moving his sword one way and to the other when he slowly turned his body back and forth.

"Okay...but did you really need to kill them?"

Karl guffawed. "'Need to kill them?' Stacy, they were already dead! Vince had the full length of his steel through him and it did nothing!"

"In who?"

"Stan!"

Stacy seemed shaken a moment. "Oh."

"They weren't alive, they weren't deranged, and the cultists didn't do anything to their minds," Karl concluded. "What we saw had to be some form of necromancy! I'm sure of it! These bastards are raising the dead!"

"Then the situation is much worse than we thought," Rick commented.

Amidst the sound of rain there was a man's laughter to his right and Vincent wheeled his head. At the other end of the clearing, not far from the cauldron, a man looking just like what Stan and Craig had once described to him came out into the open. He began slowly clapping his hands together while he laughed. His straight dark hair was strangely not soaked from the weather, and the faint dark splotches under his eyes were not washed away by it either. The peasant clothes he wore, a clear façade, hung just a little too tight.

A rather large number of people in black robes with hoods showed up in several rows behind him, but it was too dark for him to tell how many. Vincent's heart pounded. His body shook as his muscles tensed. His fists tightened on his sword, knowing that soon it would taste more blood. Karl and Stacy moved up on the sides of Vincent and Rick to face them.

He kept laughing as he walked a little further and continued clapping his hands together in amusement. "Brilliant," he mocked between laughs, "well done. I especially enjoyed your red haired friend's wonderful little stroke of acumen, 'about it being much worse.'" His laughter died out, but he remained deceptively gracious. "I'm sure you must think us monsters," he started, "and I admit that our methods are sometimes crude. But there is really no cause for aggression or hostility between us, no need for you to turn away in fearful ignorance." His voice turned more sweet. "We could even be friends, you could join us in our noble cause."

"And what cause is that?" Vincent asked.

He swept his arms out and bowed only slightly before coming back up. "Why to serve and worship Kargoth The Almighty in all his divine glory." He eyed each of them carefully, seeming to take further stock of them. His eyes glided up and down the length of Stacy, studying her form, and she momentarily averted her eyes and shifted her weight uncomfortably. "The four of you are not entirely without value, it would be quite unfortunate to waste your talents. Even you with the sword were quite impressive the other night, if a bit troublesome." He smiled. "Even more impressive that you still stand before us." Vincent clenched his jaw. "If you will but swear allegiance to the Lord of Death and join him in his revolution against the false gods,"−he paused−"I shall spare your lives."

As always, Stacy's mind worked fast. "Why should we seek death from him in order to be spared a death at your hands? Where's the logic in that?"

"Life and death shall become as one," he answered cryptically, "and those who serve him well will be rewarded with everlasting happiness and vitality, all who oppose him, punished and tormented for all eternity. Why struggle against the divine one when everything you desire could be yours if you would but submit to his will?"

Vincent felt overwhelmed by the danger they were in, and the numbers they were up against, but he had no intention of ever submitting to this Kargoth. He gritted his teeth. Nor to him. He gripped his sword tighter. "You're going to pay for all your crimes."

"Crimes? What crimes?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about: you killed countless children and other innocents! You stole from us! And now you murdered Stan and Craig!"

"Oh right, that," he dismissed offhandedly, "but then again, I didn't really kill them, you did."

"Does that lie comfort you?" Vincent asked in retort.

"Why yes...actually, it does. I will be very comforted to know that the authorities will be wasting their time holding you responsible instead of coming after us. And who can blame them? After all it was your sword that cut off that one's head,"−he pointed then let the hand down−"and your rock that...delightfully put an end to the other."

"I'll 'put an end' to you!" Karl shouted back in unrestrained rage.

"No, I don't think so," he replied, still not showing any loss of mirth, "you see the four of you will be quite dead once the magistrate or the wizards arrive. You will be blamed for their deaths posthumously, I'm afraid. As for me, I have something I need to finish cooking."

"Is that how you did it? With that infernal concoction?" Vincent asked next.

"That?" He asked innocently, pointing to the cauldron. "Oh my no, I don't need that to turn them or anyone. That is something altogether different, something much more delicious," his eyes looked up and he seemed to be imagining something pleasant, "quite delicious indeed." He looked back. "It's a shame you won't join us. I didn't really expect you to, I just thought to be generous by offering you an alternative to needless suffering."−he clasped his hands together−"well," he said, letting out a breath, "I'd simply love to keep chatting with you, but right now we need to finish our work...and unfortunately you cannot be allowed to interfere." He turned to the cauldron and walked toward it along with several others. As he did, he shouted over his shoulder to the rest of the cult members, no longer in a nice tone, genuine or not. Now it sounded snide, grating, almost angry. "Please entertain our beloved guests."

Like a false start to a race, Rick and Stacy immediately unleashed a deadly volley of magic before their foes could. Fire erupted into the night, brightening the rain and darkness as Rick's blaze engulfed several black robed figures in screaming, burning agony with some screams sounding like they came from men, others like they came from women. Simultaneously, blinding flashes of lightning streaked forth in rapid succession from each of Stacy's hands, knocking their targets from their feet and causing a whitish fluid to burst from their faces. Vincent realized it was their eyes exploding. Stacy's and Rick's attacks were only just clear of their hands when a thick wide sheet of black sodden dirt and rock tangled with tree roots rose up from the ground in front of them, barely in time to block a huge retaliatory barrage of eerie green fire and a few attacks like theirs.

Before they had time to think, a gang of zombies closed in on them from behind, grabbing and biting at Rick and Stacy. In a panic, Vincent turned and elbowed one in the face that was nearly on top of him, immediately swinging his sword to remove its head afterward. Desperately, he attacked and removed the head of an undead peasant woman about to lunge at Karl, who stood fixed in place with his back to her, clenching his raised fists and straining to hold up the impromptu barrier that had just saved their lives.

"Get off me!" Stacy screamed in a high pitch.

Vincent turned to help her and Rick but had to swing and behead another that almost had him. Rick was on his knees, struggling and using the back of his head to hit the face of the one trying to bite his neck while blood was already flowing down Stacy's left shoulder. The biting zombie tried to tug at her like a mountain lion trying to tear the flesh from its prey's throat. Vincent rushed over as fast as he could, and took only one frantic split second to aim his sword for a careful horizontal swing. The blow barely missed her neck, and that was all he needed to know; he hurried and did the same to aid the beleaguered pyromancer. Rick pulled the undead person's arms off him before standing to his full height.

"Look out!" Rick yelled as he turned around. Vincent ducked as he sent a compressed fire spark over him at something behind them, and from the sound didn't need to see it to know that Rick had hit. When he saw Stacy still struggling to get up and shrug the beheaded corpse off of her, he noticed that the severed head still hung on by its teeth that were sunk in her neck.

"Get this thing off me!" She pleaded.

"I'll take care of it," Vincent said anxiously, "Rick, watch our left flank." Rick made no acknowledgement and instead moved quickly past Karl to guard the left edge of his dirt wall, shooting flame sparks at foes who were trying to come around on that side, and occasionally ducking back to avoid their blasts.

Vincent hurriedly stepped over toward Stacy and stuck his sword point in the ground, warily glancing at his right to monitor the other undead still coming toward them from further away in the dark. "Hold still," he cautioned. With his hands, he carefully grabbed hold of the forehead and jaw, slowly prying it open.

"Ow!" Stacy complained, her face contorting in pain.

"I've almost got it off," he said in reassurance. After it was, her blood on it's stinking, rotting face and yellow teeth, he tossed the disgusting thing to the side, pulled the body's arms off her and shoved the rest out of the way. As he wiped his hands on his pants, Stacy cupped her left hand to her neck where she was bitten and pressed firmly but was still bleeding a small amount despite it. "Are you alright?" He asked her.

"It hurts, but I think for now I'll be..."−a black robed figure in the distance suddenly came past the edge on that side and lifted his hands−"get back!"

They both slammed their backs into the muddy, wet wall behind them as a ball of green flame larger than his fist whizzed by. Keeping one hand firmly pressed on the wound, Stacy immediately used the other to meet the attack in kind and hit the cult member with a lethal bolt of lightning. Steam rose from the corpse before it even hit the ground. To combat several approaching others, she sent a windblast that flung them through the air into the nearby trees. One was impaled by the sharp stub of a dead branch as they landed. The zombies came closer. Vincent reached forward to grasp the hilt of his sword and pulled the blade out of the soggy earth.

#  Chapter 11

The hunkering forms were nearly invisible in the dark, shaded from the campfire as they were by the wall Karl had erected. Vincent sent his magic into his blade to make a brief burst of flame all around it so he could see them better. He didn't want to keep the illumination prolonged; it would only help the cultists pick him out.

And it would interfere with what he wanted to do.

The brief burst of light had told Vincent exactly what he wanted to know. Boldly, he got up and left the protective layer of earth to attack the oncoming undead. He was able to behead two, feeling the impact of his blade passing through their necks before he had to flare his sword again.

Another fell to his blade.

Karl looked over his shoulder. "Are you crazy! Get back here!"

"Just keep silent!" He yelled back. "I know what I'm doing!" Karl kept quiet, not wanting to call any more attention to himself in the dark. Or to Vincent.

Vincent flared his sword once more and then intentionally ducked and rolled to the side once it was dark again. It had the desired effect. Two blasts of green flame streaked by, crisscrossing over one another as they passed. One flew off toward the forest while the other hit a zombie and blew it apart in a shower of burning green bits. He knew exactly what he was doing: He was keeping the zombies off his friends backs while diverting enemy fire. It was risky.

Unleashing his full fury at the undead, Vincent swung mercilessly and aimed for their necks. Three more fell in quick succession but more kept coming. He only flared his sword if it was absolutely necessary; otherwise he kept it dark to avoid giving his enemies a clear shot.

The cultists seemed to take notice of the fact that one of them was in the midst of the undead, hampering them, and began to start shooting at him amongst the crowd. The flames were hitting zombies nearby. Many missed him by only a hair. Mortal fear seeped into his core. Vincent wasn't quite sure how they were able to pick him out. He brushed his dark blue cloak back out of the way as he turned to retreat a few steps.

His cloak.

As if it were crawling with snakes, Vincent tore off his cloak and threw it toward a pack of zombies on his right. Several green fire blasts streaked over it as it fell to the mud, killing more zombies. Those that weren't claimed by the misses rushed in to meet him, and Vincent soon found himself heavily embattled on all sides. As he kept stepping back toward his friends, he sent magic into the blade to make it light and fast and kept swinging and swinging, taking off any head that came close enough to offer itself to him.

What was made clear to him amidst the fighting, was what had happened to all the missing or murdered people he had sought justice for; he was fighting most of them right now. Every time he flared his blade, faces described to him by people he talked to were lit up. The cult had obviously gone beyond that though; there were far more here than had been reported.

Vincent was losing more and more ground. Soon he had none left to give and was right up against his friends, protecting them by swinging fast with every last ounce of strength. He knew they weren't going to make it yet kept swinging as hard as he could out of sheer terror, frantically severing one head after another. When he turned for only an instant to kill one on his right, he saw the red flash and heard the screams from several more cult members being consumed by a large blaze from Rick. Behind him as he swung, he heard the pandemonium of shrieking winds and the crack of lightning bolts from Stacy, who was keeping them at bay on the other side.

He kept fighting and fighting, and after a time, he was no longer able to put magic into his blade to make it fast and light; he had to rely purely on his body alone, which was waning against the endless onslaught. They were going to die, he was realizing as he kept up his frenzy of decapitating swings. There was no preventing it. The murderous fanatics would prevail. The one thought that gave him the heedless determination to fight beyond utter exhaustion was that he and his friends were going to make them suffer as much as possible, cost them as much as possible.

Karl faltered at holding up the defensive wall of stratum only long enough to send a large cobble from it at a zombie's head, crushing through and bursting it's skull even as it came close enough to try to bite Vincent's neck. The blood sprayed all over him, including his face and eyes, the disgusting coppery taste of it getting in his mouth. Vincent had to spit and blink furiously even as he breathed hard and swung madly, snatching only small glimpses of his foes before striking. A glimpse was enough.

When they were beyond all tolerance, when Rick and Stacy had to divide their attention between the cult members and the endless zombies, and when Vincent's swings came almost simultaneously with the rotted hands grasping at his flesh, there finally came a spark of hope in their favor. While Vincent cut relentlessly, his blade showering and flicking blood with every swing, the bodies piling, he dimly heard voices among the din of flames, explosions, and his own scything. Unless it was his crazed mind playing tricks on him, it seemed that the enemy was beginning to lose their nerve.

"Clyde..."

"General Clyde," the voice of their leader corrected, "Lord Kargoth has bestowed me a place among his honored."

"General, might I suggest that fighting these heathens is too risky right now. A number of our faithful have already fallen. Perhaps we should retreat and dispose of them through some other means."

"Hmm, they are a little stronger than expected," he concurred. He raised his voice to the remaining others. "Alright, all of you pull back and let the zombies do their work. There's no need for you to die...prematurely." Vincent couldn't make out much else after that and had trouble concentrating on it because of the fighting. A fat zombie in farmer's clothing tripped on a dead body as it lunged toward Stacy, and Vincent was only barely able to bring his sword down on its neck in time for the bloody stump to crash into Stacy's wet dress, smearing red all over it. Crazed, Vincent kicked sideways to his right out of desperation to keep from being overwhelmed and brought his sword around to claim all but another that Karl once again had to cranially pulverize in a red spray. Thankfully, most of it splattered Vincent from behind his view and spared his eyes. After the sound of the head bursting, he thought he heard Clyde say something about it being ready and to "hand him a cup to scoop it out."

The black robed cultists continued shooting green flames as they retreated, until they were behind the edge of the raised dirt and rock. The reprieve granted Rick and Stacy, whom he could tell were exhausted, the opportunity to turn more fully on the oncoming undead. Still cupping her left hand to the bleeding bite on her neck, Stacy first used a powerful gust of wind to knock back all the closest ones. After that, she only let loose an occasional lightning bolt, appearing too week from fighting and blood loss to do more. Rick blasted apart several with small compressed fire sparks that caused their bodies to explode on contact; his attacks were also becoming more infrequent. Vincent's breath was ragged and hard, his face and clothes drenched with rain and blood, and he could barely lift his sword any longer, but for the first time in the course of the battle, he felt hope. He held his sword up toward his foes, readying himself while feeling the blood and water dripping down the blade and onto the top of his hands.

His hope died instantly when he heard more talking between Clyde and his subordinate as they were leaving. His subordinate seemed in a fret. "General, what of the nonbelievers? Our zombies won't be able to finish them. They must still pay for all they have slain. They have seen too much."

"It won't help them," Clyde assured him, "concern yourself with it no longer. The zombies merely require some small assistance, and I have something that they won't be able to dispatch so easily."

"You don't mean the...?"

"I do. We only need to escape while it does our work for us." Vincent heard him putting his fingers to his lips and blowing with a loud, shrill whistle. After that, there were only footsteps amongst Rick's explosive fire sparks which punctuated the rainy stillness of the night. The zombies were starting to get closer, but were still far enough away that Vincent wasn't needed again just yet.

Just when he thought Clyde was bluffing, he felt the rain lessen above him and a steady gust of air beating down. Wordlessly, the four of them looked up. Vincent's eyes widened in shock and his ragged breathing stopped short for a moment. The dark form of a small dragon without arms, a wyvern, hovered above. Gray scales counter-shaded the underside of its black body. Large yellow eyes with black vertical slits gazed down from atop its massive snout filled with sharp white teeth half as long as his sword.

It let out a hoarse roar.

In wild abandon, Vincent grabbed Stacy's right arm in a death grip, bringing her up and yanking her along as they all dashed out in separate directions from their place of concealment. A horrific blast of bright green flames from its mouth chased them as it touched down and spread along the ground. Vincent could feel the heat on his back and could smell the acrid fumes.

In the dark as they wearily clambered to get away, Vincent and Stacy both stumbled and fell face first into the wet grass and mud. Dread being his only source of strength, Vincent scurried back to his feet and reached around her with his left arm. The weight of his arm felt like lead as he struggled to pull her up while holding the sword in his other hand. "Come on, Stacy! You have to get up!"

"Go without me," she barely managed to say, her voice weak and laced with pain. A small trickle of blood was still coming through the hand over her neck, and her skin was getting pale.

Vincent's voice was simultaneously panicked and strained as he pulled. "Don't talk like that!" Harsh pain seared through his sorely fatigued muscles when with a mighty heave, he hauled her up to her feet and then struggled to keep his balance with her. It didn't seem like Stacy could hold on much longer.

The motions had left him twisted somewhat to the right just in time to see that the wyvern had turned itself around in the air and was gazing their way with the yellow lanterns that were its eyes. Its big jaws opened up and another horrific blast of flame went right at them. Vincent instantly knew they were finished. He closed his eyes and with his arm not holding Stacy, brought up his sword in a frightened and useless gesture as if to try to shield from the blaze. They waited for it to embrace them.

Certain death.

At the very instant when it should have struck them, Vincent felt only heat. He quickly opened his eyes and noticed something unusual: the green blaze had curved abruptly at its end and was hitting the ground off to the side of them. Rick was across the clearing holding his arms out, his body shaking fiercely while his mustached face contorted from the great effort it was taking to steer the flames away. Vincent pulled Stacy along with him and went several feet just inside the darkness of the trees. Pressing through the dark to flee for his life, he caught only one glance over his shoulder to see what had become of Karl and Rick.

Enraged, the wyvern had stopped breathing fire and used its snakelike neck to whip its head around and look for the source of the interference. As it did, zombies approaching from the left forced Rick and Karl to run at top speed under the hovering wyvern in sheer terror. Vincent tensed and kept fleeing while seeing them look up and spread out from each other just as the enormous claws from its feet came down to furiously tear at the muddy ground between them. The distraction had caused the two of them to get separated as they dashed in different directions toward the thicket.

In the distance, Rick was heading diagonally toward Vincent's left, being closely chased and then grabbed by zombies. Vincent saw him trying to tear himself away from them but couldn't tell if he was successful. Karl went far off to the right, almost in the same direction the cult had gone, running madly and keeping an eye on the winged terror.

The wyvern's head chose to follow him, and it closed in, its reptilian eyes hungry for his blood. As it opened its gaping jaws, preparing to snap its head in, Vincent saw him turn around and use his power to rip and fling two pan-sized sodden mud cakes directly into its vicious eyes, causing it to shriek a fiery breath that was drastically skewed off course. The large blast streamed through the woods and hit not far from Vincent and Stacy, causing them both to jump. Vincent ignored the rest, hoping his friends safe, and ran blindly, helping pull Stacy along with him into the pitch black forest. Only small lingering green flames on the wet wood behind generated any light to see by, and he intended to get them as far away from it as possible.

They heard bushes, leaves, and branches being disturbed far back to their right from zombies giving pursuit either to Rick or to themselves. The wyvern's loud, angry roar pierced through the thicket and shook the trees behind them. In the absence of the green fire, Vincent's eyes tried to readjust to the darkness but could never quite do so enough. His heightened level of fear made him disregard this danger completely since pushing through a forest in the dark was far preferable to what lay behind.

Wet tree branches and stubs poked and raked at their skin and clothing, and Vincent could feel them make stinging cuts on his face. Stacy put her right arm around Vincent's neck to hold herself up and continued to press tightly with the other hand on her bites. Vincent kept his arm around her waist to keep her close while he helped her along. Even though he could barely hold onto it any longer, much less lift it, Vincent kept his sword out the entire time just in case.

They pushed on and Vincent walked into a pine he couldn't see, one of its broken low branches scraping the side of his head before his face hit the trunk. After going around, he held his sword out flat in front of him to feel for obstructions and disregarded the many minor scratches he continued to get.

After a while, he heard no further sign of pursuit but kept going. Forgotten due to the intense combat and fear, the pain from Craig's bites to his calves surfaced anew and stabbed into his flesh while he moved forward, as if the teeth were still there. Each step brought forth renewed agony, and Vincent struggled to fight past it.

Stacy seemed hardly conscious at his side; her feet began slipping more and the weight she put on him was growing heavier. It worried him. He could tell that her life was being threatened by her injuries. At the moment, he didn't know what else to do for her except continue getting them out.

"I change my mind," she mumbled quietly, "I want to go home." He barely even heard her.

"I'll get you there," Vincent promised, pushing some more leafy wet bush stalks out of the way with his sword arm.

"Thank..." her scarcely audible voice started but didn't finish.

"Stacy?" She didn't answer. He shook her. "Stacy!" There was no response; she didn't move.

Vincent cursed profusely and pushed on harder, searching for a safe place to set her down. His arm holding her was getting tired, but he had another more important reason for doing so. Under no circumstances was he going to leave her behind. He swore to himself that he was going to bring her back even if his arm holding her fell off. Some leafy bush branches suddenly jammed into his face because he had forgotten to hold out his sword, and he swiftly hacked them out of the way in frustration before moving on. She was slipping and he was having trouble keeping her up.

The rain never stopped pouring. Past the bushes, he sent magic into his sword to give the tip a small flame that granted him only the smallest bit of visibility. Shortly after, he found a less rocky patch of earth before a shallow sloping rise covered in dead pine needles and moss. Before she slipped too far and fell, he laid her gently down on top of it.

Released from his burden, he was finally able to sheathe his sword, putting out the flame at its tip first, and all was dark again. Vincent then pulled out his knife and used his power to make a tiny flame at its tip. He got down next to her and held the flame close to the side of her neck where she had been bitten.

Since her hand was no longer pressing on it, even in this amount of light he could see that it was a ghastly wound that still bled. He was afraid that if she lost any more blood, it would be over for her. There was only one thing he could think to do to stop the bleeding but dreaded doing it.

The gaping bite would have to be cauterized.

Vincent turned Stacy over carefully so that she lay on her neck's uninjured side and then straddled lightly the curvature above her hip with his legs to keep her in place so she wouldn't fall one way or the other. With his right elbow on the ground near her head to hold himself up, he gently brushed aside her brown hair which was soaked with water and blood. Erring on the side of caution, Vincent gently took a hold of her jaw and opened her mouth to take a brief look, checking to make sure that her tongue was behind her teeth before closing it: He didn't want her to bite it off if she came awake from the pain and jerked too suddenly.

As Vincent put the flat side of his knife blade closer to her bites, he heated it red hot while maintaining the tiny flame at its tip so he could see what he was doing. It was a tremendous strain for him to use his magic at all; he had taxed himself to the brink with its use during their fight with the cult and now felt drained. He had to force himself to concentrate against the strain and make it work. The area around the bite still had too much blood which was getting mixed with rainwater. He quickly wiped it away with his hand so he could see where the openings were. He could feel a grimace overtake his expression as he firmly pressed the heated metal to the spot near the bottom left of her neck where the zombie's overbite had been. There was a searing sound with first steam and then the smell of burning flesh rising from her skin.

He lifted the knife and checked underneath to confirm the closing. The pain did not bring Stacy awake nor did her eyes open. Vincent took it as a bad sign, desperately hoping that she wasn't too far gone. He did not enjoy this in the least, and made himself do it only because there was no other way. Bringing his mind into focus again, he next pressed the red glowing blade to the other part of the bite, where the teeth from the dead person's lower jaw had been. Again it seared the curved opening shut, and he was glad to finally be able to cool the knife.

Rain fell off pine needles and leaves in big drops soaking Vincent's black hair and running down his face. It was laced crimson when it dripped off his chin and onto Stacy's blue dress, mingling with the mud, water, and blood already there. Most of the blood dripping from his chin wasn't his, yet one could not pass through a thick grove in the manner he had without paying a price.

His thoughts were fraught with anxiety; he worried if what he had done for Stacy would be enough. Even though it was June, the water and the air had a cold streak to it at this hour of the night. This created a whole new problem for him, he realized.

He put his knife away, plunging them into darkness, and felt around in the dark in order to pick her up. He wrapped his arms around Stacy and laboriously hoisted her to her feet. He had stopped the bleeding, yet if her body's heat bled away too much, she would perish just the same. Deciding that his discomfort at holding his female friend in such an intimate and inappropriate way was a small price to pay for her life, he twisted and jostled her around in his arms until she faced him and then held her body to his in a tight embrace, resting her head against his shoulder.

She still felt cold.

A panic went through him, and Vincent pulled Stacy tighter to himself, rubbing his hands on her back quickly. His alarm lessened when he started to feel the slightest amount of heat coming back from her. It must have been their cold wet clothes that made him think there was none. He held her only a few moments longer to make sure she was warm enough and then crouched down so he could sling her onto his left shoulder.

When he stood up, the pain in his leg from Craig's bites was intense, almost enough to make him collapse. For Stacy's sake, he did his best to ignore it. There was no time for him to check them or cauterize them, and he needed to stay conscious if he was to carry her back. Her body was still in contact with his, and he hoped that the rising heat from his exertion would help sustain her for now.

Vincent pulled out his knife and set the tip on fire again, holding it out in his right hand so he could see. It was small enough that he didn't think it would be noticed. He felt a headache start to creep on because of the strain at doing so, but kept it going because he needed the light.

He pushed on through the soggy vegetation, heedless of pain, heedless of exhaustion, occasionally tipping forward or back, left or right while he carried her, but kept on going. From the tiny flame at his knife's point, Vincent knew only wet tree barks, leaves, and bushes. And only those directly around them in his small sphere of light as he traversed. Rain continued to pelt them from above, adding a fresh smell to the forest it wouldn't otherwise have. In the distance, he heard the low rumble of thunder. Even though his left arm felt like it was burning from overuse, he made it hold tightly around Stacy's thighs, his aching left shoulder continuing to bear the brunt of her weight.

Time had no meaning as he slogged away through the dense, wet forest, carrying his wounded friend. There was no contemplation of how much longer it would take or how much further it was: only the urge to put one heavy foot in front of the other, and not fall, hoping that they would emerge on the other side and return to Gadrale. He knew he must not fail. His weariness only increased as did his body's heat from his exertion. What dripped constantly from his face became a mixture of rain, blood, and sweat. His muscles burned and burned, aching for rest, and his breathing was never slow or calm, yet his desire to leave this place always seemed to remain stronger than his fatigue.

The gray log of a long dead tree emerged in their path, blocking the way. Vincent slowly turned left and right with Stacy atop him, searching for a way around. There was none; the surrounding thicket was clogged with tightly-packed thick stalks of young pines and birches, a wall of gray and brown in some places, a continuity of white with black spots in others. The impasse seemed to make his headache worsen at keeping the flame alive at his knife's tip.

Vincent lifted his right foot, trying not to fall, and tested the log's strength. To his surprise, it was relatively firm, bending but not snapping or crumbling. With a great effort to keep his balance, he moved sideways and stepped his right leg over it, having to sit on it before he could even think of getting the other over. The log felt cold, wet, and hard. He hugged Stacy's legs tighter to himself, trying to keep himself upright with her atop his shoulder and slowly and strenuously lifted his left leg to the other side. Once there, he had to fight past soreness and fatigue to make himself stand all the way up. The first and second attempts failed, but while straining his legs, grunting, and gritting his teeth, the third succeeded, and he was able to push on once more.

Eventually, the rain stopped and he came with her to a more open area in the trees that was freer of bushes and undergrowth yet still possessed the fat trunks of many towering pines, spruces, and firs in the space between. It was easier to traverse until about halfway in when he spotted even in his knife's dim light from this distance, the mass of one of these giants that had fallen-over further ahead. He walked toward it, hoping to keep his bearings on the way that would lead them out while going more to the right in order to go around it.

When Vincent took another step, lightning flashed from above and the black shape of a large beast with wings was revealed on the ground. He immediately cut the flow of magic to his knife and ran. An ear shattering thunderclap followed. He hid behind the other side of a stout pine, letting Stacy down to her feet and hugged her to himself so he could put his back to it. He tensed suddenly and scrunched his eyes closed, clutching Stacy tighter when he heard a great cacophony of splintering and breaking limbs behind them. After that, he heard a hard thudding on the ground.

#  Chapter 12

Twin bursts of green light from behind illuminated the forest past the edge of where he stood. They were not as large as when it had unleashed its attack earlier, and he guessed that they must have come from its nostrils. The position of the light source moved as its head moved. It was searching. Searching for them.

Vincent and Stacy had only narrowly escaped death at the wyvern's hands before with the help of Rick, and he wasn't here to save them now if things went wrong. Their death was guaranteed if they were found. Vincent felt himself tensing and trembling where he stood, trying to control his breathing to maintain absolute silence.

Other than water dripping off the trees, it was unusually quiet without the rain. His attention was diverted when he felt Stacy begin to stir. He clenched his teeth. Only her head moved the slightest bit. It didn't seem like she was conscious yet, and he didn't know if she was going to be just now.

A quiet moan came from her closed lips.

His heart caught in his throat, and he clamped his hand over her mouth. Vincent's blood surged hard, and he could feel his fast pulse throbbing in his head. He waited.

The wyvern gave a snort and a slightly larger flash of green light shined on the surrounding forest. He heard its massive footsteps clawing at the ground. The next small burst of flame from its nostrils seemed even closer than before.

It was going to find them, his panicked mind repeated over and over again. It had but to walk past the tree's edge. And he could tell from the light and its steps that it was coming toward them. It was going to find them, he thought again, unless he did something, and it didn't seem like there was anything he could do. Waiting and hoping the beast would do otherwise would not save them.

Vincent heard the wyvern's feet crushing pine cones while scraping and clawing at the ground for traction. It was not a stealthy animal, not when out of its home in the sky, but it didn't need to be. Green light bathed the trees, the grass, and the debris along the forest floor, brighter, closer. The enormous fallen-over stand of spruce lay not far ahead in his vision. He wished with all his might that he could just hide under it with Stacy.

The wyvern came closer.

Mortal panic gripped him, and he decided that he was going to try something, anything, to distract or hide from it. The light from its nostrils seemed to be coming from further left. He started edging slowly right with Stacy, knowing that one false snap or crack of anything he stepped on would be death. He hadn't gotten far, only an inch or two, when his foot brushed up against something. It was a small rock with misshapen bumps and protrusions all around its surface. He eyed the fallen over spruce again. An insane plan immediately sprouted in his mind.

He bent over slowly while holding his breath and lowering Stacy with him to pick it up. He felt his face turn red from suffocation, and his lungs were in more want of air than he had ever known. The feeling didn't go away even as he stood up. Trepidation beyond belief began to swallow him when he worried for an instant which the wyvern would notice more: the rock, or the place it was thrown from. It was this or nothing.

The gleam of green light was not far behind them. The instant it subsided even slightly, Vincent threw the rock off to his right as hard as he could without aiming. It knocked loudly on a pine trunk in the distance and then thudded on the ground, rolling and skidding afterward. The wyvern gave a snort and the green light shifted with its head toward it, but it otherwise did not move. Vincent gripped Stacy tighter and a tense moment passed while he waited.

The wyvern roared.

Its clawed feet scratched and scraped loudly, and an uncontrollable shudder went through his body. He at last heard the thundering of it running off toward the right, and then he waited only for as long as his nerves would allow. When he could take it no more, Vincent dashed toward the fallen spruce as fast as he could, carrying Stacy with him. He put a hand over her eyes to protect them and then turned his head sideways while he scrunched his own closed and dove with her underneath it.

Sharp green needles poked, pierced, and raked his face and hands. He hit the ground hard and began to slide unexpectedly downward in the wet grass and mud into a lengthwise depression in the ground he hadn't known was there. Stubs of dead growth on the interior of the tree's massive limbs battered and cut them. When they finally stopped, he heard the wyvern's roar puncture his fog of pain and dizziness from the landing.

The top of the fallen over tree was suddenly scoured in flame. Bright green light bathed them from above, illuminating the thick, long limbs around them, making them look like oddly spaced spokes on a wheel. Blackened needles fell off and rained down on them, feeling hot when they landed on his skin. In the next moment, the massive trunk was violently pressed and shaken, bending downward as its limbs snapped, threatening to crush down on them.

The flickering green light revealed the black form of the wyvern with its wings spread, perching atop it. The second Vincent felt relief from noticing that it wasn't looking down at them was gone instantly when the tree pressed down even further, limbs snapping and breaking until broken ends made shallow stabs in him, and the fat bases left of others were all that supported the tree's weight. He wanted badly to scurry out of the way in case it came down further, but he dared not move.

The wyvern waited atop the fallen spruce and folded its wings to make itself comfortable. Its gruesome, scaly black head curled back with its neck, and every now and then, it perked this way and that, following unseen movements like an eagle. Vincent thought that the wicked reptilian monstrosity had no right to imitate a noble bird of prey, and wished it wasn't so comfortable there.

The spot where they lay smelt of dirt, bark, smoke, and was alive with subterranean creatures that had taken up residence after the tree's misfortune. They had been disturbed by their intrusion and by the wyvern's landing. Crawlers with rippled, gray-domed backs crept with their tiny little rows of legs harmlessly across Stacy's face and forehead while a not so harmless Brown Spider walked across the top of her muddy, soaked blue dress. A small centipede, red even in this light, crawled down his pant leg and then took a detour inside of it once it reached the bottom. Hundreds of little feet tingled against his flesh, but he still dared not move. Infuriatingly, the wyvern still saw no urgent reason to leave, and Vincent felt something crawling in his wet hair but couldn't tell what.

Finally, it spread its black wings once more and took a leap. The tree's trunk bended at the downward pressure, and more limbs were making cracking and breaking sounds as it took to the sky. Vincent waited a few more moments for it to fly far enough away and then snapped his hand to the part of his upper pant leg where the centipede was underneath, gripping it from above and viciously squeezing hard to crush the life out of it. When he heard and felt the crunching, he immediately swiped away whatever was in his hair, flicked the spider off of Stacy's dress, and brushed off the crawlers from her face. Not wanting to stay down there an instant longer, he grabbed her upper arms and began dragging her through the mud and sharp splintered limbs and needles, getting his ears scratched badly while he crawled and squirmed along.

When he at last emerged with her on the other side, getting far enough away from the fire, he set her down and collapsed next to her on his back, exhausted. He stared upward at the pine boughs and dark clouds above, catching his breath and feeling grateful for the relative safety. Even by his own wishful estimate, they still had a long way to go and he needed a moment to rest. Though cold, hard, and ordinarily unpleasant, the wet forest floor felt like one of the softest beds he had ever lain in, and he felt his alertness and wakefulness begin to waver. His body ached and his muscles were reluctant to move. I just need some rest, he thought. Against his own will, he relaxed further and pure weariness forced him to pass out.

He did not sleep long. He dreamt fitful dreams about the danger of sleeping here. In them, he saw his own body laying in the wilderness and the wyvern coming back to claim both of them. He kept trying to get up and yet was unable. Clyde, the man they sought, would show up sipping from a tea cup and smile while watching the wyvern get closer. Vincent would twist and turn on the ground to no effect.

His nightmare was cut short, and he sat bolt upright in a sweat when he heard loud breaking sounds coming from the brush far behind the fallen over spruce. He could feel his heart pounding loudly in his chest and the blood pulsating through his neck and temples. It couldn't be his other friends; it was too loud. Too many were pushing through the forest toward them from the direction it came from.

Vincent got up instantly and grabbed a hold of Stacy, frantically pulling her along the ground without bothering to sling her over his shoulder. Those following them were not nearly subtle enough to be the cultists, he thought. The snapping of twigs, breaking of branches, and rustling of leaves were far too careless for it to be anything other than the zombies they thought to have outrun. He looked behind him only once and saw little other than blackness. Once he reached the other side into a less open expanse, he ducked behind a tree and hoisted Stacy onto his left shoulder once again.

He hugged her legs tightly to himself with his arm, keeping her body draped over him, and felt around blindly with his right hand for any obstructions that might block their way. Fright was the only thing keeping him lucid and pushing him to keep going. Eventually the sounds spread out further and veered off in other directions, ultimately dimming into silence. Despite the quiet and his tremendous fatigue, Vincent had no intention of stopping again.

Only once he was reasonably sure that the thick grove of tall trees and dense undergrowth would conceal it did he take his knife out again to find his way. He was mentally numbed to his body's pain by constantly reminding himself that it was better than death and that he had only but to escape these woods to return to Gadrale, and then it would be gone. The task of plodding through the muck all the way back in his current state, as well as with Stacy on top of him, seemed monumental, and over time his rising weariness forced his personal affirmations to become more and more cruel. Especially when he kept telling himself that he had the power to bring to bear a cessation of his own suffering just by putting one foot in front of the other until he got all the way back and that he was to blame for every moment of pain he felt because he hadn't done that yet. He became his own brutal taskmaster, even more ruthless and effective at driving himself forward than the lash of any real one.

It was better than death.

Other than his own footsteps and rustling, the night became quiet. Vincent often had trouble keeping himself balanced while he carried Stacy, and it seemed to get worse the further he went. His ability to function seemed to be wearing down, and the flame at his knife point began to flicker. Despite this, he kept a steady pace to ensure that they weren't found and that the night stayed quiet.

Hours later, dawn began to creep through the darkness, blanketing the area with a dim gray ambience. The scent of damp pine needles, leaves, and moss filled his lungs. Birds began to chirp, and the crisp morning air was filled with their song. A gentle breeze whisked through bushes. Between exhausted, foggy breaths, Vincent's mind only barely registered the additional light enough to make himself cut the flow of magic to his knife and put it away. Able to hug Stacy's legs with his right arm, he lessened the tension on his left and it felt stiff afterward.

Not long after this, he reached the edge of the forest, and they emerged into a sea of tall dead yellow grass, sparsely punctuated by clusters of wild brush. The direction he needed to go was somewhere to the right along these woods−that was where the road had ended. He turned slowly with Stacy atop him and started off, feeling like he had to look back upon a distant memory to realize that this was the way to go, even though it had only been earlier that night.

He was able to walk on for only a short time before deadly terror abruptly pierced every fiber of his being. He heard the familiar, loud roar bellow in his ears a decidedly uncomfortably close distance behind him. The instant it did, his panic took over and he ran and launched both himself and Stacy back into the nearby woods. No sooner had he, than an enormous black-winged form swept by through the air in his right peripheral vision.

He crashed hard on the ground with an unconscious Stacy. He glanced back behind them and noticed the wyvern making a circle in the air to come back toward them. It had been waiting for them to leave the forest and now knew exactly where they were. He could not hope to outrun it, with or without his injured friend. In a vain attempt to provide Stacy with shelter and concealment, Vincent hurriedly pulled her over and stuffed her limp form into some bushes behind a tree. Then he stood and drew his sword, the metal scraping sound filling the air. He held no illusions that this was going to be anything other than a fight to the death.

There would be no hiding.

Past the edge of the tree's trunk, Vincent saw the wyvern's black slit yellow eyes atop its black scaly head peering right down at his place in the forest as it made its gliding descent. It no doubt knew where Stacy was as well. Given the choice, Vincent decided that he would much rather die first than die second after watching the beast rip her apart in its jaws.

Summoning inner strength he didn't know he had, Vincent strode purposefully toward the outside of the forest. Aggressive feelings as well as fear churned together as one within him as he put himself between the wyvern and Stacy's place of concealment. It was going to have to kill him first. His eyes glistened from the altruism, his chest heaved in anger, and his muscles tensed while he gripped the sword so tightly that it felt like the metal wiring on the hilt was cutting into his hand. In his quiet, fearful rage, his mind became alert and he prepared himself for the final battle of his life.

A slow and surreal moment passed after he had stepped beyond the last tree, out into the open, and the black wyvern flapped its wings and came to a landing before him, a deep, rumbling, guttural snarl escaping its long, pointy teeth. The two stared at one another for only the tiniest of moments that seemed like an eternity while Vincent lifted his blood stained, battle-worn blade in both hands.

The instant it began to open its mouth with green flame caressing its teeth, instinct took over, making Vincent jump and roll to the side in order to avoid its blast. Because of his training and coordination, the maneuver was not detrimental; he used his momentum to come back to his feet and square off with the beast once more. The wyvern immediately turned its head toward him. This time it chose to attack by snapping at him with its jaws, hoping to bite him in two. Vincent denied it by making a lightning quick side step and hacking at the side of its mouth. The sword scarcely cut into its scaly hide at all, and it snapped at him again. His blade unintentionally slid between its teeth and deeply cut the soft underside of its mouth when he jumped backward and countered with an upward swing. The force of the jump made him fall backward.

At the exact same time that the wyvern jerked its head back in pain, Vincent scrambled off his back and onto his feet with incredible speed to ready himself for its next strike, and was only barely in time. Aggravated by its prey's painfully sharp defiance, the wyvern flapped its wings angrily and opened its jaws to let out another horrific blast of green fire. Vincent bolted around it to the right in a circle to avoid the streaking blaze that it chased him with, running closer as he did to increase the distance it needed to turn its head for aim.

Filled with utter madness and bloodlust, Vincent heated his blade red hot, enough to cut through metal, and charged in further. Before he could get close enough to hit the gray scales on its underside, they wyvern hopped back a step like a bird and tried to snap its jaws onto him again. Furious at the delay to his satisfaction, Vincent swung upward angrily and caught the tip of its forked red tongue and several of its lower teeth, cutting them off about halfway. Its upper ones were unaffected and speared painfully several inches into his upper back and shoulders, forcing a yell of anguish from his throat. The points slid against bone and he dropped to his knees in agony.

The wyvern recoiled its head again with a roar after suffering an agony of its own and then seemed to notice that it had gained the upper hand. Vincent wished it would try to bite him again so he could make it hurt more, but he knew that it had learned better. The beast began opening its now deformed jaws, and bright green flame began blossoming from deep within its mouth, illuminating in that brief instant the pink tissue inside. Vincent watched, knowing it was the last thing he would see.

In the next split instant just as the blast was clearing its mouth, a huge boulder suddenly clouted the side of its head with enough speed and force to knock it aside and send the horrific green streaking blaze shooting far off through the sky to Vincent's right.

"Get away from him!" He heard his cousin yell at the wyvern in a strained voice, falling to one knee. "You bastard!" Vincent knew it must have taken everything Karl had to throw that boulder; there wouldn't be another.

Against the terrible pain in his badly pierced and bleeding back, Vincent let his full fury wash over him like molten steel to the point of insanity and forced a renewed attack. Pure rage made him ignore all pain as he yelled angrily like a madman and rushed in to swing his heated blade hard at the creature, over and over again. Its hide was so tough that the long, ragged scars which streaked across its scales dug in only superficially into its flesh yet inflicted enough harm to make the wyvern back up several steps. It still hadn't recovered from the dazing blow to its head and was starting to panic from this new onslaught. Vincent swung mercilessly, his crazed wrath convincing him that he could kill it, that he would kill it.

In its confusion, even as it retreated and tried to get its bearings on where Vincent was, Karl used his power to rip from the ground and hurl wet grass-strewn clumps of sod into its face again, missing its eyes on the first attempt, but not on the second. "I said get away!" He shouted again angrily. Pieces of the wet mud and grass roots fell from its head around Vincent but were barely even registered in his consciousness, his only thought being to kill, to cut, to strike down.

Finally realizing that this quarry was most certainly not worth the trouble, the battered, blinded, and scarred wyvern began to turn around and flee. As it did, Vincent viciously kept hacking at it, making a small cut at the base of its right wing and hacking at its tail as it ran to take flight once more. It tried to swat him away with its tail, but he rewarded its effort only by bringing his sword down on it, the powerful impact making the blade cut in deeper even as he was pushed away. The tearing off motion removed some of the force with which he was flung away. He felt the wind knocked out him as he landed hard on his side.

He couldn't see above the tall grass as he lay dizzy and winded, yet he heard the flaps of its wings and was able to tell that it was gone at last. Before he knew it, Karl was standing behind where he lay. He cursed at seeing all the blood and asked if Vincent was still alive.

"I'm still here..." Vincent murmured.

Karl cursed again and was beginning to panic. "Those bite marks are huge! There's no way we're going to get back before you bleed to death!" He cursed again. "And what the hell happened to Stacy! Where is she!"

Vincent fought the pain the motion brought and took out his knife, heating it red hot. He had trouble getting his words out between pained breaths. "Stacy's...behind a tree...here, take this and press it on...press it on...before I run out of time."

Karl understood without him explaining it, and cursed obscenely again before taking the knife carefully by the handle as if he wanted nothing to do with it. Vincent clenched his teeth shut, this time making sure his own tongue was behind them. He could not see it but immediately felt the intense, burning, searing agony as the flat of the blade was pressed to his flesh. Karl had not bothered to take off Vincent's shirt since he was in a hurry, yet still seemed able to find just where the applications were needed. Vincent sweated profusely and gritted his teeth hard each time it was pressed. Somehow, his pride at being strong enough not to lose consciousness from it was small solace; the pain was making him wish he wasn't quite so strong.

A new worry hit him. "Make sure they're seared all the way shut," he said through gritted teeth.

"I am, I am!" Karl replied. "Just hold still, damn it!" He could tell that his cousin wasn't having very much fun with this either.

After he was finished, he returned Vincent's glowing knife and helped him stand. Enormous pain shot through Vincent's back as he bent down to pick up his sword and return it to its scabbard. He managed but still felt dizzy, and his vision was distorted somewhat with tiny specks flying around that only he could see. He felt pain in his ribs with each breath, but the breaths made the specks go away.

"Where's Stacy?" Karl asked again.

Vincent painfully lifted his right hand to point. "She's back there. Come...I'll show you."

Sensing his trauma, Karl walked slowly with him back toward the spot on the outskirts of the forest where he had hid her, using his hands to help steady Vincent's balance. He also did not appear to want to hurry, Vincent could tell, because he too was clearly exhausted. On the way, Vincent kicked at a long tooth fragment he had cut from the wyvern. A slight wind rippled the grass and Karl's green robes. The gray cloudy sky brightened its bleak overcast the slightest bit.

When they got to Stacy, her face was pale and she appeared in just as bad a shape as before. Her skin around the top of her neck had blackened scars where Vincent had put his heated knife to stop the bleeding. Long wet brown hair matted the sides of her face and was covered in charred spruce needles and forest debris at the top, clogged with mud and blood toward the bottom. Her dress was soiled with it even more, bearing the signs of every fall she had taken with him, and there was still a crimson smear on her side from the neck stump of the zombie that crashed into her. She lay motionless and restful, her scraped up and cut face somehow retaining its beauty despite her ordeal.

"What happened to her?" Karl asked. "She's not...is she?"

"No." Vincent leaned his shoulder on the tree next to her, taking his breaths slowly and conscientiously, barely able to stand. Karl looked back to him silently with a curious and concerned expression. Vincent regretted saying the next part through his pained breaths but had to. "I don't think...I can carry her any longer...could you please...?"

Karl held up a hand to reassure him. "I'll take care of it."

Just as he bent over to grab a hold of her, Stacy began to stir again, moving her head to the side slightly. She let out a small moan. Karl's hands completed their journey to her upper arms and she let out another moan behind her closed lips. Her blue eyes opened slightly.

"Vincent?" She asked weakly, not seeing who it was.

"I'm here," he whispered in reassurance from above them. "So is Karl...we're going home."

She let out a faint moaning grunt of a breath through her nose. "We're not back yet?" She asked in barely conscious delirium.

"We will be soon...just hang on a little longer."

"Can you stand?" Karl asked. "Here, let me help you to your feet." With her barely audible voice, she accepted his assistance and he gently lifted her up.

Vincent wondered about their other friend. "Have you seen Rick?" He asked while Karl did this.

"No. Have you?"

Vincent was beginning to fear the worst. "We saw him get attacked by a mob of undead just before we escaped," he replied in disappointment. "I hope he's still alive."

"He should be, knowing him. I wouldn't worry about it."

Vincent sighed and turned his head away. Stacy had already come far too close and was still in danger; the thought of losing another of his friends was unbearable. He wanted to help him but knew there was nothing he could hope to do. If Rick was even alive, then he was just going to have to make it back on his own without them.

Karl helped Stacy to meekly sling one arm over his neck and held it there by grasping her wrist. He put his other arm around her waist and aided her in the now difficult task of standing and walking. Wounded and exhausted, the three of them slowly set out for Gadrale Keep with Vincent walking on Karl and Stacy's left. To Vincent's surprise, Karl's wide flat rock scurried out of the brush and followed them, dragging itself through the tall grass. Vincent smiled wearily at the sight, marveling at the tremendous mental discipline that his cousin must have accrued from his training.

They both kept a wary eye to the sky.

#  Chapter 13

It was a gray cloudy morning. There was no more rain, though the ground and the dirt road remained somewhat soggy from what had been left there the night before. Wind rustled through the tall dead grass, chilling their wet bodies. Atop the rise, Gadrale's massive stone keep rose above its high walls. Like a giant spear, the Tower of Prophecy protruded into the sky. The vine-covered outer wall of the campus grew closer to them such that it fooled the eye into believing it could rival that of the fortress. The three weary companions were granted entry through the blue iron gate by a different keeper, without so much as a word.

They returned home that morning in a complete mess. They were bloody, covered in mud, wet, cut, beaten, and wounded. And Stacy was as pale as a ghost. People on campus stared openly in utter and complete shock as they trudged ahead on the cobblestone road that divided the campus and led up to the keep. Even Karl, the least hurt of the three, had still been drenched by the rain and looked as though it had washed away his strength. The crowd increased when people further away noticed others among them staring at some spectacle and moved closer to see what was going on. Many passed whispers between each other, asking that very question.

People Vincent knew either by name or by passing acquaintance stood transfixed at his blood soaked face, hair, and clothing. His bruises, cuts, the mud and debris all over him, and the general disarray in which he appeared drew sharp gasps from women in the crowd. He was in far too much pain from each step, each breath, that he could not bring himself to feel the least bit self-conscious. The one strong emotion he felt, even more than misery brought on by pain and fatigue, was a profound relief at being safely back.

Karl continued carrying Stacy along as the three of them walked on toward the keep. Everyone and anyone, it seemed, who was out and about had gathered around to watch them trudging up the wide paved path. Vincent kept putting one foot in front of the other without thinking about how long the full distance was; it was too staggering, and so he fixed his thoughts only on the immediate.

A number of his painful breaths and steps later, they were nearly at the keep. Those who exited the gatehouse up ahead of them to come outside, stopped and stared. Vincent glanced off to his left and saw that a small grouping of onlookers had been drawn there as well. He was surprised when he at last saw Jessica emerge slowly from the crowd, her face looking distraught from he knew not what until she got a glimpse of him and it changed to alarm.

Her gorgeous blue eyes were wide the entire time when she drew in for a closer look. He looked down at the blood, dirt, and debris covering his body. The swaying of her light tan dress and long silky black hair when she approached to help was a lovely yet rapid sight, or else it was his own mind that had slowed down. He didn't know.

Her face was that of a worried angel as her hand reached out to grab his arm. "You're going to be alright." Her touch felt gentle and warm on his sore, blood-soaked arm. She spoke slowly as though talking to someone who was hurt so bad they had trouble understanding. "I'm going to help take you to the infirmary, okay? Do you think you can handle it?"

At that moment, he couldn't bring himself to say anything in response and just stood there thinking that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Seeing her after such turmoil and suffering was like the sun's warmth overcoming the cold darkness. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on, and was glad that he was at least going to see her one last time.

She studied his appearance more closely. She made a small gasp when she discovered the wounds on his back. "Vincent?" She covered her mouth with a hand as her eyes welled up with tears. "No...no..." she cried in disbelief, "gods no..." Her eyes moved uncomfortably toward Karl and then paid particular attention to Stacy in a way Vincent found odd before moving back to his.

He began to smile at her through his pain and fatigue. He put a bloody hand on her arm. "It's alright," he barely whispered. She didn't look like she believed him.

Their eyes remained fixed, each on the other. He felt his chest heat up as his heart began to beat faster. It was one exertion too many. Jessica tried in vain to catch him as the cobblestone road suddenly reached up and slammed into his chest.

Feet rushed in around him.

* * *

When he awoke, he was laying in the infirmary. A comfortable, warm bed and soft white sheets surrounded his body. Upon taking a deep breath, the aroma of soap and balm filled his nostrils. Rows of beds lay all around him. Morning sunlight reflected off of white pillows, sheets, and blankets, making the vast room appear brighter than it was.

Somehow, he knew right away by the fact that it was morning that he had slept through an entire day and an entire night. His sleep was filled with nightmares of something dark chasing him, and he occasionally woke with a start before lapsing back into a deep slumber. Through the brief instances when he had awoken, he could tell that it could not be the same day as he arrived. The healers had used their magic to help him rest, or his exhaustion had done it, or both.

He rubbed the sand out of his eyes with his hands, which he was surprised to find clean. In fact, all of him appeared clean and unscathed. That must have taken some work, he thought uncomfortably.

The same two healer women who had treated him before, one with brown hair, the other with blonde, stood across the aisle from where he lay. Their smooth white dresses caressed each of their feminine forms, and they were talking idly and giggling about something he missed or else didn't understand. When they glanced toward him and noticed that he was awake, their faces blushed a furious red and they looked away.

He could feel his own face becoming red when he realized that when they healed him, they must have also been the ones who had taken his clothes off, bathed him, and changed him into this gown. Again. He looked over the right side of his bed and found that his clothes and weapons had also been washed and were once more stacked neatly in a pile. His torn shirt had even had its holes sewn shut. He was not at all ungrateful for any of this, whoever had done it, just...embarrassed.

They continued their conversation after noticing that he had come awake, and walked toward his bed, each standing on one side. Vincent lay his head back down. The sandy haired one finished the last bit of what she was saying.

The other smiled and laughed at what her friend had said and then addressed him first. "How are you feeling?"

His throat was parched as he tried to reply. "Thirsty," he said in a hoarse voice, trying to take a dry swallow, "but much better otherwise."

"I'll bring you some water," the blonde one volunteered, walking off.

"What about Stacy...did she make it?"

"She's fine. For now." Vincent wasn't quite sure what that meant.

When the other returned with a cup and a pitcher of water, he sat up and drank several cups in earnest. "I noticed you had some nasty burns on your back before we healed you," she commented while she poured him his fourth. "They had sealed shut something much worse."

"So did the woman," the other added, "on her neck."

Her friend with the pitcher exchanged a look with her, a curious frown creasing her brow. "Yeah," she said in a higher, drawn out tone of recollection, "I noticed that too." She turned and handed Vincent the full cup. "We were wondering...how did you get them?"

Vincent took a sip before answering. "I used my knife."

"You mean you held it over a fire and used it to cauterize hers"−she pointed with her thumb over her shoulder toward the bed with Stacy−"and your wounds?"

"We were on the run, we didn't have time for a fire..." Vincent started.

"Then how did you do it?" The blonde one asked, frowning.

"With my magic."

"Oh," she said, seeming taken aback. "I didn't know you could do that. I thought you were just a..."

"Swordsman," Vincent finished for her. "I get that a lot," he admitted. "But no, I'm here because I control metal."

"I'm sorry."

Vincent looked away while taking another drink. "It's quite alright."

The brown haired healer placed her hands on her hips. "It's obvious that you got into some kind of fight. We could tell from the marks that the woman ..."

"Stacy," Vincent inserted.

"...got bitten by something, but Sheryl and I," she glanced toward her friend, "have a running bet on what injured you. I think you got stabbed by spears. She thinks something sunk its claws in your back. Which was it?"

"You healers have a strange sense of humor," he remarked. The two of them smiled as they stared back. When Sheryl looked him up and down and winked suggestively, it made him blush again. Then the haunting memory returned. He let out a sigh. "If you must know, it was a wyvern," he said, dimming his eyes with a shudder at how close he had come to death. Sheryl said yes to exult her victory. "Don't be so quick to celebrate," Vincent admonished. "Its teeth are what got...almost had me, not its claws." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her face scrunch up in disappointment.

The other healer woman wore a faint smile. "You've been giving us a lot of practice lately for any one person. Maybe you shouldn't make a habit of it," she patted him lightly on the cheek, "not that we don't enjoy your company."

"I'll try not to," he replied, looking down at the cup in his hand. His thoughts churned with great worry and foreboding. "I don't want either of you to think for a moment that I am not grateful for the care you've given me," he said diplomatically, "but there are things I must attend to. Am I...fit to leave?"

"You're fit to leave!" She answered enthusiastically. "Just try not to get in any more trouble."

"Maybe that's why those two are here," Sheryl speculated, gesturing with her head toward the doorway off to the right.

Vincent's eyes darted there, and dread surged through him when he noticed it wasn't Rick or Karl. It was two older men, perhaps in their thirties or forties. The shallow wrinkles creasing their faces let on that they were hard-line, experienced wizards and not to be trifled with. The one standing on the left side of the door had brown hair, a handlebar mustache, a single line of a beard down the front of his chin, and a scar across the right jaw of his expression that said any deviance would not be tolerated. He wore unassuming, drab work clothes, the sign of a botanical wizard, and stood leaning his back against the stone of the doorway, his sharp brown eyes glaring intently at Vincent while he kept tossing up and catching a pebble sized seed in his hand. Vincent didn't know what he could instantaneously grow it into, and didn't want to. The other, a man with fair hair, was dressed in the blue robes of atmomancy, yet strangely carried a long iron rod which he used as a walking staff. He gave Vincent a look that was covered in condemnation.

Sheryl continued speaking while Vincent stared on. "They came earlier with an order from the council that you're not to leave the infirmary alone." Her uncomfortable pause brought Vincent's eyes back to her. "They're here to take you into custody."

The other woman saw the troubled expression on his face. "I'm sure it's nothing." She didn't sound so sure to him and discreetly backed up and walked away from his bed to have another look at Stacy.

Vincent downed the rest of his cup and returned it to Sheryl. "Thanks," he said. Sheryl went umhmm and walked away with the pitcher.

The two older men watched him swinging his legs dutifully over the side of the bed. When Vincent stood and shared a look with them before starting to pull his gown off; they averted their eyes. The healers were both standing near Stacy with their backs to him, and so he had at least that much privacy. In no time at all, Vincent was dressed and tying the laces on his black boots. He put on his sword's baldric and his belt with the knife still in its sheath, feeling somewhat insulted that they held so little regard for his strength that they would let him keep his weapons.

He glanced toward his two guards before walking across the aisle to check on Stacy. She looked to have been cleaned up as well. Her face remained pale, and she was still sleeping. "How is she, really?" He asked.

The blonde healer answered but didn't turn to look his way. "She lost a lot of blood during...whatever it was you were out doing. We've stabilized her. She just needs some time to recover." She paused a moment, still not looking his way, and kept her tone formal. "You better go with those two before they get anxious."

Vincent understood her subtle meaning and said nothing when he walked away toward the door. His escort was silent when he reached the doorway, and they walked on either side of him after he emerged into the hall. The positioning however, did not deceive him at all; it was clear to him that they were to lead the way.

They took him down several floors to the dining hall and through it to an adjacent hallway running right of the entrance. Eventually they turned and took him through the stairway entry to another set of sublevels not connected with the main series that Vincent was familiar with. Light orbs set inside openings in the walls covered by protective grates lined the stairs, providing enough light to see by yet still kept things darker than was comfortable. Together with the two wizards escorting him, he descended another three floors until they arrived at the penitentiary.

It consisted of a main room and a long connecting hallway, each of which were also poorly lit in the same manner as the stairs above. His guards passed through the outer room with him, ignoring the jailor and soldiers in it, all of whom watched in silent and apprehensive curiosity. It was clear to them that this was wizard business, that they had no say in it, and he was not their prisoner.

Magi disciplined their own.

The gray stone hallway they took him down had many corridors branching off from it on its sides, each leading to a an iron bar door with a slit at the bottom for passing through food. He was taken to the very end of the hall and ushered inside one on the left that already had its gate open. He turned around and watched them slam it shut, deciding that now before they left would be the best time to break the silence.

"Why am I being detained?"

The two mages stopped from turning around and looked back at him. The atmomancer with the iron staff answered him. "For abandoning your post."

As a sworn member of the Academy Guard, this was a grievous offense. Junior members like Stan and Craig had gotten off easier, but it was different for Vincent. He was a full fledged member, not an adolescent training toward the position. He was expected to be more responsible and was going to be held to a higher standard.

Vincent looked down. "I see," he replied dismally. He looked up. "Is the council aware of the extraordinary circumstances under which I took this action?"

The botanical mage asserted himself next. "It doesn't matter. Your transgression carries an immediate punitive sentence. The masters will convene to determine what further punishment you shall receive."

And with that, they turned and left him there, alone in his dark cell.

Vincent should have expected this. It was the consequence of the hard choice he had made the other night. As a guard, what he had done was unforgivable, even though he had had good reason. It endangered what little status he held at the keep, and he knew that sooner or later everything else he had been involved with would have to come out as well. There was no way he could hide it now and, it seemed, no further justification for doing so. This was far too large for he and his friends to deal with on their own; unsympathetic or not, the council needed to know about it.

The thought struck him that maybe they already did, at least in part. How else would they know or infer that he specifically chose to be in dereliction of duty? Karl must have told them much of what had taken place, and it was clear that they were not pleased with what he had done. Even if he hadn't, they would have found out about his dereliction anyway.

There was no bench in his cell and no privy. It had been cleaned up since its last use yet could easily become a stinking cesspool again when occupied for any duration. Only one light orb protected by a grate sat in the wall outside. He hoped he would not be here for long. Gadrale's detention facility was small, and as he noted earlier, empty. Since the fortress was originally intended to hold off Orc incursions, it was not designed for holding many prisoners. The detention area's primary use was for enforcing discipline within their own ranks.

He crouched down and sat against the wall, wrapping his arms around his knees. The pains of hunger began to sear his stomach. He wished he had said something to the guards when they passed the dining area or at least made some mention after he had been confined. Now food would not be brought to him until much later, whenever someone remembered or deemed it necessary.

Alone with his own thoughts, he began to drown in the silence. Time had no meaning. He could not even tell if it was night or day. Eventually, someone brought him a plate of scraps from the kitchen and slid it under the slot. Not caring about the quality, he ate all of it in earnest. It hadn't even come with a fork. He used his hands.

Later on, pure exhaustion forced him to sleep, and he did it sitting down in his earlier position since the cold stone floor was much too hard to lay on. The next day, at least he thought it was the next day, saw little improvement. He sat bored, wondering his fate until finally he heard footsteps coming down the hall. It wasn't yet time for his meal.

When the person finally came around the corner to his hall, Vincent noticed the green robes against the poor lighting and realized it was Karl. His cousin was quiet on his approach and had a serious expression on his face without a single trace of mirth. Shoulder length blond hair jostled slightly as he walked. He carried some sort of dark blue bundle in his right hand, and his wide, flat rock tucked under the other. Vincent stood and went to the door.

"Alright I've got some good news and some bad news," he began. "The good news is that I told the masters what happened..."

"I noticed."

Karl took immediate note of the reference and continued on. "Yeah, well anyway they're launching a full investigation into all of it, and yesterday they had me guide a large team of people to the site where we fought with the cult. Everything was there including the cauldron, but it had been knocked over and the rain washed everything away," a quiet growl escaped Karl's lips, "they weren't able to tell what the liquid inside was, there wasn't enough left." His eyes lowered. "Stan and Craig's bodies were brought back, and there's going to be a memorial service scheduled next week." He looked back up. "I think things are going to be different from now on. The masters aren't pleased with what we've done, but it has grabbed their attention. The four of us won't have to go on alone anymore."

"Has there been any sign of Rick?" Vincent asked.

"That's the other good news. He finally came back today. Apparently he got lost in the woods after we split up."

"And Stacy, is she better?"

"I just visited her. They say she should be able to testify soon."

"Good." Vincent dreaded doing so, but had to ask. "And what's the bad news?"

Karl looked down and took a deep breath, then he spoke slowly, seeming to want to let Vincent down easy. "Well, the council is going to be interviewing us, once they can get us all together, that's not so bad I guess. The bad news is...umm..." he looked up at Vincent right in the eyes, lowering his voice, "...you're going to be brought up on several disciplinary charges, and they're going to keep you imprisoned here until you've been absolved."

"'Charges?'" Vincent repeated. "I thought I was only facing one."

"They're also holding you responsible for endangering Stan and Craig. And for your unauthorized activities. And for withholding information."

Vincent buried his face in his right hand while holding a bar of the gate with his left. "It's just as that bastard, Clyde..."

"General Clyde," Karl corrected sardonically, "he styles himself a general, remember?"

Vincent nodded gloomily, removing the hand from his face. "He foretold that he 'would be comforted to know that the authorities would be holding me responsible.' Neither of us have been accused of murdering them like he wanted, yet I'm still locked up in here." He let out a sigh, the sad expression remaining on his face. "Am I ever going to be released?"

Karl was silent for several moments. "Your incarceration is absurd. What happened wasn't your fault. Believe me, I tried telling that to the masters many times..."

"I know this isn't your doing, Karl."

"...but they're still holding you answerable for this tragedy."

Vincent scrunched his face up, feeling his irritation rise. "Why are they worrying so much about me!" He protested. "There's a fanatical cult out there that has become a heavily armed menace!"

"If anyone needs a lesson in responsibility, I think it's them." Karl's face took an angry set. "It seems almost like they're locking you up in order to hide their own incompetence. I better go back. Someone has to try to make them see reason." He handed the blue bundle to Vincent, and when he unwrapped it, he was surprised to find that it was his dark blue cloak. The one that he had torn off and thrown in the mud during the battle; it had been cleaned.

"Thank you."

Karl nodded slightly while his eyes stared off in thought, and then left, his arm carrying the rock swaying in a way that was barely noticeable.

Vincent put on his cloak. wrapped himself in it, and remained standing, starting to tire of the stiffness that sitting caused. Eventually though, he had no choice. At least the cloak kept him warmer when he sat; perhaps the coming night would be less uncomfortable because of it. There was little solace for him in that. Even so, right now he had to grasp for every shred he could find.

* * *

Jessica grabbed hold of a stubborn weed and pulled tersely, and then on another, a spotted knapweed in its infancy, and another, venting her frustration with each pull. What was he doing! She thought angrily, beating dirt clumps off the roots and tossing the bundle aside. To her knowledge, this was by far the most reckless thing he had ever done. She had known him, as a friend, for nearly two years from talking to him while she worked in the gardens, and she never would have guessed this of him. He had always been kind and sweet, a considerate person who would never have let something like this happen. The way in which he returned, seeming barely alive, was bad enough to make her heart stop, but what she had learned about his actions that led to it was even worse.

Apparently he had decided to hunt down the thieves responsible for the attack on the vault, all by himself without hardly telling anyone about it. Just a few friends that he managed to drag along, including that wretched Stacy and two unfortunate boys, junior members of the Academy Guard. He had put them in harm's way, and they had paid the ultimate price for it. How could he!

Jessica's eyes glistened, and a tear fell in the dirt beneath her.

As she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her feelings once again shifted toward anger. There was talk of treason. People said he had abandoned his post, disobeyed orders, and withheld critical information about the criminals from the masters. Right now he was in a prison cell, awaiting trial. It would serve him right, she thought bitterly through more tears, if they did keep him locked up for the rest of his life. For reasons she didn't know, she kept feeling an even deeper pain cut through her whenever she thought bad things about him. Ugh! Why was she thinking about him at all! She couldn't get him out of her head, even though she had no business worrying about him. And as for being his friend...she didn't think she wanted him as a friend anymore. A hollow sadness overtook her as her thoughts kept going in circles. Why, Vincent? Why did you do it?

More tears fell as she searched in and around the flowers and trees for more weeds, the drops falling to the ground reminded her that it was time for water. Certain plants were never happy unless kept moist. Not wanting to be seen like this should someone be passing through, Jessica wiped her eyes before returning to the path on her way to the well. She kept her gaze down as she walked, out of sorrow and frustration and to try to hide her still partially wet eyes.

Near a turn in the path and before she could see, Jessica looked up only as she collided with a hooded figure in gray robes. There was a staff in his hand and a white beard hanging in front. It was the old wizard who was a teacher of children, one whom had instructed many in the early stages of their learning, including herself.

Arrendis.

"I think, young lady," he said as he caught and began readjusting his circular lenses back to their former position, "that the two of us need to relearn an old lesson about paying attention to where we're going."

Anger made her speak without thinking. "Yes, someone should teach us how to make wise decisions. Clearly such things couldn't be learned from you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He's an embarrassment to the whole keep! You taught him! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? You took him under your wing!" She pointed at the old wizard. "He was under your personal tutelage! And look what happened!"

"If you are referring to the recent circumstances surrounding Vincent Faren..."

"Who else!"

"I'll thank you not to take that tone with me, young lady."

Jessica let out an aggravated sigh. "Doesn't it bother you that he's committed treason and criminal negligence?"

"Treason? Criminal negligence? Oh my, such serious charges indeed," he looked off in thought for a moment before looking back, "but may I remind you that those are just charges for the time being−he hasn't been found guilty of any..." he frowned curiously as he stared at her, his gaze suddenly taking note of the moisture still in her eyes. Jessica wiped at them again self-consciously. "...do you know Vincent personally? You seem awfully concerned for someone who does not."

"I am...was his friend."

"And why dear lady should you fear continuing to be so?"

"He betrayed us all! He got two boys killed! He betrayed even you and your teachings. How can you stand there and defend him!"

Arrendis was quiet for several moments, staring at her from behind his glasses and a deeper set frown. "You believe him guilty then? Without having been there yourself, judging only from the words of others, others who were also not there themselves." Jessica continued to glare silently. "I'll have you know that I am not ashamed of him. In fact, I have never been more proud. He has demonstrated a courage that few of us have. The charges are mere formalities, excuses to punish him for stepping outside his bounds and taking the initiative."

"His 'stepping outside his bounds,' got himself and his friends hurt, and two boys died!"

"It was a tragedy. That much is certain, yet..."

"He abandoned his post," she cut in, "he disobeyed orders, he didn't tell his superiors what he knew and−that's treason. He abused the respect that two untrained youths had for him to foolishly place them in danger." Her hand tightened into a fist as tears resurfaced. "A negligence that cost them their lives!"

Arrendis looked on stoically, waiting to see if she would say more. "'Treason' and 'negligence' are harsh words that say nothing about the reasons behind the actions he's taken to deserve them. Or the exact situation he was faced with when he did. If you are that shaken by these events, then perhaps you should go speak with Vincent yourself to find out what they truly are. As I am about to do. If he really was your friend as you say, or if you were ever really his, you should have no reason not to."

Jessica was less eager about that idea but didn't want to voice why. "I...um...I've been busy..." she stammered. Arrendis looked off while leaning on his staff, letting a breath out of his nose. "...I,...I suppose I could...but it would have to be after I'm not on duty, if I did..."

"While you're standing there deciding, I must depart and pay him my own visit before attending to other matters at hand." Arrendis' staff made poignant tapping noises on the stone path as he left. "Farewell."

Jessica stood alone on the walkway.

Maybe I will, she thought.

* * *

"...they serve and worship a god named Kargoth, The Lord of Death," Vincent told Arrendis from behind metal bars while he held two of them in his hands. "Strangely enough, they even offered us a chance to join them, and then things got much worse when we refused."

"Remarkable," Arrendis mused, looking down while stroking his white beard, "and what do you suppose was in the caldron?"

"He wouldn't tell us, other than that it was not what he used to bring back Stan and Craig from the dead." Vincent could feel a sharp tinge of despair go through him, and was silent a moment longer. "I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?"

Arrendis looked up from his pondering to gaze into Vincent' eyes meaningfully. "Every action taken has consequences, even if that action is just. I honestly don't know if you will be absolved of this. I will do what I can to sway the council on your behalf, but the final decision will still be theirs to make." His time worn face took on an expression of regret. "I am sorry, Vincent. You must know that I would stay longer to hear more if I could. I cannot. I am due to teach a class soon. I shall return anon to speak of this with you."

As Arrendis began to turn away, Vincent called out his name. When his mentor looked back, Vincent voiced a doubt that had been troubling him all day while he had been waiting in his cell. "Did I make the right choice?" He asked in a subdued tone.

Arrendis stepped closer and placed his hand on Vincent's shoulder, his barely visible sympathetic eyes fixed sincerely on his. "I believe so. The loss of Stan and Craig is unfortunate. I feel sorrow over their passing, having taught them myself when they were younger. I can see also that you are quite distraught over this." He let out a sigh. "However, there are other things to consider. The destiny of those two boys for instance."

"...destiny?"

"They were both junior members of the Academy Guard, were they not? It was their intention to one day lay their lives down for the keep if need be, and when they went with you, they did just that. Had they been fully grown, a negligence that resulted in their deaths would not be listed among the charges leveled against you." Vincent looked down and felt his eyes glisten. "Based on your own story, you were given little time to react. There were few options left to you and all of them unpleasant."

Vincent's demeanor did not change. He felt fear and uncertainty over his fate, which now lay in the hands of a council that held him in no favorable regard. Arrendis squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. "Have faith in yourself, Vincent. It is the only shield you have against despair, your conviction, your only weapon against these less than relevant allegations."

"Less than relevant? Master, I could be severely punished for..."

"Less relevant than what you uncovered that day," Arrendis interjected, "the council should be concerning itself with the newfound threat, not with trying you for these trifles. That is what I meant, of course." Vincent nodded his understanding. "And if the council were indeed taking an active part in seeking your quarry, what would have been the result? Hmm? Whom would they have sent? A handful of wizards? You may have run into more than you could handle, but who is to say that the result could not have been the same or worse had someone other than you and your friends gone in your stead? Their exclusive use of hindsight in their judgment leaves much to be desired."

"But what about my silence? Now that I think about it, if my friends and I had all been killed, which we almost were, there would have been no one left to tell the others what we had learned." He felt a growl of disgust escape his own lips. "I wanted to do more! I did!" He gripped the bars hard and jostled them. "There just wasn't enough time!"

Arrendis shook his head and let out an understanding sigh. "It matters not. You made mistakes, Vincent, everyone does. Even the masters. No one can foresee or control everything, and sometimes unfortunate things happen. We can only remain true to what we believe in and hope that all turns out well." Arrendis held his eyes a moment longer. "I must take my leave of you."

"Thank you for coming, master," Vincent voiced in deference, his mind too preoccupied while he looked off to the side.

* * *

Jessica passed through one stone hall and then another until she came to the entryway for the stairs that would lead down to the detention area. She stopped in front of it without going down. Even if what Arrendis had told her had merit, what was she doing here? Vincent was at most a casual friend, she thought sadly. This was his business, not hers. What did she hope to accomplish by visiting him?

To hear his side of the story, she told herself. To satisfy some twisted curiosity over what turns a good person bad? She wondered. Or perhaps she wanted to learn who the real Vincent actually was since he obviously was not the person she had come to know. She couldn't explain to herself why she should care so much about Vincent; she just did. Something within her longed for him and wished only that Stacy hadn't taken him from her first. Yet there was another part that told her he was careless and unscrupulous−that going to see him was a bad idea. That part kept her standing firmly in place before the stairway opening.

But what if he wasn't?

She would just say "hi," to him, maybe ask a question or two, she thought, negotiating with her own misgivings. Where was the harm in that? Surely it wouldn't hurt to say a few friendly things, ask him how he is, she could manage that.

Jessica tossed her hair back with both her hands self-consciously then took a deep breath and released it audibly in preparation. Carefully grabbing the hem of her light brown dress to make sure she didn't step and trip on its bottom edge, she began taking her first steps down. With how the light orbs were protected, being placed inside stone alcoves in the wall behind a metal grate, this part of the keep appeared much darker than the rest. She felt like she was entering Vincent's dark world. After passing through two other floors, she finally reached the bottom.

The room she came to was almost as dark as the stairway and held two guards in red uniforms near the opening who ignored her at first, seeming more focused on keeping people in than out. A desk stood to her left with a portly, mustached army officer who appeared middle-aged, standing behind it and leaning forward only slightly on his hands. At the opposite end of the room, a thinner hallway broke off with many openings on each side: those led to the holding cells. The officer cleared his throat loudly, though not in way meant to get her attention, and then rubbed the back of his thumb against his mustache irritably.

When Jessica walked closer to him, he looked the other way, obviously disinterested in speaking to her and clearly harboring no intention of stopping her from visiting the prisoner if she chose. Jessica immediately understood: she was a sorceress, and their prisoner, a wizard. They had no say in how he was to be treated and didn't want anything to do with him. If Vincent broke out, she wondered if they would have any conviction whatsoever to risk themselves in trying to stop him or if they would just let him leave without a fight. Normals were intensely fearful of magic, and none of these men appeared pleased with what their work currently entailed.

Jessica walked down the hall slowly, wondering what she would say to Vincent and in what condition she would find him. She looked in both directions down each opening she passed, seeing no one. The end of each hallway contained only an iron gate with a rectangular opening at the bottom for passing food through.

When she reached the other side of the cell block, she looked first down the right opening and after seeing no one, she looked down the left. Vincent was staring down the hall at her as though he had known before seeing her that someone was coming. He sat with his back to the wall on her left, holding his sword across his raised knees and polishing it with the end of his cape, his right hand continued its work even as he looked her way. When their eyes met, she felt a flutter in her chest and stood there for a moment, having to remind herself to walk forward. Vincent watched as she approached, not reacting with the shyness he usually displayed around her in the gardens but with an almost sullen calm. A calm that her instincts told her was also troubled.

Only when she came closer, did he rise to his feet, fit his sword's point into his scabbard's opening, and slide it in. The silence hung thick between them, even more so when he turned to her and stood just on the other side of the bars, waiting for her to say something. His rugged, handsome face looked damaged not by something physical from without, but by something within. With his head resting a little higher than hers, his striking dark eyes remained locked on her own. Jessica's heart raced.

Unable to bear the intensity of their silent connection, she broke from his gaze as her mind worked hard, trying to figure out what to say to him. Somehow, she didn't think that a simple greeting would suffice. She didn't much like what came out either. "You've created quite a stir. There are many around the keep who have come to despise you, I..."

"I don't care," Vincent retorted coldly before she could finish, his tone and his expression betraying a loss of forbearance. She looked back into his eyes. She saw the pain of emotional denial, yet it was clear that he was not in any mood to justify his actions to her if she were one of those people. His next words were cryptic and vague. "Jessica, this is all much bigger than...much bigger than them. If their sensibilities can't handle my minor transgressions, then it's going to be impossible for them to cope with the real trouble, once it begins. If you've come to reprimand me, you're wasting your breath."

She didn't think them minor and lost her cautionary passivity, no longer able to contain herself. "What 'trouble!' Vincent, what has been happening to you lately! Ever since you were attacked that night you've been acting strangely. If you knew something, why didn't you tell the masters and try to get their help?"

Vincent's expression darkened further, and he backed away from the gate, letting out an exasperated breath. "Because they like to pretend things aren't happening! They do nothing unless it's convenient!" He folded his arms and then leaned against a wall, sighing and half talking to himself. "...just like with all the murders and disappearances I was looking into. Illegally."

Jessica could tell that there was much more to his feelings at the moment than a temporary anger from her recrimination. He was afraid of something, terribly afraid, and she didn't think it was a fear for himself.

She frowned. "Telling them would have been better than nothing."

He straightened up and walked toward her. "They wouldn't have cared what I had to say even if I did. I needed more evidence to go anywhere with it. I got the evidence alright, paid for in blood. And for my part, I'm to be punished−for doing what they wouldn't."

"But why did you have to drag Stan and Craig into it!"

She watched Vincent's brown eyes glisten in the pale, white light. He swallowed before speaking. "Stan and Craig are the ones who discovered Clyde and led us to his camp. They threatened to go without me and were too eager to chase after him. All we could do was try to catch up." He looked down and to the side. "I'll probably grieve over their deaths for the rest of my life, always wondering if I could have done something differently. But in the end, it won't help them. Nothing can."

Jessica felt a strong urge to console him. If the bars weren't in the way, she thought she might have. Instead she stood her ground, her eyes beginning to water as well. "You could have told someone," she insisted in a subdued tone. "You could have told someone and asked them to help you stop those boys from running off."

Despite his wet eyes, Vincent's face went from sad to angry. "Don't you think I know that!" He yelled at her. His suddenly loud voice shook her for an instant. "What was I supposed to do! Sick our guards on them and lose my only chance of finding the cult!"

"What cult?"

"Kargoth, they...look, lots of people have died. If we don't stop them, far more are going to die. And when that happens, Stan, Craig, and even your brother will be the least of it."

Jessica was thunderstruck. "What do you know about Harold? Did you see him?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure I know what became of him. When we were attacked, I saw a lot of the missing people. They were..."

"Then maybe he's alive!" She interjected quickly. "Where did you see them! Maybe there's still hope!"

Vincent's appearance became more weary. His eyes glistened as he stared at her. Several long moments passed and he had trouble keeping eye contact. His expression let her know their fate long before he shook his head. She could tell that he didn't want to voice it. She pressed him anyway. She had to know what had happened.

When he told her, a fright clutched at her insides. "But you didn't see him," she maintained, "maybe he's somewhere else. Lost."

Vincent looked troubled at saying what came next. "Jessica, I understand why you want to believe that, but unless there's another cult I don't know about that's been abducting people, it looks pretty grim for him."

Slowly, the weight of it sunk in. She started crying. Moments passed by that seemed like an eternity while she sobbed at her brother's passing. "Why Harold..." she whispered to no one in particular.

When things became quiet, Vincent spoke softly to her. "In the short time that I knew him, I began to feel almost as though he were my own little brother. I would have done anything to spare you this. I didn't get involved at first just because he needed to be saved but because I..."

She sniffled and wiped at her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" She asked before he could finish.

Vincent said nothing.

Her feelings turned to anger as she looked up at him. "Where are they?"

"I don't know. They ran away."

"Why didn't you try to get more help before you left? Maybe with more people you could have killed them!" She sobbed.

Vincent straightened up and fixed her with a serious stare. "I told the only people I could count on to help me, and they did."

Jessica wasn't one of them.

She looked up at his face and heard several pairs of steps approaching from behind as a deep rending sadness swelled in her chest and tears poured from around her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" She could barely control her voice enough to get the words out. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

A voice spoke from behind her. "You will now face your inquiry, Vincent Faren," the man announced evenly. "Open the gate," he muttered to someone else. The same officer she saw in the room outside responded to the command by walking past her and fumbling with a large ring of keys, trying to find the right one.

Vincent sighed in disgust when it was taking too long. "Don't bother." He put his hand near the lock, there was a click, and then he slowly swung the gate inward and stepped out. Jessica was shocked and noticed that the jailor was equally surprised.

"How long have you been able to do that?" One of his guards asked from behind as Vincent came closer to her.

"I have always been able to do that."

He spoke quietly to the other wizard. "We'll need to inform the masters to send someone down here to spell the door."

Vincent turned to her with a sad look and said one last thing before leaving with them. "You've been a good friend, Jessica, and I appreciate the time we've spent together, but it's better if you stay out of this," his tone turned even more somber, "you'll just get in trouble like me."

The wizards flanked him while he walked, keeping a step behind to make sure they would have the upper hand. Jessica watched as the jailor followed the three of them, his keys jangling. Her tears lessened, but another type of sadness overtook her, one that was now born of sympathy for Vincent.

She realized what he had been trying to do all this time.

#  Chapter 14

King Glidewell, sovereign of Ryga, sat atop his mighty throne within the great hall of his palace at Doln. Inside the vast chamber, he had been hearing petitioners bring their complaints. The more petty matters were handled by those under him, but when they deemed them something worthwhile, something that was only within his majesty's power to grant, they were permitted entry. He was a benevolent and enlightened ruler, one that was concerned with the strength and vitality of his nation and who made it his chief aim never to overlook something important. Wars and other disasters could only be prevented in this way, he the sole individual who could mitigate them, and his was the tireless vigilance that ensured the survival and well being of the people throughout his kingdom.

His people.

A golden jeweled crown sat atop his head of brown hair. A red cape tufted with white fur hung at his shoulders. He wore a fine black tunic with gold trimmings above soft black leather pants. On his left hand was a single ring embossed with an emerald, the twin of the one his beautiful queen wore. She sat in a throne to his right, adding her opinion whenever he asked yet was not always present during these the more menial duties of the king. Today she was, for which he was glad. He enjoyed her presence, occasional insights, and she seemed to make the time go by faster. She wore a cape like his, a smaller smoother shaped crown, and a regal and stunning red dress that rose and fell with each of her graceful breaths. Her beautiful dark hair draped over the cape on her back, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap.

Both of their thrones sat atop a raised section of the stone floor higher than the rest by a single step not far from their feet. Before them, the main audience hall stretched out for nearly half a mile toward the other end, part of its high ceiling supported by a column of massive stone pillars on both sides near the walls that separated it from other rooms of the palace. Each had black iron sconces with pitch-soaked torches flaming brightly on four sides to keep all well lit. Alcoves built into the walls, a mere thirty feet from where he sat, held large fireplaces that gave his portion of the vast chamber that much more light and magnificence. Vast though it was, the court was full as always. A crowd stood gathered in the region near the other end, kept back by halberd-wielding guards in red uniforms who made sure they never crossed the invisibly delineated boundary, well before the king, and that they waited their turn for admittance.

Beyond that section, into the open area near his throne, which was by no means small in comparison, was a spread out collection of lords and ladies, distant relatives, and wealthy acquaintances. There was a constant buzzing hum from their talking. They were all dressed in fine clothes, opulent dresses of bright colors, and lavish tunics. Some had become so accustomed to loitering in his court that they comfortably sipped from wine goblets and socialized in groups of two, three, and five, passing amongst each other the latest bit of inconsequential news. Parasites and sycophants all, Glidewell detested them. He kept his daily routine of hearing grievances partly to keep them at arm's length, yet many continued to remain. The audience chamber was so vast that even as they did so, mostly wanting the prestige of being near him, they were no hindrance to his official duties. They even stayed clear of the rabble brought before him by his guards so that he might hear their pleas. There were many times when he wished they were an obstacle, just so he would have an excuse to clear them from his hall and send them home. For now, he tolerated them. For now.

After finishing reading the petition before him, he stroked his brown beard twice and absentmindedly glanced once more toward his beautiful queen before lowering his hand. The scraggly old peasant man wearing tattered clothes was bald on top with light gray hair that hung on the sides of his head and had come from a dry farming community in northeast Ryga that was small and quite poor. He was still on his knees, face and arms flat on the ground before him, beseeching his king's aid.

Glidewell at last spoke. "You claim here that you and your fellow villagers must walk ten miles to the nearest well because yours was built too shallow and has run dry?"

The old man raised himself only enough so that his head was not on the ground. "Yes, your majesty..." he answered in a raspy, weary, time worn voice, "...we are thirsty."

"Why then can you not dig it deeper yourselves?"

"The ground is too rocky, your highness...we don't have the tools or the labor...and the drought has kept the ground dry. Please, your majesty, it is not in our nature to beg, but you are the only one who can help us."

"I see, then in that case..." Glidewell began.

One of his advisors began immediately whispering in his ear. "Beg your pardon, eminence, but wells are a private matter paid for by individuals. If you grant this request, other subjects will only be emboldened to beseech favors upon your treasury."

He did not dignify the interruption by looking. "This is not about gold, this is about granting aid. By divine right I am their king. To whom else will they turn in their hour of need?"

The king saw in his peripheral vision his advisor bowing his head, not wanting to appear confrontational, and keeping it low. "It is a spurious expense, my liege."

Glidewell's tone became harsh. "I will decide what is 'spurious.'" His advisor had become a nuisance of late, never telling him anything useful, just another parasite like the rest.

"Yes, sire," he replied, taking a step back. The Rygan king had become accustomed to seeing his retainers intimidated by his height and strong voice if not his station.

His eyes, which had been looking at nothing in particular, returned to the pitiable old man. "Your request is granted."

The weary peasant was so excited and overcome with joy that he raised his head for a tiny instant such that Glidewell was able to see the look on his face. "Many great thanks, your highness."

"But not to the letter of your petition," he announced in a loud voice, looking around at others gathered in his vast court. "There will be conditions." The old man shook with a start. "Instead, my advisor, since he is so concerned about finances, will carry a royal ledger with him to oversee the project himself. He will accompany you and the diggers back to your home, escorted by two of my guards, to ensure that no coin is spent frivolously."

"Thank you, your majesty."

He didn't think that his advisor would raise an objection, yet he started to. "Sire, I..."

Glidewell shot him a glare that silenced him. His tone remained harsh. "It is your duty to carry out my will." He spoke slowly, punctuating his words with an underpinning that only frightened him further. "Is there any good reason why you cannot?"

He shook his bowed head. "No, sire."

"Excellent, then I shall look forward to your return," he added politely. He then stood and raised his voice to the entire hall. "Let it be known throughout the land that I, Glidewell, sovereign King of Ryga, will never cease to keep my people's best interest at heart." He paused, holding everyone's attention. "I will not part with my gold foolishly, and I will have the head of anyone who tries to steal from my purse through trickery, but I will never hesitate to bestow my help to those who need it." The peasants toward the other end of the vast hall waited silently, not knowing what to make of this proclamation, while those of more fortunate birth in front wore smiles and clapped in a vigorous though insincere fashion a short while before slowly returning to talking amongst themselves.

Before sitting back down, he glanced instinctively to find the arm of his throne and, already knowing where it was, instead caught a glimpse of the queen smiling at him. He smiled back at his loving wife. She seemed to enjoy moments like these when he asserted himself.

He did these though, not for the sake of pleasing her alone but because it was what a wise ruler should do. His father had always taught him that protecting the people, ensuring their well being and prosperity, was the way to gain their loyalty. And to a king, loyalty was everything. His subjects in turn would thrive and multiply, contributing more to his treasury and when need came, lay down their lives for him without hesitation. A greedy and selfish ruler, one who took without giving, gained neither loyalty nor gold. He merely sat on what he had, reaped what he could off the destitution and suffering of others, and then was finally expunged by the discontented masses who could bear it no more. Often throughout history, the forlorn would throw their lot in with a powerful noble seeking the throne, one who promised them things that their king should already have been giving them.

More though than any token of logic, Glidewell had seen his approach obtain tangible results time and time again. It was unheard of, a king who served his subjects was in turn served better by them, yet that was the reality. He had seen too the effect that his benevolent actions always had. A self-satisfied grin spread on his face at the remembrance of the look on the old peasant's face when he acquiesced, a desperate soul who would return to other desperate souls with their king's generosity, happy and content, ready to live their full lives unabated once more. And it was not the first time he had seen it.

A steady beat of noisy clanks that he could not mistake approached from far to his left, echoing throughout the hall. They were from none other than the boots of General Wainwright, one of his most trusted. The general did not frequent the audience chamber unless it was to bring some new threat to his attention.

Glidewell rose prior to his arrival and held his hand up to halt the servant who was about to hand him the next petition. Wainwright's metallic steps grew closer until he loomed in the left side of Glidewell's vision. The Rygan king turned and looked toward him.

General Wainwright stood before him with a serious, perhaps almost angry, expression on his tight-lipped, muscular jaw, and cold blue eyes. The black mustache under his big nose drooped down each side of his mouth and only seemed to amplify his look of displeasure. His short hair was dark with gray on its sides, attesting to his many years of service. In his view, he stood more than the normal two inches shorter because of the stone step Glidewell was still standing on. The armor he wore was well-crafted plate after well-crafted plate of shiny, well-polished steel, with a raised lion head roaring from the center of his chest. Wainwright wore it comfortably like a second skin, appearing unimpeded by the weight. A wide black cape that draped loosely behind him was affixed to his shoulder plates by two round, flat gold discs that served as caps for the bolts. While on duty and not sleeping, his general never took any of it off, nor did he ever forget to wear his sword. Today, like other days, it rested in the gold embossed black scabbard at his side that was wrought with flowing designs.

There was a curious vellum scroll rolled up in his fist.

Glidewell's eyes went to it before returning to that of his general. "Yes?"

"Highness," he began in his deep voice, "there is something I wish to speak with you about. Privately."

He nodded and made a flick of his hand, beckoning him toward the fireplace on the right of the room where no one else was standing. The general was silent except for the clanks from his feet as they both strode to it. It was not far from the two thrones. When they were both standing near the hearth, Glidewell turned to him. "What is it, general?"

"A letter, your majesty."

"Many letters are brought to my attention daily," he reminded, "why does this one trouble you?"

"It makes an unusual threat on your life, my king." Wainwright handed him the rolled up scroll, the vellum of which looked to be made from a curious material.

Glidewell untied the leather string and unfurled it. It read:

You, the pathetic, mortal king of Ryga are nothing. You will soon be kneeling at my feet, for I am the slain, the betrayed, the vengeful,...but not the forgotten. Your flesh, like that of the worms you preside over, shall be joined unto me. Surrender now, and perhaps I will make it a merciful transition.

If you have read the prophecy, then you already know I will not fail. This life as you know it, is over. Defy me and your land will be destroyed. I offer you this one chance to lessen your people's misery by joining my legions willingly, for my war upon the gods is at hand.

−THE LORD OF DEATH

His hand shook with rage before he finished reading. He thrust it back toward the general, who took the mashed yet flexible letter back in his hand. His back was to him while he stormed toward the throne. He felt his face redden in anger while he rose a clenched and shaking fist. "This is an insult!" His queen looked at him with a concerned frown, wondering what was the matter. "Who wrote this!" He demanded. "Where did it come from!" He turned around, standing in front of the queen's throne. "Who delivered it!"

Everyone became silent and stared, it was unheard of to see him to lose his temper so.

"No one knows, my king," his general answered.

"How can no one know!"

"It appeared mysteriously, highness. I checked. I had my men check. No one can verify how it came here. It's as if it were borne on a wind."

He turned and took a step to stand before his own throne, taking a deep calming breath before turning around once more. It wasn't the written threat that bothered him. The letter had obviously come from a madman, an upstart necromancer, or both. Regardless, the insufferable fool could never hope to back such wild claims. Glidewell was more infuriated over the insult it's existence conveyed, someone daring to offend a monarch such as he and wasting his time with such filthy libel, than by the insane ranting. Gradually though, the outrage was wearing off; written words could not harm him.

"What do you want done with it, my king?"

He finally came to sigh in indifference. "Throw it in the fire," he ordered while sitting down.

His loyal general did as told, crumpling up the parchment in his strong hands and tossing it aptly toward the center of the hearth. An eerie darkness settled over the vast chamber, causing all gathered to cease their activities in alarm. The huge roaring flames changed to blue, casting a chilling hue across the dark hall.

Everyone waited silently.

As the luminescence slowly changed to a bright green, there were several sharp flashes of light accompanied by sparks. A voice deeper than any imaginable laughed "HA, HA, HA..." and then was quiet. The king then began to hear another sound. It was faint at first but then grew in intensity. It sounded like an unearthly wailing, the wailing of souls from beyond the grave. What was a few quickly became hundreds and then became the deafening roar of thousands. White streaks flew out of the fireplace, screaming and adding to the cacophony. His blood chilled.

The specters unleashed from the netherworld flew about his hall, killing at will. Their sleek forms sliced through their victims as though a sheet of the underworld itself. There were some that began flying dangerously close to his throne. After flinching back past one, he immediately came to his feet and jumped atop his queen, shielding her with his body.

General Wainwright kept his back flattened against the stone wall left of the fireplace, keeping out of the path of the screaming ghosts that continued to spew forth one at a time. He gritted his teeth in horror as he watched people in the audience chamber be slain on contact with the apparitions. As the bodies of noblemen and women, peasants and servants alike fell, blood was thrown across the floor. Everyone else in the packed hall began to panic and run for the exits, causing pandemonium. One of the court wizards dove behind a pillar for protection. Soldiers in red uniforms rushed into the room from different directions, accompanied by a handful of wizards. They kept their distance, yet a few of the less quick or wary were claimed.

The wizard behind the pillar yelled at the top of his lungs. "Someone pull that thing out of the fire! It's the only way!"

Many guards wanted to, even a servant to the left of the queen's throne kept testing how far he could get, but none could come close. Wainwright peeked past the stone edge and glared at the green flames in contempt, eyeing the crumpled vellum in the center of the blaze and ran his right thumb across an itch on his mustache. He inched in as close as he dare, waited until right after a ghost had passed, and then shot his hand in.

Hot burning agony like he had never known tore through his left hand. Not letting it force him to clench, he held it open until just the moment he could grasp the crumpled ball. Another specter flew past, barely missing him and leaving a gash in his breastplate, barely missing his flesh. With a growl of rage and pain, he threw the letter out onto the floor, where several of the wizards rushed forward and stamped it out with their feet. It had not even been singed by the fire and appeared the same as before.

Wainwright recoiled from the flames, which had returned to normal, sweating profusely from the heat of having been so close. Natural light crept back into the vast court, replacing the dark. He looked around, his eyes searching for more of the wailing ghosts. Finding none, he returned his attention to his burnt hand. All was quiet once more. The pops of wood in the flickering flames of the hearth was the only sound.

The smell of blood, smoke, and his own burnt flesh lingered in the air.

Glidewell slowly turned from covering his queen to take a look. Everything had returned to normal. Normal, that was, aside from the corpses littering the floor of his audience chamber which was now otherwise completely empty.

More than an idle threat, he thought. In his forty-two years of life, he had never seen the like of it. He stood to his full height and surveyed the scene. Bodies were everywhere. Blood was everywhere. To his left stood his palace guards in red tabards, wielding swords, shields and halberds, and bearing his black lion crest on their chests. Beneath metal helmets he saw pairs of blue and brown eyes looking on worriedly over the carnage, a few looking his way, almost as if seeking assurance. It was an assassination attempt that they, men with steel and iron, were helpless against.

Glidewell's eyes shifted to something he saw against the far wall on his left, beyond the pillars. It was a young boy of perhaps twelve, one of the pages, still standing with his back against the wall, trembling in fear.

The Rygan king would not be daunted by this magician's cheap tricks. This so called Lord of Death would soon get his answer. And it was going to start with this boy.

"You there, page! Come here!" He commanded irately while curling the fingers in his left hand repeatedly in a beckoning gesture. The frightened boy remained frozen. "Now!" He yelled.

The boy ran across the blood strewn hall, maneuvering past the rent bodies and putting his hands over his mouth to keep from vomiting. His smaller red tabard jostled with him as he moved, and he almost slipped after stepping in one of the pools of blood. He tracked red footprints on the floor leading up to his king. When he came closer, he knelt down on one knee and swallowed back his bile. He kept his head bowed, holding his arms slightly off to the sides, palms up. Before he knelt, Glidewell caught a glimpse of a disgusting wet stain all along the crotch and legs of his light gray pants.

"Y-yes, sire?" The frightened lad asked in a shaken voice when he was finally able to.

"Fetch my scribes!"

"Yes, your majesty."

The boy took off running. "And get changed once you're done!" He called out to him, trying to return his mind to practical matters. "You!" He shouted, pointing at one of his red robed wizards. "Bring me someone who can read the spells on this infernal letter!"

"Right away, your highness," he answered dutifully before leaving.

"You men!" He yelled, addressing his palace guards.

"Sire!" They responded as one, straightening up and clanking their weapons in salute.

"Fetch the servants to clean up this mess! And then summon the undertakers to the palace. I want to make sure everyone is given a proper funeral! Even the peasants!" Their eyes went sideways toward each other, confused by that last bit, not quite sure how to go about finding the relatives of the impoverished and nameless deceased. It was also a private matter, but they had died in his hall, and so he was responsible. "Now hop to it!" He shouted to hurry them along. They all began scrambling in different directions at once.

Fuming mad, Glidewell next walked slowly and deliberately with each step toward his valiant general standing near the fireplace, who still held his hand by his left wrist, studying his burns without any expression of pain on his now red marked face. Doing so when the damage was severe enough that a lingering smoky stench of his own flesh still hung in the air was only a further testament to his great inner strength. As he came closer, he noticed that one of the specters had also left a gash on his breastplate that damaged the armor but had missed the man underneath it.

"Your hand?"

"It's not bad, sire. Things could have been worse."

"Indeed. Go see the court physician and have it taken care of." Wainwright turned and took a few clanking steps away, still holding his left forearm with his right hand. "One more thing, general," he called out to him.

The armor clad officer turned around. "Yes, sire?" His deep voice responded, his head still staring at the severe burns.

There was a pause before his majesty spoke. "Make ready my knights and wizards. We ride when this letter's source is found."

Wainwright's head slowly came up from staring at his hand. On his face there was a grim look that hungered for battle and said that he found the idea agreeable. "With pleasure, my king."

* * *

After the other preparations had been made, Glidewell stood in General Wainwright's long rectangular office wearing his king's armor and black cape. His helmet with crown-like protrusions of gold at the top was nestled in the crook of his left arm. The general stood in front of the desk to his right along with the other knights flanking the king. Hovering around the monarch were scribes with ledgers ready to record anything he deemed important or pen any edict he might make. With his warriors assembled, he waited for any information that a gaggle of gray robed mages standing with their backs to a fireplace, pouring over the infamous letter, would finally provide.

"What do you make of it?" Glidewell prodded impatiently.

The older wizard holding the undamaged letter continued to inspect it closely, his eyes squinting in concentration. He seemed almost not to have heard his king. A hum came out of his pursed lips. "The material it's made from appears to be Human skin," he said in thought, "maybe from someone's back, the poor bastard," he added under his breath. "The ink, rather than a messy blood that would dry and flake off without making the journey, is from a pen of some sort. A magic pen. Yes, there can be no doubt of that. There aren't many, and this one's mark is quite distinctive. And, if I'm not mistaken..." he looked more closely with a frown and a squint. "...I believe it to be the Arkiban Quill Pen, your majesty," he at last pronounced.

"Where was its last known location?" King Glidewell asked next.

The wizards each looked at each other uncomfortably. None looked willing to speak. It was as if the question itself were a spell unto them.

"Where is it from?" The king intoned, his irritation rising.

One of his wizards, a blond man in red robes, finally answered. "Gadrale Keep, Sire."

Gadrale Keep was the home of the mage academy from which all wizards in his employ gained their original training, the source of the magical elite that he surrounded himself with. He knew exactly why his retainers had been reluctant to tell him. The border fortress on the outskirts still held a place in each of their hearts.

Glidewell closed his eyes in a smoldering rage. "General Wainwright," he called out.

Without yet opening his eyes he heard a smart clank as the general stepped forward at attention. "Sire."

"Have our men search again every possible means by which this letter could have been delivered." His tone became angry though the anger wasn't directed at the general. He spoke through clenched teeth, "find out who sent it!"

"It will be done, my king," he acknowledged before walking off in a series of noisy clanks.

Glidewell opened his eyes but did not bother to look at the next person he beckoned. "Scribe."

An older man with a ledger came forward to his side. "Yes, your majesty," came a higher pitched and more studious voice.

"I wish my words conveyed to Gadrale Keep."

"You wish a cerebist sent to you, your highness?"

"No. I want to dictate a letter so that my words and my meaning are delivered in no uncertain terms. Then I want it sent by our fastest rider. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sire," he acknowledged quickly. "Please go on."

King Glidewell took a deep breath and spoke each word slowly. "Dear esteemed Treyfon, Grandmaster and Director of Gadrale Keep Mage Academy..."

#  Chapter 15

The stone hallway carved with the depictions of Gadrale's historic grandmasters lay ahead in his vision, each moment going by feeling as though it brought him closer to a disastrous fate he could not escape. Pairs of light orbs placed near the walls at even intervals marked brightly his path through the gloom. It was a dire occasion that promised him only cruelty and humiliation, yet strangely, Vincent held his head high. He had been ashamed of himself before; this time he was ready to defend his actions.

The big gray-iron double doors to the council chambers grew larger and larger in his view. As they walked, the collective footsteps of he and the two wizards escorting him thudded on stone like the beat of drums before an execution. They stopped several feet in front of the closed doors, giving themselves enough clearance. The blue robed wizard with the iron rod for a staff held up his hand, causing them both to open.

Inside, Vincent saw the council of masters sitting in a half circle on the other side of the large black meeting table, their robes covering up the reflective silver chairs they sat on. Rick, Karl, and Stacy were standing in a row before the table and had their heads turned around to watch him entering. The two wizards who were his guards stopped and stood on either side of the doors, letting him go the rest of the way on his own since it was clear where he was supposed to stand.

Rick looked on at him with serious eyes above his red mustache as Vincent approached. Karl, whose rock rested on the floor just behind where he stood, wore a disconcerted expression that said things were not going well. Stacy, still looking somewhat pale and maybe even a little faint, offered a meek smile in greeting before turning back around with the others. Vincent scratched at his stubble and tried to keep his courage while he went to stand with them to the right of her.

The doors to the adjoining halls that led to the twelve offices of the major department heads, as well as the other for the Grandmaster's Abode, stood closed with the runes on each surface clearly visible. Light from each hall was shut out, giving the room a cloistered feel. Creatures carved into the glossy black stone walls within the circular room all seemed to take a frightening leap closer. The gray stone-block floor beneath served only to lift them off the ground and support their attack postures. In the center of the room up at the ceiling, was the largest light orb to be found in Gadrale Keep. Vincent's eyes had to adjust; the room was much brighter than where he had recently been spending most of his time.

All of the masters were gathered, their eyes giving the appearance of passing judgment over him, each incriminating him in their own way. Vincent didn't like the look of it. It was as if they had already made up their minds about him.

Grandmaster Treyfon sat in the center of them, his big deep-blue pointy Elf eyes gazing on him passively with hardly a blink, his keen mind concealed within. A flat metal plate with raised edges and a round indentation in its center held a shiny metal ball that was bigger than one's fist. It was his tool for marking judgments and keeping order during the proceedings, and the plate holding it rested on the table in front of him side by side with a rolled up scroll. Gray hair running down the sides of his wide face and parted by each sharp ear tip denoted his millennia of life. The simplicity of his dirty, plain tan robes, marking his profession as a botanical mage, made him stand out among the others and almost seemed to do more to elevate his status than hide it.

To his right sat Master Anthony, dean of atmomancy, an old man with short white hair, a neatly trimmed white beard, and venerable blue eyes. Rather than showing Stacy a look of disappointment, he sat straight up with his eyes staring at Vincent as though this were all his doing, that he had somehow dragged her into it. At least that was what Vincent perceived.

Disappointment though, was exactly what Master Clemens was displaying right now. An agitated frown creased his brow and his face was contorted into a mild scowl. He sat with his dark stained hands folded, leaning forward with his elbows on the table in front of him.

At Clemens' right sat three people Vincent recognized by sight but not by name. The Master Seeress, a woman in an elegant light gray and white dress, wore an intricate tiara with wiry strands of shiny metal and a brilliant blue sapphire mounted in its center. Her pupils were those with the vision: the gifted few who could project their awareness outward to sense things far into other lands. She, like most others assembled, looked on at Vincent disapprovingly. At her right sat a man in gray robes who was the Master Cerebist, and right of him, The Master of Illusion, wearing purple robes and a furled pointy hat, all of which had gold moons and stars throughout.

At Treyfon's left sat someone who Vincent knew was going to be his chief opponent in these proceedings: Master Magnus, possibly the greatest pyromancer ever to have lived. The red-robed wizard was none too pleased during their last meeting; he had even proposed that Vincent be expelled for his mistake in the vault. It left him wondering if he considered this the kind of failure that would not be tolerated a second time. Beneath his angry brown eyes and bald head with bushy graying hair on its sides, he wore no beard, just a scowl. Vincent was surprised to see that it was only a partial one and that his face was not nearly as red or livid as he expected it to be. It didn't change when he occasionally glanced at the others, including Rick. Magnus was a hard, strict elitist who had no favorites, not that Rick would necessarily qualify as one if he did. Unlike Anthony and Stacy, it did not appear as though he intended to show anyone, much less him, any special leniency.

Left of Magnus sat a kinder, perhaps more impartial face which was that of Master Gautrek, dean of geomancy. The brown eyes of the gray bearded old Dwarf looked on at each of them, including Karl, without any particular bias, except for Vincent, whom he appeared unsure what to think of. Or else hid it well.

At his left sat a woman in a white dress who was the Master Healer. Left of her sat a bald man with a long gray beard wearing black leather pants and a vest made of animal skin as well as a necklace made of bones and teeth from creatures unknown. Magical runes and spells were tattooed all over his muscled chest and arms, mostly in black but also in a few other colors, notably in a thick swath of blue on his head from which his nearly black eyes gazed out from underneath. He made each of them uncomfortable when he looked their way. Vincent had heard only that he was called a summoner; a summoner of what, he didn't know. The other two on the end past him were a musician and a spell-writer.

Vincent's eyes returned to Grandmaster Treyfon, who motioned with a slight upward tip of his head toward the two wizard guards standing not far behind them. The doors shut with a loud deep boom, encasing them solidly within the chamber as though it were their tomb. The council was convened.

The ancient Elf kept his voice raised not as much as he would for addressing a crowd but enough for all in the room to hear. "Vincent Faren, Stacy Clark, Karl Faren, and Erick Miller, you have been summoned here before The Council of Masters of Gadrale Keep to testify your full knowledge of the events that unfolded on the night of June 22nd in which as a result the four of you suffered injuries and in which Craig Randall and Stanley Jones perished, to testify your full knowledge of the criminals you faced during your unsanctioned search, and to answer the charges leveled against you." He picked up the parchment scroll in front of him on the table and unfurled it. "You will all be facing one count of treason, except for you Vincent Faren, who will be facing three counts of treason and one count of criminal negligence.

"The first charge of treason, which you all face, is contingent on your withholding the information you gathered on thieves and murderers who recently performed a raid on The Crafters' Vault within our citadel. This lapse of judgment or else deliberate action on your part will be rectified immediately before you receive punishment." His hand lowered the parchment, and his gaze went to Vincent. "Once your testimonies are heard, an inquiry regarding the other charges leveled against Swordsman, Vincent Faren alone will commence."

He looked over at Vincent's cousin before continuing. "Karl Faren has already told some of us what has happened, but not all of us have had a chance to hear it. Despite his pleas, we have refused to allow him to elaborate further until this point in time. The search team which he guided to the site of the altercation has already informed us of their findings; your testimonies will be compounded with these other facts we've received.

"Since you are believed to be the primary instigator of this affair, Vincent Faren, we will hear your testimony first."

Vincent was silent a moment at first, not knowing where to begin, and felt an uncomfortable nervousness settle over his body as all eyes were on him. "As you wish, grandmaster," he replied. "Where would you like me to start?"

Treyfon's expression unexpectedly took on an irritated set, his eyes incriminating him where before they had remained dispassionate. "We know about your external trappings prior to the date in question. Word has reached our ear of the interviews and other activities you pursued on the keep's behalf without our permission." Vincent felt a fear clutch at him while his eyes darted to the side to glance at Karl, but his cousin hadn't noticed and showed him no look in response. There was no way for him to know if they had learned this from him or from someone else. Treyfon's sharp senses caught him doing this, and his keen eyes also flicked once in Karl's direction, but he did not answer the silent question Vincent had asked. "Begin by telling us everything you were up to, everything you learned, everything happening up to the night in question, and then tell us what happened on the night in question."

It was a lot, but Vincent couldn't back down. "Yes, sir."

It took a while though not as long as he thought it would have. Many among the council passed surprised looks between each other at exactly how much initiative he had taken. They were particularly ruffled by one instance Vincent recounted where he had used intimidation as a means of eliciting cooperation from someone he questioned. He would have kept this secret from them for his own sake, but since they claimed knowledge, there was no way for him to know exactly how much they really knew. If he wasn't forthcoming, his integrity would be compromised and things would turn out worse for him in the end. Rather than take any such risk, he decided that he preferred to be damned for who he really was.

Grandmaster Treyfon and the rest of the council became increasingly discomforted when he got to the part where he spoke with Stan and Craig to discover the name 'Kargoth' but did not interrupt him. None looked surprised when he told them of the prophecy where the name appeared. Even though they found his actions surrounding Stan and Craig upsetting on the night of the 22nd, they still kept quiet and let him continue on with the rest.

Vincent then reached the point in time when they had a brief conversation with the cult's leader, Clyde, in which he offered them a chance to join. "...the cult believes themselves to be part of The Lord of Death's revolution against false gods and that it has begun. I don't know if..."

Treyfon held up his hand. "Your cousin failed to mention this."

"You didn't give me the chance, grandmaster," Karl retorted.

"Watch your tone!" Magnus scolded irately.

"That is their cause," Vincent stated plainly. "They believe that their god, Kargoth, has finally risen and that they serve his will. There is no way to know yet if they are merely mad, delusional, or if there really is someone posing as The Lord of Death."

Treyfon's pointy ancient eyes continued to fix themselves on Vincent. "You believe then that their backing is immaterial?"

"I would like to since that would make them nothing more than an isolated group of deranged lunatics that we need only find and destroy, but I have to consider the other possibility. And based on this deviation from their usual cautious and secretive behavior"−he glanced at Stacy−"as well as the...curious astrological alignment that my friend has shown me...well, I just hope that I'm wrong." Master Anthony looked on with only a hint of disapproval, much less than when Vincent had first told the masters what she had shown them.

Grandmaster Treyfon slowly and unexpectedly leaned forward and buried his face in his right hand. "Kargoth is the fabled bringer of the dead. His insatiable hunger to devour all life is the reason the other gods turned against him in the first place." The other masters looked his way but said nothing.

A moment passed. "Perhaps we shouldn't jump to conclusions," Master Anthony put in stoically. "The timing of events does not always match up correctly with the stars." The dean of atmomancy then glanced over at Stacy. Vincent had no way to know if this was right.

Treyfon kept his face in his hand, muttering at a level meant only for Anthony to hear or perhaps just himself. "'The death plague has seven arms,'" he quoted. "'They will strike when the storm covers the eye.'" Master Anthony looked his way once but remained quiet.

"Sir?"

"Please go on," he replied without looking up.

Vincent continued, telling them the rest of the conversation before they were attacked. He told them about the liquid inside the cauldron which Clyde claimed not to be the source of the undeath spell, and they were in agreement that it was probably something else. Treyfon also commented on how the vial of plant extract stolen that night couldn't be used for anything related to undeath. In addition to this, they claimed that every source known to them made no indication that necromancy required any potions. No one could tell Vincent what the liquid inside was and voiced that it could be just about anything else.

He recounted the battle, as much of it as he could remember, his memory not perfect due to the quick pace of events during the heat of combat. As he told the tale, something happened that Vincent did not foresee. A few of the masters raised eyebrows at what he recalled and were silently impressed by his valor and efficiency. Master Magnus was not. Apparently they had a much lower estimation of what Vincent was capable of than he thought they did and were therefore surprised.

When he got to the part when the cult unleashed the black wyvern, the master pyromancer was not only unimpressed but was becoming increasingly incredulous. "No one can control that flame on a whim; it contains a power from the world beyond. And reconciling it with our own is not something I have deemed necessary to teach my students, since it is so rare."

Rick put a fist over his mouth and coughed, clearing his throat before speaking up. He treaded cautiously. "Yes, I've been meaning to ask you about that," he started. "I didn't like the feel of that green flame coming from its mouth. It felt tainted somehow. Wrong. I had a hard time controlling it."

"That's because part of its essence doesn't belong in our plane of existence," Magnus explained. "Its fire was mixed with that from the underworld. And you've had plenty of chances before now to ask me about it, why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't think that you would believe me."

"Well at least you've gotten one thing right."

Vincent was bothered by this and spoke up in his defense. "If I had to, I would stake my life on him being able to do it again."

Magnus regarded him with a sneer, unconvinced by his remark. "I don't think you had to do it the first time." He then sat back and mocked him. "But please, don't let me stop you. Go on. I like listening to fanciful stories."

Vincent began to lose his temper. "We're telling you the truth!"

Treyfon interposed himself before Magnus could say more, striking the metal ball on its plate several times with a deep, thick clank while holding up his hand. When the other two were silent, he asked Vincent to continue, and he did. At the part when he had sealed Stacy's wounds shut with his heated knife, he heard her whisper a 'thank you' at his side. He glanced her way once to acknowledge it and kept speaking. It didn't take long after he began to tell them about the madness he had endured in getting her out of there before Master Magnus once again started raising objections.

"Wait a minute. You mean to say that you fought against a black wyvern, a creature thirty times your size, by yourself, with only a sword, and lived to tell about it?"

"Well, master, like I was about to say I was not alone. My cousin Karl aided me in the fight..."

"I thought you said you had become separated."

Magnus was probing for any inconsistencies that might reveal lies, but Vincent had nothing to hide. "It was right at that point when he managed to rejoin Stacy and I, aiding me in combat."

"How lucky for you," Magnus remarked doubtfully, "go on."

Vincent sighed in annoyance and then continued to tell the tale of his frightening battle with the wyvern that nearly resulted in his death and how with his cousin's help he was able to at last injure the beast enough to drive it away. After that, there wasn't much left, only how Karl helped cauterize his wounds with the heated knife that he handed to him and how the three of them limped back to the keep.

The masters were nothing if not thorough. In the same meticulous manner as on the other occasion that Vincent had come to stand before them, they had Karl go through everything that he experienced that night. They wanted to gather anything and everything that could be gleaned from hearing his perspective, considering no detail unimportant. As Karl progressed through a story that Vincent had more or less already told, he echoed points of contention in Vincent's account that the masters had been trying to find slip-ups in. His cousin verified what had happened with the wyvern, deviating only during the period of time when they were not together.

Rick told a similar story when it was his turn, though with little concerning the wyvern after he steered away the flames and they all made their escape. Much of what he remembered after that point was being tirelessly hunted by zombies until finally losing them and then becoming lost himself in the forest. Stacy's account was even shorter since she was unconscious for much of the time when they were fleeing the wyvern, yet she confirmed nearly everything else.

Occasionally Vincent caught some of the masters whispering to each other while staring at him. At first he thought they were speaking of things that incriminated him or were passing judgments between themselves, but it looked less harsh than that, as if they were seeing him in some new light. Perhaps it was something about having all three of his friends speak of his fighting prowess and integral part of their joint strategy to stay alive that was giving them something to think about. The decapitated corpses and the arrangement of bodies that the search team would have reported to them certainly would have verified his friends' claims. It also would have been easy to discern those that Vincent had slain from theirs.

After Stacy had finished giving her testimony, looking almost ready to faint, Treyfon once again turned his attention to Vincent. "What else can you tell us about this cult that you haven't already? If the four of you are to have any hope of being forgiven for your offense, you must disclose all that you have learned, no matter how insignificant it might seem."

Vincent's mind grabbed at anything it could find. "Well, this is probably already a moot point..."

"Voice it anyway," Treyfon insisted.

"I believe that the cult is in fact responsible for all the deaths and disappearances that I was looking into. Many of the corpses attacking us bore a resemblance to some of the missing persons I sought."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"I know, but their sheer numbers do. I'm sure that once all the bodies are identified, if they can be, you'll see that I'm right."

The gruff voice of Master Gautrek, who normally kept silent, joined in. "But what of all the missing children on that list?" The green-robed Dwarf asked. "From your own recollection, you were swarmed mainly by deceased adults."

"I think that their wyvern is the answer to that," Vincent replied sadly. "They used children for their Seal of Cheated Light and probably fed what was left to it. The crumpled up bone remains might be the result of..."

Magnus, who sat leaning the side of his head on his hand with the same elbow resting on the table cut him off rudely, his tone quick and impatient. "Yes, yes, we are all aware of how wyverns consume their prey whole, digest them, and then without having any further use of the bones, regurgitate the pellets to excrete them orally. Get on with it."

Vincent silently glared in his direction, thinking to himself that if Master Magnus were so knowledgeable, maybe he should have done something about it. He then returned his gaze to Treyfon and did as told. "I don't know if the Kargoth they fight for is a man, truly a god, or just an idea, but if there is one congregation of his followers, there might be more."

"Of the ones that you battled, how many do you think are left?" The ancient Elf asked next.

Though Vincent thought it a very pertinent question, he had trouble coming up with an answer. He took a deep breath and scratched his head while letting it out. "The villagers and other victims who were slain and resurrected as zombies were plentiful enough...I didn't get a precise count. As for the ones wearing black hoods and robes, I wasn't really in a position to..." Stacy murmured something at his side but he didn't hear it because it was too quiet.

Treyfon leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. "I'm sorry, what?"

Everyone was quiet and listened to her intently, and there was no doubt that the black eyes of the rune-covered, savage-looking summoner were gazing upon her even though this was not readily visible. Her voice when it came was soft, and she took slow breaths while she took her time with it, looking too weakened to do more. "...it was dark and there were quite a few in the surrounding trees...I would guess that they still had over half their number when they retreated...They could have killed us...I'm sure of it...They just didn't want to risk any more of their flock to do it...They weren't willing to accept the losses."

"Makes sense," Master Clemens commented from Anthony's right.

A great deal of time had been spent reviewing all the information the four of them provided, and the council had asked so many questions that Treyfon accidentally repeated one already asked. "And what do you make of the green flame they used against you?" Out of respect, or fear, none of them were eager to voice right away that it was redundant.

Karl stood waiting with his green-sleeved arms folded, looking off to the side disinterestedly, and became irreverent. "Maybe you should ask Master Magnus to add it to the curriculum."

Magnus' face turned red and he leaned forward, looking as though he would have strangled Karl if the large table and the distance hadn't been between them. "You insolent little whelp!"

Treyfon put a hand on his shoulder to ease him back. "Oh yes, I can see that we have already covered that." He looked to the row of his colleagues on one side and then on the other. "Unless someone has any other questions left, I think it is time we proceeded with the next stage of this inquiry."

He waited. None of the masters on either side of him voiced anything. "Very well then, we shall move on to the disciplinary actions." He unfurled the scroll once again. "Of the first charge, you are all guilty. There can be no doubt of this. You did withhold vital information from us. However, we have no reason to believe that it was done as a malicious and deliberate act of betrayal, and since you were all forthcoming today, your sentences for this charge will be reduced. Stacy Clark, Karl Faren, and Erick Miller, as punishment, the three of you will perform menial duties as decided by each of your department heads for no less than one week." If not for his worry over his own worse fate, Vincent would have felt more sorry for Rick than he did since he knew who was going to be deciding his tasks. "Vincent Faren, since you face three additional charges, your penalty will be assessed separately.

"The second charge leveled against you is regarding your extra-jurisdictional activities. We have, by your own admission and from evidence that we have received, reason to believe that you did willfully carry out interrogations and interviews on behalf of Gadrale Keep when not authorized by us to do so in any official capacity. How do you plead?"

"Guilty," Vincent answered, his mood sinking while he looked down.

"Of the third charge, criminal negligence resulting in the death of two junior members of the Academy Guard, how do you plead?"

Vincent lifted his head and fixed a firm glare on Grandmaster Treyfon and the rest of the council, steeling himself to his defense. "Not guilty," he answered in a loud clear voice.

They all seemed shocked by this, but to Vincent it was nothing new. He had already made up his mind about it a long time ago. Silence resounded in the chamber for only a moment even though it felt much longer.

Grandmaster Treyfon regarded him coolly with his Elfin gaze. "From your own testimony, you did knowingly allow these two young men to travel into danger and unescorted. What do you have to say in your defense?"

"First of all," Vincent began, having had plenty of time in his cell to think of what he would say, "that is a specious allegation. The only reason why it exists is because Stanley and Craig were only a few years too young to be considered adults. They were junior members of the Academy Guard. That means they were training for the very purpose of one day defending the keep." Vincent was becoming especially frustrated with the council and he could feel it being reflected in his voice and shaping his gaze as it passed over them. "It makes no difference, no difference whatsoever that they were two, maybe three years each shy of being considered adults." His eyes began to glisten when he thought of their sacrifice. "They were guards, and they did what we guards do best: place ourselves and our lives between the enemy and the people we try to protect. If they were too young to be considered combatants, why did you risk their lives by having them guard the vault?" He flicked his eyes at Clemens and noticed other masters doing it too. "They were doing what I myself have already done twice now, and would like to go on doing. Or have you forgotten?"

Master Magnus guffawed and looked to the side before returning his eyes to Vincent, clearly feeling as though this were a melodramatic act he was putting on. "That's how you defend yourself?" He then lowered his voice in a drawn out tone used when trying to mimic someone in a way to make them sound stupid. "'Oh, well if they had been a couple years older...'" He shook his head at Vincent with a look of disgust.

He was certainly the master of fire, Vincent thought, he had definitely succeeded at setting Vincent's anger aflame. "I remember well one of Stan's last words to me before we left. He asked me: 'sir, as members of the Academy Guard, is it not our first sworn duty to defend the academy from outside threats?' If I had answered 'no,' I wouldn't be standing here before you today."

Magnus' disdain was unfettered. "How dare you invoke the last words of a foolish boy to try to hide your own crimes. It doesn't change the fact that they looked up to you, and you failed them in the worst way possible. Your recklessness cost them their lives and caused a lot of damage."

With smoldering wrath burning within him, Vincent took in a deep breath to keep himself under control. The old pyromancer seemed to always want to get the last word in. For the moment, Vincent ignored what he said and pointed at the rolled up parchment sitting on the table before Grandmaster Treyfon, hoping he could get through to the others. Even though his eyes glistened, his anger remained hot. "I already know what the fourth charge against me is. Next you're going to accuse me of treason for abandoning my post, and I tell you that I did no such thing! I may have left the vault behind, but I never betrayed my post or my sworn duty!"

A moment or two passed, and once again Master Magnus had to play the chief advocate in condemning him. His head jostled slightly, accentuating each disapproving utterance. "You just want everything forgiven then, is that it?" He surmised in a fashion meant to be to Vincent's detriment. "How can we trust someone who goes behind our backs, someone who keeps things from us and takes actions without our approval?"

A vicious retort immediately sprang forth. "If you had been fulfilling your obligations in the best interests of this keep and the people beyond it, I wouldn't have had to!"

Magnus' anger and his voice seemed to only escalate further. "When you sit behind this table,"−he pointed a finger down toward it to make his point−"then and only then will you get to decide what is in the best interest of this keep and the people beyond it!"

Grandmaster Treyfon held up a hand once more and with the other slammed the metal ball repeatedly, calling for silence. The chamber remained quiet for at least a full minute while the Elf kept staring at Vincent with an inquisitive yet perhaps incriminating gaze. It was hard to tell which, though it was clear that he was considering what had been said.

Finally, he spoke. "Vincent Faren, your intentions are not on trial. Your actions are. You are clearly a headstrong individual who does not want to wait for permission while something goes unresolved. This can be a great asset, but it can also become a severe liability. Especially to our purposes here. Currently your ambition excludes care and finesse. You have potential, but you lack discipline."

The ancient Elf took a deep breath, sighed, and leaned back. He kept his strange eyes fixed on Vincent the entire time. "None of us had foreseen this. To us you were someone of little note, someone we had once granted admission out of pity. We can see now that you are much more than you appeared to be. Perhaps you are even qualified for pursuits more challenging than you have been given in the past. Unfortunately, your reliability still bears scrutiny.

"This inquiry was never about your loyalty or commitment. It is your ability to abide by the chain of command that we question. If you can learn to follow the orders you've been given diligently, we may yet have further use for you in the future. Unless this council has any further objections, you are hereby sentenced to two weeks in the penitentiary, sufficient time for you to reconsider the choices you made."

"I have an objection!" Vincent voiced immediately, not waiting for or caring if any of the other members were about to do so. Their eyes all stared raptly at him. "You ignored the deaths and suffering of hundreds!" Tears formed around his eyes and his voice broke slightly, but his anger was unrestrained. "Mothers cried over lost children while you sat back and did nothing! And because my attempt to help had a result you didn't like, you now have the gall to put me on trial!" He swept a finger across the air at them. "I charge all of you with the crime of 'negligent leadership!'"

Tears went down the side of Vincent's face and his breathing was not as calm as he wished it would be. Aside from this sound, the meeting chamber was filled only with silence. Treyfon regarded him with an even gaze that bore only the most perceptively small hint of dissatisfaction, his head tilting to the side only the slightest bit while he considered. Master Anthony's expression was similar, only laced with less confrontation, and his posture was straight. Clemens eyes slowly shifted back and forth as though regretful of what Vincent was accusing him of, and Master Magnus, who sat left of Treyfon was the least reserved of all. He looked on at Vincent with a sneer that made the tightlipped left half of his mouth look like it was actually smiling. Vincent thought that he was perhaps delighting in this, pleased that the loss of detachment might make Vincent look worse in some way. Whatever his reason, it was strange; Vincent thought that he would have been made more angry by this challenge.

Stacy stood silently at his side, her dimmed eyes occasionally blinking. Left of her, Karl still had his arms folded and looked from one side of the room to the other, appearing more bored than ever. Vincent heard a cough past him that came from Rick.

Treyfon's visage did not change nor did his strange Elf eyes break away from Vincent the entire time. When he at last spoke, it was not in reprimand of Vincent's outburst. "What you have said contains some elements of truth. This incident may indeed be a symptom of our failure to give this crisis the attention it deserves. Take heart in the fact that we shall not make that mistake again. Because we must assume some measure of responsibility, I am going to move that we truncate your sentence to only one week in the penitentiary. Understand that we are not your enemy. We do not enjoy punishing you; our intention is to help you."

"This is how you help me? By locking me up? And what about the cult! After you hide me away in your closet, I won't be around to be a painful reminder of your shortcomings! What do you plan to do then? Ignore these fanatics and pretend everything is fine?"

Treyfon closed his eyes briefly and sighed. "A new commission headed by Master Anthony is already looking into that matter..."

Karl, who usually preferred to remain quiet, interrupted, drawing the Elf's gaze. "Then the four of us should be a part of it! Not scrubbing pots or rotting in a cell!"

"Are you volunteering for something?" Master Gautrek asked. Karl responded to the green robed Dwarf with only a low, aggravated groan.

Vincent would have been more inclined to go along with this procedure instead of agitating them further if he didn't think it was a huge waste of time. The verbal reprimand he received seemed enough. "I swore to defend the academy, and on the night in question, I was doing just that. We were faced with another intrusion and I obeyed my duty as a guard to take up arms against it."

Treyfon countered him with calm incredulity. "An intrusion of the keep? Really? And whom else did you alert to it besides the other three people standing here?"

"Who else would have helped me!" Vincent responded, standing his ground against this reproach. "There was no time for that!"

"Even though you may have had just cause, you still deserted your post and left The Crafters' Vault vulnerable to a second attack. As a guard, you cannot leave your position undefended anytime it pleases you."

Rick, who like Vincent was also a member of the Academy Guard, began to add his own protest. "This is absurd! First you ask us to fight for the keep! To defend it from its enemies! And then you punish us for doing what you ask!"

Treyfon's voice became uncharacteristically stern. "That will be all. The punitive sentences are to be carried out immediately."

Vincent took in a deep breath and straightened up. "I left to fight the keep's enemies after another robbery had taken place. I could do no less."

Grandmaster Treyfon appeared to be losing his patience. "Vincent Faren, I offer you one of two choices: either spend one week in the penitentiary or face an immediate discharge from our service."

Silence.

"I will do as you say," Vincent at last conceded.

Treyfon seemed to relax slightly, his ancient Elvin gaze remaining fixed on Vincent as he took a breath of his own. "Perhaps after you are released, we will put your restless abilities to better use elsewhere. For now you must all carry out your sentence."

Movement at the right caught his eye when Vincent noticed two seats down from Clemens, between the Seeress and the Illusionist, the Master Cerebist in a gray hoodless robe getting up before they were dismissed.

"...but this is still hardly fair to us," Rick insisted, "we were only doing what..."

"This hearing is adjourned!" Treyfon stated firmly, slamming the metal ball one last time in finality, sending off a small spark. It was the first time Vincent had ever seen him raise his voice.

"Just for that," Magnus said derisively with a smirk, "you're going to spend your time cleaning the campus stables of manure." Rick lowered his head and buried his face in both hands while letting out a frustrated sigh.

At first Vincent had thought that the Master Cerebist was being rude, but now he saw him bending down to whisper something in Treyfon's ear. Whatever it was, it immediately got the Elf's attention. "Open the door," he called out to the two wizards standing guard.

Vincent turned around to watch them do as instructed. The two gray-iron doors swung open without being touched, a small clank ensuing when they did. Two people standing out in the hallway were immediately revealed. A young cerebist woman in a gray dress, who turned around and began walking away, her task of communing with her master complete, and a man in riding clothes and boots. A thick leather tube with a strap going across his shoulder let all know that he was a messenger. There was a pungent odor of Human and horse sweat coming from him even as he went around Rick, on the other side of Stacy and Karl, far to Vincent's left.

He brought the container over to Grandmaster Treyfon, pulled off the cap, and removed its contents, a rolled up sheet of vellum, and placed it on the table before turning around and leaving hastily. The old Elf glanced at him as though finding this odd, and then took hold of the message, unfurled it, and began reading. Vincent heard and felt the presence of his two guards walking up to him on each side, and saw a small edge of their clothing in his peripheral vision.

"It's time to go," the one on his right reminded gently.

As he started turning to leave with them, Grandmaster Treyfon, who had been reading silently up until now became disturbed enough that he began muttering part of it aloud. It caused Vincent and his two guards to become distracted.

"...this letter, which was delivered to me by unknown parties was infamously written in the ink of none other than the Arkiban Quill Pen, a treasure that was supposed to be under your protection. This outlandish insult demonstrates to me that your institution is either unfit for the endeavor of safekeeping it or that someone in your ranks has had a deliberate hand in this.

Regardless, I am most displeased with your inability to foresee such transgressions and halt them before they enter my home. Expression of my displeasure will come in the form of a cessation of royal payments sent to Gadrale Mage Academy for it's continued upkeep and survival. Unless you can convince me otherwise, from this point on, only military personnel will continue on in my employ.

Your primary duty is to provide me with trained wizards to defend my kingdom from foreign rivals and foul miscreants who practice sorcery as black as this, and in case you've forgotten, I still have many fine talents as my personal retainers, any of which would make excellent administrators at another academy, one worthy of my confidence and gold.

If you cannot bring me the results I desire, I will find someone else who will."

−King Glidewell of Ryga

The Arkiban Quill was what was stolen from the vault.

The vault he failed to protect.

Vincent forgot to breathe.

Treyfon let his hands holding the unrolled parchment slowly fall to the table, his face looking somewhat more pale.

From his side, Master Magnus, who had all along been looking at it with him flicked a glance toward Vincent, and realizing he was there, glared at him furiously. "Get him out of here!" He yelled to the two guards.

Vincent was still frozen in shock, and the wizard on his right had to put a hand on his shoulder and shake him to get his attention. "Come on," he said.

He turned and moved woodenly. His heart had gone so cold that he had trouble putting one foot in front of the other, but did. A numb disbelief encased his senses as he was escorted through the outside hall, his eyes resting on the stone beneath him.

#  Chapter 16

Stacy wiped a single drop of sweat from her brow as she continued sweeping with a broom the stone floor of the Tower of Prophecy. It was sometime late in the afternoon of the seventh day that she had been performing the arduous duties needed to clean parts of the keep. All week long she had endured from many the stares or the quiet, though highly noticeable, whispers of gossipers, talking amongst themselves about how the star pupil had been reduced to a maid. She was glad that the tower she was working in was currently empty.

Sunlight streamed in through the crystalline shards of the ceiling, casting in places bands of red, blue, and green. It was quiet except for the scratching of her broom's bristles on the floor. The week had been unpleasant but not nearly as bad as it could have been. Master Anthony had given her time off to attend her classes as well as to return to the infirmary for additional treatments. She now felt fully recovered, minus the strain and tedium that countless hours of cleaning entailed.

Her friends had had it much worse. Karl hadn't left the dining hall's kitchen during one waking hour and was getting blisters from scrubbing clean hundreds of pots and dishes. Rick had been stuck with shoveling horse manure while smelling painfully the servitude; the stables were big and had quite a few digestively active horses. As far as she knew, he hadn't been allowed to attend his classes either. Vincent perhaps had it worst of all. He had spent mindless hours deep within the bowels of the keep, smelling his own urine and feces that had accumulated in a heap in the corner of his cell. It contained no privy. She was quite certain that the masters were aware of this little detail of his incarceration and that it was intentional. They wanted him to learn his lesson. At least, she thought, her own punishment would be over before the time came for someone to clean up the penitentiary.

A voice she knew all too well suddenly interrupted her sweeping. "That will be enough for today."

Stacy turned and looked up to see Master Anthony standing there. Though he wore no smile, he had an almost imperceptible glow about him, an air of relief. She regarded him with a curious stare. "Not that I'm complaining, master, you've been most generous to me," she began, "but isn't it a bit early?"

He shook his head and dimmed his eyes for a moment. "You don't need a few extra hours of pushing a broom to learn that you shouldn't keep things from us. I think you've figured that out already. Besides, I want you to come with me."

"Where?" She asked with a slight frown.

"To dinner, we're having a celebration in the Masters' Dining Hall."

"A celebration? Why?"

"We've finally convinced his majesty the king not to bring the hammer of his purse down on us. Gadrale Keep will continue on in the same capacity as before."

Stacy's face brightened. "That's wonderful!" Her memory suddenly took her smile away. "Oh but I shouldn't come," she said, looking down and away. "I'd be an embarrassment to you after what I did."

"Nonsense. That was only a small lapse in judgment. We're allowed to invite whom we please as honored guests. You're still my most promising student. I've invited you, and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

Stacy let out a breath while showing him a small smile. She knew it would be more of a disappointment to him if she refused. "Well...alright."

He beckoned with his hand and she went with him. After she returned the broom to the store room, Stacy asked to excuse herself so she could return to her quarters on the fourth floor to freshen up first. Master Anthony told her that he would wait at the dinner for her.

Stacy climbed the stairs, went through the halls, and placed her hand on the flower-shaped metal receptor. The door became unlocked and she entered. She quickly took off her clothes and splashed herself in a few choice places with perfume before putting on fresh undergarments and another dress.

It was a blue one much like the other she normally wore, only it was newer, cleaner, and nicer than the other. After putting it on, she fluffed her brown hair out behind her neck with both hands. Fanciful clothing and lavish wardrobes were not a priority at Gadrale Keep; wizards and sorceresses had no use for them nor vast amounts of money for its purchase, and neither did she. That which denoted their profession was held in the highest regard and said more among them than what any lord or lady might wear.

She descended the stairs to the second level of the keep and approached the doorway to enter the Masters' Dining Hall. She stopped suddenly as she was about to go in, her mouth agape at what she saw.

A celebration, well it was certainly that, she thought. The room was big, not quite as big as the central dining hall downstairs but big enough to accommodate the masters and nearly any amount of guests they might have. The stone walls were decorated with blue and white tapestries near the top, and all the circular tables where people sat were covered with white tablecloths. On top of each was a vase filled with flowers, a ceramic pitcher of water, and near each seat ceramic cups had been placed from which to drink from. Though no plates of food had been delivered yet, silverware was already visible in neatly set arrangements.

The air was abuzz with talking, and the guests wore robes of every discipline. Some hovered around the masters of their specialty; others stood in groups and mingled with people from various others. Few were actually sitting down. Those who had noticed her, stared openly for a short time before returning their attention to the people with whom they were speaking. Some, she could tell, made her the next topic of conversation when doing so.

Master Anthony approached without her noticing and startled her. "This way, Stacy," he said. He then led her over to a group of chairs surrounding one of the circular tables. It appeared that every guest had been planned and accounted for, and each seat had been specially reserved, including hers.

Standing near the table were three other top students of atmomancy whom he had also invited. They each wore the same blue robes and dress that she did, and Stacy recognized all of them. On the left was Jack Howard, an adorable man two years younger than her with dark hair and light blue eyes. She had known for some time now that he desired her, especially with how his words always stumbled whenever he asked her something. It wasn't a severe befuddlement, and was sometimes cute, but there was another reason for her indecision: Frederick Hanson. Frederick was also quite attractive; he had a pretty face, nicely swept over blond hair, and like Jack, also seemed to yearn for her. Jack tried frequently to learn from her while Frederick was usually more inclined to try to do something to impress her. They were both charming in their own way, she supposed, and quite handsome.

Sometimes though, they competed for her attention. Stacy had trouble deciding which one she liked more and couldn't seem to settle on a favorite. There were times when she felt her indecision was unbearable. To pick one she would inevitably have to hurt the feelings of the other.

Occasionally at night when she went to bed, her own darker desires would surface in her mind. Many times she had thought it would be better if she could just have both of them. Unfortunately, there would be no way to hide it from either. Another thought which had also occurred to her was that if there were a way, she would have done this a long time ago. She viewed herself as a nice person and didn't want to hurt anyone, but sometimes maintaining that was excruciating. She just wanted it too much.

At the moment, standing between the two objects of her lust was a friend of hers, a girl named Jane Evans. She had long sandy hair, brown eyes, and was by no means ugly. Stacy sometimes practiced or studied with her, and had even talked with her about Jack and Frederick on many occasions. Jane was upset that neither expressed an interest in her, and Stacy was not unsympathetic. It was also a frustration for Stacy since if either one would, then it would only make things easier for her as well.

Master Anthony made an introduction more out of a desire to be polite than a need to familiarize her. "Of course you remember your classmates."

"Hi, Stacy," Jane said.

"Stacy...um, hi," Jack greeted, breaking into a shy smile.

She suddenly felt her right hand being gently picked up by Frederick and looked his way instinctively. "How does this evening find you?" He asked, bringing it up slowly to kiss it. Jack's eyes betrayed a look of such hatred that it could have torn the drapes off the walls. Jane tilted her head back and rolled her eyes in disgust while turning around toward the table. Frederick glanced quickly to make sure that Jack was watching, then returned his deceptively sly, affectionate gaze to her eyes.

Before he could lord it over Jack any further, Stacy brought her hand back to try to avoid any bloodshed over her tonight. "I'm fine, thank you," she replied politely. "Let's all have a seat, shall we?"

"Certainly," Master Anthony said, the romantic squabbles of his students being none of his concern. "I have already reserved them for each of you. Jack, you will sit over there on the left. Jane, you will sit between him and me. Stacy will sit on my right, and Frederick, you will..."

"Excuse me, master," Jack suddenly interrupted. "Um...do you think you could...that it would be possible...could you switch the seating arrangement between Frederick and myself?"

"Why?"

Master Anthony had caught him off guard. "Because...well...um..."

"Just sit down Jack."

Bested for the moment, he grudgingly acquiesced. "Yes, sir." Stacy sighed, thinking it was going to be a long night, and sat down with the others. Master Anthony remained standing while grabbing the ceramic water pitcher and filling each of their cups.

"Thank you," Stacy voiced, taking a drink.

Overall she had to say that she was surprised to find that none of her colleagues were the least bit bothered by the recent disciplinary action she had received. Jack and Frederick still fought over her, and Jane appeared to harbor no newfound disdain. It was more or less like before.

Jane broke the silence before it became awkward. "So, Stacy, I heard you taught some necromancers a thing or two about delving into the affairs of Gadrale."

Stacy was unsure of how to respond to this. "I...suppose, but it wasn't really on my mind at the time."

"I can imagine," Jane said conspiratorially with a suggestive wink and mischievous smile. "Alone in the woods with three dashing men, you must have had your hands full."

Stacy blushed, feeling her face heat, and took another sip of water. "It's not like that actually...I was more concerned with staying alive."

Jane's naughty interest was undiminished. "I heard it was like that...at least with one of them anyway"−her words immediately caught Jack and Frederick's attention−"particularly that rogue: Vincent Faren. He must have been very persuasive. People say that before the incident, he was persuading you in the library just about every night." Stacy felt her face become more flushed than she thought possible.

"What!" Jack exclaimed. He then lowered his voice. "I...mean...um, who's Vincent?"

"The 'swordsman?'" Frederick asked incredulously. "Preposterous," he dismissed, taking a drink of water from his cup. "That couldn't possibly be true." Despite his words, he seemed less sure than he let on, and the certainty began to fade visibly when she said nothing. "Tell them, Stacy."

Stacy was still shocked at this strange rumor and didn't know what to say at first when confronted with this accusation. Jane seemed to get more excited and raised her eyebrows while smiling and looking genuinely surprised. Jack and Frederick froze, staring intently in horror.

When Jane excitedly began to ask her another question, Master Anthony cut it short, starting to find his position between them tiresome. He told Jane merely that this discussion was inappropriate at this time, and left it at that. Jack and Frederick continued to pass worried glances at her.

While they waited, servers brought wine glasses and filled them with a white wine. The sweet smell tinged with alcohol filled the air while the talking continued all around her. A woman at another table laughed at some finer point, and the tone of the man telling the story was laced with mirth. No one drank the wine yet, as was proper etiquette, since an occasion such as this was bound to be commenced with a toast.

Several minutes after the glasses had been filled and placed at their table, Stacy heard a server speaking at a table far to the right of her. "There you go," came a familiar voice.

The words were not spoken with any underlying malice, yet she still felt a terrible chill go through her. Her eyes darted over to where she thought it had come from. It was too crowded and she couldn't see all the waiters. One pushed a finely painted and polished wooden cart that was draped over by a white cloth, but she couldn't get a good look at him. She stared hard, but try as she might, people kept getting in the way.

"What is it, Stacy?" Frederick asked from her side, his pretty features showing concern. She suddenly became more self-conscious.

It must have been her own imagination, she decided. "It's nothing, I'm fine," she said. Frederick looked at her curiously and then turned once to look behind himself at her right. From the left in her peripheral vision, she saw Master Anthony look her way, then calmly look past toward where she had. He made no comment on it.

A short while later, the plates of food were finally brought in, each making a light thud on the table as they were set down. They were of a fine white porcelain, and when made had been fired with a clear colored gloss. On top of each was a colorful meal of carrot and vegetable slices, all neatly arranged; a scoop of potatoes that had been mashed, with a fine cream sauce on top; and a moist warm steak. Unlike nobles, they were not concerned with decadence; a meal such as this would suffice for the occasion. The steak had a few traces of blood, and was covered in a dripping line of dark tangy smelling sauce. The aroma that came from it was quite tantalizing and filled the entire room.

Jane at last broke the uncomfortable silence again at their table. "Has anyone else noticed the unusual weather patterns we've been having this year?"

"I have," Frederick put in. "Just over a week ago, the gap in the rain cycle finally closed." Stacy remembered it well. "Over here, spring is supposed to see more rain than the rest of the growing season, not less."

"Yet the grass has still had time to dry and die," Jane added.

"It was such lousy luck," Jack said from Jane's side. "The farmers all say their crops are off to a bad start: they grew and then the dryness lasted just long enough to choke them before the rain came again."

Stacy thought it strange too but didn't want to jump to conclusions. "It could be nothing more than a rare climatic variance," she dismissed. "We'll survive it."

"What do you think, master?" Frederick asked, turning the question to Anthony.

He quietly stared at the table in front of him without answering, looking troubled though not made vulnerable by it. When Frederick called his name again, he whispered softly without looking his direction, seeming lost in his own thoughts. "...it was stirred by a hidden hand...a hand with great power."

"What!" Jane exclaimed.

"Master, why have you not spoken of this before?" Jack asked. "We should mobilize the entire academy if we have to!"

He looked toward Jack. "I have not been complacent. Until my more recent charge, I have devoted every free hour to this very problem. Watch your tongue."

Jack lowered his head, looking at the table. "My apologies, master."

Stacy was feeling quite perturbed. "Who could have done such a thing?" She felt her eyes widen with worry. "Someone who commands the climate in this way cannot be allowed to..." her mind scattered with all the implications, "...we must stop them!"

"The sooner they're destroyed, the better," Frederick said.

Master Anthony leaned back in his chair and regarded each young face with a stoic reserve that was still visibly colored by a deeply set agitation toward the subject. "One with a strength such as this is not so easily vanquished. Do not be so eager to strike; brawn against brawn will only result in our defeat."

"Then how do we defeat them?" Jane asked.

"With cunning," he said simply.

"More importantly, we need to know where they are," Frederick said next. "Do you have any ideas, master?"

As was the way of any instructor, he made them supply certain information crucial to understanding the problem, testing their memory and thinking instead of dispensing the answers freely. "You tell me where they are." From her left, Jack made a long groan at how Anthony was turning this into another class session. No one said anything. They were all at a loss. All except her, anyway.

Stacy's mind quickly deduced the answer based on what she knew. "They're doing this from somewhere in the Great Northern Plain." Jack, Jane, and Fred immediately snapped their attention to her, startled by this pronouncement.

"Very good," Anthony complimented. He looked to the others. "One of you three tell me why."

"Just like that!" Jack exclaimed.

"I'll start you off with a hint. Their power is great, yet they wasted no effort nor avoided subtlety. They made blatant use of a naturally occurring system."

"How?" Frederick asked.

"First of all, which system do you think they used?" He asked, once again turning the question back on him. "If you've kept up in your studies, you should already be familiar with it."

Stacy already was. "A continental air mass."

"Correct again," he said, sharing a look with her. He returned his attention to the others. "What kind?" He then added, "someone besides Stacy."

They were all silent as they thought it over.

Jane bit her nails. "A dense air mass!" She blurted out excitedly.

It was on the tip of Jack's tongue. "One that's also warm!" He added. "Warm and dry!"

"Wait, that can't be right." Frederick frowned skeptically. "Those don't heat up and linger in an annoying way until summer."

Master Anthony leaned back, gazing at him. "Exactly." Since they were all quiet, the sound of people's conversations in surrounding tables seemed to get louder. He looked toward the others. "It was an unnatural phenomenon. Not a variance. What's more, it was deliberate in its timing."

Frederick looked confused. "Are you saying, master, that someone held this air mass in place, and even stretched it over Ryga, against any ocean wind coming from the southwest? To cause crop failures?"

"They did more than that," Anthony said next. "That air mass should have been pushed aside by the prevailing wind from the west, months ago. At most it should only have been able to remain for two months, not three or four. And not during spring, except in even briefer periods. This time one was held in place just long enough to cause the desired damage."

Talking in the Masters' Dining Hall continued all around them while they each considered it. The smell of steak, potatoes, vegetables, and sauces wafted all around them, making her hungry. Stacy gave brief thought to what was taking Grandmaster Treyfon so long to arrive.

"An air mass like that would be so vast that they could be out almost anywhere on the plain," Frederick surmised.

"Then you now understand the problem," Master Anthony said, Stacy already had from the start and so continued to remain mostly silent while they discussed it, "and why rushing head-on to meet a foe this strong would not only be foolish but impractical."

"Then what do we do, master?" Jane asked.

Anthony took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't know. And unfortunately my time to deliberate on it has run out and must be allocated elsewhere."

"Why?"

"Why else," he replied. Stacy felt her ears burning, even though it wasn't her fault.

Jack seemed to have forgotten one of their lessons. "Then what keeps the Badlands dry?" He asked.

Stacy decided to remind him. "A rain-shadow effect caused by the high Cremwalt Mountains." He kept his eyes glued on hers the whole time while she went on. "Most of the rain from the ocean clouds traveling east is dumped there, and the Badlands, which rests in the shadow of the mountains, is left dry."

"Quite right," Anthony commented.

Soon after when Grandmaster Treyfon finally arrived along with Lady Cassandra, an instructor who was formerly his pupil, Stacy joined everyone else in clapping. The two Elves walked across to a table near the front where three other botanical mages were sitting. Lady Cassandra seated herself by his side, and Treyfon remained standing.

As the clapping died down, he addressed those gathered. "Friends and acquaintances," he began in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "today we are here to commemorate an important milestone in a series of rather lengthy negotiations with his majesty the king. A milestone of success."

He was applauded by his audience again, and waited until they stopped before continuing. "As you all may know already, his wrath was due in part from an attempt on his life made by a belligerent necromancer. Understandably, he was quite unhappy with this turn of events and with us. But we have convinced him," he paused and looked across the crowd, "we have convinced him that this aggression can only be met with the help of Gadrale Keep and its academy intact, that together we are much stronger.

"How fortunate indeed for the fiends who committed this heinous act that we should turn on each other, but no more. King Glidewell is now offering us his full support in resolving this crisis and bringing the perpetrators to justice. I was then given the privilege of assuring him," he looked across the crowd again, making sure that he held them with each word, "that the resources we committed to hunting down our mutual enemies would be coordinated by the capable hands of Master James Anthony,"−he lifted a hand to indicate him−"our own dean of atmomancy."

Stacy joined the crowd in clapping once again and several cheers went up. Master Anthony reciprocated to all the show of attention he received by slowly nodding his head the slightest bit toward Treyfon. A few eyes shifted toward her with uncertainty since she sat next to him, but she did her best to ignore it. She decided that because her master didn't mind or care that this might happen, she shouldn't either.

The ancient Elf lifted his wine glass, and Stacy stood along with everyone else, about to raise hers until something caught her eye. One of the waiters on the other side of the room was pushing one of the carts that held glasses and wine toward the direction of the doorway but hadn't come halfway yet. Something inexplicable made her concentrate on him. Somehow, he was a danger to them, and she knew it, but her mind couldn't yet tell her why.

His clothing was not unusual; he wore the same black clothes and white apron as the others, yet he made her skin crawl. His hair was dark and swept over on one side. That too was not unusual. She couldn't determine whether it was a bad feeling or something real that was bothering her. She only knew that it was.

As she stared and watched his approach, she barely heard the toast that Grandmaster Treyfon was giving. Master Anthony nudged her and she lifted her glass up like the others. "...Gadrale Keep, to the health of those in it, and to our continued service to the king..."

When the mysterious individual came closer, enough for her to look at his face, she noticed something peculiar. She knew this face. Only this time it was clean around the eyes.

Cleaner than before.

Her eyes widened in realization.

"...may our fine institution prevail over any adversity," Treyfon concluded, bringing the glass to his lips.

"Don't drink it!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, but was too late. He had already taken a sip. Everyone else stopped before drinking and stared in dismay at her outburst.

Stacy spastically tossed her glass on the table in front of her as though she were holding a snake. It landed near the vase holding the flowers and spilled out everywhere in a mess. "It's him!" She turned and pointed at the innocent seeming waiter. "He's General Clyde! The one we met in the forest!"

Clyde stopped the cart and stood looking around with a guiltless and confused expression. If she didn't know better, she might have been fooled by it as well. "What? Me?" He asked in that same voice she had heard earlier that night. "I'm just a servant. I'm not the general of anything." He let out a few nervous laughs, and looked quite timid. She knew it was an act. "You must have me confused with someone else." People at the tables looked back and forth between him and her.

The Elvin grandmaster spoke. "This man has worked here for a long time..."

"How long!"

Treyfon's eyes looked up while he tried to remember. "...years. He must simply bear some small resemblance. I can assure you that he's harmless."

"He is a monster who slaughters children!" Stacy yelled back in contradiction, her livid lack of manners drawing gasps. "It's him! He's the cult leader! The drinks have all been poisoned!"

Treyfon looked perturbed at her impropriety but said nothing. The Masters' Dining Hall remained silent as everyone stared at her. Though they appeared to doubt her, some looked at their glasses carefully and none dared to take a drink.

Master Anthony leaned over and whispered in her ear. "It's just the server, Robert. Try to control yourself. You're making a scene."

When Stacy turned toward him, she tried to maintain a level of deference even though her nerves were making her lose patience. Her voice came out in a loud, energetic whisper. "Master, he is not who he claims to be!" Anthony studied her eyes carefully, but said nothing.

Treyfon lifted his voice once again for all to hear. "I drank the wine and I feel fine, maybe just a little warmer." A few chuckles rose from the crowd.

"It could be slow acting!" Stacy insisted. "Don't drink it!"

Clyde looked over to the Elvin grandmaster with a helpless shrug while shaking his head as though this were a waste of his time. "Your honor, I'm not paid to entertain. I must return to my work."

"Why are you so eager to leave?" She asked accusatorily.

"Well," he started as though thinking it over, "there are dishes to clean...and more wine casks need to be brought up...in case anyone needs their glasses refilled."

Treyfon appeared to tire of this. "You have my permission to proceed."

"Are you insane!" Stacy exclaimed, pointing a finger at Clyde. "This man must be taken into custody at once!"

"She's been under much anxiety of late," he said to Clyde as though she weren't there. The ancient Elf then waved him off with a few back and forth motions from the top of his hand. "Just go, Robert." Clyde made one deep nod and then began pushing his cart once more. He glanced once her way, feigning that same innocent confusion but betrayed it for only an instant with his eyes.

No one else noticed it.

Stacy felt her insides explode with rage.

Absolutely livid, she pushed Frederick aside. "I'll kill him myself!" She then lifted her hands as she approached, wanting to end this once and for all.

Suddenly she felt hands grabbing her arms on each side to restrain her. Frederick shouted "no" just before she could unleash a deadly lightning bolt, keeping her left arm low.

"Control yourself, young lady!" Came Master Anthony's strained voiced from her right. Clyde made a show of looking frightened and pushed his cart faster so he could leave.

"He's the one we want!" Stacy shouted as she struggled to free herself. "You're letting him get away!"

Even as he went past the doorway and took a right into the hall, disappearing from view, Stacy continued to fight against the powerful hands of her mentor and those from her colleague. Everyone gathered in the Masters' Dining Hall looked on at her as though she were crazy, but she knew she wasn't wrong. He was right there. Within their grasp.

Within her grasp.

"Stacy, you're embarrassing yourself!" Frederick scolded, still trying to hold her.

"Don't be fools!" She retorted through her exertion. At the moment she was so angry that she didn't care whether or not he was cute. People began to sit down and some stared at her while others stared at their glasses apprehensively, passing looks between them and her. "Don't drink that unless you want to die!" She shouted when they looked back her way.

"No one's going to die!" Anthony insisted.

Grandmaster Treyfon had already sat down and was having a conversation with other plant specialists. He suddenly let out a hoarse cough. The pairs of hands holding each of her arms froze and all eyes turned toward him. "...Excuse me," he said as a reflex to those close to him, not seeming to notice the attention he had drawn.

"Are you alright?" Cassandra asked from his side, her pointy green Elf eyes showing worry from underneath a frown.

"I'm fine. Anyway, as I was saying, the extract from the Amara plant has a peculiar property, it..." he then went on with his discussion unimpeded. All the guests seemed to temporarily relax. A few more moments passed until he suddenly took a hold of his collar and tugged on the fabric. He began to sweat and his face was red.

Cassandra voiced her concern again. "Grandmaster?"

"...I..." was all he got out before he slumped forward.

"Grandmaster!" Cassandra screamed reaching over to catch him. "Someone get help!" The woman in charge of the healers ran toward him on his other side.

Stacy indignantly pulled her left arm free from Frederick's grip while everyone else was frozen in shock. When she pulled on her right, she unexpectedly found the hands still holding her firm. She looked up into Anthony's face and found him staring back.

"Do you still doubt me?" She asked quickly.

"No," he answered calmly with only the slightest trace of hostility around his eyes.

"Then release me!"

"I don't want you chasing after him, not like this."

She frowned while staring hard. "Do I have the council's consent this time!"

"It's not about that."

Desperation started to creep over her. "Then what, master?" She pleaded.

"Patience." He walked around her along the right, his hand lessening its grip and gently steering her to look toward a corner at the far end of the room, opposite of the door. He lifted his arm and pointed a finger. "Look over there." She did and saw the Master Cerebist in gray robes sitting at a table with a few others. He noticed her doing this and nodded at the two of them.

"He told someone?" Stacy asked.

"Yes."

"Who? Can they catch him in time?"

"As head of the new commission, I've already organized several teams to wait in rotating shifts in case of another infiltration. Each team has a cerebist, a seer, and several wizards who specialize in combat." Stacy turned to look at him, a curious frown creasing her brow. His old blue eyes appeared a deep sea of wisdom. "The team on duty right now has already been alerted. They now know what he looks like, where he is going, even where he is on the premises at this very moment. The seer is watching." He stopped a moment, gazing at her and letting his words sink in. "He will be dealt with."

"How big is each team?" She asked.

"No more than six."

"That won't be enough, the cult has..."

"They're only for the purpose of reconnaissance," he explained. "Their mission is only to track him and discover the cult's new whereabouts. You may join them if you wish, but keep in mind that you are only going to be shadowing him. At least until reinforcements arrive. If I speak with my colleague, he can let them know to expect you. Is that your wish? To join them?"

"Yes!" She replied eagerly, thinking that it was about time. "Where are they?"

"Probably in a room downstairs, waiting. I'm not sure which one. Let's ask, shall we?"

Stacy nodded and then began walking with him across the room in the direction of the table where the Master Cerebist sat. Most people continued to stare at Treyfon, though a few looked her way, seeing her differently. Women held hands over their mouths, and many wept. Glasses everywhere were being dumped onto the floor. The air of the dining hall had instantly changed from one of celebration to one of terror.

From where he sat, the Master Cerebist held out his hand for her to shake. "You have a keen eye for detail, Ms....?" He greeted, asking for her name.

"Clark," she answered, taking the hand and giving it a gentle shake, "Stacy Clark."

Master Anthony spoke next, cutting right to the point. "She wishes to join the scout team currently on duty. Where are they?"

"They're in a room downstairs, waiting and monitoring. It's the first on the left just across the hall from the stairs leading to the detention area. I'll let them know you are coming."

"Good," she said, turning to leave.

"Oh, and remember," Anthony began, stopping her short, "the team won't be getting any closer than it has to. Don't place yourself in any unnecessary danger, and don't let your presence be known. The seer has a good range. Use it. In the morning, I will gather all who can be spared and join you in force. Until then, good luck and be careful."

Stacy nodded her assent. "I will, master. Thank you." She turned and hastened her steps.

#  Chapter 17

Right after Stacy rushed out into the hallway, she almost crashed into the abandoned wine cart that Clyde had left behind. Even though the two masters had called out to her that there was no hurry when she left, she moved quickly anyway, wanting to meet up with her new associates before the time came to start following him.

The lines between each stone block on the walls flew by in a flash. Her shoes made light scraping sounds with her passing. She descended the stairs deftly with each step, making sure not to trip in her haste.

It wasn't long before she passed through the main dining hall, crowded though it was, and had to avoid bumping into people. The hall was a beehive of activity and every color of robe could be seen. The smell of warm food, possibly chicken and fresh bread, filled the air, and the hum of talking and dishes clanking resonated throughout. Heads turned her way. It seemed that nearly everyone stared, no doubt wondering why she wasn't still carrying a broom, she thought bitterly. She let this slip her mind and instead concentrated on dodging those who crossed her path.

With some degree of skill and ease, she at last came to the stretch of hall breaking away from the dining area, and slowed her pace to a reasonable walk before knocking on the door. "Come in," she heard a woman reply. Stacy continued catching her breath while she took hold of the cold metal knob in her hand and felt its lightness for the briefest instant before giving it a twist and entering.

Inside was a long room with a table of orange-brown wood running through its length toward the other end. Chairs that matched it and many that didn't lined its sides and were pushed in. A few light orbs hovered up and down above the long table, and it was clear that it was a room meant for study though none other than the five people she saw were currently present.

She was greeted by four serious faces that looked on at her entry and one that looked at nothing because his eyes were tightly closed. The person who had his eyes closed was the seer: a young man wearing robes a lighter shade of blue than her dress, who stood in front of the table's end in a motionless trance, holding tightly onto a wooden staff to steady himself while he projected his awareness outward. Beneath his head of light brown hair rested a person blessed with the vision, and in his current state, it didn't seem that he was even aware that Stacy had entered the room. His mind was elsewhere, perhaps even in a more direct sense. Those with this vision were rare; she doubted there were more than even a dozen at Gadrale.

Standing to the right of the preoccupied seer and the edge of the table was an Elf man with long black hair hanging behind his pale pointy ears. The clean red robes he wore let her know immediately that he was a pyromancer. He blinked several times while looking at her. His strange yellow-gold Elf eyes made him appear as though he were staring with a greater amount of concentration and a sharper, more bulging intensity than he really was.

Left of the seer stood two men she recognized but didn't know. She had seen them only once before when she faced a hearing in front of the Council of Masters along with Vincent, Karl, and Rick. They were the two guards who had brought Vincent in and taken him away after his verdict had been issued. The two men were not old enough to be masters themselves but were not young either and appeared more seasoned than most.

One was a brown haired botanical mage with a handlebar mustache, a small beard running only in a line down the front of his chin, and a wicked scar across his right jaw. He wore drab work clothes, a knife at his belt, and stood with his arms folded. A bag with a strap over his left shoulder hung at his side, and a flap covering the top prevented her from seeing what was inside. Even with his arms crossed, he absentmindedly fiddled with something small between his thumb and fingers, possibly a seed. His brown eyes looked on, anxious for the pursuit. The other, a man with fair hair, was someone who shared her profession but one whom was old enough that she had never met him in any class. He was holding an instrument which Stacy found peculiar: a long iron rod which he carried as a staff.

The fifth person was a blonde woman in a gray dress standing left of them who Stacy guessed to be in her thirties. She was the cerebist that had been alerted. "You must be Stacy Clark, welcome," she greeted.

The man with the bag and the seed spoke next. "Having you with us will be like a toad having another wart on its back, but you're welcome to come anyway." The cerebist sighed.

"Don't mind him," his friend said, "he's just bitter because we were supposed to be getting off soon."

"He's not the only one," the Elf put in from off to her right. "First Magnus' brutal training and now this. I should have stayed in Edris."

"I've heard other people say that too," Stacy commented, "about Master Magnus, I mean." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, if it's any comfort I've had a long day too."

"It's not," the botanical mage said, still fiddling with the seed, "other than knowing that you won't chipper talk us to death."

"Oh, I won't," Stacy affirmed. "Not after sweeping dust all day with a broom. Of that you can be assured."

He barked a laugh. "Is that all you got for what you did?"

"You try it all day for seven days," Stacy snapped back.

"Don't keep the masters in the dark next time and you won't have to," he retorted snidely.

Stacy let out a sullen sigh. "I know," she said simply.

"Would all of you please keep quiet!" The seer suddenly scolded, not opening his eyes or budging. "I'm still new at this and it's easy for me to lose focus with all these distractions!"

"Great, a novice..." the man with the seed muttered under his breath, looking off to the side. "Where is he anyway?"

"He's out on the campus going down the main walkway toward the outermost gate. He still doesn't suspect anything."

The other unfolded his arms and tweaked his mustache. "That's far enough," he said impatiently, "let's go."

"If he looks back and sees us outside of the gatehouse, he'll know something is wrong," the seer pointed out.

"Then we'll wait behind the wall next to it," the mage suggested irritably, "you can see through that, can't you? Now let's go before he gets too far ahead."

The seer grudgingly acquiesced, opening his brown eyes, and Stacy left with the five of them out into the dining hall. After they avoided enough people, they entered a wide, tunnel-like passage lit by light orbs at regular intervals amidst the dark. The seer stopped once again to check on their quarry. When he reported that Clyde still hadn't left the campus, they continued on. At the pair of iron double doors leading to the outside, the atmomancer with the iron rod pulled on one and held it open for the others, including herself, to pass through.

In the courtyard surrounding the keep separating it from the high defensive wall, they walked purposefully around the corner on the right and toward the gatehouse. A few well-placed light orbs on the outside of the keep kept the area lit, but a small amount of darkness still settled here and there. Stopping behind one of the large square flanking towers, they waited again while the seer confirmed his position.

"Okay, the gatekeeper is just opening the gate for him...and now he is leaving the campus."

"If it's that same old man, I'll wring his neck." Stacy threatened.

"What?" The dark haired Elf asked. The others stared on in confusion.

"When my friends and I went after him the first time, there was this old man at the gate, and we warned him not to...you know what, nevermind. Let's just keep following him."

On that she got no argument, and they walked quickly through the stone gatehouse under the raised portcullises and out onto the campus. Few people were walking between buildings yet one could see a woman here, a Dwarf there, and all was quiet save for a pair of friends talking outside the gardens off to the right. Stacy saw no signs of an alert and thought it must have required a special effort on Master Anthony's part to keep the guests from causing a hysteria and ruining the operation.

Halfway down the paved middle road that led from the gatehouse to the outer gate of the grounds, the seer stopped again to maintain his surveillance. Stacy looked through the far away iron bars of the gate, seeing no sign of Clyde's presence and then looked back to the seer, who had his eyes closed once again and was leaning on his staff firmly. She had heard about seers and seeresses performing this strange function but had never before witnessed it herself.

"Do you have him?" The botanical mage asked.

"I do."

Not needing anything besides his word, the six of them started off again. Stacy found herself wishing that they had brought someone like him the last time. After a few more moments of walking, she asked him about it. "What is it like when you do that?"

He didn't answer right away and looked over while moving his staff with his steps. "Trying to explain that to you would be like if you were to try to explain your sight to someone born blind. You might tell them that objects and people have an appearance, that they have colors, but that person could never really know what a color is."

Stacy was perplexed. "You see things then...things other than what our normal eyes can when you do this?"

"In a way, yes," he said. "If I think about a place, I can usually bring it closer and see it, only I'm not imagining, I'm seeing it as it is. Other times I can see much more than that, much more, things that people wouldn't see if it were right in front of them. The Master Seeress and others can see even more than I, and farther. Eventually, I will too. It doesn't feel strange to us, but I'm sure it must be a world apart for you."

"Fascinating," Stacy remarked, "and your gift does not include prophecy?"

He smiled. "No, only street charlatans and madmen make a claim to that." Stacy frowned and the blue robed man with an iron rod looked over as well. The seer caught on to this and added something further. "I'm afraid that I don't know enough about how you two read the stars to tell one way or the other..." he began to appear uncomfortable when they said nothing, "...does it...work?"

Stacy relaxed her features and let out a slow breath. "It's not as exact as that," she began. "It's not like fortune telling. It's more like...vague impressions. Any message that the stars leave us is more like the initial breeze from the coming wind: It doesn't give us too many details, just an idea of its direction and what it brings." Vincent's former guard nodded at this but kept silent, turning his head to look once more in front of them.

"I think I might know what you mean...sort of," the seer said. "Those of us with the vision encounter a similar problem when we try to extend our awareness out too far, only it takes place in the present. At too great a distance, instead of seeing things as they are, we see..." he searched for the right word, "...symbols, mental imagery that only represents something about what is there. Trying to interpret them is like trying to interpret a dream. Sometimes they just don't make sense."

"Well get ready to do it again," the man with the seed inserted, not really hearing all of what he was saying. The young seer scrunched his eyes closed and leaned on his staff. "Do you still know where he is?"

"Yes," he answered. "He's further ahead down the road than before, but he doesn't appear to be in any hurry."

Stacy found that odd. "Shouldn't he be? I mean he had to know that the poison would take effect sooner or later."

The cerebist woman in the gray dress spoke next. "I just told my master. Master Anthony is there with him and says that we should watch ourselves, he might be leading us into a trap."

The pyromancer Elf seemed to have lost none of his displeasure. "I'm just loving this day more and more."

When they approached the outer gate, Stacy found that the gatekeeper was not the same old man as before. With the way Karl scared him, it wouldn't surprise her if he had retired. Instead, there was a bald middle-aged man with short graying hair brushed down on the sides. He wore clothing like that of a farmer and opened the gate for them without comment. Afterward Stacy thanked him politely anyway and stepped through with the others.

Beyond was a far-reaching, grassy slope that descended downhill gradually with a dirt road meandering through it below them. It was somewhat dark like before, only with a cloudless sky whose blue hue was barely starting to reveal a few stars. Crickets chirped from the tall dead grass which bent lightly in places with the gentle breeze. The weak glow from the sun's passing still illuminated the landscape from the western horizon. Mountains up ahead and on their right had spruce forest cover that was shaded black on one side and on the other was dimly revealed as green or fading into a blue in the distance. Downhill and to their left, the city of Gadrale was made visible by thousands of small torches and lamps among the many buildings of differing heights. Most were made of light whitish colored bricks but many were of a dark red. All around, further left and beyond the buildings, were hundreds of farms spread out across the land.

With her companions near, Stacy walked down the rise swiftly, smelling the moist air from Vesper Lake brought all the way here, even though the lake was well out of view, by the dominant air current. The lake still held true to its name. It wasn't long before they came over a small edge in the overall rise and were afforded another view.

"Hide!" The Elf whispered loudly, his sharp eyes having noticed him first.

Stacy quickly lifted the hem of her dress and crouched down with the rest behind the tall dead grass to avoid being seen. Just above the top of the edge, she could see a small figure in the far distance walking at a steady pace down an adjacent road leading to the city. The dark almost hid him because of his black work clothes, almost. It was Clyde. Stacy voiced again quietly that she didn't like his easy manner. He was far enough away that she didn't think there was too much of a chance he would notice them, but kept this to herself. They couldn't risk having him look back and catching a glimpse.

They waited until Stacy could no longer see him, and then waited longer. When they all stood, the seer extended himself once again and noted Clyde's position and heading to the others. As they started walking again, he then deemed to inform them that if he made it to the city, it might become difficult for his vision to sort him out from the crowd. With that in mind, they quickened their pace but avoided running.

To try to counter the problem, the botanical mage had the seer check on him more frequently and had their group increase their pace between each time he did. It was tiresome, yet they managed not to lose him and were soon past the farms on the outskirts and entering the edge of the busy streets. Though it was crowded, their clothing gave them each the clear ring of unspoken authority that people respected and parted way for.

Their seer checked once again and reported to them that Clyde had ventured far toward the other side of town and taken a leftward detour into the less well-kept part. The less scrupulous part. Rather than adjust their course, they chose to remain on the same street so they could shadow him without giving him a view of themselves weakly obstructed only by passersby.

A few minutes later, the seer told them that Clyde had just opened a door and entered a building far down on another street beyond their view. A brothel. Now Stacy knew something curious was afoot, and even said so to the others. He wouldn't be wasting him time with prostitutes if he knew he was going to be hunted. They voiced their agreement but knew as she did that they had no choice other than to continue stalking him.

The seer stopped once again, closed his eyes while leaning on the wooden staff, and tried to spot Clyde. "He left the brothel a few moments ago. Now he's going down another street, heading west."

The pyromancer Elf was incredulous. "What? That wasn't nearly enough time to do anything!"

"Maybe if he was already there when he went in," the botanical mage offered, tossing his seed up once and catching it, "and just didn't last long." His blue-robed friend joined him in a few snickers.

"Not possible," the blonde cerebist woman disagreed. "Not even my husband is that fast. And trust me, he's fast."

The young seer kept out of this mature discussion, thinking, it seemed to Stacy, that he didn't have the experience yet to know what was fast and what wasn't. Unfortunately, she didn't either but was looking forward to it one day. Really looking forward to it. In fact, she was twenty-eight and thought she should have by now.

Many times she couldn't stand it. In her mind, she hatched a silent plan to grab Jack or Fred as soon as she got back. At this point, she didn't care anymore, she decided. She had been busy with her studies, but what was the point of risking herself on missions like these where she could potentially die, if she was going to die without having a chance to experience pleasure first. Shy about it or not, she would have to, and better sooner than later. As soon as they got back to the keep, she thought. She then forced herself to return her mind to the here and now.

"It has to be a trick then," Stacy concluded, keeping up a pretext while wisely suspecting treachery, "let's keep following and see where he goes next."

Clyde continued down that same street perpendicular to theirs. When they got closer, one street down from the one he was using, they took a left to make sure that a row of street blocks would always be between them. A short while later, he took a right and then a left, heading in the same direction as before, only one street further down from that. They were afraid at first that he knew something, that he was testing them, but it soon wore off. She reminded them that it could just be part of his intention to go west and might have nothing to do with them at all.

To compensate, the team moved over one street to the north and continued shadowing his westward trail. It wasn't long before the street was lined with women wearing dresses high enough to cover their nipples as it hugged their breasts but did little else to cover the front, except below that. Harlots all. Many looked on at their strange group while they passed, some that noticed the men, stood a foot on a nearby set of stone steps without rails and pulled up their dress to flash them their bare legs.

It was early summer and their clothing was even thinner than usual. Vincent's two former guards glanced only occasionally. The pyromancer Elf showed no interest since Humans and Elves never mated; the act was not only forbidden but the very idea was viewed as disgusting by both. The young seer was becoming distracted by the sights and his head occasionally followed. The botanical mage scolded him to keep his eyes and his mind where they belonged.

The offers of the approaching women though were less easy to brush aside, and they wouldn't keep their hands to themselves. The atmomancer with an iron staff kept telling them that he wasn't interested, but they kept persisting or else began pouting to one of the other men. Many promised the most obscene sexual acts, and boasted in different ways about how good they could make them feel. When polite refusals failed, Vincent's two guards settled on telling them that they weren't carrying any money. It seemed to work with most.

Shortly after that, when they came in view of the brothel that Clyde had just been to, it only got worse. "This is the one," the young seer told the others. Stacy wondered again why he would choose to stop here for an all too brief a period before moving on, and what it could mean. It just didn't make any sense. How he could so quickly run the gauntlet of dirty whores offering their services seemed an extraordinary feat by itself.

Loud sounds of passion came from the building, though many sounded fake. Some women settled on one repeated sound almost like a gasp while others made long moans of "oh, oh, oh yeah, yes, yes, more," to encourage their clients. Strangely enough, there was one that didn't sound forced. To Stacy, it sounded more like she was charging her customer for something she might have under different circumstances offered him freely if her life was better and she wasn't a prostitute. It was hard to imagine that prostitutes could ever really enjoy themselves, but this time it sounded like one was, or else she was a much better actress than Stacy gave her credit for.

Stacy then noticed the young seer slow his pace and become once again distracted, looking up and to the right. She turned and saw that he was staring at a woman with long curly light brown hair standing bare breasted in one of the top windows. The woman smiled down at him and held up a hand in greeting, curling her fingers. "Hi there," came a high pitched voice, enticing him. He raised a hand to return the greeting with a small smile creeping to his face.

The cerebist lady in their group also took notice and casually informed Vincent's two guards. "I think our little man is losing his focus again," she commented. The botanical mage sighed in annoyance before stepping over to his side, grabbing his shoulders, and ushering him along.

Once they were just clear of the sinful district, the man with the seed in his hand asked the seer to check on Clyde's progress. "...And you better not waste any time looking back over there again either," he warned. Stacy thought he might take a peek anyway and not tell the mage; there would be no way for him to know. For that matter, there would be no way for any of them to know if seers and seeresses didn't do this sort of thing regularly. It was indeed the most useful gift for the lewd to be born with.

The seer told them that he was still proceeding west down the same street, and so they continued walking. Building after building passed by on each side. After a while when it became clear that he intended to leave the city again, Stacy felt a small wave of relief though only just. At least no fighting between them would take place in a crowded urban area where there were bound to be casualties among the numerous bystanders.

Soon they entered a part of the city near the fringes that was dark, much darker than the rest, with far fewer lamps or torches to light the way. Rows of short ramshackle buildings made of a deep brown wood lined each side of an unpaved dirt road. At this time of day, everyone who lived here had gone to sleep, and the only noise that could be heard was a crow feasting on a small pile of rotting, discarded foodstuffs that had been thrown out as garbage.

The pyromancer held his hands up at the ready and peeked around nervously with his pointy Elf eyes, jumping at every sound. Stacy and the cerebist kept looking around warily as did the seer, who brandished his staff in both hands. Walking at the head of the group, Vincent's two former guards proceeded as though they feared nothing. The atmomancer with an iron rod continued using it as though it were a walking stick, and his friend, the mustached man with a scar across his jaw, in a carefree manner kept repeatedly tossing his seed in the air and catching it. With the crow left behind, their footsteps on the hard dirt and pebbles made the only other sound.

Stacy felt relief when they finally left the city behind and the clutter that had seemed all too perfect for an ambush. On the sides of the dirt road were now wide open fields with some leaf-bearing trees here and there, and many farms. It was still dark. And quiet. She did not feel safe, yet she now at least felt as though she had breathing room in the event of an attack.

Some time later, perhaps even several hours, they had left the farms behind and were looking down a gently sloping rise that revealed the wide moonlit expanse of Vesper Lake in the horizon. Up ahead, the landscape was dominated by tall grass, sparse, intermittent trees, and a great deal of tall bushes and brush. Eventually the road turned northwest, leading toward another part of Ryga, but Clyde hadn't taken it, the seer informed them. He had gone off its edge and into the wild range land beyond.

And stopped.

#  Chapter 18

Why did he stop?" The dark-haired pyromancer Elf asked. The seer remained silent while his eyes were scrunched closed, leaning on his staff.

"Take a good look around him," the man with the scar ordered. "Look for any of his friends that might be waiting for us behind the brush." Stacy was about to ask him to do the same thing, the memory of her last encounter all too fresh.

The young man moved only with the deep breath that he took, and spent several moments lost in trance. After a time, he shook, straining with effort. At last he relaxed and opened his eyes.

"Did you find anything?" Stacy asked worriedly.

He exhaled in confusion. "No. There's no one around. It's just him, standing alone with his back to us."

The mustached botanical mage with the scar let out a low growl of aggravation, baring part of his teeth. "I don't like this."

"Let me go in first," the fair haired atmomancer suggested, "I'll flush out whoever's hiding." Stacy oddly found herself reminded of Vincent and thought that this man must have received similar tactical training.

"Is that such a good idea?" The Elf asked. The other only stared back sternly in reply. "Hey, its your funeral," he said, holding up his hands as if he wanted nothing more to do with it.

"We'll cover you," his friend agreed, lifting the flap of the bag at his side and looking down into it while he reached in, "but first I want you to take a few of these with you."

In one hand, he pulled out a handful of pale yellow seeds that had hook-like thorns for attaching themselves to animals and being carried long distances. With his other hand, he took one between his thumb and fingers and sent a flow of magic into it, causing it to turn greenish black and grow larger with moving, life-like tendrils until it filled his palm. He walked over to Vincent's other guard carrying the iron rod, and attached it firmly by its hooks to hang on his loose blue robes. He then moved to the other side and did the same with another.

His friend stood still while he put them on. "What are they this time?"

A grin spread on his face between his mustache and the small vertical beard on the front of his chin. "Oh, nothing too bad," he began, somehow Stacy didn't believe that was correct, "just make sure to tell them you're the disperser, not the food source." He chuckled at his own joke afterward. His friend shook his head, not thinking it quite as funny. The other elaborated further while he placed another on his back. "Actually, you'll want to stand clear once they launch themselves from you, you don't want to get caught up in their tendrils when I decide to make them huge."

"What if they get hungry before then?"

"Don't worry. I'm keeping them dormant," he said, placing another at the top of his right arm, "they won't awaken unless I trigger them." He attached more on different parts of the other's blue cloth until several of the fuzzy-looking lumps were present on each side.

"I think I like the wind dispersing ones better," the man in blue robes muttered. At the creepy sight of the moving spines before they became motionless again, Stacy thought she might too.

"Right now these will do more to protect you."

"I hope so," was all he said before quickly and quietly stepping with his iron rod and moving off into the brush.

Stacy entered with the others behind him and kept a good distance away so as to not be seen by their foes. While the botanical mage silently crept, he was even more diligent than the others in making sure to keep his friend in sight. The pyromancer Elf followed him from Stacy's left with the cerebist and the seer kept further back still, wanting to stay out of any violent confrontation yet still wanting to be close enough to be protected.

It was dark, yet there was more space between each large patch of bushes than she thought there would be, and the moon lit the dead yellow grass everywhere they walked. Insects chirped, and Stacy flinched when far off to the right she heard a snake hiss and rattle its tail. Across the sky in her view, a small dark shape flew by that she at first mistook for a bird and then realized was actually a bat.

Their impromptu leader, the man with the seed bag, stopped and crouched down beside the next tall bush on their left, fingering another seed in his right hand. When Stacy came up behind him, she quietly bent over to peer past his shoulder. The Elf went slowly to look on the other side of the bush while the others remained behind.

She looked past the edge of leaves and saw Vincent's other guard walking silently in the moonlight amidst the grass, approaching Clyde from behind. Clyde stood as though he hadn't noticed. Stacy found this odd but continued to wait like the rest.

Just as Clyde finally turned around, he was immediately slammed in the gut by the end of an iron rod and doubled over in pain. The next moment, he was struck across the face and fell on his side, holding his stomach and unable to breathe. The mage in front of her moved from his cover to approach and Stacy followed him.

His friend stood mutely with a hand aimed toward him, and the butt of his long rod planted in the dirt, watching the man in black clothes and white apron squirm on the ground. When he recovered enough to move further, a tangle of roots shot up from the ground and wrapped themselves around his feet. He let out a cry of fright. Stacy moved closer, getting the distinct feeling that this was far too easy.

The hair was similar, the clothing was similar, but the face was not. She let out a disappointed sigh, her arms swinging ever so slightly as she came to a stop. "It's not him."

The heads of Vincent's two guards immediately snapped over to her. "What?" The mustached one asked in confusion. His friend responded only with an angry frown.

Stacy heard the others coming up behind her. The voice of the cerebist woman echoed hers when she arrived, having also noticed the discrepancy. "She's right. It's not him."

The two of them still didn't seem to believe it. "Clyde must have evaded us," Stacy said again. "This man's a decoy."

The botanical mage let his temper get away and rushed toward the imposter laying on the ground, kicking him furiously. "You rancid cur!" He screamed. As his blue robed friend pulled him back, he kicked once more, sending dirt and tiny rocks at the man on the ground who was struggling to breathe.

Stacy heard more footsteps. The seer approached last. "What's happening?" His young voice asked.

The mustached man was so mad he could hardly speak, and was still being restrained by his friend. "You let him get away! That's what's happened!"

"What? How can that be?"

Stacy turned to look at him. "Clyde switched places with this man," she explained. "He must have done it after he went in the brothel."

"How?"

The cerebist woman spoke next. "Were you watching him the entire time when he went in?"

The seer thought back. "Well...no, I just saw him open the door and that was it."

"Well now he's gone," the Elf complained. "Nice work, kid." A sad look of shame came over the seer's features.

"Why don't we question him," Stacy suggested, "see what he knows."

"An excellent idea," the botanical mage agreed, pulling himself free after his friend's hold loosened. He pulled the knife from his belt and approached with a vicious sneer that revealed his teeth.

The man on the ground was holding his head where it bled from his injury and suddenly looked up in fright. "Wait! Wait! Wait! I don't know anything! I was only paid to do this! Whatever he did, I'm not a part of it!" He looked around at them as though for the first time. "What! Wizards!" The botanical mage stepped closer with the knife, and the imposter regarded him with true terror. "Stay away from me!" He screamed, trying desperately to inch his body away while his feet were still root-bound.

Stacy put a hand on the plant mage's shoulder. "Hold on, let's hear what he has to say."

"Tell us what you know," the mage growled.

"I don't know anything!" The other screamed.

The mage idly inspected the blade of his knife between his thumb and first finger; the man on the ground began taking panicked breaths. "You know something," he insisted, then stopped playing with it and looked at him with unrestrained fury. "Now tell us before I strip the flesh from your bones, and make you watch while I do it!"

"I told you I don't know anything!"

Stacy calmly folded her arms and turned her head toward the mage. "Don't hurt him. If he's a member of the cult, that won't get us anywhere. He'll just resist it until he dies. Their fanaticism knows no limits. He'll see himself as some sort of heroic martyr."

"Then he'll just have to become a martyr."

"Please!" The imposter begged loudly. "The man I talked to only told me that the magistrate's troops were after him! He said that as soon as they realized I wasn't him, they'd let me go! Please! I don't know anything about a cult! I only did it for the money!"

"That man was our Grandmaster's assassin," he replied grimly. "You took money from the wrong criminal this time."

"We'll just have to kill him and look for this Clyde's trail elsewhere," his friend added.

"What! I don't want to die!" The man on the ground cried in fear.

"He might know where the real one went," the Elf argued. "We can't kill him yet."

Stacy became lost in thought, thinking back to where Clyde had eluded them. She tried hard to discern what his true destination might have been. Memories of her last encounter and where he had gone flashed through her mind. She knew that the cult had left that site behind and could have reestablished themselves almost anywhere else by now, but one other piece of information she had come into contact with nagged her to think otherwise. Would that one bit of knowledge be enough to find him though?

She was too preoccupied to pay much attention to the ideas that the Elf and the atmomancer were passing back and forth. It seemed that the former was in favor of letting him live, the seer and the cerebist quickly joining his side, but the latter was still in favor of killing the imposter who had just wasted their time and led them astray. "...if Stacy is correct, and he's not going to tell us anything no matter what, what choice do we have? We can't chance letting an enemy go."

Stacy looked up. "Wait. I think I might know where the real Clyde went."

"How?" The red robed Elf asked in confusion.

Stacy seriously regarded each for a moment. "Whomever Clyde serves has their seat of power somewhere to the north. I suggest we use our seer and try to pick up his trail north of the city."

"How could you possibly know that?" The cerebist woman asked. They all suddenly looked at her as though she might be a potential traitor.

"From a discussion with Master Anthony...look, it's not important now. We need to get moving before he gets too far away." They still looked at her incredulously. Stacy let out a sigh of aggravation and addressed the cerebist. "Ask your master to talk to him if you don't believe me."

The blonde cerebist woman closed her eyes for a long minute. The others looked on at her and waited in earnest for what she might say. Finally, her eyelids came open and she responded, "I told them our situation. They think it's a good idea."

"Good," the botanical mage announced, reaching down at the throat of the imposter while brandishing the knife in the other hand, "then we don't need him anymore."

"No! No! Please don't! I don't want to die!" He pleaded desperately, trying to scoot himself further away though the roots and the hand at his shirt's collar held him in place.

"No!" The cerebist shouted.

"Don't kill him!" The seer added almost instantly.

Stacy couldn't believe how naïve they were being. "We can't trust him," she said. "He could just as easily be one of them. He might even try to kill us later. Or tell them that we're coming. Do you have any idea what these people are capable of?" The other two stared back. The seer, dumbfounded, said nothing while the cerebist moved her mouth but had no answer.

The botanical mage stood and regarded them each without emotion. Then he looked toward his friend in blue robes as though some sort of silent communication were taking place. The other nodded his head.

Scratching part of his mustache on the right of his upper lip, he took a few steps back toward Stacy and turned around once he was standing at her side. The roots suddenly unfurled from around the man's legs and burrowed themselves in the ground once more. "Alright, you're free to go,"−he pointed with his knife behind the imposter, toward the west−"start running in that direction and don't turn back." Stacy looked on at him in shock, thinking this was a bad idea.

The man came to his feet and dusted himself off. "But there's nothing down there," he complained, "just wild land all the way to the lake."

"I swear by the gods if you don't go right now, I am going to kill you!" The other took off as fast as he could, bolting down the distant rise. The mage sheathed his knife.

"This is madness!" Stacy exclaimed, turning to the mage. "How can you just let him go!"

The mage ignored her and instead turned to his friend. "There, I think that's far enough."

The fair haired atmomancer whose blue robes were still covered in the large prickly disgusting seeds lifted his iron rod and pointed it at the imposter running in the distance. A thick intense stream of lightning flashed brightly through the night air and struck the man with a loud thunderclap, lifting him in the air and setting a small part of his clothes on fire. The gelatinous liquid of his eyes splattered the bush leaves around him. All was silent as his body hit the ground.

"The crows and foxes should be able to eat that before anyone cares," the mustached man remarked, drawing his thumb and finger across his chin in thought, "and at least this time they'll get a cooked meal."

"You're sick!" The novice seer screamed in horror. "He was just paid to distract us! He didn't deserve to die! You killed an innocent man!"

The atmomancer with the iron rod was not so convinced of that. "Innocent?" He scoffed. "Hardly."

"He didn't deserve to die!"

The plant mage turned and regarded the boy with a look of disgust as though he were hopeless. "And you don't think he was lying?"

"But there was no way to know! He could have been telling the truth!"

"You're right, there was no way to know. That's why we couldn't let him live." He walked past to start leading the way for the others but stopped and looked at him once more. "Next time don't lose track, and people won't die."

The seer seemed to understand; lapses in his observation were bound to have severe consequences. While the other walked off, the seer looked away, down and to the side. His jaw clenched. Consternation, shame, remorse, and frustration covered his face at the same time, but he said nothing in reply. He knew it was his own fault. Before Stacy started out, she watched the cerebist woman put a hand on his shoulder to console him.

It took them quite some time to re-enter the city of Gadrale, or so it seemed. For speed's sake, they asked the seer to extend his awareness far fewer times and always in a sweep to the north, always to the north. They kept a wary eye open once more in the ramshackle part of town and chose this time to take a wide detour around the ring of prostitutes surrounding the area of the brothel. A detour that would take them north.

Just outside the city, on a main road leading north, they stopped once more to have the seer try to extend his awareness and find their prey. To Stacy, it appeared as though he were trying harder, looking further, out of necessity and from a silent pressure exuded by the others who had already witnessed him fail and jeopardize the success of the mission. After several long moments, he finally came out of his trance.

"I saw..."−he shook his head−"...nevermind, it won't help us."

The mage with the seeds looked at him hard and stressed each word. "What. Did. You. See?"

"If he went north, he went too far, I didn't see him. Only a vision."

"What was in it?" The cerebist woman asked.

"Nothing..." he let out a small breath while averting his gaze, "...it was stupid."

"Just tell us," Stacy insisted.

"I saw myself."

"What?" The mage asked sharply.

"I saw myself trying to run back this way, only I couldn't get any closer. I think it means that if I go that way, I won't be returning for quite some time."

"That has to be where he went," Stacy concluded. "We should follow this road."

"Now wait just a minute," the Elf protested. "What if the boy is wrong again? There could be nothing down there. It could just feel like it's taking forever on the way back, or it could be like something from a dream, or maybe he doesn't want to go back. It's been a long night. I say we just admit the obvious to ourselves−that we lost him−and go home."

Stacy eyed him with a frown. "Do you really want to return and tell everyone that we let the Grandmaster's assassin fool us and escape." She was almost certain this was the right direction. "Especially when we still had a chance to find him again?"

The plant mage with the scar across his jaw looked from one of them to the other, considering. "Let's run,"−he turned and pointed−"all the way past the edge of those farms. Then we'll go down it for a few more hours and have our seer take another look around." It was quite a distance. Stacy was not looking forward to it but still wanted to see if she was right. "If he doesn't detect anything, we'll turn back."

At first, things went quickly and they covered a lot of ground. Then it became too exhausting and everyone was becoming too winded to keep up such a quick pace. Vincent's two guards reduced their speed so they wouldn't leave the others behind. Stacy's lungs burned and she was covered in sweat. After they slowed, they walked on for several hours in the dark.

The moon and the stars shone down on them, and the landscape had changed. They had at last left behind the city and any of its outlying farms. In its place all around them was wild grassland with a scattering of a few pine trees.

Later on, it became a road through a forest at night, a dark road in which the shadows danced between thin shafts of moonlight. The sweet, fresh smell of evergreen needles filled the air. The Elf produced a small flame that led the way, much as Rick had the other time, only he complained much more about how this wasn't going to work and that they should just go home. Their leader, the man with the scar, silenced him by repeating that they couldn't return without first making a reasonable effort. Failing to even attempt this would be the same as if they had let him go, and would destroy their credibility within the keep forever.

Once again, they had their seer project himself toward places unseen, and painstakingly waited for him to reveal what he could. After a time, the Elf in red robes became impatient. "I told you this was a waste of time."

"Wait!" The seer burst out suddenly. Stacy's head darted toward him along with everyone else's. "I see something moving." He then corrected it to, "or at least something has been. Several plants are swaying from being disturbed."

"Follow it," The botanical mage ordered. The young man remained still, scrunching his eyes while trying to do as told.

"You can see that well when it's this dark?" The cerebist woman asked.

"The vision sees many things," he replied quickly with his eyes closed.

"Yeah, just not always what we want," the Elf remarked snidely.

A moment later, the seer spoke again. "It's getting too far away, my view is fading, we have to get closer."

"Come on, let's hurry," the plant mage said.

They ran a good distance down the road and had him try again. His breathing was still ragged from the run while he stood with his eyes closed. Several more moments passed while he probed ahead. "It's Clyde!"

"Are you sure?" The Elf asked skeptically.

"Yes! It has to be!"

"Then let's stay on him," the botanical mage asserted.

With that, they continued down the road, stopping periodically to check on his progress. They were all cautious, yet the mood of the company had changed. The cerebist woman and the Elf made idle conversation while the seer strolled dutifully along, anxious to not let the others down. The mood of their leader, the botanical mage also seemed to improve. To pass the time, he talked with his friend and made a few jokes that Stacy didn't pay enough attention to. The man with the iron rod still wore the strange seeds, laughed with him, and made some comment, then the mage would tell him something wasn't the worst of it and go on from there.

Among them, Stacy was perhaps the most reserved, even more so than the seer. She kept her eyes peeled and stared hard into the dark woods that surrounded them, looking for any sign of movement, barely hearing the others talking. This was only a scouting mission, yet she knew that danger awaited. Their foe was clever and had already proven it once this night. After what she had been through before, she simply couldn't let herself go the way they had. The way they were.

"Would you all be quiet!" She nearly shouted when she could stand it no more. "We shouldn't underestimate Clyde. Look what happened the last time. Did it ever occur to you that he might try something else on us and that he's just waiting for us to become overconfident? How do we know this road isn't being watched?"

Her words sobered them up and they remained silent once again. She was glad because it allowed her to listen for any sounds that might reveal a presence. A few moments later, she quietly called for the others to stop and asked the seer to check on him again. He did and was able to verify Clyde's position, quite some distance north off the road, having left it after it made an abrupt turn west.

It was a long night. After going north and leaving the road to pursue him into the forested wilderness, they walked for miles. They went around thick stands of spruce, firs, and underbrush of every kind. The Elf's small flame was the only thing that kept them from tripping when they stepped over logs, around rocks, and tried to avoid having their clothes snagged by greedy branches. Or stepping in deer droppings.

Clyde took them much further and deeper into the forest than she thought he would have. They trudged along wordlessly until she felt that it was time to observe him once more and asked the seer to do that. The young man leaned on his staff, his troubled, closed-eye visage revealed by the dim glow of the fire speck. Stacy watched him and waited.

Suddenly, he shook and convulsed where he stood. The others voiced concern and moved closer. At last he opened his eyes and let out a frightened breath, shaking as though to try to get whatever he saw off of himself.

Stacy couldn't help feeling a tinge of fear creep over her. "What was it?"

The seer appeared quite disturbed. "Clyde...he's not alone." He looked and pointed at the Elf. "I think we should take his advice and just go home, I, I'm too young for this, I don't know anything about how this magic works, I'm just..."

The botanical mage with the mustache and small beard gripped him by both shoulders. "Who was he with!"

The young seer appeared as though he didn't know what to say. "I...I"

"Who?" He repeated sternly.

He looked aside as though wanting to avoid their leader's gaze. "...p-people," he said at last, starting to shake. "People who are d-dead. I saw people who are dead!" The eyes of the man with the scar widened while he stared at him, and his hands let go. The seer stepped back, using his staff to keep his balance. His eyes glistened. "Slaughtered villagers. Men, women, and children, who are all dead!" He whined, "there's too many of them!" He buried his face in anguish "...so many." He looked like he wanted to turn away and run.

Even though it had healed over, Stacy's hand found her neck where she had been bitten, rubbing it absentmindedly. "What about Clyde?" She still asked, not feeling the same shock as the others. "What was he doing? Where did he go? Was anyone else over there with him? Besides them?"

"I...I saw black hooded forms on top of horses. They were dead too."

Stacy found this unusual at first. "You mean the horses?"

"And the riders."

Her blood chilled and she struggled to think of why this might be. Her impression of the cult so far was that they raised the corpses of their victims to do their god's bidding, not their mounts, and certainly not themselves. What was going on?

She quickly asked the seer another question. "Of the people wearing black robes, did you see any others that were not dead?"

"No," he answered fearfully, shaking his head, "Clyde was the only one not dead. The others...they had no flesh, only bone." Stacy's eyes widened.

The botanical mage saw her reaction and decided to draw upon her experience. "Is this different from before?"

"Yes," she replied worriedly, continuing to stare while lost in thought.

He stood tall and straightened his clothing, letting out a breath. "Alright, let's have our seer take another look, let's have our cerebist give Master Anthony precise directions to them, and then we'll find ourselves a reasonably concealed vantage point to wait for reinforcements to arrive."

"What! Are you crazy!" The Elf protested. "We should stay right here!"

"I don't want to go anywhere near them!" The seer added.

The mage seemed to understand their fears and came to put a reassuring hand on each shoulder. "Part of our job is to make sure that the masters at Gadrale Keep always know where evil like theirs is lurking," he looked first at the seer, whom he could tell understood this part, and then to the Elf in red robes. "If this army begins to move, we must keep them within our seer's non-symbolic range. Accurate monitoring of the enemy is what it means to scout."

"I'm scared," the young seer confessed.

"Then help us find a place to hide that's close enough to watch them but far enough not to be found. Because we're all scared." He released their shoulders and turned to the cerebist woman perfunctorily. "Inform the masters."

"Already done," she said. He nodded.

As they trekked through the woods, the seer stopped often to survey the terrain surrounding their destination. At one point, he insisted that they go no further while he searched for the vantage point their leader desired. Once he found a location that he thought might work, he led them off course, now going north and somewhat to the east.

In the night's darkness, they walked through thick groves and grassy meadows until at last the seer took them to a thicket close to the top of a rise. Though the area where he told them they could spy down from was surrounded by trees and thick bushes, he still scolded the pyromancer Elf to douse his small flame. Stacy didn't see him but heard the man with the scar tell them all to lay flat.

She went slowly at first, holding up the hem of her dress and bending down to try to feel for the ground with her other hand. Her hand found pine needles which seemed soft and spread out enough, but when she tried to put any weight on them, a few laying at off angles poked her on the sides. She took a few steps and felt around again until she found a spot that was more suitable. The solid ground was painful on her knees and so she tried to set herself down quickly. As she lay down, the cold hard forest floor pressed firmly against her breasts in an uncomfortable way that prompted her to support herself on her forearms.

She heard whispers from the plant mage saying that they should inch forward so they could see past the cover. The seer refused, claiming he didn't need to, and the other didn't press the issue. Stacy tried not to ruin her dress and moved carefully to avoid getting it snagged on anything. She was about to go further past the next bush at the top of the rise when her eye caught a distant torch flicker from down the slope on the other side. It was really no more than a speck, as were the others.

Stacy peered cautiously down the vast and shallow rise to survey the scene below. What she saw in the beginning as one torch soon became many, her eyes gradually beginning to find others that were less conspicuous. The expanse was largely treeless except for a few to either side. Far downhill from where they were, on nearly flat terrain, there was in fact a number of undead she thought could pass for an army.

There were few torches, not all of the corpses carried them, yet she could make out enough that there must indeed be thousands assembled. They were in no way uniform either; there were figures in dresses, women; smaller forms, children among the masses; and some appeared elderly too. She noticed black forms atop horses in the distance, standing in a row. Strangely, there didn't appear to be as many cult members as she would have expected. They must have gone somewhere else. Far off to the right, there was a farmhouse and a barn. The barn door faced her and she saw it swing open suddenly, and a figure she thought must be Clyde go in.

In the next instant, there was a loud boom in the distant sky. Stacy jumped and then looked to see where it had come from. Her heart caught in her throat when she gazed left and saw a small red cloud of flame rise over the tree tops. It looked small but Stacy knew it was not. It was set off from a city that was far away, meant as a warning. It was a flare.

Not every town had one. Those that were too small or were established late as a thin collection of only a few households did not. Flares were red spherical objects created by wizards with the gift for crafting and were used whenever a city came under attack. Everyone knew about them, but more importantly, anyone was capable of activating one. All you had to do was touch it and wish for it to work, even a normal could handle that. Even better, flares had spells on them that helped them deploy themselves. They could fly through the air until they found an opening, regardless of what it was, and escape to fly high into the sky. The large fiery explosion could be seen and heard for miles. Their use was rare, and Stacy had never before seen one set off.

Until now.

Another went off and then another, turning an otherwise tranquil forest night into a restless and tense one for them all. Stacy heard someone crawling on the ground next to her. "Why are so many flares going off!" The frightened voice of the seer whispered.

"Our quarry has gotten more ambitious," she answered, stating the obvious to the worried young man.

She then heard the botanical mage whisper to the cerebist woman, "tell the masters what has happened."

"I already did."

"Good," he whispered back, "now we wait for reinforcements, and pray those poor souls can last until they arrive."

Anxiety crept over Stacy even more succinctly when another flare went off.

It was going to be a long wait.

#  Chapter 19

Vincent awoke partway through the night, his nose still in the pit of his bent arm. It had been a highly unpleasant night like all others in his infernal cell, sitting with his back to the wall near the gate and his knees pulled up. A pile of his leavings had accumulated in the corner opposite where he sat and still made the place smell terrible.

In a vain effort to maintain his edge over this past week, he had done push-ups and other exercises while trying his best to ignore the smell. It had worked to an extent, though there was simply not enough room for him to practice using his sword. He had tried magic instead, mostly heating or freezing the blade of his knife or sword for as long as he could before exhaustion claimed him. Since he did not have his whetstone, he spent many hours using his power to sharpen each blade beyond what he had achieved before and beyond what he thought possible.

He even tried once placing the very tip of his knife at the edge of the puddle of urine and sending an extreme wave of cold to freeze it and his other waste. This worked for a time until it inevitably thawed out and he was left to suffer once more. He then decided that it was better to just let it dry out: that way it released most of the odor it would and then became somewhat less of a nuisance.

It was the morning of the day he was to be released, the end of his punishment, yet Vincent's patience for it had ended a long time ago. He wanted out. He didn't know if the night was all the way over or if it was only partway into the earliest hours of the morning when all still slept, but didn't care. He wanted out now.

"Guard!" He yelled out angrily. "My time is up! Let me out!"

A distant call came back from the detention area's main room. "It's not yet sunrise outside."

Vincent hadn't seen the sun or the outside for over a week. "Close enough! Let me out!"

"I'm not allowed," the voice came back quietly from the other room.

Frustration seared through him. The masters had already proven their point, and he had suffered more than enough. "No one's going to check between then and now!" He shouted back. "Just do it!"

Several moments passed. At first Vincent thought the guard was considering it and then he thought he was just going to ignore him. Before Vincent could repeat the demand, his voice sounded back. "Alright, I suppose it couldn't hurt none."

Vincent heard his steps making small clanks on the stone of the hallway and his keys jangling. The jailor on duty hid his nose in his sleeve the same way Vincent had. When he approached the gate, blocking some of the light from the orb on the wall just outside, he held his breath while he fumbled for the right key. Vincent stood and waited, watching the other plug his nose, insert the key, and give it a twist.

As soon as it was unlocked, Vincent pushed it open, just missing the jailor as he stepped back. "Thank you," Vincent said in pronounced relief.

The jailor replied with a nasal, "you're welcome," as Vincent strode past.

Each swift and widely spaced step felt strange and good at the same time. He was finally free. Though it was only a week, it had felt like an eternity, and a measure of bitterness had seeped into his soul as a result.

Terrible as the things were that had happened, which in turn contributed to his incarceration, he now couldn't care less for what the masters saw as outside of procedure save for trying to avoid future punishments. He had tried to do the right thing, and they didn't like it. Unexpected and unavoidable consequences had come about, and they didn't like it. Well that was just fine, he decided. Next time, they could take the risks; they could bear the responsibility when things didn't turn out well. If they even tried to do anything at all. Now he would focus primarily on doing what they told him to. That's what they really wanted after all, wasn't it? They couldn't stand him doing otherwise. How dare he take matters into his own hands. Well, no more.

What had hurt Vincent even worse during this past week was when he requested to be the one to write the letters to the parents of Stan and Craig. He had asked to be the one to send his tearful regrets at how their sons had been slain in the defense of the keep and all it stood for, only to be denied. After receiving word of what he desired, the masters responded by having a guard deliver a note to him saying that his request was refused because they felt he obviously didn't have enough concern for their well being in the first place. He had crumpled that note in the tightest fist he had ever made, so much that his hand had bled from his own nails biting into his palm. That was fine too, he decided. The masters were in charge. So be it.

Vincent bounded stiffly up the dark stairway lit by intermittent light orbs, trying to put everything behind him in more way than one. When he reached the hall at the top, near the dining area, he took an immediate left. The place was deserted. It was so early that it was perhaps hours before anyone would be cooking, eating, or even waiting.

He went across the empty dining hall toward the wall on his left and went down a staircase to the common area used for laundry. There he dumped one of the empty half-barrels of its soapy water, and took it along with its washboard and a bar of soap back up the stairs. He left the keep, explaining only once to the soldiers atop the towers near the gatehouse what he was doing, and then passed through the campus and left through the outer gate. The fresh air was wonderful.

Vincent walked a ways in the dark to a small stream that lay two miles west of the keep. It did not flow all year round, only in early and late spring, and was now hardly wider than the bucket he brought. It was deeper than he would have thought. After filling up the half-barrel, he took everything off and began washing his clothes. He supposed he could have changed or tried this back at the keep, but right now he wanted to be away from there.

He kept things simple and somewhat quick. He soaked his clothes a little in the soapy water, scrubbed them a little on the washboard, and then rinsed them in the stream before setting them aside on top of some grass. Afterward, he cleaned himself up as good as he could with the stream's water and the soap he had brought with him. He finished by filling up the bucket and dumping it on himself. Not wanting to waste any time on hanging his clothes to dry, he wringed each article tightly to get the water out. This didn't work quite as well as he would have hoped, but he was beyond caring. He still felt refreshed as he put it all back on, including his dark blue cloak, and the sun finally began to rise.

Taking advantage of the light it provided, he filled the bucket, pulled out his knife, and shaved using his reflection in the still water as a guide. When he was done, he splashed some water in his face, cleaned off the knife, and returned it to its sheath. Before gathering everything up, he took out his sword and swung it several times, in everyway possible, testing its weight on his arms. Surprisingly, every technique was still fresh in his mind, and his body responded more or less accordingly even if at some times he felt a little stiff. He sent his sword home in its scabbard and used his hands to take several generous drinks from the stream. Lastly, he swept up the three items he borrowed, tossing the bar of soap inside the half barrel along with the washboard before starting back toward the keep.

The view was amazing and stretched his eyes in a way that they hadn't been for days. In front of him in the distance, he saw Gadrale Keep rising mightily from the grassland at the top of a rise, the sun hitting its flat, planar rooftop and its crenulated towers. From high in the air, the crystalline pointed roof to the Tower of Prophecy glinted in his eyes. More dimly lit around these were the keep's defensive wall and the smaller perimeter wall surrounding the campus. At his left, he could see the sunlight shining on the green mountains fading to blue in the distance, and on his right, he could gaze for a vast stretch into the northwest edge of the Badlands. Along the ground, grass and brush swayed lightly in a gentle breeze and he heard faint bird calls. He was relieved in many ways, but his nose seemed to feel it the most profoundly; everything smelled fresher than he had ever known it to.

As he reached the corner of the perimeter wall on the outside, he heard the deep, even-patterned beating of drums, dun dun d-dun dun, dun dun d-dun dun, and noticed something unusual happening at the campus gate. Both iron bar doors were swung outward as far as they could go, and he saw a figure in blue robes walk out carrying a wooden box with a dark polish in the crook of his left arm. It was Master Anthony. Immediately behind him was a portly middle-aged man wearing the gray robes of a cerebist and a pretty young woman with dark brown hair and a light blue dress who Vincent recognized as a seeress. She carried no staff, and he took this to mean that she was a more advanced student who did not require one. He had even heard it said that the Master Seeress did not even need to close her eyes. Close by walked a number of wizards wearing red and blue robes.

And then came the soldiers.

They marched in five columns with their commanding officer walking out in front, wearing half-plate armor adorned with a red tabard and a pointed helm. A dark handlebar mustache was below his nose, and a battle horn hung from around his neck. He wore a sword at his side and a red-trimmed black cape that billowed only the slightest bit behind him as he walked. In his left arm, he held a shiny kite shield made of steel.

In the center of the first row following him was the flag bearer, holding high the king's banner, a wide red flag with two triangular tails flapping in the wind at its end, the bold black lion crest undulating in its center. At his side and behind him, swordsmen marched, carrying round wooden shields adorned with a shiny metal cap in the center and a band of metal around the outer edge. They wore their red tabards atop suits of chain mail, keeping their heads protected only by the chain coifs that covered them. Without raising their knees much, they marched with short strides. One loud mass of simultaneous metal clanks followed each collective step.

Vincent watched row after row pass, and all the while the deep drumming continued, dun dun d-dun dun, dun dun d-dun dun. The drummers appeared intermittently at their sides. Soon after came men sporting long vicious-looking halberds with steel bands running up the length of the haft. Tall though the weapons were, the flag still waved much higher from its place further down the road leading to the city. Next came men with similar shields as the swordsmen, who wore iron helms instead of just coifs, and walked resting the upper hafts of heavy bearded axes atop their shoulders. Lastly, men marched carrying shields and spears, wearing leather and short-swords at their sides.

A couple steps behind the men in the rear, walked a loose collection of wizards wearing mostly blue and red robes who kept to no organized formation. A few men and women wearing the white robes of healers were among them. He saw the two women who had healed him, walking and talking within the group yet appearing in not nearly as high of spirits as before.

It had taken a good while for the procession to pass, allowing Vincent ample time to approach the gate and stand idly as they marched by. He guessed that no less than five-hundred men were in that detachment; it looked a full battalion. The keep was not rendered defenseless though, far from it. Because of its large size, this was only a small fraction of the garrison.

He found it strange, thinking that perhaps a war had even started, but paid it no mind as he walked in through the outer gate, carrying the bucket, washboard, and soap. He reminded himself bitterly that it was none of his business unless the masters told him it was. He had no enthusiasm to find out what was taking place. Right now his business was to report in to Master Clemens and resume doing his job of standing guard over the vault. Behind him, the clanking, rustling, and the drums continued to sound.

People thought it odd that he was carrying the clothes-washing implements that he did, and a burly Dwarf reading a book looked on curiously before shaking his head in disapproval and delving back into the pages. A groundskeeper trimming the lawn with a horizontal-bladed scythe held low asked him what he was doing with those. When he answered that he was only borrowing them, he got a scolding about how he was not to take such things off the property. Vincent said once that he was sorry, and ignored the rest of what he said while he continued walking. Partway down the paved road leading to the keep, he immediately caught sight of Rick and Karl running frantically toward him, and stopped with a frown.

"Vincent!" They each called out from afar, trying to get his attention. They had it.

When they finally arrived, out of breath, Karl leaned down and supported himself with his hands on his knees. Rick remained standing and spoke first. "Vincent, where have you been! We've been looking all over for you!"

"Well,...you found me," he replied. "What's going on?"

Karl burst out, "Grandmaster Treyfon is dead!"

"Flares have been sighted from Ogden to Hathorn!" Rick added.

"What!" Vincent exclaimed, dropping the bucket.

Karl stood up straight. "Clyde poisoned him," he said between breaths, "he's not dead, but very close."

"He might as well be!" Rick burst out, turning his way. "They said they could cure him if they knew what was in the poison, but they don't! And there's no way to find out! He's finished!" He looked back toward Vincent. "Damn near killing a score of healers just to keep him alive on a false hope!"

Vincent was still in shock and kept silent. Karl bent down again and supported himself on his knees, taking ragged breaths. "What's the bucket for?" He asked. Rick also looked on as though mentally asking the same question.

"Oh these?" Vincent responded, looking down at the bucket and washboard, having almost forgotten they were there. "I was just getting cleaned up."

"Well just leave them!" Rick suggested hastily. "We have to go right away!"

"What are you talking about?" Vincent asked in confusion.

Karl quickly stood up straight again, his fatigue forgotten. "The cult has been found again! Master Anthony is gathering an army to attack them! He's taking any wizard that volunteers!"

"We have to go with them!" Rick added. "That's why we've been looking for you! So you could join!"

Vincent didn't see why he should have been punished for going after them the first time. Fighting them was fighting them. The severe bitterness that had accrued within him surfaced once again, and he felt a scowl form on his face. "Forget it." The other two stared back in wide-eyed disbelief as he picked up the bucket and was about to start walking past.

Karl put up his hands as though to stop him. "Didn't you hear us! We're going on a mission to destroy the cult!"

"I already tried to do that before," Vincent responded with venom, "and they threw me in the dungeon for it!"

"This time we have the official blessing!"

"If it's so damn important that the masters sanction everything, then they can take care of it themselves. To hell with it. I'm just a guard. I haven't been ordered to do this, and I'm not doing them any favors."

"What about Stacy!" Karl exclaimed. "She's already with them! We're her friends! We should be there to help her out!"

"If she's with that army, she should be fine."

Karl and Rick shared a quick look. "She's not with the army," Karl said slowly.

"She's with the scouts," Rick clarified.

This surprised Vincent but didn't change his mind. "Then Stacy won't be alone, and she knows how to handle herself."

He tried to walk past, but Karl moved to stand in his way, still holding his hands up to halt him. His voice took on an aggravated tone. "Vincent, you aren't the only one who was punished. I know it all seems unfair, but you can't just walk away. What about all the victims you tried to seek justice for? This is our chance to settle our vendetta with the cult once and for all. Our chance to make them pay for everything they've done."

"Including getting us into trouble," Rick put in, an angry frown on his face.

Vincent looked from one to the other. Karl's brown eyes were stern with dissatisfaction, and Rick continued to wear an angry frown but twitched his red mustache irritably. The opportunity to finally gain closure was indeed a tempting offer. If he could somehow take everything out on the cult, he wondered if it might make him feel better. They would certainly deserve it. There were dangers though; it would not be a simple venting of frustration.

Memories of surviving the attack on the vault passed before his mind's eye as did the frightful horror of their last encounter in which he was nearly killed several times and almost fatally bitten by a wyvern. He had come so close. They had barely made it back at all. This time he might not be so lucky, and he knew it. Even with more people on his side, this time he might die. Everyone left things unsaid, things unfinished in their life, and after they had passed away, there was no chance to go back and do them. There were several things that Vincent wanted done before he died, but one stood out more than others.

"Alright, I'll come," he relented. "But there's something I have to take care of first."

"Well whatever it is, you better make it quick," Karl said. "We're stopping in the city to gather supplies. Then we're going to hire some mercenaries and join forces with the magistrate's men. After that, we march. You have until then."

"Don't worry, I'll catch up."

Karl and Rick ran off toward the gate while Vincent hurriedly set down the bucket and its contents to his right on the grass near the paved road. "Don't take long!" Rick called out after him.

Vincent's legs worked as fast as they could, pushing past stiffness and his own slightly damp clothes. The air raced past him, cooling him, but his body heated up just the same. His heart continued to beat faster, and not from the quick pace alone. An inscrutable feeling, both anxious and fearful at the same time, made his pulse quicken. His left hand holding his sword steady at his side clenched tighter, and his feet moved rapidly in front of one another, carrying him toward the one place he wanted to go before he left.

The gardens.

* * *

When Vincent arrived, Jessica wasn't there. He paced swiftly around every tree, every bush, searching frantically, but didn't find her. He went through to the other side again and then back. Nothing. He grabbed his hair in his fists, slowly walking back down the small path that would lead him toward the outside. Then he turned around and headed back. How long could he dare to wait? Desperation boiled up through his chest, scalding his insides with anxiety, demanding release. He needed to talk to her but he needed to go. What would he do if he couldn't find her? Where was she! He paced several moments more, searching while feeling as though he would lose his mind.

As soon as he saw her come out of a door on the side of one of the buildings, carrying a small clay pot with a flower in it, he called out her name excitedly. She looked up with a surprised expression. He immediately felt his previous anxiety replaced by another, one that threatened him with inaction. He stepped forward anyway, remembering why he was here.

"I need to talk to you."

When he came closer, going around a low hanging branch of thin leaves, her eyes met his. "What is it?"

His heart pounded and he gently took hold of the pot she carried and set it on the ring of gray bricks surrounding the tree at his right. Then he took her dirty hands in his, and her beautiful blue eyes looked up more shocked and confused than ever. He tried his best to make himself speak. "Things have gotten out of hand," he started. "Master Anthony has assembled a...we're going after Clyde." She looked on with an expression that said she didn't quite understand, and so he quickly explained further. "Clyde is the cult's ringleader." Her eyes widened. "We found him again, only this time he's razing villages. Master Anthony is leading a force to destroy him.

And I'm going with them."

"Oh," she said, removing her hands. An angry visage crept over her features and she averted her eyes. He could tell she was having other thoughts. He knew she had a score to settle with the cult as well. He had to get through to her before he lost her.

When he spoke, her gaze returned to his. "Jessica, I didn't come to tell you just to make up for not having done so before. I have to tell you something else and I may not get another chance." A warm and unusual feeling grew in his stomach. "It's perfectly alright if you don't feel the same way, I'll understand if you don't, but before I go, I just wanted to tell you..." he stared into her eyes, holding them in the moment as he took another breath, "...that I love you."

Jessica backed away, blinking several times, looking bewildered but also distinctly uncomfortable. She bumped into the door behind her. Vincent couldn't take the next breath. Jessica didn't seem to be able to bring herself to say anything.

Vincent swallowed, thinking that maybe he had said more than he should have. Maybe this was a mistake. His voice, when it came, was unusually soft as he looked in her eyes. "...I mean, couldn't you tell? I like plants...but I didn't keep coming here this whole time just for the greenery...I came to be with you."

Jessica's face was suddenly overcome with a sullen look. She folded her arms across her breasts. Her eyes glanced off to the side and then came back to his with a glare. "What about Stacy? What would she say?"

Vincent was confused both by the question and her seeming anger. "She already knows that I like you...she'd probably be happy for me..." he forced himself to swallow, "...if my feelings were requited."

"But you and Stacy are..." she stopped, appearing to find the subject unpleasant.

"Are what?"

"You know." She declared, prompting him to make a connection.

His head kept its aim at her while it jerked back, a frown creasing his brow. "Oh, you think that Stacy and I..." his head moved slightly forward again and he looked at her questioningly as if to make sure this was what she was thinking. Her own expression continued on as before as if to affirm it, and he became more perplexed than he had ever been. "...What?...No! What gave you that idea?"

"I heard someone say you've been spending a lot of time with her in the library...at night."

Vincent shook his head. "That's absurd. We were researching something the boys found out about the cult. It's not like we've ever...we never even kissed or anything."

Her mind seemed to toss this back and forth. She probably thought he could be lying and trying to be with two women. Vincent couldn't see how she could believe that. The idea of him ascending to the status of being the lover of Stacy, of all people, who was then trying to cheat on her...it was ridiculous. He didn't know where such a rumor had started, but it was insane.

It was clear that Jessica was still considering. "So you and Stacy aren't really...?"

Vincent looked her in the eyes with affection and concern. "No. I've always wanted you," he said honestly. She said nothing. "Ask Stacy if you don't believe me," he suggested, "I mean...well she's not around...she went with the scouts...but if she were here, you could ask her...and she would tell you that we're not..."

Jessica's smile came slowly, accompanied by a few small laughs. "It's alright, Vincent. I believe you."

She took a few steps forward and closed the distance, stopping just in front of him, and gazed at him lovingly with her beautiful blue eyes and smile. She let out a quiet yet excited breath. His heart pounded in his ears louder than ever before, so much that he thought she could surely hear it. A warmth surged throughout his entire body while they stared at one another. He felt her soft wonderful hands reach out and take hold of his arms.

She gently pulled him down for a kiss, and he went willingly. Their lips touched and his world turned to bliss. Her soft hands went higher, one holding him behind the neck, the other behind his shoulder. He instinctively put his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Her breasts pressed against him. Their lips moved but only a little.

The experience was like nothing he had ever felt before. It was warmth, goodness, fulfillment, and ecstasy all wrapped into one. He didn't want it to ever end, but finally it did. She pulled back and they both opened their eyes. They stood holding each other lovingly, listening to each other's breaths and gazing into each other's eyes. Jessica gave him a gentle, affectionate squeeze of her hands. She smiled and pulled him in for another. Hot passion ignited within him.

They parted lips again but held the embrace, staring at one another. All he could think about was how much he loved her. Every fiber of his being resonated with happiness and contentment. It was like something warm, something tangible. It was so strong that if he could have poured it out of his heart and into hers, to let her know how much he loved her, he would have.

"You should have said something sooner," she whispered.

"How does one go about giving a flower to someone who is surrounded by them all day?" She laughed softly again, continuing to show him her beautiful smile, and when done, it gave him joy to hear her let out a satisfied sigh.

It was soon tempered by a rising worry. His sudden alarm triggered a look of concern on her face. He pushed out from Jessica, holding her by the shoulders at arm's length. "I have to go!" He said frantically. "My friends need me!"

She held on tight to his lower arms before he could pull away, making him turn his attention back to her. "Wait! Maybe they already have enough people. You might not have to go. Stay here."

Vincent shook his head vigorously. "The dark ones are intractable! You don't know how ruthless they are! Things could go very wrong very fast! I have to be there to help!" He couldn't believe that earlier he had even thought about not helping.

She looked into his eyes, considering. "Then I'll let you come with me," she said at last.

He now understood her original meaning.

Images of the blood-filled, gut-wrenching horror of combat immediately flashed before his eyes. "No!" He burst out loudly, making her flinch. He then remembered himself. "...I mean um, it's too dangerous. I'll fight much better knowing that you're safe over here."

A scowl formed on her face. "They killed Harold!" She reminded. "I have more magic than you do. If anything, I should go and you should stay!"

Jessica was underestimating him. She didn't know what he had been through. At the moment, he didn't care about his pride. That wasn't what he was worried about. He was far more worried that she was underestimating their enemy, underestimating what it meant to be caught up in a violent struggle. She just didn't know. How could she?

He shook his head. He had to make her understand. "You're going to need more than magic to survive them."

"Like what?" She asked, the scowl still on her face.

Vincent tried his best to articulate it. "Like courage.........and a lot of luck. Your nerves can improve over time, but no one can give you luck. Death isn't so easy to avoid."

"I'm not staying here after they killed my little brother!"

"Jessica, it's not..."

"Get out of my way!" She started to push past him.

Before she could, he forcefully grabbed her by the shoulders. "YOU'LL JUST BE KILLED TOO!"

Everything was quiet for several moments. Jessica stared long and hard at him. For a time, his own expression didn't change. He strained himself to quickly think of how best to reason with her again, and made himself speak before her shock wore off.

"Jessica, I know you're angry about what they did to Harold. I know you want revenge. I do too. But you can't rush into this. Battles are a terror you can't even begin to imagine. You may think you are doing the right thing by trying to avenge your brother, but if you enter the fight, none of that will matter. They won't care that he was your brother, and they won't care that what they did was wrong. They'll just kill you, viciously, any way they can. That you are right won't save you. It will come so quick you might not even see it, and once done, it can't be undone−you'll be gone. The others won't be able to help you; you'll be dead, and they'll be too busy fighting to keep the same from happening to them."

"What about you?" She countered. "Do you think you're being heroic?" Tears started welling up in her eyes though her voice held. "Do you think you're saving me by doing this?" She wiped them away with her hand before looking in his eyes again. "What makes it okay for you to go? What makes it okay for you to..." she couldn't say it.

"There's nothing okay about it. Because of what happened, fear doesn't paralyze me anymore. I wasn't prepared the first time. You can't do anything to prepare for the first time. I got lucky, but luck doesn't last. In a battle as big as the one we're about to fight, I can't even guarantee that I'll live through it." He felt his own eyes glisten. "If something minor happens down the road, go ahead and fight in it. Gain the understanding I wish I didn't have, if it's that important to you. But not by doing this. I beg you, stay out of this. You can't go. If you do, you'll die."

"So you should just die instead? Is that what you want?"

Vincent stared at her more intently.

His voice was subdued. "I would die for you."

"I can't accept that." She tried to move past him again. He moved to stand in her way.

Vincent tried to be patient with her as he resorted to the last thing he could think of. "Jessica, I've known you for a long time. I've tended these gardens with you, and I even risked my own life just for the slim chance of returning your brother. I've never asked you for anything before. I'm asking you now to grant what may be my last request: stay behind."

"But I can help!" She insisted.

Vincent shared a long look with her. He moved forward and gently caressed the side of her face with his right hand. He put his hands on her waist and drew her near. His face was only a few inches from hers. "I know," he whispered softly. "But I don't want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you either," she whispered sadly, unable to keep back the tears.

"You won't." Then he found himself smiling. She frowned in confusion. "With your love to come back to, I'll be more careful and alert. I'll want to live even more. I won't let them take me."

"Vincent..." she breathed out worriedly, pulling him into a tighter embrace.

His head rested over her shoulder. He turned and kissed her neck. "I promise I'll come back soon."

* * *

Vincent finally entered the city of Gadrale, hot and winded. His feet thudded on the cobblestone street, and his dark blue cloak billowed out behind. It then occurred to him that he didn't know which of the three things Master Anthony's company had decided to do first or where they were. He slowed himself to a walk.

He asked around politely several times on the street until a hunched-over old woman was able to tell him that she saw troops moving east down Bennings street, a good while back. He thanked her, took a right at it, and dashed past people to go find them. When he got there, he found that the street was on the other side of a busy market square and had only shops housing saddles, tack, and other utilitarian goods. He asked around again until he learned which of the stores they had gone to. Only a boy remained watching the store, claiming that the owner had gone to the city hall to seek reimbursement for a king's voucher signed by a wizard. Apparently they had just made some sort of large transaction for supplies and equipment. Vincent asked which way the wizard and his men had gone, and was told that they headed south, toward the corner of the city.

He went down the streets, scanning with his eyes for signs of their passing until he finally saw a huge mass of soldiers in red tabards. He came closer and saw a smaller group of wizards off to the side, including the pair of healer women that had twice treated him. The soldiers and many of the wizards all seemed to be wearing packs with straps across their shoulders. The sound of several people in their midst talking, filled the air. Having found them at last, Vincent slowed somewhat and walked over to join his fellow magi.

As he got closer, he immediately noticed Karl, who stood out as the only one in the crowd wearing green robes, and approached. Karl was standing with his back to him, talking to Rick. He wore a pack on his back as did many of the others.

"Vincent!" Rick greeted as soon as he saw him. "We told them to get one more because we knew you were coming." He tossed a pack to Vincent, which he caught in both hands and continued walking toward them. Karl turned around.

"Thanks," Vincent said, starting to take off his dark blue cloak so he could put on the pack. After he did, he put the cloak back over it and let his left hand rest on the hilt of his sword.

With a finger, Rick scratched an itch on the side of his face. "We've already spread the word of what happens if you don't remove their heads."

"Good. What are we doing here anyway?"

Karl answered him. "Master Anthony is trying to recruit some Edmarian mercenaries."

"He's been at it for a while," Rick put in. "Maybe we should go to the front and find out what's taking so long."

Vincent walked with Rick and Karl a good distance toward the head of the company. The soldiers in red tabards were not standing as perfectly lined up as he had seen before, and many with the war axes resting over their shoulders were talking idly with their neighbors. The drummers all waited silently.

At the head of their wide column, the flag bearer continued to stand at attention, holding high the Rygan Banner. Beyond him and his fellow soldiers was Master Anthony's entourage: a portly cerebist man, a young woman with dark brown hair who was a seeress, a couple of pyromancers wearing red, and a few atmomancers in their usual blue.

Master Anthony, who still held a wooden box in his arm, and the black-caped Rygan officer were standing in front of a curious site. In a part of the town where most buildings were made of wood, stood this single taller building made of stone that had three floors and many rooms inside. It was made with smooth gray bricks and built with flowing, circular designs around the edges and shuttered windows. The top was built with crenulated parapets and appeared more a fortification than a roof.

The curious architecture appeared Elvin, mixed with some local Rygan traits. The door was made from such solid slabs of oak that it appeared as though a battering ram would be needed to break it down. Everything about it seemed to give the impression that the owner was not content to trust its safety to the city garrison.

The only thing left unprotected was a collection of bones outside on a bench near the door. They were from different creatures, but many were distinctly Orc skulls, and there was even an open bag of teeth. No one wanted these items, and so they didn't seem to fear them ever being stolen.

Above the door was a wide rectangle carved into the stone surface. In its center were strange letters that he couldn't make out. Vincent had learned to speak Elvish fluently, but he had never learned the complex patterns that the written form took. Thankfully, just below it on a metal support that jutted out into the street, there was a wooden board flapping slightly in the wind: It was a sign stained with three words written in his own tongue.

Deralon's Edmarian Mercenaries

Vincent immediately saw that to the left of Master Anthony there were around twenty of them standing in a row in front of the building, off to one side of the door. They wore light tan leather clothing that was almost like his own except that the sleeves were missing on many, revealing dirt-stained, muscular arms. The clothing looked far more suited to hiding in the hot, arid wastes of the Badlands than in any forest. Vincent thought that was where they must spend most of their time.

None looked like what one would expect from upstanding or affable Elves. They had short-cut hair of blond, black, or brown. Some had even shaved their heads bald, which made their pointed ears look even bigger, and their overall appearance more demonic. A few of these wore a single braided horsetail off the back of their heads. There were many old scars on each face, some across their foreheads, noses, cheeks, and a few were near their strange pointy eyes of yellow, green, or blue. They carried long light yellowish-brown bows, and a few bent over them to spit.

They wore numerous, wicked-looking knives on leather straps and wide full quivers hung across each back. The types of swords they carried were in no way uniform like the weapons seen in the Rygan Army; they each appeared custom-made by blacksmiths to each owner's preference. Some carried pairs of curved blades that were only slightly longer than the biggest of their knives. One carried a black metal-hafted mace, and one of the larger Elves carried a two-handed long-sword over his back that looked thinner than expected, apparently meant more for speed coupled with long reach. Others had many Elvish blades of different kinds with curved handles from the ornate to the purely functional, and there seemed to be no pattern to where each of them kept their weapons.

Their commander looked no less savage. He had black paint all around his burgeoning, wolf-like yellow Elf eyes, his eyebrows, nose, and upper cheeks. Sandy hair hung just down to his neck behind his pointed ears and numerous scars. He appeared to be having a heated discussion with Master Anthony.

At first, Vincent had only heard some of it above the white noise of the surrounding city and talking soldiers. Now that the three of them had gotten closer, he paid more attention to it. "...the sum you're offering is too small, Human," he heard Deralon insist in a snide, arrogant voice that was more refined-sounding than Vincent thought it had a right to be.

Ever so slowly, Master Anthony made a motion with his head toward the rest of the force he had gathered. "As you can see, your men would only be cream on a cake. Your contracts out here can't be many. You need this job more than we need you."

He seemed offended by this and his tone became imperious. "For your information, wizard, we've just returned from a reconnaissance mission into the badlands two days ago. A mission paid for by the king. He hires us to track Orc movements quite regularly. Without my men, your academy would have been clueless about that shaman's uprising sixty-two years past."

He then paused and squinted at Master Anthony, inspecting him without losing his irreverent tone or demeanor. "I think I recognize your face. You've aged a bit, but you're still a stripling in my book. If I'm not mistaken, I believe you were one of the young wizards sent to assassinate him."

"I was," Anthony remarked, not mentioning anything about Deralon's disrespect for his young age. "You do have a long record of reliable service. But this time we face something significantly more dangerous, something that requires more skill than needed for hunting Orcs. Your men will have to be more accurate than usual. I don't want them hitting any of mine."

"I already told you before: if you want results, you have to pay my fee."

The caped Rygan officer stepped forward, gesturing with a low swipe of his hand not carrying the shield. "The foe we face is great in number−you are only twenty. Archers are usually unreliable cowards who flee when overrun or get ground up into carrion by cavalry." He looked around at the brutish Elves with a sneer forming at his dark mustache. "Your band of misfits look little better." He brought his attention back to their leader. The mercenaries' reactions were as odd as everything else about them. Some glared, some smiled in crazed delight, some let out loony sounding giggles, and others just looked bored. "How can we justify the exorbitant price tallied to our king if we can't be assured of your professionalism?"

The Elf commander did not appear as angry at this as Vincent would have thought. "Under the bench over there,"−he pointed−"I keep a sack filled with only the right front fang"−he held his thumb and first finger to show the small, half-inch length−"of each slain Orc. My men and I make a sport of killing them by having our arrows cut it off before piercing the back of their skull."

Vincent regarded the open sack again for a moment. It displayed many sharp whitish teeth in a pile inside. He found himself wondering if they had actually accomplished this impressive feat or if they had only collected the fangs afterward. The Rygan officer shook his head with a sigh of disgust and took a few steps away, tiring of the negotiation. The Elf commander ignored him and continued to stare at Master Anthony.

What Rick seemed more incredulous about was the number. "That's all?"

The Elf didn't look his way when he spoke to his mercenaries. "Show them, men."

The twenty others, one by one, some with a groan of disapproval, went back inside the building and each came out carrying two heavy sacks, tossing them in front of the group of wizards. As the officer turned his head to see this, he made a point with two gloved fingers and flicked it toward the bags. A few Rygan soldiers responded to this by breaking rank to go inspect them, testing their weight and opening them to see inside.

Each man had a shocked expression and stared a moment at each bag's contents before moving on to the next. A few reached gloved hands in to make sure there were teeth and nothing else. When finished, they looked toward Master Anthony and the Rygan officer and nodded their heads before returning to their places. Vincent was astonished; there must have been thousands of Orc fangs. The number killed was quite impressive, even if there was doubt as to whether or not it was done in the manner described.

The Elf commander lifted his head back slightly, arrogantly eying Master Anthony with his strange pointy yellow eyes. He furled his lips, revealing his teeth. It, among other things, had given Vincent the distinct impression that these Elf men were not mentally stable.

Master Anthony calmly sighed and opened the wooden box in his arm while holding his gaze. From inside, he pulled out a parchment, ink bottle, and quill. He shut the box and rested the parchment on top of it, using his inner arm for support. The stopper for the ink bottle came loose, and he began penning the company's name and contract price on the royal voucher at the top, providing his name as the endorsing signature at the bottom.

Afterward, they moved out, the drums continuing to sound. They paid a brief visit to the city hall, a fortress-like building, and spoke with the magistrate. When Master Anthony told him about how they were hunting a powerful throng of necromancers, whom as such were in violation of the king's law, he agreed to help their cause. Unfortunately, he could only spare a hundred men from the city garrison, any more would weaken their defenses. Master Anthony accepted, and their combined force marched on to rendezvous with the scouts.

* * *

As a breakfast, Vincent ate a few strips of dried meat from his pack while they plodded on through the forest. Along with Karl and Rick, he stayed close to Master Anthony at the front of their force. The Rygan officer had the men change to a wide, more box-like formation to fan out in preparation for battle. They kept more or less to this with the woodland terrain forcing many irregularities in their ranks, and the footsteps were now a series of random, unsynchronized, softer clanks.

They still made a lot of noise, but their purpose this day was not to sneak up on their enemy−their purpose was to crush him with brute force. The red Rygan banner was still held high, and the black crest of a lion standing on its hind legs in an attack posture seemed eager to pounce this day. Drummers continued to drum more for the sake of keeping discipline and letting everyone know that a fight was close than to time their steps. Dun dun d-dun dun, dun dun d-dun dun. The mercenaries preferred to remain in the rear so as to provide support without entering any melee.

To Vincent, everyone was focused. Everyone except for the seeress that Master Anthony had brought along. She kept sneaking glances at his cousin Karl when he wasn't looking. From overhearing conversations she had with others from the keep, he learned that her name was Amanda. There was nothing wrong with her liking of Karl, he supposed. Before the battle started, she and the cerebist would have to seek shelter far in the rear anyway; her preoccupation with his cousin was not detrimental.

Around midday, the sky had become overcast, and they encountered the group of scouts who had located Clyde and his undead thralls. They were at the top of a gently falling rise. Stacy stood with a group consisting of his two former guards, a blonde cerebist woman, a young seer with a staff, and a pyromancer Elf. All looked quite tired, as though they had spent an entire night without any sleep, but Stacy appeared even more fatigued and had dark rings around her eyes.

Karl greeted her with his flippant tongue. "Wow, Stacy. What did Master Anthony punish you with?" Her mentor ignored the jest.

"It's nice to see you too, Karl," she replied.

The mustached botanical mage spoke next after eying Vincent and Rick. "So," he said in a drawn out tone of recognition, "he brought your other friends. Looks like your little club of delinquents is complete once more."

They were all silent for a moment. Stacy folded her arms under her breasts. He looked toward her but only found a glare of annoyance. He was undaunted by it, and gestured toward her with his head while looking at the others. "Well, I suppose she's alright, but I don't know about you three."

Master Anthony returned things to the business at hand. "The six of you have had no sleep. If you wish it, you may refrain from joining the battle and return to the keep."

"We'll stay," Vincent's two former guards voiced as one, glancing at each other afterward because of the strangeness of having been so timed.

The old wizard looked toward Stacy. "I'll stay too," she said.

Everyone then turned their attention to the pyromancer Elf who wore red robes and had long black hair. He looked around oddly as though he were being incriminated in some way. "Alright, alright, I'll stay too!" No one had said a single word to pressure him yet that's how he seemed to interpret their temporary, silent, gazes. The blonde cerebist woman and the seer said nothing.

Master Anthony looked and pointed at the cerebist woman. "You,"−he then pointed at the seer−"and you, may also remain if you choose. You'll have to stay with these two"−he indicated with a slight pass of his hand behind him toward the plump cerebist man and the seeress, Amanda−"well behind us, and out of the battle."

The cerebist woman looked over at Stacy and the others. "Well, I guess this is goodbye for now."

"Take care," Stacy replied kindly.

"Make sure to keep yourself and the kid far away," the mustached botanical mage reminded. He then turned his head to look back toward their enemies. "...things are about to get really ugly."

#  Chapter 20

The color of the grass down across the wide expanse between the trees was subdued somewhat by the overhanging cloud cover. Vincent looked up warily, scanning each portion of the sky, and then noticed Rick, Stacy, and Karl doing the same. The mustached botanical mage eyed them each curiously but said nothing. Vincent's nostrils were filled with the smell of fresh air until it was replaced by another: rotting flesh. Neither he nor Rick complained about it, having faced worse odors, but many others did, covering their faces or plugging their noses in disgust. They were all marching behind Master Anthony, who walked beside the officer at the head of a wide battle formation of row upon row of soldiers in red. The deep drums were beat loudly, keeping the men marching in time. DUN, DUN, D-DUN, DUN, DUN, DUN, D-DUN, DUN. The Rygan banner held high flapped in the breeze.

Down the rise from them and off to the right was an abandoned farmhouse and barn shrouded by a sea of walking dead that covered most of the wide clearing. Among them, roughly in their center, was a line of twenty or so black robed figures carrying gray ashen staffs and sitting atop gnarled horses. When Vincent saw nothing but white bone on their hands and a skull underneath their hoods, he lost a step, his eyes wide.

"What the...?" Rick voiced without finishing.

Karl was equally taken aback. "What...the hell...is wrong with them?"

Everyone kept silent while they marched, no one having an answer. Stacy was the only one who bothered to respond. "Our seer told us that they were dead, just like the others." A chill ran up Vincent's spine.

"But that doesn't make any sense!" Rick whispered loudly.

"Why are they dead?" Karl asked next. "Are these the ones we killed!"

Stacy took a breath, still looking tired. "I doubt it," she said at last, "not many of their bodies were that intact. As far as I know, this is the first time anyone has even heard of necromancers turning themselves undead. It's strange to say the least. The only thing I am sure of, is that this makes them more dangerous, not less. Stay alert." Vincent's two former guards and the pyromancer Elf eyed them and their conversation with some unease.

When they were several hundred feet away from the edge of the gathered undead, the caped Rygan officer held up his gloved hand. "Halt!" He commanded, still taking a few steps forward himself. The heavy drums finished their last few beats, and Vincent could hear clanking feet and the rustling of chainmail as their army came to an uneven-sounding stop.

The officer looked ready to speak but then waited while one of the black robed figures urged his horse forward one horse-length ahead of the others. Vincent immediately noticed that the rider's skull had grayish-green skin at the top, and could see blue eyes in the middle of the sockets. It was the only thing Human about the creature and looked somehow familiar...

The Rygan officer spoke to the enemy in a loud voice. "Offenders to the crown, you are hereby..."

The robed skeleton interrupted him, but how he formed words was beyond Vincent; his mouth did not move. "Insignificant mortals," a drawn-out, deep, and unearthly voice began to announce, "I am General Clyde. Today the world begins to die. Kargoth the Almighty is ready to welcome you." He let his haggard words resound across the field. "Come to him now. Or be taken."

A moment passed. The officer didn't respond to this but instead made a pronouncement. "You are in violation of the king's law against necromancy,"−a menacing black arrow quickly formed out of the nothing above Clyde's gray staff−"you will now face summary just..."

Before he could finish saying justice, there was a loud whistle and the black arrow struck him squarely in the chest where he stood, piercing his armor. His right hand slowly reached up toward the haft in futility while he looked down at it. His teeth clenched and sweat covered his face during the last painful instants before he fell.

Everyone stood still, gazing in shock, except for Vincent, whose hand found the black handle of his sword and slowly drew it, the quiet scraping of its metal filling the air. He felt a scowl form on his face. From his position among the masses of undead, Clyde let out a deep, otherworldly laugh. His skeletal mouth and jaw still did not move from their closed position. It was unnerving to hear and watch. Master Anthony glared at the body when it hit the ground with a clank, and then redirected it back toward Clyde. Vincent kept his eyes fixed on the dead officer near Master Anthony, expecting treachery, and soon found it.

No sooner had the body fallen, than it began to rise again without even a hand to a knee. An invisible force quickly lifted him into a standing position, his body remaining erect. His head snapped toward Master Anthony, gazing with gray lifeless eyes that had thin black streaks running through them. His sword came out and he made a mad lunge toward their master.

Without looking, Master Anthony lifted his left hand toward him and a harsh wind threw him at least thirty feet to land on his back with several harsh, collective clanks. The blade had nearly touched him. In the next instant while the corpse tried to regain his feet, a thick stream of lightning shattered his entire body in a loud thunderclap, shooting charred pieces everywhere. Men turned heads or lifted shields to avoid being soiled.

Afterward, silence reigned across the field. The time for talking was over. Master Anthony held his hand high and back, his elbow bent, and then swung it forth swiftly toward the enemy. The signal to attack.

Drums began to sound again. Swords were unsheathed everywhere, causing a massive amount of metal scraping. Feet clanked and mail rustled, adding to the cacophony. The flag bearer and the soldiers marched downhill, breaking in their middle to go around the wizards. They rejoined after they passed, keeping their formation tight.

The enormous horde of zombies charged like animals, swinging their arms in disarray. Some couldn't hold their heads up straight. They crashed into the line of men, who fought back, hacking into them, drawing blood, and severing limbs. The undead bit viciously wherever possible and were resilient to most of these attacks. Rygan soldiers attempted decapitating strikes as they had been instructed. Often there was little room, and they struck at what they could, vertically slicing heads open, exposing blood and brain and chopping off arms. Those of the enemy who were struck in the heads were sometimes downed and sometimes not when only a shallow slice had come off and the damage was not enough. Whenever a leg was hacked off, the corpses still crawled on the ground, biting, grabbing, scratching, and trying to gain advantage while others still standing moved in behind them. Fingers clawed at eyes in a mess of ooze even as the arms they belonged to were being cut off. Wounded men screamed in agony. The undead were not as well armed, only a few had so much as a pitchfork, yet they were durable and quite savage.

And they were numerous.

The worst results came when Rygan soldiers began to fall to the horde and cultists lifted skeletal hands. Many still standing were caught immediately off guard and killed when their dead brothers began to turn on them. Confusion broke out as men had trouble distinguishing friend from foe. The enemy's new additions were better armored and equipped than their predecessors, deadlier in combat, and harder to kill. The living men fought hard, but winning under such conditions seemed impossible.

Their army quickly started losing ground. Openings were appearing in the front row downhill of the mages, providing small paths for clear aim. Stacy grunted and sent out a thick stream of lightning from her hand that blasted apart its target: a dead Rygan soldier rising to his feet. Other atmomancers quickly joined her, including the man with the iron rod.

While they were occupied with this, black arrows from the skeletal cult members materialized simultaneously and flew at the magi. They were destroyed by lightning bolts from atmomancers and fireballs from Rick and other pyromancers. Three of the arrows hit, killing wizards. Vincent decapitated one near him, and Karl smashed the skull of another in a red spray. The third grabbed a woman by the throat and tried to bite it out. Rick flung a compressed fire spark that blew him apart into burning cinders, but the woman he tried to save was injured by it: thrown on her back by its force, shrieking in severe pain as the pieces burned her face and set her clothes on fire. Someone else bent down to help her, patting her fiercely and trying to beat out the flames with the sleeves from their robe. Her cries of pain continued unabated.

Their side responded in kind by sending more lightning bolts and exploding fire back toward the cultists. Vincent was horrified when the cultists held up skeletal hands in a stop gesture and they disappeared a few feet in front of each robed figure. It was as though they had created some kind of invisible shield.

The pyromancer Elf that scouted with Stacy availed himself by sending a wide streak of flame up and over the Rygan soldiers out front to try to consume the undead. The intensity of the heat was enough to sear off flesh, which fell in bright strips, piece by burning piece, yet only set fire to others who then drove into the soldiers as a burning heap. The men used their shields and hacked at them with swords.

Unfortunately, each burning corpse that made it to their line was a serious impediment that only opened the way for others. The breaches were contained at great difficulty. Seeing this, Rick unleashed a similar overarching stream of flame but sent it much further back into the horde. The Elf and other pyromancers desperately started doing the same, trying to stop the men in front from being overwhelmed.

Vincent's eyes went wide in fright as he saw several green balls of fire much bigger than the cult had used before fly down toward their army. Some hit their front ranks, making explosions that killed many and flung over and burned others. Those who didn't raise their shields accordingly were wounded by tiny molten fragments of chain mail shot through the air, leaving them in screaming agony. The soldiers that had died from the attack, even those with one side of their bodies missing, immediately began moving and turned against their fellows. A few hesitated and were killed. Other soldiers realized what was happening and fought back.

One of the balls of green flame was aimed directly at their company of wizards, and they all looked up, awaiting their doom. Rick thrust his hands in the air, elbows bent, gritting his teeth, and his whole body began to shake. It came closer. Sweat covered Rick's face, and he growled in a painful effort. The course of the green blast began to barely steer left of their group during its quick descent.

It wasn't enough.

The sound tore into his ears. Burning hot pieces of men, chain mail links, and green flame filled everything left in Vincent's vision. The tiny pieces of metal cut his face and made shallow stabs in his flesh. He threw himself to the ground and rolled while frantically beating his clothes. A deep searing pain came from parts that were on fire and from the hot metal fragments lodged in his skin. He gritted his teeth and released his sword a moment while he hammered like mad. The flame wouldn't go out fast enough. Nearby, he heard and saw his cousin kicking and screaming on the ground, rolling and yelling every curse known to man. More of him was on fire than Vincent, and Karl frantically used his power to rip dirt from the ground and bury himself with it, keeping only his head uncovered.

Vincent grabbed his sword and stood up, staggering a queasy step from the pain. He immediately noticed that the enemy had torn their formation apart. The rent pockets, including the one just left of him, were generating a lack of cohesion that threatened them with defeat, badly outnumbered as they were.

Without warning, several undead soldiers appeared at his side. They attacked, swinging swords. Vincent leapt back to block one strike while another made a superficial slash to his torso below his rib.

He held a hand to the cut and backed up quickly, going near other wizards who were either dazed and confused or still blasting their relentless enemies out front with magic. The undead soldiers continued to close in on him. With that many swords approaching, caution would not save him. He sent magic into his blade, heating it to the point of being able to cut through metal. He waited until they were just close enough to each other and with a loud yell he swung outward to the right with both hands, cutting through raised swords and the necks of chain mail coifs in a flash of sparks, broken links, and blood. Three headless corpses collapsed.

Another went after Karl where he lay, still covered in dirt.

"Karl! Look out!" Vincent shouted.

Karl looked up and then closed his eyes and turned away when a shower of red fell on his face and hair. The body collapsed, and his rock made several tugs to pull itself free from the crumpled helmet it was lodged in. Afterward, Karl emerged from the dirt, conserving his energy by not bothering to use his power to remove it, and ran over to Vincent's side.

Lightning shot out from both of Stacy's hands in a crack of thunder while sweat poured down her face. Arching streams of fire burnt corpses. Men fought hard against zombies and against their own dead brethren. Many positions were overrun before the men reinforcing them could provide assistance, and the horde was encroaching fast upon the gathered wizards. In quick response, Master Anthony held up the first two fingers of his left hand high over his head and motioned them forward several times.

"Taylos Naughferre!" (Arrows ready!) Vincent heard Deralon shout loud and long in Elvish to his men. "Snighne!" (Fire!)

Their mercenary bows unleashed a well-aimed hail fletched with yellow feathers, and many of the men downhill who had been turned were struck down. As good as his word, all but two of the arrows had found their mark, dealing fatal wounds to the heads. Stacy blew another corpse apart with a thick, thunder-cracking band of lightning. The living soldiers gained the upper hand in one of the pockets of contention, and Deralon's men sent volley after volley, trying to assist at another.

Vincent froze, his eyes wide, unable to breathe as the undead cultists cast more green fire. He watched as the masses of flickering light flew down toward their army. The roaring impacts shook the earth. Rygan soldiers out front were annihilated. Two more massive green blasts arched up and descended toward their group.

"Deflect them at priority!" Master Anthony yelled, thrusting his hands up into the air. Wizards broke from their supporting attacks to join his effort and were forced to leave the men to guard the front on their own. A high-pitched, screeching wail of blowing air ensued when they unleashed what Vincent knew must have been a terrible wind. Fierce though it must have been, it only caused the two burning masses of green light to slow and separate and not by nearly enough.

Rick was already breathing hard and struggling to move them. "Help me out!" He screamed angrily to the other pyromancers.

They were busy unleashing explosive sparks at the zombies. "We don't know how!" The yellow-eyed Elf exclaimed frantically.

"Try it, anyway!" He hollered. Panicked pyromancers in red robes immediately complied.

The balls of flame split from each other somewhat more yet continued coming dangerously closer and closer. Several wizards quickly stepped back and forth, the thought of running clearly on their minds. "STAND AND FIGHT TOGETHER!" Master Anthony shouted to keep discipline.

The flames descended closer.

Fear clenching his insides, Vincent pressed his back up against their group in the center, keeping his sword facing out. Karl stood not far from him. One man in red robes gave up on trying to deflect the barrage, and broke and ran. Two others separated from their group as well.

BOOM!

The paired green balls of light exploded on each side deafeningly but seemed to spare those that remained between them; the two wizards that had separated from them late were destroyed. Black arrows flew. The exhausted magi fought back, stopping most of them. Vincent swung at the necks of zombies rushing in to take advantage. Karl crushed skulls. The first man that fled had joined the approaching enemy throng, one of the black arrows protruding from his chest.

In a bright flash of lightning followed by an ear-splitting crack, he was obliterated by Stacy. "Idiot!" She growled in aggravation. Her face was covered in sweat and grime, and her brown hair became disheveled.

Rygan soldiers from behind hesitated to join the fight on either side of them out of fear and uncertainty, having just witnessed the horrors unleashed by the cultists. "What are you waiting for!" A sergeant yelled in an ugly voice before rushing in. His men followed.

Master Anthony let out a tired breath, a bead of sweat going down his face near the edge of his white beard. He held up his right fist, and the gray clouds overhead grew and darkened, crackling with thunder and small flashes of light. He tightened his fist and clenched his jaw, yelling with a quick contraction and release.

Suddenly a colossal purple lightning bolt bigger than Vincent had ever seen came down from the sky. It struck Clyde in a deafening thunderclap, brightening the entire battlefield. The purple light streaked down around an invisible bubble, revealing its outline around the grim horseman and charring the grass ablaze in a circle around him.

Everyone seemed genuinely frightened at how this attack had not produced results and looked about nervously. It was a serious blow to morale, and many thought of fleeing at the sight of the enemy horde rushing their way. Master Anthony however, showed no dismay after seeing it fail, and instead generated more dark clouds. He then directed another intense lightning strike not at Clyde but at a massive throng of zombies well away from their forces.

It struck the ground with incredible power, annihilating thousands of undead with an explosion in its center. Those in it were turned to dust. Those surrounding this focus point were blasted away, their bodies torn apart to varying degrees, and a harsh wind from it slammed the debris into those who stood beyond this. Only a crater remained in the middle of its wake.

A loud, collective cheer went up among those not directly engaged. Another sergeant wearing a wide-rimmed metal helmet, carrying an upright halberd, stepped forward and momentarily let go with one hand. "Come on men!" He yelled loudly, swinging his free arm.

A collective roar resounded as a unit of halberdiers wearing rimmed helmets charged in to assist the beleaguered swordsmen. They crashed into the undead with their metal spear points, thrusting them back from their comrades. Immediately afterward, many chose to retract the weapon, pulling it back and making downward swings with the portion that was an axe-blade. Limbs were chopped off, and blades passed through shoulders, lodging into torsos.

The fighting continued as swordsmen hacked at zombies gripping the ends of their friends' longer weapons even though the weapons were still impaled or sliced into them. One group of halberdiers made an excellent stand by repelling with their points a number of burning bodies that still managed to reach the front line after pyromancers attacked with over-arching rivers of flame. A few others managed to skewer their victims fatally through the forehead.

Thousands of undead filled the open expanse Anthony had created. Another wave of black arrows flew toward their group. Fire and bolts of lightning shot out to obliterate them, but a few were making it through.

Vincent stood watching one fly straight toward him and then swiftly stepped aside while making a fast swing, chopping it in half. The pieces wriggled on the ground as though alive before becoming small piles of dust. He turned and saw a pyromancer a few feet away from him who had been claimed, a black shaft sticking out woodenly from his chest.

A sorceress moved closer, not sure if he was dead and not knowing what to do. "Sidney?" She asked.

"Get away from him!" Vincent warned.

Sidney turned toward the woman, and she screamed while backing away at seeing his ghastly face. Though it pained him, Vincent swung hard at his neck as the man lunged at her, removing his head. The headless body fell into her, blood spewing forth onto her dress from its neck. She screamed in horror, pushing away at it and the latently clasping arms.

The few people immediately nearby stared at him for an instant, appalled by his quick and gruesome save or else surprised by his speed, then resumed their volleying against the zombies, adding to the pandemonium. He shared a tight-lipped, stern look with the woman, who had a shocked expression on her blood splattered face, before wordlessly returning his attention to the battle and putting a hand to the bleeding cut on his side.

Sounds of explosions, cutting, slashing, and arrows in flight filled the air. Vincent heard another scream followed by a smashing, wet sound and looked over. He saw the body of a man in blue robes collapsing to the ground, knees first, after there was a spray of blood from his crushed head. Karl's dripping rock floated back.

Things seemed only to get worse after that. Several hundred of their men had perished, many becoming undead before their fellows were forced to send them to the ground permanently. Compared to their losses, more zombies appeared to have fallen, and the bodies piled, yet this was only a small dent in their total number. The ground, slick with blood, caused a few of the oncoming enemy to slip and fall.

Wizards fell to the enemy while skeletal cultists continued their onslaughts and continued to raise the dead. Terrible apprehension began to creep over Vincent's soul. The fear and despair was palpable all around, and soldiers were losing their nerve.

Vincent stood his ground, as he had for the vault, wondering if their foe truly was backed by the power of a god. What he beheld appeared far beyond the capability of any necromancer in recorded history. At this rate, they would not survive it.

Flashes of red light, both from arching blazes and explosive sparks, routinely brightened the battlefield. Cracks of lighting added to it and endlessly struck with thunderous sound. Throngs of ravenous dead snarled and attacked unabated even while many in their midst perished from the bands of light. They washed over and over onto the front of their army like waves on a shore. It was a chaos punctured by death screams and the thick smell of blood and rotting flesh.

Karl rushed up to Vincent's side, grabbing his shirt near his shoulder in both fists. His voice sounded truly terrified. "Vincent, we have to leave!" He looked down with a grimace at the hand Vincent held to cover the bleeding wound on his side, and quickly released him.

Vincent glanced back toward the carnage that ensued, his own profound doubt over their survival clawing at his inner being, and then back toward Karl, who was bleeding in several places as well. "We must not panic," he insisted, feeling the same fear.

"Panic?" Karl asked. He grabbed two fistfuls of Vincent's shirt once again and shook him. "WE MUST CONVINCE MASTER ANTHONY TO ORDER A RETREAT!"

Vincent looked toward Master Anthony and saw the angry look on his face while he unleashed another of his devastating attacks, destroying countless more zombies and kicking up a debris wind that slammed what pieces were left into the enemy. Yet more came. "I don't think he will listen. Our main difficulty is the cultists. If we can do something about them, maybe we have a chance."

Karl released him. "But we can't even hurt them!" He exclaimed, sweeping an arm in their direction. "You saw what happened!"

Vincent firmly looked him in the eye. "There has to be a way!" He insisted.

"We are losing this!"

"They must be stopped!"

"If we don't flee, it's only a matter of time before..."

BOOM!

They both flinched and ducked instinctively when a green fire blast pounded a portion of their front line, killing soldiers everywhere. Out of anger, one of the pyromancers yelled and sent a bigger ball of flame straight at the black-hooded skeletons. It disappeared harmlessly. Dead charged in at the breach and large bright streaks of lightning shot forth from Stacy's hands, shattering their targets at high velocity. Other atmomancers were actively engaged in doing the same, including the man with the metal rod, who for some reason had strange lumps attached to his blue robes. Dead soldiers continued to rise from their own ranks.

"Snighne!" Arrows flew.

BOOM! More soldiers were killed.

Another volley of black arrows flew toward them. Their fellow wizards were far more attentive this time, destroying nearly all of them. One of Deralon's men was hit. Another bent down to share a few last words while a third unsheathed a curved blade. The rest continued to drop zombies with almost no misses. Another hail came and a blonde woman in blue robes was claimed. Her friends were not quick.

"Kill her!" Vincent yelled at them.

When they hesitated, the man with the iron rod finished sending a lightning blast and then swung around to knock her off her feet. He then pinned her immediately to the ground with its end between her breasts near the black arrow while her crazed, ashen arms thrashed. The mustached botanical mage pulled a seed from his bag and tossed it on her.

A green patch of thin sprouts grew into a dense clump, and she continued to thrash even as it grew around her and into the ground. She struggled wildly and uselessly against it, her range of motion becoming more and more restricted. The man with the iron rod removed it, and Vincent watched while her body was enveloped and consumed, becoming nothing more than a green stump in the shape of a person.

A zombie broke through the soldiers and headed straight for the man with the rod. The plant mage flicked a hand toward his friend, and suddenly one of the strange lumps flew off his robes and grew to enormous size, knocking the zombie back as it landed. Brown tendrils whipped around while a dense, wet ball of roots devoured its prey. Leaves began to spread on its tendrils, which grew in size further, whipping about dangerously and ensnaring newcomers. Everyone took several steps back to keep their distance from it.

Several more green fire-blasts flew toward Rygan soldiers, killing many in loud explosions of burning body pieces and rent flesh. Nearby men screamed in pain from shot metal fragments. Most of the burnt dead rose. Soldiers behind were too frightened to join the fray. Another blast of green fire was heading straight for the exhausted wizards, alarming everyone.

Vincent heard a loud growl of intense physical effort, and saw the green ball of flame steer itself upward, going over their men and crashing into the forest behind them. Shields were raised when it made trees explode and lit splinters ablaze. His eyes found Rick, who stood facing toward it with his back to the enemy, hunched over with his hands on his knees and struggling hard just to breathe. Someone leapt at him to push him out of the way as a black arrow flew past and stuck itself in the ground, twitching and trying in futility to get itself free. It seemed that Rick was getting better at it, but what little strength he had left would not suffice.

Men clashed with zombies and dead soldiers alike. More black arrows flew. Light flashed as a frantic and desperate barrage went up to destroy them. With one hand on his sword, Vincent made a panicked swing to hack one out of the air that came unexpectedly, his heart thumping from the quick fright. Another that came late flew toward Karl and he ducked fast. Vincent turned left to look behind his cousin and almost froze. He saw the impossible happen: it changed its direction in mid-flight.

To go back toward Karl.

Karl's back was to it and he didn't know. There was no time to give him a warning. Karl stared wide-eyed at Vincent as he kick-shoved him out of the way, making him land on his side. The arrow flew over and then changed course again to go down toward him. Vincent stepped one leg over him and cleaved it in one swift, diagonal swing over his cousin. Karl lifted his hands to protect his face as the two pieces flew off at odd angles.

Vincent shared a look with him when Karl moved his hands away. "They don't quit," he explained, stepping back and offering his hand to help him up.

Karl made a strained sound while taking the hand and pulling himself up. Pain shot into Vincent's side. The sound of explosions and weapons clashing ensued around them as did flashes of light in his peripheral vision. Karl's blond hair jostled as he stood up and rubbed a hand on the side he had landed on.

BOOM! They both ducked again at the threat of flying metal bits that were once chain mail, then turned their attention toward the enemy.

Karl growled in aggravation. "We must retreat or we're finished!"

"If we rout now, we are finished!"

"Those cult members will kill us if we don't! They're invincible this time!"

Vincent still wasn't so sure. "How can they be impervious to everything!"

"How should I know!"

"It's not possible! They must have a weakness! We just have to find out what it is, and use it!"

"And how long should we wait to find it!" Karl fired back. "Till we're all dead!"

The blood and carnage continued and Vincent and Karl were each forced to break from arguing to kill a few zombies that managed to just make it through. Deralon's men fired more arrows. Soldiers with swords, axes, and halberds fought mightily to hold their ground. The plant monster unleashed by the mustached man ensnared more zombies in its tendrils, devouring them. They began to go around it, and the plant mage used his magic to make it grow larger and grab more of them anyway. Master Anthony unleashed another devastating strike.

Far off to the right, a green blast came down on their front ranks. Several more joined it, flying through the air toward their forces. At great effort, Rick steered one that was aimed at their fore down just enough to land on the undead's own forces, yet they still wreaked havoc elsewhere. Their army was dwindling, more than half was gone, and each one fallen only began to rise and aid the enemy. They were losing. A smaller hail of black arrows came and was obliterated in loud thunderclaps that were uncomfortably close, sending a spray of splinters that caused them both to recoil and cover their faces.

Karl cursed profusely, pulling a large one out of his cheek while it steamed and burned him as it dissolved. Blood ran down the side of his face after it was dislodged. Vincent clenched his teeth and pulled several out of his own right forearm, feeling the same sharp pain that also burned, keeping his sword pointed down. The dissolving pieces turned to ash when they were discarded.

"I'm going to try just one last thing, and if it doesn't work, I'm leaving!" He heard his cousin declare angrily. "You can stay here and die if you want!" He looked around at the landscape in annoyance, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Firstly though, it looks like I need to do some mining." His voice became louder and slower, emphasizing a deeper frustration while he vaguely pointed in the direction of the enemy. "Keep those damn things off of me!" Karl closed his eyes and held his hands down, moving them around as though feeling the ground with them.

"I'll try," Vincent muttered, stepping in front of him and holding his sword up with both hands.

"Wait," Karl said, "don't stand there. I just found something."

Vincent heard more explosions and saw arrows flying throughout the blood strewn pandemonium that was taking place. His head turned worriedly toward the distraction of his cousin's voice and then back. "What?"

Karl put his hands on Vincent's shoulders and started ushering him to stand several feet over to the right of where he was. "It's a bit left of here," he explained, "we're going to want to stand on ground more sturdy than this."

"What is?"

"You'll see, just stand here in front of me and keep hitting those things while I work." He raised his voice to the rows of soldiers marching around them. "All of you stand clear of this spot!" They looked on in fear of the battle they were about to join and in confusion of his words but did as asked.

Vincent glanced behind quickly. Karl stood facing to their left while squatting down low and holding both palms up. Out front, the battle raged and losses on each side mounted, with theirs at a clear disadvantage. While Vincent concentrated on watching for more black arrows, he heard a low rumbling followed by loud knocking sounds of rocks hitting each other and the sifting of dirt being moved and disturbed. Tangles of grass and thin tree roots ripped. Then he heard a sustained grunt coming from his cousin as though he were lifting a heavy burden. The ground near his feet shook only the slightest bit but otherwise remained firm. He glanced left again and saw dirt and rocks falling off a large boulder that hovered up out of a big opening in the ground.

"Watch out!" A soldier yelled.

BOOM!

More black arrows came. Flashes of light went up to destroy them. Anxiety tore through Vincent as one flew his way and he frantically swung across his face to chop at it. Another found its mark on the chest of a wizard. A woman atmomancer near Stacy quickly noticed and sent forth lightning from her hand that blasted the person apart. Vincent continued to hear Karl's strained grunting.

Right after an intense blast of purple lightning shot down from the sky, smiting a throng of walking corpses in a terrible wind of dust and torn flesh, Vincent heard his cousin make one final roar of effort and at last saw the massive boulder hurtling through the air toward the enemy. With eyes wide, Clyde quickly side-stepped his undead horse. The boulder flew by him and instead smashed another robed, skeletal figure off theirs, crushing them on the ground and rolling over many zombies behind them. All wizards froze for an instant, staring at the massive stone that had penetrated the enemy's barrier. Vincent looked carefully but did not see the cult member get up.

Black arrows flew.

There was one fewer.

"Guard him!" Master Anthony yelled, joining the others again in shooting them down.

Another volley came quickly right after it, and was frantically destroyed. Another came and then another. The enemy had realized the threat that Karl posed and was making every attempt to slay him. Vincent watched nervously while the arrows kept coming. He chopped one quickly and then swung again to get another. They were coming faster and faster, and they were coming for Karl.

He felt Karl put his hands on his shoulders. "Hurry! Let's get behind the others!"

Using Vincent as a shield, Karl walked them closer toward a crowd of wizards that was grouping itself tighter to fend off the hails. Many crouched or bent their knees so that others behind could aim over them. Frightened and desperate, Vincent sent magic into his sword to make it faster and lighter, swinging over and over at high speeds to chop at the black shafts while Karl moved them toward the others. The arrowhead of one he chopped flew off and scratched his face.

After they rejoined the group, Vincent was careful to keep enough distance so his blade wouldn't strike anyone. The arrows flew and flew, getting decimated by their intense barrage of magic. One making it through arched up and over the top of their friends, toward Karl. Vincent jumped and swung high in the air to cut it down. The skeletal cultists then started trying to curve them around to avoid their defense. Most were obliterated, yet Karl still hurriedly switched places with Vincent to crowd near the others. Vincent concentrated, watching warily, then had to swing to one side and then another.

With his back to Vincent, Karl lifted his green-sleeved arms to his sides with elbows bent and fists clenched. He bent his knees down in a more solid stance and began grunting in effort. The large boulder he flung began to roll from its position, crushing zombies caught under it, until it stopped at a new position off to the right of the row of undead horses and riders.

He opened his hands and his body shook while he braced his legs against the ground as though lifting something heavy. Lightning bolts and balls of fire shot up and destroyed black arrows. Vincent chopped another one trying to sneak in from the right and then warily checked again to the left. The boulder levitated from the ground, and when his cousin judged it high enough, he made a strained yell while pushing out with his hands.

The boulder flew, knocking one skeletal cultist off their horse and crushing them on top of the undead mount of a second. A loud whinny was cut short, and its rider's legs were pinned underneath it. Karl strained himself, causing it to roll and finish the job. The battle's momentum against the keep's forces grinded to a halt. Desperate Rygan soldiers regained their courage and fought harder against the undead.

"Snighne!" A hail from Deralon's men flew in to help them.

The hails of black arrows coming in from the enemy intensified and required all of the attention from Master Anthony, Stacy, and others to continuously destroy, which in turn weakened their group's overall ability to assist men fighting out front. Zombies took advantage. A cultist broke from sending black arrows to unleash green fire at their soldiers out front. Rick's body quaked, sweat poured from his neck, and with a heavy growl he reached up his hands with shaking, claw-like fingers and swung it down. It crashed short of its target, killing more zombies than Rygan soldiers in a burst of green flames and rent corpses. Men wielding halberds thrust them to keep the ones on fire at bay. Other men with swords or axes hacked with relentless abandon to keep from being washed over by the tide of dead people who were now little more than crazed, ravenous beasts, lunging, grabbing, and biting at every opportunity.

The cultists broke rank and moved their horses around, trying to avoid giving Karl the chance to capitalize on another well-aimed throw. They sent another ball of green flame at the monstrous plant, and Rick was unable to save it. Vincent was surprised to hear a high-pitched screech of pain when it was blown apart. More zombies poured through after the obstacle had been removed.

Master Anthony shouted an unusual order. "Karl! Distract them!" Vincent swiped another arrow out of the air.

Karl didn't question it, he immediately ripped hundreds of smaller cobbles out of the ground near their horses' feet and swirled them around along with dirt, pelting the cultists and causing them to move about in disarray. Master Anthony held up a fist and gambled on their weakened concentration. From high in the sky, larger than anything he had used before, an ear-shattering, blindingly bright bolt of intense purple lightning came down like a hammer strike from the gods.

"Arrrrrrrgh!" Cried haggardly the ones who succeeded in shielding themselves as they held up a skeletal hand in front of their skull. Those who did not were torn apart in a deafening thunder-crack and thrown to the wind. Vincent guessed six or seven had perished.

The dead on foot around the cultists suffered a similar fate, and those who were not ravaged and blown as smaller pieces were blasted as though their bodies were made of burning paper that flaked and fell apart. Smaller bands of shock, the children of the initial strike, flew off in different directions far from the source and blew apart entire throngs of corpses. The debris that was kicked up from the center of focus flew in a cloud of dust at high speed toward their own forces, causing everyone to close their eyes and cover their faces. Before covering his face, Vincent caught a glimpse of Master Anthony, the only one to not recoil.

When the air cleared, he immediately saw yet more dead streaming in to make a major push. A constantly flickering stream of fire sparks and lightning bolts flew out over the few soldiers remaining to obliterate the zombies, yet the mass pushed on, making headway despite their grievous losses. Arrows from Deralon's men flew in, dropping corpses but to no avail. Vincent knew that those out front standing between them and the wizards weren't going to hold out long enough for others to assist, and started moving around to help them.

Black arrows appeared, flying down toward them. Many students of the keep diverted their attention from shooting the enemy for an instant to destroy them, yet several soldiers were still hit and turned their swords on their fellows. One of Derlaon's men was claimed and attacked another near him who was bald except for a horsetail off the back of his head. As he struggled with the corpse, another helped him wrestle with it, allowing him to pull free a mace and savagely bludgeon its head with it until the twitching limbs no longer moved.

When Vincent ran to join in trying to guard their group of magi from the horde, he had to heat his blade and decapitate several of their own fallen before arriving and swinging viciously and desperately toward the on-comers. Three living soldiers remained on his left and two on his right. He swung like mad, lopping off heads as well as any grasping hands or fingers that got in his blade's path. He was being forced slowly back. Light from magic occasionally streaked by him, destroying the corpses he couldn't kill fast enough.

He saw and heard flashes of light overhead, explosions, arching torrents of flame, and black arrows being destroyed, yet these were a blur in the back of his consciousness, his only focus being to swing faster, swing harder, kill. He kicked one that was a child. No amount of swinging seemed enough. The enemy was intractable, prolific, relentless, and cared nothing for the physical harm he inflicted on their bodies. Only a removal of the head silenced their vicious snarls.

From behind, he barely heard another sergeant rallying his men. "Beat them back, boys!"

They yelled, charging into the fray off to the sides and not close enough to help. A green ball of flame exploded somewhere, killing many. Karl's boulder leap-frogged into the air just enough to knock off another cultist from their horse and crush them, rolling afterward.

Head after head fell like grain before a scythe while Vincent ignored the painful gash in his side, his arms burning from the effort. He breathed hard, feeling like the dead were a sea they would all drown in. He swung and swung and fought on desperately, trying to keep his neck above the rising water.

He was soon pushed up against his fellows. "Get down!" He heard someone yell, not knowing why or to whom.

"Vincent, get down!" He heard Stacy's voice scream. With no time to think, he immediately complied with her wishes, diving into a mess of gore.

A collective gust of wind from atmomancers slammed into the undead all at once, flinging back any that were nearby. Some further away fought against it but were soon carried off. Zombies fell onto other corpses, knocking them over. When the wind stopped, the barrage against them resumed.

Vincent lifted himself with one hand and used the other to stab his sword through one of the bodies beneath him and into the ground below, using it to steady himself as he slowly stood up. He was momentarily grateful for this reprieve that he knew would be all too short. Having the precious few seconds to think and breathe was almost worse than not. Almost. He now realized his fatigue and dreaded the next onslaught he would have to fend off.

More soldiers moved up to their group's sides. He glanced immediately right and saw below helmets two pairs of worried brown eyes amidst soiled, sweaty faces. A worried pair of blue ones stood on his left. Like Vincent, they were covered in blood and were losing hope.

"We're going to make it!" Vincent said to them between heavy breaths, raising his voice with more fervor and confidence than he thought he could. "Stand with me!"

"Yes, sir!" One of them responded.

"Yes, sir!" Said the other two, one of them nodding his head.

"Good," Vincent muttered to himself, taking more breaths. He returned his gaze to the undead masses coming their way who were getting pounded by a continuous volley of Elvin arrows and magic, losing many yet not seeming to fear it whatsoever or lose any speed on their approach. He raised his voice. "No matter what happens," with his foot on the body, he used a hand to pull free his own bloody sword from the corpse, the red liquid dripping down the blade, "we hold them back!" In his peripheral view, he saw their hands tighten on their shields, swords, and axe.

His right hand gripped the hilt while he let the blade rest on the carnage below him. Mentally, he prepared himself for the inevitable but then froze when something gave him pause. His eyes went wide. A frighteningly familiar sound, a thick wafting of air from the sky behind them, suddenly caught his attention.

He knew its source.

#  Chapter 21

The black wyvern flew over their heads with a monstrous roar that he remembered all too well. The underside of its black body had gray scales for counter-shading, and the flap of one of its wings had a cut near its base. Numerous scars were left from his sword, an even deeper one lay on its tail. A dent lay on the left of its scaly head where Karl had clouted it. Vincent lowered the blood-stained sword in his right hand and waited, occasionally glancing toward the zombies. It took a right, swooping around the undead army to fly back toward theirs. It roared again in the distance, showing its teeth and tongue. Several of its lower teeth had been cut, and its tongue wasn't complete either. The beast gave pause to many, who then resumed their attacks more out of a growing desperation than a sense of duty.

Others were noticing its disfigurement. A man's astonished voice spoke from behind, remarking about what might have caused such wounds and what a battle it must have been. Vincent turned his head, looking over his cloak behind him, and saw a pair of pyromancers talking uphill of where he stood. The first was a blond man, the other was a beautiful woman in a red dress with long black hair and dark brown eyes. They continued to send fire sparks from their hands into the horde, blasting apart their targets, and both were exhausted, covered in sweat from the constant effort. Vincent turned his head back around to watch the oncoming enemy, particularly his winged nemesis.

"Aren't wyvern's supposed to have forked tongues?" He heard the woman ask.

While he watched the beast approach, he expected to feel fear, but there was very little of it. What he did feel was an overpowering and peculiar rage begin to boil deeply within him. He couldn't explain it; it was contrary to his natural instinct. Yet it was there. Even as their defeat and ultimate death seemed imminent, a mad urge to kill the loathsome creature began to grow, begging for satisfaction. While continuing to stare at the object of his hate, he unexpectedly heard his own angered voice answer her question. "It had a forked tongue."

"What?" She asked in bewilderment. Vincent didn't say anything. His eyes remained locked. The woman didn't press him and resumed adding to the barrage.

The undead were charging toward them, taking grievous losses as bands of lightning and exploding sparks of fire shot forth from wizards' hands. Deralon's men sent hail after hail to take them down, but the rushing mass could not be stopped. Skeletal cultists conjured more of the black arrows, sending them forth, causing wizards to break from their attacks to stop them, which only accelerated the progress of the oncoming horde. There was a heavy thud on the ground as another black robed figure was culled by Karl's boulder.

The wyvern flew toward him first in a quick descent, then swooped up, trying to hover. It began to open its mouth, preparing what Vincent knew would be a horrific blast of green fire. Men began to scatter all around in fear for their lives.

Time seemed to slow down to an impossibly slow pace. Everything seemed quiet though he knew it was not. He stood his ground, preparing for action, and stared the beast in its eyes, seeing his own hatred and inner bestiality reflected back at him. In its gruesome black reptilian visage, yellow eyes with black vertical slits stared on with a shared, primal understanding.

Both knew that one would not be leaving the field this day.

Vincent's right hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. His jaw clenched. He readied himself. The wyvern's jaws finished opening. Green flame began to surge from inside.

At the moment of terror, the beast's right wing was suddenly flung back uncontrollably, causing the creature's entire body to twist while it fell to the ground out in front of him. The streak of green flame shot off to the right and above their army, harming no one. Sound, life, and the violent pandemonium returned to his senses. Vincent snapped his gaze over and saw a calm Master Anthony lowering his hand.

He immediately looked back. His opponent was disadvantaged. He didn't care; he was lost in another world. His mind had become like that of the beast itself and driven by only one instinct: to slay his foe. He heated his blade to a glowing red and took his sword in both hands while dashing madly toward the winged creature. His dark blue cloak billowed out behind him. A long enraged yell came from his lungs.

"What is he doing?!!" He heard someone say.

"Get back here!" Someone else shouted to him. He knew why, the swarm of dead was approaching, but didn't care. Their words were like an annoying insect buzzing by a lion's head while it gave chase.

Vincent had become the lion.

Nothing less than its blood would suffice.

When he was almost upon it, he lifted his blade out to the side and behind him. With a furious roar, he brought the sword downward, hungering for its head. At the last instant, the wyvern's yellow eyes snapped over to him, and it reacted quickly, jerking its head back in fear but not quite fast enough. The bright red sword caught its hide and made a long, deep gash down the side of its face and near its yellow eye, which it blinked in agitation.

It turned its head with a howl of pain while rearing back its neck and opened its mouth for another breath. Vincent crouched and then leapt like a cat, rolling to his feet afterward as the hot flames spread behind him. He immediately pressed his attack, slashing at the wyvern's hide. It frantically jumped back, using a wing to lift itself. Vincent went after the wing. His downward strike reached only the scales of the limb's base as it pulled away.

He charged in and slashed at its underside. From above and behind where he was standing, it coiled its neck down to snap at him. In a mad rage, Vincent swung backward, slicing into its jaw from underneath. Another bellow erupted from its snout. He heated his red-glowing blade to a higher intensity and prepared to dive at the beast's chest when it suddenly jumped back, flapped its wings, and then did so again to distance itself from him. It let loose another blast of flame from its mouth, forcing Vincent to abandon his chase and roll to the right, landing on his side.

As he furiously scrambled to his feet to go after it, he saw the beast turn left in his view and run, beating its wings and taking to the air once more. Arrows from Deralon's men bounced off it, some coming near its eyes. Sharp wind blew into it, making its flight less steady. From uphill, streams of lightning bolts and fire sparks continued flying over him. A few hit an invisible shield around the wyvern, causing no damage. Others missed the cultists' shield and destroyed corpses in the distance. Not wanting to fall again, the beast turned away to soar over the undead army, keeping away. Vincent knew it was only waiting for another opportunity.

"Get out of there!" He heard Master Anthony and many others yelling at him.

Vincent looked down and immediately saw a mass of undead rushing straight at him. He turned and bolted to rejoin the others. His cloak billowed out as he ran recklessly. Grasping dead hands gripped it, trying to jerk him back. He frantically stopped and skidded while he lowered himself and turned around with a wide swing that cut every torso behind him, the blade passing under his cloak.

Before the crawling upper halves could do anything, he forcefully backed away, his cloak being torn off by the clawing hands. Deranged corpses lunged toward him with snarls and grasping fingers. He swung decapitating strikes, catching most at the neck where he desired. His blade went through the heads of others that were shorter with mixed success. The pain from the gash in his side returned. Elvin arrows dropped zombies. Others were blasted apart by magic at an uncomfortably close distance, sending sprays of their burning bits and blood which struck him with stinging force.

The only thing that saved him from certain death was the quick actions of those from the keep; while he swung, black arrows that otherwise would have claimed him were destroyed prior to contact. A few splinters hit his face, bringing searing pain as they dissolved, and there was nothing he could do about it; he had to keep swinging. Steam came from his face as he gritted his teeth and channeled the pain to feed his aggression. Dead children tried to sneak in beneath his blade's path; he beat a close one with his sword's hilt and then swung low to catch them, his blade facing increased resistance as it tore into the bodies behind. Their blood covered him. Long hair was cut as the heads of the dead women fell to the ground along with those of dead men. Sweat covered his face, causing his wounds to sting. His breath was harsh and ragged. His arms burned while his sword scythed relentlessly into a torrent of flesh.

Vincent backed away as he fought until he was right up against his compatriots, having no ground left to give. Rygan soldiers at his sides hacked desperately at their foes. The thundering of magic making impact was all around. Bright and frequent flashes from their light filled his peripheral view and lit his foes as he slew them.

Their forces were heavily engaged, standing firm, and granting no quarter. Men who died were decapitated by their fellows before the undead could take them, yet few still rose, causing steel to meet steel. Magic destroyed bodies. Wind threw back throngs that sought to overwhelm their positions. All were trapped in a veritable gridlock where blood, pain, and death abounded.

No one spared any effort. Karl crushed another cult member. Black arrows were destroyed. Streams of flame arched over. Master Anthony brought down a now rare devastation from the sky, causing a deafening thundercrack. Vincent swung for all he was worth, continuing to swing even as he shut his eyes for a moment when the wind of dust slammed into him.

Before he could open them fully, he heard a loud whoosh of flame followed by a blood-chilling cacophony of death cries. He heard men being overtaken by fear; many were screaming out to run.

A glance to his side as he swung caught the sight of green fire tearing up their left flank. Soldiers on that side broke from combat and were fleeing, unable to bear the strain on their courage any longer. His eyes darted over to the wyvern. It flapped its wings while flying across their front, its breath having been expended. Wind blew at the beast, trying to unsteady its flight but failed. It dimmed its yellow eyes when it looked at Vincent with an expression that taunted him.

Zombies in front quickly drew back his attention. Vincent kept slicing into corpses while feeling that things could not be worse. Their formation was breaking up; they couldn't hold the line. Men and wizards alike were fleeing. He kept fighting, not knowing what else to do.

"Fall back to the trees! Watch for arrows!" Master Anthony commanded, trying to maintain their resistance and bring order to the chaos of their retreat. Vincent held a few moments longer to give others more time then turned and ran.

Ahead of him, he saw scattered men in red charging uphill to escape the dead. Several of the trees at the top were splintered by the earlier attacks, and a green flame still burned on some. Wizards and sorceresses kept turning their heads as they ran, destroying with their quick aim the black arrows that sought to take advantage. Rick, Karl, and Stacy were not far apart from each other. Rick and Stacy turned or stopped occasionally to obliterate arrows, Karl to magically kick up dirt and rocks in an effort to cause disruption amongst their senders. While Vincent ran, he ducked and felt a quick fright as one of Stacy's bands of lightning shot over his head and blew apart an arrow meant for him, the sharp splinters striking his neck and back, causing a searing pain.

They stared at something above him. "Look out!" He heard them all scream while Karl made several furious leftward shoving-gestures with his arms.

Knowing their reason exactly, Vincent leaned hard left to avoid being thrown over while he made a turn in that direction at too high a speed. He heard a whoosh and felt the heat from the green flames on his back. He heated his blade and viciously swung across, barely missing one of the wyvern's foot-claws as it flew by, trying to grasp at him. The massive tail whipped toward him and he brought his sword up vertically to block it, straining his arms to keep them firm. It made a shallow cut in the scales as the force of the blow knocked him on his back.

As Vincent struggled to turn and get up, he saw first the coming undead, and then his friends running into the woods, perhaps to wait for him. The wyvern swooped up over the trees and Vincent saw a man with a halberd panic and senselessly thrust his weapon toward the air, thinking it near. Vincent looked from the wyvern to the man's weapon, seeing the metal bands running up the side of the wooden haft to the long spearhead where an axe-blade and spikes were attached. Then he glanced back at the disappearing black wings and tail of the wyvern. An idea began to grow. He rushed to his feet, desperately searching around with his eyes.

"What the hell are you waiting for!" He heard Rick shouting out to him from afar. He glanced and immediately saw the undead. Further across the field, there was a halberd near a headless body, but it was too far; he dared not go after it.

He sprinted up the remaining distance with the dead masses right on his heels. He watched Rick send a thick stream of flame up and over him. Stacy sent lightning bolts that drew sharp concussions in the air which he knew were bodies being blasted apart.

Karl readied his hands as though he was about to do something, but looked at Vincent in frustration. "Run faster, you idiot!" He scolded.

Exhaustion seared throughout his body. His lungs burned. Vincent pushed yet harder. Karl clenched his fists and motioned upward, letting out a harsh yell of exertion. There was a slight trembling and rumbling in the ground near Vincent. He snapped his head to the side to glance and saw a knot of earth ripple and spread a short distance down, tripping a good number of zombies at the very front of their charge. As Vincent reached his friends and quickly got out of their way, Rick cut across from left to right with a wide blaze that set them on fire in varying intensities. Stacy sent a wide gust of wind that fanned the flames and threw the burning corpses into all that followed.

Vincent rested his sword's tip on the ground and leaned against a trunk while he struggled to catch his breath. His friends were badly winded as well.

Karl was irate. "What was that about!"

"I need a halberd!" Vincent answered with hardly enough air.

"Why!"

"What's wrong with your sword?" Rick added with a mustached scowl, pointing at the weapon while he stood bent over with the other hand to his knee, breathing hard.

"Nothing! I just need one! I might be able to..."

Stacy quickly interrupted him. "They're recovering! We have to go!"

A black arrow whizzed over the top of Karl's head. He cursed obscenely. "Come on!" Vincent snapped his gaze over, readying his sword and expecting the worst but saw it stuck deeply in a tree, shaking as though trying hopelessly to get itself free.

The four of them ran leftward into the trees, going deeper in the direction of where they might find the others. "REGROUP!" He heard Master Anthony's voice yell through the trees.

Someone in the army echoed it, trying to rally their troops. "Form up, you cowardly maggots! REGROUP!"

Others repeated it. "Regroup!"

"Regroup!" Another sounded out higher and longer.

"Form a line and stand!"

The undead were crashing through the thicket behind them. Vincent raced with the other three, wanting to rejoin their force as quickly as possible, knowing that each second was precious and that they only had a chance together.

"Form a line!" He heard as they got closer. "You too!"

"I know where to stand, Human!" A voice replied indignantly.

Past the next few bushes and trees, he finally caught sight of them. A knot of wizards including Master Anthony, Vincent's two guards, a pyromancer Elf, and others stood in the middle of perhaps over a hundred men that had been rallied once more after the rout. They held a roughly circular formation with breaks caused by trees in their midst. Their respective units were not complete either; they were in no way organized by weaponry, and men with bearded axes, swords, spears, and halberds alike stood at the edges. A few bald mercenary Elves who had run out of arrows stood among them with their weapons drawn. The rest stood behind.

The four of them were spotted quickly and someone called out not to attack, making sure they didn't harm their own. Vincent and his friends hurried over. The line opened for them and Stacy, Rick, and Karl went through to join the others from the keep. Vincent took position within the line's opening and the other men near him spread out so they would have room.

Vincent stood his ground, waited, and listened. He heard only the sound of his own exhausted breaths and that of others. Pain from his earlier injuries throbbed all over his body while he breathed. Slowly, the earlier sound of pursuit became louder. Twigs were stepped on, dry, dead tree limbs snapped, leaves rustled, and pine cones crunched.

Zombies crashed through the thicket and came running toward them in disarray. Many were taken down by arrows or by magic. Vincent's ears perked when he abruptly heard several sharp thuds on wood. Suddenly there was a scream from one of the men. He looked over and saw a black arrow sticking from his shoulder; it had somehow made its way through the trees. He screamed in further pain and agony as his fellow tried unsuccessfully to pull it out and kept trying as it squirmed inside him.

Dead men, women, and children attacked and were cut down mercilessly. The soldiers were as ruthless as he. The losses the dead faced were terrible and still they kept coming. Vincent felled a small blonde girl in one diagonal cleave. More dead flowed through the woods, but not enough to overwhelm them with any certainty. He dared to have hope.

A green ball of fire exploded in the trees, missing their forces. Raised shields blocked burning fragments. There were zombies enough to continue pressing an attack yet they no longer held a distinct advantage. The cultists would have to come closer to renew their threat. They were probably on their way right now, he thought as he swung. The gods help them if they were.

Vincent suddenly heard a thick wafting of air again, and his heart caught in his throat. The familiar roar resounded loudly from above. Thick green flame streamed down left of him. Incinerating men screamed in an agonizing death. Some of the flame bathed Vincent's left sleeve and he beat frantically, trying to put it out.

While distracted, a zombie lunged at him from the right. His raised arm and elbow were barely in its way and its teeth bit into them painfully. He was knocked to the ground. After a soldier near him killed another, he brought down his bearded axe on the corpse's legs while Vincent struggled to get free. In anger, Vincent heated the blade of his sword. After another hack from his comrade, the zombie retracted its teeth to try to bite into something more substantial. The moment it did, Vincent pulled his sword's cutting edge across its throat like a saw, slicing off its head.

He shoved the body aside and got to his feet. Green fire burned all around. He fought side by side with the soldier near him to hold back their enemies. Red flame from their wizards streaked over and set zombies ablaze while at the same time setting fire to part of the forest. Lightning blasted bodies apart and wind fanned the conflagration. Men wanted to run again after the wyvern's second attack but couldn't; the area was too thick with fighting, and showing one's back here would only result in death.

The sound of slicing, cutting, and screaming filled the air as they fought on. Vincent ignored all pain and kept swinging at any who came close, despite the momentary blurring of his senses. With the numbers of the dead thinning, it was starting to seem as though they just might make it.

If they could fight hard enough.

Vincent heard the thick wafting of the air again and frantically tried to find where it was coming from, desperately wanting to know where the flame would strike next. He constantly looked back toward the dead. The expected flame didn't come. Vincent snapped his attention back toward the zombies, felling several in a fast, well-placed swing and fearing that at any moment the flame might strike him from behind. The thick wafting sound continued. It was up to something, though he couldn't be sure what. Anxiety tore through him and wouldn't go away.

Abruptly, the fluttering of wings stopped. Something large and heavy fell through the trees, snapping limbs on its way down. Vincent slowly turned his head in terror. Standing amidst them with its wings folded, the wyvern opened its jaws. Vincent jumped aside and ran behind a nearby tree as it let loose a horrific streak of flame, killing the men who had fought beside him.

"DESTROY IT!" Master Anthony shouted.

A barrage of lightning bolts and flame sparks flew at the wyvern but dissipated in a bubble around it. The dead pressed closer, trying to take advantage of the weak points in their defense. Master Anthony stood behind a tree with sweat pouring down his dirt covered face and caused the dark clouds above them to thicken. Vincent heard a few rumblings of thunder from within them. Another of his devastating purple lightning bolts suddenly shot down in a thundercrack so loud that Vincent covered his ears in pain and was still unable to hear anything afterward.

He picked up his sword and peeked around. The fighting continued even though he was unable to hear it, and he saw that the wyvern was unharmed. People's mouths moved without words. Karl flung dirt at the wyvern's eyes to keep it distracted. It bit and snapped blindly and a Rygan soldier was caught in its jaws and torn apart. Knowing that death was near, Vincent looked around at the ground for the one item he wanted most. A huge stream of red flame went past in front of him and he had to shield his eyes from the brightness as well as the heat. Oncoming zombies off to his left were burned into nothing and few attempted to pass through the blaze.

When his eyes adjusted, they finally locked on what they were searching for. Amidst the blackened pile of scorched flesh too far rent for undeath, he saw a soldier's halberd. Though singed around the edges of its haft, it still appeared sturdy. It might serve its purpose. If he could get to it.

Magic shot through the air toward the blaze at his left to hit the zombies beyond it. He peeked around and saw more dirt being flung at the wyvern by Karl. The enraged beast blindly exhaled its green flame to kill those around it.

For speed's sake, Vincent sheathed his sword and dropped to the ground, hastily crawling toward the weapon. Pain coursed through his every wound. His ears were slowly starting to pick up sounds again; the burning of flames, the slicing of weapons, death cries, and explosions were real to him once more. The stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils and was copious as he went over dead bodies to reach the halberd. The remains of some of the soldiers he crawled over were greasy as though their body fat had been fried. It often singed him and so he tried to move faster. Vincent became profoundly nauseated.

He crawled onward and something beneath his arm gave way. It was a blackened head with melted eyes, crumbling. Little was recognizable besides the teeth. The helmet lay not far away. The sight and the gagging stench forced Vincent to vomit, yet he kept struggling onward, crawling over his own bile, knowing that he couldn't afford to care about it. Blackened grease and charred flesh stained his clothes, and while he moved, several more heaves worked their way up his throat. He spit several times without being able to get rid of the awful taste that was the least of his problems.

Finally, he reached the halberd. He pulled on it. The dead, burnt hands wouldn't let go. He pulled and they broke off at their wrists. In disgust and frustration, he yanked each off and then checked around him.

The pandemonium continued unabated. Blood-stained weapons cut into undead flesh. Magic flew through the air. The wyvern roared. On one side, the wall of fire shielding him and the others from the zombies continued to burn. It wasn't safe yet to stand; Vincent scurried on the ground back toward the tree, pain coursing through his body. His throat was raw after he was stricken by more dry heaves along the way.

When he reached it, he got to his feet and slammed his back against the trunk. He checked in both directions. Rick sent a flame spark whizzing past him. Charred debris flew back, and he closed his eyes against it. The wyvern roared again. As soon as he opened them, he worriedly checked around him and forced a breath. He then looked up at the head of the halberd and concentrated on his task.

Vincent pictured it in his mind, tried to feel it. With his hands on the haft touching the metal bands that ran up the side of the wood, his will traveled through it to the spiked axe head. The portion connecting the axe blade began to heat and glow. Small sparks flew off as a bright cut at the top began to form. It grew until the axe blade fell to the ground. Vincent focused his magic again. The rear spike fell next. Only the top spike remained. Vincent immediately had the thought that it might need to be reshaped, but there was no time, and he couldn't afford a mistake in its reforming. He chose strength over an even thinner piercing quality and readied his new lance while he peeked around the tree.

The wyvern was lividly snapping about. Periodic clumps of dirt pelted its face, keeping it off balance. A soldier threw his spear at the wyvern. It bounced off and he was rewarded with a streak of green flame. After a failed dodge, the soldier screamed in agony and rolled on the ground, trying to put himself out. At the sound of footsteps from another soldier, the wyvern snapped its jaws in his direction and caught a pine instead. Furious, it retracted and snapped again. Several other soldiers waited behind cover, unsure of how to kill it.

Vincent's premonition of what it would do next came as one with its actions. Knowing that others were around it but not knowing where, the wyvern exercised its best option. Green flame began the journey up its throat, brightening the back of its mouth behind the gaping maw of its teeth.

Vincent seized upon the moment and dashed forward to the next tree. The blinded wyvern's attention immediately went to him and fire streamed his way. It moved across, trying to find him. The heat got closer until a soldier threw a rock at its head, making it pull across the other way. The full stream was expended before it had a chance to incinerate the interloper.

He ducked behind the next tree and waited. When he looked past again, he saw the men confusing the wyvern by throwing small sticks and rocks at nearby tree barks. It kept biting at the false sounds. Vincent dawned upon an idea and put his finger over his mouth, passing a gesture to the men to stop and keep quiet. They held still. The sounds of fighting ensued behind them.

The wyvern huffed and snorted while blinking its eyes several times, trying to clear them. Suddenly, it let loose a big stream of flame back toward the wizards. Vincent watched as it was deflected upward, setting the treetops ablaze. The acrid smell was everywhere.

While the flame continued, dirt clumps pelted its eyes once more. "Serpentine bastard!" He heard his cousin yell. Vincent made the tip of his weapon glow red.

This was his chance.

His feet tore at the ground before the flame had abated. Trees and branches swept by his vision in a blur. His lungs starved for air. He ran impossibly fast. Vincent brought his arms back, preparing for the thrust. He neared striking distance as the green flame from its mouth cut off.

His grip tightened.

A solid impact jarred his arms painfully as Vincent slammed the glowing tip of his makeshift lance deeply into the beast's chest. It howled in pain and spread its tense wings reflexively. With all his strength, he gritted his teeth and braced his feet against the ground, straining his muscles and driving the heated point ever deeper into its being. Blood pumped out between its rent scales.

A harsh roar came from jaws so tense they opened only in slow spasms. Another roar came from his own throat, so lost was he in the moment while he twisted the shaft with all his might and drove it in further. Their eyes met, both filled with hatred.

With its dying strength, the wyvern craned its neck toward him, preparing to kill Vincent with one final bite. Its neck was much faster than its jaws, and before he could move, the sharp gaping maw encircled him. The tongue he had chopped short was suddenly only a foot away from his face. A putrid smell assailed his nostrils. Its mouth began to close. He hurriedly let go his lance and ducked out, falling on his back.

Its jaws moved in to bite him. His heart pounded and burned with the rush of fear while he scurried backward. Its teeth snapped, barely missing him. The head moved closer over him before it collapsed. Dead. Vincent lay where he was, breathing hard from his fright and trying not to think about how near he had come to dying.

Though exhausted, he didn't want to be caught like this. The loathsome creature's chin rested painfully atop his legs. More pain came as he pulled them out against the heavy weight. As he stood up, soldiers in red quickly ran past to join the fray behind.

A black arrow suddenly thudded in a nearby tree, startling him and tearing him away from his thoughts. Others ripped through the forest before striking similar obstructions. They were getting closer. Explosions punctured his ears, accompanied by the roar of flames and battle cries. He immediately drew his sword and glanced over his shoulder, seeing the endless carnage ensue.

Vincent rushed to aid his comrades. The dead were as savage as ever, yet as they fought on, it became clear that their ability to sustain the onslaught was gone. Whether because of the terrain, their disorganized nature, or otherwise, magic and steel were tearing them down with a vengeance. As their numbers thinned, Vincent often found himself teaming up with others on a single foe. Flashes of light raked down the hapless remaining stragglers in a quick succession before they could get near.

Things were suddenly more quiet than ever before. It had felt as though the sounds of combat had gone on for so long that it could never be quiet again. There was no more slashing steel, no explosions, only the soft sounds of fires burning, heavy breathing, and rustling mail. A nagging fear that the cultists were silently approaching kept any sense of relief far at bay. Several men coughed on the smoke.

Vincent's eyes were suddenly assailed by a strange sight. Fires were going out everywhere, some hissing, some stopping in a huff. The pyromancers among them were using their control over fire to extinguish the blaze, making safe both their army and the forest. He caught a glance of Rick straining each time he closed his hands, snuffing out the few green flames that remained.

Without these bright reminders of the battle, the area became somewhat dark in comparison. It was a cloudy day, and the forest canopy only dimmed things further. Black arrows ripped into the trees once more, only a few made it far enough to be destroyed by lighting. As Vincent's eyes adjusted, Master Anthony ordered the soldiers back into formation. The wizards gathered ahead of them, and Vincent joined their front. There was still one more group of foes that only they could contend with.

They marched out of the forest, destroying sparse, incoming black missiles along the way, which became thicker the closer they got. When they were clear of the trees, he immediately beheld eleven of the skeletal cultists sitting atop their mounts, standing a ways downhill but closer than before.

Flashes of light intensified, destroying the constant stream of conjured arrows. Vincent swiped one with his sword. Clyde, the only one with eyes and partial skin still on his face, laughed deeply, the sound coming through the closed teeth of his skeletal jaw. Green light began to grow above the staff of the cultist beside him. When Rick yelled out that he couldn't stop another one, they were all stricken with a wave of fright.

Clyde's laugh continued as his eyes flicked toward the growing green mass, thinking this nothing more than a game. The cultist near him prepared to unleash their doom. Before the flame reached its full size, its owner was suddenly flung forward off its steed and crushed in front of them by a boulder. Out of breath, Karl fell to one knee.

Clyde was silent again at first, but then laughed once more when he saw Karl's fatigue. His ghastly voice was calm to his fellows when he uttered, "cleanse them."

After another volley of black arrows, all the cultists raised their staffs. Green fire grew above each one. Everyone stopped and watched.

From the ground, Karl swept his arm across and screamed a hoarse "NO!"

Sod was torn up from the ground along with dirt and stone in a cloud swath that struck the cultists with full force. Most were stalled for a moment, then he did it again from the other side. And then again and again, going faster. The dead were suddenly in disarray.

"Now!" Master Anthony yelled.

All the wizards suddenly unleashed a terrible streaming barrage of fire and lightning. It was stopped by the same invisible barriers as before. From Master Anthony's right hand came several thicker lightning bands all at once. They were stopped by all but one of the cultists, who was blown apart. Karl kept furiously swinging both his arms toward them, hammering them with clouds of cobbles and clumps of loose soil. Soldiers behind them threw spears, sticks, and small rocks. Vincent picked up a stout branch from a shattered tree and lobbed it at one of the undead mounts, adding to the confusion.

The green flames went out, none were able to maintain it. Magic from their side streamed forth constantly. Master Anthony destroyed another.

Clyde tried to shield himself with his staff arm. "Pull back!" His now deep and otherworldly voice finally sounded out in retreat. Vincent couldn't believe his ears.

The now eight black robed cultists turned tail, fleeing atop their horses in the opposite direction. A cheer rose up from all the wizards of the keep, several of which thrust fists in the air in triumph. Despite their fatigue, soldiers around them roared, seeming even more glad to be rid of them.

Vincent watched as the black figures galloped like mad down the grassy slope, trampling over the massive remains of soldiers and undead villagers. Several of their mounts still had spear shafts protruding from them. He was apprehensive at first, wondering if they would turn around to continue the fight. They passed between the craters left from Master Anthony's strikes. He let out a breath and his anxiety eased when they at last entered into the far country beyond, and kept going. When they were at the edge of his sight, they disappeared into another forest.

With the high level of fear and tension gone, Vincent gazed out at the multitude of death covering the ground downhill of them as though lost in a trance. He thought he might be sick. He had never imagined that such horror existed. So many lives had been cut short so quickly.

Unable to help himself, he walked amongst it toward the front where they had met the enemy head on. He was too drained even to cry. The piles told the story of where their two forces had clashed. He wanted to turn away from it, to close his eyes and make it vanish, yet was unable to do so. Pools of blood were everywhere. So too were pieces of every body part conceivable. Ravens and other carrion birds began to arrive as a light rain began to fall.

A severed head caught his attention. He stared hard at it. Was it Harold's? He couldn't be sure. The gray eyes were streaked black, and the person's face was covered with rot and a mess of blood. Vincent decided that he didn't want to know. He realized right away that a large number of bodies would never be properly identified.

He turned away from it. With his left hand, he grabbed his own hair in a fist while he held his sword low with the other. He looked down and saw what his own clothes were covered in...and smelled. Only now, without the fear of death, did the reality of what he had just been through sink in on him. It was unbearable.

With his next step, something tugged on his foot. He looked down and noticed a wooden pole among the blood and bodies strewn beneath him. It was long, too long to be a weapon. After some pushing, he saw that attached to its head was a flag, a tattered red flag with a black lion crest. Their flag. He sheathed his sword and picked it up tightly in both hands, pulling it out from under a dead body.

He gazed out at the corpses littering the battlefield once again. Kargoth was coming; of this, he had no doubt. His heart wept for the courageous soldiers and wizards that had fallen, and for the people who had been murdered and used against them. Even if he lived for a thousand years, he would never be able to forget this one day, no matter how much he might want to.

Nor would he forgive their enemy.

Letting out a hoarse yell borne of mixed sadness and fury, he forcefully planted the blood stained pole in the ground before him, sinking its end in the dirt and holding it there. A wind picked up and the Rygan banner began to flap in the breeze. He let go and stepped back to watch it, slowly letting out a few anguished breaths.

Victory.

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