From: "Avid Reader - Fledgling Writer" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 10:30:44 EDT

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   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue 2
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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 2        02/02/90          Cir 939    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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   Gift of War                M. Wendy Hennequin     Deber 17-18, 1014
   Conflict of Interest II    John Doucette          No 2, '13-De 17, '14
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1                             Gift of War
                         by M. Wendy Hennequin
                   (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU)

      The moment  the maid  admitted Marcellon  into the  townhouse, he
 called her: "Sable! Myrande!"
      "She's in the other room, your lordship," the maid, a wench named
 Yara, informed him. "I believe she  was a wee bit sick, your lordship,
 but--"
      "I'm  all right,"  said the  young Countess  of Connall,  Myrande
 Shipbrook Connall. She  stood in the doorway, easy  and dignified. Her
 grey  gown complemented  her raven  hair, ebony  eyes, and  dark skin.
 Marcellon's mouth twitched with a smile; she was not unnaturally pale,
 but he  had seen her darker.  "Yara, you may go."  Myrande crossed the
 room and gestured to a chair. "What may I do for you, Lord Marcellon?"
      "I've just received a message  from the King," the mage revealed,
 displaying a bit of parchment with the  royal seal on it. "A ship from
 Beinison has just arrived in the city."
      "Luthias--?" Myrande began, hardly daring to hope.
      "No, he's  still the Empire,  but the  King has received  a pouch
 from him, and apparently  the Emperor has sent the King  a gift, to be
 presented this afternoon to the King by the Imperial Ambassador, Count
 Tyago."
      Myrande  sighed.  Marcellon  knew  the separation  from  her  new
 husband was difficult for her. Myrande had known Luthias all her life;
 her father was castellan in his father's keep since before Myrande was
 born. Life without  Luthias and his late brother Roisart  was alien to
 her. She asked, "A gift?"
      "A peace offering, I should think."
      "Then...perhaps...the King might allow me to go to him."
      "Join Luthias  in the Beinison  Empire? I think  not," Marcellon,
 mage  and physician,  said. "You  look pallid,  Sable," he  continued,
 affection in his  voice. Myrande, who was staying in  her new house in
 Magnus while at  the War Council, had become like  another daughter to
 him. His own daughter's husband,  Clifton, Duke of Dargon, was staying
 at the mage's home during  the Council. But Myrande, though unrelated,
 bore a striking  resemblance in carriage and  character to Marcellon's
 late wife.  Though Myrande  knew of Marcellon's  power, she,  like his
 wife, was not afraid of him; once,  in the summer, she had stood up to
 Marcellon in  defence of  the mage's daughter.  Marcellon took  a deep
 breath. His daughter, too, had been pale.
      "Besides," he  continued, "your  maid said  you were  ill. Nausea
 again, Myrande?" She nodded. "And your sleepiness...still?" Again, the
 Countess nodded. "The  King is concerned about you, and  so am I. Have
 you any idea what is wrong?"
      Suddenly, Myrande smiled. "I know what is...wrong, Marcellon, and
 I suspect you know as well as I--"
      "I do have my suspicions," the  High Mage smiled, "as I have told
 Sir Edward and  the King." Marcellon patted a black  leather pouch, in
 which he kept his medical supplies. "I can tell you for certain."
      She looked at  him, mildly amused. "I thought you  were a wizard,
 not a doctor."
      Marcellon smiled. "One can hardly be one without the other, young
 lady. The training, especially in  the potions, is remarkably similar.
 And I have the herbs which can tell for certain whether or not you are
 indeed bearing a child."
      "Thank  you,  but  I  don't  need  the  herbs,"  Myrande  refused
 politely. "I've been  a midwife for six years, and  I already know for
 certain."
      "When shall the child be born?"
      "At the beginning  of Yule, I should  think," Myrande calculated.
 She smiled. "I can't tell you  exactly, like Lauren can, but it should
1be close to Luthias' birthday."
      "With all luck, he should be  home by then," Marcellon agreed. He
 smiled. "You seem to have all  well in hand. Perhaps you should become
 my apprentice." The High Mage rose. "Come, Myrande, we must attend the
 King."
      "Now?"
      "Yes, the King has called immediate court for the presentation of
 the gift."
      "Despite the  storm?" Myrande asked, doubtfully  casting a glance
 at the falling snow.
      "Yes. This is important; besides,  most of the nobles are staying
 at the palace or near it. My house here isn't that far; nor is yours."
      "I  know,  but  I'm  unused  to  anything  happening  in  Deber--
 especially when there's snow falling."
      "Snow comes early and fiercely  to Dargon," Marcellon agreed. "It
 isn't like  that here  in the  south. Come  along, Countess.  The King
 awaits."

      The Duke of Dargon met Marcellon, his father-in-law, and Myrande,
 his cousin's  wife, at the  King's palace in  the city of  Magnus. The
 great  hall was  tall, cold,  and impersonal;  yet the  hundred or  so
 nobles gathered  from all the land  of Baranur warmed it  a little, as
 did their cheerful  looks. Clifton Dargon smiled at  Myrande and bowed
 slightly to her, as did her  cousin, Warin, Lord of Shipbrook, who was
 also in Magnus for the War Council.
      "Did the King tell you?"  Clifton asked his father-in-law. "After
 the meeting with you, Sir Edward, and the rest of the War Council last
 night,  the King  has made  the decision  not to  attack the  Beinison
 Empire."
      "Good thing, too," Myrande acknowledged.  "The last thing we need
 is a war."
      Yes, a good thing, Countess,  Marcellon thought, for your husband
 would be the first casualty in that conflict. But the mage said, "Your
 young hot-headed friends will be disappointed, Baron Shipbrook."
      Warin shook his  head. "No doubt, your excellency.  They think of
 war as a  toy and they wish to  play with it. All they  think about is
 the glory of the wars we've  read about at the University, about being
 heroes, about battling for the King."
      Perhaps those books  should be writ in blood,  not ink, Marcellon
 thought.  "I  must  attend   the  King,"  Marcellon  excused  himself.
 "Clifton, see  to the  Countess." Clifton  smiled at  the tone  of the
 command. He  and Myrande had  been friends  since Myrande was  a child
 playing with  Clifton's cousins, Roisart  and Luthias, the  latter now
 her  husband and  the  Count of  Connall. "I  shall  see you  shortly,
 Myrande," he said his farewell. "Baron Shipbrook."
      Marcellon weaved  his way  to the vestry  behind the  throne. The
 King, Haralan,  was not  yet there,  and neither  was his  other chief
 advisor, Edward Sothos, Knight Commander  of the Armies. Marcellon sat
 down softly on a cushioned chair and stared out at the snow.
      It  fell peacefully,  gently, the  first snow  of the  season. As
 Marcellon watched, it turned gold, then blood red.
      Quickly, Marcellon blinked the vision away. Gold, and red, in the
 snow. A  chill took  him, and  he frowned.  Another vision.  The third
 within a week,  all three of gold and blood.  Odd, very odd. Something
 powerful--
      "Ah, Marcellon," the King greeted  him from behind. The mage rose
 smoothly and  nodded to the King,  then to Edward Sothos,  the scarred
 man who stood  with him. "Help me into this  cloak, will you, Edward?"
 The King  smiled at  his chief  advisor, the  mage, the  most powerful
 wizard in  Baranur. "What think  you, Marcellon? Will this  gift bring
1peace?"
      "I think, your majesty," Marcellon began slowly, then stopped.
      "What do you think?"
      "I think, your majesty, that there will be war."
      "Ah, so I should refuse this gift."
      "That  would  be  extremely  bad form,  Haralan,"  Edward  softly
 reminded him. "And it would indeed start the war you wish to avoid."
      "There will be no war so long  as the Empire does not attack us,"
 the King said firmly. "I feel no great need to fight."
      "They did try to trick us  into warring with Bichu by killing the
 late Baron of Connall and his son,  and accusing the Duke of Dargon of
 treason," Edward mused. "I am not  sure we can avoid dealing with that
 issue."
      "We have only Coranabo's word and the Count Connall's speculation
 for  the  truth of  that,  Edward,"  the  King admonished  the  Knight
 Commander gently.  "We will  not fight  a war for  that." The  KIng of
 Baranur smiled. "I wonder what this gift shall be."
      "Bloody gold," Marcellon muttered.
      "What is that?"
      "Nothing, your majesty," the High Mage lied. "Let us go."
      The King  gave a  nod to  a nearby  servant, who  in turn  gave a
 signal to the heralds. The royal trumpets swiftly announced the King's
 presence. Haralan stood regally, and  started for the door which would
 open to  the side of the  dais. Marcellon followed, a  pace behind, to
 the King's right. Edward, parallell to the High Mage, was on his left.
      When the  King stood  before the throne,  the assembly  of nobles
 bowed, and  the King returned the  respect with a nod.  "Be seated, my
 lords and ladies," the King commanded royally. "A message of peace has
 come from the Beinison Empire."
      Around  the  long  tables,  the  nobles  sat,  muttering  amongst
 themselves. Marcellon  had known the  news; Countess Myrande  knew, as
 did the Duke  of Dargon, but this  was new information to  the rest of
 Baranur's noblility.  The herald cried  out, "His majesty  calls forth
 the Count of Tyago, Ambassador of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of
 Beinison."
      And the boy came forward. Marcellon couldn't think of Count Tyago
 as anything else.  He was a thin  young man, blond, with  blue eyes as
 innocent  as the  sky. His  face was  decked in  happiness as  he came
 forward with two servants, one who carried a roll of sealed parchment,
 another who bore a gold coffer inlaid with jewels.
      "You have a  message for us, do you not,  Count Tyago?" asked the
 King, his voice respectful, yet superior, as befitted his station.
      "I do,  your royal majesty," the  boy said. How old  could he be?
 Marcellon wondered. Seventeen, eighteen perhaps? Younger than Luthias,
 certainly.  They were  both  too young  to  be ambassadors,  Marcellon
 thought. "His Imperial  Majesty has sent me a missive  to read to you,
 and a gift."  The boy held out  his hand for the  parchement. He broke
 the seal ceremoniously and began to read in a loud voice:
      "From his  Imperial Majesty, Emperor Untar  the Second, greetings
 unto his Majesty, the King of Baranur, who seeks peace with Us." Count
 Tyago paused, took a breath. "Your Count of Connall has presented your
 case before  us, and We have  considered it carefully with  Our wisest
 counsellors.  We have  listened to  the  Count Connall,  and how  your
 Kingdom wishes to avoid war with Our Empire."
      Marcellon grimaced.  Luthias would  never present  Baranur's case
 from a  point of vunerability. Luthias  knew too much about  war to do
 that. Yet, the Empire chose to see it so.
      "To end  all further uncertainty  between Our fair  Countries, we
 have sent to  you this gift, which shall  clarify Beinison's intention
 toward Baranur forever."
1     Count Tyago  bowed, rolled  the parchment,  and sent  the servant
 forward to  present it to the  King. Sir Edward took  it, unrolled it,
 then nodded  to Haralan.  The Count's  words were  accurate. Marcellon
 looked over  at the paper.  Still uneasy,  still uneasy, a  message of
 peace, and he was still uneasy.
      "It  seem that  your sensible  Emperor  is friendly  to us,  your
 grace," King  Haralan said, his  voice laced with magnaminity,  to the
 Count. "Pray, what is the gift you bear us?"
      "In truth, your royal majesty, I do not know," the boy confessed.
 "But from  his Imperial Majesty's  letters to  me, I suspect  that the
 Count of Connall  deeply impressed him, and he sends  this gift partly
 in esteem of the Count."
      "The young Count Connall has  done well," Haralan pronounced. How
 a  man  as  young as  Haralan  could  be  as  pompous as  Haralan  was
 sometimes,  Marcellon  could not  fathom.  "Bring  us the  gift."  The
 servant started forward. "No..." the  King changed his mind, "bring it
 to the Countess  Connall, as it was her lord  and husband who inspired
 this  gift." He  gestured to  Myrande,  who sat  next to  the Duke  of
 Dargon, a mere two seats from Marcellon.
      Myrande stood  gracefully as the servant  approached. She thanked
 the servant.
      Something was  wrong. Marcellon gazed  at the coffer  between her
 two small, dark hands.
      Uneasy, uneasy, what was it that  made him so uneasy? "It must be
 magical, your majesty,"  Countess Myrande said to the King.  "It is so
 light."
      "It  is  a  possibility,  my lady,"  Count  Tyago  informed  her.
 "Mon-Taerleor,  the Emperor's  wizard, is  said to  have made  for his
 Imperial Majesty this gift for your Kingdom."
      Marcellon stared  at the  golden coffer,  a cube  somewhat bigger
 than a  man's head,  in sharper apprehension.  Mon-Taerleor: Marcellon
 knew  the  name  and  the   man,  and  raised  an  eyebrow.  Alexander
 Mon-Taerleor, his old  friend: the thought should  have comforted him,
 but it  didn't. Still,  despite his ill  ease, Marcellon  was curious.
 What would  Mon-Taerleor have done to  impress a King, to  honor young
 Luthias, the Count of Connall?
      Mon-Taerleor.  Marcellon almost  smiled  at the  memories of  his
 fellow apprentice, but  still, the fear gripped him.  Chills of terror
 coursed through his  suddenly and with force.  Something was wrong--so
 wrong!
      He reached out  and touched the King's arm--a bold  gesture to be
 performed in Court, even by the  High Mage. The King, annoyed, scowled
 at his  advisor. Marcellon shook  his head. "Haralan," he  hissed, and
 the King lost some of his  anger to puzzlement; Marcellon almost never
 called him  by name.  "Take it  from her.  Do not  make her  open it."
 Marcellon gazed over at Myrande with uneasy urgency; she was loosening
 the latch.
      For a moment, Marcellon saw Haralan wrestling mentally, wondering
 if he  should reprimand  the High  Mage. Finally,  the King  said, "Be
 easy, Lord Marcellon. It is a gift of peace."
      "Haralan--"
      The Countess' scream cleaved the  exepectant silence of the Court
 and sliced the  rest of Marcellon's protest from his  tongue. The High
 Mage whirled  and saw the white-faced  Duke of Dargon swat  the golden
 box from her  in a shocked attempt  to close the coffer.  It flew from
 Myrande's hands towards the King.
      The box  landed on  the table  before Haralan  and his  two chief
 advisors. The  gift bounced onto  the table and  thudded to a  halt in
 front of  the King. Stunned,  then quickly sad, Marcellon  stared into
 the death-frozen eyes of the Count of Connall.
1     Pale, Clifton  instantly whirled  Myrande to  him, held  her head
 against his chest. "Don't look,"  Marcellon heard his son-in-law rasp.
 "He wouldn't want you to see this."
      Next to the High Mage, the King rose, fury in his movement. "What
 means this?"  the monarch demanded,  gesturing to the severed  head of
 his ambassador. "You will pay--"
      "Your majesty, he's only a  boy," Edward Sothos counseled softly.
 "A pawn...as was Luthias."
      "Remove the Count  Tyago," Haralan ordered angrily.  "I will call
 for him  later." Palid  and frightened, the  boy-count bowed  and left
 with his attendants and a smattering  of royal guards. The King turned
 to  his High  Mage. "I  should have  listened to  you, Marcellon."  He
 sighed, looked at the Count of Connall's wife. "Remove the Countess."
      Shrilly, Myrande's voice rose from  the depths of Clifton's arms,
 "The Countess does not wish to be removed!"
      The Court  was buzzing,  men were moving,  and some  came forward
 boldly to  see the gift. "There  will be war!" the  Duke of Northfield
 cried. "Your royal majesty, you cannot ignore this!"
      "No," agreed the King firmly, "we  shall not ignore this. The man
 who dares treat my ambassador so shall be punished--and promptly."
      "War now!" suggested a Baron, and the cry rose up insanely, "War!
 War now!"
      Again, Myrande's  scream split the  air of the great  hall: "No!"
 Startled, the nobles fell into silence. With the strength of shock and
 pain and anger,  she broke Clifton's strong, frantic  grasp and turned
 to face the  court. She had not been unnaturally  pale before, but her
 face was  a ghastly  grey now,  and Marcellon feared  for her  and the
 child  she carrried.  "Do you  want that  Luthias will  have died  for
 nothing? Do you want your sons,  your brothers, your grandsons, to die
 for lack of food or from the cold? Do you damned idiots think that you
 can fight a war  in the winter? The supplies will  be blocked, and men
 will starve and die of disease and frostbite."
      "We can invade  Beinison, Countess," the Duke  of Northfield told
 her in a superior tone. "It is warmer there--"
      "Oh, yes, invade the strongest  Empire on the continent!" Clifton
 spat. "Your majesty," Clifton appealed,  turning to the King, "this is
 what the  Emperor wants,  that we  will enter into  this at  a foolish
 time, do foolish things--"
      "Do you  want your  kinsman's death to  go unavenged?"  sneered a
 Baron.
      "I  have more  cause than  any of  you to  wish the  bastards who
 ordered Luthias' death tortured dead!" Myrande screamed at him. "Yet I
 do not  want a  hundred thousand men  to die for  him because  of your
 stupidity and impatience!"
      "Lady, you offend me!" the Baron cried.
      "Accept my  pity that  the truth  offends you,"  Myrande snapped.
 "But if  we fight Beinison now,  we will have two  enemies, the Empire
 and the winter."
      "I demand satisfaction," the Baron insisted.
      "I  must agree  with the  Countess' view."  The Knight  Commander
 spoke calmly  and simply, but he  glared at the Baron  menacingly. "If
 you wish satisfaction, you may have it from me at your leisure."
      "I too  agree with  the Countess  and with  the Duke  of Dargon,"
 added Marcellon.  "We may  yet triumph over  Beinison, mighty  as they
 are, but over nature, we are powerless."
      The King nodded. "There will now be a true war council, and there
 will  be war,"  he announced.  "But I  will not  fight the  winter and
 Beinison both. We shall wait until the spring--and then, death to them
 all!" A  cheer rose. Marcellon  frowned at  the bloody thirst;  he saw
 Clifton scowl. Myrande looked ill. The  King waved at a herald. "Bring
1before us the Count Tyago."
      Swiftly,  the  boy  was  ushered into  the  court.  With  nervous
 quickness, the  Count bowed.  "You will remain  here until  spring, in
 your embassy, under guard" the King  announced. "We will not treat the
 Emperor's ambassador  as shamefully  as he treated  ours, yet  we will
 allow no communication with your  Emperor until you are returned after
 the thaw."
      "Perhaps, one?" asked  a small voice, and the King  turned to see
 Myrande.
      The King looked at her, his gaze sorrowful and kind. "What do you
 wish, Countess?"
      Myrande took  a deep breath,  and stepped forward. "I  would wish
 that the Count  Tyago request of his Emperor  that Lu--Count Connall's
 body be returned  to me, that he  may be buried beside  his father and
 brother."
      "I  do not  know if  that  would be  possible in  any case,  your
 grace," the boy-Count said sadly. "I am suprised they bothered to send
 the  head.  Usually,  the  Emperor  hangs  offenders,  slitting  their
 throats, and leaving their bodies to the birds and dogs."
      Myrande groaned, put a hand over her mouth and the other over her
 belly, and closed her eyes. Marcellon, fearing the worst, moved toward
 her, but she held up a staying hand and dry-heaved.
      "Count Tyago," said the King omnimously, "you are dismissed." The
 boy bowed and left.
      Pale  and beaten,  Myrande came  forward. "With  your permission,
 sire," she whispered, and she reached out for Luthias' head.
      "You shouldn't  do that, Myrande," Marcellon  admonished sternly.
 The High Mage  gestured his son-in-law and the  Countess' cousin Warin
 forward, then reached out himself to take the head into his hands. For
 a moment,  he stared full into  that face, which he  had seen animated
 with life;  then, Marcellon placed  it gently  in the box,  closed the
 eyes, and shut the coffer.
      "Let  him be  entombed in  the royal  crypt," declared  the King.
 Impatiently,  Haralan  whirled and  left  the  hall. Immediately,  the
 herald cried, "The Court of his royal majesty the King is dismissed."

      An  eerie  stillness,  more  silent  than  winter,  reigned  over
 Marcellon's house  as the snow  continued to fall that  night. Clifton
 had stayed  with Myrande,  whom they  had brought  to the  High Mage's
 home; Marcellon mixed a potion.
      Luthias' head stared up at him from the bluish liquid...
      Marcellon cleared his mind again, continued to mix the potion. It
 boiled over an alcohol burner; the fire was bright.
      Again, the Count of Connall's  visage gazed at him, but something
 was wrong with it.
      The High  Mage grimaced in  an effort to concentrate.  The vision
 cleared. Vision? No, just an image from his memory; it was the head of
 the  Count of  Connall, as  he had  held it  between his  hands today.
 Something about it haunted him. The poor boy...poor Myrande.
      Yes, Myrande--he had to finish  this potion. Carefully, he took a
 glass rod and stirred it.
      Luthias'  face  was  again  in the  beaker.  Somehow,  it  seemed
 incomplete.
      This had to stop! Marcellon took the potion from the fire, poured
 into a goblet half-full with mulled wine.
      Within the wine, he saw again the face of Count Luthias Connall.
      Determined, Marcellon took up the wine  cup and left the room. No
 matter what,  he could not let  this memory interfere. He  had work to
 do, magic to plan, a Countess to take care of...
      With a soft knock,  Marcellon entered Myrande's chambers. Clifton
1sat at the table, writing something.  She sat, dressed in only a white
 flannel shift, gazing at the floor.  Her face was not hard, or wreaked
 by pain, nor aflame with fury, but dull, blank. The High Mage frowned.
 He did not like this.
      "Myrande,"  he said  softly. Myrande  looked at  him immediately.
 "Drink this."
      "I don't want  it," the Countess insisted, keeping  her voice low
 in an  effort to disguise her  pain. Marcellon sensed it  in any case,
 and the sorrow  leaked into her whispered words  despite her. "I'm..."
 She swallowed and looked away.
      "Drink, Myrande," Marcellon insisted. "For  the sake of the child
 you carry. I feared for you today."
      Myrande looked  at him,  but did  not take  the goblet.  "I'm all
 right. I'm  not dead  yet...but they  all are,  Father and  Mother and
 Uncle Fionn  and Roisart,  and now Luthias...Luthias...God,  it nearly
 killed  me once,  when I  thought  he died  at  the same  time as  his
 brother...I feel like the world is gone."
      Marcellon ached for her, gazed at  the cup, and saw Luthias' head
 again, as it had stared up at him today when he had replaced it in the
 jeweled box.
      "My family is  gone, all of them," Myrande continued,  in a voice
 stunned and painful. "I have no one..nothing...no where even to live."
      "That  is not  true," Marcellon  stated flatly.  "You are  always
 welcome here in my home, Myrande."
      "And  in mine,"  Clifton  added, rising  from  the table.  "Warin
 wouldn't  turn you  away, and  neither  would your  mother's kin,  the
 Taladors. In any event," the Duke of Dargon continued, approaching the
 Countess, "you have your own home--several."  He handed her a piece of
 parchment with his great seal upon it.
      "What is this?" she asked.
      "As Luthias'  child isn't  yet born,  Connall, its  holdings, the
 town house  in Dargon,  and the  house here in  Magnus revert  to me,"
 Clifton explained.
      "I know," Myrande said dully. "Why else would I not have a home?"
      "You have a home," Clifton assured her firmly. "My father granted
 that land to Uncle Fionn for him  and his children; I grant it to you,
 Myrande, for you and yours."
      Myrande took  a shuddering  breath. "My children?  What children?
 How  am  I ever  going  to  have  children?  He's gone,"  she  sobbed.
 Determined, she choked it down, but her eyes still held tears.
      "Drink  this," Marcellon  whispered,  and this  time, she  obeyed
 blindly. Clifton  gestured for the  maid, and  both men left  the room
 uncomfortably.
      When the  door was  shut, Marcellon saw  that his  son-in-law was
 more disturbed  than when his cousin's  head had laid before  him. The
 High Mage put a hand on the Duke's arm. Clifton choked, "She- -it must
 be worse on her than--I've not seen her this close to crying since she
 was a baby. She has too much pride to weep in front of anyone; I doubt
 even Luthias has ever seen her cry."
      Marcellon placed  a hand on  his son-in-law's shoulder.  "Are you
 all right, Clifton?"
      Luthias' face hid in Clifton's  eyes. "I'm all right, Father. But
 he was the last of my  kinsmen--" The Duke of Dargon stopped, regained
 his  voice. "They  were so  young.  Uncle Fionn  was only  forty-five,
 younger than you are."
      "Early death  is no  uncommon thing," Marcellon  disagreed. "Your
 father couldn't have been--"
      "That's  different. The  Red Plague  takes everyone.  But Roisart
 survived it; he was going to be in the university now, learning how to
 be Baron. Uncle Fionn and Sir Edward wanted to make Luthias a Knight."
1     "I know, my son, I know," Marcellon soothed. "You should rest."
      "No, I think I'd better stay with Sable," Clifton suggested. "She
 won't sleep tonight--"
      "No, she will," Marcellon assured  him. "The potion will make her
 sleep. I'll not risk her health, nor the babe's. Trust me, Clifton."
      The Duke of Dargon almost smiled. "I do trust you."
      "Now go," the  High Mage ordered. "You need  the rest." Marcellon
 jerked his head down the hall. "I had rooms prepared for you."
      "I   don't   know   if   I   can,"   Clifton   confessed.   "It's
 rather...unnerving to see the man you called your brother...to see him
 sent home, piecemeal, in a box."
      "If you need it, I shall make you a potion, too," Marcellon joked
 lightly. "Now, go to sleep."
      "Yes, Father,"  Clifton almost laughed  at the imperious  tone of
 the final command, and the Duke of Dargon slipped into his rooms.
      The High Mage sighed, stared at the door--
      Luthias' face lurked within the wood.
      Damn it all! He could not banish that sight from his mind. And it
 was not the shock, nor the horror, nor the anger which kept the vision
 recurring. No, he had seen worse, much  worse, in the time when he was
 in Beinison, learning  from the now-dead Styles.  No, something nagged
 him;   something  was   wrong,  more   than  the   obvious  injustice.
 Wrong--something was wrong with that head!
      Furious at the visions, Marcellon  strode to his room. Wrong with
 it--it was severed from its body, that  is what was wrong with it. The
 life, the animation, was gone from  the eyes, the soul from the body--
 Marcellon threw open the door to his bed chamber, slammed it shut--
      The Count of Connall stared at him from a hanging mirror. "Why do
 you haunt me?" demanded the High  Mage in an enraged whisper. He gazed
 at the head. Something was wrong, missing...
      Stubbornly, Marcellon  blinked the  vision away. Then  he turned,
 lit a  candle, and pulled  a chair  to a nearby  table on which  sat a
 bundle of black cloth. Marcellon pulled the velvet away and dusted the
 crystal ball. "Then show me," he challenged.
      Marcellon gazed at the ball, cleared  his mind, and let his eyes,
 his soul, see only the crystal. Yes, the crystal...then the mist.
      The mist cleared,  and Marcellon saw a riverbank,  in the summer,
 some people...
      Yes, they  were closer now.  A young  man, of twenty  perhaps, in
 riding clothes, brandishing a  sword and laughing. Suddenly, Marcellon
 realized he gazed a younger version of his son-in-law.
      There were  others with him, two  boys and a girl.  The boys were
 tall and  slim in the  manner of young  men growing too  quickly. They
 both looked strong, though one  looked slightly more athletic, and the
 other squinted  in the sun.  They laughed loudly (though  silently, to
 Marcellon) on  the riverbank,  and the more  athletic lad  retrieved a
 sword from his saddle.
      The  girl was  dark  of  hair and  eyes.  She,  too, wore  riding
 clothes--boy's riding  clothes--and her  figure was just  beginning to
 distort them. Her eyes laughed at the playful challenge that Marcellon
 knew his son-in-law had issued.  The more athletic twin brandished the
 sword, smiled at the girl, and attacked his Clifton boldly.
      Clifton  parried well,  but Marcellon  could tell  that only  his
 superior training saved  him. The athletic boy  was naturally skilled,
 and somewhat trained  beside. He attacked Clifton again.  His twin and
 the girl cheered.
      Again, the boy  attacked his cousin. Suddenly,  his body betrayed
 him; Marcellon,  the physician, recognized  the clumsiness of  a young
 man whose body  had recently spurted in growth and  whose mind had not
 adjusted  completely  to the  change.  He  attacked, but  missed,  and
1tripped; Clifton swept a blow at him, laughing, and it contacted.
      Blood dripped onto the grass.  Marcellon could see the girl gasp;
 she rushed  forward, snatching a  napkin from  the picnic on  her way.
 Quickly, she  pressed it to  the cut. The boy  brushed her away  in an
 effort to be manly about the wound, but kept the handkerchief, quickly
 soaking the blood, to his head.
      Marcellon blinked. The vision had disappeared.
      Clifton  on  a picnic  with  twin  boys:  they were  Roisart  and
 Luthias, obviously. Younger, perhaps fourteen. So the dark-haired girl
 of  thirteen was  Myrande, a  younger Myrande  who knew  no grief  for
 father or mother or uncle or brother or husband.
      A picnic on the river...yes, Marcellon and Clifton and Lauren had
 taken an  excursion with Luthias  and Myrande  to the same  place some
 time that summer. Clifton had said it had been a favorite retreat when
 they all were boys.
      But this  vision was  merely a dream  of childhood.  It signified
 nothing.
      Suddenly  Marcellon understood.  Nothing--that  was the  problem.
 There had been *no scar on Luthias' head*.
      Marcellon left the room hastily, intending to ride immediately to
 the palace. Then  a thought overtook him: was it  Luthias who had been
 scarred, or  Roisart his twin? It  would make sense that  Luthias, the
 warrior, who would have been Knighted, would be the more athletic twin
 whom Clifton wounded, but still--
      One  person would  know. The  High Mage  ran to  his son-in-law's
 suite, and knocked loudly. "Clifton!"
      "Come."
      Marcellon entered and asked quickly,  "Which of the twins did you
 cut in a fight?"
      The question  seemed to startle the  Duke. "Both of them,  at one
 time or another. Nothing like what they did to me, though."
      "You went on a picnic, and fought one of the twins. He lost."
      "Oh, that," Clifton realized. "That was...seven years ago. He was
 so angry; I'd spoiled his looks."
      "He had a scar."
      "Yes."
      "It  was  Luthias  who  was scarred?"  Clifton  nodded.  "Where?"
 demaned the High Mage.
      "Over his right eye. He was nervous about it when Sir Edward came
 to Dargon--"
      "Thank you,  Clifton," Marcellon  finished abruptly, and  he fled
 the room.
      Due to the snow, it took Marcellon much longer than he would have
 liked to reach  the palace. He entered boldly and  demanded to see the
 King and Sir Edward Sothos.
      "How  is the  Countess?" the  King  asked when  he was  admitted.
 Haralan shook his head. "It is all  my fault. I should have never sent
 that young man...and now his lady..."
      Marcellon, in  his urgency,  ignored him.  "Where is  the Count's
 head? I must see it."
      Startled out of his guilt, the King called a servant and sent for
 it. "Marcellon, I don't understand."
      "I don't either, your majesty--yet," Marcellon answered in way of
 explanation.
      "What is wrong?" Sir Edward inquired.
      "We shall  see," Marcellon promised, grabbing  the jeweled coffer
 from  the swift  servant. With  all haste,  the High  Mage opened  it,
 removed the head.
      The forehead was smooth and perfect...no scar.
      "He has no scar," Marcellon  announced. "Count Connall had a scar
1over his right eye, and this head has no scar."
      "A scar? I never noticed a scar," Sir Edward protested.
      "It  was seven  years old,  and  therefore would  have been  very
 light. Truth be told, I never noticed it either," Marcellon confessed.
 "But Clifton assured me  it was there. It was he  himself who made the
 cut."
      "Perhaps it is healed beyond visibility," the King suggested.
      "I doubt it, your majesty," Marcellon argued. "The Duke of Dargon
 told me that his cousin was *scarred.* He bore a scar. And light as it
 must be by now, I am looking for it, and it is not there."
      "Then this cannot be the Count's head," Sir Edward concluded.
      "Exactly," Marcellon confirmed, turning it to examine it. After a
 minute,  the  High Mage  scowled  furiously.  "It is  a  facsimilie--a
 magical  duplicate. Styles  taught  me how  to  manufacture these.  He
 taught Mon-Taerleor as well." The scowl ripened.
      "Forgive  me," Sir  Edward interrupted.  "Marcellon, who  is Mon-
 Taerleor?"
      "He and I learned together from Styles," Marcellon explained. "We
 were much alike." We were much alike once, Marcellon corrected himself
 mentally. The High Mage sighed. Apparently, his friend had changed. "I
 believe he is now the High Mage for Beinison."
      "I see," the King murmered. "It seems  a wise thing, as he can do
 things such  as this--" he gestured  to the man-made head,  "--and you
 cannot."
      "No, your  majesty," Marcellon  corrected. "I  *will* not,  and I
 *do* not.  But I can. I  can." The High Mage  swallowed his disbelief.
 Alexander had not been like this. "He chooses differently than I."
      The  three were  silent for  a  moment. "This  isn't the  Count's
 head," the King began, "therefore, Count Connall is still alive."
      "I  doubt  it  highly,  Haralan," Sothos  countered  him  softly.
 "Recall what Count Tyago said. In  Beinison, they hang people and slit
 their  throats,  and  leave  their bodies  to  animals.  They've  done
 something so horrible to Luthias that there is no body left."
      Marcellon  replaced the  head  in  the box  and  shut  it with  a
 disgusted snap.  "Yes, they've done  away with him, and  not prettily.
 The Count  of Connall was  an expert in  things military, and  he knew
 this land. We would be foolish to believe that he was not tortured for
 information--and the Beinisons do not  do such things neatly. The body
 must be  so mangled and  scarred that--In any  case, that head  is not
 his."
      "We must tell the Countess," Edward suggested.
      "No!" Marcellon countermanded, shocked. "It  is bad enough to her
 that her husband is dead. At least let her believe he died quickly and
 with some dignity."
      "We shall not tell anyone," the  King commanded. "I will not take
 the  chance of  the  Emperor discovering  our  knowledge. But  Luthias
 Connall shall be revenged when we reached Beinison."
      Saddened, the  High Mage  swallowed and  turned away.  "'Peace is
 despair'd,'" he  murmered, thinking  of the blood,  the blood  and the
 gold  and  men  dying  in   the  snow.  "'....War  then,  War/Open  or
 understood, must be resolved.'"
      "What's  that  you're  saying?"  the  King  wondered,  his  voice
 sympathetically.
      "The words of a blind poet,"  Marcellon sighed, "that I read once
 in  my  crystal."  The  High  Mage turned  away.  "And  may  God  help
 Beinison--and us."
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                       Conflict of Interest, Part II
                              by John Doucette
                          (b.c.k.a JDOUCETTE@UPEI)

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 2 Nober, 1013 B.Y.

      Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Armies, stood in
 front of the  mirror in his quarters and  adjusted his badge-of-office
 for the  tenth time in as  many minutes. The silver  Maltese cross set
 with a  ruby in its centre  rested lightly on Edward's  chest slightly
 above his  family's coat-of-arms;  an eagle grasping  a lance  in each
 claw, and below  the eagle a great sword facing  right, a flail facing
 left. Satisfied that his uniform was satisfactory, Edward stepped back
 a pace in order to scrutinize his over-all appearance.
      At thirty,  Edward looked  ten years  older. His  experiences had
 matured him faster  than he had liked; three short  years of mercenary
 life had hardened him mentally as  well as physically. His lean, tough
 body bore many scars, large and small, obtained in countless battles.
      Edward smiled wryly as he gazed upon his reflection. At five feet
 ten inches  and weighing one  hundred seventy-five pounds, he  was not
 exactly the classical image of a  knight. Indeed, he thought, his aide
 and friend  Jan Courymwen was taller  than he; half a  foot taller. In
 Galicia, western Galicia at any rate, he was considered tall. Here, he
 was of  average height. He thanked  Nehru that at least  the people of
 western Galicia had  the same hair and  eye color that a  good deal of
 Baranurians  possessed. The  only things  that set  Edward apart  from
 native Baranurians was the cut of his hair and his accent. In Galicia,
 young men cut their hair short  during their military training so that
 everybody would look  no different from his  comrades. Edward finished
 his  compulsory training  when he  was  seventeen but  kept the  style
 throughout  the rigorous  training required  to attain  knighthood and
 after receiving his Wreath of Honour, a Galician knight's symbol.
      Edward  had hesitated  briefly  over his  choice  of uniform  for
 today; normally,  he wore the fine  clothes that any knight  wore, the
 only difference being his badge-of-office and Baranur's crest. But not
 today. Today's  function was  anything but  normal. Today  the Council
 began. Today  he would  confront Baron  Myros for  the second  time in
 forty-eight hours, a confrontation he and the King had hoped to avoid.
 Edward thought it  ironic that the uniform he chose  for today was the
 same he had worn when he and Myros first met seven years ago. Edward's
 brown eyes narrowed and his  gauntleted hands clenched at the memories
 of that meeting. The scar running  from his right forehead to his left
 cheek was one of those memories.
      Edward was  wearing the suit of  chainmail he received as  a gift
 from his father before journeying to  Count Janos' castle to begin his
 training to be a knight. The only  change he had made to the armour in
 the  thirteen years  he'd owned  it was  to have  his helm  and shield
 blackened after  he was exiled. Over  the chainmail he wore  the black
 livery displaying  his family's coat-of-arms. His  shield also carried
 the same display emblazoned on its surface. His father's bastard sword
 he wore  on his  left hip.  His great sword,  crossbow, and  case with
 thirty  bolts were  left safely  secure in  the chest  with his  other
 personal belongings. He was wearing both daggers; one on his belt, the
 other hidden in his right boot.
      "Come," Edward responded to the knock at his door.
      Jan entered the  room wearing the blue-and-gold  dress uniform of
 The King's Own, the infantry contingent of the Royal Guard. Before she
 was transferred to  Edward's staff, Jan had been a  captain in command
 of one of the ten companies of The King's Own. Now, at twenty-two, she
 was the youngest person ever to  hold the rank of commander. She moved
1to stand behind her commander and her friend. At six feet four inches,
 she towered slightly over Edward. Yet  whenever they spoke, it was she
 who felt  like she was  the one looking  up. "It's time,  Edward," she
 said nervously.
      Edward half turned to face her. "Nervous?"
      "Bloody right I'm nervous!" she said, belatedly adding, "sir."
      "What's to be nervous about?"  Edward asked innocently. "Only the
 most important  nobles from  across the entire  Kingdom are  here," he
 joked.
   "You really know how to steady a person's nerves, don't you, sir?"
      Edward chuckled. "Sorry, Jan.  Couldn't resist. Let's go." Edward
 strode out of  the room, his manner changing from  one of familiarity,
 present  when he  was  alone with  his close  friends,  to the  stern,
 distant manner he assumed at other times.
      As Jan followed  two paces behind and to the  left, she reflected
 on the friendship she and Edward shared. At times, Edward Sothos could
 be a hard man to understand. But no matter what happened, Jan knew she
 could always count on him to  be supportive. She looked at Edward. She
 had come to deeply respect and admire him and knew that if he asked it
 of her, she would die for this man.

      Jordaan and two of his men entered the Fifth Quarter, a haven for
 those  who  engaged  in   less-than-honourable  practices.  The  three
 Galicians  walked cautiously  down  the Fifth  Quarter's main  street,
 aware they  were being watched.  A group  of thugs passed  by. Jordaan
 could  tell they  were gauging  his  group's abilities.  At a  glance,
 Jordaan had  evaluated the thugs'  own capabilities. They  were poorly
 armed, but  they did have  the advantage of  numbers. As well,  two of
 their  number were  huge strong  men. Ten  minutes' work,  he thought.
 Perhaps less.  He quickened his pace.  If they wish to  assail us, let
 them. As long as they don't hinder my task.
      Thirty  minutes  later,  the  three   found  what  passed  for  a
 marketplace in the  Fifth Quarter. Jordaan quickly spotted  the man he
 was sent to meet. The man was  selling food from a cart. Motioning his
 men to follow, Jordaan walked over to the cart.
      "G'day, guv,"  the man  said, expression brightening.  From their
 look, these three  were obviously foreigners. Today was going  to be a
 good one after all. "What'll it be?"
      The amulet  given him by the  Dark One enabled him  to understand
 the vendor's words. Unfortunately, the amulet did't allow him to speak
 them. "Information I seek," Jordaan said in Merctalk.
      The  vendor's eyes  narrowed. "Information  I have.  Cost you  it
 will."
      "Price you name, money I have."
      "Twenty silver. Questions you ask."
      "Not here. Seen I cannot be."
      The vendor  stroked his beard.  Something wasn't right.  Yet this
 foreigner agreed  to the price  before I even  named it. He  must want
 what I have  very badly. "Difficult that is. Place  I know. Talk there
 we can. Seen we will not be."
      "Show us you will."
      "For a price."
      "How much?"
      "Two gold."
      "Take us you will. On arrival, pay you I will."
      "Come." The  vendor led Jordaan  and his men  down an alley  to a
 small door.  The vendor opened  it and  motioned for his  customers to
 step inside. The room was bare.  The only illumination was provided by
 a small candle.
      The vendor  held out his  hand. "Payment." Jordaan handed  over a
1small pouch.  The vendor opened it  and counted. He smiled,  closed it
 and put it in his purse.  "Gold?" Reluctantly, Jordaan fished two gold
 out of his own purse and handed them over. "Questions you have?"
      Over  the  course  of  the next  twenty  minutes,  Jordaan  asked
 detailed questions  regarding the recent troubles  between Baranur and
 Bichu. The answers he got were well  worth the price he paid. He still
 had orders to carry out though.
      "Satisfied?" the vendor asked when  Jordaan had finished with his
 questions.
      "Yes,"  he answered.  "What  cost to  send  information to  Crown
 Castle?"
      "Five  gold," the  vendor replied.  He could  hardly believe  his
 luck. Here was the chance of  a lifetime. This foreigner was obviously
 linked  to one  of the  embassies at  the Castle  and wanted  a steady
 source of information.
      Jordaan  hesitated for  a moment.  "Agreed." He  reached for  his
 purse.  The  vendor's  eyes  were  glued  to  Jordaan's  right  hand's
 movements so much so that he didn't see Jordaan's left hand as it shot
 out and grabbed his left arm.
      Jordaan hauled  the vendor's  left arm upwards  in an  iron grip.
 With his right hand, he quickly drew  the dagger at his belt and drove
 it to  the hilt into  the vendor's body just  below the armpit  of the
 man's upraised arm. The vendor gasped in pain. Jordaan gave the dagger
 a vicious  twist and  the body of  the vendor fell  to the  floor, his
 sightless eyes staring at the ceiling as his punctured aorta pumped an
 astonishing amount of blood onto the floor.
      Jordaan wiped  his dagger on  the vendor's clothes  and retrieved
 his money.  He ordered his  men to make  sure no traces  remained that
 could point the finger at them. When both indicated they had completed
 their sweep, he ordered them outside.
      He and his  men were met by  the group of thugs  that passed them
 earlier. Most were  armed with clubs or daggers and  a couple even had
 short swords.  If they'd  been intelligent, they  would have  left the
 three warriors  alone. Instead,  they attacked,  seeing only  what the
 three foreigners would yield after their death.
      Space to  maneuver in the small  alley was sparse. This  gave the
 Galicians  an advantage  they  would  not have  had  were they  facing
 opponents armed  and armoured as  they themselves were.  Although they
 weren't aware of it as yet, the thugs were dead men, walking corpses.
      Jordaan and his men stood shoulder to shoulder against the thugs'
 charge. The Galicians'  swords flickered now forward,  now backward in
 the fencing strokes taught by the Galician swordmasters.
      Two assailants  perished within seconds  of one another.  The six
 remaining attackers continued their assault  even though they had been
 bloodied without a blow being struck in return.
      Again  skill and  experience won  out over  brute strength.  This
 time, three  bodies were added to  the growing pile at  the Galicians'
 feet. The thugs  turned to flee. Jordaan shouted a  command and he and
 his men charged the enemy. If any of the thugs escaped, word would get
 out that Jordaan  had been in the Fifth Quarter.  That would result in
 too many questions being asked. Questions Jordaan, or his liege, could
 ill afford.
      His men finished  two of the fleeing thieves. The  third was well
 ahead  of Jordaan;  he feared  the thief  would gain  the marketplace.
 Jordaan put all he had into a last burst of speed.
      The fleeing thief was almost to  the entrance when he tripped and
 fell in the  mud and snow. Jordaan  caught up to him as  the thief was
 trying to  rise. A sword  stroke to the neck  and the thief  died, his
 blood mixing with the churned up snow.
      Jordaan quickly  wiped his blade  clean and  he and his  men made
1their way unhurriedly back to the King's Quarter. When the bodies were
 found later that  day, an investigation was  begun. The investigators,
 being  overworked,  conducted  a  cursory inquiry,  after  which  they
 decided that the thugs had probably assaulted the vendor found dead in
 a small room off  the alley in which the thugs'  bodies were found and
 that  the vendor's  associates had  exacted  payment. All  in all,  an
 everyday series of events in the Fifth Quarter.

      Edward strode  out of the  council chamber, a dark  expression on
 his face. It  was becoming more and more difficult  to avoid a serious
 confrontation  with Myros.  After all  these years,  he finally  had a
 chance  to avenge  the deaths  of his  men and  Haralan had  expressly
 ordered Edward  to avoid Myros  as much as  possible. Add that  to the
 insults Myros had heaped upon Edward and the Sothos family name and it
 was all Edward could do to keep his temper in check. Deciding that the
 best course  of action would be  to return to his  office before Myros
 exited the  chamber, Edward had  just entered the corridor  leading to
 his office when he was stopped by a voice.
      "Your Excellency!" Jan called. "Sir!"  She hurried to catch up to
 Edward.
      Edward turned to  face his aide. "Yes, Commander?" he  asked in a
 this-had-better-be-good tone.
      "You wanted  to speak to  Lord Morion after the  Council session,
 sir," Jan cautiously reminded her  superior. She had learned years ago
 to be careful when dealing with high-ranking officers in a foul mood.
      "Yes.  I did."  Edward's anger  dissipated somewhat.  "Thank you,
 Commander." He  set off  for Morion's  quarters, arriving  ten minutes
 later. Edward  paused at the door,  bringing his anger at  Myros under
 control. He waited five full minutes before knocking.
      "Come," a voice said.
      Edward  entered the  room and  closed the  door. "Forgive  me for
 disturbing you, Lord  Morion, but there is a matter  I wish to discuss
 with you." Edward glanced uncomfortably at Kimmentari. "I would prefer
 we discussed  this alone."  Morion made  as if  to protest,  but Kimme
 prevented any  argument. "There  is no  need for  anger," she  said to
 Morion.  "I  am  a  stranger  to Sir  Edward.  His  position  and  his
 background demand  that he  treat me with  suspicion in  this matter."
 Turning to Edward, the blue-haired  Araf said, "Your uneasiness has no
 foundation, Sir Edward. I understand your reasons. I take no offense."
      Edward bowed  slightly and held  the door  open for Kimme  as she
 made her exit. When she had  gone, Edward turned back to Morion. "Lord
 Morion," Edward  began, "let  us be brutally  frank with  one another.
 When  the  King  informed  me  of the  special  dispensation  you  had
 received, I had my reservations."
      "Oh? And by what right do  you, an outsider, question my right to
 rule my own lands as I see fit?" Morion asked angrily.
      "By the right of my position as Knight Commander," Edward replied
 calmly.  He  did  not  want  to anger  this  man;  indeed,  from  what
 information Edward  could gather,  Morion was  an honourable  and just
 man.  A worthy  ally.  "Understand,  Lord Morion,  that  I will  allow
 nothing that will harm Baranur."
      "And you think I will?" Morion queried, on his feet now.
      "Not intentionally."  Edward held  his hands up  in a  gesture of
 pacification. "Before you respond, try and consider this from my point
 of view.  I have  five Regiments,  aside from  some Militia  and House
 units, to  defend the Northern  Marches. Now I  learn that there  is a
 noble with independent  landholds close to Dargon and  the Coldwell, a
 noble who's reputation as a soldier merits my attention."
      "The King  has told me  this noble will probably  support Baranur
 when war comes. As you and I well know, 'probably' is not good enough.
1Not when the Northwest's major trade  route is threatened by this same
 noble  should  he  so  choose.   This  forces  me  to  restructure  my
 deployments. My troops are spread thin  as it is. In order to properly
 protect the Coldwell, I'll have to pull an entire Regiment from duties
 elsewhere,  thus   putting  further  strain  on   the  four  remaining
 Regiments. Knight Captain Sir Ailean, as  you can well imagine, is not
 happy."
      "You are  saying to yourself, why  can't he take a  Regiment from
 the south? Normally, I would. But  the situation is far from normal. I
 dare not reduce our strength in  the south, especially in light of the
 information our trade caravans are sending back."
      "As a soldier yourself, you can understand the position this puts
 me in. The  King highly respects this  noble, yet I am  forced to make
 contingency plans, secret plans, to  conquer this noble's lands should
 the need arise. I have no desire  to make war on this noble; indeed, I
 have a deep respect for this man as well. But my first duty is to King
 and Country and if am forced to take harsh action, I will."
      "In short,  Lord Morion, I need  to know how you  stand: when war
 comes in  the spring, will you  give your support to  Baranur, or will
 you wait and force me to take unpleasant action?"
      Morion's ice-grey  eyes narrowed.  When he responded  to Edward's
 question, he  spoke in low, measured  tones. "Were you anyone  else, I
 would hand you your entrails."  Morion paused, visibly forcing himself
 let go of his anger. "As you say, we are both soldiers. Were I in your
 place I...would have  said the same. If Baranur is  attacked, you will
 have my support and my troops. Otherwise, I remain neutral."
      "Thank you, Lord  Morion," Edward said, relieved.  "That makes my
 task much easier."
      "Do I sense a 'but' somewhere, Sir Edward?"
      "Lord  Morion, you  run a  training school  for warriors,  do you
 not?"
      "Yes,"  Morion  answered  warily.  Edward's  unexpected  question
 caught Morion off-guard.
      "I am told that the quality of your students is excellent."
      Morion inclined his head  slightly in acknowledgement of Edward's
 praise.  He said  nothing, however;  he felt  he knew  where this  was
 leading.
      "Indeed, I get daily requests from my generals suggesting that we
 make  an arrangement  to  recruit directly  from  your school.  Knight
 Captain Sir  Ailean is most  vocal in  his exhortations. He  thinks he
 could raise an  extra Battalion or two from  your graduates, something
 that  would  please him  greatly.  But  that is  not  what  I want  to
 discuss."
      "It seems to me," Edward  said, adopting a thoughtful pose, "that
 for  newly  graduated  students  to  fetch  such  praise  requires  an
 instructor of immense talent."
      "No." One word, but quite powerful when spoken by the right man.
      "You haven't even heard my offer, Lord Morion."
      "I've told Haralan every other time  he asked and I'm telling him
 now. No."
      "Lord Morion, this request comes  from me, not His Royal Majesty.
 Haralan  told me  not two  days ago  that it  was useless  to try  and
 persuade you. But  I did not survive  three years of war  by taking no
 for an answer."
      "Well, 'no' will have to satisfy you now."
      "Will you at least hear me out?"
      Morion hesitated before answering. He  had no desire to return to
 the  King's service  and he  would not.  And yet  he sensed  something
 different about this man's offer. "Go ahead."
      "I know of your  reluctance to come back to the  King. So this is
1what I propose: I'll send the troops to you and you train them."
      "But I wouldn't be under the King's suzerainty?"
      "Not at all. Morion, I've begun bringing the Reserve Regiments up
 to strength. It will take time to  train them, time I fear is in short
 supply. I  need someone who  can whip them  into shape. Fast.  I think
 you're the man to do it. Will you agree?"
      "I'll  have to  think  about it,"  he  answered. Seeing  Edward's
 reaction he said, "For now, it's the best answer I can give you."
      "Well  enough." Edward  and  Morion  shook hands  in  the way  of
 warriors, right  forearm clasped to  right forearm. Edward  turned and
 left, one of his many problems solved for now.
      When Edward  returned to  his office, he  found a  message packet
 waiting for  him. He entered his  office, sat at his  desk, and opened
 it. Inside was a note written  in handwriting he hadn't seen in years.
 He read it, not  daring to hope that what he had  dreamed of since his
 exile might  be coming true. He  re-read it once, twice,  three times,
 each time his hope increasing. Realizing  the danger to the writer, he
 destroyed both  the note and  the message packet  it came in.  He gave
 instructions to  Jan to the  effect that urgent matters  prevented his
 attending dinner with the King and His Royal Majesty's guests. Then he
 went to his quarters and waited.

      Others that evening had expressed  their regret at not being able
 to dine  with His  Royal Majesty. Baron  Corneilious Myros,  his chief
 advisor Sir Grange Rarrack, and Celeste  (known as the Dark One to all
 save Myros)  sat in Myros'  quarters listening to Jordaan's  report on
 his day's activities in the Fifth Quarter.
      "You are certain you were not seen?" Rarrack questioned Jordaan.
      "Quite  certain, my  lord. This  'Fifth Quarter'  is a  haven for
 criminals and  other vermin, my  lord. I do  not think it  likely they
 would have been overly curious about us."
      "Is this information accurate?" Myros inquired of Jordaan.
      "Aye," Celeste  said in answer  to Myros' question.  "My contacts
 here assure me the man's knowledge  hath never been proved wrong." She
 carefully watched  the reactions of  Rarrack and Jordaan.  Neither had
 known that Celeste  was a woman. Indeed, until now  Myros was the only
 member of the embassy who knew Celeste's true identity.
      Of the two, Rarrack reacted  the least strongly. He had suspected
 for some time that  the Dark One was not what  he, she rather, seemed.
 Rarrack had five  decades of experience in the  political arena behind
 him and had learned long ago never to take matters at face value.
      Jordaan, however, was another story. It wasn't the concealment of
 knowledge that bothered him  so much as it was the  fact that the Dark
 One was a woman. Like most  Galicians, Jordaan believed that a woman's
 place was  in the  home making sure  the household  operated smoothly.
 Yes, unmarried women who had reached the age of majority at twenty-one
 should undergo the  same military training required of  all males upon
 reaching the age  of fifteen, but the training was  meant to provide a
 means for unattached  women to fend for themselves until  they chose a
 husband who would undertake that  responsibility. The concept of women
 in combat, be  it magical or mundane, was  unthinkable. Granted, women
 did fight at times during The Wars, but those were desperate times and
 called for desperate measures.
      "Something distresses thee, Jordaan?" Celeste asked.
      "This goes  against all  law and  custom, my  liege!" he  said to
 Myros.
      Taking  Jordaan  aside  and  speaking   in  a  low  voice,  Myros
 commented, "Whether  it does or  not, the Dark  One is skilled  in the
 Art. I, for one, do not wish to challenge her. Do you?"
      "No," Jordaan reluctantly admitted.
1     "Good. Don't  forget that she  is loyal to  me. She has  aided me
 greatly in making contact with the  correct people here. Men that will
 support our cause. When the time comes for us to challenge the Emperor
 directly, she will prove most useful."
      Jordaan  acquiesced. "I  submit  to your  will,  as always,  Your
 Lordship."
      Myros returned to  his seat, speaking in normal  tones once more.
 "Continue with  your report, Captain."  Jordaan spent the  next thirty
 minutes relating the last of the  knowledge he had gained that morning
 from the  informant in the Fifth  Quarter. The four of  them spent the
 next several hours discussing the  ramifications of what they had just
 heard.

      Edward made  his way along  the eastern battlements of  the inner
 wall as silently as possible. The note he received earlier told him he
 could find  the note's author  here. Edward  very much wanted  to meet
 with the author. It had been far too long since they had spoken to one
 another.
      He saw  a hooded shape  ahead, silhouetted in the  torchlight. He
 quickened  his pace,  a thrill  of anticipation  coursing through  his
 body. The  person heard his  footfalls and  turned to face  him. Hands
 went to the  figure's hood and removed it. Edward  stopped and stared.
 "Elaine?"
      "Yes, Edward. It's me."
      "Why did you want to see me?" he asked, drawing closer.
      "It's been  nearly nine years  since we saw each  other, Edward,"
 she said, looking up at him. "I  didn't know what had happened to you.
 Were you alive? What were you doing? What happened since you left? And
 when I saw you two days  ago, everything came flooding back. That last
 day. The pain I felt when you  rode into the courtyard with Father and
 we saw the verdict."
      "Edward, I  love my  husband! But  when I saw  you two  days ago,
 feelings I thought I'd buried years ago came to the surface."
      "Then why did you ask to meet me?!"
      "I saw you still had feelings for me. Even though we only glanced
 at each  other, I  could see  it in your  eyes. I  wanted to  make you
 understand my  feelings. I thought that  if you knew I  loved another,
 then perhaps  your feelings towards me  would change. And I  wanted to
 know why you hate Corneilious so."
      "Corneilious Myros,"  Edward said in disgust,  "is a cold-blooded
 butcher."
      Elaine rose to her husband's defense. "My husband--"
      "Your  husband," Edward  snarled, "ordered  my men  put to  death
 after I had surrendered to him."
      "I  don't believe  you!" she  said defiantly.  "Corneilious would
 never do such a thing!"
      "Oh  wouldn't he?"  Edward was  nearly shouting,  not caring  who
 heard or  saw them. "Ask  him, Elaine, about  the battle we  fought in
 Alnor. Ask him about the men who died afterwards!"
      "You say that only because  you are jealous," Elaine said coldly.
 The look  she gave him  matched the frigidity  in her voice.  "We have
 nothing more to discuss." With that, she turned and walked away.
      "Nehru's Blood!" Things weren't going at all like Edward planned.
 He hurried after Elaine, blocking her way.
      "Get out of my way!" she said and tried to go around him.
      Edward grabbed  her arms and spun  her to face him.  "Not until I
 get the answer to a question."
      Elaine coldly regarded  Edward's hands around her  arms. "Is this
 what living  with these barbarians  has done? Where are  your knightly
 virtues, Edward?  Have you forgotten  what my father taught  you? What
1would he say if he saw you now?"
      Every  question Elaine  asked struck  home  like a  spear to  the
 heart. Edward released her, ashamed at his actions, Elaine's questions
 echoing in his soul. What would Count Janos say? he asked himself. The
 answer came swiftly.  He would say you lost a  part of yourself during
 your years as a mercenary, Edward.  A part of yourself you must regain
 if you are to remain a true Knight. He stood aside to let Elaine pass.
 She walked past  without saying a word, her hood  drawn over her head.
 "Elaine, wait."
      The pleading  tone in  Edward's voice stopped  her. "What  do you
 want?" she asked, her back still turned.
      "I had something to ask you, remember?"
      "What is it, Edward?" she asked.
      "Tell me what really happened to my father?"
      "About three years ago," she began, a slight tremor in her voice,
 "Duke Markin accused your father  of treason. The charge was dismissed
 by everyone  as ridiculous. Then  Markin produced evidence.  Neither I
 nor my father accepted Markin's evidence,  but others did. A trial was
 held  and your  father was  found guilty.  He was  taken to  Zourkhos'
 Square where he was given to the Executioner."
      "Gods no!" he swore, his voice barely above a whisper.
      "I'm sorry, Edward," she said,  unsuccessfully trying to keep the
 emotion  from her  voice.  She seemed  to  be about  to  say more  but
 couldn't  hold back  the  tears  any longer.  Elaine  fled, leaving  a
 stunned Edward Sothos staring silently out over the battlements at the
 ice floes slowly moving down the Laraka River to the sea.

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 7 Nober, 1013 B.Y.

      "Edward, you've been like this for five days now. What's wrong?"
      "Nothing, Jan."
      "Nothing? Nothing?! You may be able to fool everyone else, Edward
 Sothos, but not me."
      "Oh?" Edward asked in a deceptively calm voice.
      "That's right," Jan answered. "I know you too well. Out with it."
      "Oh you  know me, do  you? Well then you  know that I  don't like
 people  interfering in  my personal  business. You're  not my  keeper,
 Commander. My life is my affair!"
      "Edward, this is me, Jan  Courymwen, you're talking to. I thought
 we were friends."
      "Friends don't butt in where they're not wanted and they--"
      "Dammit,  Edward, this  isn't like  you!"  Jan said  in a  raised
 voice. "I'm worried about you!"
      That struck home.  What Edward had been about to  say died on his
 lips. He rose from  behind his desk and went to  the window. He stayed
 there for several minutes, pondering how much he should tell his aide.
 Jan, for her part, was smart enough to keep silent and let Edward come
 to a decision without her interference.
      Turning from  the window with a  sigh, Edward said to  his friend
 and aide for  the past three years,  "Sit down, Jan. We have  a lot to
 talk about." He spent the next hour filling Jan in on the parts of his
 past he had chosen not to tell her about previously. She learned about
 the events surrounding his departure from Galicia, how he met and came
 to despise Baron Myros, his relationship with Myros' wife, Elaine, and
 finally about his father's death and how it affected him.
      "Edward, I'm sorry," Jan said. "I had no idea. I truly am sorry."
      "I know, Jan. I'm glad there's someone I can share this with."
      "The  King doesn't  know?"  Jan asked  incredulously. Edward  and
 Haralan were very close. If Edward hadn't told him...
1     "No. I...I can't.  You know most of the nobles  here still regard
 me as an outsider. If Haralan knew my father was convicted of treason,
 it would  be one more  thing he'd have to  keep buried away,  one more
 reason for him to be concerned about me."
      "But wouldn't  he want to  know? He  is your friend.  Surely he'd
 want to help?"
      "Yes, he  would. But then  he'd be worried about  the information
 coming to light. No.  He has far too much to  occupy him already. I'll
 not increase his burden."
      "Speaking of burdens,  this has been weighing down on  you. I can
 see it, and something has got to be done about it."
      "There is nothing that can be done. Nothing can wash the stain of
 treachery from my family's honour."
      "If nothing  can be done,  what's the  use in worrying  about it?
 Weren't you the  one who told me  that if nothing can be  done about a
 problem you should accept things the way they are and move on?"
      "This is different, Jan. This is a matter of honour."
      "No it's  not different,  Edward. Your  family's honour  may have
 been stained, but  your personal honour hasn't. And that  is what will
 count in the long run."
      "I can't just alter my principles on a whim."
      "And I'm  not asking you  to. Perhaps you  will be able  to prove
 your father innocent  one day. But until then,  concentrate on keeping
 your honour,  your's Edward, intact.  I think you'll find  people will
 soon forget about events that transpired in Galicia."
      "You  have  an  old  mind  in  that  young  head  of  yours,  Jan
 Courymwen."
      "Merely  following your  example."  Jan retrieved  her cloak  and
 Edward's from the chair they had  been flung over and proceeded to put
 hers on while handing Edward his.
      "What's this?"
      "We're going to a tavern I  know in the Merchant's Quarter. Don't
 raise your  eyebrow to me, Edward  Sothos. I haven't once  seen you go
 outside the Castle  unless it's on King's business and  it's damn well
 time you did. Enjoy yourself a little."
      "People  will  talk.  Remember  what happened  to  the  Princess'
 marriage because of  such talk. No. I can't jeopardize  the respect of
 my office like that."
      "To  the crows  with what  people  say! We're  just two  friends,
 soldiers, going out  for a night on  the town. I won't take  no for an
 answer."
      The  two  stood  motionless  for several  seconds,  locked  in  a
 friendly contest of wills. Finally, Edward acquiesced with a smile and
 a nod of his head. "Alright, Jan--"
      "Coury, Edward," Jan corrected him. "My friends call me Coury."
      "Alright,  Ja...Coury,"  he said.  For  some  reason he  couldn't
 identify,  he  felt  strangely  uncomfortable  using  Jan's  nickname.
 Perhaps it was due to the fact  that in Galicia, a man didn't use such
 a  term of  familiarity with  a woman  unless the  two were  intimate.
 Nonsense, he thought. Jan and I  are just friends and that's all there
 is to it. Still,  one part of his brain persisted,  she is a beautiful
 woman. Any man would be overjoyed  to have her. Enough! Edward said to
 himself. I will not think such thoughts!
      Later that night, or early  the next morning, rather, when Edward
 had divested himself of the last of his clothing and climbed into bed,
 the thoughts  he had been suppressing  came to the fore  again. It was
 then he realized that  until that night, he had not  thought of Jan as
 anything but a friend and subordinate  in the three years they'd known
 each other.  He hadn't stopped  to consider her as  a woman. She  is a
 beautiful woman, he  admitted to himself through the  dull pounding of
1an alcohol-induced  headache. Very  beautiful. And with  that thought,
 Edward drifted off to sleep.

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 21 Nober, 1013 B.Y.

      Celeste locked the  door to her room and laid  a powerful warding
 spell upon  it to ensure she  would not be disturbed.  Crossing to the
 window, she  closed the  curtains to keep  her activities  from prying
 eyes. Content  the room  was as  secure as possible,  she went  to the
 closet and withdrew  a small, plain-looking wooden  chest. Opening the
 chest,  she  removed  a  finely  crafted  hand-mirror  and  stand  and
 proceeded to  place stand and  mirror against the closed  closet door.
 When  satisfied the  mirror was  securely fastened  to the  stand, she
 stood back and  spoke the word of command that  caused the assembly to
 enlarge until  the mirror had  changed from a small  hand-held variety
 into a body-length mirror.
      Celeste positioned  herself exactly  three feet  in front  of the
 mirror and began to cast her  spell. The Spell of Mirror-Talking was a
 complex one  that placed a great  strain on the caster.  The fact that
 Celeste was  attempting to use  the spell  over such a  great distance
 only made things  harder. To her knowledge, no one  of her Order, save
 possibly  the  Primus,  had  ever   successfully  used  the  spell  to
 communicate over  a distance  of more than  five hundred  leagues. Her
 intended receiver was many times that distance away.
      As she cast  the spell, she would pause  periodically to withdraw
 spell components from concealed  pouches within her night-black robes.
 First, she withdrew  a handful of sand, which  represented the mirror,
 and sprinkled it on the floor in  front of her. Next, she took out the
 feather of  an eagle, which served  to assist the caster  in obtaining
 the desired distance, and placed it on the sand sprinkled moments ago.
 As she was drawing near the  spell's completion, she drew a small vial
 of  water, representing  the glassy-smooth  surface of  an undisturbed
 pool, from her  robes and sprinkled the contents  around the perimeter
 of the sand making sure the water  and sand never came in contact with
 one another.
      Celeste finished  her chant and  as she  did so, all  three spell
 components  burst into  flame and  were consumed.  The smoke  that one
 would expect from  such an occurrence was not present.  Or, rather, it
 was not present in the room, but in the mirror.
      Celeste stood, exhausted,  as the grey mist the  smoke had become
 swirled and  billowed in  the mirror.  This was a  good sign,  for the
 smoke became mist  only if the spell had succeeded.  All that remained
 to be  seen was  whether or  not the  signal was  strong enough  to be
 noticed by the intended receiver.
      After  several  minutes  of  waiting, minutes  in  which  Celeste
 managed  to assemble  the  outward appearance  of  normalcy, the  mist
 gradually  began  to slow  its  motion,  finally stopping  and  fading
 entirely.  "Cho  dakh,  Primus,"  Celeste  said  in  greeting  to  the
 black-robed figure in the mirror.
      "Cho dakh, Celeste," the Primus returned in his whispering voice.
 "Thou hath done well in contacting me over such a great distance. Thou
 hath some information to impart to me?"
      "Aye, Primus.  The situation  here hath changed  drastically. The
 strife  between  Baranur   and  Bichu  was  the   product  of  foreign
 intervention in  Baranur's affairs.  Beinison is responsible.  As thou
 would'st expect, King Haralan hath taken grave offense at this blatant
 interference in his domain's affairs. Indeed, His Royal Majesty called
 a Council which  convened not five days ago. The  delegates hath split
 into  two factions;  one  calling  for war  and  the other  counseling
1caution and diplomacy.  Neither faction hath gained the  upper hand as
 yet."
      "And what of Myros?"
      "His Lordship  suspects one of  his advisors  is an agent  of our
 Master. He hath asked me to determine who the culprit might be. I hath
 been giving the Baron vague answers in response to his queries. I hath
 been  unable to  uncover any  evidence of  treasonous activity.  Myros
 guards his secrets well."
      "What  of this  friend you  mentioned? The  one Myros  used as  a
 pretext for his journey to Baranur."
      "As  I thought,  Primus, he  and Myros  are enemies.  Indeed, Sir
 Edward and Myros came near  to exchanging blows. The animosity between
 the two is readily apparent during the Council's daily sessions."
      "Sir Edward? Sir Edward who?"
      "Forgive  me,  Primus.  Baranur's Knight  Commander,  Sir  Edward
 Sothos."
      "Dion Sothos' son?" the Primus  said with undisguised surprise in
 his voice.
      "Aye, Primus," Celeste said in a neutral voice.
      "It  seems  Edward   hath  done  well  for   himself  these  past
 eight-and-a-half years," the Primus said more to himself than Celeste.
 "This  is an  unexpected and  pleasant  turn of  events." Speaking  to
 Celeste once  more he said,  "The evidence  against Myros I  hath long
 sought for  may soon be  delivered. If it is  as I suspect,  thou wilt
 receive instructions  to move against  Myros within a matter  of days,
 perhaps hours. When thou dost, take  care that thou dost not harm, nor
 allow others to harm, Sir Edward.  The Sothos family hath long figured
 prominently in our empire's history. Edward is the last surviving male
 to  bear the  name Sothos.  The line  must continue.  Dost thou  fully
 comprehend what I am saying?"
      "Aye, Primus," Celeste replied. "It shall be as thou commands."
      "Good. Cha loth, Celeste."
      "Cha loth, Primus," Celeste  said, bowing. When she straightened,
 the  Primus'  image was  gone,  the  spell  terminated. "What  hath  I
 stumbled upon?"  she said, thinking  out loud.  "Why is the  Primus so
 concerned about thy well-being, Sir Edward Sothos?"

 Stormhaven, exact location unknown, Galician Empire
 21 Nober, 1200 G.Y.

      "Cha loth,  Primus," Celeste said, bowing.  The Primus terminated
 the spell  and was  about to go  down to the  Library to  consult with
 Xavier, The  Order's current  Lokhmahst, when his  manservant, Lothan,
 entered the study.
      "The Sehrvat Primus wishes to speak with you, my lord."
      "Send him in then, Lothan." Lothan bowed then opened the door and
 ushered Derek, Sehrvat Primus of The Order, into the study.
      "The  translation  is  complete,   Primus,"  Derek  said  without
 preamble.
      "Dost thou hath the documents with thee?"
      "Aye, Primus. Thou wilt find them most interesting to read."
      "Then  give them  hence."  Derek handed  several  scrolls to  the
 Primus without a word. The Primus quickly scanned the twelve pieces of
 parchment. When he was done, he looked his manservant full in the face
 and said,  "Get thee  gone. Pack  enough belongings  for a  journey to
 Rhylon. We leave in one hour."
      Lothan paled under  his master's gaze. Few  would not. Stammering
 acknowledgement of  his orders, Lothan  bowed, turned, and  hurried to
 the Primus' quarters. Much needed to be done, and an hour was not much
 time.
1
 Imperial Palace, Rhylon, Duchy Rhylon, Galician Empire
 22 Nober, 1200 G.Y.

      The aged  and frail man  who sat upon  the throne of  Galicia was
 near death and knew it. At  age eighty, Emperor Nyrull, his full title
 being Protector and Defender of the Twelve Cities, Duke of Rhylon, His
 Imperial Majesty  Emperor Nyrull  ("a title you  could choke  on", the
 former soldier,  who loathed ceremony,  called it) was the  oldest and
 longest reigned Emperor in  Galicia's sixteen-hundred year history. In
 addition,  his sixty  year rule  had seen  the beginning  of Galicia's
 Golden  Age,  a  time  that   saw  the  previous  Galician  policy  of
 isolationism  end and  Galicia's return  to the  web of  international
 politics.  Now, all  he had  worked for  was coming  undone. His  most
 trusted  and  loyal subject,  the  wizard  known  as the  Primus,  had
 unearthed a  plot to  seize his  throne. The Primus  now stood  in the
 throne room  reading the names  of the conspirators to  Nyrull's inner
 circle  of  advisors  and  generals. The  Emperor  listened  to  those
 gathered debate  which course of action  to follow. Nyrull, as  he had
 always done, sat and listened, content to let them voice opinions they
 would not have voiced had they been speaking directly to Nyrull.
      "Perhaps," said Julius Valerius, the Empire's chief diplomat, "we
 can reach  an agreement  with the cabal's  leadership that  will avoid
 bloodshed."
      "Avoid bloodshed? Avoid  bloodshed?! They should all  be taken to
 Zourkhos' Square!"  That from  Proconsul Veers,  one of  Galicia's top
 soldiers.
      "I'm sure my  esteemed colleague was referring  to the inordinate
 amount of very  undesirable disruption that would be caused  by such a
 disturbance," commented Julian Adininos, head of the Finance Ministry.
      "Proconsul Veers is  right," said Admiral Xertes.  "These men are
 traitors  and  we must  move  against  them  before they  can  further
 increase their forces."
      "Need I remind  you, Admiral, that such a course  of action would
 cause undue disturbance in our most agriculturally important regions?"
      "This is  war, Adininos! You can't  just bury it in  a ledger and
 hope it's forgotten!"
      "Calm yourself,  Admiral," Valerius  cut in.  "Anger will  get us
 nowhere."
      Xertes' response was a snort of  contempt. He would have said far
 more if  Veers hadn't asked  a question of the  other man in  the room
 besides the  Emperor and  the Primus. "Well,  Janos? You  haven't said
 much. What's your opinion?"
      Emil Janos, late  the Count of Nogrom until  Duke Markin stripped
 him of that  title and now Weapons Master to  the Imperial Guard, took
 time to order his thoughts before speaking. "Both opinions have merit.
 A civil war would destroy  everything that has been accomplished since
 The Consolidation Wars. Yet we cannot  simply turn a blind eye towards
 these noble's activities.  I propose that we assassinate  all save the
 cabal's leadership."
      That  got approving  looks  from both  bureaucrats and  soldiers.
 "What do you have in mind for the leaders?" Veers asked.
      "That they be drawn and quartered as you suggested, Proconsul."
      "No." All eyes  turned toward the throne.  "No," Nyrull repeated.
 "Not all the leaders." Frail as he was, Nyrull could command a room if
 he so chose. His blue eyes became as cold as ice and his voice as hard
 as  steel. "Proconsul  Veers, you  will  take the  Imperial Guard  and
 whatever  other  forces you  deem  necessary  and  you will  march  on
 Markin's stronghold.  No quarter will be  given. Everyone--man, woman,
 and  child--in New  Valencia is  to be  put to  the sword."  He leaned
1forward. "Do I make myself clear?"
      Veers snapped  to attention and  saluted, right arm out  from the
 body, fist clenched. "You do, Sire."
      "Good.  You  have  a  question,   Admiral?"  Nyrull  asked  in  a
 dangerously quiet tone.
      "Do you think it wise to  send the Imperial Guard, Sire? Who will
 protect you?"
      "I believe The Order can handle that. Correct, Primus?"
      "Of course, Master."
      "What of the assassins, my liege?" Valerius asked.
      "The Order  will handle that  as well," Nyrull  answered Valerius
 while looking at the Primus.
      "It shall  be as thou commands,  Master," the Primus said  with a
 bow.
      Nyrull sat back and smiled.

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 17 Deber, 1014 B.Y.

      Jan  sat at  her desk  struggling  valiantly with  a mountain  of
 paperwork that had built up during  the two weeks the Council had been
 in  session. Today  was the seventeenth day  of the  new year  and the
 forty-sixth day  of the Council.  Jan had argued, begged,  and pleaded
 with Edward to allow Daniel Moore to  take her place so that she could
 attend to the  business of making the army's  paperwork flow smoothly.
 "Or as  smooth as it  ever flows," she said  to herself. She  smiled a
 little and  said, "Edward  is going  to have  a fit  when he  sees his
 desk." Sighing, she returned to her work.

      Six  figures  materialized  from  the cold  night  air  of  Crown
 Castle's  Inner Courtyard.  A  seventh  was waiting  for  them at  the
 entrance to the Diplomatic Wing,  two dead or unconscious guards lying
 in the  snow. Three  of the  new arrivals walked  over to  the waiting
 black-robed figure.  Before they had  even crossed half  the distance,
 the  center  figure  of  the  similarly  black-robed  triad  that  had
 accompanied them spoke words of magic and all three vanished.
      Justin resumed his pace towards  the wizard--he'd had his fill of
 wizards lately--that he and his  two companions would be working with.
 The newly fallen  snow crunched under his boots and  his breath misted
 in the  crisp air. Nochturon  was a pale  disk in the  cloudless night
 sky. The stars could  be seen with great clarity. Such  a night is one
 for celebrating, Justin thought, not this dirty business.
      The wizard  led Justin  and his two  friends into  the Diplomatic
 Wing's foyer.  "Sit," Celeste  told them. "I  shalt bring  some mulled
 wine  and then  we may  discuss how  to execute  this operation."  She
 walked  over to  the bored  clerk sitting  behind the  reception desk,
 ordered  the  wine  she  had  promised,  and  returned  to  the  three
 adventurers. After a  short delay, two attendants brought  the wine to
 the four.
      Julia finished her wine quickly,  revelling in the warmth flowing
 through her veins. "We're not assassins. So why are we here?"
      "I am  no assassin either,"  Celeste responded coldly.  "Thou art
 here  to protect  my person  and to  ensure the  mission is  complete,
 should I fall."
      "So we're to keep the  grunts"--Tarn named the derisive term that
 referred to all soldiers--"busy while you work your spells?"
      "Crudely  put," Celeste  said,  giving Tarn  an  icy stare,  "but
 essentially correct."
      "Who are we after?" Justin asked, getting down to business.
      "Three  men:  Baron Corneilious  Myros,  his  chief advisor,  Sir
1Grange Rarrack,  and Jordaan, Myros'  Captain of the Guard.  Myros and
 Rarrack are still  in today's Council session. Why it  hath gone on so
 long  I know  not,  nor doth  it  concern  me. If  need  be, we  shalt
 penetrate the Council chamber and  execute the traitors. Jordaan is in
 his quarters  here in the Diplomatic  Wing along with three  of Myros'
 top advisors and  a guard of fifty warriors. Our  only targets art the
 three  previously mentioned.  However,  if someone  should'st seek  to
 prevent us  from accomplishing the  task at  hand, they must  be dealt
 with."
      "When do we attack?" Julia asked, her warrior's mentality showing
 in the way she phrased her question.
      "If thou and thy companions feel ready, we can begin now."
      "Let's do it and be done with it," Justin said, clearly not happy
 with the task.
      "Follow me." Celeste got up and  led the three past the clerk and
 up the stairs  leading to the rooms occupied by  the Galician embassy.
 Once at the top of the stairs, she led them fifty feet down a corridor
 where they came upon a side passage that led directly to the embassy's
 rooms. The  four made  their way  thirty feet down  the corridor  to a
 door.  Celeste opened  it and  all  four filed  through. The  corridor
 continued for twenty more feet before turning to the west. At the turn
 stood two of Myros's guards, armoured in platemail and carrying shield
 and longsword.
      A third guard came out of a  room from which many voices could be
 heard and stumbled slightly as he made his way towards Celeste and her
 group.  When he  noticed them,  he straightened  as much  as possible.
 "Dark One,"  he said with  the voice  of one who  has had too  much to
 drink, "didn't think you'd be here. And who are these three?"
      "They  art  retainers of  mine.  Stand  aside. I  hath  important
 business to  discuss with Captain  Jordaan." Celeste continued  on and
 motioned for Justin, Julia, and Tarn to follow.
      But the  guard, with  the dogged persistence  too much  drink can
 give  a  person, kept  with  his  train  of  thought. "Wait.  I  don't
 recognize them. Let me see their  papers." When the four did not stop,
 he lurched  after them. "Stop!"  When they  still refused to  heed his
 command,  he made  a clumsy  attempt to  draw his  sword. By  now, the
 guards at  the corridor's turn  had had  their attention drawn  to the
 scene being played out.
      "Now!"  Celeste said.  Tarn whirled  and  fired an  arrow at  the
 drunken  guard. He  died  before getting  his sword  half  out of  its
 scabbard. Julia  and Justin drew  steel and charged the  two remaining
 guards, who already had their weapons out and were shouting the alarm.
      "Tarn!" Celeste called, as Tarn was  about to go to his comrades'
 assistance. "I need thee! Make haste!"
      "What?" he asked, running back to Celeste.
      "I shalt  cast a  spell. When  I begin, thou  wilt hold  the door
 open," she said,  indicating the door through which  the drunken guard
 had come, "and when I am finished, close it with all haste and flatten
 thyself on the floor."
      Tarn nodded and Celeste began her spell. "Ast thrak"--Tarn opened
 the door--"Uth  harn"--Celeste reached into  her robes and  withdrew a
 pinch of sulphur  which burst into flame  and was gone--"Ost"--Celeste
 pointed  a  finger  at  the   startled  and  confused  guards  in  the
 room--"frelbarl!" With the utterance of the  last word of the spell, a
 ball of  flame shot from  Celeste's outstretched finger.  At virtually
 the same instant,  Tarn slammed the door shut and  both he and Celeste
 dove to the floor.
      Inside  the room,  the fireball  exploded not  two seconds  after
 Celeste had worked her magic.  The fireball was primarily intended for
 combat  against a  large group  of  adversaries outdoors.  In a  small
1twenty  by  twenty room,  the  explosive  force  of the  fireball  was
 contained and reflected back from the walls. The door, along with bits
 and pieces of animate and inanimate  objects alike, was blown out into
 the corridor  in flaming  chunks which just  narrowly missed  Tarn and
 Celeste.
      The force  of the  blast staggered the  four combatants  as well,
 sending  Julia and  her opponent  to  the floor.  The guard  recovered
 first,  aiming a  vicious downward  swing  at Julia's  prone form.  He
 missed, sending  sparks everywhere when  his sword connected  with the
 stone. All Julia had time to do  was grab her shield and hold it above
 her as her training taught. Her  opponent was raining blows on her and
 she knew that  she couldn't hold on to her  shield much longer. Justin
 couldn't help as he was locked in deadly earnest combat himself.
      With a last blow  that caved in the front of  her shield and sent
 it flying,  her opponent had her  at last. Pausing, he  saluted her, a
 Galician custom the origin of which  lay rooted in legend. It was that
 custom that saved Julia's life.
      The guard raised his sword to plunge it into Julia's heart. As he
 did so,  an arrow sprouted in  his chest. The guard  dropped his sword
 and stood swaying for several seconds. He gazed at Tarn with a vaguely
 reproachful look on his face, as if Tarn had interfered with something
 he should not have. Then his face went blank and he toppled backwards.
      Justin, meanwhile,  was having  a tough  time with  his opponent.
 Every thrust  had been  skillfully parried,  every riposte  harder and
 harder to avoid. These were obviously no ordinary guardsmen, but elite
 warriors  taught by  some of  Galicia's finest  swordmasters. Already,
 Justin had suffered half a dozen small cuts with only one or two given
 in return.
      Justin had  help, however. Julia,  by this time rescued  by Tarn,
 had  recovered her  sword and  came  to her  friend's assistance.  The
 guard, beset  from two directions at  once, never stood a  chance. The
 fact  he lasted  as  long as  he  did was  testimony  to his  fighting
 prowess.
      "The guards  must surely be  alerted by now,"  Celeste commented.
 "We must press on before we meet more opposition."
      "Fine," Justin  said. "Tarn, you bring  up the rear. Julia  and I
 will lead. And you, Sorceress, will stay in the middle. Agreed?"
      "Thy instructions art sound. I wilt abide by them as long as they
 remain so."
      Justin  grunted in  satisfaction and  hurried down  the corridor,
 Julia beside  him bearing a  guardsman's shield to replace  her ruined
 one. They hadn't gone ten feet  when five guards came running at them,
 weapons drawn. Justin  and Julia braced themselves for  the attack. It
 never came.
      Celeste stepped  between the  two warriors  and cast  yet another
 spell. Justin  was seized  with fear  by the power  of the  dark words
 Celeste spoke, and he wasn't even  the intended victim of the spell. A
 sideways glance showed  that Julia was similarly  affected. The effect
 on the advancing guardsmen was devastating.
      Two guards died  immediately, killed by their  own fear amplified
 by  Celeste's spell.  Another ran  screaming in  terror. The  last two
 guards, stronger willed than their comrades, backed slowly down a side
 corridor.
      The sound of many booted feet  preceeded a large group of guards,
 perhaps twenty in  all, led by Jordaan. Justin and  Julia stayed where
 they were.  Only Celeste could hope  to deal with such  a large force.
 Deal with them she did.
      Jordaan  didn't waste  time with  questions. He  ordered his  men
 forward, hoping to overwhelm the Dark One before she could get a spell
 off. His hopes were in vain.
1     Celeste drew  a small  wand engraved with  arcane runes  from her
 robes. She  pointed it down  the corridor and  calmly spoke a  word of
 command.  Lightning flashed  from the  wand, felling  five guards  and
 wounding  two.  Thunder echoed  and  rolled  throughout the  building.
 Lightning  flashed  a  second  time. Four  more  guards  joined  their
 brethren in death.
      Jordaan recognized the futility of  continuing. His only hope lay
 in forcing a fight in more open surroundings where his men wouldn't be
 concentrated  and his  greater numbers  would work  to his  advantage.
 "Back!"  he shouted,  his battlefield-trained  voice sounding  clearly
 over the  deafening thunder. "Fall  back to  the keep!" He  turned and
 ran, his men close behind.

      Jan paused. She was about halfway  through the stack of papers on
 her desk  when she heard it.  "Thunder?" she said aloud.  "We can't be
 getting  rain this  time of  year." She  rose and  went to  the window
 overlooking  the  courtyard.  The   snow  had  started  again,  giving
 everything a peaceful demeanor. "Must be my imagination." She sat down
 and went back to work. And again  she heard it. A cold chill walked up
 her spine.  "That wasn't my imagination  this time." She was  about to
 call  for a  guard when  the door  opened and  one of  the two  guards
 outside her office stuck his head in.
      "Sorry  for disturbing  you, ma'am,"  he  said. "I  know this  is
 crazy, but I just heard what sounded like--"
      "Thunder?"
      "You heard it too, ma'am?"
      "Yes, but it's not coming from outside."
      "Well it certainly couldn't come from inside."
      "Gods! That's it! Gregory, raise the alarm. Quickly, man! We have
 intruders in the castle!" Gregory saluted and was gone. Jan yelled for
 the other guard. "Haran!"
      "Yes, Commander?" he asked, half in the doorway.
      "If there's  not a squad  in here  pretty bloody fast,  you'll be
 cleaning stables for the next twenty years!"
      Haran swallowed once and ran.
      Jordaan  ran through  a door  and found  himself in  the Hall  of
 Warriors, a one hundred-foot long  by forty-foot wide hall that arched
 to  its  ceiling thirty  feet  overhead.  The  Hall was  dedicated  to
 Baranur's twenty greatest warriors. Their  statues, ten each along the
 north and south walls, one every  ten feet, stood in silent tribute to
 those  who helped  make Baranur  what it  was today.  Jordaan couldn't
 believe  his good  fortune. He  was so  relieved he  shouted for  joy,
 drawing the attention of the four guardsmen from The King's Own.
      Jordaan  shouted at  his  men  to deploy  and  then outlined  the
 situation  for the  Baranurians. "Assassins  have entered  through the
 Diplomatic Wing.  I fear they are  after my Lord Myros.  Will you join
 us?" At their nods, he stationed them at the east end of the Hall as a
 last defense should he and his warriors be defeated.
      His men  were deployed in  a semi-circle facing the  door through
 which they'd come. Jordaan drew steel and waited.
      The door flew  outward in a cloud  of sparks as it  was blown off
 its  hinges by  a  word of  magic. Celeste,  Justin,  Julia, and  Tarn
 stepped  through. Celeste  took a  step  or two  forward and  stopped.
 "Yield thyself, Jordaan,  and thy death wilt be swift  and painless, I
 promise thee."
      "No, Dark One," Jordaan said in a calm voice. "If you want me, or
 he to whom I have sworn my  fealty, you must pay the price." He lifted
 his sword.
      "So be  it," she said  in an  emotionless voice. She  leveled her
 wand at Jordaan and  spoke the word of command. He  was flung back ten
1feet, to lay unmoving on the floor.
      The loss of their leader did not affect the Galicians as it would
 have other troops. These men were  veterans who knew what must be done
 to survive in combat. As one, they flung themselves at the little band
 standing  in the  blackened  doorway. They  realized  that their  only
 chance was to slay the sorceress before she slew them.
      Celeste realized this  also. Not having time for  a more complex,
 more deadly  spell, she chose a  spell she had learned  when she first
 began her training, a spell that could be cast in seconds.
      Dropping the  wand, she began  to chant  the words to  her spell,
 moving her hands in short, sharp passes  as she did so. She spread her
 hands in  a fan  in front  of her  and seven  glowing darts  shot out,
 directed at  the three nearest  guardsmen. The closest  guard received
 three of  the darts and tumbled  to the floor. The  other two received
 two darts each,  felling one guard. The third winced  in pain and kept
 coming, only to die as Tarn shot him through the throat.
      The  immediate  odds  were  now  five-to-four  in  favor  of  the
 guardsmen. But when one considered the lightness of Tarn's armour, and
 the  fact that  Celeste  had  none at  all,  those  odds increased  to
 two-to-one.
      "Die well, my friends!" Justin yelled and launched himself at the
 enemy.  Julia followed  his  example as  well,  screaming the  ancient
 battle-cry of  her ancestors at those  who sought to slay  her and her
 comrades.  Tarn simply  dropped his  bow,  drew his  short sword,  and
 prepared to exact a heavy toll for his life.
      For  the moment,  Celeste was  untouched as  the battle  raged on
 around her.  To her  immediate front, Justin  fought with  savage fury
 against the two guardsmen engaging him.  To her left, Julia beat aside
 her enemy's shield  and ripped his throat out, all  the while shouting
 her battle-cry at the top of her lungs.
      Celeste heard  a grunt of  pain behind  her. She whirled  and saw
 Tarn, outmatched and  fighting two opponents, bleeding from  a gash to
 his right arm.  Grasping the amulet at her neck,  she raised her right
 arm, finger outstretched.  She pointed at one of  Tarn's attackers and
 shouted, "Die!" The man collapsed to his knees and fell forward, blood
 streaming from his  mouth, nose and ears. Tarn flung  his sword at his
 opponent, forcing the  guardsman to back away to  prevent himself from
 being injured.  Tarn took advantage of  the reprieve to draw  a dagger
 and send  it thudding home under  the man's chin strap.  Face tight in
 pain, Tarn ripped a strip of cloth from a guard's tunic and used it to
 bind his wound.
      By this time,  the Baranurian guardsmen had,  contrary to orders,
 come to the  aid of the Galicians. One attacked  Julia, one went after
 Tarn, and the remaining two charged straight for Celeste.
      Celeste  was growing  tired. She  had  expended a  great deal  of
 energy in working her magic. She was confident she could go on casting
 the weaker spells  indefinitely, but weak spells would do  her no good
 now. And if she  chose to cast her most potent  combat spell, then she
 would be unable  to work the teleport spell she  would need to escape.
 As  the saying  went  though,  beggars can't  be  choosers. All  these
 thoughts flashed  through her head  in a  matter of seconds;  any mage
 that  could  not  instantly   evaluate  potential  dangers  and  their
 counter-measures was not a mage, or anything, for very long.
      She  reached into  her robes  for two  pieces of  black obsidian.
 Holding them together,  she began speaking words of  dark power, words
 that placed an immense strain on her very soul.
      Her hands flew apart, the obsidian crumbling to dust. The torches
 in the Hall grew dim as  a chilling wind blasted throughout the Hall's
 length. A Gate, black as night and radiating a smothering evil, opened
 in  the air  before  the  two guardsmen  now  only  fifteen feet  from
1Celeste. From this Gate, Celeste had summoned a creature said to exist
 only in  legend. A creature mothers  used to frighten bad  children. A
 creature from Man's nightmares.
      Celeste had summoned a demon.

      Jan led her squad at a  dead run towards the Council chamber. She
 feared  she would  be too  late,  that she  would arrive  to find  the
 delegates  dead. The  thought that  Edward  would be  among them  only
 served to heighten her fear. She ran faster.

      The demon  strode through  the Gate,  wings rustling  and muscles
 popping. All combat ceased as everyone, Galician and Baranurian, stood
 staring in  pure unadulterated  fear at  the ten-foot  tall apparition
 before  them. The  demon paid  them  little notice,  however. All  its
 attention was focused upon she who had summoned it to this plane.
      Celeste knew that a test of wills was about to take place. If she
 lost, the demon would devour her and  would be free to roam Makdiar at
 will. The  demon's dark red  eyes locked  with hers. She  screamed but
 would not break  eye contact. The demon smiled, sure  it would have an
 opportunity such as it had not enjoyed in uncounted milennia.
      But Celeste was stronger than the demon thought. She gathered her
 anger. Anger at the way she was treated as a child. Anger at those who
 denied her her inheritance. Anger at  the Primus for trying to prevent
 her from  joining The Order  as her  parents and their  parents before
 them had done. Anger she hurled at the demon for daring to defy her.
      The demon shrieked  in pain and rage. Pain caused  by the assault
 of alien  human emotions upon its  mind. Rage because this  puny human
 female had beaten it and forced it to her will.
      "Hazkaramatan!" Celeste spoke, arms  flung wide. "Thou know'st me
 as thy master! Thou must do my bidding! Slay'st thee those humans thou
 see'st behind thee and  thou art free to return to  thine own plane of
 existence."
      The demon  Hazkaramatan slowly turned  to face the  two terrified
 Baranurian guardsmen.  It advanced  slowly, spittle dripping  from its
 two-foot long fangs. Smoke curled up  from the floor where the spittle
 touched. The guardsmen screamed  in stark terror. Hazkaramatan paused,
 enjoying the  terror, absorbing  it, tasting it,  feeling it.  When it
 felt the terror had gone on long enough, it raised its gleaming talons
 to strike.  The guardsmen fled for  their lives, but to  no avail. The
 demon launched itself  into the air with one stroke  from its powerful
 wings and  bore down  on the  luckless humans. It  caught them  as the
 reached the door,  rending and tearing with talons  and fangs, sending
 bloody gore  everywhere, taking  out its rage  and frustration  on its
 victims.
      The task done, Hazkaramatan looked  at Celeste and began to speak
 a  dread promise  should they  meet again.  But before  it could  even
 formulate  the first  syllable, the  Gate appeared  once more  and the
 demon was drawn through. Celeste  collapsed, nearly sobbing in relief.
 She had been very close to losing control. Five seconds longer and she
 would have.

      An unearthly  scream echoed  through the  halls of  Crown Castle,
 bringing Jan and her  men to a stumbling halt. "By  all the gods!" the
 sergeant  commanding the  squad swore.  "What  manner of  foes are  we
 dealing with?"
      Jan spun on him. "It doesn't  matter!" she said angrily. "You are
 sworn to protect the King with your lives!" she said to the frightened
 soldiers. She snorted  in disgust. "Does the name The  King's Own mean
 nothing?!" she  shouted at them.  Getting no reply, she  delivered the
 gravest insult one could give to  a member of the Royal Brigade. "King
1Caeron would be ashamed of the lot of you!"
      That got results. The mention  of the man largely responsible for
 the creation of  the Royal Army made the soldiers  hang their heads in
 shame. "Well what are we waiting  for?" the sergeant asked his men. He
 drew his sword. "For Haralan!" he  shouted and his men echoed him. The
 guardsmen ran on.

      The sight of  Celeste collapsing seemed to be the  signal for the
 fighting  to  start  anew.  The  last  two  Galician  guardsmen  threw
 themselves at Justin, determined to exact vengeance for their friends'
 deaths. Justin  fought wildly, killing  one man and  receiving several
 deep wounds.
      Tarn  backed up  until  he  was standing  over  Celeste, who  was
 desperately  trying  to  stand.  Tarn  knew  he  was  outclassed.  His
 profession was thievery,  not fighting. Add to that  that his opponent
 had a longer blade than Tarn and the outcome was never in doubt.
      Tarn knew he had no chance, so he concentrated on defense, trying
 to buy time for Celeste to recover  her strength and deal with his foe
 by magic.  Time and again,  he parried what  surely would have  been a
 killing thrust. But that is not to  say he did so without cost. He had
 suffered a number of small cuts and  gashes and the wound on his right
 arm had started bleeding more heavily.
      He  stumbled   against  Celeste's   leg  and  lost   his  balance
 momentarily.  The Baranurian  raised his  sword and  plunged it  down,
 cutting through leather and flesh  and bone. Tarn fell across Celeste,
 dead  before he  hit  the floor.  The guardsman  was  about to  finish
 Celeste  when  his  comrade  fighting   Julia  yelled  for  help.  The
 Baranurian  hesitated briefly  with  indecision.  His comrade  shouted
 again and the guardsman ran to his fellow's aid.
      Julia had  beaten her opponent back  several feet so that  he was
 backed up  against a statue. He  had lost his shield  and was wielding
 his blade with both  hands. Blood was running down one  leg and he had
 taken several cuts  to the chest as well. He  shouted for help against
 this madwoman.
      Julia threw  her shield away  as well, fighting as  her ancestors
 had done. She beat her opponent's sword down and aimed a thrust at his
 chest. He parried clumsily, knocking her blade up and through the side
 of his  throat. He fell, spitting  up great quantities of  blood as he
 gasped for air like a landed fish.
      Julia heard the  running feet behind her at the  last moment. She
 turned, but not quickly enough.  The Baranurian's blade slid deep into
 her left  side. She instantly slammed  her fist around it  in order to
 trap it  in her body and  twisted, forcing the sword  from her enemy's
 grasp. The  Baranurian scrabbled  for his dagger  but Julia  drove her
 sword through his mouth  and out the back of his  skull. The body fell
 with  the sword  still embedded  in  its cranium,  its sightless  eyes
 staring at the ceiling. Julia fell back against the statue and slid to
 the floor in searing agony.
      Justin advanced  against his  foe swinging his  sword two-handed,
 ignoring the blood flowing freely from his many wounds. For every blow
 the Galician  landed, Justin  landed three.  The Galician's  tunic was
 torn and red with blood.
      Justin delivered a last series of blows that resulted in severing
 the Galician's sword-arm at the elbow. Putting all his energy into one
 last  swing, Justin  sent his  sword in  a dazzling  arc, sending  his
 enemy's head from his shoulders.
      The fight done, Justin collapsed  to his knees, his sword falling
 from his weakened grasp. He  looked around, surveying the carnage. His
 gaze  fell upon  Tarn's body.  "You  stupid bastard,"  he said  softly
 through tears.  He had always  thought the cheerful,  irreverent thief
1would  live forever.  And  now  he was  dead,  his light  extinguished
 forever. "You and  Julia saved me more  time than I care  to admit, my
 friend," he said.
      "Julia!" She hadn't  come to help him, but he  was too distraught
 with grief over Tarn's death to  notice. Please gods let her be alive!
 he thought. He  twisted his body around, trying to  find his long-time
 friend and companion. He caught sight of her slumped against a statue,
 sitting  in a  pool of  her  own blood.  "No!" He  began dragging  his
 pain-wracked, bleeding body across the floor to her.
      Five  agonizing minutes  later, he  had dragged  himself over  to
 Julia, a trail of  blood on the floor behind him  to mark his passage.
 Julia's eyes were closed and he  reached a gauntleted hand up to touch
 her face. As he did so, her eyes slowly opened.
      "You're alive!"
      "Not for long," she said in a pain filled voice.
      "Don't say  that," he  said desperately.  "Hang on.  Please." His
 voice had taken  on a pleading tone.  "We'll get the mage  to give you
 something. You just stay alive!"
      "Don't try and fool yourself. Or me for that matter. I'm bleeding
 like a slaughtered pig and I can't feel my legs."
      "Julia, save your strength."
      "It  won't  make  any   difference."  She  continued,  her  voice
 beginning to fade, her skin growing  cold. "We've seen a lot together,
 you and I, haven't we?"
      "Yes we have." Justin was crying now.
      "No regrets?"
      "No. None."
      "You were right," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
      "About what?"
      "The way I fought," she said  with a weak smile. "You always said
 my ancestors would be the death of me."
      "Julia..."
      "Justin," she said, turning her head to look at him, "I'm scared.
 I don't want to die."
      Justin put his arms around her and held her. "I'm here."
      "Hold me," she  said, her voice so low that  Justin had to strain
 to hear.
      "I am. I am holding you. I won't let go."
      She shuddered slightly. "I'm...so...cold."
      "It's alright.  I'll keep you warm."  He felt her go  limp in his
 arms. He reached for  her pulse and found none. He  cradled her in his
 arms, gently stroking her hair.
      Celeste walked weakly over to  the two companions, finally having
 wrested Tarn's body off of her. "Justin, I am sorry."
      "No. Everything's alright. She's just resting."
      "Aye.  Of  course  she  is."  She  hesitated  before  continuing.
 "Justin, I must  go. Myros and Rarrack yet live  and whilst they live,
 all this is for naught."
      "Go," Justin  said softly. "Julia and  I'll just rest here  for a
 while."
      Celeste was about  to reply when the sound of  running feet could
 be heard plainly. "Go," Justin repeated.
      "What  thee and  thy  companions  hath done  for  my Master,  the
 Emperor, wilt not be forgotten. On this I give thee my sacred pledge."
 Then,  not daring  to delay  any  longer, Celeste  strode through  the
 double doors to the east towards the Council chamber.
      When she had  gone, Justin stopped stroking Julia's  hair. He was
 slowly slipping towards  death himself. Not one to  do anything slowly
 in his life, he  chose to end his life in the same  manner in which he
 had lived it. He  concentrated on his pain and let it  take him to the
1blackness.

      Warrior and mage, noble and  knight, subject and King stood ready
 to defend themselves.  All faced the chamber's doors  in grim silence.
 The shock  of seeing  Luthias' head  tumble from  the gold  casket was
 slowly giving way to rage and a need for vengeance. After the horrible
 shriek that  sounded just minutes  ago, it would seem  those assembled
 would be granted an opportunity to vent their emotions on something.
      The doors had been barred,  but Marcellon had quietly assured the
 gathered  nobility  that the  doors  would  be  brushed aside  by  the
 creature beyond as if they didn't  exist. He added that he wasn't sure
 even he, one of the most powerful wizards of the age, could defeat the
 menace lurking  outside. That  did nothing  to reassure  the chamber's
 occupants.
      The doors  were indeed brushed  aside with little effort,  but in
 not  quite the  manner  Marcellon had  predicted.  The one-foot  thick
 wooden beam  barring the doors began  to move, slightly at  first then
 with  ever increasing  violence until  finally it  was flung  from its
 brackets by some  unseen force. The doors parted and  a figure clad in
 night-black  robes  that  hid  all features  strode  slowly  into  the
 chamber.
      "No farther," Sir Edward said, moving  forward a pace or two. The
 figure halted. "Who are you?" he demanded.
      "I wilt not answer thy query, Sir Edward. Thou must turn to Baron
 Myros for the answer."
      Edward  turned slightly  to  face in  Myros'  direction. His  old
 enemy's face  wore a  look of astonishment  and anger.  "Well, Myros?"
 Edward's voice was taught with rage.
      "Her name  is Celeste," Myros  said with disgust. "I  had thought
 her loyal  to me.  It seems  I was wrong."  There were  startled gasps
 everywhere.  Myros   had  spoken  in  fluent,   if  heavily  accented,
 Baranurian.  Since his  arrival on  the last  day of  Ober, Myros  had
 projected  the appearance  of not  being able  to speak  in any  other
 language except Galician. The fact  that he did speak Baranurian meant
 that he had known all along what had been said by those who thought he
 hadn't.
      "You'll forgive me if I'm not overly distressed."
      Myros' only response was a snort of dismissal. "What's your game,
 Celeste?" Before she could answer his question, Jan and her squad came
 pounding up to the doors. "Edward!  Your Royal Majesty!" Jan said with
 a surprised voice. "You're alive!"
      "So  we are,  Commander  Courymwen," Haralan  said  in a  subdued
 voice, the  grief over  Luthias' death returning  now that  the crisis
 seemed to have passed.
      "What's happened?" Edward asked.
      "Intruders have penetrated  the castle, sir. They  appear to have
 been stopped in the Hall of  Warriors by a combined force of Galicians
 and some of our own men."
      "Was the attack your doing, Celeste?" Edward asked.
      "Aye. The deaths of thy guardsmen were unavoidable, Sir Edward."
      "What is your purpose here?" the King asked.
      "Baron Myros  hath been declared  to be in rebellion  against His
 Imperial Majesty," Celeste  pronounced. "All his lands  and titles art
 forfeit to the Crown. In addition, the Emperor hath decreed a sentence
 of death upon Myros' person. To be carried out with all due haste. The
 same sentence is imposed upon Sir Grange Rarrack."
      Edward  again turned  to Myros.  "Well, Corneilious,  it seems--"
 Before Edward  could finish,  Myros grasped his  signet ring,  spoke a
 word of command, and disappeared. "Typical. It seems your mission here
 was a waste, Celeste."
1     "Not  completely. I  was  sent to  eliminate three  conspirators.
 Jordaan, Myros' Guard Captain, lies dead  in the Hall of Warriors. And
 Rarrack shalt soon be dead."
      "But  at  what  cost?"  Marcellon asked  harshly.  "Four  of  our
 soldiers are dead because they simply got in the way!"
      "Three young adventurers lie cold  in death because of those four
 guardsmen, Marcellon of Equiville! And not only those. A great many of
 Myros'  former warriors  art dead  as well.  Their loss  was Galicia's
 loss."
      "And what  of the  demon you summoned?"  Marcellon's face  was an
 angry mask. "Do you have any idea  what would have happened if you had
 made even the smallest mistake?"
      "Aye, Master  Wizard. I  did not  cast the  spell lightly.  I was
 fully cognizant of  the consequences of my actions. I  suspect I shalt
 answer for  the deed upon returning  to Galicia." Her tone  of sincere
 remorse seemed to pacify Marcellon.
      "Now, I hath  another task to perform. There is  one among you to
 whom the Emperor owes a great deal," she said, looking around at those
 assembled. Her gaze came to rest  on Edward. "Sir Edward Sothos. Eight
 years ago, thou  were exiled from thy homeland, never  to return. With
 the death of  thy father, thee art  the rightful heir to  the lands of
 Alphoria.  Since the  beginning of  The Consolidation  Wars that  gave
 birth to  the Galician Empire  these seven centuries past,  the Sothos
 family hath  played an important  role in Galicia's history.  Thou art
 the last descendant of thy family to bear the name Sothos. The Emperor
 feels that  Galicia can ill-afford to  be without the services  of the
 Sothos line. Wilt  thou consent to return  with me to the  land of thy
 birth and take thy place as Baron of Alphoria?"
      There was stunned silence. Many of the nobles gathered considered
 Edward to be an outsider, an  upstart wandering knight who happened to
 worm his way into King Haralan's good graces and was not worthy of the
 honours bestowed  upon him. With  Celeste's revelation, they  began to
 see him in a different light.
      There were  those in the  room who genuinely liked  and respected
 the lonely, scarred,  at times stern knight. Two  in particular prayed
 that Edward would say no to this most tempting offer.
      Haralan came forward  and laid both hands  on Edward's shoulders.
 "We have shared a great many things, Edward. You have been my best and
 truest friend and the gods know I would not want to see you leave." He
 sighed. "But I would not hold you back from something such as this. If
 you wish, I will absolve you of all  oaths of fealty to me. I only ask
 that if you do go, never forget that I am your friend always." Haralan
 stepped back and waited for Edward's decision.
      Jan,  too, did  not want  to see  Edward leave.  Waiting to  hear
 Edward's choice, she felt as if she was waiting for the headsman's axe
 to fall.  The depth of her  feeling surprised and frightened  her. The
 more so because she wasn't at all  sure it wasn't just a friend's fear
 of losing someone.
      "It is tempting..." he said,  looking at Celeste. He caught sight
 of Jan standing in the doorway. The  look in her eyes just then sent a
 jolt through him. He wrenched his eyes away, his emotions confused. He
 looked at Haralan,  the first person besides Elaine that  he had truly
 opened up to. The thought of  never seeing his friend again filled him
 with anguish.
      "I can't," he said at last. "I've made a new life and new friends
 here," he said  to Celeste. "Galicia is  a part of me, but  part of my
 past.  Thank you,  but...no."  Haralan  broke into  a  wide smile  and
 pounded Edward on the back in joy.  Jan sent a prayer of thanks to the
 gods. She felt enormously relieved.
      "Then I hath but one task left to perform."
1     "Allow  me one  last  look  at the  world?"  Rarrack asked.  "One
 concession to an old man's dignity?"
      "Thou die'st well, Rarrack," she said in agreement.
      Rarrack walked slowly and with great ceremony out of the chamber.
 Celeste  made to  follow but  stopped when  Haralan called  after her.
 "Will Galicia aid us in our war with Beinison?"
      Celeste  remained silent  for  several minutes.  When she  spoke,
 every ear strained  in anticipation. "Nay, Thy  Royal Majesty. Neither
 shalt  Galicia ally  with  Beinison. The  time is  not  yet right  for
 Galicia to fully re-enter the world.  When that time comes, thou shalt
 hear from us." With that remark, Celeste silently followed Rarrack out
 of the chamber and into the courtyard.

      Rarrack  stood admiring  the beauty  of the  scenery for  several
 minutes. He heard  footsteps crunching in the snow behind  him. "It is
 time," Celeste said.
      He nodded his head, back still  turned to her. "It's a good night
 to die."
      He faintly  heard the sound of  chanting behind him and  then his
 world exploded in pain as seven  burning darts pierced his body and he
 fell to the snow. It was wondrously cool. His pain faded and he died.
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    (C)   Copyright    February,   1990,   DargonZine,    Editor   Dafydd
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