From: "SilentElf" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 09:03:22 EDT

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   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue 10
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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 10       08/03/90          Cir 957    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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  Ghosts of the Past           Max Khaytsus           Nober 15, 1013 and
                                                       Janis 16-17, 993
  Campaign for the Laraka II   John Deucette &        Yule 6-12, 1014
                               Carlo Samson
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1                      Ghosts of the Past
                         by Max Khaytsus
               <b.c.k.a. [email-masked]>

      "Sir!" a young guardsman ran into Captain Koren's office.
      Captain Koren  and Lieutenant Kalen  Darklen exchanged a  look of
 irritation.
      "Did they  ever teach you  the polite way  to deal with  a closed
 door, soldier?" Lieutenant Darklen stood up.
      The guard quickly  straightened himself out -- it  was obvious he
 had  run  a long  way  --  saluted his  two  superiors  and asked  for
 permission to speak.
      Kalen sat back  down. "I want you  to take a night  shift for the
 next two weeks,"  he said. "Perhaps I can inspire  some manners in you
 by keeping  you near by. Hopefully  you will remember that  you should
 knock before entering. You will start tonight."
      "My  current  shift  ends  at   sunset,  Sir,"  the  young  guard
 protested.
      "When I was  your age," Captain Koren finally  spoke, "and Dargon
 was half the  size it is now...and  there was twice as  much crime, we
 had a  shortage of guards  and an  abundance of criminals.  I remember
 moving into the guard house to supplement man power day and night. Now
 report before I decide to give you a years worth of night shifts!"
      Kalen hid  a smile as  the guard straightened out  into exemplary
 posture of attention.
      "Sir, after last  week's fire by the docks, the  old building was
 completely  torn down  and  yesterday the  men  rebuilding it  started
 digging up the old foundation to put in a new one..."
      The passive  `so what?' expression  on his superiors'  faces made
 the  guardsman hurry  up with  his report.  "This morning  one of  the
 workers stopped the  patrol I was with and showed  us what they found.
 There were  skeletons under  the foundation...and this..."  He stepped
 forward and handed Koren a metal pin.
      Turning the  pin in his hands,  Koren stood up. "Kalen,  have you
 ever seen this before?" He handed it to his friend.
      Kalen took the pin and examined  it. "It's the same as the plaque
 in the entry way."
      "Do you know what it is?" Koren asked the guardsman.
      "No, Sir. I  recall hearing a noble once lived  in this building,
 before it was given to the town guard. I assumed that the pin belonged
 to a noble... maybe one of those bodies."
      "This building," Koren said, "belonged  to the Ducal General, Sir
 Connall Dargon, brother  to Duke Anton Dargon. He gave  it to the town
 guard when  he was awarded  the Barony of Connall  in 889, as  at that
 time it stood taller than most buildings and was made of stone.
      "The pin  and the  plaque are  symbols that  the town  guard once
 used. They were changed over to the  new ones on New Years Day, in the
 year 1000."
      "But  wasn't Fionn  Connall  the brother  of  Clifton Dargon  the
 second?" the guardsman asked. "Wasn't he the one awarded the Barony of
 Connall?"
      Koren  sighed, disappointment  deep within  him. "And  after your
 patrol tomorrow, I want you to go down to the hall of records and find
 out  the history  of the  Barony,  now County  of Connall.  I will  be
 expecting your written report in two days. If I feel it lacks quality,
 we will discuss this further, understood?"
      "Yes,  Sir," the  guard answered,  no longer  willing to  talk or
 argue. His mouth has gotten him  into more than enough trouble for one
 day.
      "That body  has to  be at least  fourteen years  old," Lieutenant
1Darklen said  when the Captain of  the Guard looked back  to him. "I'd
 like to take a look."
      Both men stood up and followed the young guard out of the office.
 "You don't have to go, Kalen,"  Koren said, remembering Kalen had been
 taking the night shift ever since  the trouble with the provincial Mob
 began. "You've been up for a while..."
      "I am curious," the Lieutenant said. "Sounds like an old case."
      Koren chuckled. "Then get my horse ready. I will be right there."
 He stopped by  a desk in the lobby. "Where  is Lieutenant Shevlin?" he
 asked the guardsman sitting there.
      "He left on  patrol a while back, Sir," the  man answered. "He is
 patrolling the market."
      "And Lieutenant Milnor?"
      "She hasn't come in yet, Sir."
      Koren thought  for a moment.  "If either  of them shows  up, have
 them meet me at the tavern that burned down last week."
      "Yes, Sir," the guardsman nodded.
      "Oh, and  has there  been any  word on  finding that  crazy mage,
 what's his name?"
      "Cefn an'Derrin," the guardsman said. "Lieutenant Shevlin filed a
 report yesterday. The owner said he  was paid enough to rebuild and is
 not interested in charging anyone."
      "Listen to  what I say,  not to  the owner," Koren  answered. "If
 he's spotted  in this town  again, I want  enough men watching  him to
 make the King's  personal guard look like a cadet  convention! I don't
 want crazies  running around my  city, setting fires to  seedy joints.
 Next thing you know, they'll be burning down the keep!"

      "We  didn't  touch anything,  Captain,"  the  work foreman  said,
 taking Koren directly to the  skeletal remains. "We couldn't. Your men
 told everyone to leave and remained in  the pit. I hope you can finish
 this soon. The fresh lumber will be brought tomorrow and we're already
 a day behind schedule."
      "Stop rambling, Tarnak," Kalen told the foreman.
      The group  came up on  a narrow wooden  stair leading into  a ten
 foot pit.
      "You'd better go first," the foreman said. "They drew steel on me
 when I tried it."
      Kalen tested  his footing on the  stairs and went down  first. He
 was met by two guards who  saluted him and remained at attention until
 Captain Koren stepped  down. "Which way?" he asked,  brushing the dust
 from the stairs off his uniform.
      "Right  this way,  Sir,"  one  of the  guardsmen  pointed to  the
 opposite wall.
      "Lead on," Koren told him.
      "When was  this building  built?" Kalen asked  the foreman  as he
 edged past the remaining guard on the stairs.
      "I don't exactly know," the man said. "Depending on who built it,
 there should  be records  in the  town library  or in  the archivist's
 possession in the  keep. Judging by the design and  condition, I'd say
 about twenty years ago."
      "That sounds right for what the Captain was saying."
      Koren  and the  two guardsmen  with him  reached the  shallow pit
 first. It  was some  ten feet  across and  three deep.  In it  lay two
 skeletons. Koren hopped down into the hole and started looking around.
 The other four men stood on the edge waiting.
      "What was this?" Kalen asked.
      The construction foreman  shrugged. "A grave, no  doubt. This all
 was covered  over by the foundation.  It's not even necessary  for the
 building. Wood a good  foot deep was used to cover  this over, to take
1the weight. Whoever laid it knew there were bodies under here."
      "Kalen!" Koren called out of the pit. "I want a doctor to look at
 these skeletons and a mage too."
      Kalen gave an  order to one of  the men and jumped  down into the
 pit after his Captain. "What did you find?" he asked.
      "Nothing," Koren shook his head.
      "Tarnak says  whoever built  this building  knew the  people were
 under it," Kalen reported. "I hope they were already dead."
      "I hope so too, Lieutenant, but  we may never find out. Right now
 I  want to  check when  this  tavern was  built,  by whom  and if  any
 disappearances are recorded for that time. Guards in particular."
      "Tarnak guesses it was built  twenty years ago," Kalen said. "Did
 many guards disappear back then?"
      "No more  than now,"  Koren said.  "Maybe one or  two a  year. It
 happens. This is a dangerous line of work we're in."
      Kalen knelt  next to  his superior, studying  one of  the bodies.
 "Did you find something?"
      "Look at the forearms on this one," Koren pointed.
      Kalen took a closer look. "His hands were cut off!"
      "So we've  got two dead men,  one quite possibly a  guard, buried
 under  a building  twenty years  ago. Which  one had  the pin?"  Koren
 called up to the guard on the edge.
      "Neither one of  them really had it," the man  said, jumping down
 into the pit to show Koren where the pin was found, but at that time a
 woman in a uniform similar to Kalen's appeared at the edge of the pit.
      "Captain Koren,"  she called down.  "I was  told to drop  by here
 before going on patrol."
      "Ah,  Lieutenant Milnor,"  Koren looked  up. "Are  you with  your
 men?"
      "They're up on the street waiting for me."
      "Do you have a medic among them?"
      "Yes, Sir. Is someone hurt?"
      "Everyone's  fine. I  just  want  him to  take  a  look at  these
 bodies."
      Ilona Milnor looked  down the side of the pit,  seeing how to get
 down best without getting her uniform dirty. Kalen hurried to her aid.
 "Right here," he  said, reaching up. The woman accepted  his hands and
 jumped down.
      "Get Moor for me," she told the guard in the pit.
      The guard nodded and after telling Koren where the pin was found,
 climbed out and ran off.
      "What happened here?" Ilona asked, looking at the two skeletons.
      Kalen quickly  told her  the story of  the mornings  events while
 Captain Koren examined the area again.
      "Anything?" the two younger officers joined their superior.
      "Nothing," he shook his head. "The clothing is too old to tell us
 much," he said, pointing to a mostly decayed rag lying by a wall.
      Kalen attempted to  pick it up, but the cloth  crumbled into dust
 at his touch. Beneath it he scooped  up a few rusty buttons and handed
 one to Koren.
      The Captain  again shook  his head.  "Upper class,  definitely. I
 wonder which of these bodies it belonged to..."
      There was sound  of running footsteps and  two guardsmen appeared
 at the  side of the pit.  Jumping down, they saluted  the officers and
 awaited instructions.
      "Moor, I  want you  to take  a look  at those  bodies and  make a
 report before they are moved,"  Koren ordered. "Urone, go find records
 for when this place was built and by who."
      The two men started at their respective tasks. Koren thoughtfully
 looked on  as the medic  examined the remains.  He turned over  in his
1hands the  broken forearms of  one body,  all along shaking  his head,
 then took a closer look at the skull.
      "Sir?" Kalen put his hand on Koren's shoulder.
      "Uh? Yes?" The man turned around. "What is it?"
      "Just the way you looked, Sir," Kalen said.
      "Oh, it's nothing,"  Koren sighed. "I was just  wondering if that
 was someone  I knew  once. It  will be  twenty-five years  this winter
 since I first came here, you know.  All those boys who never came back
 home from their patrols..."
      "It's a  dangerous job,"  Kalen said. "You  said it  yourself. It
 could happen to any of us."
      "That it could," Koren sighed again and went over to the medic.
      Behind him Kalen  felt Ilona wrap her arms around  his torso. "It
 scares the  hell out of me  when he starts eulogizing  like that," she
 whispered.
      Kalen turned  and put his arms  around her. "Don't let  it get to
 you. Let's go see what they're doing."
      "I don't know about this skull,"  Moor was saying to Koren. "It's
 missing teeth, but I don't know if they fell out or got knocked out. I
 don't even feel competent enough to guess..."
      Kalen knelt  by the second skeleton  before Moor got to  it. This
 one did not appear to have any broken bones and the teeth seemed to be
 all in place.
      "I can tell you this one is  male," Moor went on. "Or rather used
 to be..."  He turned to  the second body  and looked up  at Lieutenant
 Milnor. "A lot of help I am," he smiled.
      "I already sent  for a doctor," Koren said, "but  you may as well
 take a look first. One learns to take initiative in this job."
      Moor got back to work and Ilona bent down next to Kalen to better
 see what was  being done. She leaned  with her hands on  the ground to
 keep her balance and immediately brought them back up. "Oh!"
      Everyone  looked at  her  as  she picked  something  up from  the
 ground. It was a  finger bone with a silver ring  still around it. She
 removed  the ring,  turned it  over in  her hand  and gave  it to  the
 Captain. He examined it, turning it over; a silver ring with a crimson
 red stone  and small letters  engraved on the  side. It struck  him as
 very familiar  and then a  deep pain made it  obvious what it  was. He
 turned away from the others, kneeling on the ground, tears building in
 his eyes. There was only one person that skeleton could have been.
      Kalen and Ilona exchanged a look of confusion, then Kalen got up.
 "Captain? Are you all right?"
      Adrunian Koren wiped his eyes and  brushed back his grey hair. It
 was not fitting for his men to  see the Captain of the Guard this way.
 He  turned. "I  am fine,"  he  said. "Lieutenant  Milnor, resume  your
 patrol. Darklen, go home. Get some  rest. The Duke doesn't like having
 to pay extra." He walked over to the other side of the pit and started
 pacing.
      Ilona  stood up  and  walked  over to  Kalen.  Moor  got back  to
 examining the skeletons, pretending he did not see the exchange.
      "Go ahead," Kalen told Ilona. "I'll make sure he is fine before I
 leave."
      She kissed  him quickly and he  helped her out of  the pit. "I'll
 come for you after your shift."
      Ilona Milnor left in the direction  of a lone guard pacing by the
 staircase.
      Kalen  turned  and  leaned  against  the edge  of  the  pit.  His
 relationship with  Ilona was more  than professional, but  Koren never
 seemed  to mind  that. Kalen  even suspected  at one  time that  Koren
 promoted her because he did not  want stories of a Lieutenant seeing a
 mere guard.  Ilona, of  course, proved competent  in her  position and
1affair between equals wasn't enough for others to gossip about.
      Kalen watched  as his  Captain measured the  pit back  and forth,
 wondering what that ring Ilona found  was. Could it have belonged to a
 lady  Koren loved?  He couldn't  recall any  useful stories  about the
 Captain's past and saying a quick  prayer to the Goddess Randiriel for
 Ilona's safety, walked over to Koren.
      "Sir?"
      Koren looked over. "Didn't I tell you to go home?"
      "Yes, Sir," Kalen said, "but I was wondering if you had breakfast
 yet."
      Koren shook his head. "I eat over paperwork."
      "So that's where the stains on my reports come from..."
      Koren smiled grimly.
      "Would you care to join me for breakfast?"
      The Captain grumbled for a bit,  but with some more convincing on
 Kalen's part,  finally accepted  the offer  and they  went to  a small
 tavern a couple of blocks away.
      "Kalen, I know what you're trying  to do and I am very grateful,"
 Koren said after placing his order.
      Kalen ordered as well. "Do you wish to talk about it, Sir?"
      "Just Adrunian," Koren said. "We're  not on duty." He fell silent
 for a moment, then started talking again.
      "Let me tell you a story..."

                                ***

      Deanir  knocked on  the  boss' door  and  entered. Seadon  Rohden
 followed him in. "Lord Rohert," Deanir said, bowing to his uncle, "the
 shipment just left."
      Jaipena Rohert, a grey haired man  in his sixties, looked up from
 the book he was reading. "Any trouble?"
      "One sailor  said he would  report us to  the town guard  when he
 found out what the cargo  was," Seadon reported. "The Captain promised
 to throw him overboard when they get far enough out at sea."
      "Fine, fine," Rohert said, laying the  book down. "Now I want you
 two to  put together the group  to raid the caravan  leaving tomorrow.
 Deanir, I want you to make sure  Seadon knows his way around. We'll be
 doing this a lot now."
      The  two men  bowed again  and left.  "How big  is the  caravan?"
 Seadon asked outside in the corridor.
      "Twenty  wagons at  last count  and  still hiring  guards. I  had
 Liriss sign up on it. He'll keep us informed until we're ready."
      "Can we do it in one day?"
      "No.  We have  to be  ready in  a few  hours. I  was thinking  of
 ambushing them."
      "I don't think we'll make it," Seadon groaned. "Do you want me to
 sign on as well just in case?"
      "No,  no. That's  all right.  "One man  is fine.  I'd rather  put
 together the  party that  will ambush them.  I'll start  gathering the
 people right away. I  want you to find Liriss and  see how the caravan
 is doing. Meet me after sunset at the Hungry Shark. Alone."

      The caravan grouped in a large  camp just outside the town gates.
 People ran back and forth in preparation for the next day's departure.
 There were at least two dozen wagons standing around, together with at
 least that many tents. A few armed men wandered among them.
      Making his way between the  wagons, Seadon spotted Liriss sitting
 by a small  fire with two other men.  A fat pig hung on  the spit over
 the flame and periodically  one or the other of the  men would poke it
 with a stick and then turn it  over. Seadon hesitated as to whether he
1should approach Liriss  with other people around, but  soon decided it
 would be less  obvious if he would call him  aside, rather than simply
 stand by a wagon, having people walking by stop and look at him.
      "Liriss?" he called out, approaching the fire.
      The young man turned to  look behind him, then recognizing Seadon
 said a couple of  words to his companions and got  up. Seadon waited a
 few feet away, not  wanting to let the other men have  a close look at
 him.
      "New plans?" Liriss asked him.
      "No. Just getting last minute information," Seadon answered.
      "We're still leaving at day  break," Liriss said. "We're supposed
 to have twenty-eight wagons by then and about forty guards."
      "Forty?" Seadon asked. "Rohert only has twenty-two men total!"
      "Well, I told you last week he's  too old for this line of work,"
 Liriss motioned. "Things aren't how they were when he was our age."
      "In this  town you either  work with him  or against him  and the
 town guard is after you either way."
      "I want him to retire," Liriss  said. "Even if I have to convince
 him  myself. I  think I  can  turn this  business around,  make a  big
 profit."
      "That's  between  the two  of  you,"  Seadon shrugged.  "My  only
 concern is how we're going to take forty men."
      "I've  been working  on  that,"  Liriss smiled.  "The  two I  was
 talking to are all ready on our side."
      "Rohert won't like you adding people to the take."
      "They're not taking anything."
      "So what did you promise them?"
      "A piece  of the action," Liriss  smiled, taking the hilt  of his
 sword. He pulled it up from the scabbard, "and this is the action." He
 slammed the sword back down. "They'll be of use."
      "We'll need more than two men," Seadon said, "providing they stay
 with us long enough."
      "I  also  took the  liberty  of  obtaining  some poison  for  the
 guards," Liriss said. "We will need no more than a dozen men."
      "Poison?" Seadon asked.  "For forty guards and  all the merchants
 and travelers?"
      "Just enough for  the guards on the night watch.  We only need to
 catch the caravan off guard for Rohert's attack to work."
      "All right  then. Make sure  you're on duty tomorrow  night. I'll
 tell Deanir your plan."
      "Good. I'll be ready."
      Seadon  scanned the  caravan. There'd  be  more to  take on  than
 Liriss thought. "See you tomorrow night."
      The two  men walked off  in different directions,  Liriss putting
 together his plans and Seadon pondering how to stop them. Poison was a
 new twist. He slowly walked through the city gates, looking at the two
 guardsmen patrolling along the road.
      Seadon walked over  to the side of the road  and slowed his pace.
 One of  the two guardsmen  started down  the road towards  him. Seadon
 smiled to himself. "Your place at midnight," he whispered as the guard
 passed by him.

      Seadon made  it to  the designated meeting  later than  he should
 have. He  spent the evening at  the tavern, discussing the  plans with
 Deanir and later dodged back and forth across town, trying to lose the
 spies following him around.
      Seadon Rohden  was not a  criminal. Just  the opposite, he  was a
 town guard. A new  one -- only three weeks on the job  -- but none the
 less,  a guard.  He  came to  Dargon when  a  childhood friend,  Glenn
 Aposhyan, known here as Adrunian Koren,  sent for him a message saying
1that new guardsmen were needed at  this frontier town, to which he had
 come some five years before.
      Seadon, a mere two years younger than his friend, spent his early
 years working  as a mercenary  for hire and guard  for a week.  It was
 just the experience  needed to become a town  guard, particularly now,
 when crime was on the rise and  people needed to fight it were looking
 for easier, quicker ways to make money.
      When  the Captain  of the  Guard  heard that  a trustworthy  man,
 unknown in  Dargon, was  available for  hire, it  was arranged  that a
 guard would meet Seadon in Tench,  brief him and leave everything else
 to fall in as a lucky `coincidence'.
      And so  Seadon embarked on a  month long journey, first  to Tench
 and then  to Dargon, where he  would join the criminal  underworld and
 aid the town  guard. It all went  well, except that a  few days before
 reaching town,  his wife, Nadya,  gave birth  to their first  child, a
 baby girl.
      Seadon almost turned back to Tench, willing to forget his new job
 and duty, but was reminded by his wife that what he was doing was more
 important and she and the girl  would manage. This appeal to his sense
 of duty  convinced Seadon to  go on to Dargon,  but he could  not stop
 cursing himself for agreeing to the job  when he had a family to think
 about.
      Having set  up his wife  and daughter in  a boarding house  in an
 area that happened  to be safe, but cheap, Seadon  started his job, at
 first by watching the market and  the docks and later following people
 he thought were the individuals  associated with the local underworld.
 On his  fourth day  in Dargon,  Seadon made contact  with a  man named
 Liriss, a professional cutthroat in  his mid twenties, who, by chance,
 failed at his attempt to relieve a merchant of his gold and was nearly
 apprehended by a pair of guards.
      With a lot of luck and careful timing, Seadon aided Liriss in his
 escape and having made this friend,  was soon pulled into the world of
 the underground.
      By this  time he had done  a couple of jobs  for the organization
 and reflected well  in the eyes of Jaipena Rohert,  an elderly man who
 appeared  to be  everyone's grandfather  on  the surface,  but on  the
 inside  was the  undisputed  boss and  practically  owner of  Dargon's
 underworld.
      Of course Seadon's successes were  insured by the town guard. One
 or twice each week he would meet with a Lieutenant or even the Captain
 of the Guard and make a  full report, including plans and projections.
 They were all very  small, up to now. This was going to  be the job in
 which Rohert and  his men were to fail miserably.  The planned raid on
 the caravan was just the large event that the Captain had been waiting
 for and  now, being  able to  plan for it  was going  to make  all the
 difference in  the world. The next  two days were to  deliver the blow
 that was going to destroy large scale crime in Dargon.
      Seadon walked past  the door he was to enter,  throwing a careful
 glance back.  With the street seemingly  empty, he turned back  to the
 building and  knocked twice. The  door was  opened by a  plump elderly
 woman who  quickly ushered him in  and rebolted the door.  Inside were
 four guardsmen, including Adrunian Koren and the Captain of the Guard,
 a dignified woman in her late forties with lightly greying hair.
      "Where you followed?" she asked Seadon as soon as he was inside.
      "I don't think so," he answered.  "Deanir has been sending men to
 follow  me all  week, but  I think  it's sheer  jealousy. He  wants to
 impress his uncle with his good work."
      "Is that how you make a report?" Adrunian mocked him.
      Seadon straightened out  to stand at attention  and repeated what
 he said, appending a "Ma'am" on the end.
1     The Captain smiled. Formality was not her concern for the moment.
 She indicated a chair. "Take a seat." One of the guards helped the old
 woman out of the  room. She was there only to make  it look normal for
 passers by outside.
      Seadon sat down at the desk  next to Adrunian and the Captain sat
 opposite to them. The other two guardsmen remained standing.
      "What happened? Are they getting ready?"
      Seadon shifted in his seat. "The caravan is to be attacked on its
 first  night out.  The plan  is to  poison the  guards and  kill those
 sleeping."
      "How many men are involved?"
      "A dozen. Most  of them are on  their way already. I  am to leave
 first thing tomorrow morning. They gave me the night to make an excuse
 to my wife. They don't know she knows."
      "Good. I'll  have the caravan master  informed tomorrow," Captain
 Byer said. "Anything else?"
      Seadon shook  his head. "A  dozen men  is about half  of Rohert's
 resources. If  you take them,  you'll probably take him...or  hurt him
 enough to stop him, in the least."
      "All right. You did well. Go along with their plan until you know
 we're present. Try not to kill anyone."
      "Yes, Ma'am," Seadon answered.
      "Dismissed, soldier," the Captain said and got up.
      Seadon and Adrunian got up as well. "Almost over," Seadon smiled.
      "We'll have a lot to talk about when it is," Adrunian said. "Five
 years is a long time to catch up on."
      "And  this time  you  won't  drink me  under  the table,"  Seadon
 laughed. "I've learned to hold the liquor well."
      Adrunian chuckled himself. "It's hard to believe you already have
 a daughter. You'll have to age quicker now. Be more responsible."
      "I wish I could be home  more often," Seadon sighed. "I feel like
 I'm hurting them by doing this."
      "You best go then," Adrunian told his friend. "You'll be away for
 a few days."
      Seadon looked over to Captain Byer talking to the two guards. She
 nodded her consent for him to leave and he went to the door.
      "Give  my greetings  to Nadya,"  Adrunian slapped  Seadon on  the
 back. "See you at the raid."

                                ***

      Captain Koren  took a lengthy sip  from the glass. "That  was the
 last time I saw him."
      "And you never found out what happened?" Kalen asked.
      "We suspected,"  the Captain said, "searched,  asked questions...
 Rohert's nephew  had a  problem with  new people.  He was  paranoid as
 hell.  I guess  Seadon was  followed that  night after  all... Strange
 thing is  we never  heard of  Deanir again either.  He must  have been
 frightened off by the raid."
      Kalen nodded. He  had no way to comfort his  friend's deep wound.
 "I'm sorry, Sir."
      "Don't call  me `sir' in here,  Kalen. I chose to  have breakfast
 with a friend, not a subordinate."
      Kalen hid a smile by taking  a swallow from his glass. "So you're
 sure it's him?"
      Koran dug into his pocket and pulled out the ring he found on one
 of the bodies.  "This is Seadon's wedding band. It's  identical to the
 one Nadya wore...she was found floating  in the ocean a few days after
 the raid. Her ring is in my office."
      "Maybe we'll learn  what happened now that we  found the bodies,"
1Kalen said. "We need to identify the other one."
      "I hope  so," the Captain said.  "I want you to  reopen the case,
 Kalen. I want their  killer and I want to know  what happened to their
 daughter."
      "I'll get on it as soon as we get back to the guard house," Kalen
 said.
      "No you won't," Koren repocketed  the ring. "I wasted your entire
 morning. Go  home and get some  rest. I'll leave you  instructions for
 the evening."
      "Yes, Sir," Kalen answered mockingly. He handed the money for the
 meal to a  passing bar maid and  the two men left the  tavern. As they
 passed a table near their own, the man sitting there studiously looked
 down at his half finished meal, then got up, paid and quickly left.

      "So they finally found them," Liriss smirked to Kesrin. "I'm glad
 you told me. The  town guard is so slow these  days, you almost forget
 they're out to get you."
      "Just doing  my job, Lord,"  Kesrin answered. "It sounded  like a
 story you might want to know...but obviously you already do."
      The crime lord  leaned back in his chair, a  crooked smile frozen
 on his  face. "Let me tell  you, Kesrin, I  am that story. It  was the
 high point of my first few years on the streets.
      "After my  parents died, I was  left to mingle with  the slime in
 the  alleys,  until  one  of  Rohert's  men  made  the  yearly  urchin
 collection. Those that  could be used were left,  myself included; the
 rest were  sold or  drowned --  no one  seemed to  mind back  then and
 Rohert considered it a public service -- you couldn't get away with it
 these days. The guards keep a firm inventory of the urchins now.
      "After  some  time  of  picking pockets  and  picking  locks  and
 climbing through open  windows, I gained a position of  trust and some
 power and  started seeing things I  did not like. Rohert  was soft. It
 was like a mouse  doing the cat's job. He lost  money and people right
 and left and  his nephew, Deanir, a remarkably ambitious  fellow of my
 years was just waiting for the family business to fall into his hands.
      "I never believed  the old man had what it  took to control crime
 and  his  little  heir  was   far  too  greedy  to  expect  reasonable
 improvement..."

                                ***

      Deanir paced the room in a  nervous frenzy, waiting for his uncle
 to appear. It  was the middle of  the night, a day  before the biggest
 job and he just caught a spy in their ranks. It would be hard to top a
 night like this.
      "My  Lord,"  a   man  entered,  "we  have   the  prisoner's  wife
 downstairs. Do you want them together?"
      "No,  but  make  sure  that  they know  we  have  both  of  them.
 Cooperative prisoners are easier to deal with. Let them know they have
 a lot to lose."
      As the man turned to leave,  Rohert entered through a door across
 the room. "You hold on there, Bradan," he stopped the guard and turned
 to Deanir. "What happened?"
      "Seadon Rohden  is a spy,  uncle," the young man  answered, doing
 his best to appear relaxed. "I had  him followed to a meeting with the
 town guard."
      "Really?" Rohert paused  thinking. "Bring Liriss here.  I want to
 know just how this man made it in."
      "He is with the caravan, uncle. He will lose his job."
      "Good.  If he  loses this  one,  it will  go much  worse on  him.
 They'll be  short handed, so  they will  hire on someone  else without
1checking him  out. Go now!  No. You go, Bradan.  I need to  speak with
 you, Deanir."

      Liriss nodded grimly  to the information Bradan  revealed to him.
 The old man was  weak, but better not to be crossed.  "We have to make
 our move  tonight," he  finally said,  having heard  all there  was to
 hear. "Take care of  Deanir, then have one of the  men loyal to Rohert
 take  my place  with the  caravan.  The town  guard can  help me  take
 control."
      "What about Rohert?" Bradan asked.
      Liriss smiled. "By morning Dargon will be mine."
      The two men soon reached the building Rohert made his base in and
 went in different directions, each  thinking of how best to accomplish
 his task and gain the rewards that a job well done would bring.
      Liriss reached his  target first. He found Rohert  in his office,
 sitting in his chair, seemingly asleep. `This is too good to be true,'
 flashed through Liriss' mind. He  spotted Rohert's eating dagger lying
 on the table and  picked it up. He contemplated the  irony of dying by
 one's own tools but as he made it  to the other side of the table, the
 old man's eyes opened. "You  should not leave these unattended, Lord,"
 Liriss handed the weapon to his superior.
      Rohert eyed him, took the dagger, but did not say a word.
      "I was told you wanted to see me," Liriss went on. "Did something
 happen?"
      "Rohden contacted the town guard."
      "Are you sure?" Liriss was surprised at his own surprise. He knew
 the facts. It has  been quite a surprise when he  heard it himself for
 the first  time from  Bradan and  that he was  able to  duplicate that
 reaction pleased him.
      "Why don't you tell me a little more about him?" the old man went
 on, ignoring the counter question.
      "He helped me avoid the town  guard," Liriss said. "I took him to
 a bar,  bought drinks. We talked.  He told me  he was new in  town and
 looking for a  job. I arranged a meeting between  him and Deanir. He's
 got a wife and daughter. That's about it."
      "Did  you check  on him  before arranging  that meeting?"  Rohert
 asked, replacing the eating dagger on the table.
      "No, Sir," Liriss  said. "I always thought it was  the job of the
 man doing  the hiring. Besides,  he was in town  for only a  few days.
 There was no one to ask."
      Rohert got up. "And so it is.  Rohden is from out of town. He did
 not have a rep. Now he does."
      "How do  you want to  handle it?" Liriss asked,  realizing Rohert
 had no  ill plans for  him, but  it was too  late to change  his plan.
 Another opportunity may not come any time soon.
      Rohert went over to the window overlooking the market. It was the
 window Liriss would get  to know well in the years  to come. "We can't
 take the caravan if the guards know..."
      Liriss picked up the dagger off  the table and walked over to the
 window as well. "What about the men you sent out yesterday?"
      "Send someone out  to intercept them," Rohert  sighed and turned.
 The dagger in Liriss' hand found it's way to the old man's stomach.
      "Didn't I tell you not to leave this lying around?" he grinned.

      Having sent a  man to take Liriss' place, Bradan  made his way to
 Deanir'  personal  quarters.  In  just a  few  hours  these  luxurious
 apartments would  be his very own.  The verdict on the  current master
 was all ready out. It was time for a change of ownership.
      As he knocked a young woman opened the door. "Can I help you?"
      Bradan drew  his sword.  "Guess." He  followed the  woman inside,
1only to find Deanir undressed and in bed. The coward gave up so easily
 that there  was not even  a story left  to tell to  the grandchildren.
 Everything simply fell into place.

                                ***

      "And that's  all there  is," Liriss  finished telling  the story.
 "Rohden was obviously working for someone, though he did not admit it.
 He was a  strong man. Didn't even  crack when we tortured  his wife. I
 finally had him buried alive under  a building. I'm sure his character
 made a solid foundation."
      A partial smile escaped Kesrin's lips. "What about the other one,
 Sir?"
      "The other  isn't even  worth a mention,"  Liriss said.  For some
 reason his voice  had a pleasant, self gratified tone.  "Deanir got on
 my nerves so much over those few  years that I had him beaten until he
 was purple all over, cut his  hands off personally and buried him with
 Rohden. Let it be said they died in the same war.
      "I  had  to let  Bradan  go  after some  time  as  well. He  grew
 obnoxiously greedy after a few years. Acted just like Tilden."
      Kesrin smiled. "Whatever works, right?"
      "That's  right," Liriss  said.  "Drowned Rohden's  wife and  kept
 their girl. My revenge..." He  stopped, thinking about the little girl
 that grew up in his care. She was a good girl when she was young...
      "Do you know who the girl is?" he asked Kesrin.
      "No," the man shook his head. The story which Liriss told him was
 a good twenty  years old and he  had no clue which of  the twenty year
 olds working  for him  it could  be. Liriss had  a talent  for finding
 people, even with the town guard watching his every move.
      "Kera," Liriss  intoned, his voice sounding  like breaking glass.
 "I made a mistake at the start...but I will have it fixed."
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                      Campaign for the Laraka: Part II
                          The Juggernaught Unleashed
                     by John Doucette and Carlo N. Samson

 Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 6 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord Morion leaned against the  hearth, every muscle in his weary
 body crying  out for  rest. When  he was first  ushered into  the Lord
 Mayor's  study,  he'd  been  offered  wine  and  a  chair  by  a  very
 industrious servant. Morion declined  rather harshly (the poor servant
 had yet to recover from his fright) for he knew that if he stopped for
 so much as a few minutes, he would succumb to sleep.
      "Where is  that man?" Morion  said aloud. He adjusted  his armour
 for the tenth  time in as many  minutes in a vain attempt  to stop its
 chafing. He'd been wearing it ever since the battle on the beach north
 of Shark's  Cove on  the last  day of  Melrin that  saw Sir  Ailean of
 Bivar,  Knight  Captain of  the  Northern  Marches, and  two  thousand
 Baranurian soldiers die with another seven hundred wounded in a futile
 effort to repel the Beinison Empire's amphibious landing there. Morion
 was now in command of the twenty-eight hundred survivors he'd led away
 from the battle at Ailean's  order. Morion had been ruthlessly driving
 his men  and women  towards Gateway  Keep in the  Royal Duchy.  It was
 there  he   intended  to  make   a  final  stand.   Being  outnumbered
 nine-to-one, all he  could hope to do was delay  the enemy long enough
 for Sir Edward Sothos, the Knight  Commander, to gather what forces he
 could  and prepare  Magnus for  a siege.  Morion knew  his chances  of
 substantially hampering  the enemy's progress  were slim, but  he must
 try. Magnus lies  one hundred twenty-six leagues  beyond Gateway Keep,
 less  than a  three-day forced  march. If  Morion failed,  Baranur was
 lost.
      The door  to the study opened  and the Lord Mayor  of Port Sevlyn
 stepped  through to  greet his  guest.  "I apologize  for keeping  you
 waiting so long, Lord Morion. Urgent matters required my attention."
      "What matters?" Morion snapped.
      "I hardly think that tone is  warranted, my Lord. I was seeing to
 the Militia's organization."
      "I'm sorry, Lord Mayor. It's been a long and disappointing week."
      "So your  messenger told us," the  Lord Mayor said as  he crossed
 the room to his desk. "Won't you be seated, my Lord?"
      "Not to seem ungrateful, but no. I  fear if I sat in that chair I
 would be asleep in moments. Sleep is a luxury I can't afford."
      The Lord Mayor nodded in  sympathy. "I understand." He paused for
 a moment, clearly reluctant to bring  up the next point of discussion.
 "When  will they  arrive?" 'They'  referring to  the Beinisonian  army
 coming up the Laraka.
      "My  scouts say  three  days," Morion  said tonelessly.  "Perhaps
 more, perhaps less."
      "Three--but we can't  be ready that soon! I'll have  to order the
 gates shut  now! We won't  be able to bring  in the food  or livestock
 from the surrounding farms! Those supplies were necessary to feed your
 men.
      Still, better to have the sheep in the house causing a stink than
 outside feeding  the wolves, as they  say. We'll just have  to tighten
 our  belts more  than  anticipated.  I suppose  we  could try  getting
 supplies in by riverboat at night. What do you think, my Lord?"
      Morion had  crossed to  the study's only  window. He  stood there
 with his back to the Lord Mayor,  looking down on the plaza. There was
 much activity, none of it to  do with buying and selling goods. People
 were running  this way and  that with  no apparent purpose  other than
1panic. There were a few who did not panic. The soldiers of the Militia
 were one  group. Morion saw  a squad from  the Regiment based  in Port
 Sevlyn tramp  hurriedly past on their  way to the town's  walls, hands
 clutching  tightly at  longswords or  busy adjusting  straps on  their
 leather armour.  The other  group that was  immediately visible  was a
 group  of perhaps  twenty people  energetically loading  supplies onto
 carts. Morion could  see a grey-haired merchant, and a  wealthy one at
 that, directing  the chaos with grim  efficiency. A man who  knows the
 storm is  coming and is  trying to get what  he can to  safety, Morion
 thought.
      Morion had become  so lost in his own thoughts  that he failed to
 notice the Lord Mayor speaking to him. "What was that, Lord Mayor? I'm
 afraid I've got a great many things on my mind."
      "Perfectly  understandable. I  asked your  Lordship's opinion  on
 bringing supplies in by riverboat at night."
      "I don't think you will be needing extra supplies."
      "Not need  extra--? We  must have more  supplies, my  Lord. There
 simply  isn't  enough  to  feed   the  population  and  the  increased
 garrison."
      Morion turned from the window to face the Lord Mayor. "There will
 be no  increased garrison, Lord  Mayor," Morion said, the  fatigue and
 stress of the past six days evident in his voice. "I only stopped here
 as long as I have to ask you to order the Militia to come with me."
      The Lord Mayor's  face went grim. "You mean to  abandon us to the
 enemy?" he asked with barely suppressed anger.
      "You forget who you speak to."
      "Forgive me,  my Lord," the  Lord Mayor said with  great sarcasm.
 "It was my  understanding the Royal Army existed  to protect Baranur's
 citizens from harm."
      "There are reasons  for my actions. Not that I  am accountable to
 you or anyone save myself. But I  do not want it said that I callously
 left the people of Port Sevlyn to the mercy of the Beinisonians.
      You will  listen to my  reasons, Lord Mayor, in  silence." Morion
 explained the situation to the Lord  Mayor. Port Sevlyn was simply too
 large  for  Morion to  adequately  defend  with  the force  under  his
 command. There was nothing else to do but retreat to Gateway Keep.
      "You give us to the enemy as you would meat to a pack of wolves!"
 the Lord Mayor shouted.
      "Yes!"  Morion shouted  back. "I  need  time and  I'm willing  to
 sacrifice Port Sevlyn to get it!"
      "How dare  you!" the Lord  Mayor practically screamed.  "The King
 will hear of your actions. Then let us see how long you keep your head
 on your shoulders!"
      "If I can't delay that army long enough there will BE no King!"
      Morion forcibly  quieted himself.  "All of  Baranur is  at stake,
 Lord Mayor," he said  in a normal tone of voice.  "What happens in the
 next few days  will mean the difference between a  chance for survival
 and no chance at all. I don't expect unquestioning obedience from you.
 You're not a soldier and I know such a sacrifice is alien to you. Give
 me  the Militia  and surrender  the  city. The  Beinisonians might  be
 delayed half a day figuring out what  to do with you. At least it will
 be something."
      The Lord Mayor  of Port Sevlyn looked down at  his hands for long
 moments. When  he spoke, he  did so quietly  and Morion was  forced to
 strain to hear  him. "You are right  when you say I am  not a soldier.
 From the  time of my  youth I  was being prepared  for the day  when I
 would assume the title of Lord Mayor.  For most of my adult life, Port
 Sevlyn has been  my world. Now it  is threatened and I  can do nothing
 about it and  that makes me angry.  You have reminded me  of my higher
 duty to my  sovereign. It has been  too long since I lived  up to that
1obligation."
      "I am considered an honourable and just man by most," he said and
 then added with a smile: "Even if I drive a hard bargain at times." He
 looked up at Morion.  The look in his eyes was  one of resignation. "I
 will do what you ask of me.  The Militia will stay here. We shall hold
 the enemy as long as we can. And  now, if you will excuse me, my Lord,
 I have preparations to make." So  saying, the Lord Mayor rose and left
 the study.
      Morion turned  back to the window  and gazed out upon  the doomed
 city. The merchant was still  there, over-seeing his own preparations.
 He'd been joined by two women, one of  the same age as he with a regal
 beauty that went beyond physical  appearance, the other a much younger
 vision of  the elder. Morion  watched the man  as he pleaded  with his
 wife and  daughter. He won't leave  until his life's work  is safe and
 they  won't leave  without him,  Morion thought.  Finally, after  many
 minutes of sometimes  heated discussion, mother and  daughter left for
 the docks after tearfully embracing husband and father. The man looked
 after them  until they were out  of sight and then  threw himself into
 his preparations once more.
      "I hope  you succeed. I wish  you luck." Morion put  his helm on,
 adjusted  his sword  and  again unsuccessfully  tried  to relieve  the
 chafing his  armour was  giving him.  "You knew  this was  coming, Sir
 Edward. You  sent too few men  to Ailean. The responsibility  for this
 death  and suffering  is yours.  When next  we meet,  there will  be a
 reckoning."  Morion turned  from the  window  and stalked  out of  the
 study.

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 6 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Sir Edward Sothos was having a most peculiar dream. He dreamed he
 was in a castle  in a kingdom called Baranur and  that a very annoying
 person was pounding on his door.  Wait a moment, he thought, that's no
 dream. "Come!"
      The door opened and torch-light  streamed in, silhouetting a tall
 slender figure.  "Edward," the figure  said, "a messenger  has arrived
 from Lord Morion."
      "All  well  and  good,  Jan,"  Edward  said,  forgetting  in  his
 half-awake state to  address his friend by her nickname,  "but is that
 any reason  to wake  me from  the first  sound sleep  I've had  in two
 weeks?"
      "Sir, I assure you this is important."
      Edward sighed. Another night's sleep  ruined. "Well come in then.
 And light a lamp, will you?" Jan  closed the door and stumbled over to
 the table  near Edward's  bed. After  a few  minutes of  fumbling, she
 managed to light  the small battered lamp Edward kept  as a momento of
 his days as a wandering knight.
      Edward squinted slightly, his eyes not yet adjusted to the light.
 What he saw  made his eyes open  wide. Jan was dressed  in a nightgown
 that did a barely adequate job of concealing her.
      "What's the emergency?" Edward asked.
      "A messenger  has just arrived  from Lord Morion, sir,"  Jan said
 tightly.
      "Lord Morion?" Edward repeated, a sense of dread coming over him.
      "Sir Ailean is dead, sir," she said in a subdued voice.
      "Dead?"
      "Yes,  sir.  Lord Morion  reports  that  the Beinisonians  landed
 approximately  twenty  thousand  men.  Ailean  stayed  behind  with  a
 rear-guard  to give  Morion time  to  extricate the  bulk of  Ailean's
 force.  His Lordship  also  informs  you that  both  Regiments of  the
1Pyridain Borderers are no more." Jan  paused for a moment, reading the
 last of the message. "Sixteen  thousand Beinisonians are marching down
 the Laraka. Heading for Magnus."
      "What!?" Edward flung the bedclothes  off him and just as quickly
 reclaimed them. The shock of hearing of his former squire's death made
 him  forget  he  wasn't  wearing anything.  Jan,  blushing  furiously,
 quickly turned around.
      "Commander," Edward said with  embarrassment, "perhaps you should
 return  to  your   own  quarters  so  that  both  of   us  might  more
 appropriately attire ourselves."
      Jan blushed even more furiously  than before as she realized what
 she was wearing. "Yes, sir," she said and then fled the room, her face
 the colour of her hair.
      Several minutes  later, Edward had  just put  on his robe  when a
 nock sounded at his door. "Come!"  The door opened and Jan entered the
 room, this time  attired in a heavy  gown she had picked  up years ago
 during her first and last visit to Dargon City.
      "Much  less distracting,  Coury,"  he commented,  causing Jan  to
 blush  slightly. Edward  frowned.  Jan's been  acting strange  lately.
 We'll have to  talk later. Edward retrieved Morion's  message from the
 table and sat in a chair while quickly scanning it.
      "Nehru's Blood," he cursed softly. "What have I done?"
      "Sir?"  Jan asked,  confused. She  sat  next to  Edward. "Have  I
 missed something?"
      Edward  smiled  ruefully,  the expression  softening  his  scar's
 effect. "When  Marcellon and  I 'found'  Luthias in  Pyridain, Luthias
 told us  that he was  tortured for information regarding  the Laraka's
 defenses.  He said  Beinison  was  planning a  large  invasion of  the
 Laraka. Just how  large he wasn't sure. I notified  Sir Ailean, may he
 know  The  Reaper's  Acceptance,  and  instructed  him  to  prepare  a
 reception for the Beinisonians."
      "I never  thought they would attack  so soon. I was  certain they
 would wait until  the storm season was safely past.  Just as I thought
 they wouldn't attack until spring."
      "Surely you can't mean you blame yourself?"
      "I am the Knight Commander.  Ultimately, EVERY act the Royal Army
 undertakes is  my responsibility. But  in this case...in this  case, I
 waited too long before ordering the Militia to join Ailean. And now we
 face the greatest crisis of the war thus far."
      Jan didn't argue with Edward's  answer; it was in accordance with
 everything her instructors taught her  at the Royal Academy. "What are
 your orders, sir?"
      "Send  a  messenger after  Luthias,"  Edward  said after  only  a
 moment's pause. "Order the General to  turn 'round and make for Magnus
 with all haste." Edward stood and  walked over to a cabinet. He opened
 it  and sorted  through the  various maps  until he  found the  one he
 wanted.
      "Here,  Coury.  Hold  this  up  against  the  wall,  would  you?"
 Stretching her arms wide, Jan held the map up while Edward poured over
 it.  Lost in  thought, Edward  did not  become aware  of the  intimate
 nature of  their stance for several  minutes. When he did,  he quickly
 disengaged himself and put the map away.
      "Hmmm. Yes.  Well. Send  a runner to  General Wainwright  are you
 getting all this?"
      "Yes, sir," Jan replied. "Sorry, sir."
      "Send a runner  to General Wainwright. Have him  put the garrison
 on alert. And wake the King."
      "Now?"
      "Yes. Now. If the situation becomes  any worse, I may have to ask
 for the Edict. Go. We don't have much time."
1     "At once, Your Excellency."

 Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord Morion  galloped to the  front of the column  stalled before
 the entrance to Gateway Keep. He'd given instructions for his force to
 enter the small fortification situated on the fork of the Laraka where
 its  mountain tributary  joined  the  larger body  of  water while  he
 scouted the surrounding terrain.  He'd just finished the two-hour-long
 reconnaisance and was looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed for
 the first time  in many days. The  sight that greeted him  now was not
 one to gladden his heart or soften his anger.
      "What's  the  delay,  Commander?"  Morion called  as  he  reigned
 sharply in.
      "The Castellan  refuses to  open the gate,  my Lord,"  the senior
 Regimental Commander replied.
      "Refuses to--have you told him who we are?"
      "Yes, my Lord. He says he has  orders from the Lord Keeper not to
 let us in."
      "Ho, Castellan!" Morion shouted up at the wall. "Open this gate!"
      "Who's that?" a man called from the battlements.
      "Lord Morion  of Pentamorlo. Now  open this damned gate  before I
 break it down!"
      "I cannot, my Lord. The Lord Keeper has decreed you are not to be
 allowed admittance."
      "In the name of His  Royal Majesty," Morion said through clenched
 teeth, "I  ORDER you! OPEN THE  GATE!" Morion could see  indecision on
 the Castellan's face. The man turned and sent a runner off to the gods
 knew  where. After  several increasingly  tense and  angry minutes  of
 waiting, a young man dressed in robes appeared on the wall next to the
 Castellan.
      "What seems to  be the problem, Lord Morion?"  the green-eyed man
 asked in a neutral tone.
      "My  men and  I require  entrance and  this fool  won't open  the
 gate!"
      "Then what is  the problem? Castellan Ridgewater  is following my
 orders. I do not want you inside Gateway's walls nor on my lands. Take
 your force and leave."
      "Perhaps you  do not  understand the  gravity of  the situation,"
 Morion said, trying hard to remain calm. "There is a large Beinisonian
 force headed upriver  and they shall surely attack Gateway.  Let us in
 and perhaps we can hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive."
      "Gateway  has no  need of  your assistance,  Lord Morion,  we are
 quite capable  of defending ourselves.  If His Majesty scolds  you for
 not being here, feel free to inform him I acted on my own authority."
      Morion straightened somewhat in his saddle. "Lord Keeper, you are
 defying the King's order! If you force me to, I will storm the gate."
      "I highly doubt that, my Lord. I believe your force would be more
 concerned with their own safety,"  Ne'on said. His nostrils flared and
 he  seemed to  swell  with  power. In  an  instant,  the ground  under
 Morion's men turned  to molten lava and men and  women screamed as the
 searing-hot liquid  ate at armour and  flesh. Then, as suddenly  as it
 appeared, the lava ceased to exist. "Don't you agree?" Ne'on added, as
 the  panic among  the  assembled Regiments  subsided. The  white-robed
 Keeper with the  ghostly appearance spoke inaudibly  to the Castellan,
 and left the wall for his own quarters.
      Morion cursed  in rage. He could  not fight magic as  powerful as
 this. Nine days  he had driven the two thousand  eight hundred men and
 women under  his command at  a brutal pace  in order to  reach Gateway
1Keep ahead of  the enemy. And now, all that  effort, all that hardship
 was for naught. Not knowing what else to do, Morion ordered the senior
 Commander to turn  the men around and  make camp on the  south bank by
 the ford they'd crossed over the Laraka's tributary.
      The Beinisonian  juggernaught was  coming and Morion's  last hope
 had been  snatched away. When  the enemy arrived,  he and the  men and
 women who followed him would die.
      "I wish you were here, Kimme. Just to see your face once more."

 Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      The Main Body of the  Beinisonian Expeditionary Force flowed over
 the fields and meadows towards  its destination: Port Sevlyn. The Lord
 Mayor stood on the battlements and  watched them come, rank after rank
 after endless rank,  the morning sun glinting off  weapons and armour.
 An unstoppable juggernaught that wanted  Port Sevlyn for its own. "But
 I shall deny you  this city for as long as I am  able," the Lord Mayor
 said aloud. "You will find us an expensive morsel."
      The men and women of  the Militia Regiment head-quartered in Port
 Sevlyn watched the  enemy come as well. All were  frightened. Most had
 never even trained together, at least not in Regimental strength. They
 were light infantry, their armour  and weapons their own. Their tunics
 were the only pieces of equipment  the Royal Army supplied. They faced
 an enemy who outnumbered them thirteen-to-one and far out-classed them
 in  terms of  armour.  An enemy  who  knew war  because  it was  their
 profession.  For  all  their  shortcomings,  for  all  their  lack  of
 professionalism,  one  very  important  thing could  be  said  of  the
 Militia.  They didn't  run. That  said  something about  the depth  of
 feeling each had for their homes and family.

      Joachim Vasquez lowered  the spyglass. They can't  have more than
 one thousand men, he thought. And light infantry, to boot. This should
 be easy. "So why do I have this feeling?"
      "Sir?" Colonel Conti asked.
      "Nothing,  Colonel. Merely  thinking out  loud." Vasquez  sat his
 horse  for  several moments  more,  staring  at Port  Sevlyn's  walls.
 Perhaps they'll listen to reason.  "Colonel Conti, get us two shields.
 We're going to parley with them."

      "My Lord  Mayor!" the Commander  of the Militia called  out. "Two
 riders approach under shield of truce!"
      The Lord  Mayor hurried back up  to the walls he  had so recently
 left. The Beinisonian army had halted  it's advance half a league from
 the city. Detachments were making their  way around Port Sevlyn to the
 north. The city would be completely surrounded in an hour.
      Two riders bearing white-painted  shields rode unhurriedly toward
 the walls.  The rider on  the left wore a  scarlet cape. That  and the
 gilding on  his breastplate suggested  he was a  high-ranking officer.
 The second rider,  from his appearance, was only  slightly inferior to
 the first.
      The two  stopped just inside  earshot. The higher-ranking  of the
 two shouted in barely adequate Baranurian, "I am Field Marshal Joachim
 Vasquez, commander of this army. Who commands Port Sevlyn?"
      "I do. Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn."
      "Your Worship, will you surrender the city to me?"
      "I think not."
      "Many will  die needlessly. I  greatly outnumber you.  Should you
 force me to attack, I will still take Port Sevlyn. The only difference
 will be the number of young men on both sides who will perish."
1     "If you  want my city, Field  Marshal, you must pay  the price. I
 assure you it will not be cheap!"
      "You will not reconsider?"
      "I had thought my meaning plain. Or are you hard of hearing?"
      "So be  it!" Vasquez wrenched  his horse's reins around  and rode
 back  to his  troops.  Within minutes,  the enemy  were  on the  move.
 Vasquez had committed  perhaps the most grievous sin  an officer could
 make; he let his emotions get the better of him.

 Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Conn  Alrod stepped  back from  the  wall as  the grappling  hook
 sailed over the battlements and  securely lodged itself. The rope went
 taught  with  tension.  Conn  stepped forward  and  looked  down.  Two
 soldiers were climbing  up the rope. Conn shook his  head in wonder at
 their state of mind. He allowed them  to get halfway to the top before
 cutting the rope free of the  grappling hook. The two tumbled to their
 deaths.
      A ladder clattered against the wall  not two feet from where Conn
 stood. He ran  to the nearest basket of rocks  and man-handled it over
 to  the ladder.  Grunting with  the  effort, he  strained and  pushed,
 finally managing to wrestle it to  the top of the battlement. With one
 last push, he sent sent it over. He was rewarded by the screams of the
 Beinisonians climbing the ladder.
      Conn  heard  a  scrabbling  sound to  his  right.  A  Beinisonian
 appeared, gripping the  rope of another grappling  hook. Conn couldn't
 deal with the  enemy soldier because more were approaching  the top of
 the ladder.  Cursing in frustration,  Conn heaved with all  his might,
 trying to push the ladder away.  No success. The first Beinisonian was
 almost to the top.
      A soldier  of Conn's Company  had engaged the Beinisonian  on the
 rope, who  by this  time had  gained the  battlements. A  second enemy
 soldier  had already  appeared.  The first  Beinisonian  cut down  his
 opponent  with ease.  Conn suppressed  an oath.  The dead  soldier had
 celebrated her nineteenth birthday only days before.
      A third  Beinisonian appeared  on the rope.  Conn glanced  to his
 left and saw the  first of the enemy soldiers on  the ladder reach the
 top. Conn did the only thing he could. He ran.

      "There!  We've   gained  a   foothold!"  Field   Marshal  Vasquez
 exclaimed. "Attacking prematurely has caught them off-guard."
      "I hope so, sir," Colonel Conti replied. "I hope so."

      The  Beinisonian  wedge was  growing  alarmingly.  Unless it  was
 contained, and soon, the siege of  Port Sevlyn would end very quickly.
 Conn  shouted frantically  for  his Senior  Sergeant  to gather  every
 available  man. "Hurry,  Patrick!"  Five Baranurians  were trying  and
 failing to hold the wedge.
      The Sergeant came  running with a squad at his  back. He'd had to
 seriously  deplete  the  number  of  men defending  the  rest  of  the
 Company's frontage to  gather this many. Conn drew  his sword. "Musn't
 keep them waiting, eh, Patrick?"
      "No, sir," the big Sergeant agreed, a wide grin on his face.
      Conn turned to  his men. Filling his lungs with  air, he shouted,
 "At them, lads! Charge!" Conn threw his  band at the wedge with a fury
 born  of desperation.  He lost  his sense  of time.  Everything seemed
 covered in  a red haze.  All Conn  knew was that  he had to  reach the
 ladder  and push  it  away. He  hacked and  stabbed  blindly into  the
 struggling  mass  of  Beinisonians,   Patrick  Havercamp  beside  him,
1grinning fiercely all the while.
      A sword was thrust at Conn's face. He beat it aside and struck at
 his attacker. He  felt the blade bite  but could not take  the time to
 see if  his opponent was  dead or merely wounded.  A body fell  at his
 feet. He  stepped over it,  concerned only  with reaching his  goal. A
 Beinisonian appeared in  front of him. Conn thrust his  sword into his
 enemy's abdomen, twisting his wrist to  turn the stroke into a killing
 one.
      Conn ripped his sword free and  suddenly, he was at the ladder. A
 Beinisonian reached the top of the ladder and stopped, surprised, when
 he saw not  a friend waiting but a foe.  He died, Conn's blood-smeared
 blade in his throat.
      Confronted with his goal, Conn  came back to himself. He sheathed
 his sword  and bent to  the task of pushing  the ladder away  from the
 wall. His back was wide open to attack, but he trusted Patrick to ward
 him as he had done in the past.
      Conn  summoned all  his strength  and still  the ladder  wouldn't
 budge. He pushed  until his face went  red and the veins  stood out on
 his neck and  still nothing. He was  about to give up and  look for an
 alternate method when suddenly the ladder moved, seemingly on its own.
 It was then  Conn became aware that Patrick was  beside him helping to
 push  the ladder  away. Conn  also noticed  the sounds  of battle  had
 diminished somewhat.
      "We did it, sir."
      Conn sat against  the battlements, chest heaving as  he took much
 needed air  into his lungs.  "Yes we did,"  Conn gasped out.  When his
 breathing was  under better  control, he heaved  himself to  his feet.
 "What's the bill, Patrick?"
      "Ten, sir."
      "Damn! Damn damn damn!"
      "Captain Alrod!" a  voice called from the right.  "They're on the
 wall again!" Cursing fate, the  Commander, the gods, Conn gathered the
 ten survivors and  led them against the new Beinisonian  wedge. It was
 going to be a long day.

 Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord Quillien Thorne  sat heavily in his favorite  chair. He said
 nothing for several minutes, causing his family to worry. "We won't be
 leaving," he  announced to  startled gasps. "The  Beinisonians control
 the river. Any  attempt to leave by ship would  be suicide. We'll just
 have to wait out the storm."
      There was a  long moment of silence. The concern  on the faces of
 his wife Rolanda and his daughter Jannis was plain to see.
      "Quillien," Rolanda asked softly, "will the city hold?"
      Lord Thorne shook his head gravely. "There's not much chance of a
 successful resistance. The enemy is too  strong; it's only a matter of
 time."
      "But we can't just stay here," Jannis said. "What will we do?"
      "The only  thing we can  do," Lord  Thorne replied. "Hide  in the
 vault until this is over."
      "And pray that it will be over soon," Rolanda said.

      "It's  only a  matter of  time," Commander  Karellan said  to his
 assembled  Company  commanders.  The  six  Captains  and  four  Senior
 Sergeants took the news calmly. They  had known what the Commander had
 told them  since before  the battle  began. "We  lost two  hundred men
 today.  Among them  four  Captains  and six  Sergeants.  And that  was
 against perhaps a third of the  enemy's force. We'll lose a great many
1more tomorrow.
      I know the  situation is hopeless, but you must  impress upon the
 men the importance  of continued resistance. It is vital  we give Lord
 Morion the time he needs to prepare at Gateway. Nothing else matters."
 Karellan sat. "Dismissed."

 Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Joachim Vasquez  was not a happy  man. He had lost  eight hundred
 men dead  or wounded in  the day's fighting. And  the worst of  it, he
 thought bitterly,  is that my  stupidity is  to blame. "I  should have
 waited until the city was surrounded before I attacked." Colonel Conti
 refrained from commenting.
      "The scouts report no sign  of enemy activity in the countryside,
 sir.  They don't  even seem  to be  making an  attempt to  relieve the
 garrison."
      "These Baranurians are more ruthless than I thought. They know we
 must take Port Sevlyn. We can't afford to leave a threat to our supply
 line unmolested."
      "Then why didn't they reinforce the garrison?"
      "Simple, Colonel.  They're setting up defenses  further along our
 route  of  march. They  need  time.  And  they  are quite  willing  to
 sacrifice one of their cities to  do it." Vasquez looked Conti full in
 the face. "We may be in for a longer war than we expected."
      Vasquez  stood and  began  pacing  back and  forth  in the  small
 confines of  his tent. He had  a most difficult decision  to make. The
 strain  was  evident on  his  face.  Finally,  after many  minutes  of
 agonized indecision, Vasquez had reconciled his warring emotions.
      "Colonel," he said, voice grim, "we  must make an example of Port
 Sevlyn. As  much as I detest  this order, I  must give it to  you. The
 Baranurians must be shown the price of resisting us."
      "What do you  mean, sir?" Conti asked, a  cold sensation creeping
 up his spine.
      "When the city falls, the survivors  of the garrison and half the
 populace are to be put to the sword."
      Conti closed his eyes.
      "May Sanar forgive us," Vasquez whispered.

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      "With  all due  respect,  Sire, this  is not  the  time for  this
 discussion."
      "It  is  the only  time  for  this  discussion, Edward.  If  Lord
 Morion's report is  accurate, the Beinisonians will  have reached Port
 Sevlyn by now. For  all we know, the city may be in  enemy hands as we
 speak."
      "Exactly my  point! If Port  Sevlyn has fallen, Connall  won't be
 able to reach  Gateway in time to  prevent it falling as  well. And if
 Gateway goes, the enemy will be knocking at Magnus' gates next."
      "Yes. Which is why we will  discuss this now. While we still have
 time."
      "Yes, Sire." Edward took a seat in the War Room, formerly used to
 house last Nober's Council sessions.
      Haralan occupied  the seat next  to Edward, his  long-time friend
 and advisor. "Edward," Haralan began,  "this is personal. That's why I
 wanted us  to be alone. You  and Commander Courymwen have  been seeing
 quite a lot of each other lately, haven't you?"
      "What do you  mean?" Edward asked even though he  had a fair idea
1of what Haralan was getting at.
      "People--important people--have taken notice of you and Commander
 Courymwen's `visits' to some of the  taverns and inns in Magnus. There
 has been talk.  I see you understand the situation.  These people have
 suggested that your mind isn't on the war."
      "That's absurd! Have I not embraced Baranur as my homeland? Did I
 not reject my birthright in Galicia? What more must I do to prove I am
 no outsider?"
      "Easy, Edward. This  is me. I know you are  loyal to Baranur. But
 there are  powerful nobles who  would like to  see you gone  and their
 candidate  in your  place.  Edward,  they may  be  able  to turn  your
 friendship with  your aide into the  kind of rumors that  destroyed my
 niece's  marriage.   If  they  succeed,   you  could  well   lose  all
 respectability as  Knight Commander. When  that happens, you  cease to
 become an asset. Indeed, you become a liability."
      "Is Your  Royal Majesty  ordering me  to terminate  my friendship
 with Commander Courymwen?" Edward asked formally.
      "That would be my last resort. But I will so order if I am forced
 to," Haralan said with regret.
      "May I be dismissed, Your Royal Majesty?"
      Haralan sighed.  "Yes. You  may" --the sound  of a  door slamming
 interrupted Haralan in mid-sentence--  "go." Haralan sighed once more.
 "This is a problem I can do without."

 Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Conn woke  to a perfectly  sunny day.  He'd had a  difficult time
 sleeping. Lying  on hard  stone, in leather  armour, was  not terribly
 conducive  to a  good  night's  rest. He  groaned  and wearily  hauled
 himself to his  feet. He turned to look out  over the battlements. The
 camp fires of the enemy ringed  Port Sevlyn. Just over twelve thousand
 men were  stirring, preparing  to once again  throw themselves  at the
 hopelessly outnumbered defenders.
      Patrick came over  and silently offered his  commander and friend
 some  cheese and  half a  loaf  of bread.  Conn ate  his breakfast  in
 silence, staring at the bodies piled up at the base of the wall.
      "Today or tomorrow, Patrick."
      "Yes, sir."
      "I wish I knew if Fayonna was safe."
      "Yes, sir."
      Suddenly, Conn  stiffened. He turned  to order the stand  to, but
 Patrick was already off. He'd seen Conn's reaction and had guessed its
 cause. The Beinisonians had finished  breakfast and now they wanted to
 play.

 Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Vasquez's  heavy infantry  Regiments marched  out one  hour after
 dawn. Conti  had passed on  the order to make  an example out  of Port
 Sevlyn. The men of the Regiments that had suffered during the previous
 day's unsuccessful attack were eager for revenge. The remainder of the
 soldiers accepted their orders because they had been trained to.

 Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Conn delivered  a backhand  chop to the  throat of  his adversary
 that sent the  Beinisonian staggering back, his life  pouring out onto
1Port Sevlyn's walls.  The Beinisonians had attacked  with their entire
 force, twelve  thousand men.  The eight hundred  or so  defenders were
 hard pressed to hold them. But by some miracle, hold them they did. It
 was already  past noon  and the  third assault on  the walls  was well
 underway. Conn  had been fighting for  seven hours. To him,  it seemed
 like an eternity.
      The enemy had established fighting wedges at several points along
 the wall.  Conn and the  other Company commanders spent  virtually all
 their time  and energy  leading their small  reserves against  a wedge
 whenever one was started. All Conn knew  was what was in front of him.
 And that  was the  five or  so survivors  of the  newest wedge  on his
 Company's section of wall.
      "Forward!" Conn snarled and led his fifteen men and women against
 the five enemy.  His blade seemed a  part of him, an  extension of his
 hand. He  reached out towards  an enemy soldier, felt  resistance, and
 then his arm was red up to the elbow.
      "Well struck!" Patrick said. Conn hadn't even been fully aware of
 what he'd  done. It  was as if  his body was  on automatic.  He looked
 around, leaning on the battlements to give his weary, aching body some
 kind of reprieve.
      Through a strength  born of sheer desperation, the  men and women
 of  the 2nd  Quinnat  Militia Regiment  were  keeping the  Beinisonian
 invaders from  gaining a lasting  foothold on  the walls. But  at what
 great cost. Many  a young Baranurian lay sprawled in  death. Many more
 were grievously wounded.
      Trumpets sounded to the north, east, and west; three notes rising
 in  successive  octaves. The  Beinisonians  withdrew  from the  walls,
 formed  their Regiments  into line-of-march,  and slowly  proceeded to
 their  encampments surrounding  Port Sevlyn,  the setting  sun casting
 shadows over the battlefield. Port Sevlyn had survived another day.

 Gortholde's Hall, East Quarter, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      A  large group  of soldiers  from the  Huscarl Regiment  known as
 Magnus' Maniacs had  cleared a space in the centre  of the common room
 and were  heavily involved in  a drinking  contest that could  only be
 described  as  monumental. Thunderous  cheers  issued  from the  group
 periodically  as the  contest neared  its  zenith. None  of the  other
 patrons  of the  tavern seemed  to  take notice;  it was  best not  to
 attract  the Maniacs'  attention unless  you could  fight well,  drink
 large quantities  of ale, and had  a somewhat warped sense  of humour.
 Even then it was usually better for all concerned if you were involved
 with them for as brief a time as possible.
      Seated in a shadowy corner away  from the rest of the patrons was
 a man wearing a black tunic  over a battered suit of chainmail armour.
 A very  expensive-looking amulet hung from  a chain about his  neck. A
 tankard sat  untouched on the table  in front of the  dark-haired man.
 Incredibly,  the man  was asleep,  completely oblivious  to the  noise
 surrounding him.
      A tall, red-haired young  woman wearing the blue-and-gold uniform
 of The  King's Own over  a suit of  chainmail entered the  tavern. She
 nodded a greeting to  the proprietor as she walked over  to the bar to
 speak to him.
      Gortholde  was an  aging,  retired warrior  who  had gambled  his
 life's savings to  buy the tavern. The gamble had  paid off handsomely
 and now Gortholde was well-off, if  not wealthy. Most of his customers
 were soldiers. Gortholde  had a soft spot for those  who served in the
 Royal Army. Any soldier who  frequented his establishment could expect
 good drink for low prices. Gortholde's  Hall was THE spot for off-duty
1soldiers to relax and unwind after a day's work.
      Gortholde  stiffened  to  almost-attention  as  he  answered  the
 red-haired woman's questions;  she wore a Commander's  uniform and old
 habits do die hard. He pointed in the direction of the black-clad man.
 The woman  thanked him  and proceeded  to thread  her way  through the
 revelers, tankard of ale in hand.
      She pulled  up a chair and  sat facing the dark-haired  man. Only
 then did she realize he was  asleep. Smiling and shaking her head, she
 rose  and went  around  the table  to waken  him.  "Edward," she  said
 shaking his shoulder, "wake up."
      Edward Sothos woke with a start.  "What? Oh. Coury, it's you," he
 said with relief.
      Jan laughed. "Of course it's me."  She returned to her seat. "So.
 What do you need to say to me that can't be said at the Castle?"
      "Gods, I'm tired."
      "You look it. Why don't we go back? You need sleep. This can wait
 'till tomorrow, can't it?"
      "No. I have  to check on the supply situation  and brief the King
 and his advisors tomorrow. That will keep  me busy all day and most of
 the night."
      "All right then. So?"
      "We've known each other for...three years now?"
      "Four last month."
      "Four years. You're...twenty-four, aren't you?"
      "Last Janis," Jan replied.
      "Twenty-four  and   a  Commander   already.  That  is   quite  an
 accomplishment for one so young."
      "Edward, I'm only eight years younger than you are."
      "Not 'till Yule seventeen."
      "Okay, so you  won't turn thirty-one for another  week. Edward, I
 don't see where all this is going."
      "You are a good officer and I won't--I can't--do anything to harm
 your chance for success."
      "What do you mean?"
      "Jan, there's been talk," Edward said quietly.
      "Talk?" Jan  repeated, feeling wary.  Edward called her  Jan only
 when he was discussing something serious.
      "About us. Certain  people have noticed we've  been spending time
 together recently. There has been gossip that...that we--"
      "That we've been sleeping together???" she asked, astonished.
      "Yes," Edward said, face lowered.  "I'm sorry, Jan. It seems that
 some nobles would prefer another Knight Commander and they are willing
 to go to great lengths to discredit me. You were caught in the middle.
 I am to blame."
      "But surely no one would believe these...rumors?"
      "They have reached the King's ears. He pointed out that truth has
 nothing  to do  with  this  situation. If  this  developes further,  a
 scandal such as that surrounding Lysanda's marriage could ensue."
      "You'd be stripped of your office!" Jan said hoarsely.
      "That isn't what I'm concerned about."
      "What then?"
      "You. I won't have your reputation sullied in this manner."
      "What will you do? What can you do?"
      Edward stared at  the cold fireplace. "If we were  in Galicia, my
 course of action would be clear."
      "What?"
      "It doesn't matter. This is not Galicia."
      "I want to know. What would you do if this was Galicia?"
      Edward turned his  head to look his friend straight  in the eyes.
 "Marry you."
1     Jan  nearly dropped  her ale.  She sat  back, too  dumbfounded to
 speak.
      "As I  said, this is  not Galicia, so the  whole idea is  moot. I
 shall handle matters." Edward rose. "We should go back now."
      "I think I'll stay here a while," she said slowly and carefully.
      "Are you certain?"
      "Yes," she said looking up at Edward. "Go get some sleep."
      "Good night, Coury."
      "Good night." Jan remained sitting  in the dark corner long after
 Edward had left, her ale untouched. Edward's statement left her with a
 great deal of confused emotions  and thoughts to reconcile. Jan stayed
 until  Gortholde locked  up.  She went  to sleep  hours  later in  her
 quarters, nothing resolved.

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 11 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Edward stood in front of the wall-map of Baranur in the War Room.
 He faced the  assembled nobles and began his briefing.  "My lords, the
 situation in the south is  grave. The line from the Westbrook-Pyridain
 border south to the sea  has been completely shattered." Edward paused
 as gasps  of astonishment  raced through  the room.  "The Beinisonians
 attacked with seventy  thousand men, according to the  reports. I must
 point  out, however,  that many  of the  despatches arriving  from the
 field are confused. Any organization that once existed is now gone.
      "Just how bad is it?" a minor scion of House Tallirhan asked.
      "The only organized force in the Southern Marches is comprised of
 what little  forces are in  Duchy Westbrook. The remaining  Royal Army
 forces are running north and west. Lord Kinsley has informed me of his
 intention to deny Pyridain  City to the enemy to the  last. He has the
 Duchy's Household troops and the  remnants of the Assault Brigade. The
 three Regiments fled to the city when the main line broke.
      In addition, I have relieved King's General Tegran of his command
 in Pyridain and placed all  troops under Lord Kinsley's orders." Again
 Edward paused,  waiting for the storm  to break. His wait  was a short
 one.
      "How dare  you!" Lord Ethros  of House Northfield shouted  at the
 scarred  warrior.  "General  Tegran  is  one  of  the  Kingdom's  best
 soldiers. You have not the right to relieve him! Just who do you think
 you are, outlander?"
      "I," Edward replied in a cold  voice, "am Knight Commander of the
 Royal Armies. Tegran is a soldier of  that Army and thus subject to my
 authority. He was a good warrior once and is now a good administrator.
 Administrators will not win this war.  Any man who does not perform is
 useless to me and a boon to the enemy."
      "You are not a native of  Baranur! A Baranurian would know how to
 honour brave soldiers. A Baranurian would--"
      The King interrupted  violently, slamming his hand  on the table.
 "Enough! Sir  Edward is not far  enough below your station  for you to
 speak  to him  so, Lord  Ethros! Bickering  such as  this will  get us
 nowhere and will only serve to aid the enemy. Sit down and be silent!"
 Haralan turned to Edward. "Continue, Sir Edward."
      Edward bowed slightly. "The major calamity occurred here," Edward
 said,  indicating   a  spot  on   the  map  eight  leagues   from  the
 Baranur-Beinison  border,   "at  Oron's  Crossroads.   Best  estimates
 indicate an enemy  force twenty to thirty thousand  strong engaged our
 main  concentration  north  of  the crossroads.  Our  forces  numbered
 nineteen  thousand  five  hundred;  fifteen thousand  Royal  Army  and
 Southern March Militia and four thousand five hundred House forces."
      "The  battle was  an even  struggle until  Dame Martis  ordered a
1withdrawal to  a more defensible position.  It was at that  point that
 some nobles refused  to comply. Their vainglory would  not permit them
 to follow  orders. The result  was that the  Royal Army units  began a
 withdrawal while a significant portion of  the House units did not. As
 Nehru  would have  it,  the  centre of  the  battle-line was  composed
 largely of House  units. The enemy seized upon our  confusion and sent
 his cavalry into  the breach. The centre disintegrated  and the flanks
 were left isolated and exposed. Very few Regiments survived to conduct
 something even approximating an orderly retreat."
      "What's  the  butcher's  bill, sir?"  King's  General  Wainwright
 asked.
      Edward took a deep breath and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
 "The  Combined Host  of  Baranur has  suffered  eleven thousand  dead,
 wounded or  captured. The 8th  and 10th Baranurian Regulars,  16th and
 19th Baranurian Archers, and 1st  Pyridain Militia have been wiped out
 to the  last man and their  Colours taken. In addition,  the forces of
 Houses Equiville, Bivar, Redcrosse, and  Othuldane are gone." Only two
 men remained  unaffected during Edward's recitation  of the casualties
 suffered; General  Wainwright because  he was an  old soldier  and had
 seen much during his long and  illustrious career, the Duke of Quinnat
 because his mind was on matters closer to home.
      "Dame Martis  gathered what  she could  and retreated  into Duchy
 Westbrook. All  told, seven Regiments  moved into Westbrook.  Most are
 well-off. The 4th  Pyridain Militia is little better  than an expanded
 Company and has  been attached to the 3rd Pyridain  Militia to make up
 for  that  Regiment's  losses.  The  2nd  Pyridain  Militia  has  been
 destroyed. Their  remnants have  been attached  to the  1st Baranurian
 Rangers.
      The officers  of the Regiments  not involved in the  battle seem,
 for the  most part, unable or  unwilling to halt their  units and face
 the enemy.  I trust in the  ability of the various  King's Generals to
 bring such  action to  a halt,  but the process  will take  some time.
 Rumors have  spread word that  the defeat was  worse than the  men are
 being told and the mens' morale has fallen sharply. Rebuilding it will
 take some time."
      "Aside from the forces under  Dame Martis and Duke Araesto's son,
 what force have we to oppose the Beinisonians?" the King asked.
      "The Equiville  and Leftwich Militias  and a very few  Royal Army
 Regiments."
      "Good God!" Wainwright exclaimed.
      "We may yet need the gods' assistance before this war has run its
 course." At that moment, the great  double doors opened and a slightly
 nervous Daniel  Moore entered and  slammed to attention. "What  is it,
 Captain?" Edward asked with a slight trace of concern in his voice.
      "Sir,  the   sentries  at  Southgate  report   a  sizeable  force
 approaching the city."
      "How large?"
      "Regimental strength, sir. Eight hundred to a thousand men, sir."
      "How could  they have  slipped so  large a  force this  far north
 un-noticed?"
      "It's got to be the vanguard  of a larger force, sir," Wainwright
 commented, "otherwise the 6th would have dealt with them."
      "The  6th--Nehru's  Blood!  That's  who they  are!  I  must  have
 forgotten to inform the garrison  Commanders in the confusion over the
 landings on the Laraka."
      "Speaking of  which," Lord  Ethros said, the  scorn in  his voice
 apparent, "what exactly IS the situation?"
      Edward ignored  Ethros' tone. "Your  Grace?" he inquired  of Duke
 Quinnat. "Would it please Your Grace to make your report?"
      Quinnat  looked at  Edward with  tired eyes.  When he  spoke, his
1voice betrayed weary exhaustion overlying the pain of seeing his lands
 occupied. "No, Sir Edward, it would  not please me." He sighed. "But I
 shall do so.  My Ducal Guard and I  made a wide sweep to  the north of
 Shark's Cove. A Regiment garrisons the  town and there are two more on
 the border  with Kiliaen.  The Beinisonians  are using  the town  as a
 staging area  for their Navy  as well as the  invasion. I had  not the
 force to attempt an attack so I  journeyed to Port Sevlyn. It is under
 siege. By  how many men,  I do  not know; we  ran into a  Battalion of
 light infantry,  skirmishers. We clashed  briefly and I was  forced to
 retreat  further east  before swinging  south  to Magnus.  I lost  one
 hundred and fifty good men that had been serving me for years. I could
 gain no other intelligence regarding the enemy."
      "Nor have I," Edward commented, resuming control of the briefing.
 "The last report I  have is from Lord Morion five  days ago. He states
 that he expected  sixteen thousand men to march on  Magnus. Given Duke
 Quinnat's observations,  we can  approximate the force  besieging Port
 Sevlyn  at thirteen-to-fourteen  thousand.  The  garrison numbers  one
 Militia Light Infantry Regiment. I believe we can assume that the city
 has fallen and that Gateway shall come under attack very soon."
      "Why would  they not attack  the Crown City directly?"  the young
 lord of House Tallirhan asked.
      "Because Gateway is too large a threat to leave in their rear, my
 Lord", Wainwright responded. "Even were  they to besiege it, Gateway's
 catapults would  make the river  a death-trap  for any ship  trying to
 sail to Magnus.  Indeed, that is the only  reason Beinisonian warships
 are not anchored off Kheva's Bridge."
      "What have we that could stop them?" Ethros asked.
      "Lord  Morion has  taken the  survivors Sir  Ailean's command  to
 Gateway. He  has the better  part of  three Regiments. I  have ordered
 Count Connall to  return to Magnus at once. Upon  his arrival, he will
 be made Knight Captain of the Northern Marches and sent north with the
 Hussars.
      The Huscarls,  Militia, and Legion  of Death shall remain  in the
 city  as  a safeguard  should  the  Beinisonians by-pass  Gateway  and
 attempt to  take the city  by storm.  That concludes the  briefing, my
 Lords."
      "Thank you, Knight Commander," Haralan said.
      "Sire," Edward said, "the 6th  Regulars shall arrive shortly. May
 I suggest  a parade? The 6th  have fought the Beinisonians  well and I
 think they deserve the accolade."
      "Very well. We shall meet you at the Warrior's Way in two hours?"
      "That would be fine, Your Royal Majesty. Captain Moore?"
      Moore, who  had been standing unobtrusively  behind his commander
 since bringing  the news of  the 6th's arrival, snapped  to attention.
 "Sir?"
      "Have  Commander Courymwen  turn out  the garrison  for a  formal
 parade  to take  place  in two  hours.  I  expect both  of  you to  be
 present."
      "Sir!"
      "Off with you, then."
      Moore saluted and  left. Haralan stood and  those assembled stood
 with him. "Good day, gentlemen," he said and departed, the rest bowing
 to their sovereign. The nobles left to conduct their personal business
 leaving Edward and Wainwright alone.
      "What, Artemus?"
      "You're  pushing  yourself  too  hard.  I  wasn't  going  to  say
 anything, but I must now. You've got to get some sleep."
      "Sleep?  Sleep?! Artemus,  how can  I sleep?"  Edward turned  and
 pointed at  the wall-map. "Look  at it, Artemus! The  Beinisonians are
 pouring across the southern frontier and  I've got nothing to throw at
1them except  some Militia units.  And up north, they've  landed twenty
 thousand  men on  the  Laraka.  For all  intents  and purposes,  Duchy
 Quinnat  is under  Beinisonian rule.  And if  that wasn't  bad enough,
 Magnus is  cut off from  the sea. I don't  know how long  the overland
 trade routes will be able to handle  the city's needs. And you tell me
 to sleep?"
      "Edward, you must  sleep. If you don't, you won't  be much use to
 anyone. I've watched  you since you assumed your post  four years ago.
 You're good. Very good. But I sometimes wonder if you were cut out for
 all this. It seems to me that you would much rather be a simple knight
 serving your lord than responsible for warding an entire Kingdom."
      "There is some truth to  that," Edward admitted. "There are times
 that I long  for simpler duties and responsibilities. All  my life, my
 only dream  was to serve  the Emperor as a  Knight of the  Imperium. I
 suppose that  has something  to do  with it. But  that doesn't  mean I
 don't  want this  as  well. I'm  not just  serving  my King,  Artemus.
 Haralan is my  closest and dearest friend.  As long as he  wants me as
 Knight Commander, I shall gladly fill that role."
      Edward paused for a moment and went to stand in front of the huge
 map.  "Artemus," he  said, gazing  intently at  the huge  depiction of
 Baranur, "the Kingdom is  in grave danger and I don't  know that I can
 save it."  He turned. "I  shall die, if need  be, to save  my friend's
 lands, but just between the two of us...we're going to lose this war."
 Edward turned back to the map. "And  there's not a blessed thing I can
 do to stop it."

      Wainwright sat his  horse, back ramrod straight,  his eyes raking
 over  the  massed  ranks  of   the  6th  Baranurian  Regulars  as  the
 grey-haired veterans paraded through  Southgate. The Warrior's Way was
 lined  with  troops.  The  King's Own  in  their  blue-and-gold  dress
 uniforms; The Royal  Horse Guard, their dark blue  dress tunics giving
 them  an arrogant  air; the  three  Huscarl Regiments  in their  white
 tunics, battle-axes gleaming; the  four Militia Regiments standing out
 in their scarlet uniforms. All stood rigidly to attention as the eight
 hundred and thirty-seven members of the 6th marched by.
      The Regulars  halted. Speeches  were given. The  Knight Commander
 spoke of  the unmatched quality of  the 6th and the  often over-looked
 benefits experience  can bring. King  Haralan spoke of  the admiration
 all Baranur had for the brave soldiers of the 6th who alone had fought
 the Beinisonians  to a bloody  stand-still before they were  forced to
 withdraw.
      Wainwright  watched  Edward  all through  the  proceedings.  Just
 before they had left the War  Room, Wainwright had managed to persuade
 Edward to  get some  rest immediately after  the parade.  The knight's
 revelation to Wainwright  that he felt the war lost  was probably just
 the result of  a much delayed, much needed  slumber. Wainwright prayed
 that was the cause. As a  Baranurian, Wainwright refused to accept the
 notion  that his  Kingdom might  be conquered.  As a  soldier, he  was
 forced to admit the situation looked desperate. Everything hinged upon
 events  taking  place  on  the  Laraka.  If  Gateway  Keep  fell,  the
 Beinisonians could lay  siege to Magnus, thus cutting  the capital off
 from  the rest  of  the Kingdom.  And  that would  mean  the death  of
 Baranur.
      The speeches were  concluded. The 6th resumed  its march, turning
 right and  passing through  the huge  gate in  the final  wall barring
 access to  the King's Keep.  As Wainwright passed through  the massive
 gate, his thoughts drifted north.

 Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 11 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
1
      Conn  paced back  and forth  on  Port Sevlyn's  western wall.  He
 glanced for the fifth time at the  little group huddled at the base of
 the wall near a small inn. Patrick saw his commander's glance and gave
 him a gesture of reassurance. Conn waved back, secure in the knowledge
 that Patrick had Conn's Company ready to move at a moment's notice. My
 Company, he  thought sadly. Conn's Company  had diminished frightfully
 since the  siege began.  There were  scare one score  left out  of the
 hundred Conn had led into battle  two days previously. Most of the 1st
 Quinnat Militia's companies were in the same state.
      Commander Karellan  had placed Conn  in command of the  west wall
 and given him one third of the Regiment's remaining strength to defend
 it. He'd  done the  same with  the two  other surviving  Captains. All
 told, three hundred exhausted men  and women warded Quinnat's capital.
 They were pitifully  few compared to the horde encamped  on the plains
 before the city.
      Port  Sevlyn had  been a  city untouched  by the  ravages of  the
 world. One  might have said there  was a slight touch  of innocence to
 the place. No longer. War had come  to Port Sevlyn and left its brutal
 mark. On the walls  and the fields near the base of  the walls lay one
 thousand three hundred corpses,  Baranurian and Beinisonian. The blood
 of  Port Sevlyn's  children stained  her battlements  and towers.  The
 city, and its inhabitants, would never be the same again.
      Conn was growing  irritable. It was late afternoon  and still the
 enemy had  not come. He  couldn't understand why the  Beinisonians had
 not attacked. Strangely,  he felt himself growing angry  that they did
 not come. The gut-wrenching fear as  a grappling hook thudded home and
 the odd joy of battle seemed so much  a part of him now that he almost
 wished the enemy would attack.
      Conn  caught  a  sign  of  movement  from  the  enemy  camp.  The
 Beinisonian Regiments  were on  the move  again. They  marched slowly,
 almost sedately, toward the city. Each  Regiment was drawn up in three
 tightly packed ranks. And waving from stout poles of polished oak flew
 each  Regiments' Colours,  the  very  heart and  soul  of a  Regiment.
 Guarding the Colours were each  Regiments' best warriors. Conn counted
 the Colours of four Regiments coming at his section of wall. The day's
 work was about to begin.

      Patrick Havercamp  hacked and  slashed at the  enemy, his  face a
 mixture  of anger  and worry.  His friend,  Conn Alrod,  was somewhere
 ahead and in trouble. When the Beinisonians had gained the battlements
 in  two places,  Patrick had  known it  was time  to commit  the small
 reserve Conn had placed under the Sergeant's command.
      Now, Patrick and his men were attempting to push the second wedge
 back and  link up  with the  small group of  soldiers, led  by Captain
 Alrod, who were  valiantly struggling against twice  their number some
 twenty yards distant.
      A Beinisonian lunged at the Sergeant. Patrick side-stepped neatly
 and slammed  his knee  into the man's  groin. The  Beinisonian doubled
 over more from  surprise than real pain, but the  result was the same.
 Patrick grabbed the Beinisonian's chin-strap and roughly bent his head
 back. A  quick jerk of Patrick's  sword and the man's  life poured out
 his severed jugular.
      "Keep at the scum, lads!" Patrick shouted at his men as he tipped
 one enemy soldier over the battlements to fall screaming to the ground
 below. Patrick scanned  the scene of battle and caught  a brief glance
 of his friend. He was about to shout encouragement when he saw Conn go
 down.
      Fear and  rage chased  each other across  Patrick's face.  He and
 Conn had been  friends since childhood. When Conn's  wife Fayonna gave
1birth,  Patrick  became  the   boy's  godfather.  Patrick  had  always
 protected his friend  from danger during their youth  and the tendency
 naturally extended into adulthood.
      Roaring like an  enraged bear, the big  Sergeant launched himself
 toward  his friend.  He hewed  his way  through the  enemy ranks  as a
 farmer harvests grain. Some few Beinisonians  tried to stop him but he
 beat them  down and ripped  their life away  as if they  didn't exist.
 Their    comrades,   terrified    of   this    seemingly   unstoppable
 gore-splattered apparition unleashed in their midst, broke and ran.
      Those following  behind the  Sergeant raised  a mighty  cheer and
 surged forward. There  was not a single Beinisonian left  alive on the
 wall within the space of five minutes.
      Patrick  knelt beside  his friend  and gently,  carefully removed
 Conn's  helmet. Patrick  gave a  heartfelt  sigh. The  wound that  had
 felled his Captain  was superficial. Patrick leaned over  and ripped a
 strip of cloth off a dead Beinisonian's  tunic and used it to bind his
 friend's  wound. "Conn,"  Patrick called.  Nothing. "Conn,"  he called
 more forcefully.
      Conn groaned  and stirred.  "Who's there?" he  called in  a voice
 groggy with pain.
      "It's me, sir. Patrick."
      "I can't see," he said. He  reached for his eyes but the Sergeant
 restrained him.
      "Nothing to  worry about, sir.  Just a  little blood, is  all. Be
 still and I'll clean it off." Patrick wiped the blood off his friend's
 face, making  Conn flinch when  Patrick came too  close to the  cut on
 Conn's scalp. "Sorry, sir."
      Conn  waved Patrick's  apology  aside. "Help  me stand."  Patrick
 lifted Conn  to his feet  with a gentleness  surprising for a  man his
 size. "Thanks."
      "You all right, sir?" Patrick asked with concern.
      "Just  let me  get my  strength, Sergeant."  Conn rested  against
 Patrick's bulk, letting the throbbing of his head wound slowly lessen.
 After a  minute or two,  he pushed  himself away from  Patrick. "Okay,
 Patrick. Let's get back to work."
      Patrick grinned. "Yes, sir!"

 Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 11 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      "Sit,  Captain, sit,"  Commander Karellan  told Conn.  "How's the
 wound?" he asked not unkindly.
      "Fine,  sir," Conn  lied.  He felt  as if  someone  was taking  a
 sledgehammer to his head.
      "Good," Karellan said then lapsed into silence.
      That can't  be the only  reason he  called me here  tonight, Conn
 thought. "Sir?"
      "Yes?"
      "Was there something specific you wanted to speak to me about?"
      Karellan sighed. "Yes, Captain, there is." Karellan paused again.
 When next he spoke, he looked at a set of figures on a scrap of paper.
 "The  casualty   count's  just  come  in.   One  hundred  twenty-three
 effectives including one Senior Sergeant,  one Captain and myself." He
 looked up at Conn. "Not a very formidable force, is it Alrod?"
      "Enough to give those bastards something to remember, sir!"
      "That's the  whole point, isn't  it? Make  them pay in  blood for
 this city."
      "It's not  going to  be pretty  when they take  the city,  is it,
 sir?"
      "No, Captain,  it's not."  Karellan ran  his fingers  through his
1greying  hair. "We  can't hold  the walls  any longer.  Come daybreak,
 we'll pull the men back and wait for the enemy to come." The Commander
 rubbed his  eyes in a  vain attempt to  banish some of  his weariness.
 "Alrod, I'm charging you with holding the gate."
      "But if we abandon the walls--?"
      "What use is there holding the gate? As long as we hold the gate,
 and the keep for that matter, we  make it that much more difficult for
 the enemy  to move through  the city. They'll  be forced to  spend the
 time to destroy us."
      "Yes, sir," Conn replied without much enthusiasm.
      "Take Sergeant  Havercamp and forty  good men and hold  the gate,
 Conn. Hold it as long as you can and when you think you can't hold any
 longer, hold some more."
      "Where will you be, sir?"
      "The Lord Mayor and I and the rest of the garrison will barricade
 ourselves in  the keep. We may  not last long, but  we cannot disgrace
 the Duke  by giving his home  to the invaders without  a fight. That's
 all," he said, rising from his chair. He gripped Conn's hand in a firm
 hold. "Good luck, Captain."
      "And to you, sir."

      Rolanda Thorne  looked up as  her husband came through  the door.
 "Well, Quillien?"
      "The news  is not good," he  said, putting his cloak  away. "As I
 expected. You'd best have Jannis come in and hear this."
      Lady Thorne went to get their daughter. The look on her husband's
 face and the tone  of his voice frightened her more  than she cared to
 admit.

      "Would it  be all  right if  Tassy and  Garrett stayed  with us?"
 Jannis asked after her father had explained the situation as explained
 to him by the Lord Mayor.
      "I thought  they'd left town,  but I  heard from Rayna  that they
 were still here."
      "Of course they can stay with  us," said Lady Thorne. "Rayna too,
 if she wants."
      "Okay. I'll go over right now and tell them."
      "Be  careful,  Jannis," Lord  Thorne  warned.  "Take your  dagger
 along."
      "But  the invaders  haven't gotten  into the  city yet,  Father,"
 Jannis replied.
      "These are dangerous times," said Lord Thorne. "Do it anyway."
      "Just a moment," said Rolanda. She went over to a display cabinet
 and took an object off one of the shelves. "Take this."
      "Your  sundagger?" Jannis  asked, accepting  the enchanted  blade
 from her mother.
      "When Brynna gave me this I never thought I'd need it," said Lady
 Thorne. She instructed her daughter on  how to invoke the magic of the
 dagger; Jannis listened carefully, then  left. Lady Thorne watched her
 from the  window, wishing that they  all were someplace far  away from
 the conflict.

 Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 12 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Vasquez stood outside his tent  gazing at the pre-dawn sky. Storm
 clouds loomed and  a chill wind was blowing from  the north. A fitting
 omen for today's  work, Vasquez thought. Today would be  the last day,
 of  that he  was  certain.  Vasquez had  lost  four  hundred more  men
 yesterday and he knew the defenders  had paid dearly also. He expected
1no more than two hundred would face his Regiments when the attack went
 in. And then would the soldiers  of the Beinisonian Emperor take their
 revenge on those sheltering behind Port Sevlyn's walls.
      The young  Field Marshal  splashed his face  with cold  water and
 returned to  his tent to finish  drafting the report he  must send the
 Emperor on his reasons for giving the order to destroy Port Sevlyn. As
 he set pen to paper, he could hear the shouts of the Sergeants calling
 the men from their slumber. The final day of the siege had begun.

 Main gate, north wall Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 12 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Patrick gently shook his Captain  awake. "It's morning, sir. Time
 for breakfast."
      Conn sat up  slowly and carefully. The pain from  his scalp wound
 had lessened  only slightly  during the night.  "What's the  fare this
 morning?"
      "Campaign rations, I'm afraid, sir."
      "Well, I suppose it's better than nothing at all."
      "Only just, sir."
      Conn bit a chunk off the slab of thrice-baked bread and washed it
 down with  a large mouthful of  water. "Have you checked  the men?" he
 asked his friend.
      "I have,  sir. They're scared,  the lot  of them, but  they'll do
 fine when the  time comes, sir. They  know this will be the  end of it
 and there's a few wondering what  the enemy's going to do once they're
 over the walls."
      "Well, let's hope that Vasquez character rides tight reign on his
 troops."
      "From your lips to God's ears, sir."
      "Right, Patrick," Conn  said, getting to his feet.  "Let's see if
 we can get an inspection done before they hit us."
      Conn and Patrick  walked throughout the barbican,  talking to the
 men and women, reassuring them that  they would fight bravely and well
 and reminding them that every second's delay did harm to the enemy.
      They were on the wall between the two towers of the barbican when
 the Beinisonians began to move.  "Okay, Patrick," Conn said turning to
 the Sergeant, "down you go."
      "But, sir! Don't you think I should stay with you?"
      "No, Sergeant.  I need a good  man to hold the  gatehouse. That's
 the weakest part of the barbican."
      "Yes, sir."  Patrick drew himself  erect and threw  his life-long
 friend a salute with parade-ground  precision and then hurried down to
 the gatehouse.
      Conn surveyed the enemy formations closing on the walls. From his
 observations, he guessed  that no more than one  Regiment would attack
 the gate. He  laughed at the thought.  He was so used  to fighting off
 three and four  Regiments at once that one Regiment  of a thousand men
 hardly seemed worth noticing. War can be absurd at times, he thought.

 Main gate, north wall Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
 12 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      "You five!  Come with me!" Conn  said, leading half the  men he'd
 put on the  wall between the two twenty-foot diameter  round towers on
 either side of  the gatehouse down to the gatehouse  itself. With only
 forty men to  defend two towers, a twenty-foot section  of wall, and a
 thirty by twenty-foot gatehouse, all  of which were collectively named
 a barbican, Conn  could do nothing but divide his  men evenly, ten men
 to each area. The towers were holding for the moment and no one as yet
1had thought to assault the wall, preferring to try and batter down the
 stout gate  below the battlements.  The gatehouse, on the  other hand,
 was in serious trouble.
      The enemy  had scaled the  walls in  three score places  and were
 pouring into  the city. The Regiment  assigned to wrest the  gate away
 from  its defenders  had completely  surrounded the  barbican and  was
 concentrating its efforts on the  gatehouse. The eleven defenders were
 barely holding only  because those clamoring to  gain entrance outside
 the walls  were being thwarted  by the iron-reinforced oak  gate, thus
 allowing  the commander  of  the  gatehouse to  use  his entire  force
 against those  Beinisonians who  had scaled the  wall and  were slowly
 forcing the portcullis.  Even allowing for the confined  spaces of the
 gatehouse, eleven could not hold out long against one hundred.
      Conn led  his five into the  gatehouse. The enemy had  forced the
 portcullis halfway  up and were  getting through in larger  and larger
 numbers. Four  of the  defenders were down.  The remaining  seven were
 being slowly pushed  back towards the gate. "Follow  me!" Conn shouted
 and led his  men into the fray to bolster  the defenders. "Patrick! To
 me!"
      Patrick cut  down his opponent  and joined his Captain.  "Nice of
 you to join us, sir!"
      "Can't let you have all the  fun!" Conn shouted over the smithy's
 din of combat. Conn's head was pounding  in time with the blows of the
 battering ram being used on the gate.
      "What's it like topside?"
      "We're holding. Barely, but holding."

      Commander Karellan backhanded one  Beinisonian with his gauntlet,
 sending the man staggering with blood  flowing from his broken nose. A
 second enemy soldier rushed the disarmed Militia Commander, hoping for
 a quick kill and the prestige of defeating the enemy leader.
      Karellan backed  up and quickly  ripped his cloak from  his plate
 armour and wrapped it around his  right arm as a makeshift shield. The
 Beinisonian charged, his sword sweeping  in a gleaming arc towards the
 ex-Royal  Army officer.  Karellan brought  his  cloak up  to meet  the
 attack. The Beinisonian's sword cut  into the thick cloth and Karellan
 quickly entangled his enemy's sword in the now-useless cloak.
      Before the Beinisonian could recover and free his sword, Karellan
 grabbed the man by the back of the neck and rammed his opponent's face
 down into his  knee. The enemy soldier fell,  stunned. Karellan raised
 his foot  and smashed  his boot  down on  the unconscious  man's neck,
 killing him instantly.
      He looked  around and saw the  man whose nose he'd  broken coming
 after him.  Karellan put  his shoulder down  and charged.  He collided
 with the man's chest, the momentum  of the charge carrying both men to
 the edge of  the keep's battlements. The Beinisonian  scrabbled at the
 stone  trying  to keep  from  falling.  Karellan recovered  first.  He
 planted his  hand on the  man's chest and  shoved, sending him  to his
 death below.
      He stepped back from the battlements'  edge and picked up a sword
 discarded in the fighting. Not quite what he would have preferred, but
 it  would serve.  Karellan allowed  himself  a minute  of rest  before
 re-joining the  fray. His vantage  point afforded him  an unobstructed
 view of  the gate.  From the keep,  it looked as  if the  barbican was
 being  buried  in  ants. "That's  it  then,"  he  said  to no  one  in
 particular.

      "Get back, Patrick!"  Conn shouted. Conn had been  forced to pull
 his  men out  of the  towers and  off the  wall in  order to  hold the
 gatehouse.  Thirty-one men  and women,  most  of them  still in  their
1teens,  were formed  into two  fighting wedges,  one wedge  struggling
 against  the  Beinisonians forcing  their  way  past the  now-upraised
 portcullis, the other preparing to receive the enemy on the other side
 of the  battered gate  being held closed  only by  Patrick Havercamp's
 strength and the gods' help.
      The Sergeant turned and ran to  the dubious safety of the huddled
 group of defenders. Seconds later, the beam holding the gate shut gave
 way  with a  sharp  crack  and the  enemy  poured  into the  gatehouse
 shouting a  victory paean. Patrick  yelled defiance back at  his enemy
 and led his group against the foe.
      The  Beinisonians  far  outnumbered  the defenders,  but  in  the
 confined space of the gatehouse, superiority of numbers meant nothing.
 For several  moments, the Baranurians  in their leather  armour pushed
 the enemy steadily  backward, the bodies piling up at  their feet. But
 it could  not last.  The defenders  took casualties  as well,  and the
 Beinisonians had many more men to  lose. Weight of armour and years of
 experience soon began to take their  toll. Now, more and more of those
 falling were Baranurian.
      Finally,  the enemy  had compressed  the defenders  into a  small
 circle in  the centre of the  gatehouse. Combat ceased as  a figure in
 splendidly  gilded armour  and wearing  a scarlet  cape fastened  by a
 platinum clasp  strode through  the gate.  The man,  only a  few years
 older than Conn, made his way to the forefront of his troops.
      He gazed for several seconds at the defiant group of Baranurians.
 His eyes  locked with  Conn's and  the expression in  them was  one of
 sincere regret and remorse. Slowly, silently, the man raised his sword
 in solemn  salute and  in that  instant, Conn  knew that  no prisoners
 would be taken. Conn returned the salute and sent his Fayonna a silent
 farewell.
      The man  shouted a command in  a foreign language and  the packed
 mass of  Beinisonians surged  forward. One by  one the  defenders fell
 until  only Conn  Alrod and  Patrick Havercamp  still stood,  fighting
 back-to-back as they had so often done during their shared childhood.
      Conn  hacked and  chopped and  lunged at  the enemy.  Facing such
 overwhelming numbers  in such  a small  space, he  could not  help but
 connect.  Two men  fell  dead  at his  feet  and  another reeled  away
 clutching his arm before the first of the enemy blades struck. He felt
 a sharp stab of pain as an  enemy sword bit at his leg. Conn delivered
 an attack that was parried and before he could recover, a second blade
 had lanced through  the ribs on his right side.  A third blade stabbed
 upward into his face and Conn  fell to his knees, the pain unbearable.
 A fourth  stroke severed his head  from his body, ending  his pain and
 his life.
      Patrick felt  his friend  go down  and knew his  own time  was at
 hand. Thus far,  he was untouched, a pile of  bodies strewn about him.
 With his friend  gone, the enemy now came at  him from all directions.
 The big Sergeant  flailed about with his  sword , but to  no avail. He
 fell across Conn's dead body, pierced in three places.

      With the fall of  the gate, the way was now open  for the bulk of
 the enemy  force to enter  the city. Regiment after  Regiment streamed
 through  the bloody  human wreckage  of the  gatehouse and  fanned out
 throughout the city. No mercy would be shown to the inhabitants. Where
 initially this had been due to  orders, now the cause was revenge. Men
 whose bloodlust had  been fired by seeing their  friends butchered and
 bleeding for  three days  were turned loose  on an  unsuspecting city.
 Their  orders were  to  put  half the  populace  to  the sword;  their
 officers would  have a difficult  time ensuring the  blood-letting did
 not go further.
      The  Regiment battling  for control  of  the keep  in the  city's
1centre had cleared the battlements of  the enemy and its soldiers were
 stalking  the few  remaining defenders  through the  keep's corridors.
 Within the space  of half an hour, the last  defender had been dragged
 out kicking and screaming and then executed.

      Quillien Thorne heard  the screams issuing from  the direction of
 the city's gate  and the realization of what was  happening struck him
 like a thunderbolt. He ran  throughout the house shouting for everyone
 to go immediately to the wine  cellar. Once certain that everybody had
 gone down to the cellar, Lord Thorne followed.
      "What is it Quillien?" Lady Thorne asked with some alarm. "What's
 wrong?"
      "A massacre! The Beinisonians have begun killing people!"
      "Killing people?" Jannis gasped. "Why--what for?"
      "Oh gods," muttered Garrett, clenching his fists nervously. "Pack
 of  animals, all  of them.  I should've  been a  warrior instead  of a
 healer...." His wife Tassy drew close to him and laid her head against
 his chest.  Rayna turned  pale and  brought her white  lace fan  up in
 front of  her face, as  if to shield herself  from the horrors  of the
 situation.
      "We'll be  safe in the  vault until  the worst has  passed," Lord
 Thorne said.  He crossed the room  to a certain wine  rack, reached up
 and removed  the fifth  bottle of  Blue Royal from  the left.  He then
 pushed in  on the  section of  wall revealed  by removing  the bottle.
 There was a click and Lord Thorne slid the panel upwards.
      The wine  rack moved aside  to reveal a door  on which was  set a
 silver handle pointing  up. Lord Thorne grasped the  handle and turned
 it clockwise through 270 degrees. Next, he pushed in on the handle and
 the door slid  silently back, allowing access to  the extensive vaults
 in which Lord Thorne had hidden the possessions of his merchant house,
 the Lands' Rim,  when he first learned of the  landing at Shark's Cove
 twelve days' previously.
      Lord  Thorne ushered  the  group into  the  entrance-room of  the
 vaults and  closed the door.  In the cellar,  the wine rack  slid back
 into place.  No indication remained that  anyone had even been  in the
 cellar.
      Inside the  vault, Lord Thorne  organized the group and  had them
 make the entrance-room ready for  their stay. The room was thirty-feet
 square and had  doors on three walls; the wall  through which they had
 just entered the  room and on the  walls to the right and  left of the
 exit  door respectively.  On the  wall  opposite the  entrance to  the
 cellar was a mosaic depicting a lone sailor about to cast a harpoon at
 an onrushing dragon whale. Mounted above the cellar door was a stuffed
 shark's head. Lord  Thorne glanced at the head and  was satisfied; the
 eyes were glowing white, indicating  the secondary magical defense was
 inactive and it was safe to leave the room at any time.
      When the room was presentable,  Lord Thorne spoke to his charges.
 "I know you are  all frightened. We are safe here,  they will not find
 us. We shall wait for a time and then leave Port Sevlyn."
      "Then where will we go?" asked Tassy.
      "Magnus. The King must know of  what has transpired here. Now get
 some rest,  all of you.  When we leave, we  must move quickly."  As he
 himself made  ready to rest, he  considered just what burden  Fate had
 given him; he and his wife had to shepherd this group of young--oh how
 young they were!--people through an occupied city and two hundred-plus
 leagues of possibly enemy-held and very hostile territory. He was glad
 that his  son Brannon  and his daughter-  in-law Caramina  had already
 left Port  Sevlyn on the _Sun  Hawk_, his fastest trading  vessel. His
 other ship, the _Royal Trader_, was  on a routine cargo run to Magnus;
 he was certain that when her captain heard the news of the invasion he
1would take the  ship and its crew to safety.  His thoughts then turned
 to his oldest daughter Brynna and  his young niece Mandi, both of whom
 had left  on an expedition  to the south about  a year ago.  He hadn't
 received word  from Brynna  in months;  he prayed  that her  quest was
 successful, and that her ship wasn't anywhere near Beinison waters.
      He knew he could count on  his wife and daughter during the rough
 times ahead, but of the others he wasn't completely certain. Rayna was
 almost  the  complete opposite  of  Mandi--quiet,  shy, and  reserved,
 although she had begun to become  more open ever since she met Cydric,
 a young man on Brynna's crew. Of  Tassy and her husband Garrett he had
 no idea  how they would perform.  There were so many  details to worry
 about. One problem at a time, he thought. One problem at a time.

      Several hours later, the group  was well-rested and ready for the
 start of their long trek. Lord Thorne walked over to the mosaic of the
 sailor, reached out and pressed the  thumbnail of the man's left hand.
 The sound of stone  grating on stone issued from the  wall and a small
 section swung back to reveal a narrow passage leading to the stables.
      Thorne  lifted a  torch from  its sconce  and proceeded  down the
 passage, the  rest of the  group following behind. The  passage sloped
 gradually  upwards and  after  a short  time, the  group  came to  the
 entrance to  the stables. Thorne  opened the secret door  and motioned
 the rest of his party out of the passage.
      They were immediately assaulted by  heat and smoke and the sounds
 of terrified screams.  "It's worse than I thought,"  Lord Thorne said.
 "We'll  have to  be very  careful." Cautiously,  he opened  the stable
 door. The scene before him was one of horror.
      A  vast column  of  thick  black smoke  rose  from Port  Sevlyn's
 northern district.  The invaders had  fired the poorer section  of the
 city and seemed to be driving the inhabitants before them. The screams
 and the  fire were drawing  ever closer.  The stench of  burning flesh
 filled the air.
      "We'll try and  skirt the eastern edge of the  fire," Thorne told
 the  group.  "Perhaps   in  the  confusion  we  can   reach  the  gate
 unmolested." The six quickly set off  down the street, hoping to avoid
 a confrontation. They were remarkably successful, twice having avoided
 large  groups of  Beinisonians  with bloodied  swords.  They had  just
 turned north for the gate when disaster struck.
      The group  was proceeding up  a narrow street when  four soldiers
 appeared from an alley and quite literally almost ran into Lord Thorne
 and  his party.  From the  look of  their armour  and weapons,  it was
 obvious what the four Beinisonians had been doing in the alley.
      One  of the  men said  something Thorne  couldn't recognize.  The
 tone,  however,  was  quite  clear:  "Kill  them."  Another  objected,
 indicating Jannis, Tassy, and Rayna.  The first seemed to consider his
 comrade's comment and then said something that made all four laugh.
      During all this, Lord Thorne had attempted to talk his way out of
 the  predicament.   "Good  sirs,"  he  said,   knowing  they  couldn't
 understand his words but hoping his tone would make his meaning plain.
 "Perhaps we  can come to  an understanding? I  have gold and  will pay
 quite well were you to forget you saw us."
      The  Beinisonians paid  no  attention, however.  The prospect  of
 having three young  women outweighed any attempt to  try and negotiate
 with the old man before them.  The flash point occurred when a soldier
 grabbed Tassy.
      Garrett saw the soldier grin wickedly at his wife and immediately
 threw aside everything  his training as a healer had  taught him about
 respecting human  life. He launched  himself at his  wife's assailant,
 and the two tumbled to the ground.
      The other  three soldiers were  just as stunned as  everyone else
1and they took a  moment to recover from their disbelief  and go to the
 aid  of their  comrade.  A soldier  was raising  his  sword to  strike
 Garrett's head from his shoulders when  an intense flash of light sent
 all three soldiers staggering, their eyes blinded by the bright light.
 Lady  Thorne  put  her  sundagger  away  and  stepped  away  from  the
 still-struggling figures on the ground.
      Despite  the  Beinisonian's armour,  or  perhaps  because of  it,
 Garrett worked his way into an  advantageous position and had gotten a
 strong hold  on his  adversary. The Beinisonian  struggled, but  to no
 avail.  Garrett violently  and repeatedly  smashed the  soldier's head
 into the ground; the Beinisonian eventually stopped resisting and went
 limp.
      "Run!" Lord  Thorne shouted. "Quickly! Before  they recover!" The
 group ran hard for several minutes  then slowed to a quick jog. Before
 long, they  came in sight  of the  gate. Soldiers formed  a protective
 cordon that would  prevent anyone from entering or  leaving unless the
 commander at  the gate wished it.  Thorne brought the group  to a halt
 and quickly moved them out of sight of the detachment at the gate.
      "What do we do now, Father?" Jannis asked.
      "Perhaps we can bluff our way through."
      "But how?" Lady Thorne asked.
      Rayna spoke  for the first time.  "Why not pass ourselves  off as
 pilgrims?"
      Thorne  looked at  the young  woman with  admiration. "That  just
 might work.  We'll do  it. All right,  everyone, pay  attention. We're
 going to  follow Rayna's  suggestion. Let  me do  all the  talking and
 don't lose your heads." The last comment had been directed at Garrett.
      Lord  Thorne  calmly  led  the  group out  onto  the  street  and
 proceeded toward the gate. They  were stopped by the soldiers guarding
 the gate.  One of  them sent for  his commander and  made it  clear to
 Thorne and his party  they were to wait and not to  do anything out of
 the ordinary.
      Thorne waited with growing anxiety.  Now was the moment of truth.
 An officer dressed in impressively gilded armour and wearing a scarlet
 cape walked over to the group  flanked by two guards. He spoke briefly
 with  the  soldiers who  stopped  the  group  and then  asked  several
 questions of Lord  Thorne in perfectly fluent  Baranurian. Lord Thorne
 grew more and more worried, for it was evident that the officer either
 did not  believe Thorne's  answers or took  offense with  followers of
 Stevene. The  questions were becoming  harder to deal with  and Thorne
 knew his party was lost. Just  then, the officer questioning the group
 was called away.
      A  second officer  with  gilding even  more  impressive than  the
 first, and whose  cape was fastened with a platinum  clasp, had called
 the  first officer  to him  and the  two were  now involved  in a  low
 discussion.
      "What's the problem, Colonel?" Vasquez asked.
      "They  say they  are heretics,  followers  of Stevene  on a  holy
 pilgrimmage," Conti replied.
      "And?"
      "And...they are heretics, sir. That alone condemns them."
      "Are you saying they should be killed?"
      "No. sir. You know my  feeling regarding that subject. But should
 we not refuse them permission to leave the city?"
      "Are they who they claim?"
      "Hard to tell, sir.  It is possible they are who  they say, but I
 find  it  too  much  of  a  coincidence  they  should  be  starting  a
 pilgrimmage now."
      "Yes, Colonel.  I agree." Vasquez  studied the group.  From their
 look, he  was quite sure they  were lying. "I'll handle  this, Conti."
1Vasquez turned and  regarded the spectacle of the  flaming city before
 him. "Colonel," he  said, "the killing has gone on  long enough. Round
 up a Regiment or two and bring order to this madness."
      Gow be praised, Conti thought. "What of the fire?"
      "Contain  it  and let  it  burn  itself  out. Have  the  Regiment
 assigned to  the garrison handle  that aspect,  Colonel. I want  to be
 organized and on the march by dawn tomorrow."
      "Yes, sir." Conti saluted and departed to carry out his orders.
      Vasquez walked  over to  the group  waiting patiently  beyond the
 cordon. He could see the nervousness  on the old man's face. "Go." The
 old  man's  eyes  narrowed  slightly; clearly  he  was  suspicious  of
 Vasquez's intentions. "Go," Vasquez said again, not unkindly.
      "Thank  you,  Honored Sir,"  Thorne  said,  carefully hiding  his
 immense relief. "May Stevene smile upon you."
      Vasquez   watched  the   group   make  their   way  through   the
 blood-spattered gatehouse  and out  into the countryside.  "Sanar walk
 with you," he  said quietly. He watched them for  several more minutes
 and then turned to go about his business. Port Sevlyn had cost him one
 thousand nine hundred  dead or seriously wounded.  With the detachment
 of a  Regiment to  garrison the  city, Vasquez  would have  just under
 eleven thousand men to complete the march on Magnus. There was much to
 be done by morning.

      To  the southeast  of  Port  Sevlyn, the  soldiers  of the  Light
 Regiments of the B.E.F. turned from  their vigilant watch to the south
 to watch  the black smoke from  the dying city climb  ever higher into
 the sky.  The men stared at  the marker of Port  Sevlyn's funeral pyre
 until the Sergeants rather harshly reminded the men of their duty. The
 men shrugged and turned to the  south once more, keeping watch for the
 Regiments of the enemy that weren't coming.
      At least, not in their direction.
      Not immediately.

      Lord  Thorne  and  party  made  their  way  east  throughout  the
 remainder  of the  day,  the smoke  behind them  sending  a clear  and
 unmistakable message  to all  who could see  it; the  juggernaught was
 unleashed  like a  wolf  among  lambs and  the  wolf  was hungry.  The
 campaign for the Laraka was beginning to heat up.
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              ______________________________________

              A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion
              ______________________________________

 Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction.
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1   (C)   Copyright    August,     1990,   DargonZine,    Editor   Dafydd
 <[email-masked]>. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may
 not be reproduced  or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the
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