Chronicles of Murphy

Book One: Book of the Accursed

Disclaimer: There was actually a terrible mix-up. Due to clerical error, and despite the problems of age, time-warp, and the fact that this is about fifteen years belated, the truth is that I actually wrote Record of the Lodoss War in the first place. So I'm really technically the owner. So really, there's nothing to disclaim, because it's my property to do with whatever I want.

Really. I'm being totally serious.

Chapter Fifteen

Prelude to a Crusade

"Alex, wait."

He paused at the exit of the castle. He should have taken a deep breath to center himself, to calm down. The only problem was that was more effort than was worth it. He settled for simply turning to face Etoh.

He was breathing hard; Alex had been gone for a few minutes with nothing but largely pointless arguing going on before Etoh had thrown his hands up, informed everyone present they weren't solving anything and left. He'd been forced to run to catch Alex. "Why are you doing this? Why are you just up and leaving?"

Alex sighed. "Because I don't have any time for anything else. I'm not a king, so I can't make alliances or anything. Kashue's going to have his hands full trying to get this thing arranged, and he's going to do it his way, not mine. It's going to be the same for Kannon, Fahn, and Jester." He smiled thinly. "Kadamos would probably have me drowned in holy water if I tried to enter Alan now, so he's out too. I can try to get their help, but it's going to take hours to get everything straightened out before any of that can happen, and I just don't have the time." He sighed then shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. It was harder than he would have expected. "I'm sorry I have to leave like this, but I can't afford to waste any time."

He reeled for a moment; there was no pain, but still, he never would have thought Etoh would cold-cock him.

Etoh shook his hand out lightly; that had hurt more than he'd expected. "Are you done telling me lies?" He waited for Alex to answer, but after it became clear that he wasn't going to, he simply kept going. "I'm not interested in logistics or strategy. I don't care what you planned, or what you said or didn't. All I want to know is why you're just going to walk away from the people who care about you."

Alex just stared. He hadn't seen Etoh in months, and now this. It was easy to underestimate that boyish face. Still, he deserved an answer. "I'm not going to survive this campaign. I'm physically dead; the only thing keeping me going is the fact that I have unfinished business. Once that's done..." he shrugged. "Etoh, that's it. I'm out. I'm shuffling loose the mortal coil." His complacent expression faded. "This was good-bye."

After that last hit, he was a bit wary of Etoh; he managed to dodge the next punch.

Etoh glared at him. "That's it? That's the best you can come up with?" He snorted; it was an odd sound to hear from him. "Marmo is still afraid of you after what happened in the Valley. You have the ears of kings because you're supposed to be some sort of genius, and THAT was the best you can come up with? We're your FRIENDS," he emphasized, "and friends don't just run away from each other. You didn't tell us about Kardis, and while this is huge, I can't honestly be upset with you for that."

Alex blinked. "You're not upset that I didn't bother to tell you about the imminent end of existence as we know it?"

Etoh shrugged. "You were right up there; no one would have believed it." He had a half-embarrassed grin on his face. "To tell the truth, I'm still not sure I believe it. I mean, something this big and not a word from Pharis to his faithful?" He froze as he realized what he'd implied. "Not that Pharis would give ME anything special, but someone would have known. I mean, Neese didn't hear anything, neither did Leylia, but you'd think one of them would have."

"You're babbling," Alex interjected.

Etoh flushed. "Sorry." Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he continued. "The point is that telling us wouldn't have made any difference. No one would EVER have believed it, because no one wants to believe that Kardis could wake up. Now..." he sighed. "Regardless of what the rest of the godhood has said, or hasn't, there's too much evidence of something wrong on Marmo to discount what we heard. Well, that and when you hear it from Wort himself, you tend to believe it. So." He took a deep breath. "First, I expect you to go up there and apologize to everyone for what happened. We're all a bit out of sorts, and frankly, I don't think that you could have built an army big or strong enough to cut its way through all of Marmo in four months. You're going to need all the help you can get. Then..." he smiled. "What can we do?"

Alex was silent for a long time. He could do apologies; that wasn't the issue. Would they accept it? ...Maybe. Again, not really what he was wondering. "Etoh, what happened to you? Why are you this nice a guy? Hell, you're nicer than I am, and I used to be REALLY nice." He paused. That 'used to be' was actually kind of sad, all things considered.

Etoh just smiled. "Pharis preaches righteousness, justice, law, and devotion. Some of the priests differ, but I always thought that to be righteous means to know what is unalterably right, and to support that whole-heartedly." He shrugged. "Saving one of my friends, saving Lodoss, opposing Kardis..." he laughed. "These are all things that Pharis would support. And if they aren't, then perhaps it's not Pharis who my prayers reach."

Alex managed a chuckle. A blasphemous, borderline heretical Etoh. It somehow felt right for this Lodoss. "Alright, I'll apologize, but that's it. There really isn't that much that needs to be done, but it needs to be done NOW. I'll have to be quick." He sighed. "I DO owe them an apology, that much is clear."

"Accepted."

Alex started. Well, tried to. Reflexes were going to take some time to deal with. He settled for looking up in surprise. Slayn, Leylia, Chiffon... "Kashue?"

The desert king sighed. "I AM a king you know. It wouldn't kill you to show the proper respect." He winced at his word choice a moment later.

Alex shrugged. "Sorry." He looked around. Leylia looked contrite, Slayn looked...well, Slayn...ish...and Chiffon just looked sad and withdrawn. He sighed. "Look, I really am sorry about everything. I've been under a lot of stress lately, and it's gotten worse in the last few days." Kashue snorted, and Alex grinned. "Yes, I realize that's something of an understatement, but it's true. So. I deeply apologize for being such a colossal asshole a few minutes ago, and ask that you forgive me." He bowed, and somehow despite his sarcastic apology, sincerity showed through.

Kashue sighed. "Alex, I need to muster Flaim. I can't afford to take every soldier I have, regardless of whether or not I should, but even then it's going to take weeks to issue the orders, get the supplies we'll need, and march to Kannon or Roid to set sail. I'm not going to be much help, I'm afraid."

Alex nodded. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I wasn't expecting much help from you in that regards." He shrugged. "That's why I started organizing an army all those months ago. Still, I do have one request. If you can manage it, sail from Kannon. I'd appreciate you being there to help me finalize plans and strategy."

Kashue nodded. "Agreed. Most of the men who I'd be mustering will be medium and heavy cavalry anyway; they can cover the distance overland as easily as they can by sea." He frowned. "What are your resources?"

Alex sighed. "That's the problem. I don't know exactly how many recruits and trained militia to expect. I couldn't openly start building an army across Lodoss without causing some serious strain, so I had to use the coyotes to set up training programs for individual villages." He shook his head helplessly. "I told them to train every man who could learn, and to bring everyone they could south into Kannon if they heard anything about Shooting Star, but still..."

Kashue's eyes widened. "Wait, you knew Shooting Star was going to wake up from the get go?"

Alex nodded. "I knew that Wagnard would go after the scepter sooner or later, I just didn't know when."

Kashue bit back a retort; it was really the same as the whole closed-lips policy regarding Kardis. He never would have believed it. Sighing, he shook his head. "So your 'army' is nothing but a group of untried peasants, unarmed and both trained by and led by relatively inexperienced militia?"

Alex smirked. "Hardly. First, I managed to get into contact with an arms supplier and contract out a long-term agreement for high-quality arms and armor. They'll be delivered to Kannon soon. Secondly..." he grinned nastily. "I made some friends right from the start. I hadn't planned on it, but they liked me enough to promise to help when the time came."

Kashue frowned. "Who?"

"The Carals and the Lusitanians."

Kashue's eyes bulged. "YOU...you're going to let those crazy barbarians loose on Marmo?" He managed a hollow laugh. "Good gods, I never thought I'd pity those poor bastards."

"The Carals or the Lusitanians?"

"Both."

Leylia frowned. "Um, excuse me, but who are the Lusitanians? Or the Carals for that matter?"

Chiffon chose to answer. "When we first left Tarba, Alex wanted to visit the Caraline Grasses. We met the Carals there; they're a society of herders and hunters who live in the grasses."

"Who happen to ride eight-foot-tall predatory birds," Kashue added. Leylia's eyes widened. Seeing that, Kashue laughed mirthlessly. "Their mounts are probably as dangerous as they are. Considering how blood-crazy the average Caral is in a fight, that's saying something about both of them." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Frankly, it's the Lusitanians who worry me more though." Seeing the questioning looks, he elaborated. "The Lusitanians are horse-nomads living on equal parts of the Caraline Grass's northern border and Flaim's southern. They claim no lands of their own, just roam and hunt and gather wherever seems to best at the time. My desert tribes and the Carals have both been trying to wipe them out for hundreds of years, and neither has managed."

Leylia's eyes bulged. She spun on Alex. "How on earth did you manage to get those people to work for you? Or together, for that matter?"

Alex shrugged. "Karl actually did most of the work. You know that he claimed some land east of Flaim, right?" Judging from the dumbfounded looks, they didn't. "Well anyway, he planned on it just being a sort of refugee camp for some people we helped out on the way to the grasses, but since he started it on good land, it stayed. And the people expected so much from him, they kept keeping him there with a new problem until he ended up the leader there." He smiled at the looks; Karl had surprised him too. "Anyway, the reason why such good land had been left alone was because no one wanted to deal with the neighbors; Carals to the southeast, Lusitanians to the northeast, coastal raiding parties on the seas to the north, bandits on the trade routes to the southeast...it was a no-man's land. Karl originally just wanted to entrench the place, but after we came back and he found out we were in good standing with the Carals, he decided to strike a deal with them."

"A deal," Kashue said flatly.

Alex shrugged. "It's kind of complicated, but he managed to get them to agree to stop trying to wipe each other out, at least when they were in his place. HOW, I don't know, but he did. Anyway, once they had that much of a common ground, they were able to start developing something like a grudging respect. They still hate each other, and still fight, but now it's a matter of person against person rather than race against race."

Kashue shook his head. "Trusting them is a BAD idea, Alex. You need mutual trust to win a war, and they don't have it. They might be willing to fight, but they won't take orders."

Alex's reply oddly enough was accompanied by a smile. "Let me worry about that. I think I can manage them both." He looked around, his smile fading. "Just head south into Kannon if you can; it would help to apprise you of what I have planned, and even if you decide to go your own way, it would still be easier to do this if we were at least not working to cross purposes. I have to go."

"Where?" Slayn asked. "You said that you had this planned, that they were already moving on their own." His eyes narrowed. "Who do you have in reserve?"

"No one. But I need to head back to Fire Dragon Mountain, and without Bucephalus, it's going to take a while." His face fell; he could still remember the sickening noise of Bucephalus's death.

Cyrus shifted uncomfortably. Er, about that...

"Why Fire Dragon Mountain?" Kashue frowned. "Come to think of it, you said something about the law of dragons. Wort didn't give any explanation before he left; what's that have to do with anything?"

Alex growled. "Goddamnit Wort, would it kill you to help a LITTLE bit?" Shaking his head, he tried to recall it all. "Okay, this is a bit confusing, but bear with me, I'll get there. You know that dragons are creatures of magic, right?" Everyone nodded; it was kind of obvious. "Okay. Probably not known per se, but it's fairly obvious that an Ancient Dragon's magic would be quite a bit stronger than any other dragon's. Still with me?" Looks were turning impatient; he winced. He didn't want to patronize them, but it had to be said. "So, all that magic energy being burned constantly...what happens to it?" It was a rhetorical question; he just kept going. "A dragon's hoard absorbs it over time, like a batter...oh yeah, you don't have those. Um...sort of like a cistern holds rain water for later. Dragons can draw back on that energy if they need it, in case of say a famine, or if they need to cast some sort of huge spell as an emergency, or to help speed up their recovery if they're seriously injured. Now, here's the big question; what happens to that magic when the dragon dies?"

This time he managed to get blank looks; it WAS esoteric knowledge after all. Chiffon frowned. "The laws of magic state that without some sort of focus holding it, magical energy would disperse over time normally."

"Normally, yes. Ancient Dragons aren't normal, unfortunately. What ends up happening is that most of the energy is dispersed all at once, channeled right into the dragon's now-dead soul, empowering it for the next life. Some of that energy however remains behind, binding the gold to the laws of dragonkind."

"You keep talking about laws of dragon-kind," Kashue growled. "Do dragons even HAVE laws? I know that Bramd and Mycen make laws, and follow the laws of the gods, but I've never heard of dragons having laws of their own."

Slayn winced. Unfortunately, he winced where Etoh and Leylia could see him; they both turned to him curiously. Which prompted Chiffon, Alex, and Kashue to look at him as well. Seeing the prompting look in Alex's eyes, he sighed. "Your majesty, the gods, and the very earth beneath our feet predate the Ancient Dragons. Those are perhaps the only things in all the world older than these great creatures. They were shaped in part by the gods, but only in part; the Ancients were as much a product of the forces of the world as the laws of nature and magic themselves." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know the laws, but even I know they exist, and that they cannot be broken." He frowned. "What those laws have to say about hoards, I don't know. Nor," he added pointedly, "do I understand why YOU know them."

Alex shrugged. "I learned of it at least in part by accident. I visited Moss, looking for any lore about dragon-slaying, and managed to find something out. The law doesn't have anything to do with hoards normally, only when you're the one who killed it. Normally when a dragon dies, the gold or whatever becomes cursed, guarded by the lingering magic of the dragon itself. Anyone who takes it gets the worst luck imaginable, usually fatally so. But if you kill the dragon yourself, then you have a right to the treasure, and as a result you can dispel the curse selectively."

Kashue stared at him hard for a moment. He remembered Shooting Star's hoard; a mountain of gold, platinum, silver jewels, art, and magic nearly a hundred feet high and over three hundred feet around. "Are you telling me that you're laying claim to Shooting Star's ENTIRE hoard?"

Alex quirked an eyebrow. "As I recall, I was the one who killed it. Just because you were there doesn't mean you can do it too you know." He shrugged. "Relax, I don't want all of it. I'll uncurse a large portion of it for Flaim, but I need it, and fast."

"For what?"

Alex snorted. "How the hell am I supposed to pay for an army and all the equipment otherwise? What, you think the people I hired are doing this out of the goodness of their hearts? I need to pay Karl too; he's taken a LOT on for me on credit. I need to square that away." Hefting his pack, he turned to leave. "Look, we can keep talking, but that's not really important. You have a lot to do, and so do I. So let's just get as much done as we can, alright?"

Kashue sighed, rubbing his temples with one hand. He hated not knowing what he was getting himself into, but he was an experienced ruler and commander. He could improvise. He just acknowledged it as a poor option. "Go. You're right, I have a lot to handle on my own. Just..." he sighed. "Good luck Alex."

Alex accepted his outstretched hand; he wondered if his grip was cold, but didn't dwell on it long. "You too." He frowned at his hand a moment later as he remembered. "What happened to Achiya? I remember losing it, but I didn't see it in my room."

Etoh winced. "...it was destroyed, Alex. Wagnard broke it to pieces."

"..." It was harder to hear than he'd thought. He'd lost track of how many times the blood-thirsty lance had saved his life. Sighing, he turned to Kashue. "I don't suppose you have a lance I could take with me? And a horse, if you have one to spare."

Kashue waved it aside. "Take whichever horse you like. I remember how vicious that stallion of yours was; you shouldn't have too much problem with a desert mount. As for a lance..." he hesitated for several long moments, then sighed. Turning back to one of his guards, he called him over. "Go to the barracks. Tell Shadam to bring out one of the Lances we took with us." He watched the man bow and scurry off. Turning back to Alex, he offered a faint smile. "They were meant to kill dragons, but they'll be effective against anything really. Besides, they were well-made lances before they were ever enchanted."

Alex bowed. He'd been hoping for a good-quality lance; this was more than he'd hoped for. "Thank you."

Cyrus winced, but flapped over to Alex's shoulder. He needed to get this done with now. Alex, you don't need a horse. I uh...I seemed to have...neglected to mention something about Bucephalus.

"Ashram?" Pirotess frowned as she watched her Emperor stare into the surf. It had been nearly a week now. A week of riding hard, sleeping little, and riding again. Riding by night, from the long sunlight of the setting sun through moonrise and moonlight, riding until the long slanting light of the sun came to torment them as they rode south and east. They ate only two meals in a day, once upon waking and once before sleeping. They slept little even by day; Ashram insisted that Pirotess sleep first, that he take the first watch; he had slept less than twenty hours in six days.

And he simply stared into the surf.

She frowned. She had chosen to serve this man wholly. She offered him her advice, her mind, her body, her devotion...he had her loyalty and her trust. And yet he gave almost nothing back. Nothing of value, certainly. She shared his body nightly (or at least she had before this mess on the mainland), but he was a man, a lord, and a knight; he put no stock in what he used his body for, only what (or rather who) he used it on. He offered her some degree of trust, but no more than what he had to give to someone who he kept so close; a bodyguard and spymaster. He was devoted to her, insofar as that he took no other women or betrayed her, but she was his vassal; he wasn't expected to be totally devoted to her.

But what of his mind? To know what he thought, what he believed...he was under no compunction to give her that. He was not expected to, but there would be no harm in it. She didn't care about state secrets, or the conclusions he reached about her intelligence work. She wanted to know what he thought, how he thought, and for no reason save that he did nothing to help her in that regard.

She wanted to know it because it was something that he would never...EVER allow anyone.

For his part, Ashram just watched the surf idly. To all outward appearances he was still the ice-cold monster, but inside he...pondered.

The humans who live on Marmo tend to be paranoid. Goblins flat didn't care (or were too stupid to think about it), kobolds were pragmatic in the extreme, Ogres lived too much in the 'now' to have the foresight necessary for paranoia, and the dark elves...well, they were paranoid about each other. They didn't believe that any other race in all of existence was truly capable of harming them or even challenging them.

Ashram, like most of the human denizens of Marmo, was paranoid. But as a great man once said (whose name escapes me), it's not paranoia if they're really after you. He knew full well that the rest of Lodoss hated him personally and his people generally. He knew that no less than eight separate crusades had been mounted against Marmo to strip it of all life, so salt the land and burn it to ash. He also knew that if you discounted the thousands of raids and thrusts against mainland lodoss, that Marmo had attempted organized conquest thirteen times.

He'd always known that it was only a matter of time before someone came along and decided to mount another attack on Marmo. His predecessors had organized an intelligence network for just that reason, had fortified the island for just that reason, had sacrificed what little chances there were to improve life on Marmo just to inconvenience an incoming army.

And now, if the intelligence reports were to be believed, the ninth crusade against Marmo was being organized at his back, under the leadership of the one person who scared Ashram.

Don't consider this foolishness on his part, nor an act of ego from the author. Ashram didn't fear Alex because Alex was stronger than him (he wasn't). He wasn't a better leader, a better fighter...in truth, he probably wasn't smarter than Ashram.

And yet Alex had killed Shooting Star, a beast that Ashram couldn't defeat.

And it had driven home Ashram's misgivings, his little pet obsession with the Coyote. He finally understood why he thought about Alex so hard.

Ashram couldn't think like Alex did. And that scared him.

Kashue was a great leader; brave, good-looking, and incredibly charismatic, he drew people to him easily. He commanded respect and loyalty, he inspired faith, trust, and bravery in his men, his people, and his allies.

But Ashram could handle Kashue. He knew how Kashue fought, he could put himself well enough in Kashue's place to out-think him, to counter him and defeat him. Fahn, Kannon, Kadamos...he knew how they'd think. They were kings, born of a tradition where Kings had to think, act, and behave in certain ways, ways that he had been trained in. He could bend from those rules, but he could follow them to their natural conclusions as well. He could easily see what they would think, what they would do. He could set them up and if necessary, knock them down.

Alex didn't just not follow the rules of a king or a general. He didn't follow the rules of basic human logic.

What sort of bizarre thought processes leads someone to throw themselves literally into the dragon's mouth, simply because it is the ONE place where the dragon won't think to defend itself?

Alex frightened Ashram because he knew that they were going to clash again. He was as smart as Alex, as cunning and determined. But only with great difficulty could he even try to predict Alex, and prediction is the basis of a pitched defense.

If you are facing foot soldiers, you build moats, dig trenches, prepare pikes, raise walls. You don't do any of that against an aerial foe. If you know you'll face cavalry, you make sure that you have cavalry to counter it, for the simple reason that nothing else can catch cavalry than more cavalry.

Ashram had faced Alex in battle. He had seen how Alex fought, how he lead. But the one thing he couldn't forget was that every time he'd fought Alex seriously, it had ended in a draw that he could well have lost.

Sighing, he turned from the surf, and swung up into his saddle. This blasted messy excursion wasn't a total loss; it had given him a chance to observe Lodoss personally from a viewpoint other than that of a conqueror. It had also given him the one clue about Alex that might let him crack the man's thoughts.

In their first serious duel, when Alex had ridden to his escape, he'd revealed a mastery of the lance. In the pitched battle against the Coyotes, he had unleashed a phalanx, a never-before seen battalion, backed by men who fought in ways that had hardly ever been used. Against Shooting Star, he had defied ALL conventional wisdom, going straight for the heart of it.

He'd finally realized that the basis of Alex's strategy was simply to have something new.

Alex stared gauntly at the remains of what had been Bucephalus. He hadn't asked, but he would later discover that he'd been 'dead' for three days before he managed to force some life back into his body. In that time, the desert had done its work on the remains of what had once been the closest thing to a brother that Alex had.

Thirsty desert beasts had flocked in as quickly as they could, stealing what blood and sweat they could before the desert heat could bake it away. When that was gone, the flesh and viscera had followed. The hairs of what had been Bucephalus's mane, tail, and fetlocks was scattered; they hadn't bothered to eat it, but the desert scavengers had had no compunctions against tearing it out by the roots to get at his neck, shoulders, and haunches. What remained of his hide was tattered; the vultures had pierced it to get deep enough for the good stuff, and the jackals had tugged and eaten what they could.

Even his bones were in disarray; legs had been torn out of joint for individual eating, the ribs (those that hadn't been broken by Wagnard) were crushed, and scattered like white building blocks.

Alex, I understand that you don't have a whole lot of reason to trust me right now, but please, I'm telling you the truth. Bucephalus isn't dead. Cyrus hunched his wings uncomfortably; his equivalent of a nervous shrug. I'm not even sure if he could have been said to be alive to begin with.

"Right. Because that makes perfect sense. Seriously, I've been riding Bucephalus for the past five months. Granted, you hadn't met him for the first month of that, but the point remains. WHY didn't you think to tell me this at the time?"

Cyrus hunched his wings again. Honestly? Didn't feel like it. Besides, those things are notoriously cruel and bloodthirsty.

"...again, WHY didn't you bother to tell me this?"

...Alex, do you have any idea how long its been since someone successfully rode one of those things? When I showed up, you had Bucephalus TAMED. TAMED, Alex. He hunched. I never would have thought that was possible without knowing what he was. And by the time I figured out that you didn't have a clue...well, it didn't seem important. And hey, it's not like you've ever kept secrets. From me too, remember?

"Like what?" Alex demanded. "Okay, I'll concede that I'm secretive. Completely true. But what secrets have I kept from you? Name ONE."

How about your plan for the battle? Alex remained silent. Cyrus smirked. I know you haven't told anyone else because you need them to come to the wrong conclusion, but why not me? Who could find out? Who could I tell?

"How about any one of the thousands of wizards or shamans on Lodoss that can tell you're not just a stupid bird, and know that I keep you around at all times?"

...good point.

Alex sighed. On the one hand, Cyrus had torqued him off. On the other hand, he had a point; it was at least SLIGHTLY hypocritical for Alex to judge or condemn others for being secretive. Besides, he'd always had a hard time retaining a bad mood after sleeping (and his dead coma was apparently close enough). "Okay, so I understand that Bucephalus wasn't a normal horse, and was something cruel, vicious, and bloodthirsty that, according to you at least, could survive having its torso turned into pate and then being eaten. So. Care to tell me WHAT he really was? Or is? Or whatever?"

Cyrus chuckled nervously. Um...you've heard of nightmares, right?

"...considering that I ended up accidentally watching HIM mount several mares when we were hanging out with the Lusitanians, I'm going to have to venture the opinion that mare might not be the best word to describe him." Alex frowned. "I'm assuming you're talking about how evil 'horses' were supposed to haunt people's dreams, right? THAT kind of nightmare?"

Uh...yeah, kind of. Except that the night...well, I guess night-stallions are sort of...well, runty compared to the other ones. Not to mention a bit nicer.

Alex rolled his eyes. "Bucephalus spent at least a half an hour a day trying to eat my fingers for no other reason than boredom, as far as I can tell. THAT's supposed to be nice?"

Hey, nightmares exist for the sole purpose of spreading terror, fear, discontent, and torment. Pause. That and chasing down whatever males happen to be convenient as necessary. So it's not too hard to believe. I mean really, Bucephalus just killed other people by the cartload by stomping out their brains or biting off important bits of their bodies. Another pause. Okay, that might not have helped my case too terribly much.

Alex shook his head. God Cyrus was a pain in the ass. It could have been worse; he could have ended up with Kir from King of Bandits Jing. No matter how annoying the damned bird was, at least he wasn't some sort of bizarre, bestiality-prone womanizing kleptomaniac (if it's a different species, it's technically bestiality. Even when the other species in question is human). "Fine, let's say I buy it. How does this give me back Bucephalus?"

Cyrus hunched. Well, as near as I can tell, someone sorcerer or priest or something was trying to get themselves a horse that would be stronger, faster, and deadlier than anything normal. So they took a mortal horse, killed it, and left its body in a summoning circle to try and possess it with a Nightmare. Except they were too weak, and some enterprising young...male, had the intelligence to answer the call and possess the horse's body, bringing it back to life.

Alex was silent for a while. When Cyrus remained silent as well, he finally sighed. "I'm going to need a bit more than that to go on."

Well, think about it. Bucephalus wasn't really ever alive to begin with, and no one noticed it. I mean come on, it's not like people automatically assume a bad-tempered horse is possessed by a demon, they just chop off its nuts. So if he was a spirit who was never alive to begin with, why can't he still be around?

"...that's it?"

Huh?

Alex palmed his face. "Cyrus, you bloody idiot. You brought me all the way out here because Bucephalus MIGHT still be alive?"

...maaaaaaybeee...?

A sudden chill that quite literally even a dead man could feel was the only thing that saved Cyrus from being used as flyswatter.

Sand muffles sound to a degree; walking on sand creates far less noise than walking on streets or dead leaves might. Howling winds, particularly those that accompany the twilight drown out sounds even further. It would be difficult under the best of circumstances to hear an opponent approach, and Alex was most decidedly NOT at his best.

He heard not a thing, he saw nothing until the last moment...but he knew it was coming from nearly a thousand feet away. The unholy, un-natural aura he felt was only too clear a warning.

He felt his jaw drop slightly as he took in the sight. Bucephalus had followed him begrudgingly in life. He had seemed to calm down while Alex was dying. Now, Alex was dead, and Bucephalus came of his own free will.

That didn't make it any easier to recognize what had once been a magnificent horse.

Bucephalus had been a somewhat atypical horse of the light type; he was tall, lean, and swift. Unsuited to heavy burdens, his speed had been awe-inspiring, his endurance incredible, his intelligence unsettling, but even the most jaded would have to admit that he was a beautiful animal.

There remained something that might have been considered beautiful in him now, but it was hard to notice. What had been glossy, dark gray hide was dull now; like suede where it once had been like polished leather. His good, hard musculature was stretched tight, too tight; he was whipcord and bone, gaunt where once he'd simply been leanly healthy. His eyes were too bright now; brighter than any creature with simple animal intelligence could ever have possessed. There was malice visible in his eyes now, malice and calculation, cunning that belonged in the eyes of a devil. Thick, shaggy white hair that had been a mane had disappeared completely, almost invisible. If hair remained there, it was too fine to tell; where a mane or tail should have been, what looked like gray high-altitude cloud wisp waited.

He looked dark, shadowy, creepy, and evil. And finally, Alex was willing to believe that Cyrus had been telling the truth.

He could believe that Bucephalus sired Nightmares.

Cautiously, Alex approached the Night Stallion. Bucephalus had lost a great deal of his sadistic tendencies (at least towards Alex) in the past months, but he'd always demanded respect. More importantly, Alex had never managed to forget how their 'relationship' began.

Bucephalus was faster than he remembered; as shot as his reflexes were, Alex doubted he could have dodged the bite if he hadn't been prepared for it. Shaking his hand, he glared at the horse currently snickering at him. "Are we going to have to go through this again?"

Bucephalus pointedly shat on the desert sands.

Shaking his head resignedly, Alex tensed the Flowing Soul; limp muscles hardened as he prepared. He still needed to reach Fire Dragon Mountain to un-curse enough of Shooting Star's gold to pay off his debts. Afterwards he was going to have to ride across probably half of the roads of Lodoss if he was going to properly collect all the militias he organized. Afterwards, or during, he'd have to head to Raiden to collect his guides and some of the...specialists he'd arranged for. And when that was all finally finished, he had to organize probably ten to fifteen thousand men, see to their last-minute training, equip them, and somehow drum up enough courage and confidence in them to keep them alive on Marmo without lying his ass off.

By contrast, keeping on Bucephalus's back would be a cinch. The easiest part of his next two months, and he couldn't even take the time to savor it. Pissed him off.

Which was quite possibly the best possible mood he could be in for this.

Bucephalus wrinkled his lips at his potential-master; it was as close to a grin as he could manage. He knew the score, he knew what to expect. If he stayed on his own, he could run around, find various mares to impregnate with his demonic seed, and unleash a curse of magnificent, unridable horses on Lodoss, all while staying as far away from those crazy, bitchy other-worldly mares he was supposed to sire on. Not a bad plan, in and of itself.

But...if Alex was actually strong enough to best him in this new game, then he would be ridden to the unholy citadel of the goddess of madness, where he would get to kill hundreds if not thousands of people personally, all while drinking in the screams and torment of more dying than even he could kill.

Gotta love win-win situations.

Wort frowned. "I'm sorry?"

Renard smiled. "I asked if you had anything to drink."

Wort stifled the urge to roll his eyes. Nearly thirty years of blessed solitude, and twice in the last six months his tower security had been bypassed with insulting ease. Sighing, he lowered himself into one of his over-stuffed chairs. "You broke into my tower days ago, and somehow in that whole time you never managed to find the wine cellar?" He used a minor cantrip to levitate a bottle of brandy he particularly favored towards the stranger. "Drink all you like. Say your piece, and then please be so kind as to leave and never come back."

Renard accepted the bottle, looking about for a glass. Finding nothing but beakers full of liquids that would probably cause complications to even him if he drank them, he simply raised the bottle in toast. "Hope you don't mind me drinking straight from it."

Wort shrugged tiredly. "It's more than half-empty anyway; if I wanted some back, I would have levitated you a glass in the first place. Now, I repeat. Say what you're here to say, then please leave. And don't come back."

Renard polished off half of the bottle's contents, ignoring Wort for the time being. Sighing blissfully, he set the bottle in midair and left it there. "You've got good taste in wines. My compliments." Settling himself more comfortably in another armchair (Wort's tower was littered with the things; he liked his comforts), he hooked one foot over his leg, clasping his knee in both hands. "I'm here about Alex."

Wort groaned. "Good gods, when will you people leave me alone about him?"

Renard shrugged. "I can't speak about the rest of Lodoss, but I'll be leaving you alone regarding him once he's dead. So soon enough, no need to worry. Anyway, I simply came to ask you to consider why Wagnard decided to acquire the Scepter in the first place."

Wort frowned. "Are you mad? Who wouldn't desire the Scepter of Domination? Particularly ambitious, power-mad lunatics."

Renard 'tsked.' "Wort, you're not thinking. Consider this; what is required to resurrect Kardis?"

Wort frowned. He wasn't a priest or religious scholar; he knew more obscure lore than anyone living on Lodoss. The rebirth of Kardis was unfortunately NOT the sort of thing that comes up in most research. "Considering the abduction of Deed and recent events, I'm assuming a high-elf sacrifice and the Scepter."

Renard shook his head. "I checked. Sacrifices are the only requirements." His voice took on an odd tone, almost as though he was deliberately dramatizing his next words. "You must take your immortal high elf down into the depths of Marmo's bedrock, where rests an Altar, an Altar carved out by Kardis herself in the last moment of her life; the gateway that lets her back in, sealed by Falaris himself." He waggled a finger as Wort's mouth opened as his voice went back to normal. "Now now, you said you wanted me to talk and leave. It would be rude to interrupt me now." Wort's mouth closed. Smiling, Renard continued. "To open this gate, take six high-ranking priests of Falaris along with you. There are six pillars surrounding the Altar that serve as material links to the mystical and divine seals that hold her. To unlock those seals, the souls of the six priests must be sealed into them, dissolving their bodies in the process. As each seal opens, the force that Kardis can release will increase, until with the sixth seal opened, she will be able to open the seventh, and claim the High Elf's soul."

Wort frowned. He couldn't decide which unsettled him more; the fact that this complete stranger knew so much about how to unseal Kardis, or the utter unconcern with which he talked about it. "Pardon my question; why WOULD it require a sacrifice?"

Renard grinned; he liked rubbing it in other people's faces. "I checked that too; apparently, those seal thingies in the pillars? They're powered by six dispossessed demons." Oh, it was fun to watch people's eyes widen like that. "What happens is apparently with each priest's death, the demon is let loose, his soul replaced by the priest's. Only a priest, even a powerful one, isn't up to the strain. More importantly, the seal is DESIGNED around demonic power, which priests can wield but never truly possess. So anyway, by using the priest's souls to force out the demons, they can trick the seal into staying relatively stable, but NOT into keeping anything out. The big seal around Kardis though? It's the same design, just more powerful. So, in order to get her out of there, you need something to replace her, another immortal's soul."

Wort stared. "But that's ridiculous! Even if Deedlit IS immortal, her soul can't possibly be held to the same caliber as a god's True Form!"

Renard shrugged. "Who said it was? The seal's designed to contain an Immortal, not necessarily a deity." He grinned nastily. "Wouldn't surprise me if Falaris sealed her like that as a contingency to get him out and about again."

Wort shivered. Somehow, that made sense. It would take something with the sheer reality-warping force of the rebirth of another deity to let Him loose in the world again. And the idea of Falaris loose in the world completely unchecked and unopposed scared him far more than the thought of Kardis released. Kardis would just kill them all. Falaris was capable of quite a bit worse.

Wort frowned suddenly. "Wait a minute, if that's true...why the scepter?"

Renard smirked. "Exactly."

Was he referring to the scepter? Or the 'if that's true?'

Wort frowned. "But that doesn't make any sense; if Wagnard just wants Kardis resurrected..."

"EXACTLY!" Renard crowed, nearly sending Wort falling out of his chair. Renard grinned maniacally. "BUT! Therein lies the REAL question...does Wagnard intend just to resurrect Kardis out of piety and all that crap? I mean really," he leaned back, posing languidly, "if that's not the case, why would he decide to steal an artifact capable of dominating even the gods?"

Wort felt something in him shrivel up...oh yeah, those were his testes. "You can't be serious. HE can't be serious; not even Wagnard would be insane enough to..." to resurrect Kardis just to control her. Wort slumped in his chair. "No...he might be that crazy." He groaned, running his hands through his thinning hair. He missed the old days; it was so much simpler being a mercenary mage. Kill it, burn it, freeze it, or blow it up. Collect pay. Drink yourself stupid, bed a whore, cast the spells you need to make sure you don't have any diseases the next morning. Repeat as necessary.

Renard smirked, and rose to leave. "So anyway, have fun trying to stop him, or whatever you decide to do. I'm done, so I'll go ahead and leave. And not come back." He smirked and vanished.

Wort didn't think about dimensional anchors and anti-teleportation wards that Renard had just utterly invalidated. He'd just had a terrifying thought.

The Scepter of Domination had the ability to control ALL the magic on Lodoss, something that Wagnard would know. But in a little over a month, when the Blue Moon rose...the magic that would be on Lodoss would reach a peak like nothing he'd ever imagined possible.

Something that Wagnard would also know.

A good week before the supposed Day of Resurrection for Kardis.

The only problem was that the Scepter wouldn't give any great control over Wild Magic; if anything, a night of Wild Magic would be the worst thing imaginable for the Scepter. Wild Magic tended to oppose control, almost consciously. If Wagnard tried to wield the scepter on that night, he would command all the magic of Lodoss, the one thing that the Wild Magic could be counted on to oppose.

But would Wagnard realize that? He was a priest, not a master of arcane theory.

Wort's head bowed. If this...stranger was telling the truth, or at least if he'd come to the correct conclusions, then Wagnard was planning on waking up Kardis and enslaving her with the Scepter of Domination. And if THAT was the case, depending on just how ignorant or knowledgeable Wagnard was, he would either resurrect her on the night when her powers were greatest, the night when she would be well-equipped to oppose him...or he would resurrect her on the night when his once chance at controlling and containing her would be completely useless.

Wort sighed. Yes, he very much missed being a simple mercenary mage.

It had to have been the two-hundredth bump in the past hour. Sure, Ghim wasn't anal enough to actually count the bumps, but he could imagine. Largely because he was pretty damn sure that it would take at least two hundred bumps on the road in the driver's seat of an oxcart to get him in a mood this foul.

Grunting sourly, he turned around in the seat, looking back over the huge line of oxcarts stretching out behind him; nearly two hundred all told, each packed to the gills with dwarvish goods, all of it either razor sharp or strong enough to withstand a blow from an ogre's fist.

They'd need it, poor schmucks.

Turning back, he glared balefully at the oxen in front of him. God's almighty, why the hell did he have to drive these damned things? Staring up a cow's arse-hole for the better part of a week and a half...this was the shit you dumped on the greenies. He was a four-hundred year old master smith and a veteran of three wars; he deserved a lot better than this.

Sure, it would be fun to see Alex again, give him crap. Hell, it would be fun to see just about any of them again, give them crap. And if the rumors were to be believed, and all of this was for an invasion of Marmo, well...he grinned ferally. He honestly wished that a horde of kobolds would come streaming over that hillock up ahead. The mood he was in, he'd probably grab the first one and use the poor bastard as a club to beat the rest to death.

He grumbled a bit as the fantasy died; clearing the hillock didn't show an enemy in sight.

Instead, he found a war-camp. Just where Alex had said it would be, damned near half a year ago.

There weren't many tents; it was still nice enough weather on the seaside that it was bearable to sleep out of doors. Most of the men had just marked their territory with a bedroll and a stand for mock-weapons; he noticed a shit-load of those twenty-foot pikes that Alex seemed to like so much for his spear-fodder. Ghim shook his head. He'd take an axe any day, but it made sense; that phalanx or whatever it was called was the only way for a bunch of brand-new recruits to stand any chance of surviving a pitched battle.

Still, if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, it looked like damn near twenty thousand men were camping down their in the foothills of Kannon. And that was just the peasant militia.

Driving further into the camp, Ghim looked around distrustfully; these guys were supposedly going to all be on the same side, but none of them looked right. Gaunt, crazy-eyed guys edgily brushing down horses that looked meaner than starved wolves and crueler than bored mountain cats watched just as warily as he drove past; he was guessing those were the Lusitanians he'd heard about. He had to wonder if riding those crazy horses of theirs was worth it; a good third of the riders were missing fingers, and he doubted it was to pox.

Carals looked on with more curiosity than concern; tall, lanky, and tanned, they looked like humans who'd tried to turn elf-pretty. Tough enough, Ghim supposed grudgingly, if their reputations were anything to go by. Though frankly, anybody willing to go riding around on one of those long-legged, short-winged giant hawks of theirs had his respect.

Not that he'd ever mention it.

The militia, the barbarians...he'd heard about them both, and expected them. It was the ragtag he noticed towards the center of the camp that surprised him.

"What the hell are smugglers doing here?" he muttered under his breath as he drove the wagon towards the clearing. They were pretty obviously smugglers, gun-runners, or pirates; nobody else he'd ever seen actually dressed that ridiculously. They sort of blended in though, what with the various other scruffy individuals, some of them angry-looking enough to give even the tough, seasoned old dwarf pause.

Shaking his head, he yanked back on the reins as he neared the biggest tent. Not that a big yank was necessary; the oxen had just been plodding along. It was the principal of the thing. Namely, the oxen pissed him off, so he went out of his way to try and make them uncomfortable.

Simple, really. Good dwarven logic.

Grunting, he eased himself off the bench; his ass felt like it had taken the shape of the board, and his legs were cramping up. Looking sourly at the tent, he stooped, hefted a rock about half the size of his clenched fist, and lobbed it into the tent.

There was rattling, a bit of cursing, and shortly thereafter Wood poked his head out of the tent. "Who the fuck just threw this at me?" He made a sort of 'gah!' noise when a second rock followed, narrowly missing his head.

Ghim grinned. "Sorry. Thought Alex was in there. Aiming at him." Alex came out a second later, and Ghim felt his smile fade.

He'd heard the rumors; most of Lodoss had at this point. Looking at him though, he couldn't help but believe them now. Alex had always been skinny, but now he looked almost as though he were wasting away, half-starved or something. He'd also always been tanned; he looked pale as a vampire now. Between that and the fact that he didn't look like he'd bothered to comb his hair for the last two weeks, he looked more like a fresh corpse that had dragged itself out of its coffin than the pain-in-the-ass who'd commissioned this big-ass order and gotten him that idiot's duty. "God, you look like crap."

Alex shrugged; he'd started wasting shortly after he left Flaim, and hadn't noticed it really until a few days later. By that time he'd lost nearly thirty pounds before he managed to track down Etoh. Now, in addition to Cain, he wore a pendant around his neck that had originally been designed as a grave offering for dead kings, to ensure that they stayed...presentable until their funerals; presentable and not-demonically-possessed. It didn't stop him from getting pale, but he didn't care. And frankly, after spending literally half of the last two weeks explaining what was happening, he was getting tired of people bringing it up. "You look old. And fat." He dodged Ghim's next rock. "And you're getting even slower than you used to be." He nearly didn't dodge the small hand-axe; he heard someone back in the tent yelp in shock. Probably Shiris. Walking over to the wagons, he threw back the dust cloth, checking over the craftsmanship. "Is this everything?"

Ghim glowered at him, but nodded grudgingly. "It looks like we might not have made enough, but you get what you pay for. Full kit for ten thousand infantry men and light cavalry; armor, helmets, shields, swords, spears...you name it. All dwarven make."

Alex nodded absently as he inspected some of the work at random. Full armor would have taken too long; Ghim had made that clear when he'd agreed to represent his clan for negotiations. He'd settle for continuing his vaguely Greek motif; breast-plates and greaves with big-ass shields. Most of the Coyotes who'd come back had kept their armor as mementos, but he'd at least try to get them to accept something better; he owed them a lot. Certainly more than some shiny new armor, but that was what he had to give them at the moment. Most of the infantry-men would make due with scale mail or roman-style laminar breastplates.

At least he could offer steel to most of them in place of bronze. "What about that special order?"

Ghim looked oddly uncomfortable. "Listen, Alex...I've got some time. Let me make you a good axe, maybe a halberd...hell, I'll make you a spear if that's what you really want." His eyes hardened a bit. "I'm serious, there's no way in hell you can take that ridiculous thing to Marmo and expect to do anything effectively with it." Alex just stared at him. Ghim growled under his breath. "Goddamnit, I'm trying to help you out here kid. I don't care what you've done or who you've done it to, I've got three and a half centuries on you, and I'm telling you that thing is NOT a good idea." Alex continued staring. Ghim growled, louder this time. "For crying out loud – "

"What did he ask for?"

Ghim started; he hadn't seen Chiffon come out of the tent. He was about to answer when he noticed just how bad she looked. "What's wrong with..." he trailed off. Oh. Yeah, kind of obvious when you thought about it. Coughing into his gauntleted fist, he fixed a frown on his face. "This idiot came charging into the forges last week, riding on some half-dead horse or something. Dragged Duer out of his forge and made an order." It might have been a trick of the light, but it almost looked as though Ghim was embarrassed.

"Who's Duer?"

Alex answered for Ghim; the dwarf probably wouldn't have answered in a manner that was even remotely civil. "Duer is what you might call an eccentric. He makes the weird weapons. He experiments. He 'dabbles.' And when I found out that Achiya's gone, I decided to have him make me a new weapon, something a bit...unorthodox."

Ghim snorted. "Idiotic you mean. Even for one of you big folks, it aint' gonna be wieldable." Sensing that it wasn't worth the effort, he finally threw his hands up. "Fine! You ain't got the sense to take advantage of it when a dwarf offers...OFFERS to make you a free weapon, that's fine with me. Not gonna beat THAT dead horse." He jerked a hand at the wagon. "Put it in the bottom, under all the armor and crap you wanted. Good luck digging it out."

Alex's answer to that was to knock down the tailgate of the wagon and start sweeping the armor aside far enough for him to grab a hold of the haft. Finding it, he took a firm grip and tore it out of the nest of armor.

The people around stared. It was not awe; more surprise or in some cases incredulity. Veterans tried NOT to look at it; some of the dwarves who'd driven the wagons were openly snickering.

It was a scythe. A REALLY. BIG. Scythe.

The scythe is a terrible weapon. Because the massive blade is set at the end of a long, unbalanced haft, it is difficult to control, requiring a massive amount of force and energy to swing. Not only that, but because the blade's length runs perpendicular to the haft, it suffers from rotational torque. A straight-bladed sword or spear is not inclined to rotate because it is centrally balanced around the weapon's long axis. A weapon like a scimitar or a samurai sword is not so balanced, but because the blade is still relatively straight and light, this torsion is easily manageable. A scythe's torsion is not.

The second problem with a scythe is the simple fact that no one has ever...EVER contrived to use one seriously on the battlefield. Peasants wield scythes in their revolts simply because there is nothing else to use; given the choice they will readily take up spears, axes, or swords. There is no accepted way to wield a scythe, no technique or style that has been laboriously researched and created by finding out how to counter the scythe's ungainliness for effective combat use.

Why then would Alex wield a scythe? He was a master of the jumonji yari, a spear with a cross-shaped head, a weapon for thrusting, slashing, piercing...a weapon of good, tight control. What possible reason is there to wield a scythe?

Alex looked over the massive weapon critically; eight feet long, the last six inches of the butt had been capped with a razor-sharp spear head that did absolutely nothing to counterbalance the four-and-a-half-foot-long blade. He'd realized all of the problems inherent with a scythe when he'd decided to have Duer make him one. It wasn't a weapon he'd ever encountered, and truth be told it wasn't a good weapon for him. He'd trained with spear, arrow, and straight-sword; he was good at thrusting attacks, precision-based damage...something a scythe decidedly lacked.

The scythe, or at least Alex's scythe had only two real advantages over other weapons. First, the lesser advantage of intimidation. It was a massive weapon bearing a massive blade. If wielded effectively, if used properly, it would serve to frighten his opponents quite effectively before he ever got within scythe-swipe of them.

And yet any weapon is intimidating; he didn't need a scythe for that. Which brings us to the only genuine advantage a scythe has as a weapon.

Because the scythe is swung in a circle, and because the blade is mounted mostly in line with the perimeter of this circle, a scythe presents a very high length-to-depth ratio; the four foot blade slices cleanly but relatively shallowly, penetrating perhaps two inches for every foot of blade striking, causing a very efficient, very powerful slicing action.

Propping the scythe against the wagon, Alex calmly ignored the sniggering and shaken heads, and went inside his tent, returning a moment later with a solidly forged steel breastplate stuffed with straw (a little known fact is that in Japanese sword-testing, a bale of straw soaked in water is considered to have the same resistance to being cut as a human torso). He'd been using it as an archery target, testing to see if the arrows fired from the ogre bow Karl had given him all those months ago could hit without shattering. Dropping it, he scooted a toe under the target, and with a single solid kick launched it into the air, forcing extra power into the Flowing Soul around him as he snatched the scythe and cocked it over his shoulder.

The target came down. Alex timed his swing carefully, and thankfully for his reputation, he didn't miss.

There was a shriek of rent metal as straw flew, and the breastplate forged of quarter-inch-thick steel fell in pieces.

I will say it again. A scythe is a large, ungainly weapon. It would be difficult to wield even with training; with that training nonexistent, that only compounds it as an ungainly, difficult to control weapon. But there is no article made by man in all of history...not a sword, not an axe, not a cleaver, not a guillotine or even those legendary katana...no, there is nothing that is more perfectly suited for separating one part of a man from the rest of him.

Pierce a foe, and he may yet live to fight again, might survive on sheer force of will long enough to stab you in turn. Bludgeon a man, and he reels, he falls away, or he simply grunts in pain, but he may yet strike at you again. Slash a man and he bleeds, but that can take time if you miss, and in the heat of battle that is an easy thing to do.

But if a scythe strikes...who can fight back when their arms and legs are flying in two different directions? Who will clench a fist when their spine is severed, when their tendons fray like split twine? Who can take a blow from that brutal weapon and stand back up to oppose?

The scythe was originally a farmer's article, refined carefully and used because it is an exceptional tool for clearing a great deal of ground with each go.

Alex had simply had them make him something that would provide him that same ability on the living creatures he would have to get through in a hurry.

The scythe is the weapon of a man in a hurry, the weapon of a man who wants to kill a great many people at close range in a short period of time. It is the weapon of a man who expects to carve a bloody swathe through anything in his way.

Alex rested the scythe over his shoulder; the blade's tip was even with the back of his knee, even raised on top of his shoulder. Turning to Ghim, he allowed himself a grin as he felt his eyes turn red, his blood-lust rising. "Can you make me any other weapon that can do that?" Not bothering to wait for an answer, he spun, extending the scythe and whipping it around, slicing through the wagon's four iron-shod wheels and axles in a single blow, stopping the scythe as it came around.

The tip of the blade was an inch away from Ghim's face. To his credit, the dwarf never flinched.

Alex grinned again, resting the blade back over his shoulder. "I'm expecting a lot of resistance Ghim. I don't know how much planning is going to help me out there; I'm flying at least half blind here. I've never been on Marmo, I've never fought on Marmo, and all I know about the island is second-hand." He shrugged, his grin changing from feral to simply amused. "I need something that I don't have to be careful with, something that'll clear out anything that gets in my way all at once." He hefted the black-hafted scythe meaningfully. "This is what's going to do that."

Ghim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you keep talking buddy. I still think you should get yourself a nice big axe and leave the scythes to those damned ogres."

Alex chuckled. "If you'll recall, I got intimately acquainted with the capabilities of an Ogre's scythe when we were defending Myce." He shrugged. "Besides, I'm going to be using an ogre's bow too. Why not a scythe?" Still grinning, he gestured them in. "You've had a long trip Ghim; I can't get drunk anymore, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to let you; I got some good stuff from King Kannon." He turned to one of the men who'd come out with him; tall and broad-shouldered, if still somewhat on the lean side, he was wearing fine, silvery chain mail over soft leather armor, his red cloak emblazoned with an almost cross-shaped sun-in-glory. "Karl, make sure the armor's properly distributed; make sure the swordsmen and the axe-men get the good stuff. The sarissans will need shields more than good armor."

Ghim shook his head as he entered the tent. Damned kid grew up. He grinned a bit. He hadn't been able to see what Alex could do with an army the last time. The kid had a good head on his shoulders; Fortress Myce had proven that. Still, it might be fun to see what he could do with a proper army at his back.

Half a step outside the tent though, he froze for a moment as it clicked. Spinning, Ghim turned to stare at the aristocratic-looking youth calmly ordering around militia quartermasters. "KARL?"

Pirotess looked around uneasily as she rode behind Ashram. She was used to being disliked, mistrusted, and plotted against. She wasn't used to mobs of angry-looking non-humans staring at her like she was so much meat. Urging her horse forward, she came abreast of Ashram. "My lord..."

"I know," he replied simply. He could feel it only too well; there was something wrong on Marmo. The beast-people, the goblins and ogres and kobolds should never have been bold enough to outright GLARE at their emperor. In truth though, they didn't. Ashram had fought alongside and against the beasts for decades, since he was a child. He respected them. And he knew that for all that the humans and elves would disagree, they were smarter than they let on. It was a bestial intelligence certainly, but it was intelligence all the same. And yet the intelligence was disappearing now; they were more closer to beasts than to people now.

Closely linked to Marmo and the dark magics of it by millennia of generations born and dying there, they were sensitive to the things he would never notice, things that not even priests and dark wizards might see.

It would seem that Chiffon, damn her, had been telling the truth.

Something was stirring on Marmo, and there weren't that many things that could cause something like this.

He ignored the almost purring pleas from Soul Crusher to crush them all then and there; she'd been all but begging for killing after having been denied Shooting Star's soul to feast on.

In the end he'd had to hunt down and kill Skurai to sate her. Greedy bitch.

They might threaten him now, or at least desire to. But they were HIS people, and he would not let some blood-born madness of that bitch Dark Goddess to force his hand, to cost him HIS people. And so, he coldly ignored their glares, and rode through the streets of his empire, straight to Castle Conquera.

He discovered shortly thereafter that the Temple of Falaris had been sealed, both magically and by stone.

He'd expected as much.

Ignoring the demands for action by his commanders, ignoring the double-talk of the priests hastening to assure him that Wagnard had sealed the temple as a precaution, he went straight to his throne room, and proceeded to throw everyone out.

"What, you mean to tell me that you're just gonna bend over and take it from the Red Queen?"

Well, everyone except Beld. And Pirotess of course.

Beld grunted sourly as he settled himself in a chair nearly as opulent and a damned sight more comfortable as the throne had been. It was a bit disconcerting to look at him; similar to Fahn, with the loss of his Sword, his years had finally caught up to him. His hair was going white, though he hadn't started going bald during the last few months. He hadn't wasted the way Fahn had, though that was at least partially due to the fact that the second his wounds had healed, he'd found a the nearest great sword and started putting himself through his paces. "That damned priest's finally signed his own death sentence. Only a question of how long now." He squinted slyly at Ashram. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

Pirotess's eyes bulged. Beld just looked thoughtful. Ashram smiled thinly as he removed his cape and started shucking off his armor. Necessary certainly, but after nearly three weeks in it, he felt he could use a rest. "Wagnard isn't a problem; I can kill him whenever it suits me to do so. For now, I'm more worried about the forces massing in South Kannon under a familiar banner."

Beld rose an eyebrow. "You're gonna deal with the whelp first? Must be quite a guy if you think he's the real problem." Lounging back in his chair, he stretched comfortably, reaching for a metal goblet and a pitcher of wine. "If what I heard was right, Wagnard's got all the magic of Lodoss in his bony hands."

Ashram chuckled as Pirotess's eyes widened even further; she'd have to assume that the only way Beld could have found that out was a leak from her own spies. Personally, Ashram was betting that Wagnard had appeared before Beld in the flesh just to gloat (and yes, in case you're wondering, he was right). "As I understand it, Kashue is planning on sending every man of his army he can spare to try and stop Wagnard from resurrecting Kardis. Princess Fiana will likely mobilize most of her forces as well, as will Jester. Kannon will want to help, but he simply hasn't the manpower to spare; any contributions from his nation will likely be the ships that get the armies here. Kadamos will be logical and cautious. He'll see the forces that dwarf is own moving out, and realize that if they can't do it, his men can't either. He'll leave his soldiers to rot in their barracks and get every hedge-wizard and village wise-woman to Alan to figure out how to shield them if worse comes to worse." Removing his gauntlets, he placed them on the armor stand at last; it felt good to be out of the blasted heavy things. Turning, he took a seat at another chair beside Beld's; he didn't feel like being imperial at the moment. "So. The might of four nations along with whatever lunatics Alex can scrounge up, all coming to deal a hammer blow to Marmo, rescue the fair maiden, and save...the world."

Beld snickered.

Ashram smiled as he sat back. "They'll either look to Kashue or Alex. If Fahn was on the field he would lead, but his fighting days are over; he'll stay in Roid. If Kashue comes..." Ashram frowned in thought. "...If Kashue leads them, he'll delay as long as he can, building the biggest army he can put together before he sets out. He'll make for the fastest path he can find, and rely on speed and surprise to crush us quickly."

Pirotess frowned. "Are you certain of that?"

"Kashue is a desert man. I've watched him fight, but more importantly I've seen how his people fight. You don't wear heavy armor in a desert; in the heat your own armor can kill you faster than an enemy sword. You don't plod about with a strong, heavy horse for carrying an armored knight. You don't drag out a fight in the sands; any of these will kill you." He shook his head. "Kashue is a desert man, and he'll fight and think like one. Speed and skill; don't give your enemy time to out-think you. Ride in and scatter him, slaughter him before he can do the same to you. It's how Kashue fights and plans, it's the antithesis of the heavily-armored knights of the East, and it's what made him so dangerous."

Pirotess sighed. "That's all well and good, but what does that have to do with Wagnard?"

"Kashue isn't coming to kill me, or destroy Marmo, he's coming to kill Wagnard," Ashram said. "The same goes for Alex, though he'll likely do something different. Either might kill me if they had the chance, but that's not why they're coming." He smiled thinly. "They're coming here for that elf-girl Wagnard kidnapped. I say, let them have her."

He ignored the questioning stares. He'd had a long time to think about how to defend his home, and he'd finally figured out how to beat them all.

He couldn't beat Alex, not probably. But that was something he could live with; he was an emperor, a leader, as well as a warrior. He would have loved to kill Alex.

And yet he was the emperor. And so he would do as he must. He would ignore Alex Latrans, he would let him fight his fight, and in the end, he would crush them all.

Updated November 2, 2007

It was still hard for Ghim to get used to. The last time he'd seen Karl had been just before they'd left Tarba. Granted, some changes had occurred even at that point; he'd gotten more muscular, tougher...he'd also gotten confident. You could see it in his eyes; he wasn't randomly afraid any longer. He'd seen enough and done enough that he'd started believing that even if it was new he'd more or less get through it.

But this? This...this warrior in front of him was supposed to be that polite, unimposing archer that had shown up out of nowhere to tag along on an adventure?

Karl grinned at the look Ghim kept on giving him. Or rather, he grinned at Ghim about the looks he was getting from everybody. One of the things he'd picked up from Alex's command style was a certain perverse enjoyment in metaphorically kicking someone's feet out from under them, and he'd discovered that he actually, honestly enjoyed surprising people. His current appearance certainly fit; he was nearly six feet tall now, and probably weighed a good hundred and eighty five pounds of solid, well-toned and conditioned muscle. Good food and good living had filled out the lines of his face; he wasn't fat in any way, but he'd lost that vaguely-starved look that spoke of peasantry; he looked like a leader now.

Truth be told, he was; less than a week ago, King Fahn had invited him to Valis and had him officially recognized as a free Baron, a member of the aristocracy.

He hadn't thought much of it; he'd become a leader of men during the War of Heroes, and had been a leader of men in peace ever since he founded what was now officially called on maps 'The Barony of Lucia.'

Though the best part had been finding out that about a dozen of the militia men had found their way south from Zaxom; they'd stared at him with awe, awe that had dissolved into dumb-struck looks when he started relating childhood stories and they'd realized that he was THAT Karl.

His smile wavered a bit; there was also the slight problem of example. He was, after all, a peasant hunter. A month of warfare and a few months on his own had transformed him into a Noble; people all over the camp were practically drooling at the chance to distinguish themselves in the battle to come.

Hopefully they'd have enough time to beat the glory-hunger out of their heads and replace it with some common sense before they left for Marmo.

Personally, Karl wasn't holding his breath.

Alex looked at the expression on Karl's face, somehow smug and endearing at the same time, and shook his head with a muted chuckle. If this went over right, not only would Alex save all of Lodoss, but he'd manage to pin it all on the smug bastard before he died; let KARL deal with the fame; he didn't even want to leave that much of a posthumous reputation. He straightened from where he'd been leaning against his campaign table, looking around. Most of the old gang was here; Etoh had shown up three days ago with nearly four hundred clerics; half were novices, the rest either Anointed or full Priests. He'd told them flat-out that their job was just to equalize; neutralize any magic that might be lobbed their way and make sure that the biggest possible portion of the army made it back alive. Pleasantly, that hadn't been too terribly necessary; Etoh had apparently managed to recruit the ones who were either cowardly enough to have good sense or the ones who were old enough to know better. He just hoped that the young ones wouldn't panic and waste their abilities prematurely.

It was more than he could hope for concerning the priests of Myrii that had followed Kashue; they looked closer to what he thought of as a berserker than Orson did, truth be told. Especially the priestesses; he wasn't sure why, but the priestesses of Myrii made him...nervous. Probably because when he'd informed them just how horrible the odds were and how desperate the battle might become...if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that some of them got aroused. (1)

Leylia hadn't brought anyone but herself; she'd elected to stick close to Slayn. Alex had made some contacts with local mage guilds (mostly village guilds), and had convinced a few dozen hedge-wizards to join up, but in the area of recruitment Slayn had risen above and beyond. He'd suspected back in Fortress Myce that Slayn was a born diplomat (who smooth-talks their captors into providing civility?), but now he was convinced that Slayn was just waiting for a convenient throne to rule from the shadows.

He didn't know how; truth be told he wasn't sure he wanted to know how. All he knew was that fully half of the Alanian Mage's guild had come south to go to Marmo (likely in hopes of looting every bit of obscure, black, and quite-possibly forbidden arcane knowledge the island had to offer). He'd also dragged nearly a hundred apprentices and journey-man level mages into the mix.

Wood (to his eternal embarrassment) was NOT leading a ragtag bunch of brigands, thieves, scoundrels, and saboteurs who would make the Marmo curse their names without ever knowing who it really was they were cursing. He'd rounded them up, certain that his role in all of this would be to return to Lodoss swimming in the wealth looted from stupid Marmo armies...

...And found himself given command of nearly four thousand of King Kannon's light cavalry, the best taken from the regular army. Which left him once again in the position of respectability, put in the midst of a regular army...no, worse, he was in COMMAND of a regular army, right where anyone with a bit of ambition would be able to find him and kill him.

He didn't want to know HOW Ariel had managed to convince her father to put him in charge of an army, giving him certain 'respectable' credit from a technical point of view. He REALLY didn't want to know what she'd said or done that had resulted in both her mother and sister making lightly-veiled comments about how wonderful it would be if he were a full general. After all military accomplishment was an acceptable way for those without noble-birth to gain the status to marry well; why, it wasn't unheard of for highly successful, heroic war-leaders to find their way into the royal family!

All he did know was that yes, it had reached the point where he would freely and openly admit that Princess Ariel of Kannon...the mousy little seventeen-year-old bibliophile...naive, sheltered little Ariel...scared the piss out of him.

Certain grudgingly-respected members of the band of thieves he'd rounded had started muttering darkly about how he was up-and-coming in the world, jealous no doubt. Wood's reaction to the rumors that he was losing his touch as a thief was to drug ten of the most vocal, tie them up, and drag them into his tent to spend four hours informing them in absolutely excruciating detail about what respectability entailed.

If the rumors were to be believed, only one of them managed to keep from fainting in terror at the picture Wood had (with surprising eloquence) painted. Though he was sobbing with fear by that point.

Alex had wanted to laugh, he really had. The only problem was that he KNEW that any one of those ten thieves was more alert than he was; if Wood could sneak up on them, he could certainly sneak up on Alex. And more, Wood had gotten a bit vicious lately (it was amazing what dodging an amorous teenager for months can teach you).

Regardless, the end result was that in addition to being a general of Kannon, Wood had now become the spymaster and head of intelligence for the Coyotes.

Ghim hadn't bothered recruiting anyone to join them; he'd just told the dwarves that they could expect a shit-load of nasties to kill if they came. Eight hundred dwarves had shown up (he suspected that that Fleive son of Fleive, had been forced to order most of them to stay home or they would have just ran off to join the fun). Still, eight hundred expert warriors, miners, and siege engineers...he wouldn't have much use for a siege, not with his plan.

But then, he had to use them to besiege, right? I mean, honestly, what kind of fool keeps that sort on his retainer and doesn't use them? Alex wasn't a fool, he'd certainly use them to quickly crush and neutralize vital, heavily-fortified areas.

He prayed that the commanders of Marmo thought so; Ashram wouldn't, but the others might.

Parn, Shiris, and Orson had only brought themselves; they'd tried to convince some of their old mercenary companies to come, but they'd refused. Alex didn't blame them; with all the young men leaving to join militias, and all the regular troops either mustering or preparing to defend, it was an open market for good, reliable mercenaries. Alex wasn't offering pay, he was offering a miserable, dirty, dishonorable, nasty war.

Mercenaries tended to be smart enough when it came to their own skins and their wallets; Alex wasn't offering anything on either count. He hadn't expected anything there.

Still...it was frightening in a way. He'd done this piecemeal; talked to a village outcast here, encouraged a young, charismatic future-village-head, there...understand, he'd done it all on purpose. He'd known what he was trying for, what he was working towards.

He just hadn't expected quite this much of a turn-out.

Kannon wouldn't be able to fight; they were still struggling to rebuild their army, and more importantly to rebuild their country after the invasion. What men they could spare had already been sent with Wood. Fahn was in no condition to lead a battle, and Fiana hadn't the slightest chance in that area. Kadamos couldn't back out of this fight this time; he was already in bad enough from his decision to sit out the War of Heroes. For all that he had supposedly contributed so many wizards to the fight (officially anyway; he had to explain why they disappeared SOMEHOW), he needed more. Almost half of his army would head south.

But those were the armies of kings, armies of nations. Kashue had brought ten thousand men under his command, the finest cavalry he had. For all that Fahn couldn't fight or lead himself, he could still support them; he had sent five thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry to support and obey Kashue. Alania had no desire to fight, but they'd sent another ten themselves, half cavalry under Marius, the other half mixed infantry. Jester claimed the sky-borne battlefield for himself; he followed neither army, but would fight beside (or above rather) either one.

All told, nearly thirty thousand men would sail south to fight their way through Marmo under the command of Kashue Arnague I, Mercenary King of Flaim.

But Alex's army was something else entirely.

Eighteen thousand peasant militia, give or take a few hundred, most turned over for phalanx training with the rest pressed into archery companies. Four thousand light cavalry under Wood's command. Nearly a thousand heavy horse, commanded by Jebra; former soldiers mostly, kicked out of their armies for various reasons that Jebra had been willing to overlook. Eight hundred axe-or-hammer-toting dwarves. Nearly seven hundred auxiliaries (priests, wizards, and healers). All of them under the command of nearly eight hundred veteran Coyotes, and in turn, him. Toss in three tribes-worth of Lusitanian horse-archers, over seven hundred men all told, and five hundred Caral hawk-riders, all of whom answered to him.

Twenty six thousand. Twenty. Six. Thousand. Twenty six thousand men, who had come at his call. Twenty six thousand men who would, by his plan, on his orders, march, fight, stand, battle, kill...and die.

It was easy to ignore it for the most part; he simply had too much to do during the day. But at nights, when he slowed down, when there was nothing else to think about, it hit him, over and over again...and the responsibility terrified him.

His plan for the invasion certainly didn't help his conscious; they were basically a shield that could get him to Conquera, and deep enough to rescue Deed.

He just hoped they didn't hate him when he had to admit it.

Alex missed sleeping. To put it lightly.

You must understand; it had taken him roughly a week and a half to check on everything across Lodoss; without Bucephalus's now-tireless speed, it likely would have taken a good twenty days. He hadn't gotten the entire army assembled by that point, but he'd had enough to start the organization processes. Now, nearly three weeks later, he (and by proxy most of the veteran Coyotes) had been training the militia non-stop; marching, spear-drills, maneuvers, shield-work, strength-training, endurance-training, tactics, basic strategy...the works. He started their days with the rising sun, poured some food down their throats and set them up almost immediately on the harshest, most brutal portions of training he could think of. When they couldn't move any further, they got dragged along by those who were strong enough to keep going. Finally, when no one else was able to keep going, it became time for drilling; mastering the form of the movements without the power or effort. They finished up with tactics.

At the end of their days, most of the new would-be coyotes stumbled or were dragged into their beds and collapsed. Those who weren't forced to train, the mages and priests and quartermasters...they got to stay up into the long hours of the night doing paperwork. But even they got to sleep.

Alex's after-death coma had been the last time he'd slept in nearly a month; he was out every day at the crack of dawn because by that point he was so bored out of his mind that dragging farm-boys and blacksmiths through hell was considered a high-point. While they rested, he got to spend time discussing his strategy and the necessary tactics, assigning the roles of those who were experienced or trusted enough to fulfill them. (Incidentally, he'd been right; they'd been PISSED when they found out what he had planned). And then, with nothing left to do, with no one left to dictate orders to or try to get some work out of, he found himself in the middle of the night, physically incapable of 'powering down.' He couldn't relax, he couldn't dream, he just kept burning.

He used the time as well as he could; he'd gotten used to the heft of the scythe easily, and was now actually finding ways to use it effectively in a battle situation. He was burning through lamp-oil in a hurry writing out thoughts on what had gone wrong with Earth and how they might be avoided here (he'd gotten REALLY bored the night that began).

But he still hadn't slept. And it was driving him bat-shit crazy.

He could try and approximate it to an extent; he was trying it at the moment, lying down and staring at nothing in particular, trying to let his mind drift. He'd tried NOT thinking a few times, and found that it did absolutely no good. He'd tried thinking specifically of things that didn't pertain to the war, and found his mind slipping back to where he wanted to leave. No luck there. He was just about ready to give up the ghost, but not yet.

It was right about then that Chiffon's face swam into focus a few feet above him.

She sighed as she took in the sight; he was laying perfectly still, hands crossed over his chest, eyes staring sightlessly upward. Reaching out gently, she tried to sweep her hands over his forehead, closing them.

He gently took her hand, and moved it aside, startling her; she'd thought he was asleep. "Do you have to do that with your eyes open? It's...not very reassuring."

Alex sat up slowly, letting his hands fall to his side as he did so. "My eyes don't secrete lachrymal fluid anymore. If I blink, they're so dry that they'll probably scratch up my retinas."

Chiffon digested that silently for a moment; she'd never heard of lachrymal fluid or retinas before. At least the second sentence had been understandable. "You could always get a sleeping mask."

He sighed, shaking his head. "It won't do anything. Not seeing anything just gives my imagination more freedom, and I end up getting less rest than I do staring into space." He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "It's nearly two hours past midnight; why are you still awake?"

"I can't sleep tonight; something doesn't feel right in the camp."

Alex should have swallowed at that point; he didn't. "What doesn't feel right? Is it something magical, or something mundane?"

She sighed. "I don't know. It...it doesn't have anything to do with my sorcery, it just...it just feels like something is going to happen tonight, something...something amazing. Or something terrible; I can't tell which."

Alex remained silent as he watched her pace slowly. Terrible or amazing; he wished he knew which. It could easily go either way.

He didn't realize it; he was too deep in thought again, too deep in his plans. He couldn't see her watching him from under the curtain of her hair.

He hadn't seen a mirror in months; they tended to be prohibitively expensive here. He hadn't even been bothered to note his own appearance in a puddle in weeks. He wore the silvery-white scale armor that Fahn had given him before the battle in the War of Heroes now, and had taken off neither it nor the long gray coat over it since he'd put them on. His hair was tied back where it would stay out of his eyes, his hands were wrapped in bandages and gloved...he hadn't seen his own flesh for weeks.

He looked like hell. Nearly twenty years he'd spent in the sun, and now his skin was so pale that it seemed nearly blue in the wrong light. He'd always been thin, but his flesh was drawing itself taut now; his arms were almost bone-thin under his clothes, and his legs weren't much better. His chest was sunk, his ribs as sharp and defined as fresh scars. The bony ridges on his face were too clear; his eyes, his nose, his cheekbones and jaw all a little bit too clear, a little bit too hard. His hair was lank and dull, going grayer bit by bit as his body stopped manufacturing the pigments it needed to remain brown. He was a dead man, and after nearly three weeks of fighting it, despite Etoh's holy magic, despite all the activity he dragged his muscles through every day, he was beginning to show it.

And yet even now, with the end in sight, with hope finally gone, Chiffon still thought he was beautiful. She hadn't left his side once since the camp had been erected; she still slept in a pallet in his tent. Perhaps it was because she was so beautiful herself, perhaps even more so because her beauty had brought her so much hardship, but she saw the state he was in and she didn't care.

You must understand, Alex had never been really what you could call handsome. Oh, he wasn't bad-looking, but it would be both kinder and truer to describe his appearance as striking or exotic than handsome. But then perhaps that might have been why she could still see his as handsome now; no matter how disturbing or off-putting his appearance was now, it had to be admitted; he was still striking.

And as far as Chiffon was concerned, he was the same man, freshly stained in the blood of her tormentors, who had tried to spare her the sights of death, tried to give her a chance to get out, to reach safety. He was the same man who, battered, bruised, and exhausted, had collapsed into her arms after escaping a Marmo prison camp. He was the same man who had, even dying, forced open the iron-and-lead prison box and locked Karla away.

It saddened her at times when she was forced to realize it, but every time she'd ever realized once again how important he was to her was only when he was in pain, when he was hurt...when she began to fear that she might lose him. Deedlit's love was steeped in the happier memories they'd shared, but her own would always be linked not to the happiness he had given her day by day, but by the fear and sorrow she'd felt when she might lose it.

Alex looked up suddenly, startling her. She didn't know why he had caught her gaze then; all she knew was that he caught her eyes just as they began to fill with tears. "What...?" There was no sniffling, no sighs or sobs, there were only silent tears flowing down her cheeks. "Chiffon..."

She silently brushed aside her tears, her face turned aside. "It's nothing." It was startling when he grabbed her wrist mid-wipe; it forced her to meet his eyes, eyes that were shifting in color.

His gaze softened almost immediately; the startled look in her eyes was enough to make him rein in his emotions a bit, but for better or for worse he had her attention. "Chiffon, why are you crying? Did I say something wrong?" She was silent; she'd long since gotten used to his abruptly-changing eyes, and once the initial shock of physical contact was gone, she could easily look away.

But he refused to let go. And truth be told, she didn't want him to.

It was then that one of the priests poked his head in the tent. WHY the priest was awake at two in the morning would not be discussed. "Sir? There's someone to see you..." he trailed off, staring at the apparently intimate scene he'd just interrupted.

Truth be told, neither was particularly upset; intimate it might have been, but it was also awkward as hell.

Alex released Chiffon, letting her slip deferentially deeper into the tent, turning to the messenger. "Who is it?"

The priest bowed, collecting his thoughts carefully; it was an open secret that Alex wasn't alive anymore, and while some of the priests might be more open-minded than others, none of them could condone what was essentially necrophilia. "I don't know my lord, but it is an old man who claims that he knows you from old."

"Considering that 'old' amounts to a few months, I don't see what that could mean," Alex quipped. "Still, it's late, and I'm not in bed. If it's important enough for him to come to see me at this hour, I should at least hear him out." He walked over towards his campfire where some wine was being kept warm, pouring a cup. "Send him in." Who knew, it could always be Wort with some actual, USEFUL advice for a change.

But this night, this hour...his timing could have been better.

The priest bowed again, leaving. When the 'old man' entered again moments later, Alex threw the idea of Wort right out the door; he was old, certainly (or very well versed at walking like an old man), but he was also quite large, probably Alex's height and significantly heavier. Also, Wort wouldn't have been leaning on a huge, gnarled walking stick.

"So, you know me from old? That's not exactly a long time, you know."

The old man chuckled roughly. "True, what with you being from another world and all. Still, I daresay that the only people on Lodoss who've known you longer are either in Zaxom or already in this camp. Though you DID meet my daughter perhaps ten days before you met me."

The goblet clattered against the ground. Alex stared, face slack as the Flowing Soul flickered a bit; this was quite literally the last person he'd expected. "Your majesty..." he collected himself carefully. "King Fahn, what the hell are you doing here?"

Fahn chuckled again as he carefully slipped his hood off. He smiled, but there was something cautious in his eyes. "I hope you don't mean that the way it sounds. A man might think he was unwelcome."

Alex shook his head as expression returned to his face. "If you're talking about your refusal, I understand." He'd come by nearly three weeks ago, asking Fahn for Pharis Breath. It had been neither easy nor welcome to be refused, however kindly.

He frowned in thought; considering how far Fahn was from home, he probably wasn't doing all that well. He grabbed his campaign stool, bringing it forward for the king to sit on. "It's not much, but please, sit. You must have had a long trip."

Fahn regarded him closely for a moment, then slowly, gratefully sank into the chair. "It's hard to see you like this Alex."

Alex shrugged. "I deal with it; the looks I get from the men get worse, or more pitying every day. But then, I don't have a mirror, so I can only assume."

Fahn sighed as he relaxed more fully into his chair. "Not that, Alex." His face hardened a bit; half angry, half sad. "It was thirty years ago, but I remember fighting that demon bitch; believe me, I've seen worse. No, I mean your expressions." He shook his head, his face softening as the memories retreated again. "You were never an easy man to read, but now...now all I get to see is what you decide to show me; there's nothing left to be given away." He sighed again. "I wish it hadn't come to this, Alex. I really do."

Alex handed him a new cup of mulled wine. "I kind of doubt your wish matches mine." He tried to wince at the look on Fahn's face following his remark. "I'm sorry, that was unkind of me." He sank to a half-crouch; he wanted to be at eye-level for this. "Your majesty, I understand why you couldn't give me Pharis Breath..."

"Do you? Do you really, Alex?" Fahn looked at him, and it was startling for a moment to see his eyes harden so. "Pharis Breath won't accept me as its wielder now, because I'm not strong enough. But strength isn't all that matters; it won't accept just anyone as its wielder. It's not strength, it's not even the cause for the fight, you understand? It has to be the right kind of wielder." He gripped Alex hard by the shoulder, drawing him closer. "I remember the battles I fought, Alex. It took me a long time to truly master Pharis Breath, and there were more than a few times I lost it on the field. But no one ever managed to take it from me; kobolds tried and the sword burned them alive on the field when they touched it. I watched it boil dark elves in their skins when they tried to steal it, watched ogres and goblins melt to dust when they tried to take it from me." He frowned. "Alex, Pharis Breath was meant to be wielded for the sake of humanity, to protect them from the dregs of the world that were birthed in Kardis' blood under the cover of Falaris' darkness. And now, as it stands, there's a good chance that the sword will see you as being part of that now."

Alex frowned. "It let me wield it once before, remember?"

Fahn shook his head, sighing. "Yes, when you tried to defend the world from Karla's madness. When you were still completely alive. But now? You're one of the dead Alex, you just haven't chosen to rest. My priests look at you, and they whisper in my ears that you've become a malevolent ghost, possessing the body of a once-great hero." He looked away, unable to meet Alex's gaze. "And I'm afraid that they might be right, at least as far as the damned sword can see."

The tent flaps rustled; the same priest burst in. "My lord! You - "

Alex's glare stopped him short. "I am speaking to my friend. Do you always interrupt people like this?"

The priests gulped. "Forgive me my lord, but this is urgent. You have another guest and..." he swallowed nervously. "My lord, Princess Fiana of Valis has come to speak with you."

For a moment, the tent remained silent. Finally, Alex sighed. "Bring her by the tent; I assume that she's still outside the main camp?" When the priest nodded shakily, Alex sighed again, though this time in something closer to relief. "Bring her here then, but don't rush. I'll get my friend comfortable, and then speak with her highness." He watched the priest scurry off, the shook his head. "Something tells me that she's here about you," Alex muttered irritably.

Fahn nodded. "I left quietly; my personal attendants were told to keep it about that I was feeling ill, and couldn't be disturbed. I made it seem that our earlier meeting had me rather out of sorts; they likely believed it for quite a while."

"But she found out all the same," he muttered irritably. "Great." He peered about for a moment for a potential hiding spot. Unfortunately, the only spot he could think of was under the campaign map table, and it wasn't exactly fool-proof. The rest of the tent was rather spare; there wasn't even a courtesy screen to provide Chiffon with a degree of modesty if she'd wanted it. Grumbling, he turned to the half-elf. "Can you put Fahn under some sort of illusion? Nothing too terribly elaborate, just make him look like a different old man." Waiting just long enough to see her nod, he spun on his heel and went out to greet (and stall) the princess.

Fahn held up a hand to forestall the spell. "Please don't; I'd prefer Fiana were here to know about it as well."

Chiffon paused, but didn't look like she was all that interested in stopping. "Alex wouldn't have asked me to do this without a reason."

"True. However, his reason likely has more to do with trying to accommodate me than a desire to deceive my daughter. Please," he continued. Chiffon was silent, but she didn't cast.

Alex came in a moment later, whatever he'd been saying to Fiana disappearing into the realms of 'maybe' as he came in and pointedly took note of the fact that Fahn was still Fahn, and very recognizably so to his only daughter. For her part, the princess entered, equally hooded and concealed as her father, her statement to the effect of 'this seemed like a good place for him to come,' also disappearing into maybe.

Alex didn't bother glaring at Fahn, though he did take a long moment to glance questioningly at Chiffon; she wilted a bit under the glance, causing it to soften a fair bit.

Fiana stared at her father. "Fa...I mean, your majesty, why are you here?"

Fahn responded with a particularly un-dignified snort. "Majesty my foot. I'm your father girl, you can address me as such." She had the grace to flush. Shaking his head, he hefted his walking stick over his head; nearly five feet in length, the last foot or so was gnarled and knobbed, projections and unfinished bits of branch making the head nearly eight inches across. "I'm here about this," he said, and calmly smashed the stick against the ground.

From within the hollowed-out insides of what was apparently NOT just a cane, the Holy Sword of Pharis fell out.

Fiana gaped; the idea that someone would simply smash a holy relic of godly power against the dirt was quite a ways outside of her normal expectations. Chiffon stared too; the last time she'd seen the sword, she could only tell it was powerfully magical. Now with her greater training, she could actually SEE not only the scope of the power, but where it came from, the degree of complexity...

...and the fact that even now, it was still directly linked in some small way to Pharis.

And it frightened her.

Fahn didn't bother looking at the sword, he looked at Alex. For his part, Alex just glanced at the sword for several long moments before turning back to Fahn. "I thought you weren't willing to let me use it."

"I said that I couldn't simply hand over such a powerful, valuable artifact to you out of the blue," Fahn corrected. "I'm sorry, but it was the only course open to me. It certainly didn't help that you just stormed into the middle of my court and all but demanded it," he added accusatorily.

"I didn't have any time to spare," Alex said calmly. "I still don't."

Fahn sighed. "And I couldn't afford to let you try to take the sword and fail in front of the entire court, many of whom don't particularly care for you."

"Ah, politics," Alex muttered sourly.

"You'd do well to consider the politics here," Fahn admonished curtly. "The common people on Lodoss all but worship you as a hero, even now, when you're supposedly some sort of foul undead thing. Something that Pharis Breath might not be inclined to allow." He shook his head. "Think about what it would have done to you Alex, to your credibility, your chance of raising an army. You think Kadamos is the only one who dislikes you? You have far more enemies than just him. Supposed, just suppose that you tried to wield Pharis Breath and it denied you. You go to fight Kardis the Destroyer, queen of the dead, a dead man yourself. How would it look when a sword created to destroy evil, among them the undead, denied you?"

"Do you have so little faith in the people?" Chiffon asked quietly.

Fahn stared at her for a long time, then sighed, shaking his head. "No, I believe in the strength of the people. But would the people be enough? The lords and aristocrats of my court are strong now, and there is much they could do." He stared Alex in the eye. "How many of your soldiers are from Valis? How many from Kannon, and Alan? How many come from lands owned by great lords, lords who might hate you? How many are from lords who may not hate you, but would ally with those who did for the sake of profit? How many from lords who admire you, but would dare not go against so much on their own?

"How many could be denied their homes and farms and families and livelihoods forever if they disobeyed?" He shook his head again, tiredly. It was no small thing that a man who could and had in days past go for days without sleep on a battlefield could be so drained, forced to stare the ugliness of his people in the face. "Right now Alex, they dare not go against you; you're too popular, and your cause is something that they have no way to demonize. Not yet. But let Pharis Breath deny you, and they have their proof, or at least the chance to convince the world that you're only leading these men to die beside you to try and buy a way into the Mad Goddess's good graces."

Alex stared at him, face utterly blank. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

Fahn snorted. "Alex, I know you better than that. I also know you're not a fool; it doesn't matter what you do, what matters is what can they convince the people you're doing."

Alex sighed; there was too much truth in that for him to be truly angry. "So why now? Why here? If you won't give it to me freely, then why like this?"

Fahn stooped, carefully picking up Pharis Breath by the scabbard, careful never to try and grasp the hilt itself. "Two reasons. First, because the Holy Sword of Pharis is a mighty and awesome weapon, and I thought you might appreciate ensuring that your enemies couldn't be sure you really had it. Secondly, here you can try in private." He fixed Alex with a frank stare. "It may deny you all the same, but here at least, here and now, there is no one to witness it, and not enough time to discredit you over it." He extended it towards him. "The question I suppose, is do you still want it? Or do you still need it?"

Alex stared at the sword warily; he'd tried drawing it once before, after Karla hit him with the Soul Reaver, back before he realized what had been done to him. He'd remembered the wrenching sensation he'd had to deal with the first time, but it had been almost infathomably worse that time; he'd wondered from time to time if maybe it was touching the sword that had led him to the straits he'd found himself in.

Now, he didn't have even the most tenuous grasp of the flesh to try and hold his soul where it should be. All that was left was will, the need to see this to the end.

Time to see if he had what it took.

He stopped breathing; there was no point to it, however much he felt it would have been appropriate. He simply stared at the sheathed sword for several long moments. Then, steeling himself, he extended one hand, and taking hold of the sheath, raised it to eye-level, staring warily.

He was essentially a construct of what Lodoss recognized as unholy magic; he was surprisingly sensitive to it. One of the side-benefits (if you could call it that) was the ability to feel divine magic, and more importantly, to gauge its level. Those senses were telling him that the Holy Sword was easily radiating enough raw power to incinerate what was left of his body if he screwed up.

He could get to Conquera without the sword, that wouldn't be a problem. In theory, he might even be able to beat Ashram and Soul Crusher without it, though he'd have to probably OD on Flowing-Soul AND burn up about half of the tricks he could think of on a moment's notice.

The problem was that considering how everything seemed to be going pear-shaped on him, he had to plan for contingencies, and saving Deed not just from Wagnard but from Kardis herself was a BIG contingency.

And he'd yet to come up with the trick that could kill Kardis on his own.

In short, he needed the Holy Sword, one way or the other; there wasn't any choice in the matter. More importantly, considering what Chiffon had mentioned about something big happening, there wasn't much TIME for choice either.

And so, before he could waste any more time coming up with reasons not to, he seized the handle of the Holy Sword and tore it from its sheath.

His scream of agony was literally heard for miles.

Spiritus Pharis had been forged millennia in the past, tempered in the sacred flames of temples and quenched not by water or blood, but in the divine breath of Pharis himself. Unlike Soul Crusher, which had only gained great power inadvertently, Pharis Breath had been meant to be a holy relic from the beginning; forged of the purest steel, mounted with silver and gold, etched in holy symbols, and created wholly to the song of prayer, even to the sound of the hammer-blows. It was a direct conduit to the dormant power of Pharis, and every shred of its power flowed according to his will and Doctrine.

And unfortunately, Pharis hated the undead. And while Alex might have been fighting to save the innocents of Lodoss in general and Deedlit in particular, it didn't change the fact that he was, bluntly speaking, a foul abomination of undeath (at least as far as most priests of Pharis would be concerned).

It would take a LOT...a HELL of a lot...to overcome that in the sword's limited view.

And trying to do so was causing Alex pain on a spiritual level, of an intensity that should have rendered him comatose, dead, and the spiritual equivalent of a vegetable.

Unlike Soul Crusher, there was no sentience to the Holy Sword; it was a mindless engine that worked along the simple lines that had been given it in its forging. Namely, "Serve a worthy wielder, and through doing so, save the innocents of Lodoss for the sake of the Divine Light." Simple, really. Alex's only hope was finding a way to put his mission into terms such that the good that the sword could do through him would be enough to convince the sword to over-look his unnatural state of existence.

It would have been hard under the best of circumstances. Under this much pain, it was all that Alex could do to maintain a sense of who he was; he couldn't even remember WHY he wanted to hold the sword so badly, only that if he let go, something terrible would happen.

It was a sight to behold; a pillar of white light had erupted from the sword, engulfing Alex even as it consumed the air within the tent. It was not bright, it did not blind, but there was a forceful, undeniable sense of power within the white, mist-like glow that had suffused them all without ever shedding a mote beyond the door of the tent.

And within the light...

WHY?

He was swimming in...he couldn't remember what he was swimming in. Come to think of it, he couldn't really remember much of what swimming was either...what he was he doing?

WHY?

There was something...he couldn't find the word. He knew that there was something in all the...other-stuff surrounding him, and that it was...doing something to him. And he didn't like what it was doing; he felt some sort of...something. He felt like doing something that would make the...other-stuff-person not like it.

WHY?

He frowned suddenly. This was...it wasn't the way he thought it should be...it wasn't...wasn't...RIGHT! This wasn't right, it was...was...wr...wrong...WRONG! There was Right, and there was Wrong. Right was what was supposed to be, and wrong was what was that shouldn't be the way it was.

WHY?

But why was it wrong? What was wrong? There was something that was wrong, when it should be right; there was supposed to be something...else. Something that wasn't right now...there was supposed to be a...difference...

DIFFERENCE!

Yes...there was something that should be different. But he didn't know what it was, and that just made it even more wrong, because...because...

Because...

...because...

...because THAT was the difference; he SHOULD know. There were things he didn't know now, but he really knew a lot, there were a lot of things he should know.

WHY?

He didn't know why, he didn't know much of anything, but that wasn't right. He knew a lot, and he HAD known a lot up until...until...

Until this other-stuff showed up.

WHY?

There was something new now, something he remembered. It was related to that not-right feeling. It started with realizing the not-right, but he hadn't felt it until he realized it was the other-stuff that made it not-right. He had realized that the other-stuff was doing something not-right to him. He had realized that the other-stuff, the stuff that kept going WHY was doing something to him.

And now he wanted to do something not-right to the other-stuff. Not because that would be right...he remembered again, there could be things that weren't right, but weren't not right...neither right nor wrong. Doing something wouldn't be right, but it wouldn't be wrong.

But he didn't know WHAT to do...well, that wasn't actually too much of a problem. If he couldn't think of something to do, and if the other-stuff was making it so he couldn't think of something to do, then he just had to get rid of some of the other-stuff, and he'd probably be able to think of something to do.

WHY?

He felt something then; something that wasn't him, but it wasn't other-stuff either. It wasn't a stuff either, it was a thing, just one thing that felt all weird, kind of squishy and shapey, like it could never be a stuff, but it could fill up stuff.

And with nothing else to work with, he grabbed the shapey-thing, and pushed it out against the other-stuff...

And something shattered.

WHY?

It took Alex some time to make sense of things again; the other-stuff...LIGHT. It was light, from the Holy Sword, not other-stuff. The LIGHT had done a number on him; being numb to physical stimulus had apparently had the unfortunate side-effect of leaving him particularly sensitive to non-physical, specifically spiritual stimulus. The pain would have been bad under any circumstances, but in that state, he'd hurt so much that for a time, there literally hadn't been any room for anything BUT pain.

Once that had worn off though, there had been room. There just hadn't been anything there to fill it at first. It was pure, simple instinct that had kept him going at that point, instinct and the Flowing Soul. Apparently his hatred for coercion WAS soul-deep; stripped of everything but spirit, he'd somehow divined that something had forced him into that state, and he'd lashed out against it instinctively. Add to that the flowing soul, and he'd been able to force a layer of...something against it, giving him more room for himself, and inadvertently...well, for lack of a better term, forcing a reboot.

WHY?

Which brought him back to the present. Floating in a seemingly infinite plane of white, with nothing, not even a self-image there, only a vague sense of Self, and an even vaguer sense of Other.

An Other that was apparently the sum consciousness of the light surrounding him. And an Other that WOULDN'T. STOP. ASKING. THE. SAME. FUCKING. QUESTION.

WHY?

"WHY WHAT YOU FUCKING OVERGROWN LAVA LAMP?"

...silence, at least for a time. Then...

...UNSURE...

Alex groaned. "Great, an incompetent inquisitor." He looked around; infinite white was boring as hell, and apparently unlike his mind-scape, he couldn't manipulate this place to his liking. "Just who the hell are you, anyway?"

...WHO INCORRECT DESIGNATION. WHAT DETERMINED AS MORE APPROPRIATE.

Alex groaned again; this was getting ridiculous. Apparently, this thing wasn't going to be of any use; that didn't surprise him too much. Which left him to figure this out on his own.

It took him all of thirty seconds to figure it out; it was pretty glaringly obvious when you thought about it.

The last thing he'd done had been to grab the Holy Sword, so called because it was holy to the God of Light. A sword that he had been warned would be actively antagonistic to him.

That had been followed immediately thereafter with excruciating pain, and gaining first consciousness and then his sense of self floating in an infinite sea of light.

The obvious answer? Either A) he was in communication with some sort of retarded version of Pharis, or B) he was communicating with whatever magic existed within the sword.

Given that it somewhat mechanically designated itself as a WHAT rather than a WHO, he was betting on the sword.

Having established that he was currently talking to light-magic, he came to the next immediate obvious conclusion; he needed to get OUT of this light. He also needed to get the sword to work for him in the process. And unfortunately, his 'captor' was too stupid to trick.

Still, he made do. "So you're the Holy Sword, right?"

...DESIGNATION ACCEPTABLE.

"...okay. Why are you asking me why?"

IT IS MY PURPOSE TO DO SO.

Alex sighed. This was going to take a while. "Okay, what purpose is fulfilled by asking me 'why'?"

DETERMINING POTENTIAL WORTH OF WIELDER.

Alex digested that in silence. "In other words, this is the test. I have to convince you to let me wield you, or...?"

THE LIKELY OUTCOME WILL BE DESTRUCTION.

"Isn't that a little harsh?"

YOU'RE UNDEAD. DESTROYING UNDEAD IS WHAT I DO.

"...among other things, I hope."

THE DESTRUCTION OF THOSE DESIGNATED AS EVIL IS MY PRIMARY PURPOSE.

"Define evil."

THOSE OPPOSING THE DIVINE WILL OF PHARIS.

"That – " Alex bit back his retort. It was a stupid line of reasoning, but that wasn't any reason to antagonize it; philosophical debate wasn't exactly a good idea here. He'd save it for a last resort. "That being the case," he picked up, "wouldn't my quest be considered along the lines of the Divine Will of Pharis?" He blinked; he could actually HEAR the capital letters.

YOUR QUEST IS UNKNOWN TO ME. CLARIFICATION IS NECESSARY.

Alex rolled his eyes. "I'm building a huge army to fight a path to Castle Conquera on Marmo, the land cursed by the death of Kardis, to oppose and maybe kill those who still worship Kardis and Falaris, rescuing a high elf in the process, and actively standing against Kardis."

OPPOSITION OF THE ADVERSARY AND THOSE WHO STOOD WITH HIM IS IN KEEPING WITH THE DIVINE WILL OF PHARIS. AIDING ONE WHOSE EXISTENCE IS UNNATURAL IS NOT.

Alex waited, but as it became clear that the sword wasn't planning on saying anything further, he plowed ahead. "So? Does the fact that I'm going to fight against the cause of Kardis balance out the fact that I'm undead?"

SUCH CANNOT BE BALANCED. THERE IS RIGHT, AND THERE IS WRONG.

"What? What about gray areas?"

THERE IS LIGHT AND DARKNESS. GRAY AREAS DO NOT EXIST.

"Then what do you call me?"

...CLARIFICATION IS NECESSARY.

"Do I look like I'm made out of light, or darkness? I was matter back when I was natural, not light or darkness, and I'm not sure as hell not light or dark now, I'm undead."

CONFUSING.

"You're telling me." Alex shook his head. "Look, it's very simple. If you aid me, I will use your power to try and kill Kardis, thus removing any of her further influence on Lodoss. Would that qualify as good?"

ENDING KARDIS' REIGN ON FORCERIA IS IN KEEPING WITH THE DIVINE WILL OF PHARIS.

"Okay, how about this; sitting back and ALLOWING Kardis to destroy everything...good? Or evil?"

...EVIL.

"So, if you DON'T aid me, you're tacitly allowing Kardis free reign to do whatever she desires, because you are now in a position to do something to oppose her, and choosing not to." He raised an eyebrow. "Can you perform an evil act?"

AIDING YOU CONSTITUTES AID TO THE UNDEAD. UNACCEPTABLE.

"OH COME ON!" Alex snapped. "You're going to let an insane goddess loose just so you don't have to help out one still-thinking zombie?"

THERE ARE NO GRAY AREAS. PERFORMING A LESSER ACT OF EVIL TO FOIL A GREATER ACT IS UNACCEPTABLE; ONLY ACTIONS THAT ARE DESIGNATED UNQUESTIONABLY GOOD ARE ACCEPTABLE AND ALLOWABLE.

Alex sighed. "Great." He frowned in thought; he did have to wonder why the Holy Sword was still allowing him to plead a case. Did it have to wait until he admitted defeat or something? He frowned. Or did that mean...he managed a slow, if rather grim smile. "You are aware that my continued undead state is eroding my control? And that without that control, my body will become inanimate, soul-less dead flesh? That my death is inevitable?"

SUCH WILL ADVANCE THE CAUSE OF GOOD; THAT IS TO THE GOOD. YOUR DEATH WILL HOWEVER BE REGRETTABLE.

Alex rolled his eyes. "How diplomatic. Anyway, did you know that the more active I am, the more time it burns away? That if I were to, say...go to war, it would accelerate my demise from perhaps six more months to say, two to three weeks?"

DULY NOTED. HOWEVER, THIS SEEMS TO BEAR LITTLE RELEVANCE.

"Bear with me. If you aid me, then you will be directly furthering the cause of good by opposing Kardis."

AIDING THE UNDEAD –

"Hold on, I wasn't finished. If you aid me, you will also force me into a state of highly aggressive action, thus accelerating my demise. So." He grinned triumphantly. "You, by not directly opposing my wielding of you, will directly influence the course of a war against evil, while simultaneously contributing to the demise of one of the undead."

...DOING SO WOULD STILL CONSTITUTE AID TO THE UNDEAD.

"OH COME ON! I'm going to be dead, what possible benefit could this be to me?"

Alex plowed ahead. "Besides, if you do things THIS way, you fulfill your purpose in such a way that allows an undead a chance to redeem itself, at least in theory." He smirked. "I mean after all, Pharis IS a merciful as well as righteous, isn't he?"

"...well?"

...ACCEPTABLE.

And the world shattered.

Something was shaking him. Or someone, rather.

You see it on occasion in those zombie movies, that sort of creepy way of sitting up, where your head hangs limp, bent backwards as your chest rises, giving the impression that there's some sort of secondary force bringing you up, not your muscles.

Quite accurate, in Alex's case. Unfortunately, it did nothing to alleviate the nearly overwhelming case of the willies that it gave the soldier shaking him.

Though it DID serve nicely to make him forget that the sword in his hand looked REALLY impressive and should have been instantly recognizable. "What?"

The soldier shook his head, taken aback. "Oh!" He jumped to his feet and bowed. "I apologize for disturbing you, but there's been an attack!"

Alex was on his feet in a second, Holy Sword on the ground, scythe in his hands. "WHAT?"

The soldier gulped; he really hoped that what he'd heard about Alex not shooting the messenger was true. "Two dark elves, sir. They didn't kill anyone, but...the Baron Lucian..."

Alex didn't wait to hear the rest; he shot out of the tent, Chiffon close on his heals. "Karl..."

It was easy to find him; you just had to follow the sound of outraged murmuring. Alex slowed to a halt; soldiers were clustered around the entrance of Karl's tent, but no one was going inside. Steeling himself, he went inside.

It wasn't as bad as he would have thought, at least not at first glance. There was blood, but no obvious wounds. Then he wondered WHY Karl was lying on his back, supporting himself by the elbows. Also why Etoh and Leylia were clustered, not at his head, or chest, but at his legs.

Then he and Karl made eye-contact.

There is a lot that can be said with a glance; this told Alex everything he needed to know. He knew how bad the wound was. He knew what had to be done. And Karl, and Slayn, and Leylia, and Etoh knew as well.

Still, he crouched beside them; he had to ask. "How bad is it?"

"He'll live," Etoh said bluntly. "He took a few wounds in the arms defending himself, but I was able to heal those, as well as a cut to his face. But..." he hesitated.

Leylia felt no need to. "It's his knee, Alex. They cut the tendon."

Alex was silent for a long time. Turning very pointedly towards Leylia, he stared at her for several long moments. "Can it be healed?" he asked carefully. Leylia shook her head. She started at the sudden, cold look in Alex's eyes. "Are you telling me," he bit out, "that with hundreds of priests in this camp, you can't fix his leg?"

Etoh glared at him. "If you mean can we heal his leg enough for him to walk, then yes, it could be done by us. With a great deal of energy, time, and effort. But that would be it. If you expect him to be healed enough to ride, to fight, and to come with us in the invasion, then no. Particularly considering that those hundreds of priests are almost entirely novices who'll only be hard-pressed just to keep men alive long enough to be healed PROPERLY. Assuming they can get to better trained priests."

Alex sighed. "Great." He looked Karl in the eye for several long moments, then turned back to Etoh. "You said that you can't do it, but what about a better-trained priest, or priestess? What if we could get him to Neese?"

Etoh sighed. "Neese could repair the tendon properly, but it's not that easy. Even if she did it, he'd need time to rest, time to let it heal COMPLETELY, or he'd just tear it again." He looked at Alex frankly. "More time than we have to wait."

Alex sighed then turned to Slayn. "Take him to Tarba, then get back as soon as you can. We're leaving tomorrow."

Slayn's eyes widened. "What? But...but the new moon only just rose, it'll be nearly a month before the ceremony..."

Alex's glare cut him off. "Do you know why they hit Karl? Specifically, why they hit Karl instead of me?"

For all that it wasn't directed at him, Karl chose to answer instead. "They targeted me because you can't be targeted."

Alex nodded grimly. "They can't kill me, but they can kill everyone else. The soldiers...the priests and priestesses, the mages...you or Leylia, for that manner. Everyone here holding this army together, they can kill them. And no matter how much we tighten the guard around here, they'll find gaps." He growled under his breath. "It doesn't even matter WHO they kill, if they do; it can be random soldiers and it'll be no less effective at demoralizing us." He shook his head. "No, we have to leave soon, before they have a chance to strike at us again, before they have time to realize how much damage they can do."

Slayn grabbed his arm as Alex rose to leave. "Alex, it's three in the morning, we can't leave NOW."

Alex rolled his eyes. "Slayn, I said we leave tomorrow. It is today right now." He shook his hand free. "You have a teleportation to arrange, I believe." He exited the tent. He grabbed the nearest soldier as he left the tent. "Don't bother waking anyone, but I want the word to go around camp as fast as it can; we leave after the next sunrise." He rose a hand, quieting the murmurs. "There will be no further training; this is it. Every man here will have all of tomorrow to prepare himself for this war as best as he sees fit; write your loved ones, say good-bye...whatever you feel you need to do." He looked around, then raised his voice, loud enough for everyone assembled to hear. "When the sun rises this morning, you will no longer be trainees, no longer militia. You will be Coyotes. And when the sun next sets, you will sleep for the last time on the shores of Lodoss. Because when the sun sets next, you'll either be on the water, headed for a war the likes of which you've never imagined...or you'll be fighting that war already."

There were murmurs going through the crowd, questions and shouts, but he ignored them, cutting through the crowd towards his tent. The endgame was here, and he had one last move to prepare for.

He prayed the moves he'd made up to this point were the right ones.

Wort watched and shook his head, groaning. "I'm too old for this."

He sighed as he let the picture in his crystal fade. It all seemed too convenient, really. Renard shows up to warn him of the Blue Moon, of the possibility that Alex would sail weeks too late, and now this; oh-so conveniently, Alex sailed early.

Early enough that, at least in theory, he could breach Conquera by the night of the Blue Moon.

How convenient.

How very convenient...

To be continued...

Author's Notes: Okay, the chapter is really complete this time; when next we meet, we'll get to see the landing on Marmo, and the war to come.

(1) – Rune Soldier Louie is an anime/manga series that was created fairly recently by Ryo Mizuno; it takes place on Alecrast, the not-so-cursed northern neighbor of Lodoss. It's more a comedy than anything else, and includes among its cast of a thick-headed brawling wizard-turned-hero (he shatters his wand using it as a club in the first major fight scene), a red-headed female mercenary with a build to rival a certain governator, your stereotypical money-grubbing thief, and a chivalry-obsessed priestess of Myrii who gets flushed at the thought of Ancient Dragons her god-chosen hero can slay to improve his (and by extension her) reputation.