Standard Disclaimer: I don't own the characters found in Legend of Dragoon, or the idea of the Dragon Campaign; these belong to Sony, and I just adore them from afar. However, the storyline, the character histories, and the other minor characters were created by me. Please don't use any of these without permission, but if you ask I probably won't say no.

Author's Note: Hello! I'm writing this fic because the former Dragoons fascinate me, especially Kanzas, who seems so out of place within the idea of Humanity's revolution against the Winglies. How was Shirley able to persuade him to join the Dragon Campaign, and what is the connection that holds him there? That's what this is going to be about.

Kanzas is younger in this than he actually is in the game, but since they never gave ages or anything in-game, I'm sure you can cope, hehe. Anyway, there's language (minor), violence/gore (especially), and some sexual themes, so if this stuff offends you, beware!

"Healer, Killer"
By Amanda Swiftgold

Chapter One

The darkness, thick and heavy, is held back by candleglow. Scentless incense fogs the air, the low firelight casting a dancing golden blush across rows of figures, clay and cloth, faceless. There are so many of them arranged there, voiceless remainders of hundreds of crumpled corpses. They watch over him - they are there for him, because no one else is there for him.

There is no one else at all.

For eleven thousand years he has haunted this tower; for over four million days he has waited. His fists, clad in the ghost of armor, ache; each small doll upon the shelves cries for a new companion. His rasping undead voice calls through the candlelight into the blackness that is ready for him, the terrifying blackness to which he has sent so many others. He cannot go; he will not go, because one more victim still awaits his violent release. One more, two more… more and more and more.

"Anybody… just satisfy me…"

---

Screams pierced the night repeatedly, the only sort of alarm the household would receive. The Wingly woman called Jolene paused in tucking a blanket up around the form of her sleepy young son, her eyes flying wide. Pressing her hands to her face, she ran from the small bedroom and into the alcove at the end of the hall, peering fearfully through the glass.

What she saw there made her pull back sharply - the bodies of two of the family's Human slaves, bleeding bright red pools on the path, the front gate open and the magical drones which were to have guarded it also lying mangled on the ground. "The bandits!" she cried out, taking two steps forward before turning and moving slightly the other way. "Oh no, oh no…"

"Mother?" the child's voice called from his room. The entire house seemed to shake, the front door sounding as if it was being bent inward by the sudden assault. "Mother!"

"I'm coming!" Pulling her long, silky skirts up out of her way, the silver-haired Wingly turned firmly back toward the small bedroom, but the buzzing noise of the teleporter at the end of the hall stopped her short.

She threw her arms out as if to bar the way into the room, but instead of the fearsome Human she expected, the figure of her husband appeared, a blood-streaked sword in his hand and his translucent, glowing wings jutting from his back. "Riyan!" she cried, running to him, but he held out a hand to halt her. "How did they get past the defenses?"

He stepped forward, shaking his head. "No time - Jolene, take the boy and fly-"

The teleporter sparked green, making its grating sound as it spat its occupant out onto the pad. The Wingly man didn't even have time to turn around as long metal claws, attached to a tightly-wound fist, drove hard into the side of his neck. Blood ran from four points protruding through the other side, barely visible before they were pulled out.

Jolene screamed, scrambling back into her son's bedroom even as her husband's body fell to the floor, revealing the muscular Human dressed in rags that stood behind him, Riyan's lifeblood spattering his fist and chest. "Only three," she heard him say in a hoarse voice before she slammed the door tight and turned the latch to lock it.

Rhythmic pounding sounded on the wood as she gathered her young child up in her arms, breathing heavily in an attempt to stay calm. Frightened, the boy whimpered and clung to her tightly as she looked at the plate-glass window, her hand shaking as she tried to trace the correct magic sigil and cast a wind spell to break it open.

The sound of splintering wood rang throughout the nursery, and she backed up into the corner, her son's small bed between her and the Human breaking through. The loud sound of the window shattering nearly blocked out the noise of the latch giving way, the metal piece swinging wildly as the door slammed completely open.

Jolene let her wings free, curling her body over her boy as she launched away from the wall, the night air that streamed in through the window rushing strongly past her. She was almost there, she noted breathlessly, but her hope was stopped abruptly by a sharp tug on her ankle and the feeling of a large, rough hand pulling her backward, the momentum slamming her into the far wall.

Plaster fell around her as she collapsed to the floor, her head whirling, her only thought the knowledge that she was still holding her son. "Run - run!" she whispered to him, giving him a shove away from her and watching him crawl tearfully under the bed.

Looking up, the Wingly saw the Human man standing above her, regarding her with a terrifyingly blank gaze. What she'd thought was Riyan's blood was actually oozing from a shallow gash across his chest, a wound her husband had probably caused, though it didn't seem to have really hurt him. "Please," she begged, clasping her hands together in front of her. "Please, you can have anything you want, just don't kill us!"

"I'll have both," he answered calmly, and her sobs increased as her feet scrabbled against the floor, as if she was trying to push herself through the wall.

Shaking her head frantically, Jolene wailed, "Why? What did we ever do to you?" She hid her hands beneath her pulled-up knees now, letting the fabric of her skirt mask the pattern of the spell she was casting.

However, before she could finish, before she could even blink, he'd lurched forward, his fingers wrapped around her neck. The Wingly woman squeaked, forced to gasp for breath. "You did nothing," he told her, sudden sparks flashing in his eyes. "You're just here. That's all the reason I need."

"But I… I don't want… to die…" She squeezed her own eyes shut tightly, her nails digging into the flesh of his arms.

"You will not be alone there." In one swift second, he snapped her head back, breaking her neck. Pulling his hand back, he dragged the point of one of the claws he wore across the exposed skin of her throat, watching with a rapt expression as the thick, bright red fluid seeped up and began dripping from the gash. Cradling the Wingly woman's body in one arm as if holding a baby, he pressed his hand to the wound, feeling the rivulets of blood running between his fingers, staining the already-dirty skin a reddish hue.

Momentarily leaning his face into the silver curls of her hair, the Human man let the body drop, drawing himself up to his feet. "Four," he breathed aloud, almost unthinkingly sucking the smeared red fluid from one fingertip.

His gaze fell on the rumpled sheets of the child's bed behind him, and, stooping, he caught the curving edge of the bed frame, flipping it over and away to reveal the young boy with platinum hair who had been huddling underneath…

---

Glass sprayed across the wooden countertop in the manor house's kitchen as one Human man struck a jar down on the edge. Dipping his grimy fingers into the preserves he'd just revealed, he shoveled a handful of the loganberry jam into his mouth, sighing happily. Around him, other gaunt figures were raiding the larder and cupboards, tossing whatever food they could find out into the center of the room.

One of the older bandits swatted at his fingers, a scowl on his face. "Hey now, all ya, stop the eatin'! We gotta get this loaded up an' outta here before them Wingly guards come!"

"Yeah, well," another griped, shoving loaves of bread into a sack, "we can't go till the boss gets back, so we might as well get a mouthful or two in. I wish he wouldn't go around slittin' them girls' throats first off like that; I ain't had a woman in months!"

"You ain't never had a real woman," came the rejoinder, followed by a round of low, unpleasant laughter.

There was a clattering noise as the older man shoved a jar across the counter toward one of the others. "Gripe if ya want, but get in his way an' he'd cut yer throat instead," he warned, his frown barely visible through his thick, tangled beard. "Kanzas is more 'n a bit peculiar, it's plain as the nose on yer face."

Another of the thin men snorted derisively, throwing a burlap sack full of dried meat and spice bottles onto the pile of goods. "I say he gets his jollies from doin' it, me. 'S why he kills Human slaves too, 'stead of just the Wingly bastards we raid."

"Mebbe so," the older one said grudgingly. "But he joined the gang as a young'n, ya know, escaped from his owner, and back then word was his old master messed him over real good. So it's all the Winglies' fault, same as ever."

"Ya," one of his listeners agreed, repeating the statement they'd all learned to make as children: "it's all because of them, all our troubles."

The sound of heavy footsteps near the doorway made the small group raise their heads in unison and reach for hidden daggers, looking around for the intruder. However, the voice reached them before its owner did, and they all perceptibly relaxed, almost as if they'd been encompassed in some kind of sphere of protection, though an undercurrent of tension remained.

"Six… no, seven, I almost forgot… and eight." Looking around the doorframe, Kanzas poked his head into the kitchen long enough to toss a handful of something onto the counter; golden chains and rings jangled together as they hit. "That's almost it. Hurry up," he said with a short grin, "we've got to get out of here."

Grabbing eagerly for the golden trinkets, the oldest one nodded deeply to the younger man as he shoved them into hiding spots inside his ragged vest. "Sure thing, boss, sure thing," he answered slimily, almost too quickly. The wild-haired man, however, simply returned the nod and moved on past the doorway again.

The darkened room was silent as the bandits finished their looting, though one voice said quietly, "I really wish he wouldn't count 'em like that."

"Just keep yer trap shut! I swear, we're all more 'fraid of 'im than the Winglies sometimes," another returned, he too speaking more softly than usual.

The bags rustled as the footsteps returned, but before the men realized there was more than one set, the outside door to the kitchen was flung open, Wingly soldiers crowding through. "Stop there!" one bellowed, the order going unheeded as the bandits grabbed what they could and fled inward through the house, scattering.

However, none of them got very far, finding the house surrounded by armed men. One by one, the bandits were taken down by the Winglies' spells, until only one was left barely alive.

He was dragged out onto the front lawn, and the commander of the troops stepped forward, crossing his arms as he looked at the thin Human hanging from the hands of two of his men. "Where is your leader?" Commander Arturo asked him coolly. "He was supposed to be here to… 'stop' us."

All the panic had left the Human as he realized that he, like the others, wasn't going to make it out. The ambush had gone so well that it was clear now they'd been followed, that it had been planned for their gang to be wiped out here. "If he's not here, he's with the dead," he answered wearily. "And so'll be anyone who goes after him."

"Interesting," he responded slowly. "Very interesting. Men, please, relieve him of his burdens."

As the two guards moved to strike the bandit and finish him, another came flying down from above, his wings shimmering into nothingness as he landed in front of the Wingly commander. "Sir, upstairs," he began his skin very pale in the moonlight, "the bodies of the landowner, his wife and child - and two of our men, sir!"

"Ah," Arturo acknowledged, drawing his sword from the sheath on his belt. "So, he is still here." Releasing his wings, he shoved off into the sky, followed by the soldier as he flew in through the broken upstairs window, landing lightly in the midst of a room that looked as though it had been hit by a tornado.

Sword raised and glinting dully, the silvery-blue-haired man and his subordinate turned to scan the area, his eyes flickering without emotion across the sprawled bodies on the floor. "Human, show yourself."

There was no response as the two moved slowly, no other motion until, with a quick hitch of breath and a gagging noise, the soldier crumpled nearly in half, blood spraying from the deep slashes gouged across his throat. His fingers flying, the commander traced a darkness spell and cast it into the shadowy area just behind the fallen Wingly.

He was rewarded with a hissing cry and sudden swift movement as the Human launched himself from his hiding spot, his clawed fist clanging against the commander's sword, the blade sliding between two of the long claw-pieces. Arturo twisted the blade, locking Kanzas' hand there, but he wasn't ready for the blow to his chest that came from the other fist, or the knee that slammed up into his gut.

Spinning away, the Wingly gasped for breath, but he was already starting the sigil for another spell. A misty shadow seemed to wrap itself around the Human's arms, clinging to his skin, and Kanzas' dark amber eyes widened. His arms felt as though they didn't exist anymore, simply hanging at his sides no matter how hard he tried to move them. "Arm-blocking," he snarled, "what a wonderful trick."

"Murdering Human bandits receive no honor in the chase," Arturo informed him in clipped tones, "and one must always be prepared, facing something like you." A moment later, more soldiers arrived through the door on the other side, having come up using the teleporter. "Take him into custody," he ordered, waving a hand toward Kanzas.

He only put up a token struggle as the guards dragged him into the green energy and then through the front door of the sacked manor, not even seeming to notice the corpses of the other bandits he had led here earlier in the night. It was as if a strange calm acceptance had fallen over him, the realization that he would probably end up dead as a result of this.

The soldiers' small encampment was just outside the farm manor's now-pointless perimeter wall, and besides the troops the only thing there was a large, movable teleporter used to transport them. He was forced onto this, and he, the three guards surrounding him, and Commander Arturo were instantly moved into some sort of headquarters, where the Wingly commander had his office.

"They were starving, if it means anything to you," Kanzas spoke up suddenly, his numbed arms pulled behind him and locked into tight iron manacles. He kept staring straight ahead, his voice without emotion.

Arturo smirked, moving behind his desk and sitting down in a high-backed cushioned chair. "Not a thing."

"I didn't think so," he murmured, almost automatically kicking back a little as a soldier moved to fasten leg irons on his ankles. Another quickly grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling back sharply until the job was done. The chains clanked loudly as the soldier gave him a shove, sending him falling awkwardly to his knees.

"Thank you, men; you are dismissed." When the door to the office had closed, Arturo smiled thinly, taking a look at his captive. "Now, what is to be done with you?" the Wingly mused slowly, tapping a finger against his lips. He brushed long silvery-blue strands of hair from his eyes before leaning forward, resting his chin on folded hands. "The obvious choice is to send you to Zenebatos for execution."

"So, then do it," Kanzas suddenly snarled, lifting his own chin sharply. "Get it over with!"

Calmly, Arturo extended his hand, tracing a mark in the air invisibly. Flashes of shadow sparked up around the bound man, driving spearpoints of pain through his skin. "How ironic," he murmured, his voice low, almost lost beneath the sound of Kanzas' cry of pain, "a murderer begging for the mercy he denies his victims."

He spat at him, though the glob of blood-streaked saliva didn't even get near the polished surface of the desk. "At least I don't toy with them. At least I don't kill little by little, like you people do your slaves. At least I'm not a damned torturer! And I do not beg, you sorry sack of shit!"

The commander gave a little bark of laughter, sitting back in his seat and regarding Kanzas with raised eyebrows. "And now I have the fortune of hearing a murderer trying to justify his crimes!" he declared in tones of disbelief. "There is a great difference between the treatment of slaves and your casual killing."

"I justify nothing," he retorted, glaring balefully. His face drew into a sneer, his lips a tight line almost lost against the paleness of his skin. The arrogance of Winglies, he thought fiercely. "But you're right - what I do is better than that."

Arturo leaped from his chair, his fingers nearly trembling too much to weave the spell before him. His eyes almost seemed to glow with pleasure as another wave of darkness descended around his captive and driving, acidic rain pierced his flesh.

The scream left Kanzas' throat involuntarily, his arms pulling vainly at the restraints holding them behind him. Losing his balance, he fell hard to his side on the office's wood floor, curling up slightly and trying to catch his breath as the magical assault ceased.

There was stillness as the Wingly watched his reaction carefully, smoothing his hair back once more, and the Human man licked his lips for a moment, still feeling the remnants of the choking blackness on his tingling skin. "Temper, temper," Kanzas rasped, shoulders shaking with morbid amusement.

Footsteps sounded, boots on the hard floor, and then Arturo's foot pressed down onto his neck, the weight of him increasing steadily. "Every race has its ignoble killers," he began, his voice regaining its calm, "even ones created as peaceful as Humans. Its portions of rot and decay, you might say. They kill for many reasons - jealousy, avarice… ignorance. What is your reason, Human disease?"

Chuckling slightly, Kanzas closed his eyes, feeling the coolness of the wood beneath him soak up through his skin. The Wingly commander let his foot up a bit to allow him air to speak with. "You, Wingly soldier," the man said, giving the words the same disgust as Arturo had used, "think you fight… for noble reasons. Have you… ever felt blood… as it is running through your fingers?"

"I do not enjoy the deaths that must be caused!" he snapped back. "A soldier does what must-"

"I love it," Kanzas whispered, his harsh voice steady now. "I feel a beautiful life running through my hands, and I know there must be more-"

His voice was cut off sharply by the foot delivering a sharp kick into his stomach, another following swiftly. "Human swine!" Arturo hissed in revulsion, his foot flying forward again. Kanzas simply bit his lip, grunts of pain escaping with each strike. "The darkest, loneliest hell of Mayfil waits for you!"

He laughed, the sound startling enough that the Wingly stepped back, his eyes wide. "Even in Hell, never alone," the russet-haired man declared. "They will all be waiting for me - they will never forget me - their hate will last for eternity, and there will be more!"

"Feh," the commander spat, spinning on his heel to return to his desk. "It is clear, it is quite clear, that a swift execution is too good a fate for you."

"Aw, too bad for me," Kanzas jeered, feeling rather disappointed when the bait wasn't taken this time. He was such a good target till now…

Arturo took a deep breath, settling back in his chair once more. "You'll be sent to Mekadris and sold in the slave auctions there as a gladiator," he decreed finally, a bit taken aback by his prisoner's sudden intake of breath.

"I - will - not!" Kanzas answered in a clipped voice, the words almost oddly trembling. "I will - never - be a slave again!" He tried vainly to twist into a sitting position, the beads of sweat on his neck and temples feeling weirdly cold. He'd known since he had escaped his last master that there was always a chance he would be captured again, but he would have never thought the Winglies would keep him alive after what he'd done.

"You are in no position to make demands," the commander informed him, noticing the strange panic his words had stirred within the man. "No - in fact, you've cleared me of all my misgivings about this course of action." His smile growing coldly, he went on, "Yes, in the arena at Kadessa you will learn what it is like to have your own heart in someone's fist. You will learn fear, you will learn humility, you will beg for mercy, and you will die as the spectators around you scream for joy!"

I am free, he thought to himself, trying to stop shaking. I am free, I will always be free. No one will own me again. No one will. "No," Kanzas answered softly, his eyes closing as he pressed his face against the floor. "I will never die by another's hand - mine are the only bringers of death…"

"You are scared," Arturo deemed, looking down his nose at him. "Good… that's very good. I want you to know how it feels before you meet your end."

---

"I can't stand this place, Belzac," the red-haired woman murmured fervently, rubbing her hands together under her cloak as if for warmth, although the noonday sun was beating down on them strongly. She reached for the chain around her neck, enfolding her fingers around the small silvery-white orb that hung there.

The huge man next to her gave her a sympathetic look, placing one large hand on her back briefly. "Then let's not waste time," he said gently before reaching to pull a gray hood up over his own head, hiding his features from both the sun and any onlookers. "We'll get home before we know it."

The woman nodded, her own strides lengthening as his shortened, providing an easy pace for the both of them as they passed beneath a marble archway and into the large square of the Mekadris city slave market. Shouts and bellows of traders filled Shirley's ears, a common enough sound, although now they were not the cries of farmers selling vegetables. Humans were being sold here, auctioned like any other property on top of long stages.

There was a different feeling in the air today, Belzac noticed, his gaze sweeping far across the market square, taking in the silvery tops of Wingly heads along with the more muted Human colors dotting the crowd. Something was going to happen - he knew it in his blood. I wonder if Shirley would agree, he mused, saving the thought for later.

The slaves on the block were above the crowd to be seen, more at his eye level, and he quickly picked out the figure of a small girl being roughly shoved up the stairs onto the auction stage not far from where they stood. "This way," he said quietly, resting his hand on Shirley's shoulder to direct her. After a moment's hesitation, he left it there, smiling inwardly with relief when she let him.

Visiting the slave markets had become almost a routine for the two, who had both been slaves once but had since been freed. Shirley and Belzac had both been bought by a Human named Diaz, and in his service they traveled here to buy others free of slavery. Though they had been instructed to find fighters especially, Belzac had a soft spot for children and often chose to purchase them above any others.

Knowing this, Shirley shook her head, smiling a sad smile as they approached the auction for the young girl. A strange feeling inside, however, stopped her short, and her hand flew to clutch at the orb around her neck once more, her brown eyes widening. "Belzac," she whispered shortly, standing on tiptoe to more closely reach the huge man's ear, "we must buy her."

"As you wish, Shirley," he answered, milky eyes narrowing as the auctioneer stepped up, and he pushed forward through the milling crowd to get closer to the block. The girl stood there in only a long, ragged sleeveless shirt, her hands manacled together, chains running through loops on the cuffs around her thin ankles.

"Here we have a female," the Wingly announced, "age about twelve, heritage Human and mercreature." He reached out, lifting a handful of the long teal hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. It slid like silk through his fingers, earning appreciative comments from some of the prospective buyers. The girl was visibly trembling and making soft sobbing sounds, tears running in streams from ruby-colored eyes down her cheeks. "With this unique coloring, she could almost pass for a Wingly, fine enough for serving, cleaning, or as a bed-slave. She is strong and well." He turned her around, the chains clanking, before stepping back. "How much do I hear for this girl?"

"Four hundred," a young Wingly man called out, raising his arm.

Belzac took a deep breath, his voice carrying clearly across the group though he was at the back of the crowd. "Four hundred fifty," he bid.

At his side, Shirley raised her hands to her mouth in nervousness. It was only very rare that they'd been outbid by anybody, but there seemed to be quite a few young rich men in the throng today, and they were the type who fancied a girl like this one. She and Belzac had certainly been given enough money to bring the bidding high, but Lord Diaz would frown on them using it all for one child, not even a warrior to train for his army.

"Five hundred!" called another voice.

The bidding increased steadily, threatening to turn into an all-out war between two of the same rich Winglies Shirley had noticed before. Finally, one dropped from the bidding, and Belzac spoke up again. "One thousand," he said reluctantly, though masking the sound of it in his voice.

"One thousand fifty!" a voice cried triumphantly.

Sighing inaudibly, the large man glanced at Shirley, who had her eyes fixed upon the weeping child on the block. "Eleven hundred," he offered.

There was silence all around; the price had become very high for such a young girl, pretty though she was. Another hundred gold would have bought a field worker in his prime, and so the young rich man stepped back with a scowl, quickly turning and striding away in search of a better bargain.

"Sold, at eleven hundred gold!" the auctioneer declared, slamming a small gavel down onto the block.

"You did well," the red-haired woman whispered to her friend, squeezing one thick forearm between her hands briefly. The large man smiled down at her, affection clearly shining on his face before they started toward the block. Their purchase had already been led down the wooden stairs to make way for the next person up for sale.

The teal-haired slave girl watched with apprehensive eyes as Belzac pushed forward through the crowd, Shirley close behind him. They both opened their purses; the money they carried had been separated so that, in case something happened, they wouldn't lose it all.

Giving her portion to the gray-hooded man, Shirley turned her attention to the twelve-year-old as Belzac turned over the money and signed the papers that were presented before him. "My name is Shirley, and this is Belzac," she said, bending down a bit to face the slim girl on a closer level. "What's yours?"

"It's Damia, Mistress Shirley," she volunteered reluctantly.

Taking the key Belzac silently handed her, the young woman shook her head emphatically before unlocking the manacles and cuffs, the chains clanking as they fell. "No, Damia, just call me Shirley," she said kindly. "We are not your masters."

The girl cringed as the woman took her hand and led her away from the bidding crowds, looking warily up at the gigantic man who followed after. "Then who will be, miss?" she asked quietly, scrubbing a hand across her damp cheeks.

"You're free now," Belzac told her with a quick smile, "though, of course, you are welcome to come back with us. There are many others we have bought and freed, and you may choose to join us in Vellweb."

"Vellweb!" Damia whispered piercingly, her eyes wide; she had obviously heard of the Human city which to slaves was a fabled promised land. "That's so far!" She looked around at the crowded slave market, however, and her hand tightened around Shirley's. "But I have nowhere else to go. I have to come with you."

Nodding seriously, Shirley replied, "Yes, Damia. However, we couldn't in good conscience deny you the choice, in case you had family to return to."

The girl shook her head glumly, crossing her thin arms across her chest. "My mother's dead," she said evenly. "We lived by the sea, where the ocean whispered. But everyone's gone now. Please, Master Belzac," Damia turned her face up to him, "let me go with you! You paid so much for me-"

"Yes, you will go!" the brown-haired man replied, his face breaking into a grin. "And forget the money. No one will sell you ever again." Swinging the pack from his broad back, he knelt briefly to rummage through it, pulling out a length of folded cloth, a faded blue color. Tucking this around her shoulders, he ruffled her hair lightly before standing again. "What would you like to do now, Shirley?" he asked politely, angling his gaze down at her.

The healer was standing still, her eyes focused across the busy square toward the back of the markets. "I… still feel something here," she mumbled. The strange wanting of something, the sensation of a soul tugging at her own, had not abated since they'd bought Damia - so what was it? Where was it?

He noticed her hands at her neck again, covering the Dragoon Spirit she carried, and he frowned a bit. "Still?" Belzac queried. "You're sure?" Two in one day… it doesn't seem possible.

Since she had received her spirit, Shirley had had strange pulling feelings, a kind of other sense she possessed that drew her to one person or another. At first he had been skeptical, but her sense had not proved them wrong yet; it had been these feelings of hers that had led them to Zieg and to Syuveil, both of whom had recently been accepted by Dragoon Spirits, as well as many of the other powerful warriors currently training to fight for Lord Diaz. They were always looking for others with the potential to become a Dragoon, ever since Diaz had discovered the secret of the spirits.

Shirley did not answer, her body growing tense, her short form rising on tiptoe as she peered as well as she could over the heads of the crowd. Damia watched with growing awe as the woman, with all the suddenness of a bowshot, suddenly burst into a run, shoving between people heedlessly. "Master - I mean, Belzac? What's wrong with her?" she called out, also breaking into a run to keep up with the man's huge strides as he immediately began to follow the fleeing white-cloaked figure.

She nearly ran into him as he stopped suddenly, looking around almost wildly. Jumping in an attempt to see, Damia too searched the crowd and found no trace of Shirley. Belzac groaned, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Ah, Shirley," he sighed disapprovingly. I hope this doesn't lead to trouble.

Too late, the redheaded woman had realized that she'd left the others behind when she'd gone around a corner, but she didn't stop to find them again, hurrying toward the center of a great noise of excited voices. The household workers were sold near the entrance of the slave market square near the arches; here at the back were the blocks where criminals were sold for use as miners or gladiators, traded off cheaply to do dangerous work. When she pushed past bystanders here, the disturbance that was usually ignored was greeted with a curse or a hand on the hilt of a blade.

The source of all the commotion was the figure of a slave up on one of the selling stages. He was a lithe man, lean and well-muscled, fighting like a rabid animal against the Winglies and Humans holding the chains that wrapped around his form, trying to restrain him. The crowd here, loving the spectacle, was cheering on his desperate efforts to break free.

The criminal auctioneer was a Human, large and florid with a loud, thundering voice that carried even over the struggling man's enraged snarls. "This man, as you can see, would make the perfect gladiator!" he called out over the crowd. "He's twenty-three, in fine, fine shape, as you can also see - whoops-"

The man danced back out of the way as the slave whirled around, a loud sound of snapping metal ringing out as one tightly-balled fist jerked away from the other, breaking a weak link in his manacle chains. His hands came flying from behind his back, his punch connecting with the jaw of an armored Wingly guard, who collapsed like a falling sack of bricks.

Shirley, her eyes widened, watched as another platinum-haired man traced a sigil in the air. The crowd, almost as one, gasped and cried out with glee as turquoise flashes of lightning struck down from a point above the slave's head, slamming into his unprotected, nearly clothingless body and sending him reeling backward with a grunt.

Panting with the effort, the russet-haired man pulled himself back up again, charging headlong for another of the four men trying to restrain him and driving his shoulder into his chest, broken pieces of chain whipping around his arms and slicing small cuts into taut muscles.

"Better watch out, boys!" the auctioneer called brightly, egging on the crowd. "Seems he has thunder affinity! Magic doesn't even faze this one! You'll sure have a fine gladiator on your hands here, folks!"

Biting her lip as she watched the slave struggle, the red-haired woman once again reached for her silvery-white Dragoon Spirit, feeling it warm beneath her fingers as if trying to tell her something. He was the one she'd been looking for; she could feel it.

But if he was here, it was because he was a criminal. Of course, under Wingly law there aren't many non-Winglies who are completely innocent, are there? she reminded herself. His crime could have been as simple as having gone to the wrong store; she hoped it was true, as she'd never tried to buy a criminal for Lord Diaz before.

"Well, come on," the auctioneer cried out once more, his hands resting on his large paunch. Having wound up the crowd, it was time to get to the bidding. "Get him down; we've seen what he can do! Just don't damage him too much for his new owner!"

Tossing a glare at the Human auctioneer, the conscious Wingly wove a spell once more, much to the crowd's delight. Bright, multicolored flashes like shimmering clouds appeared around the slave, blooming and exploding against him. His low groan as he crumpled to his knees, quickly cut off, tore at Shirley's heart, and she cried out softly in empathy with his pain.

"What do I hear for this exceptional Human?"

Bidding often started quite low at these auction blocks, but the show they'd seen had made the onlookers quite appreciative of the potential gladiator's strength and resilience. "Five hundred!" a deep voice shouted.

"Seven hundred!"

"Seven-fifty!"

"Nine hundred!"

The fat auctioneer looked around, his eyes shining. "Do I hear any more?" he asked into the momentary silence.

Before she even realized it, Shirley's arm flew up in the air. "Nine-fifty!" she called out, easily heard over the crowd because of her closeness to the stage. The chained man raised his head, his dark amber-brown eyes meeting hers, and she swallowed heavily, hoping he could read the good intentions in her expression.

The man standing next to the slumped slave laughed delightedly. "Nine-fifty from the little lady! Sure you could handle him, sweetheart? He's not afraid to use those fists!"

"Nine-fifty," Shirley repeated stubbornly.

"One thousand!" a gruff voice bid.

"Thirteen hundred!" another cried.

It can't get much higher… we can't afford this, not after buying Damia too. But I can't - I won't see this man go to Kadessa to die! Wincing, the young woman shook her head but once again raised her hand. "Thirteen-fifty!"

"Thirteen-fifty!" the man declared, clearly having decided to pick on her for being the only woman. "Fellas, I think we're seeing true love here! Go on, sweetheart, you're too pretty for this convict!"

There was a collective low, suggestive laugh, and one man put his hand on Shirley's shoulder. "Forget the slave, girl," he purred. "I'm much cheaper-"

Shrugging his hand off angrily, she furrowed her eyebrows and kicked back at him, the heel of her boot colliding with his shin. As he spun away, cursing, accompanied by the sound of jeering, the auctioneer bellowed, "We've got thirteen-fifty from the little lady! Anyone going to stand in the way of true love?"

"Fourteen hundred!" a high, clear man's voice bid, followed by more nasty laughter.

Shirley could not take her eyes away from the slave's face. A scruffy, tangled beard covered his jaw, his russet hair just as wild and unruly. His eyes, however, were regarding her with interest, an odd calmness in them despite his frantic fighting before.

"Fourteen-fifty!" she shouted, almost daring someone to outbid her. And if they did - well, then she was through, for there was only fifteen hundred gold left between her and Belzac if they wanted to make it back to Vellweb safely.

A voice raised once more, the same high young man's voice. "Fif-" However, it was suddenly cut off, and a confused silence descended.

Rallying against the surprise, the auctioneer began slowly, "Any more? Going once… going twice…" He paused, looking around, and then shrugged, beaming broadly. "Sold to the lady up front! One thousand, four hundred and fifty gold is the price of love, folks!" Amidst the peals of laughter, he winked exaggeratedly like a street performer, beckoning toward Shirley. "Come and get him, sweetheart!"

Determined, she took a step forward, pressing up against the side of the stage to slide past the men crowding against it. A haphazard gasp from the more observant members of the crowd and a jingle of chains were her only warning as the slave suddenly lurched forward, one hand flying out toward her face.

Instead of the crack of a gavel to seal the purchase, there was the loud crack of a guard's club slamming into the side of the man's head, dropping him to the surface of the auction block, his balled fist relaxing right in front of her nose. Shirley gasped in shock and horror, sagging backward and hitting against someone. Spinning around, she looked up to see Belzac looming above her and sighed, almost collapsing back against his chest in relief. "Oh, thank Soa it's you."

He put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it once before letting go. Damia stood right at her elbow now, looking at her questioningly, and she shook her head before standing straight again and pushing her way through to the auctioneer, followed by the other two.

"You women sure like a challenge, don't you?" the auctioneer baited, having noticed his appreciative crowd was still sticking around. "That's fourteen-fifty, little lady."

Belzac narrowed his eyes, his deep voice rumbling out, "You will have more respect for the lady, sir."

Smirking at the fat man's visible discomfort, Shirley once again counted out her portion of the money, Belzac without further comment coming up with the rest. Clearing his throat and stowing the payment away in a lockbox, the auctioneer waved toward the comatose figure of the slave she'd just bought; he had finally been pulled off the stage and deposited at their feet.

"Your slave, my lady," he said, glancing nervously at Belzac and holding out the ownership papers toward her, the sour-faced Wingly guard next to him producing quill and ink. "Please make your mark or sign."

"I make this purchase in the name of my owner." Coolly, Shirley leaned forward and signed the name of the Wingly who was 'officially' the owner of the slaves they freed; upon reading the name, the auctioneer paled, and the winged guard next to him took a step backward. She forced herself not to smile at their dismay.

Wiping his brow, the auctioneer cleared his throat and proffered an iron key. "Well, then… I do suggest you leave his chains on - and get stronger ones. Whatever you wanted him for," he leered, raking his eyes across her despite Belzac's warning glare, "he'll do nothing but fight. The seller is not responsible for anything he does to you."

"I understand," Shirley forced out, quickly pulling the key away from his sweaty fingers and ignoring the implications in his statement. Belzac's quiet disapproval of what she'd done was enough, even setting aside the inferences this man had been making during the bidding.

She folded the key into her palm, watching silently as Belzac crouched to pick up the limp form of the slave before them, slinging him easily over one large shoulder. There was only one thing she knew now: the odd tugging feeling had gone away. She'd found the one she was supposed to find, no matter who he was or what he had done. "He must be treated," she said softly.

"Yes," Belzac agreed shortly, pushing forward to lead the way from the slave markets and back toward the inn where they were staying. "I hope you know what you're doing, Shirley."

"I do," she answered firmly, blinking in surprise and then smiling as Damia shyly slid her hand into hers. She held it tightly, swinging their arms and walking lightly, almost as if a weight had fallen from her. "We got a real warrior for Lord Diaz, Belzac - and everything's going to be just fine!"

---

Kanzas opened his eyes to a bright, white glow, the rays of light streaming out from between a woman's fingers. Her eyes too were closed, and what was undoubtedly healing magic cast a pale shine onto her lovely, serene face as she sat next to him on the bed.

The woman from the slave market- His hand lashed out, startling a shriek from her before his fingers closed over her throat, pressing her head back as he slowly sat up. There was another female in the room, her own scream ringing out suddenly. Whatever had been causing the glow fell from the redhead's hand, clonking hard onto the wooden floorboards and rolling with a glassy whir under the bed.

A second later, he found himself pressed flat back against the mattress again, two huge hands on his shoulders and a knee in his gut preventing him from moving. Kanzas struggled, growling angrily at the giant of a man who was seemingly holding him down without effort. "Bastard!" he snarled in a rasping tone, kicking at the man, but to no avail.

"I knew we should have left the chains on, damn you," Belzac hissed, raising his fist to deliver a hard punch to the prone man's jaw. Much to his surprise and grudging respect, he merely flinched in pain, staying conscious. "After she went to all the trouble to free you, and you do that!"

"Free me?" he spat, letting his muscles go deceptively slack. However, the huge man didn't take the bait, holding him down with as much pressure as when he'd been struggling. "No one pays that much to set someone free!"

Another face intruded into his vision, strands of straight red hair trailing down toward his chest as the woman leaned in over the large man's arm. "We do," Shirley told him quietly. There were faint pinkish impressions from his fingers on her pale neck, but she didn't appear to be very angry about it. "If Belzac lets you up, will you promise to listen?"

Kanzas narrowed his eyes at her, his mind running quickly. There was something so familiar about this woman, but he couldn't quite place the face. "Who are you?" he demanded, ignoring her question for the moment.

"My name is Shirley," she replied calmly, laying a hand at her collarbone, "and this is Belzac. Over there is Damia. We are here to buy and free slaves at the behest of Lord Diaz of Vellweb."

His mind skipped across the rest of her explanation, fastening on her name. Now he knew why she looked familiar. What an odd coincidence, that he might meet her again after so long. Shirley… I know who you are. "Shirley," he whispered, closing his eyes almost dreamily. "All right, I'll listen."

She and Belzac exchanged cautious, wondering glances before looking down at the man on the bed. Slowly, Shirley stepped away, well out of reach, before her friend let up his grip on the former slave. They watched him warily, but he continued to lay there with his eyes closed, all the tension suddenly drained from his body as if he was asleep. "What is your name?" the woman asked him, finally stepping closer once more.

The man's eyelids fluttered, and he watched her expression closely as he said in an offhanded tone, "It's Kanzas." There was no sign of recognition on her part, nothing but a nod of acknowledgment. He felt rather pleased that she didn't know him.

Pillowing his head on his arms, he winced at the soreness of his muscles, especially the tenderness of what had to be a spreading bruise on his jaw, and glared up at the Giganto-like man who'd done it. Belzac gave him a similar look full of ire, looming over Shirley protectively.

"Kanzas," she repeated, dragging his attention away again. "Like I said, we bought you to free you."

"Huh," he snorted derisively. "There's gotta be something in it for you. I don't care what you say; no one goes around paying that much to set slaves free."

A soft, new voice spoke up, and he glanced over to see a young teal-haired girl standing at a safe distance away, her hands clasped up in front of her. "It's true. They bought me, too."

"We're looking for fighters," Shirley pressed. "Lord Diaz sends us here to find Humans who wish to fight for him. But when we say you're free, you truly are - if you have somewhere to return, you may by all means go. Even so, we'd like you to stay on with us, Kanzas. I believe you could be-" She stumbled a little over her words and reached for her neck, looking confused when something she was reaching for wasn't there. "Oh, no-"

"I know where it is, Shirley," Damia volunteered before ducking down, her slim body wriggling under Kanzas' bed. She hauled herself to her feet again with a small silvery-white orb in her hand, placing it back in the red-haired woman's open palm. Belzac breathed a soft sigh of relief, seeming to relax a little.

Nodding to her, she said, "Thank you," and closed her fingers around the trinket. "You're powerful," she continued finally, turning back to Kanzas, "and Lord Diaz would likely make you one of his elite fighters." Perhaps… even a Dragoon? she dared to think before quickly shoving the thought away. Just because she'd been drawn to him didn't necessarily mean he was one too; she'd felt as though they had to buy Damia, but she surely wouldn't be fighting.

"That scrawny girl, too?" he said as if reading her mind. "Why'd you buy her, then, if all you want are new fighters?"

"I had to," Shirley answered in a low voice, ducking her head. Her hair fell forward over her shoulders, bright red against the pale turquoise of her robe. "Just as I had to buy you. That's really all I can tell you right now."

Kanzas fell silent, thinking for a moment. "What does this Diaz want warriors for? Why not just hire mercenaries?"

Belzac spoke up for the first time, speaking almost reluctantly. "Mercenaries change sides. Lord Diaz - he will unite the Humans, and together we will topple the Wingly cities-"

The lean man's derisive laughter cut him off; Kanzas rolled to his side on the bed, curling up as if his stomach hurt him. "Overthrowing the Winglies? That's a real joke, isn't it, Giganto? Even a handful of them are hard enough to kill, let alone armies full of the flittery bastards. What care do you have for Humans, anyway?"

His eyes hooded, the large man drew himself up, tensed and angry. "The blood of my mother is Human," he snarled deeply, "and I fight for them, for all the children whose lives have been destroyed. Why do you fight, Kanzas?" He drew out the name insultingly, though the other man made no new move to get up.

"You've killed Winglies, haven't you?" Shirley asked quietly. "That's why you were sold as a criminal. So-"

Giving her a twisted smile, he cut in with, "I've killed everyone, dear Shirley. Anyone. I don't care who." He deliberately made her own name into almost an endearment, and was rewarded with another flash of anger in Belzac's eyes. Just as I thought - the giant loves her, he thought with amusement. Poor, poor Shirley.

"Why?" she asked back, her eyes wide, her voice both intrigued and horrified at the same time.

"Why? Because I can," he replied teasingly. Kanzas shrugged, rolling over onto his stomach and stretching languidly. It did feel good to be on such a soft mattress instead of the ground, and undoubtedly they'd end up buying him better clothes than this ragged pair of pants he had on, which was all he owned now.

"Disgusting," Belzac said decidedly, sitting down hard on one of the other two beds in the inn room. "Send him off, Shirley," he suggested dismissively as she took a seat next to him. "Lord Diaz has no need for a man like this."

Her face downcast, she looked into the depths of the orb she held, almost as if gazing into a crystal to see the future. "I cannot, Belzac," she murmured finally. "I was right about Zieg and Syuveil. And if I'm right again…"

"Oh, no," he breathed, running his hands through his golden-brown hair in frustration.

Unsure of what they were talking about, Kanzas fell silent, feeling as though he might doze off. Not yet, though - but he could rest his eyes until he was sure sleep was a good idea.

In the quietness, Damia came closer to the two from Vellweb, bowing out of habit before them. "Um, I was wondering where I could sleep tonight," she asked, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder at the two remaining beds.

"You can share with me," Shirley invited, forcing a smile for the twelve-year-old. "It is getting late, isn't it?"

Nodding in agreement, Damia returned her smile. "Thank you, Shirley. I think I'm going to go sleep now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Damia," Belzac told her, the anger he was feeling melting away under the force of the former slave girl's gratitude.

She turned and moved with a peculiar grace toward the empty bed, taking off the blue cloak Belzac had fashioned for her and folding it neatly before slipping in between the linen sheets. No sooner had she settled in than Kanzas opened his eyes, turning the fullness of his amber gaze toward Shirley and Belzac. "I'll go with you to Vellweb," he announced, "and see what there is to see."

"Good!" Shirley said, her face brightening. "I'm glad! Once you hear what Lord Diaz has to say, you'll understand."

Will I? he asked silently, only giving her a smirk in return. She watched him closely, her gaze rather off-putting, but he was determined to endure it and not be stared down.

Sighing, the large man looked at them before saying, "You should get some rest, Shirley. I'll stay up and watch."

"Belzac," she chided, standing up from where she sat next to him, "there's no need to watch."

He snorted disbelievingly. "Maybe you trust him," he hooked a thumb in Kanzas' direction, "but I don't. I'll be fine."

"Smart man," Kanzas commented quietly, giving the axe-wielder a fake innocent smile. Belzac did not respond, settling back on the bed to sit with his back against the wall, his eyes watching every move the smaller figure made.

The bearded man raised an eyebrow when he saw Shirley approaching him, her expression similar to the look of fond reproach she'd used on her friend. "Are you hungry at all?" she asked. "You've been unconscious for a long time, and we all had dinner already."

"No, I'm fine. Do you think to mother me into submission?" he asked the twenty-year-old as she once again sat down on the edge of his bed, holding the orb up to her chest.

Chuckling very softly, she commanded, "Roll over, now." He found himself obeying, if only for the sheer novelty of it. "You still were not fully healed."

"You have no Wingly blood in you," he declared, immediately cursing himself for saying it so definitively like that. However, she merely nodded, and he went on, "Explain how you can do that healing magic, then."

Shirley's smile grew secretive, and she waved a finger at him. "In Vellweb, all will be revealed."

"Fine," he replied, watching with no other words as she leaned over the orb in her hands, filling the dim room with a soft white glow.

Kanzas wasn't sure how long it took, but as he laid there in the darkness he could slowly feel his bruises and the scabby gash across his chest shrinking, the tenderness of his skin and the damage done by the slavers' spells on him fading. "I could get used to this," he commented idly when the light misted away, leaving the inn room once again lit by a single candle.

"Mm," she replied noncommittally, giving him an appraising glance. "What's that expression for?" Shirley asked him, taken aback by the intensity of his eyes upon her.

"I was just wondering," he remarked in a whispering tone, seemingly out of nowhere, "if that half-Giganto is your man or not."

Shocked, she straightened, giving him a glare. It felt as if he'd demanded that she decide her feelings on the spot - she'd known Belzac since they'd been children, and did indeed love him, but whether or not she loved him like that was something she still could not answer. "I don't think you've known us long enough to ask about such a private matter, Kanzas," Shirley finally answered stiffly, she too keeping her voice low.

He shifted onto an elbow, raising his hand to her face. She flinched slightly as he brushed her temple with the back of his hand, questions in her eyes. "Well, the answer really doesn't matter," he replied quietly before leaning forward and brushing his lips against hers.

Kanzas' smile grew as she pulled almost violently away from him, stammering some kind of goodnight and moving jerkily back toward Belzac and Damia. The man lay back again, stretching out on top of the quilt and staring at the ceiling. Belzac's voice made a query to which Shirley was obviously avoiding answering, and the smile grew into a grin.

Now that I've found you, sister Shirley, we won't be parted so easily, he thought at her. I'll see what you want from me… and then you will see what I want from you…