© 1990 David J. Weber

What's In A Line

Love – hate. Tranthor saw the fine line rise before him like a confining wall of fate. He knew the line as if he had etched with his blade, but now it was beyond his control. He could only walk beside it, carefully stepping across from time to time as he deemed it necessary. And too quickly would he step the wrong way, moving as survival demanded of him.

Again he faced the line, saw it flickering before him, wavering on his decision. No movement, just a thought, and the moment was behind him; along with another sad choice. He knew the direction his path was leading, yet he feared the strength it would take to divert it.

"Tarrin," a deep voice asked.

Tranthor's eyes rose to the speaker's piercing green gaze. Depth and understanding lined the dark visage, still Tranthor noted Mael's puzzlement at finding something beyond comprehension. For Tranthor was deeper into himself than most men dared dream, and he struggled deeper.

"Mael," he responded flatly.

"What brings you to the wall tonight?"

Tranthor looked around him for the first time, then left and down across the short stretch of field that lead to the city of Calais. His look followed the brook, and he realized what had brought him here. He knew why the thoughts chased him unto his father's castle walls. He knew enough to know that Mael shouldn't learn. He knew.

He turned back to the taller man and sighed heavily. "Memories, Mael. Long forgotten memories of a child I could never be again." He shrugged. It was close enough to a true statement. Close enough, yet not too close.

"You've been restless a long time. Perhaps you should travel, leave Calais for a short spell." Mael's eyes said more, but Tranthor moved away quickly.

"I. . .cannot."

He sensed the probing eyes behind, the calculating mind at work, shuffling the information. He sensed the slight wonder, and the troubling questions. `They plague me too, Mael.' He moved away, alone and silent. The night called to him. His night. In answer, he gave himself as he always had; but his movements were hollow, and his mind was unclear. He wondered if it could be clear anymore.

He made his way through the darker parts of town, until his feet became his guide. The Dagger was still thriving; the people were still around, but the hunger for the challenge was missing. He was cold, and didn't laugh or smile as he entered the dive. The tables had shifted places and the fighting circle had been moved closer to the door, but no one used it tonight. It was empty.

Tranthor paused long enough to locate his target, before moving across the floor. He skirted the edge of the circle, adhering to the fighter's code of combat-passage only, and seated himself across from Krand Sanders.

The last couple of years had not worn well on Krand, yet his smile was bright and friendly as he looked up from his mug. "Well, Tranthor, been a while, 'asn't it?"

"Something's wrong, Krand. I can sense it, but it's elusive. Hiding, waiting for some. . .moment."

Krand's face bunched then he shook his head. "What are you babbling about?"

Tranthor tightened his control, fighting the tautness that swept through his mind. "Krand, listen to me. I need every street word to come back to me." Tranthor dropped a weighted purse on the table and stood. "Keep it quiet, Krand. This is a silent mission and I want no connections to the questions you ask."

Krand slipped the purse aside and smiled. "How will I find you?"

"As always. You will wait," Tranthor said, then turned and left, pulling his cloak tighter around him. There was some relief in the shadows of the alleyway, easing his tensions and calming his mind. The darkness, his deepest friend, greeted him, consumed his body and hid his progress, while its tranquil shroud wrapped his mind and carried him.

Adrenaline washed through him, enfusing his strength with agility, and he ran through the night; pure energy sweeping aside all doubts as the line flared beside him. He understood the line and stepped upon it without hesitation, tracing his steps to its curves and bends. He increased his speed.

The line abruptly ended tearing his shroud of darkness away, leaving him standing in the moonlight on the edge of town. His breath rasped harshly in his lungs and he bent down to one knee, bracing his chest against the other knee. His heart pounded and his body felt alive. He even managed a smile, before freezing.

A stone ground into the earth; quiet, but enough to tell Tranthor of a man's approach. The movements were the slow and deliberate ones of a large man not wanting to be heard. Tranthor let the man get within six feet, before uncoiling his body and springing backwards into the man, knocking both of them to the ground.

Although surprised, the man was strong enough to twist away before Tranthor could control him. He struggled to his feet as Tranthor pulled twin blades from his forearm sheaths and shifted into a crouch. The man frowned, drew a long curved sword and began circling. Tranthor could only smile, knowing he had a severe advantage in this kind of fight.

The man lunged and Tranthor surged upward his left arm wrapping his cloak around the sword and his right hand bringing the dagger's hilt to the man's temple. Tranthor caught the suddenly limp body and eased it to the ground.

A quick look through his possessions revealed nothing, and Tranthor sat down to examine the sword. Its hilt was an elegant carving of exquisite beauty. Four angelic forms, wrapped in a circle around a devil, danced upon the swords guard. Their faces were sad and lonely with their ashen tinted faces looking away from the devil. Tranthor shivered at the effigy and turned his attention to the blade. He ran his hand along its surface, unable to distinguish the etchings that adorned its width. He traced them slowly with his forefinger then sighed and returned to the devil.

It was carved of a deeper metal with veins of vermilion bleeding through the surface. The image itself was tall and sleek; beautiful with its angular jaw, lifted brows and slight lips. The only detail out of place was the third eye in the forehead. The physique of it upper body was delicate yet strong as it rose chest high above the surrounding angels to form the pommel of the hilt.

The image laughed at him and he dropped the blade as he fled. Terror overtook him and he raced towards the bridge; his heart pounded in his breast, yet his soul remained empty. He threw himself into the fields, but the night held him no answers. He was changing. He had seen it coming, yet he did not realize it was here - now. He nearly cried out at the pain, then stopped still, frozen in step. His terror crossed the line and he threw himself in the brook, let the water wash over him, numbing his emotions.

He lay there crying until his exhaustion consumed him. In sadness he recovered enough to sit up. It was the one place he had grown accustomed to in the last year. He let the sadness wash away the fear and anxiety, let it protect him until he was able to protect himself.

He stood at last and let out a long sigh. The night no longer belonged to him. He now viewed it as an ally, but not a friend. He lingered a moment in the loneliness before leaving the stream and walking towards the cottage he knew well. He had need of a friend.

Shearl answered the door and stepped back to let him in. The dress had faded from its clear azure color, bleeding into paler tones nearing white; yet her presence still dominated the room. She did not smile at him, only offered him dry clothing and a warm fire. He accepted both before saying anything, letting the fire warm his body; yet chill his soul.

"They are after me."

She sat at the table, her hands placed within her lap, and watched him closely. "Who?"

Tranthor kept his gaze in the fire. "I can sense them, yet I know not who they are or why they trouble me. It worries me."

The simple statement caused her to tense, and he felt her concern ease through her detachment. "Worried? You've handled such men before, why should this worry you?" She moved from the chair to kneel behind him, her gentile hands touching his back.

His shoulders sagged and he bowed his head. "I wish I knew," he whispered. "I wish I knew." He was prepared for almost anything she would say except. . .

"I love you," she said, and the words hurt him. "I always will, but you cannot love me. You try, I know that, but your heart won't let you. You are not the dreamer you believe yourself to be. You cannot change the world without first loving it, Tarrin. I fear that you are killing yourself."

The pain grew fervent. He knew its source, but there was nothing inside him to give. He felt it, too late, but could do nothing about it. He strove to contain the emotions beating away within his soul, strove against what he feared would be his downfall. On top of everything else, this collapsed him and he lost to his ally and friend.

* * * * *

He awoke to find her standing by the window, earth tone garments wrapped loosely around her frame. He watched for awhile, noticing the distant stare and the tears that came slowly from her eyes. He wanted to do something, but could not.

Her eyes winced shut, then opened slightly to look back at him. Anguish laced her face. "I hate you," she whispered to him and he could only nod.

He left shortly afterwards and returned to his father's castle before burying himself in the library for the remainder of the day. He poured over all the volumes concerning heraldry and imagery before moving on to historical references.

The more he looked the less he found, but he continued to read. The only clear reference he had managed to find came from a book of religion, telling of a cult that tattooed a third eye on their forehead to improve their internal sight. The locations were vague, but it seemed to indicate that it was near Starbor.

"You have been asking questions, Tarrin" Mael stated bluntly.

Tranthor turned and looked up into Mael's penetrating stare. He closed the book he was reading and turned his chair. "Not exactly, Mael. I have Krand asking questions. . .secretly."

Mael pulled a chair with his foot and sat down, leaning forward to appear larger as he continued. "You know Krand is not sharp enough to hide your intentions."

"Intentions?"

"You are making a move, and I want to know when and where. You have a habit of waiting too long to trust the crown, and the kingdom needs no such problems." Mael paused, then leaned back in the chair, his eyes glinting sharply. "You know our delicate situation, Tarrin."

"Tell me the truth, Mael. Tell me the true situation and maybe I can help you, but keep me ignorant and I can offer you no help. Not even to save myself. I am as lost as you are, friend."

Mael softened slightly, but his eyes still flared. "Fair enough. You recall I recently returned from the Calaen delegation, but I doubt if you know the outcome."

Tranthor thought for awhile. "I heard it had something to do with a reluctant merger. They would gain our alliance and we would gain their contacts."

Mael chuckled. "You have good ears, but there's much more than just an alliance at stake. Their liege is on his deathbed and his son to young to take his place. He fears the appointment of reagents would upset the communities, because of past corruption."

"The McAndlere coupe?"

Mael grimaced. "The same, especially with two of his descendants on their council. What he proposed is for a different kind of merger. More of a union. You remember Andrea."

"A marriage? That's absurd! Who would care to take such an allegiance?"

"My nephew, Kristen. He will then act as liege until the younger child can assume his duties. It would be a good testing ground for our young prince and they would trust his judgements. Their council will still have advisory control to insure that he does not ruin them, but he will be in charge."

Tranthor stood and walked away from the table. "A forced marriage. You disagreed of course. You would have to."

"I took their offer, Tarrin."

Tranthor turned to look back at Mael. "What did Stayl have to say about this?"

"He trusts my judgement." Mael frowned. "There are several conditions, however, that govern this decision. Calaen is our largest landholder, and they fear a weak transition would allow Connait a chance to conquer them and force us to war.

"We view that as a good probability and see this as our chance to strengthen our border. We could not afford an all out war at this time, but with Kristen leading them, we can handle the border skirmishes. It is a good solution, and it need last only two years. Then the child will be of age and can assume responsibility of his homeland."

Tranthor retook his seat and absorbed the information. "What if something was to happen to Kristen, or Stayl for that matter? That's a large risk you are taking, Mael. You will be making him a sitting target."

"He is a strong man, Tarrin. He will choose the right people to protect him. That is not our concern. Our concern is with your organization." Mael glanced around, then ducked his sable haired head closer to Tranthor. "Stayl will disband the Thieves Guild within the month." Tranthor started back, but could not respond. "The people have viewed it as a weakness ever since you killed Taek. He can not afford to let it continue."

"Krand?"

Mael stood. "Yes. We have offered jobs to many and are prepared to eliminate the rest. The conviction you advocated is gone and they are looking at alternatives. You were to be the last notified, so you could not stop it; it would already be to late."

Tranthor reeled. "Why tell me now?"

"I hope to persuade you. The kingdom could use a leader like you, and the kingdom can not afford to neglect this matter further. We must correct this problem to show our good faith, before the marriage is to take place."

"You know my loyalties lie with the crown, but you ask too much of me, Mael. I am only a man."

Mael's eyes widened. "A powerful man, whose name and thoughts inspire many."

"I need time. Too much is happening right now." His world crumbled around him, fragments of reality flashed through his mind and burrowed deep within him. "There are problems, Mael."

Mael sat on the edge of the table. "I was hoping to hear some of them. I have yielded, now you must."

Tranthor took several minutes to compose himself before beginning. "You know my intuition. You trust my feelings." At Mael's nod, he continued. "They are strong this time, physical. And I am unable to evade them. Something is happening, something dreadful. What you have told me is causing part of this, but there is more. These relentless concerns plague me. I fear for my life Mael. They are after me.

"A man carrying a devil's blade attacked me today. He followed me and we fought. There are more of them. . .waiting."

"Tarrin," Mael's deep voice broke his ranting, and Tranthor felt the perspiration on his forehead. Mael grabbed him squarely. "You must get control of this fear. Otherwise they will surely get you."

Tranthor broke free. "You don't understand. They are after me, Mael." His head twitched from side to side, then he vaulted the table and fled through the door. He made his way swiftly through the castle and down to the courtyard. Quarn, Mael's black stallion, stood by the stable and next to it was his father's roan.

He snatched the reins from the startled stable boy, leaped into the saddle and kicked the horse into motion. He saw Mael enter the yard as he turned the roan and fled through the gate. He had no idea of where he was going; he was escaping. Hurling himself into the night and hoping for a calmness to guide him, or a sign to follow. He had never felt so lost in all his life, so empty.

The horse carried him into Calais, through the central square and beyond to the palace. His father's horse raced through the streets, driven by his desire to flee. He needed some answers, needed some information. The palace loomed before him and he slowed.

`The King,' he thought suddenly. `He would know some of the answers.' He maneuvered the horse around the side of the walls and dismounted. He tied the horse in the shadows of a house and checked his position. The palace had been his first challenge and was still difficult, but he watched the guards paths then slipped from the shadows.

He climbed the walls swiftly, his long fingers finding adequate grip. At the top he paused then swung over tightly and hid inside the battlements. He waited several minutes then moved along the wall, hunched over and silent. He scanned the entire palace as he neared the inner wall, checking the guards locations and direction. He waited five minutes, then moved past the inner walls and began the final stage to the royal chambers.

A faint noise made him still. He turned slowly and watched in amazement as a dark form climbed the wall ahead of him, moving exactly as Tranthor would, towards the royal chambers. There was no time to call for the guards, he would have to handle this by himself. Leaping across a ten foot stretch of air, he gained a lower roof of the castle proper and dashed over its slanted surface, hoping to bypass some climbing and reach the chambers ahead of the other.

His breath was even and smooth; but the other was moving as surely as himself, so he quickened his pace knowing he would lose the first part of this unseen struggle. The stranger swung in through the upper window as Tranthor flung his body across to a narrow ledge. A moment to right himself, then he was running along, scant seconds from his destination. He turned a corner and jumped, his hands clasping a stone gargoyle as he pulled himself up to the royal level. A thin sliver of stone led him forward, toward the darkened window.

After a quick glance to ground far below, he dove through the window and rolled to a crouched position. The stranger stood tall over the sleeping form of the King, one arm lifted with a short curved blade. Tranthor froze, numbed by the sheer brutality of the scene, and saw that a thin coating glistened on the metal of the knife. The knife plunged downward, swiftly silencing the King's scream.

The muffled groan broke Tranthor free from his daze. With a quick motion, he pulled a wrist blade and launched himself into the aggressor's back, screaming immediately for the guards he knew should be near. Though unsuccessful at his dagger thrust, he did manage to get a grip around his opponent's neck.

His victory was short lived. The stranger proved stronger and broke the grip easily, cutting Tranthor's arm in the process and flinging him towards the corner. The stranger, seeing his chance, hurried to the window; but Tranthor recovered catching the assassin half way out and smashing his right arm against the wall until the knife fell.

Even without his weapon, the stranger fought a formidable match, connecting several well-placed blows which dropped Tranthor to the floor. By this time, the commotion had been detected and both heard the guards pounding on the door. A fast kick sent Tranthor over backwards and out of position.

He rolled and grabbed the knife, but the stranger was out the window and escaping down through the roofs below too quickly for it to be of any use. Tranthor prepared himself to jump out the window as the door burst and two guards rushed inward.

The guards exchanged a swift glance between the king, who had fallen from his bed, and the thief poised in the window, bloodstained dagger in hand. That was enough to convince them who had done it, and Tranthor what to do.

He leaped from the window, landing on a roof, two levels down. His legs screamed as he rose and began running along its surface. His first intention was to catch the assassin; the second was to clear this misunderstanding. An arrow string sounded and the shaft bit into his side knocking him over. He yanked the shaft out before moving with more caution.

The guards were centered on him and thus did not see the assassin clear the outer wall, but Tranthor saw it and flung himself quickly along the battlement. A guard stepped in front of him, sword drawn, but Tranthor caught the descending arm with his left hand and speared the man with his right shoulder. Tranthor surged past as the guard collapsed, knowing he was close to the safest exit point from the wall, and also the exact same spot the assassin had fled.

Two more arrows skimmed by him before he rolled over the wall. The fall was numbing to his abused legs, but he rolled away and regained his feet quickly, ignoring the jabs that raced through him. He clenched the forgotten knife in his hand and a throbbing ache began to spread through his entire body.

He found the roan where he left it and mounted, taking the strain of his failing legs. He clung to the horse in desperation as he prayed for more speed and a sense of direction. He did not slow until he neared the eastern bridge. He paused then, finally realizing the dagger was still clenched in his hand. As he pried his cramped hand away, the three-eyed devil laughed up at him. He nearly dropped the dagger, then forced himself to calm down and placed the dagger in his thick leather pouch.

Lights were coming on in the city and he had a decision to make. The sound of distant horses helped him decide as he kicked the roan into action again. Exhaustion overtook Tranthor about dawn. He had enough sense of mind left to tie the horse up before falling asleep. He woke after an hour, still tired, but able to concentrate. His legs were all knotted and bruised, his jerkin stuck to his left side, and his entire left arm screamed with agony.

The wound had festered and become raw. Infection was setting in fast along with whatever poison was on the knife that he still had, now carefully wrapped in a leather pouch. Using his dagger to cut open the wound, he cleaned it out as well as he could. Blood and puss leaked from the cut and ran down his arm in small streams. He poured some whiskey he found on the horse over the wound and wrapped a clean clothe around it, before proceeding to fix his side and message his sore legs.

Satisfied that he had done his best, he remounted the horse and set off. It was a direct course that he followed east. His brain felt numb as he fought to think what lay ahead. Starbor lay ahead of him, but what was in Starbor? Shearl came to mind, but he pushed those thoughts aside, knowing he would need more time for them.

He focused his thoughts and continued riding. His wounds were gradually healing and he rode at a gallop for awhile, testing his horse's stamina. He didn't want to take any chances on this. One chance might be all that he would have - if that. Besides, he had a fortnight's journey ahead of him and a friend in Starbor, Phil Crentor.

* * * * *

The trip was mostly uneventful. Autumn was giving way to winter and the trees were depositing their gold on the earth below, but the air stayed mild and steady. The nights were stiffening at first, but he grew quickly accustomed to the hardened bed of earth he slept on. He slept little, and what sleep he got was broken with nightmares. He cleaned his wounds daily and they healed well.

The line rose before him again, and he moved without thought, crossing over and forward to his destination. He could not worry about his feelings, for his life was depending on his actions; he would continue until he was done. Although he knew where this would lead him, he was not about to turn back.

The morning of the twelfth day saw Starbor rise before him. A dozen smaller villages surrounded the main castle, giving refuge to all the citizens, while the castle itself was reserved for the armies. The silver hawk banner waved gallantly in the sharp morning breeze, and nature decided to lay its first coating of snow on the land as he approached the main gate. Several snowflakes touched lightly upon his arm and melted away, but he felt their demise sharply and pulled his cloak tighter about him. Two guards blocked his way at the gate and asked him his business.

"I wish to speak with the Duke. Tell him Tarrin Sorz is here." Tranthor waited as one of the guards moved off, then turned his look skyward and traced the edge of the storm. A blizzard approached, but Tranthor knew he could not wait for it to blow over. A couple of questions and he would be gone.

The guard returned and offered to take his horse. "He is waiting in the main library and said you could let yourself in." He held the reins while Tranthor dismounted, then turned to move the horse towards the stable.

"Don't prepare him. I will be leaving this afternoon."

The guard looked to sky with confusion then bowed. "As you wish."

It had been five years since he had last visited Starbor, yet he retraced the steps with ease and moved briskly through the courtyard to the main entrance. A short walk down the hallway led him to the central library. The doors stood ajar and he stepped through, taking in the two level library with a faint glimmer of recollection.

Phil Crentor stood at the top of the back stairway, engaging in quiet conversation with an older gentleman. Tranthor moved across the floor and climbed the steps, slowing only to bow before stopping at the top beside the other two.

Phil smiled, "Tarrin, I don't believe you've met Daniel. He is our local historian. Daniel, this is Tarrin Sorz - Renko's son." The two men shook hands briefly, then Tranthor turned to Phil.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need information quickly." He pulled the dagger out and held it hilt first to Phil. "Can you tell me where this was made. . .or what it means? The style indicated that it was created somewhere in this region."

Phil took the dagger and stared at the carved hilt, turning it over in his hands several times. "It looks familiar, but I can't say why." He handed the blade to Daniel. "What is the importance of it?"

Tranthor turned his look downward. "I found it in the chest of an ally."

Concern brushed Phil's face and his put his arm around Tranthor. "I'm sorry to hear it. Who was this person?"

Tranthor barely whispered the name, yet its utterance echoed back at him. "Stayl."

"Gods," was all Phil could mutter.

Tranthor looked up at Phil. "I must find out why this was done to him."

"If there's anything I can do. . ."

Tranthor turned his look to Daniel and the blade.

* * * * *

Daniel located the design's origin, but the exact location would be up to Tranthor. Phil had offered to come along, or to loan him the use of some guards, but Tranthor declined knowing this was his place. He pondered his latest choice even as he drew closer to the isolated village of Urnst, wondering if his decisions continued to be tainted by the path he had chosen.

Winter had become authentic now and the icy breeze tore at his lungs with each breath. The snow had died off, yet the winds remained strong, blowing the frozen air in sheets against him. Ahead he saw the shadowy outline of a building. He watched as it came into view, a long squat building with a fireplace blowing smoke out into the winter sky. He turned his horse directly towards it and increased his pace.

He put his horse in a side stable and moved to the front door. He pounded roughly on the wood and waited. He pounded again then waited for several minutes until the door opened before him. A sturdy man with dark hair and massive arms invited him in and helped him to a spot beside his fire.

The fire turned out to be a furnace, and the building itself was nothing more than a blacksmith's shop. Weapons and armor lined the walls, and utensils of all sorts lay scattered across six workbenches. The smith watched Tranthor closely as he removed his layers of clothing and moved closer to the fire.

"What brings you here?" the smith asked.

"A quest." With that he pulled the dagger out a slid it across the floor to the smith. "Do you recognize this blade?"

The smith nodded. "I made a dozen of these for a hermit who lives in the hills. I could never understand his need for them, but I spent days on each carving. He stressed their importance to me."

Tranthor's eyes became slits. "And what was their importance?"

The smith slid the dagger back. "The angels represent lost faith. The devil represents what we fear about ourselves. The third eye represents wisdom." The smith shrugged. "I never did understand the point, but the carvings are done to detail."

"Where can I find this hermit?" Tranthor asked, understanding for the first time.

"He lives in a cave east of here."

Tranthor put the dagger away and rose, gathering his clothing about him. "I wish to thank you for all your help." He handed the smith a small pouch.

"You can't go out in this weather."

Tranthor smiled and wrapped the scarf about his face. "Take care of my horse," came his muffled response. Then he was out the door and moving.

The air quickly numbed his senses, still he trudged onward, flailing against the elements that fought around him. He did not know where to find the cave. He did not know how far it was away. Still he could feel the burning inside that drove him, calling all his energy forth to guide his footsteps. His pace began to quicken and a sense of fervor drove him forward faster. He dodged a large rock and rounded a snowdrift then turned right down its bank, the cave opening before him. He moved inward, letting the warmth surround his body, and began stripping off his excess clothing.

The cave wound inward and down, and the warmth spread through him, pulsing with his heart against the confines of his soul. He was half running down the path when it suddenly opened into a large circular chamber with scattered bits of furniture. Sitting at a table in the center of the room was a middle aged man with rich red hair. He looked up at Tranthor and waved him in. "Come, come, you are welcome here."

Tranthor circled down the ledge and moved to stand across the table from him. He pulled out the dagger and dropped it on the table. The man smiled and lifted the blade. "I must thank you for retrieving this blade for me. Please sit and talk."

Tranthor did not move. "That blade nearly killed someone." He hoped he spoke the truth.

"Now it will have a second chance."

"I want to know whose hand guided it."

The man slowly put the dagger away. "From a distance, I would say that it was my hand, for it is I who guides them all. I am Zolar."

Tranthor slid back several steps, feeling the room tighten around him. Something was not right. Something was deadly wrong. "You are dangerous."

The man laughed. "How insightful of you, Tranthor. You would make a wonderful warrior, if only you would open your eyes." Tranthor narrowed his eyes at the mention of his name, but the man only smiled. "See. You always go the wrong way. You could have been the thief of the world. You could have been a hero when you took Taek's life's blood. You could have been a leader, but you shrank away and hid, lapping your wounds of uncertainty and dwelling in the confusion of your weaknesses. Where is your strength, man? Do you want to be a coward all your life?"

Tranthor clenched his body against the words, then forced reason to return. When he spoke, it was calmly. "My strength is confusion. It is beyond your understanding and as for going the wrong way," he paused. "Yes. I have gone the wrong way many times, but they are none of the ones you mentioned."

"Then where have you gone wrong?"

"First in coming here to kill you. . ."

"I am pleased."

"Second in listening to you."

"They why stay?"

Tranthor shifted his footing and grasped at his wrist daggers. "I want warn you against future attempts, for they will lead to needless pain and suffering on your minions. I would spare them that conflict."

The man smiled. "Too bad. You would have made a grand addition, but now it is too late. They surround you where you stand." Tranthor cursed his narrowed perception, as six men stepped from the shadows at the edges of the cave. "Take him."

His first two daggers found soft marks and he withdrew a second set from within his jerkin. The four remaining men held long swords and moved forward to circle around him. Thinking quickly he located the ledge leading out. His eyes twitched back to the men, then, with a feigned step towards the red haired man, he flicked his left dagger into the man closest to the ledge and rolled over his right shoulder, rising into the side of a second man.

The attack opened his escape and he fled up the ledge before the final two could respond, retracing his steps towards winter. He ran along the tunnel, halting only when he saw the entrance blocked by half a dozen more men. He removed the final set of daggers from his boots and judged their positioning. Several drew their blades and advanced, forcing Tranthor to decide.

"Oh hell," he muttered, and turned on his heels into the two men who chased him. He ducked the first strike and dodged the second before lunging towards his attackers. He planted one dagger in each, but a sword had scored a hit upon his right bicep. His forced his way through, tearing one of the long swords free, and moved as fast as he could back to the round chamber.

The four original men had gathered themselves up, but were clearly unwilling to fight him. Zolar remained seated at the table, his broad grin burning spitefully into Tranthor's mind. "Damn you!"

Zolar merely spread his hands wide. "I offered you your freedom."

"Like hell. You offered me death or damnation." He moved around the table and placed the sword at Zolar's neck. "Let me leave or we both shall rot."

"Absurd." He looked at his newly arrived group of men. "Take him."

Tranthor turned to them. "Don't move or he dies."

"Don't believe him. He couldn't kill me if he wanted, and he does want. I can feel it. Take him now or lose your own heads."

The men rushed forward and Tranthor spat aside the truth before turning to face the advancing men. "You may be right, but I won't be taken easy." And then all words were finished, the time had come for swords to do the talking.

Tranthor parried the first swing then lashed quickly back, twin red stripes appearing through the attacker's jerkin. Then a second replaced him with a third beside him. Tranthor retreated, blocking both attacks but could not find a wall to aid his back. At best he could limit it to two men, but he feared that would be too much.

Three more parries then two short jabs, followed by a high slash drove the right hand man back but nearly left his entire left side empty. He managed to bring the sword back just in time to turn the blade, but the tip bit into his upper leg. Blood ran from his right shoulder and left leg, but his left arm was still strong, and he fought deftly, inflicting injury after injury until his body began to weaken. More men had arrived and he lost count of the number as he strove to remain on his feet.

He parried four more attacks before a large wine cask came crashing down on his left shoulder. He slipped and fell to one knee, that was all that was needed to overcome him. They wrenched the sword from his hand and gave him oblivion with a sword hilt. The darkness was a soothing and welcomed ally, and he had no desire to fight against it.

* * * * *

The line rose before him, burning red with passion and stretching upward into a wall of mockery. The line had lead him this far and cast him into the arms of his enemy, but he knew he could not turn away from it. It was now a part of him. He could choose to obey or disobey its warning; he could never turn away from himself.

The line circled him as he came to that realization. The translucent red wall glossed over and reflected a twisted visage of his face. He spun around, yet everywhere he looked the face stared back at him; its red tinge haunting him.

"Why do you mock me?"

`You mock yourself,' the visage replied. There was no hatred in the voice. There was only wonderment. `I do not control you.'

"Who are you?"

`I am your essence, your conscious. Every time you betray yourself, I will greet you with sadness and pity.' The visage appeared to cry. `I try to alert you to betrayal, to your own betrayal; but your pain is too deep. For the longest time you could not feel me.

`At last you are free from your bonds. There is no pain to block me now. I can help you if you will listen.'

The wall fell away and the red shade became a human form. It reached out a hand to Tranthor, smiling an invitation. `I would welcome you to join me. You are a very good man; you would make a good guide.'

Tranthor stepped forward then paused, his hand half stretched out to the shade. "What of my existence? Am I to leave it all behind and forget my reasons?"

`Your time is at an end anyway. There is little more you could do.' The shade stepped forward, its eyes pulling at Tranthor. `You are no longer needed.'

Tranthor tightened and pulled his hand back. "I must not give up. I could never stop trying. It is all I am."

The shade sighed. `It is all you were. Now that is behind you and this is your place. Amongst us.' Other shades began to appear, all with different color hues. They moved slowly and seemed more to float than to walk, drifting around him and closer. `There are no demands here. We are all friends.'

Tranthor looked from shade to shade, wondering if this was what he had come to. He caught their glances and frowned. "I am needed. I must be." The other shades all stopped sharply, then moved away until only his remained. He puzzled over the significance before looking into his own eyes. "I do not understand."

`You have again made a choice. One I cannot stop. I will now return you to your pain for a brief spell. May you be as strong as your desire, for that is all you will have left.'

The shade faded quickly and emotions flooded through him, permeating into his essence and shattering against his will. They were strong, persistent and painful. Feelings he had long carried as a natural act were now burdens upon his free soul as his manhood was thrust back into him. The agony and disruption continued until his strength shattered and broke down, leaving him defenseless and alone.

Again the darkness came to him, the darkness he knew and praised. He pulled a shroud of it around him and waited for the peace it always brought. Buried in his protective shroud, he quickly leveled out and returned to his senses. The fire within him was gone, but not the desire to resist. A chill sensation shook him and he opened his eyes to the world. His world. The night.

Tranthor lay tied to a stone, half naked in the middle of a snow storm. Frozen blood traced across the left side of his face and bruises marked most of his torso. The tight cord at his ankles and wrists ground into his flesh squeezing fresh blood to freeze at winter's touch. He shifted his wrists and twisted with all the rope tricks he had ever learned, but the cords held tight and he sagged against their taught hold.

The wind slapped in his face and pricked against his bare torso, numbing his pains and causing more throbbing. He struggled to free himself again and again, then finally resorted to rubbing the cords against the stone's surface. It was slow going and his arms lost feeling long before the first cord gave way on his left wrist.

He used his free hand to search his possession for one of the countless daggers he always had hidden, but his numb hand felt useless against his clothing. Time was short so he thrust his hand into his pants, the frozen flesh burning against his lower abdomen, drawing more heat from his body. He waited as long as he dared, until his fingers splintered with pain, then ran his fingers along the inside seam of his pants. He felt a dull throb and glanced down to notice that he had done more than find the hidden throwing blade. Blood oozed slowly from the deep gouge he had put in his forefinger where the blade still hovered.

He brought the blade to his face and closed his mouth on the blade, praying it stayed securely before yanking his hand free. Blood droplet flew across the snow as Tranthor retrieved the blade with his numb hand. He adjusted his grip and began working on his other hand,

He had no concept of what he would do after he was free. His only concern at this point was to get away. The arm came loose and the skin on his back tore away from the stone as he fell forward into a downy snowbank. The snow burned warmly against his being and he drank in the pleasure long before shifting to work on his left leg.

The moment his left leg swung free, his right did the same and he rolled onto his side staring up at the large form before him. Green eyes pierced winter's haze and he smiled as Mael bent down to throw a fur coat around him. He tried to rise or stand, but Mael lifted him instead and carried him to where Quarn stood with winter armor wrapped around his massive flanks.

Tranthor sank into the saddle and fell forward against Quarn's thick mane. Mael lead the horse away and Tranthor clung to the warmth and security it offered him, chills and shakes coursing through his veins like blood afire. Again Tranthor called the darkness and it blessed him with its return, shrouding him from reality. It was the only power he had left.

* * * * *

Mael's green eyes were dulled with fatigue and dark bags lay heavy beneath his eyes as he looked down at Tranthor. It was several moments before Mael noticed Tranthor watching him, and a forced smile came to his face. "Finally awake?" He reached out a hand when Tranthor shifted. "No, don't move too much. You're body has been given enough punishment."

Tranthor let himself lie back into the mattress as he began to feel the constant numbness that surrounded his body. When he tried to speak, his throat tensed up and he coughed harshly. He decided to keep it short as his voice came out low and raspy. "How long?"

"Three, maybe four days." Mael stood and walked across the room. "You're a hard man to follow. There were several times when I was sure I had lost you, only to stumble across your trail again." Mael returned with a large bowl and a ladle. He filled the ladle and brought it to Tranthor's face, using his left hand to help lift Tranthor's head. "This is warm ale. It will help to get your system going again, but you still need to take it easy."

Tranthor drank several ladle's worth before reaching up to grab Mael's hand. As he raised his arm, he noticed the bandages for the first time. His entire hand was wrapped tight, but he had very little control as it hit Mael's arm and sent the ladle falling to the floor.

Mael retrieved the ladle and placed it on a side table with the bowl, before looking back at Tranthor. "You are lucky to be alive. It may take awhile before you can move about normally. You've put your body through some severe shock. We are using the smith's shed. I asked him to send a message to Starbor, but fear that this weather will not let up for some time."

Tranthor exhaled heavily. "How is Stayl?"

Mael's shoulders tensed and he turned away. "I don't know. I left as soon as the prince was notified." Mael walked across the room. "The guards told me what they saw. I want you to tell me what happened. You were crazy the last time I saw you."

Tranthor was beginning to get drained. "I did not stab him, Mael. I was crazy, but I am not a killer. You know that better than any. . ." The final words trailed away as Tranthor faded. The last thing he heard was Mael's whispered voice.

"I understand, friend."

Over the next two weeks they sorted out their differences, trapped between recovery and a snowstorm there was scant else to do. For Tranthor it sparked of their first conversations; then it was two boys planning to conquer the world, now it was two men trying to save a world. The one bond that kept them friends throughout the years and the contrasts was the kingdom they both loved.

For Mael it became a war council, for Tranthor a letting his burden go. He spoke as he never had before, telling Mael of what he had gone through and where it had brought him. He tightened when it first came to Shearl; then he spoke freely and smiled once or twice as he found that he could face all he had done, that he was satisfied with what his life had meant.

While they rescued their friendship, Tranthor had been making steady progress in his recovery. He surprised even Mael when he first threw his daggers at the wall target; missing considerably, but hard enough to hold their place. The only weak spots were brief moments when his balance collapsed or his control wavered. At these times he could only wait until his nerves were able to respond.

At the beginning of the third week, the storm faded leaving deep drifts and blowing snow to bury the ground. Both men knew what was coming; Mael moved first, pulling on his thin chain shirt and belting his weapons around his waist. "I want you to wait here until Phil arrives. At that point, lead them into the cave that you told me about."

Tranthor began getting ready also, taking all the daggers he had found in the smith's shop and strapping a long sword at his side. "I am going with you. This is a two man job." The sword felt awkward, but he quickly adjusted to its movements. "We can leave a note and a map for Phil."

"This is beyond you, Tarrin. In order to finish this, many lives must be wasted. We both know you are not capable of it."

Again Tranthor saw the line before him. He blinked and it disappeared. "I have nothing left to do Mael. This is all I have waited for. This one is mine." Mael paused, his green eyes deep and puzzled. "You cannot stop me, Mael."

Mael inclined his head slightly and pursed his lips. "Heroes are for fairy tales. This is not a game you are playing, no princess to win, or treasure to find. This is war."

Tranthor nodded pulling a thick coat around him. "I know what this is and I am going to finish it." They both looked at each for several minutes before turning away.

"Mael?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

* * * * *

Two guards kept watch outside the cave entrance, talking quietly and paying little attention to their surroundings. Tranthor and Mael were hidden behind a large drift watching and waiting. Tranthor pointed to the rock above the cave. "I can slip around and drop them before they can blink." He held up two daggers and blinked.

Mael put an arm out and pointed left where five men were walking towards the cave. The first held a series of severed rope in his hand and he pulled at them as he walked. Tranthor gasped and Mael hissed when the man turned so they could see his face. "He's the assassin, Mael."

Mael shook his head. "Worse, that is Cayne Trellan. The prince of Connait."

They watched Cayne twist the rope fiercely. The sentries came alert and watched as he approached. "Did you find him," the sentry asked.

Cayne grumbled. "He disappeared, no trace."

"Maybe he's buried under the snow."

Cayne's backhand sent the sentry to his knees. "Maybe you didn't search him well enough, Gerad. The first rope was frayed, but the final three were cut." He tossed the ropes in Gerad's face. "Keep a sharp look out. I don't trust this."

Cayne ignored him then and lead the men into the cave as Gerad climbed to his feet and spat to the side. Gerad's bitter countenance told his feelings as he sneered at the other sentry. Mael shook his head, but Tranthor was smiling. "Wait until I reach the rock above them, then you step out into the open. I will take care of the rest."

Tranthor didn't give Mael the chance to argue, he was already circling towards the rock that overlooked the cave opening. Tranthor always felt it easier to take alert guards than casual ones; oftentimes alert guards would expose themselves more to stay vigilant. This was one such case. As he reached a safe position above the entrance, both guards had moved several feet away from the protective cave mouth.

Tranthor saw the tops of their heads shifting left and right as he placed a normal dagger in each hand. He shifted the daggers to his natural underhand grip and waited for Mael to make his appearance. He stilled his crouched body and let his breath slip away slowly, hoping his body had recovered enough to make the jump cleanly.

Gerad stepped farther away from the cave, drawing his sword and pointing its tip towards the tall form moving from behind the snowbank. "Stop right there, mister. You're trespassing on private property." Mael strode forward, a smile on his face.

Tranthor needed no more encouragement; he leaped from beside the rock, bringing the dagger's hilt down hard on the back of the first man's neck. The man sagged as Tranthor rolled over his left shoulder and crashed into the back of Gerad's legs, sprawling him on his back as Mael arrived and placed his bastard sword upon Gerad's throat.

"Let go of your sword and don't move. This blade is heavy enough as it is." Tranthor crawled to his feet and retrieved Gerad's suddenly free sword. "Good man. Now suppose you tell us where we can find you master." Mael shifted his sword slightly. "And I would warn you against lying. My sword hates lies."

Gerad paled considerably. "The guard lodgings are just beyond the door in the entry hall. His chambers are said to be as deep as the tunnels go." Mael let the sword drop more. "I can't tell you any more. They never let us go beyond our rooms."

Mael nodded and pulled his sword away. "Go sit by your friend." Tranthor moved between Gerad and the entrance as Mael withdrew a rope from his backpack. "Use what you need to secure them. I will check the passage."

Tranthor quickly tied both men back to back and slipped the remaining rope through his belt. "I mean you no harm, Gerad, but we cannot risk you calling for help. The bonds should not disturb you, but you will not be able to undo them." Tranthor smiled and knocked him unconscious. He took a moment to double check his handiwork, before turning and following Mael's path into the cave.

There was no urgency driving him this time and he studied his way carefully as he moved down the winding passageway. Mael waited ahead, by the start of the walkway that lead into what Gerad called the entry hall. Mael put out his arm as Tranthor stopped beside him and held up four fingers.

Tranthor stepped back and leaned against the wall, trying to remember the exact details of the room below. Mael turned and stepped back, his low voice a murmur in the cave. "They are on this side of the chamber, underneath the ledge leading down. The door should also be under the ledge. If we can block the door, I don't see any problem with taking them; but we cannot try to knock them out." Mael gave a stern look at this point. "If you can kill one, then do so. We do not have time to be nice." The last word came out acidic, and Tranthor nodded as his stomached tightened.

They moved forward, Tranthor pulling out two throwing daggers and Mael drawing his sword. Their first step on the walkway was out of sight, but the second brought three men into view and both of them into action. Tranthor's first dagger found one man's throat and his second slid off target into another's stomach as Mael jumped over the ledge. Tranthor quickly followed, his landing slightly stiff, to find that Mael had decapitated his first assailant and powered a second man into the cave wall. Tranthor recovered his footing and planted a second dagger with better aim into the man's chest, silencing his short cry.

Mael's victim slumped lifeless against the wall, blood oozing from his mouth and chest, as Mael frowned at Tranthor. Tranthor stiffened, then nodded his agreement. The door turned out to be hidden beside the wind racks and Tranthor quietly eased the door open a crack. Beyond the door lay a man-made hallway, the walls were even and cleanly cut with enough room for three men to walk abreast. It was empty and no one appeared to have noticed their struggle so he flashed Mael a smile then slipped through, moving swiftly down the hallway.

Torches were set every thirty steps and he passed two before the hallway turned to the right. He looked around the corner and froze as he saw two men entering a doorway on the opposite wall. He turned back to Mael. "This must be the guards rooms, I will see if I can slip past." He checked the hallway again then moved around the corner and flattened himself against the opposite wall, looking down the full length of the hallway.

The door opened in an inward direction and he peered into the room at a sharp angle, only to find beds bordering the entire room. Several were occupied but no one was facing the doorway. He stepped past and glanced the reverse direction into the room to find the front wall. With a motion to Mael he moved farther down the passage, remembering some of his finer conquests and drawing from the experience he had learned about single passage raids. They passed several closed doors before the hallway turned again and came upon an intersection.

Tranthor glanced all directions then turned right and continued moving, ignoring the look he received from Mael. It was only a short distance before they found the privies. Mael glared and Tranthor scowled knowing that he didn't have time to explain the logic of his assault on this place. "It is systematic, Mael. Believe me, I have plenty more experience in this field than you do."

"You had better, because this is both our necks. . .as well as the kingdom."

Tranthor turned back and took the right passage again. He moved at a light jog only slowing when he heard faint undertones ahead, then he moved at a cautious pace. The hallway widened and the ceiling grew as stairs climbed both sides a of large arched vestibule. Tranthor again moved right and ascended quickly, the low reverberation was suddenly joined by the peal of bells. At the top of the stairs hung red velvet curtains.

The sounds lifted to a physical level as he slipped the curtains open enough to look through, waves of vibration surging against him. The assembly that greeted him was astounding in size and appearance. A long balcony ran semicircle around the entire chamber, with cushioned seats, large marbled tables and candelabras set at fixed intervals around the room. All chairs stood empty, but beneath the balcony people packed the assembly.

Tranthor moved through the curtain and advanced to get a better view of the crowd below. Two score guards lined the walls, standing on either side of the pillars that held up the balconies. Scores more of brown robed acolytes sat on short wooden benches that covered most of the hall. A railing separated them from the raised platform that held a large, vermilion streaked, marble table. On the wall behind the altar was a recessed statue of the three-eyed devil, its eyes glimmering with fire. The image was so powerful that Tranthor took two involuntary steps forward before Mael yanked him back and stared down at him.

Tranthor shook aside the image and smiled up at Mael as the bells sounded again, resounding within the confines of the assembly. The murmurs died away and Zolar appeared from beneath the statue, his red hair bright as he walked slowly to the table and bowed his head. A painted eye adorned his forehead and sent a shiver through Tranthor as he remembered the religious cult he had read about.

Zolar let out a low note that rang sharply through the air and raised his head, his movements becoming quickly animated as he strode from behind the table. "Rise, my followers. Rise and make your voices heard. For grand is the heart that gives of itself for faith and hope. Grand is the feeling that comes of your praise. Grand is the course we follow in voicing our beliefs. Grand indeed is our judgement."

He moved to the railing and placing both hands firmly upon it leaned forward and grinned. "Our champion has arrived. He will lead us on our path. He will fight our battles for us, so that our blood not be shed. He will give as we all have given. And he will not let any man stop us from sharing our beliefs.

"Our long search is over. Our waiting has come to an end. Our dream has been realized. Our champion has arrived." He released the rail and raised his arms as an explosion sounded and charcoal gray smoke rose from the table. As the smoke faded slowly, the outline of a man could be seen standing on the table. The acolytes immediately fell to their knees, prayers being spoken quickly in disbelief.

The champion stood dressed in full plate armor and helm. Clasped to his left arm was a studded buckler and his right held a long sword high in the air. Across his chest was engraved three eyes forming a triangle and a scarlet cape hung back from his shoulders sweeping the table he stood on. He waved the sword twice then sheathed it and jumped off the table, his armor ringing as he landed harshly on the ground, but he did not falter under the weight.

Zolar knelt before him. "Welcome champion. We have awaited your arrival for centuries. Now we need wait no longer."

The champion reached up and removed his helm, cradling it in his left arm as he smiled at the crowd that all knelt before him. Cayne's sneer was arrogant and zealous as he looked across the assembly. "I have come to lead you. You will follow me and bring our word to bear upon the people we meet. I have the sword and you give me the arm to wield it. Together no one can stop us."

Tranthor turned away. "This sickens me, Mael. Let us continue our search while they stroke their feathers." Mael nodded agreement and they moved right, staying as far from the balcony railing as they could. They ignored the noise from below and moved trough another set of curtains where they found a small door. Tranthor looked through the keyhole then tried the latch. "Locked," he whispered to Mael.

Tranthor reached into his pouch and removed several flat pieces of metal. After rechecking the lock, he inserted one piece into the opening and began moving it around slowly. It took less than a minute for the lock to click sharply. He opened the door and let it slowly swing inward as he put his picks away, before moving through the door and looking around the room they now entered. A hallway lead to the left and a spiral stairway down and to the right.

Mael frowned. "Let me guess. We go down."

Tranthor smiled and took the lead, instinctively pulling a dagger from his wrist sheath. At the bottom of the steps, the room widened out into a landing with another stairway coming down the far wall. A large corridor ran left or right out of the room and Tranthor moved to the right. Shields hung along the walls and a large strip of carpeting running down the center of the arched corridor. They passed several doors to the left and right before Tranthor suddenly froze.

A door opened ten paces in front of him and he looked quickly for a place to hide before pulling another dagger. The first two men to come into view fell with daggers in their backs and Tranthor heard Mael draw his bastard sword as four more men entered the corridor. Tranthor threw two more blades before drawing his own sword and moving forward to engage.

His first two blows landed solidly, dropping the first man and damaging the second, but more men poured from the room. Tranthor quickly went defensive and found that his skills were far from the level he was used to. He found himself facing four men and several of their blows made contact, drawing blood and draining his energy. He responded with as much effort as he could sustain and managed to defeat three of them before Mael's sword took his last assailant for him.

He staggered to the wall and leaned his head against his forearm, knowing that his left-handed sword style was all that had saved him. He put his sword away and tore several strips from his shirt to bind his cuts before moving down the hallway again. Mael walked beside him, keeping his sword drawn, and they moved quickly.

They ran into two smaller groups as they continued. Each battle cost Tranthor an extra wound, but he ignored the pain and kept moving. They passed three corridors leading left, before climbing a short flight of stairs and reaching a great landing. A dozen guards stood before a set of double doors and they all drew swords as Tranthor and Mael approached.

"Halt. Drop your weapons or we will be forced to kill you."

Mael laughed without humor. "We did not come this far to have you stop us. It will take more than you have to turn us away."

The captain sneered. "I will be happy to oblige. Kill them."

Mael strode forward as six men charged him. He cut the first one midsection with his sword, ripping the blade free in a spray of blood, then kicked the second away and elbowed the third man to the ground. The final three tried to tackle him, but Mael brought his mighty arms down on their backs, breaking their holds enough to knee one and throw the other two aside.

Tranthor joined in, dropping three of the remaining men with daggers before advancing to fight the captain himself. He played his injuries up, hoping to trick the captain, but after Mael's display there would be no fooling the captain. The captain struck first with two deep cuts to Tranthor's leg before receiving a light blow to his arm. The captain moved quickly, seeing that Mael would soon be free of his men, and forced Tranthor back with thrust after thrust.

Tranthor parried as hard as he could, yet was unable to do any harm. Reduced to drastic measures, a dagger appeared in his right hand and he lunged forward as he parried another attack. The captain staggered back and brought his left arm up to smash into Tranthor's face even as the dagger, dug deeply into his side. Tranthor collapsed under the blow and waited for the final stroke to come.

Instead he heard swords ringing above him, and rolled over enough to watch as Mael drove the captain back. A small cut above Mael eyes ran into his eyes, but did not slow him as both hands brought his sword against the captain time after time. The captain struggled and managed to hit Mael several times, but the chain prevented any serious harm. Several blows later the captain tripped over one of his men and before he could move Mael had speared him to the floor.

Mael dropped to his knees and hunched over, his breaths coming fast as his lungs surged. Tranthor crawled painfully to his feet and limped over to Mael, his leg bleeding profusely and staining his pants a dark crimson color. Mael looked up as Tranthor stopped. "This must be it, Tarrin."

Tranthor nodded and fell to a sitting position. "I need to rest first. Then we can go in and see what we find." Mael nodded agreement and offered his wineskin to Tranthor who drank sternly before pouring a little bit over his leg. He used the bottom of his pant leg to bind the wound as tightly as he dared, before laying back to get some of his strength back.

After several minutes, he climbed to his feet and retrieved his weapons, motioning to Mael that he was ready to continue. Mael had taken the keys from the captain and unlocked the door before giving Tranthor a shoulder to help him walk through. The door shut loudly behind them allowing them to look around the small antechamber. The master bedroom connected directly off the entry and beyond that lay a planning room. They moved in slowly, until they were able to see that maps and figures covered the tables.

Mael smiled for the first time on this mission, ignoring Tranthor and moving to look through all the maps. "We've found it. These are the maps they were planning to defeat us with. They show all the people we have and where they are located." He pointed to several different figures. "This is our army as it currently stands. And this is theirs. It would have been costly; but they just might have succeeded, especially with the king struck down and the Calaen liege on his deathbed."

Tranthor limped to the edge of the table and stared in dulled thought at all that lay before him. "I don't understand. How does this help us? We have trapped ourselves in here. There's no way we can get back out." Mael stopped suddenly and looked up at Tranthor. "We're stuck here, Mael. This does us no good."

"Then we can burn them. . ."

"They will have copies."

Mael sank into a chair. "Then we must hope for Phil to arrive soon. And for us to. . ."

Stone grinding against stone sounded from the other room and they heard two voices talking. "I don't understand the use of the secret passages."

The second voice was lower. "It works the same as the smoke cloud that covered your entrance. The people believe in my powers. The passages allow me to appear anywhere, at anytime." A low laugh sounded as the stone slid back against stone. "Besides, it saves me some distance."

Tranthor eased back to the door and peered out slowly. Cayne was still wearing his armor as he knelt to light a fire. Zolar sat in a chair in front of it, with his back to the planning room. Mael appeared behind Tranthor and whispered. "Can you take Zolar?" Tranthor shook his head, unsure of his situation. He didn't even know if he could walk across the room, much less throw a dagger or swing a sword. Mael nodded slowly. "Then wait here. If we can stop them and find the secret passage, we still could get out of here."

Tranthor turned his head. "Leave Zolar if you can. I want to talk to him."

Mael gave Tranthor a sympathetic look that said, `If possible.' He then pulled his sword out slowly, the blooded blade glistened in his hands as he walked through the door and into the bedroom. Tranthor swung himself around the corner and slid down the wall to a sitting position.

"You dare to plan an attack on my kingdom," Mael declared loudly.

Cayne spun around violently at the sound of Mael's voice. Then sneered and rose to his feet, stepping away from the fire. "You must be stupid, Mael, to come here alone. With guards outside and my own personal wizard to attend me, it was folly to come here. Guards!"

"I am not alone, Cayne. Nor do you have guards outside to call. I killed them. As I will kill you and your wizard." Mael kicked Zolar in the back of the head and swung his sword at Cayne, who danced nimbly back and drew his own sword. Zolar toppled out of the chair and crashed against the stones of the fireplace.

Mael's size and strength kept Cayne at a distance, but Cayne's speed made it difficult for Mael to land any blows. Tranthor watched as best as he could, but his body began to fade in and out. Voices were calling to him, whispering his name; he struggled to hear them to listen to their words, but they remained elusive as he drifted back and forth.

Darkness lifted him and he floated with it, drifting around in slow circles as his mind became unraveled and disconnected. He recalled faces, but could place to them no names. An older man with gray around the temple - a tall strong man with blazing green eyes - a sandy haired man with an honest smile. The final image lanced like fire through him, the image of a dark haired girl with tears in her eyes. He knew her so well; but she was lost to him, lost like all the other images that passed before him.

The voices murmured around, lifting the currents he rode upon and pulling him further and further from himself until he no longer cared or felt for the images he saw. They passed by and through him now without effect, leaving him untouched. He blinked once, then twice. Each time his eyes stayed closed longer and he knew that one time they would not open at all. His eyes fell closed.

A wet touch upon his cheek made his eyes flutter open. The green eyed man knelt before him, a bloody hand holding onto his face. The voice came from a distance. "Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

Tranthor nodded numbly as several images came back to him. "Mael?"

The other nodded and rose, his left arm hanging useless at his side and many cuts oozing blood. Mael smiled and that made him look better "I am glad you are back. You had me worried for awhile there."

Several other images came back to Tranthor and he looked around at the darkened walkway they were in. Pieces of paper lay scattered across the entire passageway. "Cayne? Zolar?"

Mael shook his head and sat down across from Tranthor. "Dead. There was nothing I could do, Tarrin. His head was not strong enough. I left them behind and brought you and the maps into the secret passages."

Tranthor nodded dully, trying to clear the haze that clung to his every movement and thought; but the more he tried, the harder it became. He was failing again when a final image returned to him - the image of a dark-haired girl. The name came closely behind. "Shearl."

Mael looked puzzled. "Tarrin, are you okay? Don't fade on me again. We've made it this far, we can get out."

Tranthor smiled and let it all go. "Thank you, Mael. You have been more than a friend. Do me one last favor."

Mael's eye misted over. "Anything."

"Tell Shearl she filled my heart. I wish I could have done the same for her."

Mael leaned forward and put his arm around Tranthor. "You did, old friend. you did."

* * * * *

Far away, in a small cottage west of Calais, a mist rose up over the fields and chill wind swept open the windows of the cottage numbing the lonely soul that sat within. Mist that rose from the night blanketed her. She felt the loss deep inside - she knew its source. Shearl cried.

Last updated: 04/14/2003 by David J. Weber

disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this page are strictly those of the page author. The contents of this page have not been reviewed or approved by UW-Waukesha.