Stormfyre Chapter Thirteen

            A blood red sun set on the battlefield. The castle of Southcross, surrounded by the city of the same name, was hidden by a great white wall of thick stone that encompassed it. But the giant wall was broken, battlements fallen from the highest point where they once stood to shatter on the ground. Deep cracks ran along the length of the wall, some of them almost man sized, where war machines had punished them with devastating blows before the defenders could repel them. The siege was taking its toll. All around the castle there were camp fires and tents; it seemed they stretched for as far as the eye could see. The relief supplies that the castle had been getting from allying cities in the west and north had been cut off: confiscated for the enemy army. Battered bodies dotted the hills all around the castle where defender and attacker alike met their fate. So savage had the siege been thus far that it seemed even the sun had begun to bleed for them.

            Past the hills and the bodies of those that had fallen in battle, past the rows of tents and camp fires lining in circles all around the hilly region Southcross was a single wooden structure. It had been thrown together quickly, with the sole purpose of allowing the leaders of the army to speak their strategies away from the throng of men that were under their banner.

            Inside the makeshift cabin stood a circle of six men, five of them were Honor Guard, men that had become so skilled in matters of battle that they had been elevated to the status of the king's personal defenders. The Honor Guard ensured that the king's word was made law and those that defied the will of the king were punished as the villains they were. Even if those that defied the king were royalty themselves.

            The sixth of the men was older than any in the Honor Guard. A man of sixty some years with thinning white hair and heavy brown robes to cover his frail body. He was Urien Boska, chief advisor to the king of Dagoth. It disturbed Urien that he would be sent so far into foreign land acting under the orders of his liege when it was his solemn duty to direct his majesty as best as he could. The fate of the last man to act so still haunted him. Raza had been chief advisor under Darius Steelbreeze until the king found out that his trusted advisor had sent scouts to fetch information without the king's knowledge or approval. Raza had been sentenced to the dungeons of Dagoth, a dank and dark place that no one ever came back out of. That had been Raza's reward for aiding the king. Old Urien vowed that he would act wisely. He had no intention of treading the same path Raza had.

            But the man that was in charge of the war campaign was Emeron Jaist, commander of both the Honor Guard and general of the Dagothian armies that filled the plains all around Southcross. Emeron was dressed in silver chainmail, common to Honor Guard that were ready for battle at any time. He had a bright red cloak that was pushed back from his broad shoulders, nearly sweeping the floor. His helm sat on the table that his knuckles rested on. Emeron cast his stern, scrutinizing eyes to every man that filled the cabin. He imagined that they looked much like him at that point; stubble thick on their faces and hair looking more than a little unkempt from all the days that they had spent in the wild. The siege on the castle had been going on for a fortnight now, and with the way that Carridon Stonethrow positioned men on the walls and on the field Emeron guessed that another fortnight could pass and they would find themselves in the same position. Carridon was as wise a tactician as he was king to his people. It made Emeron grieve that he had to make this man his enemy.

            "At the rate we are going, I would say that we haven't enough manpower to storm the city walls without losing many lives. The walls are too fortified," Emeron stepped back from the table and paced to the door, feeling their eyes on his back. He knew that all the men were looking to him for answers, for some way to triumph over Carridon Stonethrow. But triumph over him for what reason? So that Darius could take the High Throne? Why were they making war over this? If the king was ready to assume the High Throne the other kingdoms should bow to him. Darius was taking the throne by force; his only reasoning was that a dream he had over and over told him that it was his time. Emeron shook his head and thought about the coming morning. He knew that there must be some way to get a foothold into the castle, a way that he hadn't thought of yet.

            "It may come down to waiting them out. We will secure supply trails back from Dagoth and from Casteel while we tighten our grip around the castle to ensure that they have no way of receiving fresh supplies. Sooner or later they will run out, and they will have to open their gates to us or they will starve."

            "Sir?" a younger man began. His name was Jael Foxlund, a member of the Honor Guard for only a matter of months. He had lived his life in the village of Nemway, one hundred twenty miles south of Dagoth along the coast line. Jael had joined the army at sixteen and impressed his commander seven then with his mastery over the blade. At twenty four he was a member, dubbed so by the king in an early autumn ceremony. Emeron turned to look at Jael, the youth's eyes lowering respectfully.

            "What is it, Foxlund?"

            "If we intend to wait out the enemy, then wouldn't that mean we could be positioned here for weeks?"

            "Months if the king had presence of mind to foresee something like this and fill his storage rooms. That isn't the point, however. The point is that there have been too many casualties and I see no other recourse save to wait these men out, lest we try our war machines on their eastern wall one last time, pray that we can break it down in the length of the daylight. There seems nothing else that we can do."

            "Need I remind you that his majesty wants Southcross taken within the month, commander? He fears that should the siege take too long there will be sympathizers, those that would flock to the down trodden Blazing Sword banner. His majesty also fears that the Eagle would forsake his long lasted battle against the ageless to aid Southcross, seeing as how Avalon stated that they stood with the Blazing Sword in the fact they would oppose his majesty taking the throne."

            "Thank you, Urien; I know very well what his majesties words were. But even he couldn't foresee how capable the united armies would be. Have the scouts that were sent to Cromley Tower returned yet?"

            "There has been no contact, sir," Jael Foxlund replied, "It seems that Baron Cromley has decided to abstain from taking sides in the conflict. There are reports, however, that a small convergence of men are forming along the Crossing, just to the east of Bordertown." Emeron stopped cold and fixed Jael with that steely stare.

            "How many men is 'a small convergence'?"

            "Scouts estimate that two hundred men fly the Blazing Sword banner and they march for the south. They will be at our northern flank in five days. Seven at the most."

            "When did this information come in? Why the hell wasn't I told that there were two hundred men marching in from the north? If they catch us between either side of the armies they could route us!"

            "Scouts just came back this afternoon, sir. Urien said there was no need to inform you until night, when we shared council. You were so busy out on the field that I had to agree with Urien that the message could wait until now. I am sorry if that was the wrong thing to do."

            Emeron glared at Urien. The old man shrugged, "There was no need to add further burdens on you at the time, commander. Tell me, would it have made a difference if you had known now or then? Was there something you could have done about it? I thought not. That was why we waited."

            Emeron dismissed the other three men that were in the cabin, telling them to double the scouts and half the rations until the supply wagons came in two days. The food was running thin and Emeron wanted to be sure that there would be enough to last them. He watched the three armored men exit, closing the door behind them, and he turned to face Urien again.

            "Next time you will not hold back anything that could affect my judgment later on! I'm sure that their intent is to drive a wedge into my men and clear a path long enough for supplies to be pushed through. Jael, "the young man started when Emeron called for him, "I want you to travel to the marker in the north east, where our retainers are waiting. Take them north to meet the small army that closes in on us. Lay in wait for them. I'm counting on you to ensure that they never make it to Southcross, Jael."

            "Yes sir!" Jael nodded emphatically, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out. He followed Emeron to the back of the crude cabin where the commander kept a large wooden trunk of his belongings. He dug out a rolled up scroll and handed it over to the younger man.

            "This will ensure that you have command over them when you reach there. Now go to your tent and sleep. You ride at first light," Jael was just stepping out of the cabin when Emeron called after him again, "If they have wagons or supplies of any kind, confiscate them and bring them along the same path that you took to reach the retainers. Is this understood?"

            "Yes sir," Jael told him, meeting his gaze with a serious face. Emeron nodded his dismissal and Jael stepped out, leaving him there with Urien, who was intent to stand on the side of the table and listen to their conversation.

            "Do you think that it is wise to divide your forces so? I thought you were keeping the retainers where they were in case you were forced to retreat? You wanted them to close in on the backs of the enemies so you could divide and conquer. That is what you said to the council last time you spoke of the retainers, wasn't it?"

            "Two hundred men change a lot, Urien. I must defend all my fronts. If that means sending my retainers into battle north of here, then so be it."

            "But your choice in leaders for the mission? I understand that you sent Drawn on a secret quest for the king, but to send this youth into battle at the head of such a large battle? Surely you should consider another. Anifall, perhaps?"

            "I need Anifall here should Carridon attempt something. He's one of the best tacticians that I have. Jael knows what he's doing; else he never would have made the title of Honor Guard. All he need do is ambush them. I have faith that he's more than capable."

            "I still think that you should consider another. The war will not be lost due to the fact that you sent Anifall or another of the Honor Guard in Jael's place."

            "Enough!" Emeron cut a hand through the air, indicating silence, "Your grievance is noted, Urien. But it hasn't changed my mind. Jael will go. If you fear so much that he will fail, why don’t you travel with him?" Urien sighed at the comment and Emeron smiled a bit his shoulders shaking with a touch of laughter.

            "Very well commander, we will do this your way, but know that the king will hear of this."

            "Urien, you do what you must. As shall I."

            With that the old man left him alone in the cabin, staring at the blank wall for minutes in silence. The fact that there were men coming from the north didn't bother him. In fact, he was guessing that the king had retainers of his own, waiting to strike when Emeron's defenses were down. Jael would take soldiers there and the matter would be ended.

            It was the entire affair of the war that played on his nerves. At first he played the fact that he was defender to the honor of Dagoth. Any that offended the king had offended him as well. But now it wasn't that easy. Carridon Stonethrow didn't deserve to meet his defeat this way, not when the two kingdoms had long been allies when Mikal had been on the throne. Cursing himself for the first of many times that night, he swore that he would see it through to the end, because that was who he was, if nothing else.

            There was sudden commotion outside the cabin. Emeron took up his helm without thinking about it and stepped outside. There were men running all about from tent to tent and wild light danced as bon fires that had been lit were knocked astray and blazed in the high grass. They were under attack! Emeron donned his helmet and fastened the leather strap under his chin before catching hold of a man under his command as he ran past.

            "What in the name of the One is going on?"

            "Carridon's men! They came from behind us! Attacked while we were patrolling!" The man's words were cut off by an arrow that streaked in, embedding deep into his chest, pitching him over. The man was dead before he even struck the ground. Emeron spun and drew his sword in one fluid motion, readying himself for battle. Two men, wearing the blue and white standard of their kingdom, charged him, screaming battle cries at the top of their lungs. One of the men never finished that cry, finding to his surprise that a dagger slammed nearly hilt deep in his chest, knocking him a step back. He dropped the blade he carried from numb fingers and tried to pull the dagger free but failed, falling to the ground and getting trampled by a horse back rider that stormed by.

            The second warrior came within striking distance, weary of any more daggers that Emeron might have had on his person, and lunged in, swinging his sword for his stomach. Emeron leapt back and parried at the same time, stepping in with his right leg and sliding his sword up to his opponent's hilt. The man tried to yank away but Emeron held him there, tilting the sword to throw him off balance. The soldier dropped on one knee and wrenched the sword out, using both hands to drive it forward. Emeron, still on his feet, sidestepped the thrust and made a thrust of his own, putting the sword he carried deep into the man's chest. Without bothering to see if the wound was fatal or not, Emeron pulled the steel free and made haste to a patch of open ground where he saw a half dozen of his lancers trying to fend off soldiers wielding long swords. The lancers were less then effective, their long spears doing little more than fend off the frantic blows of the attackers.

            Emeron waded into the fight, taking the broad sword he carried two handed and swinging back and forth in an arc, felling two of the men before they even knew that he was there. A third spun and slashed at him, bringing his sword up in a diagonal slice. Emeron blocked and slashed again but the man proved skilled enough to deflect, sending the blade stray. Emeron took a step back, allowing the soldier to strike again. The man swiped straight down, screaming as he swung for Emeron's head. The guard commander glanced the attack off his sword and stepped past, laying his foe open all along his back. Chain links from the armor that the soldier wore spilled onto the ground followed by trails of his blood. Emeron slashed again, one handed for the man's throat. This time the soldier failed to match Emeron's speed and a second later his head came toppling down to his feet before his body decided to join it.

            "You men!" Emeron shouted over the chaos, "Go to the eastern side of the camp and give the archers protection! This time why don't you try forming ranks when you fight instead of looking like a bunch of children that were fighting with sticks?"

            The lancers nodded grimly, taking their rebuke in silence, and waded through the field to the eastern side of the camp where the archers had claimed their perch. They liked the land from the east of the castle, saying that the ground was more elevated, giving them an advantage in battle. All the high ground in the world wasn't going to help them all now if Carridon's swordsmen got to them first.

            "Commander! Emeron!" a voice caught his attention, and he spun to his left. Two of his subordinates, members of the Honor Guard, came running over, pausing only once to duck the fire of several arrows.

            "How did this begin? Where are all of these men coming from that we wouldn't have noticed them?" Emeron questioned, shaking his blade at them. Both the men lowered their blades and one of them came closer to be heard easier.

            "There are caverns, sir. Tunnels that run under the length of the plains that we pitched our tents on. My guess is that Carridon was waiting to use these tunnels as a last resort if it seemed that there was no other recourse. I believe that they are directly connected to the castle, the dungeons perhaps."

            "Have you determined how many there are?" Emeron asked, keeping a wary eye at the men that were around him. For the time being none attacked, but he could see the colors of the enemy mingled with his own. The thought of being taken like this, so unaware, made him furious.

            "Seven tunnels that range from the edge of the forest on the eastern side of the plains to one located beside a pond north west of here. Should I give the order to storm the tunnels?"

            "No! I will lead a faction of men in there, while you make ready the battering ram! This may be the best chance for us to take the castle! I want the front gates battered down within the hour! Is that clear?"

            Clear, commander," the soldier replied without hesitation. Both of the men turned and made haste along the path they took to get there, cutting down several enemy troops along the way. Emeron ducked low and ran closer to the castle walls, where he saw the dark lines of archers up there on the battlements, giving their men cover fire. He was pleased to see that Anifall had gathered a goodly portion of his foot soldiers, holding them near two turned over wagons and breaking cover only to fend off enemy attacks. Emeron rushed for the overturned wagons, half aflame from burning arrows. He ran by one of his men fending off the frantic attack of a youth wearing the Blazing Sword emblem. Emeron leapt in and with a single stroke the youth dropped at the guard commander's feet. Emeron stepped over the dead youth and dove for cover as another rain of arrows lit the sky with streaks of yellow and orange. A distant explosion made the ground tremble a touch, then it was gone, leaving acrid smoke in its wake.

            "Anifall!" Emeron bellowed, addressing the older man that led the foot soldiers. Anifall fixed Emeron with his steely grey eyes but said nothing, only nodded to show that he had heard.

            "I need you to gather the rest of the foot soldiers! Tell them that they must bring hand axes or blades suitable for close combat, for we are going into the tunnels! Meet with me at the pond's edge in the northwest as soon as you are able! Understood?"

            "Aye, Emeron. At the northwest pond. Gotcha."

            Anifall broke from the cover and weaved his way around a wall of flickering fire, heading south. Emeron screamed at the forty men that were converged at the wagons to follow him, telling them that if the night went well then this would all be over. Southcross would be theirs. The men gave a rallying cheer and charged after him as he broke for the northwest forest, knowing that he had at least seventy yards to cover before the trees would shelter him.

            The group was closing in when there was the loud roar of voices screaming in unison. Men, gleaming in their chain armor, came from the shadows of the forest and charged forward, the banner of Southcross waving on a pole from the lead man. Blades were unsheathed as better than sixty men came for Emeron and the foot soldiers. A wall of shields linked when there was no more than twenty yards distance spanning them. The shields glowed dull silver in the fire light. Emeron held out his sword, shouted for his men to form rank behind him.

            "We must cut through them to reach the pond! For the honor of Dagoth, attack!" The two groups of men clashed in a ring of steel as blade met blade. Emeron could see men everywhere, swords slicing air so close that he was almost felled twice by his own men. One of the soldiers singled him out, raising his shield and charging with sword out. Emeron blocked the blow and brought his broad sword down two handed on the man's shield, making him stumble from the force of the impact. Emeron pressed the attack, striking twice more, making the man back into one of his own. They tumbled into the grass, the soldier that Emeron was fighting falling on the other man as his armor over balanced him. Emeron brought the blade down and stabbed into him, pulling out just in time to cross the edge in front of him and parry two swords at once. He stepped far to the right and ducked low as a back stroke from one of the soldiers nearly took his head off. He retaliated with a slash of his own across the man's stomach. The chain links that formed his armor blocked the lethal cut but the soldier staggered back, dropping to one knee.

            The second man swung in, bringing the sword down hard with both hands. Emeron let the blade hit his and run along the edge of it until the man's sword slid into earth. The soldier pivoted, swinging in a back arc and blocking Emeron's next assault by mere chance. The soldier pressed a second time, this time more carefully, thrusting forward with one hand and keeping his shield before him. Emeron knocked the blade up and swung around with the stroke fast, hitting him squarely on the side where the shield failed to cover. The soldier screamed in pain, his armor damaged from the blow, and lunged at Emeron, trying to impale him on the tip of his sword. The guard commander deflected the attack and brought his own sword in, splitting the man's face cleanly in two. The body pitched backward and slumped to the ground, leaving Emeron trying to wrench his blade free from the skull where he had embedded it.

            He heard the battle cry of the other soldier a second before his eyes actually found him. The soldier stepped into the swing, bringing his long sword in a diagonal swipe for Emeron's back. He managed to side step the swing mostly, but the blade snagged his shoulder, cleaving right through the chain links and drawing a stinging line of blood to the surface. Emeron hissed in pain but didn't let it deter him. He thrust his sword forward, expecting the soldier to bring his down to block the attack. He wasn't disappointed. The man knocked Emeron's sword further down and the guard commander lunged in, bringing a mailed fist right into the man's head. Dropping his blade and clutching his mashed nose as best he could, the man tried to step away, avoid the lethal caress of Emeron's blade. Emeron swung in a cross arc, first cutting the man from his right hip to his left collar bone and then taking him from the left side of his abdomen to the right. Gasping with shock, the soldier tumbled to the high grass, dampening it with his own warm blood.

            Seeing that most of his men that had survived the battle broke past the onslaught of the enemy, Emeron rushed to join them. He paused only long enough to aid one of the swordsmen under his command in dispatching one of the enemy, then he joined the rest of his men at a ridge of rocks that seemed to separate the forest from the milder plains. The cover of the trees and the distance from the castle ensure him that they were safe from the archers along the castle walls. He turned to his men, pausing before he spoke to wipe sweat from his brow.

            "We go to a tunnel by the pond. Intelligence places this tunnel as a path into the castle. But I will be honest with all of you here and now. I believe that Carridon Stonethrow will have this tunnel far too well guarded for us to take. We are only a decoy. It is out mission to create enough of a diversion for the battering ram to be brought into place and bring the castle walls down. Any of those that would object to this plan, they should speak now and I will hear them."

            "We're with you sir!" one of the men shouted from somewhere in the back and the cry was taken up by the rest of the men who thrust their swords into the air as a show of respect for their commander. Emeron felt a swell of pride build in him and smiled; the first genuine smile that he could remember in weeks. Nodding his head at them, he prodded them onward.

            The tunnel was easy to find. It seemed that in their haste to leave the tunnel, Carridon's men forgot to close it after them. It was manmade, dug eight or ten feet under the ground and lit with torches that hung from either wall, bronze sconces keeping them in place. The tunnel was wide and open, cutting a straight path for the wall of the castle. The dust and dirt that lines the floor and marred the walls told Emeron that it wasn't used very often, only in emergencies. I suppose that this would constitute some kind of emergency, Emeron mused as he lingered at the entrance of the tunnel. He looked out from the opening but all he could see was the shining surface of the pond just ahead of him and the shadows of the trees that lined the edge of it beyond.

            "Commander!" one of the soldiers hissed quietly, pointing twice up the small hill before the tunnel. Emeron knew immediately what the soldier was trying to tell him. There were men coming closer, he could hear the sound of many boot falls on the ground, crunching the leaves that scattered there. He was ready to give the order to fall back into the trees and find better fighting ground when the call of the bird made the call catch in his throat. It was the sound of the breckler, a speckled bird that was very rare in Umbriel. Said to have come from the Isles of Mist originally on merchant ships, the breckler was a rare and beautiful sight with its speckled wings and blue beak. Emeron knew that it wasn't any bird making that sound, however. Anifall Darinshire was a man that knew much woodlore and excelled at bird calls, even exotic ones.

            He stayed his hand, betting that when soldiers appeared along the hill top above their heads that it would be Anifall. Again, he wasn't disappointed. Anifall Darinshire, along with one hundred more men, axes slung at their wastes and small shields on their arms.

            "Anifall, you are to take all but twenty more of the men you have with and storm the tunnel that is next eastern of here. By no means are you to endanger the troupe any more than you have to. Engage the enemy in a token offense and fall back when you hear the signal to."

            "Signal?" Anifall questioned, looking dubious about the orders he was just handed, "How am I to know what this signal is, commander?"

            "Trust me, Anifall. When the signal is given there will be no way to mistake it. At that time you will bring the troupe to the front gates and aid them in keeping them open."

            "You found a way ta open the gates?" Anifall looked stunned.

            "Just go, soldier, and be ready for the signal. It will sound a lot like the sound of large gates being broken down." Anifall saluted and took all but twenty random men with him, making haste for the next tunnel. Emeron took in a deep breath and looked down the brightly lit tunnel one last time before he raised his hand, the silent order for them to march in. Emeron took the lead, eyes roaming all around the hall, scrutinizing all the detail that it had to offer.

            "Keep your eyes open for arrow slots on the walls. There could be hidden rooms on the other side of these walls."

            He found that the hall broadened further in, getting wider than ten feet across from wall to wall. The lights were placed farther apart as well, the shadows that grew between them getting greater and greater. Emeron ordered them to slow their pace to a crawl as they made their way down the passage. Emeron froze when he felt a slight draft tickle his face. The wind was almost imperceptible but it was there, he knew it. There were holes in the walls somewhere. Ahead, better than fifty feet, he could see breaks in the walls where halls branched off, going in either direction. Tensing, taking his shield off of his back, Emeron stepped closer, ordering his men to wait there for him.

            He hadn't made it ten feet when the first of the arrows flew at him. He ducked it, raising his shield over his head and rolling forward. Three more fired at him in rapid succession, and then there were too many to count. Emeron thought of screaming something to his troops but there was too much chaos to say anything. Instead he dove forward and crept closer to the break in the hall, keeping his shield over his head to deflect the bombardment of arrows that filled the hall. One of the shots struck stone right in front of his face, blinding him as sparks sprayed all over him. Kneeling low to the ground, he ran for the divergence, hoping that he could make it before any of the archers behind the walls could get a bead on him. His hopes were dashed when he felt the agonizing pain of an arrow shaft bury deep in his upper back, pinning his shoulder guard to flesh.

            He sprawled into the divergence, gritting his teeth to keep in the scream of pain that begged to be let out. His shield flew from his hand, his left arm numb from the shaft that struck from behind it. Three men appeared from the side halls, which were only large enough to form a turn, bringing them into the rooms where the archers stood, pelting his troops with their arrows. Emeron rolled up, breaking the arrow low in the process, and slapped one of the enemy’s blades aside. Another soldier, this one older with graying hair and a thick mustache, pressed past his companion and brought his sword across in a dazzling arc. Emeron parried the blade and sparks flew when the wrenched them apart. Emeron took to the attack, slashing once and then stabbing, putting his foot forward for added force. The older warrior knocked the sword aside and stepped past him, booting him in the leg. Emeron rolled to get distance and keep his balance, pressing himself up to the wall, ducking a heartbeat later as another soldier's sword found its mark on the wall, making a high pitched ringing noise as it struck. Emeron swiped the man's shoulder and brought the broad sword along the man's belly, the edge running the length of Emeron's fore arm. The soldier turned on his heel only to gasp in astonishment as he watched his entrails spilling all over his feet. With a grunt he slid from the wall and lay still on the floor.

            Emeron and the old soldier locked blades again, the guard commander using his weight to make the older man fall away from him. The old soldier pulled back and dropped to one knee, slashing for Emeron's thighs. His blade was denied when it rang loudly against the broad sword that was waiting for it. Emeron chopped down at him but the old soldier was fast, bringing his sword up to defend and putting his other hand on the end of the blade to support the force of the hit. Emeron didn't pause, dropping down just as low as the old soldier and sliding his sword off his opponents, ramming it with all his strength into the ma's chest. It went cleanly through the old soldier's chest plate and the tip, reddened with blood, tore out the back. The soldier's sword clattered to the floor and his body was quick to join it, pooling blood even as it fell.

            The enemy troops seemed to panic when they saw the old soldier fall, Emeron guessing that he just slew their commander. With the bulk of his own troops making their way through the hail of arrows the battle was brutal and short lived. Axes in hand, his men made short work of the archers that were holed up behind the walls. Within minutes Emeron had the tunnel secure.

            Scooping up his shield, he ordered ten of his men to scout ahead and find out where the tunnel ended. While he waited he had one of the soldiers pull the stub of the arrow from his back, making only a hissing noise when it was free of his flesh. Booted feet came closer from the hall ahead of them. He saw his men return, grins on their faces.

            "There is one hundred more feet, sir, with no more of those hollow walls blocking the way. It seems that there is a door barring our path up a small flight of stairs. It is heavy wood and would be difficult to break down, but I think that we could do it. Shall we delve deeper, sir?"

            Emeron pondered the question. He honestly hadn't expected to get deep into the tunnel, but here he was. This may be the opportunity he was searching for. While the main offense took the gates he could open one of the doors and pour men through it, defeating the Blazing Sword from the inside and out.

            "This hall is large. I want twelve volunteers to head back into the forest and cut a small tree that can be used as a battering ram on that door. The rest of us will secure the position until we can take the door down." Twelve men stepped forward, each telling him that they would go, and he dismissed them, ordering the rest of his men to the end of the hall.

            Moments later they returned, carrying with them the burden of a lengthy oak that they had felled. Emeron ordered as many men as he could to take hold of either side of the tree, giving the order to break the door in. The tree collided with resounding thuds against the heavy door as the men pushed its weight forward and pulled back again, only to repeat the whole thing a second later. Cracks appeared along the frame of the door, and the bolts that held it in place began to break loose, wiggling free of stone that had held them for decades. Wood splinters rained down on the floor, trampled under booted feet as Emeron urged his men on, seeing that the door was nearly down, his goal within sight.

            High above the stones of the tunnel there was a deafening crack followed by a low rumbling. The ground trembled for several seconds before silence claimed the tunnel again.

            "The gates fall!" Emeron exclaimed to his men, "King Stonethrow's bold maneuver has turned against him! Into the castle, men! So that we may finish this and claim another victory in the name of Dagoth!"

            With the cheers of his troops resounding in his ears, Emeron led them into the door of the dungeon, and before the morning sun rose along the horizon the shining banner of Dagoth flew in the city proper, and on the highest spire of the castle. The siege was ended; the trails of black smoke a testament to the trials of the night previous. The sun bled for them no more.

Dragonsong Excerpt

I thought I would post a snippet from my present novel, Dragonsong, for the reader's pleasure while I prepare Stormfyre chapter 13, which will be posted shortly. Feel free to leave me a comment and let me know how you like it! If you enjoy, and haven't read chapters One and Two they are available on this blog for free. Look them up! God bless. Dragonsong is available for purchase at Brosoft Booksellers and most anywhere books are sold online.

“How close will we be to Aradis?” Marek asked.

“A few miles. But the cove is well concealed by walls of jagged stone that crop out of the sea water. A fair sized ship could lie in waiting there, anchored indefinitely, and not be seen by a patrolling galleon unless someone actually entered the cove itself, or spied the vessel from land. If that happens to be the case, then we’ll be running into unwanted company.”

“I rather doubt the Priesthood is going to waste their time combing the entire northland forests for us, no matter who is with our party,” Marek argued. “They lost us once, and they’ll bide their time until they have a better chance at catching us in their nets again. Likely, if their hunting for us there will be a party to greet us in Aradis.”

“But we aren’t going to Aradis, right?” Justias asked.

“Right. So that means there will be military ships patrolling the waters between the northern port and perhaps all the way down to the Elder’s Bay, which will make our passage south, or at least the first half of it, very interesting.”

“I don’t relish the prospect of a sea battle,” Barlow frowned. “I’m afraid I’m rather out of my element.”

“I’m not going to worry about the voyage south,” Justias informed them. “I have a feeling that Uriel will be more than ready for whatever peril finds us out there. He strikes me as the sort that’s prepared for anything. Let’s just focus on getting to the ship.”

“Well, I feel put in place,” Marek said pointedly to Barlow as he rubbed the side of his face. Then he tore his hand away and scowled when he found it covered with the coarse beginnings of a beard. Justias shook his head.

“You can have a shave when we reach the river, Marek.”

“It’s easy for you to take it lightly,” Marek shot back. “It takes you a month to grow three chin hairs.”

Just then the quiet of the forest was broken by a deep roar, marred with pain and the thundering crunch of foliage being trampled by a massive animal. Everyone snapped to attention and rose in a flash, a wave of steel appearing in every able man’s hands as they turned toward the origins of the sound. Coming over a rocky hill and through a copse of gangly trees appeared a large bear, heaving with breath, a wild look in its eyes. The animal staggered forward and let out a pitiful roar before swaying and collapsing some thirty feet before it reached anyone. Dirt and dust flew out from under its great girth. When it settled it revealed a voracious wound on its right side where claws had rent the fur and flesh so deeply that it lost most of its life’s blood as it ran from its attacker. From out of the wood line behind the bear came its killer.

The beast was immense; at least seven feet at the shoulder while it stood there regarding them with deep-set eyes. Its limbs were thick and bent, with mighty, hooked claws tipping the gigantic paws. Its muzzle was stunted and leathery, with flaring nostrils and a crown of curved, dull horns adorning its head over the pitted eyes. It’s under belly looked like a carapace, and where shaggy fur ended a smooth, leathery shell began, safeguarding its chest and stomach from below. It snorted as it watched them, and a low, baleful growl issued forth like distant thunder. Justias gaped at the monster as recognition made his pulse race.

“A Racksha,” he murmured. And the monster lumbered forward.

What About Magic?

What about magic? If you are a Christian fiction/fantasy writer, this is a question you must ask yourself at some point: what do I do regarding magic? Well, what do we do? I once wrote fantasy and horror stories that employed magic as a brute, elemental force that either good or evil could draw from; it was the moral fabric of the character that either sanctified or corrupted the source. When I began to approach writing Dragonsong and its successors I considered: what do I do about magic now?

The Bible is clear on its condemnation of magic. "A man or a woman who is a wizard...shall surely be put to death," Leviticus 20:27. A wizard is likened to "one who conjures spells, or a medium (wizard), or a spiritist, or one who calls up the dead," Deuteronomy 18:11. The term "wizard" appears in the KJV of the Bible 11 times; none of them good. The New Testament equivalent "sorcerer" is used 8 times (Acts and Revelation) and is likewise condemned in clear language. So what is an aspiring Christian writer to do?

I cannot tell others what to do on command; I will only put forth what this Christian writer did to pen fantasy fiction without surrendering or compromising biblical worldviews. Magic is evil in the Bible because of the source it hails from. I decided despite the fact that I am writing fantasy and creating my own world with my own rules it would hardly glorify the Lord if I abandoned His admonition simply to have a device that tantalized my senses. Magic undeniably possesses moral qualities and tends to represent what all men lust after: power.

Therefore in Andurun there is sorcery and necromancy, which any man can pursue, but is only and entirely evil. This energy is abysmal in nature. Is there good magic? Not really. There is the Order of the Valar, or the Valarym in the first three books. They are my prophets/priests, and God sometimes works through these men to perform miracles. The Order has no innate ability or control over any miraculous power; it is God choosing when and how to act, and the Valarym is submissive to this very tangible reality. On the contrary, the necromancer wields his power like a weapon, but only so that those who gave it to him may draw him into a seductive net he cannot withdraw himself from.

The same with magical items. There are divine and abysmal objects. Divine objects may only be wielded effectively by a follower of God. The Lodestone in Dragonsong is an example. The Mirror of the Songstress and the cursed sword Zagmatar are examples of abysmal objects in the same novel. Their power is free for everyone to employ, but the item in question always seeks to pervert anyone who chooses to use it. Ultimately the item in question is subject to its masters (demons) not to its wielder.

I found that carrying over my biblical worldview helped to create a sharp and contrasting dichotomy between good end evil. As a Christian fantasy writer I wouldn't create my own world where fornication is entirely permissible by the "good guys" because I wanted to use it as a device to accentuate my story. The same applies for me with magic. Both are condemned in Scripture, and Scripture is our final rule of authority in our lives, including what I choose to create with the imagination God gifted me with. Here I give thanks to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

I leave this as food for thought, and some of the internal arguments and conflicts that arrested my attention when I began in earnest to pen Dragonsong. God bless.

Stormfyre Chapter Twelve

Greetings, and welcome to chapter twelve! A little triva about Stromfyre,: if you have noticed, there are no original monsters and races in this novel; my goal was to create all of my own creatures. While some bear similarities with other creatures, I strove to have designs of my own, many of which found their way in part or whole in the realm of Andurun and Dragonsong. At any rate, enjoy chapter 12!
           
The morning that the group of travelers left the village was a silent journey. Each person was lost in their own thoughts, not bothering to burden anyone else with what might have been on their minds. They hadn't even stayed in Casteel long enough to have breakfast in the eatery. Cameron had been too insistent that they move as fast as they could, but he failed to say why. This only put Kamil in darker spirits. None of them seemed to notice the silent figure that followed them into the foothills surrounding the mountains, winding along the twisted path that cut a swath through heavy rocks and trees that had exposed roots running like veins along the soil. He was quiet as the night, running in time with the horses that each of them rode though he could have gone much faster if he so chose. But it was his duty to follow them, to find out the course that they took so the men that tracked them could catch up. It wasn't clear to the scout why he must trail them but he guessed that the men in pursuit meant to kill them. That was what the king decreed. And if the king decreed it, then it was his sworn duty to do all he could to ensure that these people made it safely to the place that they were making their way for.

            Verion leapt over a thorny hedge, landing with silence on the path, not even displacing dirt as his feet touched down. His eyes were keen, taking in detail greater than any human would ever know. The riders were well ahead of them, not even the drudic knew that he was following. The path they took cut a route directly through the Torvana Mountains. Verion surmised that they were heading for Banthas, and they were making haste, riding the animals faster than a casual run. He pondered, could it be that they knew he was following them? He had been ordered by the commander, Emeron Jaist, that he was to be silent, ensure that he wasn't noticed in any form. That was an order that he couldn't twist else he would have warned them already.

            He paused on the path when a pair of songbirds caught his interest, their melody enchanting as it played on the wind. Closing his eyes he let his mind drift as the song filled him. Thoughts came to him. Thoughts of his brother Raisha, of his beloved, Tiar. Thoughts of the elders in the Council of Stone. His eyes flashed open and he rid himself of the thoughts. They caused him too much pain. Verion picked up his pace, making haste to catch up to the horseback riders. He knew that they would never, could never traverse the Torvana Mountains in a single day of riding, not unless they chose to gallop and ride the horses into the ground. And their leader seemed too smart a human to do such a foolish thing. Once he noticed the riders enter a cliff like pass that had high windswept ridges on either side of them he knew their course was set.

            Taking one last look at the five of them he turned on the path and opted for the thicker cover that the forest accorded. In leaps and bounds he made his way through the groves of trees that dotted the landscape. He cared not where obstacles lay, knowing that the woods and all they held would never harm one of the centiant. He went miles south of the village known as Casteel, heading to the camp fire hidden near a rocky alcove at the end of the forest. Six humans were waiting for him there. The leader of the party was a brash youth called Drawn Faleem. His peers respected Drawn because he held the position of the second in command of the Honor Guard. Verion thought that the youth had too much ego for such a little mind.

            Jumping down from the top of the alcove and landing square in the middle of the group of men managed to scare all of them, which brought a smile of joy from Verion's lips. Drawn pressed past another of the men that he had been speaking with and approached Verion. He was in chain armor, as were all the others, and had an elegant one handed blade at his hip. A round shield was slung over his back, holding his dark colored cloak close to him. The man wore a very serious face as he came near Verion, always looking like he was scheming.

            "Damn you, Verion! You could have been killed sneaking up on armed men like that! What the hell were you thinking?"

            "That if you killed me then I would be free of the servitude I despise so much, and that you would be out of a scout," Verion paused, waiting for Drawn to shout heated words. It was too easy to make the man lose his composure. Verion knew little of the human culture but gathered that Drawn wouldn't make a very apt leader.

            "If that's what you wish," Drawn began, "Then you will never have it. Emeron isn't here to defend you any longer, Verion. You would do well to remember that. Now where are the people that we seek? Can you lead us to them?"

            "I can," Verion retorted, still smiling, "I will lead us to the south and around the mountain tip, near the hot spring that is buried in the earth there."

            "And that is where they are going?" another soldier, a man named Gregor Thundar, asked him.

            "Would I be leading you in that direction if they were not heading there?" The look that showed on Gregor's face told him that he believed him. Drawn ordered his men to get their things together, that they were moving through the night in the hopes that they could take the party before the dawn broke. Verion knelt where he had jumped off the alcove, watching the men pack their belongings into the saddlebags of horses, dousing the fire they started.

            Drawn looked to the centiant. Verion met his gaze and remained smiling. The fact that it seemed to bother him made him smile broader.

            "Let's move. Verion, lead us." They left the alcove, trailing first to the south then off to the west, trailing along the bulk of the darkening mountains in an attempt to go around them. Verion could hear the thunder of the horse hooves pounding soil and took up his pace. Before the night was through the animals would be too tired to go any farther and he would have bought them another day, at least. When they made camp before the sun rose along the western side of the mountain peaks Drawn dismissed him, his voice tense with the fact that his plan didn't pan out. Verion went into the woodland and slept under the needled boughs of a pine tree, dreaming of the land that he might never see again.

            It took three days for the lot of them to exit the mountains. There had been scarce space to camp on the road side, the wind that whipped through it always biting. Cameron had replenished rations when they were in Casteel and filled water skins which the father carried on the saddle of his horse. Cameron went back to the nightly ritual of teaching the pair of youths how to swordfight. Kirstin was fast to take up the practice sword even though it was painfully clear that she ached from the riding that had been done in the light. Kamil fought as well, fencing with Cameron, but he retired early for the night, wanting to be left alone for a time so he could sort his thoughts, he said. Damien remarked to Cameron that he did a very good job of sorting his thoughts because he would come back to the light of the campfire refreshed, feeling less tense.

            On the third night, when they were camped on the west mountain ridge, Ferrin followed Kamil from the camp sight, leaving the good father to his prayers and Cameron to beating the poor girl senseless with his lessons. Kamil seemed drawn to a place north of the campsite by nearly a mile. It had a clear pond and a stream that flowed into it from the mountain side. A perfect line of trees was its cover, making it hard to see from the path, or from anywhere else, for that matter, unless one knew how to fly. He waited in the shadows of the trees as Kamil sat on a stump near the pond's edge, staring blankly into it for a time. Nothing unusual happened the Ferrin noticed, and it seemed to him that Kamil was growing agitated. Finally, with a sneer plain on his face, Kamil pushed up from the stump and stormed back to the camp, coming within arm's reach of Ferrin. The youth never even noticed him. After Ferrin was sure that Kamil was gone he broke from the brush that he had been hiding in and skulked to the pond. A chill breeze blew past him, off the water's surface. A cold light glinted from the pond, beaming silver in the dark. Ferrin put his nose to the wind and scented it. There was the lingering scent of danger hanging there, a presence that he couldn't see. Shaking his head and cursing himself for staying with people that drew so much trouble to themselves, he went back to the camp for the night.

            The next day found them on an old trader's route, packed down earth under the hooves of their horses. They rode south along the ridge of heavy clinging rocks that dotted the landscape, rows of dense pines to their left. Cameron strayed further then the rest of them, scouting the land and making sure that they weren't riding right into the den of some demorn, or worse. He spied an old cabin after a time, rotted and falling in from age. He guessed that miners or traders used the house long ago, before the demorn grew too numerous in this region. He realized that the house could easily house some of them, or thieves, or worse. Drawing free his blade, Cameron tapped his heels into Starn's flanks and rode closer. From one of the broken windows he saw a figure cross, tall and broad from the look that he got. Whoever was calling the place home didn't care much that he had just been spotted. Cameron could see the bait when it was presented, one of the men acting careless to make him come closer, drop his guard.

            The sound of other horses behind him made him start. Turning, he saw Damien and Ferrin right behind him. The priest had a haggard look on his face, stubble growing from his chin. Dark lines dominated his face just below his eyes.

            "Not sleeping so well, father?" Cameron whispered, reining his horse back to fall in time with his.

            "A dream," Damien told him, "A dream that bothers my sleep. Nothing more. What do you make of that house there?"

            "That was why I was waiting for you. I have need of Ferrin." The youth looked surprised that Cameron had said that, putting a hand to his chest with his mouth gaping.

            "Yes, you. What do you make of the cabin ahead of us?"

            I think there's only one person in there, a human.

            "Why would one man attempt an ambush on a party of five?" The father asked Cameron. Cameron smiled and rubbed his chin. It was his turn to be surprised at how fast the priest had taken to learning sign.

            "Is there anything else that you can tell us, Ferrin?"

            My eyes are only so good, Cameron! What do you expect from me?

            Oh, I have my own theories about what I should expect from you. But now isn't the time to discuss them. If you ride closer do you think that you could see who it is?

            I could, Ferrin signed, looking uneasily at Cameron, but I would feel safer if you came with. After all you are the one with the sword.

            Cameron rode with as Ferrin approached the cabin on foot. He took care to stay low to the ground, make himself a harder target if the man that was hiding in the derelict house produced a bow. His nose caught sickness in the air, strong and filling. The man had caught something that was killing him, making him rot from the inside out. Ferrin breathed through his mouth, hoping that he could avoid the stench in the air, but it grew only stronger when he came closer. The sound of boots coming down on stone made his head crane around, but it was only Cameron dismounting. The horse seemed to feel the sickness as much as he, but it refused to come any closer to the source.

            Smart horse, Ferrin thought with a silent chuckle, smarter than I am. He spun again, Cameron crouching low beside him, sword out, when there was a loud crash in the cabin. A billowing cloud of dust flew out from the door and there was the figure of a man stepping out, hacking up ropes of phlegm. He dropped to his knees, losing a small sword he had clutched in his hand. The man couldn't be any older then Ferrin was, he was guessing, but he was very tall, better than six and a half feet with a girth that put even Cameron to shame. The youth sat up from the ground and wiped the drool from his face, cheeks bright red from fever. He seemed to be talking to himself. Cameron stood, sheathing his sword and stepping from the cover that the nearby brush accorded. The youth spun, eyes wild and dangerous as Cameron called to him. He was akin to an animal that was crazy with starvation.

            Benmont threw himself from the door of the cabin when a part of the ceiling came down, nearly burying him under the weight of the dead wood. The dust that had been expelled was enough to make him puke what little he had in his stomach back up. There was only pain for him, endless in the torment. Heat rose in sheets from him, his lips blistered with fever. Drinking water became a task that was too strenuous for him to commit to. He was having thoughts of using the blade in his hands to spill his blood and end the pain he was in when there was noise from his side. He spun on his feet, sword out before him; it was all he could do to keep it in place.

            There was a man in front of him, dressed in dark leather with a sword at his side. The man seemed to be speaking, his mouth was moving but words failed to come forth. Benmont took a step back, not trusting what his eyes saw, and then he saw the truth. Before his eyes the man in dressed in leathers transformed before him, flesh shifting and changing until he took the form of one of the dark skinned demorn. With jagged teeth and wild flowing hair the thing gibbered at him, claws glinting at the end of muscular, misshapen arms.

            Benmont gathered what little strength he had and screamed his battle cry, a ragged sound that made his head feel aflame. He leapt at the demorn and locked swords as the beast drew his blade from his side with impossible speed. Another appeared from the brush that littered the side of the path heading north, eyes wide with the look of fear. Still there were more coming, three more that rode horses like men would.

            Benmont pulled away from the first attack and slashed again at his foe’s midsection, but again he was denied as it demonstrated skill that none of the others seemed to have when he last fought them. Taking the blade two handed, he resigned himself to dying, knowing that he was too weak to fight for much longer. Grunting lowly, he brought the short sword down two handed over and again in a cross slash, hoping to take the demorn with what strength he could muster. The demorn only side stepped the assault and let him bury the tip into the ground, using the hilt of the blade to smash him square in the face. Benmont staggered from the blow, feeling white hot anger that matched the heat in his face. He stepped in and swung low in a wild attempt to cut the demorn's legs right off. Again there was a burst of speed and the beast leapt over the assault, landing with another sword handled blow to the top of Benmont's skull. Then there was a rush through blackness. Then the dark claimed him.

            He woke to cold all around him. It was dark where he lay, with a draft that coursed over him, making his flesh break into goose bumps. The intense pain that was his only memory for weeks now was gone: bled from him, leaving him weak and trembling. Voices made him start, two men that were not far off, just on the other side of some barrier. It was then that he realized where he was. He was in an old cabin. Half the floor was missing and another half of the ceiling to match that. He tried to stand, wanting to see who it was that was talking, but there was no strength left to work with. He could only lay there in the cold dark and stare at the black above him. He had the vivid impression that this is what it must feel like to be a corpse. That was enough to make him stand on his own, getting to his feet with the hold of the crumbling wall. A rush of blood into his head made him see stars and he sat down hard, almost going right through the floor. That must have enough noise for the men outside the cabin to hear him because they stopped talking.

            But it wasn't a man that came to check on him. It was a young woman that wasn't any older then he was, carrying a hooded lantern in her hand, yellow light spilling over him, making his eyes hurt badly.

            "Your eye sight will become less sensitive in time but the father says that you will always be sensitive toward the sun. There was nothing that he could do about that. You were sick for too long when we found you."

            Benmont held his hands before him to block the painful rays and gritted his teeth, feeling a touch sick to the stomach, "When you found me?" He asked her, voice weak as he was, "Who...is the father?"

            "Father Damien Alohm. He is a priest from Hamla. Perhaps you have heard of it?"

            "Hamla?" Benmont tried to think but his mind was blank, only the pain of the light managed to enter, "Would you get that forsaken light out of my face!" he snarled, clasping one large hand over both eyes. He really didn't want her to see if he shed any tears because she was shining a light in his eyes.

            "Oh," she commented softly, and turned the metal shades of the lamp down until there was nothing left of the light save for a dim red glow that circled the floor. Benmont found that it was bearable and looked up at her. She was of slight build, with bright red hair that was tightly pulled back along her back. She wore soft leather travelling clothes, an over coat and breeches with high boots that rode up to her knees. But what really caught him were her eyes, bright green, even in the shadow of the cabin he could see that. They were the same as his.

            "Is that better?" she asked him, "I didn't mean to make you upset so soon after you were so ill. I was only coming in to see how you were, I didn't even think that you would be awake so soon."

            "Who are you?" Benmont asked abruptly, fearing that she would just keep on talking if he allowed her to. She woman seemed taken aback, putting a hand to her chest and balked at him.

            "Oh, how rude of me! I haven't even introduced myself yet! My name is Kirstin Telba. I am pleased to meet you, even if you did try to kill Cameron."

            "Cameron?" Benmont felt the old headache coming back for all new reasons, "I don't know any Cameron. The last I remember is a band of demorn were attacking me. One of them struck me, knocking me out. Then I was here, in this cabin," as an undertone he added, "talking with you."

            "Demorn? There wasn't any demorn here when we found you. But you did attack Cameron, screaming and drooling and ranting like a maniac. The father said that you were in the thralls of the fever but you sure looked fearsome like that. Cameron knocked you out and he and the father drug you in here so you could rest in quiet. Why are you turning red?"

            "Never mind." Benmont told her, running a hand through damp hair. He attempted to stand again putting his hands underneath him and doing a push up. The strength just wasn't there any more and he floundered back down to the ground.

            "Oh, let me help you," Kirstin said, going over to him and bringing her hand out for him to hold onto.

            "Get away!" he waved a hand, almost striking her, frantic to stand on his own. Kirstin back stepped his open hand and stood there, hands at her sides, feeling a little awkward watching him try to rise. Then the father was in the cabin, pressing past her and putting his hands on the youth's shoulders pressing him back to a sitting position.

            "You will stay right where you are. You are still recovering from being ill and have no business being up and about."

            "I didn't ask for your help!" Benmont said gruffly, trying with no good luck to peel the priest's hands off his shoulders, "I just want to get to Southcross! You're not going to stop me!"

            "There will be plenty of time for Southcross later, young man. You had the black fever. Do you know what that is?" by the look on the young man's face Damien was guessing that he did know, "You were very sick with it. I am admittedly surprised that you even managed to move about at all in that condition, let alone attack Cameron the way you did. You should thank the One God that you yet live."

            "Thank him? For what? Killing my mother? For making me flee the only place that I've ever known? That sounds like a lot to be thanking him for!"

            "I am sorry about your mother, child. It is terrible to hear when someone passes on, but that is the way of life. There must have been reason for her to leave this world."

            "There was reason all right! Plenty of reason when someone slit her throat and let her bleed to death in my closet!" Tears streaked his face at the memory, one that he hadn't allowed himself to think of for weeks. He no longer cared if the girl was watching him. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had to reach Southcross and find justice for what happened.

            The priest hung his head, muttering a quiet prayer to his God. Then he raised his head again and knelt before the youth, wiping tears from his face, "Tell me, child, what is your name?"

            "Benmont Grimnight."

            "Benmont, I am Damien Alohm. I took the illness from you with the great power of the One God, so there is one reason that you should thank him. Another is that you live where others die for lesser reasons. The wound on your shoulder tells me that we are not the first signs of life that you ran across."

            "Demorn," Benmont told him without looking at him, "I battled demorn. One of them bit me. I suppose that if he would have lived that I would have passed on the black fever to all of them."

            "I am sorry to hear of your plight, Benmont. Would you know why men would come to your house and do that to your mother?"

            "Why are you asking me? You're saying that there was some reason that she was killed? My mother didn't do anything that merited her death! I can't believe a priest would even say such a thing!" Benmont fought to sit up, clutching Damien by his travel worn shirt, but the father pressed him back down. Benmont raged, anger smoldering in his overly bright eyes. Damien shook his head, realizing that he had to speak carefully to this one. It seemed that he jumped to conclusions too often where his mother was concerned.

            "I didn't mean that she was bringing on this action. But there are men who would kill another for debts owed to them. Did she owe anyone in your village coin?"

            "No, she didn't. I don't know why they were there for her, but they stayed long enough to try and kill me as well. They failed and I ran from the house, not looking back. I found out that there were men after me, riding the roads so I couldn't stay on them. I wound up here. I have no idea where I would have caught the black fever."

            "You may have lain near an animal's carcass that had it. The fever is an airborne illness, carrying itself to the bodies of the healthy. It would have been that easy for you to get it." Damien produced a blanket not far from where Benmont sat. The youth noticed how he shivered in the chill; his great strength nearly spent battling the sickness. He snatched the blanket from the priest and pulled it over his shoulders, holding it tight around him.

            "I must step outside for a moment, but if there is anything that you need from me, don't hesitate to ask."

            Damien was nearly out the door when Benmont called out to him, "What is it?" The priest half turned.

            "You said you took the fever from me? Was that difficult?"

            "It drained me, yes. I beseeched the One God for the power to heal you. So in truth it was he that saved your life. I was merely the tool to that end."

            "Thank you, father."

            Damien noted the tone of humbleness edge into his voice and smiled at the youth, "There is no need to thank me. I did what any man of the faith would have. It is the One that you should give your thanks to. If not for his glory you surely would have died tonight."

            The father left them in the cabin, Kirstin and Benmont, each looking solemn in the light of the lantern. Benmont leaned back on the moss covered wall and let his eyes close, blocking the light from them. He felt better than he had in a long time. He guessed that the father was a good man, he looked older then Benmont only by a handful of years. Kirstin, if talkative, also seemed like she meant well. Another cold draft made him pull the blanket closer to him. The sound of breathing in the room reminded him that he wasn't alone. His eyes flashed open and he saw Kirstin staring at him, taking in the details of his face. She was staring so intently that it made Benmont blush after a moment.

            "What are you looking at?" Benmont finally asked, growing irritated at her unspoken words.

            "You look a lot like Kamil. Not like brothers, but similar nonetheless."

            "I don't know any Kamil, and if I happen to look like him then it is only coincidence." Benmont closed his eyes again and rested. There was no way he was going to sleep. He gathered that he had been sleeping for some time, anyhow.

            "Is Kamil your betrothed?" Benmont queried without opening his eyes.

            "No!" she replied, her voice so powerful that Benmont's eyes flashed open a second time, "He...he happens to be a relative of mine, so I'm told. Whether that is true or not remains to be seen."

            Benmont grunted, a smile playing on his lips. Then there were more noises and two men entered. One was Damien. The other was a taller broad shouldered man with close cut hair and travel worn leather armor. Benmont had the impression that he had already seen that man before, but he couldn't remember where for now.

            "You said your name is Benmont Grimnight?" the leather clad man asked him.

            "It is."

            "The father told me that you fled the village you lived in because there were men after you. He said that they killed your mother. I think I know why." Benmont sat straight up, letting the blanket fall to his lap. HIs eyes were fixed on the stranger. One hand was balled up into a fist, clutching the side of his torn leggings.

            "What do you know? Tell me!"

            "They were trying to kill you for the same reason that assassins were after Kirstin and Kamil in Hamla village. You're the son of Darius Steelbreeze, king of Dagoth." Benmont blinked, trying to fathom what the man just told him. The king of Dagoth? It was true that Delia never told him who his father truly was, and that was fine with Benmont. The two of them were happy and his father was a shadow on the edge of his thoughts, never clearly defined so he was never entirely thought about. But even saying that he was the son of royalty? He let out a weak laugh.

            "Of course I am," Benmont chuckled bitterly, "and you're the High Father of Dynasty, right? How am I supposed to believe that?"

            "Have you seen Darius Steelbreeze?"

            "No, but what does that have to do with..."

            "Then you wouldn't know exactly how much you look like him. The same color in your hair, the same green eyes. The same jutting chin. You are a Steelbreeze. A bastard heir to the throne that could have been overlooked if his majesty wasn't waging war with Southcross to seize the High Throne."

            "Pardon?" Benmont's eyes widened. It seemed that every time this man spoke things just became more and more warped. Shaking his head, he asked, "The king of Dagoth is waging war against Southcross, its neighboring kingdom? Why in the name of the One would he do that?"

            "I just said that he intends to take the High Throne. He doesn't want any loose ends showing up at an inconvenient time, I guess."

            "Then Kirstin? And this Kamil...?"

            "Both of them are heirs as well, heirs that I have put in charge of. I'm taking them to Cromley Tower near Twin Port and you're welcome to come with if you wish. I'm sure the baron wouldn't mind one more stray."

            "I'm travelling to Southcross!" Benmont shouted hoarsely, "I'm going to bring my mother's killers to justice!"

            "Your mother was killed by word of the king of Dagoth! Do you intend to storm the castle? I just said that the land around Southcross is a war zone! There is nothing for you to the north, but there might be safety for you if you decide to travel south with us."

            "Oh please say yes, Benmont," Kirstin pleaded, "I think that it would be really dangerous for you if you went north. Come south with us. There might still be some way for you to learn the truth."

            "I can't believe this!" Benmont managed to stand, holding the wall for support. Damien went over to him and offered a hand for him to steady himself. Benmont slapped the hand away, glaring at the priest with renewed malice. Damien nodded only once, a sorrowful nod, and stepped back.

            "You're feeding me lies! Trying to confuse me with talk of war and heirs!"

            "I told you the truth, plain," the warrior told him calmly, "It's up to you if you want to believe the truth when it's right in front of you or not. I really didn't think that Darius would have such foolish heirs."

            Benmont lunged for him, hands outstretched for his throat but he fell short and dropped hard on his knees. Kirstin dropped down beside him, asking him if he was hurt but Benmont said nothing, only stared daggers at Cameron. Damien urged the warrior out of the cabin.

            "We leave at first light, Benmont. You may come with us when we leave, or you may go north with the blessing of the One. The choice is yours." Damien and Cameron disappeared from sight, leaving Benmont looking after them, anger and confusion fighting for control of his mind.

            Outside the cabin, under the sliver of moon that was half hidden in the clouds of the night, Damien walked with Cameron. The pair strode down the path that he ridden along in the light of day, seeing the fire that Ferrin had started to ward off the cold. He and Kamil sat on either side of it, Ferrin rubbing his hands over and over, trying to stay warm, Kamil looking away from the light, as if there was something off in the deep of the forest that caught his attention.

            Damien's face was dark, troubled with thoughts of what just transpired. He could hear the footfalls of Cameron's boots, falling in time with his. He could just imagine that he didn't feel bad about the harsh words that he spoke. That wasn't Cameron's way. He couldn't deny the fact that he did tell the youth what the truth was, brash as he was about it. He rubbed his face, placing fingers over one of his temples where there was a dull throb.

            "Do you think that he'll come with us when we ride?"

            "I think that he'll end up doing what he wants. Nothing more and nothing less."

            "We can't allow him to go north! That would be suicide for him!"

            "Well father. What happened to 'the choice is yours'?" Damien scowled at the sound of his own words being thrown back in his face.

            "I cannot allow him to leave alone. It isn't right. If he chooses to go then I will go with him. I will try to see him safely to Southcross."

            "Then you both die trying to get there instead of just him. That's a wonderful idea, father. I'm glad you thought of it."

            "What do you suggest? Can you say that you have no compunctions about letting him leave in the morning? When you know that there was something that you could do to change the outcome?"

            "I'm getting paid in gold to take these children to Cromley Tower. I'm not getting paid anything to watch over him, troubled as he is. So his mother died. Death is a part life, brutal as it is. There's nothing that we can do but cope."

            "Cameron, your lack of respect for the passing of others appalls me. As does your desire for money. Is that the only reason that you came with? How much coin did Devlin offer you to care for his child?"

            Cameron flinched at the words, Damien thought, but was quick to recover. There was something more than the money compelling him. It wasn't coin that compelled Cameron to save him on the steps of the church when the assassins found Kamil. He decided that he wouldn't press the subject though. They stopped at the top of a small hook shaped cliff. They stood at the peak of it, looking over the expanse of the forest as it stood silver and black in the moonlight. Cameron stood guarded, arms folded across his chest, eyes far away from where they were.

            "I am sorry, Cameron. I never meant to insult you with my rash words."

            "It's fine, Damien. You were speaking in the interests of those around you. I...admire that about you. If it means that much to you, we'll try harder to convince Benmont to come along. I think that you should do the talking this time."

            Damien laughed heartily and patted him good naturedly on the back before turning to leave. Cameron followed only a minute later, taking in the sight from the cliff top one more time, marveling at how much he would like to have a drink at that particular moment.