It was not safe in RhyDin for Alexander Shade.

DeMuer's fanatical knights hunted ceaselessly for the man, promising favors, cash, pain or death for any leads on the mercenary. Which got the attention of even older enemies, which led to the death of half of his team and his current situation.

On the run, lying low one realm over from RhyDin, in a crappy bar ten blocks from the dilapidated Dresden Run. No decent drugs besides coke, so it was that and vodka that made up this morning's breakfast. He scowled at the dusty sunlight seeping in through the window from behind mirrored sunglasses, and cut away on the table with a small razor.

He'd killed a man since his arrival, which meant no one bothered him. He was alone at a large table, with the staff and few patrons keeping their distance.

Tick-tap-tick-tap, high heels crossed the room, carried the waitress who'd been keeping Shade's vodka flowing. This time she brought a fresh bottle and a second shot glass, slid into the seat next to him easily. Short uniform skirt rode up mile-long legs, further when she crossed them; her smile was sin and promise. When she spoke her voice was soft, reached only Shade's ears. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"Go fuck yourself," he said automatically, and turned to face the woman and assess her "basics." Hands, lips, eyes. Was she going for a piece? Was she thinking about it? The razor inched back under his middle finger.

Delighted, a smile turned up her lips, lit warm brown eyes with merriment. Her voice was a purr and definitely amused. She wasn't going for a piece, just cracking open the new bottle of vodka. Refill to his shot glass, a fill of hers. "So much less satisfying than the real thing. And is that any way to speak to a lady?"

Once he decided she wasn't going to kill him (yet), he didn't take a harder look, just leaned to the table and snorted a line. It wasn't what he really wanted, but hiding out on the Dresden Run? He had to make sacrifices.

Then he looked at her, really looked, took his glass and cracked a crooked grin. "You're not a lady," he muttered. Drained his shot with a gasp. "What do you know about me?" She got the up and down treatment, arms and legs and everything in between, every part of it behind his glasses. Only his lips, the little shifts between grin and scowl, suggested what he was thinking.

"No, I'm not." Said with complete equanimity, before her own shot vanished. After the exhale she smiled again, refilled their shot glasses - ignored the remaining lines of coke. Deep brown hair swung over her shoulder - she wore a body flavored with Vrashne, a subtle hint. "I know enough, Mr. Shade, to know you and I have a common goal."

He leaned back. Maybe his eyes were staring harder. Again, not easy to tell. "You know my goal?"

It sounded more to him like she was about to give him one, because when he racked his brain, nothing specific came to mind. Money and getting his rocks off doing whatever.

She leaned forward, a counterweight to his recoil. Click, click, the shotglasses, refilled, dropped onto the table one-two while her smile showed again, brilliant and warm. Her answer was simple, soft, filled with scorching venom beneath the honey. "Alain DeMuer."

She had him hooked... but he laughed, a soft breath of a laugh. Shade collected his shot and shook his head. "Don't tell me... You want me to kill him."

Another shot down. He pushed his glass away and rubbed his head while he stared at her. 'Hangover' didn't even begin to describe it.

The laugh Morana uttered was throaty, low, and accompanied by a slow headshake. Deep behind the brown of her eyes, something flickered with the laugh, faded when she spoke again. "Oh, no, Mr. Shade. I want you to hurt him." She picked up her shot glass, knocked back the vodka. Leaning back once more, she shifted, re-crossed her legs - left over right, now. Her new smile was slow. "Tell me. What do you know about a world called Vrashne?"

She set off his red flags, but he wasn't sure how much he cared. "An awful lot," he replied, and smeared a white path across the table with his finger. Drew a circle, slowly. If Vrashne was the qualification, then he would land this job, and he could buy whatever he damn pleased. "And you? What's the deal with you and Vrashne... more importantly, you and DeMuer?"

"Mmm." It was a thoughtful hum that lasted just a moment before she replied. "There is something in Vrashne I want, very much. The climate there is simmering, but I need a boil, a stir - a distraction, you see." She paused, tapped at her bottom lip with one scarlet-painted nail before she smiled again. "As for me and DeMuer... let's say we have unfinished business. And his knights, the sanctimonious lot of them, are more than annoying."

He drummed his fingers on the table, slow at first, then faster and faster, until...

"I might have a few connections in Dalibad." Supremely understated. "What do you need done?"

Down to business, and her smile slipped away into matter-of-fact. When she leaned foward this time, though the motion was seduction - any bystander would take this as a hooker trying to pick up a trick - her words were brisk. "There's a ship that will be arriving soon, The Spring Hare - one of DeMuer's. He's playing peacemaker, sending an envoy to help smooth things over between Dalibad and the Uplands, a research team to help find out what's causing this Upland illness. As things stand, the ship will be let past the Dalibad blockade easily." She paused, and her voice went ice. "I need that ship to go down with all hands. And I need it to be done by the Dalibad Navy - or seem to."

Shade licked his lips while he thought about this. "...You want Dalibad to take the credit for it, too?" He smiled. "If you want it, I can do it."

"Just what I've heard about the Butcher of Singra." Oh, now her smile showed again, warm and approving, and cut with a thirst for pain that he'd recognize. "Do feel free to enjoy yourself, darling. I trust your creativity. And you know how... personally DeMuer takes the responsibility for protecting his people." The sigh she let out was pure pleasure as she freed herself for a moment of daydream. "Failure cuts him so beautifully."

"It does, doesn't it," he sighed, nostalgia creeping into his voice. His smile grew darker. "What's your name?"

"Call me Morana, Mr. Shade." She refilled the shot glasses one more time, smiled slow and easy. "Just Morana."

He knew the name, and ignored the vodka now. If he was going back on the job, he needed a different fix. "Morana... there's just one little thing we need to get out of the way, before this goes too far. A man who needs to die."

One dark eyebrow arched, a look of curiosity accompanied by a slight lean back. No reluctance in her voice, but humor and a trace of interested respect. "You take me by surprise, Mr. Shade, especially if you wish to make this part of your hire. There are many men who need to die. Who, exactly, did you have in mind?"

"His name is Saif Khoury."

Deep beneath RhyDin...

The small sandy chamber was bone dry and freezing cold, enough that the Baron's breath froze and his teeth chattered. He had forgotten the cold since the last time, when he had learned of the Architect's sudden departure from the world; now he needed new answers for an ancient problem. He was fighting different battles, but he had the feeling, a cold knot in his gut, that it was still the same war. The Architect was vanished, for now or for-ever; the Greyshott Expedition long since aborted, and the young man behind it now a respected inventor and bureaucrat; Kael spoke still, but far less than before. Yet Morana continued the fight against the DeMuer "empire," as if nothing at all had changed.

Kael did not hold the answers, but he had an idea who might.

"Messengers of the Forest, Couriers of Light," he muttered; black sand poured through his fingers, glittering in the flickering lantern-light. "Sleeping Travelers, hear my call and awaken. Let mortal breath move your lips..." He took a knee and blew carefully across the sand, and it spun in a slow circle like a storm. "And immortal blood speed your journey." The man who bore the angel let it awaken with a flash of silver in his eyes, and he slid a knife across his left palm.

Blood dribbled to the floor, and he had only a moment to wrap a 'kerchief around the wound before the Messenger arrived. The smooth rock walls rumbled, stone chips rattled free somewhere below his feet, and a shape surged through the black sand to face him. He almost wanted to call it angelic, but he knew better. As fascinated as this ancient being was with the angelic battle between good and evil, something felt fundamentally alien about it.

"The Young Builder and the Old Destroyer," it said in a thousand voices that came out like sand through an hourglass; behind the strangeness was amusement, even pleasure. "We wondered when you would call. How we wish we could tarry... alas, the Roots already call for our return..."

Alain paused to stare at the shifting figure, which blinked benignly at his scrutiny. A small smile flickered across his lips, and he inclined his head. "Then I'll be plain." Old habits died hard; even in the cold, cramped chamber, Alain couldn't resist lighting a cigarette while he spoke his mind. "There's trouble in Vrashne."

The black sand shifted in a kind of uncertain way. "We... do not know Vrashne."

"Populous continent, full of mountains and plains and deserts... We trade coffee, tea and spice from them. Only a few days journey from Teobern -- "

"The Part-Elf City and the Bastard Prince," it mused, speaking to itself. "Forty-four ships passed through the Eye of the Needle, and yet..." The head did a three-quarters turn back to the Baron and said, "F'rashneem, all silk-draped princes and many-armed slaves when the last of our kind walked that land. What of it?"

"There might be a war. A big one, the first of its kind for hundreds of years. Someone's been poisoning the Upland, and..."

The rocks rumbled and the sand hissed. The Messengers were angry. "The Heart? Who would dare... ignorant fools!"

Alain put a hand out. "Wait, what's so special about it? People are dying, simple, decent people... but why? Why does anyone care?"

"It isn't for you to know, mortal man! There are secrets -- "

"Yeah," Alain snapped and stepped forward, pointing his finger at the terrible shape, "secrets I need to know! These people are dying, and if I don't know what the hell I'm fighting for, how am I supposed to stop it?! I'm not here to play games!"

Without warning the sand struck out with two arms, the left like a whip, the right like a hammer. Blood spilled from a long cut in the Baron's chest and the second blow knocked him onto his back, skidding across the chamber. "Newborn fool! If we the first wish to play games with you, then you are honored!" The shape slithered away to the corner, and the Baron staggered to his feet; the rapid hissing and turning of the grains slowed as the Messengers mastered their temper. "...You know what you are fighting for, Alain DeMuer. You fight for the Uplanders because they cannot fight for themselves... and it is enough. But know that there is something more, something better off unknown, and we would like this secret kept."

The Messengers began to lose their shape, overextended and exhausted by their anger, and the withering grains stretched out into a long tendril towards the Baron; he tensed, braced his hand on the wall behind him, as arcane things whispered in the air. It drew the ancient silver light from his eyes and laced it through his wound, pulling the skin shut again. "Storms bring old things to the surface, unbury that which should stay buried. Do you know what you must do, Alain DeMuer?"

"Stop the storm," he whispered. The black sand began to waver and he held up a hand: "Wait." It hissed in anger. He was pushing his luck, he knew, but there was another question he needed answered... "Seamus Morvan, one of my knights, maybe the best. Atalanta, the demon's child, didn't want him to go, thought he should stay. Like she knew something." He narrowed his eyes in question and stalked a slow circle around the Messengers' form. "Will he die?"

The sand shifted, once more in that uncertain way, but this time they knew the answer; they were thinking. "It is Sir Seamus' fate to fall in battle. Which fight it will be... this is beyond our ken."

The answer troubled Alain more than he expected. He swallowed a lump, looked down and around him, and turned back to ask, "Then what can I do?"

But the Messengers were gone. They left settling clouds of black dust and one piece of advice in their wake. "Pick your battles wisely, Baron."

The steady drumbeat of the horse?s canter flooded Sophie?s ears as she ducked beneath a low hanging branch, emerging from the woods into an open field on its back. With only a light treeless saddle separating horse from rider, they were one team with a singular mission. It took their eyes a moment to adjust to the harsh late summer sun but at almost the same instant they spotted the final target. Her hand released its hold on the reigns to pull an arrow through the string of the bow. There was no need to guide the mount. He instinctively knew the charge.

Although, Sophie was most known for her Slovenian Rhovnik ancestry which could be traced back to the fall of Constantinople, it was her mother?s mostly Scotch-Irish blood giving her a dirty grittiness and that tribal hint of the Sioux which gave her a fierce pride that made her seem at home riding a mud slung horse across an open field with an arrow drawn back in a bow beside her ear.

The stallion, Brioso, had a background similar to his mutt of a Slovene-American rider. There was certainly noble Lusitano blood coursing through its veins. His ancestors had no doubt been great Roman or Carthaginian war horses but there was the hint of the mysterious North African Barb in the pitch black fur and fiery spirit.

The first arrow flew off to her left side. Sophie did not bother to check its accuracy. She could feel it striking true on the target. Then twisting in the saddle towards the rear, the last arrow in her hand was launched towards the final target near the spot they had exited from the woods. Finally, her look of stoic concentration broke into a satisfied grin. Sensing that their run was complete, Brioso slowed his pace even before Sophie?s hands returned to lightly signal it through the snaffle. Brioso pranced proudly as Sophie patted his withers and spoke soft words of praise in his ears.

As the need for complete concentration on the practice mission wore off, her concerns returned. The weights of responsibility, guilt, and pain that had been abandoned in the late morning ride through the countryside crept back in place. She was still the Rhovnik heir. Her mother still wished her dead and buried in Yaya?s place. Zo? Laroche and Ad Lucem were about to rip the only peace she had from her. Brioso blew a heavy exhale out of his nostrils as if sensing the return of her burden.

?Our family owns one of the most magically and technologically sophisticated weapons research and development companies in the multiverse and here you are galloping around the countryside like an ancient Mongolian on your way to destroy Russia.? Chase?s voice interrupted the quiet moment between horse and rider.

Sophie pulled up with a slight grin at the sight of her cousin and his sister, Katherine, at his side. Her bow was tossed to a groom who took Brioso?s reigns as she slid from his back to her well worn boots. ?There?s no better test of hand-eye coordination than trying to hit a target on the back of a galloping horse.?

?Madden 11?s a pretty good test,? Chase stated in a half-playful tone with a shrug while Sophie gave Brioso?s neck a final pat.

The groom led the horse off for a much needed cool down while Sophie turned her full attention on her cousins. ?What are the two of you doing in town? Aren?t you supposed to be at Princeton, Kat?? Sophie asked as she stepped towards the pair, pulling off her gloves.

Chase crossed his arms over his chest as a signal to Katherine. He was doing the talking. Katherine sucked in her bottom lip but obeyed her older brother?s unspoken order. The tension between them immediately caused Sophie?s form to tighten in anticipation. Chase cleared his throat before launching into what almost seemed to be a prepared speech. ?Grandmother sent me here to keep an eye on our holdings here while you are running off on this ridiculous mission for DeMuer. Kat is just up for the weekend because she?s never seen RhyDin and Grandmother thinks she needs more experience in other Nexus points.?

The disgust in Chase?s voice surrounding Alain DeMuer was unsurprising and it did not take Sophie long to see the direction in which the conversation was to head. ?Well, it?s good to see you both. After I get you up to speed on what you?ll need to know while I?m gone, we?ll go out for dinner. The restaurants here are incredibly diverse.?

Chase wasn?t ready to let the topic die. Sophie hadn?t taken the bait so he went for a more direct approach. ?I don?t know why you?re doing this, Soph. You?re a Rhovnik. We don?t take orders from anyone much less some new money baron.?

?That?s more than a little snobbish,? Sophie responded slowly, tucking the gloves into the back pocket of her pants after popping them against the flesh of her palm to release a breath of tension. ?I?ve never heard you care if someone was new money or old before.?

?We don?t,? Katherine piped in finally, ignoring her brother?s wishes as well as the stern frown he leveled her way. ?This is modern times, Sophie. You don?t have to marry a man simply because Grandmother or Ad Lucem tells you that he would be a good match. You deserve love in your life. Why are you putting up with this??

The truth caught in Sophie?s throat. She could tell Chase and Kat of the warmth she received from Alain?s touch, the peace his presence brought, the laughter that they shared. She could tell her cousins that she did indeed love the man. But that was only a happy coincidence. Rhovniks did not marry for love. One day Chase and Katherine would be ordered to be content in an appropriate match, perhaps even a match that Sophie herself had decided on for them. They could not be given the hope that matches of love were in their future.

A thin smile was forced to her lips and she shook her head slowly as if disappointed in the pair. Sophie impressed herself with the strength in the stern tone she used with them. ?I expect more of the two of you. I could stand this sort of romantic crap from Andrea or Thomas or Isabelle but you two have more sense than this. We marry who we are told to marry. We are Rhovniks. If you want to give up everything that being Rhovnik means to run off and find your great mythical soulmate then, by all means, be my guest. You won?t see me praise you for such a stupid, childish decision. We have greater responsibilities.?

?He?s dangerous,? Chase countered weakly, shifting the majority of his weight uncomfortably to one foot. He was clearly fooled into believing Sophie?s mock anger.

?Of course he is,? Sophie replied with a warm laugh. The anger passed and with the lie planted it seemed best to dismiss the subject as quickly as possible. ?But, you can rest assured. No foolhardy baron will be the end of the troublesome Sofia Rhovnik. Now we?re done with this silliness. I want to hear all the latest gossip from home.?

Wrapping an arm around Katherine which drew a relieved grin from the girl, Sophie started in the direction of the stables. It took the effervescent Kat mere steps before she was over the worry of her cousin?s anger and arranged match to dish. Chase released a heavy exhale as the pair stepped away and arched his back against the tense dread he felt, wishing that the warmth of the late morning sun could push it away. With a shake of his head, he pushed it to the back of his mind and followed a step after his sister and cousin.

Vrashne. The accents, smells, and press of the populace surrounded Kiema in the port city where she had disembarked. It was everywhere and nowhere ? the signs of the recent strife and distant plague. Wan faced families tucked into the corners of crowded houses ignored by the affluent and employed who went about their work, clinging to the rudimentary requirements of their day so they don?t have to think about the fear eating at the edge of their quiet hours before sleep each night.

The hotel was reputable, thick carpeted, full of the polar social strata of guests and servants. Kiema had been sure to attire herself appropriately quickly upon arrival. She had also stretched out a few threads of her gift and had found, unlike Rhydin city proper, the song of emotions in the people around her. They sung their symphonies.

The clothes were more confining than she was accustomed, though she found the parasol a quaint and useful addition. Wiggling pulses of confusion, distrust, or annoyance she had felt from the citizenry upon first disembarking were gone. She was as any of the other about her daily business.

Kiema?s business, however, was not a normal custom or the usual trade in her song, though she used it for her gain. In fact, she did not have the approval of The Circelus at all. When the Baroness had described the situation, the uneasy influences playing upon the land, Kiema had no second thoughts to filling a role in the reclamation of a land unwittingly besieged. There were memories to honor.

Those faces of memory caught in the cut glass of table lamps against rich drapes where she sat in the dining room of the hotel. She listened to the businessmen and merchants, the social aristocracy that smiled their certainty they were safe while they whispered their rumors and doubts. The hotel was their refuge, their common ground, and their strategic planning sessions. Breathy grumblings of a war in the wings of their province?s future were speckled with the rumored hope of an intervention a turning of the tide before it crashed hard upon their shores.

Kiema?s own part to play came as a touring musician. A court musician, with talents afforded by the houses of the elite, the princes and nobles of the patchworked land, each nudging at each other?s borders. She was a resource to curry favor of one of those princes for a merchant with a good eye and a sharp mind. As so many of these things happened, through word of mouth from servant to master, she set a rumor among the servants and through the hotel employees. Her talents, they whispered from one to another, were told to move the hardest heart, calm the most savage breast, and stir the courage of weary warriors into victory. She was Amatana, goddess of chordia sent down to them in their troubling times. The last part amused and troubled Kiema. She was no goddess, but a trickster in her own way, manipulating hearts to the ends of another man?s desires.

Such ploys took time and patience, but hearing the continued plight of the ill curling up in mass graves in the far province and the rising pitch of hushed conversations over war, Kiema could not wait much longer. She took to delaying her departure from the dining room by an extra glass of sherry and let her gift press curiosity a pitch higher in those that noticed her. She just needed one to take her into his confidence. She was not above employing a liberal amount of liquor if need be.

So, when, on the fifth day, she was approached by a man in his well tailored silk kurta boasting impressive Chikan style embroidery and a dominant pinky ring encrusted with gems, she allowed him to join her table. She had seen him only once before, but he was a man of some influence if the wave of curiosity from others in the dining room that crested and then fell into concern was of any indication.

?It is a shame,? he began as he took out a cigar and without asking, lit it from the lamp and puffed it to life.

?A shame?? She prompted and poured a glass from the bottle of sherry to serve him.

?To have your tour come to our lovely land just at this time. Or,? he smiled a double band of yellowing teeth, ?it is providential.?

The discomfort at his hint of divinity, she pressed a little more to his sense of trust and security. ?Whether that is so or not, though I think you flatter me, I have little use to my talents in the comforts of a hotel. Perhaps you are right in my timing is inopportune, for it seems weighty matters hold higher council.?

He grumbled a clearing of his throat that ended with a cigar smoked sigh, ?But gifts from abroad, whether by music or diplomacy, dear lady,? his patronizing a clear indication of his own self-worth, ?should never be turned away.?

With a pretense of modest acceptance of the flattery, Kiema bowed her head. The rumors were deepening of the Barony?s attempts. If they went too far, as any balance on the tip of a knife point, concerns could worsen. There was a balance she need strive to create, but she did not yet have all the weights measured in this scale. Careful steps were to be taken and in its first, the man at her table needed to open certain quiet doors of a prince?s court. She began to weave her first rope of influence.

The High Prince of the Union of Greater Dalibad, as it was now being called, surveyed the first of the recent extensions to his demesne from a broad marble balcony: a shimmering blue lake held back by a long concrete dam, bristling with new towers, scaffolding, and other signs of the ongoing construction that would provide his nation with more electrical power than the rest of the continent combined. There, in the depths of the valley turned reservoir, was approximately 83% of the water available to Vrashne's vast, vulnerable, and largely unclaimed Upland...

It had been the first in a string of proud achievements for Dalibad, seizing the nearby Ja'ir Pass and building this dam. He loved being here, loved reflecting on the origin of his great accomplishments and growing conquests, and so he had built a mountain estate overlooking the man-made lake. Now he spent more time here in the mountains, among his favorite courtiers, than he did in his own palace back in the capital. This early in the morning, just before the sunrise, he was not in his harshly-cut military tunic for a change, with all of its glittering medals. He was, regretfully, alone, smoking a cigarette, and impatiently waiting for the rest of his house to wake up.

Great things had transpired late that night, and if it had been any other hour, they would be reveling in their victory by now. A truck laden with fruit and champagne would be coming up to the estate by three o'clock that afternoon, the house staff had informed him. He sucked in a deep lungful of smoke, and fidgeted...

...but he smiled, too. Oh how he smiled.

It was easy to feel the pleasure, the grandiose right joy that pulsed out along the thread from the High Prince. Drawing on a dressing gown, the intricate embroidery at the cuffs and hems, she walked soft slippered to the arched doorway leading to the balcony and she watched him and what he watched. She did not alter his feelings, but explored the layers of them.

The intricate weavings through court to get in this grand domicile with its imposing view were not to be threatened by being so bold as to invite herself into his reverie. She placed herself just on the edge of it, a bird on the sill so to speak.

Of the many things the High Prince prided himself in, his acute sense of hearing was definitely one of them. "It is a fine morning, is it not?" He looked over his shoulder at her with a smile in his eyes, and beckoned for her. "Come, Miss Kiema. Behold the beauty which was so nearly stripped from me." His fingers uncurled towards the lake and the dam.

She walked forward as commanded. 'It is a fine morning, Your Highness, but I would find myself still asleep in nightmares to think someone dare strip anything from you." It was easier to control her own thoughts and her feelings while inspecting the feelings of others. Her eyes she kept a clear calm blue, like the water over which the balcony looked. "The land has a song to it."

"And now it sings as our conductors command," he laughed heartily. "You are a treat, as they say, Miss Kiema, an absolute treat." His eyes twinkled, and he looked away again, off at the dam. "I certainly do not mean to bore you with politics... but they transpired so late at night, and they still... distress me." Distress was not one of his feelings, at all: this much was clear.

"I thought I could trust him again, you know... That Baron. DeMuer." He almost spat the name.

The ploys and the intrigues all layered within truths. The High Prince was a master at his manipulations, and Kiema dare not influence his emotions just yet. She let his influence her just enough to inflect the proper tone to her words. Something had gone wrong, but she could not just shift with the wind when she had worked towards that trust. It was a fine line to walk. "But you have learned differently." A statement with the hallmarks of a question.

"My former security adviser, sent by the Basra Foundation -- well, you have met him before, have you not? Mr. Alexander Shade... a charming, mysterious young man. He returned to me last night, with special intelligence about the Baron's so-called diplomatic envoy, the Spring Hare."

He scowled. "Packed with terrorists and enough explosive material to do very serious damage to our finest projects here in Dalibad," once again referring to his beloved dam especially. There was a conflicted feeling behind his words, though not guilt... merely uncertainty that this was a genuine threat, tempered by the fact that, ultimately, he did not care. He had received sufficient evidence to justify reaching out and striking the Baron DeMuer across the face.

It was that absolutism in the man's feelings, that certainty in the words he spoke that swayed her from slipping doubt into him. Instead, she sent a slender hint of calm to him, while she employed her own faith in DeMuer as counter to him. "He dared to betray the hand stretched to him in friendship in such a way? I had heard such good word of him and the people spoke of hope upon hearing his arrival." She avoided mentioning of Shade at all. That name tended to evoke higher tempers, strong emotions, and she needed him calm and forthcoming. "The politics of your people are very interesting and at such a difficult time to have a neighbor speak of desire and you learn of something else entirely. Did you waylay the envoy and speak to the emissaries of what you have learned?" She needed to know what had happened.

The Prince laughed and shook his head: she had calmed him, certainly, but it only brought him back to his cruel humor in the end. Though it had him talking more. "No, these are questions for the Baron to answer, if he so desires -- why he sent terrorists and fiends. We dealt with them as we would with any who betray our confidence... We sank their ship, collected the survivors and hanged them."

His lips, at once, curled into a swift, satisfied smile. "And in so doing, I believe Dalibad has made its stance perfectly clear. We fear no threat, and back down from no battle. If it was their alleged aim to seek temperance for my nation's ambitions, mercy for these wretched savages," and he waved his hand dismissively to the dam where hundreds of Upland natives toiled and slaved, "there is certainly no cause to pay mind to these deceptions now. I should thank the Baron, really... for making my path so very clear."

Kiema's own path became a great deal more clear. She smiled and nodded and turned her gaze tinging more violet-grey than blue to that horizon. It was going to be a raw day for so many, and she needed to inform what she had learned. "You have made great strides for your country, Your Highness. What is your next achievement? Will I be inspired to set it to music for your people to remember through time?" If she kept him focused on himself and his plans, she hoped to learn even more before she was forced to retire. One never presses upon the time of ambitious nobility too long. Too many questions would only backfire in making her tedious.

The Prince slipped behind her and turned her head gently, pointed over her shoulder; as a younger man he'd fancied himself as quite the flirt, and he still did, to some extent. "Over there, beyond the mountains, are vast and empty plains that I'll fill with railroads, great factories for our great nation, vast farms to feed our soldiers... and beyond that are more countries, small, sightless, without ambition, and they face a sea. Give it time, Miss Kiema... and you and I may both live to see this great country face two oceans."

He laughed and withdrew from her, put away his cigarettes. "I apologize, I let myself get carried away, sometimes... I'm sure a young lady such as yourself has many things she must attend to. I look forward to seeing you at brunch, Miss Kiema."

It was there, a half beat of warning so she would not stiffen at his touch, and she even allowed a ploy of emotion sent along the slender thread to him that confirmed his actions as the right thing to do. If he felt he could manipulate her, it would be easier to manipulate him, create a window she had not thought would open. When he departed, she gave a low and formal curtsy, "Thank you, Your Highness." And in the meantime, she had to get the information to Alain's people and find a way to right the disastrous wrong as best she could. There was no way to save the lives lost.


(Written cooperatively with Kiema's player, with many thanks!)

It had been some months since the Baron DeMuer felt he and his friend Lucien Mallorek had fallen out. One Sunday afternoon they met in a RhyDin caf? to talk and resolve their differences, and it did not take long for their conversation to turn to Vrashne, and the Prince of Dalibad...

"My concerns remain with the Prince of Dalibad, and Alexander Shade. Whatever your vendetta is, Lucien..." Alain folded his hands and frowned thoughtfully. "It looks like I have one now, too."

"What do you need?" Lucien went straight to the matter. "What do you want done with the Prince?" There was no question in his mind what was to be done with Alexander Shade.

Alain considered what had been moving steadily forward from the back of his mind since he first learned of Sophie's death. "...I'm sick of these
bastards, Lucien. First Howe, then Ali's family, now Shade and this Prince... they all see that the Baron of St. Aldwin has a heart, and that's what they always go for. I've lost... too many people I love, and I think... I've been keeping my wrath in check for too long. I want this Prince to hurt the same way I do, feel the pain that I feel. I want to find the things he cares about the most, take them from him forever, humiliate and break him, and leave him. Let him live to be a very old man. I'll be damned if I'm the only one here who dies alone." Alain lit another cigarette. "The Barony's a tiny country, Dalibad's
much bigger... But there are other ways I can fight. I'd like to see this gentleman face the same fate he's thrust upon me... leave him with no heir. Kill his progeny."

Lucien and Alain leaned back in to hammer out the details, debate their plan and scheme the demise of the Prince's three sons, but one thing was clear: in the wake of losing the one he loved, out of every option available to him, the Baron had chosen the sin of Wrath.

The Upland was dying. Slowly, inevitably, dying. With winter beginning, the grass would have been dead anyway and the trees bare of leaves ? but the pines on the mountains should have been vibrant dark green, not contorted skeletons reaching for moisture. The earth should have been dark, nearly black, rich and moist beneath the surface, not pale and gritty. The Upland was dying, and Morana smiled.

?You?re quite sure?? Soft, honey-warm, almost regretful ? her voice carried no farther than the ears of the man next to her.

?Yes. The Navy retrieved all those still alive in the water. They were hanged this morning.? The man answered, his voice as flat and bland as the rest of his appearance. He was? forgettable. Medium height, weight, build. Medium-brown hair, medium-brown skin, dark brown eyes. This version of Mr. Gray was adapted for Vrashne, exactly average in local appearance.

?Good. I expect that Saint Aldwin will be declaring war soon. As soon as they do, deliver Mr. Shade?s final payment.? The trace of regret had vanished from her voice, leaving it brisk and businesslike. ?Add a bonus, from my personal reserves, and include one of my business cards.? A simple means of contact, should she need it again.

The man half-bowed from the waist, his gesture as perfectly suited to Vrashne as the rest of his appearance. Wordless he turned and walked away, to obey her orders. Mr. Gray, always Mr. Gray. She didn?t yet have the skill for more sophisticated constructs. A frown pulled at her features before she banished the thought with one more pleasant. Soon she would have what lay hidden here, in this dying land.

It shivered through her skin, the feel of power, when she carefully lowered her shields. From the nearly-stifled river and few open waterways left in the land, she could feel a shimmer of chaos. The lethal algae, work of the clever Egyptian. It was starting to die back with the colder weather, but there was still enough for danger. Lies and deception fed her at the border posts, towns and villages, sparks in her veins. Another shifting locus of more deception, near the Prince?s palace in Dalibad, when she extended her reach so far. Layers on layers of energy, rich for the taking ?

But that wasn?t her goal in the Upland. Not when she could feel the freeze and burn of something more, something powerful, so close. It resonated, pulled her, and with her eyes closed she Stepped forward, through air and void to air again. As Emmy she?d played a game with Benandanti?s niece. Hot and Cold ? calling ?warm, warm, cool? as the child searched for a hidden toy. Now Morana played Hot and Cold with her body.

There was something here, in this dying land. Marius had written it into her bones, wrapped her around ? this something ? that echoed in the Upland. She would have it. Morana opened her eyes, wholly unaware of their summer-sky blue, and Stepped through the void again.

Teobern

It was still hard for anyone who had seen the ancient part-elf city two years ago what it had now become: even in times of war the harbor sheltered scores of ships, and at night the waterfront glowed with thousands of glittering lights. By day anyone could still see the abandoned neighborhoods, the crumbling stone ruins not yet reclaimed by the city's rapid growth and redevelopment, but nightfall made the whole of Teobern look alive.

In the last thirty-three months Alain DeMuer had accomplished many things. Even in the depths of his grief he couldn't deny that most men did not dream of doing what he had done in thirty-three years. One humble village became a confederation of many, the confederation became a barony, and he their baron; now they had thirty-five thousand citizens, most of them refugees of war, persecution and genocide, and many escaped slaves given their first taste of liberty.

He had protected them, too, both with and without their knowledge. He and the Order waged many campaigns in total secrecy, playing dangerous games with deadly powers and somehow always coming out one step ahead. They were tiny for a sovereign nation, absurdly so for the entire world that was theirs to grow into, and so vulnerable to direct attack... The vigilance of the Baron and his closest allies had kept them and many others safe, sometimes at great cost, because he knew it was all worth protecting.

Reporters from 'Earth Prime,' as Alain had come to consider it, compared St. Aldwin to Monaco and other fantastically wealthy micronations. They were renowned for their cross-realms banking and their specialized industries, electromagnetic power and hybridized shipbuilding; the twin ports of Xhastil and Teobern were growing into bastions of international trade; even far below the big industries, many families succeeded in simpler lifestyles as farmers and shepherds, smiths and brewers. It had taken great effort and was not without conflict or setbacks, but the Baronial Council had achieved careful political balance between the cities, the villages, and the bountiful countryside.

The Baron had given thirty-five thousand people a new chance at life, and a good life at that, and protected them, too...

...yet he could not protect twenty little lives, nor two, nor one. The expedition to Ja'ir had not been the first team he lost and would not be the last, nor Seamus Morvan the last loyal servant and decent man he would throw to the wolves by placing the mission above the man. And Sofia Rhovnik was not the first woman he had loved, then lost.

But she will be the last.

"Milord?" Sir Malcolm spoke timidly with his head bowed; he had watched the Baron watching the city from the high rocks of Sainte-Ouen for what he knew had been a long time. Long enough for the Baronial Council to leave the Cove House, for the sun to set and night to fall, and for the knight to go thrice through his usual cycle of prayers and meditation. "Milord, it is getting late... and colder."

Alain clutched absently at his thin leather jacket and looked at his reddening hands. He knew Malcolm was right, but even in the chill it had been hard to drive himself to move again. "...The Barony has come to war, Malcolm. How... how could we let it happen?" He laughed, smiled thinly, humorlessly. "How can I send them into that terrible night again."

"Milord Baron," Malcolm spoke softly as he drew nearer, "we are at war because we could not let the Prince's insult pass... no nation could. And your soldiers will go to war freely, because they love you." His fingers grasped the other man's arm with a firm, reassuring squeeze.

"Not all of them went freely, Malcolm," he sighed, shrugging off his touch when he lit a cigarette. He breathed another sigh, a long and smoky one into the chilly black air, and shut his eyes. "...You're right, though. We should be going. War is no time for a Baron to be idle."

Before he left that night the Baron did not cast his last glance at the growing and glittering city of Teobern, but instead east across dark and choppy water. The way the Spring Hare had left.

Time was not easing the temper of Chase Rhovnik. In fact, it was building like an avalanche headed on a steep downhill sloop. The matriarch, Elsie Rhovnik, remained in RhyDin but issued no orders. His parents, uncles, and aunts said nothing in contrary to his demand for Alain DeMuer?s head. His cousins looked to him now for leadership. Ron Egerton felt a lone man stepping in front of the rolling, crashing debris with nothing but his bare hands to stop the impending doom. There seemed no way out of what was to come.

Ron released a heavy exhale before he entered the office that had belonged to Sofia Rhovnik. She was a woman who at least enjoyed appearing to color within the lines. Her behind-the-scenes operations and schemes were seemed endless but she kept up diplomatic appearances. She understood power structures. While Chase may have understood, he certainly had no respect for them. At least not in the days following the news of Sofia?s death.

Chase?s eyes flicked up to Ron only momentarily before they fell back to the map of St. Aldwin which lay before him. ?Which of my cousins are here?? Chase asked sharply before Ron had even completely made it through the doorway.

The tone was enough to prove that Chase had not rethought the rash decision. The map was evidence that the scale of Chase?s revenge might even expand past the single man. Ron consulted the notes he?d jotted down on the edge of his notebook. ?Your sister is here. Stefan and Amber arrived this morning. Ferdinand, Jakob, and Iva will be arriving tomorrow. The rest of those ready for military combat should be in on Sunday. Laura wanted to come but Sofia and Elsie had not cleared her for live missions yet. They felt she needed another year of training.?

?Sophie?s dead,? Chase responded as his cold eyes settled again on Ron. ?I?m in charge. If Laura wants to be a part of this, she should be. She?s a Rhovnik. She can handle it.?

?Sofia felt--? Ron began hesitantly.

The matter had been settled in Chase?s mind and he interrupted, turning the subject matter to an even more worrisome topic. ?I want to start contacting our allies -- any families who owe us favors, any political leaders who could benefit from the fall of St. Aldwin.?

The questions that Ron had jotted down in his notebook and the argument over Laura was instantly forgotten. There was no hiding the horror lining his features as he stared slack-jawed at the young man before him. After a moment, he regained the ability to speak. ?You cannot go to war against the barony without some sort of proof that he was behind the destruction of the Spring Hare, Sofia?s death, or some sort of plot against Dalibad. No ally of ours, no matter how much trust they have in us, is going to prepare for war without solid proof.?

Chase crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels as he set his jaw angrily. His temper flared but it couldn?t be directed at Ron. The words he spoke were the truth. He needed proof of the Baron?s involvement. He needed proof that the Baron blew his own ship and people out of the water to expand his power. With a firm nod, Chase accepted the need and set aside the anger. ?Fine. Then my cousins and I will get the proof and then I will destroy that man.?

Kiema walked in the company of the High Prince?s courtier, an undersecretary taking his ease in the ornate gardens still being perfected in the late season. The workers kept their eyes downcast. Only a few dare to glimpse at them, but the undersecretary was engrossed in his latest news, pushed along by the touch of her talent to encourage his confidence. At each glance from the workers she caught, she slid out a thread of talent to read the emotions behind them. Each thread she danced along as light as her fingers along the strings of her vihuela; the one outwardly to the undersecretary and the others touches of discovery. There was never just one emotion singing out above the others in most people, but in the mixture of everyday emotions that swirled about, those glances would strike a note.

For some it was fear, others worry. Then there was one that strummed a vibrant chord of malice. Kiema did not give the gardener extra notice, but she drew that thread of emotion tighter and more substantial. Through it she travelled to explore deeper guarded emotions and like a familiar song she listened to them so she could search them out again.

?So you see, miss, the High Prince will not be at table this evening, but he did wish me to convey his most express wish to have you still attend upon other guests of his house this evening, and in particular the song of the Kestrel and Mongoose. I find I favor that one myself.?

Kiema pressed a little further on the underlying concern the undersecretary was feeling and concealing beneath a false front of assurance and composure. ?I am sorry to hear details delay his highness from joining us. It must be a matter of particular importance to miss the dinner to honor the arrival of his youngest son.?

?Quite, and his sons will be joining him to be sure.? The undersecretary kept fighting the impulse, and Kiema twined in a feeling of trust and sympathy to encourage him to break past his restraints. They gave way at last, and he lowered his voice. ?I must confess, Miss Kiema, that I will be glad of your songs this evening to banish the gloom. Rumors are coming in from the ranks of His Highness?s army. Such dreadful, unholy rumors.?

?I would be glad to do any good service, but what do you mean unholy rumors??

Kiema need not encourage further. With the first steps taken along the confessional path, the undersecretary was glad to unburden his thoughts. ?Reports of the Uplanders rising from the dead, skulls alone for their heads, they float in on demon animals with a flaming red hand upon their flanks, as if they were still being urged on by the demons that sent them out into our land.?

Kiema whispered to that irrational fear, coaxed it into a discordant song that would play for some time in the undersecretary?s mind until she released her touch upon him. ?Such rumors certainly could haunt the dreams of any good soul. I will do my best to banish the darkness of thoughts this evening.? The plan to encourage them, spread them, let them sink into the conscious of the court was half formed, but she needed more than rumors to select her songs appropriately.

?My lord, I would like to learn more of some of these unique plants in the garden. Would I be permitted to ask one of the gardeners to instruct me??

The request took the undersecretary by surprise, but she had won his trust in that brief confession, and he nodded. ?Oh, certainly. I should return to my offices.? And with the bow and curtsy exchanged, Kiema turned and reached out for the familiar melody of emotions the one gardener had.

A strident melody ? hatred, melancholy, courage, fear ? drew her around the crisp orange and yellows, fronds fading with the season to a flower bed being turned for the coming winter. The gardener looked up at her and the note of hatred sang loud once more matching the flare in his dark eyes. It made her smile that she had fooled servants into being part of that elite and made court of the High Prince?s crafting. ?You, what is your name??

She felt him twist about his anger, latch it down where it raged inside. He rose and clasped dirty bronzed hands in front of him, head lowered. ?Nitesh, miss.?

?Nitesh, I wish to learn of these things you plant. I have not seen them before.? And she slid along a soothing influence to touch at the heart of him. It was only a grace note, nothing heavy handed. ?Will you please teach me?? A combination of words, an introduction of desire to treat him as better and wiser, it all played together.

The feeling of hate still trumpeted inside him, but it was tempered by a rising chorus of pride and hope. ?Of course, miss. Is there a particular plant that caught your eye??

Kiema looked over the garden, reading his emotions as her eyes touched on each one, and when she felt a flicker higher of hope, she paused. ?That one, the red one with the many petals and bright yellow center. It seems like a rose, but not.?

He smiled, and it was a true smile as he led her to it. Crouching down, he cupped one of the flowers in his palm as gentle as the touch of a lover. ?The Red Legionnaire. It is a strong flower, once rooted hard to remove, and a good defense against pests to protect other, weaker flowers. It is why we plant them along the borders.?

So that was why he felt so strongly attached to that particular flower. Kiema crouched down as well, using all skills of grace to move slowly and quietly to his side and admire the flower still cupped in his hand. ?It is,? she whispered, ?a shame there were no such people for the Uplanders.?

Dark eyes snapped to her, and even beyond the flare of fear overtaking the hate, she noticed a flush to his cheeks that then drained into a paleness beneath his scraggly beard. ?I do not know what you mean, miss. The High Prince protects us and does his best to bring our good fortune to the lands around us.?

?So he does.? She did not press at the moment, working the gifts to encourage his trust and his hope now that the hatred had been struck down by fear. ?I hear though that there are others who disagree.? A well timed sigh, the dejected drop of her hand from the flower and standing once more, it was an orchestration of cues to the gardener.

Nitesh stepped to join her, and he spoke low pointing out another tall, ornate plant of fluted white petals, ?If you will come and see the Dhiren?s Trumpet, it may give you hope, miss.? She followed him and he spoke low, couching his words in terms of plants and wildlife. A rebellion was growing and the discontent with the High Prince?s vision of domination not only shook the consciousness of the lower castes, but some of the elite, some few of the High Prince?s own court had turned their disturbance of conscious into actions. ?The Dhiren?s Trumpet will only allow the shade of the mighty Umber Tree for so long, miss, before they will find new ground or let their tendrils dig into the tree?s mighty roots and overcome it by stealing away its nutrients.? He pointed to where green roots twisted out of the ground reaching toward the trees. They had been shorn in the garden, but Kiema trusted that in the world those roots were growing and digging into the soil of an overreaching tree.

She thanked Nitesh for his instruction and his time, influencing his trust further so she might return to him if need be, and in the turning of afternoon to twilight, she wandered her way to the hidden communication system. It was so foreign but useful, and she let Alain?s people know what she had learned ? the rumors of attacks, the horses? markings, and the growing discontent.

The Baronial Council had met at Sainte-Ouen's Cove House six times since the Dalibad Incident on 11 November, and it had already transformed the day-to-day character of the large sunlit ballroom used for the meetings. It was constantly occupied by any mix of Councillors, militia commanders, knights, intelligence analysts, and guests from the small number of Vrasheen states which had also come into some level of conflict with the Dalibad. Papers, folders and silver-lined trays of image orbs were shuffled in and out at a nearly constant rate, interrupted only by the meetings themselves. Even in a micronation of some tens of thousands of citizens, with a government which bordered on absurdly small, this was the bureaucratic face of war.

The adjoining guestrooms, store-rooms, even a few larger closets had been converted into offices where exhausted men and women stared at flickering monitors, clacked out reports on their typewriters, and kept one ear turned toward the little black phones on their desks. There had been no direct combat outside of a low-casualty naval skirmish near the isles of Narponte, but coordinating between the country's Baronial Guard, various militia, merchant navy and the fledgling Expeditionary Corps was busy and difficult work. Everyone who met and worked at the Cove House at this time dealt with a number of details, most recently moving the militia to suitable garrisons and defensible positions near the coast, mounting defensive guns near the ports, and refitting the contracted ships coming into Teobern with heavy weaponry.

" -- eighty millimeter guns will suffice, of course, but I expect to see a full complement for each ship of the newly designated class. Now as far as the Corps squadrons -- "

Everyone seemed to have a hand in this, but most were still surprised at Councillor Paul's intimate involvement with military operations. The office of Councillor was often intimately involved in military details -- Armand himself had commanded a militia in the recent past -- yet Councillor Paul was also one of the five Archpriests in the Gallican Catholic Church. He had held township-level offices in Esp?rance "as a matter of the Church's ever-deepening service to the community," and was narrowly elected to the Baronial Council only several months ago.

" -- must make a regular foray into Dalibad's waters, else we may be misled regarding fleet movements. It cannot be called a provocative action if we are already at war. ...I am happy that you understand, Captain. I look forward to your next report... Go with God." Ringed fingers delicately replaced the receiver in its cradle, and Councillor Paul -- Father Paul Curthose -- smiled pleasantly at the assembled. "With God and good fortune on our side, gentlemen, we will soon find, engage, and destroy the Prince's fleet... leaving the door open for a very beneficial resolution to this horrible and unfortunate conflict."

The reactions were mixed, some hesitant at his words, others enthusiastic, but the meeting ended cordially. Some shook his hand, which he bore gracefully, but a few caught the cue from his posture and bent their heads to kiss his ring. "...yes, Fyodor -- we shall have to talk about the new abbey very soon. Tomorrow evening, if you're available." Eventually the last pleasantries were exchanged and impromptu meetings set up for the future, and Councillor Paul was left alone at the long table in the enormous ballroom. The chair he occupied was identical to ten of the eleven others, but his sat at what could have been the head if not for the simple, stocky wooden throne at the opposite end. The throne belonged to the Baron, while the opposite seat belonged to the Speaker during Council meetings, currently Councillor Armand Kroeger.

But this was a formality, and never strictly enforced. Today Councillor Paul Curthose would not leave his seat, and it was not the first time the Speaker had been displaced.

He wrote neat and elegant notes in a large green book with his fountain pen while several men and women streamed into the ballroom to pick over the papers, clean up, and distribute new files for the coming meeting. He exchanged smiles with a few of them, but otherwise was quite focused on his notes. He had very sharp eyes, like honey when he was soft, like gold when he was stern, and also sharp but handsome features for a man of his age and office. His fading, thinning hair still held touches of the blonde that had made many generations of Curthose women famous and coveted in New Brittany, and his slight build only lent more to his own subtle beauty. Rumors still persisted that he had broken many hearts in his neighborhood when he entered the priesthood a generation ago.

Years of difficult service had taken their toll, too. His hair was still more white than blonde, and his fair skin did not cling to his sharp-angled face the way it used to. When it rained his back ached, and there were deep lines that would not leave his brow even when he smiled. He had reached the office of vicar general shortly before a civil war destroyed his beloved homeland, and had gotten there, and afterward through the conflict with a small number of his flock, through hard and stressful work. And his continued to be a difficult path, seeing to his flock as they adapted to new life in an alien land with ever more alien people, all with their different faiths and practices, all of them as needy and hungry as the Newbretons had been when first they came to the realm of Drasill. The Gallican Catholic faith here was a minority, with more fresh converts than old familiar faces, and numbering about fifteen hundred, and theirs was not the only path to God through Jesus Christ the Barony's people observed. The challenges were numerous, and their leadership...

Unorthodox, the Archpriest decided was the most appropriate term, and smiled thinly as he listened to approaching horses. The Order was arriving in great number, and with them, doubtless, the Baron of St. Aldwin. On occasion in the past I have kissed the rings of grand dukes, princes and kings who were some years my junior... but I have not been long accustomed to bowing my head to a man less than half my age, freshly made a baron. He sighed quietly and closed his book as the first new set of foosteps approached the ballroom doors. Yet the Lord always provides a way...

"Good morning, Armand," the Councillor greeted the stouter man with a warm smile, gently grasping his hand.

"Morning, Father. Hope you're well?" Armand beamed kindly and stood by Paul's seat, clutching a briefcase in his arms. "Know it's been raining a lot lately... never mind the war."

"Both difficult matters, but I bear each of them well... thank you." Paul squeezed his hand and let go, then gestured to his work. "I have only recently met with the commanding officers of the new naval squadron... I was hoping to go over a few key points with the other Councillors today. You don't mind if I keep this seat?"

"Oh... no, not at all," Armand replied with a rapidly returning smile, and took the chair next to him as others began entering. "But I should remind you, the Baron called this meeting pretty late last night, out of the blue." He laughed heartily and tapped at his temple. "I'm sure our scamp's got his own news he wants told, and a good plan in mind too -- knew it was coming, sooner or later." He laughed again. "It'll see us through."

Paul affected a smile in return and cleared his throat delicately, and kept his voice low. "I am certain that he means to... and that he calls this meeting with the best of intentions." His brow knitted back into a frown and he folded his hands. "But I must confess I have seen a marked change in the Baron's behavior. He does not visit the towns like he did, and seems to spend every hour with the Order."

Armand frowned too, his more surprised: "Well yes, but we are at war, and the thing with -- "

"Of course," Paul interrupted, smiling anew, long-fingered hands raised. "It is a difficult time, and he is in mourning... and that is what we must bear in mind. He will want to set things right and provide for us the way we have come to expect him to... even if he finds himself unable. We must temper his passion and enthusiasm with compassion and wisdom... do you see?"

The Speaker paused, then nodded slowly in understanding and found himself mulling over these words more than thinking over the reports set out before him. It took the Baron and the knights some time to see the horses stabled and, Councillor Paul suspected, have a last-minute impromptu meeting of their own; so the Archpriest found himself in conversation with three more Councillors, and moved to share his concerns, before the man in question entered the ballroom.

Ten Councillors rose in unison as the Baron of St. Aldwin swept into the room and towards his throne, flanked by two of his knights, Sir Zakharias and Sir Roland. Both elicited gasps from most of the gathered, but Councillor Paul barely raised an eyebrow: somehow this turn of events was expected. Zakharias Loe had been "retired" to an island called Bellcaire near RhyDin in light of his serious, crippling injuries, yet he was at the Baron's side once more, moving ably enough with the help of an elegant cane. His single remaining eye swept the ballroom as he split off from his companions, standing by the window with his hands folded and his cane resting against his thigh. Most knew him as little more than a brave and big-hearted young man, but he had a darker reputation: placed under pressure, Zakharias was resourceful, wrathful and shrewd.

Sir Roland, of course, had gone into a sort of self-imposed exile after his infection with a shapeshifter's curse. He maintained a lodge and aided the settlers in the wilderness that was the vast isle of Bretland; Councillor Paul had it on good authority that the shy young man ruthlessly stalked the dangerous woods in the form of a great bear. He placed a small wooden case on the table and, all in the form of a long, graceful bow, extracted a small silver circlet and placed it upon the Baron's head. DeMuer sat, the Councillors sat... And the hound remains obediently at his master's side, Paul observed. He cast an unfelt smile at the pair as he studied them, especially the man to whom he swore allegiance.

Alain DeMuer did not look as exhausted as he had lately, in spite of almost every physical sign of insomnia. His movements were confident, and his expression held a different sort of cold purpose than mere wrath could provide him. Paul silently cursed the man's poker face as he scrutinized it, but it still provided him with enough information, with a little intuition: the Baron of St. Aldwin had found hope, and the Order had taken visible interest in it. He quietly noted Paul and Armand's 'switch' with a flicker of his gaze, then nodded his head to the Acting Speaker. They could proceed.

Councillor Paul struck the gavel once and cycled through the formalities in the rapid manner they had grown accustomed to. When he was done, he continued, "I understand the Baron has gathered us here today with some new information to share, presumably, but if I could press upon his kindness to proceed with news of my own?"

DeMuer had tells, however subtle, and the minor shift in his posture was indication enough that the request caught him off guard. Whatever new information he had, whatever plan he now had in mind, it had stolen enough of his attention to temporarily blind him to other considerations. Such as the Councillors having their own plans in mind already. "You may proceed, Councillor."

"Thank you, milord." Paul shuffled his notes delicately. "I am sure you are aware of the recent encounter at the Narponte Bank? Following the earlier Action... no?" He affected gentle surprise. "Very well. Dalibad's fleets have so far made three definite abortive approaches to Narponte and Dasponte, and we believe yesterday evening's encounter to have been part of a fourth. Our submarine staged an ambush on a small ironclad ship reported to have been harassing fishermen off Narponte. It was a small commerce raider, but what the captain believed should have been an indirect hit with a torpedo, causing negligible damage, nearly destroyed it. The Narwhal then followed and observed the wounded ship as it struggled not to founder in a reef for nearly three-quarters of an hour, until two similar vessels finally came to its aid, at which point the Narwhal had to withdraw. It is unconfirmed as of yet, but we believe the ship was scuttled... and that Dalibad's fleet is woefully unprepared for torpedo attacks."

The Baron's frown grew. "I was under the impression our navy was still limiting itself to a deterrent role?" He looked around at the other Councillors and added, "All of us agreed we shouldn't provoke retaliation until we're totally prepared for any attack Dalibad's fleet may mount -- " He paused, shook his head. "This is too soon, Councillor. We should be exercising greater care until we're more certain of the aims we want to commit ourselves to... play it safe."

"But how much safer can we be than if we hunt down and destroy their fleet?" Councillor Paul smiled graciously. "They may have surmised some weaknesses from this recent encounter, so it may prove critical for us that we strike at their fleet before they are prepared for further torpedo attacks. Once that is done, we may deal with Dalibad in whatever manner pleases us, at whatever time pleases us." At the same moment DeMuer began to reply, the Acting Speaker shifted gears: "But you had other news, milord. Please," with a gesture for him to proceed.

DeMuer was flustered now, and it was beginning to show; he took a few moments to collect himself. "As you all know, the Spring Hare was sunk on the 11th, and between the bodies collected then and the number executed the morning of the 12th, it was assumed Dalibad's claims meant the entire crew had perished... This alone is suspicious." Many of the Councillors looked at each other; the Archpriest raised his eyebrows and waited for the young man to continue. "When ships sink, bodies go missing, even so close to shore. While it is not clear if Dalibad believes there were survivors, at minimum this claim of absolute certainty was manufactured for propaganda purposes. Our sources inside Dalibad indicate that three men went missing from the town where the executions took place on the night of the sinking."

Zakharias Loe began stumping around the room, placing a folder before each Councillor, and in each folder were several sketches depicting descriptions from intelligence reports. "Starting on the 12th we have the first report of soldiers and guards gone missing or turning up dead. Six found dead and believed to have been killed by stabbing and strangulation on the 12th, eight on the 13th, eleven on the 14th... Every day since then a stable or increasing number of soldiers have turned up dead or gone missing, with no groups claiming responsibility for the attacks. On the 15th we have the first report -- yes, Councillor?" The Baron paused in his explanation with a twinge of annoyance to address the Archpriest who had his hand tentatively lifted, as other Councillors were glancing his way.

"Excuse me, milord... where did you come by this information?" Paul smiled pleasantly. The Baron's lips thinned.

"Through our own network of spies. We have people in Dalibad who have made contact with rebels and other dissenters in Dalibad and the Upland territories. On the 15th we have the first report of what you will see in sketches A through G -- attacks perpetrated by what are purported to be undead plague victims. Their faces appear to be skulls, their cloaks are soaked in blood, and they 'reek of death,' according to survivors. They usually attack on horseback, and always at night. ...Councillor?"

"Undead attacks are not without precedent, milord. What makes these a pressing concern?"

DeMuer stared hard; his blood was getting hotter. "If this is a genuine undead rising, if the plague has turned to zombefication, then we should be very concerned about the infection spreading elsewhere in Vrashne, to our allies, or to our own shores. But I don't think these incidents are the work of the undead." Every eye was back on him once more. "The undead very rarely ride horses, if the few reports we have of it are to be believed at all, nor do they steal supplies or strictly limit their victims to guards and soldiers. Every incident has occurred in the hinterland, and after checking sources, this mode of deception is consistent with guerilla attacks perpetrated by the presumably-deceased Knight-Sergeant Seamus Morvan earlier this spring in Dasponte."

An excited murmur went through the Council, and while Paul grasped at his gavel, the Baron forged on: "Sir Seamus' style was very distinct, with bone masks, bloodied cloaks, and every attack conducted at night and on horseback against a much larger but disparate force. He engaged in psychological warfare in order to gather supplies, equip a rebellion, and terrify their enemies." Paul struck the gavel several times, and DeMuer's voice rose as he did. "It worked then, and it's working now, Seamus Morvan survived the attacks, he's mounting attacks and building a rebellion in Dalibad as we speak!"

"Please calm yourself, milord!" Paul cried out, features twisted into a concerned, worried frown. "This is, well, it is a very unique interpretation you are presenting us, you must understand, and we have questions we would like to address calmly... with the civility befitting our Council!"

"Questions I'll be happy to address," DeMuer retorted, standing and thumping his hands on the edge of the table, "as soon as I'm finished presenting the facts. Why you are preventing me -- "

"Alain, please." It was Armand who spoke next; he looked beseechingly between the two men, and then forced a slow smile. "If you could proceed calmly... let's all hear what you have to say."

It was sympathy at its most condescending, pity, the assumption that his reasoning was driven by grief, even madness, and it was directed at Alain DeMuer from almost every face in the room right now. It was the last thing he was looking for, not when his actions were suddenly spurred not by grief or vengeance, but hope. He slumped back into his seat, took a deep breath, and continued. "We can be certain these are not undead attacks due to their precise nature and the fact that they are stealing supplies, especially food and weapons. The strange nature of these attacks is identical to one earlier used by a man presumed killed on the Spring Hare, though he was not among the exexcuted. The attacks are moving steadily towards the Pass at Ja'ir, our expedition's original destination as the source of the plague and the broadening conflict in the region. In addition to the details we have already discussed, all horses bear what is known as the pat hand print on their flank. This is a symbol used on past missions by Sofia Rhovnik, a detail I confirmed earlier with her family."

Armand and one of the other Councillors looked away sadly; another shook his head; Councillor Paul fixed the Baron with what had every appearance of a pitying smile.

"I believe Sir Seamus, Miss Rhovnik, and up to four others survived the sinking of the Spring Hare and made their way to shore. They have started an insurrection with the aim of securing enough arms and food to supply a much larger force, and their group is already growing. Dalibad has claimed they will make use of the medicine if it was recovered to combat the plague, something they are themselves concerned about and would doubtless want to end, regardless of their other aims, but they never recovered any of the medicine. I believe the force the Spring Hare's survivors are assembling is making its way to Ja'ir with the medicine in order to end the plague, and they may also intend to topple the government." He shut his folder quietly and cast another look around the table. "To that end, we should restrict our navy to a deterrent role around Narponte and Dasponte, and completely refocus our intelligence efforts on finding out more about this rebel force so we may decisively intervene and assist them in completing at least one of our aims, and in the process rescue a loyal servant of St. Aldwin, as well as a powerful ally we thought we had lost."

Dead silence followed his presentation. Few dared to look at him, but Councillor Paul's gaze was constant and unyielding. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "I believe, milord baron... that is quite enough. All of us understand and appreciate your loss... but surely you must recognize how this sorrow affects your decisions, because you want her to be alive. We all do, but certainly, you most of all... but we must keep clear heads and act only on sound evidence. Right now we have clear evidence we have an advantage over Dalibad's fleets, and we must act quickly to lay a trap for them. The other evidence is less clear, but... for the sake of possibility, of hope... I believe we can devote some of our resources to its investigation." The Baron opened his mouth, and the Acting Speaker put up his hand: "I will take full responsibility for this new body, out of my own time, for you, milord baron. It is all the more important that we support one another in these very trying times... It is what God expects of each of us, and I will not let myself stray from His will, however hard the trials may be. Does this approach strike the Council as satisfactory?"

There were nods of assent, and a few voiced concerns, put most concisely by Armand: "We seem to be in agreement that, ah... committing ourselves to destroying Dalibad's fleet right now is... well, might be a little hasty... but we should be prepared to do it, engage in more active reconnaissance and test their strength in the coming weeks. We're... definitely, unanimously agreed that developing a team to investigate the, er... concerns over a possible insurgency, is something we should do. Alain?"

The Baron looked coolly at the Councillors facing him, even Armand, and after a moment Councillor Paul spoke up again. "I'm sure the Baron doesn't want to break tradition... save his vote for a tiebreaker." He smiled and gave a small wink across the table; Roland scowled and touched the hilt of his sword, and the Archpriest's smile only widened. "Unless there are any further, immediate concerns... no...? Meeting adjourned." He struck the gavel once to end the meeting.

Alain DeMuer was the fastest to rise, and Roland barely had time to collect the circlet from his brow; the young man stormed out, flanked by his two knights the same way he came in. The double doors rebounded and slammed shut after them, and the ballroom winced collectively. The Councillors took their time putting away their notes and collecting their belongings, talking in hushed voices with one another about the Baron's behavior, and far more quietly over the Archpriest's startling boldness. All of them had been diverted, distracted, and effectively played, but each of them was clever enough to know Councillor Paul was employing his cunning. But even with the suspicion toward him a little higher, he had another opportunity before him which he could not pass up...

"Fellow Councillors," he called out, getting their attention, "forgive me! I fear a few important details about our navy's plans escaped my mind in the, ah, excitement of our meeting," he added with a chuckle, and a few others joined in the laughter. "Would it bother you terribly if we reconvened -- only for a short time?"

Councillor Sylleth of Teobern broke from her conversation with Armand to offer, "Then let's send a rider after the Baron... We can have him back here quickly, if we hurry."

Paul smiled slowly. "No... we have troubled the young man enough for one day. He is very stressed... We may call upon him again if we need a tied vote broken. I think that would be best for him... give the poor man some badly needed peace during this awful war."

One by one the Councillors returned to their seats, and this time Armand watched Councillor Paul with a dark frown as, once more, he took the Speaker's chair. The wheels were turning too fast for his liking, faster than any of them seemed used to, and already he suspected they were speeding St. Aldwin along to a much darker place...

The nights in the Upland were growing more and more bitter as each passed and the approaching winter took a deeper hold on the land. Snow threatened to blanket the flat basalt steppes and the water that ran through the river that this group of twenty of the undead followed had gone from brisk and refreshing to icy cold. Hardy pines shot up out of the rocky soil as proof of what it would take to make it through the winter in this climate.

Saleh Numiir had insisted on being one of the number that continued on to Ja'ir. He could have easily stayed behind with the rest, distributing medicine to the Upland villages and conducting raids on the garrisons but he knew they needed guides who knew the land. This was his land. He was as hardy a pine as all the rest.

Crunching boots alerted Saleh Numiir of someone approaching from the encampment behind him. It was a moment before the shadowy figure gained definition in the still dark night. Her hands were shoved deeply in the pockets of her coat and her lips settled into an uneasy smile for Saleh. "You should still be sleeping," Saleh admonished the woman sternly.

?I can't sleep," she replied softly. Her voice was a bit hoarse from the cold night air or lack of sleep or a combination of both. "One of us should, though. I will take over your shift. Go on back to bed."

Saleh hesitated momentarily but she motioned him back towards camp with a nod of her head. Eventually, he gave a slow nod and complied. As the teenager headed off for warmth and sleep, Sophie turned to face the direction he had been. Soon the sun would come pouring over the hills, shedding light and warmth on their overlook but for now there was only darkness to look out upon. The first shimmers of daylight had not drowned out the stars yet. It was odd to imagine that those in the barony were sleeping under the same stars -- maybe even Alain himself. Alain. Her body ached for his touch. Wasn?t there a song in a movie about that? Something about sleeping underneath the same big sky? From the movie when she was little about a Russian mouse named Fievel? What was the name of that movie? She heaved a heavy exhale, giving a short humorless laugh into the lingering night at the thoughts that kept her awake.

Not too much longer crunching boots approached the spot again, and Seamus approached, two tin cups of steaming coffee held in his hands. He sighed as he knelt next to her and passed over one of the drinks, teased her dryly, "If I'd known it was you here and not Saleh, I would've kept both cups to myself."

He was as tired, as worn and worried, but Seamus never let himself fall to it, never completely. He always kept fighting it, and a battle like that raged on his face. He smiled, and the humor fought the dread and sorrow in his eyes while they searched the landscape for joy. Found little pieces, here and there. The Upland was parched, but in some places life seemed to go on as normal.

Her ears were tuned to the sound of the boots but she hadn't bothered to turn to look. She knew who her company would be as soon as she heard his steps. The soft laugh he earned was a bit more genuine as she reached for one of the cups. "I'm being mistaken for a fifteen year old boy now? I don't know if I should worry that your mind is failing you or that my looks are failing me."

"Hardly, gorgeous," he said easily as he tipped just a splash of liquor into her coffee. It was well under a full drink, but in wartime that little bit seemed like so much -- one of his few fond memories from the hard years in New Brittany.

He sipped his coffee and kept on scanning the mountaintops. Was that movement... yes, a few deer a few hundred yards away, only just now becoming aware of them. Even running away, they were beautiful to behold in their own little way. Well hello, God. So nice of You to show me the sights. His good mood seemed to win out over the bad, and his smile spread.

"What's eating you?"

His smile caused her eyes to leap from the tin cup after a short sip towards the spot that had caught her attention. That what had caused the smile was a handful of deer only deepened her confusion. Deer? Back home with an almost complete lack of natural predators, they had become a real nuisance. They would sneak into the crops in the summer and begin to strip the trees of leaves and bark this time of year. The warmth of the liquid in the cup seeped through her gloved hands, bringing feeling back to her fingers. "I can't sleep. I keep having the same dream about that damn jacket of Alain's that I lost. Except I'm in it. At the bottom of the ocean."

She gave a frustrated shake of her head at herself. "Really, that's hardly the closest I've ever come to dying. I don't know why I'm so stuck on it."

"Because it's not the kind of death you and me usually face." He spoke frankly. "Usually I can look right at the man who's trying to kill me, or I stand a chance of doing it anyway, maybe fighting back... but this was different. There was nothing to fight. I don't know about you, but the first seconds I thought I was dead or dying."

His eyes slid over to her, and he gave her a crooked grin. "But we're not. We're fighting, and I think we'll win, and then it's just the long ride home. South through the open Upland, and over the passes to Akor, and the first ship back to St. Aldwin. Nothing you'd get to do if you were hanging out with fish right now."

?You're much better company than a bunch of a smelly fish anyway," she responded teasingly, leaning in to bump her shoulder against the outside of his arm. "Have you thought about what's going on back there? You think they've heard the rumors and figured out that we lived yet? I worry that Chase has done something rash. He's not used to being the one giving orders."

"I don't know about Chase..." Seamus raised his eyebrows while he thought; most of his friends frowned, but he just raised his eyebrows and turned his eyes to the sky, like the war plans were just a daydream. "...The Baron, and the others, it's hard to tell. Maybe they've given over to revenge, but I imagine they're being a little more shrewd... and maybe they've figured out we're alive. Who can say."

He sipped and smiled into his cup and added, "Honestly, when I think about things over there, my mind's on someone else completely."

His words cause her eyes to jump from the glowing purple sky just beginning to shed light on the day over to him. His smile causes her own lips to ease into a similar gesture. "I'd bet she's going to hit you for scaring her before you get that kiss you're hoping for. She sure seems like one tough cookie. You just better be prepared."

The reminder of Atalanta served as a tool to shove away the creeping frustration, doubt, and anxiety more than anything. After all, Sophie had initially agreed to come as proof to Atalanta that there was little to worry about, that there was no need for Atalanta and Alain's friendship to be impacted by him insisting that Seamus went. Now, there was a growing sense of duty building. She had to make sure he got home. It was an unspoken promise from one woman in love to another. "We will win. We're going to see this through and then get the hell out of here."

He touched her shoulder. "That's the spirit, Sophie. Hey, somewhere between my dreams about hot Silver Mark bartenders and hot cheeseburgers, I had a couple ideas about Ja'ir. You interested?"

"Red meat and women. So not surprised." Her tone was dry but her expression had softened with amusement. Her fingers curled further around the lukewarm tin cup, greedily drinking up what was left of its heat just as she was submerging herself in the quiet, peaceful moments with Seamus before the rest of the camp were up and moving and she would need to regain her hard edge once more. "We need to flesh out our plan. Shoot."

?There's no way they won't notice two hundred raiders riding out either side of Ja'ir into the Upland, but it might take them time to notice, so I say we hang back a few days, let them send soldiers to give chase before we make our move." He used a branch to sweep away leaves and debris, then drew in the dirt with the other end.

"That'll give us time to split our force further and send one down into the valley and back up, which'll take half the night... but we don't need much of it, and the winter affords us plenty. We hit the dam from both ends, and leave defenders both ways while the rest of us deal with getting that medicine into the water. When we're done we see which way out gives us the least resistance and go that way... I'm hoping the Upland side will be open. We ride out into the wilderness two days, then turn south. It's a long road, and not the one they'll expect us to take home."

"We hand pick the group that is to come with us to get the medicine in the water." Her eyes are an even paler blue in the gaining light as she lifts them from the dirt drawing to his face. Her voice turns somber as if giving an oath. "No matter what happens we get that medicine into the water."

Seamus nodded slowly to the oath, and his smile took on a different turn; he was every inch a knight and a warrior, brave and fearless. He opened his hand for hers. "Death or glory."

Born into a clan of like-minded warriors who traced back their line to the days when Rhovnik knights in the Carolingian Empire fended off Hungarian invasions, her smile was almost an exact mirror of his. Firmly and bodly, Sophie reached out to grasp his hand. "Death or glory? I've never heard a better plan."

The hour was late. Not the whimsical, perhaps late depending on the age of the one wandering the halls. It was the deep hour of late, or the screeching hour of too early. The time when slumbers exuded past chambers and wrapped hallways in silence. Only the particular hallway Kiema walked was feeling the effects of a cracked open door, light spilling onto rich carpets, and pitched voices. She did not need to hear the voices to know the feelings of the occupants, nor the feeling of the servant soft footed in leading her to the meeting room. Fear came from the servant. Fear, anger, resentment, confusion -- but most of all a cold outrage being forged under pressure and strain into submission -- this came from the room.

When the servant had come for her, she took great care in her dress. A dressing gown, tied, her hair pulled back, she would look presentable but hurried. There was an art to looking just as she should but allowing for precisely placed hints of her subservience.

At the arrival to the door, she already sent out a thread of calm, the barest whispering filament to the High Prince. Just a step inside, and she dropped into a curtsey to wait his attention and listen to the rest of the conversation.

" -- have never cared for the excuses, this has happened because of you! You told me they were dead and all accounted for, I remember it very clearly, Governor. You may think me a fool but I assure you, my mind is very sharp, and my memory very long." The Governor began to speak, and a loud slap rang out across the room; the poor man staggered across the carpet towards the door, massaging his jaw, and his advisers drew back instinctively.

"You hid the truth from me out of fear..." The Prince turned away and paced to the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. Mad as he had gone with the power of new technology, manipulated as he had been by foreigners in his midst, the man was still sharper, stronger, and more fearsome than most, and he showed it now. "Fear that you would lose everything, Governor... and now you have. You are stripped of your title, and your lands will be returned to the state. Gentlemen, recall our nearest Upland garrisons and regroup them on the far side of the reservoir. We wait and prepare."

There were a few murmurs of "Yes, Highness," and then the Prince was left alone with Kiema. He paced slowly to a low mahogany table and stretched out his arms, and smiled. "They always try to take it away, by clumsy accident or jealous intent... destroy what I have built." A low tide of pride rolled past the rage, fear and anxiety. "It is wonderful, you know. The Princes of Dalibad before me never dreamed that this would be an empire, or we would extend our dominion over Nature herself."

Though the words were spoken out loud, she only stood from her perfectly held curtsey. She trailed fingers of her gift inducing embarrassment, ridicule, and indignation to the departing dignitaries. If she could rile up their courage to start their own sedition, perhaps assist the rebels in their own way, it was just one more piece of the game taken from the High Prince's arsenal into those of Baron DeMuer.

Approaching the High Prince, she reclaimed that soothing tie to him, encouraged his trust and the calm assurance that all was well he too was trying to cultivate inside beyond the rage and fear. She kept those there, just slight pulses in case she need to play upon those this hour. "They did not have your vision," she started simply to encourage him to talk. "So few have. Because of this you must take them to task at such an hour, your needed rest deprived from you. I hope that soon you may find these emergencies be lessened."

He laughed again and shook his head. "Within two weeks, I imagine... if our spies are worth anything at all, which I have reason to doubt." He looked suddenly at her, eyes narrowing, but the reason became clear on the next wave of his feelings. He desired her sympathy and comfort, the empathic drug she had fed into him for weeks, which he now depended on to move forward under the ever-mounting pressure. He dipped his head towards one end of the table and said, "Forgive me my lapse in manners, Miss Kiema... but war is a trying time for any leader. You may find the newspapers over there on the end quite interesting. You see... the Baron of St. Aldwin believes the treacherous heiress whore Sofia Rhovnik, and the so-called knight Seamus Morvan, survived the sinking of the Spring Hare... enough to defy his Council and create a scandal, enough to change the course of the war."

He shook his head slowly. "How could I have missed their tactics... their ploy was so obvious, and we fell for it... wasted so much time, and let them come so close..."

Kiema was very glad she had come across the papers earlier in a casual passing by one of the undersecretary's desks. Even with her training, she may not have so easily kept her eyes from changing color and reveal more than she desired of herself reading that news. Approaching the papers, she gave him an incredulous look well deserving of a woman who just received news she could hardly account for. She picked up the papers, read them again and shook her head. "Close, Your Excellency? So close as that? Have you found these rumors, these ravings of a mad Baron to be true?" Tell me, she urged, how near was it to his throat; how close was it all in this rising tide.

"The last reported undead attack was yesterday at dawn, only thirty leagues from Ja'ir. It is rough country, but if they keep up their pace... they will be here in one week to destroy our power source at the dam and ruin my nation's war effort for good." He smiled. "The Baron may be mad, but he is right. The undead do not limit their attacks to military garrison, nor cut a steady path towards Ja'ir. In one week's time this costly insurgency will find itself falling into a trap, and my nightmares will end."

Then he sighed heavily, rubbed at his brow. "But until then, Miss Kiema... I am afraid the nightmares continue." He retreated to a lounge by the hearth and reclined carefully, stared at the ceiling and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

She set aside the papers and went to seat herself on the floor next to him. The trap, just the knowing of it was not enough. It would be something, a little something, if she could gain nothing else, but she had to try and glean more information. The pan flute, she chose it for the mellow tones, she drew from the pocket of her dressing gown. In time with the further coaxing of his calm, she started a few bars of a Dalibadian lullabye. She had adapted it to also twine the notes of a folk tune, so it spoke of the past as well as the future. But she stopped just at the bridge to the chorus, and sighed. "My apologies, gracious lord, but I am sorely troubled. If you feel your people have failed you so much, are you sure this trap will be secure? I suppose your sons have taken a hand in it for such assurances."

The Prince shook his head again. "No, my sons are scattered abroad, at the front lines where they are needed... Their own battles are as significant as the battle that will transpire here." He opened his eyes and looked aside at her. "I will be there on the field with as many of my best soldiers can be called here on short notice, commanding them in person... Before I became Prince I spent many years among soldiers and officers, learning the art of war... It is not something any man soon forgets."

His eyes slid shut again, and he heaved a long sigh.

"Then," she smiled, "you can be assured of success." She started the tune once again, employing her talent a little less, drawing it only a bit away and trying to read the true emotions without her influence again. It was a delicate thing to play with another's emotions, and from time to time, one must draw away and see what has been wrought of the dallying.

The Prince was still anxious, still worried over his plans and determined to see it through, but he was comforted... and behind the comfort was a growing need. The writing on the wall was very clear, that he depended on her comfort to see him through these trying times...

And he would not know what to do if she left.

Thunk. The heavy wooden box landed on the table with a solid resonance. Three-quarters of a meter long, half a meter wide and half a meter deep, the box was rough-made of wooden slats. Bits of straw dropped onto the table through the gaps between the boards. On the other side of the counter, one of the Knights of Saint Aldwin looked up skeptically, eyebrows lifting into his hairline.

G?elle didn?t know this one, and already she didn?t like him. Sanctimonious prig. Her teeth shone against dusky skin when she bared them in a near-smile. ?G?elle Emer Possamai, call sign Boomer, reporting. Demolitions, attached to the Second Reserve out of Sainte Ouen.?

The Knight?s brow pulled down into a puzzled frown from the dismissive look of moments before. ?Ah ? of course. But we haven?t called up the Second Reserve yet, madame. And ? ah ? what is this?? He gestured to the box on the table, his frown growing more confused.

?Didn?t come up with the unit, came up on request. You?re not from Nouveau Bretagne, are you?? She nodded when he shook his head. ?Demolitions, I said.? Her grin was fierce as she leaned over the table. She wasn?t that tall, just whipcord tough, and something about the light in her eyes drove the Knight to lean back in his chair until he realized what he was doing. ?Just pass on to someone who knows what?s going on that Boomer?s here.?

?Ah, yes, but Madame Possamai ? that isn?t procedure. If you are mustering with us, and your unit hasn?t been called up ? ah. Uhm.? The Knight stuttered to a halt. On closer look G?elle could see it, how young this one was. He?d probably seen no more of battle than the skirmishes along the borders here in Saint Aldwin, if that. Her smile eased back to something less deadly.

She lifted her hand to rub at the missing top half of her left ear, one finger running back and forth across the scar tissue there. ?Look you, boy. There?s someone here that called up for demolitions volunteers, I?m one of them. Should be at least three more of us turning up that I know of. So best you figure out where we?re supposed to be going.?

The Knight looked helplessly at the door G?elle had entered by, and then off to his left and the second door there. Nobody else was in the room or available to take his spot behind the desk. She barked a laugh. ?I promise you I won?t make off with your table. Oh ? and this box, bring it with you. It?s for the Baron ? a gift.?

Eventually the Knight?s chair scraped back over the floor as he rose to standing. He lifted the lid on the wooden box, and his eyebrows went to his hairline again. Inside, nestled between layers of straw, were row after row of perfectly ordinary-seeming grenades with red and yellow firing pins. A folded note rested on top of the explosives.

The Knight?s lips thinned at a potential threat to his Baron, and after shooting G?elle a warning glance against any protest, he picked up the note to read it.

Alain ?
Just like old times. If you feel like doing something stupid, take these with you. Good luck.
? G?elle

P.S. Throw long.

?It?s not rigged. Just be careful moving it.? G?elle?s smile had a distinctly mocking edge to it as she picked up her rucksack and slung it over her shoulders. ?I?ll wait outside until someone figures out where I should be going.?

The Upland side of the pass at Ja'ir had become a place of power, and its mark was undeniable. The Prince of Dalibad's "retreat" was visible from any of the reservoir's vast shores, and hundreds of tall windows still glittered with electrical lights hours after midnight and cast their reflection across the still black water, blotting out the stars from the night sky. The towering concrete dam which made it all possible hummed electricity into a series of test dynamos that, once finished, would bring the same light to every inch of the growing state and power her war machines. They had seized the Upland's only river by the throat, then the Upland itself, and already the Prince had turned his hungry eyes on the rest of the continent. The lake, and the narrow ridges ringing it, were a place of power and also suffering: Seamus stared into the black depths from the forest's edge and knew an awful curse lurked within. Khoury's plague had festered in the Upland for almost a year, and began to creep over the mountains into the wider world below...

He saw flickers of flame in the distance, past the palace's northern wing. Thundering hooves reached his ears, then curious voices which broke out into a chorus of alarm as five blazing arrows arced through the sky and struck the palace. Only two seemed to catch, but it would be enough. Javal's riders galloped over fences, drew steel and ran down guards as they tore through the palace grounds. The dam's two guard posts bled soldiers quickly, men with and without orders scrambling unprepared through the darkness to their sovereign's aid, and the knight from Akor made no attempt to hide or flee in spite of it. The lead rider lit a torch and held it low as he raced through the hedge gardens; in minutes the maze became an inferno.

Few remained at the dam. Almost every guard and soldier from the reservoir, the grounds and the palace itself rushed to the flaming beacon to meet their attackers head-on, aware that the rebels had struck fully two days early, assuming they had changed their target from the Prince's technological masterpiece to the man himself.

The soldier at the eastern gate shifted his weight uneasily on his rifle and watched the bright lights across the water grow in number, and he swore he could hear the clash of steel and a strangled cry. He had nearly resolved to join the fray and shouldered his rifle, tightened his fingers around his sword hilt... He did not feel Seamus Morvan behind him until a knife tore open his throat. The eastern gate was open, and five shadowy shapes stole in, with a rolling barrel bringing up the rear. Seamus' team was in.

The soldier on the western gate had a split second more to contemplate his death than the soldier on the eastern gate had. Saleh Numiir's rifle had jostled against the barrel as Sophie Rhovnik's team had approached, alerting the soldier to the approaching squad. He turned to face the attackers and moved to reach for his rifle but the soldier got no further than that. Sophie's own knife was quickly against his throat and, although he did not die immediately because he had been in the process of turning away, he could not gather the strength to cry out and alert anyone of their presence. He met the cold, blue eyes of his killer before dropping to the ground by what had been his post.

Saleh's mistake earned him a brief sharp glance from Sophie but shortly after the eastern gate opened, the western gate opened as well. Another set of five figures masked in the darkness slipped within and a second barrel was hefted along.

Seamus and another man, one of the fresh recruits from Dalibad, were already in the control room at the center of the dam when Sofia arrived. He narrowed his flashlight beam with a cupped hand and thumbed through schematics. "Hell of a party," he whispered. "Sophie, I think we've got something. Pretty unusual place for penstock access..." He tapped the page with the flat of his knife. "And a pump, too, right before the turbine. Doesn't make any sense... so it's gotta be Mr. Khoury's handiwork."

The rifle fire and the cries of battle were getting closer, everyone could tell, but Seamus forced himself to focus. They had committed to this task no matter the ending, and the oath still stood: death or glory.

Sophie twisted her lips over the schematics and frowned over the missing element of this mission -- her own crew. Chase and Jakob would have been able to make sense of this. With a shake of her head, she tossed the thought off. They had to fight with the weapons they came to the party with. "The penstock draws the water out of the intake from the reservoir. The pump's got to push it into the turbine and the pump will probably far easier to access than the whirling blades of a giant turbine. I say we dump it into the pump."

The chaos closing down upon them was a reminder that they had to move. Her gaze lifted to a rickety construction elevator before them. It would be far faster than climbing down but there was no way it was carrying ten people plus two heavy barrels. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Seamus gave her an idiotic grin... then tossed his rifle to the man beside him. "Korva, keep your eyes on those cliffs." One hand pointed east and west to the ridges and pathways overlooking the dam, as the other rolled the barrel as quietly as he could manage into the lift, though any listeners would soon hear the clattering metal and the whirring winch. "Let's mount up."

"Saleh, you're with Seamus and I," she stated begrudgingly. The kid was young and a klutz but was somehow becoming the surest shot of the bunch. If they needed to hit a target while moving, he was their best bet. With a nod, she picked a bulky, second man to come along. "Ranjiv, let's get the second barrel on."

Ranjiv was soon rolling the barrel into the cage after Seamus. Sophie was quickly on his heels, pulling her own rifle off her shoulder to have at the ready while Saleh followed her example and pulled the cage door closed behind them.

Seamus yanked a lever and the lift dropped several feet before the cable tightened and it rattled down the face of the dam. Little was visible in the growing darkness as the palace lights and the flames disappeared over the dam's edge, but he could see the moonlight dancing on the strangled river hundreds of feet beneath them. Halfway down, the first spotlight came on, and it barely had time to cast its beam on the dam's face; Saleh put it back out with a single shot.

Others followed suit immediately, and Seamus heard the distant report from sharpshooters and bullets ringing off their cage. Korva was helping them the best he could from up on the dam, but the riflemen were springing up faster than their lights could be put out. Seamus heard a whistle and a sound like wet meat, and Ranjiv screamed.

Sophie didn't bother to look down to the spot where Ranjiv's body clattered at their feet. He was already choking on his own blood. He didn't have long and if they didn't act, neither did they. She called out over the ringing bullets. "You take right of the river, Saleh. I've got our left."

They were almost firing blind into the darkness. All they had to go on were those lights and with the snipers hunkered down into position along the rocky ridges of the canyon's narrow walls, they had the advantage over the pair of shooters in the jerky, rattling cage. Saleh slid his bolt around to eject a spent shell which bounced against the floor as Sophie locked her own rifle against her shoulder, aiming at a light on the ridge. A deep breath was pulled in to eliminate everything else from her focus and then she let it almost completely out before squeezing the trigger.

The light was extinguished and she exhaled completely. The cage continued to jerk downward as Saleh and Sophie continued their systematic firing ignoring all else, including the bullets that continued to zing through the air around them and slam into the iron cage.

After another agonizing minute they reached the bottom, and the few remaining spotlights were now focused on either end of the dam. Ranjiv was dead already; Seamus dragged his body from the lift to decrease the weight. Cold wind buffeted them in the small concrete alcove leading to the pump, and Seamus hunkered down into his collar as he rolled the barrel out. "Hit the lights, Saleh."

The lights flickered on after a minute of struggle, revealing a dusty and disused chamber with a large pump. Several steel canisters were open and abandoned in the corner, and the knight had only to read a little of the writing on the outside to guess at their origin. Whatever they had contained, they had to do with the Bubasti operation here, and Seamus wondered if Shade had been here himself to see this plague to fruition.

Sophie was a step behind Saleh and Seamus rolling the second barrel into the alcove. Here, they were cushioned by strong walls of concrete from the noises of the battle as well as the danger. It was a false sense of security. There was no telling how long their small force of passionate rebel fighters could stand up to the Prince's well-trained professionals.

Her eyes followed Seamus' gaze and a soft curse escaped her lips. The method of the plague's delivery had been conjectured, of course, but to see the evidence before them was stunning. Those steel canisters had contained Death and Death had claimed countless lives in the Upland.

Yet, there was some measure of poetic justice that they would deliver the antidote in the same way the initial blow was struck. Setting the barrel down, Sophie moved to a valve opening on the water pump housing. The dust was brushed away, revealing that nobody had bothered to replace the bolts. They still lay amid metal shavings on the floor. Her hands fell to the valve cover to twist it open but lack of use and the pressure within held it tightly in place.

"Seamus, give me a hand."

The knight's thick arms flexed as he gave the cover a solid twist. A few more tries got it loose, and Saleh hefted the first barrel into place at the opening.

"Ready when you are, Sophie," Seamus winked at her. "You do the honors."

His wink earned a short laugh at their accomplishment. Although cold from the long winter nights and aching from a month of training the rebellion's forces and constant raids, they were seconds from their goal. Her knife was shoved between the head of the oak barrel and the staves, breaking the glue that held it in place and prying it off. Pulling the cylinder head away, she couldn't help but allow a distant smile as the seemingly inconspicuous liquid spilled out of the barrel through the opening and down into the depths of the pump. The churning device drew it up to be tossed in with the intake water through the whirling blades of the turbine and then out into the river beyond.

Sophie reached forward to grab the empty barrel from Saleh and the teenager quickly retrieved the second to pull it up into place. "The second one is all yours," she said, nodding for Seamus to finish the job with a suddenly bright smile.

Seamus huffed a laugh as he cleaned his knife off on his gloves, then pried the second barrel open and watched the liquid hiss as it met the water. This was it. They had won. Whether or not the other three barrels made it to the surrounding villages, the plague would soon end, and thousands more lives could --

Boom. The whole dam seemed to rumble for several seconds, though fortunately for them, no cracks seemed to be forming... "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," Sophie stated as her knife was shoved back into an interior pocket of her coat as a layer of dusty concrete powder fell upon them with the blast. No cracks but how many more of those could this place take?

Saleh's hands wrapped around his rifle nervously and before she reached for her own, she clapped a hand against his shoulder. "Alright. We've done what we came here to do. I don't know about the two of you but I'm ready to get back to Teobern. We're going to fight for our own lives now and get the hell out of here."

Her weapon was shouldered loosely, ready for access should she need it, and she steeled herself for whatever may be waiting on the other side of the walls that encased them.

"Up and out it is," Seamus said through gritted teeth, hurrying them back onto the blood-stained lift with a final frown at Ranjiv's crumpled form... then he yanked the lever and it began rattling its way back up to the top. For a variety of reasons no more spotlights were aimed their way. As they climbed the noise of battle grew, and on the eastern end they could make out a pillar of flame and twisted metal, with men picking and crawling away from it on either side, their figures thrown into sharp relief by the dancing fire.

The fingers on Saleh's free hand wrapped around the holes in the cage as he leaned forward, straining to get a better view of the flames and the battle on the men on the eastern side. Sophie leaned in towards Seamus but her attention was in the same direction as Saleh's. "What the hell happened?"

The growing number of soldiers at either end meant more light... "I count forty, maybe fifty at the eastern end, and a few cannons... I guess they decided to use them. Western end, another fifty... and Javal's riders." His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. "They're in trouble."

There was nothing the trio could do but wait out the climb and watch the rebels battle for their lives amid the dim light of the flames. Finally, the lift shuddered to a stop and Saleh shoved the button to peel back the doors.

The chaos of gunfire, screams of pain, and battle cries greeted their ears as soon as the lift's doors opened to the control room. While the battle on the dam's eastern gate was over, likely for good, soldiers from Dalibad, Sophie's team and what remained of Javal's riders battled over the western gate. Some of those that had been left behind had already joined Ranjiv's soul in the battle that had ensued in their absence. Those that couldn't be saved had been left in pools of blood while one or two of the remaining with some medical training were running between the injured.

There was no denying it. They were losing in short order. The western gate had to be secured if they were to survive even another ten minutes.

Something terrible crept into Seamus' eyes, and he drew his sword and charged into the fray, grabbing a soldier when he barreled into the control room and hurling him to his death. He leapt over bodies and rubbles and disappeared into the smoke, firing his pistol into the Prince's soldiers that stood in his path.

"Listen to me, Saleh. You stick close. You hear? Stick close." Sophie's words came in a sharp hiss as she followed Seamus out of the lift. There was no need to respond. The statement had been an order, not a request. Heaving a deep breath to gain courage, Saleh too plunged out of the lift and into the tumultuous bedlam of the carnage that had overtaken the dam.

((Adapted from a live scene with the player behind Seamus Morvan.))

In the minutes that followed the trio leaving the lift what remained of the rebels had completed a barricade, and the attack was repulsed, leaving both sides to lick their wounds and prepare for the long siege ahead. The rebels kept low to the ground, counted the dead and the wounded, spoke in whispers and stared at Sofia as she crept past. They were trapped, and the dam was eerily quiet now... Only two figures moved near the western barricade, their voices hushed. Either one of them would be Seamus... or the knight was among the fallen.

...Or the knight was among the fallen. The thought struck a note, combing through Sophie?s muddled thoughts and stoking a flame of panic.

At some point in the chaotic, violent minutes that had followed them stepping off the lift and into the battle, Sophie had abandoned her rifle as fighting was far too close contact for such a long range weapon to be effective. However, a curved tulwar blade had been secured off a Dalibad corpse would would no longer need the weapon in this life. The sticky, warm sensation of blood coating her arm hadn't even been noticed until their position had been secured behind the barricade and Saleh took the blade out of her hand to murmur something about having the deep slash across her forearm checked out by a medic.

After a brief glance at her arm to make sure that the blood loss wasn't life threatening, she shook off Saleh and returned her eyes to the two figures at western barricade. Slow, creeping steps drew her in that direction with her heart pounding in her ears as it had not done through the whole of the battle. She ignored the stares, the men left yearning for an encouraging look. Her unspoken promise to Atalanta was fresh in her mind. How had she let Seamus get out of sight?

Seamus' voice broke through the chilly air with a simple name: "Javal." The knight knelt with his back to the barricade, with Javal's head cradled in his lap. Blood oozed from the chest and gut, and pooled at his feet, but he kept a smile on his face.

"You are alive, my brother." Javal reached up and grasped his hand, squeezed it, and asked, "And Sofia?"

The relief Sophie felt at finding Seamus alive was almost immediately followed by grief and guilt. It didn't take an expert's eye to know that Javal didn't have long. One knight would survive but the other would not. While Atalanta?s heart was safe, another heart would break. Javal?s doe-eyed fiancee came to mind at the sight of his body lying broken on the ground. Sophie had met the sweet-tempered young woman several times. She hadn?t been the least bit put out when Javal insisted that their wedding be delayed so that he could return to his homeland to help his people. His bride had only been proud. "I'm here as well," she replied softly.

"Good." Javal's smile softened and he shut his eyes. "Someone has to take care of Seamus... my brother, he cannot look after himself. My brother."

The words stopped, and the fallen knight sighed his last breath. Seamus knelt in complete silence and stroked his hair, staring without apparent expression into his face. It was a minute before he spoke: "How many remain?"

His question caused her to withdraw her eyes from Javal and glance back towards the control room. Her bottom jaw tightened as she counted the faces -- those dead, those injured, those still creeping around the lip of the dam -- that she had passed of while creeping through to Seamus and Javal's position. Her mind had noted each even if her heart had been focused on finding Seamus. "Eleven still standing. Lokesh is alive but he's lost an arm. I don't know if they'll get the bleeding stopped."

"...We'll collect the dead, ours and theirs, and move them east of the control room... collect weapons and supplies, take stock of it and redistribute. Once we've divided the equipment, we establish posts and assign shifts. You and I will go back over the schematics, and see if we can't find another way out of here before dawn." He dipped his head to her, slowly. The grief was intensed and showed in his eyes, threatened to make him weep, but the rest of him showed he had steeled himself for what had to be done. "Okay?"

For a moment as their eyes met, she was not all hard edges and plotting. For that split second, she was his friend, a sympathetic shoulder who knew the pain of losing a sister-at-arms as well as she knew the back of her own hand. Yet, when she spoke, her voice came strong and determined. "We keep moving forward. It's the only way to go."

((Adapted from a live scene with the player behind Seamus Morvan.))

Clouds whipped by, soaked the sailors' and soldiers' skin as the Red Jack climbed the currents over Dalibad's rising mountains. Her billowing red sails had been set at strange angles now that they were out of the water, and two-dozen breach-loading guns bristled on either side. The ship was unusual, a late-generation sailing vessel reinforced with arcane iron, equipped with levitation engines, now bearing the Baron of St. Aldwin, a small army, and one angry Rhovnik cousin toward Ja'ir.

Most of the men and women out on the deck had small silver badges pinned near their right shoulders, and every so often they blinked: transport tags, for the rare Tesla translocation batteries packed into every available corner belowdecks. They were acquired by Ad Lucem in the 1920's and put into Rhovnik family storage one fateful September in 1939, and forgotten ever since. The batteries were expensive, could only transport targets one way to a laser-sighted destination, and burned out completely after one or two uses. It would take a madman to use them in combat...

The Baron of St. Aldwin stood at the prow staring through his binoculars, and grinning at the signal from the Moon's Livery, one of three ships accompanying the Red Jack on this voyage. "Ten minutes!" he called over his shoulder, and a 'hurrah!' went up from the army and crew. Every one of these volunteers was ready for justice, for revenge... saving their people and putting an end to this war.

And, yet, it was just another day in the life of a Rhovnik. How many times had he accompanied an army into a foreign land? He told himself that this mission was like any of the others he had been dispatched on since his sixteenth birthday but this one was different. This one was personal. Chase's anger simmered around him. He was angry with the Prince for daring to attack a member of his family, with his grandmother for allowing Sophie to go on this trip, with Sophie for the lies she had told and the ones she had allowed him to believe, and with himself for allowing his anger to cloud his better judgment.

Instead of focusing on the nagging irritation, he adjusted the strap holding his sword to his back so that it would sit comfortably and give him all the range he would need in his upper body. The same checks. The same routines. This would be no different than any of the rest.

There were plenty of last-minute checks to do. Alain hurried belowdecks to have a word with the engineers about the Tesla batteries, and back up again to speak with the captain. "Five minutes!" another man cried, but this brought more anxious preparation than celebration from the soldiers and sailors. The clock was ticking down, and he had one more thing left to take care of...

"Merry Christmas." A scarred-and-tattooed hand unfolded in front of Chase's face, revealing a grenade. A specially customized, very high-quality and high-yield hand grenade. Alain raised his eyebrows and added: "Throw long."

A grim smile came to Chase's lips as he reached out for the grenade. It was turned over in hand with a scrutinizing look. The weapon was certainly not of a sort that he could place which made it an oddity. "Do I even want to know where you picked these up at?"

"An old friend I went to school with." That probably made it even worse. "She always gives the best gifts. You ever done this before -- teleported into a battle?" He folded his arms over the edge of the railing and narrowed his eyes as the great peaks around Ja'ir came into view. Very soon now.

"Something similar enough I suppose," Chase replied with a dismissive shrug. He took a step closer to the railing after pocketing the grenade for safe-keeping as the mountain range came into view. The smile quickly slipped from his face and was replaced by a dark frown. "What's the last word you have on the ground?"

"Very little... but there's been an attack at the dam, and it looks like the Prince is preparing for a siege. The rebels must've taken refuge there, or nearby. We'll find out soon." One minute. Alain stepped backwards to the middle of the deck, steeling himself, and nodded to Chase. "We'll find them."

Chase couldn't squint through the low-hanging gray clouds any longer, hoping for glimpses of what was occurring on the ground. A calloused hand reached up to rub a stubbled cheek, giving a single shouldered shrug to Alain. "Let's get this done then."

"Listen up!" His gruff voice called over the gathered soldiers as he turned to face the gathered group. Young as Chase was, like the baron at his side, he was used to his orders being followed. They ruled based on experience and brash confidence. "I just want to remind you all to have your weapons at the ready. The plan is to teleport directly into the combat area. And, I know many of you know Sophie or have fought alongside Seamus as I have. Right now the pair of them are down there doing what they have done time and time again -- helping people stand up for themselves. Some of you are even from Icecrest where they put their lives on the line to help you escape to the barony. We're asking you now to stand beside them as they help the people of the Upland put their foot down and stand up for themselves!"

Alain drew his sword in solidarity, and the soldiers followed suit, blades drawn and rifles raised. They bellowed, yelled at the top of their lungs at the coming battle. Four airships soared over the palace and into the view of a stunned army: down below nearly a thousand of the Prince's soldiers were clustered around the western end of the dam, and as one they stopped and stared at the terrible fleet.

Someone gave the order to fire, and a dozen guns blazed from the ships, turning the empty ground between the army and the palace into a maelstrom of smoke and debris, and reducing the palace's new, unfinished wing to rubble. Ranks were already breaking, the reserves abandoning their post as most had not ever seen heavy artillery at work, much less real air power. This was not what they had signed up for -- they were losing their nerve -- but the army held its ground. Officers barked orders, preparing anything they could to return fire at those airships and drive them away...

Then another volley pounded the machine-gun nests and the artillery across the reservoir, and two hundred of the Baron's volunteers appeared in brilliant flashes of light on the field of battle, swords and rifles at the ready. Two fierce lords appeared at the front, backed by thirteen knights plus one enormous bear, which stood on its hind legs and bellowed a challenge to the opposing army.

Most of the Prince's army behaved as any man would when faced with airship artillery, an army that materializes out of light, and a five-meter belligerent bear: they fled in every direction.

The scene laid out before them was quickly assessed by Chase's expert eye. Soldiers were scattering in every direction with only the occasional skirmish between the rare loyal Dalibad soldier and the Baron's men. The only real combat seemed to be happening on the dam where soldiers dressed in uniforms signifying them to be the Prince's personal guard were tearing through a barricade at the western end of the dam.

The rebels. The rebels had to be holed up there. Or at least what was left of their forces.

Chase nodded towards the dam for Alain as his hand tightened further around the hilt of his blade. He didn't wait for the baron before starting in that direction. There seemed so few soldiers separating him from his goal. "Look. The dam. They've got to be there."

Alain and his knights followed on Chase's heels, charging towards the dam. A dozen soldiers hunkered down around trucks at the entrance to repulse them, but Amir Wong's sharpshooters were still in the airships circling the reservoir, and they were very good shots. With the last line of defense overwhelmed, Alain, Chase and the knights entered the dam.

The Prince of Dalibad was less amused. "You dishonor me! I was a fool to attempt your capture -- I'll send you from my world and be rid of you!" He raised his sword over his head, and his guards barely lurched forward to rejoin the attack when a shot rang out. He was struck through the arm and dropped his blade, collapsing into the men behind him.

"I'd listen to her if I were you." One man stared coolly down his revolver at the Prince, his arm outstretched and his aim steady. He wore a gleaming silver circlet on brow, and carried cold hatred in his eyes for the tyrant they beheld.

"And who in the Hell are you?" the wounded Prince sputtered.

The Baron pulled back his hammer again, and as one Chase Rhovnik and the Knights of St. Aldwin stepped up behind him. "I am Alain DeMuer, 1st Baron St. Aldwin, and I have come to Ja'ir to secure my people. Your armies are beaten and dispersed. Have your men lay down their weapons, and discuss the terms of your surrender with us... or I'll throw you into the river myself, and find someone more willing to cooperate."

Relief came in a sudden sweeping tidal wave over Sophie at the sight of Alain and then Chase. Her knees weakened with it even as her body ached to lunge into the arms of the man that the Prince now separated her from. Rigid self-control kept her standing perfectly still as she watched, waiting for the Prince's response to Alain's demands.

The Prince goggled at them, enraged... and suddenly broken. He hung his head as he raised his hand to his followers... then lowered it, and in a steady wave they set down their weapons. A steady cheer swelled through the Baron's and Uplanders' ranks, and Alain pushed his way through the crowd, gun and sword clattering behind him as he reached out for Sophie. "You," was all he could manage, and he smiled.

Her own weapon was shoved in Saleh's direction which the stunned teenager took as he reeled in the sudden shift from hopelessness to victory. With a sudden bright smile, she took a couple quick steps forward to reach Alain and swung her arms out to capture his neck in a tight squeeze. "You cut it awfully close there. I was about thirty seconds from having to put a bullet in Seamus."

"I don't know about that..." He tipped his head to hers and grinned. "From where I stood, looked like the two of you had things under control." His eyes shut, and he sighed. "I love you so much, Sophie... more than anything... and no army in the world can keep me away from you."

Her arms tightened, drawing herself in against him. Her lips were pressed against his cheek before she whispered in his ear. "I love you too." Her voice remained low and intimate but her tone turned cheeky. "You say that like I died, though. You didn't think I died, did you? Really, Alain, I thought you knew me better than that."

He narrowed his eyes at her and curled a hand around her neck. "Come here, you," he said, and drew her in for a deep kiss. He poured everything, all of him into it, and for another moment let them keep forgetting they were still in the middle of a battlefield.

The four ships left the air one at a time and landed in the reservoir, and all around them soldiers collected weapons and tended to the wounded, while the knights marched off the Prince and his guards to discuss peace terms.

The war was ended.