The Legend of Krohlm's Crossing ~~Memories of Fate~~

Tall wrought iron braziers with gold and silver gilding glowed in all four corners of the Council Chamber of the Island of Brae, and a large fire roared in the stone hearth. Still, the unseasonably cold wind howling outside found ways of seeping through tiny cracks in the walls and ceiling. Two banners hung from the tall ceiling, each divided half red and half black, signifying the call to war. Each of the council seats was filled today, which was a rare occasion. The Councilors sat in the heavy robes of their office with hood pulled forward to hide their faces. When they spoke, they would not be speaking for themselves, but for the people so their identities were concealed as best they could be. Lord Darius Kraw stood before the council, his hands clenched in fists from frustration.

"Honored Council," Lord Kraw grated through clenched teeth, "I know that the call has gone out to marshal our forces and march. I received the pigeons as we all did. But we are marching to the aid of the wrong city. The Army of Darkness will not march on Britain, but on Trinsic."

One of the Councilors snorted through his nose, and Lord Villinor's voice spoke from beneath his cowl. "And just how do you know where the enemy will march, my lord? Have you been in contact with them? Have you stood in their council as you now stand in ours? Or are these more lies that you spit to confuse and confound us?"

Lord Kraw's honor bearer growled deep in his throat, but Lord Kraw shook his head slightly. Now wasn't the time for a confrontation. Instead, Lord Kraw reached into the tied leather bundle at his feet and retrieved four blackwood bows carved with Orcish runes and etchings. He tossed the Orcish bows onto the table before the councilors. "My rangers took these from four Orcish scouts they found patrolling in the woods and marshes around Trinsic. Each scout had its own guard with them, and one even had a Mage in its ranks. These weren't idle raiders from the mountains, they were advance troops of the AoD."

Councilor Villinor snorted again and chuckled softly. "And who's to say your rangers didn't track down some wandering Orcs around Cove, steal their bows when they weren't looking, and bring them for you to present as 'evidence' today? We need more than rumors carried by a minor country lord."

Darius held out his hand again to restrain his honor bearer. The veins on Krohlm's neck and his forearms stood out as he gripped the haft of his massive double axe. Lord Kraw reached into the leather bag once more and pulled out a twisted helm in the shape of a massive skull. It was hammered of blackened iron and had two curved horns that rose above the ridged crest and nearly touched above he helm. He set the helm on the council table atop the pile of bows. "That is the helm of a Vaarglund," Lord Kraw said softly. "I killed it myself within sight of the gates of Trinsic. If the Army of Darkness were not marching south on the Golden City, then why would a high captain of the Orcs be patrolling the road leading there?"

Several of the Councilors were regarding the pile on the table now, and whispering with each other. Suddenly, Villinor threw his hood back, revealing a face twisted in a mask of rage and contempt. "More lies!" he called, "You have stood against this Council's every move, Lord Kraw, and you have conspired with the enemy to--"

Suddenly Krohlm bellowed a roar and took one huge step forward. With blinding speed, he swung the massive valorite runic axe, and struck the Vaarglund helm, cleaving it in two and burying the head of the axe deep in the massive council table. "The next one of you cowards to insult my lord's honor will die in your fancy chair." Krohlm grated, his bare chest heaving with his breath and his outrage.

Lord Kraw put a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder, and stepped around him to face the Councilors. "I have laid the evidence before you and made my appeal. I say we must ride to the aid of the scant few Paladins of Trinsic remaining to hold the city until reinforcements arrive or the Army of Darkness will storm the city and burn it to the ground. What say you?"

Villinor's face was pale as a wraith's and his mouthed moved a bit before words would come out for him. "We march to Britain," Villinor said finally, "And trust the wisdom of this council and of Lord British's strategists more than that of one.... man."

Lord Kraw turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber without another word. Krohlm pulled his axe from the table and leveled it at Villinor. "Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat," he growled in the Old Tongue and several of the Councilors gasped. It was a hard curse, and one that served as grounds for a blood duel in most cases. Villinor simply paled further and seemed to sink into his seat. Krohlm shouldered his axe and left the Council Chamber without another word. As he strode towards the door, the only sound behind him was the snap and crackle of the fire.

Outside, Lord Kraw fumed. He swung silently into his saddle, and turned his horse so his back was to the Council Chambers, and he waited for Krohlm. The axeman walked up and patted Lord Kraw's horse on the neck, an easy smile on his face as he looked up at his liege. "Well, we sure showed them, m'Lord," he said in his rough, gravely voice.

Lord Kraw turned his head and spat. "Prattling old fools wouldn't know truth if it slapped them," he growled.

"So what do we do?" Krohlm asked, and the horse nuzzled him for some more affection, which was gladly given.

"As we were ordered," Lord Kraw grated through clenched teeth, "We go home, and we call the banners. Prepare to march to Britain, join Lord British, and wait for an attack that will never come. Meanwhile, Trinsic will burn." Lord Kraw pulled a Recall Rune and a scroll from his pack. "Shall we be about it, then? Vas Rel Por." He read, and the scroll crumbled to ash in his hand.

The air in front of Lord Kraw's horse seemed to twist in on itself, and it began to shimmer with a soft blue light. Lord Kraw rode his horse through without another word. A few flakes of light snow fluttered through the gateway from the other side, and they quickly melted in the salty air as Krohlm stepped through. There was a brief tingling as of water near to freezing cold was poured slowly over each inch of his skin. For a moment it felt like he was stretched out and time slowed down. An then, he was through the gateway, and standing on the other side nearly four hundred leagues to the east. Mountains rose sharp and suddenly just to the west of north and less than a dozen leagues as the crow flies. Their craggy tops were lost in the steel gray clouds that were dusting the woods with what should be the last flakes of snow for the Spring.

Lord Kraw was already standing just in front of the massive iron gates of the Hall of the Eastern March. Krohlm stood before the gate, his axe in his hands, hoping someone would be foolish enough to try and follow them through with ill intent. After the last few days, he could use and excuse to swing his axe at something. After a few moments, the gateway seemed to twist in on itself, and it turned sideways, growing thinner and thinner until it was a line that simply winked out of existence. With a heavy sigh, Krolm turned to Lord Kraw, and gave a light shrug of his shoulders and they entered the Keep. Lord Kraw handed his reins to a groom from the stables that came running as soon as they entered the gates. He patted the horse softly before sending it away with the competent stableman. Lord Kraw didn't speak as he made his way through the halls of the keep, so Krohlm followed in patient silence. At the door to the war-room, Kraw flagged down one of the servants and sent him running to fetch Japheth, the Scribe. The man had a remarkable grasp of tactics and strategy from decades of studying the histories and knowledge of legendary Captains of War that had lived and died long ago.

Lord Kraw unrolled a broad and detailed map of the entire kingdom on the floor of the war-room, and he began pacing around it frowning. The Scribe arrived, and Lord Kraw informed him of the Council's response. The Scribe, the pure picture of a Stoic, simply nodded as if he'd expected nothing else the entire time. When Lord Kraw, Japheth pointed the arm of mountains that swung around and down to form the Western Wall as it was known in the capitol. There was one pass that cut through those mountains, and it was heavily guarded. Still, with the numbers of the Army of Darkness, the Orcs, Trolls, Ogres, Ettins and the rest would have been able to swarm the defenders easily, and it would have been a short, straight shot to the city itself from there. But the AoD had passed by the obvious weak point and continued south. Now, it was rounding that small tip of mountains, and the official reports claimed I was turning towards the city.

"This makes no sense," Japheth said at last. "The enemy is far from stupid, and even a stupid tactician could see the proper attack would be to take the pass. If they swing to the south and attack Britain with the pass open, then Lord British can send his Knights of Order through and it becomes the Hammer and the Anvil. The Knights smash in from behind and flatten them against the Anvil of the army. The enemy won't attack the city."

"Where do you think they'll turn, then?" Lord Kraw asked after a moment. "They could turn West toward Skara and Brae."

Japheth shook his head again. "Could, but I doubt it. If they were headed our way, why make the turn at the tip of the mountains at all? It's as we discussed earlier, the only target that makes any sense is Trinsic. The Paladins have been drawn down to a bare skeletal force to support Lord British to the north at the bridge into Britain itself. They city is open for the taking."

Lord Kraw nodded slowly, and then drew his ancient Viking sword that was forged from a lump of shadow-iron that fell from the heavens ages past. He pointed to a narrow bridge along the Trinsic Road. "There," he said with conviction, "That's where we'll hold them. The enemy will turn south and put the river on their right to block attack. Once they cross that bridge, they'll burn it to prevent Lord British's army from reaching them. The rivers to the south cut off reinforcements coming from the moongate there. They need that bridge, so we need to keep it from them."

Krohlm stepped away from the wall of the Keep and looked over at the map. The bridge was narrow, and the forest closed in on both sides of the rode just before the river. "We can hold that," Krohlm said evenly. "We won't hold it forever, but we can make a stand to be remembered."

Suddenly there was a throaty chuckle from the corner of the room. A woman with a red wool skirt that flowed over her hips and down to just shy of her ankles and a silk blouse the color of thick cream stepped out into the middle of the room. Her hair was black enough to look purple as it shimmered in the light of the lamps and torches. She sauntered out onto the floor map and the small silver bells she wore on both ankles tinkled softly as she moved. She looked around the room slowly, her smoldering green eyes taking them each in with a hint of sadness in her face.

"So you have chosen your path," She said at last, and Krohlm was startled to realize it was the first sound in the room for some time. "Know this. Now that your feet are set on it, you cannot turn aside. You three are bound to each other, and those ties cannot be severed. I cannot see this pattern fully....." She made a sour twist of her face at that, as if the words tasted bad in her mouth. "The Darkness shrouds the pattern from my sight. But I can see this.... there is a chance that one of you, and one only, may live....though I cannot see which one. And so long as one of you does live, the Darkness cannot prevail. I wish there was some other way..... but the price must be paid."

The woman suddenly swept a bow, and when she raised her head, there was a flash and she was gone. Krohlm cursed softly under his breath and spun in several full circles. "Where'd that witch go?" He growled, glaring at the shadows around the room.

A dice cup on a table in the corner of the room suddenly rattled and fell off the table. As the dice tumbled across the floor, each small cube stopped on a corner, and began spinning.....

The dice abruptly stopped and fell showing one through five on the cubes. It was the Dancer's Jig, and the toughest of all rolls to beat.

The men all looked at each other for a long moment, but no one spoke. After a long moment, Japheth walked over to the dice and picked them up one by one. He would examine each tiny cube, shake it slightly, and then replace it on the map as he'd found it. After examining each of the dice individually, he walked back over to the others shaking his head slightly. "They're just dice, but it didn't even fell right touching them," he said, and he wiped his hands unconsciously on his robes.

"What do you think she meant when she said we'd chosen our path?" Krohlm asked, tugging on his thick beard.

Lord Kraw shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I'm more interested in what she meant about only one of us surviving."

Japheth snapped his fingers at that, and stroked two fingers down his chin as he walked in tight circles. It was his way of saying that he'd had an idea. "Now, if we take that, and assume that we're not the one that survives, then what does that mean for us?" He asked cryptically.

"I don't follow, Japheth," Lord Kraw said.

"If you knew you were one of the two of us that will perish, and this would be your last act in the world of the living, what would it be?" Japheth asked, stopping suddenly, and raising one finger to point towards the ceiling. "What would you choose to do? What would keep your conscience clear?"

Lord Kraw began nodding before Japheth was done speaking. "Yes, I see what you mean. I would try to find some way to beat the enemy to that bridge, and hold it. If we left no and rode hard, the best we could hope to do is watch it burn after the enemy crosses. But if we could get there first, get our boots dug in and meet their charge, then we could hold as Krohlm said."

"Then why don't we do it?" Krohlm asked. "Lord Kraw and I will go through the public gate at Brae and travel to the one at Britain. We'll slip past the outer sentries, cause they're looking for someone coming in, not someone trying to get out... then we ride hard down to that bridge. Lord Kraw casts one of his fancy gateways when we get there, a couple of mages ride through and we open the thing wide. Our foot soldiers and cavalry come through all at once, and we dig in hard to wait for the rolling tide to crash on us like rocks."

"Poetic," Japheth said with a sour twist of his mouth, "but a good plan all the same."

Krohlm nodded his appreciation. With his broad shoulders and strong frame it was easy to forget that he was schooled in the arts of tactics and Lore on a level few in Age had known. Krohlm smiled a broad grin at the Scribe, "Your sure you want to come along, bookworm? It's going to get mighty ugly down there."

Japheth smiled at the joke. Krohlm had called him bookworm his entire life, but it was the good-natured tone of an older brother rather than an insult. "Someone will need to write it all down so you fools don't forget what you've done."

"You forget," Lord Kraw said, suddenly serious again, "Fate said two of us will be dead. We won't be around to forget it. But you write it anyway, Japheth. If we succeed, then whoever is left will need to know the truth of what happens."

"That's it, then?" Krohlm asked suddenly, "We're definitely going?"

Lord Kraw nodded, "Yes. We're going."

Krohlm grinned even more. "How long will it take to call in the banners, M'Lord?"

"A day or so," Lord Kraw said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you ask, Krohlm?"

The HausKarl chuckled as he answered. "I've got to go tell the boys we're marchin to war. They'll want to throw a party, and if we get started soon we should have just enough time to squeeze in a small one. The ones who make it back will have a bigger one..... too bad we won't be there." Krohlm winked at Japheth, who rolled his eyes.

"You better be sober when it's time to go, Krohlm," Lord Kraw growled.

Krohlm threw his head back and laughed heartily. "Lord Kraw," Krohlm panted finally, "We've known each other our whole lives. Remember that when I say go bugger yourself. We're on the way to a last stand battle before a force no one's even been able to count yet. They've sacked Vesper, burned Minoc, Yew emptied ahead of their advance.... and we're taking 300 horse and two hundred foot. Oh, and your fifty HausKarls under my command. My whole life has been building to this moment, and I don't plan to miss one moment of it..... but the last thing I plan to be, after dead, is sober."

Krohlm knelt in the deep shadows, his breathing carefully measured and quiet. Lord Kraw crouched behind an oak tree less than a stone's throw to his right. Clouds covered the moon, which was a blessing for their purpose and Krohlm said a quick, but sincere prayer of thanks to Fate for making it so. The two scouts from Lord British's army came to within a dozen paces of each other, saluted, and turned to walk the other way.

When they were out of earshot, Krohlm nodded to Lord Kraw, and the two darted through the line. A few hundred yards later, they slipped past a single stationary sentry asleep in a forked tree a good twenty feet above the forest floor. Krohlm nodded towards the snoozing sentry and winked at Lord Kraw. "I bet I can climb quietly enough to tie his shoes together," Krohlm whispered, "That'd sure teach him a lesson about sleeping on watch."

Lord Kraw suppressed a chuckle, but shook his head. "Not our mission tonight, Krohlm."

The HausKarl shrugged slightly, and the two made their way to the east. After less than two leagues, they topped a low rise, and could see the watch fires of the enemy camp spread out below them, twinkling in the darkness like stars spread across the forest floor. Lord Kraw frowned for a moment. "There aren't enough fires. Not by a good deal. It's a decoy."

Krohlm nodded. "We're going to have some company not long after we get to the bridge," Krohlm whispered, "If they're not there already."

Lord Kraw nodded gravely. "Best be about it, then."

Krohlm led the way, and he set a hard pace. The two weaved in and out among the trees, venturing to the road every league or so to check for any sign of passage of an army, and finding none. The minutes stretched into hours, and the hours seemed to stretch into a lifetime. Finally, Krohlm slowed, then stopped in the shadow of a towering cedar tree. He held one finger up to his ear, and pointed off to the Northwest. Lord Kraw had to strain to hear it, but there was a faint pulsating thrum on the wind that tickled his awareness.

War drums.

Krohlm pushed away from the tree, and began trotting again. As he moved through the trees, he pulled his axe from the loop at his belt, just in case. Lord Kraw followed, his sword out, and his eyes on the trail behind them almost as much as the forest in front of them. He nearly ran Krohlm over as the HausKarl broke through the forest and onto the grassy banks of the river. A small, simple wooden bridge spanned the dark waters.

They were alone.

Krohlm was breathing heavily as he knelt in the damp grass. The eastern sky was beginning to grow gray with the first hints of dawn as Krohlm dropped the leather pack from his back and emptied it on the banks of the river. He began donning the light armor he'd carried and tossed the pouch with the recall rune and the gateway scroll to Lord Kraw. Krohlm had a studded tunic of dragon hide, a pair of finely crafted golden ringmail sleeves, and a pair of hardened and rune encrusted agapite platemail gloves. A valorite gorget protected his throat, but his head was bare. With his armor on, Krohlm stood and stretched, turning this way and that to test his range of motion. Meanwhile, Lord Kraw paced the clearing, trying to learn every inch of it and become familiar enough to cast a gateway with his scroll and rune.

Just then, two green-skinned Orcs stepped out from the woods and raised their bows together. They drew the blackwood bows almost simultaneously, and took aim at Lord Drake. Krohlm pulled a dagger from his belt and flipped it at the one closest to him. He wasn't that good at throwing daggers, but this time Fate smiled on him and the blade struck with a solid thunk. The Orc Scout fell over and loosed his arrow as he fell. The yard long arrow took the other scout high in the throat, and the beast crumbled. Krohlm knew he couldn't count on that kind of luck again.

Two Orcish Lords broke free from the woods, took one look at Krohlm, and charged him with axes raised. Krohlm bellowed a battle cry, and charged, which threw the Orcs into a confused frenzy. They were used to their prey running in terror, not leaping between them with a runic axe flashing and slashing. In a few moments, both Orc Lords were dead at Krohlm's feet. The war drums in the distance were growing louder, and he could hear the sound of more crashing through the woods. Krohlm glanced over his shoulder and found Lord Kraw standing in the knee-high grass, his eyes closed.

"Not to be a bother, m'Lord," Krohlm said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, "But do you think we'll be getting reinforcements any time soon?"

"It doesn't help when you interrupt, Krohlm," Lord Kraw said absent mindedly, and Krohlm chuckled deep in his throat.

Suddenly there was a sound like a bellowing trumpet from the woods, and Krohlm's blood ran cold..... it was a Cave Troll.

"Lord Kraw," Krohlm said as he tightened his grip on his axe, "Hurry."

Well written, interesting story line. Thanks for this fine tale. More Please




Westra/Marjo

Governess of WispFelt

Krohlm dodged to his right and felt the wind blow by his face as he Cave Troll missed, but only narrowly. The beast's club happened to fall in the split trunk of an ancient elm. The beast grunt and bellowed as it heaved and hauled at the club, but the force of the attempted strike against Krohlm had stuck it solid in the deep cleft of the tree. Krohlm seized the opportunity, and darted forward to hamstring the beast and finish it with one strong blow. Finally, there was silence in the two hundred yard wide clearing between the river and the forest. Or rather, there was less noise. The sound of the war drums was close enough now that it filled the air and Krohlm could feel it through his feet.....either that, or he was feeling the march of the Army of Darkness, and that would be worse than bad timing.

Lord Kraw knelt on the grass between Krohlm and the bridge, his face drawn and haggard. Twice already he had needed to break away from the difficult spell to stand back to back with Krohlm and fight off the advanced units of the approaching army. What had started out as engagements with small bands of isolated scouts was becoming raiding parties, and those would soon turn into patrols and full ranks. Krohlm had a high opinion of himself, but he wasn't ready to believe that he could take on the whole Army of Darkness by himself. A little help would be nice.

Two Orcish Lords and an Ettin broke out of the trees and lunged for Krohlm. He dodged the Orcs, and dispatched the three quickly, but one of the Orcish Lords managed to land a solid blow to his studded leggings, and his axe was heavy. The leather held and kept his leg attached, but he was pretty sure it was dislocated, if not broken. He limped back towards Lord Kraw just as he stood, a look of calm determination on his face.

"Vas Rel Por," Lord Kraw intoned in an almost conversational voice.

The air in front of Lord Kraw shimmered and seemed to twist in on itself as the gateway spell took hold. Lord Kraw stood, his hands outstretched, sweat beading on his face as four battlemages stepped through the gateway. The spell weavers looked at Lord Kraw and nodded, then they raised their hands and took control of the weaving. The gateway expanded, and the pale blue light shimmering from it grew brighter. Almost immediately, soldiers began pouring through in orderly ranks and files. The foot came through on the right side of the gateway, and began forming a wedge with the base centered on the bridge. The HausKarls made up a tight knot at the peak of the formation and another solid block at the center of the base. The cavalry came through on the left side, and they formed two wings, one on either side of the foot of the bridge.

When the last soldier had stepped through, Japheth the Scribe stepped through after them. He patted the nearest battlemage on the shoulder and smiled. The sorcerer bowed his head to the elderly man, and all four of them released the spell. The gateway seemed to fold in on itself until it was a thin bright line in the air that collapsed down to a single point, and winked out. At the moment the gateway winked out of existence, the first rays of the sun fell across the gathered host. In their shining plate and chain armor, burnished shields, and polished weapons the small guard was something to behold. The soldiers all turned as one, and saluted the sunrise. They knew that to a man, they'd soon be bathed in red of a different kind, and many would never see the sun set again.

The sound of the drums was loud enough now to make the small hairs along Krohlm's arms stir in rhythm. He could feel the gathered foot falls of the Army of Darkness too. He felt them thrumming up through his feet, and into his bones. Krohlm pulled a bottle of Rhum from deep in the bandages he'd stuffed into the bottom of his pack, and he took a long, slow drink. The enemy was at hand. He felt the warmth of the drink burn slowly down into his belly and spread from there all the way to his toes. He turned to the HausKarls at the front ranks, and raised his axe in simple salute.

The HauseKarls as one returned the gesture.

Krohlm limped to the back of the line where Lord Kraw stood next to the bent and weathered scribe. "What brings you out this early, old man?" Krohlm asked, a wide grin on his face, "You heard I had Rhum, didn't you?"

"Everyone's heard you have Rhum, Krohlm," Japheth shot back, "It'd be news if you didn't, now give me a drink. I'm old and I got tired of living, that's why I'm here. You're young, what's your excuse?"

Krohlm threw his head back and laughed hard enough to shake the sweat from his beard. "Good answer, book worm. I'm here because men will sing songs and tell tales about this day for ages to come. After our bones have long since turned to dust and blown away on the night breeze.... long after your books and scrolls fade away and carry their secrets with them.....this day will live. And I will live with it.....Glory! Honor!"

"You're insane, Krohlm," Lord Kraw said, his voice tinged with a hint of weariness. "You know that, don't you Japheth?"

The scribe grunted, and took another long drink from Krohlm's bottle before handing it back to him. "Who knows," Japheth replied with a shrug. "After all, Krohlm may out live us both, Lord Kraw. Fate never said which one of us would live, just that one of us must. "

Krohlm chuckled again. "She didn't say anything.....to you...." Krolm said and offered the bottle to Lord Kraw, who politely shook his head. Krohlm shrugged and took a quick sip before corking the bottle and dropping it back into his bag. Japheth bent and said some quite words over Krohlm's leg, and suddenly it felt better. The Scribe had all kinds of hidden talents, it seemed.

"I want to see what we're looking at," Japheth said, squinting at the northwestern horizon.

"Up you go, book worm," Krohlm said, and he hoisted Japheth's thin frame onto his broad, massive shoulders. Japheth grunted, and peered towards the horizon. "Can you see anything?" Krohlm asked, grunting under the weight of the scribe.

"There's a raven at about the right spot in the sky," Japheth replied, shading his eyes.

"What good is a bird?" Krohlm asked, confused, "Are you hungry?"

Japheth grunted, "No, you oaf. I can see through his eyes, if he'll let me."

"You mean you can hear the raven's thoughts from here?" Krohlm asked, and Japheth stomped one foot down hard enough to make him grunt.

"Not if you won't shut your bloody mawl, you braying jackass," Japheth growled, "Now be quiet so I can concentrate."

Krohlm chuckled softly, but kept his mouth shut. He knew just how far to push the old scribe, but he also knew when it was time to stop pushing or blood would be spilt. And given the things he didn't know about the Scribe, he wasn't altogether sure it would be the old man's blood. Japheth was quiet for a long moment, then he gasped suddenly. His face went pale, and his lips began to move silently. Then, he whispered, "More than I can fathom. They stretch to the edges of the sky. Orcs, Ettins, Trolls, Ogres, every manner of beast and monster. There are huge Cave Trolls.... they're pulling carts with what looks like thick, black sections of river cane.... hollow and rigid.... closed at one end.... other carts.... big black acorns that are too big..... the.... the bird is frightened..... he's pushing me out....."

Suddenly, Japhet collapsed, and Krohlm barely caught him on the way down. It only lasted a moment, and the Scribe's eyes were open again. He blinked up at Krohlm, then frowned harshly. "Set me down, you goon." Krohlm obliged him, and Japheth harrumphed as he straightened his robes. Then he turned his eyes on Lord Kraw and Krohlm together, shaking his head. "It's worse than we thought," he said. "The Army is vast beyond understanding. The bird didn't understand numbers, and I saw through his eyes, bit it looked as if a sea had somehow risen and was flowing in inky blackness across the land. It stretched to the horizons in all directions....save this one."

Krohlm grinned, and slapped the Scribe on the back. "I told you, book worm," he said with a chuckle, "Today is a good day to die!" Krohlm threw his head back and laughed as he pushed his way to the very vanguard of the foot soldiers. As the last limb of the sun rose above the trees in the east and the blood red light of the dawn bathed the army in crimson, the first waves of the Army of Darkness broke through the trees. Lord Kraw bellowed an order, and both wings of the cavalry turned and rode hard away from the bridge, hugging the two hundred yard wide swath of open grass that bordered the waterway. To the enemy, it looked like they were fleeing. A great roar went up from the front ranks of the Army of Darkness, and they charged.

At the vanguard of the Army of Light, Krohlm started singing.

Beat the shield and pound the drum,
SHRUM
SHRUM
The Darkness Comes.

Mountain, field, and forest burns
SHRUM
SHRUM
The Darkness Comes.

For our love and homes we yearn
SHRUM
SHRUM
The Darkness Comes.

Fight the Darkness, Fight for Light
SHRUM
SHRUM
The Darkness Comes

Stand the long dark Watch of Night
SHRUM
SHRUM
The Darkness Comes

Beat the shield and pound the drum,
SHRUM
SHRUM
The Darkness Comes.....

The first wave of the Army of Darkness crashed into the delta formation like a wave breaking on a cliff. The entire unit of men took a collective step back under the weight of that blow. Shields were raised and interlocked to hold the enemy off, and for the moment, it worked. The foot soldiers toward the center of the formation pushed back, and the HausKarls swung their massive axes. Whole ranks of the enemy fell to axe and sword and spear, yet there were always more to take their place. Orcish mouths, twisted in howls of rage and pain snapped and tore a the men, but the men held.

After what felt like an eternity, there was a pause. The enemy had pulled back a few dozen yards, and milled about like a seething black sea. The men nursed wounds, and wrapped hasty bandages around cuts or gashes. The enemy dead were piled knee high in places, and the smell was enough to make more than one of the foot soldiers wretch. The HausKarls stood with grim stoicism as they assessed the strength of the enemy facing them. Already, more Orcs, Goblins, Ettins, and Ogres had been felled today than in most battles since the Age of Darkness and the legends of the WarLocks and the DreadLords. And at least ten times that number faced them.

Krohlm pulled the bottle of fine aged Rhum from his pack, pulled the cork with his teeth, and spat it over the mound of dead Orcs in front of him. He took a long drink, and handed the bottle back to the next HausKarl in line. He turned and faced his men forming the vanguard of the Army of Light. "There it is, boys!" Krohlm called, waiving his hand to the enemy, "What we've all ben singing about all our bloody lives! HONOR!! GLORY!!"

Krohlm let out a loud roar, and the entire army joined in. The sound was loud enough to move his beard, and make the small silver bells in his braids twinkle. He raised his axe, turned, and charged the enemy. The ground shook as the entire force behind him charged with him.

The faces of the Orcs and other creatures facing them were suddenly twisted in grotesque mockeries of confusion. This was the last move they'd been expecting, and it had caught them completely by surprise. The point of the delta shaped column slammed into the enemy ranks and sliced through them like a spear head. Some were trampled under foot as they turned to run, and the rest in arms' length were cut down like wheat in the harvest. As the formation slowed, and was eventually stopped by the sheer weight of the enemy, the gap behind them was wide and bloody. Still, the enemy ranks began to slowly close that whole and surround them.

From behind the army, came a single long blast from a ram's horn in the hands of Lord Kraw, still standing next to Japheth and surrounded by four battle mages in the center of the bridge.

Krohlm whirled to his men and bellowed above the noise, "COVER!"

Suddenly the delta formation collapsed back into a tight rectangle, and the foot swung their heater shields around and grounded them in front. Interlocking layers of shields closed in rapid succession, until the entire group of three hundred men was securely sheltered under a cover of shields. Orcs and Ettins rained blows down on the shield wall, but the combined strength of the men was too much for them.

Then, the ground began to shake.

It was faint at first, but grew in a fast and steady crescendo until it was a roar. The cavalry had returned with a vengeance. Krohlm could see it in his mind....the arms of horse wheeling in from either side of the bridge to crush the already battered enemy rear. The horse was the hammer, the shield wall was the anvil. In a few brief moments, the noise of battle grew more distant, and there was a tap on one shield. The foot stood, and took positions reinforcing the wide line of cavalry as they quickly backed their way to the bridge.

Cage, the captain of the Cavalry was there, and Krohlm shook his hand. The Captain tossed down a bottle of Rhum, the wax seal still intact. "A gift for you and your HausKarls, Krohlm," Cage called. "Men will sing songs about that charge."

"And yours!" Krohlm replied, raising the bottle before pulling the cork and taking a long drink. He handed the bottle to one of the foot soldiers, and got a slap on the back in return. The enemy had pulled away and stood in stunned silence at the edge of the forest. There were still so many that the trees were barely visible in the glaring sunlight, but for the moment at least, they were afraid. The enemy had expected to swallow them in one bight, and had instead come away bloodied. They weren't sure what to make of it yet, but in time they would develop a crude strategy. And with their numbers, crude was all it would take.

Krohlm and Cage locked eyes, and the Captain winked at him. "Don't worry, Krohlm. Today is a good day to die.....but not yet."

Krohlm couldn't help but laugh at that. The entire army fell back until it formed a tight knot with the foot forming a wide delta shaped line. The men grouped together in teams of three with wide lanes between the groups for the horse to ride out at a charge if need be. The HausKarls filled some of the gaps, but twenty feet behind the foot. Anywhere they saw the line weaken, they would dart in and give support to reset the lines. If he enemy massed, the horse would charge out and cut them to shreds. The Army of Light would be able to hold in that formation for a while, but not forever. Eventually, the men would be exhausted and the horses would die from exertion, if nothing else. Once the cavalry was gone, it would only be a matter of time. The sheer weight of the enemy would break them eventually if Lord Brtitish didn't see the error of his ways and ride to their defense in time.

Once the lines were set, Krohlm made his way to the bridge. The two battlemages at the foot of the bridge saluted with fists over their hearts, and bowed deeply to him. Krohlm growled deep in his throat. "I'm not some bloody Lord you fools. Stand up straight."

Before either could respond, Krohlm was past them, and he strode up to Lord Kraw and Japheth.

"How many?" Lord Kraw asked, his voice tight.

Krohlm took a deep, slow breath, and shrugged. "Thirteen, m'Lord. Another four probably won't see sundown. But we took a hundred to one what we lost, at least...and the men who fell took more than most."

Lord Kraw nodded gravely. "The price must be paid," he whispered. After a long moment of silence, Lord Kraw turned to Japheth. "You must go, Japheth. Go to Trinsic and tell the Paladins what is coming. Tell them they must send to Britain for reinforcements and evacuate the city."

Japheth frowned and looked skeptical. "And why would they listen to me?" He asked sullenly, "You're the Lord. You should go and plead your case. You could get an audience. I'll just get laughed at."

"You have more respect than you think, book worm," Krohlm said with a chuckle. "Besides, didn't you tutor one of the High Captains of the Paladins when he was a boy?"

Japheth frowned at Krohlm. "I never understood how your muscles didn't squeeze your brain too hard for it to work right. It usually happens to people with muscles that big, but not you. I always wondered if your muscles were different, or your brain."

Krohlm laughed a hearty laugh, and slapped the frail scribe hard on the back. "Mayhap you knew the wrong men with muscles, or the wrong men with brains.... I don't know, book worm, but now you know the right men with both. And we're both telling you it's time for you to go."

Lord Kraw opened his mouth to say something, but there was a strange sound like an over-ripe melon falling on stone, and Lord Kraw's eyes went wide. He looked down in shock at a foot of blackwood shaft and a cruel looking Orcish arrowhead sticking out of his chest. He reached out and grabbed Krohlm's leather armor, his knees going weak. Krohlm collapsed to the bridge deck, cushioning Lord Kraw's fall as much as he could, tears already forming in his eyes and running into his beard.

Lord Kraw looked up with grim determination on his face. He took a deep, rattling breath, and growled in a rough whisper, "Hold. Hold."

Krohlm nodded, and Lord Kraw breathed out in a gurgling rasp. His body shook once, and he was still.

Krohlm stood and gripped Japheth by the robe. "Go, Scribe. Do as you have been called to do. You took up this debt, and now it's yours to pay. Make them hear you. Whatever you have to do, do it."

Krohlm shoved Japheth hard enough to send the scribe skittering across the deck of the bridge and onto his back. Japheth climbed to his feet and brushed off his robes indignantly. "And you?" Japheth asked, his voice sour. "What will you do, Krohlm?"

"The price must be paid," Krohlm said simply, his eyes sad. "I'll miss you, book worm."

Without another word, Krohlm turned and strode away. The battle mages started to follow, but he waved them off angrily. Unsure of what to do, the four sourcerers gathered around Japheth and seemed determined to provide for his safety since they'd failed to successfully provide for Lord Kraw's.

Krohlm never looked back. He walked to the front of the HausKarls and raised his axe high. "Let's go kill some Orcs, boys!" Krohlm called, and in a loud voice he began to sing, the rest of the army joining in behind him.

Beat the shield and pound the drum!
SHRUM
SHRUM
The Darkness comes....

The papers shuffled on the desk were dull in the soft candle light. The wicks were burnt almost to the end, but Lannart knew he had a while longer before he would be prepared for the morning. If there was anything he disliked more than giving speeches it was not being prepared for them. He knew he should consider it an honor to be asked to lead the opening ceremony for the Marshals Court; most of the realm's mid to upper level captains and generals would be gathered at the high captain's behest to improve their tactical prowess and learn of academia's latest theories on the behaviors of soldiers and how to motivate them to die.

The flame flickered with futile attempts to leap from the wick. As it burned a bit lower it spat a drop of wax in protest. Lannart waited for the wax to harden slightly and then scraped the defiant drop from the book of Japheth’s poetry. It was a very early copy of the book that the old wizard Jupiter had presented to him on the day he completed his training at the prestigious academy of a The Golden Ranks. He felt it a bit cliché to read the Burning of Trinsic, but it was almost an unspoken requirement to incorporate it somehow into the opening remarks. Nearly four ages after the scribe had penned the words and yet they were still the primary foundation of the Golden Guard. “Never again" was the message that the scholars all seemed to agree upon as the scribe's primary purpose for the prose, and Lannart had to agree, the simple idea did have great power to rally men against the forces of evil.

Then as they often did, especially at this late hour, his thoughts trailed into ponderings. "How did you come to be atop that hill scribe?" the book kept its peace in silence to his inquiry. It wasn't the first time he'd asked the question, but his tutors had all dismissed his curiosity as irrelevant - for it was common knowledge that bards and scribes were cowards and he had clearly fled after the city had been overrun. Yet he had always kept the question in the back of his mind, "if all the records are true, then why is your perspective from a hill that lay directly across the horde of darkness? Why did you not see the city burning from the harbor with the rest of the fleeing citizens?" The book again chose to hold its peace, but this time it almost seemed intentional. As if its silence was telling him he had been asking the wrong question all along. He was so lost in his thoughts now, and he wondered “What was the true target of the horde?” Perhaps this had been the question eluding him all along? In order to amass a crude army of orcs, one needed fear. In order to amass a force of ettins, ogres and trolls one needed vice. To amass a congress of dark mages one needed deceit. But to amass a true army of darkness one needed to command all of the anti-virtues. If one had truly amassed such an army of darkness, why then target a mere human capital? What if the siege on Trinsic had been a diversion to conceal a secret target that evil did not wish to make known to mortals?

He stared at the cover and returned in kind the book's resolute quiet gaze. He shook his head and scoffed out loud. He was a mere soldier, a pawn to be commanded by pompous magistrates and kings. What mysteries could he possibly unravel that ages of scholars before him had overlooked?

He opened the cover of the book to break the awkward silence that had somehow enveloped the room. He moved over the preface and decided to turn further into the book, passed the familiar poem. As he landed on a page entitled “Legend of Krohlm’s Crossing” the candle's light leapt from the wick, almost as if it would finally achieve its long sought freedom. Not one to ignore an omen, Lannart began to read.

His eyes moved across each letter and translated the symbols on the page into coherent thoughts in his mind and he could not seem to turn the pages fast enough…

Krohlm stood at the apex of the delta formation, his chest heaving and his lungs burning. The sun was still hours away from setting in the west, and he was exhausted. A dozen cuts barely healed over ached across his arms and chest. One deep gash across his left thigh refused to bow to the will of even the most skilled of his fleshweavers. The whispered incantations over it, poured poultices in it, and wrapped it in fresh bandages every time the fighting slacked, but it still bled through after a few steps. It was a clear sign that Krohlm's strength was waxing and he needed to eat. The men were passing around thick round slabs of seasoned and cured pork bread, and Krohlm took two for himself. The pork bread was a ground paste of rendered bacon, roasted pork belly, and salt cured ham that was then formed into round log-shaped molds and dry-cured for three years in a deep bath of spices and sea salt. HausKars for ages had taken the dense food into battle to sustain them, and it worked wonders. The energy and power of the food seemed to flow through Krohlm, and his leg stopped burning quite so much. In a few moments, the trickle of blood running down his thigh slowed and finally stopped.

The enemy seethed a bare three hundred yards away as massive direwolves and hellcats tore at the broken bodies strewn before the Army of Light. They were clearing the path for another round of assaults, and Krohlm knew it. The fact of the matter was, though, the Army of Light was so exhausted that they could no longer spare the energy to attempt to slow the clearing efforts, much less grind them to a halt. And so the beasts of darkness fed on their fallen brethren and grew strong, waiting for the right moment to pounce, no doubt.

Krohlm pulled the stopper from a thin glass vial with his teeth. One of the fleshweavers saw him raise the sparkling red potion to his lips and frowned deeply. "I'd rather you go back to drinking Rhum, Krohlm." The wizened old swordsman turned healer growled. "Those refresh concoctions won't last, and they tax the body beyond its limits. The things borrow the energy burst they get partly from you, you know. And if you don't have it to spare, well they borrow it anyway.....that can kill a man if he ain't careful."

"Old coot," Krohlm muttered, "When have you ever know me to be careful? What kind of careful man finds himself stuck in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a whole host of enemy ready to rend him limb from limb?" The old fleshweaver didn't answer, but instead turned his head and spat. "That's what I thought," Krolm continued., "Besides, if I had Rhum, don't you think I'd be drinking it?"

The stooped old man whooped a dry laugh at that, and moved on down the line to tend to one of the foot soldiers that had taken Ettin's lance through his shoulder. Somehow the man had held onto consciousness long enough to drive a dagger into the beast's eye and bring him down, but the lance had done massive damage to him. Even with good healing, the fleshweavers doubted he'd live out the day. The man still fought like a bear, though, and Krohlm couldn't afford to let him die just yet. Krohlm stretched his arms wide, ignoring the sudden flashes of pain and protest from his muscles and bones. This fight was far from done, and he couldn't afford to let himself die just yet.

"Men! Army of Light!" Krohlm called and he turned to face them. He swept an arm behind him at the dead Orcs, Trolls, Ettins, and Ogres. "You have all done more today to earn your glory and honor than a thousand generations of warriors who came before you. You have each earned a dozen battle songs for your deeds that will be sung in every drinking hall, tavern, and throne room from here to the Shattered Lands and the Spider Queen's Hall!"

The men erupted in cheers and shouts, their arms raised high. Krohlm swallowed hard past a sudden lump in his throat at their show of courage and strength.

"Yet this job is not done!" Krohlm called as the men began to quiet themselves, "The enemy still seethes there, waiting for you to fail.....waiting for you to tuck tail like scared dogs and RUN!" The men hissed and growled, muttering dark curses in ancient tongues. "I say we show them the true metal that lies at the hearts of Man. I say we show them the true cost of a man's life! I say WE show THEM what it means to fear the cold, icy bite of Death! HONOR and GLORY!!!"

There was no roar this time.... no shout of exultation. The men merely began to beat their swords, spears, and axes against their shields in slow, steady rhythm.... STRUM....
STRUM....
STRUM....

And then the Darkness came.

The enemy surged forward like a rolling, boiling black tide of evil. They crashed against the solid wall of men with a sound like thunder that never ceased. The Cavalry had all been either killed or unhorsed ages ago, and they fought on foot now along with the regular soldiers. The men braced themselves against the charge, pushed back, and slashed with whatever weapons they could hold. Men who had been archers fought with daggers in each hand.... spearsmen had taken up axes... axemen had grabbed fallen spears. The men fought like wild and frenzied shadowcats backed into a canyon cave and determined to break free. They gave ground, but grudgingly and at great cost to the enemy. For every inch the soldiers retreated, hundreds of monsters fell along their solid wall of a battle line.

After what seemed like an eternity, the enemy pulled back briefly and disengaged. The cries of the dead and dying from both sides rent the air, and Krohlm felt his heart ache with the weight of it. What had begun as an Army of Light with four hundred foot, three hundred cavalry, and fifty HausKarls was down to fewer than two hundred men. Krohlm wanted to weep.

Somewhere, deep within the small, still corner of his mind that was still alive and aware to such things, a voice whispered, The Price must be paid....

The men began to beat their shields in slow, steady rhythm...
STRUM....
STRUM....
STRUM...

The enemy charged again. Wave after wave, the enemy crashed into the spearhead of the Army of Light. Wave after wave, the Army of Light gave ground and lost men, slowly collapsing their ranks down towards the center. With each wave, the attack grew longer, more ferocious, more determined. The Army of Darkness was feeding on the pain...the fear.... of their prey. They had the scent of blood now, the taste of it was thick in the air, and they would not let it go. The waves kept coming, one right after the other, with Orcs and Goblins scrambling over mounds of their own dead to get at the soldiers.

Finally, there was a pause as the sun just began to touch the western horizon. Krohlm knelt on the bottom step of the bridge now, blood dripping from a cut over his forehead that no one left living was able to heal. He bound a fresh bandage around it to soak the blood for a bit so he could see, and he stood. A dozen foot soldiers and maybe half again as many HausKarls were still standing with him. They were taking turns holding a five man front across the bridge, rotating in and out of the front rank as exhaustion and blood loss allowed.

"Be easy, Men," Krohlm said softly, "It won't be long now. We can't hold like this forever, and soon we'll all sleep peaceful and rest well..... but by the hoary headed goat of the mountain we can make these sheep kissing motherless curs pay for each one of us they take!"

The men all nodded grimly, and then the enemy charged again. The fighting was furious, but it was quick, and by the time the last rays of the sun faded, Krohlm stood on the bridge alone. His lungs felt dipped in fire, and his arms felt cast in lead. He could barely lift his axe with exhaustion, and he was beginning to feel dizzy from the many cuts and bruises that covered him. Still, he stood with grim determination, and faced the enemy.

"WELL?" Krohlm called when they didn't charge. "What are you waiting for, you curs? Here I am! Come and taste your prize!"

The ranks of the enemy slowly parted, and a stooped figure shuffled forward. Once it was in front of the first ranks, the figure stopped and stood swaying slightly two dozen yards from the foot of the bridge. Then, the creature stood and unfurled long, lanky limbs that had been folded in on themselves. Wisps of thin, almost transparent hair fluttered in the breeze, and its pale sightless eyes seemed to glow. The Shadow Liche Lord seemed just a shade darker than the darkest shadows around it, though it stood in open. The dark sorcerer raised both hands gripping its gnarled staff, and it began to chant softly. A baleful green glow began to emanate from the tips of the staff. Slowly, the light bled inward and flowed down the arms of the Liche Lord and across the ground like low fog.

The bodies of the fallen foot soldiers and cavalry nearest the ShadowLord began to twitch.

The ShadowLord's eyes went from faintly luminescent to blazing green. Then, the light shifted, and it began to grow darker and darker. After a few moments, its eyes were like pits into the very depths of the abyss itself. The thing suddenly slammed its staff into the ground, and a wave seemed to roll outward from it. Now, the bodies nearest to Krohlm began to twitch, and move. Slowly, laboriously, the dead climbed to their feet, turned and gazed with empty hunger at their new master.

Then, as one, they turned to Krohlm.

His face twisted in a mask of silent anguish and rage, Krohlm leapt among the newly raised zombies, and he began to fell them like weeds before a gale. The only sound was the music of the small silver bells in Krohlm's braids and the once more dispatched bodies falling to the ground. Tears streamed silently down Krohlm's face. Eventually, the weight of the onslaught drove Krohlm back onto the foot of the bridge. There he stood and he held, slaying the shades of friends and brothers in arms that he'd already mourned once.

He wasn't sure how long it took, but finally the gruesome task was done. Krohlm turned and emptied his stomach over the low stone railing on the bridge. He sagged to his knees, and the axe slipped from his fingers. His chin rested heavily on his chest as he sobbed softly in the gathering night. The soft sound of shuffling steps and that sickening green glow finally roused him, and Krohlm raised his eyes to lock with those of the SadowLord. The necromancer stood, towering above Krohlm, a sneer of victory twisting its pale, rotten lips. The thing cackled a laugh that would have chilled Krohlm's blood on any other day. He tried to stand, but couldn't. Instead, his fingers found the haft of his axe, and he gripped it tight, waiting for the right moment.

The ShadowLord cackled again, and leveled a long, gnarled finger at Krohlm. "You have lost, worm. Your men are dead. Your Lord is dead. Now, you will die. Trinsic will fall, and you will be dead. You. Have. Faaaailed...."

Krohlm arched his back, and spat as hard as he could into the ShadowLord's face.

The beast snarled, and with one hand reached down and struck Krohlm in the chest. The pale green light that suffused the ShadowLord seemed to flare suddenly, and the fiend's hand actually began to sink through the leather and into Krohlm's chest. The HausKarl cried out in pain as he was wrenched off the ground and hung, his chest impaled by the Necromancer's hand and forearm. To Krohlm, it felt as if his very soul were being torn out of his body. Every cell cried out in anguish and fear.

"You feel it now, insolent worm," The ShadowLord hissed into Krohlm's face, its pale lips twisted in a sneer. "I will tear your soul from you a piece at the time. You'll beg for death, and then you shall have it and your failure will be complete."

Krohlm actually began to laugh. Soft at first, and then a deep and throaty, gurgling laughter. "You're bound by the Old Law just as we all are, DeathDancer," Krohlm growled at last in a voice thick with pain. "You can't take my soul if I refuse to let you have it."

Confusion twisted the ShadowLord's face.

"Besides, what makes you think I ever planned to live?" Krohlm managed to grate past the pain in his chest. With a last roar so loud the ShadowLord actually stumbled back a step, Krohlm raised the axe that was still in his hands. With all of his remaining strength, he brought it down hard and buried the ancient runic bit to the creature's nose.

A hard spasm suddenly gripped the ShadowLord, and its fist tightened. Krohlm felt ribs snap in his chest and pain lanced through him again. What looked like bubbling, frothing green light in liquid form came spewing from the ShadowLord's mouth, and then the same baleful light began to radiate from its form. A lance of the light shot down the creature's outstretched arm, and bathed Krohlm. He cried out with the sudden, overwhelming pain. The anguish grew in a steady crescendo, and Krohlm knew somewhere deep within his awareness that this would be the end of him.

Still, Krohlm refused to let go of the axe.

Whatever the ShadowLord was doing, it was trying to survive.... to heal itself.... or to burn Krohlm out of existence with pain and then heal itself as best it could. But Krohlm knew what the runes etched along his axe meant. He knew the Old Law as well as any who had ever lived. And so long as he refused to yield, the ShadowLord could not take him.

And so he refused to let go of the axe.

The deep emerald light that was emanating from the ShadowLord shifted slowly.... dark green..... pale green.... grayish green.... pale white..... bright white.... a white so intense, it burned the eyes to even glance at it. The light grew so strong, so intense, that everything else evaporated into it....

.... just before the last of Krohlm's awareness was swallowed into the light, he heard a voice whisper... The Price has been paid....

And then, there was nothing but the light....

Japheth strode into the Hall of Trinsic, his eyes blazing. The Council of Paladins had heard his plea the night before, and had request a full night to consider its course. Now, they summoned him with full fanfare at first light, as if it hadn't taken him holding a castellan at knife point for an hour to get his original audience. Horns trumpeted his entry, and a fully assembled Court of Merchants stood in their robes around the Well. Japheth didn't even pause to bid them a good morning, and instead strode past their startled nobility and burst through the doors into the Council of Paladins. The Court of Merchants might hold sway on just about every aspect of life in Trinsic, but when it came to the defense of the city itself, they always deferred to the Council of Paladins. Where the Merchants were polished and posh nobles more concerned with undercutting their rivals than with the well-being of the citizens, the Paladins were forged in battle. They came from the streets and the slums, earning their rank through battle rather than birth.

And this morning, Japheth had no time to waste on airy ceremonies and pompous jackasses in fancy clothes.

The two sergeants at the door were startled, and quickly moved to bar Japheth's way, but he slipped between them with surprising speed. When he reached the Council Table, he flung a book onto the broad, flat surface and turned to walk away without so much as a word of greeting.

"Japheth," One of the Captains called, "Don't you want to hear the Council's ruling?"

Japheth shook his head and kept walking. "No," He growled over his shoulder, "Whatever you're going to decide, nothing will change by me knowing it or not. You're on your own, gentlemen. I made my case last night, you thought about it, and now you've decided. I have friends to go and mourn."

Japheth left without another word. The book he'd written was meant to serve as a final persuasion if it was needed, and he hoped it wouldn't be. The night before, his dreams had been plagued by screams and flames, and he had not found sleep worth the trouble. Instead, he sat by the light of a single candle, and wrote what poured out of his heart and his pain. In the pre-dawn light, he scrawled the title on the cover, The Burning of Trinsic.

Now it was for the Council to read and for them to act or not.

He had friends to mourn.


***********************************************************

Japheth sat on a hill to the south east of the city, a bottle of dark Rhum beside him and another empty bottle a little further down the slope. The day was warm for the season, and a steady breeze blew in from the coast carrying the tangy taste of salt to his nose and tongue. He held a copy of the first book that Lord Kraw had ever given him, and thumbed through the pages carefully....reverently. It was a copy of Lord Brittish's work The Virtues and it was written in Lord Kraw's own careful hand. He had still been a boy when he'd given it to Japheth as a naming day gift. The small book was bound with good red leather, and fit neatly into the pocket of Japheth's robes. It was never far from his heart.

Japheth looked up briefly at the massive makeshift flotilla still shuffling to and away from the docks of the cities. Small fishing vessels, net draggers, ferries, and all manner of sailing merchants in the harbor suddenly found themselves pressed into service as an evacuation fleet. The entire city was emptying into the harbor and fleeing north towards Britain. Hopefully there would have been messengers sent and reinforcements would be coming to help the Paladins defend the Western Gates.

There were no steps, no sounds at all when she arrived. She didn't come by spell or magic that Japheth knew of, and he knew of most of them. She was simply there, behind him, watching silently and smelling faintly of lavender and honey.

"What do you want?" Japheth growled sullenly, and took a long drink from the bottle.

"I'm sorry for your friends," Fate whispered, and her voice was filled with such unspoken pain that for just a moment, Japheth believed her.

"Sorry?" Japheth spat after a moment. "You set their feet on the path, and you knew where it led. They didn't."

He expected a retort or an angry explosion of righteous rage. Instead, Fate simply nodded. "I know," She said softly. "The price must be paid. But know this, they paid their price, and you have too. I'm done with you now, Scribe, and your life is your own. For what it's worth, I thank you for what you have done. It won't be forgotten."

Japheth was quiet for some time, and he looked at the stunning young woman before him with new eyes. She looked young, with a firm body and flowing hair as black as the darkest night-stone. But when he looked into her eyes, there was a knowledge and a quiet wisdom there that defied time itself. After a long moment, he offered here the bottle, from which she took a long, slow drink.

"Was it worth it?" Japheth asked after a while. "Was it worth the pain and the blood?"

Fate nodded her head without hesitation. "Yes," She said confidently. "You stood when no others would. You resisted. Right now, the Paladins gather at the West Gate, and Lord British rides to their aid. The Army of Darkness will fall. They will be shattered, and will run howling for the darkness that hid them for ages past. You cannot destroy the darkness without destroying the light.... but it can be defeated." Suddenly Fate pointed out to the harbor. "And there, on a small fishing vessel pressed into service as a ferry, a baby cries whose progeny in ages yet to come will stand again to thwart the darkness that rises when men's hearts fail."

Fate handed the bottle back to Japheth.

"Yes, Scribe," Fate said, a single tear trailing down one dark cheek, "It was worth it."

And then she was gone, and Japheth was alone again.

Fate approached the bridge slowly. It had been ages since she had stood here and listened to the deep gurgling sounds of the Blackbriar River. A heaviness that had been gnawing at her for some time grew again in her heart. The weight of her decisions was beginning to weigh on her, and she felt that burden acutely. Still, none had come forward yet to claim her title and take that burden as her own. And so, Fate waited.... and worked.

There was a light tinkling as of bells on the night breeze, and a sudden flicker of light over Fate's left shoulder. A forest wisp flittered by and paused in her trail for just a moment. The tiny creature bowed her head in reverence, and sang in a language long ago forgotten by the ears of man. Fate bowed her head in kind appreciation, and the small sprite danced away on the shift in the wind.

At times, Fate envied the small woodland spirits. They had such long lives, but they remembered few thing with specificity past a thousand years or so. With such brief memories, there was much they could forget. Much that did not need to haunt their dreams.

Fate's memory was longer than theirs.... much longer.

Fate stepped up onto the rough planks of the bridge and stood in the night air. She breathed in and out slowly, deeply, trying to wash away her present feelings in remembered pain. A price had been paid here...by her predecessor and by others....and she felt that pain and loss as if they were her own. That price had been heavy, but it had not been in vain. Though many read the book today, not many remembered that Trinsic never burned. The armies met and the Darkness was turned back. Japheth watched from his hill and wept at the sight of it. The Paladins rode more than a hundred charges and lost all but a dozen men, yet they held the city in time for Lord British's army to arrive and for the citizens to escape. The price had been dear, and it had been deep.... but it had been worth it.





Fate stood just before the Northern foot of the bridge and paused. This was where Krohlm had finally fallen. He'd taken the ShadowLord with him, and burned half the bridge away with them both. The Army of Darkness had refused to cross the bridge and touch the place where the lance of pure white light had consumed one of their heroes. Instead, they spent the better part of a day and a half building a fresh bridge from logs, and they crossed on that instead. Many fell and drowned, washed away to sea by the Blackbriar itself.

Here, Fate paused, and pulles an ebony harp chased with finely inlaid bands and scrolls of silver. The strings were all silver as well, finely tuned and twisted to perfect pitch. It was the instrument of a GrandMaster Bard, and it was one of the last possessions Japheth had carried with him when he took the vows to become a Silent Brother. He'd passed it on to Fate the day before his brothers found him dead in the cemetery.

Fate plucked the strings slowly at first, then in a faster and faster rhythm. It had once been a dirge for the dead, but over the ages had become a song of glory and triumph. Few now lived who knew its roots and its true meaning, but they still sang it in the drinking halls of Minoc....in the gypsy tents of the Mountain and the Wood.... in the Pirate's cove of Occlo and the Buccaneer's Den.....They sang it in all of the cities....even those recovered in the shattered lands..... just as she'd said they would....


Beat the shield and pound the drum
STRUM!
STRUM!
The Darkness comes....

Lannart yawned deeply as dawn's light began to stretch through the window across the uneven planks along the floor. The candle's flame released a final flick before it surrendered to it's final fate. He closed the pages of Japheth's poems, and despite his body's external gestures of exhaustion, he felt mentally alert.

He could hardly believe his own decision to try and rally the ranks of the Paladins directly, without the direction of the High Command. On any normal day it would be considered an act nigh unto dereliction punishable by a fortnight in the cells and a considerable demotion. But to do it on the day of his advancement to Captain of the Guard, a position which was only outranked by the Second and High Command, would be seen as an act of treachery. He thought back for a moment to his early days of training. Treachery prevention, the only point at which a cadet was offered the option to forsake the path of the righteous blade, and become a common soldier. The training taught a cadet to withstand the most brutal methods of torture, both of mind and body, that might cause them to turn against the blade. Those who passed this test were incapable of returning to a common life and those who failed were put to death; which was seen more as an act of compassion than anything. For to live on, knowing you had been condemned of treachery was a fate worse than a street cur.

He considered again his decision and for a moment questioned it's source. Had he come to such a conclusion overnight? He shook his head, he knew it had always been in the back of his mind. All throughout his training he had always questioned certain points of undisputed Paladic law. How was it that the High Commanders of old had even obtained the head of a dark lich in order conduct the Treachery training? And after having been subject to such high a training were they relegated to guarding a town? He had managed thus far in his career to bury these thoughts. He had shared them once with his mentor and confidant, Jupiter, who urged him to bury the thoughts deeply. The old wizard had told him that some day, that it would be important for him to find the answers to his questions, yet warned him that they could betray him during his training and early years of service.

Now, on the dawn of his promotion, he had decided to begin his quest for these answers. He scrapped all of his prior preparations for the speech and looked about the room as if hoping for some kind of inspiration. He could not risk even the slightest perception of disgrace or impiety towards the age old mantra by which hundreds of Paladin's had sworn their lives. No, he could not and did not wish to do that. But, perhaps he could succeed upon his Paladin brethren to agree there is a better way to deliver light. Instead, he decided, he would speak of the profound insights he had gained through night regarding light and darkness. The mantra 'Never again' would not be his cry, but "Vessels of Light". He looked at the candle's extinguished wick - that is what he would use for his analogy.

The mantra "Never again", would be as the a candle. A brilliant light, no doubt, which is great for casting away darkness, but only to the extent to which the light reaches from it's restrained position on the candle. And further still, the candle can only burn as long as there is a wick left to smolder. What would happen if, the gods forbid, their great ranks were not replenished? What if the Paladins, the wick of the might candle, were inevitably going to burn out their wick? For after all, the life expectancy of most Paladins rarely exceeded three and thirty.

The mantra "Vessels of Light" however, could be carried into the ages. Never to burn out like a candle, but rather it would burn on with the sun's magnificence! He would implore his righteous brothers to plunge their light into every corner of the realm, even the darkest caverns from which the darkness is bred. They should not to stay bound as a candle to a solitary room - a very small part of the world - whilst darkness marches freely about without the Golden Walls.

He stretched and shook his head. What he was about to do could cause great tumult either of laughter and scorn from his brothers or of indignation from the pious generals and pompous magistrates. The Magister of Trinsic certainly would not think kindly to losing over half of his city's protection. But Lannart knew it would be good for the citizens to learn to kindle their own light. And he knew, the wick of the Paladin's candle was burning low. The attacks by dark forces had been ever increasing outside the walls, and had become increasingly more brazen. Perhaps it was not his generation, but he was certain the wick of "Never again" would burn to it's final flint soon and he could either watch the flame burn out, or stand like the mighty Krolhm and refuse to let darkness prevail. Darkness had it's place in this universe and it belonged hidden under the rocks and crags, only daring to come out when and where permitted by the light.

He stood and crossed the room in two quick strides and began to don his armor. He felt a gentle breeze start through the open tower window, and then suddenly he jumped. He ran to the window and stuck his head out and looked up and down. His gaze was not fixed to the distant street below but immediately about the window's exterior. He was certain he had heard a woman's voice speaking clearly, "Beware, those who are determined to change their fate, must pay the price."

He turned and walked towards the door the wind again carried the message ".. pay the price." Without turning back he hefted his polished halberd and closed the door to the tower watch for what he was certain would be the last time. Whether his words were heralded or condemned, he knew he would not be a simple guard any longer.