"I said what you wanted me to say," Orb protested quietly. "But that isn't possible. He would never do something like that."

The room was dark enough for ten night skies. Orb preferred it that way. He said the light hurt his eyes. If his line of reasoning was followed to its natural conclusion, however, he had no eyes and all of this was nothing but a fairy tale living in one god's mind. Since Scythe did not believe in such stories he didn't credit them with any measure of truth. Therefore Orb in his mind was nothing but a charlatan. A wide-eyed fool of a charlatan who could not even keep his own lies straight in his head. Scythe felt certain that, if his entire discourse with other persons consisted of falsehood and vague innuendo, he would establish a system to make it sound at the very least consistent. Oa did not seem disturbed by this. She was tapping a fan against the palm of her hand, imitating a lady that they'd seen earlier in the day. That one had died screaming for what she knew. What she knew was the current source of debate. And one that Scythe did not especially enjoy having - the reason for his relative silence.

( The other two went on and on. )

The crystal edge of the game piece scraped against a glass game board with lazy ease by the hand that led it. Scratching sounds weren’t enough to pierce the quiet level of conversation in the room nor the crackling of the fire, but they did force High Lord Arand to raise his eyes and lift his brow. Vera’s smile was half hidden by shadows created by the mask that hung at the side of her hood.

Although the moon was high in the sky above the Lord’s Manor, Vera remained in full uniform with her staff propped against her chair. Other Riders had given up on parts and pieces of that white hood and tunic, arranging themselves around the High Lord’s Den as strategically as boredom would allow. They had barricaded themselves in the western wing of the manor for most of the night. Vera would let no one rest until the sun rose, not after being told the assassins would make their attempt now. Hasna sharpened her sword by the fire, humming what Vera could have sworn was a tavern song. Raed made himself busy by shuffling cards again and again in an attempt to entice a skulking Eithne to play. Birloch was in the halls, on patrol with the High Lord’s guard. And that young Rider, the green one. Nieve. She kept quiet for the most part, staying to her own corner. Maybe her pride was still smarting from the blow it’d been dealt earlier. Vera refused to let her go on rounds like other Riders had before Birloch. Instead, she made Nieve stay with the High Lord. She was too young to go out on her own and know the signs assassins would give. Too green. Vera didn’t care who trained her.

She drew her gloved fingers from her crystal piece to the onyx figurine sitting diagonally across from her own. Four other crystal pieces sat in an arrow shape behind her own and she touched them as well before leaning back in her seat. “I’ve trapped you now,” she said, confidently. “You can’t escape.”

High Lord Arand rested his chin against steepled fingers, his amused blue eyes falling back to the table as he hovered more intently over the game. He was inspecting her strategic handiwork, trying to find what holes she might have left behind. “Your moves were almost too perfect.”

“Are you suggesting I cheat?”

“No,” the High Lord said slowly, dryly. He tapped his fingers at the edge of the game board. “Extreme cases of luck have been known to occur…”

( I don't believe in luck or fate. You lose only because I have bested you at last. )

His boots scraped against stone and loose gravel when he stopped before the great white wall. The young Rider who was his company stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. Eyes thinned. No doubt he thought Vargis was a country Rider, one of those who never came to Simanel. Vargis thought he remembered training the lad in front of him. There were enough names and faces to fill a thousand lives. And ever since Agrippa had pulled them both out of the action - Vargis thought for good - it made up the whole of his life, training people to do what he did. Vargis was still wearing his mask, while the boy had tied it to his belt. That was the new fashion. Full masks were another new fashion. One he could not fully endorse. His stopped beneath the eyes, with a tent that seemed to fold up over his nose, so that only his eyes and forehead were visible. There were no designs or artistic flourishes on his mask. Young people. They were too concerned with appearances these days, and what those appearances meant

( Vargis gestured impatiently at the young man. )

After only a little over a week under siege by the first wave of Kenyon's forces, the kingdom-state of Ahylss seemed to have fallen. The citizens were nearly all either fled or dead in the streets under the castle keep and the keep itself was a smoldering ruin of stone and wood. Only the tower still remained, and it was crumbling fast from the onslaught of siege engines perched on the mountain above. The rest of the Ahlyssian soldiers had disappeared into that tower in what seemed a last bid for survival.

The Jericho Contingent as a whole needed no orders now. They were to crush their enemy completely. It was not enough simply to win. From the beginning of the newly established kingdom, the Jericho Contingent had understood the necessity of strength, but more importantly, the necessity of the appearance of strength. For all its expansive movement in the last decade, it was still a young country and still freshly established, compared to other lands. To have other warrior nations believing that Kenyon was an easy target would be to spell out - at best - the beginnings of a lengthy war, and at worst, the end of the very home they'd sought so hard to protect.

So when a kingdom dared to send emissaries to attack Kenyon at its very heart, there could be only one response: pure and utter destruction of the enemy. Under such drive, Ahylss indeed seemed to have fallen.

At the camp, General Iathad of the Emerald Shield muttered to his Commander astride horseback beside him, "It seemed almost too easy."

As if that comment were the herald of doom, the distant cries of victory began to wink out quickly. And then an unexpected shaft of light rose straight from the center of the crumbling tower, incinerating the vampire legions that had gathered there, and charring the other races wearing Kenyon's garb. The blast lasted only seconds, and the radius of its power extended only as far as the farthest stone of the tower, but it had been enough of a blow to shock most of its witnesses. Over the battlefield settled an unnatural silence. Horror. Awe. Fury.

This was different.

His hip felt lighter without the sword. He had to put it out of his mind. Vargis had never been one for sentimentality or weeping, but he had enjoyed the sword. It did what it was supposed to do. Going back to sword work after so long out of the game simply wasn't in the cards. When you felt age creaking in your hands, when anything felt heavy, you knew it was time to start doing something different. His hands hadn't been so bony as a young man. Though age had not been kind to him, it had missed several opportunities to make things worse, and that would have to be enough. The sword had a good home. That would also have to be enough. This he put out of his mind as he approached. She wouldn't like what he had to say, but chances were she had thought much of through already, and Vargis was not in a position to tell young Riders how to conduct their affairs any longer. This was her fight, not his. If he participated it was out of loyalty to Eragos, not because he claimed a place in the boy's gallery of rogues.

( She seemed content to let him lead. )

This was the first time they'd stopped since they left the burning remains of Hathrida behind. Eithne couldn't forget what happened there, nor could she ignore what happened before they'd ever reached the forest. It made her impossible to talk to, and it made it impossible for her to stick around the other riders who used to be her friends, and the newest members of their party who certainly suffered far more than she had and yet she couldn't get over it. She'd cried back there, openly, not to the point of sniffles or whimpers, but it had been enough to unsettle her. Their collective resolve seemed to be that they could not trust her. Which meant she wasn't more than a burden rather than an asset. Even if none of them had openly said it, Eithne was sure of it now. Hansa's reaction had happened without anyone saying anything. No reaction from them, no back up, just another cold shoulder.

She suddenly missed being nothing more than a street fighter. She might not have had a purpose, but at least she wasn't this unsure of herself.

But now she was. Where was she going? Why was she still following them? Eithne easily slipped past everyone that had gathered to camp and made her way away from the camp. Smoking used to be an easy way to ignore what was going on. Delaying the inevitable. There was a lot there on her mind. Not only was there the question of if she should continue on with them, but what would happen to her if she would? Hansa wasn't the only one who didn't like what she'd done to that Grey Rider they had originally captured, the others were equally displeased. She was sure Cols would have been downright nauseous if he had seen it. Thankfully he hadn't been there, at least one of them could still be counted on for something.

( And then there was Eragos. )

Lightning streaked across the sky, luminous and wicked. His boots were slick with rain as he approached the structure. Storms rose quickly on the Black Deer Plains, but this was unlike any storm he had ever seen. Wind howled beneath his hat, hissed against his ears. Too true. All of it was true enough to cut to the bone. His fingers flexed wildly beneath his gloves. This was the day when he would finally reunite with his father, and together they would see to fruition the plans of his grandfather. It was to be a great day for all of Caeleste. A day that would see the beginning of the end. They would be at last free of the oppression that had dominated this world for far too long. They would at last be whole again, be able to pursue whatever end. No interference from the other races or from the gods. So why did his heart feel this heaviness in it? Because, he realized, the tang of blood was on his lips. In the air. Heavy with it. Black with it. Someone had died, and recently. At first his mind could not credit the news.

( Then it was all too clear. )

"Pigeons," Birloch said quietly.

"Lots of 'em," Raed added with a stabbing glare.

"And you saw all this," Eragos said with a wry tinge of his voice. "From behind the bushes."

"You'd be surprised what you can see when ya ain't runnin' around like a madman wavin' some huge sw-"

( Raed cut off with a yelp. )

For the last few hours no one had rest of any kind. Sleeping Tiger had insisted on carrying Frozen Pond across his back. Vargis had objected to the idea - initially. When he raised the possibility of Sleeping Tiger slitting their captive's throat while he slept the Dragon Knight looked so disgusted that Vargis wondered if they had the same father. It was the same look that Eragos summoned a thousand times before. Whatever else he could say about either of these strange foreigners, they did their killing to their enemy's face. Vargis could at least respect that. If not always agree with it. Right now Sleeping Tiger didn't occupy his thoughts. At least, not entirely. What occupied his thoughts was the fire that raged seemingly all around them. A burning of the forest, exactly what he would have done in their place, as he'd said before.

( Being right never felt so wrong. )

Although the tunnels were easier to navigate when lit, they were harder to endure. She understood why Elden preferred to have them blind as he led them through the underground -- respecting the remains burnt into the earth was difficult to do without taking up time that their party required to move. The fire hadn't purged as much from the tunnels as it should have, even if it managed to kill everything within them. There were pieces of tools and furniture she could make out in the piles of blackness and ash that collected in the antechambers they passed through. The pieces of the underground network that were closest to the exposed entrances were the messiest, as far as remains were concerned. Whatever senses the Green Elves were gifted with, they'd known the fire was coming. They just couldn't move fast enough. That cold analysis kept her going more than any optimistic thought or prayer could have.

Vera stepped as lightly and carefully as she could around remains without losing Elden. He led them with such urgency she nearly forgot that he'd followed them into Hatharida. They only spoke when Elden told them to keep pace. Vera asked him once what they were rushing towards, to which the old sorcerer glanced back sharply and told her he was finding a way out of the forest. He was trying to get them to where they could wait on the others. Vera knew, however, that his main interest was to get her out of the forest. It wasn't something she voiced. She didn't have any argument for staying in Hatharida. Even if they did look for Vargis' group, there was a very slim chance the forest would let them stay together. They had to trust the other riders to find their way. There was no other logical course of action.

( A grim thought. )

After eight hard days and nights of battle, the great wall encircling the bulk of Ahlyss' city had finally breached under the onslaught of the Contingent's forces. The battle was not over, however, not by a sight. Much of the city had already been abandoned by its people, leaving room for Ahlyss' militia to range throughout instead. Range they did, using the homes and the shops of their people as bunkers or strongholds from which they launched their counterattacks, there was rarely a moment when they allowed themselves to be drawn into the open. The Magi and Sorcerers of the Azure Staff worked together with the Crimson Lance and the Emerald Shield, laying down what protections they could afford and launching coordinated attacks as well. Nevertheless, the battle inside the city was furious and brutal, and the ground that the Contingent won was won hard.

Towering over the city, the great castle of Ahylss rose strong and steady, the home of the ruling house of Ralac -- and site of the second front of Kenyon's attack. As it was built into the side of the mountain, attack from below could only occur from a winding road that led down into the city. That was why General Iathad of the Emerald Shield - the highest ranking officer from Monchale - sent a third of his men to climb the forested mountain and circle around to the back of the castle. While the frontal assault on the city drew the attention of Ahylss' militia, the second front constructed in secret a series of small catapults, their range meant to arch high enough to clear the trees, but not so high as to miss the castle and careen into the city below. Magic muted their work; magic aided their work. But only the steady pressure of the frontal assault could push the Ahylssians into doing what would trigger the second attack -- and that was to attempt to destroy the path leading up to the castle holding.

That sign of desperation had come earlier in the day, and the dual-front attack was in full swing as part of Ahylss' militia raced up the incline instead of destroying it. From his vantage point in the hills toward the west, General Iathad watched with cautious optimism. The battle was, thus far, going well. It seemed almost too good to be true, that Ahylss was so relatively easily overcome. From what his scouts reported - and from the report from Kenyon City itself - he had expected a magical fight far harder than the one they waged now. Then, the victory was not yet declared. He watched a moment longer as the fires of the battle illuminated the midnight scene, then turned his steed away and urged the beast down into the encampment where his human soldiers took their rest and tended their wounds.

It would not be long now, if the messenger was accurate, before the Commander himself appeared at the head of the force from Kenyon City. He left his horse saddled by the flap to his tent, then ducked inside and began collecting his reports. A large part of his heart longed to be in the midst of his men, fighting beside them as he did when he was a Captain. The role of a General, however, demanded more than just brawn and more than just strategy. He led. And sometimes, to lead meant to remain apart from the battle. It still sat uncomfortably.

In this place his dreams were restless changing things. Eragos could not remember a dream that he'd been given before coming to Hatharida, but here all dreams were nightmares. At least they were for him. He dreamed of fire and death. Of screaming. Of murder that was this place's legacy. For the three hours of sleep he'd allotted them Eragos received not a second of rest. How did he know that fire and death were the legacy of this forest? How did he know anything about this place except what he heard in the breeze between the trunks of the trees? How did he perceive anything which was not there to be perceived? Yet the dreams were real, as real as the flesh on his bones or the rage in his heart. It must have been Talon. Not personally, not there walking his dreams as a nightmare, but in spirit. Corrupting this place. Poisoning the dreams of men who shared silence with the forest at night. Cold alternated with heat, so that he would sweat one moment and shake the next.

( It was a terror. )

They arrived over a week's time. It was difficult to orchestrate the presence of so many foreigners in a city like Iasa. Fortunately there were enough of them there - foreigners, that is - that a few additional did not go observed. They arrived in odd and various clothing. Reds here, blues here, but nothing ostentatious enough to be remembered. They paid promptly and were neither polite nor rude. Indifference was the key. Only one inn served foreigners in the city. From what he could tell their occupancy was usually much higher. That lent itself to a measure of anonymity. Here they could walk freely within limits. He sent them out in groups of two, but not the sort of group that walked together. They merely observed. How many soldiers and what time of day they were present. Everything about the situation needed to be tightly controlled. That meant a few operational risks. Well worth the risk. Even if they didn't know that the payoff would be worth it.

( Each one left the inn alone, with all his belongings in tow. )

All around the forest was quiet. Normally the quiet of a forest, the peace and solitude that plants afforded him, was a welcome thing. In a forest that should have been full of life it was unnerving. Vargis turned his attention to the hastily scrawled note he was writing to himself while he had the chance. A chew of his lip beneath the mask, and he added another line. Floral scent, but reedy. Could be interesting combined with something heavy and sour. Might offset the aftertaste but retain the flavor of the leaf. Satisfied that it was as complete as he could make it the note when into the leather pouch he'd set aside for the purpose, along with a number sketched along the bottom in the short pencil he'd brought along. The number corresponded to a well-oiled leather pocket in the largest of his four cases. Inside was a pressed flower which he'd found along the way, and carefully preserved. Or rather, as carefully as the conditions allowed.

( He might have come out of retirement, but he was still looking for the next pipe tobacco. )

There were green fields. As he pressed his palms together to claim each drop of sweat as his own Eiron'aith could see those fields again. Not with the wondrous eyes of a child - seeing promise in the smallest blade of grass - but with the jaded eyes of a grown elf. There was something fragrant in the air but it wasn't blood. He didn't notice it. Take no note and move on. Though his blade was bare and it brushed the tops of the wild grass it harmed nothing. That, too, was a fantasy. A sword that harmed nothing. He knew what he was seeing and he knew why he was seeing it. The memory was not unwelcome but it did not fit. Not with his thoughts, not with his purpose, and not with the mood of the room. In the heavy wooden chair that was his by right the paladin sat. Staring down the hall toward the wide double doors. Waiting. There would be a challenger through those doors in a matter of moments. Enough time to reminisce, but he didn't want to think of childhoods playing Ranger in the tall grass with Tithion and forgetting that he was the son of a noble house. More important things to do. Mourn his friend. Prepare for the end.

( Flowers. )

Elemmire and Sita were gone now, and Aeotha felt the clock ticking away again. The sand passed through the glass and each grain counted down the last seconds of Eiron'aith's life. It was grim, it was horrible, and it was everything Aeotha wished for now. That made her an animal. Only animals desired the death of another like this. It wasn't a war, it was revenge, and Aeotha felt weak about it. She felt both empty and full at once. Empty of what she had been, full of hate and a dark desire. It wasn't something she'd ever felt before, and yet it felt.. Was that how it was? Aeotha never sought out the death of someone so heatedly, but others before her had.

( Was this what it felt like? )

He stared through a sheet of metal rods on strings. When the wind was roaring you could hear them play, like hands of the gods on instruments no human ear was meant to know. They were suspended from railing to overhang, pulled taut at both ends and firmly anchored. Must have been a bitch to tune. Skandra reflected on this as he plucked one of the strings. The Immortal was rewarded with a glistening chime, so heavy with silver and melody that it must have shook the cavernous home of Lolth herself. From one metal rod to the next the movement traveled, carrying music with it, until you couldn't have told it was Skandra who'd pulled the strings only a moment ago. No wonder politicians and temple magnates were so entranced with it. The rods, like their fat fingers and oil hearts, could subsume a thing in sound until its origins were unknown. Skandra took a swig of his flask, and then waited. It wouldn't be long until a presence made itself known.

( It was never long. )

He peered beyond the tree with a narrowed set of eyes, searching the relative darkness for any sign of Birloch's passage. The man had twenty lives and he'd used all of them today, if the number of vultures circling overhead was any indication. Normally they preferred their meat uncooked. Today they were making do with whatever slim pickings they could find. Eragos wished he'd found something better than this, more reassuring than this, but it was precisely what he'd expected to see. Not an argument for the gathering of evidence. But not an argument for destroying them, either, at least not one that could be subscribed to. If they had the will to do this what else would they do? Rand, tied off to a stand of shorter trees at least twenty yards away, seemed nervous at the sound of so many vultures calling. Sun was setting. Soon it would be wolves to feed on those who fed on the dead. The vultures would be gone. That was a small mercy. Enough to take it and live with it, but not much. They could at least bury the dead.

( At least. )

Eragos shoved the door open with more anger than he felt. No, not more, less. He was a fool. Twice a fool tonight, but that wasn't even the worst part of his foolishness. Talon had him twisted into knots without even trying. He should have taken Eithne in his arms and tried to give her something. Anything. A word, a kindness, so that when all of this was over she would remember him as more than a hateful wraith. He should have told the Lady Vera how he felt. It wasn't just Talon. He was a fool for loving two women and not knowing how to show that love, not knowing how to honor the faith they placed in him. And now that it was over he would go back and set it all right. Give in, do whatever they wanted. Only Talon couldn't be allowed to live. Gola shouldn't have been allowed to live; he was already paying for that mistake. Too many mistakes to count in the last month. He should have known that it was never as simple as being what some would call a right man. There were some things, upon reflection, that he didn't want to know or do. Killing was one of those, but there was no one else. He could see it like a grim vision of the future. The courts collapsed, or useless, and the men of Beit-Orane doing whatever they pleased to the country which had all of his loyalty.

( Vargis eyed him from beside the fireplace. )

"No matter what happens, say nothing," Ithacles told him firmly.

"No matter what."

"I mean it."

"I know you do."

"And you're just going to do what I say?"

"Sure, why not?"

"You're a liar."

"True."

Skandra gripped Ithacles' sword in his hand, and would have admired the craftsmanship of the basket hilt, if he could see a damned thing in front of him. This staircase must be the one installed for access to the very bowels of hell. Walking without making a noise was easy. All you had to do was hold in your coughs. Behind him someone else was walking. Quiet. Too quiet for him to remember the name of the person. In the darkness you couldn't rely on anything like light to give you aid. Light would have died here. More darkness was welcome. He could make out the edges of stairs well enough. Could hear the clanking of an armed guard's gauntlets. After being so close to death he was surprised that he felt this good. Then he remembered. Laying off the tonic made him feel worse. Physically he was better. He was seeing the ghosts that followed him again. He was seeing them and hearing them and -

"You want to raise an empire, but what would you build it on?" Gershul's voice asked him from the shadows.

"What were you gonna build yours on?" Skandra laughed low. "If you take a thousand people and move to an island, it doesn't count as raising an empire. That's taking your ball and going home."

"I shouldn't expect you to understand."

"So why do you keep talking?"

( It was Eiron's prison. )